“Who?” Tristan asked.
Darius’s chin flopped against his chest, and with his final bit of strength, he ripped the letter off the spear and thrust it toward Ronin with a shaky hand.
Ronin furrowed his onyx brows, then plucked the letter from Darius’s limp fingers as the male slumped back against the throne.
Ronin’s golden-blue eye roved over the three simple sentences, and black claws burst from his knuckles as a savage growl rumbled in his throat.
“What?” Cassandra asked, feathers prickling, that terrible sense of dread returning as Ronin tossed her the letter.
She read the final sentence above the scrawledEof Eamon’s signature.
Why rule just one world when I could rule them all?
“He’s got Selene,” Ronin ground out to Tristan. “He’s marching his army through the Halfway. Toward Palathea.
“Eamon Erabis has declared war upon the Creator herself.”
EPILOGUE
At a table in the cozy cottage, Xenia arranged wildflowers in a vase of dark blue glass, humming to herself.
Every time she placed her elbow upon the surface, the table wobbled. As if the legs hadn’t been installed properly.
It didn’t really bother her. It was hard to be annoyed byanythingin such a lovely place. The bluebird sky outside was always bright, the clouds always fluffy, the breeze always warm.
When she strode through the meadows every morning, the blooms she’d clipped the previous day had re-sprouted. So odd. But delightful.
The cottage was like that, too. The pantry and refrigerator restocked every morning. New books appeared on the shelves every few days. Firewood appeared underneath the mantle whenever she needed it.
She was never cold nor hungry nor thirsty. Never tired. Slightly bored.
More than a little lonely.
But she was safe, at least. She didn’t know how she knew that. But she knew.
She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here. Couldn’t remember her life before...
If she concentrated very hard, sometimes she’d catch small snippets of memory.
A low, sultry chuckle. Fingers caressing her curls. A fang grazing her collarbone.
A pair of thundercloud eyes.
The snippets never materialized into full memories. All they did was lodge a persistent ache in her chest for hours afterward.
So, she tried not to trigger them. Tried not to think of him.
Whoever he was.
Instead, she picked wildflowers. And made tea. And read smutty books. And ate shortbread biscuits by the fire.
She plucked up a poppy, then leaned her elbow across the table to place it in the vase. The table wobbled, nearly tipping it, and she cursed.
She should fix it. She’d always been so good at fixing things. Hadn’t she?
She pushed out of her chair and crouched onto the floor.
Just as she was reaching for the offending leg, a knock sounded at the door. She was so startled she banged her head on the underside of the table.
