Page 202 of Evermore

As night fell fully, as stars emerged above a city that breathed easier than it had in centuries, as conversation and laughter flowed around me, I felt a sense of completion. Whatever came next, and with centuries stretched before us, who could say what challenges awaited, we would face it together. Not as pawns, but as architects of our own destiny. Free, at last, to write our own story.

And that was the greatest power of all. The mark of a true hero.

Epilogue

THORNE

Some lessons even immortals never learn. Like the futility of organizing anything in a household that included Paesha Vox.

I stood in our bedchamber, staring at the collection of mismatched items on her vanity with something between exasperation and resignation. A hairbrush with half its bristles missing. Three different earrings, none of which formed a complete pair. A dagger that belonged in the weapons room. A handful of coins that should have been in the treasury. And, most significantly, my favorite crystal inkpot, which had mysteriously vanished from my study three days ago.

Ten years since the world had changed. Ten years since I’d given up most of my power to restore balance. Ten years of peace, of rebuilding, of finding a new purpose beyond the endless cycle of finding and losing my Ever.

Ten years of Paesha deliberately moving my shit just to watch me twitch.

“Are you reorganizing my things again?” Her voice drifted in from the adjoining bathroom, amusement evident in every syllable.

“I’m contemplating the mystery of how someone so precise in battle can be so chaotic in domestic matters,” I replied,picking up the dagger and testing its edge with my thumb. Still sharp, at least. “This belongs in the weapons room.”

“Does it?” She appeared in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but a towel, her hair dripping onto the floor in a way she knew drove me crazy. “I think it looks so decorative next to my perfume bottles. It’s fancy. Really makes the place feel special.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Until Quill decides to ‘borrow’ it for one of her increasingly elaborate pranks.”

“She’s almost twenty. I think she’s moved past the stabbing phase.” Paesha crossed the room, deliberately shaking her wet hair in my direction as she passed.

I caught her wrist, pulling her back against me despite the dampness seeping through my shirt. “She’s worse than you in that regard. And you’re making a mess.”

“You like it. It gives you something to complain about.”

“I have a list. I hardly need more material.” Despite my words, I lowered my mouth to hers, tasting mint and honey.

She melted against me for a moment before pulling away with a smirk. “Your shirt is getting wet.”

“An unavoidable casualty of loving you,” I sighed, releasing her to continue her path across the room. “Much like my sanity, my organized study, and apparently, my favorite quill.”

Her back stiffened for a heartbeat, a tell so slight that only someone who had spent years learning her every expression would notice it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, too casually, as she dropped her towel and reached for a dress laid out on the bed.

I leaned against our broken bedpost, last night’s casualty, making no effort to hide my appreciation of the view. “Of course you don’t. Just as you had no idea about my missing cufflinks last month, or my favorite book the week before that.”

She slipped the dress over her head, the green silk settling against her curves in a way that distracted me from the investigation at hand.

“Maybe you’re getting forgetful in your old age,” she suggested, turning to present her back for me to lace her dress. “You’re what? Several millennia old now? Eighty-two thousand or something? Pretty sure you should be decrepit honestly.”

My fingers worked the laces with practiced ease. “And somehow still young enough to catch you in a lie.” I pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, smiling against her skin when she shivered. “Where is it, Paesha?”

“Where’s what?”

“My quill. The one with the golden nib that Tuck gave me.”

“Why would I take your quill, and please never say the word nib to me again.” She stepped away, moving to the vanity to begin the elaborate process of arranging her hair. “I don’t even write that much.”

“Then why did I find ink stains on your fingertips yesterday?” I settled onto the edge of the bed, content to watch the familiar ritual. “Ink that matches exactly the distinctive blue shade I had specially made in Stirling.”

Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “You’re unusually observant for someone who didn’t notice another teacup was missing for three months.”

Ah, there it was. The infamous teacup, still a point of contention. The small, porcelain cup with the chipped rim that she’d stolen from my palace in Etherium during one of her early visits to match the one she’d taken from Noctus house. I’d searched for it for months before finding it tucked away in her chambers, filled with little trinkets she’d collected.