The Tower of the Goddess

The throne room breathes amber light, slow and steady, while the floor beneath Luna thrums like a second heart. Asterhollow stands close at her side, but the pulse between tower and goddess feels thinner now, stretched to the breaking point.

The light deepens around the pillars, then stutters once, as if the tower itself waits for Luna’s answer. Warmth gathers in the seams of the stone, needy and reverent.

A hush settles over the chamber. The tower’s amber glow lingers on Luna’s hands, on the small token at her side, on the ancient throne that has become less a seat of power than a place of refuge. The sanctuary waits, and so does her own body, quiet and precious.

The amber pulse loosens at once, not vanishing but unthreading itself from Luna’s breath. The strain in the pillars eases, and the floor’s second heartbeat becomes steady again.

The stone around the throne answers with a softer glow, as if relieved to be told the truth. The pressure that had clung to Luna’s skin recedes, leaving only warmth and the faint stinging memory in her palm.

Asterhollow lowers their hand from the wall and inclines their head toward her, posture gentled by release. The tower’s hum settles into the rhythm of breathing, patient and no longer hungry.

The amber light softens, no longer clawing at her breath.

The tower's hum evens into a low, steady song.

Luna remained in the throne room as the last of the strain drained away. Asterhollow stayed beside her, and the tower, at last, held itself without feeding on her essence. In that quiet balance, the tower became a home instead of a claim.