Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
She looked up at him, close enough now that he could see the darker ring around her irises, the way her pupils dilated slightly in the dim light.
“Want to come in for a drink?”
The invitation hung in the air. Simple. Not loaded with expectation. Just wanting more time together.
Bastien wanted to say yes. Wanted it badly enough that it surprised him—the desire to sit in her apartment, talk until late, not be alone with the aftermath of everything they’d survived. To stay in this bubble of warmth and possibility for just a few more hours.
But he shook his head gently. “Not tonight.”
Her breath caught slightly—small intake of air, barely audible.
“You need rest,” he said. “And I’d like to do this properly. Take our time. Build something that isn’t rooted in crisis.”
Color rose in her cheeks, visible even in the streetlight. She looked down, then back up, smiling—not disappointed, but pleased. Pleasantly flustered in a way that made her look younger, more vulnerable.
“Okay. Properly.”
She stepped inside but paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “Goodnight, Bastien.”
“Goodnight, Delphine.”
The door closed with a soft click. He stayed on the stoop, not devastated, not dramatic. Just warm. Steady. Hopeful.
For the first time in this lifetime, they weren’t circling each other in fear. They were moving toward something. Slowly. Carefully. With intention instead of compulsion.
Bastien walked home through the Quarter. The mirror network pulsed quietly beneath the city—stable, functional, preserved. The streets had their normal rhythm. His reflection appeared in every window he passed, visible and present.
But he felt it again as he walked—that old presence in the distant dark. Not reflection magic. Not Gideon’s corruption. Something else. Something patient that had been waiting for the immediate crisis to resolve.
He whispered to himself, “One battle at a time.”
Whatever was coming could wait. Tonight he had a first date to remember. A second date to look forward to. A woman who’d chosen clearly and freely. A bond that preserved connection while honoring choice. A network that functioned properly.
Tomorrow would bring its own challenges. The old magic watching from the shadows. Questions from the magical community about Delphine’s broadcast. The work of maintaining Charlotte’s network now that Gideon’s corruption was purged.
But tonight, walking home through the Quarter with burned palms that were healing and exhaustion that was fading and hope that was growing, Bastien felt ready.
One choice at a time.
One conversation at a time.
One lifetime at a time.
Together.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, taking them slowly, letting the evening settle into his bones. Unlocked the door. The space welcomed him with warm lamplight—he’d left it on before leaving—and the faint smell of old books and coffee and the Thai food they’d shared.
Charlotte’s journal still sat on the dining table. Her careful handwriting documenting the design philosophy that had proven true—connection without compulsion, choice preserved across lifetimes, love and freedom working together instead of in opposition.
Bastien closed the journal carefully and placed it on the shelf with his other important texts. The leather spine fit perfectly between a grimoire on celestial resonance and a first edition of Paradise Lost that he’d acquired in 1780. Charlotte’s work was done. Her network functioned. Her hope for future soul bonds was vindicated.
Now came the work of living. Of building something new with Delphine. Of figuring out what the bond meant in practical terms and what they wanted to do with that knowledge. Of facing whatever ancient threat was stirring in the shadows.
But not tonight.
He changed into sleep clothes—old cotton pants, a shirt he’d owned for decades. Brushed his teeth. The routine was comforting in its mundanity. These small human rituals that grounded him, reminded him that despite his nature, he’d chosen to live among mortals, to participate in their world rather than remain apart from it.
Tonight he would sleep. And tomorrow he would wake to possibility instead of dread. To a future that felt uncertain but not terrifying. To a city that continued its dance between worlds, and to a woman who’d chosen to dance with him.
One step at a time.
Together.
Bastien turned off the lights and went to bed. The sheets were cool against his skin. The room was dark except for the ambient glow from streetlights filtering through the window. Somewhere below, someone laughed. A car door slammed. The city continued its nightly symphony.
He closed his eyes and felt sleep approaching—not the fitful half-consciousness he’d endured for decades, but genuine rest. Deep and dreamless and healing.
And for the first time in two centuries, he slept without dreaming of loss.