Across the room, Marcel lets out a small, hiccupy cry. Jules shifts to settle him, but her face pinches when she moves too fast.
Delia is immediately there, adjusting pillows, checking for bleeding.
Phoebe hovers at the edge of the bed, chatter filling the air about baby names and whether or not he’ll have wings.
For about five precious minutes, the world is small.
Just this room.
Just this new little family.
Just me and my friends and our impossible, beautiful lives.
Chapter 22
Alina
The Barrow
I let myself relax into Dagan’s side, cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of stone and rain and him.
Marcel is fed and sleeping. Jules is pale but smiling, tucked against Alaric’s chest as he hovers like she might vanish if he looks away too long.
Delia and Thorne are murmuring in low voices near the hearth, his hand never leaving the small of her back.
Kael has Phoebe tucked under his arm, her face buried in his shoulder as she talks a mile a minute about baby gifts and protective wards and whatever else comes into that bright mind.
They’re exhausted.
All of them.
Giving birth, almost losing each other, racing across realms to fight living nightmares—it’s a lot.
Eventually, Clarisse claps her hands and shoos everyone out.
“Enough,” she scolds. “Lady Jules needs quiet. Go. All of you. Lords, viyellas, stray roots—out.”
We file into the corridor in a loose, sleepy herd.
The Barrow shifts around us.
I can feel it—walls easing, corridors stretching, doorways appearing where there weren’t any before.
The castle is making space. Giving each of us somewhere to collapse in peace.
“The Barrow provides,” Phoebe says wryly, running her fingers along a newly formed lintel. “Creepy. But convenient.”
“Nightfall takes care of its own,” Thorne rumbles, pressing a kiss to Delia’s temple.
Dagan’s hand finds mine, warm and solid.
“Rest,” he tells the others. “We may not have many nights like this.”
They nod, one by one, splitting off down different passageways as doors bloom into existence—arched stone thresholds softened with carved vines, lit by pale root-light and gentle lanterns.
By the time we’re alone, the hallway is quiet.
Just me, Dagan, and the hum of the Marches underfoot.
