The Stars Kissed Her Feet (The Song of Stars Trilogy #3)

Chapter One

When nature blooms where rot once fed

The Stars will count the living dead

The war council chamber of Zerynthia smells of petrichor, damp earth, and ale.

Open windows allow the breath of the Riverian Jungle to creep inside—humid air thick with rainwater, wild florals, and the sharp green scent of new growth reclaiming old stone.

Vines have already begun winding across the outer fortress walls now that the Decay is gone.

Somewhere beyond the castle grounds, unseen birds call through the jungle canopy like the land itself is remembering how to sing again.

Elyssara Dawnmere settles heavily into an oak chair at the war council table, fingers curled around a tankard. Zerynthia’s throne belongs to Kael now, but the call of her own lingers in every breath, every heartbeat.

Her throne no longer feels like a question to her. It settles into her bones as inevitability. All that remains now is the cost. And this time, she knows she’ll pay it in blood.

She swallows a long pull of ale, gaze drifting slowly across the room. The council is smaller than it should be. Smaller after Caeloria returned Eldric’s head in a box. Smaller again after the attack on Thornewood.

War has a way of hollowing rooms long before it empties them. But this is what remains of the war council now. Not lords. Not generals. Not people born into power.

Survivors.

People stitched together from slums, jungle, grief, and necessity.

Once, Elyssara would have called it survival.

Now, she sees it for what it was: preparation.

She has spent her whole life learning how to survive.

Now she will learn what it means to win.

And somewhere deep beneath her ribs, the Stars stir at the difference.

Elyssara may be still for a moment, but she is not idle. She’s a taut bowstring pulled all the way back—steady, waiting, deadly in its patience. Because for the first time in her haunted, lonely existence, Elyssara has everything she needs:

Softness in her chest.

Fire in her eyes.

Destiny beneath her feet.

Power. Prophecy. People who chose her when she was nothing more than blood and ruin.

The heavy doors to the war council room swing inward as if kicked open by conviction itself.

A lop-sided grin and shaggy chestnut hair burst through the doorway.

“Introducing Tarrakai, Ender of Kingdoms, the most powerful dragon of all time, and the only Melder. But more importantly, me,” Ronyn announces, throwing his arms out in dramatic flair.

“The first god metal archer in Aevryn, best friend of the Rightful Queen of Dravara, and as our dear friend Daelen would’ve said, a god among men.

” His voice booms through the room, echoing off the walls like even they know of his penchant for theatrics.

He drops into a low bow in mock deference.

Elyssara rolls her eyes, but she can’t fight the smile that tilts her lips.

“I didn’t think you could be any more insufferable, but the whole dragon and god metal thing proved me gravely wrong, it seems,” Elyssara quips, shaking her head in exasperation.

“I always aim to over-deliver, El,” Ronyn says with a flourish of his hand.

Elyssara shakes her head at his irreverence, but her gaze sweeps across the room again, taking in the war council that looks like nothing more than the bedraggled faces of her friends.

The people who came for her when death seemed like a kinder fate than living.

The people who would bring the Stars to their fucking knees.

But doubt flickers. For less than a heartbeat.

Can they really take on Dravara?

A handful of survivors. People who, not so long ago, were stealing scraps just to live another day. People who’ve been broken and beaten by this war—and it’s barely begun. And now she would ask them to risk their lives for a throne. For her.

“Who are we waiting for?” Seren’s voice cuts through Elyssara’s analysis.

Teddy huffs impatiently. “His Royal Highness,” he grunts, though his words sound anything but a royal address and more like an insult.

“Ahhhh, I see. Someone likes to be a bit high in the instep, do they?” Ronyn pitches his voice high, wagging his eyebrows. “Nothing transforms a king to a man like a tankard of ale. Got any more of that, El?”

She pushes the tray of ale and tankards toward him, her mouth quirking up at the side. But beneath the smile, she’s unsettled. Disquieted. Like a lingering darkness snakes through her mind. No, through the tether.

But her thoughts are interrupted again when Seren clears her throat.

“Will… Princess Nalya be joining us today?” Her voice is tentative, hesitant. And Elyssara knows why; despite the spell between Maldrak and his Marked being broken, Nalya remains … trapped.

Not trapped by something, or in something. No—Nalya is trapped inside herself. Unable to break through the surface of the treacherous waters she drowns in day by day, despite Rubi’s finest efforts and elixirs.

“Not today,” Rubi croaks, voice rough and raw, though it doesn’t stop her from taking a swig of brask from her flask. “She’s not well enough.”

Not better. Not healing. Just… not worse.

Seren nods solemnly, words evading her. She simply turns her gaze to the floor and lets her honey-blond curls fall forward over her face, attempting to insulate herself from the discomfort.

No one speaks. No one knows what to say. Because ten days have passed since Zerynthia was reclaimed, and Nalya hasn’t said a single word. Not one.

“Good things take time,” Ronyn beams cheerfully, ever the master of breaking uncomfortable silences.

“She’s Nalya Thorne—takes more than this to beat a Thorne.

Though if any of you tell Kael I said that, I’ll deny it until my dying breath.

With the shadows, the crown, the broody skin markings, and the restoration of Zerynthia, he’s really quite insufferable these days. ”

Teddy snorts into his tankard. Seren winces. Ronyn, entirely unbothered, grins like he’s just delivered a masterpiece.

Elyssara finally exhales the breath she’s been holding.

Thank the fucking Stars for Ronyn.

Elyssara reaches for Kael through the tether. My love?

She waits.

A heartbeat. Then another.

But the only answer is the echo of her words in a cold, desolate abyss.

Her chest tightens. Like the tether has gone slack.

It’s not fear. Not yet. But close enough to make her still.