We’ve been back at Keep Wolfhelm for two days since the battle, attempting to regroup, to cling to what semblance of peace we can. Kel had been immediately rushed to the healing ward where Ezryn worked with Wolfhelm’s medics to remove the spears and heal his internal injuries. Kel’s body has recovered quickly thanks to Spring’s blessing, but I know sending Irahn to his final rest has been weighing heavily on his mind. He’s gone ahead to oversee the preparations. I can still feel the pain in my chest as I said goodbye to him this morning. The grief was etched in every line on his face, in his slow, mechanical movements.
Irahn made a vow to protect Voidseal Bridge as long as it stood. And he upheld that vow.
I reach up and touch a hand to the glass, to this Rosalina I do not recognize.Is this the war you wanted, Rosalina? Was it worth it?
Hundreds of lives have been lost. The entire arsenal deployed to the bridge—gone. Thankfully, I was able to save many of our people by transforming them into snowy owls. I’ve received word that everyone has been able to change back into their fae forms.
And the enemy lost their army too. Hundreds of underfae fell when Voidseal collapsed.
Whenhecollapsed it.
The unbridled magic of the blessing of Spring.
I haven’t seen Ezryn at all today. I should find him. He looked up to Irahn. Though I want to revel in the breaking of Ezryn’s curse, there’s been too much grief, too much loss, for celebration.
I caught a moment last night as I turned a corner into the kitchen. Ezryn with his arms wrapped around Marigold and Eldor. They’d traveled from Castletree for the funeral. I didn’t interfere, not wanting to disrupt them, but I could feel the love emanating like heat from coals.
“Your mother would be so proud,” Marigold said, touching Ez’s cheek. “She’s probably dancing in the stars right now. In fact, I swear I can hear her crying out in joy from down here!”
I drop my hand from the mirror, leave my room, and walk down the hall to where Ezryn’s staying. We should depart for the fjords, where the funeral will be held, within the hour.
His door is closed. Lightly, I wrap my knuckles on it.
“Who is it?” His voice is low, unused.
“Rosalina.”
“Come in.”
I turn the knob and open the door, creeping inside. Ezryn is sitting before a large chest laid at the foot of his bed. I take a moment just to look at him. Dressed only in his black base layers—a thin, long-sleeved top and tight trousers—he looks so handsome. There’s a rugged beauty to him. His hair has gotten longer these last few months, curling at the nape of his neck. Stubble peppers his jaw and cheeks, thicker on his upper lip and chin. His dark eyes are laser-focused on the chest.
I kneel beside him, letting him be the first to speak.
A few moments pass before he does. “Today is important. Irahn deserves to be honored.”
He creaks open the chest. Golden armor gleams within, polished yet covered in nicks and scratches. A glorious, gilded helm with a red plume sits atop the breastplate, set with a familiar T-shaped visor.
“This is your father’s armor,” I say.
Ezryn runs a finger along the ragged tip of his ear. His eyes shine with memories, with loss and pain. “Blessing or no, curse broken or no…do I deserve the helm?”
Gently, I take his hand away from his ear and place it on my left forearm. The skin is rosy pink and smooth, but once it was covered in a red scar. “A wise person once told me though something may begin somewhere, it changes, dies, renews. Though the seed may be a part of us, nothing stays the same.” My voice is a soft whisper. “You don’t have to hold on to the person you once were.”
Ezryn’s jaw clenches, and he turns back to the armor. Then he stands. “Will you help me?”
I rise beside him. “It would be my honor.”
Gauntlets and greaves, cuirass and couters, gorget and vambraces: piece by piece, with Ezryn’s guidance, I put the High Prince of Spring back together.
I hold up the last portion of his armor: the helm. Ezryn looks like a storybook knight, his body clad in gold, his handsome face, with such deep, intense eyes, revealed. But I know it doesn’t matter how much magic he wields; it’s the piece in my hands that lends its strength to the Prince of Spring.
“I think you should do this part yourself.” I hand him his father’s helm.
He stares at it, and it’s almost as if he’s looking at someone within the black visor. “I will do right by the memory of my pastfamily,” he says, then looks up at me. “And I will do right by my current one.”
Then, Ezryn, the High Prince of Spring, dons his helm once more.
44
