Chapter 109. Feast of Bridges

Veilgrove smelled like bread again.

By nightfall the river triangle had become a long table—planks on barrels, plates on planks, elbows on everything. The three packs kept their wary lines at first—Shadowfang in dark leathers, Dusk Spire wolfcloaks ragged and proud, Vesper in travel black with their throats bare on purpose. The Seers took the high steps like birds pretending not to judge. Orla bullied people into eating and bullied them harder into second helpings. Syra posted a sleepy ring of guards who laughed too easily to be useless.

Neris sat on my left, knife slicing cheese as if it had wronged her. “Celebrate fast,” she murmured. “Someone will wake up tomorrow and remember they preferred hating us.”

“I’m not trying to erase hatred,” I said. “Just teach it where to sit.”

On my right, Kael poured cider into tin cups, wrist nicked, knuckles raw. Every time he leaned in to pass a cup, my shoulder found him. Familiar. Steady. The circlet on our brows had le