The whole Hallow watches as Rosemary leaves the safety of the ferns walking towards the Glimmer Stone. Rosemary’s mom, Ivy, looks proud of her daughter. But Snow, Rosemary’s best friend, is afraid.

Rosemary is so small beneath the height of the Glimmer Stone. So young to be carrying so much grief. Her legs shake, but she keeps walking until she stands in the circle beneath the fireflies on the top of the stone.

The four streams of light begin to descend. Red-gold flickers first. Then silver-white. Then red again. The fireflies tighten around her, moving faster, caught between flame and feather, tenderness and fury.

Rosemary looks up at them, terrified. The silver-white light settles near her chest, soft as breath. A few fawns whisper.

“Feather?”

Rosemary hears them and says, “no,” immediately.

The light trembles.

“I am not soft.”

No one speaks.

“I yelled at Snow,” she says, louder now. “I wanted her to feel as bad as I felt. I wanted everyone to stop whispering. I wanted the Veil to open because I was angry enough to make it.”

The red-gold stream flares so brightly that several fawns back away.

Rosemary flinches as if the light has accused her.

“See?” she says, her voice cracking. “I am not gentle. I am not peaceful. I am angry.”

Snow lifts her head. Ivy’s eyes fill and I step closer to her.

“Anger is not the opposite of love,” I tell her.

Rosemary looks at me.

“Sometimes anger is love with nowhere safe to go.”

Red-gold light swirls around Rosemary’s heart, but the silver-white does not vanish. It remains beneath it, quieter, almost hidden, like softness protected by flame.

I understand then. Rosemary does not burn because she lacks tenderness. She burns because her tenderness is terrified of losing what she loves.

I raise my head so the whole meadow can hear, “Rosemary is Ember.”

The red-gold light bursts above her, scattering sparks into the morning air. Rosemary closes her eyes as if the word has landed too heavily.

“But listen carefully,” I continue. “Her fire does not come from cruelty. It comes from devotion. From grief. From a love so strong it has not yet learned how to stand without burning.”

Rosemary opens her eyes as tears spill down her face.

“Your training,” I tell her, “will teach you how to protect without scorching. How to feel without being consumed. How to let your fire become courage instead of pain.”

The red-gold glow settles against her chest. For a moment, she only stands there, breathing. Then she looks at Snow. The whole Hallow seems to feel the distance between them.

Rosemary steps out of the circle and off the glimmer rock, unceremoniously walking back to Ivy and Snow.

I return to the glimmer stone .

“Who comes next?”

This time, the silence is shorter. But not by much.

Snow steps forward and Rosemary’s head snaps to her.

“I can go,” Snow offers.

“What if we’re not the same?,” Rosemary whispers.

Snow pauses. The word hurts them both.

Snow shakes her head, “I know we’re not the same.”

Snow walks to the glimmer stone alone as Rosemary watches, heartbroken.

The fireflies descend again.

They do not hesitate the way they did with Rosemary.

Pale blue light gathers around Snow almost immediately, sharp and clear as winter starlight. It moves along her ears, over her chest, across her eyes.

Snow does not flinch.

That is what worries me.

Some fawns are afraid because they do not know what they are.

Snow is afraid because she does.

The pale blue stream rises behind her, forming a thin bright line through the air.

“Snow is Lumen,” I say.

The word echoes softly across the meadow. Snow’s mouth tightens. Rosemary looks stricken. They have been sorted into different Orders. Something simple and devastating passes between them, the sudden understanding that loving someone does not always mean being shaped the same.

Snow stares at the pale blue light.

“Lumen,” she says quietly.

“Yes.”

“So I am cold.”

“No.”

Her eyes meet mine.

“They seek truth,” I say. “They see patterns others miss. They ask the question beneath the question. They name what others are afraid to name.”

Snow’s expression does not change, but her breath catches.

“But when fear takes hold,” I continue, “Lumen can mistake distance for wisdom. They can use truth like a wall. Or a blade.”

Rosemary looks down. Snow looks at her. And for the first time since yesterday, I see Snow understand the shape of what she did. Not only that she hurt Rosemary but how.

“I was trying to be honest,” Snow says.

“I know.”

“I thought if I said it first, it would be less frightening.”

Rosemary’s voice comes from below.

“It was more frightening.”

Snow turns toward her.

The pale blue light around Snow flickers.

“I know that now,” she says.

It is not an apology yet.

But it is the beginning of one.

And beginnings matter.

Snow steps from the circle toward the glassleaf trees, where the blue lights wait. She goes slowly, every step pulling her farther from Rosemary.

Rosemary watches her go.

The red-gold glow on Rosemary’s chest brightens, then dims.

I can feel the pain in it.

A new fear moves through the meadow.

If Rosemary and Snow can be separated, any of them can.