The morning light was soft when Aren woke, spilling through the open terrace doors in pale, golden bands.
For a moment, he simply lay there — savoring the feeling of a familiar weight curled gently against him.
Selene slept peacefully beside him, her raven-black hair spilling across the pillow like a silken river.
Aren shifted slightly, careful not to wake her.
He lifted a hand — broad, calloused, impossibly gentle — and began to stroke her hair slowly, tenderly.
Fingers threading through those soft strands, as if memorizing the texture of the one thing he had never truly allowed himself to linger on before.
As if her hair, her presence, was all he had ever wanted... and all he would ever need.
Selene stirred under his touch, a soft sound escaping her lips.
Her violet eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, and found his golden gaze watching her — so full of warmth it nearly stole her breath.
"You're staring," she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.
"I'm allowed," Aren said simply, his thumb brushing along her temple with aching tenderness.
Selene smiled, nestling closer to him.
For a few long minutes, they stayed like that — nothing but warmth and quiet between them.
Then Selene's voice, soft but knowing, broke the silence.
"...You cried last night."
Aren stiffened almost imperceptibly — just for a heartbeat — before smoothing his hand down her hair again.
Selene lifted her head enough to meet his gaze, her eyes full of something deeper than simple love.
"I haven't seen you like that," she said quietly, "since the day I gave birth to Darian."
Aren said nothing, but his thumb stilled against her cheek.
"You remember," Selene said gently, tracing a line down his chest with her fingertip.
"You left the battlefield mid-siege. They say you tore open three teleportation gates yourself just to get back to me.
And when you saw me..." she smiled faintly, eyes misty, "you dropped to your knees beside the bed and wouldn't stop holding my hand."
Aren closed his eyes briefly, the memory sharper than any sword.
"You were so young," he said hoarsely.
"I was terrified. Terrified I'd lose you. Or lose him."
Selene kissed his wrist lightly.
"That was the only other time," she whispered, "that you let yourself be vulnerable.
The only time until last night."
She nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"It must have been too hard," she murmured. "All those years.
Carrying the weight of a Grand Duke. A legend. A transcendent being the world needed."
Aren cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.
"Mm. Overthinking again," he said, trying — and failing — to brush it off with his usual stoic tone.
Selene only smiled knowingly, choosing not to press him further.
Instead, she kissed the underside of his jaw, then climbed out of bed gracefully.
"Come on," she said, stretching like a cat. "They're probably waiting."
Aren groaned softly, covering his face with one hand.
"Breakfast with the entire Vale brood," he muttered.
"Save me."
Selene only laughed.
The estate's main dining hall was filled with a rare, lively energy.
Sunlight streamed through high arched windows.
The long oak table — polished to a mirror sheen — was already groaning under the weight of platters: fresh fruit, sweetbreads, spirit beast sausages, fluffy omelets, and steaming pots of aromatic tea.
Darian and Lyra were already seated when Aren and Selene arrived.
Darian — tall, composed, now dressed in the dark blues and silver accents of the Grand Duke — nodded respectfully to his father, though there was a hidden glint of amusement in his eyes.
Lyra, bright and laughing as always, rose immediately to hug her mother — and even Aren found himself pulled into a brief, fierce embrace.
But it was the grandchildren who made the morning come alive.
Elara Vale, serious even in her youth, straightened her back the moment she spotted Aren, giving him a little bow that was both formal and endearing.
"Grandfather," she said solemnly.
Aren fought down a smile and returned the bow with a playful wink that made Elara blink, thrown off her stern demeanor.
And then there was Mira Vale — Lyra's daughter — who came barreling across the hall like a little storm, her black hair bouncing, her green eyes sparkling.
"Grandpa!" Mira cried, launching herself at him.
Aren caught her easily, lifting her high into the air with a rumbling laugh that echoed warmly through the room.
"You've gotten heavier," he teased, spinning her once before setting her down.
Mira pouted. "That's not very nice, Grandpa! I'm growing! You're supposed to say I'm taller!"
"My mistake," Aren said gravely, placing a hand atop her head.
"You've grown into a terrifying warrior already."
Mira beamed at the praise, her little chest puffing up proudly.
They all sat together, the once-intimidating Grand Duke now simply a man surrounded by the family he had fought and bled for.
As they ate, Aren let himself relax — listening to Mira chatter about her new sword instructor, Elara quietly asking for advice on a new cultivation technique, Darian discussing estate matters with calm authority, Lyra teasing her brother mercilessly about paperwork.
At some point, Aren leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea, Selene's hand resting lightly over his.
He watched them — all of them — and felt something settle deep inside him.
Peace.
Belonging.
Home.
He wasn't Aren Vale the Transcendent Sword anymore.
He was Aren Vale — husband, father, grandfather.
And for the first time in many lifetimes, that was enough.