“Yes,” she said. “You did. And the Verya know it. That’s why they fear you.”
Something shifted in my chest at those words. Not comfort—something harder. The particular resolve that came from understanding exactly what was at stake and choosing to walk toward it anyway.
If I stood strong at the Chamber, it sent a message. To the Quaww. To theVerya. To every species watching. That what I’d built wasn’t fragile. That the woman they’d tried to claim as a specimen had become something they couldn’t collect, couldn’t consume, couldn’t break apart.
And behind me, growing in the shadows while the Verya fixated on the Beacon, an alliance they’d never seen coming.
V’dim’s voice carried through the glass doors behind us—warm and clear, cutting through the evening air with the particular authority of a male who’d spent an hour orchestrating a meal and expected it to be appreciated.
“Selena. Oeta. Dinner.”
Oeta straightened. The softness left her face in a clean motion, replaced by the composed mask she wore for everyone who wasn’t standing on a sunset balcony having the kind ofconversation that changed things. The transition was seamless. One breath she was a woman sharing something that cost her, and the next she was the Nyaviel researcher—sharp, measured, impenetrable.
But before I could turn toward the doors, her hand closed around my forearm.
I stilled.
Oeta didn’t touch. Not casually, not often, not without clear intent. Physical contact from her carried the same weight as a treaty clause—binding and specific. Her fingers gripped with a precision that spoke of something she needed me to carry with me past this balcony, past tomorrow, past the void between here and the Chamber.
“Remember.” Her voice was low. “If you need me, call. I will hear you. And I will come.”
The fuchsia of her aura pulsed once—deep and steady—and through the place where our connection lived, I felt the truth of it. Not a promise made from obligation. A promise made from something she’d never name aloud but that I recognized all the same.
Family.
“Thank you, Oeta.” My voice came out rougher than I’d intended. “For staying. For everything.”
The faintest smile crossed her face. Rare enough that I’d learned to mark the occasions.
“Thank me when you return victorious.” The smile faded into something more familiar—the clean severity that suited her. “Until then… fight well.”
Fight well.
Simple words from a woman who had seen centuries of conflict. Coming from Oeta, they carried the gravity of a benediction.
She released my arm and turned toward the doors, her stride already shifting into the measured pace she used when entering rooms full of people. I watched her go and let the last of the sunset warm my back.
Fight well.
I intended to.
The dining hall hit me in the chest the moment I stepped through the doorway.
Not force. Warmth. The kind that didn’t come from temperature or lighting or the soft glow of the lanterns V’dim had arranged along the table, though all of those contributed. This warmth came from the bonds. Every single thread in my constellation blazing at close range—bright and tangled and humming with the particular frequency of people who knew they were about to be pulled apart and had decided, collectively, to burn brighter first.
V’dim stood at the head of the table, four tentacles arranging the last of the dishes with the focused precision of a male who expressed love through meticulous preparation.
He noticed me in the doorway. One tentacle lifted in a gesture that was part greeting, part beckoning, entirely V’dim. “There you are. Come. I made this for you.”
Odelm sat in the corner closest to the garden doors, velishra across his knees, playing something low and warm. The melody was the one I’d asked him to play every night—the hopeful one, the one that felt like starlight touching down in a dark room. His thread in my web pulsed steady amber. Not healed. Not yet. But steadier than yesterday, and steadier still than the day before. The music was doing something for him that my presence alone couldn’t, and I was grateful for whatever force in the universe had given him this gift.
Xylo moved between the table and the kitchen, adjusting temperatures and portion sizes with the quiet competence of amedic who couldn’t stop assessing nutritional intake even at a family dinner. His fingers trailed across surfaces as he walked—touching, checking, the restless inventory of a healer whose patients were about to scatter beyond his reach.
Z’fir had returned from the greenhouse. He sat near V’dim’s end of the table, a cup cradled between his root-rough hands, his thread a steady turquoise in my web. He didn’t look up when I entered. He didn’t need to. I felt his awareness of me like sunlight through leaves—filtered, gentle, constant.
Kaede appeared from the corridor behind me, close enough that his presence registered before his footsteps did. The perimeter check was done. He was here. His hand settled briefly at the small of my back—light, possessive, the gesture of a male who’d just swept the entire property and could now confirm that the most important thing in it was right in front of him.
Ryzen sat at the far end, his emerald runes dimmed to a low glow, spirit daggers absent for once. He’d pulled his golden hair back from his face, and without the distraction of his defensive posture, he looked younger. Quieter. Zyxel sat beside him in his new demi-human form—still unsure about himself—tasting the mood of the room, reading the emotions my other mates expressed through bonds he couldn’t access.
