Yours.

With a single word and a single touch, the course of Kvothe’s future was written. In that single moment— in that single moment, both nothing and everything changed. Nothing changed because she’d already belonged to the golden General from the first time he’d claimed her; from the first time he’d comforted her. But everything changed because— because for the first time, the chestnut Friesian felt as if Tyr belonged to her, too. As if she could claim more of him than the slender thread she’d clung to for far too long. As if her heart was finally whole again; the wound that Ironclad had left sealed and scarred over like the pale pucker of flesh that curled down her cheek. Though it could not be seen, this scar— as her first— marked both an end and a new beginning. And she cherished it for the hope that it heralded.

She cherished it as she cherished every one of her scars— but had never thought to add to them again so soon.

Sobbing breathlessly, Kvothe squirmed closer to the small still figure, even as the golden boy beside her stirred. With gentle lips, she probed the filly for signs of life— for the shallow rise and fall of her ribs, for the stale warmth of her breath, for the flicker of an ear or an eyelid. Anything. “Anything,” the trembling mare whispered, her voice a fervent and broken plea. “Please, I— Anything.” But the Lagoon’s leaden silence was her only answer, and their secluded sanctuary in the thicket was still save the restless dance of the spotted colt’s tail. Wild, desperate, the twins’ mother began to push at the unmoving body with her muzzle, pausing at erratic intervals to lick fierce lines along the bright red coat. And then finally stopped, pressing her forehead to the child’s neck and squeezing her dark eyes closed. “—please. Please.” Another sob rattled in her chest, escaping soundlessly. Her son hitched himself nearer to the pair, whimpering softly when his muzzle brushed over his sibling’s flank.

And his sister— her daughter— echoed the sound, coming to life beneath his touch.

Crushing herself to the girl with a surge of relief and gratitude and joy, the next sob that tore its way free from her throat was deafening. But in the next beat of the red woman’s heart it became a laugh, one that bubbled past her lips and into the filly’s skin with a gentle hum. “Thank you,” she murmured, the quiet notes of her voice buried beneath the dry rattle of branches shifting in the breeze. “Thank you, thank you.” Lifting her head from the chestnut twin’s skin, Kvothe stretched out across her body. With a watery smile, she pressed her lips to the boy’s cheek and exhaled her breath in a soft, ragged sigh. “Thank you.” She whispered a final time, tucking him gently beneath the arch of her neck and beside the quivering body of his sibling.

For a while they lay entangled that way, sharing their warmth and joy in the wake of a miracle. For a while Kvothe was silent, soaking in the scent and sight of her children; the sound of their heartbeats. But as the sky lightened from black to grey, her thoughts turned to Tyr and the vow that she’d made. I want to do this with you, and I want you to know that I want it. And rising into a shaky stand, the General’s Companion called out for him. Hoping that he was near enough to hear, and come. That he would be there to see his children stand for the first time, nurse for the first time, walk for the first time. That he could choose their names and be the first one to speak them.

That he would become the sun to their world, as he was already the sun to hers.