Near the Dag Estate.
The carriage creaked as it climbed the winding road toward the hilltop estate. Inside, Fornos Dag sat slumped in his seat, his usual meticulous appearance reduced to a mess of worn fabric and bloodshot eyes. All five pairs of traveling clothes were crumpled and stained—soot, mud, oils from golem repairs, and the occasional splash of battle grime. His jaw bore the start of a beard, not from fashion but fatigue. Under his cloak, a half-empty vial of anti-sleep tincture rattled with every jolt of the wheel.
"To think it would take five months instead of three," Fornos muttered to himself. His voice was hoarse, more gravel than man. "Good thing I left those fake letters in place, or mother would've ransacked the continent looking for me."
The carriage passed the final bend, and the Dag estate came into full view. Sprawling, proud, and suffocatingly perfect. Its stone walls gleamed under the morning light, cleaned weekly by enchanted jets. The gardens were precisely manicured—so precise, in fact, that Fornos was sure even the weeds had noble lineage.
He glanced at the main gate, two golden lion golems standing vigil. As the carriage passed through, they turned their heads to follow him. Security had increased. New upgrades. Likely his father's doing.
"Draw me a bath," Fornos said dryly, stepping out as a house servant approached. He handed over his suitcase, which thudded heavily with mechanical components, notes, and sealed reports.
Before the servant could respond, the front doors of the manor burst open.
"Fornos!"
Mary Dag dashed down the marble steps, barefoot, her elegant silk house robe fluttering behind her like a banner in full retreat from decorum. Her hair was loosely tied, silver streaks showing where once only chestnut reigned. The worry in her eyes could've melted iron.
"Mother, I'm dirty," Fornos groaned, raising a hand to stop her. But it was too late.
She wrapped him in a tight, smothering hug, heedless of the grime coating his travel-worn clothes. The scent of ink, metal dust, and dried sweat clung to him, but she held on as if he might vanish again.
"You smell like you fought a relict barehanded," Mary murmured against his shoulder. "But I don't care. You're here. That's all that matters."
"Finally back," came a voice behind them. Voss Dag, ever composed, descended the stairs with his cane in one hand and a leather folder tucked under his arm. His sharp eyes took in every detail of Fornos's condition—sallow skin, trembling hands, the twitch under his left eye. A lifetime of reading ledgers and people made it clear: his son was running on fumes and pride.
"Yeah," Fornos said softly, not pulling away from the hug just yet. "I'll give you the full report later."
"No. You're going to rest first," Mary snapped as she pulled back and inspected him from head to toe. Her voice trembled between relief and outrage. "This again, Fornos? Your eyes—have you been taking drugs?!"
"Just anti-sleep," he replied, brushing his bangs aside. "Kept it minimal. Well, mostly."
Mary clicked her tongue. "Minimal? You look like someone's cursed puppet."
"Also, your dress is now dirty," Fornos added with a tired smirk.
"It doesn't matter," she said, voice softening again. "You're not going anywhere until you're clean, fed, and properly rested. I'm invoking mother's law."
Fornos glanced at Voss, who merely raised his hands as if to say, Don't drag me into this.
"She's smarter than I am," Voss said calmly. "Besides, I've read enough reports for ten lifetimes. You can take a day."
Fornos finally let out a deep breath. The tension in his shoulders slackened. "Just one day."
"That's all I'm asking," Mary replied, cupping his cheek gently. "One day with your family."
Hours later, steam rolled over the tiled floors of the estate bathhouse. Fornos leaned back into the heated water, groaning as the warmth sunk into his bones. The edge of the bath was cluttered with half-sorted reports and hand-drawn blueprints he couldn't yet bring himself to part from. His fingers twitched with phantom quill movements.
But for the first time in months, the buzz of his mind was slowing.
Outside the room, the Dag household hummed with quiet activity. Servants cleaned, family retainers whispered updates to one another, and in the far east wing, Voss and Mary reviewed their son's letters, finally able to match the forged handwriting with his actual tone.
"He's grown, hasn't he?" Mary whispered, her eyes scanning a sketch of a new golem design he'd scrawled in haste. Kindling's name was etched at the top, along with a note of thanks to someone named Konos.
"Yes," Voss replied. "And grown apart. But he's still ours."
"He always will be."
That evening, Fornos sat in his childhood study, sipping broth slowly as a servant laid out freshly laundered clothes and soft cotton sheets. He stared at the framed painting on the wall—an old depiction of the Dag family crest: a hawk clutching a contract in one claw and a sword in the other.
Outside, the wind shifted. The world was changing. Noble houses were stirring. Golem designs were leaking through cracks in the walls of power. And the Ash Company was no longer just a concept on parchment.
He had brought Kindling to life. He had marched across coastlines and tunnels. He had returned, not as a son seeking permission, but as a peer with plans of his own.
But tonight, he was just Fornos.
Home.
And for one quiet evening, that was enough.