"Make some coffee, Ty," I said, my voice barely holding together. "It's going to be a long night."
Tybalt didn't argue. For once, he didn't even complain about the "unreasonable labor conditions" or the fact that his knees were still knocking together from the sub-zero winds of Garchvabd. He just nodded, his face pale and smeared with violet ice-dust, and shuffled toward the kitchen area of our newly unified hub.
The communal hall felt different now. Before Rule 101, this place had been a strange, temporary intersection—a neutral ground we were forced into. Now, the walls seemed more solid, the fireplace warmer. The five doors leading to our private rooms had shifted; they were no longer sterile white portals but heavy oak doors with our names carved into the wood. Even the air felt less like bleach and more like the interior of 42 Whispering Lane.
