8 months before Being transported to Yilheim.

  The air in Lyriana’s room was warm and smelled of pine and cinnamon from the garlands downstairs. Soft snow fell past the window.

  Ziraiah, twelve years old and already an expert in dramatic lounging, lay sprawled across her mother’s bed. “Will Grandpa Charles and Grandma Blessing be coming?” she asked, fiddling with the tassel of a throw pillow.

  Lyriana, carefully folding a cashmere sweater, smiled. “Yes, they will be coming, little Z. They wouldn’t miss it.”

  Ziraiah let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “There goes our peace and quiet.”

  “Why would you say that?” Lyriana asked, though her smile widened, knowing what was coming.

  “Grandpa Charles talks too much and too loud. And they’re both too clingy. They can’t keep their hands off me. I’m not a baby anymore, Mom.”

  Lyriana’s laugh was a bright, clear sound. “They’re your grandparents, Ziraiah. That’s their sacred, spoiling right.”

  “It’s still true,” Ziraiah grumbled, rolling over again just as a distant BOOM shook the windowpanes.

  Lyriana froze, a sweater halfway to the stack. “What was that?”

  Ziraiah didn’t even sit up. “Probably Val and Ryan in the backyard,” she said, her tone bored. “Being idiots.”

  ---

  In the Backyard.

  The scene was one of chaotic aftermath. A small, charred crater smoked in the otherwise pristine snow of the Winterspring estate lawn.

  High above, two figures were tumbling from the sky.

  “YOU ASSHOLE! I’M GONNA DIE BECAUSE OF YOU! I WON’T FORGIVE YOU IN THIS LIFE OR THE NEXT!” Ryan’s scream tore through the crisp winter air.

  A blur of silver and black shot upward from the ground with impossible grace. Eryndor leaped seven stories into the air, caught Ryan in a secure hold, and landed in the snow with the softness of a falling leaf.

  Valerius was not so fortunate.

  He hit the ground face-first with a sound like a sack of wet cement. The impact cratered the frozen earth, sending a puff of snow and dirt into the air.

  Ryan clung to Eryndor, babbling. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Have I ever told you I love you?”

  Eryndor gently but firmly pried the boy off, setting him on his feet. “Please do not utter those words. They are unnecessary.”

  A groan emanated from the crater. Valerius slowly pushed himself up. A series of loud, satisfying pops and cracks echoed from his joints—shoulders, spine, knees—like someone working out a deep stiffness. It was the sound of a body that had just absorbed a tremendous impact realigning itself, not healing, but settling. He let out a long, shaky sigh of relief and remained on his knees for a moment, shaking his head to clear the last of the ringing.

  Strapped to his back was a bulky, jury-rigged jetpack, one nozzle still smoking feebly.

  He glared up at Eryndor. “You… why didn’t you catch me?”

  Eryndor folded his arms, his expression one of profound disapproval. “I explicitly advised against testing the stabilization thrusters until you had achieved absolute certitude regarding their operational integrity. You disregarded that counsel. Consequently, Ryan narrowly evaded a fatal descent. What plausible explanation could we have furnished to his parents? Thus, I elected to permit your descent. Regard it as a pedagogical exercise in causality.”

  Valerius looked from his smoking jetpack to his brother, his expression one of utter betrayal. “I could have died!”

  Eryndor glanced at the fresh, Valerius-shaped crater, then back at the young boy.

  “That impact scarcely constituted a contusion, Valerius. However, you are indeed developing a rather commendable hematoma upon your brow.”

  Valerius’s hand flew to his brow. His fingers found a tender, egg-sized protrusion. “Aww, damn it. Fuck.”

  “Language, Valerius,” Eryndor chided, turning toward the grand house. “Now, accompany me so that I may administer a cryotherapeutic compress before mother’s inevitable scrutiny.”

  Ryan, finally getting his breathing under control, shakily unclipped the borrowed jetpack and let it fall into the snow as if it were a live snake. “I… just saw my life flash before my eyes. I think I’ll be going home now.”

  Valerius got to his feet, brushing dirt and snow from his clothes. “Hey, hold up. Aren’t you going to help us decorate?”

  Ryan stared at him. “Don’t you have, like, servants for that?”

  “They’re not servants, they’re staff. And they’re not working this week. It’s the holidays.”

  Ryan shook his head, a mercenary glint in his eye. “A thousand bucks.”

  “What?”

  “A thousand bucks. That’s what you owe me.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you nearly unlived me!” Ryan said, his voice rising again. “And that was after you said, ‘Don’t worry, buddy, nothing will go wrong!’ If it wasn’t for Eryndor, I’d be a goner!” He pointed a trembling finger. “After nearly offing me, a thousand bucks is the least you can do.”

  ---

  Back in Lyriana’s room, the distant argument was clearly audible through the window.

  “AAAW! DON’T RUB IT SO HARD!” Valerius’s pained yell drifted up.

  “If I forgo the application of sufficient pressure, the edematous formation will fail to undergo proper dispersion.” Eryndor’s calm, long-suffering reply followed.

  Ziraiah shook her head. “I wonder what happened now.”

  Lyriana merely smiled, holding up two elegant dresses—one a deep emerald green, the other a vibrant crimson. “Ignore them. So, which do you think looks better on me?”

  Ziraiah glanced over, her teenage disdain momentarily replaced by consideration. She pointed. “The green one. Definitely.”

  ---

  Ryan, having decided that his near-death experience entitled him to a reward, ambled into the kitchen. He opened the oversized, double-wide refrigerator—a necessity in the Winterspring household—and his eyes landed on a perfect, cream-covered chocolate cake nestled on a stand. With a shrug of moral flexibility, he liberated it, grabbed a fork from a drawer, and carried his prize into the living room.

  Perched on a large but human-sized sofa, he flicked on the holoscreen and began to eat, his attention divided between a festive movie and the distant, pained yelps coming from the hallway where Eryndor was administering first aid. He took a large bite, the rich chocolate and velvet cream a balm to his rattled nerves. “Hmm,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “This is really good.”

  A while later, Ziraiah padded downstairs. The post-decorating calm had given way to a specific craving. She made a beeline for the fridge, pulled the heavy door open, and stared at the empty spot on the middle shelf.

  Her eyes narrowed. Then they flashed.

  Without a sound, her fist shot out in a blur of motion and punched straight through the kitchen’s drywall. The material offered no more resistance than tissue paper, leaving a neat, fist-sized hole.

  “VAAAL!” Her roar shook the light fixtures. “WHY DID YOU EAT MY CAKE?!”

  In the living room, Ryan’s heart performed a gymnastic leap into his throat. He choked, spraying a fine mist of chocolate cake crumbs across the coffee table.

  From the hallway, Valerius’s bewildered voice echoed back. “What cake? I didn’t touch your cake!”

  Ziraiah stormed into the hallway, her small frame vibrating with righteous fury, fist cocked back for a punch that would likely crater her brother’s chest.

  Then they all heard it: the distinctive, heavy, yet measured THUMP… THUMP… THUMP of their mother descending the main staircase.

  The rage on Ziraiah’s face vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated panic. She moved faster than any human eye could track. In a flash, she was back in the kitchen, snatching a large, festive “Seasons Greetings” platter from the counter and slapping it over the hole in the wall, holding it there like a shield.

  Lyriana entered the kitchen, her 13-foot-4 frame requiring her to dip her head slightly under the archway. Her concerned gaze went first to Valerius, who was emerging from the hall with a lump of ice held to his forehead.

  “What happened to you, Val?”

  Valerius offered a weak, lopsided smile. “I fell. But I’m okay.”

  Lyriana folded her arms, a gesture that made her seem to fill the entire room. Her voice was soft but carried an undeniable weight. “And who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Valerius’s shoulders slumped in surrender. He let out a long sigh. “I fell from the sky. The jet pack malfunctioned.”

  Lyriana closed her eyes for a brief moment, a silent prayer for patience. “You have to stop taking such risks,” she said, her tone more weary than angry. “You are not invincible.” She opened her eyes, and the stern expression melted away, replaced by a warm, resolute energy. She clapped her hands together once—a sound like two dinner plates meeting.

  “Alright. Enough of this. Let’s make this house a Christmas house.”

  And so, the incident was shelved, and the sprawling home was given over to the sacred, chaotic business of transformation. They spent the entire day cleaning, decorating, and cooking, the earlier drama absorbed into the warm, bustling symphony of preparation.

  The house, a masterful blend of architectural scales, hummed with activity. Furniture sized for both Lyriana’s towering thirteen-foot-four frame and her human-sized children existed in harmony—sofas like small hills, standard armchairs, and countertops at multiple heights. The air grew thick with the scent of pine garlands, cinnamon sticks simmering in cider, and roasting vegetables.

  Lyriana orchestrated the transformation from the center of the grand living room, a conductor of cheer. Her movements, though large, were graceful and precise.

  “Valerius,”she called, pointing a finger as long as his forearm toward a stack of ornament boxes nearly as tall as he was. “The crystal globes for the tree. Handle them carefully.”

  Valerius, chastened, gave a mock salute and began the delicate work.

  Eryndor, his eight-foot frame seeming almost modest beside his mother, was tasked with the upper reaches. Without a ladder, he moved along the vaulted ceiling’s beams, his silver hair catching the firelight as he hung long strands of silver tinsel and fastened oversized velvet bows to the archways. He worked in efficient silence, a study in focused elegance.

  Ziraiah, still occasionally shooting a betrayed glare toward the kitchen (and the phantom of her missing cake), was put in charge of the mantle. She arranged holly sprigs and white candles with a fierce concentration. Ryan, was handed a roll of glossy red ribbon and a confused-looking potted poinsettia.

  “Make it festive,” Lyriana had instructed him, leaving the specifics mercifully vague.

  The kitchen became a warm, fragrant battlefield. Lyriana commanded the main oven and stove, her large hands performing delicate tasks with surprising finesse—whisking eggnog in a bowl the size of a washbasin, basting a turkey that could feed a small village, and rolling out a pie crust on a marble slab that covered half the island.

  “Ziraiah, little ember,” Lyriana said, not looking up from her pastry. “The gingerbread men need their eyes. Do not give them scowls this year. It frightens your grandfather Charles.”

  Ziraiah, summoned to a secondary counter at her own height, sighed and picked up the piping bag. “But scowls give them character, Mom”

  “Well grandpa Charles doesn't like it,” Lyriana replied, a smile in her voice.

  Valerius, having finished with the ornaments, was put to work peeling a mountain of potatoes. Ryan, having “festooned” the poinsettia with a lopsided bow, was enlisted as his assistant. They stood at a lower counter, the rhythmic scritch-scratch of peelers filling a companionable silence.

  From his perch, Eryndor observed the scene below—the organized chaos, the play of light on tinsel, the way his mother’s laughter rumbled softly through the floorboards.

  ---

  On Christmas Night

  The grand table was set, a masterpiece of polished wood and gleaming silver under the soft glow of the chandelier. The air shimmered with anticipation and the rich, layered scents of the feast. Everyone was poised, waiting for the final arrival.

  The heavy front door opened, letting in a swirl of crisp winter air.

  Daniel stood in the doorway, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, his face breaking into a wide, weary smile.

  Ziraiah’s face lit up. “Dad!” She was a blur, darting across the spacious foyer and launching herself into his arms.

  He caught her with a warm, booming laugh, his voice rich with a Nigerian accent. “There’s my little girl!”

  “Merry Christmas, Dad!”

  “Merry Christmas to you too, darling,” he said, squeezing her tight before setting her down. He peered past her into the warm, decorated interior. “How is the woman and the boys?”

  “They’re fine,” Ziraiah beamed.

  He stepped inside, his eyes taking in the garlands, the towering tree, the careful elegance of Lyriana’s handiwork. “Oh,” he said, his voice softening. “I love what you’ve done with the place.” He inhaled deeply, and his posture subtly shifted. His shoulders straightened, his accent refined into a crisp, theatrical British baritone. “Oh, hohoho! What glorious aroma is permeating my nostrils!”

  From the living room archway, Valerius’s head popped up. “Dad! Dad is here!” He strode over, a grin splitting his face. “Merry Christmas, old man.”

  They clasped hands in a complex, practiced gesture—a dap that was all their own. Daniel’s accent shifted back to its comfortable base. “Merry Christmas, little boy. Still getting into trouble, I see?” He nodded toward the faint discoloration on Valerius’s forehead.

  “How was England?” Valerius asked, ignoring the jab.

  Daniel waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, it was nice. Very… damp. I didn’t like their food, though. Tasteless.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming outside, followed by the familiar, rising cadence of an argument. Valerius’s smile turned fond as he looked out the still-open door.

  “Those old people are at it again.”

  Grandpa Charles and Grandma Blessing had arrived. They stood beside their sedan, a picture of long-married chaos against the snowy backdrop. Both carried the dignified bearing and strong Nigerian accents of their homeland, currently deployed as weapons.

  Grandma Blessing, a vibrant woman wrapped in a colorful, patterned gele, was in full flow, her hands on her hips. “…how can you not open the door for your wife? You saw how that man,” she jabbed a finger toward the house, “opened the door for his wife. Forty-five years of marriage, Charles! When have you ever opened a door for me?”

  Grandpa Charles, struggling to wrestle two overstuffed suitcases from the trunk, grumbled without looking up. “Are you telling me a simple door you cannot open again? What is wrong with your hands?”

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  “Eeeh! So something must be wrong with my hands for you to open a door for me? See your mates being romantic to their wives, but look at you.” She shook her head in profound disappointment. “It is not even in your DNA!”

  From the doorway, Ziraiah and Valerius watched the performance. Ziraiah sighed. “They’re always fighting.”

  The argument continued as Charles finally freed the luggage. “The plane was so cold! Instead of you to give me your jacket, you just sat there, doing nothing!”

  “So it is me who shoulf shiver and catch cold?” Charles fired back, hefting the bags. “Am I not human being?”

  Ziraiah and Valerius dissolved into quiet laughter. Valerius wiped his eye. “I don’t know why you don’t like it when they come, Z. They always make my day.”

  Grandpa Charles finally noticed his audience. He pointed a stern finger. “Instead of you to help me with these boxes, you are standing there watching! When the Bible said ‘honour your father and your mother,’ that includes your grandparents too!”

  Valerius’s laughter faded into a mock-serious nod. “Okay. I see why you don’t like them coming.” In the next instant, he was simply there beside them, having crossed the distance in a silent rush. “I’m sorry. Let me help you with that.”

  Grandma Blessing shrieked. “JESUS!” She began swatting at his arm with her purse. “How many times have I told you not to do that! Do you want me to die before my time? My heart!”

  Ziraiah clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed glee.

  Inside, Eryndor approached Daniel. His eight-foot frame moved with a silent grace that seemed to calm the very air. “Father. Merry Christmas.”

  Daniel looked up, way up, and grinned. “If it isn’t the big boy himself. I would hug you, but my legs would dangle, and that wouldn’t be manly now, would it?”

  Without a word, Eryndor bent and enveloped him in a firm embrace, easily lifting Daniel a few inches off the ground.

  “After an absence exceeding a lunar cycle, it would be a profound dereliction of familial duty to forgo a proper welcome.”

  Grandpa Charles, finally making it to the doorstep with Valerius now carrying all the luggage, looked up at Eryndor and threw his hands in the air. “Oh my God! This boy is just getting taller and taller! Is it not enough now? Do you want to reach the sky?” He pointed a commanding finger. “My friend, bend down and let me hug you. And you better not lift me up like your father!”

  Eryndor obliged, dipping his head low to receive the older man’s hearty, back-slapping hug. “Merry Christmas, Grandpa.”

  Grandma Blessing swept in, her dramatic distress forgotten as her eyes landed on Ziraiah. “Hey! Ziraiah! Little Ziraiah, is that you?” She cupped the girl’s face. “You don’t even look like a twelve-year-old anymore. Come, give Grandma a hug.” She pulled Ziraiah into a warm, scented embrace, then peered around. “Where is that giant of a mother you have?”

  Not waiting for an answer, she sailed past them toward the dining room, following the siren call of the food. Her voice floated back, full of approval. “From the smell, I know she prepared this food well. She has tried!”

  Eryndor approached and offered a slight, deferential bow. "Our matriarch is attending to her final vestments in the upper chambers, though her descent is imminent. She has dedicated notable effort to the curation of your preferred viands, a deliberate gesture to guarantee the meal aligns with your discerning palate."

  Grandma Blessing tilted her head back to squint up at him, her expression a perfect blend of bewilderment and affectionate exasperation. “Eh! What kind of English is this one? Me, I cannot understand oh.”

  She swiveled, seeking an interpreter, and pinned Daniel with a look. “Daniel, ah beg, come and translate for me. This boy is speaking pure Shakespeare!”

  A faint, genuine smile touched Eryndor’s lips. He tried again, his syntax simplifying, his tone warm. “My apologies, Grandma. Mis is getting ready, but she will be down very soon. She made your favorite dishes, so you’ll love the meal.”

  Grandma Blessing’s face instantly cleared, breaking into a wide, approving smile. She clapped her hands together once. “Ahaa! Now you are talking. That, I can understand.”

  Valerius rolled his eyes. “Dude. How many times must I tell you? Speak like a normal person. For God’s sake, it’s been over six months.”

  Eryndor offered no reaction, his composure absolute.

  Another vehicle, a sleek but more modest car than the others, crunched up the gravel driveway. Doors opened, and new figures emerged.

  Ziraiah peered out the window. “Um… are we expecting more people?”

  “It is Aunty Jane and her family,” Eryndor stated calmly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me they were coming?”

  “I forgot.”

  “You…forgot?” Ziraiah stared at him in disbelief. “You?”

  “I am a human being as well, Ziraiah. I forget.”

  From the car, a lanky thirteen-year-old boy stepped out, his eyes wide as he took in the sprawling estate. “Wow,” Andrew breathed, his Nigerian accent crisp. “They’re filthy rich.”

  His sister, Augusta, fifteen, followed, her critical gaze landing on the massive front door. “The door is so big. Why would someone need a door so big?”

  Andrew squinted.“I think… there is a door inside the door.”

  Their mother, Aunty Jane, a stylish woman with a warm face, emerged and shooed them. “Alright, take the luggage out and go say hello. It’s been six years since you last saw them. Don’t be rude.”

  Valerius moved toward the door. “Let’s go help them.”

  Eryndor’s hand shot out, catching his brother’s wrist with a firm but gentle grip. “Do not forget. They do not know what we can do.”

  Valerius froze, then nodded. “Oh, yeah. Thanks for the reminder.”

  Ziraiah smirked.“You were this close to getting a beating from Mom tonight.”

  “Right,”Valerius sighed. “No doing anything out of the ordinary.”

  They walked out at a human pace, offering polite, physical help with the luggage. Greetings were exchanged—hugs, handshakes, shy smiles from the cousins.

  Andrew and Augusta stared openly at Eryndor, their heads tilting back to take in his full eight-foot height. Andrew elbowed his sister and whispered what they were both thinking. “I guess that explains the huge door.”

  Inside, Aunty Jane was enveloped in a warm welcome by Daniel and the grandparents. Andrew, meanwhile, wandered into the living room and stopped dead before a Gianluca sofa sized for Lyriana, its lines sleek yet monumental.

  “What the hell is up with this house?”he muttered to himself, utterly bewildered by the seamless blend of gargantuan and normal furnishings.

  Upstairs, Daniel entered the master suite. Lyriana stood before a full-length mirror, putting the final touches on an elegant dress. “I’m back, honey.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice warm. “How was your trip?”

  “Oh, it was excellent. Productive.”

  Lyriana turned, her expression gently chiding. “I see you invited your sister. You should have let me know.”

  Daniel gave a sheepish shrug.“Eryndor said he would tell you. It’s been years. They need to know their aunt and cousins.”

  Lyriana finished fastening a clasp and sighed, the sound more accepting than annoyed. “I guess you’re right.” Then her eyes sharpened. “What happened to Valerius? His forehead is injured.”

  “He fell.”

  “Fell?”Daniel’s brow furrowed. “That shouldn’t even bruise him.”

  Lyriana gave him a look that spoke volumes.“Try a fall from a few kilometers in the sky.” She smoothed her dress and took his arm. “Come on. Let’s head down. Our family is waiting.”

  Lyriana and Daniel descended the main staircase, and the world in the foyer seemed to shift its axis.

  For Augusta and Andrew, who had only ever seen their aunt on the small, flattening screen of a video call, the reality was a moment of pure, breathtaking recalibration. The woman on the screen had been a person. The woman descending the stairs was a force of nature given elegant, impossible form.

  Andrew’s jaw went slack. He leaned toward his sister, his voice a hushed, disbelieving rasp. “How… how is she this big? She looked completely normal on the call.”

  Augusta, her attempt at cool composure finally shattered, could only stare. The scale was all wrong, yet perfect. The proportions were human, but magnified to a mythic degree. Every step was a quiet, seismic event of grace.

  “There’s nothing normal about that,” she whispered back, the statement not one of fear, but of sheer, overwhelmed awe.

  The dining room was a cathedral of warmth and improbable scale. At its heart stood a table of dark, gleaming wood, as tall as a bar, with Lyriana’s throne-like chair at its head. The other chairs looked ordinary until, with a soft hydraulic hum, they gently lifted each person—Daniel, the children, the grandparents, the cousins—to the perfect height, bringing them all eye-to-eye across the impossible divide.

  The table groaned under the feast: a colossal turkey, a ham like a small boar, mountains of jollof rice, bowls of pounded yam and okra soup, vast roasted vegetables, and a perfect chocolate cake standing guard at the far end.

  A reverent hush fell, or rather, was commanded, by the clearing of Grandma Blessing’s throat. She folded her hands, a gesture of absolute finality, and bowed her head.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

  The prayer began. It was not a simple blessing. It was an event.

  Minute 1-3: The Thanksgiving Roll Call.

  Her voice,rich and melodic, filled the warm air. She thanked God for every single person present, by name, and assigned each a specific grace. She thanked Him for the pilots who had flown Daniel home, for the farmers who had grown the rice, and for the “good price” Charles had gotten on the Christmas turkey. Valerius, eyes dutifully shut, felt a pang of hunger. The smell of the glazed ham was a physical presence.

  Minute 4-7: The Petitions for the Absent and the Global.

  The scope broadened.She prayed for cousins in Lagos they hadn’t seen in a decade, for the neighbor’s ailing cat, for world peace, and for wisdom for their leaders. A gentle, rhythmic snore began to emanate from Grandpa Charles. Andrew, standing beside him, shifted his weight. His knee popped. The sound was like a gunshot in the prayerful silence. He stiffened, flushing crimson. Augusta shot him a look of pure horror.

  Valerius’s gaze drifted longingly to the glistening turkey, so close yet so sacramentally far. He calculated the distance. He could probably snatch a drumstick and be back in his seat before the “Amen.” He glanced at Eryndor, whose head was bowed in perfect, unreadable stillness. A single, slow raise of Eryndor’s eyebrow, without even opening his eyes, killed the idea instantly.

  “…bless this food, sanctify it to our bodies, and let our fellowship be sweet in your sight. In the mighty, precious, blood-washed name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ…”

  A wave of subtle relief passed through the younger generation. The end was in sight.

  “…we pray.”

  A beat of silence.

  “…Amen?”

  “Wow,” Andrew breathed, his head swiveling in slow awe. “This is like… King Arthur’s court, but with way better food.”

  “Andrew, mind your manners,” Aunty Jane chided, though her smile softened the reproach.

  “Let the boy speak!” Grandpa Charles’s voice boomed like a bass drum. He raised his glass of deep red wine. “He is right! A royal feast! To the master chef, my magnificent daughter-in-law!”

  “To Mom!” Valerius cheered, hoisting his sparkling cider.

  Lyriana’s smile was soft, radiant, a private sun warming the room. “To family,” she said, her voice a deep, comforting vibration that settled in their bones. “To being together. Now, please. Eat. Enjoy.”

  For a glorious, suspended moment, there was only the blissful, chaotic symphony of the feast: the clatter of silver on porcelain, the soft thump of a serving spoon into rice, the murmur of pure satisfaction as the first bites were taken.

  Grandma Blessing savored a mouthful of jollof, closed her eyes, and hummed a note of profound pleasure. “Lyriana, my daughter. You have outdone yourself. This rice… it is speaking to my soul.”

  “Thank you, Mama Blessing,” Lyriana replied, her silver eyes twinkling.

  Beside her, Daniel leaned in, his voice a private rumble for her ears alone. “She’s not wrong, you know. This is spectacular.”

  Across the table, Ziraiah, aiming for a poised maturity, carefully ladled soup into her bowl. “So, Augusta,” she ventured, striving for casual. “Do you… watch any good shows?”

  Augusta, now comfortably level with her younger cousin, gave a considering shrug. “Some. Mostly I read.” Her gaze swept the grand room again. “Your house is… incredible.”

  Ziraiah waved a dismissive hand, a gesture undermined by the proud little smile she couldn’t suppress. “It’s okay.”

  At the table’s other end, Valerius had captured Andrew’s imagination, his hands sketching shapes in the air as he explained. “…and the main flaw was in the lateral stabilizer—it was over-compensating for the torque, see?”

  “You fell out of the sky,” Eryndor interjected, his tone flat as he took a sip of water.

  “Technical difficulties,” Valerius insisted, undeterred. “The next iteration will be flawless.”

  “Please,”Aunty Jane called over, her voice laced with dry humor. “Do not test the ‘next iteration’ on my son.” Laughter rippled around the table.

  Grandpa Charles, emboldened by the wine and the warmth, launched into a long, meandering tale of his youth, which Grandma Blessing punctuated with spirited, corrective amendments. Their playful, decades-old bickering was a familiar melody that had everyone smiling into their plates.

  Lyriana watched it all. She saw Daniel, deep in earnest conversation with his sister Jane; Eryndor, with silent efficiency, ensuring every guest’s plate and glass were tended to; Valerius, making young Andrew laugh with an exaggerated story; Ziraiah, trying on the cloak of young adulthood for size. A profound, warm silence blossomed within her heart, a still center in the beautiful storm of her family’s joy.

  She raised her glass once more. The chatter subsided, turning toward her.

  “A second toast,”she said, her voice gentle yet carrying to every corner. “To the peace of this night. To the light we hold in this room. May it always find us, no matter how far we may wander.”

  A chorus of “Hear, hear!” and “Amen!” rang out, a joyful affirmation. Glasses met—the large, crystal goblet from Lyriana’s world and the simpler stems from another—their clear notes chiming together in a single, harmonious sound.

  For that one long, golden evening, cradled in the glow of Christmas lights and unconditional love, nothing else mattered. They were simply a family, whole and together, elevated in every sense that truly mattered.