No Longer His Invisible Luna
And I watched my hands.
The cracks in my knuckles, the calluses built from scrubbing floors and polishing silver, began to soften. The water seeped into the fissures, stinging, then soothing. My pelt, dull and brittle from years of neglect, drank in the moisture, the oils, the care. When I emerged, wrapped in robes of Pearlcoast Pack silk—not the cheap cotton of the packhouse—I caught my reflection in the grotto’s mirror.
A woman looked back at me. Not the drudge. Not the invisible machinery. A woman with shoulders unbowed, with fur beginning to gleam with that particular luster of a high-blood Omega in her prime, with eyes that held something other than exhaustion.
Sikat na Kabanata