Epilogue - Isolde
The ocean stretches endlessly before me, the water dark blue, tinged with gold from the setting sun. The waves roll in gentle, rhythmic laps, whispering secrets to the shore. It smells like salt and freedom. Like a life I never thought I could have.
Azrael stands on the wooden porch of our home, his broad frame silhouetted against the last light of day. He watches me, always watching, his gray eyes unreadable yet warm in a way they never were before.
Our son runs past me, laughing, his tiny feet kicking up the damp sand. He has Azrael’s sharp features but my eyes. A mix of two worlds that should have never come together. He is our greatest victory. Proof that we survived when we weren’t supposed to.
The town is small, nestled along a quiet stretch of coastline where no one asks questions.
Where no one knows our names. We live simply—small routines, shared meals, stolen kisses under the stars.
I tend to a garden I never imagined I’d plant.
Azrael fixes boats for fishermen who only know him as a quiet man who keeps to himself.
It’s strange, this peace.
For so long, I only knew violence. I only knew how to fight, how to manipulate, how to survive in a world that was always waiting to kill me. Now, I wake up to the sound of waves, to the weight of Azrael’s arm draped around my waist, to the steady rise and fall of his breath.
I don’t flinch at sudden noises anymore.
Most days, I let myself believe we are safe.
But sometimes, when the wind shifts, carrying scents from far-off places, I remember.
Rome. Venice. The blood. The war.
The family I betrayed.
The one that hunted me. That would still hunt me if they knew I was alive.
I turn back to Azrael. He leans against the railing now, his cigarette burning down to the filter. He doesn’t smoke much anymore. But I know why he does it tonight.
Because he feels it too.
The unease. The ghosts.
The past is never truly buried.
I walk toward him, feeling the soft sand shift beneath my feet. He doesn’t say anything when I slide my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his chest. He simply holds me, his fingers sliding into my hair, grounding me.
"What is it?" I whisper.
He exhales slowly. "Nothing."
It’s a lie, but I don’t call him on it. Because I don’t want the truth. Not tonight.
Our son’s laughter rings through the air again, and I smile despite the weight in my chest. Azrael presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering, as if committing the moment to memory.
"We’re safe," I murmur, more for myself than for him.
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, "For now."
I close my eyes, letting the warmth of his body chase away the creeping chill of uncertainty.
The world believes us dead. The empire we left behind has already crowned new rulers, new monsters to fill the void we abandoned. They do not look for ghosts. Not yet.
But legends never truly die.
And neither do we.