Chapter Seventy-Seven
ELYSSARA
The world is quiet after ruin.
Rain slicks the stones, washing the blood to the rivers newly born. The sky—no longer a ceiling of ash and despair—spills the dawn light, and I relish the warmth on my face.
My muscles ache, my throat hoarse from the cries of hopelessness and victory that tore from my chest. But my heart—broken, bruised and brimming with hope—aches the most.
I can’t help but weep for the mother I’ll never know.
The friends I’ll be forced to know only through memory.
But I also gained something in this battle: a future.
One I didn’t think I’d get to have.
Once-Marked shoulders rest on the steps of Kryntar Castle. Shoulders rounded in sorrow for what was, heads shaking in confusion at the truth.
Ronyn limps up the steps with only undergarments on, arm slung around Seren as he regales her with exaggerated stories about how they saved the day.
I huff a laugh at his irreverence, and it feels like the first time I’ve laughed in too long.
And then—
I hear them.
Not soldiers.
Not drums.
Footsteps.
From the northern road, they come.
Men and women from the Wastes, thin as memory, their faces hollowed by generations of hunger and haze. Threadbare clothes hang from bone. Some carry children; some carry only the ghost of hope.
But as they cross the causeway, I see something else: the heavy, dominant oppression of The Decay has lifted from their eyes.
They blink—slowly, disbelieving—as color returns to the world.
They look upon Kryntar Castle, freed of its rot and ash, and replaced with vines that glitter with dew. Moss that glows soft beneath the rain.
Their eyes widen at the Riverian Jungle that wraps around the castle like an embrace. Amethyst lunafleurs frame the castle, bioluminescent veins stretch through trunks and branches, and the trees whisper their names like old friends.
“They’re seeing it for the first time,” Jax murmurs beside me, her voice cracked open with wonder and grief.
“It’s a beautiful thing to witness the truth,” I breathe, watching Zerynthians see their homeland with fresh eyes, but also watching Jax with understanding I’ve never had.
She pauses, fighting the words that her lips want to speak.
“I’ll fight for you, you know,” she finally murmurs, her eyes fixed on her boots.
I bite down on the smirk that tugs at my lips. “For Dravara?”
“No,” she corrects without hesitation. “For you.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, because Jax? Softened? My mind can’t reconcile it.
“Thank you,” I say softly, and I mean it.
The Vaythari come next—staves thudding against the stone in solemn rhythm.
Zhari. Zhari. Zhari.
Their chant is low, reverent, a heartbeat for the land.
From the east, the Cindrali march through the rain—braids unraveling, faces streaked in soot and blood, eyes blazing with pride.
Somewhere in Kryntar Castle, the belt of Skaedor’s Heir waits. Ripped from my body, tossed to the floor of the dungeons. And soon, I’ll reclaim it.
Gellesk’s rebels approach the steps, boots sinking into mud, weapons at their sides but not raised.
Thousands now.
All of them converging on the steps of Kryntar Castle.
Earthbound and Starborn. Tribe and witch. Dravara and Zerynthia. Rebel and loyalist.
A kingdom reborn.
At the center stands Kael.
He’s rain-soaked and bloodied, a scar running dark against his jaw, the weight of a thousand lifetimes in his eyes, a burden weighing heavy on his shoulders. And yet he stands like something eternal.
Teddy limps forward, holding a crown blackened with decay and veined with gold—the crown he plucked from Maldrak before the echo-plane claimed him.
The crown of Kael’s father. And his father before him.
An heirloom.
Teddy’s voice carries across the courtyard:
“By the will of Zerynthia’s people—Earthbound and Starborn alike—I name Kael Thorne, King of Zerynthia!”
The crowd erupts—shouts, sobs, laughter for the return of their exiled prince. Their rightful king. For their homeland.
He doesn’t explain.
He doesn’t correct the lies they’ve undoubtedly been told about him, his father.
He simply raises his arms skyward, showing the Zerynthian people of the prosperity and replenishment his reign will bring.
And the castle trembles with cheers at the gesture.
Teddy approaches him, General of War in full force.
“King Kael Thorne of Zerynthia,” he murmurs, placing the crown on Kael’s head.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.
He doesn’t speak.
He closes his eyes.
In front of his torso, he makes the symbol of the inverted triangle.
The effect is instant—the crowd kneel. A wave of deference ripples across the castle grounds.
“King Kael!”
“King Kael!”
“King Kael!”
The chant is consuming—a chorus of overlapping voices that possess the sky.
The crowd rises to their feet, murmurs of freedom spark across the people. Of provision. Resources. Safety.
Through the sea of faces, his gaze finds mine.
And I swear, the whole world stills.
He walks down the steps, crown atop his head, boots echoing against the wet stone.
And gods, he is beautiful.
A beautiful, dangerous thing.
Dark waves, ocean-lightning eyes, and a body built for war.
But when his gaze finds mine, something inside me flinches.
For the briefest heartbeat, the tether between us shifts—colder, heavier.
Like a shadow passing over the sun.
And then he smiles, and the moment is gone.
He stops before me—and kneels.
The man who kneels for no one, kneels for me.
“I pledge allegiance to the Rightful Queen of Dravara, Elyssara Dawnmere, the lost Lightborne Princess,” he says, voice carrying through the dawn light. “We fight for peace between our kingdoms, and we will stop at nothing to restore her to her throne. Her birthright.”
A hush spreads like dawn over the crowd.
My throat tightens. My heart pounds.
Ronyn leans in close, shirtless, laughing under his breath, scorch marks still smoking along his ribs. “Don’t seem overly fond of that plan, do they?” he whispers, and I dig a sharp elbow into his ribs.
“We will fight for Elyssara—my Starbound, my light, the savior of the realms—the way she fought for Zerynthia! The way she fought for your homeland!” Kael announces, voice commanding and unwavering. The kind of strength they need.
The crowd is quiet.
Terrifyingly quiet.
But a murmur begins around me.
“She rode the dragon,” one woman whispers.
“I saw fire blaze from her palms,” another man says.
“The lost Lightborne Princess?” someone questions.
And the spark of support spreads like wildfire.
Chants for Dravara, for unity, for the lost princess, for peace, erupt in a symphony of support.
My light. Kael croons down the tether, smooth and rich like amber liquor.
My Sky. I reply without hesitation.
A quiet moment for us, among the mania of a new Zerynthia.
I look out across the sea of faces, the reborn land around them, and feel something holy settle inside me.
Not peace.
But something similar.
Peace’s kin: focus.
Because the darkness remembered my name.
But now the world will, too.
Because I know: we haven’t won the war. Only the battle.
Across the mountains, Thalmyr moves his pieces.
Across the waters, Caeloria hungers for dominion.
Across the skies, dragons stir in mortal bodies.
In lands unknown, witches remember their power.
And in the silence between worlds, the gods beg for freedom.
As stillness settles across the rain-damp earth, and memories rise from the ashes,
a whisper rides the wind—
“The Lightborne Princess lives.”
And I’m coming for my throne.