Peace does not arrive like victory.
It arrives slowly.
Unevenly.
Like a wound learning how to close.
Three months after the sealing at the first stone, sanctuary no longer feels like a war camp pretending to be a city.
It feels like a city again.
Markets fill the lower roads every morning. Caravan bells echo along the valley passes. Coven envoys argue with human traders over weights and measurements as if those disputes matter more than armies.
Children play in the courtyard where soldiers once drilled.
The world is remembering how to breathe.
Aurora watches it from the council balcony.
Below her, two young wolves chase each other with wooden spears while an older woman scolds them for nearly knocking over a fruit cart.
A mundane scene.
And yet it feels miraculous.
Mara steps beside her, folding her arms against the railing.
"You're doing that thing again," she says.
Aurora glances sideways.
"What thing?"
"Watching people like you're surprised they're alive."
