CHAPTER 216: BACK AT HOME

They let him take her home at dawn, after the night had worn the warded lamps thin and the med clerks had run out of ways to keep him in a chair. "Observation’s good," the elder one said, voice smoked with fatigue. "Her numbers like you again. Keep her quiet. No stairs if you can avoid them. Cold to the shoulder. Wake her every couple of hours and make sure her words know how to stand up."

"Copy," Inigo said, because agreeing gets doors opened.

He wheeled her on the gurney as far as the infirmary threshold, then swapped to the stretcher he trusted. The JLTV idled in the yard, a steady diesel heart against a city that still didn’t know whether to wake or keep pretending to sleep. He eased Lyra into the back, tucked the thermal up to her jaw, checked the monitor, checked the sling, checked the wrap, checked himself.

"Home," he told her. "Our kind. No clerks. No bells."

Elandra was a different city at first light. The plaza had not yet rolled its voices out proper, and the river lay quiet under a low veil. Somewhere, bakers shouted to ovens. Someone swept a stoop with broomstrokes that meant habit, not courage. The bells held their long note of hold, less a shout now, more a background hum, like the city humming to itself so it wouldn’t forget the tune.

He took the long way around the square because the short way had cobbles warped by history and physics. His hands—finally not shaking—found the turns without asking. The JLTV grumbled up the lane behind the market, past the spice warehouse with its painted shutters, past the cooper’s yard stacked with hoops and staves like ribs waiting for a barrel’s skin, to the narrow mews where their door lived.

Riko was already on the step when he parked, chalk on his cheek, hair a mess. He must have slept at the stall on a sack of potatoes again. Maddy stood behind him, ladle tucked into her belt like a short, practical sword. Both of them straightened when they saw Lyra’s shape under canvas.

"She—?" Riko started.

"She breathes," Inigo said softly. "That’s what we own today."

Together, they did what small crews do well. Riko took the rear poles, Maddy cleared the way, doors open before he asked. Their rooms were up one long flight; he’d argued with the med clerk on that, lost, then bought a folding ramp from the Shop because he didn’t like losing. The ramp took the angle with a groan that matched his, the stretcher slid, and the three of them made a slow climb into the place that smelled like pepper, oil, leather, and the burnt-sugar edge of yesterday’s caramelized onions.

It was two rooms and a corridor: the front room with a table and a battered couch, the back with a bed and a window that watched the alley like a bored cat. Hooks by the door held cloaks and a trailing tangle of bowstrings. The corner rack held pans polished by use. The shelf above the table kept a row of spice jars neat—their labels a mix of Lyra’s neat hand and Inigo’s scrawl. It was small, honest, and theirs.

They got Lyra into the bed without waking her fully. She frowned once when the sling snagged; Inigo moved his hand before the wince finished forming. He tucked the thermal blanket over her like a contract, slid the vitals cuff onto her forearm again, found a spot for the monitor where he could see numbers without having to stand and make his ribs protest. He wedged a folded towel under the broken shoulder to keep gravity polite.

Maddy stood with her hands clenched around that ladle, jaw tight. "Do we open today?" she asked, because work is the question people ask when they don’t know what else to do.

"Not the stall," Inigo said without checking his own face in his answer. "We feed us first." He caught her look, softened, rephrased. "Late. Maybe. If the city remembers how to stand."

Riko hovered in the doorway, eyes bright with sleep he hadn’t gotten. "Do you need the codes changed? Do we move the ash sacks? Do we—"

"You keep the old codes," Inigo said, gentler than he felt. "And don’t test them or teach them tricks. If anyone in a robe comes asking questions, you play dumb so well they offer you a job."

Riko almost smiled. "I can do dumb."

"Good." Inigo clapped his shoulder once. "And you—" to Maddy "—make tea. Not for me. For the room. It’ll make the air remember what normal smells like."

They scattered into their competence. Maddy rattled the grate, coaxed a small blue flame to life under the kettle. Riko did the fast, nervous tidy that doesn’t move anything useful but convinces the hands they’ve helped. Inigo—because he needed a job with steps—opened his Shop pane and slid well away from weapons. The categories felt different here. The words "kitchen" and "care" read more honest than "artillery."

Freedom Shop — Home & Comfort

– Cot, canvas (sturdy, folding) — 300 Tokens → Buy.

– Privacy curtain on ceiling track — 450 Tokens → Buy.

– Portable air circulator (quiet) — 280 Tokens → Buy.

– Water filter pitcher — 90 Tokens → Buy.

– Ice packs (reusable, set of 6) — 120 Tokens → Buy.

– Soft LED lanterns (2) — 110 Tokens → Buy.

The items thunked into the corner of the room with the same reliable physics as everything deadlier. He popped the curtain track up so the bed had a corner to itself; Lyra hated being watched when she was hurt. He set the circulator low so it wouldn’t nag her head and let it move the room’s air in a quiet, useful way. He swapped the ice pack at her shoulder for a fresh cold, checked the pulse number on the monitor, and put a lantern by the table set to a dim that meant sleep is allowed here.

"Tea," Maddy said, appearing with three chipped mugs and a small dish of honey. She put one by the bed, one by Inigo’s elbow, one in her own hand like a ward.

"You can go," Inigo told them. "Get some hours while the city’s pretending. I’ll shout if I need more hands."

Riko nodded too quickly. Maddy hesitated, then leaned in and touched Lyra’s hair like it might startle and bite. "You come back mean," she told the sleeping archer. "Not gentle. We need your kind of mean."

They left. The door clicked like a decision made. The apartment shrank back to its proper size.

Inigo sat on the floor by the bed, because chairs are lies when you plan to stay. He set the tea near his ankle, pulled the trauma pack closer, and checked dressings again with a deliberate slowness that made his hands feel less like fists. The butterfly strips held. The wrap was clean. The sling hadn’t slipped. He traced the line of the splint with two fingers and followed its curve like you do when you find a trail at dusk and want to convince yourself you’re still on it.

Lyra’s eyelids fluttered. He leaned forward, ready. She opened them to a slit, iris finding him like an arrow finds a seam.

"House," she breathed, voice ragged.

"Yeah," he said. "House."

She tried a smile, but the muscles around it argued. "Good. Beds don’t smell like boiled rag."

"Only like pepper and oil and a certain archer’s boots," he said, letting his mouth soften on the last word.

She swallowed, grimaced. "Hammer?"

"Gone," he said. "We negotiated a rain check. He left compliments. I ignored half."

Her eyes focused a degree more. "You hurt?"

"Only in places I like," he said. "You?"

She tilted her gaze toward the sling and made a face that meant yes, but not fatal.

"Tea’s on," he offered.

"Later," she murmured. "Head... floats."

"That’s the collar and the world agreeing to disagree," he said. He brushed a knuckle against her forehead, not quite a touch, just a promise. "Sleep. I’ll wake you to tell me your own name like a rude man at a border."

She blinked slow. "Lyra," she said anyway, stubborn in every syllable.

"Good start." He winked. "Last name later. We’ll build up to insults."

She drifted. The monitor ticked on with patient curiosity. Inigo sat and let his back find the wall. The room made small sounds: the circulator whispering; the kettle settling; the city beyond starting its reluctant day. He didn’t sleep. He practiced stillness like it was a craft.

He woke her an hour later, and again after that. Name. Where. How many fingers. Describe the urinal at the Golden Fry that always squeals like a bat. She cursed him on the third round in a way that made him forgive everything. He gave her two sips of water, no more.

Between checks he did the quiet work that makes a home hold: cleaned the M4’s carbon from its throat until it gleamed, set it muzzle down in the corner within reach. He laid Lyra’s twisted bow on the table and didn’t touch it—some repairs are vows, not tasks. He swept the floor because grit underfoot makes tempers meaner. He counted the radiants in the coin jar and found they hadn’t gotten any richer while he’d been getting poorer in other ways. He cooked because cooking is the kind of spell he believes in.

Onions, because they’re honest. Garlic, because it apologizes for everything. A chicken he’d salted three days ago as if he’d known they’d need this exact comfort. He browned bones in the small oven, then drowned them in water, brought it all to a simmer that sounded like a friend clearing their throat before saying something kind. He skimmed. He tasted. He added three peppercorns and then five because three seemed lonely.

The broth made the apartment smell like not a battlefield. Neighbors would smell it on the stairs and remember they weren’t alone. He tore stale bread into a bowl, poured oil and salt and made ugly croutons the way Lyra liked them—burned a touch, so they admitted who they were.

He ladled a cup and sat on the floor again. The steam fogged the edge of the vitals screen. The number there ticked steady, steady, steady. Lyra stirred, eyes slitting open.

"Smells like you’re coping," she rasped.

"I’m faking competence for the audience," he said, dipping a crust and blowing on it. He held it near her mouth. "Small bite."

She took it, chewed like the action had to be negotiated. Swallowed. "Salt," she decreed.

"Doctor’s orders." He pinched a bit between fingers, touched it to the next piece. She ate again, and the line between her brows softened a fraction.

"You yell at Thorne?" she asked, voice getting its edge back.

"I auditioned for town crier," he said. "Didn’t get the job."

"Good," she murmured, then drowsed for a long inhale.