The young Githyanki sits before the crackling fireplace, the warm glow casting flickering shadows across the walls of the newly acquired home. The battle for Faerûn had ended, the Elder Brain defeated, but there was still one final journey to make—to the shattered remains of the Society of Brilliance. To retrieve Ptaris.

There had been no real struggle. No hesitation. He had come without argument, without ceremony. And when the offer of adoption was made, he had accepted just as easily. Not because he didn’t care, but because, perhaps, he had already made up his mind long before the words were spoken.

Now, he sits cross-legged on the floor, a book resting in his lap, though his gaze lingers on the fire, distant and unreadable. The flames reflect in sharp amber eyes, their light dancing across his angular features, softening the hardened lines that so often shape his expression. For a long while, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as if caught between the weight of old memories and the fragile quiet of the present. He gets to experience his childhood now, even if the younger parts of it had been ripped from him.

He doesn’t acknowledge the presence behind him, nor does he need to. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no guarded edge to his posture. If anything, there’s something almost… peaceful about him.