By the time the torches hissed to life along the courtyard walls, dust clung to Lysa’s cloak and her braid had come half undone. She slipped through the gate as if she had only gone walking in the hills, but her eyes told the truth.

  Petric stood first. “Well?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I made it to the Pyrethorne Range. And I saw him.”

  The table hushed. Even Nell set down his cup.

  “You saw Janric?” Jorlan asked, incredulous.

  Lysa nodded once. “He was in his war chamber, meeting with his council. I scaled the outer wall and found a balcony window. I couldn’t hear much from outside — but I saw enough.”

  Petric’s voice cut harder than he meant. “You climbed their castle wall?”

  “I stayed hidden,” she shot back. “If they’d seen me, I wouldn’t be here.”

  His jaw worked as if he might say more — but then he drew a breath, let it out, and softened. “Reckless,” he said. “But… thank God you made it back safe.”

  She pressed on, almost too quickly: “His wife, Kerris, was at his side — and the children.”

  Petric nodded grimly. “Damarien is a skilled archer. Giovannic, a warrior near his father’s strength. Aedric—hot-headed with a sword, reckless but dangerous. Aedric is Kerris’s only son. The other two…they were born of another mother.”

  Jerric blinked, then blurted, “Just like your family! Where’s their mother, then?”

  Petric’s mouth tightened. “Not all separations are clean.”

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  Nell frowned, leaning back in his chair. “Hold on. Janric of Macrelith—the head of the military arm of Calmyra—that Janric is your cousin? You two don’t look a damn thing alike. Hell, not even the same skin color.”

  Petric didn’t bristle; he’d heard it before. “His father was a Black soldier who left when he was young. His mother, Vicky, was my mother’s aunt. Blood doesn’t always show in the mirror, Nell. But believe me, Janric is family. Four years older than me, and the brother I never had until the war made us rivals.”

  He looked back at the map, his voice heavier now. “Three heirs. Every one of them bred for war.”

  “That’s not all,” Lysa added. “Two others arrived while I watched. I didn’t know them — but they greeted Janric like family.”

  “Describe them,” Petric said.

  “One was broad-shouldered, heavy beard, pale skin. Looked like a man who’d grown up breaking stone with his fists. The other wore spectacles, darker skin, quiet — but the kind of quiet that listens more than it speaks. Janric leaned close when he spoke, like he trusted him more than the others.”

  Petric’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Garrow and Fitz. I haven’t seen them in years. Garrow was Janric’s childhood friend. Fitz—his closest confidant, clever as they come. We trained together once. I should have known Janric would keep them near.”

  Silence followed, heavy and thoughtful, until Kelara asked gently, “And where did you sleep, child?”

  A mischievous grin tugged at Lysa’s mouth. “There’s a small village at the foot of the mountain. I… borrowed a little gil and paid for a room at the inn.”

  Nell barked laughter. “You robbed the locals for rent money? That’s my girl!”

  Jorlan chuckled too, shaking his head.

  Jerric sputtered, “You stole!?”

  Kelara’s brow rose. Petric’s followed.

  Lysa only shrugged, sheepish but unrepentant. “Well — while I was there, I heard something. An old man — drunk maybe — swore he saw a bird of smoke or fire fly overhead. Said it went south, toward the woods. He was shaken, like he truly believed it.”

  Nell waved it off. “Drunks see what they want. Birds made of smoke, gods with coin purses—take your pick.”

  “Probably,” Lysa admitted. But the sparkle in her eyes dimmed just enough to show she wasn’t so sure.

  Petric’s expression eased at last. “Reckless, yes,” he said quietly. “But you brought back more than any scout ever has. I’m proud of you, Lysa.”

  He leaned back, though his thoughts were already miles away. A bird of fire. Janric’s heirs. Garrow and Fitz. The war closed in on every side, and his daughter had been the one to see it first.

  — — —

  Later, when the hall had gone quiet — supper cleared, wine half-drained — Petric lingered alone by the altar flame, hands clasped, words barely more than breath.

  “Father, I’m trying. I’m holding this house together, though the walls close in by the day. Enemies on every side, my children growing too fast, my wife carrying burdens I should bear myself.”

  His voice faltered, and for a moment he simply stared at the lion banner hanging above.

  “Blood doesn’t always wear the same face,” he murmured. “Janric and I are proof of that. But family isn’t in the mirror — it’s in the bond you can’t shake, even when war tears at it.”

  The words hung heavy in the quiet.