The castle still stood, its towers shining gold in the early morning light. Birds sang over dew-laced gardens, and the air smelled of lavender and old books. For all the world, it looked like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
It had been ten years since Princess Elira and Prince Kael had defeated the shadow wraiths, united their kingdoms, and stood together on the balcony before thousands of cheering subjects. The wedding had been a marvel of magic and diplomacy. The moment Kael slid the ring on Elira’s finger, the clouds parted and the sun poured down like a divine benediction.
“Happily ever after,” the bards sang.
Now, Elira stood in the castle’s solar, barefoot, balancing a squirming toddler on her hip while reviewing grain inventory ledgers with her steward.
“Your Highness,” Steward Danric said, clearing his throat, “we’ll need to divert half the surplus to the southern province. They’ve had drought two years running.”
Elira shifted her daughter, Miri, to her other hip. “And the capital?”
“We’ll manage, but it’ll mean tighter rations this winter. Less fruit, more root vegetables.”
Miri blew a spit bubble and banged a wooden spoon on the ledger.
Elira sighed, gave her daughter the spoon, and turned back to the steward. “Do it. Send word to the southern farmers that help is on the way.”
Danric bowed and left.
Elira sat heavily in the nearest chair. Her spine ached. Her temples throbbed. She hadn’t slept more than four hours in weeks. Kael had left before dawn again. Training the new recruits. Always training.
The romance hadn’t ended—she still loved him—but it had shifted. Ten years had worn away the constant fluttering thrill, replacing it with something deeper but more... quiet. Sometimes too quiet. Sometimes she felt like she was living next to him instead of with him.
She looked at Miri’s dimpled cheeks and sighed. “So much for ball gowns and enchantments, little star.”
Miri gave her a proud, toothy grin and threw the spoon at a tapestry.
---
Kael stood in the barracks yard, barking orders as cadets stumbled through sword forms. He hadn’t been this frustrated since he’d tried to ride a wyvern without a saddle. Sweat dripped down his brow.
“Your left foot! Gods, Berin, are you fighting a ghost or conducting an orchestra?”
He sighed and waved them off. “Take five. Hydrate or pass out.”
Berin gave a sheepish grin as he shuffled off. Kael sat on a barrel, staring at the horizon where the sun was creeping higher. The same horizon where he'd once ridden into battle with Elira, back when things had felt simple. Love had been a storm then—passionate, wild, intoxicating. Every touch had been a promise. Now?
He still touched her. Still kissed her. Still looked at her like she was the sun and moon combined. But more often than not, he found her asleep over reports or rocking Miri with bleary eyes. He missed her. And he felt like a traitor for thinking it.
The barracks door creaked open, and his sister, General Lysa, stepped out.
“Your recruits are about as graceful as drunken ducks,” she said, tossing him a waterskin.
Kael drank. “At least ducks have the advantage of being fast.”
Lysa sat beside him. “Trouble at home?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”
“You haven’t written Elira a song in a year. You used to sing her awake.”
Kael smiled faintly. “She used to be awake at dawn. Now she’s up at midnight. And three. And five.”
“So write a lullaby.”
He blinked.
Lysa stood. “You think love is always fire and lightning? No. Sometimes it’s a warm quilt. A quiet presence. Write the song, brother. Or keep pretending you're still chasing dragons instead of building a life.”
---
That night, Elira waited up for him. The hearth was low, casting soft shadows across the room. Miri had finally gone down, and the silence felt heavy.
Kael entered quietly, pausing when he saw her.
“You’re up,” he said.
“You’re late.”
He sat beside her on the divan. “Training ran long.”
She nodded. Silence again.
Kael rubbed his hands. “We don’t talk much anymore.”
“I know.”
“I miss you.”
That surprised her. “You see me every day.”
“But we don’t see each other. Not really.”
She looked down. “I’m tired, Kael. Every day it’s decisions and disasters and nappies. I barely remember who I was before the war.”
He took her hand. “You were the bravest person I’d ever met. Still are.”
“I don’t feel brave. I feel... ordinary.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Ordinary doesn’t mean unworthy. You’re a queen, a mother, a leader. And still the woman I fell in love with. But maybe we need to fall in love again. In this life. Not the one we thought we’d have.”
She looked at him—really looked. The same storm-gray eyes. The same calloused hands. The man she’d nearly died for more than once. The man who now made Miri laugh with silly songs and still kissed her like she was the only woman in the world.
“You want to fall in love with me again?”
He grinned. “If you’ll let me.”
She kissed him. Slow and quiet. Not the fevered passion of their youth, but the kind of kiss that said, *You’re still my home*.
---
They started small. A morning ride through the orchard. Midday tea without reports. Kael learned how to swaddle a baby properly. Elira taught him how to negotiate with smugglers.
He brought her wildflowers from training fields. She carved him a new practice sword—lightweight, beautifully balanced. He started humming again. She started writing again—short stories for Miri, whimsical tales of talking beasts and enchanted kettles.
They laughed more.
They argued too, of course. Over court politics. Over child-rearing methods. Over Kael’s tendency to leave boots in the hallway. But the arguments no longer felt like rifts. They were bridges—tough ones—but bridges all the same.
Three years passed.
Their kingdom thrived. Miri grew into a sharp, curious child with a penchant for hiding frogs in noblewomen’s slippers. Elira’s hair grew streaked with silver. Kael’s beard began to gray at the edges.
They were older now. Weathered by peace more than war.
One summer night, after a feast in the village, they stood beneath the stars, hand in hand.
“Remember that night in the glade?” Elira said. “Before the final battle?”
“You mean when I confessed I loved you and promptly got bitten by a venomous beetle?”
She laughed. “Yes, that one.”
“I remember thinking if we survived, we’d never have a dull day again.”
“And now?”
He looked at her. “Now I treasure the dull days. The ones with porridge and morning snuggles. The ones where you fall asleep reading next to me. The ones where nothing explodes.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “So do I.”
They stood like that for a long time. No fanfare. No magic sparkles in the air. Just the quiet heartbeat of a life well-lived.
---
Years passed. Miri became a teenager, bold and brilliant. Kael stepped down from the command, mentoring from a distance. Elira founded a school for girls. The castle grew quieter.
One day, while sorting old journals, Elira found the first letter Kael had ever written her, tucked between pages of a battle plan.
“I would follow you into fire,” it read, “but I’d rather build a fire with you, and sit beside it until the stars forget our names.”
She found him in the garden, older now, eyes crinkled with a thousand smiles.
“You still mean this?” she asked, holding up the letter.
“More than ever.”
She sat beside him and rested her hand on his knee. “So do I.”
They didn’t need grand endings anymore.
They had something better.
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