The peace was a deep, quiet thing. It was the taste of fresh water from the well, the warmth of the sun on the old stone of their cottage, the familiar weight of Serian's head on his shoulder as they watched the twin moons rise. For fifty years, this was their reality. The grand, cosmic epic of their lives had settled into a gentle, pastoral poem.
Nox was carving a small bird from a piece of sun-bleached driftwood. His hands, which had once commanded the void and rewritten the laws of physics, were now patient and precise in a different way. The lines on his face were a map of a thousand lifetimes, but his eyes were calm, the old storms having long since passed. This was the epilogue. It was enough.
A knock came at their door.
It wasn't loud. It was a soft, hesitant tapping, a sound so out of place in their quiet world that it felt like a crack in a perfect vase. They had not had an unscheduled visitor in decades.
