Six months had passed since Serah and Marcus had settled into their quiet life in Beaufield. The days had rolled by softly, the seasons shifting from late spring into the golden arms of sumr. Their little ho had beco a sanctuary—wooden walls scented with herbs, a small garden blooming with flowers, and laughter echoing often enough that even the village children had grown fond of visiting.
That evening, as the sun began to sink behind the erald hills, Beaufield was bathed in a warm, honey-colored glow. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys of nearby cottages, the air rich with the sll of bread, roasted at, and the faint sweetness of pine. Crickets had begun their early song, mingling with the laughter of children chasing each other through the dusty paths outside.
Inside the cozy ho of Marcus and Serah, the two sat across from each other at their small wooden table. Dinner was simple—grilled fish seasoned with herbs, stead vegetables, and a loaf of warm bread they’d bought from the baker that morning. The flicker of a candle danced between them, lighting Serah’s red wavy hair like fire and painting Marcus’s features in shades of bronze and shadow.
"—and then, I told him, ’you can’t fix a fence by staring at it, old man!’" Marcus said, laughing mid-bite, his fork waving dramatically. "You should’ve seen his face, Serah. He just stood there lookin’ at like I stole his sheep."
Serah snorted into her wine, trying not to laugh too loud. "Marcus, you didn’t actually say that to Elder Rowan, did you?"
"Of course I did!" he said proudly, thumping his chest. "Man needed a little honesty in his life. That fence’s been leaning since the day I t him."
"You’re incorrigible," she said, shaking her head but smiling all the sa. "You’re lucky he likes you. Otherwise, he’d have had the entire council scolding you again."
Marcus leaned back in his chair, flashing that smug grin. "Please, I’m his favorite troublemaker. Without , this village would die of boredom."
Serah rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her laughter. "You really think too highly of yourself."
"Soone has to," he said with a playful wink. "Besides, you love it."
"Oh, gods above," she muttered with mock despair, covering her face with her hand as she giggled.
Their laughter carried softly through the warm evening air. It was easy, unforced—the kind of laughter that ca from two people who had found their rhythm, who no longer had to pretend or guard themselves.
When the plates were empty and the candle burned low, Marcus gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink. Serah, as always, began clearing the table, stacking the plates neatly and wiping down the wood.
Their voices still filled the space between them.
"So, you think we’ll finally get that new roof done next week?" Serah asked, tossing him a glance as she collected the cups.
"Hmm? If Elias doesn’t flake on again, yeah," Marcus said over the sound of running water. "But honestly, at this point, I’m half tempted to just do it myself."
"You? Up there with your back?" she teased. "You’d be flat on the ground in five minutes."
"Hey now—" Marcus turned, pretending to be offended, though there was amusent in his tone. "I’m not that old yet."
"Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, grandpa."
He laughed. "You wound , woman."
Serah chuckled softly, but as she turned her gaze toward the open window, sothing outside caught her attention. The sound of children running and laughing drifted in from the village square. A small group of them dashed past the window—three boys and a little girl—chasing a handmade wooden hoop down the path, their giggles echoing like wind chis.
For a long mont, Serah just watched them. Her movents slowed, the cloth in her hand forgotten as a gentle expression crossed her face—sothing wistful, tender, and deep.
Marcus kept talking, not noticing at first. But when she didn’t respond, he glanced over his shoulder. "Serah? You good over there?"
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set the cloth aside, walked quietly across the room, and slipped her arms around his waist from behind.
Marcus flinched slightly, caught off guard as her head ca to rest against his back. "Whoa—what’s this for?" he said with a chuckle, still holding a soapy dish in one hand. "You trying to make drop this plate? ’Cause I will, you know."
Serah didn’t answer imdiately. Her hold tightened slightly as she breathed him in—the scent of soap, smoke, and faint cedarwood clinging to him. "Marcus," she said softly, her voice low and almost hesitant.
"Yeah?" he asked, still smiling as he rinsed the plate.
She hesitated, then asked quietly, "Do you... want to have a child?"
The question hit him harder than a war hamr. Marcus froze mid-motion, the plate slipping from his hands and landing back in the sink with a loud clink. He blinked, completely dumbfounded, before slowly turning around to face her.
"I—uh—wait—what?" he stamred, pointing at her with a dripping hand. "A... a kid? Like, an actual... baby? You an a small human?"
Serah raised an amused brow. "Yes, Marcus. That’s usually what a child is."
He blinked again, clearly scrambling for words. "Oh—uh, right. Yeah, yeah, no, of course. Totally knew that. It’s just... wow, that’s... that’s a big question to drop mid-dishwashing, don’t you think? Maybe start with, ’hey, how’s the weather?’ or—"
"Marcus," she said firmly.
"Right, right, okay—uh, sure, yeah. I an... I guess? I think?" He ran a wet hand through his hair, water flicking everywhere. "Wait, is this like... a hypothetical question? Or are we actually—"
Serah sighed, her lips curving into a small smile. "Marcus," she interrupted again, this ti softer. She stepped closer, her eyes eting his. "It wasn’t really a question."
That shut him up imdiately. His words faltered, his lips parting just slightly as realization dawned. Then, slowly, that familiar grin tugged at the corners of his mouth—playful, disbelieving, but full of warmth.
"Well," he said, voice dropping lower. "Guess I better finish these dishes tomorrow."
Serah smirked. "Guess you should."
And before either of them could say another word, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The kiss started soft, almost tentative, but quickly deepened as he pulled her closer, his hands finding her waist. The sound of the village outside faded, replaced by the quiet hum of their hearts beating in sync.
The dishes were forgotten. The candle burned low. And as the night rolled on, the peaceful village of Beaufield fell into a silence that would later be rembered only by the whispering wind—because whatever happened within those walls that night belonged to them, and them alone.
***
The morning after that fateful night, the sun rose softly over Beaufield, spilling its golden light through the curtains of their small cottage. The sll of dew and pine filtered through the open window, mixing with the warmth of the hearth still glowing from the night before. Serah awoke in Marcus’s arms, her head resting on his chest, listening to the slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For the first ti in a long ti, her mind was completely at peace.
Days turned into weeks, and the quiet life they once knew began to change in the most beautiful way imaginable. They started making preparations for their first child — their laughter now mixed with plans and dreams, their ho slowly transforming to welco new life.
Marcus had built a small crib by hand, carving it from strong oak wood he’d gathered from the nearby forest. He worked on it for days, carefully sanding it, shaping every edge until it was perfect. Serah would often co up behind him, her hands resting gently on his shoulders as she smiled. "You’re going to spoil this child before they’re even born," she’d tease.
Marcus would grin, brushing sawdust from his hair. "Of course I am. You think I’m about to let my kid sleep in so wobbly village crib? Nah. My child’s getting the best."
When it ca to nas, however, the two couldn’t stop bickering in the most playful way possible.
"I’m telling you, if it’s a girl, we na her Alina," Serah said one evening as they lay in bed, her fingers tracing circles on Marcus’s chest.
"Alina?" Marcus chuckled. "That sounds like the na of a royal duchess, not a girl who’s gonna be running through mud puddles and chasing chickens."
"Oh, and what would you suggest then? Sothing like ’Raven’ or ’Blade’?" she teased.
He smirked. "Raven actually sounds kinda cool."
Serah groaned dramatically. "Gods, help . You’re not naming our child after a bird."
"Fine, fine," Marcus said, grinning. "If it’s a boy, though, I get naming rights."
"Deal," Serah replied. "But you better not give him sothing ridiculous."
Marcus looked thoughtful, tapping his chin. "Hmm... what about Kael? Or Rowan? Maybe Marcus."
"Marcus?" Serah said with a raised brow. "You just want to na him after yourself, don’t you?"
Marcus laughed. "Hey, can you bla ?"
As the days passed, their teasing turned into quiet wonder. They would lie beneath the stars, talking about who their child might beco.
"You think they’ll have your eyes?" Serah asked one night, staring at the starlit sky.
Marcus turned to her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Nah, they’ll have yours. Those fierce, fiery red ones that make people forget how to breathe."
Serah smiled softly. "Hmm... but I want them to have your smile. The one that makes people think you’ve got everything under control even when you don’t."
He laughed quietly. "Then maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll have both."
Months flew by quicker than either of them expected. The village of Beaufield had co to adore the couple, and when word spread that Serah was expecting, the people treated her like a queen. They brought her herbs, warm als, and blankets. The elder won often ca to check on her, teaching her redies and preparing her for what was to co. Marcus, on the other hand, grew more protective and restless with every passing day, often shadowing Serah’s every move until she shooed him out of the house.
Then, one morning, the ti ca.
The sky outside was painted gray, a quiet drizzle falling over Beaufield. The village midwives and elder won rushed into the house, their voices calm but firm. "Breathe, dear, breathe. You’ll be fine," one of them said as Serah groaned in pain, sweat glistening on her forehead.
Outside, Marcus was pacing back and forth, hands on his head, his nerves eating at him. The older n of the village surrounded him, sitting near the fire, trying to calm him down.
"Relax, lad," old Rowan said, handing him a mug of water. "Won are stronger than we’ll ever be. She’ll make it through."
Marcus ran a trembling hand through his hair. "You don’t understand," he muttered, his voice shaky. "My mother... she died giving birth to my sister. I can’t— I can’t go through that again. Not with Serah."
The older n exchanged looks, then Rowan placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You’re not losing her, Marcus. She’s got fire in her veins, that one. You know it better than any of us."
Marcus nodded slowly, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out the sound of rain outside. Every cry from the room sent a shiver through him. He wanted to rush in, but the midwives wouldn’t let him.
Hours passed—long, torturous hours filled with shouting, silence, and prayer. And then, at last, the air was split by a sound unlike any other—the first cry of a newborn.
Marcus froze. His heart stopped for a mont before he bolted up, bursting through the door of the house.
Inside, the room was warm and dimly lit by candles. One of the elder won smiled gently as she held a small, squirming baby wrapped in a soft blanket. Marcus’s voice cracked as he spoke, "Serah... where’s Serah? Is she—?"
"She’s fine," the woman said with a calm smile. "Resting, but alive. You did well to have faith."
Only when he heard those words did Marcus finally breathe. His knees almost gave out as he exhaled, relief flooding him like a wave. Then, with trembling hands, he reached for the child.
The baby was small, fragile, yet alive with warmth. His tiny fists clenched as he let out a soft whimper. Marcus’s eyes softened as he stared at the boy’s dark hair—and beneath it, faint streaks of red shimred under the candlelight. A perfect blend of them both.
"He’s..." Marcus couldn’t even finish the sentence. He just smiled, eyes glassy with emotion. "He’s perfect."
He stayed there for a long mont, just holding his son. Then he turned toward the bed where Serah lay, her face pale but glowing with exhaustion and joy.
"Hey," Marcus said quietly, walking toward her. "Soone’s here to et you."
Serah’s tired eyes lifted as he placed the baby in her arms. The mont she saw the child, her expression lted into pure love. The baby blinked, his small eyes opening for the first ti—revealing a deep crimson hue that shimred faintly in the light.
"Red eyes," Serah whispered softly, a small smile curling her lips. "Just like mine..."
Marcus knelt beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
"What do you want to call him?" he asked gently.
Serah didn’t hesitate. She looked at her son and whispered, "Liam."
Marcus smiled instantly, no argunt, no second thought. "Liam," he repeated, his voice soft but steady. "Yeah... that’s perfect."
The two sat there together, their son resting between them, the storm outside slowly fading into calm.
In that tiny cottage in Beaufield, surrounded by candlelight and the scent of rain, a new Chapter began — not of warriors or royals, but of a family. And for the first ti in his life, Marcus truly understood what peace felt like.
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