Epilogue
AMbrOSE
The Sparo was still warm.
Ambrose felt the last of its heat leaching out—a small, fading pulse against his palm. The arrow had flown true, as always, fletched with nightingale feathers. Some songs were too dangerous to let spread.
He set the bird down on the desk, its legs still curling slightly, as if reaching for the perch it would never find. Princess Reiyana’s words lay beside it, every desperate syllable transcribed in his own neat hand.
My family,
Do not trust the Vaelmonts. Castiel is still alive, and Lucen traffics Omegas through nefarious channels. Warn everyone. I will send proof when I have it. Until then, be vigilant.
—Reiya
Ambrose’s lips curved. A daughter and sister’s futile worry, all wrapped in urgency and sent across desert and sea. Why must she be so stubborn when they’d allow her a happy ending? She had her Alphas, a new kingdom to call home, and soon, a newborn baby.
The world was sick, and she worried about a single symptom?
The door opened without sound. Draven stepped inside, grey eyes landing first to the dead bird, then to the scroll on the desk. He picked it up, reading in silence. When he finished, his expression hadn’t changed, but something behind his eyes shifted.
He set the scroll down. “She will try another way. When Sparos fail, she will send messengers.”
“The old order clings to its prayers,” Ambrose replied. “When gods do not answer, they will send champions instead.” He turned. “Tighten security. Capture any foreigners who approach the palace.”
“And if the princess sends one of her husbands?”
His smile deepened. “There is a saying from beyond the Nine Kingdoms, brother: ‘killing two birds with one stone.’ We should be so fortunate.”
Draven stepped further inside, close enough that the sunlight from the window caught the scar on his throat. “Are we continuing with the experiments? It is . . . costly. In resources and attention. We could simply kill the Omegas and achieve the same disruption.”
Ambrose studied his brother. Draven rarely questioned their course—he implemented, secured, and obeyed. But lately, a thread of doubt seemed to have begun to weave through his questions.
“We’ve discussed this many times,” Ambrose reminded carefully. “It is how things must be done.”
Draven’s gaze held his for a moment too long. “I only wonder if Mother’s vision allows for adaptation. The world changes, Ambrose. Faster than it used to.”
Ambrose felt a hint of irritation. He suppressed it, looking up at the ceiling and sighed.
“Castiel was too soft. Lucen, too manic. He had the perfect chance to stop the Tremorian princess’s marriage to the new X?en emperor, yet he failed.
” He looked at Draven again. “You must be strategic. Mother will be most unhappy if our plans are derailed—again.”
Draven gave a single, curt nod. “And you? What will you do?”
Ambrose moved to the window, staring down into the Aethonian gardens.
Sunlight drenched the lawns where Crown Prince Thorir stood among courtiers.
These people hailed him as Aethonia’s hope—the sole Alpha prince of his generation, the steady pillar upon which they pinned their fragile sense of order.
To them, he was strength made flesh, duty incarnate.
Ambrose’s mouth curled into a smile. To him, Thorir was something else entirely.
He leaned closer, until his face was a ghostly reflection on the glass.
“Some branches soak up all the sun, yet bear only rotten fruit,” he murmured. “They cling to the tree, stifling the growth beneath them. They forget that a good gardener knows when to cut away the dead weight to strengthen the whole.”
His smile sharpened as he turned to face Draven. Behind his back, his hand drew the curtain closed—light died, and darkness swallowed them whole.
“And this time, brother, I intend to prune deep.”