Epilogue
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the vegetable gardens, painting the neat rows of herbs and root vegetables in shades of gold and amber.
Evran kneels between the turnip rows, his hands deep in the rich black earth as he carefully tends to the young shoots.
The soil is cool beneath his fingers, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the day.
"The carrots are coming along well this season," Eira observes from where she works among the medicinal herbs, her hands gentle as she harvests chamomile flowers. "Better than last year's crop."
Evran smiles, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "The new irrigation channels Vaike had dug before he left have made all the difference. The water reaches every corner now."
At the mention of Vaike's name, a familiar ache settles in his chest. Three weeks.
It has been three weeks since the warlord rode out with his warriors to aid Clan Blackstone in their border disputes.
Three weeks of waking to an empty bed, of eating meals without Vaike's presence filling the hall, of falling asleep to silence instead of the steady rhythm of his beloved's breathing.
The sound of horns echoing across the stronghold makes both of them freeze.
Eira's head snaps up, her eyes bright with sudden excitement. "The return signal," she breathes.
Evran's heart hammers against his ribs as he scrambles to his feet, dirt still clinging to his hands and knees. Through the gates in the distance, he can see the familiar banners approaching— travel-worn but proud.
"Go," Eira urges, giving him a gentle push toward the stronghold. "Go to him."
Without hesitation, Evran drops his tools and runs.
His feet fly across the packed earth of the training grounds, past the smithy where sparks still dance from the forge, through the bustling courtyard where servants and warriors alike have gathered to welcome their returning brothers.
His lungs burn with the effort, but he doesn't slow, can't slow, not when Vaike is so close.
The gates stand open wide, and through them rides the war party. Dust clings to their armor and exhaustion lines their faces, but they sit tall in their saddles, victorious. At their head, mounted on his great black destrier, is Vaike.
Even travel-stained and weary, the warlord commands attention.
His dark hair hangs loose around his shoulders, and dried blood stains his leather armor, telling the story of battles fought and won.
But when his eyes find Evran racing toward him across the courtyard, his stern expression melts into something tender and wondering.
Vaike swings down from his horse in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground just as Evran reaches him. Without pause, without thought for the watching crowd or their respective states of dishevelment, Vaike sweeps Evran up in his powerful arms.
Evran's dirty hands find Vaike's face, cupping his bearded cheeks as they hold each other tight. The scent of leather and sweat and something that belongs solely to Vaike fills his senses, and he breathes it in like a drowning man who has finally surfaced.
"I dreamed of this," Vaike murmurs against his temple, his voice rough with emotion and exhaustion. "Every night on the road, I dreamed of seeing you again, of holding you."
"Welcome home," Evran whispers, his own voice thick with unshed tears of relief and joy. "Welcome home, my heart."
Around them, the stronghold bustles with activity as warriors reunite with their families and servants hurry to prepare for the evening feast. But in that moment, beneath the fading light of day, there is only them.
The garden can wait. The evening meal can wait. For now, there is only this: the warmth of Vaike's arms, the solid reality of his presence, and the quiet promise that tomorrow they will wake together once more.
Home has many meanings within the walls of the Drakkari stronghold, but for Evran, it will always be this. Wherever Vaike is, wherever they can find each other, is home.