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I stepped toward the firepit. It wasn’t lit yet, but the stacked wood was waiting for the right moment. The tracker hung loosely at my side, its soft glow brushing my knuckles.

When the noise quieted, I didn’t try to stand taller or project like Lucien did. I just spoke.

“There’s no expectation tonight,” I said. My voice was steady, but I let it stay low, like we were already in on something together. “Nothing to prove, nothing to perform. No posturing. Just try to connect with each other. Have a real conversation. Walk the border if you want. Share food, share wine. Build something that actually matters to you.”

I looked around at the faces in the crowd, some guarded, some curious, some softening.

“I think the magic wants unity,” I said. “So let’s give it unity. Real unity. Not the kind we pretend to have for a ceremony. The kind we feel when we remember we actually belong to each other.”

No rousing closer. No applause. Just silence, then a few nods, the slow lift of someone’s mouth into a smile, a ripple of movement as they started to drift toward one another. Conversations began in low voices. Someone uncorked a bottle of wine. The wards hummed faintly under my boots, like they’d heard every word.

The change was slow, but it was there. Someone else pulled a loaf of bread and a block of cheese from a basket like they’d been waiting all week for an excuse.

On the far side of the clearing, two younger pack members started stringing up fairy lights they’d brought “just in case,” winding them through low branches until soft, golden light glowed in the trees.

Maggie settled into a circle near the unlit firepit, knees pulled up, laughing at something I couldn’t hear. It carried over the night anyway—light, easy, real.

I took the long way around the clearing, greeting people I knew, introducing the ones who didn’t, nudging a few awkward pairs into conversations they might not have started on their own. Nothing forced. Just a little push.

The tracker at my side kept climbing higher than I’d ever seen it. Every time someone clicked—a hug between two pack members who hadn’t spoken in years, a shared joke that doubled them over, the kind of quiet listening that meant you were actually hearing the other person—the glow spiked like it was celebrating with us.

And it wasn’t just the device. I could feel it in the air, a warm buzz under my skin, the wards humming faintly through the ground as if the whole territory had taken a deep breath for the first time in months.

Then there was Lucien.

He moved through the crowd like an eccentric wedding host who’d had too much champagne and made it his personal mission to ensure everyone felt something. Tissues in one hand, he’d clap someone on the shoulder with the other and say things like, “Yes! Tell her about your childhood trauma! That’s bonding, baby!”

At one point, he spotted a pair leaning against the firepit and called across the clearing, “Sing about your feelings!”

I caught his eye and gave him a look that said if he didn’t dial it back, I’d toss the tracker into the fire. He grinned like he knew exactly how far he could push me. And for once, I didn’t mind.

Because tonight, it was working. All of it.

Across the firelight, I spotted Maggie. She sat with her knees pulled in, leaning toward the circle, her hair catching the glow of the flames like it had its own halo. She was smiling—really smiling—and it lit up her eyes and softened every line in her face.

For a second, I forgot about the tracker in my hand. Forgot about the wards, the politics, the whole damn point of tonight. All I could see was her.

The device pulsed hot against my palm, the numbers climbing so high I was half convinced it might short out. The magic was screaming its approval, practically singing through the air around us.

But for once, I didn’t need the proof.

I slipped the tracker into my pocket, its glow dimming against the fabric, and started toward her. Because whether the magic liked it or not, I was choosing her.

I cupped her face and kissed her. Her hands slid up my arms like she knew I needed the contact as much as the wards did.

When we broke apart, she smiled against my jaw. “It’s going well.”

“It’s going better than I thought it would,” I said, brushing a thumb across her cheek. And it was true—everywhere I looked, people were talking, laughing, leaning in. The air felt different. Fuller. More alive.

Her gaze rose over my shoulder, and I felt her go still. I turned just enough to see what she saw—Seraphina, sitting off to the side on a low stone wall, wine glass dangling from her fingers, her expression a little too blank to be casual.

“I’ll be right back,” Maggie murmured.

I didn’t stop her.

Even over the low hum of voices, I caught Seraphina’s dry reply when Maggie asked if she was okay. “Like you care.”

“I do,” Maggie said, her voice steady but not defensive. “I imagine this is hard for you. You wanted to be the one who fixed the magic. You wanted a seat at the important table. And…” She hesitated. “You wanted Roman.”