We didn’t leave the palace until long after midnight. Or at least, what counted as midnight on a world with three moons and no sense of linear time. Kira assured me we’d stayed through the important parts—speeches, ceremonial dances, and a toast so long it might’ve broken time itself. I endured them all with the stiff patience of someone who knew dessert was at the end of the tunnel—only to discover the chocolate griffins came with mandatory conversation.

  There was no food fight. Just a lot of formality. And boredom.

  I found myself missing Graybarrow's chaos. I missed Barley’s commentary, Roku dozing off with his nose in a soup bowl, and the weird, goofy rhythm of a town that made no sense—and somehow worked.

  Instead of using any of the palace’s official magic exit protocols, Kira waved off the suggestion with a half-smile. "I don’t need that," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

  Kira raised one hand and whispered a soft incantation. A swirling oval of light unfurled in the air beside us—a teleportation gate, shimmering faintly with gold and violet strands.

  "Come on," she said, already stepping toward it.

  "Where are we going?"

  "That would ruin the surprise." Her grin was infuriatingly smug.

  I hesitated. Then sighed. "If I end up in a pond, I’m hexing your boots. They'll always feel just a liiiiiitle too tight."

  Kira tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "Are you drunk?"

  "Just drunk enough to regret trusting you," I said, deadpan.

  "Understandable," she said, and stepped through.

  I followed.

  The magic folded around me, weightless and fast. When it cleared, we stood on a quiet hilltop, the palace a distant silhouette behind us.

  We were upright, not in a pond.

  Kira crossed her arms and smirked. "See? Smooth."

  "Mildly nauseating," I muttered, brushing dust off my sleeve. "But better than exploding sigils, I suppose."

  The road ahead sloped gently through moonlit hills, the outline of a watchtower barely visible on the far ridge. The calm around us felt earned this time. Not fraught with tension, just… there.

  We walked in step, the grass bending beneath our feet. The stillness between us wasn’t awkward—it was thoughtful. As if the world was listening too. Insects chirped faintly beyond the trail, and a lone blinkbug bobbed along ahead, its glow pulsing like a lazy heartbeat.

  I glanced at Kira. Her eyes were on the road, arms folded loosely behind her. The hem of her coat whispered along her legs. For once, she didn’t crack a joke or fill the space with noise. She just… walked.

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  And that loosened something inside me. That rare ease that didn’t need words or meaning. Just being here, under starlight and moons, with someone who didn’t ask more than I could give. The wind carried the clean scent of damp grass and woodsmoke from the town below. It felt like a night that promised nothing—but still gave peace.

  “You didn’t say where we’re going,” I said finally.

  Kira gave a soft shrug. “Just wanted some air. And a little peace. Away from… everything.”

  We crested the next hill. A lone tree stood near the path’s bend, its leaves whispering in the moonlight. Beneath it, a bench made of dark wood and stone faced the horizon.

  “You brought me to a bench?” I said.

  “It’s got a great view,” she replied, and walked over to sit down.

  I joined her, the bench warm despite the night chill. We sat in silence for a few beats.

  “Still thinking about what happened?” she asked.

  “No,” I lied.

  Kira didn’t call me out on it.

  “You’ve got this look,” she said quietly. “Like you’ve lived through something huge and decided not to talk about it. Like you’re keeping the whole storm locked behind your teeth.”

  I stared out across the hills. “Not everything needs to be shared.”

  She nodded slowly. “No. But some things need to be uncarried.”

  We sat with that. The wind tugged at the grass around our boots.

  “Do you ever miss it?” she asked.

  I didn’t need to ask what she meant. She probably viewed me as some ex-hero who'd left Concord for an easier life. It was a common enough occurrence in my day.

  Close enough.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “But missing it and wanting it back are two different things.”

  Kira was quiet for a long moment. Then, gently, “Maybe... you just miss parts of who you were.”

  I didn’t answer right away. The bench creaked beneath me as I leaned back, the stars overhead watching without judgment.

  “I don’t want to be that person anymore,” I said. “The one who fought. Who commanded. Who broke things in the name of fixing others. I just want to be the mayor of a strange little town with mushroom festivals and unexplainable weather patterns. I like it. I love it, actually. Graybarrow makes sense to me.”

  Kira turned to me, her expression softer now. “Sounds like a lovely place. I think I’d like to visit sometime.”

  “Maybe you will,” I said, my voice quiet but certain. I could open a portal to Graybarrow right now—one thought, one flick of the wrist—but doing that felt like crossing a threshold I wasn’t ready for. Like inviting the past into the present and daring it to change everything.

  She looked at me carefully, then gave a small nod. “Then let’s keep things simple. If I need help, I’ll call. You keep running your weird little town. And maybe…”

  “…Maybe we take more nights like this,” I finished for her.

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Might not be so bad.”

  ***

  When I reappeared in Graybarrow, the scent of old wood and distant cinnamon wrapped around me like a welcome. Outside, the town lay hushed beneath a sky dusted in stars. Inside, the only sound was the faintest snore.

  Barley was curled up on the couch, one arm flopped over Roku’s now-sizable back. The drakehound’s tail twitched once, but he didn’t lift his head. A half-eaten pastry lay on the table beside them, forgotten mid-snack. They’d both fallen asleep with the fireplace casting gentle orange light across the room.

  I pulled a blanket from the back of a chair and tucked it around them without a word. Barley murmured something in his sleep, soft, like a dream barely spoken. “I’ll help. Just like the mayor does.” Then he curled tighter into Roku's side, the drakehound giving a faint huff in return.

  I stood there for a while, letting the quiet sink in.

  Enjoying the kind of stillness that hummed with the comfort of small, ordinary things. A half-finished snack. The muffled snore of a child. The rise and fall of a drakehound’s steady breathing.

  Okay, that part is weird.

  But there were no assassins. No world-ending threats. Just this strange, wonderful town and the people in it.

  My people.

  I exhaled, and for a moment, something in me unclenched.

  If I was ever meant to be anything, it was this.