Lyra Titanica lay across the forest floor, and the hunger would not stop. She was already a giantess, tall as the oldest oaks. But she wanted more. She wanted the sacred grove at Entwood's heart, that ring of ancient trees where mortals left offerings. She would rule it, and no small creature would dare climb her toes to argue. To claim it, she had to keep growing. To grow, she had to eat. Her stomach twisted like a landslide. She had stripped the valley of berries and swallowed whole ponies, yet the hunger only sharpened. She dragged herself upright and searched the ridge. Then she saw it. A single tree stood alone, and from its highest branch hung one golden apple. Even far off, the fruit glowed. It was larger than a barn, its skin polished bright. Something in her belly told her that apple was made to feed a giantess. Lyra crossed the valley in three steps. She reached for the branch. A voice stopped her. "Halt, foul giantess! That fruit is under my protection!" She looked down. On a rock beside the tree stood a knight no taller than her thumbnail. His armor shone. A red feather nodded on his helmet. He held a tiny sword high, pointed at her ankle. This was Sir Gallant Tinwright, and he did not tremble. Lyra laughed. The sound bent the grass flat around him. "You would guard my supper?" "I would guard the whole wood from you," he shouted. He swung his sword and struck her heel. It felt like a splinter, nothing more. Still, he swung again. "The golden apple grants growth to whoever eats it. I will not let it feed your greed." So the little knight had just told her exactly what she needed. Lyra smiled. She plucked him off the rock between two fingers. He kicked and cursed, but she only set him down far in the grass, gentle as picking a flower. She would not waste time crushing him. Then she seized the golden apple. She bit down. Juice ran hot down her chin. Sweetness flooded her, and the ache in her belly finally eased. The hunger died. But something new began. Her bones stretched. Her skin pulled tight. She grew, and grew, and could not stop. The oaks that once matched her height now brushed her knees. The ridge shrank below her. She rose past the clouds, and the whole valley became a map at her feet. Lyra laughed with joy. Her hunger was gone. She was larger than any creature in Entwood. Below, Sir Gallant climbed to his feet. He stared up at the growing shadow that swallowed the sun. Then he turned and ran toward the sacred grove, faster than his little legs had ever carried him. He had to warn them. He had to bring help before she came to claim it.

By morning the villagers ringed the black altar again. They had stacked fresh baskets on the polished stone. But their faces had changed. They no longer only worshiped. They watched Lyra the way farmers watch a sky before a storm. One old man near the front pressed his palms together and whispered to his neighbor. "A god gives signs," he said. "Where is her sign?" Lyra heard him. She sat cross-legged in the valley, her knees higher than the huts. The chant had thinned overnight. Fewer voices, more silence. She understood the danger. A god who did nothing was only a monster who had not eaten yet. If she gave them no wonder, their bowed heads would rise, and fear would harden into spears. Ayla climbed the altar steps to reach her. The girl still wore her striped swimsuit, small and bright against the black stone. She alone did not flinch when Lyra's shadow crossed her. "They doubt you, my queen," Ayla said, plain as a servant reporting weather. "Give them proof, or by nightfall they arm themselves." Lyra needed a wonder she could make with her own power. She looked at Ayla, so small on her open palm. An idea took shape. The golden apple had grown Lyra past the clouds. That growth still burned in her, a fire she could share. She lifted Ayla level with her face. "Hold still," Lyra said. "I will show them what I can do." Ayla did not pull back. She lifted her chin. Lyra breathed out slowly and pushed her own strength down her arm into the girl. Warmth flowed from her fingers. Ayla gasped. Then she began to grow. The crowd cried out. Ayla's legs stretched. Her shoulders widened. Her feet slid off Lyra's palm as she rose, taller than the huts, taller than the trees at the field's edge. She laughed, breathless, and lifted her own hands to stare at them. The villagers fell to their knees. This time no one whispered. The old man pressed his forehead to the dirt. "She lifts mortals to giants!" a woman shouted. "She is a true god!" The fear broke. Worship rushed back, louder than before. Lyra had her sign. But Ayla kept growing. She reached Lyra's shoulder, then her ear. Her devoted smile turned uncertain. "My queen," she said, and her voice now boomed across the whole valley. "I feel it still spreading. I cannot stop it." Lyra rose to her full height and looked her servant in the eye, almost equal now. She had spent her power to buy the crowd's faith. She had not meant to give so much of it away. Ayla stood beside her, huge and hungry-eyed, no longer a girl on a palm. Lyra had a second giantess in her valley, and only one throne in the grove above.