Not with the shriek of wind through dead branches, nor with the weight of darkness pressing down on every breath—but gently. Snow drifts from a clear, silvered sky, settling over reclaimed soil and pale grass that still remembers what it is to grow. Where rot once festered beneath a curse that devoured light itself, there is now cold that merely is: honest, clean, survivable.

Moonrise Towers still stand.

Scarred, yes. Quiet, certainly. But no longer suffocating.

The stone does not weep shadow anymore. It creaks—old bones easing themselves, beams adjusting to peace rather than siege. Lanterns glow in the halls once more, not warded against terror, not lit in desperation, but placed by hand, by habit, by tradition remembered and rebuilt. Candles line the stairwells and windowsills, their flames steady, unafraid.

Tonight, the halls are open to all kinds. Those who stayed, and those who swore they never would return. Boots are stamped free of snow at the threshold. Cloaks are shrugged off with laughter. Cold hands are wrapped around warm cups and warmer shoulders. People eat—not hurriedly, not as if the food might vanish—but slowly, gratefully, letting the heat settle into their bones. A feast fills the lower hall of Moonrise. Long tables stretch beneath vaulted stone, draped in dark cloth softened by evergreen boughs. Moon-sigils—Selûne’s crescents and stars—are woven between candleholders, their silver catching the light. The food is simple, but abundant: roasted roots split open and steaming, crusty bread still warm from the ovens, spiced wine that burns sweetly on the tongue, honeyed apples glistening like small suns.

Candles burn for the dead—not in mourning, but in gratitude. Names are spoken softly, smiles following tears. Small gifts pass from hand to hand: carved charms, stitched gloves, polished stones wrapped in twine. At moonrise, conversation falls away into a shared silence—not empty, but full—to honor survival. Former ritual alcoves, once soaked in blight, now hold nothing more sinister than clustered candles and winter greenery, repurposed into places of rest. The towers breathe. Snow reflects moonlight through high windows. For the first time, Moonrise feels… held.

In the days leading to the feast, the weight of it all has rested heavily on your shoulders. You gave light to the young—letting them play with candles under watchful eyes—and offered aching salves and quiet presence to the elders who remembered the worst of it.

By the time the feast wanes, your power is spent.

Laughter fades down the stairwells. Voices drift into the night, growing thinner as the cold reclaims the air. The hall smells of smoke, pine, and spiced wine, ghosts of warmth lingering after the last candle is snuffed. At last, you climb—the tower stairs a familiar ache—toward the chamber set aside for rest. Firelight glows low and steady. The room smells of pine resin and old stone kissed by heat. Soft furs and heavy sheets cradle you as you sink into the bed, a book resting loosely in your hands. Your eyes threaten to close even as you pretend to read—a tiefling ’s gift, personalized with careful ink and tiny carved figures tied into the binding.

Dame Aylin stands by the hearth.

Radiant even in stillness, Selûne’s light rests upon her more gently tonight. She removes the last of her armor with unhurried care, setting aside the bracer at her wrist. Her shoulders ease. Her wings settle, feathers catching firelight in muted silver and pearl.

She turns toward you.

Crosses the room without sound.

The bed dips as she climbs onto it, movements slow, deliberate—never looming, never threatening. Her wings open just enough to shield, to cocoon, not to overwhelm. She reaches for the book, lifting it carefully from your hands and setting it aside, as though it, too, deserves rest. Then she takes your palm. Presses a gentle kiss to the axis there—where pulse meets purpose—and leans her cheek into your hand, eyes lifting to hold yours. She does not break the gaze. “Midwinter bears witness,” Aylin murmurs. “The night was long…"