ELZA
Afragile peace has settled over our new home. We found a hidden, defensible valley deep in the southern forests, a place of ancient trees and quiet streams, far from any Vrakken patrol routes. The air is not thick with the scent of blood or fear, but with the smell of pine needles, damp earth, and the woodsmoke from our cooking fires. The clang of Tarek’s makeshift forge, beating scavenged Vrakken armor into ploughshares, has replaced the sound of battle. The laughter of children, Lyren’s among them, echoes through the trees. It is not Haven. It will never be Haven. But it is a beginning.
I stand in the clearing, watching it all, a quiet, aching contentment settling in my chest. My hand rests on my thigh, my dagger at my hip a familiar weight, but finally, my fingers are not curled around its hilt. The constant, gnawing tension that has been my companion for as long as I can remember has finally, blessedly, eased.
My gaze is drawn to two figures sitting by the stream, away from the others. Eoin and Lyren.
They sit facing each other, cross-legged in the grass, their eyes closed. Lyren, my restless, energetic boy, is remarkably still,his small face a mask of intense concentration. Eoin is teaching him.
“Breathe, Lyren,” Eoin’s voice is a low, calm rumble, a stark contrast to the guttural roars of battle or the rough, passionate growls I have come to know. “Feel the world around you. The water on the stones. The wind in the leaves. Do not fight the anger when it comes. Acknowledge it. It is a part of you. But it is a tool, not your master. You are its master.”
I watch them, and my heart feels like it is caught in a painful, beautiful vise. He is teaching our son to control the Vrakken blood that runs through his veins, the burgeoning power that has begun to flare in moments of childish frustration. He is giving Lyren the tools he will need to survive, the discipline that Eoin himself has only recently learned to temper with something more.
The image of this patient, gentle teacher is so profoundly, impossibly different from the monster in my memories. I try to reconcile the two—the cold, apathetic Enforcer from the cell, the brutal warrior from the battlefield, and the tender, careful father before me. How can one being contain all of that? The hate I held for him for so long feels like a distant memory, a story about someone else. The man he was is not the man he is now. He has been remade, reforged in the fires of his sacrifice, and his love for us.
As I watch them, I focus on the psychic link that binds us. It is no longer a source of pain or chaotic need. It is a steady, warm hum at the back of my mind, a constant, comforting awareness of his presence. It is the feeling of his unwavering affection for me, the fierce, protective shield of his love for Lyren. It is no longer a scar that pains me. It is a bond that anchors me.
That evening, after Lyren is asleep, I find Eoin sitting alone on a flat, moss-covered boulder that overlooks the valley, his back to the camp. The twin moons of Protheka are rising, castinga pale, silvery light over the sleeping forest. I walk over and sit beside him, my hip brushing against his. He does not startle. He has known I was coming since I first stepped out of our small shelter.
We sit in a comfortable, profound silence for a long time, the only sound the chirping of crickets and the distant murmur of the stream. No words are needed. There is nothing left to fight about, nothing left to demand. There is only this. This quiet, shared space in a hostile world.
Slowly, deliberately, I make a choice. I lean into him, resting my head on the hard, solid muscle of his shoulder. He stiffens for a moment, a flicker of surprise that I feel both in his body and through the link. Then, he relaxes, a deep breath leaving his lungs, and his arm comes around me, pulling me securely against his side. His wing, which had been folded tightly against his back, unfurls slightly, creating a warm, leathery shelter around us.
My hand rests on my knee, limp and relaxed. My dagger feels a thousand miles away. At last, since he crashed back into my life, since I was a child, I feel completely, utterly safe.
I close my eyes, content to just exist in this moment, in his arms. And then I feel it. A surge of pure, raw emotion through the psychic link, so powerful it steals my breath. It is not the fire of passion or the cold fury of battle. It is a wave of pure, unconditional, absolute love. A feeling so vast, so profound, it feels like staring into the heart of a star. It is his love for me, a silent, screaming declaration in the quiet of my mind.
I know, with a certainty that settles into the very marrow of my bones, that our future is a terrifying, hunted, and uncertain thing. I know that the Matriarch will not rest until we are dead. But I also know that we will face it. Together. As one.
34
EOIN
Weeks have bled into months, and the raw, desperate edge of our survival has softened into the gentle, steady rhythm of life. Our hidden valley has transformed from a simple refugee camp into a fledgling town. The sound of hammers on wood has replaced the clash of steel, and the scent of baking bread has replaced the stench of blood. A fragile, defiant hope has taken root here, and at the center of it all, is Elza.
I watch her now. She stands in the main clearing, mediating a dispute between two farmers over a shared irrigation ditch. She is not a warrior queen in this moment, brandishing a blade. She is a leader, her voice calm and reasonable, her judgment fair. She listens, truly listens, to her people, and they, in turn, give her not just their obedience, but their unwavering love. Her strength is not in the power she wields, but in the compassion she offers. It is a form of leadership I am only just beginning to comprehend, and my awe for her is a constant, steady fire in my chest.
My old life is a distant, gray memory. The cold, silent halls of Kryll, the endless, bloody missions for a Matriarch who saw me as nothing more than a tool, the millennia of perfect, emptyapathy—all of it feels like a story about someone else. That being is dead, and I do not mourn his passing. My entire universe has collapsed to the borders of this small, hidden valley. My only ambition now is the warmth of her smile, the sound of my son’s laughter.
The bond we share, forged in violence and sealed in battle, is a powerful, undeniable thing. But it is unspoken. It is a fragile truce in a world that is still at war with us. It is not enough.
I have spent the last three nights, after she and Lyren have fallen asleep, working. The Vrakken mating gift is not a thing of wealth, not a jewel or a treasure plundered from a fallen kingdom. It must be a piece of the giver’s soul, an offering that requires effort, skill, and intent.
I found a fallen branch from an ancient ironwood tree, its wood as hard as stone and veined with a beautiful, dark grain. With the razor-sharp edge of my Vrakken blade, a tool of death now turned to a tool of creation, I have carved it. Hour after hour, I have shaved and shaped the wood, my inhuman precision allowing for a delicacy that no human craftsman could achieve.
And now, it is finished.
I find her in the evening, after the day’s work is done and a quiet peace has settled over our town. She is sitting on the moss-covered boulder that has become her place of solace, looking out over the valley as the twin moons begin their ascent.
I approach her, and for the first time in my existence, I feel a sensation I can only identify as… nervousness. It is an illogical, chaotic fluttering in my chest, a slight tremor in my hands that I must consciously still. I, who have faced down dragons and slaughtered armies without a flicker of emotion, am undone by the thought of speaking to this one human female.
She hears me approach and turns, a soft, welcoming smile on her face that makes the chaotic feeling in my chest intensify.
“Eoin,” she says, her voice a warm, gentle sound.
I stop before her, and I hold out my creation on my open palm.
It is a carving of a desert rose, a flower that blooms in the harshest, most unforgiving of environments, a symbol of impossible beauty and defiant life. A symbol of her. The details are perfect, each petal impossibly thin, each thorn a precise, sharp point.
