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[hr][hr][sub][b]Location:[/b] Western Residential District[/sub]
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By the time Nyla reached the western edge of town, the tips of her fingers and toes were numb. The walk hadn’t been short—past the bustle of the tavern, through the town square, and following along the quieter roads that curved beneath the northern residential district where the royals and nobility had already staked their claims. 

Below that, new homes were being built. Some were still skeletons of wood and stone, haphazard frames buried beneath snowdrifts. Others stood finished, silent and waiting. Construction workers lingered despite the dark and the cold, hammering and sawing, bundled in layers and shouting to one another. 

She passed them unnoticed, slipping through the torch-lit streets until she found one that felt… right. A smaller place—nothing grand—but solid. Finished. Empty. 

She pushed the door open. No lock. No resistance. The interior greeted her with a faint scent of sawdust. Apparently, Flynn hadn’t been lying. She could claim whatever home she wished. 

Still cradling the basket of cookies in one hand, she stepped through the threshold. Her fingertips trailed over bare walls and countertops as she casually wandered from room to room, eventually stopping in the living room. A cold hearth stared back at her from the far wall—untouched and unused. 

She sank to the floor beside it, folding her legs beneath her and setting the basket in her lap, eyes roving over the space.

It wasn’t much. But it could be.

She could picture a fire here—flickering, golden, casting dancing shadows against the walls. Food laid out on a worn table. Drinks poured for friends. Music and laughter. A home filled with something warm to distract from the everlasting frigid night. 

She could call this home, she supposed. 
At least, for now.

Wandering was in her nature. Her kind never stayed for long. 

But.. she could feel the weight of her illusion. The slow drag of it. The cost of appearing alive. It was wearing thin. 

Soon, she’d have to retreat to her room again. Drop the act. Let her magic settle before it tore too much from her. And Dawnhaven was the only place she’d be allowed to live without being hunted, it seemed.  

She leaned back, bracing herself against a wall, and let her gaze drift toward one of the frosted windows. Outside, snowflakes spiraled down in soft flurries, illuminated by the flickering torches lining the street. 

Nyla exhaled slowly.

She’d made homes out of worse before. Hollow inns. Damp cave walls. Crumbling stage wagons. Dark forests. Shaded areas among desert dunes. Back corners of temples.

This would do.

She let her head tip back against the wall and closed her eyes—just for a minute.

Just until the ache in her chest stopped whispering that she wasn’t meant to be here.