Chapter 81 | Embrace | Leah
The day after the Reform Act passed, Ivy was waiting for me at the academy gates.
She stood next to a stone pillar in a deep purple dress—her nicest outfit, the kind she only wore for really important events, pulled from the back of her closet. Silver vine patterns were stitched into the skirt, catching the morning light. Her brown hair was tied back with a silver ribbon, a few loose strands falling around her face. Her brown eyes lit up the second she saw me, like two little flames sparking to life, and then—
"You jerk."
She rushed over and punched my shoulder. Not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make me wince. Her fist was small but had an apothecary's accuracy—hitting exactly where it hurt most without doing any real damage.
"You were gone for two whole months!" Ivy's voice cracked like she was about to cry, like a string pulled too tight. "Two months! No message, no explanation, nothing! Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
"I'm sorry," I said, my own voice catching.
"Don't apologize." Ivy hugged me tight, so tight I could feel her heart racing, so tight I could smell the familiar herbal scent in her hair—lavender, mugwort, and that special blend she made herself. Her body shook a little, like a leaf hanging on in the wind. "You came back. That's all that matters."
We stood there hugging at the academy gates for a long time. Students walking by gave us curious looks, some whispering, some pointing. But we didn't care. Twenty years of friendship was stronger than any stares.
Ivy pulled back and looked me over carefully. Her eyes were like a scanner, checking everything from my hair to my wings to my feet, not missing a single detail.
"You've changed," she said.
"How?"
"Your eyes," she said, her voice softer now. "They're brighter."
"Progenitor Awakening."
"And—" her eyes dropped to the moonstone necklace around my neck, then went wide, her pupils shrinking to tiny dots. "That's—"
"Kael's grandmother's," I said.
Ivy's mouth fell open. Then she laughed—a real laugh that came from deep inside, like spring sunshine melting a frozen stream. She laughed so happily, so genuinely, it made something swell in my chest.
"You deserve it," she said, her voice quiet but every word heavy. "You deserve all of this."
I looked at her. For twenty years, she was the only one who never left. Even when I had nothing, even when people mocked me, bullied me, ignored me—
She was always there.
She taught me how to identify herbs, helped me mix medicines, sat with me until dawn when nightmares woke me up. She never asked "are you okay" because she knew I'd just say "I'm fine." She just quietly did things—made a bowl of hot soup, brewed a cup of calming tea, did everything a friend should do.
"Ivy," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you," I said, my voice shaking a little. "For always being there."
Her eyes got red. Like two pools of water catching the sunlight, shimmering and bright.
"Idiot," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting just a bit. "Isn't that what friends do?"
We smiled at each other. No more words needed. Twenty years of understanding let us read every feeling in each other's eyes.
"Oh, right." Ivy pulled a small paper packet from her pocket and handed it to me. "This is for you."
"What is it?"
"Calming tea," she said. "You were gone two months, I bet you didn't sleep well. This tea will help you sleep through the night, no nightmares."
I took the packet, my fingers brushing over the rough paper. A faint herbal smell came from inside—lavender, chamomile, and a hint of mint's coolness.
"When did you make this?"
"Yesterday," Ivy said, the corner of her mouth curving up. "I knew you'd be back today, so I stayed up all night making it."
My heart felt warm. Like someone handing you a cup of hot tea on a freezing winter night.
"Ivy."
"What?"
"You're an idiot too," I said. "An idiot who stayed up all night making tea for me."
She laughed. The sound was light, like wind chimes swaying in the breeze. Then she reached out and straightened my collar, like an older sister seeing off a younger one. "Make sure you come back and tell me if the blood-crystal lamps in the Parliament building really use virgin blood."
"Where did you hear that?"
"Academy gossip," she said with a wink. "I want to know if it's true."
Sunlight broke through the clouds and fell on us. Reformist flags fluttered on a distant tower, snapping in the wind like a new banner. Students moved through the academy—some rushing to class, some reading in the garden, some practicing flying in the air.
A new era had started.
Imperfect, messy, full of unknowns.
But—
We were here.
That was enough.