Terrified shouts tore through the room. Guards threw themselves forward, but even their collective strength couldn’t counter the king’s last, desperate strike.
I threw up my hand. A shield of white light blossomed, forming a protective membrane over the entire court. Everydeadly spear shattered harmlessly against it, falling as nothing more than dust and failed ambition.
Rowan moved while the king raged, his attention divided. My mate rode the wind and touched down in front of his father, lightning wreathing his blade. The king brought his sword up. Rowan’s blade cut through it and continued through the king’s armor into his chest.
The tyrant looked down at the steel buried to the hilt, more shocked than pained.
“You killed my mother,” Rowan said, his voice now carrying more grief than rage. “Who loved me despite what my existence cost her.” He leaned in, ensuring his words would be the last the king ever heard. “I promised you’d die, and I never break a promise.”
He yanked the blade free.
King Emyr dropped to his knees. He tried to form words—a curse, a plea—but only a gush of blood escaped his lips. His hate-filled eyes remained locked on Rowan for a second longer before he toppled sideways onto the cold marble. His crown rolled from his head, clattering across the floor with a hollow, bell-like chime.
A moment of stunned silence held, and then, as one, every fae in the hall dropped to their knees. They were not just bowing to a victor but pledging themselves to a new king—one who had won his crown through sacred rite, who embodied the mercy, strength, and justice his predecessor had forsaken.
“Rise,” Rowan commanded, his voice still roughened by grief for his mother. “Our work is not done. The war against the God of Ruin is not over. And now, we have a goddess to rescue.”
The fae kingdom was ours. One more power secured, one more army to add to the ranks against the void god.
I moved to his side, and we wrapped our arms around each other, a united front. My hands found the wounds his father hadinflicted, and a soft white light blossomed from my palms, the creation magic weaving flesh back together and sealing the cuts.
“Let’s go get her,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.
“Whatever you wish, love,” Rowan said, his gaze full of unwavering trust and love.
And in that moment, I loved him all the more for it, for never trying to lock me away in the name of love and protection.
Weak men always felt threatened by a powerful woman, seeing her strength as a challenge to their own.
But not my mate. He knew what was at stake, yet he always treated me as his equal and respected my choices. He didn’t just prove he was worthy of me—he proved he was worthy of standing at my side. Together, we were stronger.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Barbie
The bone palace hadn’t changed with age, and neither had my father’s taste in decor. I’d dreaded my return here more than anything. Yet here I was.
He dragged me through the towering gates, leaving his army outside. Privacy for a little quality family time, just me and the void god who had co-created me to consume me.
The chains around my wrists cut into my skin, each movement sending fresh jolts of pain up my arms while sapping my power. Even that was nothing compared to what waited for me inside his lair.
The wounded lands stretched in every direction. Black earth squelched underfoot, so saturated with old blood it would never dry.
The air hung thick with the stench of rot and a deeper, metaphysical wrongness. No wind stirred. No insects chirped. No birds sang. Nothing lived in the shadow of the bone palace except its master.
And me, for as long as I could manage to stay alive.
The palace defied physics and sanity. Countless skulls formed its walls—human, supernaturals, and creatures I couldn’t name. Femurs served as pillars. Ribcages were woven into archways. Every bone had been someone once, had carried dreams and fears. Now they were just mortar, their stories dissolved in a void-being’s stomach acid.
“Welcome home, daughter,” my father said, his soft, musical voice only making my skin crawl.
My old room waited, untouched since my escape a decade ago. Pink skulls still lined the walls. The bed was made with the same pink silk sheets that felt unsettlingly like skin. The vanity held brushes made from angels’ hair and mirrors that reflected my worst memories instead of my face. It was a child’s nursery designed by a being that was eternal hunger wrapped in stolen flesh.
I held my breath against the suffocating stench of rot and old marrow, the musty odor of bones left to cure. My empty stomach clenched. I was suddenly grateful I hadn’t eaten; vomiting now would ruin my plan.
“Nearly thirteen years,” Ruin said, his eyes, one crimson, one black, fixing on me with intense hunger that made my face feel like it was about to crack.
