Everything reminded him of her. The blue trim on the dishes—like the ribbon she used to tie her hair. The way light pooled in the washbasin—it shimmered like her eyes when she laughed.
He couldn’t stop picturing the cabin she’d asked Nic to build. Nestled beneath the North Town trees, full of windows and wildflowers and warm candlelight. A place she might let him belong to. He’d bring her flowers and take her for lazy walks through summer starlight.
He tried to work on his winter glass project—a mosaic orb meant to catch sunlight like leaves do in spring—but his hands were too restless. He set it aside.
His eyes drifted to the journals on the table. He hesitated, then picked up where he left off.
April 29, 479
I sit with my arms wrapped around Zinnia, both of us huddled in her bed as she cries. This is the third baby she’s lost.
Jiah and I are to be married next month, but how can I feel any joy when my best friend is drowning in sorrow? Zinniaand Izin want so badly to be parents. They dream of it. But each time, the child is taken before it ever breathes the world. I’ve known Izin my whole life, yet I have never seen him cry the way he did today. The grief on his face pierced straight through me.
After their second loss, Jiah told me he didn’t want children. He said he couldn’t bear the thought of loving something only to lose it. I didn’t have the heart to argue.
Tonight, I can’t help but feel the world is cruel—and the gods, crueler still. If anyone deserves the gift of a child, it is Zinnia and Izin.
She weeps deep into the night, her grief bottomless, and I can only sit with her and absorb it. Izin and Jiah have disappeared into the woods, unable to face their pain. I don’t know when they’ll return. So I stay here, holding Zinnia as tightly as I can, hoping she won’t break.
—Ismene
May 26, 480
I held my son in my arms—my firstborn—and I never imagined I could love anything so fiercely. Connor has already grown so much. I watch him as he sleeps, curled against my chest, and it takes my breath away. He is perfect. I can already see the shape of who he might become, the promise in him. There is so much I want to teach him, so many wonders I want him to see.
Across the room, Ismene sits in the old armchair, her hands busy with the knitting needles. She looks tired but content. Our family is coming together.
—Jiah
August 10, 482
I took part in the attack on Black Timber Forest. I killed a young man—no older than me. I remember the weight of my sword, the heat of his blood. I remember his eyes. He looked straight into mine as I drove the blade into his stomach.
I ran.
His blood is still on my hands. It soaked my clothes, clung to my skin. And still I see his face when I close my eyes. What have I done?
I lay beside Ismene in the dark, and I can’t bring myself to tell her. How do I speak it aloud? Izin, Tomlyn, and I—we did what we were told. They said it was the only way to keep our families safe. But I don’t know how to live with what I’ve done.
What was his name? Did he have a wife? Children? A mother waiting for him? How many lives did I break with that single blow?
His eyes won’t leave me. I fear they never will.
—Jiah
Collin slammed the journals closed. The echoes of his parent’s pain lingered, a stark reminder of life’s unpredictable cruelty. Yet, even that profound history couldn’t dampen the rising tide of his own hope.
He left the candle burning for Aries. Then crawled into bed, pulling the covers over his head like a boy with a secret.
She’s coming home. And for the first time in months, he fell asleep smiling.
Collin ran through the forest, heart thundering. The full moon threw sharp shadows across the path, turning branches into reaching claws.
In his hands, he clutched a fragile orb, its colored glass flickering with fire. The flame inside pulsed like a heartbeat—warm, alive, and desperately important.
But the monster was gaining. He could hear it behind him—snarling, ancient, relentless.
Then—Dragonfly.
