Epilogue 1
First Epilogue
VANN
The hearth burns low, painting the stone walls in ribbons of amber light.
I’m in Arlet’s home, having largely abandoned mine.
Mostly, I leave my weapons to sit there by the door, far away from the gentleness in our little bubble.
Instead, the walls are crammed with paintings and tapestries and trinkets from adventures taken upon Seraph’s back.
Even after the murder, we were able to fully clean the stone, and just like the blood, the memories faded as well. The stone walls took on new meaning.
The air smells of lavender oil and smoke—her scent has soaked into the very stone by now.
I like it better here. It is warm. Every part of this little home hums with her: the scrolls she leaves half open on the table, the woven blanket she kicked to the floor, the faint shimmer of Fuegorra light that glows faintly through her skin.
She retrieved a stone shortly after arriving to Enduvida, and the first time I heard our mating song I nearly cried.
The last months, as her belly has swollen and her heart continues to soften to me, I feel nothing but grateful.
Arlet lies beside me, hair spilling across the pillow, eyes half lidded with that lazy, satisfied calm that always comes after we’ve forgotten the rest of the world.
Her chest rises slowly and steadily. She’s not frail anymore.
The hollows of her cheeks have filled in, her skin is warm and sun-touched again, her eyes bright and sharp.
In the corner hangs a tapestry, one she started long ago, with woods, and a meadow, and a rocky mountain. She finished it with the section she likes to name after me.
Ulla said she might always be tired, that her body might never fully recover from what the curse took. They were wrong. She’s more alive than I’ve ever seen her.
Even her companion is in brighter spirits.
I watch her trace idle circles against the sheets. I wonder how I am even allowed to see such beautiful sights after the past year and a half.
“You’re staring again,” she murmurs, voice still husky with sleep. She rolls over, revealing her large belly. The one holding our child.
“I’m memorizing,” I say. “In case you disappear.”
She gives a soft, amused sound. “No more adventures for a while.”
“Hmm. I like adventures with you. I like sharing a bed with you, too.”
Her lips curve, that faint smirk that always undoes me. “Your tongue is too sweet. I miss when you used to be quiet.”
“If I speak words, it is because they are true, my flame-haired goddess.”
She sits up, reaching for her robe, and I reach first, catching her wrist. “Stay.”
“Vann,” she sighs, “you can’t keep me in bed forever. I have work to do.”
“I can try.”
When she looks back at me, her hair slips over her shoulder, red-gold in the firelight. I could look at her for a lifetime and still not feel finished.
“Marry me,” I say.
For months, she has slowly let me back into her life. Into her house. She knows we are mates. We know we are for each other. And yet…
Her mouth quirks. “No.”
“Please,” I whisper against the fragile skin of her wrist, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Please, marry me, Arlet.”
She turns to me fully now, one brow lifted, eyes soft and dangerous all at once. “I will,” she says, “when you stop asking every morning.”
“That sounds like never.”
“Then you’ll just have to live long enough to keep asking.”
I laugh, low and breathless. “Cruel woman.”
“Patient man.” She tuts. “Though you have your own cruelty in you, too.”
She leans in and presses her forehead to mine, and for a while we just breathe—two pieces finally made to fit. The Fuegorra hums faintly at her sternum, its glow reflected in my own eyes.
I help her dress—though she hardly needs the help—and when my fingers brush the back of her neck to fasten the clasp, she shivers, just slightly. It’s enough to make me forget words for a while.
For some reason, she doesn’t leave. So, I pull the small leather-bound scroll from the table.
“What is that?” she asks.
“A story,” I say. “One I thought you’d like.”
Her expression softens. “Then read it to me.”
So I do.
I open it to the first page, the ink still fresh. The letters are uneven—my handwriting’s never been as graceful as hers—but I’ve rewritten it a dozen times until the words sound right.
“It’s about a troll,” I begin, “and a human who lives at the edge of the world, in a cottage carved into the rock, with looms that hum and windows that catch the first light of dawn. He builds her a library with more shelves than sense, and every night she fills the pages with stories—some true, some not, all beautiful. They raise wild children who never sleep, who climb trees and steal stones and torment crystal wraiths, and who grow up listening to their mother’s tales and their father’s songs. ”
She’s smiling now, quiet and full of happiness. “Does it end happily?”
“Of course it does,” I say softly. “They live a long time. They fight, they forgive, they build something that lasts longer than curses or kings.”
Her eyes meet mine across the firelight. “And do they love each other?”
I close the book, tracing the edge of its cover. “Every day. In small ways and in great ones.”
She looks at me for a long time, her expression unreadable—and then her hand finds mine. Her fingers are warm, her grip sure. The Fuegorra under her skin glows softly, answering mine.
She stays close, breath brushing my collarbone. “What is it?” I ask, brushing my thumb over her knuckles.
I cup her face, my hands shaking, and for the first time in years, my chest feels too small for the joy inside it. “You’ve just given me everything I’ve ever wanted.”
She smiles, teary and radiant. “All right,” she says quietly. “I’ll marry you.”
For a moment, I forget how to breathe. The world narrows to her voice, her smile, the steady rhythm of our hearts in the same space.
“You mean it?” I ask.
“Yes.” Her eyes soften. “I’ll marry you, Vann.”
I pull her into my arms, the laughter breaking out of me before I can stop it. She tilts her head up, amused. “You look like you just won a war.”
“I did,” I say. “The last one. And the one before it.”
She laughs too, and the sound fills the home—rich, bright, alive. It warms my blood and makes me feel like singing.
When she kisses me, it isn’t desperate anymore. It’s slow and certain, threaded through with promise. I kiss her back, and the Fuegorra flares once between us.
I pull her against me, holding her as though the entire mountain could crumble and it wouldn’t matter. I’ll find a way to keep her and our child safe.
Words from one of my favorite poems, one that I had recited to her in a very different time, return to me.
“Regret clings too easily, like burrs in the hem of a weary traveler—
A weight that asks nothing but to be carried.
But beauty? Beauty is lighter, fleeting, slipping through open hands,
Yet it does not demand to be earned.
It simply is.
You have walked far enough beneath heavy skies, let your step, for once, fall upon something soft.”
It feels like, finally, we have turned the other stone. Finally. Finally we can begin the life we are meant to live.