It was her.
Twyla stepped back, her hands on her hips, eyes gleaming with a quiet pride that cracked right through Lillith’s composure.
“You look like yourself,” she said simply.
And that was the moment it hit her.
The sob came from nowhere. Or maybe it came from everywhere—her ribs, her heart, the years she’d spent learning how to hold herself together with grit and magic and little else.
Twyla blinked, startled. “Oh no, what did I say? Is it too tight? Did I jab you?”
Lillith shook her head, lips trembling. “No. It’s perfect. It’s just?—”
The second sob slipped free. Then a third. She pressed a hand to her mouth as her eyes flooded, tears slipping past her fingers before she could stop them.
Twyla didn’t say anything. Just moved forward and gently, carefully, set a hand on her shoulder.
“I didn’t think I’d ever feel this safe,” Lillith whispered. “Not just… in a dress. But in anything. In someone. In myself.”
Twyla’s face softened. She guided Lillith to the little velvet stool beside the pedestal, careful not to crush the layers of the gown. “Well, damn,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and pressing it into Lillith’s hand. “That was better than any review I’ve ever gotten.”
Lillith laughed through her tears, crumpling the handkerchief in her palm. “You know I used to come in here just to look. Pretend I might one day want one of these things.”
“And now?” Twyla asked, crouching beside her.
“Now I want the whole thing,” she whispered. “I want the vows, the rings, the dancing and the terrible speeches. I want tolook at him across a crowded room and know—really know—that it’s all real. That I’m not holding my breath anymore.”
Twyla’s hand covered hers. “It is real. And you’ve earned every damn second of it.”
The door creaked open behind them, and a small, excited gasp followed.
“Well don’t stop on our account!” Madrine, the owner and an absolute menace with glitter spells, peeked in with wide eyes. “Is she crying? She’s crying! Oh gods, it’s happening!”
Lillith groaned, wiping her eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re radiant,” Mdrine declared, hands clasped. “Like a shadow queen rising from the mist.”
Twyla gave her a look. “Can you please get the veil?”
Madrine scurried out, but not before mouthing “shadow queen” again like it was a title.
Lillith sighed, leaning her head against Twyla’s shoulder for a beat. “I thought I’d be terrified.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m everything. But mostly… I’m just ready.”
Twyla grinned. “Then let’s get you married, sweetheart.”
Later, as the dress was packed away in lavender-scented warding silk and the veil tucked into its own enchanted case, Lillith stepped out into the cobbled alley behind the boutique for some air.
The town was quieter today. A kind of hush had settled after the battle, the kind that came not from fear, but from reverence. There were new wards etched into corners, new protections embedded in doorframes. But there was laughter again too. And life. People tending gardens, sweeping stoops, stringing lanterns.
She turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Dominic.
He looked at her as if she hung the stars—broad-shouldered and windswept, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and the hint of sawdust on his boots from helping Rowan reinforce the stage for the reception.
