Her lips part, trembling on the word that unravels us both.
“Father?”
Then he breaks, sweeping her into his arms.
“Estra,” he breathes, voice cracking on her name. “My daughter.”
The words unravel me.
I watch as she hesitates, then her hands lift until they find his waist, and when she finally clings to him, something inside me shatters. I fall into them both, arms encircling them, holding tight, as if my body alone could keep the world from taking her again.
We weep together—father, mother, daughter—our tears mingling, our breaths uneven. I do not know how long we stand like that. In the void, time has no meaning.
But even if eternity were ours, it would not be long enough.
When there are no more tears left to cry, when our arms ache from holding one another, when the weight of what we’ve survived finally settles into our bones, the silence after the storm feels almost unbearable. My body trembles, every wound screaming now that the battle’s fever has burned away. Still, I lift my hand and open a portal.
The air parts like a sigh, and through the tear, the Grove unfurls. The scent of earth and sunlight drifts through, and beyond it stand our friends, waiting.
Estra stands between Daed and me, our hands clasped around hers, a bond of flesh and blood and steel, forged in grief and fire. Our baby may be gone, but our daughter lives. The warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her heart, it’s everything. Proof that we did not fight in vain.
Together, we step through the portal.
Into a world broken, but ours.
A world our blood has scarred, but our love will mend. A world where a cursed Fae prince and his Awakened bride can teach shadow and light to coexist, where our child can grow without fear, and the wounds of gods and mortals alike might finally heal.
The world we bargained for.
A world bound by shadows and souls and a love eternal, born of smoke and vine.
Epilogue
Amara
Istand on the balcony of the white marble castle, my hands resting against the railing. Vines curl along every wall and column, flowers bursting through cracks, and as I look out across Pariseth, I see that all this beautiful growth stems from a single vine in the garden below. The serpentine vine I planted so long ago has grown wild and spread.
In the garden, Daed works beneath the warm afternoon sun, his shirt discarded, his skin bronzed and gleaming with sweat, hands buried in the soil as he pulls up roots for dinner. Once, those hands wielded blades and shadows. Now they tend seedlings. His hair falls over his face, and for a moment I simply watch him, this Fae prince who once commanded armies and now hums softly while he gardens.
Footsteps sound behind me.
“You’ve made a farmer out of a Fae prince,” Estra says, amusement lacing her tone as she joins me on the balcony.
I smile, turning to take her in. My daughter, my miracle. Her skin glows fair in the sun, her dark curls tied high in a loose ponytail. She wears leathers and boots, a linen shirt beneath a fitted vest, and around her wrist, as always, Arax’s red ribbon.
“It keeps him busy,” I say, warmth threading through my voice. “With no war, no demons, no crown to weigh him down, he barely knows what to do with himself.”
Estra leans her elbows on the railing beside me, gazing down at her father. “It still surprises me, how easily he gave up the crown to Aunt Zyphoro.”
“It shouldn’t,” I reply, my eyes following Daed as he straightens, wiping sweat from his brow. “He never wanted to rule, and once he realized the Sundered Kingdoms didn’t need a king, he was glad to let it go. Zyphoro has the strength and vision to lead our world forward. After centuries of isolation, she’s determined to rebuild what was lost.”
A small grin tugs at my lips. “Though with Lord Reon as her counsel, we may see more chaos than diplomacy. He promises the debauchery will be kept to a minimum.”
Estra laughs, and I close my eyes for a heartbeat, just to listen.
The laughter. The creak of the vines as they grow. The sound of Daed’s hands in the soil.
The world has changed. So have we, and for the first time in my life, change does not frighten me.
