Chapter 26 #2
Jules waggles a hand. “I tried it all. PR, marketing, wrangling rich assholes and broken systems. Now, I run a school here for the children, and I adore it.”
“See?” Phoebe says. “At Castletide, I work with the sea creatures, learning what I can and writing detailed logs about it. It’s fascinating,” she explains.
“Looks like we’re all trained to run toward the fire, not away from it.”
I sip my tea and let that sink in.
“Must be something in the water.”
“Definitely something in the water,” Jules mutters. “Or the bagels.”
We all hum in agreement.
Bagels are sacred.
Silence falls for a moment—not awkward, just full. Comfortable.
The kind of silence that feels like a blanket instead of a wall.
“So,” I say slowly, “when the men say Nightfall is responsible for all the dreams in the multiverse?”
“It’s literal,” Jules cuts in, no hesitation.
“Dead literal,” Phoebe echoes. “Kael tried to explain it once. Something about purpose. Nightfall exists to fill all worlds and peoples with hope.”
She says it softly, like a memory she’s still turning over in her hands.
“Dream ore from The Ember Vein, to the forges, to the Dreamwrights,” Jules adds. “Dreams, nightmares, wishes, wild ideas—everything that makes people believe there’s more than just the grind. That all flows through here.”
I picture the mine, the heat, the black rock veined with lava-light.
I picture the miners’ faces.
The calluses on their hands.
The way Thorne’s jaw clenched when he talked about the SoulTakers.
“It hits a little different when you’ve been to the camps,” I admit. “I’ve seen the toll it takes. The guys in the tunnels—they’re not abstract people, er, Demons. They’re just people. Tired. Proud. Scared and stubborn and still going back down because the forges won’t burn without them.”
Phoebe nods, eyes soft.
“Kael says The Ember Vein is like the heartbeat of Nightfall. If it stops, everything starts to unravel.”
“And the SoulTakers want that?” I ask, brow furrowing. “They want to stop dreams? For what? That’s like anti-life. Anti-everything.”
“They’re not just raiders,” Jules says quietly. “They’re bringers of unraveling. Their magic feeds on despair, not hope. If the dreams stop flowing, if people stop believing in more, it gives the SoulTakers more ground to stand on.”
“Less imagination,” Phoebe adds. “Less fight. Less try. That’s what they want.”
My stomach turns.
“Great,” I sigh. “So we’re dating the last line of defense between every universe and total creative burnout.”
“Dating?” Jules repeats, grinning. “Honey, you’re bound. Married. Astrally shackled. Join the club.”
Phoebe bumps my shoulder with hers. “Honestly though? Do you feel it? That… thing? Like Nightfall isn’t just where you are, it’s where you’re plugged in?”
I look down at my hands.
I think of the miners. Evonne’s tired-but-bright eyes when we talked about emergency response.
Of Thorne’s people bowing to him, and him hating it—but still burning himself out to keep them safe.
I think of how right it felt, standing in the Vein’s shadow.
How the air tasted like smoke and possibility. How my chest loosened for the first time in years when I realized I’m needed here.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do. I feel tethered. Like there’s a cord running from the Vein, through Nightfall, through him and right into me.”
Jules exhales slowly. “Same.”
“Same,” Phoebe echoes.
“But it’s not just Nightfall,” I add, my voice a little rough. “It’s them. Thorne. Kael. Alaric. I didn’t come here for some grand cosmic purpose. I said yes because some insane, flaming skyscraper of a man looked me in the eye and said his world was dying and he needed help.”
“And you don’t say no to that,” Phoebe whispers.
“I don’t know how,” I admit. “Back home, I had a job. An apartment. A microwave that never quite worked right and neighbors who screamed at each other through the walls. It was fine. But it wasn’t… this.”
“Belonging,” Jules says softly.
The word lands like a weight in my chest.
“Yeah,” I say. “Belonging.”
Phoebe’s eyes shine. “I thought I was crazy for not wanting to go back when I had the chance. But I walk the markets at Castletide, and I know the fishmongers’ kids and the harbor Witches and the beautiful sea creatures and I just… I fit.”
“At the Eyrie, the staff doesn’t look at me like I’m some mistake,” Jules says. “They bring me tea when I’m working too late. They fuss at Alaric when he overworks. They care. Not because we’re Lords’ mates. Because we’re theirs.”
“And you?” Phoebe nudges me. “What about the Broken Plains?”
I picture the blazing savannah. The Fire Mustangs. The miners sharing jokes in the mess hall, nodding to me like I’m not an intruder. Evonne calling me “Lady Delia” with a little smile she didn’t bother hiding. Masha’s motherly bossiness.
Thorne’s voice, low and rough, This is your life now. Forward, with you.
“I’m not saying it’s not terrifying,” I answer. “It is. I’m literally sleeping with a fifteen-foot flaming skeleton sometimes.”
Jules snort-laughs.
“But when he looks at me,” I continue, “when we walk the camp together and he actually listens when I talk about triage and training and response times… I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Like there’s a Delia-shaped hole here that I’m finally filling.”
Phoebe smiles softly. “He looks at you like you hung the stars over his volcano.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Shut up.”
Jules nudges my knee with hers. “We’re not saying this is easy. Or safe. Or guaranteed. But if Nightfall is the source of dreams, maybe it makes sense that we found ours here. Not on some cozy beach in Belmar. Here. With them.”
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “So what you’re saying is the multiverse’s dream-factory decided to pull three Jersey girls off the bench and throw us in the deep end.”
“Pretty much,” Jules says.
“And our job is to keep the forges burning,” Phoebe adds. “To keep them from going dark. In every sense.”
I look between them—two women I’ve just met and somehow already trust more than most people I’ve known my whole life.
“You know,” I say, voice quiet but sure, “if the SoulTakers really want to stop dreams, picking a fight with three stubborn-ass Jersey girls and their Demon Lords might have been a tactical error.”
Jules grins, sharp and bright. “Oh, absolutely.”
Phoebe lifts her cup. “To tactical errors.”
I lift mine too, heart steady and fierce.
“To Nightfall,” I say. “To our men. And to us.”
We clink our cups, three little sounds ringing out under the Gemini moon.
And for the first time since stepping into that burning house on Earth, the fire in my chest feels like home.