The peace of Oakhaven was not a static thing. It was a breathing, shifting entity that demanded constant participation. For a time, the mundane rhythm of the shop and the garden had served as an anchor, holding them in the light of their own choosing. But the Margin was a restless ocean, and they were a lighthouse built on its shore.
Elara stood by the window of her shop, watching the way the golden grass at the property line rippled, not from the wind, but from a persistent, rhythmic tapping. Something was trying to tap into the frequency of their world, a faint, metallic resonance that reminded her of the Spire, yet carried the warmth of an old, forgotten friend.
Julian entered the room, his movements no longer those of a weary king, but those of a man who had finally learned the valu
