The night after Lazarus' retreat was unusually quiet.
For the first time in weeks, the air didn't hum with tension or bloodlust. Instead, the soft winds that carried through the Nasarik estate were warm—calm—like the world itself had paused to let the victors breathe.
Eryndor stood beneath the moonlight at the edge of the garden, his reflection staring back from the marble pond. His black hoodie fluttered gently in the wind, faint traces of blue aura still flickering along his sleeve—remnants of what he'd become. But tonight, his eyes weren't fixed on the horizon of battle. They were fixed on the light spilling from the windows of the manor—on her.
The Nasarik family had two hearts.
The Main Branch, ancient and regal, where the bloodline of Zephyr resided—its halls lined with banners of gold and obsidian. And the Vaelith Branch, equally respected but grounded, where Aldric commanded both the armies and the artisans who had kept the family's strength alive through generations.
After the confrontation, Zephyr decided that Eryndor would remain with the main branch to recover—and to stand guard over Lyanna, who was nearing the final stretch of her pregnancy. Aldric would return to Vaelith to reorganize their defenses and oversee the reconstruction efforts after Vorathrax's rampage.
"I'll send word when the north is stable again," Aldric said, clasping Eryndor's arm before leaving. "Until then, protect them. Protect her."
Eryndor gave a small smile. "You make it sound like I'd ever stop."
Aldric chuckled. "Good answer."
And with that, the second branch lord departed, his aura fading into the night wind.
Days passed.
The Nasarik estate glowed with quiet preparation—wedding silks hung from the balconies, the scent of magnolia filled the air, and laughter, real laughter, finally returned to the halls.
Eryndor didn't wear armor or robes that week.
Just simple black and gray—his old training wear.
It made Lyanna smile every time she saw him.
"You could dress like a prince for once," she teased, leaning back against the cushions, one hand resting over her belly.
He smirked faintly. "And make the others jealous? I'll pass."
She laughed softly, the sound like sunlight breaking through fog. "You're still terrible at compliments."
"I save them for moments that matter." He knelt, placing his hand gently against her stomach. "How's he doing today?"
Lyanna's eyes softened. "Restless. Just like his father."
"He'll be worse," Eryndor murmured, a faint spark of blue flickering around his fingertips as he let mana pulse through her—just enough to soothe. "If he's anything like me, he'll try to walk out before he can crawl."
She chuckled again, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Then he'll have you to catch him."
For a moment, the world outside—divine politics, monsters, gods, all of it—faded away. There was only them. The calm before destiny came knocking again.
When the day of their union arrived, even the skies seemed to take notice.
The ceremony was held under the grand archway of the Nasarik estate, where countless generations had once sworn their vows. The courtyard was alive with light—floating lanterns drifting between pillars, petals swirling with the wind, and guests from all corners of the continent gathering to witness the union of the Stormbearer and the daughter of the Bladesong Clan.
Kael, Calen, Rhydor, Varian—all were there. Even Zephyr stood at the front, regal in his dark ceremonial armor, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his usual composed demeanor.
As Lyanna walked down the aisle—clad in silver and blue, her hands resting gently on her near-term belly—Eryndor's composure almost cracked. She glowed. Not with mana, not with divinity—but with something far rarer: peace.
Zephyr's voice carried over the silence.
"Eryndor Nasarik," he began, his tone solemn but proud, "do you take Lyanna of the Bladesong to be your partner, your equal, and your light in this life and the next?"
Eryndor met Lyanna's eyes. "I already did."
The guests chuckled softly, and Zephyr smirked faintly. "Then by the bloodline of Nasarik and the winds that carry its name, I pronounce you—husband and wife."
As their lips met, a ripple of wind swept through the courtyard—not summoned, not intentional. It was instinctive. The world itself seemed to exhale, recognizing something it couldn't quite name.
That night, after the ceremony, the estate trembled again—but this time, from within.
Lyanna's labor came suddenly, hours after midnight. The midwives rushed in, the physicians scrambled, and Eryndor stood at her side, gripping her hand with a quiet intensity that could bend steel.
"Don't… just stand there," she hissed between breaths. "You've fought gods—help me!"
"I'd rather fight gods again," he muttered, but his mana surged instinctively, a field of calm wrapping around her to ease the strain.
Minutes stretched into hours, every heartbeat echoing like thunder.
And then—
A cry broke the silence.
Sharp. Alive. Powerful.
The entire room froze.
Eryndor exhaled slowly as the midwife turned, a faint smile breaking through her exhaustion.
"It's a boy."
Lyanna laughed through tears, leaning back as Eryndor took the child carefully in his arms. Tiny, wrapped in deep blue cloth—eyes already glowing faintly with a flicker of azure mana.
Eryndor stared at the child for a long time, silent. The chaos of everything—his past life, his battles, his sins—faded in that single heartbeat.
He looked at Lyanna, then at his son.
"His name," Lyanna whispered, "you choose it."
Eryndor thought for a long while before finally speaking.
"Aren Nasarik."
The name hung in the air like a vow.
Zephyr, watching quietly from the doorway, smiled faintly.
"Aren," he murmured. "The name of the wind that never bends."
As dawn crept across the horizon, Eryndor stood by the window, his son cradled in his arms. The world outside was still broken, gods still stirred, and new storms were brewing—but for this one moment, everything was perfect.
He kissed the child's forehead and whispered,
"You'll see the world I couldn't."