The common room was quiet, the fire banked low, but the air hummed with a different kind of energy. Ceria Springwalker stood before the hearth, her skeletal hand held out in the dim light, fingers flexing slowly, deliberately. Pisces sat at a table, his sharp features drawn in concentration as he watched her. Ksmvr stood at attention near the stairs, a silent, chitinous statue. And in a chair by the window, wrapped in a thick blanket, Yvlon Byres watched them. Her blue eyes were no longer glassy with shock. They were clear, and they were haunted.

"The template is intact," Ceria said, her voice steady but thin, like ice over deep water. "Vivian was right. It's not necromancy. It's preservation. A… a foundation."

"A grisly one," Pisces murmured, not unkindly. He leaned forward, his gaze analytical. "The flesh had to go. What remains is… pure. A conduit. You should be able to channel ice magic through it with unprecedented focus."

"I can feel it," Ceria whispered. She closed her eyes, and a faint, crystalline frost began to spider-web across the bones of her hand, gleaming in the firelight. "It's cold. But it's a clean cold. Not the numb kind. The sharp kind."

Yvlon’s voice cut through the room, quiet and raw. "Calruz is gone."

The frost on Ceria’s hand stopped spreading. Pisces went very still. Ksmvr’s head tilted.

Ceria turned, her expression crumbling for a second before she rebuilt it, stone by stone. "Yes."

"Skinner took him," Yvlon continued, her gaze fixed on the middle distance, seeing the ruins. "Or what was left of him. After the madness. After he…" She didn't finish. She didn't need to. The massacre in the ruins hung in the air between them, a ghost with weight.

"We are all that remains of the Horns," Ksmvr stated, his voice a buzzing monotone. "This unit, Ceria Springwalker, Pisces Jealnet, Yvlon Byres. A sixty percent reduction in operational capacity. A significant deficit."

Pisces shot the Antinium a look, but Yvlon actually let out a breath that was almost a laugh. It was a broken sound. "A deficit. Yes."

Ceria walked to Yvlon, kneeling before her chair. She reached out, hesitated, then placed her living hand over Yvlon’s blanket-covered knees. The skeletal one she kept at her side. "We're here, Yvlon. We're alive. This inn… it's safe. It's a place to…"

"To what?" Yvlon’s eyes finally focused on Ceria’s face. The grief in them was a bottomless well. "Regroup? Reform? My brother is dead. My arms are gone. What are the Horns without Gerial? Without Calruz? What am I without my sword?"

"You are Yvlon Byres," Pisces said from his table, his tone uncharacteristically grave. "A survivor of Skinner. That is not nothing. And your arms…" He glanced toward the stairs, where Nesha and Vivian had retired. "The keepers here possess a unique form of magic. One that heals in unorthodox ways. I would not yet consider the matter closed."

Yvlon looked at the stumps of her arms, hidden beneath the wool. A deep, shuddering breath wracked her frame. "I feel them. Phantom limbs. I keep trying to move fingers that aren't there."

"This unit has observed that the keepers engage in intensive physical bonding rituals with guests to facilitate integration and healing," Ksmvr offered. "Perhaps a ritual would restore your missing appendages. The process appears highly efficient, if socially unconventional."

A strange, strained silence followed. Ceria’s cheeks flushed. Pisces coughed into his hand. Yvlon just stared at Ksmvr, too exhausted for embarrassment.

It was Ceria who broke it, her voice gaining strength. "Ksmvr isn't wrong. About the inn, not the… specifics. This place, it takes you in. It did for me. It has for Ryoka. The magic here… it's alive. It wants you to stay." She looked from Yvlon to Pisces. "I'm reforming the Horns. Here. This will be our base. Our home. But to be truly of this place, you have to be welcomed. All of you."

Pisces raised an eyebrow. "Welcomed. You mean their particular… sacrament."

"Yes." Ceria didn't look away. "It's not just sex, Pisces. It's a connection. It's how the inn knows you, and how you know it. It's how you stop being a guest and start being family. I need my team to be family. I can't do this alone."

Yvlon closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the chair. "Family," she echoed, the word aching with loss.

"This unit will undergo the welcoming ritual," Ksmvr announced. "Integration into a new hive structure is logical. This unit found the keepers' previous tactile adjustments during triage to be… functionally calming."

Pisces sighed, a long, theatrical sound. "Very well. If it is the price of a secure base of operations, and access to whatever arcane resources these women have accumulated, I shall… submit to the procedure." He said it like a martyr, but there was a flicker of keen curiosity in his eyes.

All eyes turned to Yvlon. She sat in her silence for a long minute, the fire crackling softly. When she opened her eyes, they were wet, but the haze was gone, burned away by a fierce, painful clarity. "I have nothing left," she said, her voice low. "No team. No brother. No arms. No future. If this… welcoming… offers even a thread of one, I will grasp it. I am tired of being empty."

Ceria’s living hand squeezed her knee. "You won't be empty here."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, light and deliberate. Nesha and Vivian descended into the common room. They moved with a shared, languid grace, the aftermath of their own intimacy still a visible warmth on their skin. Nesha’s chestnut hair was tousled, her full lips curved in a gentle smile. Vivian’s silver hair seemed to catch the low light, her violet eyes sweeping the room, reading the tension, the grief, the resolve in an instant.

"Family meeting?" Nesha asked, her Midwestern accent soft in the quiet.

"Something like that," Ceria said, standing. "We've decided. All of us. The Horns are reborn. Here. And we… we need to be properly welcomed."

Vivian’s smile was a slow, blooming thing, full of ancient delight. "Oh, my dears. We were hoping you'd say that." She glided forward, her gaze touching each of them—Pisces’s wary intellect, Ksmvr’s blank readiness, Yvlon’s shattered resolve, Ceria’s determined hope. "The web has been waiting. It's hungry for you."

Nesha came to stand beside Vivian, her presence a calming, earthy counterpoint to Vivian’s fae radiance. She looked at Yvlon, her expression holding no pity, only a deep, understanding warmth. "It's okay to be scared. It's okay to not know what comes next. The welcome… it meets you where you are. All of you."

"Who's first?" Vivian sang softly, the question hanging in the air.

Pisces stood, brushing invisible dust from his robes. "I shall endeavor to set a… academically rigorous example."

Vivian laughed, a sound like chimes. "Come then, scholar. Let's see what questions your body needs to ask." She offered her hand. After a moment's hesitation, Pisces took it, his posture stiff but his eyes alight with a scholar's hunger for new knowledge. She led him toward the back room, the door closing with a soft click.

That left Nesha with Ceria, Ksmvr, and Yvlon. The fire popped. Nesha looked at Ksmvr. "Would you like to wait upstairs? Your welcome will be special. It will need… preparation."

Ksmvr tilted his head. "Preparation is acceptable. This unit will await instructions in the designated sleeping chamber." He turned and marched up the stairs with robotic precision.

Ceria let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. She looked at Yvlon, then at Nesha. "She's… it's a lot. The grief. The loss."

"I know," Nesha said, her voice a low murmur. She walked to Yvlon’s chair and knelt, mirroring Ceria’s earlier position. She didn't touch her. She just was there, present, her incredible form a quiet offer of comfort. "The inn felt it when you arrived. That deep, hollow place. It wants to fill it. Not replace what you lost. Nothing can do that. But it can give you something new to hold onto."

Yvlon looked down at her, those warrior's eyes searching Nesha’s gentle face. "You promise it's not just… physical?"

Nesha’s smile was kind. "Honey, with the magic we weave? It's the most honest conversation you'll ever have. Your body will tell the truth long before your mind catches up. And right now, your body is screaming that it's hurt and alone. Let us answer that scream."

Yvlon swallowed, a single tear tracing a path through the grime still on her cheek. She gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod.

"Ceria," Nesha said, glancing up. "Why don't you go on up? Get ready. We'll bring her to you."

Ceria’s eyes widened slightly, then softened with understanding. She leaned down, pressing a quick, fierce kiss to Yvlon’s forehead. "I'll be there," she whispered. Then she followed Ksmvr’s path up the stairs.

Nesha stayed kneeling. "Can you stand?"

"I think so," Yvlon said. With a grimace of effort, she pushed herself up from the chair, the blanket falling away to reveal her bandaged stumps and the simple tunic they'd dressed her in. She swayed, unsteady without arms for balance.

Nesha rose smoothly, becoming a pillar of support at her side. She didn't grab her; she simply offered her body, her hip, her shoulder. Yvlon leaned into her, the contact solid and warm. Nesha’s skin was impossibly soft, her scent a mix of vanilla, woodsmoke, and something deeply, magically female. Yvlon inhaled, and for the first time since the ruins, the breath didn't hitch with a sob.

"Good," Nesha murmured, her voice vibrating through where they touched. "That's it. Just breathe with me."

She guided Yvlon toward the stairs, moving slowly. Each step was a shared effort. As they reached the upper hallway, the sound of Pisces’s voice drifted from behind the back room door—a sharp, surprised gasp, followed by the low, melodic murmur of Vivian’s laughter. Then silence.

Nesha led Yvlon not to the room she'd been recovering in, but to the larger chamber at the end of the hall. The door was ajar. Inside, lantern light glowed. Ceria stood by the bed, having shed her robes. She wore only the simple linen underclothes they'd given her, her skeletal hand gleaming at her side. Her expression was open, vulnerable, waiting.

Nesha guided Yvlon to the edge of the bed and helped her sit. "This is your welcome," Nesha said softly, standing before her. "Yours and Ceria’s. The inn knows you were a team. It knows you lost each other. It wants to reconnect you. Not as you were. As you are now."

With gentle, sure fingers, Nesha began to undo the ties of Yvlon’s tunic. Yvlon flinched, a reflex of shame, of exposure.

"Shhh," Nesha soothed. "It's just me. It's just us. No one here sees a victim. We see a warrior. We see family waiting to be found."

The tunic fell away. The bandages around her stumps were stark white. Nesha didn't linger on them. Her hands, large and incredibly gentle, cupped Yvlon’s face. Her thumbs stroked her cheekbones. "You are so strong," Nesha whispered, leaning in. "Let that strength rest for a minute. Let us hold it for you."

She kissed Yvlon. It was not a hungry kiss, not like the ones she shared with Vivian. It was a slow, deep, pouring of warmth. A transfusion of care. Nesha’s lips were full and soft, and she tasted of honey and something electric, the latent magic in her. Yvlon, who had been cold for so long, felt a spark ignite in her core. A tiny, fragile flame.

Nesha broke the kiss, her forehead resting against Yvlon’s. "Ceria," she said, without looking away. "Come here. Touch her."

Ceria moved to the bed, sitting on Yvlon’s other side. Hesitantly, she raised her living hand and placed it on Yvlon’s bare back. Her touch was cool, tentative. Then her skeletal hand came up, the smooth, polished bones resting against Yvlon’s side. The contrast was shocking—the warm flesh, the cold, clean bone. Yvlon gasped.

"Feel that," Nesha murmured, her lips brushing Yvlon’s ear. "That's her. That's your teammate. The living and the preserved. The past and the future. Both are real. Both are here."

Nesha’s own hands began to move, sliding down from Yvlon’s face, over her collarbones, tracing the hard lines of her shoulders. She avoided the bandages, worshiping the intact, scarred canvas of a soldier’s body. Her touch was everywhere, grounding, claiming. She kissed Yvlon’s neck, her throat, the hollow between her breasts. Each kiss was a brand of acceptance.

Yvlon’s breath came faster. The numbness was receding, burned away by a rising tide of sensation she had thought dead. The grief was still there, a stone in her chest, but around it, warmth spread. Ceria’s living hand stroked her spine, while the skeletal one remained a steady, cool pressure on her ribs—a reminder of survival, however strange.

"Lie back," Nesha whispered, guiding her down onto the sheets. Yvlon went, her body pliant. Ceria moved with her, lying on her side, facing her, their legs tangling. Nesha stood beside the bed, looking down at them both, her eyes glowing with a soft, golden light. The enchanted micro-strap she wore seemed to shimmer, highlighting the breathtaking curves of her body, a testament to impossible transformation.

"The welcome isn't about taking," Nesha said, her voice taking on a resonant, magical timbre. The very air in the room thickened, charged with intent. "It's about giving. Giving permission. Giving trust. Giving your broken pieces to the web, so it can help you hold them together."

She placed a hand on Yvlon’s stomach, just below her navel. The touch was hot, almost searing. Yvlon arched off the bed with a choked cry, not of pain, but of shocking, overwhelming feeling. It was as if a circuit, long dead, had been violently, wonderfully reconnected.

The golden light from Nesha’s eyes flowed down her arm, into her hand, and into Yvlon’s skin. It spread in branching rivulets, a luminous network under her flesh. At the same time, Ceria gasped. The frost on her skeletal hand flared, brilliant and blue, and the cold seeped from the bones into Yvlon’s side, meeting Nesha’s warmth in a swirling dance inside her.

Yvlon cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound. She was not being healed, not yet. She was being seen. Fully, utterly seen. The magic mapped her grief, her loyalty, her courage, her despair. It touched the phantom ache of her missing arms and the deeper ache of her missing brother. It did not erase the pain. It made space for it. It held it with her.

Ceria leaned in, pressing her forehead to Yvlon’s temple. "I'm here," she whispered, her voice cracking. "We're still here, Yvlon."

Nesha’s other hand came to rest on Ceria’s head, a blessing. The three of them were connected now—a circuit of flesh, bone, and magic. The inn’s web, invisible until this moment, pulsed around them, a vast, hungry heart accepting two new, ragged threads into its weave.

Yvlon turned her face into Ceria’s neck, and for the first time since she’d crawled from the ruins, she wept. Not the silent, catatonic tears of shock, but deep, heaving sobs that shook her whole frame. Ceria held her tighter, her own tears mixing with Yvlon’s. Nesha kept her hand on Yvlon’s stomach, a steady anchor, the magical energy flowing in a gentle, sustaining current.

The storm of grief passed, leaving Yvlon exhausted, hollowed out, but clean. The stone in her chest was still there, but it was smaller. It had room to breathe. She lay

Pisces Jealnet stood in the hallway, his back pressed to the cool wood of the wall outside the closed door of the larger chamber. The sound of Yvlon’s weeping had finally quieted, replaced by a deep, resonant silence that hummed in the air like a plucked string. He had been the first welcomed. He had felt the inn’s web hook into his soul, Vivian’s fae magic a silver needle threading him into the tapestry. It had been academic, thrilling, terrifying. He had dissected the sensation even as it overwhelmed him.

Now, hearing the aftermath of another’s welcome—the raw, unfiltered catharsis—a hot, unfamiliar coil tightened in his gut. It wasn’t envy. It was… precedence. A scholar’s outrage at being merely a data point. He had gone first, but he had not broken. He had not wept. He had analyzed. And somehow, that now felt like a failure.

The door to the back room opened, and Vivian emerged. She was a vision of satisfied grace, the enchanted strap on her body gleaming against skin flushed with spent power. She saw Pisces lurking and her violet eyes sparkled with amusement. “Lingering, mage? The library is closed. Your chapter is written.”

“I am not lingering,” Pisces said, his voice sharper than intended. He straightened his robes, a pointless gesture. “I was… considering the variance in experiential response. My integration was markedly less… vocal.”

Vivian leaned against the opposite wall, crossing her arms beneath her magnificent chest. Her smile was a knowing curve. “You think because you didn’t cry, you didn’t feel it?”

“I felt it. I cataloged it. The thaumaturgical resonance, the sympathetic link to the structure’s latent mana field, the psycho-emotional feedback loop.”

“You talked to it,” Vivian said, her melodic voice dropping to a whisper. “You didn’t listen. You gave it your mind, Pisces. Not your grief. The web takes what you offer. It welcomed the scholar. It hungers for the man.”

Pisces’s pale face flushed. “I have no grief to offer. My losses are intellectual. Calculated.”

“Liar,” she sang softly, pushing off the wall. She stepped close, the scent of her—night-blooming flowers and ozone—washing over him. Her finger, cool and precise, tapped the center of his chest, over his heart. “It’s in there. A little, frozen thing. All your dead spells. All the theories no one believed. The loneliness of a mind too sharp for the room it’s in. You think that doesn’t ache?”

He had no retort. Her words slipped past his defenses like smoke under a door.

Down the hall, the chamber door opened. Nesha stepped out, her chestnut hair slightly mussed, her K-cup body a soft silhouette against the lantern light within. She looked serene, powerful, her skin glowing with a gentle, golden afterglow. She saw them and her warm, Midwestern smile appeared. “Everything alright out here?”

“Just a post-theoretical review,” Vivian said, her eyes still on Pisces. “Our mage is concerned his welcome lacked proper dramatic flair.”

Nesha walked toward them, her bare feet silent on the boards. She placed a hand on Pisces’s shoulder. Her touch was furnace-warm, grounding. “There’s no wrong way to be welcomed, honey. The web knows you. It’ll keep knowing you. The conversation isn’t over after the first hello.”

Pisces looked from Nesha’s kind, earnest face to Vivian’s knowing, fey one. The coil in his gut loosened, not from reassurance, but from a sudden, startling realization: he wanted to go back in. Not to study. To… try again. To be less himself for a moment. The desire was so foreign it stole his breath.

Before he could formulate this into any kind of speech, the door to the recovery room opened and Ksmvr stepped into the hallway. The Antinium Worker stood perfectly still, his carapace a dull black in the low light, his compound eyes taking in the scene: the two nearly-naked keepers, the disheveled mage, the closed door from which a profound peace now emanated.

“I have been monitoring the structural integrity of the upper floor,” Ksmvr stated, his voice a clicking monotone. “The emotional output from this quadrant was statistically significant. It has now ceased. Does this indicate the welcoming ritual for Ceria Springwalker and Yvlon Byres is complete? I am to be next. This is logical.”

Nesha’s smile turned radiant. She released Pisces and turned her full, overwhelming attention to Ksmvr. “That’s right, sweetie. You’re next. Are you ready?”

Ksmvr’s head tilted. “I am equipped. I have no emotional trauma to discharge, as I am Antinium. I have no grief for the web to map. My purpose is to serve the new Horns of Hammerad. Will the ritual work on a being with a collective consciousness? This is an interesting variable.”

Vivian laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “Oh, my dear soldier. You have no idea what you’re in for. The web doesn’t care what you think you are. It cares about what you *are*. And you, Ksmvr of the Antinium, are *here*. That is enough. That is everything.”

She held out her hand. Ksmvr looked at it, then carefully placed his smooth, chitinous claw in her palm. Vivian’s fingers closed around it, not with force, but with a claiming gentleness. “Come with me.”

She led him toward the back room. Pisces watched them go, a strange pang in his chest. He was dismissed. The data collection was moving on to its next subject.

Nesha lingered, watching him. “You should get some rest. Or go downstairs. Ceria and Yvlon will need a friend when they come out.”

“They are… intact?” Pisces asked, the scholar reasserting itself.

“More than they were,” Nesha said softly. “The broken pieces are still there. But the web is holding them together now. They’re not alone with it anymore.” She gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then turned and padded back toward the chamber to tend to her guests.

Pisces was left alone in the hallway. The silence returned, but it was different now. It felt charged, waiting. From behind the back room door, he heard the low murmur of Vivian’s voice, explaining, guiding. He heard the distinct, soft click of Ksmvr’s carapace settling on the floor.

He should go. He had been welcomed. The process was efficient, orderly. Yet his feet remained rooted. The memory of Vivian’s finger on his chest burned. *A little, frozen thing.*

Inside the back room, Vivian knelt before Ksmvr, who sat with his back straight, a model of Antinium posture. The room still smelled of Pisces—ink, ozone, and a faint, human sweat. She let that fade, focusing on the being before her.

“The welcome is an exchange,” Vivian explained, her voice a melodic stream in the quiet. “The inn gives you a place. You give it a piece of your truth. Your truth is not your grief, Ksmvr. Your truth is your purpose. Your loyalty. Your will to stand with your team. Let me see it.”

“I do not know how to show this,” Ksmvr stated. “It is data in my mind. A directive.”

“Then we will find it in your body,” Vivian said. She reached out, her hands hovering over the smooth plates of his chest. “Antinium do not feel as mammals do. Your nerves are different. Your pleasure is different. But it exists. The Queen designed you to feel satisfaction in duty, in completion. Yes?”

“This is correct. A completed task releases specific chemical agents. It is… pleasing.”

“Good,” Vivian whispered. “Then think of this as a task. The most important one. Your task is to be here. With me. To let the inn know you.”

Her hands settled on his carapace. Not on the joints or the sensitive undersides, but on the broad, sturdy plates. She began to move her palms in slow, firm circles. There was no soft flesh to give, only unyielding chitin. But she pressed with a steady, magical pressure, her touch leaving faint, shimmering trails of violet light on the black surface.

Ksmvr watched, his head tilted. “This pressure is not unpleasant. It registers as non-hostile contact. The light is mana. It is attempting to interface.”

“Don’t interface with it,” Vivian murmured, leaning closer. Her silver hair fell like a curtain, brushing his carapace. “Just feel it. Let it in.”

She shifted her touch, her fingers tracing the seams where one plate met another. These were more sensitive, channels for nerve clusters. As her fingertips glided along the grooves, Ksmvr’s posture shifted minutely. A faint tremor ran through his frame.

“Sensation,” he reported. “Increased. It is… unfamiliar.”

“It’s you,” Vivian said. Her voice dropped, becoming intimate, a secret shared in the dark. “This is what it feels like to be Ksmvr. This shell. This strength. This loyalty that is your core. Let the web taste it.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips to the center of his forehead plate, where the carapace was smooth and cool. It was not a kiss of passion, but of profound recognition. As her lips made contact, her fae magic flowed—not as an assault, but as an invitation, seeping into the microscopic pores of his exoskeleton.

Ksmvr jolted. His compound eyes flickered, the facets glowing with a soft, reflected violet. A low, vibrating hum emanated from deep within his thorax, a sound Antinium never made in the presence of other species. It was the sound of a system operating at peak, harmonious efficiency.

“The directive is… expanding,” Ksmvr said, his clicking voice gaining a faint, resonant echo. “The objective is no longer solely ‘serve the Horns.’ The objective includes ‘be part of the inn.’ The parameters are merging. This is… efficient.”

“It’s connection,” Vivian breathed against his shell. Her hands slid down to his upper limbs, where the chitin was jointed and complex. She held his claws, not as tools, but as parts of him. “You are not just a soldier in a building. You are a thread in a living thing. And it will hold you, as you hold it.”

She guided one of his claws to her own body, placing the smooth, cool tip against the shimmering strap over her sternum. “Feel the web through me.”

Ksmvr allowed the contact. The magical energy of the inn, now threaded through Vivian, pulsed against his chitin. It was data, overwhelming in its complexity—emotions, memories, the very essence of stone and wood and intent. But it was also warmth. A profound, anchoring warmth that seeped into his core and settled there, a new, constant signal amidst the silent hum of the Collective.

The vibrating hum within him deepened, becoming a steady, contented thrum. He did not weep. He did not cry out. But his entire body relaxed, the constant, ready-for-command tension bleeding away into a state of… belonging. His compound eyes closed.

Vivian watched, her violet eyes soft. She kept his claw against her heart, letting the connection solidify. The web wove around his unique consciousness, not seeking to break his Antinium nature, but to honor it, to tie his unwavering purpose to the foundation of this place.

After a long, quiet moment, the thrumming faded. Ksmvr’s eyes opened. He looked at Vivian, then at his claw resting on her.

“The task is complete,” he stated. But the words were different now. They held a weight of finality, of integration. “I am welcomed. I perceive the inn. I am… a part of it.”

“Yes, you are,” Vivian said, smiling. She lifted his claw and kissed the back of it, a benediction. “Welcome home, Ksmvr.”

Down the hall, the chamber door opened again. Ceria emerged first, her living hand helping to guide Yvlon, who walked with a new, fragile steadiness. Yvlon’s face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but the hollow despair was gone. In its place was a weary, quiet acceptance. She was wrapped in a fresh blanket, her bandaged stumps hidden, but she held her head up.

Nesha followed them out, a guardian shadow. She saw Vivian and Ksmvr emerging from the back room and her smile lit the hallway. “Looks like everyone’s been properly introduced.”

Pisces, still standing by the wall, watched as the four of them—Ceria, Yvlon, Ksmvr, Vivian—converged in the hallway. They were different. The air around them had changed. They were tethered now, to this place, to each other, in a way that went beyond contract or camaraderie.

Yvlon’s eyes found Pisces. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. An acknowledgment. They had all passed through the same fire, even if they had burned differently.

Ceria looked at her team—her new, broken, reborn team. Her skeletal hand flexed, frost glittering on the bones. “The Horns of Hammerad,” she said, her voice clear in the quiet hall. “Here. Now.”

Nesha leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed beneath her magnificent chest, her expression one of deep, satisfied contentment. Vivian drifted to her side, slipping an arm around her waist, resting her head on Nesha’s shoulder. The two keepers watched, their work done for now, as the threads of their web drew tight, holding their new guests, their new family, safe against the coming dark.