Jules exhales, relief trembling in it.
Phoebe smiles, small but real.
Delia’s eyes go glossy, but she doesn’t look away.
Alaric leans back, considering, then says, “And when big decisions arise?”
Kael answers before I can. “We rotate.”
Thorne snorts. “You’d say that.”
Kael’s grin is a flash of teeth. “You’d hate being in charge all the time.”
Thorne’s answering growl is almost affectionate. Almost.
I let them have the moment—let the humor cut through the ash.
Then I speak again.
“A rotating leadership circle,” I say. “When the realm is threatened. When the forges falter. When the wards need reforging. When a decision affects all kingdoms—no one Lord decides alone.”
I look at my brothers one by one.
“Agreed?”
Alaric’s gaze is steady. “Agreed.”
Kael’s hand closes over Phoebe’s. “Agreed.”
Thorne’s fire flares low, controlled. “Agreed.”
I don’t speak again until I feel Oona’s quiet certainty press into the bond between us, like a stone set into mortar.
“Agreed,” I finish. “By earth and marrow. By root and realm.”
And then—because none of this matters if it doesn’t become more than words—I reach into the stone table and draw up four shallow grooves, like channels cut into bedrock.
“Let this be recorded,” I say.
The roots overhead unfurl, slow and deliberate, as if they are leaning in to listen.
“To the Dreamwrights,” Jules adds, voice firm.
“To the miners,” Delia says, blunt.
“To the soldiers of the seas,” Phoebe murmurs.
“And to the dead,” Oona finishes softly, and my chest goes tight because she understands the cost as if she was born to it.
We seal it the only way that feels honest to Nightfall.
Not with ink.
With vow.
Each Lord places his palm into the stone groove before him. Each viyella places hers over his. The artifacts—ring, bracer, pendant, torc—pulse once in unison.
And the realm answers.
