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RHAEGAR

T hree weeks.

That’s how long it's been since she gave me half her soul and shattered every truth I thought I knew about Protheka.

Three weeks since the last scream echoed through the ruined sanctum, since the pact was severed, since death came for me—and she made it kneel.

And now…

Now, we live.

Not hidden or hunted.

Just… quiet.

The mountains rise around us like sleeping gods, ancient and untouched. Their peaks vanish into cloud-thick skies, their valleys laced with rivers that whisper old songs through pines older than the Purna line. Our home rests nestled between stone and sky, built into the cliffs themselves—half carved from earth, half shaped from memory. A sanctuary of wood, firelight, and the soft scent of wildflowers she’s begun growing along the eastern wall.

I never imagined a place like this could exist.

Not for me.

Not for us.

Nora moves like she belongs here.

Barefoot in the grass. Hair down, unbound by duty or fear. Her laughter threads through the wind sometimes, soft and unguarded, as if the weight of our story finally slipped from her shoulders the moment she chose to live again.

And me?

I still wake in the middle of the night, waiting for the world to shatter.

But it doesn’t.

Her breath, warm against my chest.

Her hand, always reaching for mine.

That’s what brings me back each time.

Not spells.

Not swords.

Her.

Today, the sun doesn’t rise golden.

It rises silver.

Cloud-filtered. Cool and ethereal. The kind of morning that feels like it doesn’t belong to time, but to magic.

She stands near the edge of the cliff, cloak billowing around her in the breeze, eyes closed, face tilted to the wind like it carries answers to questions she hasn’t asked aloud. I watch her from the doorway of our home, arms crossed, heart aching with something I can’t name.

She turns before I speak.

She always knows when I’m near.

Her smile is quiet. Fierce.

“Is it time?” she asks.

I nod.

Because it is.

There are no witnesses.

No priests. No scrolls. No gilded altar.

Only us.

And the mountain.

And the magic that still hums beneath the stone like a heart that refuses to die.

We walk together to the grove just beyond the cliffside—where the trees twist in perfect spirals, and the rocks form a natural ring as if carved by the gods for this purpose alone. In the center, the earth pulses faintly. Ancient. Alive.

The place she chose.

The place I said yes.

We stand across from each other, hands empty, eyes full.

I take her in—this woman who once stood at the edge of ruin and chose me anyway.

Her dark hair tangles in the wind. Her eyes are steady, even as they shimmer with emotion she doesn’t try to hide.

And when she speaks, her voice is not loud.

But it is everything.

“I give you my breath,” she whispers, lifting her palm. “So you never forget the sound of mine against yours.”

A breeze curls around her fingers, golden threads of magic dancing between us. My chest aches.

“I give you my silence,” I answer, “so when the world is too loud, you’ll always have a place to rest.”

I step closer.

“I give you my strength,” she says, voice trembling slightly, “so when you falter, you remember you’re never alone.”

“And I give you my shadow,” I say, reaching for her, “so no darkness ever touches you again.”

We meet in the middle.

Fingers brushing.

Hearts bared.

The old rites were forged with blood.

Ours is made with choice and strengthened by blood.

She draws a line of magic across my wrist, the same across her own—just shallow enough to call forth the glow beneath the skin. Not pain. Power.

We press them together.

Her magic—warm, fierce, unyielding—meets mine—ancient, steady, forged in stone.

And something answers.

The earth breathes.

The trees sway.

The runes carved in bark long ago light with soft white fire.

We don’t need a god to bless this.

We are the miracle.

I look into her eyes, and the words fall from my lips not like a vow, but like truth that’s always been there.

“I have been many things, Nora. Soldier. Monster. Weapon. But I have never been whole until I was yours.”

She steps closer, tears glistening in her lashes, and places a hand over my chest.

“You were never a monster,” she whispers. “You were a man forced to forget his name. I will spend every day reminding you.”

She rises to her toes.

And when she kisses me, I feel the mountains hold their breath.

Our souls ignite, where they were once halved, they now pulse in time.

Not separate.

Never again.

We don’t need witnesses.

The magic remembers.

It weaves between our fingers as we sink to the moss-covered ground together, the rite sealed not with chants or crowns, but the way she clings to me like I’m the only thing anchoring her to this world.

And maybe I am.

Maybe she is.

Maybe we both are.

In the end, that’s what love is in Protheka.

It's chosen.

Even when the world is ash.

Even when the gods look away.

We choose each other.