The banners of Windem fluttered high above Castle Rarington, their crimson and black sigils catching the golden light of the setting sun. The war was over. The land was at peace. And yet, Tristan Blackthorn stood at the edge of the castle’s highest balcony, staring out across the horizon as if searching for something unseen.

The past year had passed in a blur. The kingdom had been rebuilt, its wounds still healing but no longer bleeding. Dalko had upheld his oath, leading his people back to Denderrika. Brantley and Solaria had solidified new alliances with Windem, securing the fragile peace that had been won through so much sacrifice.

And Tristan… he had changed.

He lifted his right arm, rolling back the sleeve of his tunic to reveal the metal limb that now replaced his hand. The infection had spread too far. The healer in Brantley had done all she could, but in the end, the hand had to be taken. A master smith had crafted a mechanical brace, allowing Myroniad to lock into place when needed and detach when at rest. His sword had become a part of him. The limb ached constantly where it had been severed. It was a pain that Tristan knew would never truly go away. He still reached for things with his right hand, forgetting that all that remained was a nub.

A soft rustle of fabric brought him from his thoughts. Vaya Mora stepped beside him, her dark curls shifting in the evening breeze. "I knew I’d find you here," she said, a smile playing on her lips.

Tristan exhaled, lowering his arm. "I don’t know why I keep looking," he admitted. "Maybe I think I’ll see something. A sign. A reminder of everything that’s happened…sometimes I fear that I’ll see Basidin again--rolling through the skies in his black mists."

Vaya glanced at the distant hills, where the last remnants of the sunset painted the sky in hues of fire and violet. "Or maybe," she said, "you’re looking forward. To what comes next."

Tristan turned to her, studying the way the light caught her features—the warmth in her eyes, the quiet strength that made him feel safe. He reached for her hand with his left, his only real hand now. "And what do you think comes next?"

She grinned. "That depends. Do you plan to keep brooding on balconies forever, or will you finally accept that this is your home?"

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "I never thought I’d have a home away from Sesten and Twin Hills. But here I am--back where my father last was before he left for Northrock."

He squeezed her hand, glancing once more at the horizon before turning back toward the warmth of the castle halls. The sound of laughter and music filled the air from the Great Hall, where the people of Windem were celebrating. It was he beginning of High-Summer, nearly four months since the ceremony where Tristan, Nothelm, and Loren had been knighted. Festivals and celebrations were underway across the land, with everyone from farmers to lords and vassals gathering to celebrate.

Bodry was named Lord Commander with Tristan insisting that he serve under Bodry for at least two years before he took the post. He didn’t feel ready yet, and he was at peace with that decision. Despite all he’d been through, he was still young. Lord Commander of Windem was a difficult position to lead from, and he knew there would be a learning curve if he was to bypass his ultimate goal of being a Knight of Windem in order to be Lord Comnander of King Darin’s armies.

“Did you hear about Aliyah Tarren?” asked Tristan.

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“That she went to Denderrika to be wed to Dalko?” said Vaya, “Yeah, I heard. I didn’t see that coming.”

“I was surprised that Denderrika resurrected a king,” said Tristan. “And that Dalko accepted it. But it makes sense about Aliyah--I suppose she’s a queen now. Her marriage to Dalko binds Denderrika to Windem. Our nations are bound by blood now. That should ensure stability and peace for the future, I’d hope.”

“It will,” said Vaya confidently. “I know it will.”

Tristan frowned, opening his mouth as if to say something and then deciding against it.

“What is it?” asked Vaya. “You were going to say something.”

“It’s just…” Tristan trailed off, then decided he’d better just spit it out. Vaya would get it out of him sooner or later. “I drove off Basidin’s spirit, but he isn’t dead. It just makes wonder if he’s out there somewhere…”

“Out there somewhere?” questioned Vaya. “His spirit has nowhere to go--it’s lost to the wind. He’ll spend the rest of his days as a ghost.”

Tristan shrugged, debating whether he should reveal the dreams he’d been having. He decided against it. Dreams weren’t reliable anyways.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Tristan. “I guess I’m still processing everything, that’s all.”

Vaya pulled Tristan into a tight embrace as they watched the last of the sun’s violet light disappear below the horizon before heading in to Tristan’s private bedchambers. The kingdom would be celebrating the festival all night, but all Tristan ever wanted was to be alone with his one true love, Vaya Mora.

The night was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the wind through the trees. Tristan sat on the wooden steps of his cabin, gazing out at the dark horizon where the forests of Windem stretched into the unknown. Another month had passed, and life had been busy again. It was a rare night that Tristan was able to escape to his cabin in the woods of Wehadon, away from the noise and bustling business of Rarington. A lantern flickered beside him, its glow casting long shadows across the worn planks. His left arm rested across his lap, the leather straps securing Myroniad to the metal brace where his hand had once been.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He knew who it was before she spoke.

“You’re out here again,” Vaya said softly, stepping onto the porch. She wrapped a woolen shawl around herself and sat beside him, tucking her knees beneath her.

Tristan smiled faintly. “Just thinking.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, quiet for a moment. “About everything?”

He exhaled. “About what’s next.”

Vaya reached for his left arm, tracing the edge of Myroniad with her fingertips. “You’ve already given so much to Windem, Tristan. Maybe it’s time to think about what you want.”

He turned his head slightly, catching the soft light in her dark eyes. “And what if I don’t know yet? I mean--I’m just now starting to get used to my new role under Bodry.”

She took his left hand and placed it gently against her stomach.

Tristan froze. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. For a moment, he thought maybe he had misread her, but the look on her face told him otherwise.

His breath caught. “Vaya…”

She smiled, her eyes shining. “It’s time to think about us now…Tristan--I’m pregnant.”

Tristan swallowed hard, his throat tightening with emotion. He let out a shaky laugh, his forehead pressing against hers. “I didn’t think…”

Vaya cupped his face, brushing away the hint of tears at the corners of his eyes. “You deserve this, Tristan.”

The wind carried the sound of rustling leaves, the world stretching before them. There would always be battles to fight, struggles to endure. But for now, in this quiet moment, all that mattered was the life they were building—together.

Tristan heaved a deep breath, looking to the sky where he knew his father was looking down on him from somewhere up above. The name of Blackthorn would live on.