The wedding feast had burned long into the night, leaving the meadow strewn with the gentle wreckage of celebration: overturned tankards still leaking the last of the cider, scattered petals glowing faintly from Roselda's lingering spells, and the low crackle of dying bonfires sending spirals of fragrant woodsmoke into the star-strewn sky. Laughter had softened to contented murmurs; couples swayed lazily to the final notes of a lone fiddler; children—Belfin and Ophelia among them—had finally succumbed to exhaustion, curled in laps or carried off to beds by weary but smiling parents.
In the quieter pocket near the chapel tent, Clarice and Tyrell stood together, her veil now draped over his shoulders like a shared cloak, his arm around her waist. The harpy feathers in her hair caught the firelight and shimmered like captured moonlight. They spoke in low voices, stealing glances at each other as though still astonished that the vows had been spoken and the rings—simple bands of Levithoro-forged iron etched with interlocking hammers and crossed swords—now gleamed on their fingers.
Byrt and Stanley approached side by side, two old warriors moving with the same measured stride they'd once used on battlefields. Byrt carried a rolled parchment tied with a thin strip of blue ribbon; Stanley held a small iron key, its head shaped like a miniature anvil. Both men wore the soft, proud expressions of fathers who had waited years for this moment.
"Clarice. Tyrell," Byrt said, voice roughened by emotion and ale. He stopped a pace away, letting the firelight play across their faces. "We can't have you two running too far off now, can we?"
Stanley chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Aye. Frontier's big enough without losing our children to it."
Tyrell's brows lifted; Clarice tilted her head, curious. Byrt stepped forward and unfurled the parchment with deliberate care. The document was simple—ink on good vellum, sealed with both the Tenebrae black-sun crest and the Levithoro hammer sigil—but the words were unmistakable.
A deed.
A generous parcel of land, perfectly situated between the Tenebrae compound and the Levithoro forge compound: fertile meadow on one side, a clear stream cutting through the center, mature oaks along the back boundary for shade and timber. Enough room for a house, a garden, a small forge annex, and still space for fields or children to run.
Clarice's hand flew to her mouth. Tyrell blinked rapidly, the parchment trembling slightly in his grip as he reread the boundaries.
Byrt cleared his throat. "And while everyone's been busy with drills, weddings, and monster cores… an old carpenter friend of mine—Jorah Hale—and his crew slipped in quiet-like. They've put up a house. Small for now—two rooms, a hearth, a loft—but sturdy. Timber frame, stone chimney, slate roof. Windows that catch the morning light. A porch wide enough for two chairs and a lifetime of evenings."
Stanley held up the key. "We figured you'd need somewhere warmer than my forge tonight," he said, voice thick. "Though I reckon the anvil would've kept you cozy enough."
Tyrell let out a startled laugh that cracked into something rawer. "We were just going to keep warm by the forge tonight… until you brought this upon us."
His mother—standing nearby with the rest of the Levithoro kin—swatted his arm lightly, though her eyes were bright with tears. "Tyrell Levithoro, mind your tongue in front of your new wife and her family. You'll have plenty of nights by the forge when the children come asking for stories."
Clarice's composure broke. She stepped forward and threw her arms around Byrt, then Stanley, sobbing openly. "Thank you… thank you both. I—I don't even know what to say."
Tyrell pulled her close again, his own eyes shining. "We'll build on it," he promised, voice hoarse. "Brick by brick. Child by child. Thank you, fathers."
The two older men enveloped the young couple in a four-way embrace, Byrt's broad shoulders shaking, Stanley's deep chuckle turning into something suspiciously like a sniffle. Around them, the remaining guests—family, neighbors, a few lingering militia men—raised quiet cheers and lifted mugs in silent salute.
Not long after, Clarice and Tyrell slipped away under a shower of enchanted petals and good-natured ribbing. They disappeared down the lantern-lit path toward their new home, hand in hand, the key already turning in the lock of a door that opened onto their future.
They were not seen again for several days.
The honeymoon passed in quiet, stolen joy—meals by the hearth, whispered plans in the loft, lazy mornings tangled in blankets while the first frost silvered the windows. The house, though small, felt vast with possibility: a cradle of timber and stone waiting to be filled.
Weeks slipped by. Harvest gave way to the first true bite of winter; the fields were shorn, the granaries full, the air sharp with pine smoke and the promise of snow. The Tenebrae brothers—rested, fed, spirits high—gathered one crisp morning in the yard, packs shouldered, shields gleaming, ready once more for the guard barracks.
Byrt stood on the porch, Cindy at his side, the younger children clustered around their legs. The older girls—Clarice radiant and newly settled in her own home nearby—had come to see them off, Roselda holding a small bundle of travel bread and dried apples.
Roland stepped forward first, clasping his father's forearm. "Time to go back, Father. Duty calls."
Byrt gripped hard, eyes fierce. "Come back sooner next time, lad. Don't make us wait months again."
Chris grinned, hugging Cindy. "We'll try. But you'd better have a betrothed lined up by the time we return, eh? Can't let Clarice be the only one married off."
Tom laughed, ruffling Belfin's hair. "And you two—don't drive your mother mad with pranks while we're gone."
Sam knelt to hug Ophelia. "Keep the frogs in the pond, little sister."
Harold and Jeffrey embraced their mother, whispering thanks for the wards and the food packed in their bags. Matthew, still the youngest but taller now, squared his shoulders. "We'll make you proud again, Father."
Byrt pulled them all into one last crushing embrace, voice rough. "You already do. Every day. Come home safe. All of you."
Cindy kissed each cheek, tears shining but unshed. "The house will be waiting. And so will we."
The brothers turned, raised hands in farewell, and marched down the path—seven silhouettes against the rising sun, shields catching the light like black suns of their own. Behind them, the family watched until the road curved and they were gone.
The wind carried the faint scent of pine and promise.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, duty waited.
But home—warm, loud, unbreakable—remained.