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And she wasn’t going back. Not to the cold marble halls of her old coven. Not to their rules or judgment or constant attempts to “tidy up” her brand of magic.

Here, no one flinched when her enchanted pen decided to write in cursive on its own. No one told her she was “too much” or “not enough.”

They just gave her keys and muffins and a place to belong.

Later that afternoon, Lyra was back atMoonfang Keep, nestled in the dusty archive room with scrolls up to her ears and a cheerful hum on her lips.

The place smelled like oak, ancient magic, and something wild that never quite faded—like pine smoke and lightning. There were wards carved into every archway, some glowing faintly when she passed. But the magic didn’t bite. It watched. Curious.

She flicked a charm to unroll a stubborn scroll and leaned in, muttering, “If this turns into a fire elemental again, I swear?—”

“No fire today, I hope,” came a familiar voice.

Lyra looked up asPetra, the dryad from logistics, leaned against the doorframe with a cup of something fizzy and green.

“No fire,” Lyra confirmed, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Just bureaucratic nightmares and scrolls that whisper insults in Latin.”

Petra snorted. “That’s the property ledger. It’s cursed. Jace refuses to get rid of it.”

“Why?”

“Tradition.” Petra took a sip. “That and it bit Ezra Wolfe once. Jace said it earned its keep.”

Lyra’s smile faded at the name. She’d only heard whispers, but the rival alpha was already carving out space in her mental worry closet.

“So… you settling in?” Petra asked, kicking off the wall and stepping closer.

“As much as I can. Still trying to figure out which cabinet has the death threats and which one just holds expired permits.”

“The red one’s both.”

“Lovely.”

Petra leaned in with a grin. “So. Be honest. What do you think of the big, broody boss man?”

Lyra coughed on her tea.

Petra’s grin widened. “That bad?”

“It’s not that he’s bad,” Lyra said slowly, trying to find words that didn’t sound like “infuriatingly hot.” “He’s just… intense.”

“Mmhm.”

“And mysterious.”

“Uh huh.”

“And maybe smells like thunder during a summer storm, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Petra laughed, loud and delighted. “Oh, honey. You aresodoomed.”

Lyra groaned, flopping backward into a cloud of parchment. “He probably thinks I’m a walking magical hazard.”

“Probably,” Petra agreed. “But he hasn’t fired you yet. That’s practically a marriage proposal by Jace standards.”

That earned her a crumpled receipt to the face.

That evening,Callamet Lyra at the Spellbound Sip, the town’s coziest spot for tea, town gossip, and flirtation-flavored coffee.