Home Was in Their Arms
The Silver City had burned.
Yet in that sacred moment—under a sky painted in crimson dusk, with cinders falling like snow—time just... paused. Held its breath.
Leon didn't say a word.
He didn't have to move.
They were already running—sprinting straight for him—his wives. His companions. The women who'd kept his soul from falling apart.
They hit him like a wave slamming into the shore—fast, hard, unstoppable. Arms wrapped around his waist. Fingers clung to his chest. Another pair looped tight around his neck.
All at once together, they dragged him down with them—back to the scorched, blackened earth.
Tears were pouring. Cries broke loose. Laughter slipped through the sobs.
They pressed their faces into him like lost children clutching their mother. Hands roamed his skin—burned, battered—touching his chest, his jaw, his shoulders, just needing to feel he was real.
And Leon, half-naked, bleeding, shaking where he lay in the dirt, held them all close.
