I turn towards the arch that leads back to the teleportation point, pausing just briefly. The children are laughing again, chasing spirit moths that glow pale blue. Vailith hums something low and soothing under her breath, a hymn old andfull of memory. I don’t belong here. But I’ll protect it. I teleport, fading from the peace and into duty once more.
I landat the Welcome Circle. A large amphitheatre carved into the south-eastern soul stone cliffs, where new arrivals are judged.
The head judge bows. “Too many are coming, my prince. We need more judges.”
“I know, I’m working on it.” I sigh. “But we vet those who want to be a voice of judgement thoroughly for a reason. You remember what it was like before.”
He nods grimly. Corrupt judges once ruled the Circle, sentencing the undeserving to Gehenna for their own sick pleasure, or letting souls go for bribes. Souls who only needed growth were sent to suffer for eternity. It took me three hundred years to go through the souls and ensure the ones who didn’t deserve to be in the pit were removed and offered magical remedies to help them forget what they had endured.
“We will not repeat history,” I tell him. “Even if it means slower judgement in the meantime.”
He nods again, thanking me for the work that I’m doing. The truth was, I just came up with the answers; Aran and the small council I let him be in charge of were the ones doing all the hard work. I was the face, but he was truly the brain.
I makemy final visit of the day to the training rings. New soldiers spar in sandy arenas lined with roaring flames. One of the newer recruits—a smaller boy with freshly sprouted horns—is being brutalised. Calrix circles him like a predator, the sight reminding me of his brutality throughout my childhood. I step into the ring, placing myself between Calrix and the boy.
“That’s enough,” I snap. “You will not treat my soldiers the way you treat me as a boy.”
Calrix sneers. “Then make them stronger. Look at him, he’s pathetic.”
I growl, stepping up to him, towering over him by at least six inches.
“I am. By teaching them that cruelty does not equal strength.”
He storms off, cursing my name as he goes to find some other poor bastard to bully and intimidate.
I kneel beside the boy. “Your size is not your weakness,” I say. “You will grow, but what matters is how you wield your weapon. Do not rely on your height and muscles to get you by. You will die. Be smart, and know how and when to strike.”
He nods, barely holding back tears. Unfortunately, until I am officially king, there are some things I cannot change. That includes how young the help and soldiers are. It has been a priority of mine to change the starting age to a minimum of a thousand years old. My father has them starting as young as five hundred, making them just children. It’s unacceptable.
By nightfall,I’m back in my chambers alone. My cloak lies discarded over the back of a chair, and my hands are stained with ink and blood from training with my soldiers for a while. Documents have been signed, orders sealed, decisions made that will change things for better or worse.
I didn’t visit Nox’thraxis today. I rarely need to. The Shadowfolk don’t require my supervision. They whisper beneath twilight skies, threading through their inverted towers in silence. They feed on secrets and regrets like wine, but they are loyal to the crown in their own peculiar, eerie way. House Nytherian rules there—ancient blood, cunning, and cold. If something’swrong in Nox’thraxis, I’ll hear it in my nightmares. I also avoided the Shuddering Waste. That place has no ruler, just ghosts and echoes of names long devoured. The wind there howls like something dying, and the sand is made of bone dust and broken identity. The Diminished roam those dunes like wolves without memory, devouring whatever remains behind of themselves and others. I only go there when I absolutely must, when something’s gone so wrong that the Waste itself reacts. But not today. Today, other fires needed tending.
Fifty thousand yearsmy father has ruled. A tyrant obsessed with control, with punishment, with power. Korran built his throne with betrayal and radicalism and called it a legacy. He never ruled, though; he reigned. He enforced, and he suffocated. And when he finally stepped away from the throne, crippled by age and bitterness, placed on bedrest like some crumbling monument, the weight he left behind nearly crushed me. But I carried it anyway, and still do. And I did more than survive it. I took that weight and moulded it with my bare hands into something better, something worthy. I rebuilt the trade systems, I forged peace with realms my father even refused to name, and I opened our gates again. Cinderspine now flourishes, the school and businesses run without fear, our warriors train with pride rather than terror. Even the ashroses bloom again.
I haven’t taken the crown yet, but I already rule like a king. And when the day comes that I finally sit that obsidian throne with a crown upon my head, I will make sure this realm looks less like him and more like the whispers say it did under the rule of the first queen.
Chapter 13
Daisy
It doesn’t get better.
Everyone says it does. They say that time is a healer, that the days get easier, that if you just keep breathing, eventually the weight will lift and you will one day wake up and feel… human again. Spoiler alert: they lied. Because it’s been a week, and my ribs still feel like they’re folding in on themselves every time I inhale. Like my own body is trying to smother me.
It’s been a week of absolutely nothing. No classes, no work, no cheer. I couldn’t even tell you what day it is without checking my phone. Morning bleeds into night, and I spend all of it right here, camped out in the same spot in my bed like a tragic little ghost. The outfit hasn’t changed. Hoodie. Sweats. The same ones. The fabric is always damp with either sweat or tears, sometimes both. The last time I saw shampoo was when Talia threw me into the shower, so my hair’s a bird’s nest I keep scraped into a bun so tight it’s practically a facelift.
The groceries Ezra bought are currently starting a silent protest in the fridge. Fuzzy things are growing, and I’m prettysure the apples are evolving into something entirely new. I can barely manage a bite of toast without feeling nauseous, which is fine because the bread is now hard enough to be considered a weapon. Talia keeps dropping off more food. Fresh, lovingly selected, with little post-it notes that say “Eat something, bitch.” With a little pink heart scribbled next to her words. It’s sweet, it’s guilt-inducing, and it’s ineffective.
Ezra texts me memes and sends me voice notes every damn day. Sometimes dramatic reenactments of some crime documentary he’s watched; sometimes it’s heartfelt reminders that he loves me and he’s worried. He even leaves my favourite coffee at the door. He always knocks three times, always waiting, but I don’t answer. I just take the stuff from the doorstep when they give up trying to make me open the door. I can’t let them in. Because I am not the Daisy they know, the Daisy they love. Not the girls who lit up rooms, who twirled in hallways. I’m not sunshine anymore. I’m static.
I hear the words in my head like a sick joke:
Be the sun. Always the sun.
My mother’s voice, so full of warmth, of hope. She believed in light, in strength, in finding beauty in everything, even the worst. I promised her I’d keep shining, keep being the sun. But how do you shine when the light’s gone out? How do I be the sun when I don’t even feel the smallest bit of warmth? I don’t know who I am anymore. But I know I’m not her.
I’m lying in bed,staring at the same spot on my ceiling that I have been staring at for the past week, when the knock comes. Sharp. Repeated. I stay still, ignoring the knocks just like each one that came before it.
