He did not return on a black ring like a proclamation. He folded into the seam he had kept for himself under the valley and let the earth close over him the way a book shuts to keep its place. The descent was quiet—good stone, old heat, the slow breath of tunnels that had never needed names.
His hall greeted him with the small truths he liked: a basalt table polished by gauntlet and time, sconces that were not fire but remembered being fire, the dull, patient hum of runes that meant pressure, vent, focus. He sat carefully. That was new.
Pain announced itself like a ledger read aloud. Hip: pitted by small storms and their stubborn cadence. Visor: starred, with one impolite tunnel drilled where honest iron had insisted. Left ribs: opened by guided fury, closed by will and heat, now annoyed. Palm runes: one finger guttered, stable again because anger had bullied it. Cloak-skin: sloughed twice, regrown in a hurry, sulking.
He liked it. Pain spoke plainly. He had missed plain speech.
