The Hall of Welcome is still for the first time in days. Beyond the open portal, river-night breathes cool air across the terrace, and the small kiln gives the room a low, ember-red pulse. Kynes, Bren, Sella, Orven, and Sable gather close, weapons lowered, shoulders finally easing.

Sable turns a pot with careful hands, checking the kiln’s warmth. Bren leans against the stone doorway, watching Kynes with the guarded relief of someone who has spent too long bracing for impact.

Sella rests near the ledger cradle, fingertips near the clay without touching it. The book’s gold glint is soft now, more lantern than beacon. Its pages lie still, as if listening without pressing.

Sable sets the kiln lid aside and looks toward the open night, then back to the others. The moment hangs easy, almost domestic, amid stone, river air, and quiet light.

Kynes takes Bren’s hand and turns from the kiln’s ember glow toward the inner room. The floor stones hold steady under his steps, and the open portal behind them keeps breathing in river-cool night.

Bren lets him lead her, her grip firm and brief, then matching his pace. Sable glances up from the kiln, and the ledger’s gold light gives a soft pulse where Sella sits with it.

Kynes and Bren cross the room together, past the clay cradle and the dormant table where the red script has thinned to a faint flicker in the seams. The chamber does not resist them.

At the inner door, Bren brushes his knuckles once, a small private signal before she slips beside him into the room they have claimed as theirs. Behind them, Sella’s quiet reading and Sable’s steady hands leave the hall feeling held, not merely survived.