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Riven Thaelon, fae king and fae supreme.

It’s likely why Godrick never told anyone he had been turned into a vampire until he absolutely had to.

Maybe… maybe Rosemarie was right.

Maybe we are a little bit like our parents, even if we’ve convinced ourselves we aren’t.

Godrick was stubborn. Desperate to protect what was his, even if he went about it in a way that left so many hurt in his wake. I recognize those traits in myself. Claim them as my own. And I will strive, every day, to be better.

The lords talk amongst themselves, voices tumbling over one another, until one finally blurts, “Tried? Forgive my brashness, Your Majesty, but you look quite roughed up. Are we meant to believe⁠—”

“That,” Quill cuts in, voice deep as the night, “was a disagreement among supremes.” He flashes his fangs. “None of your concern.”

The council members recoil slightly before bending their heads together in another confused huddle.

“Well, if that’s the case,” Lord Thomasin says at last, eyes flicking between me and the others, as though measuring the truth for himself. “I suppose we’ll stay for the wedding? That is, if the bride is still here?”

So much for a private ceremony. My jaw tightens, but I school my expression before it can betray my irritation.

“She is.” I lift our joined hands between us, then extend my free hand toward the council, beckoning them forward. Gwyn straightens, smoothing the dirt from her skirts as she presses closer to me.

Their gazes land on her with varying degrees of curiosity—some softened by tentative approval, others sharpened with questions I have no patience to answer.

“It’s so lovely to meet you,” Gwyn says, voice steady despite the sudden scrutiny. Her hand tightens around mine. “I trust, in time, we’ll come to understand one another—not as fae and witch, but as allies devoted to the Fae Isles.”

“That is our hope as well,” Lord Thomasin says, the curve of his lips suggesting she’s already earned a measure of his respect.

The council bows low before stepping aside, putting a careful distance between themselves and the others gathered in the clearing.

“Before we begin, I… I’d like to try something,” Gwyn says, turning to me and biting her bottom lip.

I arch a brow. “And what’s that?”

She closes her eyes, and the area around her glows.

“Sovereign Sisters,” I gasp. “What⁠—”

“Shh!” she chides, brow smoothing into an expression of focus.

A rush of wind sweeps us up, thick as honey and just as sweet, lifting us into the air. We’re caught in a whirlpool of nature—leaves, vines, flower petals, spider silk—as our torn, bloodied clothes are stripped away piece by shredded piece and reworked into something new.

Magic dances over us, dressing skin, soothing hurt.

And then, we’re set down.

Clothed in the fabric of our kingdom.

The holes in my tunic have been sewn shut with spider silk. Shoulders adorned with floral epaulettes, a twin to the blooms kissing Gwyn’s low neckline and bodice. Her arms are barely hidden beneath sheer, fluttering sleeves, evoking the elegance of butterfly wings, twin to the ones who’ve made a home in my stomach. Our garments shimmer with subtle sparkles, catching the fading sunlight like dewdrops. And a single vine twines around her throat as a makeshift necklace. As armor.

And there, atop Gwyn’s head, is a crown woven with flowers ranging in color from soft pink and bright orange to dusky purple. Colors that somehow feel like they belong to us.

“How did you…?” I ask, wonderstruck.

“Long story,” Gwyn teases, grinning, “but the short version is, I’ve been blessed by Aislinn.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I murmur, taking her small hands in mine.

She lifts a shoulder, tilts her head toward the Viretree. “Still want to marry me even though your goddess likes me better?”