Lucienne hung in the moonlit air with effortless grace, her hair stirring faintly in winds that did not dare disturb her properly. She did not flap wings. She did not rely on visible power. She simply existed in the sky, serene and impossible, a bewitching absence given form, her presence so quiet it felt more dangerous than any thunderous display could have managed.
The moonlight touched her and seemed unsure whether to illuminate her or apologize. Typical moon. Useless rock with performance anxiety.
Eira stared at her.
"You—" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted, which was deeply offensive. "How did you—"
Lucienne did not look at her.
Her eyes remained fixed on the distant figure of Anahita flying farther and farther away, the Fallen Angel's white-gold and dark afterimages were fading into the night like a sorrowful comet abandoning heaven.
"How lonely," Lucienne said softly, almost tenderly. "To fly so beautifully toward a cage."
