Julius has the brief thought that some of them might have had families who'd been glad to see them. He hopes some of them found their way home. But many mages had no family but one another, especially as they grew. War or not, Fiona might have offered something that felt more secure. But that's likely a thornier political question than she meant to pry into. It's clear her observation is one born of sympathy, and he can respect it for that.

Instead, he answers her question. "Sometimes," frankly. "Parts. There are people I miss, certainly. And there was a simplicity to my life here that had its benefits. Things that would bother me now didn't then, because I'd not lived any differently or seen other options." And he'd thrived, within a set of clear rules. A path with no crossroads, for quite a long distance.

He lingers in the doorway of the apprentices' rooms, clearly seeing occupants who were no longer present in his mind's eye. "I miss teaching. I liked working with the apprentices. I wasn't a teacher exclusively, but the enchanters all took our turns, especially when our numbers were small after we were nearly annulled. I hope Southern mages can find a way to revive magical education in a less patchwork way, and soon. Younger mages are ill-served by being left wholly to their own devices, I think." He thinks, briefly, of an Orlesian father desperate to help his scared daughter.