The city no longer trembled under Vorathrax's shadow. Smoke had cleared, broken walls were mended with stone and willpower, and the cries of battle were replaced by the quiet hum of life returning.
Eryndor stood on a balcony overlooking the square, the black suit that once radiated stormlight now resting loosely on him, as if reminding him of the weight it bore. Below, families clung to each other, grateful for breath. Soldiers saluted the fallen, a sea of flags stirring in the breeze.
But when he turned, the world softened. Lyanna stood in the doorway, her eyes warm but lined with worry, one hand instinctively resting on her stomach.
"You always carry everything on your shoulders," she said, stepping toward him. "But right now, it's not the world that needs you. It's us."
Her words disarmed him more than any blade. Eryndor let his aura dim completely, his storm quieting. He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, grounding himself in that simple contact.
Two days later, the midwife—an elder of Lyanna's household—smiled as she withdrew her hands after the examination. "It's strong," she said, voice steady with approval. "And so are you, Lady Lyanna."
Lyanna's fingers tightened around Eryndor's. He looked from her face to the midwife, uncertain, then asked the question caught in his throat.
"Is it…?"
The midwife's lips curved gently. "A boy."
Eryndor blinked, breath stalling in his chest. A boy. He hadn't realized how much the word would weigh, how much it would settle into his bones like a vow. Lyanna's eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
They sat alone afterward, by the fire in their quiet chambers. The stormborn warrior, who had faced down titans and calamities, looked almost shy.
"Have you thought of a name?" Lyanna asked softly, her hand resting over the gentle curve of her belly.
He nodded slowly. "Yes… but it's more than a name. It's a promise."
She tilted her head, listening.
"My grandfather," Eryndor said, voice quiet but steady, "was the man who gave me the stories, the martial ways, the hope to become who I am now. He carried our lineage, even when the world forgot. His name was Nasarik. From this day on… I'll carry it too."
Lyanna's hand trembled slightly, then reached to cup his cheek. "Eryndor Nasarik," she whispered, tasting the name. "It suits you."
"As for him…" Eryndor exhaled, his eyes lowering to her stomach again. "I want to name him Aelion Nasarik. It means 'born of light' in the old tongue. A reminder that no matter how dark the storm, he will always carry light."
Lyanna's eyes glistened, and she leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his. "Then it's settled. Aelion."
The following morning, they walked through the garden, just the two of them. Eryndor, for once, allowed himself to smile without weight behind it. They laughed over small things—Lyanna teasing his poor taste in tea, Eryndor trying to sketch her face with charcoal only for it to turn into a mess of scribbles. She laughed until tears streamed, holding her sides.
It was ordinary. Simple. Perfect.
Two days later, as promised, Eryndor and Lyanna set out to visit his other family—the house into which he was reborn. The streets parted as people recognized him, some bowing, some whispering prayers, some simply staring at the young man who had stood between them and oblivion.
But when he stood at his family's threshold, it wasn't as a savior or a warrior. It was as a son returning home, with the woman he loved by his side, and a quiet vow resting in his heart.