The sickly green sun hovered just above the rooftops, smothered by the acidic drizzle outside as Maeve found herself sitting across the table from her mother.

She hadn't touched the menu. Neither had Alana.

Miss Alba's noodle shop, usually bubbling with oily broth smells and bowl-slapping clamor, felt oddly distant today. It wasn't just that they were the only two patrons here. The clatter of pans being washed by Miss Alba and her two children behind the counter simply sounded like it came from behind a veil.

Maeve sat stiff-backed on the rickety wooden stool. Her eyes stayed locked on her mother's face: gaunt, hollowed, and worn like parchment soaked too long in rain. Alana's dress was a pretty thing—deep green with faded embroidery around the hems—but it hung loose, barely clinging to her skeletal frame. It must've belonged to someone healthier. Or maybe it'd belonged to Alana herself, and her health had only long since vanished.

So Maeve swallowed.

She wanted to say something.

Anything.

She'd rehearsed dozens of greetings, questions, and apologies in her head over the years. Even when she was locked in the Exorcists' dungeon—even when she was scraping grime off her boots in the dead-plagued streets of Blightmarch—she'd imagined this reunion countless times, but now that her mother was actually in front of her, all the words shriveled to dust in her mouth.

The silence stretched.

Outside the window, acid drizzle drew faint sizzles along the edge of the awning. Behind the counter, Miss Alba's two children laughed softly as they continued scrubbing bowls with metal rags, unaware of the mother and daughter frozen in time.

For a moment, Maeve really thought this was going to be how it was—until, at long last, Alana gave her a small smile.

"... You look healthy," Alana said. Her voice was light. Tremulous. "Healthy enough to be this far from your Host and still have your chain stay firm. You must have a good relationship with him.

And suddenly, Maeve's words flew out before she could catch them.

"I do not have a good relationship with him." But then she stiffened immediately. Heat rose to her face, and she sat up straighter, nearly knocking Mistrender off her lap. "I mean… no, I mean, it's not bad either, but I…"

She grimaced, biting her lower lip.

"It's a working relationship," she said at last. "We are a Host-Hunter pair, after all. Of course we need a working relationship so our chain can extend as far as possible."

Alana smiled faintly again, barely a curve of her lips. "I see. I take it to mean you have been carrying out your Symbiote Exorcist duties well?"

Maeve lit up immediately like someone had cracked a match across her chest. Her posture straightened, her voice found rhythm, and the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding released in a rush of earnest excitement.

"Yes!" She leaned forward, eyes shining now. "After the Purity Tribunal released me and sent me down here, I… well, I didn't even know where to go at first, but then I chased a Myrmur to the Heartcord Clinic where I found the Plagueplain Doctor and his older sister, Cara! With their help, I killed the Myrmur and helped save the Host with this interesting elixir the Doctor had, since then, I've been getting around!"

Alana said nothing, but her gaze didn't waver as Maeve pressed on, eager. She rambled about how she'd killed that Myrmur in the clinic. She talked about how she'd killed her second Myrmur in an exiled baron's cemetery manor. She recounted how much effort it took to hunt down and kill three Myrmurs that'd been hiding in a single girl's body, and she made sure to mention the horde of low-rank Myrmurs she'd slaughtered alongside Gael in the Fogspire Forest. Of course, she didn't forget the Rustwights, either. She even lifted the new and improved Mistrender so she could show off the upgrades she'd made, because…

Because once upon a time, Mistrender belonged to Alana, so it was only right Maeve told her all about it.

For thirty minutes, the rush of words spilled freely. Her heart beat a little faster with each story, each memory, and through it all, not once did her mother interrupt. Not once did her lips move to speak. Her eyes stayed on Maeve, calm and quiet, and it was only when the drizzle outside started turning into a full acidic downpour—raindrops pitter-pattering hard across the ground—that Maeve glanced out the window briefly.

The sun was almost down.

Her shoulders sank slightly, embarrassed.

"… Sorry." She gave a sheepish laugh. "I… didn't mean to talk so much. You probably didn't want to hear all that."

Alana shook her head gently. "You don't need to apologize for that." She looked at Maeve again—really looked, with something faint and soft and fragile in her face. "I'm just glad you seem happy."

Maeve's smile flickered, and her fingers curled slightly against her lap.

Happy?

Is that what I sound like?

The early days and weeks of staying in the clinic really were horrible. She couldn't bear to share the same bed as the Plagueplain Doctor, and she couldn't bear to not be the only person leading the Myrmur hunts, but…

She wouldn't say it was horrible now.

So, she simply lifted her chin, drew in a quick breath, and shifted the spotlight.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Where have you been, mom?" she asked, voice light and eager. "What have you been doing all this time?"

Alana didn't answer immediately. Her bony fingers twitched slightly on the table, brushing a stray hair from her lap as she glanced down at her own knees.

"Well… after that incident in the catacombs with you, I was exiled," she began, voice like a wilted reed. "I'm sure you heard about that once you were released, though. And just like you, I came down to Blightmarch to work odd jobs. I cleaned. I stitched. I packed crates for tradesmen who didn't ask too many questions. I lost my left arm in a fight against a Myrmur a few years ago, but it's not easy being an Exorcist Hunter without a Host, so… I gave up on that job after that."

Then she shifted her leg slightly, and Maeve looked down, only just now realizing that the cuff at her mother's ankle was still secured, but the Host's end was also cuffed above the same ankle, forming a closed loop.

Alana wasn't connected to a Host.

"How… how have you been dealing with the toxin, then?" Maeve asked, looking back up at her with worry. "Three years without a Host? How have you…"

Alana rubbed at the shoulder brace where her left arm used to be. "A few weeks after I first came down to Blightmarch," she breathed, "I met someone. A wealthy man. He was kind enough to take me in as a servant on account of me having basic housekeeping skills—I am a Vharnish, after all—and he happens to be a hobbyist collector, so he has a Blood-Draining Knife. You know the one I'm talking about, don't you?

Maeve's eyes widened slightly. "The specially made knives the Exorcists designed to help us drain the toxin in our blood even without a Host?"

Alana nodded.

"He lets me use it every few days when the toxin starts to get bad. It's still not ideal to use it over draining the toxin straight into a Host—the scars made by the knife don't heal—but there's no man in Blightmarch who'd willingly be the Host to a Hunter. Too many limitations and too many risks in return for a non-combat-oriented symbiotic class." Alana smiled again then, a weak, painful expression. "He's a great man. Truly. I owe him my life, and I would do anything to… repay him."

Maeve tilted her head and smiled softly, genuinely. "That's… that's wonderful to hear."

"Mhm."

Then, silence again. The kind that gently curled around them like steam from a long-cooled bowl, warm but fading.

Maeve looked down at her lap.

Her fingers fidgeted with the stitching on her dress. It was a little loose at the cuff. She'd fix it later. Maybe show her mother how dextrous her fingers had gotten.

Her throat tightened. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked quickly and straightened her back.

This was nice. Really nice. Better than any of the dozens—no, hundreds—of conversations she'd rehearsed in her head. All those nights locked beneath the Tribunal Hall, scratching dreams into her cot frame with her nails, and all those lonely days afterwards, trudging through fog-choked alleys and dreaming of this moment… she'd always imagined what she'd say if she ever found her mother again.

'Where are you?'

'Are you safe?'

'Do you still think of me?'

But most of all, she'd imagined asking if they could live together again.

They didn't have to share real blood ties. They didn't have to force themselves to be Exorcists if they didn't want to. They could work normal jobs for less-than-meagre wages and rent out a cramped room somewhere in Blightmarch just for themselves, and still that would be a life better than one lived up in the golden city, where neither of them were wanted nor needed.

But…

Her lips quirked as a strange thought danced in her mind.

It was ridiculous. Utterly absurd. Because now—sitting in this greasy little noodle shop far from the working, bustling centre of Blightmarch—she felt like she wanted to ask her mother to live with her in the Heartcord Clinic.

Surely, at least Cara would welcome her as a competent physician apprentice. She would probably get along with Liorin and Evelyn very well. As a former Exorcist, she was also no stranger to dealing with powerful figures, so she wouldn't be scared of Fergal and his goons and the four giant hellhounds that guarded the clinic, either. The Plagueplain Doctor may be a bit of a hard sell, but… Maeve was sure she'd come around eventually as well. Maeve would make her understand.

So as Maeve drew in a breath, lifted her gaze, and parted her mouth—

"Would you like to leave the clinic and come live with me?" Alana asked.

Maeve froze.

Then she blinked, her thoughts scattered.

"You could… live where I work," Alana continued. "The man who's been supporting me… is a very nice man. He's always looking for more servants. You wouldn't have to live in that clinic anymore."

Maeve blinked again. For a second, she didn't even understand what'd been said. Then she did—and still, she didn't know what to say.

Suddenly, a voice rang through the haze outside.

"Exorcist!"

She turned towards the window in a snap.

Outside, through the dripping glass, someone was shouting for her and tugging at her ankle chain.

Gael.

… Of course.

The water fountain.

He was calling her to come back, because they were all supposed to turn the valve together.

She immediately stood, her stool scraping back as she pushed to her feet.

"I… have to go," she said, a little breathless. "We're unveiling the new water fountain tonight. The clinic will officially have direct and constant access to Gulch water, so it's a big deal for us. Really big. We'll be celebrating afterwards with food and music, so why don't you… you should come with me."

Alana's brows barely moved as she smiled softly and shook her head.

"No," Alana said promptly. "It's your moment. Those are your friends. I wouldn't want to intrude."

Maeve frowned. "You wouldn't be intruding. They're all… uh, most of them are friendly people. I'm sure they'd love to—"

Alana only lifted her hand and gave a quiet wave dismissively. Then, Gael shouted again outside, now tugging hard at her ankle chain to get her attention.

"I'll still be here after you celebrate," Alana said, waving her off. "Don't make your friends wait, now. Go."

Maeve hesitated, lips pressed in a thin line. Why was Alana so insistent on staying behind? She could come. She should come.

But when Gael hollered her name one more time—so deafeningly loud that she felt embarrassed just listening to him—she instinctively took a step towards the door, then another.

She looked over her shoulder one last time.

"Don't move," she said, pointing straight at her mother with Mistrender as she pulled her flower-patterned mask over her mouth. "I'll be back right after we open the new water fountain. I'll come drag you to the afterparty myself."

And she didn't wait to see her mother's response. She pushed the shop door open, bells chiming overhead, and took off running in the clinic's direction.

The rain hit her cheeks like cold breath, and all she could think of as she ran through the tree-lined streets was coming back and fetching her mother.

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