The keep’s morning hummed with its small rituals: sparrows in the vine, sparring steel in the yard, Jorlan losing just enough at chess to let Jerric learn the traps. Nothing foretold interruption—until the gate guard blinked, rubbed his eyes, and swore softly under his breath.

  A woman stood at the bars, House Cavaryn cloak dusty from travel, ribbon at her throat catching the light like it remembered how. Her smile was too bright to belong to the road.

  “Halloo the gate,” she called, smooth as wine poured slow. “I heard you kept a lion here. I brought manners.”

  By the time she was led in, the yard had stilled in curiosity.

  Bert was the first to reach her. His grin arrived before his words.

  “I’ll be damned. Jeannie.”

  “Language,” she said, delighted, and kissed him on the mouth as if no years had passed.

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Still the same.”

  “Of course,” Jeannie said, eyes bright.

  He turned to the gathered company, loud enough for all: “This one—this is Jeannie. If you’ve heard the tale of the fountain of youth, she’s the reason the tale spread.”

  Gasps and laughter stirred the yard. Jeannie slapped his chest lightly. “Knock it off, oak-branch.”

  Tank, ever the skeptic, muttered under his breath, “Fountain of youth? I don’t see it.”

  Without missing a beat, Jeannie casually tied her hair into a ponytail, and Tank’s eyes widened. “Oh, now I see it,” he admitted with a chuckle.

  Then she made her rounds—embracing Kelara, Jerric, and Lysa with warmth, as kin not seen in too long. Her smile softened when her eyes found Petric. She crossed to him, kissed him on the mouth as she had Bert, and for a heartbeat the yard went still. Solin’s brow arched, Gung blinked, Josira’s lips parted in a sharp little smile.

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  Kelara only chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s just Cousin Jeannie.”

  The stillness broke. Jeannie slipped among them like she had always belonged—sparring lightly with Tank until she tapped his throat with a practice hilt, making Nell roar with laughter; brushing lips against Josira’s cheek and coaxing an unwilling smile; meeting Clarien’s calm gaze until, impossibly, Clarien’s mouth twitched upward. Time bent itself around her until the yard was bright with her laughter.

  When the sun had shifted higher and the rhythm of the keep half-returned, Bert clapped his hands on his hips. “It’s good to see you, Jeannie. But what brings you here today?”

  She deadpanned, playful as a knife in velvet. “Reconnaissance. I’m here to see what you’ve all been plotting.”

  The yard stilled. She took three steps, pressed Bert back against a sun-warmed wall with her forearm to his chest, and smiled wickedly. “Tell me everything you know.”

  Bert raised his hands as though cornered. “That’s a hard order, Jeannie. I know everything.”

  The chuckle rolled through the company, easing the moment, and she let him go with a laugh of her own.

  Not long after, she drew Petric aside to the garden table, seating him with an easy pressure to his shoulders, fingers settling there as if she could knead secrets out of him.

  “So,” she said, voice low but playful, “what’s your plan in all this? This war—you’ll not raise your sword against Queen Lorenya. Everyone knows that.”

  Petric did not flinch. “Of course not. I would never raise my blade to my own mother. But…” He let the word hang, heavy as steel. “It is complicated.”

  She tilted her head. “Complicated never wins a war.”

  He exhaled slowly. “The families have their causes. Macrelith hungers for the strongest army the world has seen—iron above all. The Luthgars weigh coin and ledger, seeking stability while the storm gathers. My mother—her heart bends to the people; she would please them all, even as the crown strains her brow. All noble aims. Yet none of them reckon the whole. None of them balance the scales.”

  Jeannie’s fingers pressed gently into his shoulders, urging truth. “And Virella?”

  Petric’s eyes hardened. “Virella is the thorn. She covets the crown. She would bleed Calmyra white if it meant sitting above its ruins. I have never trusted her, and I never will.”

  The last light caught his face, gaunt and resolute. Jeannie studied him in silence, then leaned closer, her voice a whisper only for him. “Then do not waste yourself in patience, cousin. The storm has already chosen its thunder. Better to choose your strike than wait for hers.”

  Petric did not answer. But he did not move from her hands either.