What followed was not a celebration.
It was a quiet, solemn unfolding.
The battlefield remained littered with the remains of broken spells, fallen petals, and silent wings. The forest was wounded, but not dead. The stars returned one by one to the sky, hesitant, as if unsure they would be welcome.
Lucky wandered alone through the field, watching the aftermath. Fairies tended to one another, many too tired to speak. Some cried. Some laughed, delirious with disbelief.
Marla found her first. Her robes were scorched, and her eyes had aged a decade in a day. "We didn't win," she said, her voice hoarse. "We lived."
Lucky nodded. "That's the start."
From the center of the field, where Umbrael had fallen, a tree had begun to grow.
Small. Glowing. Perfect.