For a while, nothing came.

No banners on any ridge. No messengers bearing threats disguised as courtesies. No cold dread threading through Jasmine's thoughts from the twins, who had, since the naming, settled into something closer to ordinary infant restlessness than the eerie, prophecy-laden awareness they'd carried before birth. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Jasmine allowed her shoulders to unclench even slightly, allowed herself to believe, cautiously, that a season of quiet might actually be permitted to last.

Jasmine allowed herself, cautiously, to believe in the peace. She spent her mornings with Elara and Ronan, learning the small, specific rhythms of motherhood that no Council...