Chapter 289
Chapter 239
*Jiselle*
The bells rang at dawn.
Not the bells of warning, not the clang of iron that had once meant death was coming through the canyon, but a sound clear and bright enough to carry through the valley and echo back again as if the mountains themselves wanted to sing it with us.
Wolves lifted their heads from the courtyards and the gates, children stopped chasing each other mid–step, and every heart seemed to still in that one moment.
It was the morning of the final ceremony.
The air smelled of cedar smoke and damp earth. Flowers lined the path leading to the center of the stronghold, blossoms gathered from packs near and far. No one would have believed this a year ago, when blood still ran across the stone and the leyline trembled beneath our feet.
But now the walls stood tall, the banners were raised, and wolves from every corner of the surviving packs had come–some limping, some scarred, some still hollow–eyed from everything we had lost–but all of them here.
I stood at the threshold, my hand held in Nate’s. His grip was steady, calloused fingers warm against mine, and when I looked up at him, he wasn’t the fractured, silent man he had been in the darkest nights of war. He was whole. He was mine.
And as he smiled down at me–quiet, fierce, certain–I thought of the words he had spoken on the roof only nights ago: I didn’t just survive you. I lived because of you.
That was what today was about. Not survival. Living.
The drums began. Slow. Deep. Wolves stepped aside, forming a wide circle around the ceremonial fire pit. The pit itself had been cracked during the battles, but rebuilt, carved now with runes not of binding but of promise. At its center burned a flame that was not red or orange but violet edged with gold, the color of the child who had been born into it and remade it.
Solara.
She stood beside me, small hand slipping from mine as she walked forward. Barefoot, cloak trailing, hair catching the wind. She was only a year old, but already more. She spoke in whispers of languages older than even Bastain’s books, laughed at things no one else could see, and carried herself with a weight that belonged to both child and ancient flame. She was ours. She was the world’s.
The circle hushed as she reached the fire.
For a long moment, she simply stared at it, her reflection flickering in the gold–violet flame. Then she raised her hand, fingers glowing faintly, and the fire bent toward her, lowering like a beast bowing to its Sovereign. My chest tightened as I realized what was happening.
This was no longer about curses. Or gates. Or the Hollow–born.
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Chapter 239
This was about choice.
Her choice.
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The air shifted, pressing warm against my skin, and every wolf in the circle held their breath. Alphas leaned forward. Healers clasped their beads. Warriors braced themselves without knowing why.
Solara stepped into the circle of fire.
Not around it. Not before it. Into it.
The flame curled around her ankles, up her legs, wrapping her small body in light without burning her. Nate reached for me, instinct flashing in his eyes, but I shook my head, grounding him with my touch. “She’s not breaking,” I whispered. “She’s becoming.”
And then she spoke.
Not in fragments. Not in whispers. Not in riddles or languages older than our bones. But in her first full sentence, her voice ringing steady and clear through the smoke and silence.
“We were born of ruin. But we chose love. And from that… came a world that finally remembered how to live.”
The words rolled across the courtyard, heavy and light at once, echoing into the bones of everyone present. Wolves bowed their heads. Some wept openly. Others dropped to their knees, not in submission but in reverence. Even Bastain, standing at the edge of the circle, covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking.
I couldn’t breathe.
Nate pulled me close, his arm wrapping around my waist as if to keep me upright. “She did it,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Gods, Jis, she did it.”
But it wasn’t just what she said. It was what it meant. The mark of Sovereigns was gone. The cycle was ended. The Gate was sealed. And in its place, we had built something that didn’t demand sacrifice, but allowed us to choose love instead.
The fire dimmed as Solara lowered her hand. She turned back to me and Nate, her eyes shining, and for the first time, I saw not only the ancient weight she carried–but the child beneath it. The girl who still wanted to run, to laugh, to be held.
I dropped to my knees, my arms open. She ran into them, burying her face against my chest. Nate bent beside us, his hand covering both of us at once.
The circle erupted–not with howls of grief, but of joy. Wolves raised their heads to the sky and sang, not mourning but celebrating, their voices weaving together into something stronger than any prophecy.
I closed my eyes, pressing my lips to Solara’s hair, and let myself breathe. For the first time, truly breathe.
***
Later, when the fire had dimmed and the ceremony ended, Nate and I sat together on the steps of the rebuilt
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Chapter 239
stronghold. Solara slept in his arms, her small breaths warm against his chest. Lanterns lit the walls, laughter rose from the courtyards, and for once, I didn’t feel the need to keep looking over my shoulder for shadows.
“This is it,” I whispered.
Nate glanced at me, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The house we built.”
1 leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. “Not just a house. A world.”
He kissed my temple softly. “A world worth living in.”
We sat in silence, content, whole, as the night wrapped itself around us.
And when the stars shifted, aligning themselves into a pattern I didn’t recognize, I thought maybe that was the final blessing. That even the sky wanted to remember how to live again.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
