Chapter Forty-Five #4
Thalmyr’s mouth tilts faintly. “No,” he says. “There is no redemption for what I’ve done.”
A moment passes.
“This is correction.”
The word lands differently. Not noble or selfless or altruistic. Necessary.
Elyssara’s breath hitches, her chest clenching as she searches his face for hesitation. For doubt. For fear. There is none. Only resolve.
“You’re ready to die for Dravara? For Aevryn? For the mess you’ve caused?” Elyssara asks, testing his mettle.
He does not hesitate. “Yes.”
She wants to believe him. Not because she trusts him, but because the alternative is worse. Because if he is lying, then there is no path forward at all.
“I wanted power once,” he continues, his voice quieter now, but no less certain. “I was raised to want it. Taught that it was the only way to secure the future of this kingdom.”
His gaze drifts, just briefly.
“But with dominion, I have seen nothing but chaos. Entropy. Anarchy. There is no safety in that. No real power. Only loss.”
His eyes return to Elyssara’s.
“And I have spent every day since Nyrielle’s betrayal trying to contain the consequences of my greed and inheritance.”
A pause.
“Now, I give you the chance to end it.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Unavoidable.
Elyssara swallows, her throat tight, her thoughts racing as everything collides—her past, her pain, her fury, her purpose. The truth. Lies. A choice. This is what it comes down to. Not vengeance. Not justice. Choice.
“And you’re prepared to let The Barrier fall?” she asks, her voice quieter now, but no less steady.
Thalmyr exhales.
“I will not be here to see how it ends. Are you prepared to let The Barrier fall?” he asks simply.
Her pulse spikes.
“Yes,” she says, forcing confidence into her voice.
“And the people of Virellin?” Seren presses from behind her, her voice tight.
“We clear the streets,” Elyssara answers before Thalmyr can, her mind already moving, already shifting into command. “We move them into The Underbelly—nobles and slummers alike. We protect them while the realms burn.”
Her gaze flicks to Calira.
“Your father can do that.”
She does not react at first. But she does not breathe either, inhales and exhales stilling for a few heartbeats. Then, she nods once.
Like she understands the kind of man he is in an instant. Not some distant memory. But a brave man who’s here for her now, even if she doesn’t want him to be.
Elyssara turns back to Thalmyr.
“Give me your army,” she says. Not a question. A declaration.
Thalmyr inclines his head.
“Yes,” he agrees.
But she’s not done.
“And give me my crown,” she commands.
His hands rise, lifting the crown of gold, inset with emerald-green jewels that match her eyes and the banners hanging from the castle walls.
He steps forward, closing the gap between them.
His gaze settles on her—unflinching. The crown glints in the candlelight as he raises it up, and places the crown on her head.
No fanfare. No ceremony. Just acknowledgement of the truth.
The weight of it sinks into her skull. The power of it courses through her veins like a message straight from her lineage. Not foreign or borrowed or metaphorical. Familiar. Inevitable. Like it has been waiting for her to return to it.
For a heartbeat, Elyssara is a little girl again.
Hungry. Forgotten. Sleeping on the cold, hard floor with Stars painted onto the half-broken ceiling because her father wanted her to believe there was still something beautiful above them.
No one was coming to save that little girl.
So she became the woman who would save herself—and everyone else with her.
“Queen Elyssara Dawnmere of Dravara. Lightborne of the prophecy. Savior of the realms,” he murmurs, as if this moment is one he’s been waiting for, too.
Holy fucking Stars.
She has been many things in this life: thief, Earthbound, fugitive, Starbound, Lightborne.
Queen fits better than she expects.
Ronyn’s arm swings over her shoulder. Seren’s palm finds her own, their fingers entwining. But Elyssara’s gaze comes back into focus. Sharpening in resolve. They lift to meet Thalmyr.
“I won’t be saving the realms,” she breathes. “I’ll be remaking them.”
Not into what they were—into something that will never allow this again.
“And I’ll bring the Stars to their fucking knees.”
Gooseflesh blooms across her skin, like her very cells recognize the truth in her vow, and in the distance, she swears she hears the thunder of hooves striking cobbles.
“That’s why you are the Lightborne of the prophecy,” Thalmyr murmurs.
And for the first time since she walked into this place, they stand on the same side of something. Not allies. Not equals. But two people who understand exactly what must be done.
And what it will cost.
Because for the first time in a long time, the future is no longer being decided for them. They are about to take it.
Elyssara spins to Seren. “We meet everyone back in The Perils to strategize. Then… we bring them here for war.” Her eyes pan across the room, locking on the group before them.
“Daphinia is to perform the blood rite.”
A pause.
“I want Nyrielle’s power.”