(Damien POV)
The bailey was bathed in the soft golden light of early autumn, the same place where I had once presented Lyra as a newborn and later watched her perform her first public balanced display. Today felt heavier — not with dread, but with the weight of legacy.
Lyra, now six, stood beside me at the top of the wide stone steps, her small hand tucked trustingly in mine. Her dark curls bounced with every slight movement, the faint wisps of living shadow curling playfully through them. Her silver eyes — bright, curious, storm-shot — scanned the crowd below with quiet confidence. Elias, our three-year-old son, sat on Nova's hip a few steps behind us, watching everything with wide-eyed wonder, his own faint silver glow pulsing softly beneath his skin.
