He leans down, pressing a kiss to my temple. It’s brief, grounding, and full of promise. “Come on,” he says. “Before Bob drafts us into another committee.”
We walk on together, the festival’s glow behind us, the Solstice drawing closer with every step. Only two more sleeps.
I can hardly wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BOONE
The Solstice has always beena day I endure.
That sounds ungrateful, and maybe it is, but it’s the truth. For centuries, the Summer Solstice has been obligation layered over tradition—duty wrapped in celebration. It matters. It always has. The land remembers it, the creatures respond to it, and the Network depends on it as a reset point, a renewal of old agreements and shared power.
But for me, it’s usually meant vigilance.
Monitoring wards. Watching for friction. Keeping half an eye on Bob while he sets the sky on fire and calls it organization. Making sure nothing ancient wakes up cranky and nothing new decides to test boundaries.
This year is different. Elias is here.
The realization hits me before dawn, when the world is still wrapped in that fragile blue quiet just before light breaks. He sleeps beside me, warm and solid, his breathing slow and even. One arm is slung over my chest like he belongs there—which, somewhere deep and instinctive, I know he does.
Mine, the thought hums again, softer now, settled.
I let myself have the moment. Just one. Then I ease out from under his arm and step outside, the chilly air snapping me fully awake.
Yellowstone holds its breath.
The Awakening Call always comes at dawn. It isn’t just ceremony—it’s a signal, a reminder written into the bones of the land that this place is watched, tended, alive with more than humans will ever know.
Bob does not do subtle.
The sky answers him in thunder.
Stormlight cracks across the basin as he makes his pass, wings slicing through the air, lightning dancing along his feathers in a display that rattles windows and sends ripples through the geysers. The sound rolls outward, vast and commanding, and the land responds.
Howls rise from the tree line. Deep, resonant roars echo from places that don’t appear on any map. Trills and songs weave together, magical pulses shimmering through the air like heat distortion. Even the ground hums beneath my feet, power flowing in response to the call.
Elias steps out beside me, eyes wide, breath catching audibly.
“Oh,” he whispers. “Oh wow.”
I glance at him, taking in the way the dawn light paints his face, the way wonder softens him without diminishing his sharpness. He looks… right. Like he belongs here in a way that still startles me.
“This is the beginning,” I tell him quietly.
He nods, reverent. “I can feel it.”
All day, the park fills.
Old friends arrive, greeting one another with rough laughter and careful distance where old rivalries linger. New alliances spark in quiet conversations. Creatures I haven’t seen in yearsclap me on the shoulder, tease me about paperwork, ask after the Network.
And Elias?—
Elias is a joy.
He talks to everyone. Listens to everyone. Asks questions that make elders pause, consider, and then answer more honestly than they intended. He charms without trying, his curiosity genuine, his respect obvious. I catch cryptids watching him with open approval, with that subtle assessment reserved for mates and trusted humans alike.
“How could they not like him?” Bob mutters at one point, shaking his head. “It’s obnoxious.”
