The cottage living room had never felt so small.

At 9:03 p.m., exactly one week after Laken walked out of the foundry carrying the fire’s surrender, Eliza Voss called them all to order with a single clap of her hands. The sound cracked like glacier ice breaking open to reveal spring.

They gathered in a circle on the rug (Reed and Laken on the couch, her head on his shoulder, frost-fire wings folded tight against her back like a living cloak; Harold ...