Page 89

The smoke had long cleared. Ashes had cooled. Life began again.

Hagan stood by the sacred pool, the water still and reverent. He tipped the urn forward, letting his father's ashes scatter into the breeze. Beside him, Astrid whispered, "Goodbye, my love," her voice a thread in the wind.

There was no grand ritual. Just silence. Reverence. And the feel of Hagan's hand at her back, steady as stone.

In the days that followed, the world stitched itself together. Slowly, quietly. Rebuilding huts. Replanting fields. Healing.

But for Seren and Hagan, it felt like they lived inside a bubble.

Time didn't quite move the same for them.

Hagan would pull her into the woods just to walk, just to press her against a tree and kiss her breathless.

They explored each other's bodies like explorers of the uncharted, learning every shift, every sigh, every spot that made the other come undone.

And then, one morning, Hagan said, "Come with me."

He led her back to the cottage. This time, he opened the door first.

"I want to show you something."

Everything was as it had been. Except... the room to the left was transformed .

The light poured in through tall windows, golden and soft, touching every corner like a blessing. Canvases were stacked along one wall, brushes lined in delicate jars, and the air carried the faint, familiar scent of linseed oil and pigment.

Near the window sat her camera, perched on the tripod exactly how she liked it.

A long desk stretched beneath the glass panes, holding her laptop, stacks of photo paper, rolls of washi tape, and the small lightbox she used for detail work.

Above it, a string of her favourite prints hung on twine, tiny wooden clips holding memories in place—sunsets, candid portraits, wild river shots, one of Hagan asleep with his wolf ears twitching.

It was everything she had once imagined in stolen daydreams. A mirror of her longing.

Her art studio. Her sanctuary.

And Hagan had built it for her.

"Do you like it ?" he asked anxiously from behind her as she turned a slow circle.

She nodded, unable to speak, her heart full.

"Lets move back" , she whispered.

Later, Seren made her way to the Oracle's cottage.

The path was lined with trees, all in full bloom—blushing petals and green-gold leaves waving gently in the breeze. The herds had returned to the hills. The river bubbled again with laughter as if it remembered how. The village had changed, but the spirit of it—the heartbeat—was back.

Two females were expecting.

Her friends of the forest had returned.

The whispers in the wind had returned.

And with each step, it felt like the world was exhaling, unfurling after too long clenched in pain.

The Oracle's door was ajar.

Inside, the air smelled of herbs and rain-soaked earth. The Oracle sat by the fire, but she looked different—smaller somehow. Fragile. As if the weight of visions and grief had caught up with her in one long, brutal night.

She looked up slowly as Seren entered, her silver eyes dimmer, but warm.

Seren approached and placed the pendant in her outstretched hand.

The oracle looked down at it for a long moment.

"It belonged to my fated," she said softly, almost to herself, her voice heavy with regrets. "Lilja's father. She always said she wished they had met. "

The Oracle closed her hand around it. Her fingers trembled.

"She carried it every day," the Oracle added.

" She was your daughter," Seren said, knowing what she was thinking. "And you are allowed to grieve her."

The old woman nodded, holding the pendant close to her chest. "At least now," she whispered, "I hope she gets to meet him."

A hush fell between them. The fire crackled. Somewhere outside, a bird sang.

She reached for the Oracle's hand and held it just for a moment.

And outside, petals from the blooming trees began to fall, soft as snow.

Days blurred into each other. One afternoon, while folding bedding, Seren found a small wooden box tucked away. Curious, she opened it.

Inside was the purple blanket she had knitted for Hagan that very first day.

She held it to her cheek, eyes stinging.

Beneath it were bits and pieces. A hair tie. A pebble from the riverbank. A pressed flower tucked into a book that had gone missing. A comb. Fragments of memory, each one collected with care .

Her breath hitched. He had kept it all.

Sometimes, Hagan would scoop her up in the middle of the day and carry her off to the cottage, laughing like a thief. They had learned sex together—clumsy, tender, passionate. Each time, something new. Each time, special.

Then came the day Seren decided.

She led him to their favourite spot on the riverbank—candles, a soft blanket, their favourite spot by the river. Her body thrummed with anticipation. She would let him take blood.

When Hagan realized, his eyes shone with anticipation.

"It only needs to be a drop," he said, smiling as he undressed.

"Yuck," she replied dramatically. "I might throw up"

They made love beneath the whispering trees, slow and aching with meaning. His body moved within hers as he watched her face, his expression awed and reverent. He brushed her hair away and murmured something too soft for words.

As they reached the edge, Hagan bit down—just lightly—on her lip, sucking it into his mouth as she gasped.

And in the wave of her climax, she did the same.

Something exploded between them .

The vague pulse of their bond flared to life. What had been shadow and sketch turned brilliant and blinding.

Colour.

Their mating marks shimmered to life. His in shades of silver, hers blooming a luminous blue.

She stared at his skin, then hers, breathless.

He pulled her close, their skin still slick, hearts still pounding.

"My Lunara," he whispered, burying his face in her hair.

And the world spun slower, softer, beneath the rustle of leaves and the hush of the river.

Later, wrapped in the purple blanket she'd once knitted with clumsy hands, Seren curled against him and murmured, "I have been video calling my mamma again."

Hagan blinked at her, feigning surprise. She smiled; eyes soft.

"I told them everything. About you. About the tribe. About me."

"And they...?"

" My mother cried. They want to meet you."

He swallowed, emotion flickering across his face. "That's... that's good. "

She kissed the base of his throat. "It is. It's time. "

He simply nodded

What she didn't know—what he didn't tell her—was that they'd been writing for weeks. That he'd started the conversation, reaching out behind her back. That he'd been the one to suggest a visit. That he had marked the date carefully in his mind: her birthday.

They'd been video calling in secret, her brother awkward and sceptical at first, her mother tearful but smiling through the screen. Hagan had shown them the studio he built for her, had answered every hard question with a quiet steadiness. It hadn't been easy. But it was worth it.

It was a gift he truly wanted to give her—a piece of her past, reclaimed. A bridge to the girl she had been, and the woman she was now.

In the days that followed, they made space for more than just art and love. They made space for family. For roots. For something real.

And Seren, oblivious to the timing, began to hum more often. She painted more, slept better. She didn't know it yet, but the greatest surprise was yet to come.