Vesna followed the old caravan contact deeper into the burning city, the woman moving with surprising speed despite her injuries. The siege raged on every side — flames licking rooftops, distant clashes of steel, the low roar of demons and the stubborn ringing of the defense bell that still refused to fall silent.
They reached a small, half-ruined warehouse tucked behind a collapsed market row. The door hung crooked on broken hinges. Above it, faded but unmistakable, was the same merchant crest that had lived in Vesna's memory for years.
The woman pointed. "They stayed here three nights. Left in a hurry when the demons pushed harder. This is the last place I saw them."
Vesna stepped inside alone.
The space was small and dim, the air thick with the ghost of old spices and campfire smoke. Bedrolls were still laid out in neat rows along one wall. A cold fire pit sat in the center. On the far wall, scratched into the plaster with the tip of a knife, was a mark only someone from her caravan would recognize — a simple wheel with three spokes and a small star above it. Her father's personal route marker.
They had been here.
Recently.
The grooves in the plaster were still sharp. Not weathered. Not old. Days old at most.
Vesna walked over and traced the mark with trembling fingers. The hope hit her first — bright, sharp, almost painful. They were alive. They had been right here. The trail was still warm.
Then the hurt followed right behind it.
Close enough to feel real.
Not close enough to reach.
Not close enough to be reunion.
She sank to her knees in front of the wall, one hand still pressed against the carved wheel. A sound escaped her — not quite a sob, something smaller and more raw, years in the making.
Zzyzx didn't speak. She simply flowed outward, pink-azure tendrils gently wrapping around Vesna's shoulders and back in a living embrace. Not tight. Not smothering. Just present.
Leshwai hopped down from her shoulder and pressed himself against her chest, small body vibrating with soft, comforting chirps. He nuzzled under her chin, then reached up to brush against the tendrils, making sure both parts of his pack were connected to the woman in the middle.
No words.
No grand speeches.
Just presence.
Just pack.
Vesna leaned forward until her forehead rested against the cold stone, the carved wheel right in front of her eyes. Tears came quietly, steadily, years in the making.
Her found family held her while the blood family's trail burned warm in her hands and the city burned around them.
The hope hurt.
But she wasn't carrying it alone anymore.