Page 279 of The Dryad Storm

Lukas is still fiery and high-strung, but blossoming in the circle of fiery love coming not only from fire-resistant Elloren and Yvan and their daughter, Tessla, but from so many friends and family who are gathered here now—his aunts Ariel and Wynter as well as Naga’s expansive horde, along with Grandma Soleiya’s community of Fire Fae friends and loved ones.

“I helped make the violin,” Tessla crows with an emphatic flap of her wings and a cheeky smile, the thirteen-year-old flame-eyed and fiery, her black horns glinting purple in the moonlight, her garb, which is usually every shade of the rainbow, glowing purple instead, lines of Xishlon moons printed along every hem. A powerful Icaral and Light Mage, Tessla is the spitting image of both her father and equally fiery grandmother, Soleiya, who hovers nearby. But Tessla’s black hair and green coloring are all Elloren, a rainbow parakeet kindred perched on her shoulder.

Valen opens the violin case, heart leaping when he finds the instrument made of purple wood and handcrafted by Elloren and Tessla nestled inside, two lacquered purple moons shining bright from its surface. For a moment his throat is too knotted with emotion to allow speech.

“It’s beautiful,” he finally manages as he’s enveloped in a hug by Yvan, Elloren, and Tessla, wiry Lukas reaching out to tentatively bump Valen on the arm. Valen ruffles Lukas’s hair and is rewarded by a quick flash of a smile.

“Welcome to an even fuller bond to our very strange family,” his uncle Wrenfir drawls as he approaches with his partner, the Death Fae–Dryad Hazel, their arms wrapped loosely around each other, tendrils of Hazel’s Darkness encircling themboth as Wrenfir’s bobcat hugs his side. There’s a huge smile on Wrenfir’s dark lips as he holds out a small vial filled with midnight-black liquid, a swirl of Dark mist encircling it. “A potion,” Hazel explains. “To further enhance the night vision you’re about to develop along with those amber eyes.”

Valen thanks them both and takes the vial, the Dark mist winding around his hand. He considers how different Wrenfir has been since Hazel emerged from his melding with Natural Death several months earlier.

It’s as if a heavy misery lifted from Wrenfir, their renewed pairing resulting in the most unexpected of outcomes. Their magic infusing each other’s rootlines, they promptly set about pooling their Deathkin and Dryad magic to create a net of magic able to hunt down and kill the microbes responsible for the Red Grippe, rapidly clearing the cruel pathogen from the East entirely.

Forever wiping out the deadly disease.

Emotion constricting his chest, Valen considers how so many Dryad’khin couples have merged power through their love pairings. He wonders, as he pockets the vial and anticipation tingles over his skin, what revelations the pairing of his soon-to-be Lupine self with geomancer Fern will bring.

A flood of Change Day gifts follow—a small statue of Vo’s purple Xishlon dragon manifestation, gifted to him by his uncles Trystan and Vothe, who are partially responsible for the restoration of the mighty Zonor River; a piece of rare purple lumenstone shaped like a Xishlon moon, given to him by Fern and Fyn’ir’s parents, Sage and Ra’Ven; a pale-white moon orchid gifted to him by Yulan and her Alfsigr love, Rhysindor; and a green Caledonian pine seedling brought back East for him by Valasca, her love, Ni Vin, and their good friend Alder, along with an invitation to visit their fledgling Amazakaraan colony in the Western Realm, where they’ve recovered seeds under the Shadow filth and are fighting back the gray with rewilded land.

Valen can barely keep up with the flood of gifts and love. He accepts an emerald tin covered with Smaragdalfar script from Mora’lee and Fyon.

“Smaragdalfar courting tea,” Mora’lee saucily reveals with a wink and a sly glance toward Fern as he accepts the tin.

“Enough for thirty cups,” Fyon adds, grinning.

Next comes a conch shell holding whale song from Gareth and Marina; a violet reed basket that Or’myr, Tierney, and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Li’ra, crafted for him, purple gems sewn into the basket’s intricate design, tins of mushroom tea inside; then a portal stone from Gwynn, Mavrik, and Gwynn’s Dryad’khin parents,containing enough charge for several journeys to visit distant friends and family; and a whole host of other presents, including an Amaz blessing pendant depicting the Goddess’s starlight deer form from Queen Freyja and her partner, Clive, and a statue of a purple crystalline geo-tree crafted by Thierren and Sparrow, the geo-tree having become a potent symbol of victory over the Shadow.

Finally, all the Change Day gifts have been received, Valen’s friends carrying them off to create a sizable pile at the clearing’s edge, but Valen knows he’d be content if there were no gifts at all. Because he’s rich in the most important things he could ever hope to possess.

Connection... and love.

And soon I’ll be even richer, he muses, looking to the Forest’s canopy.

Rafe steps forward, smiling with vast affection. His father’s unfailing paternal love washes over Valen, filling him with the fierce desire to do his family proud.

“Are you ready, son?” Rafe asks, glancing up at the Xishlon moon, Vo’s benevolent light shining down on them all.

Valen straightens, thrilling to the muscular, energetic feel of his body, vitalized by the moon, his emotions swept up in anticipation of joining fully to his pack then to his love, Fern.

“I’m ready,” he answers, clear and sure as the moon above.

The throngs around them grow reverentially quiet, anticipation crackling in the air, as he and Rafe speak the traditional words of consent and Rafe grips hold of Valen’s upper arm and moves to lower his elongated canines to the base of Valen’s neck, Valen’s heart quickening to a pounding rhythm.

“WAIT!”

A woman’s urgent, desperate plea sounds out through the clearing.

Everyone pauses, and Rafe straightens as they all look toward the Gardnerian woman rushing out of the purple tree line, her hue a pale, dormant green, her ears rounded.

Four other Mages accompany her, their pale green faces tensed with dour expressions, all of them garbed in conservative Styvian Mage blacks. White birds are embroidered over their chests, wands sheathed at the male Mages’ sides, all of them around Jules Kristian’s age.

“What is it you seek, friends?” Rafe inquires calmly, as Diana gives a subtle flick of her hand, claws snicking out, the pack tensing as one—an army facing possibly hostile invaders.

The Mage woman’s narrowed gaze darts around the gathered crowd, as if sizing up an enemy, and Valen is struck by her resemblance to...himself, the two of them possessing the same sharp features, vividly green eyes and curve to their lips.

The Mage woman is now peering at him strangely, as if he’s the focal point of the entire world, the family and friends surrounding him mere chaff—something to be swept clear away.

“I am Magda, your aunt—your only surviving relative,” she states, shooting Rafe and Diana a look of barely concealed loathing before fixing her intense gaze back on Valen. “We have spentyearstrying to find you. We guessed you were here when we heard of this gathering. Valen,please. We need to talk before you do this irrevocable thing.”

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