When the last light bows, the four who guide the turning of the world step forward— not summoned, not called, but revealed in that thin breath between waking and elsewhere. I saw them only once, in that sleepless hour when the veil loosens for those who cannot drift away.
The West came first: a figure of embered dusk, crowned in dying sun. She carried the quiet weight of endings, the warmth of stories closing behind her.
The East followed—pale, crystalline, touched by the chill of newborn light. Her companion creature whispered in a tongue I almost recognized.
Then the North stepped forward, ancient and rooted, her feathers marking the memories kept by the land.
And last, the South: blazing, sovereign, radiant with heat. She did not approach—she arrived, sudden and beautiful as wildfire.
For a single breath they aligned, listening to something older than silence. Then, almost amused that I had witnessed them at all, they faded— four directions folding back into the turning world.
All that remained was the warmth of their passing, and the knowing that I had been allowed to witness the moment when the last light bowed… and the regal fae bowed with it.