Valtira.
I stood in the royal kitchen of Martha’s pack, my hands buried deep in a mound of flour as I worked the dough with practiced motions.
Smooth. Fold. Press.
The rhythm had long since become second nature, the sort that settles into your bones when survival depends on it.
If someone had told me years ago that this would become my life, I would have laughed in their face.
Yet here I was.
A woman who had once been Luna, now measuring her worth in loaves of bread and copper coins.
Five years.
Five entire years had passed since the world I knew crumbled beneath my feet.
Five years since I learned, painfully and relentlessly, how to lock memories away so tightly that even thinking of them felt forbidden. My body had slowly adjusted to the truth my heart still struggled to accept:
