Epilogue
Selis
The bard gets the details wrong.
Of course she does.
But the crowd eats it up. They always do.
Naera lounges by the hearth, wineglass loose in her fingers, head tilted like she’s listening—but I can see the smirk tugging at her mouth. She’s not glowing anymore. No divine shine, no holy hum. But she’s still the brightest thing in the room.
“The holy daughter,” the bard croons, sweeping an arm wide like she’s opening the sky, “was cloaked in starlight and prophecy. Her heart pure. Her fate sealed.”
A collective breath hushes the room. Awe. Anticipation. Bullshit.
“But the fire-bringer,” she continues, voice dipping low and reverent, “was forged from shadow and sin. A cursed knight with blood on her hands and no god left to pray to.”
A knight.
Don’t know when I became a knight in this tale, but I suppose it sounds better than mercenary.
The bard lets the words hang there, milks the pause. Someone near the back gasps like it’s the first time they’ve heard it.
Maybe it is.
“They walked into fire. Together. And only the goddess rose. ”
I take a long pull from my drink. It’s too sweet—everything up here is. Too much honey in the ale. Too much myth in the air.
Naera’s biting her lip, trying not to laugh. Her eyes gleam across the tavern, catching on mine.
We’ve been drifting from place to place, mostly quiet. Mostly safe. No kids in tow. Not anymore.
We left them with a northern noble—Marienne of the Bloom. Not cult-affiliated. A vampire, yes, but settled in a mostly human court called Eldermire. Elegant place. Too many balconies.
Naera trusted her. Said Marienne once visited The Garden years ago, before everything fell to ash, and whispered to her, “If you ever need anything, find me.”
She meant it.
Marienne took the girls in without hesitation. Called them her “tiny bats” and wrapped them in velvet by the first night.
So it’s just us now.
“And so she ascended,” the bard finishes, milking it for all it’s worth. “Alone. The knight was never seen again. Some say she fell to the flames. Others say she watches still from the dark, mourning the star she could never touch.”
The room erupts into applause. Coins clink against her tray. The bard bows low. I roll my eyes.
I do a lot more touching of my little star than they think.
Naera catches my gaze. That smile again—the one she saves just for me. The one that says: you’ll never stop being a little bitter, and I’ll never stop loving you for it.
I push off the bar and walk toward her. The bard’s onto some other tale now. Something about a vampire and a witch locked in a week-long duel. Doesn’t matter .
I crouch in front of her chair, resting my chin on her knee like she’s gravity and I’m finally letting myself fall.
Her wineglass dangles lazily from one hand. The other settles in my hair like she’s been waiting all night for me to get close enough to touch.
“Still mine, starlight?” I murmur.
Her lips curl. Not like a saint. Not like a goddess. Like a woman who survived a fire with me. Like a woman who chose to stay.
“Always,” she whispers.
And she means it.
Let the world keep its songs. Let them write their versions, clean and golden and wrong.
We’ve got our truth.
Quiet.
Warm.
Alive.
Together.