Chapter 67 Holy Goodbye
Chapter sixty-seven
Holy Goodbye
-Maris-
The army of Achyron gathered beneath a bruised sky.
The cliffs of Nerium burned with torchlight, firelight danced across a thousand armored forms. Banners from four kingdoms: Nythra’s Wolf, Calanthe’s Basilisk, Virellia’s Leviathan, and Eryndor’s Stag swayed together in the salted wind.
Tomorrow, they would bleed as one.
Tonight, they would feast.
The way the nightbound always did —loud, fast, and fevered. Music crashed from the palace halls. Laughter tangled with shouted toasts. Drums pounded like war cries in the dark. Someone uncorked a barrel of sea-spiced mead. Another twirled a sword in place of a dance partner.
It should have felt wrong.
But instead… it felt holy.
A farewell cloaked in defiance.
Maris moved through the courtyard like a ghost in a goddess’s skin. Her gown was simple, high neck storm-gray silk threaded with moonlight but her presence was anything but. Her crown rested on her brow. They watched her as she passed. Warriors bowed. Nobles parted.
She was the Veil Breaker and this was her war.
Near the outer ring of the celebration, a contingent of human warriors stood in formation, stoic, straight-backed, unsure of their place.
Most of Eryndor forces had arrived late, their passage south delayed by shadow storms. But their presence was unmistakable now, steel-clad and sharp-eyed, led by Commander Rennic, a grizzled soldier with silver in his beard and the burden of too many lost wars behind his gaze.
She approached them slowly.
“Commander Rennic,” she greeted.
He inclined his head, voice gravel-thick. “My queen.”
“We owe this land more than one debt. And you more than one life.” He bowed.
She reached out, brushing her fingers against his breastplate. Her magic pulsed faintly into the iron— resilience, fortitude, hope. He blinked, startled.
“Let it shield your men,” she said. “And bring them home.”
He bowed deeper, his voice cracked. “We will be honored to die in your name.”
She moved on.
Thauren met her next, looming near the bonfire, a silver goblet in hand. His smile was tired but true.
“You’ll hold the eastern ridge?” she asked.
Thauren nodded. “I’ll be your thunder, Maris. You be the spark.”
She touched his wrist, letting that spark pass into him.
From there, the night unfolded like a ritual.
Serenya. Corin. Riven. Zairon. Valea. The trusted. The dangerous. The devout.
She gave them all something.
A moment.
A sliver of power.
A goodbye they wouldn’t recognize as one.
And at last, she stood on the steps, watching as the factions mingled, the blood-drenched warriors of Nythra sparring with Eryndor’s scouts, Calanthean archers teaching Virellian mages drinking songs. For tonight, there were no borders. No curses.
Just music. And breath.
Her gaze swept to the firelit edge.
To Kael.
To Alarik.
The ache inside her was not divine.
It was human.
She closed her eyes and let the drumbeat carry her forward.
Maris stood at the edge of the dance circle, breath fogging in the cooling air. She didn’t know how many hours had passed, only that the sky was shifting, time running like sand through cracked glass.
She turned at the sound of approaching boots and caught sight of Serenya, sweat at her brow, hair half-loosened from its braid. She looked radiant, radiant and utterly lethal in her leather armor, sword still strapped at her back even in celebration.
“You’re not dancing,” Serenya said, nudging her shoulder.
Maris huffed a laugh. “I was waiting for someone worth the rhythm.”
Serenya rolled her eyes, but there was affection in it.
“Gods,” Maris whispered after a pause. “You do know how proud I am to call you friend?”
Serenya’s mouth twitched into a small, real smile. “I’m not the sentimental type, but —yeah. I know. And I’m proud of you, too. Not because you’re the Veil Breaker. But because you haven’t let it turn you into a statue.” Her eyes softened. “You’re still Maris.”
They clasped arms, warrior to warrior, and it felt more sacred than any crown.
Not far beyond, Serya and Leneth, wives of Corin and Riven, waved her over with goblets in hand and mischief in their eyes.
Serya offered her a wine-soaked grin. “You didn’t think we’d let our husbands run into the mouth of darkness alone, did you?”
Leneth snorted. “Please. Riven tried to convince me to stay behind, like I haven’t dragged him out of more near-deaths than he can count.”
Maris blinked. “You’re… fighting?”
Serya nodded, face suddenly somber. “We may not be generals, but we’re with you.”
Maris reached for them both, pressing a hand to each of their hearts. “Then let me give you what I can.”
Magic flowed from her fingertips, warm and fierce. It didn’t scorch. It empowered, settling into them like armor no blade could pierce.
“We’ll bring each other home,” Leneth murmured. “You included.”
And then, the music changed.
Something slower. Bittersweet. A melody for memory, the notes from the night of her engagement. She pressed a hand to heart.
She didn’t see Kael approach until he was already there, hand extended.
“May I?” he asked softly.
She nodded, wordless.
They danced without speaking at first, moving with practiced ease, like a tide finding its rhythm against the shore. When he finally spoke, it was nearly a breath.
“When we last danced to this I thought your light was dangerous.”
Her chest ached.
“But it wasn’t,” he said. “It was beautiful. And I was the danger.”
She looked up at him, unable to hide the tremble in her voice. “Kael,”
“I won’t ask for anything,” he whispered. “I just needed to say… I see you. I love you. I always did. I just didn’t know how to hold what I couldn’t cage.”
Her throat tightened. She touched his jaw, fleeting. “Thank you. For saying it.”
The music shifted.
And as if the stars conspired, Alarik stood in Kael’s place the next heartbeat as they shifted partners for the dance.
He didn’t speak. He simply took her hand and spun her into the next song, one of Calanthean origin, all low strings and lilting chords.
When they pressed close, his breath ghosted her ear.
“Stay alive, Maris,” he murmured. “That’s all I want.”
“I intend to,” she said. “But if I don’t…”
He stiffened.
She pressed her palm to his heart. “You made me feel chosen. Even when I was unraveling.”
They moved together through the final refrain, and when the music ended, Maris stood still for a moment in the center of the floor, both men behind her, her court all around her.
She realized she wasn’t saying goodbye to them but goodbye to who they’d been.
Because tomorrow, none of them would be the same.
As the final song faded into silence, the magic that had cloaked the feast began to flicker and dim.
The torches burned lower. The laughter waned. One by one, warriors, nobles, and fae drifted away from the courtyard, some with arms around lovers, others walking alone. Not all of them would see the sun again —the weight of that truth pressed deep into Maris’s chest.
She stood still in the center of the quieting celebration, watching as the crowd dispersed into shadow. Tomorrow would take pieces of them. Perhaps more than they could afford.
She found herself walking with no real direction until her feet brought her back to her chambers. The corridors were dim, sconces flickering as if even fire felt the coming dread.
When she pushed open the door, she halted.
She didn’t know why she was surprised.
Kael was seated in the wide armchair beside the hearth, the shadows loving him as always. His long legs stretched out, one arm resting on the armrest, the other curled under his jaw. His silver eyes opened as she entered.
Alarik sat at the edge of the window seat, head bowed, hair loose and glinting in the low light. He didn’t speak, just looked up at her with a softness that made her heart pull taut.
Neither had asked to come. Neither had needed to.
They were simply there.
Silent sentinels.
Her hands trembled slightly as she undid her cloak and let it fall.
Kael rose without comment and took the left pallet beside her bed, laying down fully clothed. Alarik crossed the room and took the right.
They didn’t reach for her.
They didn’t press her.
They simply existed in the same sacred space guarding, waiting.
Maris changed into a soft linen shift, slipped between the sheets, and lay on her back. Her eyes traced the carved ceiling overhead, the low flicker of candlelight throwing quiet shadows across ancient stone. She could hear both of them breathing.
And just before sleep claimed her, she whispered into the silence:
“Thank you.”
Neither replied aloud.
But Kael’s shadows curled lightly across her body like smoke.
And Alarik’s faelight shimmered faintly brushing her cheek.
Tomorrow would bring ruin.
But tonight she wasn’t alone.