As they emerge from the memory, Halsin holds Aodhán tightly in his arms. The younger man is trembling, his body rigid as the harrowing experience resurfaces. Then, finally... the dam breaks. Aodhán throws his head back and screams—a raw, guttural roar that tears through the air like a lightning bolt. His fangs are bared, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain and his claws dig so deeply into his palms that fresh blood spills onto the lush green ground beneath their feet. The sound is haunting, filled with an anguish so deep that Halsin feels it ricocheting in his chest like a stray bullet. It is a roar born of suffering, of anger, of torment and helplessness and it shakes the very air around them. Halsin's heart splinters at the sound, but he doesn't dare to let go. Instead he tightens his embrace, attempting to ground Aodhán against the maelstrom of his emotions. When the echoes of the roar finally fade, Aodhán collapses against his chest, his legs buckling beneath him. All strength seems to have been drained from the younger man, as sobs wreck his slender frame, the fragile sound is quiet, muffled by Halsin's shirt but that makes it no less devastating. Halsin cradles him tenderly, one hand stroking his back in soothing circles, the other arm curling protectively around his waist. Though Halsin's own anger simmers just beneath the surface he knows that this moment is not about him. Aodhán's outburst, as painful and raw as it was, is the first step toward healing. For the first time, his beloved has let the anguish out rather than locking it away. "You didn't hurt anyone, my heart", Halsin whispers, his voice steady, though his own eyes glisten with unshed tears, "In fact you tried to protect him."

Evindral's life has gone nothing like he planned. Born for music but stifled by an unsupportive father, he chose to chase fame on his own terms. But what started as a means to an end—gambling to fund his dreams—spiraled into addiction. Now, with debt tightening around his throat like a noose and Lachlan's threats closing in, Evindral needs a high-paying job... and fast. Eithne just wants to prove herself. For once, she wants to complete a job without Sorcha's help. Tracking down a charming con man who promises poetry that never arrives and turns murderous when cornered? That sounds like the perfect solo mission. Only, she’s not the only one hunting him.

A voice cuts through the silence. Not just any voice. A woman's voice—crystalline, aching, impossibly beautiful. It drifts like mist through the alleys of Glórenel, untouched by stone or grime, pure enough to make the world around him fall away. It floats over rooftops, through shuttered windows and across puddles still holding last night's rain, as if the city itself dares not interrupt. It's not a song meant for mortals. It sounds like the voice of something other, some radiant being cloaked in light and sorrow. It brings with it no accompaniment, no echo of strings or pipes—just a single voice, weaving a melody so delicate and profound it shakes him to his core. The tears come unbidden, sliding down his cheeks and he doesn't bother to brush them away. He doesn't understand the language, but the meaning? The meaning is crystal clear. Yearning thrums in every note—a desperate ache for freedom, for a love that consumes and restores in equal measure. But underneath, there is something untamed. Wild. A song born not of ballrooms and temples but of wind through leaves, of storms crashing against cliffs, of bare feet dancing in moonlit glades. It is a spirit uncaged, calling to the part of him he keeps buried beneath debt and duty. It's not just longing. It's resilience. A song of healing. Of vast green canopies and endless paths. Of nature in all its wonder, untamed and unforgiving. And for one perfect moment, Evindral feels something stir in him—something old and half-forgotten. A need to run. To pack up his life and leave Glórenel behind. To follow that voice into the unknown and never look back. He lets his eyes fall closed again. The melody moves like breath over skin, soft and sure and he imagines the scent of wildflowers, dewy moss, sun-warmed bark—things that have no place in this city made of stone. He can almost feel the earth beneath his feet instead of cobblestones.

And still—still—it isn't only his voice that enthralls her. It's how his fingers move across the keys. There's no flamboyance, no arrogance, just grace. Precision. Passion. She's never cared much for instruments, never lingered on music beyond her own voice—but now? The way he plays is mesmerizing. Each note weaves into the next like threads in a tapestry, creating something greater than the sum of its parts. The melody rises and falls like the rhythm of the sea, like breath, like longing made sound. It settles into her bones with the kind of resonance that makes her want to close her eyes and drown in it. She can't even see him clearly from where she sits—too many heads and bodies between them. And still, every syllable he sings, every note he coaxes from that old, battered piano reaches her with perfect clarity. And in those notes, there's a story—a song of freedom, of hunger for greatness, of a man who wants the world to know his name, not out of vanity, but because his soul needs to be heard. It speaks to something deep in her, something ancient and aching and rarely stirred. She catches herself, breath hitching, pulse racing. Her lashes almost flutter closed before she forces them open again, annoyed with her own reaction. But the music doesn't relent. It tugs at her. Tempts her. And traitorous thoughts slink through her mind, sultry and bold, wondering what other wonders those hands of his might conjure—what promises they might make against skin instead of keys. Inside her, something stirs. A growl—low and possessive—rumbles in her chest, but it's not quite hers. Her panther, usually cool and indifferent, watches with narrowed eyes, ears flat and tail twitching with territorial ire. The beast doesn't like this, doesn't understand it. And Eithne—Eithne doesn't like that she understands exactly what it's feeling. Jealousy. It's irrational. Ridiculous. Yet it coils inside her, sharp and sudden. Because in this moment, as the bard's voice threads through every corner of the tavern like a whispered secret, it feels personal. Intimate. Sacred. And everyone else is trespassing.

The sound hits him like a memory brought to life. That voice. For twenty-eight years it's haunted his dreams. The song he heard only once but never forgot. That impossible voice—healed something in him back then. And now... now it's back. Only this time, he sees her. She's twirling barefoot among the flowers, her feet barely brushing the grass as she dances with an ease that defies gravity. Her dress flows around her like living wind, woven from earth-toned linen in greens and browns that blend into the foliage around her. Copper hair glints in the sunlight, fanning out behind her as she spins and her voice—oh, gods—her voice is lighter now, playful, brimming with sunshine and warmth. It carries no sorrow, no yearning. Just joy. Pure, unfiltered joy. And still, it brings tears to his eyes. The rough edges of last night, of Lachlan, of shame and exhaustion—gone. Dulled like a blade left in rain. Something inside him that had cracked open is being stitched back together, piece by fragile piece, as he watches her move. She looks like a goddess from a forgotten myth—wild and free, untouched by the city's grime or the weight of expectation. A creature of nature, of light and song. He doesn't breathe until the song ends.

She watches him long after the alley falls silent again. Watches as Evin gathers himself, staggering upright, dignity in tatters and breath still unsteady. He smooths his coat with trembling hands, his composure hanging on by a thread, then begins to walk—slowly, aimlessly, as if the night has taken more from him than just air. She follows him throughout the rest of the night, padding silently behind him as he weaves through the streets. She sees the way he clutches at his coat like a shield, the way his steps grow heavier, his expression more hollow with each passing hour. This is a man unraveling. And so she makes herself a silent promise as dawn creeps over the rooftops. Next time she returns to Glórenel, she won't just watch from the shadows. Next time, she'll speak to him. Next time, she'll try to offer something real—if only a moment of light. Because something tells her he hasn't had that in far too long.

"You trust so easily, Kitten", he says softly. "And gods, that is so important. For people like me. People who lived so long thinking love was a fairytale and that trusting anyone but ourselves was a death sentence. People who spent centuries convinced they were too broken to be worthy of anything but survival." He leans in, forehead almost brushing Aodhán's. "You're a beacon. Not just to the wounded, not just to the lost—but to the jaded. To the ones who thought light didn't exist anymore." Aodhán's breath hitches, his vision blurring with tears. "And so now", Astarion continues, voice almost trembling with how much he means it, "let me be that for you. Let me return the favor." "Astarion, I—" Aodhán begins, voice cracking, a tear slipping free as he tries to gather the right words, some answer that can measure up to what he's just been given. But Astarion doesn't wait for poetry. "If I could crawl my way out of two hundred years of agony", he says, "if I could find my way back to love, to joy, to life, with Tav's help—and yours—then so can you. You showed me it's possible to emerge from the dark without becoming bitter, or cruel, or lost." He brushes a thumb beneath Aodhán's eye, wiping the tear away with uncharacteristic gentleness. "So if you can't see me as your beacon yet... then be your own. You've done it before. But maybe... just maybe don't try to do it alone this time. Yeah?" He gives Aodhán a small, crooked smile. One that carries the weight of their shared scars—but also the quiet strength of healing that's already begun. Aodhán chuckles softly, the sound quiet and hoarse, like something that hadn't been used in far too long. He draws in a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs before exhaling slowly through his nose. Then, with a small step forward, he closes the last bit of space between them. Astarion doesn't need to ask what he wants. He simply opens his arms and Aodhán leans into them without hesitation. The embrace is effortless, natural. No dramatics, no hesitation. Just two people who've seen the worst of the world and still find something worth holding onto in each other.

Slowly, tentatively, quietly... The forest awakens to the song. Eyes gleam from the shadows between the trees—wolves, deer, boar and other creatures that would usually never stand side by side now share the clearing in a fragile, temporary peace. For this moment—just this moment—predator and prey are united, drawn by the ancient call of nature's magic. And at the center of it all—Aodhán begins to glow. A green energy, deep and earthy, swirls around him like morning mist over ancient groves. The magic shifts, manifests, forming the delicate antlers of a stag upon his head, curling like living branches from his temples. His eyes—normally emerald green, feline and sharp—become something otherworldly, glowing an unbroken white as his form flickers between man and beast. His skin ripples, bark-like, brown fur crawling over his arms, his shoulders, for a fleeting moment—his body no longer fully his own, but something beyond him, something woven into the very fabric of the wilds. And then— The magic surges outward. Rashaan hears it before he sees it—the rustling of leaves, an eager, shivering response from the forest itself. The air fills with the sudden, sweet scent of autumn flowers, blooming in full within mere seconds, their petals unfurling beneath the moon's silver light. And behind the druids, the wooden statue of Silvanus begins to change. Its form stretches, grows, wood splitting and reshaping, roots appearing out of thin air and digging deeper into the earth. Before Rashaan's widening eyes, it transforms into a mighty oak, its colossal branches reaching toward the sky, sprawling wide over the clearing like an ancient guardian sheltering its kin. A shudder passes through Rashaan, awe and reverence gripping him in equal measure. He breathes out, barely aware he's whispering, voice hushed and filled with unrestrained wonder. "Holy shit..."

"Good", Kerquis says, the word falling from his mouth like a verdict. Cool. Controlled. But the next thing he says cuts with the precision of a blade. "Then do me a favor", he continues, tone hardening. "Take care of Evindral. His debtors continue to come to me—and I'm done throwing coin at his failures. I have no desire to waste more resources on him." The words hit Astarion like a sudden strike to the chest. For a moment, the warmth in his veins freezes. His jaw tightens. "He's your son", he says sharply, the weight of it barely restrained beneath the words. Kerquis meets his gaze, unwavering. "And he's your brother. You have the means. Use them." Astarion's hands curl slightly into the fabric of his cloak, but he doesn't speak again—not yet. Not while the bitter taste of old wounds rises in his mouth. Not while the father he once worshipped seems utterly blind to the very reason Evindral is floundering. And before Astarion can open his mouth again, before the slow spark of anger swelling in his chest can ignite into full flame, his mother turns—snaps, really—like a storm finally breaking after too long held at bay. "Kerquis!", she barks, her voice sharp as a whip crack, cutting through the room with an authority Astarion hasn't heard since childhood. Her posture shifts in an instant—from grief-stricken mother to indomitable matriarch, her spine straightening as if forged of tempered steel. "I have tolerated your treatment of Evindral long enough", she snarls, the jade in her eyes flashing with fury. "How you tried to smother his spirit. How you refused to believe in him. And now—now that Astarion has come back to us, you dare to sully this moment with that kind of venom? That's enough. That's all I will ever tolerate from you again." Kerquis' face tightens, the lines around his mouth drawing sharper. His gaze flares with wounded pride and barely contained rage. "And what would you have me do, Edraele?", he shoots back, voice rising in volume but not warmth. "Pretend like nothing's changed? That our sons are still the boys we raised?" He throws a hand toward the door, toward the absence where Evindral once stood. "One is days away from being found facedown in an alley and the other—", he gestures to Astarion, his voice catching just slightly, "the other was found there. Beaten, broken, dead. And now we have to clean up again." His voice cracks like ice underfoot. "And whose fault is it that Evindral is struggling like this?!" Edraele snaps, her voice suddenly raw, shaking—but not from weakness. From fury. From grief too long buried. She inhales sharply, tries to compose herself, then exhales with trembling control. "Now is not the time", she whispers, voice fraying at the edges, though her gaze never leaves his. "Not when we've just gotten him back." For a moment—an eerie, brittle moment—Kerquis falls silent. The room feels like it might collapse from the pressure. And then, softly but with an edge honed by years of unspoken pain, Edraele speaks again. "If you cannot be the father our sons need... then this is the end, Kerquis. This—", she gestures around them, between them "—is where I leave you. Where I divorce you."