Ireachout,grabbingSylar’s wrist just as he prepares to storm down the aisle to demand an explanation from his sister. The sunlight filtering through the ancient elm canopy catches the movement, and my breath hitches.
Talia isn’t alone at the altar. Standing beside her, radiating a quiet, grounded strength that perfectly balances Talia’s wildfire energy, is my sister, Isolde.
They are both draped in exquisite, flowing elven wedding dresses, woven from shimmering silken threads and adorned with living, budding vines. As we step into the clearing, Talia catches our eyes. She doesn’t look like a nervous bride beingpressured into a royal match; she flashes us a confident, mischievous grin that feels suspiciously like a mirror of my own.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, followed by a laugh I can’t suppress.The little troublemaker.She hasn’t been in danger, and she certainly isn’t marrying a prince. She’s been orchestrating this entire thing from the start. The noble person she’s marrying is Isolde!
Sylar goes limp against my side, his fury draining away to leave him blinking in sheer, stunned silence.
At the altar, the two of them lean in, their fingers moving with practiced, rhythmic grace to weave their hair into Soul-Bond Braids. It’s a promise of devotion that transcends simple words. Isolde’s hand finds Talia’s, anchoring them together as they face the officiant.
“They played us,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a low, appreciative hum. “They didn’t need rescuing, Sy. They needed a runway.”
Sylar’s shoulders finally drop, the tension of the last weeks unraveling into a soft, genuine smile. He watches them, his gaze softening as he witnesses the raw, unadulterated promise of love passing between them.
“Perhaps,” he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, dawning wonder. “Perhaps the cosmos didn’t lose them at all. Maybe it pushed us together, forcing us into this madness, just so we would finally have the time to stop running and actually see one another.”
I look at him—really look at him—standing there in his fine robes, his eyes reflecting the shimmering light of the fountains. We might be young by elven standards, barely touching the age where the elders consider us truly formed, but watching Talia and Isolde, I know. You don’t need decades of maturity to recognize when two souls are a perfect, inevitable fit.
As the officiant seals their bond, a palpable sense of peace settles over the pavilion. I pull Sylar back against my chest, wrapping my arms around him and resting my chin on his shoulder. We came here looking for our sisters, expecting a catastrophe, but instead, we found the ending we didn’t even know we were writing.
“They’re going to be a nightmare to deal with daily,” I joke, though my heart is soaring.
“Oh, absolutely,” Sylar agrees, his fingers interlacing with mine. “But for once, I think I’m perfectly fine with the chaos.”
Chapter fifteen
Raylen
ThejourneybacktoMoonscliffe is nothing like the frantic, breathless race that brought us to the valley. We take our time, leisurely making our way home through the high mountain passes, letting the days bleed into one another without a single care for the clock.
Along the way, I decide to take the long trek, steering us off the main roads to explore some of my absolute favorite spots in Everend. They are hidden overlooks, secret waterfalls, and quiet clearings that I realize I’ve been hoarding away in my mind for a decade—saving them like a man hopelessly in love. It shocks me to admit it, but even when I felt a thousand miles away, I waseagerly choosing these places for him, always cataloging the best spots for stargazing.
“The view from this ridge is unmatched,” I tell him on our third night, pointing up at the vast, indigo sky from a high cliffside meadow. “The air is so crisp here, the stars look like they’re within arm’s reach.”
Sylar smiles, leaning his weight against my shoulder as he looks up. For every location we visit, he tells me the celestial stories associated with the stars above us, weaving the intricate lore behind the constellations.
“According to the ancient texts, that cluster to the east is the Great Timber Wolf,” he murmurs, his voice soft in the night air. “The Dun Steorra believe it keeps watch over the mountain passes, protecting travelers from the frost.”
“I always preferred the Emberleigh variation of that one,” I admit, turning my head to catch the faint glow of the moonlight on his face. “The one where the wolf isn’t just a guard, but a guide who planted the first deep forests to give the people shelter.”
Sylar blinks, a look of delightful surprise crossing his features. “You prefer the agroforestry myths?
I nod.
To my surprise, he admits that they’re his favorite variation as well. “The intersection of life, growth, and the stars… it feels much more complete.”
Sharing those quiet, brilliant pieces of our minds on the road makes the distance vanish. By the time the familiar stone arches of Moonscliffe rise to greet us, the open road doesn’t feel like freedom anymore.
This does.
The village feast is a loud, chaotic, and wonderfully joyous affair. The central square is packed with wooden tables, heavy with roasted meats and sweet autumn ales, and the primary targets of the night are our sisters. Talia and Isolde are toasted repeatedly by the elders, the entire village cheering for their clever, magnificent meddling that brought the rogue archer and the grumpy scholar together.
“Raylen, dear,” Elra, Sylar’s mother, says, leaning across the table with a warm, maternal smile that completely melts the last of my defenses. “Your aunt and I are already planning something very special for your nameday next week. You’d better not try to sneak off before then.”
A sudden, overwhelming lump forms in my throat as I look around the table. It hits me then, with the force of a physical blow: this is my family. Sylar, Elra, Talia, Isolde, and my aunt. For ten years, I was so terrified that I didn’t have anyone left in this world that I was just a ghost chasing a name on the wind. And it turns out, I had a whole family waiting to come home to.
Under the heavy wooden table, Sylar shifts closer, our thighs pressing tightly together from hip to knee. Off to the side, Cinder is living her absolute best life, entirely occupied by a small circle of village children who are eagerly hand-feeding her roasted meat scraps.
