Epilogue
MERRICK
Merrick stood at the edge of the throne room as four guards hoisted Xyliria’s corpse onto their shoulders. Dead weight. Nothing more.
The bitch was finally gone.
Her head lolled at an unnatural angle, inky hair matted with crimson, those perfect features slack with death.
For four centuries, that face had haunted his nightmares—not because of its beauty, but because of what lived behind it.
The cruelty. The calculated malice. The way she smiled when she made people bleed.
Now she looked like what she’d always been—nothing.
“Careful with the body,” Elowyn called out, though her tone held no reverence. “Ashterion wants it burned beyond the borders. Don’t let any of the ash drift back onto Nyxarian soil.”
The guards nodded and began their procession out of the throne room. Merrick watched them go, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
Good fucking riddance.
Elowyn moved to stand beside him, her usually pristine appearance was dishevelled, silver chains tangled, amethyst eyes dark with exhaustion.
“Well,” she said, voice flat. “That’s done.”
Merrick said nothing. The relief hadn’t hit yet—wouldn’t for a while, probably. Four centuries of rage didn’t just vanish because the object of it was finally dead.
Elowyn turned to face him fully, studying his expression with that shrewdness she wielded like a scalpel. “Free or not,” she said quietly, “he’s not okay.”
Merrick’s jaw tightened. He’d watched Ashterion retreat into himself after the female had vanished, had seen the way his brother stood in the wreckage like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands.
The power radiating from him had been terrifying—not because it was violent, but because it was lost.
“No,” Merrick said finally. “He’s not.”
“How long do you think it will take him to remember who he used to be?”
“Assuming he wants to remember at all.” Merrick scrubbed a hand through his dark hair, leaving the strands dishevelled. The lightning beneath his skin crackled restlessly, responding to his agitation.
Elowyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Is this how you expected things to go when you went rogue?”
Merrick let out a bitter laugh. “Well, I’d planned on killing the bitch myself in the chaos.
Figured the confusion of the human having those blades would give me cover—maybe even let me frame it as an accident.
” A dark chuckle escaped his throat. “I hadn’t accounted for the human being quite so.
.. violent. Didn’t anticipate her knocking me out two seconds in. ”
“But her killing Xyliria was certainly convenient.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Merrick’s grin was sharp as a blade. “I appreciate avoiding execution for treason. Really takes the sting out of a concussion.”
The throne room felt different now—lighter, somehow. The very stones seemed to exhale for the first time in centuries. But that relief came with new problems. New dangers.
“The human,” Elowyn said, her voice taking on that calculating edge Merrick knew meant trouble. “If she killed Xyliria, she’s more powerful than we thought.”
Merrick nodded grimly. “The prick has her as a consort,” he replied, his tone turning cold, disgusted. “It’s going to be a problem.”
The implications hung unspoken between them—they both knew Varyth’s reputation.
His hunger for power, his willingness to break whatever he had to in order to get it.
A consort with that kind of raw, ancient power?
She wouldn’t remain whole for long. Not if he could find a way to harness what she carried, to make it his own.
Merrick felt ice settle in his stomach. He thought of the girl’s copper hair, the desperate fury in her eyes. The way she’d looked at Varyth like he was her salvation.
Fuck.
“We’ll need to extract her before then,” he said quietly.
Elowyn’s smile was razor-thin. “Well then. I suppose Cindri and Eilrys are going to have their work cut out for them.”