Epilogue

“And now we gather to tell the tale—love lost and love found. Whispered in the quiet hamlets and shouted in the vale. Bardic song resounding, noble voice in tow, hearts beat in unison, love left to grow. The two travel far and wide, sharing life and lean, and when the time to pass does come, they depart together—unseen. For a vow was made, an oath kept, never do they part, in this life and the next, they stand heart-in-heart.” 

-Excerpt from “The Travels of the Rune-Bard”

The story of the bard-knight and the daughter-heir was sung from taverns to temples, carried on the wind like a secret too beautiful to keep. Minstrels plucked it from firelight and shaped it into verses. Children whispered it in alleyways. Even nobles repeated it in low tones when the court grew dull and their wine ran dry.

They said the bard-knight saved her from a life of gilded imprisonment. That the daughter-heir, with eyes like stormlight and a will like flame, rescued him in turn—from a life of lonely wandering and guarded sorrow. The songs never said where they ended up. Only that they vanished together, and were happy.

But stories, like people, have chapters beyond their final verse.

Years passed. Seasons turned, slowly and faithfully. And on the quiet cusp of late spring, a modest carriage arrived at the edge of a little town called Fallon.

Elma stepped out first, brushing dust from her traveling cloak. The runework along the hem shimmered in the light—blue thread, woven in the same swirling style that I wore in red. We were older now, both near thirty, and though the world had changed around us, our eyes still searched for each other before anything else.

I stepped beside her, staring at the house ahead. It had been mine once. A modest, two-story home on the hill above the town, long ago left to ivy and ruin. But now it stood straight and proud again, whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, a fresh roof of red tile staring skyward. Flowers bloomed around the stoop, and the gleaming windows sparkled in the sunlight.

And behind the house, under the great willow tree, the grave had become something more.

“She would’ve loved this,” Elma said gently, slipping her hand into mine.

I nodded, eyes shining. “She deserved more.”

“She has more now,” Elma said, smiling. “A shrine. A home. A son who came back.”

We brought our bags inside. The air smelled like cedarwood and lemon balm. Elma wandered through the house with a kind of reverence—touching old beams, peering through freshly glazed windows, smiling at the kitchen hearth.

Outside, the wind rustled through the willow’s long arms.

I stood at the back door, and Elma joined me again. “Ready?” she asked.

I exhaled. “Yeah.”

We walked out into the sun.

Behind the house, beneath the swaying green of the willow tree, a small group waited. Zygan was there, his beard a little whiter but his grin just as wide. He leaned on a cane, evidence of his weakening knees, but his back was straight and proud. The barkeep stood beside him, arm-in-arm with one of the barmaids—who was already crying. The other barmaid handed her a handkerchief. Both ladies wore light dresses of powder blue, their waists cinched in the middle by leather belts.

And then, apart from the rest, stood a man in plain brown clothes. His hair was salt-and-pepper now, cropped shorter than court fashion. His posture was military, but his face was open. Quiet. Humbled.

Elma stepped toward him first.

“Father,” she said.

Duke Rhys Ahlríon inclined his head. “Not today,” he said softly. “Today I’m just a man watching his daughter get married.”

I gave him a long look, then nodded once. There was no forgiveness spoken aloud—but perhaps it wasn’t needed anymore.

“I hated you,” the Duke admitted, voice low. “For a long time. For taking her away. For shaming me. But the hate has cooled. It’s been replaced by something else.”

“Regret?” I asked, not cruelly.

“Relief,” the Duke said. “She’s alive. She’s happy. And it turns out that’s all I ever truly wanted. I just couldn’t see it then.”

Elma touched her father’s arm, and he laid his hand over hers for a moment before stepping back.

They gathered under the willow tree. The shrine beneath it—once a grave—was now ringed in flowers and carved wood. A small sculpture of a singing woman, rough-hewn but tenderly made, sat in the center. I knelt by it for a moment, fingers brushing the edge of the stone, then stood beside Elma.

No priest officiated. No noble title echoed through the clearing. There was only the wind, the hush of leaves, and the people who mattered most.

I turned to her, heart pounding. “Elma,” I said, taking her hands. “We’ve lived as outlaws and lovers, as fugitives and friends. I never thought I’d have a home again. But with you—I always did.”

Her eyes shone with tears. “And you, Deryth… You heard me when no one else did. You saw me not as a noble’s daughter, or a pawn, or a name—but as a person. You gave me the strength to be free. I vow, from this day, to always walk beside you. Through sorrow and song, through flame and frost.”

I smiled, though my throat tightened. “Then let this be our oath: never to let the world break us. Never to let silence take the place of love. You are the light of my life.”

“And you are the love of mine,” she said.

We sealed their vow not with gold or rings, but a kiss beneath the willow’s shade.

Cheers rose around them—Zygan’s booming laughter, the barkeep’s tearful toast. The duke clapped once, then again, slower, his smile tight and proud.

Later, when the sun had fallen low and the guests had wandered inside for food and drink, Elma and I sat together before the shrine.

Elma lit a small candle. “For your mother,” she said.

I nodded and placed one beside it. “And for yours.”

We bowed their heads together, and whispered a prayer.

“Thank you,” Elma murmured. “For watching over us.”

“For guiding us,” Deryth added.

“For making sure we didn’t forget where we came from,” she said.

“And for letting us write our own story,” he finished.

Above us, the willow tree swayed, scattering petals and light down upon us like a benediction.

And beneath its branches, in the quiet heart of a story once told in whispers and songs, two hearts beat as one.