The dance studio smelled of fresh paint and polished wood floors. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, turning dust motes into tiny sparks that floated like fireflies. I stood in the center of the empty space, barefoot, arms wrapped around myself as I turned slowly in a circle. Mirrors lined every wall, reflecting me back a thousand times over: Elena Harper Black, Luna of Blackthorn, moon-blessed mother-to-be, and now owner of what would soon be the most talked-about dance academy in the city.
My hand rested on the gentle swell of my belly. Our daughter kicked once, firm and insistent, as if approving. Tears pricked my eyes again, the same tears that had come so easily these past months. Joy and grief tangled together inside me, impossible to separate. Every victory still carried the
