The moon hung low, bathing the manor in a soft silver hue. The twins had finally fallen asleep, tucked into their cribs. Myrelion and Lira sat in quiet comfort near the fireplace, wrapped in the hush of domestic peace that had slowly become their new world.
Lira leaned her head on his shoulder, her fingers gently tracing the back of his hand. "You've changed," she whispered.
"I had to," he murmured, wrapping his arm around her waist. "You and the girls gave me something worth changing for."
The warmth between them wasn't just from the hearth. Their bodies had become familiar with each other over the months—gentle touches, accidental brushes, lingering gazes. But tonight, something deeper stirred.
Myrelion carried her to their bed with care, as if the weight of his emotions made her even more delicate. She touched his face, brushing away the cold mask he wore in battle, revealing the vulnerable man beneath.
"I love you," she said.
And for the first time, he said it back—softly, firmly, like a vow.
That night, they made love not as assassin and widow, but as husband and wife, soul to soul. It wasn't rushed or desperate—it was slow, reverent, and filled with the kind of warmth Myrelion thought he was never meant to feel.
As Lira lay asleep against his chest, Myrelion stared at the ceiling with wide eyes.
He had walked through fire and blood.
But this?
This was the beginning of something sacred.