Page 127 of Ruin of Revenants

We all stood, echoing her. “Long live King Archer Emberglade.”

One week later, Archer and I exchanged vows in a more intimate affair. He’d insisted we hold our wedding at sunrise for my sake, out in the castle gardens. Briar, Lily, and Brook had all helped me into the dress Orchid had prepared for me, one that made me feel like I was wearing molten gold shot through with intricate patterns of feathers and phoenixes, suns and flowers, all in shades of green and purple. A sheer veil covered my face and a short train whispered behind me with each step I took.

As I walked down the path that led to a jasmine-covered gazebo surrounded by palms and orchids, citrus trees and lilies, the sun peeked over the horizon, its warmth bathing my skin. My fire responded, my emotions so flooded with love and excitement that sparks flared to life around me.

I couldn’t help it—as I stepped into the gazebo and up to Archer, I started to laugh, reminded of a dim alcove and a couple of passionate kisses when we’d both been trying to convince ourselves our feelings hadn’t been changing. Taking my hands in his, Archer laughed with me.

I promise not to burn down the gazebo, I sent to him.

His eyes were warm, his smile genuine, as he replied in my mind. I’m not afraid of your fire.

Surrounded by our closest family and friends and a handful of jaguars, we exchanged our vows.

Epilogue

Maris had watched the culmination of her prophecies, the intertwined fates of Archer Emberglade and Isoria Gildmere, with more than a little interest. Though the political landscape of the outside world mattered little to her, it was still intriguing to see it shift. She’d beheld the fall of King Wystan in battle after a most shocking turn of events—the land choosing Archer.

Though he hadn’t been born an Emberglade, the original royal family chosen to rule by the gods themselves, he’d nevertheless tapped into the magic that had been gifted specifically to them. Had the land somehow recognized his devotion to its people after all the sacrifices he’d made? Or had the gods, who’d seen Vithenna’s blasphemy and deception and unleashed their combined strength to destroy her, made the choice?

Maris wasn’t quite sure how the magic worked, for she was neither a god nor royalty. She wasn’t even fae in the way others were, for her magic far exceeded what most of them could conjure. She was a hag and a half-mad hermit, revered and feared and something other.

As she watched Archer and Isoria wed and, immediately afterward, enter the throne room for Isoria’s coronation as queen, Maris couldn’t help but cackle to herself. She sat back from her fire, leaning in an old armchair and gnawing on a bone. The smoke danced in vivid colors, the view almost as good as if Maris had traveled to Rainsong to witness the coronation.

“What a great twist. These two will be fun to watch,” she said to herself. “Defying gods and prophecies.” She snorted. “Good for them. It was about time Vithenna had herself knocked down a peg.”

Long live Queen Isoria Emberglade! came the shouts through the enchantment Maris had cast so she could hear the events unfolding miles and miles away.

Again, she grinned to herself, licking her yellowed, needle-sharp teeth. “A phoenix and a phoenix hunter.” She glanced down at the bone, now picked clean, and flashed another devious grin. “You hear that, Wystan? Your son’s new wife turned out to be the greatest thief of all, taking your stolen throne. What a rich joke!”

She tossed the bone into the fire, leaving it to burn with all the other bones she’d stolen off a once-feared king.

THE END