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“Burn the throne,” he says quietly. “Claim it. It belongs to you.” Then he winks just like he used to, that same crooked smile breaking through the bruises.

“I will,” I whisper. “I promise.” My throat tightens. “Rest easy.” I watch as he turns toward the piercing light.

“Maddoc?” My voice cracks. He glances back, waiting. “I love you too,” I say, tears racing down my cheeks. “I always have, and always will.” The words are gentle and sure this time. He smiles and nods once, his eyes shining like that was all he ever needed to hear, and then he walks into the light. The glow envelops him.

I stand shaking, hope and grief tangled tight in my chest. Gods, I hope the afterlife is kind to him.

I turn away, blinking through tears. Behind me, the water stirs. A narrow path appears from the water’s edge, dark and winding forward into a dense jungle. I step onto it, bare feet sinking slightly with each step. The trees loom tall, their ancient trunks wrapped in moss and vines that glow faintly, pulsing with soft, otherworldly light.

Bioluminescent algae ripples across every leaf, every root, casting shifting patterns of blue and green across the forest floor. The canopy above presses in close, the air thick with warmth and the low hum of life lurking unseen.

This way forward isn’t gentle. But it’s mine.

The path opens into a small clearing where a bed of moss waits for me, perfectly shaped, like the earth carved it with intention. It’s surrounded by vibrant blooms of orange, pink, and violet. The scent that drifts off of them is calming and enchanting. It’s the most breathtaking place I’ve ever seen, like the world has been reborn in light, silence, and peace.

I sink into it, the moss warm against my skin. Above, the trees stretch endlessly skyward, their towering crowns veined with threads of glowing algae that shimmer like fallen stars caught in the branches.

The air hums a low ancient lullaby, and I watch as the light flickers gently in time with my heartbeat. The forest breathes with me. I let my eyes close.

Chapter sixteen

Second Chance

I open my eyes. Moonlight washes across the floor. The fire burns steadily in the hearth, its warmth wrapping around me like a blanket. I’m in the Slayers Academy. I made it back to my body.

A table sits beside me, one that I swear wasn’t there before. On it is a glass of water, a hunk of bread, and a bowl of stew, still steaming. Someone’s just been here. Someone’s been taking care of me.

I push myself upright, expecting pain to tear through me, but nothing comes. My body feels new, like I’ve been stitched back together.

I glance down at my arm, flexing it slowly. The skin is unbroken save for a raised, dark, jagged scar cutting across my golden-brown skin, marking where Silas’s last hit tore through me.

Confusion floods through me. My pulse pounds in my ears. Who the fuck touched me? Who healed me?

Healers are more myth than memory, stories whispered about in temples and taverns. Am I still dreaming? Maybe I’m half-dead, drifting somewhere between waking and whatever comes next. Maybe this is what it feels like to knock on death’s door and be turned away, forced to stagger back to life.

I pinch my arm with my talon nails, hard enough to sting. I feel it. A bead of blood, which starts as black then changes to red, wells up. So this isn’t a dream.

I drag the small table closer and lift the glass, taking a cautious sip. The moment the water touches my tongue, my body stills. It’s salty. My breath catches.

“Nyra?” My voice cracks through the silence. She’s one of the only ones who knows, really knows, that I need saltwater to keep the siren in me fed, to keep the hunger quiet and to keep myself whole. No answer comes. And she would never be here.

I rise to my feet, my body light, almost too light, and begin to circle the room. Nothing feels right. The door remains locked, just as I left it. But everything else… this place was worse than a slaughterhouse.

Silas’s body had been sprawled across the floor, his blood and mine splashed up the walls, his flesh torn apart by talons and beak. But there’s no evidence of that slaughter left.

The stone gleams, polished clean of any stain or smear. The air is warm and faintly sweet, scented with cinnamon and vanilla, where once it reeked of iron and rot and death.

My stomach twists. Whoever cleaned this room knows something they shouldn’t. A truth no one should ever know.

A flicker of movement pulls my attention back to the far side of the chamber. A single candle burns atop Silas’s desk.

Its flame bends and stretches with every breath of air, wavering but refusing to die, as if held there by something more than wax and wick. Beside it rests a small envelope, sealed with dark wax and stamped with a crest I’ve never seen before.

Waiting. For me.

My stomach knots. How can Silas still be playing games with me from the grave?

I step closer and lift the note from the desk. The envelope is thicker than it looks, the parchment dense and expensive beneath my fingers.