Epilogue
Rune
The Shadow Keep was carved into a cliff of obsidian, rising high over the rivers of molten fires and black sand dunes. A jagged fortress, winged with spires and bleeding with ancient magic. Karag D?r’s presence greeted Rune with torches that lit at will and corridors that shifted at his command.
With no light of dawn to tell time, Rune spent many nights in bed with his queen, making up for lost time. Alora hardly slept. She only watched him, admitting his new form, and godly grace. He often sensed she feared if she closed her eyes, he would vanish again.
“I am not going anywhere, songbird,” Rune promised, and the Fates agreed.
Time moved differently now, made vast by eternity.
When they were not spending their time with each other, they were rebuilding kingdoms. The Netherworld demanded order, beginning with the Seven Courts.
Calla’s ascension had been immediate. Morvenna’s defeat left no room for dispute, and the Lust Court accepted her as its new Lady with deferential fear. She ruled it with elegance and cruelty in equal measure, and it flourished beneath her hand.
Hadeon’s claim to Wrath had been slower. The court had esteemed its former lord. But such devotion did not survive Vahl’Tor. In time, Wrath learned to kneel.
Gluttony had proven more difficult.
Deimos refused the title of Dominion outright until he realized such status also came with indulgence. He could dismember, dissect, and destroy in excess—within reason of course. Then He accepted Gluttony’s crown with a smile that unsettled the entire court.
Envy did not require conquest.
It bent to Alora without demand or decree, drawn to her like a mirror to truth. Want, longing, and grief recognized their sovereign at once. Some powers were safer bound to hands that had known ache without letting it curdle. She ruled it so it would never rule anyone else.
And yet Rune sometimes wondered if they should have traded courts.
Because he sat in his envy whenever the Mortal Realm was blessed with her presence.
It was not that Rune couldn’t follow. As a god reborn, he could move freely between Realms now, and the sun no longer burned him. But freedom did not mean permanence. He could never remain long.
And when Alora wasn’t with him, Argyle held her focus.
With the Sleeping Curse finally broken, the land required tending, and so did its people.
The years passed quickly, and Rihan eventually learned what it meant to rule.
He replaced the kingdoms colors in favor of deep scarlet banners, bearing a new coat of arms with a black dragon.
He opened his borders, welcomed all, though fae acceptance came slowly, history made room for them.
The mountain that overlooked Argyle was renamed Montezuma, after the Lord who gave his life for him.
A symbol of endurance Lord Zuma was.
And a place the Minotaurs could at last call home.
Rune considered all that remained to be rebuilt, though he had little interest in the Hall of Bargains. Once, it had been crowded with contracts bound in blood. Now it stood nearly empty. Every bargain he had ever forged became ash the moment he died, freeing every soul he had damned.
Yet there was no urge to seek more.
He would always answer those who called to the dark. That part of him had not changed. But his contracts had become selective. Some souls deserved damnation. Some did not. And he would weigh that, too.
It seemed the gods were not disinclined to change.
In a rare act of benevolence, Elyōn had adjusted the terms of the Covenant.
Instead of a single reunion every five years beneath the Blood Moon, Alora was now only required to leave him each spring to rebind the Rift in the Mortal Realm while he did so from the Abyss.
Still, Rune dreaded those months apart. But it was a compromise he had learned to tolerate. Odd, that wasn’t a sentiment he was used to obliging.
“Rune?”
“Yes, love,” he purred lazily. “What can I do for you?”
Alora glanced at him over her shoulder from the floor-length mirror. She was ravishing in crimson silk, the gown’s sides bare, laced only by golden threads. Those perfect lips curved when she caught the heat in his gaze.
Rune lounged in a chair behind her, shirt half-undone, pale skin bared like an invitation. His shadows curled possessively around her ankles, worshiping every step she took.
Oh, he could do plenty for her.
And Rune showed her. A clear vision of exactly what he’d rather do than suffer tonight’s sordid affair.
Once, Alora would have flushed at such unbecoming provocation. Now, she smiled, eyes full of promise. She crossed the chamber with a deliberate sway, then set her heel on his chest, nodding at the loose ribbons expectantly.
“Can you behave yourself tonight?”
Rune grinned, fangs flashing. “Of course.”
He slid his palms up her smooth calves as he laced her heels. Then he set down her foot and caught her throat, tugging her close.
“But only if I can misbehave later.” He dragged his mouth down her neck, over her collarbone, licking then biting hard enough to make her gasp.
“Rune…” she moaned. “You need to get dressed, or we will be late.”
He slid his hands up her torso, fingers toying with the threads as he was tempter to tear off. “The banquet can wait. I’d rather feast on you.”
Her breath hitched as his tail slid up her dress, caressing her thighs. Though she tried to resist, her shiver betrayed her. He could already scent the sweetness in her—
“This is important.” Alora pressed firmly at his chest and pushed him back into the chair with effortless strength.
He frowned. Even now, in the eight years since his resurrection, he hadn’t grown used to her surpassing him.
“You have conquered the Seven Hells and imprisoned the Primordials once more in the Abyss. No one can ever question your right to the throne.”
“We defeated them,” Rune sighed. “And I care little for the court’s applause.”
It was formality, really. His power now could not be contested.
Her gaze searched his. “Or is it because your family will arrive?”
He looked away.
Family.
They shared no blood, no true bond of kinship. Why Jokull and Sunneva had accepted her invitation was beyond him.
Alora’s fingers brushed the God’s Mark glowing faintly on his wrist. “This is your kinship.”
He studied his new markings and paths of constellations on his skin.
What was he now? God, consort, or something that transcended past cosmic understanding.
Her voice was soft but sure. “You’re mine.”
Rune lifted a curl from her temple, his crimson gaze molten. Always.
“And the rightful King of the Netherworld.” Alora returned to the mirror to finish brushing her hair. “The Court of Sin and Ruin has gathered to honor your conquest.”
Standing, Rune came up behind her and took her waist as he kissed up her throat, his hands sliding to her hips. “The only ascension I seek is right here.”
Her breath quickened as his erection pressed into her spine. “You’ve had me last night, and this morning. Have you not had enough?”
A lovely blush colored her complexion as they both remembered how she woke with his face between her tights. Not that she ever complained.
“Never.” Rune grinned, secretly pleased with himself.
There was something about her scent and taste lately that turned him into an aroused beast. And with it came an overprotective urge to hide her away from any outside harm.
An amusing thought, since she was much stronger than him.
“I starved for you while battling Titans in the depths.” His smile faded. “I crave you all the more knowing soon you will leave me.”
Her eyes softened. “Only for a season.”
“A season too long.” He glanced down and sighed. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”
She smiled slyly, well aware of how the candlelight accentuated every mouthwatering curve of her cleavage. Drawing her arms around his neck, she kissed him languidly, deeply.
Enough to send a ravaged fire through his veins.
Rune exhaled sharply, then, with visible restraint, set her down. He summoned his ceremonial armor, placing a crown embedded with red gems on her head. “Let us get on with this banquet, deadly little flower. I will deal with you later.”
Her smile was sharp. “Promise?”
They left their chambers together, shadows drifting at their heels.
The sentient castle seemed to breathe through the stones as they strode along its corridors. Wargs slipped from the darkness to flank Rune, the Vareth’s low purr rumbling as it prowled beside Alora.
The air thrummed with magic within the grand hall.
At the foot of the throne, the Dominions bowed as one when they entered.
The throne room had been adorned for the feast. Long tables of black wood gleamed like oil, laden with dishes steaming and strange: meats still sizzling, fruits that glimmered as if plucked from fire, shadow wine pouring red as blood into silver goblets.
Spider lilies spiraled up the columns like scarlet streamers.
Music played on flutes carved of bone, the melody of harp as haunting as the spirits drifting above.
Did you mean for the banquet to fall on Samhain? Rune asked as he picked up a chalice of wine.
Alora winked. I thought it fitting.
Then the air shifted cold.
The main doors opened, and frost spilled across the stones as Jokull crossed the threshold. His face was partially concealed by a mask of bone. Beside him glided Sunneva, draped in a gown shimmering with gems of ice, her hair glittering with snow. Their crowns of ice caught the light.
For a long, taut moment, silence fell.
Rune’s eyes smoldered red as he met Jokull’s glowing blue gaze, shadows and frost colliding without a word, two powers straining against each other until the hall held its breath.
“Your castle is lovely,” Sunneva said with a bright smile, breaking the silence. “We were pleased to be invited, weren’t we, Jokull?”
Both stayed silent, their gazes still locked. Rune’s power hummed, rising to answer the imminent threat, and cerulean light sparked around Jokull’s talons.