Page 109 of Evermore (The Never Sky #3)

Paesha

T he 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—my home —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 longer gleamed 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.”

I smiled, imagining Quill’s face when she discovered the treat. “She’ll be insufferable.”

“She’s already insufferable,” Thea countered, but her tone was light.

We rounded a corner to find Vincent directing a group of workers as they reinstalled the original iron railings along the bridge.

He’d refused to stay underground once it was safe to return, insisting that the real work lay in rebuilding what had been lost. Now he oversaw much of the restoration, his knowledge of the old city proving invaluable.

Where human hands could fix this place, they did. Because it was theirs to cherish too.

“Your Majesty,” he called, bowing with a dramatic flair that made me roll my eyes.

“I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“And I’ve elected to ignore you. The Goddess of Renewal, and the only god I particularly care for, deserves a proper title, especially when she’s actually living up to the name.” He paused, looking around. “Don’t tell Minnie I said that. Or Tuck. Or Thorne.”

My fingers twitched at the reminder of what I was now.

Half-goddess by birth, full goddess by conquest, yet still somehow the same woman who had once danced for coins in a ramshackle theater.

The contradiction no longer felt like a burden—it was simply another part of the tapestry that made up my existence.

“How’s the bridge coming?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“It’ll be ready for the festival next week. Though I still say we should add some of those fancy new lampposts Thea designed.”

“Absolutely not,” Thea and I replied in unison.

Vincent laughed, shaking his head. “Two against one. I surrender.”

As we continued our walk through the city, I felt a familiar warmth spread through me.

Not the burn of power or the fire of rage, but something gentler.

Pride, perhaps, or the quiet satisfaction of creation rather than destruction.

For so long, I had thought of myself as a weapon, forged in pain and honed for vengeance.

Now, I was learning what it meant to build, to heal, to nurture.

Requiem remembered itself beneath my touch, like a sleeper slowly awakening from a dream.

The soul of the city remained, but now it breathed easier, stood taller, no longer cowed by the whims of capricious gods or the cruelty of human masters.

We reached the Dancing Ghost tavern right as the afternoon crowd began to filter in.

Elowen stood in the doorway, her dark hair with traces of silver gleaming in the sunlight as she directed a delivery of wine barrels with her usual efficiency. “I was wondering when you two would show up. You’re late for lunch.”

“We’re exactly on time,” Thea protested, looking up at the old clock tower.

“If you’re not early, you’re late,” Elowen countered, ushering us inside with gentle insistence. “And I’ve got a table waiting.”

Elowen had a particular fondness for this old place, and when it came time, she bought it outright.

The tavern’s interior had been restored to its original glory, with heavy wooden beams and worn stone floors that’d witnessed centuries of stories.

The only concession to my restoration efforts was better lighting and a new hearth that didn’t smoke when the wind came from the east.

Thorne and Tuck had claimed our usual corner table, their heads bent close in conversation that ceased abruptly when we approached.

The sight of Thorne still made my heart skip, not with the desperate longing of our separated lives, but with the settled certainty of a love that had finally found its rightful time and place.

He looked up, those hazel eyes warming as they met mine, and rose to pull out my chair. “Find anything that needs fixing on your morning walk?” he asked, pressing a kiss to my temple as I sat.

“Only about a dozen things,” I admitted. “But nothing urgent.”

“She’s being modest,” Thea said, settling across from us. “She personally redesigned the entire western aqueduct system this morning. And then insisted on overseeing the foundation work for the new school.”

Tuck whistled low. “Impressive for a morning stroll.”

“Says the man who’s been reorganizing the entire royal library for fun,” I countered.

Tuck grinned, scratching his beard. “It’s not my fault your historians had no concept of proper chronological archiving. In fact, it’s quite annoying.”

“What is it with rearranging books in this family?” Thea huffed.

The strange new reality of our existence still felt dreamlike some days.

Thorne had a fraction of his power, enough to keep him immortal, but no longer the Keeper of Memories.

Tuck chose to stay by his side despite the shift in cosmic hierarchy.

Minerva watched over Quill’s education with unexpected gentleness.

Alastor and Irri made occasional appearances, drawn by curiosity rather than schemes.

And balanced between mortal responsibilities and immortal power, learning to wield both with equal care, was me.

The door burst open, admitting a whirlwind of energy in the form of Quill, followed by a more steady Minerva. Boo trotted at their heels, his little legs working overtime to keep pace.

“I ate four sweet rolls,” Quill announced, throwing herself onto the bench beside me. “And Minnie said I could have another if I finished my history lessons, but I told her I’d save it for after lunch because I’m growing and need real food too.”

“Very responsible,” Thorne said solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement.

“That’s what Minnie said.” Quill beamed up at Minerva, who pretended not to notice as she settled beside Tuck. “She says I’m the most responsible Fate she’s ever known.”

The casual reference to her true nature no longer brought tension to our gatherings.

We had all adjusted to the truth of what Quill was.

A child, yes, but also something ancient and powerful, a being who could one day reshape reality.

Maybe destroy it. There was a trace of unknown within her.

Her potential. There hadn’t been a Fera for hundreds of thousands of years.

Most beings were known immediately. And no one knew of the journey a Fate must take to ascend.

No one knew what life had in store for our girl.

For now, she was simply our Quill, with sticky fingers and boundless energy and a heart too big.

Elowen brought platters of food, roasted meats, fresh bread, and vegetables from the gardens outside the city walls, newly replanted in honor of Jasper.

As we ate, the conversation flowed around me: Tuck debating literature with Minerva, Thea describing her latest mechanical invention to an enthralled Quill, Thorne’s hand finding mine beneath the table in a gesture so natural it felt like breathing.