The cottage kitchen was too small for what was about to happen.
At 2:14 a.m., three nights after the Festival of Fire, Luca Voss stood in the doorway clutching a thick black folder (edges frayed, phoenix-gold seal cracked). His left hand trembled so badly the scars glowed like molten wire.
Laken sat at the table, wrapped in Reed's university hoodie, hair still damp from the shower that had washed away festival smoke and Cassiopeia's tears. Reed stood behind her, hands resting on her shoulders (anchors in a storm that hadn't started yet). Harold leaned against the counter, arms crossed, human eyes soft with the kind of patience that had survived sixty-three years of dragon rage. Wade hovered by the stove, pretending to make cocoa while actually listening to every heartbeat in the room. El
