Epilogue
Five years later
Avalon
The manor hums.
Not loudly. Not the way it used to before we broke the curse—sharp and desperate, buzzing with secrets and want. Now it’s a gentle sound, like the purr of a well-loved cat or the rustle of leaves stirred by a contented breeze. Alive. Yet at peace.
I walk the garden paths barefoot, morning dew slicking my toes, one hand cradling the tiny swell of my belly. It’s not much yet—just a gentle curve, barely noticeable unless you’re looking. But they’re always looking.
“You’re up early,” Jodrick calls from the porch, his voice low and warm like melted honey.
He holds a cup of tea in one hand and a slice of toast in the other, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and a sleepy smile.
The streaks of silver at his temples catch the sun, and my heart trips over itself.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “Too many butterflies.”
“Those better be metaphorical,” Viraat grumbles from the doorway. He’s stretching, hair tousled and peppered with gray, scowl in place like always—but it’s gentler now. Mostly performative.
He crosses the porch in three long strides and drapes a blanket over my shoulders. “You shouldn’t be barefoot. And you shouldn’t be carrying anything.” He scowls at the small potted plant I grabbed to bring to our porch.
“It barely weighs more than a bag of flour,” I remind him sweetly, poking his chest.
His hand drops to my belly instinctively. Protective. Reverent. A little awestruck, still. “I don't let you carry that either. All you're supposed to be carrying is that little creature in your belly.”
The way he says it makes my breath catch. I press into him, and Jodrick comes up behind me, sandwiching me between them. Their warmth, their weight, their everything.
For a while, we just stand like that—wrapped in each other and morning light, with the manor humming around us like it’s proud. Like it knows.
“You’ve got some new laugh lines, old man,” I murmur, brushing my fingers over Viraat’s cheek.
He snorts. “You try living with you and staying wrinkle-free.”
“And you’ve got more gray in your beard,” I say, tipping my head back to look at Jodrick.
“Distinguished,” he says solemnly. “Dignified.”
“Old,” Viraat grumbles.
“Aging,” I correct softly. “With me.”
They quiet at that. Not because it’s sad—though sometimes it is—but because it’s true. The spell worked, and with it came change. Not just sunlight and softness, but time. Time that wears and erodes and blesses.
They chose this. Me. And in doing so, they chose mortality.
It humbles me every day.
“I wouldn’t trade a second of this,” Jodrick says, like he read my mind.
“Not even the time you burned the eggs?” I whisper.
He groans. Viraat smirks.
“Especially not then,” Viraat says. “You licked the yolk off his chin and made the worst breakfast of our lives look like some sacred rite.”
I laugh, loud and unguarded.
Inside, the Manor creaks and sighs, sunbeams slanting through stained glass and dust motes dancing in old libraries and newer playrooms. There are voices upstairs—guests waking, lovers kissing, someone digging in a toybox in the big shared nursery.
And beneath it all, that low, content hum. The magic is still alive. Still awake. Still watching over us.
I kiss Jodrick’s cheek. Then Viraat’s.
“I think the baby can hear the house,” I whisper, palms pressed to my belly. “I think they like it.”
The manor’s hum deepens, just for a moment—almost a purr.
Jodrick brushes his thumb beneath my eye. “Of course they do. It’s home.”
THE END