The King convulses. Its roots thrash wildly, striking the walls of the grove, the altar, the bones scattered across the floor. Its vines whip through the air without direction or purpose, the desperate spasms of a dying thing. Its thorns retract into the mass like a wounded animal pulling in its limbs.
The crown of blackened briars crumbles. I watch the pieces fall—the oldest part of the King, the seed from which the rest grew. They hit the altar and dissolve into ash, into nothing, into memory.
And then?—
Silence.
Silence crashes down. The absence of eight centuries of screaming. A silence like a held breath, like the world waiting to see if the danger has really passed. A stillness I’ve never experienced in this forest—because this forest has never been silent, not in all the time I’ve been here.
The King’s form collapses. Roots and vines and thorns disintegrate into dust that hangs in the air like ash after a fire. The faces that were trapped in the bark fade completely—not vanishing, but finally, truly dying. Finding the peace that was stolen from them when the King consumed their lives.
My blade comes free. I stagger backward, barely keeping my feet. Every wound I’ve taken is screaming for attention now that the adrenaline is fading. My left arm hangs useless at my side, numb from shoulder to fingertip. My legs are trembling. I can barely see through the blood that’s dried in my eyes.
But I’m alive. And the King is dead.
I turn toward the altar.
Tharos hasn’t moved. He’s still slumped against the stone, his bark-scars still split and weeping, his breathing still shallow and labored. But he’s looking at me. His amber eyes are open, tracking my movement as I stumble toward him.
“Tharos.” My voice comes out wrecked, barely above a whisper. I fall to my knees beside him, my hands finding his face. His skin is cold—too cold. I can feel his heartbeat through my palms, and it’s slow. So slow. “Stay with me. Stay with me, damn you.”
His lips move. Form my name. No sound comes out.
“You promised.” The words tear out of me. “You promised you’d come back. You promised we’d face this together. You don’t get to die now. Not after everything we?—”
My voice breaks. I didn’t know I could still break like this. Didn’t know I had enough left to lose.
His hand lifts. Shaking, weak, but moving. It finds my face. Cups my cheek with fingers that feel like ice.
“Still... here.”
The words are barely audible. A rasp that costs him everything he has left.
“Then stay here.” I press my forehead against his. Feel his breath on my lips—shallow, unsteady, but present. “Stay with me. I didn’t kill a god just to lose you to exhaustion.”
His mouth curves. The ghost of a smile on lips that are too pale.
“Not... a god.”
“Close enough.” I’m crying. I don’t know when I started. Don’t care. “You stubborn, impossible, beautiful monster. Don’t you dare leave me alone in this forest.”
His hand slides from my cheek into my hair. Pulls me closer. Presses his lips against my forehead in a kiss so gentle it makes my chest ache.
“You’re still my choice.” His voice is stronger now. Just a fraction. “Still... here. Still choosing you.”
I laugh. Or sob. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“Then keep choosing.” I pull back just enough to look at him. “Every day. For as long as we have. Keep reaching for me, and I’ll reach back.”
“Deal.” His eyes flutter closed. “Now let me... rest. Just for a moment.”
“No.” I shake him. Gentle, but insistent. “You don’t get to close your eyes yet. Not until I know you’re okay.”
His eyes open. Meet mine. And despite everything—despite the exhaustion, despite the pain, despite the fact that he just ripped apart a bond that’s been killing him for longer than I’ve been alive—he smiles.
“I’m okay.” His hand finds mine. Squeezes. “Better than okay. Better than I’ve felt in years.”
“The King is dead.”
