His arms tighten around me, and for a moment I’m six years old again, safe in my father’s embrace after a nightmare. Before duty consumed everything. Before Caelynn. Before the weight of House Silverthorne crushed the family beneath it.
“I saw the evidence,” he whispers, voice ragged. “The corruption in my own correspondence. Every message I sent you, every demand—I thought it was love. I thought I was protecting our house, our legacy.” His shoulders shake. “They used my grief as a weapon against my own daughter.”
“You were a victim too,” I manage.
“I was your father.” The words come out broken. “I should have protected you, not become another cage.”
Behind me, Callum’s presence steadies me—patient, giving us space while remaining close enough to catch me if I fall again.
“Forgiveness won’t be instant,” I tell my father honestly. “The wounds are too fresh. But we can try. We can rebuild.”
He nods, grief and hope warring in his expression. “Whatever you need. Whatever it takes.”
I look past him to the ruined throne room—the shattered crystal, the scorch marks, the evidence display still hovering above us with Caelynn’s murder documented in glowing threads. My sister’s face floats there among the corruption signatures, her death reduced to a data point in Faelan’s conspiracy.
“There’s something I need,” I say slowly, the words forming as the thought crystallizes. “Caelynn.”
My father flinches at her name.
“The court believed she died in a tragic accident. A noble sacrifice for political necessity.” My voice hardens. “That narrative served Faelan’s purposes. It let everyone feel comfortable with her death—made it meaningful instead of monstrous.”
“Lyanna—“
“She was murdered, Father. Assassinated to create a vacancy so I could be forced into a political marriage.” I meet his eyes, holding nothing back. “The court needs to know that. Not whispered rumors or diplomatic implications—a formal acknowledgment. A memorial that tells the truth about what happened to her.”
His face crumples. For a moment I see not Lord Theron, powerful fae noble, but simply a father who lost his daughter and only now understands how thoroughly that loss was weaponized.
“She deserves to be remembered as she was,” I continue, gentler now. “Not as a convenient sacrifice. Not as a stepping stone in someone else’s conspiracy. As Caelynn—brilliant, stubborn, murdered before her time.”
“You’re right.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I’ve been honoring a lie. Telling myself her death meant something because the alternative was unbearable.” He straightens, something resolving in his expression. “There will be a memorial. In the Hall of Ancestors, where every noble who enters this court will see it. Her name, her truth, carved in stone that will outlast us all.”
“And the formal record?”
“Amended. Every court document that references her ‘sacrifice’ will be corrected.” His jaw tightens with determination I recognize—the same stubbornness I inherited. “Faelan stole her life. I won’t let him steal her legacy too.”
The weight I didn’t know I was carrying eases slightly. This won’t bring Caelynn back. Nothing will. But at least her memory won’t be another of Faelan’s lies.
“Thank you,” I manage.
His hand cups my cheek briefly—a gesture from childhood, before duty consumed everything. “She would have loved watching you tear apart that tribunal. She always said you were the fierce one.”
The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over. “She was wrong. She was the brave one. I just learned from her.”
We stand there for a moment, grief shared rather than weaponized for the first time since her death.
His gaze shifts to Callum, assessing. Whatever he sees eases something in his expression.
“He fights for you,” my father says quietly.
“With me,” I correct. “He fights with me. There’s a difference.”
My father nods slowly. He turns to address the court, and his voice carries with surprising strength for a man who was weeping moments ago.
“Let it be known that House Silverthorne formally recognizes Callum Montgomery as my daughter’s chosen partner. Let it be known that any challenge to this union will be treated as a challenge to our House itself.”
The words ripple through the assembled nobles. A formal declaration of this magnitude, from a House as old and respected as Silverthorne, carries weight that even the most traditional conservatives can’t ignore.
Callum’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Your father just made us politically untouchable,” he murmurs.
