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“I know.”
“I don’t imagine she’s too disappointed.”
“I’m sure she’s thrilled.”
“You rescued me.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” she said, pressing against his chest.
“You wouldn’t.”
Before she could open her mouth to confirm that she would, indeed, never regret it, there came a thundering of feet along the corridor. Seconds later, Maytree burst into the room. She took one look at the two of them and immediately flung herself at Hawthorn, muttering incomprehensible sounds and words of relief.
“Thank you,” she mouthed at Juliana. “Thank you, thank you.”
When she finally parted from her son’s arms, her cheeks were very wet. Hawthorn looked little better.
She touched his face. “You’re all right?”
“Honestly, Mother, I’m not sure I’ve ever been better.”
“Ladrien?”
“Stripped of his magic, forbidden from forming another army, and banished to Winter for the next one hundred years. We shall not be hearing from him again.”
“I would have executed him.”
“This felt more poetic.”
Maytree shrugged, as if it was neither here nor there. “Come,” she said instead. “We need to address our subjects.”
Everywhere they walked, vines blossomed. The castle sung with golden lights. Stones knitted back together, floors and walls reformed, stronger than ever. Any trace of battle faded. When they reached the throne room, banners blazed. Trumpets sounded.
Hawthorn parted from Juliana’s side to take his place beside his mother. Juliana, meanwhile, spotted the mortal forces, Aoife amongst them. She ran forward to embrace her and was offered a firm pat by Miriam. “You did good, girl,” she said. “Your mother would have been proud.” She paused, lips thin, face taut. “Your father, too, for all his failings. He’d be proud as well.”
Juliana bowed her head, unwilling to think of him today, or her mother—her mother whose body still rested in the forest. That was tomorrow’s problem. Today’s—
Wait, did today even have a problem?
Did she actually have anything in the world to worry about?
Hawthorn’s gaze caught hers, and the smile she’d been fighting poured across her cheeks. There was maybeonething to worry about, and even that… she knew exactly how to handle.
Maytree stood, waving her hand. The room fell quiet.
“Loyal subjects,” she began, “that which we have feared for so long has come to pass; the curse is broken at last.”
A cheer went up from the crowd, hoots and jeers. The trumpets burst into a short chorus.
“We owe our release to a loyal group of mortals,” Maytree continued, “who did not abandon us to Ladrien’s rule, even at the cost of many of their own lives.”
A quietness fell over the group, and Juliana’s eyes darted to Albert. No amount of celebration could bring Dillon back, no recompense would ease his loss.
“I cannot bring back the dead,” Maytree carried on, reading the room. “All I can do is honour them. Posthumous knighthood for anyone who perished serving the kingdom, compensation for their families, statues raised in pure gold—and my personal promise to never forget their names. Let them be added to our books and our memories, heroes of this dark time.”
A moment’s reverence was afforded, the clouds even darkening at Maytree’s unconscious behest. After a minute, they brightened again.
“We shall mourn, but not today. Today we celebrate what is, and give thanks to those that made it through. Miriam, step forth please.”
