The sun was warm on the old stone of the cottage. Nox sat on the porch, carving a small, wooden bird for one of his great-grandchildren. His hands, which had once shattered the armor of gods and rewritten the laws of reality, were now skilled in a quieter, more patient art. The lines on his face were deep, a map of a thousand lifetimes, but his eyes were clear and calm.
Serian was in her garden, humming a tune that was as old and as familiar as their love. The world of Aethel was at peace, a quiet, beautiful story that unfolded at its own, gentle pace.
The multiverse was at peace. The Great Collaboration had created a new, stable order. The stories were safe. The library was full. Their own grand, epic tale was a finished work, a classic read by the new generations of heroes they had helped to inspire.
This was the epilogue. The quiet, happy ending they had earned a hundred times over.
A knock came at their door.
