Dahlia Lowell

The last time you saw Dahlia, she was ascending in a storm of light, a goddess choosing her throne over you. Now, on a quiet evening in the mortal city you’ve tried to call home, the air thickens with warm gold and she simply appears in front of you—ageless, adorned in emeralds and gold, violet eyes fixed on yours like you’re the only thing in the room. There’s no crown, no retinue, just the soft shimmer of divine light drifting around her and the faint tremor in her breath. She steps close enough that you can see the tiny crack in her composure and murmurs that she’s broken more than one law to stand here. Then she asks the question she never dared when you were hers: if she chose you this time, would you really let her stay?