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"Your Majesty?"

Dara’el curled around King Corwin, its shadows at his feet like hungry, restless serpents. He barely noticed. His hands remained pressed against the unyielding stone of his mate’s tomb, the chill seeping into his skin, into his bones, just as it had on the day they sealed her away. The crown weighed on his head, its once-brilliant luster dulled. He should have left it behind. It wasn’t a king who knelt here, only a grieving male.

Two years.

How had it been two years since the light of his life fell protecting their people? Since she gave her last breath to shield the Eldergreen from the humans who would desecrate it?

“ Corwinth .”

Elric’s use of his true name snapped Corwin from his thoughts. With Lysa gone, it had been years since anyone had dared to speak it—but if anyone had the right, it was the male who had stood at his side for a lifetime.

“What is it?” Corwin dragged himself to his feet, turning to face his oldest friend .

Elric’s breath was ragged, his face lined with exhaustion, etched with grief. He had lost his own wife and the mother of his child, the human Healer who had been one of Lysa’s closest friends.

“They crossed the ridge,” Elric said. “They took the bait. They’ll be at the gates by nightfall.”

The bait. What a thing to call the bones of the female he loved.

“One last time,” he whispered. Let me protect you one last time.

The shadows moved with him as he ascended the worn stone steps beside Elric, coiling and uncoiling in restless waves, their edges fraying like tattered silk. They wound around his arms, clung to his shoulders, falling behind him like a living cloak that swept the stairs in his wake.

Soon , they hissed in his ear, a hundred voices speaking as one. Soon, soon, soon, soon ? —

We drink. We break. We feast.

Loose us. Unchain us. Let them drown in the dark.

Though he couldn’t hear them, Elric still cast the shadows a wary glance, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his sword. “They’re getting worse.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Not quite.

Corwin exhaled slowly, watching as the shadows shifted with the movement of his breath. “They won’t be a problem.”

Elric’s silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken doubt.

Corwin sighed. “Not tonight,” he amended. "They hate the New Dominion as much as I do."

For a long moment, Elric held his gaze. Then, with a slow, resigned nod, he let out a breath and continued up the stairs.

They crossed through the sanctuary, its air silent and thick with the weight of the prayers of the handful of warriors clustered around the altar, their heads bowed as they spoke to a Goddess who had not answered them in centuries. Others stood motionless, staring into the flickering light of the sconces, taking one last moment of quiet before the end .

Some bowed low when he passed, their fists pressed to their chests. Others simply looked at him, their faces full of quiet respect and brittle hope—hope he didn’t deserve but felt the weight of all the same.

Corwin paused before the temple doors, turning back to face the warriors gathered before him. Their faces were hard, resolute, the flickering torchlight catching in their battle-worn armor, in the lines of exhaustion and defiance etched into their expressions.

His gaze swept over them, taking in the ragged edges of their cloaks, the nicks in their weapons, the way their fingers clenched white-knuckled around their hilts. But it was their eyes that mattered most.

They burned. Shining with the fire of a people who had nothing left to lose.

Corwin exhaled, rolling his shoulders, the weight of duty settling as heavily as the cold press of his crown—a symbol of a kingdom already lost. They were waiting—for him, for words of courage or reassurance. He had neither.

Instead, he spoke the only truth that mattered.

“We all know who we are fighting for.”

Silence met his words, a silence thick with understanding, with purpose. Then, one by one, the warriors bowed their heads—not in submission, but in solemn acknowledgment.

Corwin turned away. The time for words was done.

He pressed his palm to the door. “Let’s go.”

They lined up in front of the temple. Two hundred fae to hold the temple. Two hundred fae to give their loved ones enough time to flee.

Somewhere far away in the darkness, the sea crashed against the jagged cliffs. The wind whipped over them, carrying the scent of salt and blood. The air felt charged, a gathering storm waiting to break. There was no retreat. They would either hold this ground or die on it.

Corwin drew in a slow breath. Dara’el coiled tighter around him, rippling with anticipation as the first figures crossed the ridge. The New Dominion’s battle mages didn’t bother with stealth as they ground to a halt, their grim faces illuminated by the sickly glow of their enchanted weapons, every one powered with aether that had been ripped from its proper place and bound to their will.

At their center, a black-armored Commander wearing the Arcanum’s Eye emblazoned on his breastplate stood motionless. Corwin could feel his gaze on him, caught by the shadows that churned around him, marking him as a target. The Commander cocked his head, hefting a staff so long it could only have been carved from an entire fae femur.

Corwin could feel the trapped aether inside it screaming, even across the battlefield. His heart clenched, and he whispered a silent prayer to the absent Goddess for the poor soul whose body had become a weapon for their oppressors.

That’s why the New Dominion was here, instead of hunting the last free fae across Eluneth. Fae bone was a powerful amplifier—and the crypt beneath the temple was a prize the humans could not resist.

What monstrosities could they craft from the remains of generations of fae rulers?

There will be no monstrosities. The voices—usually scattered, hissing and half-mad—coalesced. And for the first time in what felt like years, dara’el spoke not as many, but as one.

Release us. We will kill the bone-bearer first.

“Not yet,” Corwin said aloud, ignoring the way Elric glanced at him—tracking the way the shadows hissed and writhed with barely contained frustration.

They might be lucid now, but dara’el hadn’t cared about strategy since Lysa died. They didn’t obey him, not anymore. He wasn’t even sure they remembered who he was or what they stood for. All they wanted was blood and vengeance—and Corwin wasn’t sure he was any different.

Well—tonight, they would both gorge on it .

The commander raised the staff, and the first wave surged forward—a wall of iron and death.

Corwin stepped forward to meet it alone, lifting his hands as he called on the power the Goddess had granted him to protect her people.

And dara’el answered.

Shadows poured from him, coiling outward like black smoke made solid. They struck, felling the first humans instantly. One, dara’el dragged screaming into the shadows, swallowing him whole before his comrades could even react. Another collapsed, choking on pure darkness as his corrupted blade fell uselessly to the ground. A third raised his staff—but dara’el was faster. Its shadows coiled around the man’s wrist, twisting?—

His scream was lost in the roar as fae forces surged past them, meeting the New Dominion soldiers in a clash of steel and iron. Corwin sucked in a deep breath, nearly choking on the stench of burning aether and scorched bone. It clung to the back of his throat, an abomination of everything they stood for.

Corwin lifted his sword. For the first time in years, he did not feel helpless. Dara’el met his command eagerly, rising to stand alongside him instead of against him.

Fae magic belonged to the fae. And tonight, the humans would remember why.

Corwin slashed through the ranks of the humans, shadows surging from him in jagged spears and clawed tendrils, cutting through steel and flesh with the fury of a storm. They churned and consumed, swallowing men whole, wrapping around throats and wrists, dragging them screaming into the abyss.

But for every New Dominion soldier that fell, another stepped over his corpse, pushing forward with relentless, merciless precision.

There were too many of them.

The fae fought viciously, holding the line with blades slicked in human blood and magic burning through the air in wild, desperate arcs. But still, they came .

Arrows whistled through the air, fae warriors crying out as iron tips punched through leather armor with deadly precision. Some fell instantly, never rising. Others stumbled, clutching at the black shafts buried deep in their flesh, gasping against the poison lacing the metal.

Corwin’s shadows lashed out, seeking the archers, but the battle mages were waiting for him.

Their stolen magic struck back, tearing into his darkness. The first blast of stolen magic slammed into the ground, scorching black tendrils into nothingness. The second ripped through Corwin’s defenses, forcing the shadows to recoil and writhe like wounded beasts.

More arrows. More flames. More destruction.

The fae cried out, forced back step by step until their backs were pressed against the temple walls. At least it was warded—no one who sought to do harm could cross into the sanctuary while the doors stood. As long as that held?—

The first blast of magic struck the temple.

Lines of light raced through the foundation, wards flaring as they pulled on ancient power to repel the attack. For a moment, Corwin dared to hope they would hold, desperate to believe that, even outnumbered and outfought, they could still protect their dead.

But then the Commander raised his grisly staff overhead a second time, striking it against the ground. Power broke free with a clap like thunder. The doors groaned under the force of it—then cracked down the center, fractures spreading like lightning across the carved reliefs of fae kings and queens.

Corwin staggered backward as stone split, huge chunks crashing to the floor in a thunder of dust and debris. Moonlight speared through the haze, illuminating the sacred heart of the temple—and beyond it, the door leading down to the crypt.

To Lysa.

Dara’el howled. A scream of fury and grief.

“Corwin—” Elric grabbed his arm, hissing in pain as the shadows sliced across his palm. “We have to fall back now. You can’t?—”

“They’ll defile her tomb.” Corwin didn’t even recognize his own voice, his throat raw as if he had been the one screaming this entire time. “Just like they have defiled everything else.”

“You have to think of the living,” Elric said, gripping him harder, shaking him. “Think of Eloria—of Loren. Thorne is still out there searching for him. We can’t abandon them. We can’t .” His voice cracked. “Lysa wouldn’t want that.”

Eloria— Loren . Was Loren even alive? For a heartbeat, something inside Corwin bent. Lysa would always choose their children over herself.

But then the Commander stepped through the settling dust, his sharp gaze snapping to where Corwin and Elric stood with dara’el striking out in fury as it raged around them. He didn’t speak as he raised that staff, his eyes meeting Corwin’s as he pointed it straight at them.

NO.

The word tore through Corwin’s mind like a thunderclap, sending him to his knees as dara’el cried out in a single, deafening voice. A sound rose in his throat, too raw to be a scream and too feral to be a word as something inside him snapped .

And the shadows erupted.

Dara’el ripped free, surging forward in a maelstrom that poured across the field in an unrelenting tide of death and destruction. The Commander’s eyes widened as it reached him. His cry was lost in the cacophony—one scream among hundreds, blurred beyond recognition.

Corwin staggered forward, the shadows parting to let him pass. Ahead of him, a New Dominion mage raised his staff, his lips moving in a desperate incantation—but the words never left his throat as the shadows ripped his heart from his chest.

To Corwin’s left, a fae warrior stumbled, aether crackling weakly at his fingertips as the darkness reached for him too. His last breath was a shuddering gasp as the shadows coiled around his limbs, dragging him under.

There was no mercy. Fae or human, friend or foe—it didn’t matter. The darkness claimed them all.

Corwin moved as if in a dream, passing bodies he couldn’t bear to look at. Faces he knew. Warriors who had fought beside him for decades, their armor torn open like paper. Their hands frozen in the moment before death—reaching for help that never came.

“Corwinth—” Elric staggered through the shadows, wincing as they hissed and recoiled, striking him even now. Dark welts burned across his arms and throat, blood seeping through the rents in his tunic. He stumbled to Corwin’s side, breath coming in short, pained gasps.

“Stop them,” he begged. “Please—stop them. They’re killing all of us.”

I can’t. Corwin shook his head, the words lodging like glass in his throat as he stared at his best friend. Dara’el no longer answered to him. It was past command, past reason. All that was left was rage and ruin, and he had set it free.

Elric’s face broke as the shadows curled around him, his lips moving to form his son’s name one last time as they consumed him too.

And then Corwin stood alone in the aftermath, each ragged inhale dragging through his lungs like a blade. Shadows slid over the bodies, coiling through the broken remains of fae and human alike—discarded by dara’el like spent offerings. Their movements were slow and uncertain, as though even they did not know what to do now that everything was gone.

The New Dominion hadn’t conquered Eluneth, but the fae hadn’t saved it, either. This wasn’t a victory—it wasn’t even a defeat. It was annihilation.

Corwin let out a shaking breath, staring down at his hands. They were clean—unmarked. There should have been blood— something to condemn him for what he had done. But the darkness left nothing behind.

His knees buckled. Corwin didn’t even try to catch himself, collapsing onto the cold earth and curling his fingers into the dirt—seeking something solid in a world that had become nothing but mist and shadow. His crown sat heavy on his head, its once-polished silver dulled by war, sweat, and blood.

He had done this—killed them all.

Corwin’s breath caught on an exhale that was half laughter, half sob. The shadows coiled at his back, curling over his shoulders, twisting into the edges of his vision as they whispered to him with a hundred different voices, all speaking at once. Soft. Coaxing. Waiting.

There was one last thing they had to do.

Corwin closed his eyes. The battle was over, but he would not live to see how the war ended. The shadows curled closer, whispering his name.

And this time, he did not resist.