The fortress did not celebrate.
There were no cheers, no victory fires, no songs echoing through the ice halls. The Northwake Fjords had survived the night, yes—but survival here was never confused with triumph. It was merely permission to wake up again.
Rhen felt that truth in his bones as he stared at the frost-veined ceiling above the narrow cot. His body ached in ways pain couldn't explain. The wound at his side had closed, but the hollow beneath it had not. Something vital had been taken—not ripped away, but carefully removed, like a thread pulled loose from a tapestry.
He turned his head.
Nymera slept beside him, curled on her side, her breathing shallow but steady. The tidefire patterns along her skin were dimmer now, their glow muted as if wrapped in ash. Every so often, her brow furrowed, and Rhen felt a ripple through the bond—echoes of dreams she did not want.
He wanted to wake her.
He didn't.
Because he knew what she would say.
I'm fine.
And because the lie would hurt worse than the truth.
Rhen rose quietly, careful not to disturb her, and pulled on his coat. The corridor outside was empty, the stone cold beneath his bare feet. He moved through the fortress on instinct, following the quiet pull of moonlight until he emerged onto a narrow overlook carved into the cliff.
The fjord lay below—still, glass-dark, the ice holding firm. Snow drifted lazily, as if the world itself were tired.
Rhen leaned against the stone and exhaled.
For the first time since the Convergence began, the wolf did not answer.
He closed his eyes, reaching inward.
Nothing.
Not silence—absence.
Panic flared, sharp and sudden. He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing harder, searching for the familiar presence that had always been there, pacing, watching, alive.
Still nothing.
"No," he whispered.
The bond stirred faintly, Nymera's awareness brushing against his like a hand in the dark.
Rhen?
He swallowed. Go back to sleep.
She didn't.
Moments later, footsteps crunched softly behind him. Nymera wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, the cold biting harder at her now than it used to.
"You're awake," she said.
"So are you."
She came to stand beside him, following his gaze to the fjord. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Nymera said quietly, "It took something from you."
Rhen's jaw tightened. "From us."
She shook her head slowly. "No. From you."
He turned to her sharply. "What are you talking about?"
Nymera hesitated, pain flickering across her face. Through the bond, he felt her struggle—whether to protect him from the truth or respect him enough to tell it.
She chose truth.
"I can't feel the wolf the way I did before," she said. "It's not gone. But it's… farther. Quieter."
Rhen stared out at the ice again. "It's gone silent."
Nymera's breath hitched. "Rhen—"
"It's okay," he said too quickly. "I'm still me."
But even as he said it, doubt coiled in his chest.
Who was he without the wolf?
The beast had been a curse, yes—but also a compass. A connection to instinct, to survival, to something ancient and honest. Losing it felt like losing a language he'd spoken since birth.
Nymera reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. Her touch was warmer than the air, grounding.
"You're still the Bridge," she said firmly. "Still you. The wolf isn't what made you strong."
He laughed softly. "Easy to say when you didn't lose half your soul."
Her grip tightened. "You think I didn't lose anything?"
He turned, really looking at her now.
She met his gaze steadily, then lifted his hand and pressed it over her chest.
The bond opened.
And Rhen felt it.
A hollow, aching quiet where a future had once lived. A life Nymera had dreamed of without ever naming—children who would never exist, songs that would never be sung to them, a continuity the sea had always promised her kind.
The Deep One had not taken randomly.
It had taken balance.
Rhen's breath broke. "Ny…"
She shook her head. "We agreed. Together."
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, as if the world might try to take more if he loosened his grip. She pressed her face into his chest, and for a long moment, they simply breathed—two beings learning the shape of what remained.
Footsteps approached.
Skelda emerged from the stairwell, her expression unreadable. She took in their posture, the quiet gravity between them, and nodded once.
"It's spreading," she said without preamble. "Word of what happened here."
Nymera straightened, wiping her eyes. "How bad?"
"That depends on your definition," Skelda replied. "The fjords are holding. Other regions aren't so lucky."
Rhen frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the lie is unraveling faster than anyone expected," Skelda said. "And not everyone wants it gone."
She gestured inland. "We intercepted messengers. The Moonbound Elders are splitting—some want negotiation. Others want eradication."
Nymera stiffened. "Of us."
"Of the idea you represent," Skelda corrected. "Which is worse."
Rhen exhaled slowly. "And the sea?"
Skelda's gaze hardened. "The High Tides Council has declared you Unmoored."
Nymera's heart sank. "That's a death sentence."
"It's worse," Skelda said. "It means they deny you lineage, protection, and memory. To them, you don't exist."
Nymera went very still.
Rhen felt it through the bond—the old wound reopening. Not fear. Grief.
"They're erasing me," she whispered.
Rhen stepped closer, voice low and fierce. "They don't get to decide that."
Skelda watched them for a moment, then said, "There's more."
Rhen braced himself.
"The Deep Ones aren't just stirring beneath the fjords," Skelda continued. "They're moving. Toward population centers. Places where balance is already fragile."
Nymera looked up sharply. "They're hunting instability."
"Yes," Skelda said. "And your bond is the loudest thing in the world right now."
Rhen felt the weight settle again—the truth he'd been circling since the cavern.
"So this is it," he said. "Wherever we go, it gets worse."
Skelda nodded. "Which is why you can't wander anymore."
Nymera frowned. "What are you saying?"
Skelda met her gaze. "You need to choose a ground. A place to stand. A place people can come to you—not chase you."
Rhen thought of the Shattered Reach. Of the fjords. Of all the places shaped by fear and aftermath.
"What about the old city?" he asked suddenly. "The one beneath the ice. The one that learned restraint."
Skelda's eyes sharpened. "Northwake's heart."
Nymera's breath caught. "It's abandoned."
"Not forgotten," Skelda said. "And it sits on a convergence of ley currents. Land and sea."
Rhen nodded slowly. "A place where the Bridge can rest."
Silence fell as the idea settled.
Skelda finally said, "If you claim it, you paint a target on your backs."
Nymera straightened, resolve burning through the grief. "We already are a target."
Rhen squeezed her hand. "At least this way, we choose where we stand."
Skelda studied them, then gave a short, decisive nod. "Then I'll help you prepare."
Nymera blinked. "Why?"
Skelda's mouth curved into something like a smile. "Because the world needs a place where truth doesn't freeze or drown."
The wind shifted. Snow fell thicker.
Rhen looked out over the fjord and felt the absence of the wolf again—but also something else.
Not emptiness.
Space.
Space for something new to grow.
He turned to Nymera, pressing his forehead to hers. "We'll make it ours."
She closed her eyes. "Together."
And for the first time since the Deep One had taken its due, the bond warmed—not brighter, not stronger—
—but steadier.