Lyra appeared on the balcony so quietly it felt like she'd been there all along, the way the morning finds the city.
She landed without a sound. Her boots touched the stone, and the air seemed to settle around her. She had exchanged her formal silks for a slate-grey jacket and simple trousers, but nothing could make her look ordinary. The low sun outlined her in a soft glow.
"Arthur," she said, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. "You look... heavier."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said. "You look like you've stopped fighting the city."
"I have," she said. "For the most part. Elevators and I have agreed to a truce."
We stood side-by-side for a moment, looking over the sprawling city of Avalon. Hoverlanes wove like glowing braids above the river. Gardens hung like green bridges between the skyscrapers. Far in the distance, the spot where the tower once stood was just a blur in the hazy sky.
Lyra's gaze swept from the street to the skyline and back down, a habit of those who come from the sky and measure the world in height and distance. "You passed the Gates," she stated. It wasn't a question.
I nodded.
"You feel grounded. The wind doesn't push you around anymore," she added, almost to herself. "You push back."
"You're not exactly easy to read, either," I said. "Your movements are silent unless I'm specifically looking for them."
Her eyes warmed a little, which was Lyra's version of a smile. "I learned the crosswinds. Your world makes them differently."
"How is the city treating you?" I asked.
She took a slow breath, and the air smelled of distant rain. "It is loud. But I'm finding patterns in the noise. Your people organize their days in neat sections. Lights tell the vehicles when to move and when to stop. I enjoy the bridges at night. And tea. Tea is a wonderful invention."
"Reika would be happy to hear you say that," I said.
Lyra's eyes scanned the apartment behind me, taking in the comfortable clutter of the living room. Schematics were spread across the table. Two coffee mugs sat on the balcony rail. A stray coil of wire was tangled in a houseplant. "Stella?"
"She's trying to build a motor out of pure mathematics," I said. "No mana involved."
That small lift of her mouth appeared again. "I brought her sweets from the east market. The vendor claimed they were made with star glass. I don't believe her. They just taste like sugar."
"She'll analyze them to be sure," I said.
We fell into a comfortable silence. The last time we had spoken, a tower had loomed on the horizon, and the future was a sky full of questions. Months had passed. The world hadn't ended. Alyssara had promised to return in two years. It wasn't peace, but it was a promise we could hold onto.
Lyra turned to face me directly, her posture losing some of its formal stiffness. "You are at least as strong as I am now," she said, stating it as a fact. "Perhaps stronger. I would be insulted if I wasn't so proud."
"I'll try not to flex at the dinner table," I promised.
She ignored my joke. "You did it without breaking yourself," she said. "I was worried."
"So was I," I admitted. "Being careful was a new experience. I highly recommend it."
A bit of tension left her shoulders. The atmosphere between us felt easier, lighter.
"How long have you been back in Avalon?" I asked.
"Three months," she said. "I signed the documents the Empire required. I learned your traffic laws. I stopped trying to barter for fruit with songs. I found a rooftop where the wind feels a little like home."
"Do you like it here?" I asked.
"I like that it exists," she said. "And I like that you are in it."
We let the quiet truth of that statement hang in the air.
She rested her hands on the stone railing, her fingers long and steady. Pale scars on her knuckles, the only visible sign of her intense training, caught the light. Her eyes shifted to a patch of empty sky.
"My brother would have liked your city," she said.
And there it was. The real reason for her visit.
"He would have loved the bridges," I said. "He always liked a good engineering problem."
Her mouth twitched, a flicker of surprise that I'd remembered. "He did. He also liked to ask questions that derailed conversations. He couldn't have a bowl of soup without explaining fluid dynamics."
"Stella would have adopted him on the spot," I said.
Lyra made a soft sound, almost a laugh, but it faded into silence.
"You've been looking for him," I said gently.
"Yes." She watched a gull circle lazily above the river. "The corridor maps show his ship vanished from the charts during a storm. But the storm wasn't where it was supposed to be. It was in three places at once, and then it just... ceased to exist."
"A transit fold that collapsed," I said.
"Yes," she said. "The kind of event that makes our elders speak in riddles before falling silent."
"Show me what you have," I said.
She went very still, a reaction that for Lyra was like a flinch. "I have already asked too much of you."
"No, you haven't," I said. "You asked me to stand with you when you needed it. That's not a small thing."
Her jaw tightened for a moment. She let out a strained breath I recognized—the same sound I'd heard on mountaintops and in war rooms. "All right."
She took a thin, silver disc from her jacket, its surface etched with the spiraling script of her people. She placed it on the railing. It hummed to life, projecting a map of glowing lines into the air between us. It was a map of her world's pathways, routes between places that didn't touch ours.
Lyra pointed to a spot where three lines intersected and a fourth seemed to waver. "Here," she said. "This is where we lost him."
I leaned closer. I let the Grey surface, a feeling like static in the air, a shift in how I saw things. I didn't force it. I just looked. The junction felt wrong. Not broken, but stitched together. It was a seam that pretended to be a straight line until you got close, then it showed its curve.
I reached out, my fingers hovering over the glowing lines. "You've only looked at this from above, at high speed. Let me look at it from the side."
"Does your Grey... listen?" she asked.
"It does," I said. "When I'm quiet enough."
She waited. I focused.
The seam had a story. The travel corridor had been stable, and then something had pushed it from a direction no one would expect. It wasn't a random event. Someone, or something, had deliberately poked at the route. The corridor had buckled for just a moment. Some things fell through. Others didn't.
"It wasn't a storm," I said. "It was a prank with teeth."
Her fingers tightened on the rail, so hard I heard the stone creak. "A demon?"
"Not one of the Lust courts," I said. "And it doesn't feel like the Abyss. The pressure is wrong. This feels like a human with a tool they didn't understand, who didn't care about the consequences."
Her expression hardened. The air around her grew still. "A mage?"
"Possibly," I said. "Or a device they should never have built."
She was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was raw. "I told him I would only be gone for a season. An envoy's duties. I left him songs, maps, the key to the old gate, and our father's wing ring. I didn't leave him a way to call me for help from a storm I promised could never happen."
"You also left him a sister who never stopped looking," I said.
She gave her head a single, sharp shake. "We are taught to stand strong like towers," she said quietly. "But we are also taught to recognize when a tower is the wrong shape for the storm. Sometimes I forget the second lesson."
A ferry horn blew on the river below, a cheerful sound that knew nothing of the decade of guilt being held in check on a balcony high above.
"I'll help," I said. "No grand gestures. I'll lay my Harmony over that junction and see if the seam reveals a direction. I'll set the Grey at the edges and listen for echoes. And I'll have Erebus on standby to catch anything that tries to crawl out."
Lyra looked at me, as if searching for the hidden cost. "I have little to offer in return."
"You have tea," I said. "And you're learning to like my city. That's enough."
She blinked, first at me, then out at Avalon. "You are a very strange man," she concluded.
"I've been told," I said.
She picked up the silver disc and put it away. Her hands were steady now, though her expression was not.
"Thank you," she said.
"We don't know if we'll find him," I cautioned. "But it's better than not looking."
A glimmer of moisture appeared in Lyra's eyes. "Yes."
I changed the subject. "How are the Seven managing without their best envoy?"
"They are writing longer letters," she said. "And sending junior envoys who are far too fond of comfortable chairs."
"A tragedy," I deadpanned.
"Indeed," she agreed. "Though your Empress handles ceremonies well. She says all the right words and appears to mean at least half of them, which is more than I can say for most leaders."
"I'll be sure to tell her the edited version of that compliment," I said.
Her gaze drifted back into the apartment, to where Luna's mug sat beside a soldering iron. "You and the qilin," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"It suits you," she said simply. "I am glad."
"Me too," I said. "Stella calls her 'Mom' now, often with more enthusiasm than Luna is prepared for."
A real smile touched Lyra's lips. "Your family continues to grow."
"It just keeps saying yes," I replied.
We stood there for another minute, watching the city pulse with life. A courier on a hoverbike zipped between buildings like a dragonfly. Across the way, a child on another balcony practiced with a long ribbon. A dog barked at a delivery drone until it flew away.
Lyra turned to me. "I will bring you the complete mission logs," she said. "Maps, timelines, names. I can bring the wing ring, if you need its scent for your Grey."
"Let's start without the scent," I said, trying to keep a straight face. "But bring the rest."
She nodded. Then she hesitated, something I had rarely seen her do. "I used to believe that asking for help was a failure of duty," she said. "Now, I think my duty is to the goal, not to my own pride. Is that correct?"
"It's the version that lets me sleep at night," I said.
She let out a soft breath, and one last knot of tension seemed to undo itself. "Good."
"Stay for tea?" I asked.
She tilted her head. "Yes. And I will give Stella the star glass that is actually sugar."
We went inside. The apartment seemed to welcome her presence. Stella looked up from her work, and her face lit up with a joy that filled the entire room.
"Lyra!" she yelled. "Do you know anything about motors that can be tuned to hum specific notes?"
"I know about winds that sing," Lyra replied, producing the box of sweets with a flourish. "We can compare."
As they launched into a happy debate, I caught Lyra's eye. She gave me a single, grateful nod. I returned it.
Outside, the city of Avalon carried on. Inside, my home was filled with the sound of people talking about small things that held up the weight of much larger ones. Far away, a seam in the world was waiting. We would go look. Not to save the world, but because a sister had asked, and I had the ability to help.
For now, that was enough.