Bonus Chapter 1
Tarria
Coming back to my room tonight after Lexy gave birth to the second set of triplets, the entire tribe felt wrapped in a hush of gratitude. The moonlight spilled through the windows like liquid silver, glimmering against wood floors and I still smelled with sage and rosewater from the birthing room. I had stood with her until CJ had arrived and even then I didn’t leave her side. I stood with the children keeping her in control of her powers.
It was scary but a beautiful thing to have been part of.
I sat alone on the balcony that overlooked the gardens. The night breeze whispered through my hair, cooling the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. My left arm, wrapped in the leather brace that hid the nub that used to be my hand rested on my lap. I stared at it and thought of the time of the war and how I lost my hand.
I placed knees up and rested my head on my knees.
I closed my eyes, remembering the moment Lexy had reached out during the birth, even in agony, whispering my name through the bond they all shared. I had felt a surge of warmth, a pulse of energy that had shaken the air. It had been fleeting then—but now, sitting beneath the moonlight, I could feel that same hum resonating through my bones.
A low vibration thrummed in the air. I looked up. The moon seemed impossibly bright, its light bending toward me, almost alive. My heart stuttered. The wind grew still. For a moment, it felt as if the world itself was holding its breath.
A voice—soft, ancient—echoed inside my mind.
"Light and darkness are not opposites, child. They are balance. You gave of yourself when the world demanded it. Now, it gives back."
The voice faded, but the glow around my hand intensified. I gasped as warmth flooded my veins. I looked down just in time to see faint threads of light weaving through my wrist, forming patterns that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. Pain surged—sharp, blinding—but it was a pain I welcomed. I cried out, clutching my arm as the light solidified, the bones knitting, the tendons forming. My fingers—my whole hand—emerged, trembling and shining as if sculpted from starlight.
When the glow dimmed, my hand remained. Whole. Real. Strong.
I flexed it, disbelief giving way to a wave of emotion so fierce that I dropped to my knees. I pressed the new hand to my heart and wept—not just for the miracle, but for the reminder that even after everything I had lost, I was still chosen. Still part of something greater.
6 Months Later
On this morning, the packhouse buzzed again—this time with laughter, not pain. The triplet’s fourth birthday had arrived, and joy flowed through the corridors like sunlight after a storm.
I stood by the grand hall doors, watching as servants hung garlands of ivy and silver ribbons. The twins—no, the triplets, I corrected myself with a smile—had insisted the decorations include “moon sparkles,” so glitter dust now covered half the staff and most of the furniture. The air smelled of baked honey bread and vanilla cream.
Lexy with her smile radiant and soft holding one of the 6-month-old triplets. CJ hovered close with the other 2 babies, balancing regal composure with the tenderness of a father who would do anything to keep his family safe. The sight made my chest ache with happiness.
One of the triplets—little Alexia—spotted me and squealed, “Auntie Tarria!” before running straight into my arms. I laughed, spinning the girl effortlessly before setting her down. Alexia’s wide eyes caught the movement of my hand.
“Your hand!” Alexia gasped, her mouth forming a perfect O.
I knelt, looked at it with her and noticed what she was pointing at. “It’s a moon?!” I said softly. “A gift from the moon, I think.”
Alexia’s eyes shone with childlike wonder. “Mami said the moon listens to you,” she whispered. “It must love you too!”
I smiled. “Maybe it loves all of us.”
Soon the hall filled with music—drums and flutes weaving through the chatter. The triplets ran in circles, laughing as their cousins chased them. CJ lifted one of the boys onto his shoulders, pretending to be a fierce dragon, while Lexy clapped and cheered, her pups resting peacefully nearby.
I felt myself laughing more than I had in years. Every sound, every sparkle of light, every breath of happiness seemed amplified, as though the universe itself celebrated with us. I caught Lexy’s gaze across the room. The queen’s eyes softened with warmth and understanding. No words were needed—Lexy already knew. Of course she did. Our bond had grown far beyond words.
Later, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in gold, I stepped outside for a moment of quiet. The laughter of the children spilled out behind me, blending with the hum of cicadas. I lifted my hand toward the fading light, watching the way it caught the glow of sunset. It still amazed me—the strength of it, the miracle of it.
I remembered the years of doubt, of feeling broken. The missions where I’d fought with one hand and refused pity. The nights I’d hidden my pain behind confidence I didn’t always feel. And now—this. The universe had rewritten my scars, not to erase them, but to remind me that I could never truly lose what made me whole.
Footsteps approached behind me. Lexy joined me at the railing; her pups cradled in her arms. “You look at peace,” she said softly.
I turned, smiling. “For the first time in a long while, I am.”
Lexy’s gaze dropped to my restored hand, then back to my eyes. “You earned that. Every piece of it.”
“I think it was never about earning,” I murmured. “Just… accepting that healing doesn’t always come the way we expect.”
The queen nodded, the two of us standing side by side as twilight deepened and the lanterns were released. Inside, the triplet’s laughter rose again, wild and unrestrained. It was the sound of life continuing—of joy after war, of hope after loss.
I glanced at Lexy and then back at the moon climbing high above us. “They’ll grow up in a better world,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because of you.”
Lexy shook her head gently. “Because of us.”
The words settled into my chest, warm and steady. I looked down at her hand again and flexed my fingers, feeling the pulse of life beneath my skin.
For the first time, I didn’t see a reminder of what I’d lost—but of everything I still had and gained.
And as the night filled once more with music and laughter, I walked back into the light of the celebration—whole, grateful, and ready for whatever came next.
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