Vuhr’s amber eyes found mine, the gold flecks in them catching the light. “I chose Mira,” he said simply. “I will continue to choose her. Every day.”
Something inside me melted at his words, at the uncharacteristic openness with which he spoke them in front of a stranger. This proud, private creature, declaring his intentions without hesitation.
The officiant looked surprised, then thoughtful. She turned to me. “And you, Ms. Everett? Is this still a matter of convenience for you?”
The question hung in the air between us. Once, I would have answered yes without hesitation. Now, the very suggestion seemed laughable.
“No,” I said, meeting Vuhr’s gaze steadily. “It might have started that way, but now...” I took a deep breath, gathering courage. “Now I choose him too. Not because he offers safety or shelter, but because he sees me. Really sees me. And I’m choosing to see him in return, to learn him, to...” I faltered, words failing me.
“To build something together,” Vuhr finished softly, his deep voice almost a purr.
I nodded, grateful. “Yes. To build something together. Every day.”
The officiant studied us for a long moment, then sighed—not with exasperation, but with something that might have been reluctant approval. “Well. That’s more than most couples bring to this desk, human or otherwise.” She stamped the document with a decisive thud. “Sign here. And here. Then place your hands together on the final seal.”
We did as instructed, the physical act of signing ancient parchment feeling weighty and significant in a way digital contracts never could. When Vuhr’s massive hand covered mine over the seal, a faint golden light spiraled up from the paper, encircling our joined hands briefly before fading.
“It is done,” the officiant said, adding her own signature with a flourish. “May your cohabitation be...” she paused, searching for the appropriate bureaucratic phrase, then seemed to abandonthe script entirely. “May you continue to choose each other, when it’s easy and when it’s not.”
As we left the office, the final papers tucked safely away, I realized with sudden clarity what had changed in me. For years, I had been merely surviving—each day an exercise in making it to the next, each choice calculated for maximum security and minimum risk.
Now, with Vuhr’s wing curved protectively around me and the desert homestead waiting for us beyond the city limits, I wasn’t just surviving anymore.
I was living.
mira’s epilogue
One week into our official cohabitation, and the desert homestead no longer felt foreign to me. The thick adobe walls absorbed the day’s heat and released it slowly through the night, keeping the interior pleasantly warm despite the temperature drop that came with sunset. I had come to love the way the light changed here—how it painted the clay walls gold at dawn, harsh white at noon, and deep orange at dusk. So different from the perpetual gray-blue artificial lighting of the human quarter where I’d spent most of my life.
The kitchen filled with the rich scent of cinnamon and honey as I pulled another tray of flatbread from the stone oven. Sweat beaded along my hairline from the heat, but I didn’t mind. There was satisfaction in creating something with my hands, in seeing the dough transform under my care.
“You’re getting better at this,” Vuhr observed from where he stood grinding spices with a mortar and pestle, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each methodical movement. “The first batch was edible. This one might actually be good.”
I shot him a mock glare, then broke off a piece of the steaming bread and popped it into my mouth. The flavor burst across my tongue—sweet with honey, warm with cinnamon, and underneath, the nutty taste of the desert grain we’d harvested yesterday from the small field behind the house.
“It’s perfect,” I declared, tearing off another piece and holding it out to him. “Try it.”
Instead of taking it with his hands, Vuhr leaned down and captured the bread directly from my fingers with his mouth, his sharp teeth grazing my skin in a way that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. His eyes, those mesmerizing amber pools, never left mine as he chewed thoughtfully.
“Perfect,” he agreed, the word carrying weight beyond simple culinary approval.
We worked in comfortable silence after that, moving around the kitchen in a dance we’d already perfected. I kneaded more dough while he prepared a stew with desert hare and root vegetables. Our hands occasionally brushed, his tail sometimes curled briefly around my ankle as he passed, small touches that grounded us to each other.
Later, as the stew simmered and the bread cooled, I stepped outside onto the flat roof terrace where I’d taken to practicing my strength exercises. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, but my skin had already begun to tan rather than burn, adapting to this harsh new environment as readily as the rest of me had.
I moved through the series of postures Vuhr had taught me—stances designed to build core strength and balance. My muscles, once soft from city living, had begun to define themselves. My arms no longer trembled when holding thepositions. My lungs no longer burned with the effort of controlled breathing in the thin desert air.
Like the adobe walls of our home, I was changing—absorbing the harshness of this place and turning it into something sustaining.
From below, I heard Vuhr’s voice calling me to eat. I finished my sequence and made my way down the ladder from the roof, arriving in the kitchen just as he was ladling stew into carved wooden bowls.
“You were up there longer today,” he noted, setting my portion before me.
“I added ten more repetitions,” I said, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “And I barely felt it.”
His answering smile was small but genuine. “Soon you’ll be strong enough to spar with me.”
I laughed, the sound ringing freely through our home. “I don’t think human strength ever quite reaches Manticore levels, no matter how many exercises I do.”
