In the quiet corner of the Nova in Veil hideout, the fire crackled low, casting soft shadows that danced across the stone walls. The room was modest — a plain wooden table, a few scattered cushions, and blankets folded neatly in the corner. The air smelt faintly of stew and burning wood.
Ilya sat by the hearth, ladling soup into two clay bowls. She moved with careful purpose, every action gentle, unrushed. Across the room, two children huddled together — a boy around nine and a younger girl, eight. The girl clung to a frayed cloth rabbit, its ears half torn from wear. The boy, thin and sharp-eyed, kept his body in front of hers, protective, wary.
"I didn't season it much," Ilya said quietly, placing the bowls near the fire. "But it's warm. And there's bread if your stomach isn't too shy."
She didn't press them to come closer. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, leaving space between them — not too close, not too far. Just enough.
The boy eyed her like a cornered animal, muscles tight, gaze unmoving. Then he spoke, voice hard with suspicion.
"Why are you being nice?"
Ilya didn't answer right away. She poked gently at the fire with an iron rod, watching the sparks rise.
"Because someone once was… to me," she said at last. "When I didn't believe people could be."
The girl took a hesitant step forward, but the boy reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back. His eyes narrowed, but there was something brittle beneath the glare — not defiance, but guilt.
"It doesn't mean anything," he muttered. "Nice people lie too."
His voice was quieter this time. Less venom, more bitterness.
Ilya looked at him then. Her expression didn't falter. There was no pity in her gaze — only understanding.
"You're right to be careful," she said softly. "This world breaks people who trust too quickly."
From the folds of her shawl, she pulled out a small cloth bundle and placed it on the floor. Unwrapping it revealed a handful of dried apricots and two small honey candies — simple, rare luxuries. She set them down without ceremony.
"I was saving these," she said. "But they won't taste as sweet alone."
She leaned back, letting the fire warm her hands. And then, softly — almost too softly to notice — she began to hum. A lullaby. Old, wordless, familiar in a way only forgotten things are. The notes drifted gently through the air like falling snow.
The girl's grip on her rabbit loosened. Slowly, cautiously, she shuffled toward the bowls. The boy's hand hovered over her shoulder, but this time, he didn't pull her back.
He watched as she sat beside the food, clutching the rabbit in one hand and lifting a spoon with the other. She took a bite.
He said nothing.
But the tension in his shoulders eased — just barely.
And in that quiet moment, something small shifted in the room.
The girl ate slowly at first, sneaking glances at Ilya between bites. When she finished her bowl, she looked up — wide-eyed, hesitant — and whispered something to the boy.
"...It's good."
He didn't respond, only tightened his jaw. His eyes never left Ilya. She was still humming, eyes half-closed, fingers absently stirring the fire. Her voice was soft and steady, like a mother remembering a song from her own childhood.
When the girl reached for one of the honey candies, she paused and looked at her brother for permission. He didn't nod, but he also didn't stop her. She placed the candy in her mouth like it was something sacred.
"You don't have to like me," Ilya said, her voice cutting gently through the lullaby. "But you should eat. You can't fight the world on an empty stomach."
The boy flinched.
"I'm not weak," he said sharply.
"I didn't say you were."
He stood suddenly, fists clenched at his sides. "You think if you act nice, we'll forget everything. That we'll just start trusting again like nothing happened."
The girl looked at him with worry, her small fingers tightening around the rabbit again.
Ilya finally met his eyes — really met them this time. Her gaze was calm, level, and without judgement.
"No," she said. "I don't expect that."
That gave him pause.
"I just want you to stay who you are," she continued. "Even if it means you glare at me for a while longer."
She stood, slowly, and walked to the table, retrieving a folded blanket. She set it down near the fire, far enough to respect their distance, close enough for warmth.
"When you're ready," she said. "It'll be here."
Then she turned, walked away from the fire, and settled herself near the edge of the room, back facing them. She pulled her shawl closer and rested against the wall in silence.
The fire crackled quietly. The girl yawned and curled up beside the bowl. The boy stood for a long moment, the flickering light casting long shadows across his face.
Eventually, he sat.
Not beside the girl. Not near Ilya.
But close enough to reach the bread.
The fire had burnt lower, casting the room in a soft amber glow when the door creaked open with a clumsy thud.
Roy stumbled through it, one arm slung around the shoulders of a half-conscious Kieran, who was mumbling incoherently into the crook of his neck. Snow dusted their coats, and Roy's boot left a wet trail across the floor as he dragged them both inside.
"Kieran, you absolute lightweight," Roy muttered under his breath, half-exasperated. "You know you can't handle anything stronger than cider. So what do you do? Order something that smells like varnish and hits like a war hammer."
Kieran groaned, then hiccupped. "You said... only live once…" he slurred.
"I was quoting a bartender, not suggesting you try to outdrink a person who isn't drinking."
Roy adjusted his grip, nearly dropping Kieran altogether as they passed the threshold. His free hand fumbled behind him to kick the door closed.
Ilya stood up from her place by the wall as they entered, quiet but swift. Her eyes flicked over both of them — checking, assessing, wordlessly attentive.
"Welcome home," she said simply.
Kieran lifted his head at the sound of her voice. His eyes barely opened, glassy and red-rimmed. "Il'yaaa," he mumbled with a crooked grin. "You… got more bigger than usual…"
Then his head lolled back down against Roy's shoulder.
"Ilya", Roy grunted. "Can you open the door on the left? I'm dumping this idiot in the spare room before he throws up on my jacket."
She nodded, already moving ahead, her bare feet silent against the stone floor. With practised ease, she pushed open the heavy wooden door, revealing a dim, quiet bedroom with a single bed and a folded quilt at the foot.
Roy stepped through, careful not to knock Kieran's head on the frame — though the thought visibly crossed his mind.
"He's heavier than he looks," Roy muttered.
He eased Kieran down onto the bed, rolling him into a semi-stable position on his side.
Kieran mumbled something about "overthrowing gravity" and immediately began snoring.
Roy sighed, straightening his back with a wince. "Next time, I'm bringing a wheelbarrow."
He turned to find Ilya still standing in the doorway, watching quietly.
"Thanks," he said, brushing snow from his sleeves. "Didn't mean to crash in like a mess."
Her expression softened just slightly. "It's not crashing if you belong here."
Roy didn't answer right away.
But the way his shoulders dropped — the way his gaze lingered on the sleeping Kieran, then the faint firelight beyond — said everything.
Ilya caught his eye as he stepped past her. She raised two fingers subtly, a silent gesture — Water?
Roy gave a small nod, too tired to speak.
He walked slowly out into the living room, shrugging off his coat on the way. The fire still crackled low in the hearth. The scent of stew lingered faintly in the air.
The two children were still seated near the fire, the girl now nibbling on a crust of bread, the boy sitting stiffly beside her — eyes alert, tracking Roy as he entered.
Roy said nothing. He walked past them, past the bowls, and dropped down at the wooden table with a heavy sigh. He rested his forehead on the cool wood and let out a quiet groan, the weight of the evening finally catching up with him.
Footsteps whispered in behind him.
Ilya placed a clay cup of water near his elbow.
He reached for it without lifting his head, murmuring a quiet, "Thanks."
He took a sip, then glanced at her, rubbing one eye.
"Where are the others?" he asked.
"Marrow went out to eat, as there was nothing to eat."
Ilya moved to sit nearby, not too close; her posture relaxed. "Marrow left an hour ago."
Roy made a soft noise of acknowledgement, more grunt than word. "And Thatch?"
"Still in the forge. Said he wasn't coming out until he made something cool.
Roy gave a small snort into his cup. "He's going to blow himself up again."
"He swears this time it's safe."
"He always says that, and he always comes back darker than the night."
A flicker of quiet amusement passed between them. The girl giggled softly, surprising even herself. Roy didn't look up, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Then his fingers tapped the side of the cup, thoughtful now. "What about Lys?"
"She is just chilling inside her room, doing homework."
Roy sighed. "Don't mention that…"
The fire popped. The room softened. And for a moment, everything settled — the drunk passed out in the next room, the guarded boy watching silently, the tired leader nursing lukewarm water and reluctant laughter.
A fragile, borrowed peace — the kind you don't question in case it vanishes.
Roy took another slow sip of water, trying not to groan as the chair creaked beneath him. The weight of the night — and Kieran's full-grown body slung over his shoulder — still throbbed in his lower back.
Ilya stood silently for a moment, then rose without a word. She gathered the empty bowls from the children's meal, her movements fluid and precise. The soft clink of ceramic was the only sound as she turned and disappeared into the kitchen, the beaded curtain rustling gently behind her.
That left just Roy… and the kids.
He lifted his head slightly.
The boy and girl sat across the room, both staring at him like he was some foreign creature — not hostile, not afraid, just… watching. The boy's posture remained guarded, arms slightly tensed as if expecting the need to act. The girl hugged the rabbit plush tighter, eyes wide but calm.