Her breath broke.
The moonwell’s voice—wordless and ancient—wrapped around her mind:
“You are not a vessel.
You are not a wound.
You are not an opening.
You are a boundary.
You are will.
You are moonlight.
You deny entry.
You do not yield.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
The glow softened, settling around her shoulders like a mantle. The water lowered her gently. Poppy sucked in a breath.
“Mingxi,” she whispered, trembling, “I can feel my magic. Like… really feel it. It listens.”
He reached forward, steady hands gripping her waist as she stepped unsteadily toward him, and murmured, “Come. Before you fall.”
“I’m fine,” she said and then promptly tripped on her own moonlit foot.
He caught her, lifting her in one smooth movement. Foxfire curled around his hands, drying her skin in warm, gentle sweeps.
“You are absolutely moon intoxicated.” He sighed.
“Hush,” she mumbled, leaning her forehead against his. “I’m powerful now.”
“That is the problem.”
“I’m majestic,” she insisted.
“You are glowing and unbalanced.”
“Still majestic.”
He closed his eyes, breath brushing hers. “Yes,” he whispered. “You are.”
When she opened her eyes again, her glow had settled to a soft pulse. Her magic rested quietly beneath her skin like a waiting tide.
“What now?” she asked softly.
Mingxi’s expression shifted—protective, solemn.
“Now,” he said, “we plan how to summon Lysandra.”
She swallowed. “And how to keep the entity from getting inside me.”
He squeezed her hand. “You won’t let it.”
“No,” she said. “I won’t.”
