He looks up from a thick scroll covered in dense fae script, and a warm smile spreads across his face at seeing me. A smile that still catches me off guard with its unconditional love. I don’t think I will ever get used to it, this feeling of being genuinely welcomed, genuinely wanted. He’s healthier now,stronger, the change in him so dramatic it’s like watching a man emerge from a decades-long nightmare. The purple bruises that once shadowed his eyes like permanent storm clouds are gone, replaced by the quiet glow of a king who has reclaimed both crown and purpose.
“Esmeralda,” he says, rising from behind his massive desk to embrace me. I melt into his arms, holding him tighter than I mean to, breathing in the scent of cedar and magic that clings to him.
“You’re looking better,” I say, pulling back to study his face with awe and admiration. “Stronger.”
“I feel better. Thanks to you.” He draws back and gestures to the plush armchair across from his desk, the one I’ve claimed as my own during our daily meetings. “Sit. Tell me how your mother’s doing.”
“She’s adapting,” I say with a small smile, settling into the familiar cushions. “I think it’s strange for her, being inside these walls after so many years in the forest. She knows it’s safe for her here now, that the queen can never harm her, but she’s still wary. Understandable, really. Decades of hiding don’t disappear overnight. I’m just glad she finally agreed to leave Kasamere. She’s safer behind these walls with you.”
His expression flickers with something complex, regret, maybe, or hope, or perhaps a mixture of both, but he nods and his smile becomes softer, more vulnerable. I don’t know what will become of their relationship now that he is no longer married by obligation to the queen, now that the chains that bound him are broken. I can only hope that in the future, they can find their way back to each other, to whatever love they once shared.
“That’s good. I’m here for whatever she needs, whatever either of you need. I want you both to know that,” he says with a firm nod, then clears his throat, his expression growing moreserious. “You didn’t come here to talk about your mother, did you?”
I settle deeper into the chair and sigh, the weight of my decision pressing down on me. “No, actually, I came here to tell you I think it’s time for me to leave.”
He doesn’t look surprised. Not even a little. His hands fold calmly in his lap, and there’s understanding in his eyes that tells me he’s been waiting for this conversation. “I knew this moment would come,” he says gently. “I could see it in your eyes.”
“My Tether to Micah. . .it broke during the trial.” The words come easier than I expected. “At first, I didn’t know if it was real or just another vision, another trial illusion meant to break me. But the hollowness I felt afterward, that wasn’t a dream. It was real and it tugs at me daily like a physical wound. I’ve tried to ignore the need, the urge to go searching. I want to be here for you, for Mom, for Sam and Locke. I’ll throw Rue in there for good measure,” I chuckle, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “But I can’t keep pretending I’m whole when part of me is missing. I need to know what happened to her. I need to find Micah.”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says, leaning forward with gentle intensity. “You’ve done more for this realm than I ever could’ve asked. You saved me from a fate worse than death. You saved Vanir from corruption that would have destroyed everything good in it, Esme. We owe you?—”
“You owe me nothing.”
“I owe you everything.” His voice is quiet but firm, carrying the weight of absolute truth. “You gave me back my crown, my freedom, my life. You gave this realm hope again. Go. Go whenever you’re ready. You don’t ever need to ask for permission to leave or to return. This is your legacy, your inheritance. This realm will one day be yours, when you’re ready for it.”
A lump rises in my throat, threatening to choke off my words. The magnitude of what he’s offering, the trust he’s placing in me, overwhelms me. “Thank you,” I manage, the words inadequate for everything I’m feeling.
Before either of us can speak again, a sharp knock jolts the peaceful atmosphere of the room. A soldier bursts through the door without ceremony, his armor clanking, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.
“Sire! Forgive the intrusion, but Mageetha has returned!” he gasps, his eyes wide with urgency. “She’s at the main gate, my King. She’s not alone.”
My heart stutters, then begins to race. Something in the soldier’s tone, in the way his hands shake slightly as he speaks, tells me this is important. Life-changing important.
“What do you mean, not alone?” my father asks, already rising from his chair, the king in him responding to potential threat.
“There are humans with her,” the soldier says, wringing his hands nervously. “Armed humans, my King. They look like warriors.”
I don’t hesitate. I’m on my feet and out the door before conscious thought catches up with my body, the blood roaring in my ears drowning out everything else. I barely register the pounding of boots behind me until Locke appears at my side like a shadow given form, Sam just behind him with his long strides eating up the distance, Rue catching up with us despite his elaborate court attire, eyebrow raised with curiosity and excitement.
“We heard the commotion,” Locke says, his voice carefully controlled but I can hear the underlying tension. He’s ready for battle if needed.
“It’s her,” I whisper, the certainty hitting me like a physical blow. “She’s really here. I can feel it.”
“The infamous Nephilim, how deliciously exciting,” Rue says with delight, practically bouncing as he runs.
“Don’t call her infamous in front of the triplets, they might gut you for fun and dance in your entrails,” Sam warns with grim humor, though there’s affection in it. “They’re protective.”
I’m half listening as we sprint through the corridors together, my father close behind. We fly past stunned courtiers who press themselves against walls to let us pass, past startled handmaidens who clutch flowers to their chests, through the main hall where our footsteps echo like thunder, and toward the outer courtyard where morning light streams through tall windows. The great iron gates of Castle Noire rise into view ahead of us, their imposing presence suddenly seeming less like protection and more like a barrier keeping me from what I need most.
There, just beyond them, standing in the early morning light like a vision made manifest?—
“Micah,” I whisper her name like a prayer, letting it fall from my lips in relief so profound it threatens to buckle my knees.
She stands tall and proud, blood smeared down her arms in dried streaks, and smudges of dirt across her face like war paint, but she’s whole. She’s gloriously, perfectly whole. She’s surrounded by the others in a protective formation I recognize, Ty and Trys flanking her like matching bookends, Rook and Rodyn scanning the perimeter with predatory awareness, Lyrik’s hands resting casually on weapon hilts, and her brother, Marcus, standing slightly behind her with the deadly grace of a guardian angel. All of them are dressed in black combat gear that’s seen recent action, weapons strapped to backs and thighs with military precision, every one of them looking like they just fought their way through a warzone to get here.
Miss Margaret stands beside them, hands clasped tightly in front of her chest, her usually composed features showing thestrain of whatever journey brought them here. Her eyes are full of weary relief and something that looks like barely contained terror.
The second I see Micah, really see her standing there alive and breathing and real, I don’t think. Every rational thought evaporates. I run.
