Epilogue Aurora
Aurora
One Week Later
“Fucking useless,” I mutter, staring at my hands. Maybe the hellfire’s still buffering.
I am the Last Daughter. Wielder of hellfire. Queen of the underborne. A shifter. A shaper of war.
And yet?
I can’t summon a single fucking spark.
Emme sits in the dark corner of my mind, emphatically reminding me that if she had control, this would be easier.
Boo-fucking-hoo, bitch. If I’m going down, you’re coming with me.
The murder sprite in my head hasn’t said more than ten words since the night I should’ve merged with her … and didn’t.
Iain says it’s supposed to be instant, that two beings can’t share a body for long.
One always wins.
But we’re still here.
Me and her.
I don’t think she’s angry.
I think she’s waiting. Waiting for the moment I realize she’s right.
That sometimes, violence isn’t a choice. It’s a duty.
And when I accept that? When I stop trying to be soft in a world that wants me dead?
Maybe then she’ll stop waiting and we’ll become whatever it is I’m meant to be.
Which would be easier to deal with if Emme were the only problem.
But no.
I’ve apparently got layers of magical bullshit to untangle.
Iain told me I can tap into the magic of every Daughter who came before me.
“Generational magic,” he called it.
But he also warned me not to use it unless I had no other choice.
“It always costs something,” he said. “Something physical. Permanent. The kind of payment you don’t get to negotiate.”
Great. Cool. Can’t wait.
I don’t even know what kind of shit I inherited. It’s not like there was a “So You’re the Last Daughter and Everyone’s Counting on You: No Pressure” guidebook waiting on my pillow the next morning.
Just Iain muttering warnings. Ezra watching me like I might explode. And Louie trying to fight every sound she can’t identify.
For all I know, one of my ancestors used her magic to find ripe avocados. Or to whisper at bees.
My legacy is magical apian diplomacy.
Amazing.
I can’t shift. I can’t conjure hellfire.
But if we ever find ourselves in a pollen-based crisis?
I’ve got us covered.
Truly, the legacy of a warrior queen.
But … I think Ezra knew.
Maybe not the full truth, but the edges of it.
He’s heard the stories, the old ones, long buried.
The kind you laugh off when you’re young and immortal.
The Last Daughter.
A myth so old even monsters stopped believing in it.
And now I’m supposed to be her. Lucky me.
I’ve been at this for over a week, and nothing is working.
I can’t shift into my magical form at will, I can’t call on or manipulate hellfire, and the persuasion magic is usable but terrifying. The way Louie’s eyes glow gold when the magic takes hold makes my skin crawl.
No one should have magic this powerful. It’s … dangerous.
“Dammit,” I mumble to myself, wiping my useless hands on my jeans.
With a heavy sigh, I take a seat on one of the few logs Louie hasn’t scorched during our training sessions.
Given how absurdly massive Ezra’s property is, he set aside a private area where Louie and I can practice wielding our hellfire without endangering anyone or burning down half the Ridge and Valley.
When Louie’s magic came back a few days ago, she tore through the woods in her hound form, leaving scorched trees and flaming wreckage in her wake. After she accidentally torched an abandoned building just outside of town, Ezra insisted we keep our practice confined to his property.
I run my hands down my face and realize that, for the first time in over two weeks, Ezra isn’t orbiting me like a moody planet whose natural resources are orgasms and shadows.
I know that shouldn’t matter, but it does.
He’s been a constant presence since fate hijacked my life and whispered, “Let’s get weird,” hovering just close enough to remind me that, whatever happens, I won’t face it alone.
And yet, when I look around … there’s no one.
No Ezra. No Louie.
Just me, my broken-ass magic, and the petty bitch lurking in my skull.
Determined to overcome the negative thoughts swirling in my head, I force myself to stand up and get back to work.
I will my magical body to obey me, just this once—only for Emme to cackle in the dark recesses of my mind.
While I mentally scream at her to shut the fuck up, the air thickens, charged with a menacing energy that paralyzes me with fear.
Overhead, the sky darkens as a treachery of ravens eclipses the sun.
I raise my hand to shield my eyes as I look up, the vast expanse above now a looming void. The treachery twists and turns in a cyclonic motion, its center ominously approaching the ground before me.
This can’t be good.
And when I search my mind for Emme, hoping she might provide some backup, there’s only quiet emptiness in the space she usually occupies.
Coward.
I pivot sharply, muscles locking, ready to bolt.
But something flickers just beyond the smoke and black feathers drifting through the air.
A shape.
A person.
My stomach turns.
It’s me.
But not.
I cock my head, struggling to make sense of the wavering form as it solidifies.
Standing in the middle of the charred grove, black feathers still floating to the ground, stands a fierce warrior queen, every inch of her stained with blood.
She has my face, my features, and wears my magical form, but this horrifying, blood-soaked woman can’t be me.
The violent imposter waits, warping the air around her, reality rejecting her very presence.
I don’t mean to, but I take a step closer.
Worn, cracked leather armor is molded to her body like a second skin. A blackened blade hangs at her side, still dripping with fresh blood. A dagger is strapped to her thigh, its hilt carved with delicate wildflowers, a soft detail that doesn’t belong in the brutal vision before me.
I swallow so hard I think the warrior queen version of me feels it.
Blood drips from her hair and body, making the whites of her eyes glow amid the deep red.
“W-who are you?” I ask hesitantly.
Honestly, I’m not sure if I really want to know.
The vision stares at me as a ferocious grin spreads across her bloodied face, her stark white fangs sparkling against the sticky crimson.
“I am the Morrígan,” she intones, her voice splitting into three.
It detonates through my bones, an echo carrying the sound of fate folding in on itself.
“The Phantom Queen. The Weaver of War. The Keeper of Fate.”
And then she bares her fangs, blood slicking her lips in a snarl that’s meant to be a smile. I think. There’s so much blood, she could hand me a bouquet of unicorn plushies, and I’d still swear she tried to stab me and eat my heart.
“I have come for you.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. Another underborne.
Except … she doesn’t feel like the others. Ezra told me the first of them were powerful enough to be worshipped.
But that doesn’t explain why she looks like me.
“What do you want?” I ask, taking a few steps back.
I glance behind me, hoping to find Louie or Ezra. Hell, I’d even take Iain at this point. But the entire forest seems to have fallen into a hushed stillness, as if time has stopped.
Oh, good. The air just got murder-silent. That’s always a great sign.
“I bring a message, Last Daughter:
When shadow entwines with flame, the thrice-born queen shall rise.
Her light blazes in the endless night, yet it must flicker and fall.
Blood shall stain the Earth, and the underborne will rise from darkness to stand as one.
She will be their voice, their fire, their reckoning,
And in her wake, the war will begin—man against monster, light against light.
Beware the velvet queen, cloaked in sweetness and shimmering stagnation,
For her bargains are struck, and the cost will be steep.
As the shadow mourns, the flame will smolder low,
And only then shall the world know the cost of salvation.
This will not be our last meeting, thrice-born warrior queen. I shall see you again … after the fire.”
“Wait! Can you repeat that so I can write it dow—”
But I never get to finish.
The wind slams into me as the Morrígan shatters, her body exploding into a storm of feathers. The treachery takes flight, spiraling back into the sky, their caws ringing in my ears.
I should go find Louie. Or Ezra. Tell them what I saw.
But the words press against my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs.
I already know how Ezra will react. He’ll growl. He’ll snarl. He’ll suffocate me with promises of violence, promises that I’m not alone.
And maybe that’s what scares me most.
He won’t stop. Not until I’m safe.
Even if that means locking me in a tower and burning the world around it.
And that?
That doesn’t fucking work for me.
Because if I’m going to save the underborne … save my family and friends?
I can’t let a silly little thing like a death prophecy get in my way.
A sharp gust of wind whips through the clearing, snapping me back to the present.
I blink, my breath hitching as I take in the silence that follows.
The treachery has scattered. The sky has cleared. The Morrígan is nowhere to be seen.
But the scent of blood lingers, thick in the air, clinging to my clothes, seeping into my hair.
Her words crawl beneath my ribs, circle three times, then settle deep, curling up against the darkest part of me.
Flicker and fall.
It echoes. And echoes.
Until it’s the only thing I can hear.
Until it’s the only thing left.
Even Emme, always hungry for violence, coils back into the shadow of my mind, silent for once.
No taunts.
No snark.
Just a hollow, expectant quiet.
Well, fuck.
Guess I’ve got a death to look forward to—right between my magic lessons, leading a war, and getting humans and underborne to hold hands and sing “Kumbaya.”
Cool.
Totally fair.
Love that for me.
To be continued in Asters Wilt Where Shadows Rise
(The Florilegium Cycle, Book 2)