#planetarylegacymarsgen

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen [ 2nd Trimester ]

It was deep into the night when the sound of shuffling metal snapped Rhea out of her half-sleep. The workshop—her sanctuary, her garden, her den—was under siege. She moved like lightning, rage already blooming beneath her skin before she hit the stairs. Pregnancy had sharpened her instincts, not dulled them. And tonight, they roared.

By the time she stormed through the back door, the intruder was already yanking her jukebox through the open window. He wore a mask and a striped shirt, raccoon-like and fast, but not fast enough to escape her voice, snarled, growled, and laced with unspoken threats. The thief got away, jukebox and all—but not before Rhea lunged forward with enough feral force to nearly catch his sleeve. She didn’t get his face. But he’d remember hers. Not just the bared teeth or glowing eyes, but the fury of a pregnant werewolf protecting her territory.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen [ 2nd Trimester ]

The second trimester felt like it would last forever. Rhea was tired of being tired, but mornings like this made the waiting a little easier. The kitchen was quiet except for the gentle sound of a simmering kettle. Spring sunlight streamed through the windows, dusting everything in warm gold. Nyon had her propped up on the counter with ease—her thighs resting in his palms, her loose cotton dress bunched slightly as his hands slid up, fingers warm against her skin.

Nyon: “Have you thought about names yet?”

Rhea gave a soft snort of laughter. Rhea: “Too early for all that.”

Nyon: “You’re halfway through the pregnancy, babe. When is the right time?” He said it with that same low voice that always got under her skin in the best way. His hands moved gently, reverently, one curling over the swell of her belly. He wasn’t sure when it had started, but the sight of her like this—round with their child, glowing and strong—made something tighten in his chest. Something permanent.

Rhea: “I dunno… I figured when they come out we’d look at ‘em and be like ‘she looks like a Zelda’ or whatever.”

Nyon raised an eyebrow, grinning as he stepped between her thighs. Nyon: “Zelda is cute.” He dipped lower, his face pressing against the soft curve of her belly. His voice came out low and teasing, like a secret passed to the wind. Nyon: “What do you think of Zelda?” He waited a beat, as if the baby inside might respond, then nodded solemnly. Nyon: “Mmhmm. Yes. Understood.”

Rhea burst into giggles as he straightened again, face mischievous and glowing with affection.

Nyon: “There’s two of them. And they both like Zelda.”

Rhea, laughing: “You’re full of it.”

Nyon: “Believe me or not, doesn’t matter. But you have to name both of them Zelda or the other one’s gonna feel left out.”

Rhea: “We’ll figure it out when we get there. There’s no way it’s twins.”

Nyon smiled quietly, his hands now resting over hers. Nyon: “I love you.”

Rhea looked down at their joined hands. Her voice came out softer than expected. Rhea: “Despite better judgment.” They kissed slowly, deeply, and sweetly, like spring rain.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen [ 1st Trimester ]

Pregnancy had taken root in Rhea not just physically, but deep in her instincts. She was uncharacteristically soft lately — slower to anger, quicker to lean in. Every sharp edge of her seemed dulled under the first trimester’s hush, smoothed by the ancient pull to nest and protect. And to be protected. She found herself drawn to Nyon again and again, her limbs seeking him out like ivy toward sunlight. It was beyond conscious choice. Her wolf knew what it wanted — what it needed. And for now, that was him. Rhea nestled up beside Nyon on the stone edge of the Ravenwood Fountain, the morning crisp with spring air and the sweet scent of damp earth. Birds sang overhead, and the fountain burbled behind them, but her world had narrowed to his warmth and the way his shoulder curved just perfectly for her head to rest against. Then, without a word, Nyon dipped down and kissed her forehead. A simple thing. Gentle. Sweet. But it hit her like lightning. Her cheeks flushed instantly, the kind of pink that spread across her nose and ears like wildfire. She rolled her eyes — but didn’t move away. Because even though she was a storm, even though she could tear down walls with her bare hands, right now, she just wanted to be held. And he… adored her for it.

[thecelestiallegacies]

The rabbit hops its gentle step. The lark sings lyric songs. All the world's alive again. Spring rights the winter wrongs. By Jennifer Gunner

Face the Knight - Spring Chapter Mars Gen Progress: Skills: Mischief - 10/10 Handiness - 10/10 (Wish granted) Move out on YA age up Lose contact with direct family Never marry - live alone. Enemies 2/5 Woohoo partners 1/5

Other stats and werewolf stuff under the cut.

Public Enemy Aspiration Mostly Harmless Neighborhood Nuisance Criminal Mind Public Enemy Extra Teen Aspirations - Bonus Traits Live Fast - Dauntless Drama Llama - Untroubled Werewolf Rank: Veteran Abilities. Personal Grooming Ferocity Enhanced Smell The Will to Resist Pack Howl Natural Healing Night Vision Primal Instincts Lunar Resistance Dormant Abilities. Werewolf Menace Transformation Mastery Temperments. Survival Instincts Big Bad Wolf Sensitive Hearing Restless Animal

[thecelestiallegacies]

The end of the school year was coming up fast. Rhea's sophomore finals weighed heavy on her mind, and with her recent demerits, she would be lucky to see her junior year. School had been so busy lately. She stared at the can of cola in front of her and paused, considering if she should give her brain a rest. After a moment of hesitation, she grabbed the can and drank it down in one go. Almost instantly, her brain went into hyperwarp, absorbing information at an incredible speed. Luckily, the sugar and caffeine rush lasted all the way through the test before the inevitable crash hit. Nailed it.

Start The First Gen Start This Gen

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen

Rhea enjoyed the process of building furniture for her home spaces. Gardening pots, end tables, and shelves were easy for her to make and she began furnishing every room she could with things she made herself.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen [ Lunara ]

The green moon of Atlas glowed unnaturally bright through the window, casting an eerie, emerald hue across the floors and walls. The air shimmered with quiet magic—subtle, ancient, and crackling. Lunara had arrived.

For most werewolves, it was just a strange energy. For Rhea, it was something far more.

She was drunk—both on alcohol and on sensation. The burn in her limbs. The heat in her blood. The buzzing static behind her eyes. The thrill of her own power. It all crackled, exponentially amplified by Lunara’s glow.

She was trying to joke with Peter, her words slightly slurred, her smile a little too sharp.

A teasing shove. A playful swipe.

Then—

Rhea's hand clamped over Peter’s mouth, and she forced him against the wall with jarring speed. Her fangs were bared, not in humor. Her vision had tunneled. Atlas’s moon was making her heart drum too fast, her control waver.

Peter’s body met hers with a kind of elegant resistance. Fluid. Skilled. Balanced. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t struggle. He just watched her with calm, calculating eyes, speaking with his body, waiting for her to notice.

But she wasn’t ready to notice. She was a toddler with super strength, and her fury wanted to be taken seriously.

Her hand shifted to his throat, fingers pressing—not choking, but claiming. She loomed, wild and radiant, trembling with the force of an internal war. A growl climbed through her chest, deep and real. Her other hand drew back, as if to strike or unleash something worse.

Peter slowly lifted his hands, palms facing her, keeping his tone even:

Peter: “Rhea. I need you to focus right now.”

Her hand slammed into the wall beside his head, cracking the plaster. She dropped her grip to his mouth again, pressing closer.

Rhea, growling:“No. You focus.”

For a second, the world went completely black.

[ The next morning. ]

The sound of soft, anxious whimpers pulled her back.

Spectre, her childhood dog, sat curled up on the floor near the bed, her eyes wide, head tilted with concern.

Rhea groaned, twisting on the mattress. Her skin was clammy with moon-sweat, her limbs heavy with the weight of the night before. Her body felt bruised, but not just from the Lunara hangover.

Her mind swam. The fight.

The wall. The growl. Peter’s throat. The kiss? No—did they?

She sat upright too quickly, gasping. Her hands flew to her face. She couldn’t remember. Not all of it.

Just the way he looked at her—not with fear, but with something else. Something worse. Patience. Understanding. Desire?

She dropped back onto the mattress, legs dangling off the edge like a marionette with her strings cut.

A cold uncertainty swept through her. A slow, creeping fear that she might be able to hurt Peter—and worse, that if she did…

He might like it.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

Nyon watches news reports covering Cliff's scandal with the vampires. Exclusive interviews and police reports began surfacing. All the times Cliff took bribes at the beginning of his political career were coming in a pile of evidence stacked against the National Leader.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

Rhea woke up with her cheek pressed to the kitchen tile. Cold. Too bright. Too still. Her stomach rolled like it was trying to remind her she was alive. She groaned, slowly pushing herself upright, bracing on her elbows. Her head throbbed, and her ribs felt too tight around her insides—like her body was still fighting whatever she'd turned into the night before. The memories were fog and fangs. Flashes of running. Growling. Shouting. Someone had gotten in her way—probably more than one. She remembered the rage, not the faces.

She hiccuped—sharp and sudden—and clutched her gut as it gurgled and swelled under her ribs. Something sour escaped her throat.

Her breath was rank. Her throat dry. Her heart? Still sore.

She pulled herself to her feet, shaky but steadying. The fury never left clean.

There was a tension in her shoulders she couldn’t name. Like her whole nervous system had rewired itself overnight.

A new instinct, maybe. Survival. Her senses were sharper now. Her fear wasn’t a weakness—it was ammunition.

She was halfway to the sink when a loud, hard knock rattled the door like a warning shot. Her chest seized. “That’s a cop knock,” she muttered, teeth baring slightly. Her hand shot out toward the dining table as she passed, fingers curling around a heavy wrench. Just in case.

She opened the door, half-expecting trouble.

Instead, there was Nyon Spector—kneeling on the porch like someone dropped him there.

His shoulders sagged when he saw her.

Nyon: “I’m so glad I found you, Rhea. I need your help. I need a place to crash. Mom and Layne won’t stop fighting, I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe in that house. I heard you were out in Moonwood and—look, I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll sleep on the couch. I’ll get a job. I just…”

Rhea (cutting him off): “Get up. I don’t care. Just don’t knock like that again.” She stepped back and left the door open. Rhea: “I was gonna make popcorn. We can watch a movie. Or whatever.”

Nyon raised an eyebrow. Nyon: “Or whatever.”

Rhea (awkwardly): “It… it doesn’t have to be anything.”

She dropped the wrench on the table without looking back. Nyon stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the entryway like he was expecting tripwires.

He spotted the tool.

Something had changed about her. It wasn’t just the claws or the tired eyes—it was the way she moved. Like she didn’t trust the floor to hold underneath her.

When she came back from the kitchen, she held two glass bottles of glowing blue fizz—bubbling, faintly warm to the touch.

They sat together on the couch. They drank. They laughed. The air softened. Her hand found his thigh after a particularly dumb joke, and it lingered longer than either of them planned. Nyon froze.

Blame it on the fizz. Blame it on the silence between words. Blame it on the shared history, or the loneliness, or the moonlight slicing through the blinds just right.

But the space between them closed.

And somewhere between empty bottles and whispered confessions, they stumbled their way into the coat closet like it was the only safe place left in Moonwood.

By morning, they didn’t talk about what it meant. Not yet. Just the heavy comfort of someone else’s presence. And a slightly crooked coat rack

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude [ Call of the Moon ] Gif under the cut

The safehouse walls were pulsing—breathing with her anger. Too tight. Too still. Rhea’s fingernails scraped across the windowsill like she might dig her way through the wood. Her blood itched. Her muscles twitched. Her wolf wanted out. She threw on her boots and stepped into the morning frost. The jog wasn’t for fitness. It was survival.

She launched into motion like she was being chased—a blur of heat against the cold, steam trailing from her skin. Pine needles crackled underfoot. Her breath came fast and sharp, clouds rising with every exhale. It wasn’t enough.

The fury chased her. It coiled beneath her skin, begging to be let loose. But Rhea kept moving—pushing past her own limits until her lungs burned and her body screamed for stillness. Only then did the pressure ease. She came home sweating, scraped, trembling—but calm. Enough to go to work. Enough to pretend it was a normal day. But the calm never lasted. By the time she returned home, the sun had dipped behind the hills, and the moon had risen, bloated and full above the pines.

And the fury struck. It wasn’t a choice. It never was. Her pulse snapped like a snare, and the shift slammed through her.

Fangs. Fur. Claws. Chaos.

Rhea roared. She ran through the forest like a storm, every branch a blur, every howl a war cry. There was no path—just instinct. She shredded through underbrush, through fences, through any semblance of peace she had left. No direction. No control. Only hunger, anger, and the low thrum of something ancient singing through her bones. The woods knew her. The shadows parted for her. The moon loved her and cursed her in equal measure. And Rhea— Rhea tore through the night like she was made for it.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

Steam curled softly from the edges of the wide inset tub, fogging the corners of the glass door. The room glowed golden in the lamplight, and the quiet hush of falling snow beyond the window gave the space a sacred stillness. Spectre, now curled up on the bath mat, blinked up at Rhea with resigned patience—the kind only old souls and good dogs knew how to muster.

Rhea: “All right, baby ghost. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Spectre padded over with a wag of her long skinny tail, hopping into the tub with practiced grace. The white of her coat was already dusted with pine needles and hints of dried mud from her last adventure. She looked like a marshmallow someone dropped in the woods.

Rhea rolled up her sleeves and knelt beside the tub, dipping her claws into the warm water. Her wolf instincts didn’t fight this moment—this wasn’t a time for rage. It was calm. Gentle. Purposeful.

She worked the bubbles into Spectre’s coat, fingertips dancing under fur and grime alike. Her claws were perfect for scratching in all the right spots, and Spectre all but melted under her touch. Her eyes fluttered shut. A low, satisfied groan hummed from her throat.

Rhea (softly): “Yeah, I know. That’s the spot.”

The room smelled faintly of rosemary and soap. Rhea lost herself in the rhythm: rinse, scrub, rinse again. Spectre’s tail thumped once against the tub, soaking the nearby wall.

They didn’t need to talk. Just water. Breath. Trust.

By the time she lifted the fluffy towel from the rack, Spectre was already standing, giving one big shake that sent droplets flying everywhere. Rhea laughed—really laughed—and draped the towel over her like a little hooded cloak.

Rhea: “There. Queen Spectre of the Misty Tundra. All clean.”

She gave the dog a kiss on the wet forehead and rubbed her down until she was just this side of dry. Then they padded into the living room, soft and slow.

Sometimes, self-care wasn’t a ritual or a break. Sometimes it was just doing right by your best friend.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude [ Basement Operation ]

The knock came just after dusk—three short raps, precise and cold. Rhea answered the back door with a raised brow, only to find no one there. Just a letter, folded into a perfect square, sealed in dark green wax with an emblem she didn’t recognize—an hourglass with its sand running upward. Inside: a handwritten note in fine, spidery script.

“You’ve been seen. Your hands know the earth. Let’s see if they can handle pressure, too. Meet me beneath the pines at moonrise.–A”

She knew the signature. Alisha Bathory. Her uncle’s twin sister. Elusive. Quiet. Rumored to have more pull in the family business than anyone dared to admit aloud. Rhea had never really met her. Until now.

Alisha didn’t step into the moonlight. She spoke from the shadows, voice low and level. Alisha: “You’ve got good instincts. You know how to grow things. It’s time to weaponize that.”

Rhea stood with her hands in her jacket pockets, keeping her breathing steady against the instinctual chill that came from standing near another vampire. Cold and breathless. She could feel her lungs fighting for air even though nothing was wrong. Rhea (through clenched teeth): “And what am I weaponizing it for?”

Alisha's fangs glinted in the moonlight when she grinned: “Fizz.”

Rhea blinked.

Alisha: “Juice fizzing. Our little circle’s got a niche market. Supernatural blends—mandrake, plasmafruit, valerian root. One sip, and even a dragon can catch a buzz.”

She tossed a small seed packet at Rhea’s feet. Alisha: “You’ll start with the basics. Grow ‘em. Fizz ‘em. Bottle ‘em. Sell ‘em.”

Rhea picked it up, studying the strange black seeds. They pulsed faintly in her palm. Rhea: “And if I say no?”

Alisha: “You won’t.”

A week later, the basement under her workshop had been gutted and retrofitted with fermenting tanks, bottle cappers, and shelf lighting calibrated to encourage supernatural growth. Rhea’s gardening zone had been extended underground—a secret botanical lab that will be full of rare, bioluminescent plants and pungent roots that could knock out an adult in half a teaspoon.

She was in business.

Every bottle she capped and labeled meant another whispered deal through the Mill’s back alleys, another pouch of cash under her floorboards.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was hers. And more importantly? It worked.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

Peter zipped up his coat, his duffel slung over one shoulder. The air in the kitchen was still, heavy with things unspoken. Rhea leaned against the counter, arms folded, trying not to look too much like she needed him to stay.

Peter: "You’re gonna be okay."

Rhea: "I know." She didn’t sound convinced, but she smiled anyway.

He stepped closer, eyes soft as they met hers. Then, without asking, he pulled her into a hug—tight and warm, grounding her.

Peter (murmuring against her hair): "I would never be scared of you, Guppy."

Her throat tightened at the nickname, a flicker of childhood catching in her chest like a breath held too long.

Rhea (quietly): "Be safe, Pete."

He nodded once, then slipped out the door, leaving the kitchen full of shadows and memories.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

Her hands moved with quiet focus, lips pressed together as she lined up the screwdriver with the old metal plate.

As the piece clicked into place, a memory surfaced—her father, Cliff, standing on their patio years ago, offering some half-useful, half-sarcastic advice about "the art of handiness."

She scoffed under her breath and shook her head. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. And today, weirdly enough, it was Cliff’s time.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Start The First Gen Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

Devin "Beetle" Soriano decided to stay in Copperdale a little longer.

He’d fallen in love with Cliff's library—floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with dusty tomes and obscure records: discoveries on Batuu, mysteries in Selvadorada, diagrams of ancient portals, and written in extinct languages.

And then—he found it.

Eternity Lake, nestled deep in the forests of Ravenwood. A place said to bring ghosts back to life.

He floated swiftly up the stairs, unable to contain his excitement, ready to tell Rhea everything.

But Rhea had other ideas.

She'd recently declared that photography was her new phase and was in full creative mode.

Rhea: "Hold still. I need contrast. The light off your ghost shoulders is kind of perfect."

Beetle smirked and struck a pose.

Beetle: "Make sure you get my good side." (He gestured to his head.) "I have two of them. It’s the front that’s the problem. Now, about Eternity Lake—"

Rhea: "I've heard of it. It's not really a revival thing. It’s… rebirth. A clean slate."

Beetle: "Rebirth sounds fine. I’d rather be alive than floating through walls."

Rhea: "You wouldn’t remember anything from your life. You’d be starting over."

Beetle (grinning): "So if I came back as a baby, you wouldn’t raise me as your own?"

Rhea (deadpan): "Nope."

They both cracked up—Beetle dramatically clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded (again), then leaned in, more serious this time.

Beetle: "I still think it’s worth it. And if I forget everything, I’m sure you’ll remind me who I was."

Rhea lowered her camera. She hadn’t expected this decision to come so quickly, and the idea of losing him —even if he was technically still there—made her heart twist.

Beetle: "Tell me you’ll go with me. To the lake."

There was a long pause. Then she nodded.

Rhea: "Yeah. I’ll go."

He surged forward and wrapped his cold arms around her, grateful. For a ghost, he always managed to feel so alive.

Beetle: "I was kind of worried you’d be mad."

Rhea: "Ahh, you don’t know me that well. My mad face and my happy face look the same. Folks assume I'm just mean."

Beetle (softly): "I don’t think you’re mean. Your eyes are too sad."

Outside, the full moon cast a silver glow through the window, touching Beetle’s transparent skin and making him shimmer with an unspoken energy.

He closed his eyes and basked in the pull of its celestial magic.

[thecelestiallegacies]

Rose Colored Twilight 2: The Spellcaster's Apprentice [ Prologue ] Read Part 1 Start This Short Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

True to form, it was well past midnight before Rhea had her opening.

The campsite had quieted—the low murmur of voices replaced by the gentle crackle of dying embers and the occasional sigh of canvas in the breeze. Cliff’s violin had long since fallen silent. She pulled on her jacket, laced her boots tight, and slipped past the tents like a shadow.

Darkness was no enemy. She was born to the water, and the moonlight was kind to those who knew how to listen.

The forest whispered in hushed tones as she walked—rustling leaves, snapping twigs, and the distant croak of frogs rising in a nighttime symphony. Eventually, she came to a glistening waterfall spilling into a quiet pond, the sound of it steady and soothing. She slipped off her boots and dipped her toes into the water, shivering at the chill.

She thought of what the god Lani had once told her: All bodies of water are connected. Ask the current; it remembers everything.

She pulled out her conch shell and gave it a strong, echoing blow.

The sound rippled across the water, and moments later, the surface broke with movement—shimmering fish swimming in lazy spirals, gathering as if summoned for counsel. Rhea crouched by the shore, speaking softly, asking the way.

The fish answered not in words, but in visions of the deep woods, strange bioluminescent fish with flickering scales, winding trails, and a path veiled by brambles across the pond.

There was danger, they warned. Thicket and thorn. Teeth in the dark.

But wonder, too.

Rhea stood and crossed the pond, clothes damp from the mist. Her legs bore scratches within minutes as she pushed into the underbrush. The brambles tugged at her sleeves and hair like greedy fingers, but she pressed forward, parting the foliage with the determination of someone who couldn’t turn back.

Then—a web. Wide, silver, and strung across her path like a curtain. She hesitated, hoping not to see the spider that built it. Still, she gritted her teeth and ducked through, wiping silken threads from her face.

Something was calling her forward.

Eventually, the oppressive trees began to part. The air shifted. The light, too. She stepped out into a quiet, sacred cove, a hush descending like a blessing.

Nestled at the heart of it was a small house, sunbeams piercing through the trees to wrap the structure in gold.

Rhea blinked. “Someone… lives here?”

The front door creaked open, and a woman stepped out, her long brown ponytail swinging with the motion.

“Come inside,” the woman said. “You’ll catch a draft.”

Her name was Arjuna Corbett. She made tea with leaves Rhea didn’t recognize and asked gentle questions with no expectation of answers. Her home was warm, carved into the land rather than built atop it, and the walls were covered in pressed flowers, dried herbs, and little sketches of animals.

They spoke in murmurs about the legends of the woods, the hidden places only the forest remembers. Arjuna knew things no one should’ve known—like the storm the night Rhea was born, how the lightning split trees in two, and the rain fell in sheets over the pools of Granite Falls.

“Children born in storms are often called to great purpose,” Arjuna had said, eyes distant.

Later, when the day had fully bloomed and the sun sat high and hot above the treetops, they stepped outside. Rhea felt stretched thin, like a string of light humming with energy. The air was clearer here. Sharper.

She pulled out her phone to check the time.

It buzzed immediately—her Aunt Varsana.

Rhea sighed and answered.

Varsana’s voice was strained. “Your dad is very upset. It took a lot of convincing to get him to let me call instead.”

Rhea let the words hang between them, the disappointment like fog in her lungs. She didn’t argue. The message was clear: come back.

But not yet.

Rhea returned attention to the pond, calling the fish once more. Arjuna joined her, lines cast out into the quiet, letting the silence do the talking.

A rainbow arched over the waterfall, refracted through the mist and morning light. Rhea laughed aloud when she reeled in a rare blue crawdad—its shimmering shell reminding her of her father Zachary and his sparkling cerulean fish tail.

She didn’t know what was happening back at camp. But for the first time in a while, she trusted that it would be okay.

The forest had calmed her. Focused her.

“I think you’re ready,” Arjuna said softly as they stood side by side. “You’ve come a long way for such a young heart.”

They spoke again, this time of fate—of a prophecy Rhea hadn’t heard until now. It shook something loose inside her. Something dormant and waiting.

The sun dipped lower. The stars pricked the sky.

Rhea looked up, breath caught in her throat. Anything felt possible.

Still no sign of the rainbow fireflies. She let out a sigh, accepting their absence.

“It’s time,” she said quietly.

She turned to say goodbye—only to find the cove empty. The house. Arjuna. Gone.

No footprints. No doors.

The clearing was still beautiful, but the dream had slipped between the trees.

Rhea stood there a moment longer before retracing her steps. The brambles parted easier now, the way out somehow gentler than the way in.

She didn’t understand everything that had just happened.

But she was changed by it.