Page 46

The wind rolled across the high cliffs of Drakar Hold, sweeping through wildflower-strewn fields where the old obsidian had begun to crack and give way to green again. Magic still pulsed in the bones of the mountain—but it no longer whispered threats. It hummed softly, steady. Safe. At peace.

Cassian stood near the edge of the overlook, arms crossed, his back straight even as the soft cries and laughter of his children echoed behind him.

Children.

Twins.

Gods help them.

“Don’t let her eat the dirt again,” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around.

A high-pitched giggle answered him. “I’m not! She wanted to!”

“She’s a baby. She wants everything.”

“I’m three minutes older!”

Cassian finally turned—and yeah, there it was. The girl twin, all curls and fire, was squatting beside her brother with a guilty smear of mud on her chin. The boy sat with a palm held out, utterly serious as a flickering tongue of flame danced above his skin.

Whitefire.

Stormfire.

Something older. Something all their own.

Cassian crouched beside him, one hand on the kid’s tiny shoulder. “You feel it?”

The boy nodded, face serious in that overly dramatic way only toddlers could manage. “It talks.”

Cassian arched a brow. “What’s it say?”

The kid tilted his head, blinking slowly. “It’s hungry.”

Cassian snorted. “Yeah, well. It always is.”

Behind him, the door to the high tower creaked open, and Seraphine’s voice drifted out like warmth, “They’re out here again, aren’t they?”

“Where else would they be?” he muttered, standing just as she reached him.

She wore no crown, but the wind played in her dark hair like it bowed to her all the same. Her eyes sparkled, even tired from lack of sleep, her belly soft from birth and power still humming under her skin.

Queen. Mother. Savior.

His.

Cassian slipped an arm around her waist, tugging her close. “He’s talking to the flame again.”

“Oh, gods,” she groaned. “We’re not ready.”

“We’ve never been ready.”

She laughed into his chest. “You’re supposed to lie to me and say we’ve got this.”

He kissed her temple. “We’ve got this. Mostly.”

The children were back at it now—chasing each other across the stone, shouting about monsters and kings and dragons. One tripped, scraped a knee, and before Seraphine could move, the other one was already there, placing a hand over the wound and whispering.

The skin glowed. Healed.

Cassian watched, quiet.

“They’re gonna be stronger than both of us,” he said.

Seraphine rested her chin on his shoulder. “Then we teach them to be better than us too.”

He nodded slowly. The horizon stretched out in front of them, vast and golden, the ruins of the old world behind and a new one unfolding like a story not yet written.

“You ever think we’d live this long?” he asked.

She laughed once. “No. I thought we’d burn out before we ever saw the end.”

“But we didn’t.”

“No.” Her hand found his, fingers lacing tightly. “We built something. And I’m not letting anyone take it from us.”

He turned, facing her fully. “Neither am I.”

There was a pause. Then, quieter. More raw.

“They’ll come again one day,” she whispered. “Something else. Maybe not Hollow. But something dark.”

Cassian looked back at their children, at the fire, at the way the world finally felt like it belonged to someone worthy.

“They can try,” he said. “And when they do, we’ll be ready.”

A breeze swept past them, curling around the towers of the old castle—now a sanctuary, a home. And below, in the field, two children laughed like the world had never known war.

Cassian tightened his grip on Seraphine’s hand. Because they would protect that laugh. That light. That future.

With fire.

Blood.

Love.