It takes Ember a moment to bring her thoughts back from the present, where she is [i]wanted[/i] and [i]helpful,[/i] a far cry from the runt of a scout who’d somehow won Mosaic’s heart on Beri with her infiltration and seduction training. Now she’s top of the pack, safe in Mosaic’s lap, so hot that she must be melting, that she must smell of adoration. She could be a creature of her body forever and ever.

“…nobody had my face, either,” she admits. It’s difficult to remember who she was, what she was, before the pack chose her. “Before I was Ceronian. Nobody knows what kind of weird creature I was back then, wandering the beach! And now I’m here.”

She nuzzles back into Mosaic, tries to quiet her nerves by molding herself into the hollows of the— of her lover. Her queen. Her mistress. Her prize and guardian. Her terrifying figure of myth. Her Mosaic.

“Home is with them. Wherever we go. With you. Wherever we go. And it’s here, too, isn’t it? On the [i]Plousios,[/i] for as long as we can make it last?”

The question about the fireworks, conversely, will be answered with a small shrug, an admission that Sagetip did something to them, that it’s not something that Ember actually knows— but she can go find out! If you need her to. Not that she truly wants to. Because who would shift out of this lap, once in it? Who would walk away from Mosaic when a night of shared passion gestured invitingly?