Chapter 94 Ezryn
Ezryn
Ican’t believe it. She’s gone. She’s really gone.
I lean against the stone wall, staring out the window into the dark horizon. Mount Rhuvenmark cuts an eerie silhouette, plumes of smoke choking out any sight of the stars.
Where is she now? Is she safe? Is she afraid? Or worse—does she not have the self-awareness to even feel fear?
How could I allow this to happen? Time and time again, we’ve been torn from each other. An image pops into my mind’s eye: Rosalina, brow raised, arms crossed, giving me that all-knowing smirk. I can practically hear her voice, chiding me. And how many times have we found each other again?
I squeeze my eyes shut. There is no one in the Vale braver. More compassionate. More determined. Even in her thralldom, that person still exists. And she will do anything to find her way back to us.
I know beyond measure Rosalina is in there, despite any bargain, any magic.
But is Caspian?
I turn my attention to the mahogany door that leads to Kel’s chambers.
Dayton is wearing a hole through the stone with all his pacing, while Farron sits with his arms on his knees nearby, tousled hair shrouding his gaze.
We thought it would be best to give Kel some space to process everything after Rosalina disappeared.
“This can’t be happening,” Dayton mumbles. “Maybe Kel was right all this time. We can’t trust Caspian—”
“But we trust Rosalina,” Farron interrupts, voice emotionless. “That’s what you do, Day, when you love someone. You trust their judgment.”
“Oh yeah? What if their judgment gets them turned into Caspian’s damned thrall? Or worse,” he snarls back.
Farron drags his eyes over to Dayton. “Tell me, Dayton. What is worse?”
“Enough.” I stand between them. I have no energy left for their bickering.
“In this instance, Farron is right. We have to trust not only Rosalina but Keldarion. And trust this.” I slap my breastplate, right above my heart.
Then I touch Dayton’s chest. I lean down and do the same to Farron.
“We’re all connected now. Family, not only by the bond but by our own choosing. Whatever comes, we’ll face it.”
Dayton gives me a deep sigh and pats my shoulder. I’ll take it.
The ground lurches beneath me, sudden and violent, like the earth itself is trying to throw me from my feet.
A deep, bone-rattling tremor rolls through the keep, sending dust and shards of mortar cascading from the ceiling.
The walls groan under the strain, stone grinding against stone.
Doors slam in their frames. A tapestry rips free of its pegs, fluttering to the ground like a fallen banner.
I stagger, reaching blindly for the nearest wall, my fingers scraping against cold stone as I brace myself. The air hums with a low, guttural roar—something immense, something waking. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
Then, as if the sky itself has torn apart, light explodes beyond the window in a blinding flash.
A jagged spear of fire rips through the heavens.
A monstrous plume of ash billows upward.
My stomach twists as I lunge toward the window, pressing both hands to either side of the frame, my fingers splayed against the trembling stone.
No. Not yet. Not yet.
I thought we had more time.
But Mount Rhuvenmark roars, alive with fire from the Above.
Like a gaping wound, the top of the volcano cracks open, and molten rivers spew down the slopes.
The sky is choked with cinders and embers, like one of Winter’s blizzards made of fire.
The lava does not hesitate—it surges, ravenous, in all directions.
A burning tide sweeping across Winter.
Farron and Dayton crowd around me. “We’re too late,” Farron breathes.
The door behind us bangs open, and we turn.
Standing in the doorway is a massive white wolf. A white wolf I have never seen the likes of, and yet I feel his heart as strong and hopeful as if it were beating in my own chest.
His fur is the color of freshly fallen snow, eyes gleaming like sapphires. Icicles jut between tufts of white, but these shine as if filled with diamonds. Sprigs of holly weave through his mane, a reminder of the life that exists in Winter. It is the most majestic creature I’ve ever seen.
“We’re not too late,” Keldarion says, voice deep and powerful. “Not while the strength of our hearts remains. Will you fight with me, brothers? For Winter, for Rosalina, for the Vale?”
He is not Erivor, nor is he the Keldarion that once was. This is the High Prince of Winter in all his power.
This is the Sworn Protector of the Realms.
And one day, when Rosalina returns and comes into her throne, the future King of the Vale.
I fall to my knee before him and bow my head. Dayton and Farron do the same.
“For Winter,” we repeat. “For Rosalina. For the Vale.”