Page 165 of The Reaping Rose

She’s the constellation I searched for in the night long before I ever found her. The star I wished on when there was nothing but the darkness of the prison around me.

“What do you think of the dress? Am I fit to stand beside a king?” She teases me with a devious little smirk.

“I’m hardly fit to stand beside you. This dress is fit for a queen.” I stop before her and take her hand as I drop to a knee.

Her eyebrow lifts. “Should a king be kneeling?”

“For you, everyone should take a knee, especially me. I am yours until the fates unwind, Elorie Vale, and even then.” My lips press the back of her hand, her magic tickling my skin as her smile spreads.

Lifting to my feet, I pull her to me this time. A perfect gasp escapes her lungs as she clutches my shirt and pulls me closer. Elorie’s lips seal to mine, and everything else quiets. Her fingers slip up around the back of my neck, twining starlight through my hair.

Aether wraps her body; my magic is just as desperate for her. It holds her closer as her lips part, and she moans into my mouth. Every fleck of my being aches for her. Needs her. Loves her.

“I love you too,” she whispers against my lips, smiling gently as she slips into my mind. “Now we should go before we do something reckless like ruin this beautiful dress.”

“I like the second option.”

“Too bad.” Elorie pulls away, keeping our fingers laced. “Everyone is waiting on their king. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

Especially when they’ve been waiting a long time.

It’s been a century since my mother fell, and I was locked in a prison. Vaelier trusted my mother—trusted me—to accept Aurora in my place while they waited. But now, the time has come for me to take my rightful place on the throne. As I said to Elorie in the Ley Court many months ago, my people need a king for whatever comes next.

I didn’t fully understand that when I said it to her. I didn’t know I’d lose Selia and that grief would destroy my confidence in accepting my crown. I’ve doubted myself at every turn since her death, and my people have suffered for that hesitance.

No more.

We have a battle to win, a realm to save. And even after that is done, if what Esen told Elorie is true, the humans are planning something with the aeraliss they are mining. My people need me confident and ready.

I stop at the table beside the bedroom door and remove the obsidian crown from the pillow to place it to my head. The weight of the obsidian stones at the peaks cast a heaviness over my aura. They represent the weight of the responsibility I’m about to accept.

When we reach the grand ballroom, Elorie tries to pull away, so I snag my magic at her waist to keep her close.

“You should walk in by yourself. This is your moment.” She looks up at me.

“Our moment,” I correct her, placing my palm on her lower back. “Our people’s moment.”

Elorie takes a deep breath, folding her hands in front of her, and steps through the doors at my side.

The entire room drops to a knee.

Not long ago, I would have been beside them while my mother walked through the room, and now, I’m at the center. I find Atlas and Rior at the front of the crowd, beside the lords and ladies of Vaelier.

They nod once, tempering their usual sarcastic smirks.

Beside them, Perame is not on her knee, but seated in a chair. Shadows rim her eyes, and exhaustion has her face terrifyingly pale. She should be in bed recovering, but I doubt she would listen if I tried to send her back there. She’s here for this.

For me.

Perame smiles as we pass the group, and my throat tightens.

Elorie pulls back before we reach the steps, moving to stand beside Greer and Callum, who have both traded their warrior attire for silk finery like the rest of the room. They are not from this kingdom, but they stand beside my mate, respecting my ascension to the throne.

This is where it starts. Our realms will either destroy each other or find a way to work together. To have representation from Lyrichia on this night, welcoming me as king, is proof we fight for eventual peace.

My mate saw it before I could, but I understand now.

Calla, the priestess to the Vaelier royal family, steps forward. Her red hair hangs almost to her knees. Flowers dot the flowing strands. Emerald silk hangs loose at her neck, accentuating the ruby shimmer she’s painted over her bronze skin.