There he stood. Libro, frozen in the center of the courtyard, as still as a stone statue, the occasional exhale of breath curling like smoke into the wind.

Elba stared at him, rooted to the cobblestones, her legs unwilling or unable to move. It all felt unbearably surreal, the kind of thing you imagine in nightmares, like the memory of a person you've lost, too real to be a dream but too fleeting to hold on to. Deep down, a voice kept telling her she might never see him again, that the frail hope in her chest would be shattered into jagged, little pieces by a cold, unyielding reality.

But there he was. Alive, as real as the day she'd first met him, back in the Mootlands of Middengard. The memory of it all hit her like a sledgehammer. That moment when he'd lifted his visor, and it was as if the very sun stared back at her, eyes the color of violets, skin the shade of chestnut flecked with cinnamon, lips that begged to be kissed.

"By Aurora's golden light," Grimm muttered beside her, voice thick with disbelief. "Is that... the Right Hand?"

"Farking shite," Saga breathed. "It can't be."

Beside him lay a corpse—or what was left of one. The monster's body, ashen, gray, like an ember burned up to nothing. It crumbled away bit by bit in the wind, shattering into dust, scattering like the broken remnants of a once-great beast. Shards of Black Glass clinked and scattered on the cobblestones, bits of bone tumbling and breaking away.

And that was when the fear crept in. The fear that, any second now, her husband would crumble away too. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, cloth and armor torn away, revealing blistered flesh and spasming muscle, the scars along his forearm still faintly glowing. His face, though, was pale and lifeless, eyes staring at nothing, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest, the occasional twitch of his arm.

"Libro."

It felt like a prayer, or the answer to a question she hadn't realized needed asking. His name escaped her before she could stop it, but the wind snatched it away. Still, he heard her. His head snapped up, eyes locking with hers, and for a moment, she thought he didn't even recognize her. Cold fear bit into her gut, made her heart stutter, bile rising in her throat.

And then, without warning, he started to move. He ran toward her, boots kicking up powdery snow as he stumbled, slipping halfway across the courtyard, crashing to the stones with a grunt, breastplate scraping, but he was up again, faster now, scrambling on hand and knees like a wild animal.

By the time he reached her he was nearly hysterical, clutching at her boots like a man drowning. Sobbing, shaking, desperate.

"Elba," he gasped, fingers tearing at her clothes as he clambered up her legs, eyes wide with something raw, something that ripped through her. "Elba! Elba! Elba!"

"Oh, my love." Her voice broke then, the lump in her throat too thick to speak above a whisper. She cupped his face, brushing away a tear with her thumb before pulling him into her chest. "Don't cry. I'm here now. I'm here."

His sobs came out in great, wracking breaths, body shaking violently against her. She wrapped her arms around him, rocking him gently in the center of that frozen courtyard, as though they could simply will time to turn back and take them home. To make it all a dream.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, his voice thick with pain. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You've nothing to apologize for," she said, over and over again. "You did nothing wrong. I'm safe now. We're safe now."

"I should've done more. I should've let you jump first. You would've been safe with Moss and Cent. None of this would've happened had I—,"

"It's over now," she cut him off, the words coming out almost automatic. "Everything's fine. Everything will be fine."

His hand found its way to her belly, pressing gently against the growing bump. He froze, breath hitching, his eyes finding hers again.

"And... our son... is he—?"

"Our child is fine." Elba laced her fingers with his, smiling at the gentle rhythm of the heartbeat beneath his touch. And then it hit her. The words came out before she could stop them. "Libro... how do you know it's a boy?"

His eyes flickered, and he said nothing, the answer clear as fragile glass.

"You're telling me this blubbering mess killed the Right Hand?" Saga asked, crashing through the moment like a hammer, or a well aimed spear.

Grimm clapped her hard across the ear.

"Ouch! What the fark was that for?"

"For being an idiot," Grimm growled. She knelt next to Elba, placed a hand on Libro's shoulder. "I take it you're the man I have to thank for rescuing us?"

Libro blinked, still half-dazed, but managed a nod. "You could say that. And I take it you're the one who kept my wife safe while she was here?"

Grimm gave Elba a sly glance. "You could say that. Is the Right Hand really dead?"

Elba looked over at the wreckage. The Right Hand's body was barely a body anymore. Just remnants of armor and bone, swept away by the wind like it had never existed, like a nightmare dismissed by the rising sun.

"I should hope so," Libro said, his voice heavy with a weary finality. "I tore out every bit of magick that held it together. Whatever spell that witch wove to make it... it's gone now."

A horn sounded off in the distance, deep and loud, shaking the air like a thunderclap. A cheer followed after it.

"Battle's over, I reckon," Grimm muttered. "Think we won?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Saga replied, her voice carrying the faintest trace of relief.

"We should move," Elba said, turning away, but Libro's voice stopped her.

"I love you."

He said it quietly, like a truth he'd been holding back for far too long. He kissed her then, a hard, desperate kiss, lips chapped and rough, but she didn't care. She didn't care at all. When he pulled back, the light returned to his eyes, the shadow finally lifted.

She snorted and brushed a finger over her lips, savoring the taste of him. "You absolute cheesemonger. Come here, you."

And with that, she pulled him in again, kissing him hard enough to make him swoon. Had to keep a firm grasp on him, lest he fall a second time.

*

They found Moss inside the inner gatehouse, slumped against the lever, blood staining his beard and armor, his other hand pressed tightly to his gut. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, bodies laying twisted and mangled on the floor. Grimm and Saga pushed aside the corpses as best they could, giving Elba and Libro enough room to stumble in.

Moss's breath came out in ragged wheezes, blood leaking from his wound with every shallow gasp. "Goddess," Grimm muttered as she scanned the room, wincing at the broken corpses scattered about it. "What the fark happened here?"

"Is... is he?" Saga asked, edging closer, only to jump back as Moss's ragged cough echoed through the room.

"Gatehouse secure, Captain," he said, breath whistling in his throat as he struggled to fill his lungs.

"At ease, guardsman." Libro stepped in, guiding Elba to a chair, easing her into it with a grunt. He stood there, gaze locked on Moss.

Moss gave Elba a bloody grin, revealing pink stained teeth. "You're alright. Fancy that."

Elba winced. "I wish I could say the same for you. Is it bad?"

Moss pulled his hand away, revealing the gaping wound. "Aye, it's bad."

Libro closed his eyes, fist clenched tight as he fought to steady his breath. Grimm looked away, even Saga seemed lost for words.

Elba couldn't bear it. "No, Moss. We can fix you. We just need to get you to a healer, to someone who can—"

"No." Moss cut her off sharply. "Ain't no healer fixing this."

"But there has to be something we can do." Elba looked at her husband, but he was too far gone, eyes staring at nothing again.

"Grimm," she said, "you've seen wounds like this, right? Can't you stitch him up?"

Grimm shook his head. "Not with a wound like that."

"Saga?"

"Don't look at me." Saga crossed her arms. "All I can offer him now is a swift end. Better than a slow one, at least."

"No..." Elba choked, heart leaping into her throat. She looked around the room, desperate for anyone to give her a different answer. "No, you can't... You can't say that."

Elba felt the tears coming, and she reached down, lifting Moss's hand off the turnstile, placing it gently in his lap. His face was twisted with pain, but there was a smile there, a grim smile.

"I'm so glad you're safe," he muttered.

"Save your breath, you old windbag," she said, her voice breaking. "Don't waste what little you've got."

Moss grinned, a rasping laugh escaping him. "Guess I should keep it short then." He reached for his knife, trembling hands pulling it from its sheath, holding it up to her. "Elba... you need to send me home."

She froze, the weight of his words hitting her like a blow to the guts. "Moss... you can't... you can't ask me to do that."

"It has to be you. You're the only one who can do it right."

"No, please, no." She stepped back, a cold, bitter panic rising in her chest. "Don't make me do it."

"I'll do it then."

A shadow darkened the doorway, and Elba whirled around. Cent stood there, face hidden in the dark, but she knew it was him well enough.

He stepped in, boots thudding on the floor, and knelt beside Moss, taking the knife from his hand like it was nothing.

"I'm glad you're still alive," Moss rasped.

"One of us had to be," Cent said quietly. "For Fig's sake."

"As long as one lives, the three of us will never die," Moss murmured, his voice fading.

"Guess your Seer was right," Cent said.

"Nah." Moss shook his head. "She was full of shit. Men like me... we all die violently. It's just how it is."

Cent puffed his cheeks, his hand unsteady as he gripped the knife. Moss took him by the wrist, eyes clearing for a brief moment.

"I need you... to do one thing for me," Moss whispered.

"Anything."

"Don't blame the Captain for this." Moss's grip tightened. "Remember who gave him the order. Remember who sits on the throne."

"I will," Cent said, voice tight. "I'll always remember."

Moss closed his eyes. "I love you, brother."

With a final, quick motion, Cent drove the knife into Moss's heart, burying it to the hilt. Moss's body jerked for a second, then relaxed. His grip went slack, his breath stilled.

And then he was gone.

"I love you, brother." Cent whispered to the corpse, pulling the knife out, wiping it clean.

The muffled cheers from the distance grew louder.

The battle was over.

***