“You are home early today.”, the blonde greeted her husband with a slight smile, while holding their little daughter in her arms. The infant was fast asleep, looking so peacefully now, despite having been rather fussy all day. Sometimes it seemed as if she would only really rest if both parents were close - but perhaps it was just her imagination. After all, it was normal for a baby of her age to cry because of everything in order to communicate that something wasn’t alright. Miran stepped closer to Reinhard, unable to hug him - because her arms were occupied in order to hold their child - she leant her head against his chest instead.
“How has it been?”, she asked quietly.
He blinked. The golden dunes were gone—no sand in his boots, no scorched air in his lungs. Instead, the familiar scent of hearth-warmed wood and Miran’s lavender oil filled his senses. His fingers twitched at his sides, half-expecting to find his sword hilt slick with sweat or blood. But there was nothing. Only the soft weight of his daughter’s breath against his chest as Miran leaned into him. Had the Witch’s grip spat him back out like a coin refused by a tollkeeper? Or had it all been—
He exhaled—slow, deliberate—and pressed his lips to the crown of Miran’s head. Something inside him unraveled. The last thing he remembered was the Witch’s fingers closing around his throat, golden sand scouring his bones bare. Yet here he stood, whole. Alive. His pulse thundered in his wrists, steady and insistent. Too steady.
His throat worked. He remembered the Witch’s laughter, the way his ribs had cracked like kindling beneath her grip. But here—here the hearth crackled, and his daughter’s tiny fingers curled against Miran’s sleeve. The dissonance made his vision swim. "I…" His voice came out rough, unfamiliar to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "A sparring match. Took more out of me than I anticipated." As his fingers twitched again. The Witch’s sand had tasted like burnt sugar. He could still feel it grinding between his teeth. His gaze flicked to the sword resting by the door—unbloodied, sheathed. Impossible. He had drawn it. He had fought. The memory was sharp as a fresh wound: the Witch’s claws raking through his aura like parchment, his own breath coming in ragged gasps as the dunes swallowed him whole. Yet here he stood, unscarred. A ghost in his own home.
"When did I get here?"
