Five years later, the inn still stood.
The mirror was long gone—buried beneath enchanted soil in the Vale, sealed by a spell both of them had written together. But sometimes, when light hit the windows just right, it refracted into patterns that felt like memory. Like magic choosing to remember softly.
Rheia had built a study with open shelves and plants that only bloomed under firelight. Solene kept the garden—wild and alive, her flames now coaxing things to grow instead of burn.
They didn't speak of the mirror anymore.
Not because it hurt—but because it wasn't necessary. They'd rewritten what mattered. Their magic—once volatile, once binding—had turned into ritual. Morning tea with charms tucked under mugs. Nighttime lullabies in old languages. A thread of flame braided into Rheia's hair each solstice, just to say I still choose you.
Sometimes Rheia dreamed of futures that never came true.
Sometimes Solene woke holding her hand anyway.
And that was enough.
They didn't become legends.
Just a life no prophecy predicted.
And in the world beyond the Vale, whispers carried: of a mirror-witch who left her glass behind, and a flame-summoner who learned to burn gently.
And how, in one quiet inn, tucked between storms and silence, two women loved each other into something true.