77. Caspian
Caspian
They’re gone.
I can’t feel them anymore.
My thorns, my beautiful purple thorns, that for so long have felt like an extension of my own self. Who I am.
The Prince of Thorns.
Without them, who am I?
My thorns wither to the earth. Briars I dug deep into the earth, raised up through the bones of Castletree to protect Kel, to protect this place I love…
I can’t feel them anymore.
They shrivel, curling in on themselves. My beautiful briars. The only good magic I’ve ever had.
Gone.
Castletree groans, the structure shaking without the support of my briars. The ground quakes, and I nearly lose my footing.
Sira’s scream splits the air. I lift my head, breath ragged, every bone in my body aching. And my own scream echoes inside me.
Anya’s spell stopped before she completed it.
I’m still fae. Still me.
At least most of me is. My briars are gone, and my bargain with Kel. My heart aches.
But there’s still magic running through my veins. I’m weak. What magic I have left feels like an empty well, and I don’t know how long until it refills.
Kel’s got his hands on my shoulders, his voice frantic as he pushes my hair out of my face. I want to tell him I’m fine. But I’m not. Not even close.
My mother still has Rosalina at knifepoint.
The shadow blade presses to her neck, kissing her skin. Sira’s hand trembles, not from fear but from fury.
She lost control over me and Anya.
And the only reason she still lives is because she’s using Rosalina as a shield.
I glance toward the others. Farron, Ezryn, Dayton, Justus—they’re all frozen in place, rage burning in their eyes but held in place by that one command: if you move, she bleeds.
Anya lies motionless in George’s arms. A queen made mortal. And Castletree groans, more of my thorns withering.
I’ve failed them.
Sira bends close to Rosalina, and I catch the wild shine in my mother’s eyes. “You stole my bow,” she snarls. “You banished my god. You turned my queen into a mortal. But I still have you, child of the Above.”
I meet Rosalina’s gaze across the wreckage.
Even now, with blood on her throat and shadows at her heels, she looks at me like I’m something worth saving.
“She’s not yours, Mother,” I rasp. “She’s mine.”
Sira sneers. “Then choose. Come with your mother and this girl, or die in this collapsing castle, weak and magicless.” She leans in closer. “My horde is coming. They will not stop until every last one of you is dead.”
Shadows rise around us, licking at the stones, hungering.
“What can you do?” she croons. “Your little thorns are gone, Prince of Nothing. You have no choice but to return to me.”
The choice she’s always offered me. And the one I’ve always taken. Back to her, back to the Below.
Maybe I would follow again…if a beautiful human girl hadn’t crawled through a rosebush to reach me.
If a wild Winter boy hadn’t shown me the path beyond the thorns.
If a stoic knight hadn’t shown me how to use cleverness in a game.
If I hadn’t laughed, truly laughed, at the sun-haired gladiator’s ridiculous jokes.
If I hadn’t seen my own fire mirrored in the eyes of someone more afraid than me—someone I had to save.
If a stubborn camel hadn’t led me through the heart of the storm.
I rise. Kel reaches to steady me, but I shake him off. My legs are trembling, hands soaked with dirt and blood. I stare down at the briars, my briars, wilting, crumbling…dead.
“Yes. My thorns are gone.” My voice breaks. “They were never mine. Only a gift.”
Then I lift my chin.
“But shadows…” I whisper. “Shadows are in my blood.”
The air shivers. Something deep inside me stirs to life after nearly being ripped away. I raise my hand, fingers trembling, and call the shadows to me.
They answer.
Gods, they answer too well.
They pour through me like fire made smoke, searing up my spine and down my arms, veins alight with darkness.
The blade against Rosalina’s throat dissolves into mist.
Sira screams as black tendrils surge from the shattered stones, thick as ropes. They lash around her wrists, her arms, her waist. She thrashes violently, teeth bared, spitting curses that curdle the air. But I don’t flinch.
My knees nearly buckle. My vision swims. Sweat beads along my brow, soaking into my tangled hair. My chest heaves like I’ve run a hundred miles.
She’s fighting me.
I feel the moment her will strikes mine. Her rage tears into my magic, trying to reclaim it. To bend it back. The shadows hesitate, pulled in two directions—mother or son, creator or heir. I grit my teeth and shove harder. I cannot let her win. Not again.
Not when Rosalina is still in her grip.
I only have seconds. Just seconds before Sira rips through the magic and takes it back. She’s older. Stronger. She shaped these shadows long before I ever touched them. The only reason I’m holding her at all is because she didn’t expect me to fight.
Or because I’m fighting for her.
For my mate.
What are you fighting for, Mother?
Power? Control? Love will always prevail. Rosalina showed me that. And I will not let her down.
I wish I could hold Sira long enough for one of the others to strike. But I won’t last. My magic is weakened, frayed from the spell that nearly made me human. I can barely keep the shadows from collapsing in on themselves, let alone attack.
The only thing that matters now is getting Rosalina free.
If Sira drags her down to the Below, I don’t know how we’ll ever get her back.
So I hold.
Every muscle in my body shakes as I anchor the shadows around my mother. My vision blurs at the edges. Blood drips from my nose. But I don’t stop.
If I fall, I’m taking Sira with me.
In a rush of darkness and wind, Rosalina breaks free and stumbles away from the shadows.
“Farewell, Mother,” I whisper.
My shadows drag her under, into an abyss of my making.
I guess I can create too.
And then it’s just silence. Crumbling briars. The scent of ash and roses. My knees buckle, and Kel catches me before I hit the ground.
“I didn’t have the strength to kill her,” I rasp, “but she’ll fall in darkness for a while.”
Rosalina’s arms bind around me, holding tight.
“You’re still fae?” she whispers.
I nod. “Anya never finished the spell. My shadows and flames are still here. Weak but here.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing the tears from her cheek. “The briars, though…they were hers. I can’t feel them anymore, Rosie. They’re gone. Castletree is—”
A quake jolts the floor. Above us, a branch crashes down from the ceiling.
“Without Cas’s thorns,” Farron says grimly, “and without Queen Aurelia’s magic…Castletree will fall.”
“No,” comes a voice.
We turn. Anya pushes herself up in George’s arms.
She looks different now. Not like the radiant Queen of the Vale or the imprisoned fae we found Below. No, she looks real. An anthropologist in the desert. Human.
“My magic is not gone from the Vale,” she says.
“But, Your Majesty,” Justus starts.
“I may be human,” the queen says, “but my daughter’s not. She will save Castletree.”