Chapter 36 Marcus
MARCUS
Itry hard not to wring my hands together, but I’m so damn nervous. Today is the day we’ve been working toward for weeks. Tears, heartbreak, blood, sweat—everything has led to this. And everything hinges on this potion, this spell.
I can’t fail. Not again.
It’s been two weeks of sleepless nights, endless labor, hope and fear tearing at each other in my chest. All of it funnels into this single moment.
I don’t look at Esmerelda. I don’t want her to see the nerves in my eyes or the sheen of sweat on my upper lip.
She doesn’t need that. She’s been my anchor these last two weeks, every word of encouragement carrying me further than I thought I could go.
She’s the strongest woman I know. And I want to give her these last moments of hope, because if this fails, we’ll never get our families back.
The council’s best healers have stood with us. Their hands are blistered, voices hoarse from chanting, eyes bloodshot from formulas written and rewritten. And still, brewing the cure was only half the fight. The other half was finding the man who cast the spell in the first place.
We found him after three days, shackled in one of Maximillian’s dungeons.
Hollow-eyed, skin so pale it was nearly translucent.
It wasn’t the hunger or thirst that broke him when we freed him, it was the sunlight.
Seeing daylight after being in the dark so long and never expecting to get out had him sobbing.
Then he had to come to terms with his guilt.
It seemed to wrap around him like chains, heavy as stone, but he was eager, desperate to help us undo what he’d been forced to create.
He swore to weave the antidote, to right what Maximillian had twisted.
But the thing with magic is that it’s always harder to undo than to cast. That’s why it took a village.
Two weeks of backbreaking effort, hundreds of hands, endless nights.
And now here we are.
I blow out a breath. Here…we…are.
I should trust the work. The calculations checked and rechecked.
The runes I carved until my vision blurred, each one redone until it was perfect.
I should trust my instincts. But the last time I did, I failed.
I couldn’t save them from petrification.
That memory gnaws at me, even now. My throat burns, but I force myself to stand tall.
Everyone here is trusting me. I can’t let them see how afraid I am.
The ritual begins. Fear coils in my stomach like a snake, tightening with every breath. My hands won’t stop shaking, no matter how I press them still. The circle hums with power, but all I hear is my pulse hammering in my ears.
Esmerelda’s fingers brush my arm, light as a whisper, but it feels like a bear hug. That one touch shaves down the edge of my dread and pulls me back into the moment.
“It’s going to work,” she murmurs.
I want to believe her. Her eyes lock on mine, unflinching, until I nod. Until I believe—not because the fear is gone, but because she believes enough for both of us.
For the first time in days, I can breathe.
The altar gleams in burgundy velvet trimmed with gold. Every time I see velvet now, I’ll remember Maximillian’s carnage, and the pure hatred I feel for him wants to erupt from my very soul.
But I push that aside. Now is not the time.
Candles burn at either end of it, filling the air with the scent of sage and citrus. Purple smoke drifts upward, curling against the ceiling. The council watches. The alpha watches. I don’t meet their eyes. I can’t. Not with the weight of their expectations pressing down.
I open the heavy, leather-bound book with all the research, notes, formulas, and backup plans from the last two weeks. Spoiler alert. There are no backup plans. This has to work. My eyes skim over the rites I already know by heart. But I cannot miss one word. Better to be safe than sorry.
The healers chant in unison, their voices unhurried. No rush. Nothing left to chance. Smoke thickens in the chamber, a veil between me and the crowd and I’m grateful for it.
I lift the clear potion, pour it into the golden bowl filled with lavender and rose petals. It looks a lot like the bowl they use at the spa when Leonard goes for his pedicures. I would laugh, but the tension of the moment is too tight.
The liquid shimmers, shifting violet to gold, crimson to silver, each flare lingering a heartbeat longer than the last. I stir with a silver spoon, and for the first time I feel nothing but gratitude for my farfadet heritage.
It used to be my fault line, the piece of me that never seemed to fit. But on this journey—through blood and loss, through the fight to free our families—I’ve learned that what sets us apart is also what binds us together. Our differences aren’t weaknesses. They’re what makes us strong.
I am who I am because of both halves of my blood. Two parts, brought together to create something whole. To be ashamed of that is to be ashamed of them—and I can’t be. Not anymore.
Despite everything between my father and me, I see it now. The weight he carried. The choices he made. He did the best he could. And maybe, in this moment, so am I.
Hands trembling, I add the final ingredient, measured to the last drop. The potion surges with color, the circle vibrating with power. My voice joins the healers’, the words dragging from my throat, thick with dread, but I force them out.
I will not fail. I will not falter now.
The full moon spills through the window, bathing the altar in pale light. Hours, days, weeks—all distilled into this moment. The witch speaks the final incantation, oily drops of darkness rising from the surface, curling in the air. I catch them in a vial, the glass hissing faintly against my palm.
This is it.
My pulse thunders as I step forward. The vial feels impossibly heavy. Every eye in the chamber locks on me. I uncork it, the hiss sharp in the silence, and raise it high. My chest feels carved open, but my voice doesn’t tremble.
“Let this curse be broken.”
One by one, I move down the long dining table. Figures sit frozen in eternal supper, no longer draped like corpses but still lifeless stone. I pour the solution over each head. Gold liquid glints in the candlelight, slipping into cracks, tracing down rigid cheeks. Every drop a gamble.
The last vial empties.
Nothing happens.
The silence is deafening. My nerves scream. My hands ache to reach out, to shake the stone, to force life back into them. But I hold. I have to hold.
Murmurs of doubt ripple through the crowd. I glance at Esmerelda. She smiles at me, steady, willing me to be patient. It almost makes me laugh—that she, of all people, is the one teaching patience.
But gods, the doubt claws at me. Did we miscalculate? Miss a word? A measure? Did I lead us this far just to fail?
Then—
A crack.
Soft at first. Then louder. Lines splinter across the stone like lightning. Flakes drift to the floor, brittle as ash. Fingers twitch. Eyelids flutter. And then—eyes. Alive.
“Gods,” I whisper, my chest hollow, weightless.
It worked.
The room erupts. Groans split the air, then cries—raw, broken cries—as stone peels away in sheets. Flesh, breath, life where there was none. They embrace, sobbing like they’ll never let go again. The sound of it tears through me, sharp and beautiful, more powerful than any spell.
Jethro’s hand lands on my back, solid and heavy. He doesn’t say a word, but the nod he gives me carries more weight than anything he could speak.
Tallulah and Serafina collapse into each other. The sight of it knocks something loose in my chest.
Esmerelda’s parents rush forward. They clutch their family close, whole again at last, and then her mother turns to me. She throws her arms around me and presses a kiss to my cheek. Her voice shakes against my skin.
“I knew you’d save us.”
The words nearly undo me. My throat tightens, my chest feels like it’s splitting.
No one has ever said that to me before, not like that.
Not with that kind of certainty. I want to tell her it wasn’t just me, that it was all of us, that her daughter carried me through this. But the words stick in my throat.
All I can do is stand there, heart hammering, eyes burning, and hope I can be the man she already believes I am.
Esmerelda clings to her parents, her brothers, laughing, crying. My father finds me through the chaos, eyes wet with tears I never thought I’d see on him. He grabs me into a hug, voice breaking, “Son, I’m proud of you.”
The alpha approaches, head bowed. “We wronged you. I decree your marriage annulled. You are free.”
Free.
The word rings hollow. I look at Esmerelda. She isn’t smiling. Her jaw is tight, her eyes sharp with something fragile, something that cuts straight through me.
And suddenly, clarity hits.
Before I can think, I’m already moving, dropping to one knee. Gasps ripple through the hall. A ring glints in my hand, firelight sparking off it. I’ve carried it for weeks, hidden, waiting for a moment I didn’t believe would come.
“Esmerelda.” Her name steadies me, even as my hand trembles. “They can annul whatever they want. Tear up decrees. Call it void. Call it freedom.” I draw a breath, my heart in my hand. “But I don’t want to be free of you. Marry me. For real this time.”
Her eyes widen, her breath catches, hand flying to her mouth. “Marcus… are you serious?”
“The most serious I’ve ever been.”
Tears spill onto her smile, breaking me wide open when she whispers, “Yes.”
For a heartbeat, the world fades away. It’s only her. Her voice. Her yes.
Leonard pushes his way through the crowd, smirk already tugging at his mouth. “I called it.”
“Seriously, Leonard?” Minerva rolls her eyes. “Now is not the time.”
Esmerelda and I glance at each other and shake our heads. Typical. They bicker more than siblings.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Leonard pouts, hand to his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I was going to say—I called it ages ago.”
That earns a round of laughter, breaking the tension that still clings to the room. My gaze catches on a few scowls in the crowd—people who clearly think this is a mistake—but their opinions don’t matter. Not now.
My father appears at my side, pressing something into my palm. A cigar. “I know you don’t usually partake,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, “but it would be an honor to share one with you tonight. After what you’ve done.”
Esmerelda smiles at him, eyes still wet. “You wouldn’t happen to have one for your future daughter-in-law, would you?”
His answering grin is proud, almost boyish. “It just so happens I do.” He pulls another cigar from his pocket with a flourish.
Her father approaches then, his expression solemn.
For a moment, he just studies me, then he says, “I’d tell you to treat my daughter right, but from the look on her face, I can see you already do.
And let’s be honest, you’ve been married this whole time anyway.
” His mouth softens into something almost like a smile. “Just be good to her.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” I answer.
He clasps my shoulder, firm. “Then it’s settled. Call me Dad.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. My throat tightens, my chest heavy with too much—relief, joy, exhaustion, disbelief that we made it here at all. I just nod, because words aren’t enough.
And with Esmerelda’s hand in mine, her yes still echoing in my chest, I finally let myself believe it. We’re free. And this time—it’s ours.