Snow blankets us as we break apart, soft flakes settling on the evergreen crown and catching in my dark hair. The whitecrystals dust Theron's golden mane and cling to his eyelashes, making him look like some winter god come down to earth to bless the faithful with hope made manifest.
"Another winter?" I ask, my breath clouding in the crisp air as I gaze up into his amber eyes. The question carries weight beyond its simple words—not just asking about the season ahead, but about all the seasons to come, all the years we'll share, all the winters we'll weather together in this place that has become our home.
"All of them," he says, his voice a vow that rings with the same authority that once commanded ships through storm-tossed seas. "Every winter, every spring, every summer and autumn until the stars burn out and the sea runs dry. I'll spend them all with you, my heart. In this place, with these people, building a life worthy of the love that brought us home."
The crowd continues to cheer around us, but in this moment we exist in a bubble of perfect peace, two souls who walked through hell and chose to go back to the light. The silver bell chimes gently in my hand, the evergreen crown glows with inner fire, and the red ribbon streams in the winter wind like a banner of love's triumph.
We survived the impossible. We proved that some bonds cannot be broken. We sang our way out of death's realm and back into the living.
And now, surrounded by community and blessed by belonging, crowned with symbols of our journey and warmed by love that conquered death itself, we begin the beautiful, ordinary work of building a life together—one winter at a time, one song at a time, one perfect, impossible day at a time.
The bells ring out across Milthar's harbor, and the snow falls like a benediction on two hearts that learned the most important truth of all: love endures, hope persists, and some stories really do end in triumph rather than tragedy.
39
THERON
That evening finds us in our home—not just my cottage anymore, but truly ours, transformed by shared presence into something larger and warmer than it ever was during my years of solitude. The grand adventure is over, replaced by a quiet, profound domesticity that feels more miraculous than any battle we fought in the depths. We move around each other with the natural rhythm of partners who have been tested in the crucible of impossible trials and emerged not just intact, but stronger.
Together, we string new lanterns along the lintel, their golden light spilling warm circles on the snow-dusted threshold. Eurydice stands on a chair to tuck sprigs of evergreen above the doorframe, the same pine boughs from her wreath filling our entrance with the clean scent of winter forests. Her movements are graceful and sure, her hands steady as she weaves the greenery into patterns that speak of protection and welcome.
The simple act feels more meaningful than any heroic deed—more significant than facing the drowned choir or navigating the Archive Trench or singing our way through the Hush itself. This is the real victory: two people building a sanctuary together,creating beauty from ordinary materials, transforming a house into a home through nothing more complex than shared labor and love.
"There," Eurydice says, stepping back to admire her work. The evergreen frames our door like a blessing, its pine scent mingling with the woodsmoke from our hearth and the salt air that always carries on Milthar's evening breeze. "Now it looks like a proper threshold. A place where love lives."
I wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on the top of her head as we both survey our handiwork. The lanterns cast dancing shadows on the cottage walls, while the evergreen seems to glow with inner light. It's a simple decoration, the kind that appears on every door in Milthar during the winter season, but ours carries special meaning—a symbol of survival, of hope fulfilled, of love that proved stronger than death itself.
From my pocket, I draw out the shard of mirror I kept from the Mirror Hall, the fragment of dark glass that once showed us distorted reflections of what we might become if we failed to hold onto hope. In the necropolis, this piece terrified me—a reminder of the twisted fate awaiting those who lost their way in the drowned halls. But now, in the warm light of our home, I see it differently.
"What are you doing with that?" Eurydice asks, noticing the glass in my hands.
"Making it into something new," I tell her, moving toward the door where our evergreen blessing frames the entrance to our sanctuary. "Instead of a source of fear, let it be a reminder of what we overcame."
I hang the mirror shard beside the door, positioning it where the morning light will catch its surface and throw rainbows across our threshold. Not as a weapon or a ward against evil, but as a keepsake—a symbol of our resilience, proof that even thedarkest artifacts can be transformed into something beautiful when touched by love and hope.
"Every time we pass through this door," I explain, adjusting the angle so the glass catches the lantern light, "we'll remember. Not the terror or the darkness, but the fact that we faced it together and chose to return to the light. This mirror will reflect not fear, but triumph."
Eurydice nods, understanding flooding her face as she sees what I'm creating. The mirror that once showed us nightmares now becomes a testament to our strength, a daily reminder that no darkness is absolute, that love really can transform even the most twisted remnants of evil into symbols of hope.
Inside, a pot of mussel stew steams on the hearth, its rich scent filling our small house with the aroma of home and comfort. The recipe came from Tidemother Antea, a gift to celebrate our return—shellfish from Milthar's clean waters, vegetables from the temple gardens, herbs that carry blessings in their very leaves. The simple meal represents everything we fought to return to: honest food, shared with love, in a place of safety and warmth.
Laughter fogs the windowpanes as we settle by the fire with our bowls, steam rising from the stew while snow continues to fall outside. Eurydice tells me about the morning's ceremony with the candle-boats, her voice bright with wonder as she describes the children's faces and the Tidemothers' blessing. I share my own morning's work with Korven, the satisfaction of creating something beautiful from broken pieces.
We're just two people eating dinner by their own hearth, talking about ordinary things in ordinary voices. But the simplicity feels profound after our trials in the depths. This is what we fought for—not glory or recognition, but the quiet miracle of domestic peace, the chance to build a life together one shared meal at a time.
I look across the table at Eurydice, her face glowing in the warm light of our fire, her dark hair catching gold from the flames, her eyes bright with contentment and love. The evergreen shawl still drapes her shoulders, marking her as family to our community, while the silver bell hangs from her belt like a talisman of protection. She is beautiful beyond words, precious beyond measure, the living proof that some dreams really do come true.
Quietly, without drawing her attention from the story she's telling about the harbor children, I offer my gratitude to Zukiev—god of the deep currents, patron of sailors and singers, guardian of those who trust their lives to the sea's mercy. Not a formal prayer spoken in temple or shrine, but a simple acknowledgment from one grateful heart to the power that watched over our impossible journey.
Thank you,I tell the god silently,for my voice that carried us through the dark. For the path that led us home. For her—most especially for her, the greatest blessing I could never have imagined deserving.
Outside, the wind carries the sound of Milthar settling into evening—children being called home to supper, fishermen securing their boats, the gentle laughter of couples walking hand in hand through the snow-dusted streets. Our cottage sits in the heart of it all, a sanctuary built not from magic or divine intervention, but from the simple decision to love each other completely, without reservation, without fear.
The stew is warm in my belly, the fire crackles in the hearth, and the woman I love fills our home with light that no darkness could ever extinguish. This is the real victory—not the dramatic moment of breakthrough or the public celebration of our return, but this quiet evening by our own fire, building a life worthy of the love that brought us safely home.
Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new joys, new opportunities to prove that our bond can weather any storm. But tonight, we simply exist in the perfect peace of love fulfilled, surrounded by the symbols of our journey and warmed by the knowledge that some stories really do end in triumph.
The mirror by our door reflects not nightmares, but the golden light of home. And in that reflection, I see the future we'll build together—one winter evening at a time, one shared meal at a time, one perfect, impossible moment of ordinary happiness at a time.
