Instead, we turn the carriage east and then north, leaving the roads well traveled and the cities that watch too closely. We disappear into the forest and the rising shadow of the Thraelis Mountains, far from the High Fae and the brittle society that would weigh our love and find it wanting.
There, among ancient trees and stone heavy with memory, Luceran builds us a home.
It is a simple cabin, tucked into the mountain’s slope where the forest thins and the air smells of pine and cold water, with space enough to hold a small, carefully kept pocket of winter for Mink and Fitz.
We make a life there.
We wake with the sun spilling through the windows. We cook together, laugh often, and kiss without ever looking over our shoulders. At night, I ride upon the dire wolf’s back as he races through the towering trees, and in the moonlight we love each other without fear of being seen or judged or torn apart. There are no walls between us but those we choose, no shadows we are forced to hide within.
Seasons pass. Winters soften. Summers linger.
Years slip by so gently I barely notice them.
I write.
At first, it is only for myself. Stories scribbled into the margins of old books, ideas taking shape beside the fire while Luceran sings in a low, steady thrum, his smoke pipe warm in his hand. Soon the stories grow bolder. Adventures instead of dreams. Tales of love and danger, of wild magic and blood-curdling horrors, of worlds that feel vast and alive beneath my hands.
In the evenings, I curl into Luceran’s arms before the hearth and read them aloud. He listens as though every word matters. He says he loves every story, though he admits freely that he is a hopelessly biased critic.
Six years pass like this. Six years of chosen quiet. Of happiness that asks nothing of the world.
Then, one morning, I wake with a thought that will not leave me.
I want to see if my stories can live beyond our walls.
Luceran agrees without hesitation, but Minx and Fritz do not follow. They have grown fond of the mountains, of the quiet and the vast, of the old magic that lingers in the unclaimed spaces between the trees. Of peace.
When Luceran and I leave the cabin, I watch them retreat into the forest until they are nothing more than flickers of movement and memory. The loss settles in my chest, soft but sharp, and I carry it with me as we go.
I take my pages to Lorthys, to the city, to the publisher whose mark graces the spines of my most beloved books. We decide to stay nearby for a time, just outside of town and away from prying eyes, in a small villa overlooking the sea.
I have never seen the ocean before.
It stretches endlessly beyond the window, blue and silver. I stand for long moments simply watching it breathe.
At first, Luceran wears his cloak always. His hood stays low, hiding his ears. He keeps his gaze down when we walk through the markets, speaks little, and meets no one’s eyes. The world has not changed enough to accept a couple like us.
Until one afternoon, when we sit at an inn near the docks, sharing fresh fish and warm bread. The barkeep lingers a moment too long as he sets our ales on the table.
“Are you Fae?” he asks.
Luceran’s head snaps up, and for the first time in years I see the warrior he once was, coiled and ready, power stirring beneath his skin.
The barkeep squints, shrugs.
“Well. Enjoy your meal, you two.”
And then he is gone.
The world does not end. The ground does not open beneath our feet.
So we stay.
Luceran stops wearing his hood. People greet us in the street. They smile. No one stares when I take his hand or when he kisses me in the middle of the square. When my book is published, stamped with the mark I once traced with reverent fingers, we celebrate.
We invite the friends we have made. We drink and laugh and stand together beneath the open sky, in the light, and as the evening wears on and the ocean murmurs beyond the walls, I realize this is the happiness Atilia spoke of.
Not stolen. Not hidden.
