Epilogue
The city does not sleep so much as soften.
Light from low fires and reflected suns flickers up through broken floors and open steel ribs, turning ruin into something almost ceremonial. The edges are still sharp, the walls still fractured, but there is motion And laughter.
I stand near the edge of what used to be a mezzanine, one hand resting on a rusted railing that probably hasn’t held weight in decades. Below, in the open stretch of what must once have been a grand lobby, Illadon is holding court.
I don’t think he knows that’s what he’s doing. It comes to him naturally.
Three young Zmaj cluster around him, wings half-spread in restless curiosity.
One of them crouches to better see the way Illadon is sketching in charcoal across a slab of broken tile.
Rverre stands beside him, hands clasped behind her back, head tilted slightly as she watches not the drawing but the reactions.
“They reinforced Draconov like this,” Illadon is saying, voice carrying upward in confident waves. “Load shifts here, not here. If you anchor too high, you lose the whole upper quadrant.”
The Zmaj exchange glances. One of them glances up toward the fractured ceiling as if imagining the shift.
“And your father taught you this?” one asks.
“My father,” Illadon says, lifting his chin, “and my mother. And others.” His gaze flicks briefly toward where he knows I’m standing, then returns to his audience. “We didn’t survive by accident.”
Rverre steps forward then, pressing her palm briefly to the stone floor. The nearest Zmaj goes very still, watching.
“It holds,” she murmurs. “But it wants weight evenly shared.”
They don’t scoff or laugh. They lean closer. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I let it out slowly.
“They’re in awe of them,” I say quietly.
Korr stands at my side, arms folded loosely across his chest. He isn’t tense. He isn’t on guard. He’s watching the room with something deeper than vigilance.
“Yes,” he says.
“Because they’re hybrids?” I ask.
He shakes his head once.
“Because they are unafraid.”
Below, one of the Zmaj extends a hand toward Illadon, palm up. A warrior’s gesture of exchange. Illadon looks at it, then places his own hand against it without hesitation. Their grips lock, forearms tensing briefly, a silent recognition passing between them.
Rverre smiles faintly and turns toward a cluster of human children who have edged closer, curiosity outweighing caution. She kneels without being asked, speaking softly, wings catching the firelight like polished glass.
“They’ll be out late,” I murmur.
Korr’s mouth curves, barely.
“They have earned it.”
I glance at him. “You’re not worried?”
“I am,” he says easily. “But not about this.”
Below, one of the older Zmaj gestures toward a stairwell and several of the youths lead Illadon and Rverre upward, eager to show them something. A vantage point, perhaps. A reinforced beam. A place claimed and rebuilt.
Illadon glances up at me before he disappears from view, not for permission, for acknowledgment. I lift my chin and he grins then vanishes into shadow and light. The chamber feels larger without them, but not emptier.
“They trust us,” I say.
Korr turns his head slightly, studying me instead of the room now.
“Yes.”
“That’s new,” I admit.
“For them,” he says. “Or for you?”
I don’t answer right away.
Below, a human caregiver hands a vial of epis to another Zmaj who handles it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. He carries it toward a woman seated against a column. The exchange is deliberate. Gentle.
No one pulls her back into the shade. No one recoils from the light. The city is changing, not in declaration, but in posture. I rest my hand over Korr’s where it has come to rest at my waist..
“They won’t come looking for us tonight,” I say softly.
His thumb shifts, just once, against my side.
“No,” he agrees. “They are exactly where they should be.”
And for the first time since I crashed onto this planet, I feel different. Not the absence of fear but space. Space to step away. Space to breathe. Space to choose something that belongs only to us.
“Come with me,” I whisper, stepping out of his grasp, letting my hand slide into his and pulling him along after me.
I lead us to the upper floors which are quieter.
Korr follows until we reach the space that we were given to rest. The fractured ceiling above lets in a spill of late sun, turning the dust in the air into drifting gold. It isn’t romantic, but it is practical, and it’s ours.
For the first time, we are not needed. The realization lands softly between us.
I step towards the two rolled sleeping pads against the far wall then turn toward him.
He watches me the way he does when he is trying to not move too quickly. Carefully assessing so as not to overwhelm or assume.
“You didn’t step in,” I say softly.
“When?” he asks.
“With Brad.” I don’t need to say Brad’s name. “You didn’t claim. You didn’t challenge.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I did not need to.”
“Why?”
He steps close enough that I feel the warmth of him through fabric and air.
“Because you were not wavering,” he says. “And because I do not fight battles that are not mine to win.”
Emotions try to choke off further words, but I swallow them down with difficulty.
“You trust me,” I say.
“Yes.”
Not a hint of hesitation, caution or reservation.
Yes.
The simplicity of it nearly undoes me. I close the last inch of space between us.
His hands hover for half a second, giving me room to stop him if I choose. I don’t.
They settle at my waist, firm but not possessive. Steady. Familiar.
“You called me dragoste,” I say, searching his face.
His gaze darkens, not with hunger alone but with something that feels like inevitability.
“I did.”
“That wasn’t strategy.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t politics.”
“No.”
His thumb brushes once along the curve of my side, barely there. My breath shifts in response before I can control it.
“It was truth,” he says.
I study him. The lines carved by survival. The patience he’s had with me. The way he stood beside me instead of in front of me. The way he yielded the floor to the children and never tried to own the outcome.
“I am not treasure,” I say softly.
“I know.”
“I won’t be claimed.”
“I know.”
“And I won’t make myself smaller to be loved.”
His hands tighten just slightly.
“Good,” he says.
Something in my chest gives way. It’s not fear or doubt. It’s acceptance. He takes me as I am, with no desire to change me. I lift my hands and wrap them around his neck, fingers sliding into the coarse warmth of his hair at the nape. His breath catches.
I don’t wait. I kiss him.
I press my mouth to his with everything I didn’t let myself feel before—relief, heat, gratitude, want. His hands flex at my waist, then one slides up my spine, anchoring me closer as he answers.
He doesn’t take control, he matches me.
His mouth moves against mine slowly at first, learning the shape of me, the rhythm. I deepen it, angling closer, rising onto my toes without thinking. He bends slightly to meet me, one arm tightening around my back.
The world narrows.
His lips part and the kiss shifts—hotter, slower, a low sound rumbling in his chest as I press closer. His hand cups the back of my head, not forcing, just guiding. His other slides along my side, deliberate, reverent.
My pulse is a drumbeat under my skin.
I break the kiss only long enough to breathe.
“This,” I whisper against his mouth, “is not strategy.”
A faint smile ghosts across his lips.
“No.”
I kiss him again, softer this time but deeper. The kind of kiss that lingers. That says I am here. I am choosing this. I am not afraid.
His forehead comes to rest against mine when we finally part, breath mingling.
Below us, laughter echoes again—bright and alive. Above us, light spills through fractured steel.
“I am with you,” I say.
His hands settle at my hips, grounding, sure.
“And I,” he answers, voice low and steady, “am not going anywhere.”
For the first time in my life, I believe it.