It was called the Summit of Species, but it felt more like the hush before a storm.
Elara stood at the heart of the Chamber of Accord, not on a dais or at the head of a gilded table, but at the true center, surrounded by the circle of delegates, encircled by eyes both hopeful and hungry, anxious and ancient. The Chamber itself had been hewn from Blackroot stone, runes of every kind woven into its walls, wolf-fangs and moon-sigils, blood-drops, feathered glyphs, and flame-marked spirals. All the world’s histories pressed into stone, now watching her.
The air inside was warm and thrumming, as if the chamber itself held its breath, remembering the centuries when such a gathering would have sparked war, not hope. Now, peace was possible. But unity, as everyone sensed, was a hope as fragile as spun glass.
Elara’s own heart was steady, steady in a way she had never known. The mark on her shoulder, the old ache that was once a curse, no longer flared in pain or pride. She stood among them no
