“You are the only being alive who dares speak to me like that.”
“That’s because I’m the only one who knows you’re full of shit.”
She kisses the corner of my mouth, quick and precise, like sealing a spell.
“Go on. Make your speech. Don’t make it weird.”
“I will absolutely make it weird.”
Jules laughs and gives me a gentle shove toward the dais carved from living stone.
The crowd shifts. Miners. Farmers. Soldiers. Dreamwrights in their layered robes, eyes bright and watchful.
Children dart between legs, squealing, chasing ribbons of harmless illusion that I’ve set loose in the air like friendly little spirits.
And then there’s them.
Kael stands with Phoebe at his side, his hand possessively spread over the small of her back like the world might steal her if he blinks. She pretends not to notice, but her mouth keeps twitching like she’s fighting a smile.
Thorne is, well, he is simply Thorne.
A towering, brooding inferno of a male trying to look like he isn’t one casual comment away from burning down the entire festival out of protective instinct. Delia is right beside him, calm as steel, her hand linked with his in a way that says she can pull him back from the edge with a touch.
And Dagan? The Lord of Earth stands slightly apart, as he always has, like the horizon line itself. But he isn’t alone anymore.
Alina leans against him, her hair braided, her expression bright and stubborn and utterly unafraid. The Marches hum under their feet like a cat purring.
It hits me, sudden and sharp.
We’re still here.
Nightfall is still here.
I step onto the dais, and the murmurs fade.
The Gemini Moon is risen—one face bone-pale, the other rust-red—and it hangs low in the sky, watching.
Listening. Remembering.
“Tonight,” I begin, voice carrying without effort, “we mark one year since Idris fell, and the SoulTakers broke.”
A shiver runs through the crowd at the name, old fear remembered, but it doesn’t take root. Not anymore.
“Tonight,” I continue, “we mark one year since the Crown stopped demanding a single ruler, and accepted what it should have accepted all along.”
I raise my hand, and the ring at my finger flashes—soft, bright, alive.
“Four Crowns,” someone murmurs.
“Yes,” I say, and smile despite myself. “Four. Shared. Tempered. Anchored by bonds that cannot be stolen, cannot be coerced, and cannot be corrupted.”
I glance at Jules.
My viyella lifts her chin, proud and radiant, Marcel cradled against her. Our son’s silver-streaked hair catches the lanternlight, and his eyes—gods help me—are already too clever.
He yawns, utterly unimpressed by my speech.
The crowd laughs softly, and something in my chest loosens.
