ISOLDE
The scent of rosemary and fire-smoke curled through the cottage like comfort. Like they hadn't nearly died multiple times in the last 24 hours. Like they wouldn't be fighting off undead things for the foreseeable future.
Isolde moved with practiced ease between hearth and table, barefoot on stone, her white hair half-loose, her sleeves rolled above the elbows. She wasn't thinking about fate or roots or prophecy.
She was thinking about stew.
Alaric had insisted on helping—though she'd nearly laughed when he'd asked how to peel a carrot. He'd managed eventually, under her watchful smirk.
Now they sat across from each other in the glow of firelight, two bowls between them, steam rising, the soft clink of spoons breaking the stillness.
It was simple.
It was warm.
And for a moment, it felt like they'd always eaten this way. Like the chaos of the den and the forest had happened in some other life.
Alaric leaned back in his chair, stretching out one long leg beneath the table. His foot brushed hers—deliberate.
She gave him a look. "That's bold."
He grinned, lazy and unrepentant. "I'm adaptable, remember?"
She shook her head and hid a smile behind her spoon. "Still not forgiven for the carrot massacre."
He raised a brow. "You didn't complain when I kissed you."
Heat bloomed in her chest. She tried to fight it, failed, and met his eyes.
"That's because you're better with your mouth than your knife."
Alaric choked on his stew.
She laughed—a real one, surprised out of her.
For a breathless moment, the weight of the world slipped from their shoulders. They were just two people. Hungry. Tired. Full of something that felt dangerously close to hope.
--
ALARIC
He hadn't realized how much he missed laughter until she gave it to him.
Not just any laugh—hers. Bright and cracked open like spring sunlight after frost.
He watched her in the firelight, how it touched her skin, kissed the curve of her neck, turned the white of her hair to moon-silver.
She wasn't his.
And yet…
He reached for her hand across the table. Just held it. No pressure.
But the warmth between their palms said enough.
"You'll be alright," he said quietly.
Her smile faded, slow and reluctant.
"That's not what I'm worried about."
--
ISOLDE
She pulled her hand back gently, fingers curling around her spoon again.
"Everywhere I go, something ancient stirs," she said. "The den, the forest, the dream. Even you."
"I'm not ancient."
"Would you really know otherwise? Doesn't your curse wipe your memory?"
He didn't deny it.
She pushed her bowl aside and stood, crossing to the window. The moon had risen now—high and clear, watching them like it had always watched her. Kind. Distant. Merciless.
"If I'm really the last Silvanne," she said, "what happens when I fail?"
Alaric rose slowly, came to stand behind her.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I don't need to."
She turned to him, suddenly tired.
"I'm not afraid of dying, Alaric."
His jaw tensed.
"I'm afraid of failing before I do," she continued grimly.
And just like that, the sweetness was gone. The warmth cooled. And the ache returned.
But when he stepped forward, arms wrapping around her from behind, she let him hold her.
And in the quiet that followed, neither of them said what they were thinking.
That peace was already slipping through their fingers.
They didn't speak as they moved around the cottage. No more quips, no more teasing.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It was reverent. Fragile.
The kind of quiet born when two people don't know if they'll ever get another moment like this.
Isolde washed their bowls with slow, deliberate care. Alaric stoked the fire one last time. When she turned, he was already watching her—coat gone, hair loose around his face, expression unreadable.
"Come to bed," she said softly.
And he followed.
They didn't undress beyond boots and belts.
She slid beneath the furs first, pulling the blanket up to her chin like armour, even as her heart pounded. Alaric stood at the edge of the mattress a beat too long before climbing in beside her.
He didn't touch her right away.
But she reached for him.
Curled against his chest, her ear found the familiar drum of his heartbeat. One of his arms tucked around her waist, the other cradled her head like she was something breakable.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
Not until she felt him exhale into her hair.
"You don't have to be strong here," he whispered. "Not tonight."
And maybe it was that—
The gentleness.
The truth of it.
Because sleep came faster than it should have.
But peace… did not.