Astraea emerged through the mirror gate shrouded in pre-dawn mist, the weight of her footsteps crushing the remnants of frost beneath her boots. I was waiting in the courtyard, hands deep in my coat pockets, watching the horizon light with the first pale glow of a winter sun. When I saw her step through, the cold air sharpened. Her gaze met mine—a glint of pride and sorrow all at once—and I straightened, pushing aside the last traces of sleep.
She looked different than I remembered: taller, straighter, a confidence in her stance that spoke of battles fought and won. She was clad in armor of moon-ice and bloodsteel, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly under her skin. In her hand she carried a sword longer than any blade I had seen, the hilt wrapped in white fur, the pommel crowned with a crystalline flower that glowed faintly blue. I took a breath to greet her, but the words caught in my throat. There was no smile on her lips—only the weight of what she carried.
