Epilogue
For some, ten years was long enough to forgive and to forge a new life ahead.
Prince Geoffrey, for instance, no longer wished to remain within the kingdom that had caused him insurmountable pain. He did, however, continue to serve the crown that his father had dedicated his life to. Even though it was the same crown that had cost him everything he'd loved and treasured.
He travelled far and wide, as an emissary of sorts, strengthening the kingdom's existing relations with foreign lands and forging new ones—something that had become second nature in his former life as Crown Prince.
At the same time, Prince Geoffrey became a conduit for Drake's trades with all those kingdoms and tribes he travelled to, their friendship and business dealings having grown out of what was once an uncomfortable relationship between victim and saviour.
And the King, who'd ultimately worked out the trickery of the contract with the Northern Emir, was happy to let it slide. For he was still building up his coffers with a healthy stream of gold from House Rohan's bountiful foreign trades. That, and he had much better things to occupy his attention with.
For others, like Drake, ten years brought greater chaos than ever before.
As it turned out, Amelia at twenty-six was no different to Amelia at sixteen, and all of her screaming at the start of their marriage was merely an initiation for the years that followed. With two little scoundrels to form a screaming trio with her, he definitely could not remember the last time he woke to the sound of chirping birds in the morn. In a few more months, they'd even upgrade to a quartet.
"Papaaaaaaaa!" A high-pitched screech sounded.
Drake looked up to see one of those little rascals hurtling into the study. An eight-year-old mongrel version of himself, with mud-spattered clothes and grass bits sticking out of that bird's nest of inky hair. "You should be studying, Lucien," he reminded sternly.
"But Elly is playing!" the boy whined.
"She is five!"
Lucien knew well that he could not win an argument with his father. So he rounded the large desk instead, and put all the strength in his little arms and legs into hauling Drake out of the chair. "Come play!"
Drake swept his eyes over the piles of business accounts he'd yet to go through and sighed. In ten years, he'd also expanded the trade routes for his people's businesses on land and sea, exporting many of Steersberg's goods to other regions. The part shares of gold he received from those were extraordinary.
More trade. More gold. More accounts. More work. Meanwhile, his wife... "Where's your ma?"
"She... is... busy..." Lucien heaved and groaned as he continued the tug of war with his father's leg. To no avail.
A frown crinkled Drake's brow. Ten years on, he still didn't like the sound of Amelia being 'busy'. "Busy with what?"
"Papa!" The young boy had no patience for his father's pointless, relentless questioning. He dropped the tree trunk of a leg and pouted with hands on his hips. "Come play!"
Drake grimaced at the signature puff of the cheeks that came from his wife and rubbed a hand over his forehead. This annoying little spawn of his was too cute to throw out the room. "Sit there"—he pointed to an empty chair in the corner—"and I'll play with you when I'm done."
His dear son's lips turned down at the corners as he dragged his feet obediently but reluctantly to the chair, scuffing his muddied boots on the carpet in the process. "So unfair," he moaned and grumbled. "Ma is climbing trees with Elly and pa won't even pla—"
"What did you say?" Drake shot up from his seat. "Your ma is doing what?"
"Climbing trees! And you won't even—"
"Lucien Rohan, you tell me this now?" He threw a look of disbelief at his son as he stormed out of the room.
"I've been telling you to play with me, but you weren't listening, pa," the boy continued to grumble as he jogged to keep up pace with his father's long strides.
When Drake made his way through the gardens and spotted the two figures amongst the pink spring blossoms, he blanched. Marge, on the other hand, visibly relaxed on his approach.
"I tried, sir." Her tone of helplessness was one that he fully empathised with.
"I'll deal with it," he said to her before returning his attention to the figures up in the largest plum tree of the gardens. The tree was not tall, but his wife was five goddamned months pregnant. "Amelia Rohan! Get down here right now!"
The sparkle of her blue eyes peeked through the flowers and branches above as she flashed him a smile so sweet it dripped with honey. How dare she look so innocent.
"Aye," she agreed with an impish nibble of her lips.
Oh, no. "Don't jump. Don't jump. Don't—"
She jumped.
When he stepped forward and in the next second felt the weight of her in his arms, he almost wept in relief. Before he could admonish her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a grateful, endearing kiss to his lips. Gods, this woman would be the death of him.
"Papa!" A girlish cry above their heads brought his attention back to the other figure still in the tree. "Me too, papa, me too!"
"Elly, no—"
She leapt through the air.
Drake barely had the time to set Amelia down before he caught his daughter, who proceeded to give his cheek a mouthful of slobber. Like mother, like daughter.
Gods, they would all be the death of him.
Putting his daughter down on the ground, he turned back to his pregnant wife and clutched her by the shoulders. "What were you doing, Amelia?" he chided, even as he examined her from head to toe for signs of any injury.
"I was teaching Elly to climb a tree!" She grinned with pride.
"Elly is five and she can climb a tree faster than anyone in Steersberg. You are pregnant! Can't you do something safe? Teach them... history, or something?"
"History," she scoffed. "I'm pregnant, not damaged. And you wouldn't let me teach Elly ways to blow up the palace—"
"I said safe, Amelia."
"—or to brew concoctions to knock out some royal guards—"
Drake pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
"—all very useful skills if Elly is to marry a foolish prince. Infinitely more useful than history."
"Amelia, she may be queen one day!"
Amelia scrunched her nose, as if disgusted by the thought. And he would tend to agree, for the prospect of his five-year-old daughter becoming queen of the kingdom was as bizarre as they came. Drake was still waiting for the day King Dane would renounce his own order, but before then, it remained a fantastical possibility.
"I am going to make her as unqueenly as possible," Amelia declared with a determined tilt of her chin.
He pulled her in by the waist, admiring every delicate feature and animated expression of hers that he could never tire of. "You mean like yourself?"
"Hei!" She slapped him on a shoulder, but returned his gaze with the same affection and clasped her hands behind his neck. "The queen we have now isn't all that queenly! Didn't your spies say that she insisted she was from some place called... Ur..."
"Earth."
"Ah, right. Earth," she repeated slowly, emphasising the vowels. "Why would anyone name their land after dirt?"
"Perhaps it's what they have a lot of," Drake mused with a shrug. Even Prince Geoffrey, in all his travels far and abroad, had never heard of any place named 'Earth'. "The queen may be a little odd," he continued, "but word is our king adores her like no other. The same way you're odd, but I—"
"Drake Rohan!"
He ignored her and ran a hand over her protruding belly—their third child—before lowering his lips to hers. Demonstrating his own adoration was far more enjoyable than discussing the love life of others.
Ten years on, she still screamed, still caused trouble, still spat shards of fire and ice from her eyes, but it was exactly the way he liked it. Even if he might never wake to the sound of chirping birds again.
And when they held each other like this, when they kissed with reckless abandon as they always did, the world around them fell away.
Indeed, their little monster spawns have been hopping up and down, tugging at their sleeves and crying for attention for the past many minutes. But they would have to wait. Eventually, they'd probably find their own entertainment by mixing up their Uncle Sven's seeds and dumping extra ingredients into Cook Tom's soups. It was just the way things worked at Steersberg Manor.
Just perfect. He must have done some great deeds in his past life for the fates to have blessed him so.