Bride in a wreath of wild flowers

(Six days later)

Elfin snowdrops, violas, calendulas, asters, daisies, alyssum, and baby's breath—blossoms in hues of pink, white, and purple—bloom wild across the fertile countryside of Ziriri.

In a sun-drenched meadow, nestled among these flowers, a man and woman rest in love.

For a little while, a featherlight calm settles over Neva's face. Bouquets—some bought from quaint village shops, others plucked gently from the meadow—lie before her: stems of soft pink roses, petite florets of baby's breath, cornflowers, and more.

Her eyes, quietly glinting though still a little dim, are full of thought. Her fingers move with grace, light as the wind, as she weaves a wreath from the purest-hued elfin blooms and tender leaves.

Tomorrow morning, she will crown her hair with it.

For when the sun rises, she will become his bride.

Rhett lies beside her, face turned up to the cloudless sky.

His features are warm, his expression serene. Long legs stretched out, palms against the grass behind him, he lets the peace of the moment steep deep.

His cocoa-brown eyes drift to Neva as she hums a quiet, lovely melody.

A soft smile, born of affection and rest, lingers on his lips.

Under this wide blue sky, in the meadow filled with wildflowers, Neva mirrors them—resilient and beautiful. She's learned to bloom even in the bitter cold, even through the darkest nights.

Six days ago, she had whispered her longing to be wed. And Rhett wasn't about to let that golden wish pass him by.

At dawn, they'd boarded another ship to another land.

Now they are in Auraria.

And here, in the countryside of Ziriri, they've found a quiet cottage to rent—a place to pause, to breathe.

She is still grieving, still carrying shadows of guilt.

But now… she no longer carries them alone.

With Rhett beside her and God listening, the storm begins to lose its voice.

She isn't healed yet—but she feels held.

She doesn't smile often, but she whispers prayers into the dark.

She's begun to eat again. To sleep, even if only a little.

Sometimes, she breathes without pain.

The nightmares still visit.

But she no longer scrubs her arms raw trying to escape them.

One day, the bleeding will stop.

The scars will remain, but they will no longer define her.

Rhett knows she won't recover by forgetting.

She'll heal by remembering—differently.

Not as the cursed girl.

But as one redeemed. Loved. Chosen.

Without a word, Rhett wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her gently to his chest.

His chin rests on her shoulder.

She lowers her eyes to meet his and quietly leans her head against him.

She plucks one last sprig of baby's breath and tucks it into the wreath's edge.

Holding it out at arm's length, she gazes at her creation. Her fingers still. Rhett watches her, his eyes soft.

"Is it pretty?" she asks, voice a fragile whisper.

He nods, head still resting on her shoulder.

"Very pretty… though I feel a little bad for it."

She tilts her head, puzzled. "Why?"

He lifts his head, and kisses her—gentle, sure.

"Because, my dear bride," he murmurs, smiling, "you are immeasurably gorgeous. That wreath… it doesn't stand a chance next to you."

Such sweet words, spoken with such a radiant smile.

She can't stop the warmth rising to her cheeks, painting them a deeper pink.

Rhett chuckles softly and kisses her again—this time, with more depth, more hunger.

Their breaths mingle—close, warm, and heavy over each other's lips.

"I love you so much, Angel," he whispers. "So much."