They met beneath the storm.
The floating isle of Stormwake had no sky—only an endless coil of clouds spinning like a wound refusing to close. Lightning danced above like drunken stars, and the winds carried voices that hadn't belonged to anyone for centuries.
It was the neutral ground chosen for the accord. The only place where the Celestial Houses could gather without drawing weapons first.
Elara stood at the edge of the shattered balcony, her cloak whipping in the wind, eyes on the horizon. The mirror-blade pulsed faintly on her back—less a weapon now, more a heartbeat that connected her to the rewritten Pact.
Cassian joined her, his hair damp, eyes sharp. "We've received responses from House Solmire, Varran, and Aeridan. House Nocthollow refuses to send a delegate."
Elara turned. "Nocthollow was closest to Cyrathe's domain. I'd be surprised if they haven't already sworn themselves to the Unraveler."
Kaelen stepped into the chamber, his gaze guarded. "Or been consumed by him."
The air tasted of iron. Stormwake wasn't just a meeting point—it was a final chance.
The Accord Hall was a shattered temple repurposed into a war-room. Maps carved in starlight floated between crystal columns. At the center stood a ring of seats for each House: Solmire's throne of sun-iron, Aeridan's shell of windglass, Varran's seat shaped from drifting rootwood.
Elara stood before them all, every eye a judgment.
"I'm not here to be your queen," she began. "I'm here because the sky is breaking."
Murmurs.
A High Voice from House Solmire—a woman named Arelth, older than the ruins beneath their feet—stood. "You wield a weapon forged from prophecy and starlight. And you claim no throne?"
"I don't want a throne," Elara said. "I want a world."
They debated for hours.
House Aeridan questioned the legitimacy of her visions.
House Varran asked why a mortal-born Fulcrum should rewrite the Pact forged by celestial hands.
Only House Solmire gave her silence instead of disdain.
Kaelen tried to explain the Archive's revelations.
Cassian leaned on his sword, glowering at anyone who spoke over Elara.
In the end, it was Elara who silenced the room—not with power, but with a story.
"My ancestor bound the magic to protect the sky. She thought she was saving everyone. But she bound every generation after her to pain."
She drew the mirror-blade.
"This is what was left of her truth. I used it to rewrite the path—and I'm asking you to help me walk it."
At last, Arelth of Solmire nodded. "Then we vote."
Three Houses.
One chance.
Aeridan: abstained.Varran: voted no.Solmire: voted yes.
A draw.
Until Kaelen—House Duskmoor's heir—stood.
"I represent Duskmoor," he said. "And I vote yes."
The accord passed.
And with it, the first fragile alliance was born.
That night, as Stormwake trembled under fresh lightning, Elara sat alone on the edge of the sky, her feet dangling over an abyss of clouds.
Cassian joined her. Said nothing.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I thought this would feel like a victory," she whispered.
"It is," he said. "But victories don't always feel like peace. Sometimes they feel like holding the tide back with your bare hands."
She turned to look at him. "You know that from experience?"
He chuckled softly. "I once tried to stop a wildfire by spitting on it."
She laughed, despite herself.
Then: "Thank you. For staying. Even when none of this was supposed to be yours."
Cassian's gaze sharpened. "It is now."
He leaned in—and the kiss was slow, like the first full breath after drowning.
But they weren't alone.
From the shadows of the high spire, someone watched.
And when they slipped away into the wind, a sliver of light shimmered in their hand—a broken seal once belonging to House Duskmoor.
Kaelen's seal.