Petals fall around us, swirling in turbulent breeze, settling on our joined bodies like shy stars. Each time hips meet, rune linesunder bark pulse brighter, vines on terrace railing twitch as if feeding on our storm-born magic.
Pressure coils quick; each breath ragged. He kisses my jaw, rasping, “Tell me you feel alive.”
“More than any prophecy.” Words break into gasp as he changes angle, grazing spot aching. I shatter—cry lost in thunder, body clenching around him, crystal shards in blood for heartbeat then dissolving in wave.
He follows, thrusts faltering, shout muffled against my neck. I feel his climax burn warm, bond thrumming so hard tree lights blaze white. At same moment, quake deepens—a crack splits soil beneath terrace. Roots of rune tree wrench, but trunk endures.
We cling while tremor passes. Lantern settles, glow steady again. Rain resumes soft drizzle, cooling flushed skin.
Breathing slows. He eases me to feet, withdrawing gently. I sway; he steadies. Bark bite prints mark my back, some bleeding where crystal pierced. He tenderly brushes strands from my face, eyes searching.
“Regret?”
“Only years wasted apart,” I whisper, stroking river bracelet on his wrist.
He smiles—wolfish, soft. “We steal those years back.”
I glance at fissure glimpsed through arch—pool crack visible even from here, distant turquoise flicker stuttering. “We weave realm first.”
“Together,” he vows.
We redress. He wraps my cloak, fastens clasp beneath throat. His thumb traces new crystal nebula across upper arm. “Spread slowed?” he notes—indeed, lattice glow faded, perhaps sated by union.
“Fate sips pleasure like nectar,” I murmur.
He chuckles, lifts lantern. “Then we keep bottle full.”
We exit glade as petals dim, closing until next starlight harvest. Behind, rune tree’s crack knits, reshaped by shared magic. Maybe world can mend as bodies do—under fierce love and honest risk.
Down spiral stair, we meet rising guardian. He reports fissure stabilized temporarily by unexpected power pulse traced to scry-garden. We exchange secret smile; say nothing.
As we walk toward council wing, his hand in mine, I feel bond hum—a steady chord, neither possessive nor desperate, but chosen. Prophecy still aches, yet fear lessened, replaced by wild promise: rewrite possible.
Lightning no longer distant; it dances above citadel spires, but for first time I think maybe storm will sculpt, not shatter, the realm we love.
20
KYLAN
Morning light blazes through stained-sap windows, scattering dappled fire across the Citadel’s vast armory. Here, above the root halls, the ceiling is a dome of woven ironwood ribs, each rib braided with molten-glass veins that glow whenever thunder rolls outside. Today they flicker crimson every few breaths—Convergence’s dawn warning.
Racks bristle with spears carved from cloud-cedar, blades forged from sky-steel that whistles softly if pointed at shadow entities. Worktables overflow with rune-stamped buckles, seed satchels, and travel wards stenciled on bark strips. Dozens of runners weave between benches, ferrying supply lists longer than war chronicles. Everyone looks half-starved for sleep but starved more for time.
I stride down central aisle, boots clicking on sun-warmed obsidian tiles. Wolves of my escort fall in behind—Holt freshly returned from ridge, Rowan pale after a night coughing dust he swears is only a cold, and two junior scouts eager to prove they can carry twice their weight. Their presence steadies the drum in my chest.
Ahead, Remi leans against a crate of volatile amber charges, arms crossed, lightning sparking between knuckles. He grins when I near. “Alpha of the hour. Or is it minute? Time shrinks faster than my patience.”
“Minute,” I reply. “If pool fissure widens again we’ll be counting seconds.”
He straightens, handing over a rolled parchment. “Site assignments stamped by surviving Arbiters. We pivot from eight anchors to three—deploying in clusters. Efficiency over perfection.”
I unroll. Oak-ink lines divide map into wedges radiating from Citadel: Umbramere vortex, Feramundi caverns, Moonstone shrine. Each wedge bears sigils for support squads and courier relays. Names of volunteers inked beneath. Mine and Carmilla’s sit under Moonstone sector—no surprise.
“You leading Moonstone?” Remi asks though he clearly knows answer.
“Carmilla’s map started there; we finish loop where it began.” I scan other columns. “Who holds Feramundi?”
“Everest and Isabelle.” He smirks. “Sending lovers into earthquake salt caves—romance in rubble.”
