Page 69 of A Touch of Madness

It does not pause in the aftermath of battle, does not still itself to allow the broken to gather their scattered pieces before the world moves on. It turns, ever forward, relentless in its pace, and those of us who remain must learn to match its stride or risk being left behind.

I have seen many wars. I have lived through countless endings, countless quiet ruins left in the wake of conflicts fought. And yet, I have never seen one end quite like this.

Not with victory. Not with loss. But with something that feels impossibly like both.

Sylvie walks ahead of me, her figure framed by the soft glow of candlelight, the heavy tapestry of night spilling in through the towering windows of our home. Her steps are lighter now, though still weighted by the things she cannot yet name. She is not the same girl who first stepped into my classroom all those months ago, nor the girl who trembled in the face of the truths she was never meant to know.

She is something more.

Much more.

More powerful. More dangerous. More herself than she has ever been—even though it is so far from the person she thought she was meant to be.

I have watched her shed the skin of who she thought she was. I have seen her break, and I have seen her rebuild. And now, as she settles into this life—our life—I see the quiet beginnings of something she once believed was impossible.

Peace.

It does not come easily. There are still battles left to fight. The Solstice Society is in ruins, but ruin is never as final as one hopes. There will always be remnants. Whispers in the dark, gathering strength, waiting for the moment they can rise again.

And yet, for the first time in decades, I do not feel the weight of inevitability pressing against my spine.

Let them try.

Let them try to end us. Try to use Sylvie against us. Try as they might, they will never touch her.

Sylvie curls into the chair across from me, her legs tucked beneath her, a book in her lap. Her fingers trace absently over the spine, her mind elsewhere, lost in the heavy quiet of the evening. The fire flickers in the hearth, casting long shadows against the walls, warming the air between us.

She is tired. I see it in the way she holds herself, the way she blinks slower than usual, as if trying to stave off the exhaustion pulling at her limbs. I know she has not yet given herself permission to rest.

It is not in her nature.

I move before she can protest, crossing the space between us, lifting her into my arms as effortlessly as all the times before.

Sylvie exhales, the smallest sound of protest escaping her lips before she relents, her body molding against mine, the tension in her frame easing as I settle us onto the chaise.

"You never let me do anything," she murmurs, the words soft, teasing.

I brush my lips against her temple. "You have done more than enough for this lifetime, love."

She sighs, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. "Lara’s still adjusting. She’s… struggling. I should be with her more."

"You will," I say, pressing a hand against her back, holding her closer. "But not tonight."

She doesn’t argue.

The silence stretches between us, comfortable and unhurried. I listen to the soft cadence of her breathing, the steady beat of her heart, and I know, without question, that I would destroy the world if it meant keeping her safe.

I have never cared for the concept offate. I have spent lifetimes trying to outrun it, trying to bend it to my own will. But if fate led me to her, I will never curse it again.

She is my undoing.

And I will never seek to be whole again.

Six weeks.

It feels both impossibly long and startlingly short, a stretch of time that barely scratches the surface of everything we’ve endured, yet somehow, it is enough for the world to settle again. The days have softened, the sharp edges of all we’ve been through dulled to something more manageable—memories that still linger, but no longer weigh me down so completely.

I wake in a bed that is not mine but feels like home. The air in Lucian’s estate no longer carries the weight of ghosts, no longer hums with the constant tension of looming disaster. It is still dark and quiet, ancient in the way only something centuries old can be, but it is safe. It is ours.

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