Wren
We came home from the Moot Stones to a mansion that had already surrendered.
Berta and Maren had ridden ahead with the supply wagons, and by the time our column reached the gates, the great hall had been converted into what Caius immediately named the War Room, Wedding Edition, and what Lucien, after one look at the wall, refused to name at all.
There was a wall. A whole wall. Lists, sketches, fabric swatches, a seating chart the size of a battle map, and at the center of it, pinned like a commanding officer's portrait, a calendar with one date circled in red so many times the paper had begun to give up.
The first full moon of spring. Nine weeks away.
"The Snow Moon brought you together," Berta declared, when I opened my mouth. "The Flower Moon will bond you. It's poetry, it's tr
