Page 105

Before Clover can respond, the throne room doors are thrown open. Lawrence, Audra, and Lyredon rush into the space, followed by the sealed knights. The king stops dead in his tracks, his jaw dropping. “Why is there a tree in my throne room?”

“Lawrence!” Clover cries when she sees him.

Bartholomew stares at his cousin, befuddled. My shock matches his, and it’s followed by the gut-wrenching realization that Camellia was using a decoy. But none of that matters now.

I turn back to the tree. Softly, I whisper, “What have you done?”

Clover hesitantly walks across the space and climbs the stairs. She pauses in front of the tree and presses her hand to the trunk, hanging her head as grief claims her.

My throat thickens, and I bring my hand to my face.

“What happened?” Lawrence demands, trying to make sense of the situation as he stares at the tree.

“Pranmore defeated Camellia,” I say, my voice flat and empty.

The elf fought death with life, giving himself completely.

And he won.

26

CLOVER

Pranmore’s memorial is a quiet,intimate affair. We’re in the throne room, seated in front of the tree.

I stare at it now, and so many memories come to mind: our adventure into the mountains, his healing magic that was always tenderly administered, the shoulder he offered countless times when life felt too heavy.

He was our friend, our confidant. And sometimes, he was our mentor.

And now, he’s a hero.

Pranmore will go down in history as the first Woodmore to fight a noble battle, and he did it without ever lifting a sword. He confronted darkness and stood firm, giving himself so his people, his kingdom, and his friends could live in peace.

“He will be missed,” Lawrence says, finishing his eulogy.

Henrik sits next to me, clasping my hand. I’m not sure if I’m taking comfort from him or if he’s giving comfort to me. Maybe it’s both.

As Lawrence steps down, Bartholomew takes his place. He looks older than he did when we first joined Henrik for the supply run—less of a child, almost a man. In a few years, he’ll take Henrik’s place. I no longer doubt he’ll lead our army well.

Bartholomew clears his throat and presses his hand to the cover of a journal he’s carrying. I hold my breath, pierced with sadness at the sight of it.

It’s a beat-up thing. It weathered a snowstorm in Doria and was lost in a bog in Ferradelle. I don’t remember a time when Pranmore didn’t have it on him.

“I’m sure you recognize this,” Bartholomew says as he holds up the journal. “Pranmore wrote his poems in here, but he never let anyone read them.”

He chokes a little but controls himself and continues, “I was missing him yesterday—so much I couldn’t breathe. So I went to his quarters, and there it was. Resting on the table, almost like it was waiting for me.”

I blink quickly, willing the tears away as I listen.

“I read some of the poems.” Bartholomew laughs a little, and a tear catches the light as it trails down his cheek. “They’re rubbish.”

We laugh through our pain.

“But at the end, I found something I didn’t expect. I want to read it to you all today.”

Bartholomew takes a deep breath before he flips the journal open and begins.

To my dear friends,