Briq stands stiff-backed in the glittering chaos of the town square, jaw set, dark hair slicked, navy suit pressed sharp against the rawness in his eyes. The news has torn through him. Jerae, his mother—steel in a pearl-gray dress, lips pinched, gaze like frost—stares down at the child by Senne’s side. The boy tugs at Senne’s sleeve, eyes wide and uncertain, a wisp of Briq’s unruly hair falling over his brow.

Senne’s voice is low, trembling, as she places a steadying hand on her son’s shoulder. “This is Ailin,” she says. Her fingers fidget at her skirt, knuckles white. Briq glances at Jerae, but the matriarch turns away, expression unreadable—a silent quake of the dynasty’s foundation.

He kneels, expensive shoes digging into gravel, and looks up into eyes so much like his own. The boy studies him, solemn, then reaches out—small, hesitant—touching Briq’s cheek with a feather-light curiosity. Briq’s careful facade fractures, breath faltering as he presses trembling lips to his son’s brow, eyes squeezed shut against a surge of unfamiliar tenderness. Senne’s lips part—caught between relief and fear—her posture softening as Briq, for once, allows himself to be vulnerable.

Not far away, Corven cuts through the crowd, his silhouette angular in a faded dress shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair is tousled, eyes tinged with sleeplessness and something hard. He shoulders past Vyn, who lingers at the festival’s edge, smile gone tight. Corven mounts the steps of the public square stage, pulse hammering in his throat.

His voice rings out, low but steady. “The Vessiel name—” A hush falls. He locks eyes with Briq. “Briq’s deals nearly cost Audelis our future.” Murmurs ripple. Papers flash in Corven’s fist—proof, betrayal printed in ink. Briq’s jaw clenches, but doesn’t speak, hand instinctively reaching for Senne and Ailin. Jerae’s glare is arctic as she retreats, power slipping from her fingers.

Corven’s hands tremble as applause breaks—hollow, uncertain. He finds Lessa in the shadows, her hair loose, face streaked with mascara from a night spent sleepless at her mother’s bedside. She moves through the crowd—jeans smudged, heart in her eyes, shoulders squared with newfound resolve. She hesitates, breathless, then runs, colliding into Corven’s arms. The papers fall, forgotten. His mouth finds hers—hungry, desperate, his hands cupping her face as a sob catches in her chest.

They slip away, down the corridor of casks and stone. Lessa pulls Corven into the cellar, fingers tangling in his shirt. “I’m done being afraid,” she whispers, voice breaking. Corven strokes her jaw, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. He lays her down on the cold floor, stone biting through denim, their limbs tangled—kisses that taste of salt, relief, and longing. “Stay,” Lessa gasps, arching into him, breath shaking. He murmurs her name, countless times, each utterance a promise.

When Lessa finally rests, curled against Corven’s chest, her hand finds his—callused, strong, trembling. “We rebuild,” she says softly. Corven nods, forehead pressed to hers, eyes closed as grief and fierce hope wage war inside him.

Outside, Senne laces her fingers through Briq’s, their son nestled between them. Briq’s hand shakes as he lifts their travel bag; Senne leans into him, her gaze softening as their footsteps carry them away from the only home they’ve ever known. Briq glances back—just once—at the faded banners, the silent crowd, eyes stinging, lips pressed to Ailin’s hair. Senne squeezes his hand, anchoring him to this uncertain, fragile beginning.

As twilight falls, Lessa and Corven walk the vineyard rows—ruined, but theirs. She laughs, unexpectedly, and he grins, tired and raw, fingers entwined with hers, both breathing in the ache and sweetness of possibility that tastes almost like forgiveness.