Valerian traced the edge of Morrigan's unopened letter for the hundredth time today, standing at the edge of Needlefall Forest where her blood-stained tracks had ended six months ago. The wolf fang hung heavy against his chest, cold and dark between full moons. He needed to find her—the copper-haired barbarian who'd saved his life in an alley and beaten him at swordplay three times out of five. Twenty-three men dead defending her, and she'd vanished anyway. The trees ahead whispered promises about thin boundaries between worlds, the same boundaries that had left claw marks across his ribs when he'd tried crossing before. His coin purse grew lighter each week, bribing away his family's assassins. Soon he'd have nothing left but the letter, the fang, and the barbarian lullabies he sang every night to keep her memory sharp. The crooked-beaked raven had seen copper hair deeper in these woods. That would have to be enough. He pushed through the tree line, following paths that felt wrong in his gut. Three hours in, the forest opened to reveal stone walls thick with moss. The fortress stood silent, its wooden gates hanging crooked on rusted hinges. Perfect. He'd need somewhere to sleep between searches, somewhere to store what little food remained. The claw marks on his ribs ached as he stepped through the gate. The courtyard held nothing but dead leaves and shadows. He dropped his pack against the wall and pulled out the letter. Not yet. Not until he found something real. The raven had said copper hair, deeper in. Tomorrow he'd search the eastern paths. Tonight he'd sing the lullabies and count her freckles in his memory. Forty-seven. Nine scars. Eyes that shifted green when she lied. He tucked the letter back inside his coat and closed his eyes. Morning came cold and grey. Valerian spent an hour packing the leather haversack with what little he had left—dried meat, rope, bandages, the wolf fang on its chain. The bag's metal buckles clicked as he tightened the straps. He'd searched Needlefall's edges for six months, but now he'd go deeper. The fortress would serve as his base. He could return here, rest, then push further each day. The boundaries between worlds waited somewhere in those trees. Morrigan had crossed them somehow, willingly or not. He shouldered the pack and walked back through the crooked gates. The forest swallowed him within minutes. His instincts pulled him forward, past twisted roots and trees that grew too close together. Every copper leaf made his heart jump. Every shadow could hide her. The search would take everything he had left, but that was fine. He'd already lost everything that mattered. By midday, he found the stones. They stood in a perfect circle, taller than a man, covered in runes that shimmered blue-green in the filtered light. His breath caught. Places like this held answers—or dangers. The boundaries grew thin near stones like these. He walked between two of them, feeling the air change against his skin. The runes pulsed brighter. He knelt in the center and pressed his palm to the ground. "Where is she?" The stones offered nothing but silence. He stood and traced one of the runes with his finger. The mark burned cold. He pulled back, flexing his hand. This place knew something. He'd come back tomorrow with offerings, with questions prepared. The raven had been right about the copper hair being deeper in. Maybe it was right about other things too. Valerian turned and walked back through the circle, leaving the stones behind. The fortress waited, and he had lullabies to sing.

Valerian knelt beside the rune stones and pulled the wolf fang from beneath his coat. The tooth caught the morning light, still cold and dark between moons. He placed it at the base of the tallest stone and waited. Nothing happened. He tried again at noon with dried meat from his pack, arranging it in careful patterns between the markers. The runes flickered once, then went still. His ribs ached where the claw marks lived. These boundaries had hurt him before, but Morrigan had crossed them somehow. He needed to learn their rules. By evening, he'd memorized every symbol carved into the stones. Forty-three runes in total, repeating in sets of seven. Precision mattered here. He traced each one with his finger until the cold burn felt familiar. Tomorrow he'd bring different offerings. Tomorrow he'd ask better questions. The fortress gates creaked as he returned, and he sang the first lullaby under his breath. The stones knew something about crossing between worlds. He just had to make them tell him. The next morning, Valerian walked past the rune stones without stopping. His instincts pulled him deeper into Needlefall, away from the markers and their cold silence. An hour in, he found water through the trees. The pond sat perfectly still, surrounded by thick grass and moss-covered rocks. He dropped to his knees at the edge and stared at his reflection. Dark circles under his eyes. Three new scars on his jaw. Six months of searching had carved him hollow. He pulled Morrigan's letter from inside his coat and held it over the water. The paper was soft from handling, creased at the corners. His hands shook. The pond reflected only his pale face and the letter between his fingers. He'd killed twenty-three men for her. He'd crossed half the continent following a crooked-beaked raven. He'd tried the boundaries once and woken up bleeding. But he couldn't open this. Not yet. Not while she might still be alive somewhere, needing him. He tucked the letter back against his heart and stood. The wolf fang hung cold against his chest. He circled the pond three times, studying the trees and rocks for signs of her passage. Nothing. The water stayed calm, showing him only himself and the grey sky above. He sat on a flat stone and pulled out dried meat, chewing slowly. The silence pressed against his ears. Maybe the raven had lied. Maybe copper hair meant nothing. Maybe she'd left because she wanted to leave him. His ribs ached where the claw marks twisted under his shirt. He touched the scars through the fabric and winced. The boundaries had nearly killed him, but he'd try again if he had to. Morrigan had beaten him at swordplay three times out of five. She'd carved wooden animals for children. She had forty-seven freckles and eyes that shifted when she lied. He would find her. The letter could wait until he had answers. He stood and walked back toward the rune stones. Tomorrow he'd bring blood. The boundaries responded to sacrifice. He had plenty of that to spare. Night came fast in Needlefall. Valerian returned to the fortress and found lanterns hanging near the walls, their red crystals already glowing in the dark. Guards must patrol here sometimes, though he'd seen none. He took one lantern and walked the perimeter, letting the red light wash over the stone. The fortress would serve as his base while he learned the forest's secrets. The rune stones held answers about crossing between worlds. The pond showed him what he'd become—hollow and desperate and still searching. But now he understood what came first. He needed to master the boundaries before attempting another crossing. He needed to study the stones until they yielded their secrets. And he needed to decide if Morrigan's letter held truth or goodbye. The red light flickered as wind cut through the courtyard. He hung the lantern back on its hook and sang the first lullaby. Tomorrow he'd bring blood to the stones. Tomorrow he'd start again. Dawn broke grey and cold. Valerian found the stone tablet near the fortress wall, moss clinging to its carved surface like green fingers. Someone had used it to leave messages once—the marks were worn but readable. He brushed dirt from the face and studied the symbols. Not the same as the rune stones, but similar. His fingers traced the grooves. If scouts had worked from this fortress before, they'd left records here. He pulled his knife and carved three words into a clear space: COPPER HAIR SEEN. If anyone returned, if anyone searched these woods for the same thin places between worlds, they'd know he was looking. The tablet could serve as his record too. Each day he'd mark what he learned. Each failure, each small discovery about the boundaries and the stones. Precision mattered. He stepped back and read his words again. The moss would grow over them eventually, but not today. Today they were fresh and sharp and real. He had a plan now. Study the runes. Test the boundaries with blood. Mark his progress on the tablet. And when he finally understood how Morrigan had crossed between worlds, he'd follow her through. The letter stayed pressed against his heart, unopened. It could wait until he brought her home.

Valerian walked back to the rune stones just after dawn, studying the patterns carved into their faces. He'd bled on them twice now, watched them pulse with light, felt the air crack open for seconds before sealing shut again. But today his eyes caught something different—a symbol repeated in the third position of each set, always pointing the same direction. North. He turned and followed the line through the trees. An hour later, he found what the runes had marked. The Great Cedar rose above the forest like a promise kept in wood and bark. Its trunk stretched wider than three men standing side by side, branches spreading so far they created their own clearing beneath. He pressed his hand against the bark and felt the texture—rough, alive, older than his search. The tree would be visible from anywhere in this part of Needlefall. A landmark. A reference point for every other discovery he made. He pulled his knife and carved a single word into the bark at eye level: NORTH. If the runes pointed here, this tree meant something to the boundaries. He circled the cedar twice, studying its roots and branches for signs of Morrigan's passage. The ground showed nothing—no tracks, no copper hair caught on bark, no wooden animals tucked into the hollows. But the wolf fang warmed slightly against his chest as he completed the second circle. Close. She'd been close to this tree, or the boundaries thinned here, or the cedar itself held some piece of the pattern he needed. He sat with his back against the trunk and pulled out the letter, holding it in both hands. The paper felt warm from being pressed against his heart. Twenty-three men dead. Six months searching. Three days lost to claw marks. And still he couldn't open it. Not yet. Not while the fang warmed and the boundaries cracked and the runes pointed north to this tree. He tucked the letter away and stood. Tomorrow he'd bring blood to the cedar's roots. Tomorrow he'd test if this landmark could anchor a crossing between worlds. Night fell faster than he expected. Valerian stayed near the cedar, unwilling to leave while the fang still held warmth. As darkness settled, plants around the clearing began to glow—soft blue-green light spreading from petals that had looked ordinary in daylight. The Great Glowing Nightshade, dozens of them, creating a circle of light around the cedar's base. He knelt and touched one carefully. The petals felt cool, alive, pulsing faint against his fingertips. These plants marked the boundary line. They showed him where this world thinned enough for light to bleed through from somewhere else. He counted forty-seven plants in the circle before he stopped himself. Tomorrow he'd map their positions, test if their glow strengthened near the full moon, see if blood made them burn brighter. The cedar gave him a landmark. The nightshade gave him a map. Morrigan had been here, close enough for the wolf fang to remember. He had his answer now—this clearing was where he'd force the boundaries open. He woke at dawn with bark pressed against his spine and frost on his coat. The nightshade had stopped glowing, their petals closed tight against morning light. Valerian stood and brushed dirt from his clothes, then looked past the trees to the north. Through the branches, he could see it—a dark tower rising above the forest like a blade pointed at the sky. The Spire Prison stood miles away but visible even from here, its metal bars and stone spiraling upward in a shape that looked wrong against the treeline. He'd need to go there eventually. Prisons held criminals, yes, but also information. Someone locked in that tower might know about copper-haired barbarians or boundary crossings or the cost of searching too long. He marked its position against the cedar's trunk and turned back to the glowing plants at his feet. First the boundaries. First the blood and the pattern and the thin places between worlds. The prison could wait. But he filed it away in his mind with the other details—forty-seven freckles, forty-seven nightshade plants, and now one prison tower visible from the clearing where Morrigan had stood.

Morning light broke through the oak branches above his shelter, and Valerian crawled out from between the roots with the wolf fang warm against his chest—still carrying yesterday's heat from the camp fires and the Rock of Unwavering Loyalty. He walked back through the trees toward the boulder, his hands steady now, his mind sharp. The three-year searcher had taught him something without saying a word: persistence didn't need new magic or perfect signs. It just needed showing up again and doing the work. Valerian pressed both palms against the stone and felt the patterns pulse under his skin. Forty-seven nightshade plants had died, but he could find forty-seven more. The boundaries had closed once, which meant they'd opened before and could open again. He pulled Morrigan's letter from his coat and set it on top of the boulder—still sealed, still waiting, but no longer a weight dragging him down. It was a promise now. He'd search every tree in Needlefall if he had to, bleed on every root, count every contradiction until the patterns made sense again. The wolf fang grew warmer. Valerian picked up the letter, tucked it back inside his coat, and turned deeper into the forest with purpose burning in his chest. He found the table three hours later, tucked between two massive oaks where someone had abandoned it years ago. The antique cartographer's table stood waist-high, its surface carved with patterns that matched the ones on the Rock of Unwavering Loyalty. Polished wood gleamed under filtered sunlight despite seasons of weather. Valerian ran his fingers along the edge and felt grooves designed to hold papers flat. This was exactly what he needed—a place to organize everything he'd learned, to map every false direction and dead boundary until the real patterns emerged. He pulled out scraps of paper from his coat pockets, notes he'd scribbled about the Great Cedar, the nightshade locations, the carved arrows that contradicted each other. He laid them across the table's surface and weighted the corners with stones. The Pathfinder's Tree Markings had pointed in three directions—lies meant to mislead. But lies only worked when someone wanted to hide the truth. Which meant Morrigan's tracks ending in blood at Thornwood passes, the crooked-beaked raven seeing copper hair, the cloaked figures—all of it pointed somewhere real. He just had to organize the contradictions until the answer showed itself. Valerian pressed his palms flat against the table and smiled. The boundaries would open again. He'd make sure of it. The hot spring appeared an hour past the table, steam rising between smooth stones and moss-covered rocks. Water bubbled up clear and warm, forming a pool just wide enough to sit in. Valerian stared at it and remembered the rituals Morrigan had taught him—how the Northern Clans washed before speaking to their dead, how they cleared their minds before crossing dangerous ground. He stripped off his coat and stepped into the water. Heat soaked into his muscles, washed away the ash from dead nightshade plants, cleaned the blood from his palms where he'd pressed too hard against the table's edge. He ducked his head under and came up gasping. The wolf fang hung against his bare chest, warmer now from the spring's heat. When he climbed out, his hands didn't shake anymore. His mind felt sharp, ready. He dressed and walked back to the cartographer's table with water still dripping from his hair. The notes were exactly where he'd left them. He picked up the page about Thornwood passes and studied the words again. Blood. Cloaked figures. Copper hair. Three facts that didn't lie even if the tree markings did. Valerian traced a line between them with his finger and saw the pattern finally—not in magic or boundaries, but in simple direction. North. Always north toward the clans. He gathered his notes, left the table behind, and headed deeper into Needlefall with the wolf fang burning warm and his path finally clear. A broom leaned against a fallen log near a small pond, its bristles glowing faint blue in the shadows. Valerian picked it up and felt energy pulse through the handle. The enchanted broom pulled toward the water like it wanted to work. He let it guide him to the pond's edge where leaves and debris covered the surface. The moment he swept the broom across the water, the leaves scattered to the banks and the surface went perfectly still. His reflection stared back at him—sharp eyes, wet hair, the wolf fang visible against his shirt. Behind his reflection, something else appeared in the water. Morrigan's face, smiling, her copper hair catching sunlight from a memory three years old. She was teaching him the barbarian lullaby, laughing when he got the words wrong. The water showed him what he'd almost forgotten—that she'd been real, that the search wasn't madness, that forty-seven freckles and nine scars existed somewhere beyond closed boundaries. Valerian set the broom down and touched the water. The memory faded, but the certainty remained. North toward the clans. He'd reorganized his search, cleaned his mind, and now he'd seen her face again in still water. The boundaries would open because he wouldn't stop until they did. He picked up his notes and walked back toward the camp with the wolf fang warm and Morrigan's smile burned fresh into his memory.

Valerian returned to the cartographer's table as dawn broke, the wolf fang still warm from the hot spring's heat and Morrigan's face still clear in his memory. He spread his notes across the polished wood—blood at Thornwood, copper hair sightings, the crooked-beaked raven's words—and traced the pattern north with his finger. Everything pointed toward the Northern Clans, toward her people, toward answers he'd been too scattered to see before. He pulled out the unopened letter and set it on the table's edge, letting it anchor his search instead of dragging him down. The Rock of Unwavering Loyalty had shown him that three years of searching wasn't madness—it was loyalty. The enchanted broom had cleared the water so he could see her smile again. Now he had direction, ritual, and proof that boundaries could open if he refused to quit. Valerian gathered his organized notes, tucked the letter back inside his coat, and turned north with steady hands. He was finally ready to cross whatever comes next. He needed supplies—food, water, equipment—and a way to carry it all. The journey north would take weeks, maybe months if the boundaries fought him again. He found the leather messenger bag hanging from a low branch near the camp's edge, its rich brown surface worn smooth by years of use and decorated with careful stitching along the seams. Someone had left it behind or the forest had provided it. Either way, it was exactly what he needed. He packed dried meat from the camp stores, filled two water skins at the hot spring, added rope and flint and the enchanted broom wrapped in cloth. The notes went in last, organized by location and date, with the unopened letter tucked in a side pocket where he could feel its weight against his ribs. The wolf fang hung warm around his neck. The bag settled across his chest like it had always belonged there. The camp gathered as he prepared to leave, their faces showing the same determination he felt burning in his chest. The woman who'd shown him the Rock of Unwavering Loyalty pressed her palm to the stone one more time, then nodded at him. Three years of scattered searching had brought him here—to people who understood loyalty, to rituals that cleared his mind, to patterns that finally made sense. Morrigan had forty-seven freckles he'd counted in firelight, nine scars he'd traced with his fingers, and eyes that changed shade when she lied. She'd saved his life in an alley and taught him barbarian lullabies he still sang every night. The boundaries had closed once, but he'd crossed them before and survived the claw marks to prove it. Valerian touched the messenger bag, felt the weight of three years of notes and one sealed letter, and walked north into the trees with the wolf fang burning warm and his purpose finally clear. He was ready now—really ready—to find her. But others needed to know. He'd hired search teams months ago, scattered them across the forest looking for signs while he'd stumbled through dead nightshade and lying tree markings. They were still out there, still searching in wrong directions while he finally held the right one. Valerian stopped at the forest's edge and pulled the arrow from his belt—the one with raven motifs carved along its shaft, the one that caught light like it held something alive inside the wood. He'd found it weeks ago and carried it ever since, feeling its strange weight. He nocked it to his bow, aimed straight up through the canopy, and let it fly. The arrow shot through branches and disappeared into the sky. A heartbeat later, light burst overhead—bright blue fire spreading across the clouds in patterns that matched the Rock of Unwavering Loyalty. The signal would reach every team, call them back, bring them together for the real journey north. Valerian watched the light fade and felt the messenger bag's weight against his chest. His teams would return within days. His supplies were packed. His path was clear. For the first time since Morrigan vanished, he wasn't just searching—he was hunting. And he had everything he needed to bring her home. He walked back to camp one last time and found the stone near the fire pit—smooth and flat, its surface catching light like glass. The stone showed his reflection, then shifted to show Morrigan's face just as the hot spring had done. But this time he understood what it could do. Valerian carried it to the camp's edge and propped it against a tree where travelers would see it. Her copper hair shone in the stone's surface, her green eyes bright, the nine scars visible on her hands as she carved wooden animals. Anyone passing through would see her. Someone might know something, might have crossed paths with a barbarian princess heading north or south or anywhere between. The stone would keep asking the question he'd been asking for three years. He stepped back and studied her face one more time. His teams would arrive in days. His bag held everything he needed. The enchanted arrow had called them home. And now this stone would keep searching even when he moved on. Valerian touched the wolf fang, felt its steady warmth, and turned toward the forest with his hands ready and his loyalty proven. The boundaries would open. Morrigan was waiting. And he was finally prepared to cross whatever stood between them.

The boundaries opened at dawn on the northern edge of Needlefall, where copper hair caught in brambles marked the exact spot Morrigan had crossed three years ago. Valerian pressed his bleeding palms against the shimmering air and felt it give way like water parting. The wolf fang burned hot enough to sear his skin. He stepped through and found her on the other side—alive, trapped, waiting in a clearing ringed with stones that hummed with the same patterns as the Rock of Unwavering Loyalty. She turned at the sound of his boots on grass. Her green eyes met his. Forty-seven freckles, nine scars, and three years of desperate searching ended in one breath. Valerian pulled the unopened letter from his coat and held it out. Morrigan smiled—the same smile the water had shown him—and took his hand instead. They walked back through the boundary together, her fingers warm in his, the letter still sealed in his other hand. The forest waited on the other side—his forest, his world, the place he'd torn apart searching for her. She looked at him and he saw questions in her eyes about where they'd go now, what came next after three years of separation. Valerian led her through the trees toward the old fortress ruins he'd passed a hundred times during his search. Stone walls still stood strong despite years of abandonment. He gathered rose petals from wild bushes growing between the rocks, strung them together with thread from his messenger bag, and draped the garland across the entrance. The flowers looked fragile against gray stone, but they marked this place as theirs now—a home for a barbarian princess and the man who'd refused to stop searching. She stepped through the doorway under the rose petals and laughed, the sound breaking three years of silence. Valerian dropped the letter into the fire pit without opening it, watched the paper curl and burn, and sang the first line of her lullaby. Morrigan joined him on the second verse, her voice exactly as he remembered, and they stood together in the fortress as ash drifted up toward the sky. The next morning, Valerian found moss growing thick on the walls near the back of the fortress. He pressed handfuls of it against the crumbling stone, filling cracks and covering rough edges. Delicate flowers—hops, she called them, pointing and teaching him the names—grew between the moss patches. He worked for hours while she gathered wood for the fire pit. The green covered the gray until the walls looked alive instead of abandoned. She touched the moss and smiled, then kissed his cheek where blood had dried from his palms. They had nothing but the fortress, the wolf fang, and each other. Valerian looked at her standing in the doorway under rose petals with moss-covered walls behind her. Three years of counting bodies and bleeding on rocks and singing lullabies to empty air had led here—to her hand in his, to her voice joining his songs, to a home they'd build together in the ruins. The wolf fang cooled against his chest. The boundaries stayed closed behind them. And for the first time since she'd vanished, Valerian stopped searching and started living. That afternoon, he climbed to the highest wall and assembled the signal device he'd found in his messenger bag. The flare gun was compact, its metal polished, built to send fire high enough to be seen for miles. Morrigan watched from below as he loaded it and aimed at the sky. He fired once, and red light burst overhead like a star falling upward. It hung there, bright and burning, marking their location for anyone who might be searching for them. His teams. Her people. Anyone who needed to know they'd survived. The light faded slowly. Morrigan climbed up beside him and took the gun from his hands. She fired it again, and this time the light burned green—her clan's color. They stood together on the wall and watched it fade. Twenty-three men he'd killed defending her. Forty-seven freckles he'd counted. Three years of loyalty that had finally led them home. The fortress was theirs now. The wolf fang rested cool against his chest. And Valerian knew that everything he'd done—every ritual, every blood sacrifice, every desperate step—had been worth it for this moment on the wall with her hand in his.

The fortress smelled like wood smoke and moss every morning now, and Valerian woke to find Morrigan already up, carving small wooden animals by the fire pit. He watched her hands move—the same hands that had wielded a sword against the Writhing God, now shaping toys for no one in particular. She caught him staring and tossed him an apple from their dwindling supplies. He caught it and bit down, the tartness sharp on his tongue. Three years he'd burned through his family's money bribing assassins away, hiring search teams, chasing shadows. Now he had nothing left except this fortress and her. The wolf fang hung cool against his chest—no full moon to make it glow, no danger to mark. Just ordinary days stretching ahead like a path he'd never let himself imagine. Morrigan finished the wooden fox and set it on the stone beside seven others. She looked up at him with those green eyes that only changed shade when she lied, and they were steady now, honest, home. Valerian sat beside her and picked up a piece of wood, let her show him how to carve, and for the first time in three years, his hands weren't shaking. A week later, voices drifted through the trees—her people, the Northern Clans, following the green flare signals north. They came with wagons and furs and questions Morrigan answered in their rough tongue while Valerian stood behind her, counting the warriors and noting their weapons out of habit. They'd built a tavern by the second sunset, all logs and iron and smoke, raising it between the trees like they'd planned it for months. The structure smelled like pine sap and meat. Long tables filled the center, fire pits burned at both ends, and her clan gathered inside with drums and drinking horns. Morrigan pulled him through the doorway. Her hand felt warm in his. The barbarians sang songs he'd heard her hum in sleep, and she taught him the words between cups of something that burned his throat. He carved a wooden raven at the table—crooked beak, sharp eyes—and left it on the mantle above the fire. The clans cheered when Morrigan kissed him, and Valerian laughed, really laughed, for the first time since the alley where she'd saved his life. Three years of searching had ended. Now he had her, her people, and a future he was finally ready to build. An elder arrived the next morning with bundles of herbs tied across her saddle. She spread them on the tavern tables—deep green leaves that smelled sharp and clean. Morrigan called them healing plants, told Valerian they'd help with cuts and fever and exhaustion. The elder showed him which ones to crush, which to steep in hot water, which to press directly on wounds. He memorized the details, counted the leaves on each stem, and stored the information like he'd once stored facts about assassins and blood trails. His hands still carried scars from the boundaries. Morrigan's shoulder bore a fresh cut from building the fortress walls. The herbs would help both heal. The elder left half the bundles with them and rode back to bring more of the clan north. Valerian tied the plants in careful rows along the fortress wall, where moss and flowers already grew. Three years of desperate searching had taught him to notice everything, to count and catalog and never forget. Now he'd use those same skills to build something instead of chase it. Morrigan handed him another wooden animal to carve. He sat beside her with healing herbs drying above them and the tavern full of her people singing just beyond the walls. The wolf fang rested quiet against his chest. His life goal was complete, but the life itself was just beginning. The weaver arrived two days later with cloth stretched across her wagon bed. She unrolled it inside the tavern while the clan gathered around—a tapestry showing copper-haired warriors and dark-haired men standing together beneath green sky. Valerian recognized Morrigan's freckles in the stitching, counted them without meaning to, found all forty-seven. The weaver had sewn his face beside hers, their hands joined, the fortress rising behind them with moss on the walls and flowers growing wild. She'd added the wooden animals scattered at their feet and the wolf fang hanging around his neck. The clan cheered and hung it above the fire pit, right below his wooden raven. Morrigan traced the threads with her fingers and smiled at him. Three years he'd carried her unopened letter and sung her lullabies to empty air. Now her people made art from their story, turned his desperate loyalty into something others could see and celebrate. The tapestry would hang here forever, proof that searching could end in finding, that boundaries could open, that love was worth every scar. Valerian stood beside Morrigan and watched firelight dance across the woven fabric. He'd spent three years building toward this moment. Now he'd spend the rest of his life building beyond it.