The Grove was louder than I remembered.

Not in the way battlefields roar. This was softer. A low, humming noise of newness. Of a kingdom starting again. The sound of chisels scraping stone, wood creaking under careful hands, magic humming in the air like it had finally been given permission to breathe again.

Wolves and witches moved around each other in a cautious kind of dance, learning the rhythm of coexistence one hesitant step at a time. The chaos of rebuilding had a rhythm of its own. And for the first time in a long time” it didn’t feel like war.

I stood at the margins of the riverbed, well, what used to be the Enchanted River. Now it was just a long scar running through the Grove, dry and cracked, streaked with moss and soft dirt. I stared at it the way I’d once stared at my reflection in it: not entirely sure if I recognised what was left.

The River was gone, drained with the blood of two lives I hadn’t finished mourning.

In my hand, I clutched a flat obsidian stone, smooth and carved with a rune I didn’t recognise—but something about it pulsed gently when I held it. A mourning stone, Caelum had called them. Something to mark what we lost. I knelt and set it down in the dust where the water once flowed.

“For Damien,” I whispered. Then, quieter, “And Fabian.”

I didn’t cry. That part of me had already bled dry. Now, I just remembered them quietly, and moved forward.

I heard footsteps crunch over the soft soil, but I didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“I figured you’d still be here,” Marrick said. “Can’t mourn indoors like everyone else?”

I smirked, still crouched beside the dry riverbed. “Didn’t realise mourning had rules now. You write the handbook?”

Marrick huffed and dropped into a squat beside me, his elbows resting on his knees. “They should’ve lived,” he said after a beat.

“I know.”

I turned my head to look at him. Marrick never let his emotions show. He was the type to tuck them into his sleeves and button them shut.

I nudged his shoulder with mine, just enough to say I saw him. “Now, we’re building something so that nobody else has to die unnecessarily any more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared across the Grove like he was seeing ghosts I couldn’t. We’d lost our parents to witches. The same way so many witches had lost theirs to wolves. We all bled the same, we just told different stories about who started it.

I’d always been oddly relieved Marrick hadn’t unravelled after father’s death. He could have. But Lyra had been there and she was exactly what he needed. The goddess knew what she was doing when she bound them. Even back then, before they shifted, before the marks burned bright and confirmed what we all suspected, Marrick had already made up his mind about Lyra.

He looked at me, jaw tight, but nodded once. “You sound like a leader.”

“I’m terrified I am one,” I admitted.

He bumped his shoulder into mine this time. “That’s what makes you good at it.”

Before I could reply, Lyra’s voice broke the stillness.

“Am I intruding on a special sibling bonding ritual?” she asked.

She strolled toward us, long coat trailing, a basket of herbs slung over her shoulder. As usual, she looked like she’d stepped out of a dream and into a revolution, with mischief in her eyes.

“I brought tea,” she added, holding up a steaming flask. “And before you say anything sarcastic, yes, it’s the calming kind. No spells or truth-inducing nonsense. Just lemon balm and reality.”

Marrick rolled his eyes. “She’s been in the Grove too long. We need to return to Nightclaw soon.”

“She’s the only reason the Grove hasn’t burned down,” I said, taking the flask and sipping gratefully. “It’s almost like you know when I’m about to collapse.”

Lyra smiled, softer now. “You have that look in your eyes. Like you’re holding your breath.”

“I have been,” I admitted. “Since the River vanished.”

We walked together toward the Grove’s main square, the three of us. Marrick peeled off to speak with a group of scouts near the archway, and Lyra lingered with me as we passed under one of the unfinished towers.

The Grove looked like a dream caught mid-construction. Crystalline spires curled toward the sky, scaffolded by witches and wolves alike. Magic floated in the air like pollen. Everything shone with potential.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Lyra said beside me, elbow nudging mine. “Staring into the distance like you’re one prophetic nightmare away from disappearing.”

I blinked. “Probably because I am.”

She snorted, but it was soft. “Well, don’t. I’m not doing this whole build-a-new-world thing without you.”

I peeked a glance at her and smiled.

“Does it feel real yet?” Lyra asked.

I glanced around. “No. But it feels” possible.”

“Good. You’ve got a council to attend, Liberator.”

I groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

She kissed my cheek. “Then give them something else to call you.”

“I don’t want them calling me anything but my own name,” I huffed, tugging at the collar of my coat as we approached the rotunda.

Before we even crossed the threshold, I could already feel Kael and Caelum. Their presence slid under my skin like heat and moonlight. The mate bond curled low in my chest, spreading through my ribs like smoke, thickening in my throat. I hated how easy it was to sense them. To crave them. To need them. Maybe it was still too new.

Inside, Kael was already seated at the round table carved from the roots of the Grove’s oldest tree. He didn’t speak, didn’t rise, just watched me with those sharp green eyes that always made me feel like I was standing in full sunlight, seen all the way through. My skin prickled, just from the memory of his hands on me.

To his right, Caelum was pacing, scrolls tucked under one arm and ink smudged across his jaw, muttering about sun angles and equinoxes. His hair, once impossibly neat, now curled loose and wild over his brow. And when he glanced up and smiled, only at me, it felt like the Grove itself shifted to make room for the moment.

“Luna,” he said without breaking stride, “you’re late. Again.”

Gods help me, my knees nearly gave out at the sound of my name from his mouth.

“I was communing with ghosts,” I replied, dragging my gaze away.

“Did they have any recommendations for interior lighting?” Caelum asked.

I grinned. “Only that if I have to sit through one more argument about ceremonial doorways, I might haunt you myself.”

Kael chuckled as I moved towards my seat between them.

Caelum went back to muttering about sun angles and equinoxes. His ink-stained fingers flew across parchment like they were channelling an otherworldly languange. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but the flush in his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes made it look intentional. Unholy. Gorgeous.

“I was about to give your seat to a hydromancer with exceptional penmanship,” Caelum added casually, not looking up.

“Please do,” I muttered, easing into the chair. “As long as she doesn’t believe in prophecies or titles.”

“She doesn’t,” he said with a smirk. “Unfortunately, she also faints at political debates.”

“Well, she’d fit right in,” I sighed, leaning my palm against the living wood of the table.

Lyra slipped into the seat beside me with a grin, her locs coiled high and her earrings catching the sunlight. She smelled like lemon balm and myrrh. Marrick finally slouched into place next to Kael, arms crossed like he was here under protest. His coat was still dusty from the border patrol, and he hadn’t even bothered to fix the collar. Very on-brand.

Around us, the new council trickled in—teachers, healers, warriors, diplomats. Even two hybrid reps, including one barely past twenty who looked like she’d bite anyone that talked down to her. I liked her already.

“I think we should begin,” I said, clearing my throat.

Before anyone else could speak, Caelum leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Can we talk after this?”

I turned to him, eyes narrowing. “What for?”

His face was unreadable, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Nothing terrifying. I just want to run something by you.”

He smelled like ink and cedar and crushed jasmine. Dangerous. Distracting. My gaze caught on the smear of ink on his cheek, and for a moment, I almost reached out to wipe it. The bond thrummed between us again, and I had to clench my fists to keep myself still.

“Relax, love,” he murmured, reading me far too easily. “Not everything is a crisis.”

“Not with that attitude,” I muttered, turning back to the table before I did something stupid. Like kiss him in front of the entire council.

Etta—the sharp-eyed hybrid from earlier—cleared her throat. “I propose we start with the names.”

“Why do we need to change our names?” Marrick asked from where he sat beside Kael.

“Not our names,” Etta clarified. “The names of the seats. What they stand for. What they protect.”

Protect. Not control or rule. Protect. She got it. I made a mental note to thank Caelum later for pulling her into the fold.

“Fine,” Marrick said as he crossed his arms. “What, we call ourselves the Council of Good Intentions and Hope?”

“Better than the High Order of Hypocrites and Tradition,” I muttered.

Kael coughed into his fist. “That one has a certain ring.”

Caelum gave me a look. “You’re supposed to be the hopeful one, remember?”

“Right.” I scowled. “I think we need function, not ceremony. No gilded titles. These seats should represent mediation, magic regulation, defence, diplomacy, education, and resources. Everything else is vanity.”

Lyra arched a brow. “Since when did you start sounding like a stateswoman?”

“Since I realised I’d rather build the table than be torn apart on top of it,” I said, shrugging.

We moved through the rest of the session slowly, but with fewer disasters than I expected. Names were proposed, vetoed, rewritten. The Seat of Restoration was given to a witch healer who’d spent the war pulling shards of cursed bone from wounded wolves. The Seat of Watch went to Marrick—not because he wanted it, but because no one else would question his instincts. Etta, the sharp-eyed girl, took the Seat of Voice, speaking for hybrids, the Grove-born, and those who had never fit neatly into either side.

By midday, the first laws were agreed upon. Caelum’s newly inked parchments, half of which were still smudged with notes, were dispatched to the outer territories. For the first time, it felt like Anarion was finally rebuilding this new era of peace.

After the meeting, I found myself alone on the terrace again. Well, mostly alone. Lyra slipped up beside me, arms folded on the railing.

“Hard part’s over?” she asked.

I exhaled. “This was the easy part.”

She studied me, her eyes softer than they usually were. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

I gave a tired smile. “I’m doing” not terribly.”

She bumped her shoulder into mine. “That’ll do.”

And for the first time, I didn’t argue.