Chapter 113. The Accord We Can Carry

By midday, the courtyards were a braid of markets and militias again—steam rising from bread stalls, oil clinging to iron hinges, rope coiled like sleeping serpents, gossip flowing quicker than the ale, children chalking moons on stone with the solemnity of priests.

It felt almost ordinary—ordinary in the way cities mean it when they’re testing their own pulse, deciding whether to trust the rhythm.

Syra found me at the Bridge Council table, ledger open in front of me, her grin all teeth and appetite.

“Two delegations at the south gate,” she said. “One invited. One… not uninvited.”

“Which is which?” Kael asked as he set a mug in front of me. Steam curled from it—bark, honey, and something green I couldn’t name.

“Hollowborn’s here with a barrel of pickled miracles,” Syra said. “And Dusk Spire sent a matron with seven rings in one ear and six regrets in her eyes.”

“Terms?” I asked.

“Food and amnesty from Hollowborn,” Syra said. “From Dusk Spire