The days following the Fireflower Festival unfolded like silk, quiet, soft, and beautiful in ways that only stillness could reveal.
It was the kind of peace that came not from avoidance, but from arrival. The kind that unfurled slowly, like petals in sun-warmed air. No alarms. No urgent decisions. Just presence.
For the first time in a very long time, there was no reason to run.
Isabelle sat on the steps of the House of Remembrance, her legs tucked beneath her, a thin shawl draped over her shoulders. The stone beneath her was warm from the day, and the scent of starvine flowers still lingered from the festival. Above her, the sky slowly shifted from lavender to deep plum, the first stars emerging like old friends returning home.
She held a cup carved from starglass, translucent, iridescent, its rim etched with delicate fragments of ancient Devereux symbols. Symbols once buried in fear, now glimmering with meaning again. Her fingers traced one absentmindedly as she sipped.
