I uncap it, slide out three folded sheets. Each glows faintly—scribes learned to embed ley-safe signatures after Convergence. First sheet: Remi’s jagged scrawl beneath a smudge of oil and sea salt.
Good news,
Alpha-Across-The-Snow: storm turbines spin steady, harbor glass settled. Umbramere market prepping first trade sloop. Expect barrels of lightning-pickled kelp and that cask of dune-root liquor you begged Zale for. Try not to faint when you drink it. —R
A grin claims my face. The thought of frost cubs sampling kelp stew sends a ripple of amusement across bond; Carmilla’s sleeping mind answers with drowsy warmth.
Second sheet: Isabelle’s elegant pen strokes.
Maps updated. New ley corridors stable for heavy traffic. Laurel departed Dawnfoot with translated shrine diaries; expects arrival to sanctuary before second full moon. She requests you reserve a quiet alcove for scribal study and atour of your pack’s fledgling pup nursery—her priorities remain academic and tender. Respectfully, Isabelle.
Good. Laurel’s expertise kept us sane when prophecy shards threatened to fracture my mate. Seeing her stride in, arms loaded with scrolls, will mark another victory.
Last page: a scrap of parchment heavy with soot. Everest never wastes time on flourishes.
Gate stones hold. No rift burps. Send granite when you can.
Simple, gruff, perfect.
I tuck letters into vest, heart lighter.
“Alpha!” Holt waves from scaffold. “South truss needs eye.”
I jog over, leaping onto angled plank. Holt guides me to a joint where pine beam meets lava glass. Silver inlay hasn’t fused fully, leaving a hiss of unstable air. I press palm, call wolf-craft—shift fingers to claw, tap energy. Lattice threads slither from notch, cinching crack like spider silk spun from light. The hiss dies. Holt whistles. “You do that smoother every day.”
“It feels like breathing now,” I admit. Once such tasks drained marrow. Now the network fills any hollows seconds after they open.
Rowan skids beside us, wings folding. “If you’ve concluded alpha wizardry, the cornerstone’s ready.” He flashes grin. “Or do you plan to dawdle until moons rise again?”
“I’ll fetch Carmilla,” I say. “Keep crew steady.”
Down ramp, across terrace, into cool corridor—my feet know path toward the hot-spring grotto by memory older than sunrise. Steam curls from archway. Inside, Carmilla stands half-draped in linen, crystal collar reflecting morning gold. She ties hair into loose braid, every motion languid. Seeing her there, lit in dawn, hits me with gratitude so fierce my knees wobble.
She senses doorway, turns. “You’re early. I thought measurements would tangle you until lunch bell.”
I walk in, drop a light kiss to her bare shoulder. “Measurements behave when vision’s clear.” I offer my hand. “Ready to sign our names into stone?”
Her smile starts subtle then blooms. “Let’s forge horizons.”
We step onto sun-washed path. On approach, workers chatter soft respect. She greets each by name, asks a fae mason about a son’s flute lessons, congratulates Holt on balancing beams. The camaraderie used to surprise me—an oracle revered by distant scholars choosing such familiar warmth—but now it feels as natural as breath.
At bowl’s center lies the cornerstone: a prism of star-glass streaked with mineral veins from every realm—ashen quartz, jade serpentine, violet coral petrified in desert lightning. Rowan polished facets until they mirrored sky.
Carmilla kneels; her stone-plated hand fits a carved slot on left face. I kneel opposite, placing my palm on right. Rune channels ignite.
Energy pours—not the brutal surge of crisis, but gentle hum like tide lapping shore. Our bond provides notes; lattice provides chords. Symbols unfurl across glass: a running wolf entwined with crystal vine, loops forming infinity knot. Colors shift through sunrise palette, then settle into soft moon-silver. Rowan gives a low whistle; Holt bows head.
Together we lift prism—lighter than I expect, the lattice taking weight—and slot into prepared cradle. The moment it settles, a chime rings out, and every joint, bolt, and beam along unfinished bridge flashes once. The entire structure exhales. I feel doors open across realms: stable entrances waiting only for archways to be capped.
Applause breaks out. Masons tap chisels on stone, wolves howl short celebratory notes. Carmilla rises, wiping happy tear off cheek. I offer sleeve; she laughs, uses it.
“Speech?” Rowan nudges.
I clear throat. “Friends, pack, kin of three skies.” Voices hush. “You built this not as barrier or conquest but welcome. Let each traveler crossing find curiosity, not fear. Let trade, stories, and laughter outweigh any future quarrel.” I glance at Carmilla. “And know that guardians stand watch—guardians born from all you endured and all you dared hope.”
Cheers answer, echoing down valley.
Work resumes but in lighter rhythm. Crews shift to raise final arch segments. Carmilla and I retreat to a balcony ledge where breakfast baskets wait: kelp fritters from Remi, oatcakes drizzled in dune honey, pine-needle tea. We sit side by side, legs dangling.
