Chapter Text
December comes quickly, bringing with it the impending winter cold. In the council chamber, Joshua taps his hand on the table, calling the session to order. “Welcome back to these chambers, my friends. Let us begin with the reports on Rosalith’s immediate recovery.”
“Your Graces,” Gareth begins. “Repairs to the gates are complete, ahead of schedule thanks to the artisans Lord Rowan secured. Masonry teams continue reinforcing the outer curtain walls. The main thoroughfares are fully cleared, and reconstruction of damaged homes in the lower districts has since begun.”
“The guilds are fully engaged,” Rowan says next. “Supplies procured by Lord Byron are being distributed efficiently. Morale among the craftspeople is high.”
“The initial grain distribution has alleviated the worst of the shortages,” Everett adds. “Reports from the districts indicate a return to relative stability regarding food supplies.”
Otto clears his throat nervously. “My lords… the treasury shows positive trends thanks to Lord Byron’s timely infusion and the… ah… reappropriation of assets from those who collaborated with the occupation.”
He exhales softly. “And, on a personal note… Your Graces, the Cursebreakers found him. My son. Brought back just yesterday.” Tears glisten as he struggles for composure. “Thank you for making this possible. For giving us the resources and the freedom… to bring him home.”
Congratulatory murmurs fill the room. Cid reaches over, gripping Otto’s shoulder firmly with a rare, proud smile. Otto nods tearfully, accepts the support, then clears his throat. “Treasury projections indicate slow but steady growth as trade resumes.”
“The integration of those formerly sheltered in the hideaway also proceeds well,” Cyril reports. “Blackthorne’s forge is operational day and night, fulfilling crucial orders. Tarja’s clinic in the city is established and already serves many. Several have thus far undergone the procedure to remove their brands.”
“The Cursebreakers have integrated well into the army structure, as well,” Rodney says. “Their unique tactics provide valuable assets, though blending them with traditional Shield training requires ongoing effort. Mutual respect is growing.”
Byron grins. “Excellent progress all around! And on the trade front, shipments of Northern lumber and metals have arrived via Port Isolde. And my contacts in Dhalmekia are… receptive. Cautious, naturally, after the upheaval, but willing to discuss reopening routes. The potential is significant.”
Throughout the reports, Clive occasionally interjects with a question about guard rotations or the security of the reopened routes. Joshua guides the overall discussion, making decisive rulings. Elwin provides counsel, framing suggestions with historical context, but the flow of command clearly rests with the archdukes.
Joshua sits behind his desk the spring of the following year, reviewing architectural plans for a new Bearer community center, while Clive stands beside him. Dion and Terence occupy chairs opposite the desk, goblets of cooled wine resting beside them.
“So the emperor has come to terms with everything?” Clive asks, crossing his arms.
Dion swirls the wine in his cup. “He has. It took considerable persuasion. And the strategic truth. Anabella’s hold over him was without question. But seeing Olivier returned safe, and learning the reality of her treachery from the evidence broke the spell.”
He sighs. “He’s still grieving and struggling with the loss of face, but the desire for war has passed. He understands attacking Rosaria now would be suicidal for the empire, especially with hostile activity increasing along the strait.”
“And how is Olivier?” Joshua asks, looking up from the plans.
“He’s well. Thriving, in fact. A quiet child, but intelligent. My father dotes on him, perhaps to make up for their loss. He’s safe and treated as imperial blood, as he should be.”
“We’re grateful you could provide that for him,” Joshua responds.
“The path forward for Sanbreque is complex,” Dion admits. “Rebuilding trust within the court, addressing the injustices fostered under Anabella’s influence, and strengthening the recently established Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon as a force for true justice will take time. But… we’re making progress. Support for reform grows.”
“We’ve begun laying the groundwork for a formal alliance,” Terence says. “Securing our border, establishing clear lines of communication, and discussing frameworks for future trade. Small steps, but necessary ones.”
“Good,” Clive says. “Stability benefits us all.”
Before their departure later, Dion pauses at the doorway. “Joshua, Clive… what you’ve achieved here… it's inspiring. It provides hope, not just for Rosaria, but perhaps, one day, for all of Valisthea. May the flames continue to guide you.”
The warm night air of July drifts through the open windows of the solar bedchamber. Joshua lies restless amongst the sheets. It’s a familiar ache, the first signal of his heat’s approach, and it makes his skin feel overly sensitive, his body yearning for a touch he knows is imminent.
The door to the adjoining bath chamber opens and Clive steps into the candlelit room. Water droplets still cling to his dark hair, and the scent that precedes him is richer and muskier than usual. His eyes, stormy and dark, find Joshua in bed, and he takes on a predatory disposition.
Joshua watches Clive move towards the bed as if stalking prey. “You smell sweeter tonight, love.” He stops at the bedside, his shadow falling over Joshua. “That scent… like spiced vanilla, but deeper. Your heat is close.”
Joshua nods, a flush rising on his cheeks. He can feel the change within himself, the quickening of his pulse and the heightened sensitivity of his skin. “And yours, Brother. I can smell the smoldering fire in your scent. Your rut’s beginning too.”
Clive settles onto the mattress and draws Joshua into his arms. Joshua sighs, melting against him, already feeling the answering pull of his own instincts.
As Clive nuzzles his brother’s neck, inhaling along the scent gland, Joshua remembers. “The tea… Did you ask Jote to prepare it?”
Clive’s lips trail along Joshua’s throat. “No. I didn’t.” He leans back. “Perhaps this time… we let nature take its course? Let fate decide, hmm?”
Joshua toys with the fringe of Clive’s hair. They are more stable now. The duchy is secure, their children are thriving. Another shouldn’t be an impossibility. Not anymore.
Clive grins. “Seems I’ve already run out of time to convince you.” He strokes Joshua’s flat stomach. “Think of it, Joshua. Another beautiful Rosfield heir to grace these halls. Another playmate for Ash and the twins. And… another chance for me to dote upon you while you carry our child.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Joshua laughs, shoving at Clive’s chest. “The thought isn’t entirely unwelcome, I confess. Despite the practicalities… it’s tempting. So how about a compromise? We’ll have the tea, but if fate has other plans… well, it’ll find a way, won’t it?”
Clive chuckles. “A most intriguing proposition, my love.”
The conversation dissolves then, swept away by the rising tide of their instincts. Their cycles may be tempered this year, softened by the fulfillment of their bond and the demands of their young family, but their obsession with each other, the need to connect, remains undiminished.
This year’s Harvest Festival revisits Rosalith in a triumphant burst of color and sound. Lively jigs played on pipes and fiddles weave through the cheerful din of vendors displaying their wares. Ribbons flutter from stalls laden with the season’s bounty—plump pumpkins, strings of dried apples, and baskets brimming with late-harvest grains.
Joshua walks at a measured pace, adorned in his white fur mantle, one hand on his belly, now nearly four months along. Beside him, Clive holds Seraphina’s hand, guiding her toddling steps, while Aidan clutches Joshua’s mantle, peering out at the crowd.
Ash, now three and a half, runs a few steps ahead, Torgal trotting at his side. “Togo, look! Puppets!” Ash points at a stage where painted figures dance on strings.
Clive chuckles, pulling Seraphina back gently as she leans precariously towards a display of candied apples. “Easy there, little spark. We’ll get treats later.”
They approach a stall of fresh bread—dark rye loaves, braided challahs dusted with seeds, and round oatcakes stacked high. The baker spots them and quickly wipes his floured hands, bowing his head respectfully. “Your Graces! A good harvest to you both.”
“And to you, Yvan,” Joshua replies. “Your bread looks magnificent, as always. Is the family well? A good yield this season?”
“Aye, thank the Founder. The best I’ve seen. And the family… safe. My youngest started at the guild school last week. Reading already, she is.” He lowers his voice fractionally. “Things are… different now. Safer for folk like me. We can work and live without fear hanging over us. Thank you, Your Graces. Truly.”
“Rosaria is stronger when all its people thrive,” Clive says, proud. “We’re glad to see your business flourishing.”
Yvan beams, offering Ash an oatcake. The boy takes it with a quick “Tank’oo!” before offering a piece to Torgal, who accepts it gently.
Moving further into the square, the music grows louder. A group of dancers perform near the central fountain. Nearby, examining a stall piled high with Northern sundries, stands Jill. Eiríkur is beside her, his hand resting on her back. Beside them sits a magnificent silver frost wolf, ears pricked, observing the throng with pale blue eyes.
“Wolf!” Ash shrieks with delight, abandoning his half-eaten oatcake and Torgal to run towards them.
Torgal lets out an excited bark. He bounds forward, meeting the other wolf with enthusiastic nose-nudges and playful nips. The two immediately engage in a joyous, tumbling wrestle amidst the startled festival-goers. Ash collapses into giggles as he watches.
Seraphina grins, pointing. “Woof!” Aidan, startled by the commotion, presses closer to Joshua’s leg.
Jill turns, her hand moving to rest on her own noticeably rounded belly beneath her gown. “Joshua! Clive! We were just hoping to find you.”
“Jill! And Erik, too.” Joshua moves forward as Clive takes Aidan’s hand. “It’s wonderful to see you both. And Vinda too, it seems.” He observes the silver wolf interacting with Torgal.
“She insisted on accompanying us,” Jill says wryly, watching the wolves play. “Missed her old friend, I suppose.”
Eiríkur bows respectfully. “Your Graces. The festival is lively. Similar, yet quite different from our gatherings in the North.”
“Indeed,” Joshua agrees. “Less chaos and drinking contests, perhaps?”
Jill laughs. “Perhaps.” She steps closer, scanning Joshua’s figure. “You’re showing more now. How’re you feeling? Any strange cravings yet?”
“Tired, mostly,” Joshua answers. “And constantly hungry for pickled beets, of all things. And you?”
Jill shrugs. “I feel well enough, though my back aches constantly. Erik insists I rest, but there’s too much to do. I’m well past the first few months. Should be sometime late spring, the healers say. You?”
“Likely around the same time, perhaps a bit sooner.”
“Four children at your age,” Jill comments with a strained smile. “May the gods be kind! One would keep me busy enough; I can’t imagine three more.”
“It certainly keeps us occupied,” Clive remarks dryly, lifting Aidan into his arms as the toddler begins to fuss. Seraphina, meanwhile, toddles determinedly towards the wolves to join Ash, who takes her hand in his.
“Uniting the tribes keeps us occupied for the time being,” Eiríkur remarks, glancing fondly at Jill. “Negotiating hunting rights between Eldrvik and Ulfstad is likely as complex as Rosarian court politics.”
“But the alliance holds strong?” Clive asks.
“Já,” Eiríkur confirms. “The trade routes are secure. Your Rosarian grain is a welcome sight in the North, especially in winter, and our lumber, furs, and metals fetch a good price here, with thanks to Lord Byron’s ships managing the deliveries.”
“Speaking of the devil!” Byron strides towards them, a wide grin splitting his face. “Enjoying the bounty of the harvest, are we?”
Ash spots him and lets out a joyful cry. “Uncle By!” He tugs his sister along and hurries to his granduncle, throwing his arms around his legs.
Byron scoops him up as Joshua lifts Seraphina. “There’s my little firebird! Getting bigger every time I see you!” He turns his attention to the adults. “Clive, my boy, looking sharp! Best be careful now. Looks like Joshua’s planning to have you thoroughly outnumbered soon!”
Clive rolls his eyes but smiles.
“And Joshua,” Byron beams, looking him over. “You’re positively glowing! Though perhaps slow down a bit, eh? Give Clive a chance to catch his breath!”
Joshua flushes. “Uncle…”
Byron then grins Eiríkur’s way. “And Lord Erik! Good on you for taming our icy Northern princess! Well done, sir, well done!”
Jill elbows Byron. “Careful, or I’ll set Vinda on you.”
Byron bounces Ash. “Ah, but look at these two!” He gestures towards the wolves, who’ve paused their play and are now sniffing each other companionably. “Fine pair of wolves. Bet they’ll be giving us a litter of pups come spring. More protectors for the growing family!”
Kenneth approaches hesitantly from a nearby stall, carrying a tray. “Forgive the interruption, my lords and lady, but I thought you might care to sample? Fresh from the ovens. Spiced pumpkin pasties, and apple-and-blackberry turnovers.”
“Oh, they smell divine.” Joshua accepts a pasty. Clive takes a few for himself and the children.
“The castle kitchens run smoothly?” Clive asks casually.
Kenneth beams. “Oh, yes, Your Grace! Plenty of ingredients to work with, and the new lads are learning quick. Though the archduke emeritus still prefers his broth rather plain, insists I don’t ‘fuss’ with it.” He chuckles.
Further down the lane, near a booth where children are attempting to toss rings onto wooden pegs, Mid tugs impatiently at Cid’s arm. He leans against the frame, watching the proceedings with cynical amusement, a half-empty mug of cider in his hand.
“Papa, come on! I want to try!” Mid insists, pointing at the ring toss.
Cid takes a slow sip. “Patience, sparky. It’s rigged, you know. Waste of coin.”
Joshua catches Cid’s eye and grins. Cid raises his mug in a lazy salute before Mid successfully drags him towards the game.
The festive energy continues, but a weariness begins to creep into the children. Aidan dozes against Clive’s shoulder. Seraphina rubs her eyes, growing fussy despite Joshua’s soothing murmurs. Even Ash’s energy flags; he leans against Byron, yawning widely. Torgal and Vinda lie down near Jill, resting after their earlier exuberance.
“I believe it might be time for naps and quieter surroundings.” Joshua strokes Seraphina’s back.
“Agreed.” Jill stretches her back. “My feet are starting to ache. We should head in. Perhaps we can share a meal this evening, after the crowds thin?”
“We’d like that,” Clive answers, and together, the group begins the walk back to the castle.
Joshua shifts on the bed the following spring, laying on his side. His breathing is a little quicker, his hand rubbing his large belly. The pressure in his pelvis is constant, which makes finding a comfortable position nearly impossible.
Clive sits on the bed behind him, massaging his back. “Better?”
Joshua lets out a sigh. “Slightly. The babe feels low today. Very heavy.”
“Almost time, then.” Clive’s been in a heightened state of awareness for days, noting the subtle shift in Joshua’s scent and the increasing frequency of the practice contractions that tighten Joshua’s gut.
Near the bed, Ash lies on a rug beside Vinda, whom Jill left in their care before returning north. Vinda’s four three-week-old puppies sleep in a furry pile against her flank as Torgal watches over them. Ash sketches idly on a piece of parchment, occasionally glancing up at them.
Seraphina pats the pups while Aidan leans against the bed near Joshua, reaching for his mother’s hand with a concerned frown.
“Mama okay?” Aidan asks quietly, then scrambles onto the bed. “Hurts?”
“Just a bit uncomfortable, little gem,” Joshua reassures him, stroking his son’s golden hair. “The babe is getting ready to meet us soon.” A sharp contraction causes him to draw in a breath. Clive presses his hands more firmly against Joshua’s back.
The contraction peaks, then recedes. Joshua lets out a long sigh. “That one was stronger.” He shifts onto his back, trying to find relief, and then freezes at the sensation of gushing fluid. He gasps, grabbing his brother’s hand. “Clive… My water.”
“Alright, love. It’s time.” Clive squeezes Joshua’s hand, then turns his head toward the door. “Jote!”
She appears almost instantly from the antechamber. “Your Grace?”
“Fetch Cecilia. Now. And Thomas.”
“At once!” She disappears swiftly.
The midwife arrives swiftly with Morrigan and Thomas. “Alright, Your Grace,” Cecilia says after a brief examination. “Active labor has begun. Contractions are steady. It won’t be long now, especially this being your fourth.”
Over the next hour, the contractions come closer together and more strongly, demanding Joshua’s full attention. He crushes Clive’s hand, breathing through the tightening, letting out low moans at the peaks. Clive helps him walk around the chamber when the pressure feels unbearable, supports his weight while leaning against the wall, and breathes with him through every surge.
Cecilia and Thomas monitor Joshua, checking the babe’s position and offering sips of soothing tea. Morrigan prepares the bed, changing the soiled linens, then laying down fresh, absorbent cloths and preparing basins of warm water.
Clive extends his will through the bond, absorbing Joshua’s pain—deep, wrenching aches rise in his own lower abdomen that increase with each contraction his brother endures. He grits his teeth against it, focusing entirely on Joshua. “That’s it, love… breathe through it… you’re doing so well…” He wipes the sweat beading on Joshua’s forehead with a cloth.
Ash sits beside him on the bed whenever Joshua rests, patting his hair. “Breathe, Mama,” he repeats earnestly, mimicking Clive.
Aidan and Seraphina hover on his other side with wide-eyed concern. They lay their small hands on Joshua’s arm or stomach, stroking gently. Torgal and Vinda watch from the floor, the puppies now awake and clambering over each other to nurse.
Finally, a stronger contraction seizes Joshua. “I… I need to push,” he gasps, clutching his belly.
Cecilia moves quickly to check him again. “Yes, Your Grace. You’re ready now.” She nods to Clive.
Clive kisses Joshua’s sweaty temple. “Alright, love. I’m here.” He moves to the foot of the bed with the love and awe he always feels when witnessing this miracle. He washes his hands in the basin Morrigan holds out, then positions himself.
“On the next contraction, Your Grace,” Cecilia guides gently. “A good, strong push.”
The pressure builds. Joshua bears down, his face contorted as he groans. Clive watches, his hands ready. “That’s it, love! I see the head!”
Another powerful surge. Joshua pushes again, panting, sweat dripping into his eyes. Clive’s hands are there, gently supporting the emerging head, guiding it carefully. “Almost there… just the shoulders now… one more good push…”
With immense effort, Joshua heaves, and the babe slides free into Clive’s waiting hands—a tiny, slippery, perfect being, letting out a robust, indignant cry that fills the room.
Clive sucks in a breath. He lifts the newborn, slick and trembling, marveling at the fierce little life he holds. He places the babe onto Joshua’s bare chest and reaches for a cloth.
Joshua pants, tears of relief and joy dribbling down his face as he gathers the infant in his hands. “Oh… hello, little one…”
Clive wipes the babe’s face and chest, and smiles with wonder. “Joshua… It's a girl. Another daughter.”
Joshua’s breath hitches in a sob of pure joy. “A girl?” He looks down at the infant nuzzling against his chest. “Oh, Clive…”
Morrigan joins Clive in cleaning and drying the newborn, then wraps her snugly in a blanket. Thomas checks them over, then examines Joshua. “Mother and babe are both stable and well. Remarkable.”
With the immediate tasks complete, the medical team offers final words of advice regarding rest and nourishment before quietly withdrawing. Joshua brings his daughter closer, guiding her to nurse.
Clive lays beside them, his arm wrapping around Joshua’s shoulders. Ash kneels on Joshua’s other side with the twins, peering at the nursing infant.
“She’s so little, Mama,” Ash whispers, carefully taking the babe’s hand.
“Bay-bee sissa,” Seraphina declares, touching the infant's head. Aidan just stares in bewilderment.
Clive glances from the newborn to Joshua. “So… Rosamund?” he asks, referencing one of the names they’d discussed weeks ago.
Joshua looks down at their daughter, then up at Clive with a radiant smile. “Yes. Rosamund. Our little rose of the world.”
The name feels instantly right. Clive drops a kiss to Joshua’s forehead, then to Rosamund’s temple. Ash leans over to kiss the babe’s cheek awkwardly once Clive pulls away. Aidan rests a hand on the blanket wrapped around his little sister, while Seraphina watches her nurse. Torgal and Vinda both approach, settling near the bed with their puppies, completing the circle.
The great hall glitters at the height of summer, prepared for a state reception. Banners of Rosaria, the Northern Territories, and Sanbreque hang together along the walls. Joshua stands near the dais, elegant in scarlet silk, holding a peacefully sleeping Rosamund. Clive stands beside him, regal in dark velvet.
Ash, nearly four and a half and looking remarkably grown-up in a tailored tunic, stands straight between them, observing the proceedings. Jote stands nearby with Aidan and Seraphina, now lively two-and-a-half-year-olds, keeping them entertained with Torgal’s help.
Dion and Terence enter, greeted with respectful bows. Terence carries a fair-haired babe named Lucian with grey-blue eyes, just under a year old. Jill follows, accompanied by Eiríkur and a Northern envoy. In her arms is her daughter, Vetrdís, nearly three months old, a bundle of silver hair and ice-blue eyes.
After formal greetings and welcoming speeches celebrating the strengthened alliances, toasts are raised. Joshua speaks of prosperity and peace. Dion describes a future built on cooperation. Jill mentions the unbreakable bond forged between fire and ice.
Later, in the privacy of the solar, the core group gathers. The children, except for the sleeping Rosamund still in Joshua’s arms, have been taken to the nursery.
Elwin clears his throat. “We’ve achieved a peace many thought impossible. But peace must be nurtured, alliances strengthened not just for our generation, but for those to come.”
“Indeed,” Dion agrees. “The future stability of our realms depends on the bonds we forge now.”
“Which brings us to the matter of the next generation,” Elwin states. “Political marriages have long cemented ties between nations.” He glances towards Joshua and Clive, then at Dion and Jill. “We have several heirs… Ash, recently determined to be an alpha. Lucian, an omega, heir of the empire. Young Vetrdís, an alpha of the North. And Aidan and Seraphina, both omegas.”
“Are you suggesting… betrothals, Father?” Joshua asks suspiciously.
“A consideration, merely,” Elwin clarifies. “A potential path to ensure this hard-won peace endures. Unions that would bind our three nations inextricably.”
Clive looks at Joshua, eyebrows raised.
“It’s… a strategic consideration,” Dion agrees cautiously. “One that merits thought. Though any such arrangement would, naturally, respect the children’s own wishes when they are of age. We are not our predecessors.”
“The North values strong bonds,” Jill remarks. “Such a tie would be powerful. But the choice must ultimately be theirs.”
Joshua looks down at Rosamund. “It is something to consider later on, when they’re old enough to understand. For now, let them simply be children.”
The seed is planted, a potential path sketched for the future, but the decision rests with time, and with the young lives just beginning.
The late August sun spills warm honey onto the manicured lawns of the castle gardens. Roses perfume the air, joined by the softer scent of lavender from the borders lining the neat gravel paths. Bees hum among the blossoms, and the distant clang of steel from the bailey is muted beneath the peaceful birdsong overhead.
In the center of the sun-dappled lawn, the gentle thwack of wood marks the focus of activity. Ash stands with his legs braced wide, demonstrating a basic parry with his wooden practice sword. He frowns, mimicking the seriousness he’s seen on his father’s face during drills.
“No, like this!” He repeats the motion, bringing his wooden blade up to deflect an imaginary blow. “Hold steady! See?”
Seraphina watches with rapt attention, her smaller wooden sword held aloft in both hands. She imitates Ash, swinging her sword with enthusiastic abandon, nearly losing her balance and stumbling forward.
“No… not quite,” Ash sighs, the picture of long-suffering patience. “Again. Think of Papa.”
Seraphina nods vigorously, ready for another attempt. As she brings her sword up again, an unexpected spark bursts from her clenched fist, startling her. She blinks, looks down at her hand, lets out a delighted laugh, then waves her empty fist experimentally as if to reignite the sparks.
Ash frowns. “No, Sera! The sword! Focus!”
A few yards away, Aidan sits quietly near a lavender patch, arranging a collection of smooth pebbles into a spiral pattern on the grass. Torgal lies nearby in the shade with Vinda beside him, her eyes lazily tracking her four pups as they tussle and nip at each other near Aidan.
One pup, slightly smaller than the others with fur the colour of moonlight on snow, detaches himself from the playful heap and nudges Aidan’s hand. The boy looks up from his pebbles and touches the vein on a fallen leaf before offering it to the pup, who sniffs it curiously before licking his fingertip.
Aidan hums softly, then picks up a beetle crawling near his knee. He watches it before placing it onto the back of his hand, letting it tickle his skin as it explores. He lowers his hand to let the beetle crawl onto a lavender stalk, his attention returning to the silvery pup nuzzling his knee. He strokes his soft fur, murmuring quietly.
On a stone bench, Clive holds Rosamund in his arms, watching his older children with a proud smile. Joshua sits close beside him, a sketchbook open on his lap, his charcoal pencil outlining the roses blooming in the bush nearby.
“Sera definitely has my fire.” Clive chuckles, watching his daughter’s energetic, if unsuccessful, attempts to summon another spark. “Look at that determination.”
Joshua smiles without looking up from his sketch. “Aidan seems to have your focus when you truly apply yourself.” He glances towards their quieter son, now letting the pup chew on his shoe. “Though perhaps my patience.” He looks over at the other two. “Ash already commands the field like a tiny First Shield. He takes his teaching duties very seriously.”
“They’re ours, through and through,” Clive says, the pride unmistakable. “Phoenix and Ifrit, both in them. The fire, the focus… and the stubbornness.”
Joshua leans his head against Clive’s shoulder. “A perfect balance.” He sighs, letting the pencil rest. He watches Ash finally give up on the parry and instead engage Seraphina in a clumsy duel, their wooden swords clicking together harmlessly. He glances back at Aidan, who gently disentangles his shoe from the pup, offering a twig instead.
It’s peaceful here, in their flourishing garden. Surrounded by their children’s burgeoning lives and the loyalty of their animal companions, legacy feels less like a burden and more like a blessing unfolding.
The grand throne room hums with the residual energy of a formal audience. The Dhalmekian envoy, a man of stern visage clad in ornate desert robes, delivers a final, deep bow.
“Your Graces, the Dhalmekian Parliament holds the restored Duchy of Rosaria and its esteemed leaders in high regard.” He straightens, glancing up at Joshua and Clive, who sit upon the magnificent Twin Flame throne. “We reiterate our commitment to mutually beneficial trade. The historical ties between our nations are strong; let them now flourish anew.”
Joshua offers a gracious nod. “Rosaria thanks you for your sentiments. We, too, are eager to rebuild the bridges between our lands and foster prosperous relations. The strength of Dhalmekia is vital to Rosaria’s economic recovery and the benefit of the republic.”
“Secure trade routes and agreements of mutual defense will be important to this prosperity,“ Clive says. “We trust Dhalmekia shares this view.”
“Indeed, Lord Archduke,” the envoy affirms. Elwin, seated nearby with the advisors, nods with approval at Clive’s pragmatic addition.
As the envoy makes his final salutations and prepares to depart, Gareth clears his throat. “Your Graces, if I may?”
Joshua inclines his head. “Speak, Lord Gareth.”
“A woman arrived at the castle gates recently, requesting an audience. She is… of peculiar appearance. White hair and eyes of a striking blue. She travels with a small child. She awaits your pleasure in the guest wing’s sitting room.”
Joshua and Clive glance at each other, surprised. “Thank you. Please see to the envoy’s comfort and ensure he has all he requires for his departure.” Joshua turns to the man. “Your proposals have been well received. We shall convey our formal response swiftly.”
The envoy bows once more. Then, Clive follows Joshua as they exit the throne room.
“Do you think…?” Clive begins as they head through the corridors with their guard escort. “Could it truly be her?”
Joshua hums thoughtfully. “The description was too precise to be mere coincidence, Brother. Though how she found her way here, and why… It seems almost unbelievable.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Clive comments.
The guest wing sitting room is comfortably appointed. Within, seated on a settee before the empty hearth, is a familiar woman. A small child, his hair as strikingly white as hers, leans against her side, clutching her hand.
As Joshua and Clive enter, she rises, the child sliding off the cushion beside her. Joshua and Clive stop short, the air rushing from their lungs. The resemblance to the Motes of Water they encountered in the vast North is undeniable, the memory of Leviathan’s chaotic awakening still vivid.
Joshua is the first to find his voice on a breath of disbelief and recognition. “Shula?”
Shula smiles as she bows. “Your Graces. It’s an honor to be in your presence once more.”
“What brings you to Rosalith?” Clive asks. “It’s a perilous journey from Mysidia, especially with a child.”
Shula’s smile becomes fond. “The gratitude of my people still resonates as strongly as the tides. We owe you a debt that can never truly be repaid. I wished to see you again, to express our continued thanks for your intervention with Waljas, and to share news of his progress. The journey, though long, was undertaken willingly. My brother and several of our kin accompanied us, ensuring our safe passage.”
She gestures to the small boy, who peers shyly from behind her legs. “And Waljas himself expressed a desire to meet the ‘fire-bringers’ he’s heard of in my stories—the brave young parents who rescued him from his timeless embrace.”
Kneeling to his level, Joshua speaks gently. “Waljas. It’s good to see you again. You’ve grown so much.”
“Indeed,” Clive agrees, crouching beside his brother. “You’re thriving, little one. It brings us great joy to see you well.”
Waljas tightens his grip on Shula’s tunic. She places a hand on his head. “It’s alright, Waljas. These are the ones I told you of. The brave individuals who did our people a great service. The ones who saved you.”
Waljas looks from Shula to Joshua, then to Clive. After a moment’s hesitation, he offers a tentative hug first to Joshua, then to Clive.
Clive grins at the child as they separate. “We have children around your age, Waljas. They would very much like to meet you.” He rises and leads the small group from the sitting room, up through the castle’s corridors, and towards the solar.
The two guards who had escorted them earlier fall into step, opening the doors to the antechamber upon their arrival. Inside, Torgal lifts his head from where he rests in a patch of sunlight, greeting them with a lazy wag of his tail.
Clive pushes open the nursery door to find Ash attempting to demonstrate the proper technique for stacking blocks to Seraphina. However, she seems to find more amusement in knocking the precarious towers down with a triumphant giggle. Aidan sits with the puppies nearby, playing with them as Vinda watches.
Shula leads Waljas inside, a step behind Joshua and Clive. Joshua moves towards a rocking chair near the window, taking Rosamund from Jote, who bows and takes her leave. He settles into the chair, adjusting his tunic and an embroidered blanket over his shoulder, allowing Rosamund to nurse beneath it.
Clive gestures towards Ash. “Waljas, this is our eldest son, Ash. He met you when you were just a tiny babe. He likes showing new friends his collection of carved figures.”
Surprised by the newcomer, Ash straightens from his block tower, shifting from exasperation with Seraphina to cautious curiosity. He offers Waljas one of his wooden knights.
“This is Sera,” Clive continues, indicating Seraphina, who has abandoned the blocks and is now staring at Waljas’s white hair with open fascination, “She can be… a bit fiery.” He playfully ruffles his daughter’s blond hair.
Finally, Clive guides Waljas towards his younger son. “And this is Aidan, Sera’s twin brother. He’s quiet, but that means he’s a very good listener.” Aidan looks up from the romping pups, his blue eyes shyly meeting Waljas’s.
Later that evening, the adults are seated around the antechamber table, sharing a hearty dinner of stew, bread, and autumn vegetables. Clive now holds a peacefully sleeping Rosamund, her small head nestled against his chest as he eats with his other hand.
The sounds of children’s play drift in from the nursery. Ash and Seraphina’s laughter bounces through the solar as they engage in a spirited game with the puppies after having finished their own dinner.
Waljas and Aidan, however, have found a quieter companionship. They sit together on the nursery floor, near Aidan’s pup, Snowy. After a period of initial shyness and soft, broken toddler-speak, they’re now engrossed in their own world.
Waljas demonstrates how he can conjure tiny, shimmering whirlpools of water that dance in the palm of his hand. Aidan watches, utterly captivated, Snowy resting his head on the boy’s lap, as if equally intrigued.
Observing them through the open doorway from his seat in the antechamber, Joshua smiles fondly. “I’ve never seen Aidan so quickly engaged with another child. He’s usually quite reserved.”
“Indeed,” Clive agrees. “Aidan rarely speaks so freely with anyone outside our immediate family.”
Shula smiles. “Waljas, too, is usually cautious with strangers. His quick openness with young Aidan surprises me as well.”
Joshua grins slyly. “You know, my father brought up the idea of betrothals a few months ago. Given that Aidan’s an omega, and their apparent connection… Perhaps we should consider them as a potential pair?”
Shula actually seems to consider this. Then, to Joshua and Clive’s surprise, she nods. “It’s a plausible idea. If the children form a close bond as they grow, such a union could be beneficial for both our peoples. Waljas marrying into such a powerful, and loving family… It has a certain appeal.”
Clive raises an eyebrow. “That would mean another Dominant on Rosaria’s side of the alliance. A formidable prospect.”
“Indeed,” Shula concurs. “But I confess, I’d hoped to ask if my party might stay in Rosalith through the winter, if you would permit it. It would grant the children ample time to bond, and allow Waljas to experience life beyond Mysidia, if only for a season.”
“Of course,” Joshua replies readily. “Consider Rosalith your home for as long as you wish to stay. We’d be honored to host you.”
In the nursery, Waljas, encouraged by Aidan’s awe, focuses his nascent abilities. Larger ripples of water now spin and shimmer in his cupped hands.
Inspired by his new friend’s display, Aidan clenches his own small fists, concentrating. He opens his hands, and a few tiny sparks fizzle from his palms, then vanish. He looks down at his hands, disappointed.
Seraphina toddles over to join them. Seeing Aidan’s attempt, she holds out her own hands. Her face scrunches in a determined frown, and then, with a triumphant laugh, small flames ignite in each hand.
Ash, who’d been attempting to teach his dark grey puppy, Dusk, to sit, notices Seraphina’s display and hurries over. “Careful, Sera! Fire’s no toy!”
Drawn by Ash’s firm tone and Seraphina’s excited exclamations, the adults move to the nursery doorway. They watch Waljas show Aidan his water tricks, Seraphina reluctantly extinguish her flames under Ash’s stern instruction, and the puppies tumble around them, Vinda observing her young charges.
Joshua, Clive, and Shula exchange fond, proud smiles. The legacy of the Twin Flames, and now the gentle ripple of he once-lost Leviathan, continues to unfold in unexpected and undeniably beautiful ways.
From the wide balcony of the solar after Shula’s departure back to the guest wing, the city sprawls below the setting sun. The scars of occupation have long since faded, replaced by the thrum of restored life.
Joshua stands at the railing, gazing out at the vista. Clive comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him back against his chest. They stand together in comfortable silence, absorbing the tranquility of their reclaimed duchy.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Joshua murmurs, his hands covering Clive’s where they rest on his stomach. “Peaceful.”
“Yes. It’s everything we fought for and more.” He presses his cheek to Joshua’s. “Ifrit rests easy now. The rage is gone. Instead, it’s… contentment. He feels like a guardian now, watching over us.”
“As he was always meant to be,” Joshua says. “As he and the Phoenix were always meant to be.”
They fall silent, watching the first stars prick the twilight sky. The burdens of their crowns and the demands of rule feel distant in this quiet moment.
“There’s still much to do,” Joshua acknowledges after a while. “Rebuilding trust with all the houses, fostering new trade, ensuring the Bearer laws are upheld everywhere…”
“And raising four children,” Clive adds with a soft chuckle.
“Yes. That too.” He turns in Clive’s arms, looping his own around his brother’s neck. “But we’ll do it as a team. As we always have.”
“Always, my little archduke.” He presses his lips to Joshua’s.
They stand as one while darkness claims the sky, and below them, Rosalith sleeps, safe under the protection of the Twin Flames, their legacy only just beginning.