Mav stood to Branrir’s left, dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt.
His expression was worth more than three centuries of waiting. No one had ever looked at me this way—as if I were the answer to every prayer he had not dared to speak aloud. Thistle and Vesper walked with me, only standing aside once Mav took my hand.
Branrir cleared his throat. “We are gathered here today because two reckless, stubborn souls decided that love was worth defying time itself.” Tears gleamed behind his spectacles. He took a shuddering inhale and retreated a step.
Mav turned fully to me, clasping both my hands in his.
I exhaled and smiled up at him. “Mavromichaeli,” I began, the full shape of his name reverent on my tongue. “My Mav, you are the only constant in a world that has shifted beneath my feet countless times. When you first looked at me, you did not see a crown to claim or a weapon to wield. You sawme.And in that gaze, I learned what it meant to belong not to duty, nor legacy, nor fate, but to myself—and now to you. You taught me that love is not possession. Love—true, lasting love—is a choice made again and again.”
My fingers tightened over his, my next words barely more than a whisper. “And I choose you, Mav. In this life and every other. My magic, my heart, my very breath are yours to share.”My voice trembled as the final vow left me, fragile and unbreakableall at once. “You are my truest friend and my fiercest love. Everything I have endured was worth it for the honor of loving you and being loved by you.”
Mav’s eyes shimmered. He drew a breath, grounding himself. “Quinn, before you, my life was survival. I drifted through disappointments and brawls, thinking there was nothing left for me in this world, and that even if there were, I wasn’t deserving of it. Then you found me. Or maybe…yousawme. And when you did, I realized I’d been waiting my whole life without knowing why. Now it’s clear. I was waiting for you. Every bad choice and wrong direction led me to you.”
Warmth flooded my chest.
“I can’t promise you perfection. Saints know, I have none to give. But I can promise you this: I will never stop reaching for you. When the world tries to divide us, I will fight back with every breath. When darkness rises, I will stand between it and you, no matter the cost.”
My vision swam, tears blurring his beautiful face.
“I don’t believe in fate,” he whispered, “but I believe inyou.And I vow, before Saints, men, friends, and a cat, that wherever this life takes us—I’ll always come back for you. I am yours. I was yours after only a fortnight.”
Mav lifted one hand to cradle my cheek and kissed me, a promise in and of itself. When we parted, the clearing answered with soft applause. Thistle danced flower petals through the air.
For the first time in centuries, there was no spell.
Only light.
Only love.
I smiled at Mav, my heart steady and sure.
And with his hand in mine, we stepped forward into forever.
THE END
EPILOGUE
MAV
From the road, our cottage is a failed painting experiment. A patch of gold bleeds into the lavender trim. The front door is a blotchy seafoam Quinn swore would dry darker. It didn’t. One of the shutters is coral—just the one. The left side of the cottage has a scatter of silver stars she painted by moonlight, because “it felt right.” Quinn’s artistic vision, I say fondly to anyone who raises an eyebrow.
The inside’s no better. The walls are a patchwork of sunlit yellows and soft greens. Canvases lean half-finished in every room. She paints the way she dreams: vividly, and without a single care for proportion or practicality.
There are wildflowers in vases. Brushes drying in teacups. Paint-streaked rags draped over books she meant to finish but never did because something else caught her interest—usually me.
Everywhere I look, there’s color. Movement. Life. It shouldn’t work. But it does.
Because it’sher.
She’s a horrific painter—a truth Iwill take to my grave.
And I wouldn’t change a single line.
When the afternoon light hits the far wall, one of her abstract swirls glows like stained glass. She told me it was supposed to be a lake. I told her it looked like a phoenix. She kissed me for that, got paint all over me, then tried to fix it and somehow made it worse. I still wear the paint-covered shirt. She tried to clean it once. I wouldn’t let her.
“Quinn,” I say every time she doubts the magnificent mess she’s made of our home, “you’re all the art I need.”
From the kitchen window, I can see her in the garden. She’s kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of soil across the bridge of her nose. Thistle says she’s terrible at weeding, but brilliant at coaxing flowers to bloom. Quinn claims it’s luck. I think the plants respond to her voice the same way I do—as if they’ve been waiting all their lives to hear it.
