Chapter 20 Keira
KEIRA
The cabin becomes our refuge for a week—a small pocket of time carved away from grief's heaviest weight where we can simply exist together.
Amisra thrives here. She explores the woods with Valas at her heels, builds elaborate stick forts in the clearing, and actually laughs when he tells her ridiculous stories about forest creatures that absolutely don't exist. The tension that's been holding her small shoulders rigid since her father's death starts to ease, replaced by something that looks almost like peace.
I watch them together—Uncle Val teaching her to skip stones across the stream, both of them crouched low with matching expressions of concentration—and my heart does something complicated in my chest. This is what family should look like. What it could be for us.
At night, after Amisra falls asleep in the second bedroom surrounded by blankets Valas spelled to smell like spring meadows, I slip into his bed.
We make love quietly, reverently, like we're still learning the shape of this thing between us.
Sometimes it's desperate and urgent, both of us reaching for connection to push back the darkness.
Other times it's slow and tender, hands mapping skin with careful attention while we whisper confessions in the dark.
I never leave his bed. Can't bring myself to put space between us when being close to him feels like the only thing keeping me grounded.
On our fifth morning at the cabin, I wake to find Valas already awake, one arm tucked behind his head while his other hand traces idle patterns on my bare shoulder. Early light filters through the window, painting his slate-gray skin in shades of pearl and silver.
"You're staring." I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
"Just appreciating the view." His fingers slide into my hair, gentle. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and discover this was all some elaborate dream."
"If it is, we're having the same dream." I shift to prop myself up on one elbow, studying his face. "Which seems unlikely."
His smile carries that soft edge I've come to recognize—the one that means he's thinking about something serious beneath the levity. I wait, giving him space to work up to whatever he needs to say.
"Did you know… Daryn made me promise to do exactly this?" The words come out quiet, careful. "Before he died, he made me promise to love you both. To be good parents for Amisra. To build a real family."
My breath catches. I knew Daryn cared about me, trusted me with his daughter, but this—
"He saw it before we did." Valas continues, his thumb stroking across my shoulder blade. "Or maybe he just saw what could be if we let ourselves have it. He told me weeks before he died that he wanted this. Wanted us to be Amisra's parents. Wanted me to stop being an idiot and tell you how I felt."
"He always was perceptive." The words come out thick with emotion I'm trying to hold back. "Too perceptive sometimes."
"He loved you." Valas cups my face with his free hand, making me look at him. "Not just as Amisra's nanny but as family. He wanted you to have a real home, real security. He wanted both of us to have each other."
Tears burn at the back of my eyes. "I miss him."
"Me too." His voice cracks slightly. "Every day. But I think—I think he'd be happy. Seeing us like this. Knowing we're taking care of Ami together."
I lean down to kiss him, tasting salt from tears I can't quite hold back. When I pull away, I press my forehead to his.
"Thank you for telling me."
"Always." His arms come around me, holding tight. "No more secrets between us. Just honesty."
"Just honesty," I echo.
The grief hits Amisra harder when we return home.
I notice it immediately—the way her steps slow as we cross the threshold, how her eyes track to the places her father used to sit, the careful way she avoids his study entirely. She's quieter again, withdrawing into herself like she did right after Daryn died.
It breaks my heart watching her try to be brave.
That night, after I've tucked Amisra into bed and sung her the lullaby she requested twice because she's still afraid of nightmares, I find Valas in the guest room he's claimed as his own.
All of his belongings are here now, carefully arranged on shelves and in the wardrobe.
It feels odd to still be sharing a room with him now that we're back, but neither of us want any different.
He's at the desk, staring at some healing scroll but not really reading it based on the unfocused quality of his gaze. I come up behind him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pressing my cheek to his hair.
"She's struggling." I don't bother with preamble. "Being back here is harder than I thought it would be."
Valas sets the scroll down, his hands coming up to cover mine where they rest on his chest. "I know. I can see it too."
"Everything reminds her of him." I squeeze gently. "Every room, every corner. She walked past the sitting room three times today and I watched her flinch each time like she was seeing a ghost."
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. Then he turns in the chair, pulling me around to stand between his knees so he can look at me properly.
"What are you thinking?" His violet eyes search my face.
"That maybe we need to change things." The idea has been forming all day, solidifying into something concrete. "Not forget Daryn—never that. But make the house feel less like a shrine and more like a home again. Give Ami space to remember him without being constantly ambushed by grief."
Understanding dawns in Valas's expression. "A makeover."
"Sort of." I bite my lip, hoping this doesn't sound foolish.
"We could paint Amisra's room—she's mentioned before that she wishes it was different colors.
Box up some of Daryn's things carefully so they're preserved but not overwhelming.
Maybe redo the study so it's not so painful to walk past. Honor him but make space for us to actually live here. "
"That's—" Valas pulls me onto his lap, arms secure around my waist. "That's a really good idea, starlight. Thoughtful and kind and exactly what she needs."
Relief floods through me. "You think so?"
"I know so." He presses a kiss to my temple. "We can start tomorrow if you want. Make it a project we do together—all three of us."
"All three of us," I repeat, testing the words. Testing what they mean. A family working together to build something new from the ashes of something lost.
It feels right.
We start with Amisra's room.
Valas takes her to the market to pick out paint colors while I sort through her toys and clothes, creating piles of things to keep, donate, or tuck away for when she's older. When they return, Amisra is practically vibrating with excitement, clutching swatches of pale lavender and soft gold.
"Keira, look!" She shoves the samples at me. "Uncle Val says we can paint clouds on the ceiling if we want. Real clouds that actually move!"
I shoot Valas a look over her head. "Spoiling her already?"
"Absolutely." He doesn't even have the grace to look apologetic. "She deserves spoiling."
We spend three days transforming her room.
Valas handles the magical aspects—enchanting the paint so it glows faintly at night, creating those promised clouds that drift lazily across the ceiling, adding protective wards that make the space feel safe and warm.
I manage the practical details, hanging new curtains in cheerful patterns, arranging her toys and books on freshly painted shelves, making the bed with blankets we picked out together at the market.
Amisra helps with everything, her small hands eager to contribute.
She tells us stories while we work—memories of her father, things he used to say, games they played together.
Some make her cry but she's smiling through the tears, like finally being able to talk about him without the crushing weight of fresh grief is its own kind of healing.
"Papa used to say I was his little star," she announces on the second day, carefully applying lavender paint to the baseboard while Valas and I handle the higher sections. "Because I was born when the stars were brightest."
"That's beautiful, little bird." Valas pauses in his work to look at her. "And very true. You're definitely bright enough to be a star."
"Did you know Papa when I was born?" She tilts her head, curious.
"I did." Valas sits back on his heels, paint-splattered and smiling. "I was there actually. Came to visit him at the healing house right after you arrived. You were this tiny, screaming thing wrapped in blankets and your father looked absolutely terrified."
Amisra giggles. "Papa was scared?"
"Petrified." Valas's expression goes soft with memory. "Kept asking me if all babies were supposed to be that small and if he was holding you right. I told him he was doing perfectly and he informed me I was a liar but appreciated the attempt at comfort."
I listen to them talk, my chest tight with affection. This is good for both of them—keeping Daryn alive through stories, honoring him while making space for new memories.
After Amisra's room, we tackle the rest of the house in careful increments.
We box up Daryn's clothes one afternoon while Amisra naps, folding each piece carefully and packing them in spelled containers that will preserve them indefinitely.
Valas tells stories as we work—about the jacket Daryn wore to some formal function where he got spectacularly drunk, the shirt he tore during a training exercise, the cloak he claimed made him look distinguished but really just made him look like he was playing dress-up.
"He hated formal events," Valas says, running his fingers over a particularly ornate tunic. "Used to complain for days beforehand. Said having to be polite to people he didn't like was its own form of torture."
"Sounds familiar." I give him a pointed look.
"I have no idea what you're implying." But he's grinning as he folds the tunic and adds it to the box.
We keep some things out—a few books on the shelves, personal items scattered throughout the house as reminders rather than shrines. It's a delicate balance but we manage it together.
The study takes the longest.
It's the heart of Valas' grief—the place where Daryn spent his final months writing letters, updating his will, trying to prepare for a future he wouldn't see. The place where he died, and I know it's the hardest to face. Walking in there makes all three of us tense, but it needs to be done.
We start by sorting papers. Legal documents get organized into proper files, personal letters are read and carefully preserved, scattered notes about Amisra's preferences and important dates are compiled into a journal we can reference.
Valas handles most of this, his healer's precision making quick work of the chaos.
"Listen to this." He holds up a scrap of parchment, voice thick with suppressed emotion. "Amisra doesn't like carrots but will eat them if you tell her they're magic vegetables that give her strength."
I laugh despite the tears threatening. "That's absolutely true. I discovered that by accident last month."
"He documented everything." Valas shuffles through more papers. "Every little detail he thought we'd need to know. Her favorite stories, which blanket she sleeps with, how she likes her tea prepared. Gods, he was so thorough."
We read them together—dozens of notes covering every aspect of Amisra's care and personality. It's like having Daryn there with us, offering guidance from beyond death, making sure his daughter would be loved and understood even without him.
Once the papers are sorted, we repaint the walls from their dark, somber blue to a warm cream.
We open the curtains, rearrange the furniture so it feels less like a sickroom and more like an actual study.
Valas claims the space as his own workspace for healing research, filling the shelves with his scrolls and books, but we leave Daryn's favorite chair in the corner and keep several of his journals displayed prominently.
"This feels right," I say on the afternoon we finish, surveying the transformed space. "Like honoring him without being trapped by the grief."
"Yeah." Valas comes to stand behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. "Like we can remember him and still move forward."
Amisra approves of all the changes. She spends her evenings in her new room with obvious delight, sleeps better than she has in weeks, and starts actually using the sitting room again instead of avoiding it. The house feels lighter somehow—still touched by loss but no longer suffocated by it.
Two weeks after we started the project, I find myself in the kitchen preparing dinner while Valas reads to Amisra in the sitting room. His voice carries through the house, dramatic and engaging as he performs all the different character voices. Amisra's giggles punctuate the narrative.
This is what home sounds like, I realize. Not silence and fear and careful distance. But laughter and stories and people who love each other filling the space with warmth.
I lean against the counter, listening to them, and let myself feel it fully—the gratitude, the affection, the strange and wonderful reality that this is my life now. That I chose this and was chosen in return.
The house feels alive again.