Chapter 222

We descended toward the lion tribe, and the reaction was immediate.

Soldiers poured from the gates, weapons drawn, running to meet us before we had even touched the ground. They had seen the flock of hawks descending, enormous and strange, and they had assumed the worst. But then they saw Leon and Ravin running beneath us, and they saw me, and they slowed, and their faces broke into grins.

By the time Alara set me down, the soldiers had dropped to their knees.

Leon and Ravin reached us a moment later, shifting back into their human forms, and the soldiers bowed low, one hand to their chests, their heads lowered in respect.

"Prince Leon. Prince Ravin," they said in unison, their voices ringing across the clearing. "Welcome home."

Leon nodded to them, and Ravin waved them up, and the soldiers rose, beaming, but they did not crowd or shout. They stood at attention, respectful, disciplined, their prince’s return treated with the dignity it deserved. Only when Leon laughed and reached out to clasp the nearest one’s arm did they finally relax, and even then, they kept a certain deference.

"We weren’t expecting you our prince," one of them said.

"We were only gone a year not forever," Leon replied. "But we are here now."

"And we brought the whole family," Ravin added, gesturing at the chaos behind us.

The soldiers looked, and their eyes went wide.

And then a thundering sound filled the air, sounding like a stampede, running toward us.

Lisa and Raon. Leon’s parents.

They ran like young people, despite their age, Lisa’s black hair streaming, Raon’s face alight. And behind them came more. Lyle, and his mate Fiarah, and Fiarah’s other mate Finn, and their cubs. Three little fox kits, tumbling along behind their parents, their tails bright and bushy.

Krys stared.

Lyle. The little boy she had known when he was merely ten years old, when he had tagged along behind his older brother Marcus, eager and bright-eyed and desperate to prove himself. And now he was grown. Now he had a mate, and a family, and children of his own.

The years had gone by so fast. Too fast.

Lisa reached me first.

She grabbed me, pulled me into a hug so fierce it knocked the wind out of me, her arms crushing, her body trembling. "You are here," she gasped. "You are here. You are safe. Oh, thank the gods, thank the gods."

"I am here," I managed, laughing, breathless. "Lisa, I cannot breathe."

"I do not care."

She hugged her sons next, kissing their cheeks and weeping. Then each of her grandchildren, every single one, until the children were squirming and giggling. And then she saw the new ones.

The eight new additions.

She squealed. Actually squealed, like a girl, her hands flying to her mouth. She descended on the wolf pups first, cooing and laughing, marveling at their silver fur, at their adorable faces, at their little wagging tails. She held each one, kissed each one, declared each one perfect.

But then she laid eyes on the pearlings.

And she nearly fainted.

"Oh, by the beast gods!" she cried, her hand flying to her chest. "They are beautiful! Supreme beings! How can anyone be this perfect? How? How is it possible?"

The pearlings, my little show-offs, were delighted. They giggled and preened, basking in the attention, their azure hair shining, their silver blue eyes bright. They had never met their grandmother before, but they liked her already.

Raon, meanwhile, had made a decision. He turned to the gathered crowd and bellowed, "A celebration! Tonight! For our family returned!"

And the tribe erupted.

It was, apparently, what they did every time we came back. A party. A feast. Fires and food a gathering and noise. And by evening, the whole village was gathered, laughing and dancing and eating, welcoming us home.

And during the party, the girls wanted to show their grandparents what they had learned.

Levy stood up, her black hair gleaming, her face bright. And she sang.

Her voice rose, sweet and clear and strong, filling the clearing, silencing the crowd. It was the song I had taught her, the one about the sea and the stars, and she sang it beautifully, effortlessly, her voice rising and falling like the tide.

And behind her, the serpent girls danced.

Seraya led them, her green hair flowing, her body twisting and spinning. Nyssara and Elira followed, their movements fluid and hypnotic, their arms tracing shapes in the air, their feet gliding across the grass. The two together, song and dance, were breathtaking.

The crowd went silent. Utterly silent. Everyone frozen, everyone staring, everyone caught in a trance. Even the soldiers. Even the elders. Even Lisa and Raon, who had seen a great deal in their long lives, stood with their mouths open, their eyes wide.

And when the girls finished, when the last note faded and the last movement stilled, the clearing erupted in applause.

Lisa was weeping. "What was that?" she demanded, laughing and crying all at once. "What was that? How? How did they learn that?"

"I taught them," I said, smiling.

And then, the little girls of the tribe descended. They crowded around Levy and the serpent girls, tugging at their sleeves, their eyes bright with wonder. "Teach us," they begged. "Please, teach us. Teach us to sing. Teach us to dance."

And Levy, my fierce, generous daughter, beamed, and said, "Okay."

It was a brilliant day. All of it. The reunion, the celebration, the singing, the dancing, the laughter.

We were home. Truly home.

And the whole pride had welcomed us back.

---

The celebration lasted well into the night, as celebrations always did, and by the time it wound down, our family was exhausted, full, and happy. We made our way home through the dark village, the children stumbling and sleepy, the mates carrying the little ones who had already fallen asleep. And when we reached our house, and the doors opened, and the smell of dried herbs and old wood washed over me, I felt something loosen in my chest.

Home. Our home.

I had missed it. The little things. The worn stones by the door. The way the light came in through the eastern windows in the morning. The bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters, the ones I had gathered and dried myself, the ones that smelled of summer and safety.

The children filed inside, a whole flood of them, and I looked around at the space, and sighed.

"We must expand," I said.

The house, which had once felt enormous, was now far too small. We had added eight new children since we left, and every room was bursting. The walls seemed to press in. The floors were a sea of sleeping mats and blankets and small bodies.

We made do for the first night, because we had no choice. The children slept everywhere, in every room, in every corner. Some of the older ones slept outside in the living area, sprawled on the floor like a litter of tired pups. It was chaos. It was cozy. It was ours.

Ravin gave up his room for his daughters, moving his things into the hall so that Levy and the serpent girls could have a space of their own. They were getting older now, the girls, and they needed privacy, needed somewhere to be themselves away from the chaos. He did it without complaint, without hesitation, the way he always did.

Veylan shared his room with his five pups, all of them piling in together, the little ones curled against their father like a nest of silver foxes. And Eryx, of course, slept in the same room, because Eryx went where his brother went, the two brothers sleeping with their children happy and peaceful.

And then, finally, when the children were settled and the house was quiet, Aureon and I talked.

We sat together in the corner of the quiet house, the last two awake, the fire burning low in the hearth. The embers glowed soft and orange, casting flickering shadows across the walls, and somewhere in the other rooms, our children breathed slow and even in their sleep. The whole house was still. The whole world was still. Just us, and the fire, and the dark.

Aureon was watching me.

His golden eyes, bright even in the dim light, were fixed on my face, hopeful and patient and aching. He had been waiting. He had been waiting so long, so quietly, so graciously, never pushing, never demanding, only loving and helping and holding on. And I knew, looking at him, that he would wait forever if I asked him to. That he would never complain. That he would simply keep loving us, keep being the best of us, until his dying day.

He deserved better than endless waiting.

"When we are settled," I said, reaching out and taking his hand. His fingers were warm, long and strong, and they curled around mine at once. "When the house is situated, and everyone has a place, and the dust has settled. Then we can start planning."

His brow furrowed, just slightly. "Planning?"

"For your cubs."

His whole face lit up.

It was like watching the sun rise. The hope that flooded his eyes, the way his breath caught, the way his lips parted and his whole body went still as stone. He stared at me as though he could not quite believe it, as though he were afraid that if he moved, the moment would shatter.

"Truly?" he whispered.

"Truly," I said, squeezing his hand. "You have waited long enough, Aureon. You have been so good to all of them, to all the children, to all of us. You have been patient and kind and generous. You have earned this. You deserve this. A child of your own. A cub with your stripes, your eyes, your gentle heart."

He stared at me for one more heartbeat. And then he moved.

He pulled me into his arms, crushing me against his chest, burying his face in my hair. His heart hammered against mine, wild and fast, and I felt his smile press into my skin, felt the heat of his breath, felt the way his whole body trembled with joy.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Thank you, Krys. Thank you."

I held him back, my arms wrapping around him, and we stayed like that for a long, long moment, two figures in the dark, bound together by love and hope and the promise of something new.

"Soon," I promised, my lips against his shoulder. "Very soon."