They didn't go back to the Sanctum.
Not the public halls. Not the council chambers. Not the bright marble corridors where everyone pretended prophecy was neat and controllable.
Maera led them instead to an older place—one she called *a Dawnwatch wayhouse*, tucked behind a ridge where wind carved the snow into smooth drifts.
From the outside it looked like nothing: stone, low roof, half-hidden in pines.
But the moment Elowen crossed the threshold, the air changed.
Wards hummed under the floor.
Old, quiet, patient wards that didn't feel like a cage.
They felt like a blanket.
Elowen stepped inside and shut the door behind us. The latch clicked, and the sound hit my chest like relief.
I was in the sling again—because Elowen apparently had decided "asking permission" also meant "ignoring my complaints about being carried."
Maera peeled off her gloves and finally let herself exhale.
"Safe enough," she said. "For tonight."
Elowen's shoulders lowered.
And only then did she look down at me—eyes soft, mouth tight with exhaustion.
"We're home," she whispered.
The word did something to me.
Home.
Even if it wasn't *my* home. Even if I didn't remember one.
It sounded like a promise.
I made a tiny sound—half sigh, half whine—and relaxed against her chest.
Elowen noticed immediately and adjusted the strap, tucking my hood back properly.
There was a hallway beyond the entry room.
Warm lamplight.
The smell of stew.
Footsteps.
Then voices—surprised, relieved, and suddenly *many*.
A woman with short gray hair appeared first, wearing a Dawnwatch mantle. Her eyes locked on Elowen and widened.
"Elowen?" she breathed. "Saints— we thought—"
Her gaze dropped to me in the sling.
Then her face melted.
"Oh."
Elowen's posture tightened by reflex.
Maera stepped forward. "No touching unless Elowen says."
The woman raised both hands immediately. "Understood. I'm not an idiot."
Then she leaned closer anyway, careful, like approaching a skittish animal.
"That," she whispered reverently, "is the cutest legendary weapon crisis I have ever seen."
I squinted at her. "Excuse you."
Her eyes widened. "It talks."
Elowen sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Yes. She talks."
The woman's smile widened. "Hello, small apocalypse."
I narrowed my eyes. "Hello, large nosy."
Maera coughed once. "This is Commander Sable. Don't antagonize her."
I blinked. "You just called her 'nosy.'"
Maera stared at me. "That was you."
Sable laughed—soft, relieved laughter—and stepped aside. "Come in. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
Elowen walked deeper into the wayhouse.
And the moment she did, more people appeared like she'd stepped into a nest of hawks who'd been pacing for days.
Two Dawnwatch scouts.
A healer with rolled sleeves.
A cook holding a ladle like a weapon.
And a tall man with a book tucked under his arm who looked like he'd been mid-sentence with someone before freezing in shock.
They all stared at Elowen—
then at me—
then did the exact same thing: their faces softened.
Like they'd collectively forgotten how to be scary professionals.
Sable clapped once. "All right. Quiet. Nobody crowds."
The cook ignored that immediately and leaned in, eyes shining.
"Is that a baby?" she whispered.
"I'm not a baby!" I protested.
The cook gasped dramatically. "It's even worse! It's an angry baby!"
Elowen's hand covered my head protectively. "She's tired."
The healer stepped forward cautiously. "May I check her? If she's a manifested construct, she may be—"
"No," Elowen said instantly.
The healer stopped, palms up. "Okay. No."
Sable lifted an eyebrow. "We all understand Elowen's new rule, yes? She asks first."
Everyone nodded quickly.
Elowen looked down at me. "Rin. Do you want them to look at your core loop?"
I hesitated.
I didn't like being examined.
But this room felt… safer than the Sanctum. The people felt different. Less hungry for prophecy.
And honestly?
They looked like they wanted to tuck me into a blanket and feed me soup.
Which was… confusingly appealing.
I peeked up at Elowen.
"Only if you stay right here," I said quietly.
Elowen's expression softened immediately. "I will."
I nodded. "Okay. They can check."
The healer exhaled in relief and approached slowly.
"Hi," she said gently. "I'm Mira."
I blinked. "Mira is… a lot of my stories' names."
Maera stared at me. "Your what."
I coughed. "Nothing."
Mira didn't question it. She lifted her hands and let faint light hover above my chest—not touching, just sensing.
Her eyes narrowed in concentration.
"Anchor is holding," she murmured. "Reservoir is recovering. But you're… stretched."
Elowen's jaw tightened. "Stretched?"
Mira nodded. "Like someone who ran a marathon with a cracked rib. You're not broken. But you need rest. Real rest."
I sighed. "Yes, doctor."
Mira smiled. "Good patient."
"I'm not—"
Sable's voice cut in. "She's a kid right now. Yes, she is."
My face heated. "I'm a legendary sword."
Sable nodded solemnly. "Of course you are."
Then she leaned closer, eyes sparkling.
"…Do you want a blanket?"
My mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
"…Yes."
Sable's smile turned victorious. "I knew it."
The cook—still holding the ladle—returned two seconds later with a small fleece blanket covered in stitched stars.
It was clearly made for children.
It was also warm.
Elowen took it and wrapped it around me without comment, tucking it under my chin like she'd done it a thousand times.
I made a tiny involuntary noise.
Elowen looked down. "What was that?"
"Nothing," I lied.
My cheeks burned.
Then the cook brought a small bowl—thick stew, steam curling up.
Elowen lifted the spoon and held it near my mouth like this was completely normal.
I stared at her in horror.
"No."
Elowen's eyes narrowed. "You're depleted."
"I can feed myself."
Elowen held the spoon steady.
I tried to glare.
My stomach growled.
Traitor.
The room collectively went quiet in the most intense, expectant way.
Sable whispered, "It's happening."
Maera muttered, "Saints preserve me."
I sighed dramatically and opened my mouth.
Elowen fed me one spoonful.
Warm stew hit my tongue and immediately made my entire body relax.
I hated that.
I also loved it.
I made a small happy sound without permission.
The cook clasped both hands near her face. "She *likes* it."
I sputtered, flustered. "It's not— I'm just— it's warm!"
Elowen's mouth curved just slightly. "Eat."
She fed me another spoonful.
Then another.
And because I was apparently an actual child when cozy and warm and safe—
a giggle bubbled up in my chest.
Tiny.
Embarrassing.
Real.
I slapped a hand over my mouth.
Everyone froze.
Then Sable's eyes went wide.
"That giggle," she whispered, like she was witnessing a holy phenomenon.
Maera pinched the bridge of her nose. "Please don't make it weird."
The cook started making delighted little noises like she might explode.
Elowen's shoulders shook once, barely containing laughter.
I glared at her. "Don't."
Elowen's eyes softened. "I'm not laughing at you."
I narrowed my eyes harder.
Elowen added quietly, "I'm relieved."
That shut me up.
I swallowed and looked down at my blanket, cheeks still warm.
Sable stepped closer again—slow, careful.
"May I?" she asked, nodding toward the blanket.
I looked at Elowen.
Elowen looked back.
I sighed.
"…Okay."
Sable tucked the blanket edges tighter like I was a tiny burrito, then patted my head once—very gently.
"There," she murmured. "Legendary."
I made an offended noise.
But then—because the head pat felt weirdly nice—
another giggle escaped.
Longer this time.
I tried to stop it.
I failed.
It came out like a kid's laugh, bright and small, and my shoulders shook with it.
The room erupted in soft, relieved laughter—not mocking, just happy.
Elowen looked down at me, eyes warm.
"You're safe," she whispered, almost like she was telling herself too.
My chest tightened.
I whispered back without thinking.
"Mommy…"
Elowen didn't flinch.
She just adjusted the blanket and held me closer on her lap, one arm around my back, the other still holding the spoon.
"Yes, Rin," she murmured. "I'm here."
And because everyone was watching and I was warm and fed and wrapped up and being babied by a whole room of Dawnwatch professionals who clearly had no self-control—
I giggled again.
This time I didn't even try to hide it.
Because in this wayhouse, for one night at least…
being small didn't feel like weakness.
It felt like being cared for.