After the Unbinding
Morning did not come.
But something gentler did.
Noctyrrh woke as if from a long illness—weak in places, aching in others, unmistakably alive. The night remained, rich and deep, but it no longer pressed down with the same weight. It breathed with the city now, not over it.
Lumi lay beneath layered blankets in a quiet room overlooking the eastern quarter. Her body felt wrong in small, human ways—thirst, soreness, a dull pulse behind her eyes.
Blake sat beside her, counting breaths until she stirred.
At twenty-four, he had faced armies without shaking. This frightened him more.
"You're back," he said softly.
Lumi blinked, focusing slowly. "I think… I always was." Her voice was hoarse, unremarkable. Human.
Relief hit him so hard he had to look away.
Outside, the city relearned itself.
Some wept openly in the streets, grief rising without warning now that there was no vault to soften its edges. Others laughed—loud, startled sounds, as if joy had returned with sharper teeth.
People forgot things.
Not names or faces—never those—but where they'd set tools, what day it was meant to be, how many years had passed without dawn. Forgetting felt dangerous at first.
Then it felt merciful.
Lumi slept most of the day. When she woke again, Blake brought water and held the cup while she drank.
"I can't feel it," she murmured. "The truth. Not like before."
Blake searched her face. "And?"
"And I don't miss the pain." She smiled faintly. "Just the certainty."
He nodded. "Certainty is overrated."
The council reconvened at dusk. No sigils flared. No shadows gathered to listen.
Decisions were slower now.
Messier.
Human.
Serath Vale was absent.
No announcement was made. He had simply… faded. Without the curse to lend structure to his control, there was nothing left to hold him upright.
At the western gate, the Concord's envoys withdrew.
They left no threats.
Only silence—and unease.
Blake walked Lumi through the streets that evening, her steps unsteady but determined. People stopped, nodded, touched their hearts—not in reverence, but gratitude.
"You don't belong to us anymore," an old woman said kindly. "That's the gift."
Lumi swallowed. "I never did."
Above them, the night revealed something new.
Stars.
Not bright. Not numerous. But real—pinpricks of distance, reminders that the sky was wider than fear.
Blake squeezed her hand. "We'll have to learn how to live without legends."
Lumi leaned into him, tired and real. "I'd like that."
Noctyrrh did not become easy.
But it became honest.
And that, at last, was enough.