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Dorinar finished the account with a flourish of his pen before sitting back and sipping his steaming tea, immensely satisfied. But the historian only got a moment to relish his accomplishment before a petite woman of middling years poked her chin over his shoulder.

“Did you finish it? Can I read it yet?” Not waiting for an answer, she plucked the parchment from the raven-birch desk.

He tried to snatch it back, but she’d already dodged around a nearby armchair while she held it in front of her freckle-dusted nose. “You’re going to smear the ink,” he said, chasing after her. “Return it immediately, I haven’t even read it myself yet.”

She twirled across the rug, not even looking at him as she dodged his hands in a well-worn dance. “Why would you need to read it when you’re the one who wrote it?”

He tried to snatch the paper again, only for her to duck away. “I’m entitled to enjoy my own brilliance.”

Marloa peeked out from behind the page to roll her dark blue eyes at him. “And you wonder why people call you the grumpy magus.”

She leapt onto the armchair, and he managed to wrap his arms around her. “It’s not my fault humans are endlessly infuriating.”

She lowered the parchment, wrinkling her nose. “But… you ended it after they defeated Idriel.”

“Well, it is the history of Idriel’s last defeat.” He lifted her from the chair and deposited her on the rug. “Now—the paper, woman.”

She dropped it on the desk with a sigh. “But it doesn’t say anything about the Heirs destroying the Lost or driving out the Rastgol or rebuilding Carceroc or any of that.”

“That’s not part of the account.” His paper reclaimed, he tried to release her, only to find that Marloa had wrapped her arms around his waist.

She looked up at him, her gaze earnest beneath her short brown hair. “Of course it is. People want to know that there was a happy ending.”

Dorinar tried to extricate himself from her grasp, but she’d somehow managed to morph herself into something akin to an impossibly strong barnacle. “Destroying Idriel is a happy ending.”

Marloa’s face scrunched for a moment before brightening again with a sudden idea. “Don’t worry, I’ll write it!” Releasing him, she sat in his chair and grabbed the quill.

“What? No, you will not!” He seized her once again, dragging her away. “You don’t want to spoil an already perfect manuscript,” he tried, desperately attempting to appease what he knew could quickly turn into an obsession. “Why don’t you write another volume instead?”

Trapped in his arms, she looked up at him again, indecision weighing on her face. “I don’t—”

A knock on the door interrupted her, and once again, a surprised smile lit Marloa’s face. “I’ll get it.”

“No,” Dorinar started. “How many times do I have to tell you we don’t accept visitors?”

Completely ignoring him, Marloa opened the door to find three youths standing on their doorstep with not one, not two, but three massive ragehounds at their heels.

The tallest boy, Heelo, had just made eighteen and took mostly after his mother with his brown waves and green eyes. But Dorinar supposed they were lucky he hadn’t shown up in the Maldibor form he was so fond of. Cami, fourteen now, shared her cousin’s emerald gaze, but more resembled their grandmother Kaia with her long mahogany hair. Well, except for the massive broadsword across her back that suspiciously resembled her father’s. And Rev, the youngest at eleven, somehow managed to look like the ringleader with his arched brows and glinting amber eyes, his black curls falling onto his forehead and a gold coin flicking deftly between his fingers.

“Marloa, lovely to see you, as always. Is Dorinar in by chance?” Rev flashed a charming grin that looked so much like Jai’s, Dorinar had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. “We may need just a little bit of help.”

Marloa popped a hand on a hip and leaned against the doorframe, shooting a smug grin at Dorinar. “Why yes, Rev. In fact, he’s just finished up his work and would love to see you.”

And then the three Heirs and their hounds tumbled into the room in a stream of jumbled chatter, arguing, and excited barks. The quiet of the cottage completely evaporated in their presence.

Assaulted by the youthful chaos, Dorinar sagged into his armchair and wiped a hand over his face. “It never ends, does it?”

“Not a chance, Dorn.” Marloa held her belly as she laughed, her face practically glowing. “I have a feeling the Heirs will be turning up at your doorstep for generations to come.”

And even as the children tugged at his sleeves with their latest trouble, the grumpy magus gave Marloa one of his rare smiles. Because she was right.