Chapter 107. The Treaty of Three Rivers

Dawn found Veilgrove rinsed clean—streets sluiced by night rain, banners heavy, the ridge scarred and quiet. We chose the treaty ground where three narrow rivers met: a stony triangle washed by constant sound, too open for ambush, too holy for theatrics. Someone had stacked flat slabs for a table. Neris called it a cutting board. Syra called it perfect.

Dusk Spire came like they always do—unimpressed and alive. Two figures walked in the lead: Matriarch Vara in a wolfcloak patched with years of other wolves’ shame, and a younger male at her shoulder with eyes like flint and a limp that told a longer story than any oath. Vara’s mouth didn’t bother pretending to smile.

“You cut the song,” she said, voice rough as bark. “My sleep went quiet for the first time in three winters.”

“I unmade the warp,” I said, because precision would keep us alive now. “We still have to decide what to weave.”

Kael took his place beside me without stepping in front. Our circlet sat co