Kane saw the exhaustion and the strain in Arasha, so he swiftly made the call to go back to the place where she could be at ease, the Scion Hold.
So, Kane and Arasha decided to go back to the Scion Order Hold briefly to check on it as the matters of the network and countermeasures were mostly settled.
The Scion Hold lay nestled against the rolling hills of the southwest, its stout stone walls more practical than grand.
Lanterns glowed faintly at the gate, and for Kane and Arasha, the sight was more welcome than any banner or palace spire. The familiar rhythm of steel on the training yard echoed through the night air, steady and grounding.
They had barely dismounted when two figures came striding across the courtyard.
Leta, her healer's apron smudged with salves and ink, hurried forward with unrestrained relief.
Garran followed more slowly, his weathered face split by a grin that softened the lines age and war had carved into it.
"Finally," Leta said, eyes darting immediately to Arasha as if expecting to catch her hiding fresh wounds. "You're not limping. No burns. No fever flush. Saints above, are you actually whole this time?"
Arasha laughed, a little sheepish. "You make it sound like I delight in worrying you."
"You usually do," Garran rumbled, his gravelly voice cutting in, though his tone held amusement. He clasped Kane's arm firmly. "And if this is your doing, lad—keeping her in one piece—then you've earned my goodwill. Few manage what the rest of us fail at."
For once, there was no weight of suspicion in his eyes, only a quiet approval. Leta, too, offered Kane a smile—not her usual guarded kind, but one of genuine warmth.
Between the two of them, it felt as though invisible barriers eased.
Arasha noticed it, too. She caught Kane's glance, saw the faint smile tugging at his lips, and warmth stirred in her chest.
She let herself exhale.
This—these halls, these faces—was home.
That night, the hold's great hall rang with laughter and the clatter of mugs. Long tables were lined with roasted meats, thick stews, and spiced bread.
Torches threw golden light over the carved beams above, illuminating faces she had known for years: comrades, students, mentors.
Stories spilled freely—tales of drills gone wrong, hunts that had nearly outwitted hunters, and old campaigns turned into comedic legend. Kane, though quieter, found himself pressed into a seat between Garran and Leta, who made sure his cup never emptied.
For every probing question about the Frosthaven battle, there were twice as many jests about Arasha's temper, her stubbornness, and the chaos she often dragged the order into.
Arasha laughed until her chest ached, until her ribs felt unbound from the weight she had been carrying. She looked around at her people, their eyes alight with mirth and strength, and her resolve crystallized.
This—this fragile, glowing moment of peace—was what she wanted to protect. What she must protect. So that nights like these were not relics of the past, but promises of the future.
Yet outside the laughter and music, the wind howled over the hills, carrying with it the faint, sour tang of corruption that no one within the hall could yet smell.
The rift did not care for warmth or laughter. It would take, and take, until nothing remained—unless they held it back.
****
The next morning, the Scion Hold was already alive with movement. The clang of tools, the faint hum of spells, the scent of boiling herbs and metal polish mingled into a single, purposeful rhythm.
Every hall seemed alive with intent, a hive buzzing at the edge of storm.
Kane sat across from Rewald in the workshop chamber, its stone walls crowded with racks of unfinished talismans, rune-etched plates, and scraps of failed experiments.
The older mage adjusted his spectacles, squinting at the glowing sigils Kane had drawn across the table.
"The extraction efficiency improves by nearly twenty percent if you layer the runes with a grounding seal first," Kane explained, tapping the etching with the tip of a chalk wand. "It draws the corruption into a more stable channel. The problem is, it triples the mana expenditure of the caster."
Rewald grunted. "We can't afford triple the drain. Our mages aren't bottomless wells. But—" He leaned closer, tracing the spiraling lines with his calloused finger. "—if we train them properly, teach them to balance their flow… maybe. We'll need a simplified schema if this is to be spread across the Orders."
"Agreed," Kane said. "The question is distribution. We don't hoard this. We teach. The Scion Order doesn't win alone."
Rewald's eyes gleamed with approval. "You sound more and more like a commander each day, lad."
Meanwhile, in the infirmary wing, Leta and Roen were elbow-deep in scrolls, parchments, and jars of half-finished brews.
Roen, his sleeves rolled back and hair tied high, muttered calculations under his breath while stirring a cauldron that shimmered faintly silver.
"This potion—Kane's formula—" he said, voice taut with frustration. "It's too layered. Dozens of reagents in specific sequence. You need four alchemists just to keep the mixture stable."
Leta, calm but firm, shook her head. "Then we scale back. We don't need miracles, Roen. What we need is something we can make by the dozen, something that buys a soldier's body the time to heal naturally."
She lifted a vial of golden-green liquid from a rack and held it up to the light. "Rejuvenation. It's not a panacea, but it enhances recovery, stabilizes shock, and can be produced in weeks, not months. If it keeps our fighters standing and breathing, it's worth more than one perfect potion we'll never have enough of."
Roen exhaled and nodded, conceding the point. Together, they began drafting letters and spell-scribed messages to trusted alchemists across the kingdom, coordinating recipes and sharing adjusted instructions.
Within hours, a network of healers was buzzing to life beyond the Hold's walls.
Amidst the steady tide of activity, Arasha slipped into a quieter corridor, her comm-link chiming softly against her ear.
She pressed the rune to activate it—and nearly jolted at the familiar voice that came through.
"Have you forgotten your only living relative, child?"
Arasha froze. "…Aunt Valmira."
The great Valmira Steelhart's voice carried the same iron as her name, though softened with amusement.
On the projection, her stern, handsome features curved into a smile.
"I thought the rifts had swallowed you whole," Valmira said, her silver hair pulled into the severe braid of command. "Not even a call, when calamity walks the land?"
Shame pricked Arasha's chest. She bowed her head instinctively, despite knowing her aunt could only see her face. "I'm sorry. Truly, Aunt. I've leaned on your support far too much already. Everything you've given… I haven't forgotten. Forgive me."
Valmira's smile softened. "You're forgiven, Arasha. But listen well: when shadows gather, you lean on your kin, not push them away. Remember that."
Arasha swallowed and nodded, her voice low but sincere. "I only wish for you to strengthen your own fief. Never hesitate to call on me, Aunt, when you need it. You've done more for me than I can ever repay."
A hearty laugh answered her, rich and unexpected. "Stubborn girl! Just like your mother. Fine, fine—I'll tend to Steelhart lands. But now…" Valmira's eyes glinted, mischief creeping into her tone. "Tell me, who is this lover I've heard whispers about?"
Arasha's eyes widened. Heat surged to her cheeks as if she were sixteen again. She coughed, flustered. "I—I'll tell you next time. In person."
Valmira chuckled, thoroughly entertained by the rare sight of her iron-blooded niece blushing like a flustered maiden. "Very well. I'll spare you… this time. Take care of yourself, Arasha. And of him, too, whoever he is."
The projection winked out, leaving Arasha leaning against the cold stone wall, pressing her palm over her racing heart. For all the chaos of rifts and battles, her great-aunt still knew how to leave her defenseless with a single question.