Anastasia and Valerian’s embrace, warm and lingering, finally drew to a close. She had found comfort in his arms—his gentle strength, his silent warmth—but now, at last, they pulled apart. Still, their eyes lingered, locked in a tender gaze that spoke more than words ever could.
Then—a cough.
They turned.
There stood Lydia and Jeremiel—Anastasia’s adoptive mother and father—slowly rising from the ground where the three dark witches had flung them.
Staggering to their feet, dazed but alive, their eyes widened at the sight before them: Anastasia, untouched, unbroken, standing beside Prince Valerian.
And around her feet, nothing but ash.
The ashes of the three witches who had dared to strike—now fallen.
Hearts overflowing, they ran to her—arms outstretched, breath caught in wonder—and
