Chapter 30
Dagan
The Rooted Marches
The pyres burn for three nights.
Not because we lack the strength to light them faster—Thorne could turn the whole horizon into a ribbon of flame with a single breath—but because the dead deserve time.
They deserve names spoken slowly.
They deserve hands clasped.
They deserve grief that isn’t rushed like ore through a smelter.
The Barrow’s terraces become a river of mourning.
Miners with soot still embedded in the lines of their palms, soldiers with bandaged ribs and hollow eyes, Dreamwrights whose fingers shake as if they’re still weaving prayers out of air.
I stand at the head of the largest pyre field, stone under my boots warmed by ash.
The Marches hum low—somber, respectful—roots listening, remembering. And all of Nightfall feels it.
Alaric’s people arrive first, bearing wind-chimes of bone and silver thread that sing when the mourning gust passes through them.
Kael’s follow with seawater in dark glass, poured over certain pyres so the souls rise clean, not snarled in smoke.
Thorne’s Broken Plains Demons bring ember-salt and black iron tokens—old rites, hard rites.
The kind that says, “We saw you. We will not forget you.”
And my people—mine, theirs, ours—carve the names into memorial stones that will outlast every fragile thing Idris tried to unmake.
Oona stands beside me for every single one.
Not because I ask.
Because she chooses.
Her fingers curl around mine when the first child’s name is spoken and the mother collapses, keening.
My earth wants to harden, to become a wall, to stop the sound from reaching my heart.
Oona won’t let it.
She presses into my side, warm and stubborn, and I learn—again—that love is not softness.
It is endurance.
When the last mass is said—when the last prayer thread is tied to the elder tree’s lower bough and the last ember dims into a bed of pale coals—we do what rulers have always had to do.
We stop bleeding in public.
And we plan.
The council is held in The Barrow’s deepest hall, the one built into the cliff face where the stone sweats cool and the roots braid the ceiling like ribs.
A table of living rock rises from the floor at my will, circular and heavy and honest.
No thrones.
No dais.
No one sits above the others.
That matters.
My brothers arrive with their viyellas at their sides, as it should be now—Jules with Marcel tucked close, Phoebe’s hand resting possessively over Kael’s wrist, Delia standing at Thorne’s shoulder like she was forged there.
And Alina.
My Oona steps into the circle, and the Marches themselves seem to settle, pleased.
We begin with silence.
Not because we have nothing to say.
Because Nightfall is listening, and for the first time in an age, it does not sound desperate.
It sounds steadier.
Less volatile.
As if the realm has finally stopped searching the sky for one missing star.
Alaric breaks the quiet first, voice rough with exhaustion and something like awe.
“What was the crown,” he says, flexing his fingers where the new piece rests against his skin. “It’s quieter now. Not dead. Not silent in the way it used to be. It’s satisfied.”
Kael’s gaze flicks up, sharp. “Because it isn’t bottlenecked anymore.”
He speaks like water does when it finally finds the path of least resistance—simple truth cutting clean.
“Power was never meant to funnel through one throat,” he continues. “One mind. One failure point.”
Thorne lets out a low, humorless laugh.
“A single Prime was a blade pointed at the realm’s own heart. All Idris had to do was reach for it.”
My jaw tightens at the memory—at the way Nightfall panicked without a Prime, the way it flailed and fractured and begged for leadership like a starving animal.
And then I feel the new pendant at my chest pulse once, gentle.
Anchored.
Shared.
Oona’s palm finds my thigh under the table—steadying, grounding.
Alaric’s gaze drifts to Marcel, to Jules’ protective hold, and his expression goes iron.
“We have families now,” he says softly. “Not just realms. Not just duty. Families.”
Jules lifts her chin. “Which means no more gambling with crowns and power plays and secrets. If we’re doing this, we do it right.”
Delia nods once, fierce. “No more lone wolves pretending they don’t need help.”
Thorne looks like he wants to argue on principle alone—then he glances at Delia and thinks better of it. His mouth twitches.
“Fine,” he grunts. “No more pretending.”
Phoebe’s voice is quiet, but it carries.
“Nightfall didn’t stabilize until the crown was shared. Until the responsibility was shared. That wasn’t coincidence.”
The words land like stone.
Like law.
The earth beneath us hums in agreement, a low vibration that travels up through my bones.
I inhale slowly.
“Then we name it,” I say.
All eyes turn to me. Lords and viyellas alike.
I hate speeches.
I hate ceremony.
But I will speak this truth until the realm itself memorizes it.
“There will be no single Prime,” I say, voice like gravel dragged across granite. “Not again.”
A pulse of assent passes through my brothers—immediate, instinctive.
Kael’s nod is crisp.
Alaric’s jaw tightens like he’s swallowing old pride.
Thorne’s eyes burn bright with approval.
“And,” I continue, “Nightfall will not be ruled by four isolated kingdoms pretending we are separate when the Dream forges bind us all.”
I lift my hand and the table responds, a faint ripple moving around the circle like a ring of water.
“Four co-rulers,” I say. “Each anchored by a viyella. Each responsible for their lands—and responsible to each other.”
Oona’s fingers tighten once, proud and warm.
Jules exhales, relief trembling in it.
Phoebe smiles, small but real.
Delia’s eyes go glossy, but she doesn’t look away.
Alaric leans back, considering, then says, “And when big decisions arise?”
Kael answers before I can. “We rotate.”
Thorne snorts. “You’d say that.”
Kael’s grin is a flash of teeth. “You’d hate being in charge all the time.”
Thorne’s answering growl is almost affectionate. Almost.
I let them have the moment—let the humor cut through the ash.
Then I speak again.
“A rotating leadership circle,” I say. “When the realm is threatened. When the forges falter. When the wards need reforging. When a decision affects all kingdoms—no one Lord decides alone.”
I look at my brothers one by one.
“Agreed?”
Alaric’s gaze is steady. “Agreed.”
Kael’s hand closes over Phoebe’s. “Agreed.”
Thorne’s fire flares low, controlled. “Agreed.”
I don’t speak again until I feel Oona’s quiet certainty press into the bond between us, like a stone set into mortar.
“Agreed,” I finish. “By earth and marrow. By root and realm.”
And then—because none of this matters if it doesn’t become more than words—I reach into the stone table and draw up four shallow grooves, like channels cut into bedrock.
“Let this be recorded,” I say.
The roots overhead unfurl, slow and deliberate, as if they are leaning in to listen.
“To the Dreamwrights,” Jules adds, voice firm.
“To the miners,” Delia says, blunt.
“To the soldiers of the seas,” Phoebe murmurs.
“And to the dead,” Oona finishes softly, and my chest goes tight because she understands the cost as if she was born to it.
We seal it the only way that feels honest to Nightfall.
Not with ink.
With vow.
Each Lord places his palm into the stone groove before him. Each viyella places hers over his. The artifacts—ring, bracer, pendant, torc—pulse once in unison.
And the realm answers.
A deep, resonant thrum rolls through the Barrow, through the cliffs, through the distant forges and the Ember Vein itself.
Not a cheer.
Not celebration.
A settling.
Like a mountain finally choosing to stand.
When it’s done, the hall is quiet again.
My brothers look… lighter. Not unburdened. Never that.
But no longer alone.
I turn my head slightly and meet Oona’s eyes.
There is soot still under her nails. There is exhaustion in the set of her shoulders.
And there is something else—steel. Home. Choice.
Nightfall has peace for the first time in too long.
And we will keep it.
Not with one Prime.
But with four.
With our mates beside us.
And each other to lean on when the ground tries to break again.