I wish Daryn could see it. Wish he could know we're keeping our promise—that Amisra's loved and safe and starting to heal. That Keira and I found each other the way he knew we would. Part of me thinks hedoesknow somehow, that wherever he is, he's watching and probably making sarcastic commentary about how it took us long enough to figure out what was obvious to him from the start.
The thought makes me smile as I approach the house, then immediately touches that tender place in my chest where grief still lives. I miss him. Gods, I miss him. Some days it hits me so hard I can barely breathe—remembering I can't just walk over and tell him about my day, can't ask his advice, can't watch him interact with his daughter.
But the grief doesn't consume me anymore. Doesn't define every waking moment. I'm learning to carry it alongside the joy, letting both exist without one canceling the other out.
My hand finds the packet tucked carefully in my inner jacket pocket. I've been carrying it for three days now, waiting for the right moment. Today feels right. Amisra has lessons this afternoon, which means I'll have time alone with Keira. Time to give her something I should have given her weeks ago.
No—time to give her something she deserves. Something that proves every word I've said about her not being property, about her owning me rather than the other way around.
Anticipation buzzes under my skin as I push through the front gate. The garden's in full bloom, explosions of color that Keira tends with the same careful attention she gives everythingshe loves. I can see her handiwork in the neat rows, the strategic placement of flowering plants that attract the prettiest insects, the small herb garden she started near the kitchen entrance.
She's made this place home in ways that have nothing to do with magic and everything to do with simply caring.
I find her in the kitchen, elbow-deep in what appears to be bread dough. She's gotten really into that hobby. Flour dusts her nose and streaks through her hair, and she's wearing one of those concentrated expressions that means she's mentally measuring ingredients and timing. She looks beautiful. She always looks beautiful, but especially like this—unselfconscious and focused and completely herself.
"You're home early." She glances up, smile blooming across her face when she sees me. "I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least."
"Finished with my appointments faster than planned." I cross to her, pressing a kiss to her temple and tasting flour. "Where's our little bird?"
"Lessons with the new tutor." She elbows me playfully. "You know, the one who's supposed to be teaching her mathematics but mostly just entertains her stories about our adventures?"
"She's only five. Mathematics can wait. Imagination is far more important." I lean against the counter, watching her knead the dough with practiced efficiency. "How long until she's done?"
"Probably a half hour. Why?" Her hazel eyes find mine, curious. "What are you plotting?"
"Who says I'm plotting anything?"
"You have that look. Like you're about to do something either incredibly sweet or catastrophically stupid." She shapes the dough into a neat ball, setting it aside to rise. "Historically, it's about fifty-fifty which way that goes."
"So little faith in me, starlight." But I'm grinning as I catch her hand, tugging her toward the door. "Come outside with me?"
"I'm covered in flour."
"You're perfect." I keep hold of her hand, pulling her through the kitchen and out the back door into the garden. "This won't take long, I promise."
She follows without real protest, wiping her hands on her apron as we walk. I lead her to the bench beneath the flowering archway—one of her favorite spots, where she sits sometimes in the evenings while Amisra plays nearby.
"Sit." I gesture to the bench.
"You're being mysterious." But she sits, looking up at me with that mixture of amusement and affection that still makes my chest feel too small to contain what I feel for her. "Should I be worried?"
"No. Never with me." I settle beside her, suddenly more nervous than I expected. My hand finds the packet in my pocket, fingers curling around the thick parchment. "I wanted to give you something. We've been—gods, these past two months have been good, haven't they?"
"They have." Her expression softens. "Really good. Better than I thought possible after everything."
"I know we agreed that the contract doesn't matter. That it's just paper, just a legal technicality that doesn't define us." The words come faster now, rushing out like I'm afraid I'll lose courage if I slow down. "And I meant that. I've always meant that. But I also know what it represents—what it feels like to have someone own you on paper even when they claim not to in practice. I know what freedom means to you."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. Her breath catches.
I pull out the packet, hands steady despite the way my heart's hammering against my ribs. "So I wanted to prove I meant everyword. Wanted to give you something that makes the truth legally binding, not just a promise between us."
I place the packet in her hands. Watch her fingers tremble slightly as she unfolds the thick parchment, revealing page after page of official documentation. Her freedom papers. Signed, sealed, registered with every relevant authority in Pyrthos. Completely, irrevocably legitimate.
Her contract is void. She's free.
She stares at the papers like they're written in some language she doesn't recognize. Her lips part, close, part again. No sound comes out.
"Keira?" I touch her knee gently. "Starlight, talk to me."
