(Nova POV)
The solar was wrapped in the soft hush of evening.
Outside the tall windows, the first stars were beginning to prick the deep blue sky above the ridge. Inside, the brazier burned low and steady, casting a warm golden glow across the stone floor and the thick furs we had spread near the hearth. Lyra sat cross-legged in the center of the circle we had made — her favorite place for "family night" — surrounded by cushions, a few wooden toys, and the small storm-wood lyre Kieran had sent for her last birthday.
She was four and a half now, and every evening like this felt like a small miracle.
Damien sat to my left, one arm draped casually behind me, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my shoulder. The silver threads in his skin glowed faintly in the firelight, perfectly balanced with the tempered shadows that moved with quiet grace around him. He no longer carried the weight of Azrael like a second skin. He carried peace — hard-won, chosen, and deeply loved.
