Epilogue
Bronwen stepped through the hall slowly, intending at first to head straight to the great room, but her feet betrayed her. They carried her up several flights of stairs, through the corridor, and halted before the door she’d seen Lavina slip into countless times.
Lavina sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. The moment the door opened, her gaze caught Bronwen’s in the mirror.
“Does Carrow know his pet is out?” she mocked.
Bronwen didn’t answer.
Lavina turned, the brush slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor as her eyes dropped lower.
“What did you do?” Her voice was tight with disbelief.
Bronwen followed her gaze.
Carrow’s heart pulsed in her palm—slow, sluggish beats that hadn’t quite stopped. She didn’t even remember bringing it with her. She didn’t remember not bringing it either.
Lavina stood abruptly, panic flickering in her eyes, but she was too slow.
Bronwen was already there, closing the distance with predatory speed.
Her hand drove into Lavina’s chest with a wet crack, twisting deep until her breath rattled and her skin turned a sickly shade of gray.
Lavina’s mouth opened in a soundless cry, eyes wide with horror as her knees buckled.
Bronwen shoved her back, letting her crumple lifelessly to the floor.
A rustle broke the silence from the bed.
Simon stirred beneath the tangled sheets, unaware.
Disgust burned through Bronwen as she took in the sight—of course he was here, with her.
It made too much sense. The bile rose in her throat at the thought of their intimacy, but she refused to let it slow her.
She crossed the room in a heartbeat, looming over the bed.
He blinked awake just in time to see her shadow fall across him, confusion etched across his face.
It was the last thing he saw before she drove her hand down, ending him before he could even scream.
Bronwen looked down at the torn slip she still wore, crusted with dried blood and things she didn’t want to name.
A ripple of distaste passed through her—not shame, not now, but something close to awareness.
The thin fabric clung uncomfortably to her skin, stiff with what it carried, and she felt the weight of it as though it were chains.
She raised her gaze, teeth pressing into her lip. The heart in her fist pulsed sluggishly, and she could feel its rhythm against her palm, as if it mocked her.
She turned from the bed and walked toward Lavina’s armoire, pulling it open with one hand while the other still clutched the heart. The heavy doors groaned, revealing rows of indulgences.
Silks, velvets, lace. She’d always had expensive taste.
Bronwen thumbed through the garments until she found something beautiful—dramatic and dark, something fit for a queen.
She pulled it free and held it up against herself, the fabric rich and heavy compared to the ruined slip.
She slipped it on, the fabric whispering against her skin, smoothing over her shoulders as if claiming her.
For a moment, she simply stood there, breathing, feeling the change in herself as much as in the gown.
Then she turned to the mirror.
Red eyes stared back at her. She let out a laugh—something that sounded strangely familiar.
She didn’t flinch.
Her hand lifted almost lazily, smoothing her hair as if nothing about this moment were extraordinary, tucking a stray strand behind her ear with deliberate calm. The gesture felt mocking, defiant.
She stepped back out into the corridor, shoulders squared, breath steady, vision sharp as glass. Carrow’s—no, August’s—heart was still beating softly in her grasp, its sluggish rhythm a quiet reminder of what she had done, and what she would never return from.
A gasp broke the silence.
A servant stood at the end of the hall, a tray trembling in her hands, her eyes wide with horror. She turned to run.
But instinct surged faster than thought.
Bronwen was on her in a blink, knocking the tray to the ground as she pinned her to the wall. Her scent wrapped around Bronwen—sweet, ripe, alive. The pulse in her throat beat like a drum, calling to the monster that had rooted itself deep inside Bronwen.
Her teeth sank into her neck, and everything else disappeared.
The first taste was fire and silk—warmth that spread like sunlight through frozen veins.
It filled her, lit her from the inside, chased away the lingering cold of death.
The shock of it nearly made her knees buckle, a desperate sound rumbling from her throat as if she couldn’t get enough fast enough.
The servant writhed for only a second before falling still.
Bronwen drank deeply, each swallow flooding her with power, every drop stitching together the pieces of herself she thought she had lost.
When she finally tore her mouth away, the servant’s body slumped heavily in her arms. She lowered her to the floor almost tenderly, though her hands still trembled.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood across her lips.
The copper tang lingered on her tongue, rich and sweet, making her shiver.
It was intoxicating. It was everything.
She was no longer a witch forced to borrow scraps of power. Now, she was something far greater.
A strange lightness settled in her chest—not joy, not exactly. But something like it. Contentment, maybe. Clarity. Like the sharp edges of grief had dulled just enough to breathe around them. Some things that once clawed at her mind now felt distant, inconsequential.
She adjusted her grip, shifting the weight in her hand without thought. It wasn’t until she glanced down that she realized she was still holding August’s heart. Somehow, she hadn’t let go. Couldn’t let go.
She wiped the last trace of blood from her chin and began to hum. It was an old tune. One her mother used to sing while sewing late into the night. The sound echoed through the corridor as she descended the stairs with a lightness that felt unnatural but welcome.
She smiled to herself, the great room calling to her like a stage waiting for its final act.
As she stepped through the grand doors, the music faltered. A haunting silence rippled across the room. All eyes turned. Gasps scattered like broken glass as vampires froze mid-dance, mid-sip, mid-sentence.
She didn’t look at them.
The hem of her gown whispered over the marble as she glided forward.
She ascended the steps to the thrones. At the top, she paused, letting her gaze sweep over the empty chairs—theirs.
His. Hers. She moved to August’s throne and ran her fingers along the armrest, then the underside until she felt something odd. A small stone, just slightly raised.
She pressed it.
With a soft click, the back panel slid open, and she reached in without hesitation. Her hand closed around a familiar hilt, but she no longer felt the hum of the dark power that called to her before. She pulled the Blade of Aros free, the steel gleaming like shadow and moonlight.
“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling at the edge.
If they didn’t have the dagger, they couldn’t let Carrow’s soul out again.
She stood back up to see everyone staring at her from below. “Don’t mind me.”
Some of the guards exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes flicking from her face to the heart in her hand. She followed their gaze, blinking as if surprised to still be holding it.
“Why haven’t you let it go, Bronwen?” She didn’t mean to say it out loud.
But she couldn’t. Her fingers were locked around it, as if her body had made the decision for her.
The guards shifted, subtly moving to block the stairs that led back down. She stared at them a beat too long, then turned to the edge of the platform. She blew out a breath and stepped off.
There was no rush of fear, no twist of panic. Just a smooth descent, her body moving like it had always known how to fall without consequence.
“That was easier than I expected,” she murmured to herself.
In a blur, she slipped through the crowd and out of the room, leaving silence and fear in her wake.
“Get her!” someone finally yelled.
So she ran.
Her bare feet hit the stone floor, silent and swift.
The weight of the blade and the heart didn’t slow her.
If anything, they steadied her. She burst through the front doors of the castle, the night air sharp and cool on her skin.
A thousand stars blinked down at her as she sprinted down the long road toward the gate that led to town.
Behind her, the guards shouted to each other. Orders barked, boots slamming against the ground. She didn’t stop until she spotted Adar pacing in the shadows near the gates, his hands raking through his hair as panic etched deep lines into his face.
He turned toward her, eyes widening at the sight of her clutching both a heart and a blade. Whatever words he had died in his throat. There wasn’t time for explanations. Soon, they’d be overrun.
Bronwen didn’t hesitate. She thought of the place she’d seen in one of the old tomes and shoved the image into Adar’s mind.
His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open. “What the fuck is that?” He nearly stumbled back, shaking his head.
“Take us there,” she commanded.
Adar threw up his hands. “That looks more dangerous than where we are now!”
“Just do it, Adar.” Her words snapped like a whip, daring him to argue again.
Something in her voice silenced him. He swallowed hard, shoulders rigid, then reached for her hand as if it were the only thing keeping him steady.
They collapsed onto the ground, swallowed by darkness—save for the eerie glow of a vibrant, shimmering pool nearby.
Strange howls and distant screams echoed through the void.
Adar scrambled to his feet and reached for Bronwen, but before his hand could find hers, something cold and unseen coiled around them both, slamming them hard against the earth.
A boy-like creature stood before them. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, with wild black hair, pale skin, and a slim, gangly frame.
But what made him more than a boy—something not quite human—were his pitch-black eyes, pointed ears, and the inky clouds that floated around him like living shadows.
He was fae. Or something close enough to be worse.
“Who are you?” The question rang with quiet command. Despite his youthful appearance, he radiated authority as he looked down at the intruders bound in black mist, forced to kneel before him.
Adar glanced at his sister, but she said nothing.
“We—we are humans seeking refuge. We mean no harm.”
The fae’s black eyes bore into Adar, sending a chill down his spine. Something slithered through his mind, invasive and cold. The boy was in his head, searching, unraveling truth from lie.
“You lie to me. You are no human. You are a witch—but not like any I have known.”
He turned his gaze to Bronwen, who made no effort to resist the magic that held her.
A strange calm washed through her as her eyes met his, a fleeting peace she hadn’t felt in what felt like forever.
Despite the weight of the black mist and blood on her, she smiled softly at the boy, as though simply looking at him eased something inside her.
In an instant, the boy released her. She crumpled to the ground.
“You are… I do not know what you are. I have seen nothing like you before.”
The boy’s gaze dropped to the heart and blade cradled in her hands. His eyes flared with sudden alarm, the shadows around him tightening.
“You are from Joveryn. How do you have such a blade?”
Bronwen’s gaze flicked down to the dagger, then rose to meet the boy’s eyes once more. She didn’t speak. There was no point—he could pluck the answers straight from her thoughts.
He looked between them again, the truth unraveling itself in his mind. And for the first time in nearly a decade, the lonely boy felt something stir inside him—connection, belonging.
He wasn’t about to let that slip away.
“You will come to my castle.”
And as she followed the fae boy through the darkness of the forest, a rare calm settled inside Bronwen. For the first time in so long, she felt at peace. Yet she also knew one thing to be true.
Darkness had consumed her.
And she had brought her brother with her.