Phealafarian Frontiers : Interlude : The Road Home
The news reached Husavik before the cold truly did.
When the party returned from the river, frost still clinging to cloaks and lashes, the villagers gathered quickly. The Ice Mephits were gone. The river, while frozen, lay quiet once more. There were no cheers—just long, relieved breaths. Gratitude was offered plainly and honestly. Husavik had little to spare, but what warmth they could give, they did: a hot meal, a roof, and a night free from fear.
At dawn, the road called again.
The two-day trek back to Mistvale passed in rare peace. No ambushes. No howling wind. Just snow crunching underfoot, quiet conversation, and the strange comfort of travelling without the world trying to kill them for once. The Northlands opened gently around them, and for a brief stretch of time, it felt almost like rest.
Mistvale welcomed them back with the familiar scent of hearth smoke and turned earth.
Lyra’s house was alive with motion when they arrived—Zaryth directing, Dandadan carrying armfuls of clutter, Lyra herself sorting what little she intended to take. She greeted them with a tired smile and simple certainty.
“I’m ready,” she said. “I’ll come with you back to the city.”
The house told a different story. Too much remained. Too many things stayed where they had always been.
Zaryth spoke before anyone else could. She would stay. The Northlands still needed a Lady Brightglade, someone to stand watch while Lyra returned south. It was said without drama, but the weight of it settled heavily all the same. Thanks were given. Farewells made. And with that, the road turned south.
Six days later, Ulaa’s Wall rose before them once more.
With Dandadan guiding them safely through and the Borglin threat finally broken, the mountains felt different this time. Still vast. Still cold. But no longer hostile. The party had the rare chance to admire the jagged peaks and pale skies instead of merely surviving them.
Four days beyond the Wall, Angelton came into view.
Tosk made straight for the smokehouse. Hobrin Wesk took the drybox carefully, checking the seal before opening it in front of them all. Inside lay a locket, a few letters, and small personal effects. Wesk said nothing at first. Then he spoke of his daughter, Nellie—posted to Wyrmspath Fort, never returned. He had accepted the worst and carried on.
True to his word, he handed over five heavy parcels of boar jerky, each weighing fifty pounds.
With food secured, the long road home stretched ahead.
Twenty-two days passed as the party made their way back to New Albion. When the city finally rose before them, Lyra fell quiet. Tent Town had grown—larger, looser, and far less guarded than she remembered. She frowned at the sight and muttered that Lady Brightglade might need to spend more time out here.
At the checkpoint, Lyra produced her own ticket. The guard glanced at it, then smiled.
“Welcome back.”
The Tavern With No Name greeted them with open arms and loud relief. Sweetz nearly vibrated with joy at the sight of them, the trip having taken nearly three months in total. He’d kept the place running, dusted their rooms weekly, and barely resisted puffing himself up when introduced to Lyra. The act lasted seconds before he folded completely, welcoming her in and offering a drink.
They drank late into the night.
The next morning came quietly.
Lyra hugged Erisa fiercely, then—carefully, with help—hugged Guardian too. She told them she was going home, promised she would see them soon, and meant it. when asked where Lyra would stay, she produced a key. Her old house. South Lower General District. Now that she was back—and Zaryth held the North—she would reclaim it.
And with that, life resumed.
The party returned to their routines with new purpose: Morlatha still waited. Their mercenary licence still lay out of reach. Strength would be needed for what came next.
So they began to train.
