Chapter 68: The Final Rune (Her POV)
Almost one month later, I had survived: Ten glitter storms. Six spontaneous musical numbers. Worst, or maybe best of all, a magical ferret that wouldn't stop reciting love poems in Malvor's voice while dramatically clutching wildflowers and weeping into a moss pile. So yeah. Progress. Eyeroll... I stepped through the portal into Ahyona's realm and was immediately hit with the familiar scent of smoldering sage, sweet cornmeal, and barely restrained emotional chaos. Candlelight flickered in lanterns carved from hollowed driftwood, and somewhere in the distance, a flute played a song so old it made my bones ache. I sighed. Deep. Tired. Soul-weary. Ahyona didn't even look up from her carved bench layered in furs and worn quilts. She just extended a hand, weathered, gentle, steady, toward a clay mug already steaming. I took it. Sat down beside her. I didn't flinch at the softness. "I don't even know where to start," I muttered into the tea. "There's glitter in the plumbing. A cupcake ambush in the third realm. And the ferret, Ahyona, the ferret won't stop quoting Malvor like he's some tragic poet-god with unresolved… everything." I sipped. Cedar and rose hips, a little honey, a whisper of grief. "And somehow, despite all of that... I set a boundary." That made me smile. "I told him no chaos in the bedroom. None. Except the fun kind. That's sacred." I let that sit. Let myself feel proud of it. "He actually listened. No arguing. No dramatic protest involving enchanted coyotes or choreographed sad flute solos. Just… a quiet nod. A small snap of his fingers. And, whoosh, peace." My fingers curled around the mug a little tighter. "It's stupid how much that meant to me." I didn't need Ahyona to say anything. Not really. The lodge exhaled with me, soft music, warm candlelight, the faintest scent of rain on stone. It didn't feel like being managed. It felt like being seen. That was enough. At the end of our session, Ahyona didn't speak. Didn't say "good job" or "I'm proud of you." Not with words. She just rose from her bench, set down her own tea, and walked over in a soft sweep of leather and woven cotton. I blinked up at her. "What?" Ahyona took my hands. Turned them palms-up. Studied the skin like it held ancient songs etched in invisible ink. "I think," she said, voice quieter now, "you're ready." My heart skipped. I didn't have to ask what for. Her thumbs traced slow circles at the center of my palms. The skin there had always been strangely blank. Like it had been… waiting. "These were meant to be healing runes," she murmured. "But they could only be carved when you were strong enough to carry them. Strength, child, is not the absence of pain." I swallowed. "What if I'm not ready?" Ahyona smiled. Not wide. Not comforting. Just real. "You are. Because you asked for peace. And meant it." The air shimmered. The lodge stilled. Even the chimes above the door hushed. I tensed, but I didn't flinch. Warmth began to bloom beneath my skin. Slow at first. Then pulsing. Not fire. Not pain. Something alive. Light spilled across my palms in delicate lines, curling upward like vines reaching toward sun. Symbols I couldn't name but knew somewhere deep in my bones etched themselves into being. Not rage. Not power. Not revenge. Restoration. It didn't hurt. Not like the others. There was pressure, yes. Heat. But it came with release. Like sobbing in safety. Like bleeding without fear. Like remembering and surviving in the same breath. I gasped softly as the light crested my wrists, wrapping my hands in glowing, sacred truth. Then stillness. Ahyona let go. The runes remained. Faint. Elegant. Shimmering in rose-gold, pulsing once, then settling into my skin like they'd always belonged. I stared. I could feel it, deep down. The ability to heal now. To offer what I had barely been allowed to want. "It's not just magic," Ahyona said, her voice barely above the wind in the rafters. "It's reflection. Of who you are when you're not surviving." I flexed my fingers. The glow dimmed, but the warmth remained. I smiled. "I didn't scream," I whispered. Ahyona raised her chin. Her eyes shone, not with tears. but with something older. Pride, maybe. Or remembrance. "No, child," she said. "This time… you bloomed." The moment I stepped through the threshold back into Malvor's realm, I knew. Chaos had evolved. There were now hovering teacups circling the chandelier, arguing with one another in accents from three different realms, one of which, I'm pretty sure, was vaguely pirate. The hallway was upside down. Literally. The sconces burned backward. The carpet defied gravity. There was a llama playing chess with a sentient candle. The air smelled faintly of toasted marshmallow and divine arrogance. I didn't flinch. Not this time. I just stepped forward, calm, steady, newly marked hands glowing faintly at my sides. Malvor appeared before I even called his name. One second, the room was still. The next, Malvor was there, grinning like someone had just whispered the best secret in the cosmos straight into his soul. "There she is!" he beamed. He scooped me up in a whirlwind hug so fast the floating teacups crashed into each other in alarm. "I missed you!" I clung to him, laughing despite myself. "I was gone for an hour." "That was a whole hour I was without you, My Forever! Do you understand how eternally long that is when your soul is singing and no one is around to duet?" I kissed him. Just a soft brush of lips, quiet, real. A tether. He stilled. Arms tightening around me like he was afraid I might vanish again. "I'm back," I whispered against his chest. He pulled away just far enough to look at me. His eyes were warm, impossibly bright, like I'd just made the sun rise for him. "I have so much to tell you!" "I assumed." "There was a storm made entirely of confetti and emotional feedback! Arbor now glows in the dark, but only if you whisper compliments to it first. I'm not saying I built a sentient muffin, but… he may have declared himself a duke." I let my head rest gently on his shoulder. "Of course he did." He held me closer. "I didn't do any of it to impress you," he murmured, quieter now. "I just… wanted to make the world fun enough that it feels worthy of you being in it." I believed him. As he spun into tales of muffin nobility and emotionally unstable chandeliers, two enchanted teacups above us shrieked mid-argument, slammed into each other, and shattered spectacularly. Glass and gold raining down in a twinkling mess of magical carnage. I didn't flinch. I just raised my hands. The runes on my palms shimmered, rose-gold and soft as breath. I knelt. Touched the shards. Warmth pulsed from my skin into the broken pieces. And the air held still, like the entire realm had paused to watch. The fragments lifted, gentle, reverent, and stitched themselves back together. A quiet ping! marked the moment the final handle reattached. The teacups hovered again, wobbling slightly… but whole. Malvor gasped, like I'd just healed time itself. "Oh my STARS—" Before I could so much as roll my eyes, he scooped me up again in another spin-hug, complete with dramatic foot lift and a squeak of pure chaos-joy. "YOU HEALED MY DRAMATIC TEACUPS!" I wheezed. "You're going to snap my spine—" "This is the best day of my eternal existence!" He pulled back just enough to stare at me. "You glow," he whispered. "You actually glow. You've never been more dangerous and I have never been more into it." My cheeks burned. He wasn't being cute. He was being sincere. That was worse. "I will write poems about these hands," he declared. "Sonatas. Maybe a cursed opera." "Please don't." "Too late. I already commissioned one. The ferret's composing." I laughed. He looked at me like the world had stopped being terrible for five whole seconds. Maybe… it had. The rest of the day was unapologetically unhinged. Malvor introduced me to the Muffin Duke, who wore a cravat, spoke only in haikus, and was in the middle of a political standoff with the butter dish. I played along. Not out of obligation. But because, it was fun. No masks. No performances. Just chaos, curiosity, and me. Still healing. Still here. Finally… laughing like I meant it. The Realm of Mischief glittered and flexed around us like it knew we were happy and wanted to show off. And me? I wasn't just surviving it. I was thriving. But eventually… when the stars softened and the laughter started to echo instead of ring, I slipped away. Quiet. Certain. The bedroom was still. Exactly as I'd left it. No glitter. No horns. No marching bands. Just quiet. Arbor sighed the door shut behind me like he understood. I peeled off the cape. Toed off my boots. Let my hair fall loose. Then I crawled onto the bed, the faint glow of the new runes still clinging to my skin, my lips curved in a smile I didn't have to perform. I exhaled. Not because I was overwhelmed. Not because I was escaping. But because I had learned to protect this space. Mine. Ours. Even with chaos in my bones and laughter still on my tongue… I still deserved silence. I didn't hear him come in. The room didn't change, not really. Still quiet. Still soft. Still mine. But the air warmed the moment he crossed the threshold, like the Realm itself sighed. He didn't speak. No grand entrance. No smug remark. Just the faint sound of his bare feet on the floor and the quiet exhale he only ever let out in this room. With me. I lay on my side, half-curled into the pillows. My braid was undone at the ends. The rune-glow had dimmed to an ember. He didn't ask if I needed him. He just came. The mattress dipped carefully as he sat beside me, not shifting it too much, not disturbing the quiet that had settled over my skin like stardust. His hand brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. The other found mine, fingers curling gently between them. Anchoring me. Present. I sighed, soft. Content. Didn't open my eyes. Didn't need to. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. Slow. Warm. Breath lingering like a promise he didn't need to say. He began to braid my hair. Not for function. Not for show. Just because he loved me. Because being here, touching me, basking in nearness was enough to undo him. His fingers moved carefully, reverently, weaving strand by strand. Not because I needed taming. Not because I needed fixing. Because this was building. Because chaos had always been his weapon, breaking, bending, unmaking. But this? This was proof he could create something soft. Something lasting. Something that stayed. I'd been told all my life that I was property. That he was destruction in a pretty suit. But here we were. Hands braiding hair under candlelight. Breath warm against my temple. Here, he could be mine. Gods, wasn't that the only miracle either of us had ever wanted? He finished slowly, kissing the crown of my head as he tucked the last strand in place. I shifted, barely, and the tiniest contented sigh slipped from my lips. He smiled into my hair. I felt it. Arms tightening just a little. Once, he would have called that a victory. Now? It was gratitude. Because I wasn't a battle to win. I was peace. I stayed. Even when the world didn't deserve me, I stayed. He let the braid fall against my shoulder, then kissed my temple. My cheek. Just beneath my jaw. Not rushed. Not needy. Just grateful. So grateful it ached. "You don't have to say anything," he whispered, so softly I might've dreamed it. "I just… needed to be near you." I turned slightly, opening my eyes at last. Our gazes met. I had never seen anyone look so completely undone by happiness. "I'm here," I whispered. He smiled. That soft one. The one no one else ever saw. "I know. That is everything." He held my hands like they were relics made of starfire and sugar. "Hold still," he breathed. He kissed them. Not just the palms. Every curve. Every line. Every rune. Left. Right. Palm. Wrist. Knuckle. He pressed my hand against his chest, over his heart like he was afraid it might stop if he let go. I shifted into his arms, cheek against his chest, our fingers still laced, my breath soft and steady. No tension. No flinches. No whispered cries in the dark. I hadn't had a nightmare in over a month. Every night without one felt like a miracle. He watched me drift. Not because he was worried. Because he was happy. Utterly, devastatingly happy. That I was here. That I was safe. That I was his. My braid rested against my shoulder. His fingers traced it like a prayer. The room was silent. Not magically so. Just… content. His lips brushed my temple and he whispered words that belonged only to me: "My Always." I didn't stir. I didn't need to. Because I already knew. As the Realm of Mischief curled around us like a blanket of moonlight, I let myself believe it. I didn't need to perform. I didn't need to fill the silence. Because this? This was the dream. He was still there when I woke.