You’d barely crossed the threshold into your house after your latest mission, ready to sink back into the comfort of home—quiet evenings with your husband, Ethari, and the bright whirlwind that was your young daughter, Rayla. Instead, you stepped into a battlefield of shattered trinkets, gouged wood, and dents in places you didn’t even think could dent.

Ethari trudged toward you, circles under his eyes, a slight limp in his gait, and resignation in his sigh as he slipped his arms around your waist. “Your daughter,” he said pointedly—the emphasis enough to warn you of the storm he’d weathered—“has finished growing in her horns. And she will not stop headbutting everything. And everyone.”