EPILOGUE
Morrathil
In the wake of the destruction Sorin Blackwater wrought on the kingdom of Myros, something ancient stirs.
The ashes of Myros are carried across the realm by unnatural winds. The realm of Aeloria question whether it is fae magic, or perhaps the old gods finally stir after centuries of silence. Magic is tangible in the air, a shift across the realm that can be sensed by creatures, humans, and fae alike.
Of one thing I am certain.
Sorin’s destruction of the eastern kingdom has created the chaos needed to allow me to harness the energy I need.
He has given me the time I require to become strong once more.
Gothryn ignores the greater threat in favor of petty wars between kingdoms, and soul ties created by the fates.
Little do they know…those bonds will be the very thing that weaken them enough for me to strike.
King Mavros already knows I am coming.
He has hidden the dissent that permeates his kingdom to prevent himself from appearing weak. The princes of Blackwater are blind to what is about to unfold.
Among the embers of a fallen kingdom, I rise.
The son of the god of death, Mordecai, is awake, and hungry for power.
The northern kingdom of Ravenscar remains untouched by the wrath of the dragon prince. A black owl circles the tower, her obsidian feathers stark against the ash. So light it appears as if it were merely falling snow.
I gaze out the arched pane, my shoulder length ebony hair drawn back from my face beneath the magical winds. The owl perches on the open sill, cocking her head to the side.
Her forehead is marked with a glowing crescent moon—gifted by the goddess Nytherion, the warden of truth. She meet’s my cerulean gaze, no iris to be seen. My entire eye is awash with the glowing color, a jarring contrast to my pale skin.
I step back from the window and allow her to enter.
In one moment, she is in the form of an owl. Within a blink, she has transformed into the beautiful, stoic Princess of Ravenscar. She turns to me, her ivory silk dress whipping out behind her. Her hand reaches toward my face to cup my cheek.
It has been centuries since she has gazed upon my true face. Centuries since I haven’t needed to take on the form of another, or watch from the underworld as she stirs unrest in my name.
Morwenna has been dutiful while I slept.
She has gathered support in the northern kingdoms. Others who wish to see the downfall of the old gods. She has harnessed rare magic that we will need for what is to come next.
But one thing she has yet to find.
The ancient dagger.
A relic lost among the tides.
The only blade that can kill the undead and the gods.
I will use it to kill my father, Mordecai. Then, I will destroy it.
Mordecai once cursed the Vireth into existence, and I plan to extinguish them forever. Vireth and Veytari alike. I will destroy what my father has created, proving to him that he is not the almighty power he believes himself to be.
I will create a new race under my rule.
I will defy my father until his very last breath. I will battle the fates who think they can stand against me. I will enter the sanctum of the gods while they sleep and slit their throats.
Before long, I will rule Aeloria.
Morwenna watches me carefully as I approach the altar of bone, my hand caressing the arm of the chair that was once covered in flesh. My gaze reaches hers and she smiles, the corners of her perfect mouth lifting.
“Is it time?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Power thrums in my veins.
Morwenna bows her head in deference, a wicked glint in her eyes. “We are ready.”