Truth.
He didn’t wait after that. He stepped forward, closing the space between us and pulling me into a kiss. We swayed there in that strange garden of sharp and decadent things, of ornaments that held the memory of magic but were remade with our own enchantment. He kissed me until the light moved slowly over the garden and even far away from the coronation ceremony, a murmur of confusion began to reach us.
“I wonder if this is what Kubera wanted,” he murmured into my hair. “As an ending for us.”
“Not an ending,” I said, raising my head. “A beginning to our story.”
Above us, something fluttered. I looked up and caught the edge of a scarlet wing. From here, I couldn’t tell whether one of Kubera’s story birds had followed us or whether it was just an ordinary bird hopping through the trees. But I did know that somewhere our story was taking flight. Maybe it had already traveled, from mouth and ear to mind and memory. And perhaps that in itself was the great secret—not just for legacy, but also for life. You could carry a story inside you and hold it up to the light when you needed it the most. You could peer through it, like a frame, and see how it changed your view when you looked out onto the world.
A new world awaited us outside the garden. A world with new dreams and worn hopes. A world waiting to be filled with stories that would spread pale roots over time until they became indistinguishable from history. Vikram held out his arm, and I took it.
Together, we walked into that new world.