Tyla’s POV
The morning after the letters arrive, the city sounds different.
Not louder. Not quieter. Simply… unafraid of being unfinished.
I notice it while standing at the window, mug cooling in my hands, watching a group of apprentices argue cheerfully over how to re-seat a stone that’s been crooked since before the war. No overseer hovers. No one waits for permission. They try something. It fails. They laugh. They try again.
Arthur comes up behind me, resting his chin briefly against my shoulder. He smells like ink and smoke—plans and fireplaces and a life lived without ceremony.
“They’re still arguing,” he says.
“They will,” I reply. “That’s not a flaw.”
He hums, amused. “You’ve ruined the word ‘peace’ for me.”
“Good.”
By midmorning, I’m called—not summoned—to the council hall
