Chapter 36 Galwell #2
“Not now, Chestlewitt,” Galwell growled, feeling rare impatience flare in his chest.
“You’ve ruined the ending!” Chestlewitt screamed, ignoring him. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Heroes”—he pushed his
insolent index finger into Galwell’s chest—“live happily or sacrifice themselves for glory.” He gestured to Mona next. “Villains
die. That’s how it works. You don’t get to change the fucking ending!”
“It works however I say it works,” Galwell replied, stepping forward to menace the scribe. “It’s my story.”
Chestlewitt looked as if he were sincerely considering Galwell’s words. He sized Galwell up, peering into the hero’s face.
Contemplation seemed to dull his drunken vengeance. He calmed, enough for Galwell to step back, until—
Without warning, Chestlewitt lunged.
He was close—too close. Galwell had underestimated Chestlewitt’s wild-eyed vengeance and overestimated the playwright’s judgment.
He had the strangest phantom memory of another blade hurtling straight for him, on the ramparts over Queendom, while the Fraternal
Order’s evil magic choked the sky. Was this where every quest ended? With the death of Galwell the Great? He couldn’t possibly deflect or react quickly enough—
But the sword did not strike Galwell.
Having read the shift in Chestlewitt’s mind, Mona had stepped in the way. Chestlewitt’s sword went in cleanly. Straight into Mona’s heart.
Galwell heard someone cry out in raw pain. Himself, he realized.
Mona dropped to her knees, looking dizzy. Galwell was there, moving on pure impulse, catching her as she collapsed. Past warping
panic, he was vaguely aware of everyone else—his friends, their feud forgotten—rushing forward. Hugh subdued Chestlewitt,
wrestling the playwright’s sword from him. Thessia called for the guards . . .
None of it mattered to him now.
Mona wobbled in his embrace, her eyes going unfocused. He was already sobbing. He smoothed her hair out of her face, desperate
to . . . He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He wanted to reach inside her somehow and hold on to the life he could feel ebbing
from her.
“Mona . . .” he wailed.
He held her, crying her name in, he realized, wretched imitation of Chestlewitt’s play. The scribe would have his dramatic
ending. Galwell held his love despairingly, weeping. In the enchanted light cast into the wings from the stage, he had become
the epitome of tragedy—
Mona coughed. She spat hot blood into his face.
This was no fucking performance. No tragic ending. It was real, and it was horrible, and it was happening too fast. Mona’s
skin went white. Her frantic grip clawed at his huge, helpless muscles. She reached out, grabbing his shirt, pulling him close—
“I love you, Mona,” he sobbed. “I’ll love you forever.”
She could not speak. He wished he could read her mind. He needed to know what would help her most to hear before the end.
Instead, he felt hopeless. He could not save the girl. He could not be the hero. In the most important moment of his life,
he was only who he’d always been—Galwell.
Finally, suddenly, far too soon, Mona stopped breathing.
The sight split him to his core. He could not breathe, either. Everything else had vanished, lost in this piercing moment.
Time halted. Was this how Beatrice felt when she relived memory? Would he remain here forever? How could he not? He didn’t
want to move on from this horrible moment. He’d choose it forever over what would come next. A day without her.
He found himself fixated on Mona’s empty eyes. He stared into them, determined to memorize their remarkable hue. They were
vivid, stunningly cerulean. Even in death, they seemed to glow . . .
No, Galwell realized.
They were glowing.
He startled. Mona’s eyes continued to sear brighter with enchanted light, blue fire emanating from her irises. The glow coursed
slowly through her, setting her skin aflame. Slowly, she levitated up from his mournful embrace.
Galwell collapsed onto the floorboards. He looked around, searching for an explanation—which was when he saw Celine.
Her feet hovered off the ground as well. Blue light emanated from her skin, glowing from her feet and up her legs, engulfing
her outstretched hands, to her face, where her eyes pulsated with the enchantment.
Surrounding her were the ghostly forms of the Grotto’s harpies.
Slowly, Celine pointed one finger toward Mona. The song of the harpies filled the stage—or perhaps the haunting melody only
invaded Galwell’s head. The soundless notes of deep, mythical magic. While he watched, Mona’s wounds began to repair themselves.
Color returned to her cheeks. Strength seemed to fill her slackened limbs. She revolved in midair, repositioned by magic,
until she was upright, the soles of her feet returning gently to the ground—
Celine clenched her fist.
A gasp ripped through Mona’s chest, and her eyes flamed with blue fire.
Halos of the harpies’ magic shimmered in Galwell’s vision as the enchantment receded. Gulping in shuddering breaths, Mona
was no longer glowing but impossibly, unmistakably alive.
On his feet instantly, Galwell dove to Mona’s side. He clasped her face in his hands, not daring to hope . . .
Mona’s gaze started to refocus, the magic fading.
Celine floated to the floorboards, then walked to Mona without fear. “In the Grotto, the harpies’ magic promised to enhance
my power. I . . . don’t want power, though,” she said. “I don’t want to burn and ruin. I want to help. To heal.”
The magical light flared in one final flame through Mona’s eyes—
Then she exhaled, and Mona, his Mona, stood before them.
“Good Ghosts,” someone gasped. Thessia or River, Galwell didn’t know.
Mona looked up, straight into Celine’s waiting gaze.
“You . . . saved me,” she murmured in disbelief.
Celine nodded.
“The moment you collapsed,” she explained, “I called on the harpies. I saw them in my head, everywhere, surrounding me. Instead
of enhancing my fire, I pleaded with them to grant me a new power. I needed something different. To be different.”
Her gaze held Mona’s.
“To change,” Celine said.
Mona’s eyes widened.
While Galwell watched, he felt Mona’s convictions waver. Nobody ever changes. Not really. Without magic or enchanted light, he felt invisible wounds close in Mona. Celine had restored more than just her life.
“The harpies would not change my power forever,” Celine continued. “They granted me healing magic only this once. I still
have to live with my devastating power, like I have to live with what I’ve done. I did a horrible thing to you, to your friends,”
she said solemnly. “But I know I’m not horrible. Our magic shapes us, but it doesn’t define us. There’s good and bad in all of us, isn’t there? Mona the Merciless
helped save the realm today. A man who can break bones with a thought can choose to be a poet or a king.”
She faced Galwell, who had not left Mona’s side. He continued to caress her cheek, not knowing how he would ever cease.
“A hero with surpassing strength can choose softness,” Celine went on.
She looked to River.
“An assassin can be more than a killer.”
Finally, her stare returned to Mona.
“Someone who hurt you can become your friend.”
Mona’s long dagger lay on the floorboards nearby. Close enough to seize.
But Mona did not move for the weapon. Instead, she stepped forward, closing the distance between her and Celine. Everyone
tensed. In the corner of his vision, Galwell caught River reaching for Chestlewitt’s fallen sword—
Flipping her hair behind her shoulder, Mona extended her hand to Celine in friendship.
Celine smiled in relief. She clasped Mona’s hand. Behind them, guards hauled away Chestlewitt, while Thessia and Hugh applauded.
It took everyone several moments to realize more cheering was coming from onstage. Surprisingly enough, the realm’s premiere
talent competition had not paused after Ario’s proclamation. No one in the audience knew Mona had literally died behind their
show.
Instead, Nevo Yrillis strolled onto the stage. Thessia’s co-host waved to the cheering audience, grinning his handsomest grin. In his hand he held an embossed parchment card, edges glinting gold under the stage lights.
When the clamor subsided, Nevo stepped into the projection circle.
“It’s my enormous pleasure,” the horseballer said to the crowd, “to announce that the winner of Vestriya Now is . . .”
He paused dramatically.
“Fearless Flyer!”
Everyone looked to River.