Page 207 of Ash and Feather

We hugged goodbye, and for once it didn’t feel like an ending—merely anI’ll see you later.

Valas caught my eye as I turned away from her, wearing his usual sly grin. “It’s going to be boring without you in the middle-heavens constantly setting fire to things.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to nap, at least.”

“Which is good,” he said, yawning, “because it’s going to take a lot of beauty sleep to recover from today.”

Mairu scoffed. “Something tells me it won’t bethatboring with your chaotic ass still around, causing trouble.” She turned her golden eyes toward me. They were shining with tears that she hastily blinked away. “But all the same, you’ll stop by soon, I hope? Keep things interesting for us.”

I agreed with a hug. My shoulder was damp with her tears by the time I stopped squeezing her and stepped back.

And at last, I turned once more to Dravyn.

The others drifted away, granting us a moment of privacy.

A moment that stretched into several more, until he eventually took my hand, and we walked to the edge of the cliff together. The air was fully cleared now, no trace of smokeor anything else shading it, and the world seemed to stretch endlessly out below us.

“I will never be far from you,” he promised, “no matter the realm you find yourself in. And you can always come home to me.”

“I know,” I said—and it was that knowledge that encouraged my heart to beat more courageously, making me less afraid of the waiting world and its vastness.

Because he was right: No matter where my new magic took me, whatever endings or beginnings or in between places it led to, I loved him, and he loved me, and there was no amount of change or distance that could undo that.

There was work to be done, now. Lots of it. But I could see the roads I needed to take. Like bright, shining trails unfolding across a map of the peaceful future I would help guide into existence.

I kissed Dravyn one last time—for now—letting his warmth wash over me.

Then I leapt from the edge, wings unfurling, and I soared boldly into whatever trials awaited me next.

Epilogue

300 Years Later

In the realm of Mistwilde,a young elvish woman by the name of Soraya stood on a hilltop overlooking the capital city of Irithyl, admiring the sweeping view.

Water flowed everywhere she looked, falling over countless surfaces, gathering in turquoise pools, winding between buildings. The air glittered with mist that caught the setting sunlight and turned to gold. A soft, sweet scent wafted up from the pale blue flowers covering most of the city’s yards. The houses those yards belonged to were arranged in neat rows stacked precisely on top of one another, each one boasting countless windows of colorful glass. It somehow looked both perfectly planned and yet entirely natural—a wild city carved from the earth by precise and thoughtful hands.

Sora clutched a silver ring as she studied it all, her thumb absently tracing over the band, which was molded in the shape of two wings that held an oval centerpiece.

The hilltop was called Elleras. It was a sanctuary filled with gardens and shrines—a place the inhabitants of Irithyl oftenretreated to when they found themselves in need of peace. Of balance. And in the sanctuary’s center stood a towering statue of the immortal being responsible for such things: the Arbiter of Realms, they called her.

Her story was one that all the children of Mistwilde learned at a young age—because it was this being who had brought a divine essence back to the elves over three hundred years ago, giving them a point to build their future upon.

A peaceful kind of magic often flowed even from mere statues of the Arbiter. The one Sora leaned against now, however, carried more than a feeling of peace; there was a wildness about this sculpture, she’d always thought—and she was not alone in that thinking.

When the sun hit it just right, some swore they saw fire rippling across the Arbiter’s body. Blazing in her eyes. Burning through the scars upon her face. Flaring like wings out from her back.

This was why Sora had chosen this spot for her work.

And this was why a captive audience of villagers sat before her and the Arbiter’s statue, their eyes wide, their hands clutching glass daggers with feathers tied around the hilts, modeled after the ones the Arbiter herself held. Even the youngest of the village children had ceased their bickering and tumbling, and they now sat perfectly still, eagerly awaiting what came next.

For today was Forging Day, which meant a reprieve from the chores and routine of their everyday lives. It meant food, dancing, celebration—and most importantly, it meantstories.

And Sora—though still young by elvish standards—was already regarded by many as the greatest storyteller they’d encountered in a generation.

Among her most popular tales were those she told of the love story between the Arbiter of Realms and the God of Fire. And,as Forging Day celebrated the union of these two divine beings, Sora had predictably found herself in high demand by villagers eager to get swept up in such a story.

She surveyed the eager crowd before her, still smoothing the silver ring between her fingers.

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