Page 169 of Burn of the Everflame

The future we might have. The nights we might spend together, the forest we might call home. The peace we might finally win.

Unchangeable fate be damned . . . I was going to fight for it with everything I had.

39

DIEM

The sky was raining ale.

Its earthy, malted aroma filled my nose as the amber liquid drizzled over my skin. “Not the hair,” I groaned, covering my head. “I’m going to smell like a tavern for a week.”

“Oh come on, D,” Henri shouted. He shoved a mug into my hands, then crashed his against it, sending a tidal wave sloshing into my face. He grinned at my dripping glare. “Celebrate with us.”

I handed the mug off to a nearby guard, who was all too glad to add it to the two already in her fists. She lifted them and shouted, “Victory for the Queen!”

Across the massive crowd of revelers that had gathered on the palace lawn, a handful of revelers echoed her cheer, though others exchanged looks.

I forced a smile. “Not for me,” I yelled. “For Emarion!” This time, everyone wholeheartedly joined in.

“Quit sulking,” Henri said. He threw his arm around my shoulder, losing more of his mug’s contents to the soil. “In case you haven’t noticed, we won.”

“They retreated,” I corrected, wiping the ale off my face. “Winning would be stopping them for good.”

“We stopped them before they took any lives, and we didn’t lose a single soldier. That’s worth celebrating.”

After weeks of chasing all over the continent, a clue from my mother’s source had finally led us to Vance and his men. Once again, Ophiucae was not with them. When they saw how large my army had grown since our last clash, half of them turned and fled. When I unleashed my magic, the other half followed suit. Vance alone held the line from his horse, burning me alive with his glare until a warning arrow sent him riding away.

We’d dealt a massive strike to their morale, if not their numbers. The Guardians in my army were thrilled they didn’t have to kill their own, and the Descended were relieved that Ophiucae’s massacres had skidded to a halt.

Henri was right—it was a win.

I should be happy.

My hand tightened around my still-empty scabbard. “I’m going to check with the kitchens. It was a long march home, everyone could use a hot meal.”

I tried to shrug him off, but he grabbed my arm and tugged me back. “You’re still here, D. That’s a good thing.”

He pinned me with a loaded stare that had a lump forming in my throat. Henri knew the full truth of what the victory I sought might cost me.

“Go find Lana,” I urged him. “She’ll be happy to see you. But no forcing ale on her, alright?”

He grinned wide. Though I’d been skeptical at first, looming fatherhood had changed him. His years of bottled anger were fermenting to a sweet, effervescent excitement for the future. I’d even caught him trading friendly jokes with some Descended on the road back to Lumnos, a scene I never thought I’d see.

“Only if you go find that snooty Prince of yours, too,” he teased.

This smile, I didn’t have to force. “I will,” I promised.

He let me go and disappeared into the throng. Despite my strange mood, I paused to savor the moment. There were so many new faces. Word had spread of what I was doing here in Lumnos, and every day, more people arrived to join our fight. The borders between the different factions of my army had grown almost too blurred to define, everyone mingling together in a beautiful weave. Even the Ignios refugees had set aside their self-imposed isolation to join in, thanks in large part to Taran’s swiftness at dragging out the palace casks. He was currently hanging halfway out a third-floor window, pouring a shower of ale as soldiers held their cups up from below.

I slipped through the jostling bodies into the palace and stopped by the kitchens, where I was met there by a mix of blue, brown, and orange eyes. Eleanor had offered generous salaries to fill the gaps in palace staff, and I was pleased to see that she’d broken the long-standing House Corbois policy of only hiring its own.

After discussing arrangements to feed the crowd outside, I slipped into the staff passageways and snuck to the royal wing, eager to avoid the Corbois griping in the halls. To them, my decision to spread the royal wealth was a theft of the coffers they felt entitled to by birthright. It didn’t matter that House Corbois had more than enough gold left over to fund their lavish lifestyles—the prospect of a single coin being taken to help someone else was a reprehensible affront.

Our family earned that money, they said.

It’s their own fault those people are poor, they said.

They simply need to work harder, they said.