"We did it," I whisper into his neck.
"We survived," he corrects, burying his face in my hair. He’s shaking too. The aftershocks of the battle, of the silver, of the magic.
I lean back, looking up at him. His face is streaked with grime, his hair matted, but he has never looked better.
"What a way to celebrate Christmas," I murmur, resting my head on his shoulder. "Massacre and regicide. Very festive."
Jax huffs a laugh, a rough puff of air against my ear. "What’s better than going out with a bang,chérie?"
He turns me, pointing toward the open swamp.
"Look."
I follow his gaze.
The smoke is clearing. The clouds have parted.
And falling from the sky, drifting slowly down onto the burning embers of the bayou, are soft, white flakes.
Snow.
It shouldn't be possible. It’s seventy degrees and humid. But the magic has broken the weather, or maybe the universe is just offering a truce of its own.
The snow touches the black water and melts. It lands on the roof of the ruined cabin. It lands on Matilde’s still body, covering the red with white.
"It’s snowing," I whisper, reaching out to catch a flake. It melts instantly on my hot skin.
Jax pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me to shield me from the chill.
"Merry Christmas, Miranda," he says softly.
I close my eyes, listening to his heart beat—strong, steady, and alive.
"Merry Christmas, Jax."
31
JAX
Peace has a smell.
I didn't know that before. For decades, the air in St. Jude’s Parish has smelled like sulfur, wet dog, and the copper tang of a war that wouldn't end. I thought peace would smell like nothing—like a vacuum.
I was wrong.
Peace smells like roasted pork, gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the sweet, heavy scent of night-blooming jasmine.
I stand on the edge of the dock, listening to the bayou settle. It’s New Year’s Eve. A week has passed since the fire. A week since the snow fell on the burning mud and my Mate tore the throat out of the old regime.
The swamp is healing. The scars on the land are deep—charred trees, churned earth where the levee broke—but the green is already creeping back. The water levels are normalizing. The gators have gone back to the deep channels.
And the silence? It’s just quiet, not heavy nor suffocating.
I look back at the cabin.
It looks different. The plywood is gone from the windows. The door has been replaced with solid oak, reinforced with iron bands I forged myself. The roof is patched.
Inside, I can hear her.
