You had been gone for two long years—trapped in a magic prison caught somewhere between life and death. To the world, you were gone. To Ethari, your husband, you were dead and buried in memory. But two weeks ago, against all odds, you came home. Fragile, scarred, and far from whole—but alive.

Now, he stood in the doorway, quietly watching as you sat on the bed and changed your bandages. His expression was a tender mix of love and worry, as though afraid that even blinking might make you vanish again. The wounds were healing cleanly, no hint of infection. You were still far too thin, your movements deliberate and slow—but Ethari’s heart eased a little. You were recovering. You were here. You were alive and safe with him.