Sion stood before the throne, hands at his sides, eyes drinking her in.
Dara.
She sat perfectly still, like sleep itself had chosen her as its home. Her posture was serene. Her head tilted just slightly, strands of pale hair falling across her brow. The flower in her hand, no longer pulsing with chaos, glowed faintly — soft, dim, harmless.
Sion smiled.
It wasn't the grin of someone who'd survived a war.
It was the look of someone who'd found something precious, exactly where he left it.
"Hey," he said quietly, turning slightly toward the throne's right side. "You can come out now."
The air shimmered.
And a woman stepped into view.
She didn't walk in — she simply was, like the light caught up to her before the world did.
