It was every painting on the table.
Everywhere she looked, Lucen and Catlyn stared back. Their first meeting. The soul-binding ceremony. Lucen drawing light from her. Catlyn escaping. Her whole story.
Their bond was visualized as a glow between their hearts, connection and chain at the same time. It was more beautiful, more elegant than she ever could have pictured it herself.
She’d seen fan art before, but having it laid out like this—every scene she’d ever imagined, all at once—was overwhelming. The idea that someone had read her words and been inspired enough to turn them into something beautiful of their own. She put a gloved hand over her mouth, blinking against the sudden wetness.
“That’s all you,” Darren murmured, eyes steady on hers over the mask.
She couldn’t answer—just breathed, feeling impossibly light and unbearably heavy all at the same time.
The artist stepped out from behind the table, a man in his early twenties with kind eyes. “Do you like them?”
Emma nodded, lowering her hand. “They’re amazing,” she breathed, voice shaky.
The man’s brow furrowed, confused. Darren slipped an arm around her and steered her gently away. “HugeBonds of Lightfan,” he explained over his shoulder. “You’re very talented, man.”
The artist, oblivious, thanked him, then turned his attention to another group of fans.
gig
After covering most of the floor, they ducked into a slightly calmer corner by a pop-up food stall. Emma perched on the edge of a small table, flushed and overheated in the stillsuit.
Darren returned with two water bottles, scanned the area, then nodded. She tugged her mask down, gasping in the cool air as she drank. Darren pulled his mask down too, emptying his bottle in one go.
“This suit is a thirst trap,” he said.
Emma almost choked on her water. “Do you even know what a thirst trap is?”
He smirked. “Sure I do. I’ve been accused of being one often enough.”
She shook her head. “Well, you’re using the term wrong.”
“Stand down, writer,” he teased. “This isn’t an edit round.”
“You know, as a Brit, I’d expect you to be a bit more meticulous about proper—”
The unmistakable sensation of being watched cut her off. She looked up.
Across the aisle, a man with a pro camera had his lens locked directly on them.
Her stomach plunged, cold and hard.
“Darren,” she murmured.
Darren turned, instantly reading the situation. He shifted, blocking her with his body and taking her lightly by the elbow. “Time to go.”
They tugged their masks back into place and plunged back into the throng, weaving between Deadpools and Elsas. Emma caught a glimpse of the man trailing after them, her pulse thundering.
She ducked low, dragging Darren with her into the aisle where the Dune booth stood, cutting through a desert diorama that matched their suits. Adrenaline and giddy exhilaration tangled in her chest as they hid in the crowd—it felt like being true rebels on the run.
They didn’t slow down until they reached a guarded doorway at the far edge of the floor, one that would take them back into the service corridor. Emma’s lungs burned as they skidded to a stop.
The security guard instantly stepped in front of them, palms up like a wall.
“This area is off limits to visitors. No entry.”
Darren yanked his mask down, impatient. “Mate, we’ve got a paparazzo on our heels. Just let us through.”
