He leans back, gaze distant. “He always knew he was destined for great love. We both did. We were touched by old magic, when prophecy was birthright. Some clung to it as gospel. Others rebelled. Eryn was both.”
“What did his say?” I ask, drawn in despite myself.
“A link to love that would last lifetimes.” Vale’s brow furrows. “Not singular. That is where I suspect his heart rebelled the most.” The fondness in his voice stills me as I listen. “But as magic faded, fewer understood what those words meant. Much was left open to interpretation. Many at court believed he would return once his mortal love had passed—to fulfill what was written, love beyond a sole lifetime. They waited for him as though prophecy were a summons, not a choice.”
My fingers run across the edge of the page and the words scrawled across the margins over the years. “And they never had children?” The question hangs in the air before I even realize I asked it, or why.
Vale’s breath leaves him slow, as if the answer has weight. “No.” His gaze drifts to the window—past the glass, past the cottage, as if he can set the truth down somewhere other than between us. Then he looks back. “Our two kinds can share a bed. A life.” A pause, quiet and final. “But not blood. That is the cost. Part of what is lost.”
Something in me tightens. Not because I’ve been dreaming of cradles—I haven’t. I long ago accepted that I may never have a family of my own, and I’ve built a life I can bear inside that truth.
It tightens because his words are a boundary. A line drawn clean and final between his world and mine. For a moment, I’d forgotten what he is. Comfort turns traitor… the memory hits: him bleeding on my floor, my hands slick with it, my fear a living thing. And now—miraculously—he lies here mended.
We are not the same.
Perhaps sensing the shift, he continues—of their marriage, ofAwynn’s mortal years, of visiting once when time’s touch was etched upon her face…
His pauses stretch, weighted by years between memories. “When he said he’d never love another, I believed him. Nothing would compare to what they had.”
His words strike deep. How small and fleeting my own life feels beside such devotion. Who am I beside lifetimes, prophecies, courts, and crowns? A mortal woman—no great destiny—only the solitude I chose because it was safe. Because it was mine.
I shift away from my own thoughts. “And you?” I ask before I can stop myself. “What does your prophecy say?”
His mouth curves, but his eyes do not soften. “Standard promises: battles fought, steel forged in trials…” A pause. “And love.”
The word hangs between us like an ember refusing to die.
“That is the one part of my destiny yet unfulfilled.” His gaze lingers, steady, unreadable. “I’ve waited. Longer than most, I think. For someone at my side—equal in every measure. I’ve not found her yet.”
I shrink inside, my mortal skin suddenly feeling like armor two sizes too thin. How could I compare?
“If the interpretation holds true,” he adds quietly, “I will know it without doubt when spark becomes flame.”
“What of you?” His question lands like a challenge. “Any tales of great love?”
I laugh too sharply, the sound fracturing the moment. “Me? No.” My head shakes with defiance. “It’s not meant for me.” I hesitate, the truth pulling against my stubbornness. There have been flirtations, fleeting warmths—but love? No. Never. “I will be perfectly content here. My days, quiet. My life, my own.”
Even as I say it, the contradiction unsettles me. The woman who claimed peace in solitude speaking from a place where a love so sacred once lived.
“I should go prepare supper.” The words escape like retreat.
“Mira…” His voice stops me before I can rise. His eyes hold mine, steady as stone. “It’s worth it. Love. Even if I’ve not lived it, I know. It’s worth it.”
I turn to the hearth, stirring embers that refuse to die.
Still, my thoughts linger on the man in the other room—so close in body, and yet anchored in a world beyond my knowing.
Chapter Six
The wild aroma as I prepare herbs lacks its usual comfort. Each motion cuts sharply—the ache of old wounds and new. I haven’t cooked for two since my father passed, and even this small act stings. Yet in the ache, a strange grace: to caring for someone. For him. Vale.
The thought of him in the next room disarms me, breaking down walls I’ve built high. His presence stirs something dangerous. Never have a man’s eyes threatened to undo me so completely, leaving me ruined and asking for more.
I may have longed for connection once; perhaps part of me still does, yet after so many failed attempts at kinship and long being the outsider, I am most comfortable alone. I feel it though, when I am near him, that longing for more. Desire? I blush at the thought. It’s more than that, though. Hearing him speak of love, that which Eryndor shared with Awynn, the yet-fulfilled destiny Vale himself seems so sure of—it makes me question my own certainty. Perhaps it is a blessing of an immortal life, the near-endless possibilities.
I shake my head, scolding myself. He is a man in need, nothing more. When he heals, he’ll go. And I’ll return to my quiet life.
I take to the task with renewed fortitude. This is my home. My sanctuary. It is where I belong—just me, the forest, and the peace it offers.
