Chapter 113 Still Home

Chapter 113 Still Home
Seraph’s POV

The carriage ride home was quieter this time; you’d think there was no one driving it.

I noticed a pale blue box at the corner and pulled it open. In it was a gorgeous white dress with slits on both sides that I was supposedly meant to change into. I bit my lip in mild annoyance, knowing Anzel had planned it all in advance.

I took off my bloody, smelly, muddy dress and slipped into the neat one, trying not to think of the expression on Anzel’s face the first time I wore a dress.

Instead, I turned my attention to the driver and desperately tried to make small talk.

“So… you’re a driver, yeah?”
No answer.

I tried a half-hearted comment about the weather.

“It’s a cold night. You all clamped up out there?”
His—or her—silence was deafening. By the time I started saying whatever came to mind, it was about the road, about how long the journey would take. I tried to sound normal. To feel normal. To pretend this was just another trip home and not… whatever this complicated feeling was.

But my words didn’t sit right in my mouth. They felt borrowed. Fake. And he was not even entertaining them either.

So I stopped. Now I had to think of all the things I didn’t want to.

I suck in a breath.

Last time I’d been in this carriage, there had been a chain around my wrist. Cold and heavy metal that seized my freedom.

Now my hands rested loosely in my lap.
No chain. No spell. Nothing.

I’m free.

But there’s also no Anzel. My brain supplies.
I swallowed and leaned back against the cushioned seat. The air felt different—lighter, thinner somehow. When I inhaled, it didn’t burn the way Lydian air did, thick with magic and ancient,  dangerous paranormalities.

The sky outside shifted—not in color, but in feeling, if that makes any sense.

The atmosphere changed so subtly that I almost missed it. The wind no longer carried that metallic hum. The earth beneath the wheels sounded… ordinary.

And that’s when I knew I wasn’t in Lydian anymore.

I was home.

No towering silver trees. No glowing vines twisting around ancient stone. No guards with horns and pale, inhuman eyes watching from the shadows.

Just open land. Wide fields.
Worn paths leading somewhere familiar.
I shut my eyes and let the carriage keep moving. I didn’t trust myself to look yet. I needed a second. Just one second to breathe without thinking about what I had left behind.
When I opened them again, a group of children ran across the road ahead, laughing, hands linked together. One of them tripped, and the others collapsed on top of him in a fit of shrieks and dust.

Normalcy.

They had no pointed ears or fangs poking out.
Just flushed cheeks, messy hair, and scraped knees.

Just… ordinary!
It felt strange to look at faces that were simply human. Pale skin. Brown skin. Freckles. Imperfections. Nothing sharp or otherworldly.
For a moment, I felt like the unnatural one.
Then the carriage slowed to a stop.
My house stood ahead of me.
Except—it didn’t.

It was the same structure. Same roofline. Same stone steps.

But everything looked strange, slightly different than when I had left. More polished in places. The garden had been trimmed differently. The windows reframed. The wooden fence replaced with something sturdier.

Developed. Improved.
Like time had moved on without asking me for permission.

The carriage door opened. I stepped down slowly, my boots meeting the ground that should have felt like home.

The carriage drove off behind me without a word.

From the corner of my vision, I saw someone walking along the edge of the property. A girl. Smiling to herself as she plucked a flower from one of the bushes.

There was something achingly familiar about her profile.

The way her hair fell. The slight tilt of her head.
My chest tightened.

But before I could focus on it—before I could call out—she turned a corner and disappeared behind the neighboring house.

I blinked.

Wow. This wasn’t how I imagined coming home would be. Noise-free and completely still was not one of the scenarios I pictured.
I stepped onto the stone path leading up to our door.

Each stone looked the same and  not the same. Cleaned. As if someone had taken care to fix what once cracked. Like it had been walked on far too many times.

And then, just when I’m about to conclude that everything is probably exactly as I left it and it’s just my mind playing games with me, I see her.
My mother sat in a wooden chair near the door, head leaned back, eyes closed. The afternoon light softened the lines of her face.

For a second, I just stood there.

She looked… peaceful.

I don’t remember the last time I saw her peaceful.

I don’t remember ever seeing her peaceful.

“Mom,” I said softly.

Her eyes opened.

They found me.

I want to take a minute to sob over the look of disbelief that took over her entire face.

She shot up from the chair so quickly it scraped against the stone. One hand flew to her mouth before she rushed toward me and enveloped me in a tight hug.

I froze in surprise.

I don’t know if my mom has ever hugged me. Not after grief unraveled her.

She stopped laughing. Stopped touching. Stopped speaking unless necessary. It was like the pain of Andarna had hollowed her out and left behind something fragile and distant.

She hadn’t hugged me like this in years.

“My God… my child,” she breathed into my hair. “Where have you been? Where are you coming from?”

Her hands stroked my hair, my back, my shoulders like she was making sure I was solid. Like I wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

I stood there, stiff, beyond horrified and confused by the warmth.

“I—I’m here,” I managed.

She pulled back only to cup my face, examining me like I might disappear.

“I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe it’s actually you.”

“Mom…” I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
She laughed weakly, shaking her head like she was overwhelmed. “Nothing. Nothing. Do you want some tea?”

I blinked twice.

Tea?

“You’re making me tea?”

She smiled—actually smiled—and rushed inside before I could question it further.
I followed slowly.

It’s either I’ve been transported to an alternate reality where Anzel is distant and confesses feelings for me and my mom is a completely different person—one who loves me enough to make me tea—or I’m back home and the distinction between now and before, the one I thought I imagined, wasn’t actually in my head and might be real.

A shiver ran down my spine as the former option seemed more likely.

The inside of the house stole my breath.
It was beautiful.

Not grand like a castle. Not carved from magic and gold and marble.

But warm and homely. The walls had been repainted. The furniture rearranged. New shelves added—scratch that, shelves were added. We never had bookshelves back when I was here. Fresh curtains hung by the windows.
Everything looked brighter.
Better.

Like nobility lived here.

I lowered myself onto the couch carefully, still half-expecting the illusion to crack.
How did this happen? What the hell is going on?

Mom moved quickly in the kitchen. I could hear the kettle, the clink of porcelain.
This place was nice. It looked really good.
Even better than before I left.

But in all honesty, it didn’t feel the same. Nothing did.

She returned with a tray, setting it down in front of me. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured.

“I knew you would be fine,” she said softly. “I prayed you would come back someday.”
Her voice wavered at the end.

“Are you okay?” she asked suddenly.
I nodded, though I know I looked stupefied.
What was she talking about? Come back?
When I pictured coming back here, I thought people would be horrified, then surprised at the fact that I was still alive and breathing after about four months in Lydian.

That, however, doesn’t seem to be the case.
I look at my mom for a moment. I know she’s a little unorthodox sometimes, but…

Slow down, Seraph. Give it time.

Mom pressed her knuckles to her mouth, trying to stifle a small, broken sound that escaped anyway.

I picked up the cup and took a sip.
It was warm. Sweet. Perfectly brewed.

It tasted like childhood.

But something felt off.

She was fidgeting. Adjusting the edge of the tray. Smoothing her dress unnecessarily. Not quite meeting my eyes.

I set the cup down slowly.

“Mom,” I said carefully, glancing toward the corridor. “Where’s Dad?”

Her hands stilled. The air around her shifted. Her expression changed—only for a second—but I saw it.

Pain transitioned to worry then settled on cold, contagious fear.

My stomach twisted.

“Mom?” I asked again, more quietly this time.
“Where is he?”

She looked at me. Then she shook her head slowly and lowered her gaze to the floor.
And my heart dropped straight into my stomach.

Something was very wrong.