Epilogue
Five months later…
Riona
By April, the land has softened.
The sharp edge of winter is gone, replaced by warmth that lingers even as the sun lowers. Grass has pushed through in uneven patches, green and stubborn. The air smells of earth and smoke and whatever has been cooking since early afternoon.
This is home now.
I move through the space without thinking about it anymore.
That still startles me sometimes, how natural it feels now.
Not careful. Not tentative. Just… lived-in.
I know where the benches are stored. I know which table wobbles unless you brace it with your foot.
I know which voices belong together and which will inevitably drift toward argument before dissolving into laughter.
And I know where Vraag is.
He’s near the central structure, sleeves rolled to his forearms, listening while two males debate the placement of a boundary marker for a new build.
Interrupting isn’t his habit. Instead, he waits, lets them talk themselves into the right answer, and only then adds a quiet observation that reframes the whole problem.
I don’t hear what he says, but I see the result: both males nod, satisfied.
When he turns, his gaze finds me immediately.
There’s a look he gives me now—not surprise, not vigilance, but recognition. As though his body registers me before his mind does. His shoulders ease as he crosses toward me, closing the distance without hurry.
At the long worktable near the central structure, my clipboard waits where I left it, pages weighted neatly with a flat iron tool. Pages of drafts about StoneWatch Security are clipped beneath it—layouts I’ve refined over weeks, language we’ve shaped together until it sounds like him.
I skim the top page again: Prevention. Assessment. Presence. Response.
Behind me, his voice drops close to my ear. “You moved ‘presence.’”
“I did,” I say, smiling. “It needs to come before response. Humans read that as reassurance.”
A pause. Then a quiet huff of amusement. “You are very good at this.”
“I know,” I tease lightly.
He steps closer, close enough that his warmth is undeniable. His thumb finds the edge of the silver band at my wrist, resting there without thought, right at my pulse. The contact is absentminded, intimate… a habit now.
From where I’m standing I can feel the low vibration in his chest—not directed at anything, not a response to anything I’ve done. Just present. Just him, at rest, with his thumb at my wrist and his attention elsewhere. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
I used to think the purr meant I’d gotten past his guard. I understand now that with me, there’s nothing left to guard against.
I lean back into him, and his arm slides around my waist as if it’s always been meant to go there.
Across the space, Korgath watches with mild interest. When our gazes meet, she inclines her head.
“You fit easily here,” she observes.
“I do,” I agree, because there’s no reason not to.
That seems to satisfy her. She turns back to the food without another word.
The meal gathers slowly, organically. Long tables are dragged closer together. Dishes are passed from hand to hand. There’s no ceremony to it, no announcement, just people settling where they want, making room as needed.
Vraag and I end up near the middle, knees brushing beneath the table. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets his thigh press more firmly against mine, grounding, proprietary, warm.
Conversation flows around us. I listen, laugh, and add the occasional comment. No one pauses when I speak. No one redirects the conversation. I’m not being accommodated.
I’m just… included.
At the edge of the firelight, one orc sits apart, playing guitar.
Not a ceremonial instrument. A regular acoustic guitar, worn at the edges, held like something he’s carried a long time.
He’s playing quietly enough that the music doesn’t compete with the surrounding conversation, just runs underneath it, a thread of melody that surfaces and submerges depending on how much attention you give it.
Grulk drops into the seat beside me and follows my gaze.
“Kragen. StillWater,” he says, at a volume that does not match the confidential register he’s clearly going for. “Runs a bar in town. Walt’s place, on Elm.” He pauses. “Very good with strings. Less good at standing still.”
Kragen doesn’t look up. Just plays.
As the evening stretches, the light softens. Someone tells a story that dissolves halfway through into laughter. I rest my wrist on the table without thinking, the silver of the connection band catching the retreating sun. No one comments.
This isn’t new.
This is just my life now.
Eventually, people drift away, not all at once, but in small groups. Vraag leans closer, his mouth near my ear, voice low and no longer formal.
“You stayed late,” he says.
“So did you,” I reply.
“Yes,” he agrees. Then, quieter, more personal, “I was thinking about what we might do when we get home.”
An invitation.
His hand slides from my waist to my lower back, fingers spreading there, warm and sure. The touch sends a slow, familiar heat through me, not urgent, not desperate. Anticipatory.
“I’d like that,” I say.
The shift in his expression is pure promise.
We take our time saying goodnight. There’s no rush. Just the shared understanding of what comes next, the quiet, private intimacy that waits for us beyond the firelight.
As we walk away together, his hand stays at my back, guiding me without steering.
I used to think protection meant keeping danger out.
I understand now that it’s something quieter than that.
It’s a hand at your back. A thumb at your pulse.
Someone who knows where you are in every room without having to look—and still lets you decide where you go.
I spent a long time afraid that being loved like this meant losing something.
What I lost was the fear itself. My mother never learned to leave. I never learned to stay. Until now.