The war was over.
The kingdom of Eldoria finally breathed in peace, and the forests around Moonveil whispered only gentle songs of life, no more echoes of battle.
Alaric and Elara had chosen a life far from the city, far from the eyes of kings and soldiers. On a quiet hill overlooking the forest, they built a small hut. It was modest—walls of stone, roof of timber—but it carried everything they ever needed: love, safety, and hope.
Around the hut, Elara planted a garden. Roses, herbs, and wildflowers intertwined with fruit trees. Alaric helped, though his hands were still scarred. He laughed when a stubborn rose bush pricked him, and she teased him endlessly.
Seasons passed, and the hut grew alive with more than plants. Their children arrived—two boys and a girl. The boys inherited Alaric's bravery, the girl inherited Elara's gentle heart.
Every evening, after tending the garden or playing with the children, they would gather around the fire.
"Tell us again," their daughter would plead. "Tell us how you met, Mommy!"
Elara smiled, brushing back her daughter's hair. She looked at Alaric, whose dark eyes softened in the firelight.
"Very well," she said. "But you must promise to listen carefully. It's a story of love, courage, and magic."
Alaric leaned back, still holding her hand. "It begins on a night much like this one…"
And so, the children listened, eyes wide, as their parents recounted every moment—the knight who returned at dusk, the silver-thread charm, the letters written in blood and silence, the battles fought, and the prayers that had crossed the boundary between life and death.
The story ended every time with a kiss on the forehead, laughter in the garden, and the certainty that their love was stronger than anything—even death itself.
The hill became a sanctuary. The garden bloomed endlessly. The fire crackled warmly each night. And in that small hut, Alaric and Elara found something no battlefield, no war, no grief could ever take: home.