“This isn’t over!” His voice comes out wet and rattling, more corruption than vocal cords. “I’ll destroy everything you love! Every bond you’ve ever formed! I’ll tear down everything you’ve built!”
He crosses the threshold, his decaying body vanishing into the dimensional rift. The portal collapses behind him, reality folding inward with a hollow whoosh that leaves my ears ringing.
Then silence.
I become aware of my own breathing first—ragged, harsh, my lungs burning from exertion. My arms are still wrapped around Lyanna, both of us kneeling on the cracked marble floor. Her weight sags against me, exhaustion finally claiming her now that the immediate threat has passed.
“Lyanna.” My voice comes out rough. “Are you—“
“I’m okay.” She doesn’t sound okay. She sounds like she’s about to collapse. But her hand finds mine, squeezing weakly. “Did it work? The evidence—“
I look up.
The evidence display hovers above us, glowing brighter than ever. Every piece of documentation, every corruption signature, every damning connection—not just intact but enhanced. Lyanna’s purification didn’t just protect the evidence. It strengthened it, burning away any ambiguity and leaving only undeniable truth.
Around the throne room, I take stock of the aftermath. Crystal pillars cracked and leaning. Entire sections of balcony collapsed into rubble. Scorch marks from dragon fire blackening ancient walls. The once-pristine fae architecture looks like a warzone.
But the people survived.
Ben stands near the evidence display, blood streaming from a gash on his temple, his expression unreadable as he surveys the damage. Derek coordinates with fae guards near the eastern corridor, directing the last of the evacuation. Rhonan and Evren have shifted back to human form, both breathing hard, smoke still curling from Evren’s lips.
Rafe lowers his barrier spells with visible relief, his centuries-old face showing more exhaustion than I’ve ever seen. The tribunal members huddle in a tight cluster near the platform—the corrupted three looking shell-shocked, the uncorrupted two already examining the enhanced evidence with grim determination.
Lord Theron hasn’t moved from his position near the tribunal platform. He stares at the space where Faelan’s portal closed, his expression hollow. Another victim finally seeing the full scope of his manipulation.
Faelan escaped. That truth sits bitter in my throat. After everything—the battle, the evidence, Lyanna nearly killing herself to purify his attack—the bastard still got away.
But the evidence remains. Brighter than ever. Undeniable.
And every supernatural court in every realm will know exactly what he’s done.
Chapter 37
Lyanna
The silence after Faelan’s escape weighs heavier than the battle itself.
My legs give out. Callum catches me before I hit the marble, his arms solid around my trembling body. Every ounce of energy I possess went into that purification—my hands still glow faintly, the healing magic slow to fade.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my hair.
Around us, the throne room settles into stunned stillness. Crystal shards litter the floor like scattered diamonds. Scorch marks from dragon fire streak the walls. Debris from shattered pillars creates an obstacle course of marble and crystal. But the evidence hovers above us untouched—magical protectionkeeping Faelan’s corruption network blazing with undeniable clarity.
And where Faelan stood, there’s nothing. Just empty air where reality folded inward and sealed behind him.
Lady Morvenna’s voice cuts through first, sharp with awe. “She purified his attack. I’ve never seen healing magic used that way. The precision required—“
I try to respond, but exhaustion steals my words. Callum’s arm tightens, holding me upright.
The strike team maintains defensive positions around us. Ben signals something through the comm—perimeter secure, I think—his movements crisp and efficient despite the blood I can see on his arm.
Across the shattered chamber the dragon delegation pulls into tight formation. Prince Korren at their center, scales catching fractured light as he surveys the destruction—physical and political. His expression is calculating. The look of a prince who nearly married into a conspiracy built on murder; who just watched its architect try to kill everyone in this room.
“Dragon delegation,” he announces, voice carrying formal authority despite the chaos around us. “Formal consultation required.”
My heart stutters. Everything we fought for comes down to what happens next.
The five other dragons form an arrowhead of political power, wings half-unfurling in synchronized movement that makes the nearest fae nobles step back.
