Garrick had never thought he'd see a day like this. A day where the war was over, where the skies were no longer black with Venin rot, and where peace—real, breathing peace—was more than just a dream whispered over campfires. So much had been lost. Friends. Family. People who had once laughed beside him, fought beside him. But by some miracle, the gods weren't entirely cruel. Violet was alive. Xaden too. And through their sacrifices, their stubbornness, they had found a cure for those who had been turned. They had fought until their very bones ached—and they had won. The realm was rebuilding. And so was he.

Only, Garrick hadn’t done it alone. She had saved him in ways even he couldn’t name. His fireheart. His wife. Months ago, when the future was nothing but a dagger poised over their heads, they had sworn themselves to each other—before the gods, before their dragons, before the stars themselves. If they were to die, they would die soul-bound, heart-bound.

But death hadn't come.

Life had.

Now, standing in the wide open yard of the manor he had reclaimed, a place once ruined by grief and now full of laughter, he looked at her—and everything inside him softened. They still flew together, every week without fail, making their own ritual of soaring high where the air was thin and sweet.

He adjusted his leather gloves slowly, savoring the moment, savoring her. She stood before him in her flight leathers, head barely reaching his shoulder, hair messy from the wind, cheeks flushed from excitement. Gods, she was a sight. Fierce. Stubborn. His.

"Are you ready, big guy?" she teased, mischief dancing in her eyes as she stepped close, placing a single finger under his chin—just like she always did when she wanted to poke at him.

Garrick grinned, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at her, heart already racing.

"So damn ready, love," he said, voice low and full of everything he felt and never needed to say.

Because she knew. She always knew.

And together, they'd fly.