The Hearth in His Palm
The sphere of light pulsed faintly in Hei Long's palm, the Origin's glow soft as a heartbeat. It wasn't power the way crowns, gods, and Eternals had been — it felt like a story, an unfinished line at the end of an ancient book. For the first time, inevitability held something that had not broken at his touch.
Behind him, three women stood in a loose circle — no longer sparks, no longer rivals, flames bound by jealousy, devotion, and the battles they had survived. Their breaths rose together, unsteady in the quiet.
Qingxue pressed a hand to her sword but didn't draw it. "You could burn it," she said softly. "You could end everything."
Yexin's illusions flickered like foxfire, her smirk brittle. "Or you could begin something. A world that belongs only to you."
Yuran's glow trembled but steady. "Whatever you choose," she whispered, "I'll hold you whole."
