Epilogue
“There is nothing that can dim the celebration of new life. Not even a contrary troll elder who likes to chatter.” ~ Nick
The Troll Realm had finally stopped shaking.
Mostly.
Every now and then a faint tremor still rolled through the mountain beneath Kara’s bed, a low shiver in the stone that traveled up through the layers of fur and tickled the soles of her bare feet beneath the blankets.
It was subtle enough she might have imagined it, if not for the way Nick’s body immediately tensed beside her every single time it happened, his shoulders going rigid, his head tilting toward the wall like he could glare a mountain into behaving.
Her mate had developed approximately zero chill since becoming a father. Honestly, less than zero. He was operating somewhere in the negative chill zone, a mathematical impossibility that her sleep-deprived brain refused to engage with.
Kara lay propped against an absurd number of blankets in the large stone chamber the trolls had returned them to after the foundations had stabilized, surrounded by enough furs and woven throws to insulate a small village.
Soft amber lanterns glowed along the walls now instead of the colder blue mineral light from before, casting warmth across the carved stone in pools of honey gold while a fire crackled steadily in the massive hearth nearby.
Every now and then a log shifted, sending a quiet shower of sparks up toward the chimney.
The room smelled faintly of herbs, milk, smoke, and wolf.
Mostly wolf.
Nick sat beside her on the bed, one arm braced behind her shoulders, looking deeply offended by the existence of literally everyone else in the room.
Which currently consisted of:
Verna.
Three elder troll females.
Rachel, who had been checking on her and the baby constantly, using her healer powers to monitor them both.
Zara.
Aphid, for some reason.
And Torvik, who had somehow snuck in carrying flowers that looked mildly carnivorous, the petals snapping faintly whenever he turned the bouquet the wrong way.
Nick’s irritation had only worsened once Verna started helping Kara position the baby for feeding, the elder female’s weathered hands moving with practiced calm while Kara fumbled through the most awkward exam of her life.
“I feel like there should be laws against this many people staring at my mate’s breasts,” Nick muttered darkly, tugging the edge of the blanket up another half inch with the focus of a male defusing a bomb.
Verna did not even glance at him as she nudged a pillow under Kara’s elbow. “And yet here we are, surviving somehow.”
Kara snorted tiredly.
Then immediately regretted it, because apparently literally every muscle in her body now hated her personally and had organized a small union about it.
Motherhood was magical.
The baby made a tiny frustrated noise against Kara’s chest, rooting clumsily, her little mouth bumping along skin while Verna adjusted the blankets again with patient hands.
“She is impatient,” the elder female observed.
“She got that from her father,” Kara said instantly, not even looking up.
Nick’s head whipped toward her so fast that she felt the air move. “Excuse me? You once threatened to stab a drive-thru employee because they forgot your fries.”
“In my defense,” Kara murmured, brushing one finger along the curve of the baby’s cheek, “they were curly fries.”
Rachel nearly choked laughing from her chair near the fire, one hand clapped over her mouth as her shoulders shook. Zara, leaning against the stone wall near the door with her arms crossed, did not bother hiding her grin.
The baby finally latched properly.
Kara gasped softly.
Oh.
That was. Strange.
Not painful exactly. Just overwhelming, in the way standing too close to a wave was overwhelming, in the way grief and joy and exhaustion all decided to share the same square inch of her ribcage at the same time.
Emotion swelled so suddenly in her chest it caught her completely off guard, climbing up her throat with no warning whatsoever.
Her daughter relaxed instantly against her, the tense little body going soft, tiny fingers curling weakly against Kara’s skin while soft little swallowing sounds filled the room.
Nick went utterly silent beside her.
Kara turned her head on the pillow to look over at him.
Well.
Great.
Now he looked emotional again.
His gold eyes remained fixed on the baby with the same stunned awe he had worn ever since she had arrived screaming into existence beneath collapsing realms and magical apocalypse lighting.
His throat worked once. Twice. He blinked too hard and pretended he was not blinking too hard, which Kara was absolutely going to bring up the next time he tried to act unaffected by anything.
Honestly?
The child had excellent timing. Showing up in the middle of the apocalypse was the kind of dramatic entrance Kara could respect.
“She knows you,” Verna said quietly, easing back to give them space, her hands folding in her lap.
Kara looked down at the tiny dark haired baby against her chest, at the impossibly small ear, the soft eyebrows already drawn into a faint, focused crease.
Joy.
The emotion hit so hard it almost hurt, blooming behind her sternum until she had to breathe carefully around it.
Not the frantic desperate kind people clung to during battle. Not the loud, laughing kind that came with too much wine and not enough sleep.
Quiet joy.
The kind that arrived after surviving something terrible and just sat down beside you without making a fuss about it.
Nick brushed one finger gently over the baby’s tiny hand, his knuckle dwarfing her entire fist. “She already has your attitude.”
“That is absolutely not measurable yet.”
“She glared at me earlier.”
“She was literally born a couple of hours ago.”
“She was judging me.”
Aphid looked up from where Torvik had apparently been forcing him to help arrange the carnivorous flowers in a bowl on the low stone table by the wall. One of the petals snapped at his finger. He flicked it back without breaking eye contact with Nick. “For the record, I also judged you earlier.”
Nick narrowed his eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“Because I enjoy watching you suffer.”
“Your day will come.”
Verna smiled faintly as she leaned forward and adjusted the blanket around Kara’s shoulders, tucking the corner under with the absent precision of someone who had done it for many mothers across many lifetimes. “The child needs a name.”
The room quieted immediately.
Even the fire seemed to drop its voice, the crackling settling into a low, attentive hush. Rachel set down her cup. Zara’s arms uncrossed. Torvik froze mid flower arrangement.
Nick looked toward Kara, his eyes catching firelight.
Warmth spread slowly through her chest, soft and full.
They had not really talked about names. Between ancient corruption, collapsing foundations, and almost dying repeatedly, the timing had just never felt ideal.
Weirdly enough.
Verna’s ancient eyes softened as she looked down at the baby, the lines at the corners of her mouth deepening.
“She entered this world while the realms trembled.” Her voice grew quieter, the kind of quiet that traveled further than a shout.
“And still her first cry became a joyful noise against the darkness.”
The words settled gently through the room and stayed there, like dust catching in a sunbeam.
Kara looked down at her daughter.
The baby yawned dramatically, her tiny mouth stretching wide, one fist popping out of the swaddle just long enough to wave at no one in particular.
Honestly, again, rude.
But then the name slid into place so naturally it felt less chosen and more discovered, like turning over a stone she had been walking past her whole life and finding it had been waiting there all along.
“Joyce,” Kara whispered.
Nick looked at her. Just looked, in that way he had that always made her feel like she was the only person in the room, even when the room contained, apparently, half a realm.
Kara smiled softly, her eyes burning a little. “Because she was our joyful noise when all hell broke loose.”
Verna’s expression warmed fully then, the lines around her eyes deepening with ancient affection, her hand briefly settling over Kara’s blanketed knee.
“Joyce,” Nick repeated quietly, testing the word like it might bruise if he said it wrong.
The baby shifted against Kara’s chest, one tiny eyelid fluttering as if she had heard her name and decided to consider it.
And beneath the mountain, the foundations pulsed once in answer, a single deep beat that rolled through the stone, through the bed, through the soles of Kara’s feet, and was gone.
Nick’s hand tightened gently around her shoulder.
Kara closed her eyes.
For one long, perfect moment, the world was warm.
* * *
The Fae Realm was dying beautifully. If death could be beautiful.
Fane stood at the edge of the crystalline overlook and watched silver light fracture across the distant forests below like cracks spreading through glass, each split throwing thin, glittering shards of brightness across the canopy before fading.
Massive glowing trees stretched toward the twilight sky, their branches haloed in pale fire, while rivers of pale blue magic cut through the land in winding currents that should have moved like water and instead moved like breath.
And everywhere, the realm trembled.
Subtle. But wrong.
It was the wrongness that bothered him most. He had stood in the Fae Realm a hundred times and never once felt it shiver beneath his boots like a horse about to bolt.
Jacque stepped beside him silently, worn jeans brushing his leg as she moved close enough for their shoulders to touch.
One hand slid into his automatically, her fingers small and warm and familiar against his palm.
Her green eyes reflected the fractured silver light spreading across the horizon, sharp and wary.
“We felt that one harder,” she murmured.
Fane nodded once.
The foundations.
Something had shifted again.