Cheers crashed upward through the branches and feet thundered on the ground. Drums began to pound, deep and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the island itself. Flutes cut through the air, bright and wild.
Seawitches shrieked their joy. Air witches answered in spirals of sound that made the platform hum beneath my feet. Vines crept upward along the treehouse, blooming into flowers in real time.
They weren’t just celebrating.
They werealive. The island was alive.
Voices called up to us.
“To new beginnings!”
“To Lyoness reborn!”
“To the future of our blood!”
The baby inside of me stirred, as if recognizing the calls.
More gifts came.
Earth witches brought woven carriers and blankets alive with growing vines. Air witches carried wing-covers stitched with shifting patterns. Seawitches tossed shimmering shells and pearls onto the lower decks.
Drakling children danced in chaotic circles, wings flapping wildly, laughter spilling out of them as they chased one another through the crowd.
Ronan made a soft sound beside me as Kieran wiped at his eyes without shame. Benedict covered his mouth briefly, trying—and failing—to hide how much this meant to him.
The island pulsed joy, hope, and relief.
“The future!” someone shouted.
“The future!” the crowd echoed.
My heart felt as though it would explode.
But the joy didn’t touch everyone.
Off to the side, on a quieter platform, almost forgotten, stood Nerissa and Canavar. He leaned over her like a dark angel, wings tense with his hands on her shoulders. Grief clung to them like a shadow that wouldn’t lift.
Nerissa met my gaze, dipping her head once. My hand pressed on my belly instinctively.
Before I could move toward her, Benedict went still beside me. I closed my eyes and felt something as well: a pull of sorts. It was an uncomfortable itch under my skin, unnerving and wrong and demanding my attention.
Kieran’s posture shifted immediately, sensing it as well. “What is it?”
Ronan’s eyes grew alert.
“A disturbance,” Benedict murmured. “Not the wards … something smaller.”
Ronan straightened. “Where?”
“One of the young witchlings,” Benedict said. “A young one. Her spark?—”
I felt it then, a faint tug at the edge of my awareness. It was bright, reckless, and familiar.
“That’s Perri,” I said immediately, clocking the troublesome but adorable witchling’s aura quickly.
“Where is she?” Ronan asked.
Benedict’s expression tightened. “Climbing the volcano.”
