She unfolds Isabelle’s map update, tracing new ley corridors with fingertip. “One gate can’t anchor entire weave. We’ll need six more before next convergence cycle.”
“I know.” I break fritter, hand half to her. “Pack is ready. We’ll rotate guardianship, train council delegates.”
Her crystal collar pulses faint agreement. “And you?”
I chew, swallow. “This ridge is home, but horizon will be my territory now.” I turn, meet her gaze. “Wherever network calls, I go—always returning to you.”
Emotion flickers in prism eyes. “Alpha of horizons,” she repeats. “Not borders.”
“That line you wrote years ago stuck.” I tap her brow gently. “You seed more than prophecy.”
Wind tugs loose hair strands; she tucks them behind ear. “You’ll need envoy skills—less mauling, more diplomacy.”
“I have best tutor.” I shrug playfully. “Though mauling remains contingency.”
She laughs, leans shoulder to mine. Quiet settles—the comfortable kind humming with unspoken assurances. In distance, hammers ring, wings flap, waterwheel churnscapturing waterfall energy to power lift cranes. Sanctuary grows while we watch.
A shadow passes overhead; we look up. A courier gryphon glides, clutching cloth-wrapped parcel. It lands on edge, bows. “Delivery from Dawnfoot,” it screeches politely.
Carmilla accepts parcel, unwraps. Inside: a bound volume of shrine diaries annotated by Laurel, first edition of lexicon bridging oracle script and realm tongue. A note tucked: Can’t outrun scribe; arriving tomorrow with bigger crate. —L
Carmilla smiles, clutching book to chest. “She’ll ask barrages of questions.”
“Good. Story needs chroniclers.” I rise, stretch. “Come. Arch beams await blessing. Then we paint threshold lines—three pigment colors, one for each sky.”
We spend midday guiding brush crews. I mix pine sap green, Carmilla infuses desert amber, Rowans adds surf-blue. Lines flow across stone, forming subtle wave motifs. Sun climbs; sweat trickles; laughter sparkles.
By late afternoon all arches stand, keystone set by combined lift of fae magics and wolf sinew. The bridge curves like crescent moon over ravine. I step beneath, hand grazing cool underside, marveling at craftsmanship. A shimmer appears—gateway outlines tracing in gleam invisible to untrained eye. Soon we will speak rune phrase and doors will bloom open.
Workers gather for final meal. We sit in semicircle facing sunset. Holt roasts root vegetables in ground oven; Rowan uncorks dune-root liquor. Toasts fly: to pack survival, to oracle courage, to cross-realm markets with four kinds of cake. Carmilla sips wine, color flushing cheeks. Her laughter tonight carries none of yesterday’s exhaustion.
Night falls; crews bed down in tents strung along terrace. Carmilla and I remain at bridge center, stars illuminatinghalf-finished railings. Silence deepens. I clasp her hand. “Tomorrow the council arrives to cut ribbon. Crowd will expect pomp.”
She chuckles. “We’ll give them sincerity instead.”
I face east, watch lattice threads glimmer—faint lines crisscross sky. “Do you ever regret leaving prophetic solitude?”
She considers. “Solitude never felt voluntary. This—” she sweeps free hand around “—is conscious choice. Partnership. I don’t regret breathing.”
I turn to her fully. “Then breathe with me.” I weave fingers through hers, press palm to palm. Pulse drums between. I drop onto one knee—not habit of submission but ritual of vow. “I claimed alpha duty long before meeting you, but guardianship… guardianship I accept only at your side. Lifelong stewardship, horizon to horizon.”
Her exhale trembles. Crystal collar glows pale rose. She lowers to knees opposite, lays our joined hands over keystone. “Then I seal promise. Not anchor, not chain—circle.” She leans, kisses our hands, then lips meet. Star-glass beneath warms, new sigil blooming: intertwined circles open like petals, infinite path with two centers. Light rises, drifts skyward, fusing into lattice.
We break kiss, foreheads touching. She whispers, “Alpha of horizons meets oracle of circles—sounds like children’s story.”
I grin. “Let’s give them sequel after sequel.”
We stand, arms around waists, staring at dark valley where faint lamps flicker—villages already lighting path to future markets. Somewhere, a night bird sings across pines. Lattice chords hum lullaby.
Moon climbs. Sanctuary glows ghostly white. I feel restless energy—joy, purpose—surging. Shift wing forms, test air. “Courier duties call. Want ride?”
Carmilla’s eyes sparkle. “Anywhere.”
I scoop her into arms, wings unfurling. We launch, gliding over bridge, scent of fresh timber and resin swirling. Builders below wave; we circle once, then arrow out across ravine. Cold air rushes, she laughs into wind. I angle north, giving her first aerial view of new gate shining like beacon. Silver rails, moonstone arch, rune lines glowing trifecta hues.
We bank back toward terrace, land soft. Breath clouds in chill; we enter tent lit by single crystal lamp. She yawns, stretching. I remove cloak, drape over both as we sink onto layered hides.
Before sleep, she murmurs, “Tomorrow, when council applauds, remember to smile. Your grim face scares diplomats.”
