Epilogue
Loren leaned against the doorframe of his rooms at Tirnavel, popping a candied flower petal into his mouth. The sugary wafer dissolved on his tongue in a burst of sweetness, conjuring memories of Bloomtides long past.
“Loren,” Araya warned without looking away from the mirror at her vanity. “Lyria is going to be cross if you eat all of those before tonight. She worked very hard on them.”
“I know you hid an extra tray.” Loren popped another petal into his mouth, unable to keep the smile off his face as he met his queen’s eyes in her reflection. Her lips curved, but she didn’t turn away from the mirror, fussing with the white flowers woven into her crown.
“We all know you can’t control yourself around them,” she teased. “Veria told Lyria the whole story. So she’ll know who to blame if they all go missing.”
Loren laughed. He crossed their bedroom, wrapping his arms around her from behind and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Warmth bloomed in his chest as she leaned back into him, staring up at him with nothing but trust and love in her beautiful silver eyes.
“You look radiant,” he said.
She laughed, resting her hand over his on the swell of her stomach. “I’m enormous.”
“Enormously beautiful.” He pressed another kiss to her temple, the scarred edge of her ear, her cheek. “Are you certain you’re up for tonight?”
“I’ll survive.” Araya held his hand for support as she stood, groaning under the weight of her heavy belly. “Hopefully all the standing convinces this little prince or princess to make their entrance,” she said, her expression dark. “Because I’m tired of being pregnant.”
“It would be wonderful to have the baby while Serafina is here,” Loren agreed, taking her hand. The healer and Finn had arrived from Aetheris this morning, along with Kai and Caela. “Thorne won’t get here until tomorrow, but Maya and Raelle got here last night.”
“Everyone together again,” Araya said, smiling.
They descended the hidden staircase together, emerging into the dark space behind their thrones. Loren pressed a finger to his lips, the shadows rising to hide them both from sight as they crept past the army of servants working to prepare the grand space for Bloomtide.
He paused for a moment, looking at it. It was hard to remember what it had looked like just fifteen years ago, when he hadn’t truly believed they would ever be standing here.
The shattered windows had been repaired, the sunlight shining through them casting rainbows across the gleaming silver veins where the marble floor had been mended.
Deep green banners hung between every window, and the thrones—his and hers—had been freshly polished until they gleamed, fresh ivy and flowers winding around their carved legs.
“Loren?”
Araya stood at the edge of the room, one hand resting on the curve of her belly where she cradled their child in her own body.
Her cheeks were flushed from descending the stairs, the plum gown making her silver eyes shine.
She’d kept her hair simple besides the crown, forgoing the jeweled ear tips many fae who had grown up under the Arcanum favored and displaying her scars like a badge of honor.
He took her hand again.
They left their shoes at the edge of the garden, walking barefoot across the soft moss. Ancient trees rose up around them, the whisper of magic rushing over their skin.
“But can you make it do anything?” Corwin’s reedy voice floated through the trees. “Uncle Loren makes them do all sorts of things—”
“He doesn’t make them do anything.” Loren almost laughed aloud at Lyria’s cross answer. “He asks. They’re partners, not master and servant. And I’m only twelve, I have plenty of time to learn—”
They stepped through the last of the trees into the clearing.
Lyria sat cross-legged in the center of the Eldergreen, her black hair loose around her shoulders and her bright silver eyes fixed on the wisp of shadows curling between her fingers.
Beside her, Eloria’s son Corwin lay on his back, his hands folded on his chest as he stared up at the darkening sky, looking for the first stars.
The little shadow darted between her fingers, racing across the clearing to curl around Araya’s ankles.
She smiled, holding a hand out to stroke its formless shape before it darted back to Lyria.
It had left Araya the day she was born, wrapping itself securely around the tiny, precious bundle in a promise to them all.
“Father!” Lyria flung herself into his arms, slight as a bird. He swung her up, his heart light as her laughter filled the air. “Happy Bloomtide.”
“Happy Bloomtide,” he returned, kissing her head before setting her down.
Lyria wrapped her arms around her mother more carefully, pressing a kiss to her swollen stomach. “How do you feel? Veria said I could have a little brother or sister any day now—”
Araya laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her first child’s delicately pointed ear. “We’ll be sure to tell you when it happens,” she reassured her. “Are the two of you excited for the parade? I heard Eilwen outdid herself this year.”
“Selan has been busy all week,” Lyria complained.
“He’s been gloating about getting to help his mother with all the floats and won’t tell us anything about them.
” She huffed, her lip poking out the same way it had when she was just starting to toddle around and didn’t get her way.
“He said it would ruin the surprise. Like we’re children! He isn’t that much older.”
“Hmm.” Loren hummed. “I guess you are both getting a little old. You probably won’t even want to hear any of the stories this year—”
“That’s not what she meant.” Corwin sat up, casting his cousin a dark look. “Uncle Loren, you tell all the best stories every Bloomtide. You can’t just not do it this year.”
“I guess I could tell some.” Loren hid his smile, helping Araya lower herself to the ground before settling himself on the soft moss beside her. “Which ones do you want to hear?”
“All of them,” Lyria said immediately. Then, more reasonably, “You can start with the one about the Eldergreen.”
“You must have heard that one a hundred times already.” Loren raised his eyebrows, exchanging a glance with his queen. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” Lyria exclaimed, tossing herself down next to her cousin. The little shadow curled around her shoulders, just like it had with her mother all those years ago. “That one’s my favorite.”
Loren smiled. Somewhere beyond the trees, someone started playing a flute, the high, reedy sound drifting up through the warm spring air as Tirnavel prepared to celebrate Bloomtide for the fifteenth year running, every year louder and more joyful than the last.
“Well,” he said. “It all starts with a queen who would do anything to protect the people she loved…”