Not drums.
Footsteps.
From the northern road, they come.
Men and women from the Wastes, thin as memory, their faces hollowed by generations of hunger and haze. Threadbare clothes hang from bone. Some carry children; some carry only the ghost of hope.
But as they cross the causeway, I see something else: the heavy, dominant oppression of The Decay has lifted from their eyes.
They blink—slowly, disbelieving—as color returns to the world.
They look upon Kryntar Castle, freed of its rot and ash, and replaced with vines that glitter with dew. Moss that glows soft beneath the rain.
Their eyes widen at the Riverian Jungle that wraps around the castle like an embrace. Amethyst lunafleurs frame the castle, bioluminescent veins stretch through trunks and branches, and the trees whisper their names like old friends.
“They’re seeing it for the first time,” Jax murmurs beside me, her voice cracked open with wonder and grief.
“It’s a beautiful thing to witness the truth,” I breathe, watching Zerynthians see their homeland with fresh eyes, but also watching Jax with understanding I’ve never had.
She pauses, fighting the words that her lips want to speak.
“I’ll fight for you, you know,” she finally murmurs, her eyes fixed on her boots.
I bite down on the smirk that tugs at my lips. “For Dravara?”
“No,” she corrects without hesitation. “Foryou.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, because Jax? Softened? My mind can’t reconcile it.
“Thank you,” I say softly, and I mean it.
The Vaythari come next—staves thudding against the stone in solemn rhythm.
Zhari. Zhari. Zhari.
Their chant is low, reverent, a heartbeat for the land.
From the east, the Cindrali march through the rain—braids unraveling, faces streaked in soot and blood, eyes blazing with pride.
Somewhere in Kryntar Castle, the belt of Skaedor’s Heir waits. Ripped from my body, tossed to the floor of the dungeons. And soon, I’ll reclaim it.
Gellesk’s rebels approach the steps, boots sinking into mud, weapons at their sides but not raised.
Thousands now.
All of them converging on the steps of Kryntar Castle.
Earthbound and Starborn. Tribe and witch. Dravara and Zerynthia. Rebel and loyalist.
A kingdom reborn.
At the center stands Kael.
He’s rain-soaked and bloodied, a scar running dark against his jaw, the weight of a thousand lifetimes in his eyes, a burden weighing heavy on his shoulders. And yet he stands like something eternal.
Teddy limps forward, holding a crown blackened with decay and veined with gold—the crown he plucked from Maldrak before the echo-plane claimed him.
The crown of Kael’s father. And his father before him.
