She rushes past me without a glance, dropping to her knees beside Luceran. She gathers him into her arms, pulls off her coat, and drapes it over his bare, shuddering body. He looks up at her, gasping, words trapped in his throat, unable to form.
And suddenly I can move again.
What am I doing? I love him. I can help him.
“The tonic,” I begin desperately. “I can…”
“Go.”
Atilia’s voice is sharp as broken glass.
“Leave. Now.”
“I…” I stagger, limbs shaking like a newborn deer. “Please. I can help.”
“I said leave!” she screams, teeth clenched, the sound ripping through me. I stumble backward at the force of it.
Her eyes burn into mine as she cradles her son.
“You are freed from your bargain, Neve Devlin,” she says, and in that moment, it feels as if an invisible chain snaps free from around my ankle.
The weight lifts. The pull releases.
I am free.
My family. My father. We are free.
So why won’t my feet move?
Just as doubt claws in, just as I realize freedom may be the last thing I want, Atilia’s ice-blue eyes pin me in place.
“You are not what he needs.”
The words strike hard and clean, sharp and blunt all at once. She is right.
I shiver, nod once, and turn away. I leave the rose garden without looking back.
I pass through the castle as if in a dream. Past overturned tables and shattered glass. Past blood smeared thick and dark across marble floors. Even outside, the chaos hasn’t ended. Fae carriages jostle violently for position, drivers shouting as they fight to escape the courtyard, each desperate to be the first, the fastest, the farthest away.
Humans scatter around them, boots pounding stone, bodies swarming toward overloaded wagons bound for the Aurevault.
I have no carriage.
Only my feet.
I walk away from Frostwyn slowly, the uneven trudge of someone who has gained her freedom and lost the one person she wanted to share it with. The weight of it presses down until I stumble, catching my blood-slick boots on loose stones, nearly falling as I wander aimlessly toward something that might resemble home.
That’s when I hear a familiar chirping.
A white mare emerges from the dark beside me, her ivory mane too painfully familiar to ignore. On her bare back sit the sprites, clutching that same silken mane as reins. They pull her to a halt, and she stamps her hooves against the road.
They speak to me, their voices a rush of sound I don’t understand, their tiny hands curling toward me, beckoning.
I can barely stand, my legs brittle, ready to give way, so I stumble to the mare and haul myself onto her back. The sprites help, clutching my arms and tugging me upright. When I am finally seated, they perch on my shoulders, so light I barely feel them, as I gather the mare’s mane in my hands.
“I suppose you’re coming home with me then,” I ask weakly.
They nod.
