The transition from a goddess to a woman was not a single, blinding flash of light, but a slow, agonizing descent into the tangible. It was the realization that my feet ached after standing for an hour on the granite floor. It was the way the cold Northern wind didn't just tickle my skin but bit into it, demanding I find a thicker cloak or a warmer hearth. For lifetimes, or so it felt, the elements had been my playthings. Now, they were my masters once again.
The first morning of the Great Migration broke over the Obsidian Peak with a sky
the color of a bruised plum. There was no golden radiance to greet the day, no
tectonic hum from the mountain to tell me that the earth was pleased with our
presence. There was only the rhythmic, metallic clink-clink-clink of hammers
hitting stone in the lower courtyards—the sound of humans and shifters working
together to repair the damage that magic had wrought.
I stood on the Sovereign's Terrace, a title that now felt like a heavy,
