After standing there for what felt like an eternity, his hand finally dropped from the worn rope of the swing. He pushed open the wooden gate and stepped out into the world. The narrow alleyway stretched deep and sharp before him, completely swallowed by the long evening shadows. He walked quickly, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone, and he never looked back.
. . .
Once the great storm of political upheaval had finally passed, life in the capital gradually settled back into a deep, unhurried peace.
Caelith's Firefly Pavilion prospered more than ever before.
Whispers of her harrowing survival and ultimate vindication had rippled through every tea house and manor in the capital.
Countless patrons came now—not just to purchase her legendary, exquisite embroidery, but because they harbored a quiet reverence for the fierce resilience of the woman behind the needle.
