Honest work. Life returning.
The Glowworm Moon hangs low and fat, one moon with two faces—bone-pale on one side, rust-red on the other—like it’s watching us with a split expression, pride and warning.
I lean into the stone railing and exhale, slow.
“We did it,” I whisper, like if I say it too loud the universe will snatch it back.
Not just they did it.
Not just the Lords with their impossible power.
Us.
The women who showed up with stubborn hearts and Earth slang and the audacity to touch a crown that didn’t want to be touched.
I still feel the moment in my palms sometimes—how the crown fought, how it resisted being changed, and how we refused to let go.
How it cracked along natural lines like the world itself was finally admitting what it needed.
No single point of failure.
No lone ruler to be targeted.
Shared load.
Shared sacrifice.
Shared hope.
My chest squeezes so hard it hurts, but it’s a good hurt.
A holy one. Sacred.
A sound behind me makes me turn.
Dagan stands in the archway, half-shadow, half-moonlight. His wings are folded tight, but I can feel them anyway—like the air around him remembers their span.
He looks tired. Exhausted.
Not the kind of tired sleep fixes.
The kind duty carves into you over centuries.
But his eyes—green-gold and too knowing—are on me like I’m the only stable thing in a shifting world.
I don’t move. I don’t run.
I just… wait, because somehow that feels right. Like the earth is holding its breath.
He crosses the terrace with slow, measured steps.
No rush. No swagger.
Just certainty.
Every footfall lands like a promise.
Then he stops close enough that the heat of him wraps around me.
