Mara placed a gentle hand on Tessa's shoulder. "I think what we need," she said, her voice cutting through the awkward silence, "is to focus on what matters. And what matters is that our daughter is safe." She looked at Amelia with genuine gratitude. "There's going to be a party. For Amelia."

  Amelia didn't move, but her ears twitched upward with surprise.

  Pixie, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly gasped. "For Amelia and me!" She bounced in place, her momentary restraint evaporating like morning dew.

  “Yes. You too,” Mara relented.

  "I knew you were smart! I volunteer as co-party planner!" Pixie spun in a circle, her cloak flaring behind her like she was auditioning for a royal entrance.

  Buster groaned, settling his chin back onto his paws. "It begins."

  "I already have a color scheme," Pixie continued without pausing for breath. "It's called 'emotional victory.'"

  Jorrin sighed behind his mug, but there was a hint of amusement beneath the exasperation. “Whatever it is, keep it away from the curtains.”

  “Can I help too?” Tessa begged.

  “You’re hired!” Pixie declared, as if bestowing a great honor. “Welcome to Team Celebration! The Glitter Gala is on!”

  Moose let out a slow breath, watching the energy in the room shift from tense to something lighter. "I assume I'm on crowd control."

  "You're on vibe enforcement," Pixie said, her tone deadly serious. "Very different. More prestige."

  The room filled with a tentative lightness as laughter rippled through—not the boisterous kind, but the gentle relief that comes after fear has passed. Jorrin exchanged a look with Mara, who was still holding Tessa close. They'd nearly lost something precious today. That wasn't forgotten, even as plans for celebration began taking shape.

  Ethan watched it all, feeling the weight of what had almost happened—and what still might. His eyes drifted to the stairwell, then back to his Pack.

  "I think we need to have a discussion about Gwenna's offer," he said quietly, meeting Moose's gaze, then Buster's, and finally Lyra's. "Upstairs?"

  They nodded in silent agreement.

  Ethan turned to Pixie, who was already halfway up a chair to grab a string of paper decorations Tessa had pulled from a drawer.

  "Pix, your choice," he said. "You can come up with us to talk about Gwenna, or you can stay down here with Emmy and help with the party."

  Pixie froze mid-reach, balancing precariously on the chair. For a rare moment, she was completely still as she considered. Her eyes darted between the streamers in her paws and Ethan's face.

  "I..." she hesitated, clearly torn. Then her eyes brightened. "I think I'll stay and help Amelia! You'll make the right choice, Alpha. You always do."

  Her trust hit him harder than he expected. "Thanks, Pixie."

  "BESIDES!" she continued, immediately bouncing back to full enthusiasm, "We need streamers and cake planning and Amelia needs a special throne since she's the HERO OF THE DAY!"

  Amelia's ears flattened. "I don't need a throne."

  "Everyone needs a throne at least once," Pixie declared with unwavering confidence.

  Mara caught Ethan's eye as he passed. "We'll keep an eye on those two," she said with a warm smile. "Take your time."

  Ethan gave Amelia a gentle pat on the head. "We won't be long," he promised, then led the others toward the stairs, leaving behind the warm chaos of celebration for the more uncertain discussion that waited.

  Ethan dropped onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Okay. One more thing before we talk about Gwenna.”

  Buster yawned without opening his eyes. “Please let it be food.”

  “Calendar,” Ethan said. “Days. Months. Someone said ‘Tidesday’ and I realized I don’t even know what day it is anymore.”

  Lyra glanced up. “There are 15 months. 24 days each. Six-day weeks.”

  Ethan squinted. “That sounds... short? I think?”

  “15 times 24 is 360,” Buster muttered.

  Lyra nodded. “Then 5 festival days at the end of the year. They're outside the calendar.”

  Ethan rubbed his face. “Earth had 365 too. But our days were 24 hours, 60 minutes, 60 seconds.”

  Lyra blinked. “Sixty? That’s absurd. Here it’s 10 hours a day. 100 minutes per hour. 100 seconds per minute.”

  Buster opened one eye. “So 100,000 seconds per day here. Earth days were 86,400.”

  Ethan blinked. “So the days are slower?”

  “You’ve lived 28 Earth years,” Buster said. “That’s 28 × 365 × 86,400 = 884,736,000 seconds.”

  He yawned. “Divide that by 36,500,000—the number of seconds in a year here—and you get 24.23. You’re 24.23 years old.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Ethan stared. “Wait. I’m younger here?”

  “In this world, yeah.”

  “I could get behind that,” Ethan said, leaning back against the wall. “24 sounds better.”

  Buster: "Wonderful. You've gained four years to make more questionable decisions. Can we continue?"

  Ethan sighed. "Okay. Tidesday?"

  Lyra gave a small nod. “Second day of the week.”

  Ethan blinked. “Wait, what’s the first?”

  “Flamesday,” she said. “Then Tidesday, Earthday, Windday, Voidday, and Spiritday.”

  He ran a hand down his face. “Okay. Great. Elemental week. Got it.”

  Buster: “Still better than Tuesdays.”

  Then Moose spoke—steady, calm. “Are we ready to focus?”

  Ethan sat up a little straighter. “Yeah. Sorry. Just needed the detour.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We need to talk about Gwenna.”

  Moose didn’t say anything at first. Neither did Lyra. It wasn’t tension—just careful thinking.

  “She’s capable,” he said eventually. “Fast. Precise. Didn’t hesitate when it counted.”

  “She aimed to kill,” Buster added. “Not complaining, just... noting.”

  “She’s seen something like this before,” Ethan said. “Goblins. Beasts. Runework. She said it’s spreading.”

  Lyra nodded slightly. “And now she thinks you’re part of the answer.”

  “She asked to work with us,” Ethan said. “Offered support—resources, channels, cover. Paid for the inn before we even got back.”

  “Not out of charity,” Lyra said. “She’s locked into a system oath. She needs you now.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan said. “And she’s making the best of it.”

  Buster snorted. “So we’re her ticket to figuring this out.”

  “Maybe,” Ethan said. “But I don’t think she’s trying to use us. If she were, she’d be playing from a different angle.”

  “She hasn’t done anything wrong,” Moose said. “But she hasn’t told us everything either.”

  “She swore that oath before she knew what it would cost,” Lyra added. “That says something. Maybe reckless. Maybe honest. Maybe both.”

  Ethan tapped his fingers against his knee. “She’s offering training halls. Academy access. No crowds. No questions.” He glanced up. “Honestly? I’d like to figure out what the hell I’m doing with this magic stuff.”

  He pushed off the bed and paced a few steps. “Look, this corruption—whatever it is—it felt wrong. Not just magic-wrong. Like... something that shouldn't be here. Like something trying to fix the body, but doing it wrong. Like a spell pretending to be medicine.” He stopped, turning back to face them. “If Gwenna's been tracking it for months, she knows more than we do.”

  “And the Academy library might have answers,” Lyra said. “About what you did. How you cleansed it.”

  “You think there are books on me?” Ethan asked with a half-smile.

  “I think there are books on everything,” she replied. “And right now, we could use some actual information instead of just stumbling around.”

  Moose looked between them. “Is there any reason not to help?”

  Buster snorted. “Besides putting ourselves on a corrupt city's radar? Or the fact she's asking us to hunt through sewers and forge districts? Not exactly a spa day.”

  Ethan stopped pacing. “Yeah. I think we can help.” He paused. “This thing’s bigger than us. But we’re careful. We watch each other’s backs.”

  “As always,” Moose said.

  “All right.” Ethan headed for the door. “Let’s go tell her before Pixie convinces everyone to wear party hats.”

  Buster groaned as he stood. “There’s no way she’s wearing a hat. You gave her a hat phobia with that horrible story about the lady who skins puppies.”

  Lyra blinked. “What?!”

  Buster shrugged. “Ethan said it was for kids.”

  Lyra stared at him, horrified. “That’s worse. Ethan, your world is terrifying. I’m glad you’re here now.”

  Ethan paused mid-step, one hand still on the doorframe. “Yeah, well... maybe I’m glad too. Also it was a coat… not a hat. I don’t even know how the hat thing happened.”

  As they descended the stairs, the sounds of celebration grew louder—laughter, clinking dishes, and what might have been someone attempting to sing.

  By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the room had transformed.

  Paper decorations crisscrossed the ceiling in uneven arcs. A stack of mismatched mugs stood proudly in the center of one table, glittering faintly with someone’s failed attempt at enchanted confetti. Tessa and Amelia were deep in negotiation over streamers, while Pixie buzzed from person to person like an overcaffeinated parade marshal.

  Jorrin emerged from the kitchen balancing a tray of honeycakes, expertly dodging Tessa as she darted past with ribbons trailing behind her.

  "Careful there, lightning bolt," he called after his daughter. "Save some energy for the actual party."

  Kip looked up from where he was arranging mugs in a precarious tower. "Dad! Are those the special ones with cinnamon?"

  "Only for my favorite son," Jorrin replied with a wink.

  Kip squinted. "What about Tomlin?"

  "You're right," Jorrin said. "Tomlin’s my favorite."

  "Rude," Kip said, but he was grinning.

  Jorrin ruffled his hair and set the tray down. "Now where’s that little berserker anyway? He was supposed to be helping your mother with the napkins..."

  At that moment, Buster trotted through the room with as much dignity as he could manage—ears back, eyes forward, and a distinct air of resignation. Behind him, Tomlin tottered after him at full toddler speed, fists clenched and mouth wide open in delighted pursuit.

  “He bit me again,” Buster said loudly. “Someone do something. I’m too handsome for this.”

  In the corner, a trio of Silver Thorn regulars had claimed their usual table. Old Farren, the retired blacksmith, raised his mug as Pixie zoomed past.

  "That's some beast you've got there," he called to Ethan. "Faster than my youngest apprentice, and twice as useful!"

  Beside him, Merida the herb-seller nodded. "The little one reminds me of my first familiar. Had a sparrow once. Couldn't sit still either. Drove my customers mad knocking over mint jars."

  "Remember when this place was quiet?" Darrin grumbled. "Before Jorrin and Mara filled it with noise and children?"

  "You’ve been saying that for eight years," Merida replied. "And you still show up every night."

  "The ale's decent," Darrin muttered. No one disagreed.

  A few seats down, another patron blinked and stared. “Did that... beast just say something? Beasts aren’t supposed to talk, right?”

  Jorrin, polishing a mug behind the bar, didn’t even look up. “Yep.”

  The man looked at his drink. “Should I stop drinking?”

  Jorrin shrugged. “I thought about it too. Then I realized the ale helps you get over it faster.”

  Near the hearth, Buster had entered into what he called “critical negotiations” with Kip, who was carefully feeding strips of jerky and meat-roll crumbs into the small dimensional pouch clipped to Buster’s collar—his personal snackmergency pack.

  “So I get to ride you whenever I want?” Kip asked, eyes wide.

  “Only indoors,” Buster said. “And only if you keep the left side stocked with bacon. That’s the strategic side.”

  Kip frowned in thought. “Counteroffer, indoor and outdoor rides… and I get you a pie.”

  Buster paused. “What kind of pie?”

  “Whatever kind my mom doesn’t yell at me for stealing,” Kip said seriously.

  Buster considered this. “Deal.”