The storm had passed. The broken horizon was far behind them now, traded for the quiet streets of a town tucked against the river. Soldiers filled the inns, merchants hawked supplies, but Eryndor and Lyanna kept to themselves, walking side by side as though time hadn't chewed years between them.
Lyanna broke the silence first. "So. Storm-slayer, Titan-breaker… savior of soldiers who probably can't even pronounce your name right. And yet here you are, pacing like you don't know what to do with your hands."
Eryndor shoved them into his cloak pockets, glaring sidelong. "I wasn't pacing."
"You were." Her smirk grew. "You always did when you didn't know how to act."
He grunted, but didn't argue. He hated how easily she pulled memories back, like loose threads unraveling him.
They ended up in a small riverside café, a place with worn wooden tables and lanterns glowing against the dusk. Neither of them were dressed for fine company, but the innkeeper didn't care. Plates of roasted fowl and bread arrived, along with spiced tea that steamed between them.
Eryndor didn't speak at first. He wasn't used to quiet like this—not since the academy, not since her. And it unnerved him more than battle ever could.
Lyanna leaned back in her chair, arms folded. "So what's next? Are you going to keep throwing yourself at world-ending monsters until there's nothing left of you? Or do you actually plan to live?"
Eryndor tapped his thumb against the table. "If I don't fight them, who will?"
"That's not what I asked."
The air grew still between them. He looked up at her finally, and for the first time since the Titan fell, his storm faltered.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Her expression softened—barely, but enough. "At least that's honest."
Later, they walked the lamplit streets. The night smelled of river mist and roasted chestnuts, and for once, the world didn't feel like it was ending. Lyanna drifted closer when the crowd pressed too tight, her shoulder brushing his. Eryndor didn't move away.
When they reached the outskirts, Lyanna asked, "Do you ever visit your family anymore?"
He stiffened. "Not really."
"Then take me," she said simply.
The next morning, they arrived at the Eryndor estate. His father was out—still tied up with military councils—but his younger sister nearly tripped over herself when she saw him at the door.
"Brother!" she squealed, clinging to him before glaring up at Lyanna with all the suspicion of a hawk. "Who's this?"
Lyanna crouched smoothly, meeting the girl's eyes. "A friend. The kind that makes your brother less impossible."
The girl blinked, then burst out laughing. Eryndor just sighed, though the corner of his mouth tugged against his will.
The day passed in a way Eryndor hadn't known in years: a shared meal, Lyanna teasing his sister until she couldn't breathe for giggling, even his mother insisting Lyanna stay for supper as though she'd been part of the household all along.
It was simple. Too simple for a man who had stared down a hollow sun and lived. But when Lyanna looked across the table at him, smiling faintly as if she belonged here, Eryndor felt something stir that no storm could burn away.
For the first time, he wondered if living might mean more than surviving battles.