I don’t disagree.
We spend the day moving from group to group, sharing meals, catching up. Elias absorbs everything like he was built for this—myth and magic and community all feeding that restless, brilliant mind of his. I find myself smiling more than I ever have at a Solstice, tension easing in ways I hadn’t known were possible.
For a few hours, the wrongness that’s been a constant in the back of my mind fades.
Then the sun begins to sink. Dusk brings the Convergence.
This is the heart of it—the single most important moment of the Solstice. As the light thins, everyone gathers, drawn inward toward the basin like iron filings to a lodestone. The crowd quiets, anticipation settling thick and electric in the air.
Bob rises again, stormlight crackling as he calls power down from the sky. Old Faithful responds, glowing from within, runes etched into the stone flaring in unison. The sound is immense and layered—thunder, steam, magic humming at a pitch that makes my teeth buzz.
The surge hits like a wave.
Shared magic flows through the gathered crowd—blessing, bonding, empowerment, renewal. I feel it roll through me, familiar and grounding, reinforcing old ties, strengthening wards, smoothing frayed edges in the Network’s vast web.
Some creatures shift more easily afterward, forms slipping like well-worn coats. Others go still, eyes distant as visions brush their minds. Some—most—simply breathe easier, whole in a way that’s hard to articulate.
Elias grips my hand, knuckles white, eyes bright with awe.
“I can feel it,” he says, voice shaking. “It’s like—like everything just clicked.”
I squeeze his fingers. “That’s the point.”
When the Convergence fades, the Afterward begins.
It’s the wildest party of the year, and I usually approach it with a mix of dread and obligation. Too many moving parts. Too much joy. Too many opportunities for something to go wrong.
But with Elias here, everything feels different.
We dance—actually dance. He pulls me into it, laughing when I grumble, spinning me with a confidence that has no right to exist between a human and a sasquatch. We eat until we’re full and then some. We talk, trade stories, and lose track of time.
I let myself enjoy it.
Then the air changes.
It’s subtle, a discordant note under the music, a tightening in the air that sets my instincts flaring. I catch the eyes of a few others across the crowd—those with mates, those who know this feeling. Concern flashes between us, unspoken and immediate.
The wards are still set. I can feel them.
But they’ve been touched.
Bob finds me a moment later, lightning dimmed, expression grave. Christopher is with him, jaw tight.
“Someone tampered with the wards,” Bob says quietly.
I nod. “I know.”
The disturbance fades as quickly as it appeared. Laughter swells again, the party surging back to life. No panic. No visible threat.
But the damage—whatever it was—has already been done.
And I know, with a certainty that makes my chest ache, that I can’t keep this from Elias anymore.
Not now.
Not when everything I love is standing right in the middle of it.
Bob leads us away from the heart of the festival with a practiced ease that doesn’t draw attention. Christopher flanks us, silent and alert, his presence a steady counterweight to the chaos still roaring behind us. Laughter and music trail after us like ghosts, but the deeper we go into the quieter edges of the grounds, the more that sound dulls, replaced by the low hum of wards and the restless whisper of the land.
