Epilogue
FELíNE WAITED INSIDE THE ROYAL villa’s preparation chamber, nursing a shattered spirit.
All throughout the city of Asteros, a raucous celebration was underway.
Streamers of gold, bronze, and crimson draped from awnings and over alleyways.
Ale and mead flowed in an endless torrent from taps in every tavern around the clock.
The cheering of jubilant crowds could be heard well into the night.
Not for her return—the citizens of Asteros hadn’t even been aware of her absence.
The Autumn Reaping was upon them. The Goddess’s holiday had arrived, along with Felíne’s twenty-fifth birthday, and shurii flocked to the capital in droves, awaiting confirmation of the prophecy’s fulfillment.
They brought infants and children. Young men and women came, bearing their lastmarks, gathering on the steps of the Temple of the Rising Dawn, awaiting revival.
Felíne wondered absently if anyone had told them they might be waiting for days.
It had been over a week since General Corstow had halted her fleeing mount and returned her to the capital. Ten days since she stepped through the royal villa’s grand, vine-covered perimeter wall and into the palace where she’d spent most of her life.
This opulent place of comfort and splendor, with its sprawling gardens, tiled fountains, and open breezeways…no longer felt like home.
Home—her true home—had been left to burn on the fringe of an ancient wood.
Felíne lost track of the days spent weeping for the people she abandoned on that black day.
She stopped counting the tears that fell for the burning forest, the good plan that had gone so terribly awry, the friends whose fates were never revealed.
She couldn’t total the hours spent mourning a dark warrior on a roan stallion whose last words to her had been that she looked like a queen of Ilistaar, admiration and love shining in his black, war-painted eyes.
Felíne had given up trying to identify what she could have done differently, how she might have prevented such a tragic outcome.
The King of Asteros may as well have set her aflame, too. Her courage, hope, and purpose were ash. The only thing left was a sorrow so deep, so profound, she’d gone numb out of some subconscious sense of self-preservation. If she allowed herself to feel any more, the emotion would surely kill her.
The door to the chamber opened, and Felíne turned to see a ghost step across the threshold.
Elder Imogen, her mentor and once dear friend, gaped at her with a mixture of anguish and disbelief. Felíne wasn’t sure what her own expression conveyed. She couldn’t remember how to care.
“I lost your cloak,” Felíne said, when the silence became too cumbersome, words scraping through a raw throat.
Imogen’s composure cracked as she rushed forward and wrapped Felíne in a fierce embrace.
If Felíne had any tears left within her, they’d have flooded the room.
Instead, she moaned, a wordless sob burying itself in the folds of Imogen’s elder vestments.
The women crumpled to the rug, clinging to one another in shared solace.
Eventually, Imogen leaned back and brushed hair from Felíne’s splotchy face. “Tell me.”
Felíne did. She told her everything. She told her about stealing her Fate’s cloak and the Lover’s Verdure.
About her capture. Her lie. Cindamar. The hunters.
Kal’s rescue. Meress and her attempted escape.
The inquiry. The grimalkin. Stillwater Wood and the Conclave. Lucien’s plot and Rask’s betrayal.
Kal’s plan. Domitan’s fire. Her return. The end of her world. The only things she kept for herself were Kal’s secrets. He’d kept hers, after all, and she would die with his.
Imogen didn’t interrupt. Felíne unburdened her soul, bared it before her friend, and sat hollow as a broken promise when she finally finished.
The young elder sucked in a shaky breath, then told Felíne about her return to the Stronghold.
About Vulgren and Railah. About Karrick.
Mender Alcuin and Cinah’s maneuvering. “We were going to find you,” Imogen admitted.
“Tonight, in fact, while the city was distracted by the holiday celebrations. The king still hasn’t returned with his host. We had no way of knowing when the plans began, but it would have been the perfect opportunity. ”
That’s right. The king was taking his time sauntering back to the capital.
Never mind the Autumn Reaping and his daughter’s presentation, Domitan was undoubtedly drunk on his victory against the Cozened scum.
General Corstow said they hadn’t even needed to enter Stillwater Wood; they only stayed long enough to watch it burn.
“Remind me to raise the smith’s wages,” the general had said to one of his lieutenants, as they surveyed the ravenous indigo inferno from a considerable distance. “And pray to the Goddess for rain.”
Felíne knew there had been something wrong with those flames. They lit a titanian fire. Rain wouldn’t extinguish the blaze—it would make it explode.
Regret colored Imogen’s features for the briefest moment, pulling Felíne back to their conversation.
“I should have listened to Kal,” Felíne said bitterly. “I was so determined to return. So blinded by my fucking duty. Now I’ve finally made it back, and I’d rather be anywhere else.” She let Imogen see the apology in her gaze. “Maybe if I had stayed away, the two of you could have gotten out.”
Imogen squeezed Felíne’s hands and shook her head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. He’s as bound by duty as you. As soon as we learned of your return, he refused to leave.”
Felíne stared at the colorful tapestry on the far wall and saw oblivion.
“He’s—” she tried, voice breaking. “I can’t—” Felíne covered her mouth with a hand.
Even if she tied herself to Karrick, if they did what the prophecy demanded, and the Goddess’s curse was broken…
“It won’t be okay.” It would never be okay. There was no fixing this.
Imogen nodded, uncharacteristic tears gathering along her lash line. “I know. I know it won’t.” She tucked a finger under Felíne’s chin, lifting gently. “But you are not just the Prima of Asteros, Felíne. You are my friend. And you are not alone.”
Hours later, the sun had begun its descent toward the western horizon, marking the close of her birthday and her approaching presentation to the Primordial Male. Felíne only knew because she’d been told; she and Imogen hadn’t left the windowless room.
The women’s shared grief hung in the chamber like a suspended burial shroud.
The air was pregnant with it, swollen to bursting.
But they weren’t allowed to burst, were they?
They’d buried their sorrow, bottled their rage, and painted over their tear-stained faces with masks of diffidence, as expected.
What a good daughter Felíne was, what a devout Prima. How doting and devoted, her elder. The deception of it made her sick.
Felíne lifted her eyes to the gilded mirror before her and found Imogen’s reflection. The elder stood behind her, coiling Felíne’s hair with practiced hands. Neither of them spoke. Neither wept. Their time for discourse and dismay had expired.
Besides, what was left for Felíne to say?
I’m sorry that I am duty-bound to carry the child of the man you love? I’m sorry you were forced to teach me how?
Imogen’s expression remained placid, her luminous brown skin, smooth. Not even the flicker of unease marred her brow. Felíne imagined the woman’s anguish roiled beneath that untroubled surface like relentless rapids, carving their time-worn path through the yawning stone canyon of her spirit.
Felíne’s own anguish was a tributary, trickling into an infinite ocean of grief, despair, and unending longing.
She wanted to curl around herself and cradle her broken pieces—the ones Kal shattered with his steadfast spirit, unfailing loyalty, and reckless touch.
Oh, cruel gods, how she craved his touch.
The memory of his heated obsidian gaze, his bare torso willingly bound and bowed before her, burned a searing hole through her dedication to duty.
The resolution she once clung to with every bit of polished propriety now lay blistered and smoking within her.
Felíne had never really wanted her fate, though she’d accepted it.
But now? After Kal? After nearly having him? After losing him?
Now she abhorred fate.
He might not be lost, a quiet voice within her dared.
Felíne had attempted to learn the fate of those involved in the skirmish before she’d been swept away to the capital.
Her pleas for information had fallen on deaf ears.
If Kal still lived, if any of them had survived, they were now forever beyond her reach.
The thought threatened to undo Felíne’s carefully constructed composure, and she returned to relentlessly criticizing her reflection, the representation of her accursed destiny.
Here she stood, skin scrubbed raw, hair woven tightly back from an emotionless face.
She’d been poked and prodded and inspected for adequacy.
Her cycle had only just begun, her womb not yet fully fertile, but it didn’t matter.
The ceremony would commence, regardless.
Her mother insisted. Her mother’s priests agreed.
They would consummate this union as often as it took to achieve their aims.
Felíne stared into that mirror and hated her fate, yet there she was, ready to fulfill it. The self-loathing that followed that recognition cut deeper than all the rest.
Imogen’s hands trailed down the white robe Felíne wore, smoothing invisible wrinkles in the airy fabric, fingers ghosting over the miniature lace suns sewn into the silk.
Felíne caught Imogen’s fingers, and the elder’s eyes finally met hers in the mirror.
Imogen squeezed briefly before stepping back and folding her hands beneath the front of her robes. “He will—” She cleared her throat and tried again. “He will be gentle with you.”
Felíne closed her eyes. In her memory, Kal’s fingertips feathered across her skin like an unfulfilled promise.
His phantom breath warmed her cheek, the scent of woodsmoke, amber, and honey drifting through her reminiscence like a pleasure-laced drug.
His desire-darkened gaze roved over her, calling her back to him, demanding she stay. Cradling her. Keeping her.
When Felíne’s lids lifted and returned her to the present, she clung to her fantasy like it was her last corporeal fetter. Wherever you go, I will follow.
The vaulted door behind her scraped with the turning of a key. Mender Vulgren slipped inside and bowed. “It is time, Your Excellence. The Primordial Male awaits.”
Felíne did not respond. She had nothing to say.
“The Prima is prepared,” Imogen said, voice hollow as Felíne’s aching heart.
No, I’m not.
Vulgren beamed and swept the door wide. Two black clad-guards, Felíne’s wraiths, waited outside. Imogen turned and stepped into the dim hallway with a leaden stride.
Felíne had no choice but to follow.