As the final song faded into silence, the magic that had cloaked the feast began to flicker and dim.
The torches burned lower. The laughter waned. One by one, warriors, nobles, and fae drifted away from the courtyard, some with arms around lovers, others walking alone. Not all of them would see the sun again —the weight of that truth pressed deep into Maris’s chest.
She stood still in the center of the quieting celebration, watching as the crowd dispersed into shadow. Tomorrow would take pieces of them. Perhaps more than they could afford.
She found herself walking with no real direction until her feet brought her back to her chambers. The corridors were dim, sconces flickering as if even fire felt the coming dread.
When she pushed open the door, she halted.
She didn’t know why she was surprised.
Kael was seated in the wide armchair beside the hearth, the shadows loving him as always. His long legs stretched out, one arm resting on the armrest, the other curled under his jaw. His silver eyes opened as she entered.
Alarik sat at the edge of the window seat, head bowed, hair loose and glinting in the low light. He didn’t speak, just looked up at her with a softness that made her heart pull taut.
Neither had asked to come. Neither had needed to.
They were simply there.
Silent sentinels.
Her hands trembled slightly as she undid her cloak and let it fall.
Kael rose without comment and took the left pallet beside her bed, laying down fully clothed. Alarik crossed the room and took the right.
They didn’t reach for her.
They didn’t press her.
They simply existed in the same sacred space guarding, waiting.
Maris changed into a soft linen shift, slipped between the sheets, and lay on her back. Her eyes traced the carved ceiling overhead, the low flicker of candlelight throwing quiet shadows across ancient stone. She could hear both of them breathing.
And just before sleep claimed her, she whispered into the silence:
“Thank you.”
Neither replied aloud.
But Kael’s shadows curled lightly across her body like smoke.
And Alarik’s faelight shimmered faintly brushing her cheek.
Tomorrow would bring ruin.
But tonight she wasn’t alone.
Chapter sixty-eight
The Dead Remember
-Maris-
The morning rose without light.
No dawn broke across the valley where the armies of Achyron had gathered. Instead, a gloom thicker than night clung to the sky, filled with thunder and dread. The Veil pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath the ground, and the very air felt stretched thin.
Maris stood on the front line, her god-forged sword strapped at her back and crown atop her brow. She wore black armor kissed with the sigils of the four gods. The power hummed beneath her skin burning, alive, alert. Around her, those who had carried her through storm and blood now stood ready to fight by her side.
