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RESOLUTION

ELYRIA

Eight weeks later

Aerithia had always been a little too bright for Elyria’s liking. She stood on the balcony of her room at the Ravenswing estate, a cool coastal breeze lifting the ends of her loose hair as she stared out at the city. Her eyes roamed over the white stone streets, arched bridges, and gold-domed roofs of Nyrundelle’s capital, gleaming under dusk’s lavender sky. It all seemed too cultivated, a little too pristine. Too unlike the rest of the realm.

During the years Elyria spent living here with Evander and Kit, she’d never felt wholly like she fit in. Even now, with an air of cautious optimism palpable in the streets, rumors regarding the tenuous truce struck between King Lachlandris and King Callum in the wake of the Crucible’s completion whispered at every corner, Elyria still felt that deeply rooted sense of unbelonging .

True to his word, Cedric appeared to have told his noble lord the truth of what happened in the Sanctum. Of what they’d learned. That the Crucible had awarded only one part of the Crown of Concord, and that Varyth Malchior had been exerting his dark influence for too long. That Princess Selenae had not only escaped Malakar’s wrath but might still be somewhere out there with the other half right now.

Lord Church told the human king, who, shockingly, believed the whole tale. Both kings did, in fact. Elyria learned from Kit’s mother—the duchess—that Nyrundelle had been the first to extend the olive branch to the humans, willing to cede part of the Midlands for access to Havensreach’s shores, that they might seek out Varyth and the Cult of Malakar.

Tensions were still heightened, the average citizens clearly waiting for the metaphorical boot to drop, but things were...changing. Reported skirmishes between Arcanians and humans in the Midlands were fewer and fewer, the last breath of a dying storm. The kingdoms had performed their first successful prisoner exchange since the Shattering. And though peace had descended upon Nyrundelle with all the pomp and circumstance of a sloppy coat of paint, it appeared that Aurelia’s appeals to the value of unity had, in fact, had a foundation.

Ever the realist, Elyria suspected both sides had their own, very specific, very opposing, reasons for the agreement. Surely both kings had every intention of claiming both halves of the crown, and who knew how long this fragile peace would last once their location was discovered. All the more reason Elyria was determined to ensure she would be the one to discover it.

Her end goal had not changed. Celestial power did not belong in mortal hands. She would unite the crown and seal the Chasms, one way or another, and find a way to destroy it after. She would find Zephyr or find Varyth Malchior, possibly—hopefully—both.

And she would make them pay.

In the weeks that passed since returning from Luminaria with Kit, Elyria had plenty of time to pick apart her every interaction with Zephyr, her every defense of her. She recalled the reprimand she’d shoved down Cedric’s throat after the first trial. Now, the thought of the sylvan Elyria had once protected, had cared for , working for the man who had ruined Evander and nearly taken Kit from this world left Elyria nauseated. She hadn’t even been able to continue using the healing balm Zephyr had gifted Elyria for her scars, despite how well it worked.

The scars were somewhat faded now, an etched checkerboard of puckered pink skin that would always look slightly off , but not the grotesque tableau of pain they’d once been. It was enough. Elyria wore them like a badge of honor now—a testament to what she’d survived.

“Ellie?” One blue and one green eye peered out from a bronze face as Kit walked through the balcony doors, a breeze ruffling her shaggy moonlight hair. “Lost in thought again, are we?”

“Just wondering what a little bit of color might do to brighten up the stark streets of the city,” Elyria said with a shrug. “Think your uncle would be open to it?”

Kit laughed. “I can have my mother float the idea to him, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. The king likes what he likes.”

“Don’t we all.” Elyria said it under her breath, though from the knowing look Kit was directing at her, she was certain she’d heard her.

An ever-present restlessness mixed with the nostalgia of being back in Kit’s family home. Kit’s recovery had been slower than Elyria would’ve liked, whether the result of whatever darkness had seeped into her through the injury made by Evander’s darksteel blade, or...deeper wounds.

Sometimes, Elyria caught Kit staring at nothing, the light in her beautiful, mismatched eyes dimming, her hand going to her chest as if remembering the feel of that blade cutting through her. As if reliving the sting of that betrayal.

It was a feeling Elyria knew well, and it was clear the Crucible had left them all with scars that would never fade.

“Perhaps I’ll attempt it anyway,” Elyria said, eager to distance her thoughts from the dark feelings that arose whenever she thought about just how close Kit had come to death. She drew her hand to her chin and feigned contemplation. “Better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission, and I’m feeling...artistic.” She grinned at Kit. “What do you say? You whip up a few water orbs, I mix in a little paint, and we go to town. What’s the king going to do about it?”

Kit shook her head, her expression settling somewhere between exasperated and entertained. “You may have the freedom to exercise your boredom in the form of vigilante art installations, but not all of us have that luxury. While the king might hesitate to throw the Victor of Nyrundelle ”—Elyria shuddered at the reminder of her newest moniker, as if she didn’t have enough of them already—“in prison, those same reservations hardly extend to me.”

“You’re his niece,” Elyria deadpanned. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Kit skipped over to the balcony and placed a hand on the bone-white railing. The ease of her movement helped loosen some of the unrest in Elyria’s soul—she was so, so much improved.

“Family’s complicated,” Kit said. “You know that better than most. Besides, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten what the wrath of Duchess Laeliana Ravenswing feels like. My mother’s gratitude for you rescuing me has a limit somewhere , and in her overprotective current state, I doubt she would take too kindly to you riling up the king.”

“Spoilsport.” Elyria smothered the instinct to stick out her tongue. “Was there a particular reason you came here, aside from dashing my hopes for an entertaining evening?”

“You received another letter,” Kit said, handing over a roll of parchment.

Elyria offered a wan smile as she pocketed the missive. “Artie again?” She’d long since given up on the stupid hope that she’d be receiving messages from anyone in Havensreach. She hated that she’d ever hoped at all.

Communication between kingdoms was reserved for the kings and their council. That was it. And even if Cedric had been able to figure out a way to communicate, why would he? They said their goodbyes before they left the Celestial Sanctum. This was what Elyria had prepared for before she even took that first step back through the Gate. She had taken her feelings about everything that happened between the two of them during the Trial of Concord—throughout the entire Crucible, if she was being honest—and had placed it in a neat little box that she buried in the deepest part of herself. Deeper even than the knot of shadows curled in her chest .

A knot that had not loosened since she left the Lost City.

Kit nodded. “Sounds like your escapades in the Sanctum have made Tartanis’ desire to speak with you swell to new heights. His men have been back to The Sweltering Pig several times over the past few weeks. Evidently, they haven’t caused any trouble, but Artie recommends you continue keeping your distance from Coralith for now.” She grinned. “He also offers his apologies that you will have to continue drinking, how did he put it, ‘capital swill,’ and says he’ll endeavor to send a barrel of cider just for you at his earliest convenience.”

Elyria’s jaw went slack, her lips rounded in a perfect, shocked “oh.” “What the fuck, Katerina? You read my letter?”

“Don’t blame me, it fell open. Tell the dwarf to get better sealing wax. It’s just as well, anyway. Someone had to start reading your messages.” Kit cast a pointed look over her shoulder at the small pile of unopened letters sitting on a table just inside the room. Then, with a shrug and a final look that seemed to say more than Elyria was ready to hear, she waltzed off.

Elyria wandered the city streets with no particular destination in mind, as she did most nights. Now that Kit had recovered, Elyria wanted nothing more than to act with purpose again. She was antsy, aimless. Even the magic thrumming in her veins, knotted in her chest, felt foreign. Her shadows tugged at her, restless, as if drawn toward something always just out of sight and beyond her reach.

She wanted to fly straight across both Chasms and search every dark corner of every dingy tavern in Havensreach until she got a lead on Varyth Malchior’s whereabouts. She wanted to hunt down members of the Cult of Malakar and put her woefully underutilized interrogation skills to use. She wanted to storm into Verdentia and demand that the sylvans help her figure out where Zephyr had gone.

But she couldn’t do any of that. Not yet. Not without earning the true ire of the king and risking derailing his diplomatic efforts. She’d made her desires clear enough when she gave her report to King Lachlandris on what happened during the Arcane Crucible. She’d offered her platitudes and promises that she would find the crown for him, would win it back for Nyrundelle, so long as he allowed her to be among those seeking it.

In short, she lied.

It worked. He agreed. And then came the hardest part, the part she was the worst at—waiting.

Elyria had never been a patient woman. Had never dealt with boredom well. Unfortunately, the tried-and-true ways she used to kill time before she’d entered the Sanctum no longer held any appeal. She didn’t want to spend her nights drinking and performing and fucking. She didn’t particularly want to analyze why those things were of such little interest to her now, either.

And so, she walked.

Up and down the white stone streets.

Back and forth and back again, she walked.

She always waited until the quietest hours of the night, when fewer folks would be out, when she was less likely to be recognized. Alas, even with her wings under the constant cloak of her magic and a hood drawn tight over her periwinkle hair, inevitably, someone usually noticed her.

She still didn’t like the attention, the stares that didn’t bother to be subtle, the conversations that stalled the second she turned the corner. Admittedly, it felt different now. Not quite the same fear-filled apprehension she’d encountered as the Revenant. Rather, the Victor of Nyrundelle commanded adoration. Veneration.

She hated it just as much.

It made her feel just as alone.

Elyria turned her gaze inward, and though she told herself she shouldn’t, though she knew better, she searched for that golden thread.

She didn’t find it.

When Cedric died, the thread snapped. She felt it go limp, fade within her in the same moment he fell away. And whatever vestige of light had remained in him, that final flickering ember that she’d used to tug him back to life, she didn’t think it was tied to her anymore.

Was it ever? she wondered.

She didn’t know where it came from. Didn’t know why from the instant she and Cedric set foot in the Sanctum they’d been drawn toward each other. Didn’t know what it meant that she felt emptier now than ever before.

Or maybe she did know, but she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on it.

The palest rays of light were just starting to peek through the darkened sky as she returned to the estate. She was so lost in thought, so busy searching through the many shadowed layers of herself, that she didn’t even notice the two figures lurking on the doorstep of the main house until she was almost upon them.

One was impossibly tall, a placid expression stretched over indigo skin, dawn’s gray light highlighting the curved horns wrapping around either side of their head. The other was broad, squat, and only reached Elyria’s chest, a massive hammer leaning against the wall at his side.

“Wh-what are you two doing here?” Genuine shock rang through Elyria’s voice.

“Not a bad place ye’ve got here, Rev,” Thraigg said, gravelly voice familiar and warm.

“A bit ostentatious for my taste, but to each their own,” added Nox.

Elyria arched a brow. “Uh, thanks?”

Nox grinned, flashing a hint of fang.

“Not that I’m not, um”—Elyria thought for a moment about what word to use—“pleased to see you, but again, what are you doing here?” She didn’t know why she was whispering.

Thraigg slung his hammer up behind his head, bracing the handle behind his neck. “Figured ye might be wanting to do something about that crown. And about...” Elyria didn’t have to be a mindwielder to know he was struggling with saying Zephyr’s name. They’d all had a hard time dealing with the truth of what she’d done, all been hurt by her actions, but in the days after the Crucible ended, it became clear that Thraigg was taking it even more personally than the rest.

Nox nodded. “Kit sent for us.”

Elyria’s second brow joined the other at the top of her forehead, both of them now lifted in surprise. “What? Why?”

“Word came from the king earlier today. You didn’t seem to be in the right mood to receive it.” Kit’s voice was smug as she flitted through the open window over the house’s entrance and landed deftly between Thraigg and Nox.

Surprise stole Elyria’s initial response. Then, she said, “Liar. I was in a perfectly receptive mood.”

Kit’s blue eye twinkled as she folded her gold-and-silver wings against her back. “Fine, maybe I just wanted to be able to enjoy the drama of this little reunion. It’s been rather boring around here lately, not sure if you’ve noticed.”

Elyria nearly choked on the derisive laugh that formed in her gut. She stared at the three ex-champions for a long moment. Finally, she turned back to the nocterrian and the dwarf. “Why would you come help? Why do you care?”

“For fuck’s sake, lass.” Thraigg shook his head, the ornaments in his woven beard jingling. “I’m starting to doubt yer being ‘pleased’ to see us after all. Do we not have unfinished business here, same as ye?”

The nocterrian shrugged, a bafflingly casual gesture that seemed out of place in their body. “We cannot let Malchior get his hands on celestial power. And we all know you’re the only one who can get it back.”

Elyria did not, in fact, know she was the only one who could do this, but she sure as all four hells was going to be the one who tried.

Renewed purpose wove through her, the knot in her chest starting to unfurl.

Nox grinned again, as if they could sense the wave of resolution cresting inside Elyria. “So,” they said, feline grin widening, “where to, Revenant?”

Elyria smiled, her inner shadow stirring. “Let’s go hunting.”