She’d been slowly becoming its wielder.
She held her hand up to the cellar light, studying the celestial symbols carved around the circumference—the same notation system Deia had used in her journals. Focus points. Amplification ratios. A mathematical poem about channeling starlight through living metal.
Please work. Please be what we need.
She closed her eyes and concentrated. Not just passively carrying it—actively reaching for it, the way she reached forstarlight when she worked the gardens. Extending her magic deliberately into the metal.
The world shifted.
Power flooded through her—not painful, not overwhelming, butpresentin a way that made her gasp. The ring was a lens, and she could seeeverything. The celestial currents flowing through the gardens. The ley lines pulsing beneath the earth. The distant stars burning in a sky that was still hours from appearing.
And the orrery. Gods, the orrery.
It blazed in her enhanced vision—a symphony of celestial energy barely contained by living flowers. She understood now why Deia had built it this way, why she’d chosen plants instead of metal gears and crystal lenses. Living things could channel magic without burning out. Living things could grow, adapt, and strengthen themselves over time.
The weapon wasn’t just ready.
It washungry.
“That belongs to my family.”
THIRTY-ONE
LUNARIA
Lunaria didn’t startle. She’d felt the other woman approaching—the ring enhanced her senses in ways she was still cataloging, and Marguerite Sable’s magical signature was impossible to miss. Cold. Controlled. Carrying the bitter aftertaste of decades-old guilt.
She turned slowly, keeping her hand raised so the ring caught the light.
Marguerite stood in the pavilion’s entrance, silhouetted against the afternoon sun. Seventy-eight years old, but she carried herself with the rigid posture of someone half her age. Her face was sharp, angular, beautiful in the way that ice sculptures were beautiful—technically perfect and utterly cold.
“Elder Sable.” Lunaria kept her voice pleasant. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“The ring.” Marguerite stepped forward, her gaze fixed on Lunaria’s hand. “It belongs to the Marsh family. Cornelius commissioned it decades ago.”
“Cornelius gave it to Deia. She gave it to Georgia. Georgia gave it to me.” Lunaria turned her hand, letting the celestial symbols catch the light. “Seems like possession has changed a few times since your great-grandfather had it made.”
“Deiastoleit.” Marguerite’s voice sharpened. “Just like she stole secrets that weren’t hers to uncover. She should have left well enough alone.”
“She wasmurdered.”
The words hung in the air between them—flat, undeniable, a truth that had been buried for sixty years now clawing its way into the light.
Marguerite’s expression didn’t change. That careful, frozen composure that she’d perfected over decades of keeping secrets.
“She was a threat,” the elder said. “To arrangements that kept this community stable for a century. The Hollow King takes a small price, and in exchange, Haven Shores prospers. The ley lines stay strong. The supernatural population thrives. The mating surge—all those bonds your friends built? That only happened because the Hollow King was feeding.” Her chin lifted. “It’s a fair trade.”
Lunaria stared at her.
“A fair trade,” she repeated, her voice dangerously soft. “Generations of people feeling bereft their whole lives. Not knowing why they couldn’t find love. Dying alone, thinking wrongness hung in the air with them.”
“The Holts were willing?—”
“They werevolunteered without knowledge.” Lunaria stepped forward, and the ring on her finger flared with light. “By Cornelius. Without their consent. Youknowthis.”
Marguerite’s composure cracked.
It was subtle—a tightening around the eyes, a slight tremor in the hands she’d clasped in front of her. But Lunaria had spentyears reading people, learning their tells, understanding when someone was about to break.
