She found she didn’t need to know.
She touched Deia’s ring one last time, feeling the celestial energy thrum beneath her fingertips.
“I’ll take care of them,” she promised the ghost who might or might not be listening. “The gardens. The people. All of it. I’ll stay.”
The fate lilies pulsed bright gold.
Lunaria smiled and went to join her family.
Hux
The celebrationat Wolf Moon Brewery was the biggest Haven Shores had ever seen.
Every table was occupied. Every booth was packed. People spilled onto the patio and down the sidewalk, clustering in groups with drinks in hand, the buzz of conversation drowning out the music Beck had put on hours ago.
Wolves and lions and bears mingled with witches and elders and ordinary humans. The supernatural and mundane residents of Haven Shores had never been entirely separate, but tonight the lines blurred completely. Everyone had seen the strange lights in the sky. Everyone had felt the ground shake when the dragons descended. Everyone knew, on some level, that their town had just survived a catastrophe.
They celebrated anyway. Perhaps because of it.
Hux moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations he didn’t quite feel he deserved. He’d done what any mayor would do—coordinated resources, organized defenses, stood with his community against an existential threat. The fact that the threat had been a primordial void entity targeting his family specifically was just... details.
“Mr. Mayor!” Old Mrs. Hartley caught his arm, her grip surprisingly strong for an octogenarian. “My grandson told me you killed a monster. Is that true?”
“My mate killed it. I just provided moral support.”
“Moral support?” She patted his cheek. “Young man, I’ve lived in Haven Shores for sixty years. I know what ‘moral support’ means when a Holt says it. You fought. Don’t be modest.”
He couldn’t help his smile. “Maybe a little fighting.”
“That’s better.” She winked and disappeared into the crowd, moving with surprising speed for someone with a cane.
The back booth was calling to him—the alpha table, permanently reserved, where Theo and Leo and the others were already gathered. But before he could reach it, a familiar figure stepped into his path.
His father looked... different.
Younger, somehow. The lines around his eyes seemed less deep, the burden on his shoulders less crushing. The curse’s breaking had affected Isandro most of all—decades of knowing the truth and being unable to speak it, decades of watching his son suffer in ignorance.
“Dad.”
“Son.” Isandro’s voice was rough. He’d been crying earlier—Hux had seen the evidence before his father wiped his face—and his eyes were still reddened. “Can we talk?”
“Here?”
“Unless you’d prefer?—”
“No. Here is fine.” Hux gestured to a relatively quiet corner near the bar. “What is it?”
They found space against the wall, partially shielded from the crowd by a pillar. Isandro stood rigid, military-straight, his hands clasped in front of him. The posture of a man preparing to deliver bad news.
“I’m proud of you,” Isandro said.
Hux blinked. Of all the things he’d expected?—
“I should have found a way.” His father’s composure cracked. “Should have done something, anything, instead of watching you carry it alone.”
“Dad—”
“I’m sorry, son.” Tears spilled down Isandro’s weathered cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
