She left to coordinate something. Always moving.
Cyrus’s arm came around my shoulders. I wish your father could have seen it.
Me too.
He saw the possibility, Keane said. The rest was ours to build.
Elio leaned against a nearby tree, Echo’s scales shifting to contemplative blue. So what now?
What do you mean?
We saved the world. Built new governance. What do we do with the rest of our lives?
The question hung in the spring air. A good question. The best kind—one that only existed because we’d survived to ask it.
LATER, WE GATHERED IN THE common room.
Keane had spread dimensional research across the table. I’ve been working on portal applications for medical transport. Fast evacuation for critical patients.
Still building systems, I observed.
Always. His deep blue eyes held quiet satisfaction. But now for healing instead of war.
Cyrus sat by the fire, Ember content on his shoulder. Commander Parker wants me to develop advanced containment training protocols. Not just for Shroud Guard but for anyone who might face magical threats.
Teaching, Elio said. You’re good at it.
Cyrus’s expression held complicated peace. Something he was still settling into, the way you settled into a room you’d always been told wasn’t for you.
Elio had his violin across his lap, his fingers trailing absently over the strings. I’ve been documenting everything—the crisis, the resolution, the transformation. Archive wants it preserved.
Truth for future generations, Keane said.
Exactly. Elio’s light blue eyes held unusual seriousness. So they can learn from what we survived. So they don’t repeat our mistakes. He paused, and something quieter moved through his expression—the specific weight of choosing his parents’ craft without their conclusions. My parents documented everything too. The difference is what you point it at.
They all looked at me.
What about you? Cyrus asked.
I thought about my father’s research. The wellsprings awakening. Aurora’s study group and Lucas’s friendship and Raven’s slow recovery.
I want to study wellspring communication, I said slowly. Develop better protocols. Learn their languages properly instead of just guessing. I paused. And I want to teach. Help other necromancers understand that death magic is about cycles, not endings.
Following your father’s work, Elio observed.
Building on it, I corrected. Making it better.
We already are, I replied.
Cyrus stood, moving to the window. Father asked if I wanted to join his advisory team. Help with the continuing transition to distributed governance.
What did you say? I asked.
He was quiet for a moment, looking out at Wickem’s grounds. When he spoke, his voice was slower than usual—the cadence of someone saying something they’ve only recently understood.
That I’d consider it. After I finish my degree. He looked back at us. He’s doing the work my mother believed in now. Slower than she would have. With worse instincts about people. The corner of his mouth moved. But the same direction.
A pause.
