Liora paused at the threshold and let the music wash over her like a tide. Lanterns swayed between the eaves, ribbons fluttered in the warm night air, and laughter rolled through the courtyard in low, comfortable waves. Faces she had known all her life looked softened by relief and thanksgiving. For a moment she felt like a stranger observing a play she had once written.
Gonzalo stood at the heart of it all, a pillar of calm. When his eyes found hers across the crowd, something like a private sun rose in his gaze. He moved toward her with steady steps, cloak falling back to reveal the sweep of his shoulders and the dark flash of his hair. People parted for him as water parts for a stone.
"Liora…My Luna," he said, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a promise when they left him. "I've been…we've all been waiting for you, my Queen."
"You threw a party? This looks like a party…and for who?" Liora said, and found she was smiling despite the confusion cupped at the edges of her chest. "Shouldn't you be—mourning?"
He took her hand, warm and certain in his grip. "We mourn and we live," Gonzalo answered. "Tonight we honor the ones who still stand. You stood for us when the rogues came. That deserves recognition." His voice settled around her like a cloak. "You are my Luna."
At the name, something loosened in her. The crowd's shouts folded into a softened murmur as Gonzalo guided her deeper into the circle of attendants. Vanya stood to one side, draped in pale robes, face composed and unreadable. She offered no smile, only stillness, like a carved figure placed to be admired.
Liora let the warmth of the crowd's attention wash over her. For so long she had been edged out, watched as the pack's tenderness flowed to a different heart. Now they looked at her with gratitude and awe. Children reached to touch the hem of her cloak; elders pressed their palms to her brow. Priests muttered blessings, and someone placed a garland of night flowers in her hair.
Gonzalo guided her to a low bench by the hearth where a small spread had been laid. Servants hovered, offering cups of spiced wine and warm bread. Maids fussed at the edges, draping new garments across her shoulders and administering oils that made her skin feel like new. A head maid curtsied and announced that the chambers had been prepared, that maids would be assigned to attend her. The attention was deft and practiced, as if each motion had been rehearsed to show her honor without fuss.
At first delight swelled inside her. She had fought in the dark and no one had thanked her, now they sang her name and the sound was a salve. Gonzalo stayed close, not overly forceful but present an anchor she could lean against. He brushed damp hair from her face, his fingers warm where they touched her temple. "You deserve honor," he murmured. "You have given the pack your strength. You have given me all of you."
She accepted it. A bath was drawn for her, heavy with oils and steam; a maid braided her hair with ceremonial care; soft robes were laid across the couch in her new chamber. When Gonzalo finally led her away from the hearth he showed her the rooms arranged for her as Luna.
The door opened on a private chamber warmed by a small hearth and lit by lanterns that softened the corners of the room. Pillows were piled, throws embroidered with symbols of office, a small table bore books and maps—practical things as well as luxuries. "These will be yours," Gonzalo said, watching her face as if memorizing it. "A place to work, and to rest. Close enough to counsel, and private enough to think."
The space smelled of cedar and lavender and the faint tang of ink. She walked slowly through the room, touching the fabric of a curtain, feeling the grain of the table. Each detail—soft wool, steady light, a window that looked over the valley seemed fashioned to say, You belong here.
Yet a narrow thread of unease threaded beneath the pleasure. Vanya's quiet in the corner, Gonzalo's diplomatic smile that masked calculation, Nyssa's distance—all of it sat under her like a stone. Still she set the edge aside and let herself be treated. For the next days the stronghold moved around her like a small sun: meals prepared, requests attended, petitions brought with deferential bows. She accepted the courtesy because it comforted her in a way that violence never had.
Gonzalo walked with her at dusk, showing her small parts of the lands he had once roamed. He would point out a stand of herbs or a rock that threw sound like thunder. They spoke of council matters in low voices and of private memories—soup shared beneath a leaking roof, laughter that had kept them alive through winter. The intimacy was gentle and steady. He would touch her hand in passing, and the world narrowed to the warmth of that pressure.
Vanya watched. Her face held its composure. People straightened when she entered; voices slid into softer cadences. Liora let the sensation of being cherished wash over her. She deserved this place, she told herself. She had bled for the pack; she had defended them. Now they gave her silk and safety and a name. Let it be.
She let herself sleep that night, clinging to the fragile pe
ace like a stolen thing softly.