Chapter 9 #2
I dress her in clean clothes. Simple ones—a soft dress in pale gray, nothing fancy. She would have hated it. She liked bold colors, statement pieces, things that demanded attention.
But I think, underneath all that armor, she wanted to rest.
So I give her rest.
“I forgive you,” I whisper.
The words hang in the cold air.
I don’t know if they’re true. I don’t know if forgiveness works that way—if you can just decide and have it be real. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and hate her again. Maybe I’ll spend years working through what she did to my life, to my men, to me.
But right now, standing over her body with wet hands and a cracked-open chest—
I mean it.
The courtyard is full. I stop dead in the doorway, Riley’s body in my arms, and stare.
I expected the guys. Maybe Zira. Maybe a handful of the Feeders who’d been at the other funerals this week, the ones who seemed to understand what I was trying to do.
Not this.
Hundreds of them.
Every Feeder in the sanctuary, from the looks of it. Standing in neat rows across the courtyard, heads bowed, silent. Waiting.
My breath catches.
These are the Feeders who lived under Riley’s rule for five years.
The ones she enslaved. Manipulated. Controlled with black Ether and whispered lies.
The ones who thought they were serving me while she used my face to break them.
The ones who flinched when she walked by, who couldn’t look her in the eye, who woke up screaming because they couldn’t tell the difference between me and her.
They have every reason to hate her.
Every reason to spit on her grave, to curse her name, to celebrate her death.
And they’re here.
“Bree.” Seth’s hand on my back. Steady. “They wanted to come.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t ask them to—”
“You didn’t have to.” I look at him. At all of them—my men flanking me like an honor guard, faces solemn.
“They’ve been watching you all week,” Thane says quietly. “Every funeral. Every family. You showed up for strangers, Bree. For people you’d never met, people who died fighting on both sides.” His jaw tightens. “They noticed.”
“And you asked them to forgive,” Stellan adds, his voice low. “Not demanded. Asked. Explained Riley acted because Ethos got to her.” He pauses. “Some of them aren’t ready. Some of them may never be. But they came anyway.”
I scan the crowd.
Some faces are wet with tears—and I don’t think they’re tears of grief. Some are hard, closed off, jaws tight with the effort of being here. A few won’t meet my eyes at all. I see hands clenched into fists, shoulders rigid with tension, mouths pressed into thin lines.
They’re not here because they forgave her.
They’re here because they’re trying.
Because I asked.
Because showing up to seventeen funerals for their people meant something.
Because grace is a choice you make over and over, especially when it hurts.
“For you,” Stellan says. “They came for you.”
My eyes burn.
This is what I wanted. What I asked for. What I begged them to consider in the hours after the battle, when anger was still hot and vengeance felt justified.
She was a victim too. He broke her the same way he tried to break all of us. The only difference is he got to her first.
I didn’t know if they believed me. I didn’t know if it mattered.
Apparently, it did.
My hands shake as I carry her forward.
The pyre is beautiful.
Wooden beams stacked high in the center of the courtyard. Flowers woven through the structure—white lilies, purple heather, something golden I don’t recognize. The Feeders must have gathered them.
Not because they loved Riley.
Because they love me.
Or because they’re trying to. Because they want to believe in something better than what they had. Because showing up is the first step toward healing, even when you’re not sure you want to heal.
I lay Riley on top gently. Arrange her hands over her chest. Smooth a strand of hair back from her face.
Then I step back.
Gray moves first.
He places a carved stone at her head—a wolf’s head, rough but recognizable. He made it himself; I can see the marks of his claws in the grooves. He doesn’t explain. Just sets it down and steps back.
Jace is next. A blade, small and sharp, tucked beside her hand. “For the road,” he mutters. “In case she needs to fight her way wherever she’s going.”
Theo murmurs something I can’t hear—a prayer, maybe, or a blessing—and leaves a sprig of dried herbs at her feet.
Wes places flowers at her shoulder. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.
Thane bows his head. Eyes closed. For a long moment, he’s completely still—the ancient vampire king paying respect to a girl who tried to destroy everything he’d built. Then he steps back, face unreadable.
Seth goes next. He hesitates, hand hovering over the pyre. Then he places something small and dark beside her hand—a stone, smooth and black, worn from years of holding.
“I found it in the Void,” he says quietly. “It was the only thing that kept me grounded. Reminded me there was something solid somewhere, even when everything else was smoke and shadow.” He swallows. “She was there too. Trapped, like me. I think… I think she deserves something that survived.”
My chest cracks.
Stellan is last.
He approaches the pyre slowly. Reaches out and places his palm flat over Riley’s heart.
He stays like that for three heartbeats.
Then he withdraws, and his eyes meet mine.
“She was stronger than she knew,” he says. “Most people are.”
I nod. My throat is too tight for words.
Then Theo steps forward again. He holds something out to me—small, delicate, pulsing faintly with its own inner light.
A daisy.
The stem has that crystalline quality—delicate but strong, like glass spun from starlight. The petals shimmer with intricate swirling patterns, the same ones that marked the attic door back at the house. Back before I knew what any of it meant.
The same daisies I grew without meaning to, pushing up through floorboards while I slept. The ones that chimed like crystal wind chimes when the breeze caught them.
They grow wild in the sanctuary garden again. The Ether remembers what I made, even when I didn’t know I was making it.
“You asked for one,” Theo says quietly. “Earlier.”
I did. I’d almost forgotten.
My hand shakes as I take it from him. The warmth spreads through my palm immediately—not burning but alive.
I step up to the pyre. Lean over Riley’s still face, and tuck the daisy behind her ear. The crystalline petals catch against her dark hair, pulsing softly with light.
“You deserved flowers,” I whisper. “Real ones. Ones that someone grew for you because they loved you.”
The daisy glows brighter for just a moment. Like the Ether remembers her too.
I step back. Rhett is beside me. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together.
“You ready?”
No. Not even close.
“Yes.”
He lifts his other hand. Flame curls in his palm—warm, golden, steady. He’s done this seventeen times this week. Practiced until he could control the heat, the spread, the way the fire catches and climbs.
But his hand is shaking.
I squeeze his fingers once. Let go.
He touches the pyre.
The fire catches immediately.
It races along the wooden beams, hungry and bright, climbing toward Riley’s body. The heat pushes against my face, dries the tears I didn’t realize were falling.
I watch her burn.
And then—
“Bree.” Thane’s voice is low. Strange. “Look.”
I don’t want to look away from the flames. From Riley. From the last physical proof that she existed.
But something in his tone makes me turn.
The Feeders are bowing. A ripple that starts at the front and spreads backward, hundreds of heads lowering in unison.
I don’t understand. My brain won’t process it.
“What are they—”
“They’re not bowing to Riley.” Stellan’s hand tightens on mine. “They’re bowing to you.”
“They believe in what you’re building,” Thane says quietly.
The sob tears out of me before I can stop it.
These people—the people Riley enslaved, manipulated, broke—are bowing to me. Not because I demanded it. Not because I’m the Source, or the queen, or whatever the hell I’m supposed to be.
Because I showed up.
Because I asked for grace instead of vengeance.
Because I treated their dead with dignity, and now they’re returning the favor.
My knees buckle.
Seth’s hand slides into mine before I can fall.
Gray presses his forehead to my shoulder.
Wes wraps an arm around my waist, solid and grounding.
Theo anchors my other side. Rhett steps behind me, chest warm against my back.
Thane’s palm settles between my shoulder blades.
Stellan’s fingers cover mine where they grip Seth’s hand.
They form a circle around me.
Holding me together while I fall apart.
The fire burns for a long time.
I watch until there’s nothing left but ash and ember. Until the heat fades and the smoke thins and the stars start to peek through the darkening sky.
The Feeders drift away slowly. Quiet. Respectful. Some of them touch my shoulder as they pass—hesitant, like they’re not sure they’re allowed. Others just nod. A few are crying openly now, grief and relief and something harder all tangled together.
Zira stops in front of me. Her eyes are red.
“That was eighteen funerals in seven days,” she says. “You showed up to every single one.”
“They deserved witnesses.”
“They did.” She looks at the dying flames. “So did she.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I just nod.
She squeezes my arm once and walks away.
Eventually, it’s just us. Me and my men, standing in the cooling courtyard, watching the last of the flames die. I don’t know how long we stay there.
Long enough for my tears to dry. Long enough for the ache in my chest to shift from sharp to dull. Long enough for something inside me to settle into a new shape.
I close my eyes and breathe.