Chapter 31 #2
I threw my hand up like a conductor, and the air grew thick with the perfume of magic and the smell of growth.
A thread of green erupted from within the king, sprouting from his mouth.
Leaves surged beneath his skin, moss crawled over his face, and blossoms burst from his scalp in a grotesque crown.
He gagged, dropping to his knees. His sword clattered to the dais, and his hands were twisted into gnarled wood.
The court stirred in a wave of panic, courtiers scrambling back, trying to flee.
“Stay where you are!” Rowan’s voice boomed, freezing them in place. “My quarrel is with Emyr alone. He murdered Queen Eleanor, my mother. Do not raise a hand against my mate or me, and you will be spared.”
The court fell deathly quiet, every fae holding their breath.
Swords that had been half-drawn slid back into their sheaths. Even the king’s most loyal supporters wavered, caught between duty and the undeniable truth.
“I am the last drop of the old magic made flesh,” I declared boldly, my voice echoing in the stunned silence.
“And my sister, Goddess Barbie, tried to sacrifice herself to the God of Ruin to buy this realm more time.” I let the scolding edge in my voice sharpen as I pointed a condemning finger at the king.
“While my mate and his warriors bled on the front lines, you cowered behind your throne, sending assassins to kill Prince Rowan, a war hero and the worthiest prince this kingdom has ever known!” My gaze swept over the assembled fae, my question a lash.
“When we were defending the very ground you stand on, where were you?”
A wave of palpable shame washed through the hall as countless fae dropped their heads. The king was rotten, but his court was not yet lost.
“My Lady! My Prince!” A guard dropped to one knee, his voice laced with remorse. “Forgive us. We wanted to fight. We will fight!”
“We will fight!” more voices roared, the cry becoming a unified shout. “Fae do not cower!”
The king’s face contorted with pure hate. I’d released him from his arboreal prison, and his arrogance had returned in a venomous wave. “You dare turn my subjects against me?” he snarled. “I am the rightful—”
“You won’t be for long,” Rowan cut him off.
“My mate, who is a goddess in her own right, could have killed you where you stood,” Rowan continued, his voice cold and hard. “But I am giving you a chance to die with honor. Fight me like a fae. If you win, you keep your throne. I won’t even let my mate avenge me.”
I gave his hand a squeeze. The old king was powerful, but I had utter confidence in my mate.
The king’s laugh was a harsh, ugly sound. “You think your mongrel blood and borrowed magic can save you, boy? I have held this throne for centuries. I was winning duels before you were a stain on your mother’s legacy.”
King Emyr descended the dais steps, his blade held ready. His ornate armor gleamed, etched with preservation runes and protective wards that cost a fortune.
Rowan simply removed his long coat and rolled up his sleeves. He wore no armor. No wards. Just a prince in simple, practical clothes, holding the blood blade that had slain hundreds of Shriekers.
They faced each other at the traditional seven paces. The king attacked first—a testing strike, textbook form, meant to gauge Rowan’s response. Rowan’s blade met his with minimal deflection, redirecting rather than blocking.
The king’s eyes narrowed. He’d expected more resistance.
The second exchange was faster. Three strikes from the king, each one technically perfect, centuries of muscle memory evident in every movement. Rowan gave ground, his parries precise but seemingly defensive.
“Still weak, boy,” the king taunted.
The third exchange changed everything. The king committed to a rising cut that would have opened most opponents from hip to shoulder.
Rowan wasn’t where the blade expected him to be.
He’d stepped inside the arc, too close for the sword to cut effectively.
His pommel strike came fast—aimed at the king’s temple.
The king barely jerked back in time, the pommel grazing his ear instead of crushing bone.
First blood went to the king anyway—a thin line across Rowan’s ribs where the king’s recovery slice caught him.
“Your whore mother’s blood makes you soft.”
Rowan’s expression didn’t change, but his stance did.
No more testing. No more giving ground. He attacked.
The king had expected rage—wild, exploitable rage.
What he got was controlled aggression, each strike flowing into the next without pause.
Rowan’s blade became a blur of silver, forcing the king backward step by step.
The king’s parries grew more desperate. His centuries of experience couldn’t match Rowan’s speed.
When he tried to counter, Rowan was already moving to his next attack, building pressure like a rising tide.
The watching fae gasped as the king stumbled.
That’s when the king changed tactics. Earth magic erupted—stone spears shooting up between them, forcing separation. Rowan met earth with fire. The king’s stone walls shattered under sustained heat, metal-enhanced flames cutting through centuries-old rock like it was paper.
The king opened sinkholes beneath Rowan’s feet. Rowan rode wind above them, striking from angles that shouldn’t exist.
“Impossible,” the king hissed, stumbling back. “Your earth magic shouldn’t—”
“I’m not just fae.” Rowan landed behind him with a savage grin, lightning crackling along his blade. “I’m Covenant.”
Fire. Wind. Lightning. Earth. Four elements where the king had only one.
The king raised every defense he had—walls of stone and root, traditional fae earth-working centuries in the making. Rowan cut through them like morning mist. When the king’s shoulder armor split under Rowan’s blade, reality settled over the court.
Their king was losing. Not just losing—being overwhelmed.
“Guards!” the king screamed. “Kill him! Kill the usurper!”
No one moved.
The king saw his isolation in that moment. His court watching with dry eyes as he bled.
Desperation made him vicious. He poured everything into one massive attack—the floor exploding upward in stone spears aimed at the crowd. A final “fuck you” to the court that abandoned him.
Terrified shouts tore through the room. Guards threw themselves forward, but even their collective strength couldn’t counter the king’s last, desperate strike.
I threw up my hand. A shield of white light blossomed, forming a protective membrane over the entire court. Every deadly spear shattered harmlessly against it, falling as nothing more than dust and failed ambition.
Rowan moved while the king raged, his attention divided. My mate rode the wind and touched down in front of his father, lightning wreathing his blade. The king brought his sword up. Rowan’s blade cut through it and continued through the king’s armor into his chest.
The tyrant looked down at the steel buried to the hilt, more shocked than pained.
“You killed my mother,” Rowan said, his voice now carrying more grief than rage. “Who loved me despite what my existence cost her.” He leaned in, ensuring his words would be the last the king ever heard. “I promised you’d die, and I never break a promise.”
He yanked the blade free.
King Emyr dropped to his knees. He tried to form words—a curse, a plea—but only a gush of blood escaped his lips.
His hate-filled eyes remained locked on Rowan for a second longer before he toppled sideways onto the cold marble.
His crown rolled from his head, clattering across the floor with a hollow, bell-like chime.
A moment of stunned silence held, and then, as one, every fae in the hall dropped to their knees. They were not just bowing to a victor but pledging themselves to a new king—one who had won his crown through sacred rite, who embodied the mercy, strength, and justice his predecessor had forsaken.
“Rise,” Rowan commanded, his voice still roughened by grief for his mother. “Our work is not done. The war against the God of Ruin is not over. And now, we have a goddess to rescue.”
The fae kingdom was ours. One more power secured, one more army to add to the ranks against the void god.
I moved to his side, and we wrapped our arms around each other, a united front. My hands found the wounds his father had inflicted, and a soft white light blossomed from my palms, the creation magic weaving flesh back together and sealing the cuts.
“Let’s go get her,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.
“Whatever you wish, love,” Rowan said, his gaze full of unwavering trust and love.
And in that moment, I loved him all the more for it, for never trying to lock me away in the name of love and protection.
Weak men always felt threatened by a powerful woman, seeing her strength as a challenge to their own.
But not my mate. He knew what was at stake, yet he always treated me as his equal and respected my choices. He didn’t just prove he was worthy of me—he proved he was worthy of standing at my side. Together, we were stronger.