“Why?”
I met her gaze steadily, focusing on her mismatched eyes to keep myself grounded. “Because the imbalance began with us, with Ezra and me. As long as we both held power, as long as we battled over you, over fate, over everything, the realms would never know peace. Now there is balance. No longer wavering between two brothers, but in the hands of another entirely.”
The theater had erupted into chaos. Mortals fleeing, embracing, weeping with relief as Minerva organized a swift evacuation. Elowen and Thea helped the injured, directing people toward the exits.
But in that moment, it was just us, as it had always been across countless lifetimes.
“We’re free.”
The word hung between us, fragile and precious. Free from the cycles, from the prophecies, from the endless dance of death and rebirth. Free to write our own story, to forge our own path.
I nodded. Tears gathered in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. Instead, a smile spread across her face, not the fierce, defiant smile I’d grown accustomed to, but something softer, more genuine. A smile of pure joy.
“Was it worth it?” she asked, her voice steady despite the emotion shining in her eyes.
I grabbed her by the throat and yanked her to me, lips crashing against hers until neither of us could breathe. When we broke apart, foreheads touching, I whispered, “Every drop.”
Minerva stepped lightly toward us. “It’s time to go. We’ve seen enough darkness.”
Paesha nodded, rising to her feet. She offered me her hand, and I took it, allowing her to pull me upright with a grunt. The world tilted momentarily, my new reality still foreign and uncomfortable. But her grip was strong, steadying me as we had always anchored each other.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“Now… we go home.”
As we walked out of Misery’s End, leaving behind my brother’s memory and centuries of conflict, I felt lighter than I had in eons. The power that had defined me was gone, but in its place was something I hadn’t expected: possibility.
Paesha’s hand remained in mine. In that simple touch was a promise, of time, of love, of a future neither of us had dared imagine until this moment. The balance had been restored. Not through destruction, but through sacrifice. Through the death of someone we would never forget, but also through transformation.
And in that balance, we had found freedom at last.
63
Paesha
The story of how a homeless mortal became an immortal queen wasn’t one that would be found in the gilded books of Stirling’s great libraries. Those volumes spoke of divine right and noble bloodlines, of carefully arranged marriages and political maneuverings. My story was written in the cobblestones of Requiem’s streets, in the worn floorboards of Misery’s End, in the hearts of those who had known me when I was nothing but a dancer with empty pockets and fierce dreams.
Spring sunlight filtered through new leaves as I stood at the edge of the marketplace, watching my city—myhome—come alive once more. Not what Aeris had turned it into, a sterile paradise of dark perfection, but as it had always been meant to be: beautifully imperfect, defiantly alive.
“The clockmaker wants to know if we’re keeping the old tower mechanism or installing something new,” Thea said, appearing at my side with blueprints tucked under her arm. Six months had transformed her from a woman perpetually on the edge of exhaustion to someone who practically vibrated with purpose. “Personally, I think the old gears have character.”
“Keep them,” I decided, watching a group of children race past, their laughter echoing against buildings that no longergleamed with unnatural perfection. “But make sure they actually keep time. I’d like at least some things in this city to be reliable.”
“Unlike the gods?” Thea’s mouth quirked into a half smile.
“Exactly unlike the gods.”
We walked together through streets that balanced carefully between what had been and what could be. I’d changed it all back. A little cleaner, a little safer, but ours. The crooked signposts remained, though the buildings they marked now stood solid and safe. The narrow alleys where I’d once hidden from the Maestro’s men still twisted like snakes through the city, but no longer harbored shadows that would swallow children whole.
Vendors called out their wares from stalls that looked as they had for generations, though the goods they sold no longer bore the marks of desperate times. No more watered wine, no more bread cut with sawdust, no more trinkets that would fall apart with the first rain.
My power flowed through the city like a river, not erasing its history but enhancing its essence. I couldn’t bring back what had been lost entirely, but I could honor it, preserve the soul of a place that had shaped me into who I was. I ruled over Stirling, but my heart was in Silbath, in Perth across the river, in the soul of every mortal. And they knew it. I’d never shove my authority over anyone, but they looked to me, nevertheless. Thorne had taken my hand, stood strong beside me as I vowed to protect it all.
“The last families came up from the Underground yesterday,” Thea said. “The baker practically wept when he saw his old storefront restored.”
“Does he still make those sweet rolls Quill loves?”
“Started baking at dawn. I’ve already sent a courier to the castle with a basket full.”
