For three painful heartbeats, Pella Rook stood on the cliff edge of total destruction. The power hummed in her veins like liquid lightning. She could feel every drop of water between High Tor and the harbor. She could feel the weight of every stone, the tension of every bolt, the fear of every citizen. It would be so easy to hold on. Just ten seconds of heroic agony, and she would stand before the High Senate as an immortal legend. That girl had commanded a river god and bent the cosmos to her hand.
And then she looked down at her apron. She saw Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs. Simple, honest, clockwork tools designed to measure what was real. She saw Eren Tal standing with his mallet, ready to smash the wire to save her life. She saw Kel Dorr, clutching his town ledger. She saw Sister Merrow, smelling of peppermint and wool-grease.
A legend doesn’t have neighbors, the quiet truth whispered in her soul. A legend only has subjects. If I become a goddess today, who sits with Eren on the bench tomorrow? Who eats the salt pork? Who tells the truth about a cracked oar? With a cry of fierce, human defiance, Pella Rook rejected the crown.
