Malvoria ended up with an armful of artwork, most of it still damp and smelling strongly of paint.
Even with Elysia's help, she could barely see over the stack: dragons with extra wings, portraits of horned queens, a wrinkled painting that seemed to be nothing but purple and gold handprints.
She held them like treasure—because, in truth, they were.
These little gifts from children who lived in a world where magic, family, and chaos blended freely were more precious than any diplomatic token or jeweled crown she'd ever received.
Kaelith, for once, was quietly subdued, her usual storm of energy settling into a small, contented hum. She trailed behind Malvoria and Elysia, thumb tucked into her mouth, paint still streaked through her pale hair.
She looked up, blinking slow and solemn, as Mistress Lyran and the rest of the children waved them off from the orphanage steps.
