POV: Mara
I wake to warmth. Soft morning light spilling through the curtains. Cael’s arm draped heavy across my waist, his breath steady on my neck, his chest rising and falling against my back in a rhythm that feels safer than any wall we’ve ever built. For a moment—just one—the world is simple.
No war. No councils. No prophecies.
Just us.
Then Pia bangs on the door so hard the hinges complain.
“HELL-OOO? Are you alive? I’m assuming yes—judging by the squeaking sounds last night!”
Cael lets out a noise that is somewhere between a groan and a death threat. He buries his face in my shoulder. “Make her stop.”
“You make her stop,” I mumble into the pillow.
“No,” he grumbles. “She scares me.”
Before I can respond, the door is flung open.
Pia barges in, tosses bread at our faces like we’re feral animals she’s trying to feed, and then freezes—eyes wide, mouth hanging open, hand slapped dramatically to her forehead.
“OH. SAINTS. YOU TWO ARE—oh my gods, put covers on! I can’t unsee this!”
Cael hurls a pillow at her with soldier-level accuracy. “Get out.”
She cackles, catches the pillow, and blows us a kiss on her way out. “Love you both! Hydrate!”
Cael collapses face-first into the mattress. “I’m going to exile her.”
“You won’t,” I say, patting his head. “She’s chaos and emotional support.”
He grumbles into the sheets.
Two minutes later, Jax enters—limping, holding a tray—totally unfazed. “I brought breakfast. Also—why is there a pillow in the hallway?”
“No reason,” Cael mutters, cheeks pink for the first time in history.
Jax raises an eyebrow. Then smirks. “So. Bondnight successful?”
“JAX,” I choke, nearly inhaling air wrong.
He just nods approvingly, the way someone might after checking the quality of new war horses. “Good. City needs its rulers in a good mood.”
Breakfast ends up being warm bread, herb eggs, soft butter, and quiet laughter. Jax steals all the honey. Cael pretends to care. I pretend I’m not still blushing.
For the first time in months, the room feels like home.
Not throne rooms.
Not war halls.
Just us—three friends, sunlight, and the smell of bread.
Later, Cael settles at the council table, sleeves rolled up, sketching new bridge designs. Thicker pylons. Reinforced runes. Curved arches to redistribute collapse pressure. His brows draw together. His lip tugs between his teeth when he concentrates, and every time he does it, something warm and embarrassingly soft puddles in my chest.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“No, I’m—” I crouch in the chime garden outside the open balcony door, pretending extreme focus on a clump of mint. “Busy.”
His voice lowers. “Sure.”
The chime garden smells of damp earth, crushed mint, and salt carried from the river. Shells strung on silver threads clink softly in the morning breeze. I dig my fingers into the soil, pressing it around the roots of a blooming herb, grounding myself in the smallness of this—normal life, ordinary work, something quiet and growing.
Pia plops down beside me with seedlings. “Feels good,” she says, planting another sprout. “Like real life is allowed to exist again.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It does.”
A gust of wind carries laughter from children in the lower courtyard. A baker’s cart squeaks somewhere in the distance. The world—our world—is trying to stitch itself back together.
For a blissful moment, I let myself believe it might.
Then hooves thunder across the stones.
A rider bursts into the courtyard, mud splashing up his boots as he leaps off his horse. Breathless. Sweaty. Wide-eyed.
“Regents!” he calls, scanning the garden until he locks eyes with me. “Urgent message—Outer Isles flags raised. Rebel colors. They request immediate response.”
The words hit like a stone dropped into still water.
Ripples.
Shock.
Icy dread.
My stomach tightens. My fingers tighten around the garden trowel.
Pia whispers, “Oh no.”
I stand slowly, wiping soil from my hands, my mind already racing with what this means—supply lines, negotiations, defenses, the south bridge still healing, people still burying their dead. We barely survived Kade’s assault. The city is held together by string and stubbornness.
Cael arrives at my side, leaving his sketches half-finished. His hand brushes mine—barely—but the bond surges warm in response.
“Another storm?” he asks quietly.
“Maybe,” I whisper, throat tight.
Wind rattles the chime threads. Leaves rustle. Somewhere far off, a bell tolls.
Cael threads his fingers through mine, grounding me. “We’ll face it.”
His grip tightens. His voice softens.
“Together.”
I squeeze back. Hard. “Always.”
The rider bows. The wind shifts. The world waits. And I breathe—because this time, I don’t breathe alone.