He kissed me again, slower this time, but just as deep. His hands splayed across my back, one rising to cradle the back of my skull, and I felt the tremble in him. The restraint. The promise.

  Not now. But soon.

  When we broke apart, he pressed his forehead to mine.

  “Never again,” he growled, “I will never let anyone take you from me again.”

  For a heartbeat, we stared at each other, the realisation of our freedom, our survival, crashing over us.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” Varyth murmured, his arms locked around me as if afraid I might disappear. “When I saw what you were about to do⁠—”

  “I couldn’t choose. I couldn’t⁠—”

  “Shh,” he soothed, pressing his lips to my temple. “It’s over now. We’re home.”

  He set me down, hands gripping my waist, unwilling to let go completely.

  “What happened after we left?” he asked. “How did you escape Ashterion?”

  I hesitated, the memory of those final moments in Nyxaria still fresh and unsettling. “He... let me go,” I admitted. “Said he had no reason to keep me now that you were all gone.”

  Varyth’s grip tightened imperceptibly. “And you believe him?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” I said honestly. “He told me to tell you there would be no war. That his forces would return to his territory.”

  Varyth’s jaw clenched, scepticism etched into every line of his face. “Ashterion doesn’t surrender. This isn’t over.”

  Shaelith stepped forward, and it was not calm that radiated from her. It was fury. Grief sharpened into something jagged and volatile, burning in her eyes like a wildfire that had found too much to consume and not enough to save.

  Her hands were shaking. Her mouth trembled, but not with sorrow. With rage.

  “We can dissect Ashterion’s motives later,” she spat. “Right now, we need healers. And we need to—” Her breath hitched in her throat before it exploded into a broken snarl. “We need to honour Brynelle.”

  The name cleaved through the air.

  Everything stopped.

  The world tilted again beneath me, the grief striking fresh and cruel and impossibly real. I had been holding it off—burying it beneath urgency, beneath survival, beneath hope. But her name undid it all.

  I took a step forward. “Shaelith⁠—”

  “Don’t,” she hissed. She didn’t look at me, her hands were balled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms.

  “I just—” I tried again, guilt swelling in my throat, cracking my voice. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

  “I don’t blame you,” she snapped.

  But her eyes slid to mine for a split second, and I saw it.

  The lie.

  She might not want to blame me. She might not choose to. But somewhere deep in the marrow of her grief, some part of her already did. Maybe she always would.

  I stood there, hollow, useless, as the others began to gather around her in stunned silence. Darian with his jaw clenched tight. Linc whispering a prayer under his breath. Fenric remained slumped on the ground where healers were already fussing over him.

  Cindrissian stood apart, his gaze fixed on the sky, like if he didn’t look down, it wouldn’t be real.

  But it was.

  We had made it out.

  And she hadn’t.

  Brynelle.

  Her laughter. Her bite. Her loyalty. Her quiet strength.

  Gone.

  And there was nothing left to do now but bleed and burn.

  “We should go inside,” Darian said, rough with exhaustion. “The others will be waiting.”

  The others. My children. They would be waiting, wondering, terrified for us. The thought of them sent a surge of renewed strength through my battered body.

  Varyth’s hand slipped quietly into mine, warm and grounding. His touch was gentle, yet firm, guiding me forward with silent reassurance. I clung to it, allowing him to lead me toward the castle, each step pulling me further away from the nightmare we’d escaped.

  The doors swung open, bathing us in a wash of warm light from within. Familiar faces blurred together—concerned, relieved, grieving—but I searched desperately past them, seeking two small figures above all else.

  Then I saw them. Mireth and Eryx, standing at the far end of the hall, eyes wide and hopeful, waiting anxiously for me. Relief crashed through me with such force it nearly brought me to my knees.

  I stood frozen in the threshold.

  I had imagined this moment a thousand times while locked behind Xyliria’s walls—racing toward them, dropping to my knees, holding them until my arms gave out. I had imagined their cries of relief, their laughter, the warmth of their little hands gripping mine.

  But now, with Mireth and Eryx just steps away, I couldn’t move.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Because what if I wasn’t that person anymore?

  What if the blood on my skin—the blood I hadn’t realised was still smeared across my arms, my clothes, drying in angry streaks—was all they saw now?

  Not their mother. A stranger. A monster wearing her face.

  Mireth clung to Eryx. they didn’t run to me. They didn’t smile. They didn’t cry out in joy.

  They hesitated.

  I took a step forward, and they flinched. It was subtle. But enough to shatter something inside me I hadn’t realised was still whole.

  I dropped to my knees on instinct, not knowing what to do with my hands, my words, my everything. “Mireth,” I whispered. “Eryx. I’m here.”

  Eryx took a shaky step forward. Mireth held him back.

  A sob clawed its way up my throat, but I swallowed it. I didn’t reach for them. I didn’t dare. I just knelt there, trembling and bloodstained, trying not to fall apart while the silence stretched taut around us.

  Then Mireth stepped forward. “Mama?”

  The name cracked me open.

  I nodded, tears spilling freely now. “Yes, love. It’s me.”

  Eryx followed her, stumbling into my arms, burying his face in my neck as Mireth knelt beside him. I held them both, held them so tightly I feared I’d crush them—but they clung to me in return.

  Relief surged through me.

  But beneath it, something fractured.

  They were still mine. But they were afraid of the darkness clinging to me. And I didn’t know how to wash it away.

  Varyth knelt beside me, silent, solid, grounding. One of his hands came to rest lightly at the curve of my back, his touch barely there. But I felt it like the first warm breeze after a storm.

  His voice was low, meant only for me. “They’re safe. You’re safe. That’s what matters now.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, trying to hold back the trembling that threatened to undo me.

  But his presence sank into the cracks.

  I should’ve felt comforted. I should’ve collapsed against him, let the warmth numb the edges. Instead, Ashterion’s words rose like rot from a grave, curling around the base of my spine.

  There are others who are much more adept at hiding what they are.

  The memory twisted, and I could almost hear his voice in my ear again.

  I shoved it down. Hard.

  Down into the tainted parts of me. The places I’d been carving out piece by piece since that first moment in Xyliria’s court. Since the decisions I’d made. Since the screams. Since the blood.

  So much broken. So much I didn’t know how to put back.

  I tightened my arms around Mireth and Eryx, pressing my cheek into Eryx’s soft curls as Mireth clung to my side like she wasn’t sure she could let go again.

  I didn’t deserve this.

  Didn’t deserve them.

  Didn’t deserve Varyth’s quiet strength beside me. His patience. His promise of safety when I was half-convinced I was the most dangerous thing in the room.

  But they were here.

  They were mine.

  And even if I was too much of a monster to ever deserve this again…

  I would hold it anyway.

  78

  Ashterion sat in the half-light of his chambers. Not the one he had shared with Xyliria.

  His.

  The one he had abandoned centuries ago, swallowed by the necessity of survival, by the weight of her control.

  Now, it was his again.

  All of it was.

  And he had no fucking clue what to do with that.

  His fingers traced the ornate carvings on the chair’s armrests, the ones he’d designed himself in another lifetime. Shadows drifted languidly around him, no longer restless. They moved with a quiet contentment he hadn’t felt from them in centuries.

  The silence felt wrong. Not because he missed her, gods, no.

  But because he hadn’t planned for this.

  Hadn’t dared to fucking hope.

  He was free.

  And now that he could finally breathe without her chains around his throat, he found he had no fucking idea what to do with that.

  What did one do with eternity when they’d already surrendered it?

  His fingers curled into a fist against the armrest of his chair, knuckles white.

  Ashterion blew out a long exhale, leaning back in the chair that somehow fit the contours of his body perfectly even after all these centuries. The room around him was exactly as he’d left it—books stacked on his desk, half-finished sketches of architectural designs pinned to the walls, a glass of wine forever abandoned, now nothing but crystallised residue at the bottom.

  It was a mausoleum. A fucking shrine to someone he didn’t recognise anymore.

  The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing flickering shadows against the stone walls. Outside, the night stretched deep and endless, quiet in a way that should have been peaceful.

  But peace wasn’t what he wanted. Not really. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  Isara had killed Xyliria.

  He should have been relieved. Should have been satisfied. He was.

  He told himself that was all it was, gratitude. That her name curled through his thoughts like smoke because she’d done what he never could. Not because of the way she looked at him. Or the way she hadn’t flinched from him even when she should have.

  And now she was back in Varyth’s court.

  Varyth, who would…

  No.

  Ashterion cut off the thought before it could form. It had been centuries.

  Centuries since there was anything close to a truce between their courts.

  Perhaps he had changed.

  If Ashterion wasn’t the same male anymore, perhaps Varyth wasn’t either.

  But still⁠—

  His jaw tightened.

  He’d keep an eye on her.

  Not because he cared.

  Because the power she held, the force she had unleashed to kill Xyliria. He couldn’t afford it becoming Varyth’s. That was all.

  He rose, couldn’t stay still. Couldn’t breathe in that fucking room anymore. The balcony doors groaned open. He stepped into the night barefoot, the cold stone biting into his soles.

  His shadows followed silently, coiling around his ankles like they, too, didn’t know where to go now.

  The wind hit him in the chest. He braced both hands on the railing, staring out across the sprawl of his court—homes, taverns, places where life continued—the illusion of peace. It all looked smaller now. Everything did.

  He tilted his head back. The stars stretched endlessly above him. They used to feel like his. Now they just felt far away.

  The breeze lifted, caught in his hair. For a heartbeat, he thought it carried her scent.

  But no. Just night and ash and distant storms. Familiar. Lonely.

  Ashterion sighed, rubbing a hand across his face.

  He didn’t know what the fuck to do next.

  EPILOGUE

  MERRICK

  Merrick stood at the edge of the throne room as four guards hoisted Xyliria’s corpse onto their shoulders. Dead weight. Nothing more.

  The bitch was finally gone.

  Her head lolled at an unnatural angle, inky hair matted with crimson, those perfect features slack with death. For four centuries, that face had haunted his nightmares—not because of its beauty, but because of what lived behind it. The cruelty. The calculated malice. The way she smiled when she made people bleed.

  Now she looked like what she’d always been—nothing.

  “Careful with the body,” Elowyn called out, though her tone held no reverence. “Ashterion wants it burned beyond the borders. Don’t let any of the ash drift back onto Nyxarian soil.”

  The guards nodded and began their procession out of the throne room. Merrick watched them go, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

  Good fucking riddance.

  Elowyn moved to stand beside him, her usually pristine appearance was dishevelled, silver chains tangled, amethyst eyes dark with exhaustion.

  “Well,” she said, voice flat. “That’s done.”

  Merrick said nothing. The relief hadn’t hit yet—wouldn’t for a while, probably. Four centuries of rage didn’t just vanish because the object of it was finally dead.

  Elowyn turned to face him fully, studying his expression with that shrewdness she wielded like a scalpel. “Free or not,” she said quietly, “he’s not okay.”

  Merrick’s jaw tightened. He’d watched Ashterion retreat into himself after the female had vanished, had seen the way his brother stood in the wreckage like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands. The power radiating from him had been terrifying—not because it was violent, but because it was lost.

  “No,” Merrick said finally. “He’s not.”

  “How long do you think it will take him to remember who he used to be?”

  “Assuming he wants to remember at all.” Merrick scrubbed a hand through his dark hair, leaving the strands dishevelled. The lightning beneath his skin crackled restlessly, responding to his agitation.

  Elowyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Is this how you expected things to go when you went rogue?”

  Merrick let out a bitter laugh. “Well, I’d planned on killing the bitch myself in the chaos. Figured the confusion of the human having those blades would give me cover—maybe even let me frame it as an accident.” A dark chuckle escaped his throat. “I hadn’t accounted for the human being quite so... violent. Didn’t anticipate her knocking me out two seconds in.”

  “But her killing Xyliria was certainly convenient.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Merrick’s grin was sharp as a blade. “I appreciate avoiding execution for treason. Really takes the sting out of a concussion.”

  The throne room felt different now—lighter, somehow. The very stones seemed to exhale for the first time in centuries. But that relief came with new problems. New dangers.

  “The human,” Elowyn said, her voice taking on that calculating edge Merrick knew meant trouble. “If she killed Xyliria, she’s more powerful than we thought.”

  Merrick nodded grimly. “The prick has her as a consort,” he replied, his tone turning cold, disgusted. “It’s going to be a problem.”

  The implications hung unspoken between them—they both knew Varyth’s reputation. His hunger for power, his willingness to break whatever he had to in order to get it. A consort with that kind of raw, ancient power? She wouldn’t remain whole for long. Not if he could find a way to harness what she carried, to make it his own.

  Merrick felt ice settle in his stomach. He thought of the girl’s copper hair, the desperate fury in her eyes. The way she’d looked at Varyth like he was her salvation.

  Fuck.

  “We’ll need to extract her before then,” he said quietly.

  Elowyn’s smile was razor-thin. “Well then. I suppose Cindri and Eilrys are going to have their work cut out for them.”

  THE CROWN’S LAST GUARDIAN

  THORNE

  COMING SOON

  The warmth of the fire stirred Thorne. That and the ache in his spine from falling asleep upright.

  There was a subtle pressure of something across his chest—a blanket?

  Thorne’s eyes cracked open. The room was still dim, firelight flickering low. Pudge was snoring softly near the hearth, his bandaged side rising and falling. That was good.

  What was not good was the figure sitting across the room.

  Sprawled with military rigidity in one of his chairs, boots planted like he owned the place, reading one of his books.

  Nightbriar.

  Thorne groaned, long and low. “Tell me I’ve been assassinated and this is hell.”

  The captain didn’t even flinch.

  Just looked up from the book, one brow arching. “Unfortunately not.”

  “Then get out.”

  Nightbriar’s gaze dropped to the dog nestled at his feet. “He disagrees.”

  Thorne sat up straighter—immediately regretted it when his spine cracked and his shoulder protested. He adjusted the blanket—why was there a blanket?—glared at it, then back at the captain.

  “Did you seriously tuck me in?”

  “You were cold,” Nightbriar said flatly.

  “I’m not five.”

  “No. A five-year-old would’ve stayed in his room and avoided nearly being stabbed.”

  Thorne gritted his teeth. “Oh, fuck off.”

  The captain didn’t rise. Didn’t argue. Just turned a page like this was a social call and not a gross violation of privacy.

  “You’re not my nursemaid,” Thorne snapped.

  “No. I’m the one tasked with keeping you alive. Despite your best efforts.”

  “That’s not your job,” Thorne said, shoving the blanket off. “Your job is to follow orders.”

  Nightbriar looked up again. His eyes were calm. Detached. Infuriating.

  “You didn’t give one.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  A long beat stretched between them.

  The fire crackled.

  Pudge shifted slightly, one paw landing on Nightbriar’s boot like a silent, unconscious vote.