Epilogue - Kendric's POV

Epilogue - Kendric's POV
Years pass and the weight of death becomes a memory. Not a burden.

We never speak of the veil or what we’ve seen, unless the stars dim in the night sky in a strange way, or when the children ask why their parents bear the kinds of scars that aren’t from training with other wolves. We tell them the truth, in small pieces that they understand. That their mother fought beyond life, and their father once clawed his way back from the edge of madness.

That love, when it’s real, doesn’t just survive. It returns for those they love.

The pack has healed in time. Slowly, then all at once.

They feared us at first. What we were, what we might become, scared them. But wolves are creatures of instinct, and in time they saw the truth of what we were. We aren’t cursed anymore nor are we ghosts here to haunt them. We are leaders, mates, and survivors.

Valeria stands taller than ever now, her presence sharp as moonlight. The warriors train under her hand with pride, and the young ones follow her like she’s carved from the stories they barely believe.

Me? I found peace in the quiet things. The sound of my children’s laughter when they chase each other through the trees. The way the wind tastes just before a storm and the feel of Valeria’s hand in mine when the rest of the world falls still.

I will never forget what we went through. Neither does she.

But we don’t live in the past. We live now.

On one summer evening, when the forest hums with life and the dusk paints the treetops in gold, I sit on the porch of the Alpha’s house—our house—with a toddler curled up against my chest. He has her hair and my stubborn frown, and he’s already trying to shift before he can even count to ten.

Inside, Valeria is laughing, really laughing, with our eldest, who just brought home a bruised arm and a bruised ego from training. She’s thirteen, fierce, and entirely her mother’s daughter. I hear Valeria call her “little Luna,” and the girl doesn’t roll her eyes. Not once.

She was our little surprise from the other realm when we sealed our bond. I guess, in a way, she was our gift from death to make things better.

Then came our middle child, who wants to spar with our oldest, instead of Valeria.

When Valeria steps outside, her eyes land on me the way they always have, like I’m still the only thing she sees in a crowded world.

She sits beside me, curling into my side like we’re still young and invincible.

We aren’t. But we are together and that’s what matters more than anything.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” she murmurs.

“No,” I say honestly. “But I hoped. I mean, you know what happened to us.”

She leans her head on my shoulder, watching the fireflies spark to life in the tall grass. “Do you still feel it? The thing that followed you?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “Like an echo. But it doesn’t own me. Not anymore. I think the feral spirit realized my wolf would never submit to him again and left.”

Valeria’s hand finds mine. Fingers intertwined, her grip firm, grounding. “Good,” she breathes. “Because this is ours now. This life. No one will take it from us again. We have our children to think of.”

I nod slowly, the weight of her words sinking into my chest like roots into soil. She’s right. This life, we fought for it. Died for it. Crawled through the afterlife and tore the veil apart to claim it. And now it’s real. Tangible. Warm. And more precious than anything I ever imagined when we were young and foolish and didn’t know what it meant to lose everything.

I close my eyes, letting the sound of our children’s laughter echo through the trees. It’s light and wild and without sorrow. They don’t know the cost that bought this peace. And I hope, gods I hope, they never do.

I would never wish for them to go through what we have to get here or anywhere for that matter. This kind of pain isn’t the kind that all survive.

The toddler in my arms stirs, sighs, and burrows closer, his breath warm against my neck. He smells like grass and apples and something sweeter, something new. Life, maybe. Future.

Valeria leans her head on my shoulder, and I can feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, matching mine. “Do you remember when we used to dream about this?” she asks softly.

“All the time,” I murmur. “Usually when we were bleeding from trying to get past what happened.”

She laughs, the sound low and real, her body shaking against mine. “Back then, I thought dreaming was a weakness after we survived. Something to keep you soft. I wanted to revert to my old healing tactics, which were to get over it and keep moving.”

“You were never soft,” I say, smiling into her hair. “But you let me be. When I needed to be.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, then she whispers, “We can be soft now. We’ve earned it.”

A breeze dances across the porch, rustling the ivy that climbs the pillars, carrying the scent of rain and pine and distant bonfires. Inside, we hear our daughter arguing with her little brother, something about a stolen dagger, and a promise broken in play. I can hear Valeria’s smirk before I even turn to look.

“They’re wild,” I say.

“They’re ours,” she replies. “It sounds like all three of them are in there now. Why did you let me have four kids?”

I squeeze her hand. “So are the stars, the land, the blood that runs through this pack. All of it. We built it, Val. From ash and death and fury, we made a kingdom. Four children is nothing. We could have ten more and I’d be thrilled.”

She presses a kiss to my shoulder. “And now we rule it. As Alpha and Luna. As parents. As people who refused to let go.”

The fireflies rise in gentle sparks around us. The moon climbs high, pale and watchful. And in this still moment, I know with every beat of my heart:

We made it.

And for the first time in forever, we are home.