Page 54

“Data collection complete?” he asks, wings partially extended in the warm breeze. His right wing has finally healed completely, the toxic lines now faded to the faintest silver traces that shimmer only in certain light. Battle scars with beauty of their own.

“Environmental calibrations logged and analyzed,” I confirm, showing him my tablet with its neatly organized spreadsheets. “Spring growth patterns are 27% above projected estimates.”

“Always the scientist,” he observes, tail curling with affection as he settles beside me on the ridge. “Though I suspect Cliff’s new fertilization techniques deserve some credit for the statistical anomaly.”

The gentle teasing warms me from within. So much has changed since that night he rescued me from Apex—since I first documented his deflection techniques and categorized his sarcasm patterns. What began as clinical observation has evolved into something far deeper, a connection neither science nor mythology fully explains.

“The sanctuary is thriving,” I say, watching Water Sprites dance across the pools below. “Despite everything.”

Or perhaps because of everything. The attack brought unexpected outcomes—not just in my father’s retreat, but in how it unified the sanctuary community. Boundaries between species have softened. Trust has strengthened. What was once a refuge has become something more profound: home.

The memorial garden represents this transformation most visibly. What began as Dante’s tribute to Kieran has evolved into a community space where all cryptids gather. Crystal formations pulse with gentle energy, responding to visitors with subtle light patterns. Plants from various cryptid homelands grow together in harmony, tended by many hands.

Marina’s children bring me their scraped knees to heal now. Cliff asks for my input on his greenhouse designs. Volt trusts me with the sanctuary’s most sensitive security protocols. I’m not just Dante’s mate—I’m their daughter, sister, friend.

“Volt says the southwestern patrol returned with no unusual sightings,” Dante reports, his wing brushing my shoulder in a gesture that sends warmth cascading through our bond. “Third consecutive week without hunter activity in any quadrant.”

“Consistent with established withdrawal patterns,” I agree, analytical mind automatically processing tactical implications. “Though prudent surveillance protocols should remain in place.”

His quiet laugh vibrates through me where our shoulders touch. “Did you just use scientific terminology to say ‘better safe than sorry’?”

“Perhaps.” My own teasing smile breaks through. “Efficient communication parameters, which translates into: ‘just checking that you’re paying attention.’“

Dante’s skin shifts to that beautiful iridescent shade I’ve documented countless times, yet never tire of seeing. The color that appears only in moments of profound connection between us.

The last message from my father came six months ago—not a threat, but a single photo of my mother’s research journal with a note: “She would be proud.” It’s not forgiveness, not yet, but it’s acknowledgment. Perhaps even the beginning of understanding.

“Come on,” he says, rising with fluid grace. “Everyone’s gathering for the solstice celebration.”

We make our way down crystal-lined passages to the great hall, where sanctuary residents prepare for the evening’s festivities. Brownies arrange platters of freshly baked bread while Water Sprites create dancing light patterns across stone walls. Sasquatches hang flowering vines from ancient beams as Shadow Cats test security parameters one final time—protection and celebration in perfect balance.

Volt’s massive form dominates the center of the hall, golden feathers crackling with excitement as he coordinates the final preparations. “The crystal amplification array is calibrated,” he announces upon seeing us. “Should produce quite the spectacle at sunset.”

The solstice celebration marks a new beginning—the first major sanctuary gathering focused on joy rather than remembrance or survival since the attack. A deliberate decision to honor what we’ve built together rather than dwell on threats that chased us here.

“You’re not wearing your monitoring equipment,” Marina observes as she glides past, scales shimmering with subtle humor. “Abandoning scientific documentation for one evening?”

“Modified observation protocols,” I reply, though my cheeks warm slightly at being caught without my usual research apparatus. “Sometimes direct experience provides more comprehensive data than instrumental analysis.”

“She’s learning to live in the moment,” Dante translates, his tail finding my wrist with practiced ease. “Though I suspect she’ll create three new spreadsheets tomorrow to compensate.”

The teasing carries no sting—only affection that wraps around me as surely as his wing. He knows me completely, accepts both scientific precision and emerging spontaneity with equal appreciation.

I still keep spreadsheets—not of his deflection patterns anymore, but of the sanctuary’s growth, the small daily miracles of our life together, the research projects we’ve begun developing. Some data is worth preserving, even if the most important truths can’t be quantified.

As sunset approaches, cryptids gather on the eastern terrace where Volt’s crystal array awaits the solstice light. I find myself studying not just the technology but the faces around me. Beings I once would have catalogued as specimens are now friends and family in every way that matters.

Dante stands beside me, his wing creating shelter that feels like safety rather than confinement. The antivenom developed from my father’s formula has worked better than either of us dared hope, healing damage we once feared might be permanent. The mate bond pulses between us, stronger for having weathered threats that might have broken a lesser connection.

“Any scientific predictions about tonight’s display?” he asks quietly, crimson skin warming as our hands connect.

“Probable light refraction patterns suggest optimal visual manifestation,” I begin, then catch myself. With deliberate choice, I simplify: “It’s going to be beautiful.”

His smile—the one I’ve documented in countless observations yet still find breathtaking—curves his lips as his fangs peek out. “Like you.”

Before I can formulate an appropriate response, the first rays of the solstice sunset strike Volt’s crystal array. Light explodes across the terrace in spectacular patterns—colors no human technology could replicate dance across stone walls and gathered cryptids with ethereal beauty.

As sanctuary residents gaspwith collective wonder, I find myself cataloguing not wavelengths or refraction angles but emotions—the shared joy, the collective resilience, the simple miracle of different species gathered in harmony despite everything that sought to divide us.