Epilogue 1: Alaric
One Year Later, Site of the Last Battle Against the SoulTakers, The Rooted Marches
One year has passed.
Nightfall has always measured time in cycles of war and mourning—by how many pyres we light, how many names we carve into stone, how many screams echo through the tunnels before the realm goes silent again.
But tonight the realm measures it differently.
Tonight, it measures time in laughter.
In music.
In the fat, fragrant smoke of roasting meat and spiced fruits and honeyed breads. In lanterns floating like small captured stars across the vast black sky.
In the way The Barrow’s living rock has shaped itself into terraces and amphitheaters without being asked, as if the Marches themselves wanted front-row seats to this.
The First Night of the Four Crowns.
I roll the title around in my head and nearly choke on it.
Four Crowns—metaphorical not literal.
Four Lords.
Four viyellas.
No single Prime to shoulder it all—no bottleneck of power for greed to circle like vultures.
Responsibility shared. Anchored. Balanced.
It still feels like cheating.
But the Fates have been quiet—almost satisfied.
And if anyone knows what it feels like to stare the Fates in the face and dare them to blink, it’s me.
Jules catches my wrist as I move past a table of offerings, her fingers warm and firm.
That ring of Crown-fragment glints on her hand.
Mine, it answers, a faint vibration through my bones that never quite goes away now.
“You’re brooding,” she says, eyes narrowed in the way I’ve learned means she’s about to bite.
“I am appreciating,” I correct smoothly.
She snorts. “That’s not appreciating. That’s plotting.”
“I have never plotted in my life.”
Her brows lift so high it’s practically an accusation.
“Okay,” I amend, “I have never plotted today.”
“Alaric.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “It’s a celebration. Try smiling like you’re not about to start a coup.”
I glance down at her—my viyella, my miracle—and I soften despite myself.
