For immortal beings like planeswalkers, twenty years were as fleeting as a mortal’s sigh. Most had begun their existences as humans aware of their own mortality; over time, that memory faded into a distant echo, intrinsic to their eternal nature. Yet the bard had decided this final stretch—a mere 20-year sliver—would be the most meaningful of his immortal life.

  Hours after leaving his hosts’ tavern, a secluded ceremony unfolded. The same immortals who had debated cosmic mysteries now gathered to witness a mortal rite: a wedding.

  Before them, the young servant Schwi dazzled in a flowing white gown and delicate veil. Beside her stood Mithrill and Ruby—the wolf-woman and phoenix-woman—entities of legendary beauty, their timeless elegance accentuated by attire that complemented, but never overshadowed, Schwi’s radiance. Across from them stood the groom: an interdimensional albino charmer in an impeccable suit. His verses had enamored goddesses and mortals alike, and his romantic heart treasured every love like a jewel polished by each journey.

  Zahitar, the desert wraith and longtime ally of the brides, officiated their union. The bard—now bearing the name Schnee at Schwi’s request—first took his mortal wife’s hand, sealing their bond with a passionate kiss, then repeated the gesture with equal grace toward the immortal maidens.

  From the guest seats, Schnee watched Ruphas, the god-forged minotaur, thunder applause as cosmic as his strength, while the sage Alkhazar clapped with measured restraint, barely masking his emotion. He had raised Schwi as his own daughter, and now watched her wed a man he’d never have chosen… until she chose him.

  The celebration stretched on with the bard’s melodies. Between goblets of divine mead, they shared tales of triumphs and, in their cups, confessed ancient defeats. Each story conjured visited universes and battles fought. Schnee coaxed Alkhazar into recounting his victory over the underworld dragon Nifhdraeom—scattering its essence across infinite planes—a tale met with delight, knowing the bard would soon craft an ode worthy of such a feat.

  But not all could endure immortal revelry. After a day of festivities, Schwi collapsed into exhausted slumber in her husband’s arms. The poet and immortal brides exchanged knowing glances and carried her to the cabin they’d prepared for their shared life.

  As they parted, Alkhazar addressed the groom with grave brevity:

  “Make her happy.”

  Then, before leaving, he added:

  “And ensure you both keep it that way.”

  A simple message, yet brimming with the eternal devotion of companions sworn to watch over her.

  And so, as if living an ordinary mortal life, the days unfolded. Each morning, Schwi rose first to prepare breakfast for her new family—a gesture she cherished, even for beings who no longer needed sustenance. The planeswalkers, in turn, treasured her efforts, often assisting with exotic ingredients or recipes gathered from their endless travels. Schnee and Ruby lent their aid, though Mithrill stepped back after producing a series of charred loaves.

  After breakfast, the group ventured out. Some days, they wandered forests, savoring animals, babbling streams, or the caress of the wind. Others, Schnee whisked his mortal wife to foreign lands she’d never seen. On rare occasions, they visited the realm of the fae, the Olympus of the gods, or the Underworld—Schnee, Ruby, and Mithrill bargaining with local deities to grant Schwi access to forbidden realms. Simpler days were spent in their cabin’s warmth, where even the magic of storytelling paled beside the quiet joy of togetherness.

  Ruby and Mithrill shared tales Schnee had never documented: fresh perspectives on battles and apocalypses he’d immortalized in song, and their own origin stories. Ruby spoke of awakening her power as the last star died in her world; Mithrill recounted losing her wolf pack in the folds of spacetime, then reuniting with them at exact end of the world of that timeline ready to fight in the Ragnarok. In return, Schnee composed ballads for them: Sonata of the Dying Star for Ruby, Odyssey of the Lycanthrope Wanderer for Mithrill. For Schwi—who lacked epic tales but brimmed with life—he crafted The True Breath of Life in My Immortality.

  Life for the four seemed perfect. Yet for an artist, such tranquility was an illusion; art thrived on chaos and novelty. Schwi, of course, agreed.

  Five years into their marriage, a new mortal life emerged: a daughter whose hair swirled with harmonious chaos, black and white locked in eternal dance. Schwi named her Obsidian.

  What had been a perfect life grew richer. Schwi fulfilled her dream of motherhood; Schnee, becoming a father for the last time, found no regrets in leaving a daughter so radiant as his legacy. Fenrir and Okami welcomed her as a playmate and pack member. Ruby and Mithrill saw a pupil to inherit their magical arts—though not her birth mothers, they loved her as their own.

  But none was more moved than her grandfather: Alkhazar the Sage. Though he’d fathered clans, witnessed civilizations rise and fall, he shed tears holding his granddaughter, briefly forgetting his disdain for her father.

  With Obsidian, their days flowed like any mortal family’s: Schnee and Schwi doted on her; Mithrill and her wolves spent afternoons playing; Ruby taught her runecraft for future mastery. Alkhazar and fellow planeswalkers visited sporadically, bearing gifts even as she grew. Occasionally, they gathered at their old tavern, in some of those nights Zahitar revived his pre-planeswalker tradition of men’s outings.

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  And so the days and years passed—until the final night drew near.

  The cabin was cold that night. In the hour when silence reigned, Schwi, Mithrill, and Ruby lay entwined, sharing warmth, deep in slumber after their husband had loved each of them—slowly, tenderly, as if every time were the first. Yet the bard himself was absent. Though he needed no sleep, he had always lingered beside his wives until dawn. Tonight was different.

  A few miles away, silence shattered. Melodies too beautiful to ever grace another world wove through the air—not new compositions, but stories the bard had retold across his immortal life. Alone under the starlight, Schnee played on, the constellations his sole witnesses to the ache in his heart. He could not stop wondering: Is this the right choice? Leaving had always been inevitable—mortality or fate eventually took his lovers away—but this time, he would abandon the family he’d built. Was it worth it?

  If he stayed, not only would he forfeit his chance to present his Opus Magna, but Schwi and Obsidian would die before his eyes. Even with magic and elixirs, their universe would end. His strongest spells couldn’t save them. The first attempt had been catastrophic…

  His fingers stilled. The music died. The bard, who had turned sorrow into eternal verse, found himself hollowed by the void he’d always mastered.

  “It’s late. Rest if you need to,” came a gentle voice.

  Schnee turned. Two figures glowed in the dark: a starfire phoenix and a silver-maned lycanthrope, radiant as god-forged steel. They had traded nightgowns for their ethereal battle attire.

  “I failed as a husband tonight,” he murmured. “Few sins rival abandoning a lady after passion. It’s just…”

  Ruby and Mithrill embraced him before he could finish—a grip fierce with the knowledge that tomorrow would erase twenty years of shared life. He held them back. Immortal though they were, grief would carve through them… and he would find no peace. These were his first companions in eons who could walk beside him, who understood. The first love that promised to endure, that wouldn’t perish in his arms.

  “If there’s solace here, it’s that I’ll die before a child I sired… as it should be.”

  “We won’t share the same luck,” Ruby said, her voice heavy with acceptance.

  Mithrill, ever the optimist, brightened: “If we train her well, Obsidian could become a planeswalker! Three of us have taught her—the guild can help! She might surpass Alkhazar!”

  Unlikely, but her wagging tail and twitching ears lifted the mood.

  “My daughter usurping Alkhazar’s position? My father-in-law deserves retirement,” Schnee joked.

  The three laughed—a rare sound, for Schnee’s past attempts to sire immortal heirs had failed, and Ruby had her own regrets. Mithrill’s inexperience with motherhood or romance made her hope all the sweeter.

  “I don’t know if my verses will survive without your warmth,” Schnee admitted. “Can I compose knowing I chose to abandon such beauty—not for cruel fate, but my own selfish-?”

  Ruby silenced him with a kiss. When they parted, Mithrill tackled him with wolfish enthusiasm. They tumbled into the frost-laced grass, laughing like young mortal lovers with no concept of time, until he lay breathless beneath his wives.

  Ruby met his gaze. “We planeswalkers are wanderers without purpose, chasing meaning that may not exist. You found yours the day you stared our god in the eyes. Schwi will wait until time and space crumble. Our daughter will walk a path shaped by your presence… and absence. Even Alkhazar will miss you—though he’ll spend eternity denying it.”

  “No doubt. Who else will he threaten to exile with Nifhdraeom?” Schnee grinned. “He’ll have to terrify some poor multiversal thread instead.”

  They laughed again. For all Alkhazar’s disdain, they were family now.

  “We’ll miss you, Schnee. This void will haunt our immortality… yet we’ll have your songs when sorrow drowns us,” Ruby whispered, tracing his cheek. “Breakfasts where Mithrill burned bread. Nights Schwi and Obsidian fought sleep to hear your tales. Even your knack for vexing Alkhazar. The Serpent chose wisely. We can bear this truth: love is fleeting against infinity… and our immortality exists to witness what endures beyond the flames.”

  “Poetry from your lips? My verses have rubbed off on you,” Schnee teased.

  Mithrill snorted. “Tell him the truth, Ruby.”

  “Fine… I might have read that last part somewhere.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s true!”

  A new voice joined the night. Schnee turned to see a young woman bathed in starlight—Obsidian, her smile as sly as her mother’s.

  “Little night owl,” he chided, fighting a smile. “You promised Schwi you’d be asleep.”

  He swept her into his arms, marveling at how she’d grown. Though he should scold her, pride swelled—she’d mastered the teleportation spell Ruby taught her. Yet deeper still, his heart cracked…

  “You’ve been writing lately,” he said, stroking the notebook under her arm. “Haven’t you?”

  Obsidian didn’t answer. Her eyes—pools of summer night—spilled tears like moonlit shards. He cradled her as he had in childhood, time collapsing: she was again the girl who feared thunder and hoarded stories in journals.

  “Yes…” she choked, clinging to him. “Mama Ruby and Mama Mithrill liked it. I wanted… to surprise you and Mama Schwi in the morning… because…” Her voice broke. “…because you won’t be here to read it later.”

  He sat her between her mothers, drying tears that accused fate itself.

  “I wanted you to love it, Dad,” she whispered as he held her, desperate to stall the dawn.

  The embrace was a silent vow. Obsidian wept soundlessly, her grief shattering Schnee’s immortal resolve.

  Since she’d learned this day would come, he’d sworn a thousand times: “I’ll watch from between worlds, celebrate your triumphs, catch your falls. I’ll defy the Serpent if it silences my verses.” Now, feeling her tremble, every promise felt a hollow lie.

  “You should sleep,” he murmured into her hair, its ink-black strands still faintly scented with lavender. “But first… I’ll tell you every story you want. I’ll read every page you’ve written.” His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “Even the stuck parts—I’ll help you unstuck them.”

  “Okay…” Her breath hitched, a fragile sound. She burrowed deeper into his arms, as if her small frame could anchor time itself.

  The planeswalkers exchanged a glance. No words were needed. With a gesture, Schnee folded space like scroll, and the cabin welcomed them—a home soon to become memory.