Wren
It was Zephyr, of all people, who made the rule.
We were at the war table the morning after the vault, maps everywhere, fifty days written on Lucien's slate like a wound, and I watched my three men grinding themselves down into soldiers, and I hated it. Then Zephyr set down his pen, looked at the slate a long moment, and said something I'll love him for until I die.
"Sera said wait for joy." He looked up at the three of us. "Then joy is part of the war plan. We court her. Properly. All of it, the dates, the flowers, the foolishness, everything she should have had years ago. Maddox gets our days." His jaw set. "He does not get our evenings."
Lucien wrote it on the slate, under the countdown, in his ruled hand: Evenings: hers.
Caius claimed the first one before the ink dried.
"Tom
