The air shuddered, then cleared, like a held breath released.
Where Athena's broken, misting body had collapsed, light gathered. It began as a whisper of warmth under the cold, then rose—tender at first, then roaring. Feathers, impossible and bright, knitted from threads of sun and smoke. The pool of tears trembled and steamed; from its surface a shape reassembled: a woman wreathed in living flame, not charred or ruined but polished, every wound sealed by light.
When she breathed, embers drifted like slow-falling flowers. Where her skin had been torn, new plumage grew—white at the tips, molten gold near the core—each feather humming with a low bell tone when the light struck it. Her eyes opened and the world exhaled.
As she did, Kanada spoke.
