As Liv saddled the glowing horse, her gown trailing like moonlight, the air shimmered faintly behind her.
Then, with a soft ripple—like breath across still water—the three fairies revealed themselves.
They had been present the whole time.
Invisible. Watching. Waiting.
"Oh my goodness," Pith gasped, her voice a whisper of awe. "She is stunning."
Her eyes followed Liv as she rode forward, radiant and resolute.
"Will she be okay?" she murmured, worry flickering in her gaze.
Seth's smile was gentle, touched with sorrow and pride.
"A step she must take alone," she replied, her voice low and reverent. "We will be there if she falls. Our role is to lift her, guide her… but the rest is hers to claim."
Her eyes glistened. A memory surged—Serenya Barath, fierce and fragile, standing at the edge of her own destiny. The guilt swept through Seth like a tide. 'Did I fail her?'
"She shall make a great queen," Bether said, her voice like wind through ancient trees, "if we show her the path of her ancestors."
The words pulled Seth back into the moment. She turned to Bether, nodding slowly.
"You're right."
Right way, her gaze shifted, landing on Anord.
"So, Night of the Watchtower," she said, her tone half-teasing, half-solemn, "I see you've not neglected your duty."
Anord's expression softened into a beam, quiet and knowing.
"I had known," he murmured, "you would come hand at a time such as this."
His voice carried the weight of prophecy, as if he'd been waiting centuries for this night.
Seth stepped closer, her wings dimming to a thoughtful glow.
"So how do we move on from here?"
Anord looked toward the horizon, where Liv's silhouette shimmered against the starlit path.
"We watch," he said, "and we wait. The story is hers now. But when the winds shift, and the stars tremble—we will be ready."
Inside the courtyard, at Duke Oscar's gland house. Two guard stood chatting when something strange caught his attention. "What the hell is that?" Godin, a senior guard, muttered, squinting into the dusk.
Vernon turned to follow his gaze. "I'm not sure… but it looks like a glowing rider. On a glowing horse."
The two guards exchanged a glance. Even beneath their night helmets, unease flickered.
"Could it be an attack?" Vernon asked, hand drifting toward his weapon.
Godin scoffed, but his voice lacked conviction. "One person? Even with magic, who'd be foolish enough to assault Duke Oscar's House—with the nobles of Remo Desto and the prince inside?"
Still, the rider drew closer, and fear crept in like fog.
The horse entered the courtyard faster than either man could react. Its hooves didn't clatter—they whispered against the stone, like wind brushing silk.
"Be on your guard," Godin said.
"You too."
The rider halted near a vine-draped tree. Liv dismounted in one fluid motion, her gown catching the torchlight in waves of shimmer. She paused, glancing at the horse. 'Should I tie her?' Something inside resisted. 'No… she'll stay. Just the way I found her.'
She turned toward the banquet hall. Two guards blocked the entrance—tall, broad, faceless behind their helmets.
Liv's gown pulsed with soft light, the butterflies dimming to a heartbeat rhythm. Her mask—half gold, half silver—fractured the torchlight into shards.
Godin stepped forward. "Name and title," he said, voice flat.
Liv let the silence stretch. She felt the weight of the moment, the eyes on her, the tension coiling like a spring.
She held herself calmly, "You are not worthy to know who I am. Now move and grant me passage."
The guards didn't budge.
"No such guest is listed," the second guard said. "And you wear a mask. That alone is cause for suspicion."
Liv stepped closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper, but it carried like a spell.
"Then list me now."
Godin hesitated. Something in her tone sounded ancient, powerful and a strong aura, he made his grip falter. He glanced at Vernon, uncertain.
From within the hall, laughter burst—bright, oblivious. But at the threshold, history stirred.
More guards emerged, weapons drawn. Liv's breath caught. I'm not a fighter. Not like Nova. Her fingers twitched at her sleeve. Should I use what Anord gave me?
She hesitated before she reached into her gown and withdrew the small white bottle. It shimmered with runes that pulsed faintly, like breath.
"I don't want trouble," she said. "I came to greet old friends."
Vernon smirked. "You hide behind a mask and speak of peace? Turn back, miss, or we'll be forced to act."
Liv's heart pounded. 'They're ready to fight. All of them. If I fall here…' She looked at the bottle. 'Anord said it would only work once. That it would change everything.'
She raised it—not threatening, but undeniable.
"Then you leave me no choice."
The guards stared. One laughed. "You want to fight us with a bottle?"
Another joined in. "What is that?" "Perfume?"
Their laughter grated. Liv's chest tightened. 'Not again. I won't be mocked. Not tonight.'
She smashed the bottle against the stone.
It shattered with a crystalline crack. White smoke spilled out, slow at first—then fast, like it had purpose. It hissed softly, like steam escaping a kettle. The scent was strange—jasmine and ash, sweet and bitter.
The smoke curled upward, tendrils seeking faces. It slipped past visors, into nostrils. One guard gasped, staggered, then dropped. Another followed. Then another.
Liv watched, stunned. 'It's alive. It chooses.'
The courtyard fell silent. The last guard dropped to his knees, eyes wide, then collapsed.
Liv stood alone, the smoke swirling around her ankles like a loyal pet.
"Just another surprise," she whispered. She then walked forward to the banquet hall. Each step slowed down.
She paused at the threshold of the banquet hall. The golden archway rose around her like a relic from a forgotten age—its carvings glinting with candlelight, its silence thick as velvet.
No guards barred her path. No voices rose in protest. Yet for a flicker of a second, doubt curled around her spine like smoke.
'If I do this, there's no coming back. Not to who I was. Not to who they were. Am I ready to be seen?'
Memories surged like acid through Liv's veins.
"Had it not been my husband, you would've rotted in an abandoned building. So learn to be grateful." The words scraped against her ribs like rusted wire.
"You are nothing, Liv. Don't you realise? You never matter and you never will. You're lucky Father pitied you." Nova's voice, when she was sixteen years old, they felt cruel, still echoed in her skull.
Each memory struck with the precision of a blade. No blur, no mercy. Her skin prickled as if the past itself had hands—grabbing, clawing, refusing to let go.
She had begged for visibility. Not the kind that came with pity, not the kind handed out like scraps. She wanted the kind that pierced. That claimed visibility. 'I am here. And I cannot look away.'
Her breath hitched—sharp, metallic, like biting down on a coin. Her throat tightened. The air tasted like dust and varnish. Her heart thudded against her ribs, too loud, too alive. Pressure built behind her eyes, a storm with no thunder.
'I want to feel real. But at what cost? What if they see me? What if they don't? Forget the consequences. If I don't do this, I'll regret it until I die.'
She straightened her spine. Her fists curled, nails biting into her palms. Jaw locked. Muscles taut. She stepped forward.
The two doors parted with a soft mechanical click, opening like wings. Light spilled in—cool, sterile, unforgiving. Her silhouette cut through it.
Heads turned. One by one. Conversations halted mid-sentence. A fork paused halfway to a mouth. A glass of wine slipped from someone's hand and clattered to the floor.
Grace's voice cracked the silence. "Who is she?" she whispered, eyes wide, lips parted. Her shoulders drew inward, as if shrinking from something too bright.
Liv didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her presence spoke for her. 'See me now. And don't you dare look away.'