The wind had changed.
Where once it carried the scent of ash and silence, now it smelled of morning rain and blooming earth.
The Kingdom of Thorns — once twisted, haunted, broken — had begun to heal. The great palace that had slept beneath vines now stood bathed in gold. Its towers gleamed with dew, and from every window drifted birdsong.
The people — shadows no longer — returned from the forests, from the caves, from the far edges of exile. They spoke her name softly at first, as if afraid to wake her again.
Queen Lyra.
The Grey-Eyed Princess.
The Child of Dawn.
She ruled not from the tallest tower, but from the garden where the heart had once pulsed.
There, roses of every hue grew wild — some gold, some silver, some black tipped with red. They were the only things she had refused to tame. "Let them remember," she said when asked. "Beauty grows from what survives."
Ursa had taken to sleeping by the palace gate, though the guards swore they sometimes saw him disappear into the woods, returning with the scent of old mountains on his fur.
Nim, restless as ever, had become the Keeper of Light — watching over the younglings who showed sparks of strange gifts. They followed her like fireflies through the meadows.
Crowley… had declared himself "Royal Advisor of Shenanigans." No one had the heart to argue. He could often be found perched on the queen's shoulder during court, muttering sarcastic commentary that made her hide her smiles behind her hand.
But when the night deepened and the stars burned low, Lyra would walk alone through the garden — her eyes pale, her steps soft against the dew.
The heart — now smaller, gentler — still glowed beneath the earth. Sometimes, when she touched the soil, she could feel its rhythm answering her pulse.
And sometimes, she swore she heard voices in the wind — her parents, perhaps, or something older.
"You've done well, little dawnfire," the voice would murmur.
"But even light must wander."
One dawn, as the horizon blushed with silver, Lyra climbed the highest balcony of the palace.
Below her stretched a world reborn — rivers threading through emerald valleys, mountains crowned in mist. In the distance, she could see caravans approaching, flags bearing the symbols of other realms. The lost world was no longer lost.
Ursa's voice came from behind her, soft as thunder at rest.
"You still don't sleep."
"The dawn doesn't, either," she said with a small smile.
He studied her, the new light catching in his eyes.
"You feel it, don't you? The pull."
She nodded.
"The heart still calls to something beyond. There are other doors. Other thrones. Other wounds."
Ursa huffed. "You'd think saving one world would be enough."
Lyra turned to him, and for the first time since her coronation, she laughed — a sound bright enough to make the morning shimmer.
"Maybe. But light doesn't stop at one horizon."
Crowley swooped down then, landing between them with a dramatic sigh.
"If you're planning another adventure, I demand hazard pay this time."
"You're paid in glory," Nim said, appearing at his side with a flicker of gold in her fur.
"Glory doesn't buy snacks," he grumbled.
Lyra looked at them all — the bear, the fox, the crow — her first family, her last guardians. And for a long, quiet moment, she said nothing.
Then she reached for her sword — not to wield it, but to lift it toward the rising sun. The blade caught the light and scattered it across the sky like broken glass.
"For those who came before," she whispered.
"And those who will come after."
The wind rose, carrying her words far beyond the palace, through forests and mountains, across the world her parents had died to protect.
Somewhere, a child looked up from the edge of a forgotten village and saw the sky burn silver for a heartbeat.
And perhaps, deep within the light, a shadow smiled — not in malice, but in recognition.
For even in the dawn, the night still dreams.