Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
Blood’s still under my fingernails. Didn’t have time to scrub it out—not that I care.
“You’re late,” Raze mutters, adjusting the tight collar of his dress shirt like it’s choking the life out of him. “Lemme guess—one of your playthings down in the Depths needed extra motivation to talk?”
I ignore him, brushing past. My jacket swings over my shoulder, black as always.
“What gave it away?” I mutter. “The dried blood or the smell of piss?”
Alistair clears his throat, lips twitching. “I told you not to come here without showering.”
We pass through the carved stone archway of the Tomb of Valor—a grand, grotesque marble room that the Sovereign uses once a year to pat itself on the back. But this year, it’s mine.
Mine to use.
Not for them.
For her.
A massive silver plaque waits at the center dais.
The engraving catches the light—In Honor of Lev Veronin.
Posthumous Induction into the Hall of Guardians.
The first to be awarded the honor. The name wasn’t my idea.
Arsen gave it to me. Said Lev never wanted power. He just wanted to protect. And he did.
Right up to the end.
I step toward the front as murmurs quiet. People hold their breath when I enter a room now. Not because of the title—High Chancellor Carmichael still tastes wrong in my mouth—but because they know I earned it in blood.
And I’ll gladly spill more.
Arsen’s already waiting beside the podium, polished in a dark suit, posture straight as ever.
“Lev recruited me when no one else would,” he says quietly, just for me. “Told me I was wasted in war. Said I belonged here. I didn’t believe him then.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out something wrapped in cloth.
“I kept it all these years. His FSB patch. Thought I’d die with it. But maybe…maybe his legacy belongs with her now.”
I take the cloth, feel the small, worn patch inside—stitched with the FSB symbol and the old Russian letters for his rank. I slip it into my coat. I’ll give it to her later.
I clear my throat and step forward. I don’t need a mic. I speak, and they listen.
“This isn’t for the Sovereign,” I begin, “This isn’t for ceremony or tradition. This is for the man who gave everything so that I could have the only thing that matters.”
I glance down the aisle. Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Her dark hair is twisted back. That black dress hugs her body, and our twin sons—Saint and Deacon—are in her arms. Six months old, they have my eyes.
“Lev Voronin was the kind of man the Sovereign didn’t deserve,” I continue.
“But we’re here to make sure we never forget him.
He gave the Sovereign everything. His loyalty.
His blood. His silence. He followed orders that broke him.
Refused ones that would’ve betrayed his oath.
He served this institution long after it stopped deserving him.
And when the time came to choose between survival and honor, he chose honor. ”
I pause.
“This plaque isn’t for the Sovereign. It’s a fucking reminder. That the best man this institution ever had didn’t die for power or for politics. He died for something greater.”
The room is still. Arlo blinks fast. Her throat works hard, and I know she’s trying not to cry.
I end the speech with a short nod. No applause. No fake tears. Just silence. The kind that says everything. The medallion is placed. The plaque unveiled. And then I step away.
Later, I find her outside.
The others are still drinking, murmuring. Alistair’s probably talking logistics with the Council. Raze is likely stealing someone’s cigars. Arsen’s gone quiet.
But she’s here. Where I knew she’d be.
Behind the Hall, in the private overlook that stares out over the grounds. The twins are with a nanny. For the first time in hours, her arms are empty. I move beside her. She doesn’t look up.
“He would’ve hated the spotlight.”
“Makes two of us.”
A firework explodes in the distance. Then another. Her breath hitches. I glance sideways, catching her glassy eyes.
“What?”
She shakes her head, barely smiling. “My dad called me firecracker. Said I came out screaming and never stopped. I used to hate it.”
“You don’t anymore?”
She exhales. “I miss it.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the cloth. Place it in her palm. She unwraps it, blinking down at the old patch.
“I don’t understand—”
“It was his. From before the Sovereign. Arsen kept it.”
She traces the frayed edges with trembling fingers.
“And there’s something else.” I turn toward her fully. Hands in my pockets. Heart in my throat.
“I lied to you.” Her head snaps up. “When your father died…I told you he said you were too good for this world. That you were too good for me.”
Her lips part. She’s completely still.
“That was true. But it wasn’t all.” I inhale through my nose and force the rest out.
“He said…there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think of you. And that no matter what happened, he will always be with you. Watching. Proud. And if I made it out, I had to promise to remind you.”
I reach out. Take her face in my hands.
“I swore I’d make the world remember him. Not for the Sovereign. But so you’d know—he loved you. Every second. Even when he wasn’t there to say it.”
Her eyes blur. A tear slips down her cheek.
Then she laughs softly. “You planned fireworks just to make me cry, didn’t you?” She shoves my chest lightly. I catch her hand, press it to my mouth.
Then the fireworks explode again. And she’s in my arms. Wrapped in everything we fought to build. Everything we’ll burn to keep.
Arlo. Saint. Deacon.
My future, not the Sovereign’s.
Mine.