The little cottage at the edge of Maplewood village had a proper thatched roof, thanks to the help of Old Tom the thatcher, who Valerius paid with a week's labor chopping wood. It had a sturdy door Valerius had carved himself, its design simple but elegant, with a rose motif that matched the now-pressed and framed blossom on the mantelpiece. It had a vegetable garden where Elara's careful rows of peas and beans were just beginning to climb their twine trellises.
It was a bright, crisp morning. Elara stood at the wooden counter, kneading dough for the day's bread. Flour dusted her forearms and the simple, homespun dress she wore. Through the open window, she could see Valerius in the garden, carefully inspecting the leaves of the tomato plants for pests. He wore a plain linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his pale hair tied back with a leather thong. He looked like any other hardworking man, if one ignored the unnatural grace of his movements and the occasional, still moments where he would simply lift his face to the sun and breathe, as if memorizing the feeling.
A child's laughter rang out. Lily, the daughter of the baker from the village, came skipping up the path, her pinafore pocket bulging with something. Valerius turned, and a genuine, easy smile touched his lips—a sight that still made Elara's heart flip.
"Mister Vale! Mister Vale!" Lily chirped, using the name he'd given the villagers. "Mama sent extra yeast for your lady's bread! She says yours is still too hard."
Valerius accepted the small packet with a solemn nod. "Please convey my gratitude. And inform your mother that my 'hard' bread is merely… historically accurate."
Lily giggled, not understanding, then spotted Elara at the window. "Morning, Miss Ellie!" She waved before skipping back down the path towards the village.
Valerius walked to the window, leaning on the sill. He had a smudge of dirt on his cheek. "Our small ambassador has delivered the crucial yeast. It seems my reputation as a baker is beyond salvage."
Elara smiled, reaching through the window to wipe the dirt away with her thumb. "You're a brilliant carpenter, a decent gardener, and a terrible baker. It's a fair balance."
He caught her wrist, turning his face to press a kiss into her flour-dusted palm. The gesture was domestic, familiar, and still sent a thrill through her. "I am also," he said, his voice low and warm, "profoundly happy."
They had been in Maplewood for three months. Valerius's strength and tireless work ethic had quickly made him a valued, if quiet, member of the community. He helped with heavy lifts, repaired fences, and his knowledge of herbs—both medicinal and deadly—had proven useful to the local healer. Elara, with her sharp mind and organizational skills, had helped the baker streamline his accounts and was now teaching a few of the village children their letters in the afternoons.
They were not rich. They were not powerful. They were simply *there*. Present in their own lives.
That evening, after a simple supper of vegetable stew and, yes, Elara's light, perfect bread, they sat on the bench outside their cottage. The sky was a canvas of deepening blue and fiery orange. Fireflies began to wink in the tall grass.
"Old Tom asked me today if we planned to stay through the winter," Valerius said, his arm around her shoulders. "He offered to show me how to properly bank the hearth against the cold."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him we would be here. And that I would be grateful for the lesson." He was silent for a moment. "A year ago… a season was nothing. A blink. Now, the thought of winter here, with you, in our home… it feels like a grand adventure. Planning for the woodpile. Knitting socks by the fire. Watching the first snow fall on our garden."
He spoke of a future, a simple, linear, human future, with a wonder that was beautiful to behold.
Elara nestled closer. "Do you ever miss it? The castle? The… grandeur?"
He didn't hesitate. "No. I miss none of it. That was a painting I was trapped inside. This," he squeezed her gently, "is life. The dough rising, the tomatoes ripening, the child bringing yeast, the old man offering wisdom on hearths. It is noisy, messy, and imperfect. And it is everything."
He turned to look at her, his grey eyes soft in the twilight. "You gave me more than my freedom, Elara. You gave me a reason to use it. You gave me mornings to wake up for."
Tears pricked her eyes, but they were happy tears. "You gave me a reason to stop calculating," she said. "You gave me a heart that wasn't a problem to solve, but a gift to cherish."
He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, tender kiss that tasted of stew and hope and their shared, hard-won peace. When they parted, the first star was shining brightly overhead.
"Come inside," she whispered. "It's getting chilly."
They stood, hand in hand, and walked into their cottage. Valerius lit the oil lamp on the table, casting a warm, golden glow over the simple room: the carved door, the framed rose, the books they were slowly collecting, the two chairs by the hearth.
He banked the fire for the night, the task still new enough to be performed with careful reverence. Elara washed the dishes in the basin.
There were no grand declarations left to make. No rules to defy, no systems to break. There was only the quiet symphony of their shared life—the clink of a dish, the rustle of embers, the comfortable silence between two people who no longer needed words to understand each other's hearts.
Later, curled together under their shared blanket, the moonlight streaming through the small window, Elara knew this was the true victory. Not an escape from a game, but an arrival at a life. The future was no longer a terrifying blankness or a pre-written curse. It was the next day's bread to bake, the next fence to mend, the next sunset to watch from their own bench.
It was a future written not in silver or in blood, but in sunlight, in simple choices, and in the steady, unwavering beat of two hearts, finally free to choose each other, day after ordinary day.
And as she drifted to sleep, safe in the circle of his arms, she knew it was more than enough. It was everything.