But his hand gloved and cold, reached over to briefly brush against hers on the reins. Not a claim. Not a demand. Just acknowledgement.
When the gates opened, guards bowed without question.
Maris kept her head high as they passed beneath the stone archway. The people of Nerium — those who still lingering in the streets, paused to watch them ride by. Some knelt. Some whispered.
As they dismounted in the outer courtyard, a steward rushed to alert the others. Torches were lit. Rooms readied. Healers summoned.
And still, Maris stood there, staring up at the rocky silhouette of the castle that now felt like the last notes of a powerful song.
Alarik moved beside her, his voice low. “You did it.”
“No,” she said, the sword heavy across her back. “We all did.”
He didn’t press her.
Kael appeared at her other side. “We should meet with the generals soon.”
Maris nodded, though every bone in her body cried out for a moment to breathe. “An hour,” she said. “I just need — a moment.”
Neither argued.
They flanked her as she made her way inside.
The sword began to hum louder as they moved into the depths of Nerium’s walls.
As if it knew war would soon begin.
Chapter sixty-six
Arms of Tomorrow
-Kael-
The battlefield burned.
The sky split with lightning above him, violet and unnatural, casting the world in fractured shards of light. Screams tore through the wind, familiar voices, distorted by agony. The ground was slick with blood, and the veil had ruptured wide enough to swallow the sun.
Maris stood at the center of it all, radiant and terrible in her divinity, the god-forged blade glowing in her hand. Veilspawn crawled from every direction, fangs dripping with nightmare ichor. And behind them…
Eiren.
Her form was monstrous and divine all at once, lips stained with cruelty, silver eyes brimming with ancient vengeance. She whispered something Kael couldn’t hear, but Maris heard it. Her knees faltered. Her sigil dimmed.
Kael screamed her name.
He tried to run to her but his legs wouldn’t move. His body felt like stone. Frozen. Useless. The sword that should have been in his hand was gone. Only the memory of it remained.
A blade pierced Maris chest.
Eiren’s.
“No —no, you can’t —Maris please,!”
He watchedher collapse to her knees, the sword slipping from her hand. Eiren smiled down. Maris turned to him with disbelief etched across her bloodied face. Her lips moved, forming a name.
Not his.
Alarik.
