Mist clung to the inlet, thin and pearly as the sun pulled itself over the water. The watchman on the east tower leaned out, blinked twice, and then bellowed down the stair.

  “Boat!”

  By the time the skiff shouldered into the little stone dock, Petric was already on the wall. Bradan came loping after him, Gung not far behind, Nell rubbing at his jaw like he’d been roused mid-dream.

  The man in the boat stood broad as the dock posts, beard gone iron-gray at the edges, built like oak carved to weather. His vest was patched but sturdy, his boots slung in one hand, and his other gripped a bundle of fish like it weighed nothing at all. His hands were thick with work that never left them, and his eyes—dark, sharp, unblinking—measured the world the way a mason checks his stone: with weight, not hurry.

  He climbed out barefoot, water sheeting off his ankles, and slung the fish onto the dock with the ease of a man dropping kindling. Then he looked up at the wall.

  “Miss me, Shmoot?”

  Petric’s grin broke clean and boyish. “Don’t call me that.”

  Bert met Petric in the middle of the stones and pulled him into a rib-cracking embrace that smelled like brine and cedar smoke.

  “Still crashing gates without warning,” Petric muttered into his shoulder.

  “Better than showing up empty-handed,” Bert said, lifting the line of fish. “Three gulls tried to steal my hat on the way. I took it personal.”

  Nell clattered up, eyebrows high. “Who’s this pirate?”

  “Family,” Petric said. “My uncle.”

  Bert’s eyes ticked around, measuring faces like stones on a wall. He didn’t know their names, not yet, but he gave them a grin that asked nothing and offered warmth. “Strength and honor,” he said lightly, and even Nell found himself smirking back.

  — — —

  The keep was still yawning awake when Petric brought Bert through the gates. Dawn stretched pale across the courtyard; the smell of damp stone and cooling ash lingered.

  Kelara came down the stair, cloak thrown over her shoulders, hair half-braided. Her face lit, and she crossed the stones quickly to pull Bert into a hug.

  “It’s been too long,” she said.

  “Not long enough to forget you,” Bert said, squeezing her tight before stepping back. “You’ve kept my nephew alive. That earns you niece status in my book.”

  Jorlan drifted after her, squinting as though the light were too much. Bert cocked his head. “You were the one who used to steal apples from my pack. Jorlan, right?”

  Jorlan blinked, startled he’d been remembered. “Didn’t think you’d know.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “I remember anyone who owes me fruit.”

  Tank came next, broad and braced like he meant to test stone with his shoulders. For a beat the courtyard held its breath. Tank’s laugh cracked first, short and sharp, but Bert held the stare just long enough to make it awkward. Then he barked his own laugh and clapped Tank’s arm hard enough to echo.

  “Good,” Bert said simply. “You’ll do.”

  Solin gave a nod, arms folded. Bert matched it with the same weight. Josira moved like she owned the stones, chin tilted, eyes amused. “So you’re the infamous uncle. Petric didn’t say you were charming.”

  “That’s because he’s afraid I’ll steal all his friends.” His grin turned just enough to draw her own.

  Clarien lingered back, watchful. Bert dipped his chin with a surprising courtesy. “Lady Clarien. You’ve got the look of someone who doesn’t miss a thing. I’ll try not to disappoint.”

  At the edge of the group, Jerric and Lysa lingered, shoulders drawn tight as if the stones themselves might judge them. Bert leaned in just enough, voice roughened but kind.

  “To you two, I’m Uncle Bert.” He gave Jerric’s shoulder a firm pat, then tapped Lysa’s arm with the back of his knuckles, lighter. “Family, first and last.”

  Then he straightened, grin flashing toward the rest. “To everyone else? Just Bert. Or—if you must—Big Bert, the Boss.”

  Laughter rippled through the courtyard, ragged and genuine, the morning chill breaking with it. Petric shook his head, but his mouth betrayed the faintest smile.

  — — —

  They fished before noon because Bert insisted it was the only civilized way to greet a day. Petric caught weed and shame. Bert pulled in three silver darts in the time it took Petric to retie his line.

  “You always just… vanish,” Petric said at last, the lake flat as glass under them.

  “And explode back in like thunder?” Bert’s mouth twitched. “Thunder’s easier than words.”

  “I thought you were gone for good.”

  “So did I.” He watched the cork bob. “But something pulled me back. You. Lore. Tri. The old stones. Home.”

  “You still feel it coming—the rage?”

  “Not always. When it’s quiet, I breathe. When it’s loud, I try not to kill.” He glanced sideways. “We’ll talk tactics later. For now—” He struck with the line hand; the rod bowed. “—we eat.”

  — — —

  By midday the kitchen yard was a battlefield of pots. Petric declared he would cook to boost morale. Bradan offered to “supervise.” Gung folded his arms and observed like a monk grading a heretic.

  “It’s supposed to boil, not explode,” Bradan said as Petric’s pot heaved like a volcano.

  Nell sniffed the steam and recoiled. “This smells like wet socks.”

  “I’d rather eat the firewood,” Gung said, perfectly sincere.

  Jorlan slid in without ceremony, adjusted the flame, pitched in a handful of fennel and a pinch of salt, and quietly rescued the worst of it. Petric watched him, shook his head, and deadpanned, “Next time, we eat rations.”

  “Next time,” Nell said, grabbing the bottle, “we drink supper.”

  Laughter broke wide and honest. For a few breaths, the war felt like a rumor.

  — — —

  Evening put its hand on the vines and the long table filled. The earlier cooking fiasco returned as a chorus of one-liners.

  “The stew faked its own death for sympathy,” Jorlan murmured, and even Kelara laughed.

  Bert lifted a mug. “To the chef. May he never cook again.”

  “Seconded,” half the table said.

  Bert set the mug down, easy grin dimming to something keen. “Work tomorrow. Tonight, I want names on the board. Nell—”

  “Present.”

  “Josira.”

  She tipped her cup, bracelets chiming.

  “You two slip the Morric Vale edge at first light,” Bert said. “Not Everveil proper—skirts only. If West took a hit recently, they’ll double patrols to make a show of it.”

  “You’re in and out. You are not heroes, you do not talk to anything that talks first.”

  Kelara glanced at Petric; he nodded once. The board was moving, but not in a way that bled.

  Across the table, Jerric leaned on his elbow, pretending to watch the map but really watching the chessboard in the corner as Jorlan reset the pieces. He didn’t ask to be taught. He just watched, quiet as breath.

  Bert leaned back and let it all wash over him: the jokes, the warmth, the worn familiarity. He caught Petric watching the table with that soft, wary pride and bumped his shoulder like a brother. “It’s good work, Shm—Pete.”

  Petric tried not to smile and failed.