News traveled slowly among the Hexenzirkel—carried on winds, whispered through teacups, etched in star charts—but it reached them all the same.

  Nicole’s mortality.

  The witches arrived unannounced one crisp autumn afternoon. Alice swept in first, Klee trailing behind with a suspiciously smoking backpack. Barbeloth followed more sedately, staff tapping softly. Rhinedottir sent only a letter, sealed with alchemical wax that shimmered like liquid gold.

  They gathered in the manor garden, beneath the same tree where Boreas and Elowen had once played as children. Nicole welcomed them with tea and fresh apple pie, her hands steady despite the faint tremor age had begun to introduce.

  Alice spoke first, blunt as ever.

  “We heard what you did. You gave up eternity. For him. For them.” She gestured vaguely toward the training field where Varka laughed with the twins. “You’re a fool, love. A very beautiful one.”

  Nicole poured another cup. “I know.”

  Barbeloth leaned forward, eyes distant as though reading threads only she could see.

  “I looked into your future,” she said quietly. “It is short—by our measure. But bright. You will see grandchildren. You will hold Varka’s hand when the time comes. You will not fade alone.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Nicole’s breath caught. She set the teapot down carefully.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Alice reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “If it were Klee—or Kleiner—I’d do the same. Burn every star if it meant keeping them safe. You’re not alone in that madness.”

  Rhinedottir’s letter lay open between them. The alchemist’s elegant script read:

  If age ever weighs too heavily, or memory falters, or the body betrays—call. I will craft something. A salve. A serum. A new heart if need be. Not immortality. Only time enough to finish what matters.

  Nicole folded the letter with care. “Tell her thank you. But I think… I’ve had enough of forever.”

  The witches stayed until dusk—sharing stories, laughing over old mischief, offering quiet comfort in the way only those who had lived centuries could. When they left, Alice hugged Nicole fiercely.

  “You chose right,” she murmured. “Live every second of it.”

  Nicole watched them go, then turned back toward the manor. Varka met her at the door, arms open.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  She stepped into his embrace. “Better than all right.”

  Inside, Boreas and Elowen waited—now young adults, still ageless, still carrying the quiet guilt of their mother’s sacrifice. Nicole pulled them close, one under each arm.

  “No more regrets,” she told them. “We live now. Together. That’s enough for me.”

  Varka joined the embrace, his voice rough with emotion.

  “More than enough.”

  Outside, the winds of Mondstadt blew gentle and free—carrying the scent of apples, the sound of distant laughter, and the promise that some endings were not losses, but completions.

  And in the heart of the city of freedom, a family—mortal, ageless, and forever bound—continued writing their story, one cherished day at a time.