The taproom of The Last Home was deathly quiet.
Not the awkward kind of quiet that follows a dropped mug.
Not the startled hush after a suspicious thump upstairs.
This was different.
Older.
Deeper.
The kind of silence that grows in the shadow of things best left unspoken.
Wet.
Slightly slimy.
Glittered.
Sooted.
There were even hints of debris—feathers, seaweed, a burnt spoon.
Possibly someone else’s sock.
The Legendary Maids stood in a damp, vaguely smoking line, radiating the distinct energy of people who had survived something they probably shouldn’t have.
Again.
Rika was grinning like a lunatic, holding what was either a piece of kraken...
…or the world’s worst seafood platter.
Freya looked furious.
Not screaming furious.
That quiet, measured fury.
The kind that includes legal disclaimers.
Marie was trying to disappear into her clipboard.
Or possibly behind it.
Carmella looked...
Embarrassed.
Which, for her, was genuinely alarming.
Lilith stood slightly apart from the others.
Still.
Expressionless.
But if you looked closely—closer than was safe—
there was a flicker of tension behind her eyes.
Something had unsettled her.
Something that shouldn’t have.
And then there was Sylvie.
Sylvie sparkled.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
She shimmered with leftover glitter, arcane residue, and the kind of post-event glow most people would describe as “concerning.”
She said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
Whatever had happened…
Whatever unholy, tentacled nonsense had occurred…
Sylvie had liked it.
A lot.
Possibly too much.
Possibly in ways that would give theology professors sleepless nights.
Lars did not ask.
Because some part of him—
a deep, primal, self-preserving part—
feared the answer.
Not for what it might be.
But for what it might awaken.
He was also damp.
His shirt clung slightly.
His boots squelched.
Something crystalline was drying in his hair.
His expression had not changed.
It never did.
But there was a weariness in his voice when he finally spoke—
the kind of tired that makes gods quietly reschedule their apocalypses.
“Alright,” Lars said.
“Start from the beginning.”
Freya’s eye twitched.
“I can explain,” she said flatly.
Lars sighed.
Not for the first time.
The silence in the room deepened.
Every patron, god, warlock, and unusually sentient chair remained perfectly still.
This was not the first time the Maids had returned in this state.
It wouldn’t be the last.
But Lars had left the Inn.
And that…
That was different.
The Inn didn’t like it.
The Pattern didn’t like it.
The world had shivered when it happened.
Now he was back.
Tired.
Wet.
And waiting.
No one in the taproom dared speak.
Not even the walls.
Because when Lars moves—
the Inn listens.
And the Maids—each terrifying in their own right—
were suddenly, collectively, afraid of disappointing the man they all quietly called…
Dad.