February 23, 2036 – ten years to the day since the Eternal Bridge was sealed.
Kot Addu had changed in subtle, beautiful ways. The old mango orchard behind Ahmed Khan's family home now stretched farther than memory allowed—trees from the original plot had been carefully transplanted through the portal, their roots drinking from Elandrian leylines as easily as from the Indus. Golden fruit hung heavy, some blushing with faint starberry iridescence, a quiet miracle of two worlds sharing soil. The air smelled of ripe sweetness, woodsmoke from the tandoor, and something new: the clean ozone tang of stabilized magic drifting through the open gate.
Ahmed (still Ahmed here, always Ahmed in this courtyard) stood under the largest tree, arms crossed, watching chaos unfold with the helpless grin of a father who knows resistance is futile.
Ammar Thorne-Khan—nine years old, wolf-scaled shoulders already broad, silver streaks in his black hair—chased his little sister across the orchard in full playful tackle mode. His scales caught the late-afternoon sun like polished armor; when he laughed, a soft howl escaped, making mango leaves shiver.
"Ammar! Bas karo—mango gir jayega!" (Ammar! Stop it—the mangoes will fall!) Ahmed called, half-serious.
Too late.
Zara Thorne-Fox darted past, russet tail flicking behind her like a living scarf, illusion magic trailing sparkles. She was eight, quick as a desert wind, amber eyes gleaming with mischief. With a flick of her wrist she conjured a dozen perfect mango duplicates—golden, plump, irresistible.
Ammar skidded to a halt, sniffed the air, growled happily. "Fake! Zara cheated again!"
"Did not!" Zara stuck out her tongue. "These are premium illusion mangoes—zero calories, maximum fun!"
From the lowest branch came a delighted squeal. Liyana Thorne-Frost—seven, frost-kissed scales shimmering pale blue, tiny wings still too small for real flight—hung upside down like a bat, clutching a real mango. Frost mist curled from her breath, turning the fruit's skin faintly crystalline.
"Mine!" she crowed. "First bite!"
Ahmed sighed the sigh of fathers across two worlds. "Tum teeno milkar pura bagh kha jaoge." (You three will eat the whole orchard.)
Behind him, his mother appeared—dupatta slipping as always—carrying a steel tray of steaming chai and fresh parathas. She looked younger somehow, the lines around her eyes softened by a decade of impossible joy.
"Beta, chhod do unko," she said gently. "Bachche hain. Let them be children—of two worlds."
Ahmed kissed her forehead. "Ammi, they already are."
The portal arch—now a permanent, elegant structure of dragon scales, elven vines, and Kot Addu brick—stood open at the orchard's far edge. Soft golden light spilled through, carrying distant sounds: elven flutes mingling with dhol beats, beastkin laughter, the low hum of dragonkin wings. A small crowd was already gathering on both sides—family from Elandria stepping through to join the human side, humans crossing to see the spire lit for the evening.
Vixen appeared first—russet fur gleaming, tail swishing with familiar mischief. She wore a phulkari-embroidered kurti Ahmed's mother had sewn for her years ago; it fit perfectly now, a symbol of belonging.
"Morning, handsome," she purred, leaning against Ahmed. "Your orchard smells even better from this side."
Kira followed—silver hair braided with wolf-fang beads and jasmine flowers, a simple ajrak shawl draped over leather armor. She ruffled Ammar's hair as he barreled past.
"That's my boy—chasing mangoes like they're prey."
Sylara glided in last—frost scales shimmering, wings folded neatly. She wore a lightweight sari in pale blue, a gift from Ahmed's sisters. Liyana squealed and flew (more like fluttered) into her arms.
"Mama! Look—I frosted the mango!"
Sylara kissed her forehead, leaving a tiny snowflake. "Perfect, little flame."
Ahmed's father stepped out from the veranda, carrying a crate of the season's first mangoes—carefully selected, each wrapped in newspaper like treasures. He nodded to the companions with the same quiet respect he had shown them ten years ago.
"Sab aa gaye?" (Everyone here?)
"Ji, Abbu," Ahmed replied. "Full family—both sides."
The old man smiled—the rare, full smile that meant everything was right in his world.
"Then let the festival begin."
By late afternoon the orchard had become a cross-world mela. Dhol players from Kot Addu thumped rhythms beside elven harpists; beastkin pups taught human children how to howl in harmony; dragonkin hatchlings gave short rides to anyone brave enough. Stalls lined the paths: mango lassi carts run by elves (who had finally mastered the perfect sweetness), seekh kebab grills manned by orcs who now called themselves "Punjabi Grill Masters," illusion-magic face-painting booths where Zara proudly demonstrated her skills.
Ahmed's youngest sister—now nineteen—ran a mehndi stall, drawing intricate patterns on elf hands. "These vines," she explained to one wide-eyed elf girl, "are from Saraiki embroidery—see? They twist like your leylines."
The elf traced the design in wonder. "It sings when I move my fingers."
Across the orchard, Ahmed's mother presided over the largest biryani deg (pot), stirring with a long spoon while directing traffic.
"Thora aur mirch—dragon logon layi mild rakho!" (A bit more chili—for the dragon people keep it mild!)
Thalira—ancient matriarch now a frequent visitor—sat nearby on a charpoy, sipping chai with Ahmed's grandmother. The two elders had become unlikely friends—both keepers of ancient songs.
"Your Pathanay Khan," Thalira rumbled, "his voice reminds me of our deep-hum cave singers. Raw. Honest."
Ahmed's grandmother patted her scaled hand. "Te teri awaz vi rooh nu chuoundi ae, beti." (And your voice touches the soul too, daughter.)
Ammar skidded to a halt in front of Ahmed, panting, scales flushed.
"Abba! Zara said she can make an illusion mango tree that rains fruit forever! Can we keep it?"
Ahmed raised an eyebrow. "Forever? Zara, explain."
Zara appeared in a puff of sparkles. "It's sustainable! Only lasts till sunset—then poof. Eco-friendly illusion!"
Aelar laughed. "Approved—but no raining on Ammi's biryani."
The children dashed off, shrieking with joy.
As the sun dipped lower, Ahmed walked the orchard with his three bonds. Vixen slipped her hand into his; Kira leaned against his shoulder; Sylara's wing brushed his back like a gentle cloak.
"Ten years," Vixen murmured. "Feels like yesterday you stepped through that first time—lost, glowing, smelling of dust and mangoes."
Kira chuckled. "Now look at us. Three children, two worlds, one very tired father."
Sylara smiled softly. "Not tired. Full."
Ahmed stopped under the oldest tree—the one his father had planted when he was born. Its branches sagged with fruit, some faintly glowing with starberry light.
"I used to hide here when I was small," he said quietly. "Dreamed of bigger worlds. Never imagined I'd bring them home."
Vixen squeezed his hand. "You didn't just bring them. You grew them here."
A distant cheer rose—Ahmed's sisters had started a dholki circle; elves and beastkin joined in, clapping rhythms that crossed centuries.
Ahmed looked toward the portal arch, where his mother stood waving them over.
"Come," she called. "Biryani thanda ho jayega!"
They laughed and walked toward the light—two worlds, one family, one endless summer evening.
The chapter closed on that perfect moment: children laughing, elders sharing stories, music rising under twin skies. The bridge was no longer a marvel.
It was simply home.