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JACE

The wind in Celestial Pines carried a new kind of weight.

Not sorrow. Not fear. But peace.

Jace stood at the northern overlook just as the last of the twilight dipped behind the mountains, casting the whole town in molten gold. Below him, the townsfolk gathered in the circle where the Moonlit Pact would be renewed. He could hear the soft rise and fall of voices—warm, buzzing with anticipation. The scent of fresh-baked bread and wild herbs drifted up through the trees. Someone was playing a fiddle near the bonfire. Children laughed.

And somewhere near the edge of it all, Lyra was smiling.

He hadn’t seen her yet tonight.

By tradition, the leaders of the Pact entered together—after the formal invocation. But he could feel her. In his bones. In the way the air tilted around him like it was leaning in to listen.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt—black, simple, unadorned except for the silver threads Calla had sewn into the cuffs. Protective runes, old ones. He hadn’t asked her to. She justknew.

“Trying to fix your hair again?” Logan’s voice rang behind him, dry as ever.

Jace didn’t turn. “If I ask nicely, think you’ll stop talking for five minutes?”

Logan walked up beside him, shoulder to shoulder, gaze focused on the crowd. “Doubtful. But I will say this—tonight feels different.”

“Because itis.”

Logan grunted. “First time in decades the Moonlit Pact’s being renewed by an Alpha and a witch. You ready to be the talk of every enchanted coven and old guard in three provinces?”

Jace finally glanced sideways. “They’ll survive.”

“They better. ‘Cause it’s not just your name on this anymore.” Logan paused. “It’s hers too.”

Jace’s mouth pulled into a rare, slow smile. “Yeah. It is.”

At the base of the hill, bells rang—deep, soft tones, one after the other.

It was time.

Jace descended slowly, the crowd parting with quiet reverence as he walked through. Shifters bowed their heads. Witches nodded in respect. Fey, gnarled and glowing faintly in the dusk, lifted their cups in silent salute.

At the heart of the circle, the ceremonial stones glowed with the old runes—three languages, one meaning:Harmony. Honor. Home.

She stepped into the clearing.

Every head turned.

Jace’s heart didn’t skip, itpaused.

Lyra wore deep green, the color of forest moss and old magic, her curls loose around her shoulders, and her gaze locked only on him. Her smile wasn’t wide—it was steady. Fierce. Soft in a way that made him feel seen in every place he never let anyone look.

She crossed to him without hesitation.

He held out his hand.

She took it without question.

Together, they turned to face the altar.

The town’s oldest living elder—a shifter-witch hybrid named Mirelle—stepped forward, hands raised.