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EPILOGUE

I t wasn’t that Kjeld Holtstrom hated Aeramere, or even the fae for that matter, it was just that he couldn’t stand being one of them.

He was supposed to die.

He’d lived by a very specific code of morals, he’d devoted the entirety of his life to defending Drake Kalstrand and training a legion of dragons.

It had been his destiny to die in a war, whether on Brackroth’s unforgiving shore, or some faraway land—but death would have claimed him either way.

And it would’ve been his fucking honor.

When the sting of the Shadowblade pierced his chest after he threw himself in front of Lady Creslyn Starstorm, he’d tasted the bitter end.

He’d known then, as the warmth of his blood mixed with cool, pouring rain, that Valorahan was calling his name.

His heart stopped beating, his chest had ceased to rise, and it was only a matter of time before the glorious goddess of the battlefield would come claim his soul and finally carry him home.

And again, it would have been his fucking honor.

Were it not for some faerie who deemed it her sole responsibility to save his life.

Lady Caelian Starstorm had stolen everything from him.

His morality.

His honor.

His soul.

She’d wished to save him for her own selfish reasons, never once taking into consideration that he was destined for another fate.

He was never supposed to become a fae, but she’d wished for that, too.

Now, he had stupid fucking pointy ears, his eyes were almost too bright of blue, and the rune tattoos marking his shoulders and neck looked freshly painted.

As a mortal man, he’d been strong enough.

However, with fae blood coursing through his veins, his strength was amplified to a dangerous level.

He had to be mindful, cautious, lest he shatter a pint glass in his hand or accidentally take out a doorframe.

It was exhausting to be in this constant state of awareness, to experience everything you’ve known on a more intense level.

Music.

Laughter.

Food.

Even the call of the dragons was magnified.

He could hear them from within the walls of House Celestine, usually in the wee hours before sunrise, when the world was still and sleep evaded him.

To make matters worse, the longer he stayed in Aeramere, the more he wandered without purpose.

He tended to the dragons in the mornings, kept to himself in the afternoons, trying to find ways to whittle away the hours before he could return to the den in the evening to care for them again.

Half the time he just sat on a stone rock, watching Astrylys—the only female of the three—tend to her eggs.

He spoke to them, told them stories filled with ancient lore from the Northernlands, not that it mattered.

They were alive long before he was born, and their kind had been privy to the world before, when gods and goddesses walked among men.

Unfortunately, even the dragons were bored with his company.

He sensed their restlessness when he arrived, when he stayed too long watching them, waiting for a moment to arrive where he could feel alive again.

So he’d bid them an early night, but again he found he could not sleep.

His hands curled into fists as he stalked through the midnight gardens of House Celestine.

Even in the frostbitten winter, everything was too beautiful, too pristine.

Lights sparkled through the glimmering windows, illuminating the cobblestone path and gushing fountains.

Flowers that thrived in the coldest of seasons continued to bloom, mocking his foul mood.

This was not the place for him.

This world was too pleasing.

Too whimsical.

He was not made for balls and dancing, his blood was forged from earth and iron—and the latter was the kiss of death for a fae.

But Kjeld refused to give up his axe.

He’d crafted it himself, carving the handle from ash wood, sharping the iron blade over a scorching flame.

His axe—Kaldflam, as he called it—was his lifeblood.

His identity.

All that he had left of his former self.

It might do him good to go burn off some energy.

Usually he stalked into the woods at the base of the mountains and cut down some trees, shaving the bark from the branches, and keeping the harvested logs for woodworking.

Anything to feel alive, to feel the familiar sting of hard work seizing through his muscles, and the hardening of callouses on his palms.

But as he aimed for the baseline of evergreens, his plan was thwarted by the sound of soft crying.

Kjeld froze.

Another curse to being fae was his keen sense of smell.

And he would know the scent of Lady Caelian Starstorm anywhere.

Starflower, radiant amber, and creamy vanilla haunted his dreams, sometimes he swore he would catch the scent of her on his pillow when he woke in the dark morning hours with his cock throbbing.

Because even though he was furious with her for taking his free will, for snatching away his right to a warrior’s death, she would not escape his mind.

He often imagined how she would feel beneath him, almost as much as he thought about punishing her for cursing him to a life he never wanted.

Yet even those cruel notions turned wicked, and somehow almost always ended up with him envisioning her naked, and swollen, and aching for him.

It was a merciless world.

Kjeld shoved a hand through his tangled locks, the winter wind having knotted the loose strands with the braids he always wore.

He debated in silence.

Part of him knew he should keep walking, that he should just ignore her cries, and carry on without a care.

Yet some sick, twisted part of him liked to watch her suffer, to see her endure the same agony inflicted upon him.

He kept his footfalls silent as he approached, careful to avoid stepping upon any fallen branches or frozen flowers, anything that might alert her to his presence.

Tracking her scent and the sound of her hushed weeping, Kjeld discovered Lady Caelian seated upon the edge of a gurgling fountain, her back facing him, her tear-streaked face tilted toward the night sky.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her silver hair tumbling down her back in wild waves, strands of pale pink, cold blue, and light purple woven throughout.

“I take it back, I take all of it back.”

She rocked forward, arms wrapped around her waist, as her keening gouged a hole in his heart.

“I beg of you, return it to me.” Her shoulders trembled as another swell of broken sobs wrecked her body.

Kjeld roughed his knuckles across his trim bead, took one step toward her, then halted as a harrowing plea tore from her lips, and a falling star tumbled across the sky in a haze of lavender.

“I wish I had let him die.”

A cold disquiet left him unsettled, its fine tip digging into his heart.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

He simply waited in the frozen silence of the night.

But nothing happened.

Her wish to the stars went unanswered and Kjeld didn’t die.

He loosed a harsh breath.

The next time he died, it would be on his terms, with the honor he deserved.

He would find a way to claim that fate for himself and it would have nothing to do with faerie wishes upon stars.

Kjeld walked away from her then, veering off the garden path, headed straight for the woods.

But as he pulled Kaldflam from the leather strap upon his back, and took aim at the nearest tree, the tempting scent of starflower, amber, and vanilla surrounded him.

Lady Caelian’s devastating cries echoed in his ears.

And he found himself searching the endless skies, desperately seeking a falling star, because he, too, longed to make a wish.