When the first light of morning crept over the sea, the second city still glimmered with fading sparks. Banners of foxfire drifted down from the air like slow-falling stars; Yuran's water channels whispered underfoot, still holding the echo of song. Children slept curled against one another on the unfinished docks, palms faintly aglow as if dreaming in rhythm with the hearth.
Hei Long stood at the edge of the square, cloak damp with salt. The Origin's glow was steady now, a low ember instead of a beacon. For the first time since the host of bone-ships had come, his shoulders eased. Not in weakness, but in recognition—this was what fire was meant for.
Qingxue approached from the training grounds, hair wind-tossed, eyes sharp even at dawn. "They're already drilling," she murmured, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "After last night, they woke before me."
"They're learning to hold their own sparks," Hei Long said quietly. "You gave them an edge. They've chosen to keep it."
