The silence after the surge was not empty.
It was listening.
Valentine felt it in the way the sanctuary steadied beneath her feet, no longer trembling, no longer resisting. The sigils dimmed from blinding white to a slow, controlled glow, their patterns rearranging themselves into something new. Not erased. Not overwritten. Realigned.
Luther stood beside her, shoulders squared, breath steady despite the sheer magnitude of what he had just bound himself to. The anchor was no longer theoretical. It was real. Permanent. Alive.
She turned to him, her eyes shining with something dangerously close to fear. “You did not have to do that.”
“I know,” he replied quietly. “But I chose to.”
The former Sovereign stared at them both, disbelief etched deep into her expression. For the first time, he
