Epilogue
Avrum
The crackling of fire and the murmuring of curious voices fill the late autumn night.
I inhale deeply, the sharp smell of sawdust, ash, and burning flesh stinging my nose.
It’s difficult to believe that where Lysander and the others dueled not long ago, a funeral pyre now stands.
A mountain of dry sticks, leaves, and cloth holds up the body of what is left of Lord Henri.
The growing flames flicker underneath, throwing strange shadows across the many spectators who stand around the site.
Alessandro, Favian, and Gunnar are among them, watching and whispering about what they’d missed on the grounds the night before.
For a moment, I wonder how different things could’ve been if Malcolm had arrived as planned.
I glance over at Haven, who stays silent beside me with her eyes focused on something far away. This may not be the ending she’d envisioned for herself, but I’m glad to still have her with me. Alive, at least in a way.
As if she can sense my thoughts, she looks up at me with her strikingly beautiful sapphire eyes.
They seem to cast a light of their own now that she’s one of us, and they search my face in the darkness.
Her bloodstained dress has been replaced with a man’s shirt and brown trousers, all much too big for her slender, wilted frame.
The short sword that had taken her life and had saved mine dangles from a belt at her hip.
She barely looks like my Haven anymore. The fragile, unfortunate girl that had been forced into a world where she didn’t belong is gone. This world is hers now.
And what’s become of Lysander and the little maid, Emma? That is a constant question plaguing my mind. After Henri’s death, they hadn’t returned to the manor, and my only hope is that Lysander has gotten her far away from this place. I trust Lysander to keep her safe.
“Brenin.”
Henri’s three guests come over to us.
Gunnar is the first to step forward. “Brenin,” he repeats. “After last night’s events, the loss of Lord Henri, and the rebirth of his mistress, we can only speculate about what has happened. You must know how this looks to outsiders, such as us.”
I only nod. We had murdered one of the highest members of their society. I expected some kind of punishment for what we’d done.
Haven draws closer to me. She may have killed Henri, but I am prepared to take the responsibility for it all.
“And you were appointed Henri’s second-in-command, is that correct?” Gunnar asks.
“I am—was,” I reply.
“We have been discussing last night a great deal.”
“I understand.”
Gunnar draws his shoulders back, showing his true height. He’s massive, at least three heads taller than me. “Since you were Henri’s second, and he is no more, responsibility must be passed down to you.”
“And we have been also discussing your options,” Favian adds, his thin lips drawing up at the corner.
Something in Favian’s words has me hesitating. “My options?”
When Gunnar tries to speak again, Favian holds out a hand to continue. “A lord’s second is chosen meticulously. With the title comes the responsibility of assuming the lord’s place if he is then—” he gestures to the pyre where the flames are catching Henri’s clothing— “unable to.”
When I don’t respond, he continues. “We all witnessed Henri’s instability, and because of it, we have concluded that your actions can be justified.”
Justified? So, no punishment?
“The people Henri collected need a leader,” Gunnar goes on. “We can grant you the title and the power as lord or—”
“Or you can reject the position.” Favian’s gold and green eyes shift to Haven. “No one will make you stay here if you wish to leave.”
I peer over at Haven again. If I choose to, I could have all the power I’d need to protect her. From anything. Or, if she truly didn’t want to stay at Greystone anymore, we could leave here and never look back. I wouldn’t force her to stay in a place that held so many horrifying memories.
“Haven,” I begin gently. She answers by sliding her hand into the bend of my elbow and giving me a small smile. The kind that causes my heart to flutter awake. Looks like she’s okay with whatever I choose.
But that doesn’t answer one other question hanging over this. One that’s a little obvious and extremely important.
“I have never ruled over anyone before. I am not a leader.”
“Brenin. A strong name for a strong man,” Gunnar says with a wide smile. “I knew it from the moment I met you, son.”
Favian nods. “Leaders aren’t born. They’re made. And from what Henri told us about you, you have the makings of being a great one.”
“I don’t want to be anything like Henri,” I say. “I refuse to be.”
“Seeing how Henri’s life ended, I’d say that’s a wise decision,” Favian replies.
Behind him, Alessando chuckles. Maybe the Spanish knight can understand more English than he’s letting on.
Haven squeezes my elbow. “You could never be like Henri. He was incapable of feeling anything but greed and anger.”
I smile down at her, loving her more today than I did the day before. And now, because of some bad luck, or good luck—however you see it—I’ll get to love her for eternity. “I will only agree to the lordship if Haven is allowed at my side as nothing less than my equal.”
“As lord, if that is your choice, it is done,” Gunnar replies.
“Excellent! Then it is done. Congratulations, my boy.” Favian grasps my shoulder and gives it a reassuring pat before the group of them turn around and head back to the manor.
Alone with Haven, I pat her hand on my elbow.
The ragged scars from Henri’s ropes circle her wrists, but they are smoother, blending in with the pearl sheen of her skin.
Like the scars on my palms, she’ll have them forever, but they’ll only be a distant memory of what she survived through and overcame.
I take a deep breath, my attention moving back to the flames. They embrace Henri like a hellish, old friend, welcoming him. The smell of melting fat and charring clothes burns the inside of my nose, but it’s confirmation that the man is really and truly gone from our lives.
As the ends of Henri’s black hair smoke, catch fire, and curl back to his scalp, the more of the back of his neck is revealed and there, just above the cut that ended his life, is the familiar jagged pattern of Malcolm’s scars.
The ivy vines weave at the base of his neck and disappear into the rest of his hair.
Lysander had been right. Henri had hid his markings well.
Before I can step closer, the wood of the pyre collapses and the flames burst into full life, swallowing Henri whole and leaving nothing left to be seen.
“He’s gone,” Haven breathes.
Those two words bring relief and a promise for the future. “It’s over.”
With arms still linked, Haven and I turn our backs to the funeral pyre and follow the three lords’ deep footprints in the snow, back toward Greystone Manor.
As the flames stretch and rise behind us, they splash vibrant oranges, reds, and golds against the manor’s stone face, creating the illusion of the morning sun rising in the north.
THE END