Page 31

Chapter

Thirty-One

The residents of Mirendel aren’t celebrating, but they aren’t in mourning either.

As Harek and I approach the city center, the magic itself is stirring—not with the violent hunger of the opposing forces, but with a soft shimmer. The very stones of the outer walls seem to be trying to shine.

Fae of all kinds line the edge of the eastern square, eyes wary, posture coiled. But behind their wariness, I catch glimpses of a faint luminescence in their eyes, the natural glow no longer suppressed by the overwhelming darkness. Tentative, but it’s there.

When Harek and I come closer, silence spreads in ripples, tiny motes of silver light that dance through the air in our wake, settling on the stones and making them gleam like scattered stars.

The first person to move is a fae boy with one eye wrapped in linen and dried blood at the edges of the bandage. But as he steps closer, the bandage itself emits a soft, golden light, and the blood that stained it is turning to silver, then to nothing at all.

His remaining eye is bright with the natural luminescence of his kind, no longer dimmed by the influence of the dark magic.

He doesn’t flinch as I pass, but I can see the magic in him responding to my presence—tiny sparks of light dancing under his skin like fireflies.

He doesn’t smile but has a growing light in his eye that speaks of healing and of hope.

As we move deeper into the city, the transformation becomes even more apparent.

The cobblestones beneath our feet begin to glow with each step, creating a path of soft, pearlescent light that fades slowly behind us.

The effect spreads outward like dropped stones in still water, each ring of light a little brighter than the last.

Withered flowers straighten as we pass by, their petals shifting from brown and black to vibrant colors that seem to glow from within.

Vines creep along the walls, their leaves unfurling, and where they touch the old scorch marks from the curse’s violence, the stone heals itself, cracks sealing and blackened areas returning to their natural color.

Harek turns to me. “Your siblings and my parents will be safer if we win this next part.” His voice carries a note of wonder that wasn’t there before.

He’s seeing the way the city itself is responding to whatever Einar’s death triggered, to the presence of something that carries light instead of darkness.

My heart tightens with a growing seed of hope.

Because the children scattered throughout the city, the ones who carry fae blood like I do, are waking up.

Natural magic is no longer suppressed or twisted by the evil.

Each one is a tiny star in the growing constellation of Mirendel’s magical awakening.

I need them to be safe, for all of us to see something better than fear and betrayal. And as we walk, the magic itself weaves a new pattern of growth and nurturing around us.

The central tower looms ahead—what’s left of it.

But even in its ruined state, it too is beginning to change.

The broken stone is knitting itself back together, not with the harsh, artificial perfection of forced magic, but with the organic beauty of natural healing.

Vines heavy with silver flowers wind around the damaged sections, and where they touch, the stone grows whole again, stronger than before.

The place where the Mirendel council made decisions before the movement tried to drown us in fire and wolves is remembering its purpose.

The air hums with the echo of ancient oaths, of promises made to protect and serve and build something better than what came before.

The golden magic buzzes through me, a sweet taste on my tongue.

That’s where I’ll speak.

We step inside the shattered rotunda, and the silence deepens, pregnant with possibility. The ruined dome above our heads is shot through with cracks, but glimmering light pours through them in beams that seem almost solid, casting rainbow patterns on the floor below.

Fae filter in, their luminescence returning. Children’s eyes reflect the growing light, manifesting tiny sparks that dance between us like living things as magic finds its voice again.

I move to the center, standing where the cracked, circular mosaic stands.

But as my feet touch the broken tiles, they begin to glow, the ancient patterns becoming visible through the light that flows from them.

The mosaic tells a story of all kinds of fae working together, of magic used to build rather than destroy.

Of the city Mirendel was meant to be. The light spreads outward from where I stand, flowing through the cracks in the floor and up the walls, revealing murals that have been hidden for generations.

They show the same story of cooperation, growth, and triumph of light over darkness—not through violence, but through understanding.

“This is not a speech.” My voice is calm but low, and the words themselves seem to carry weight beyond my years. Motes of golden light drift from my lips, settling on the faces of those who listen and leaving them touched with the same gentle radiance.

Every gaze sharpens with hope. The magic in the room responds to my presence, to the absence of the curse that has poisoned it for so long.

Children’s eyes grow brighter, reflecting the light that’s building around us.

Adults straighten, feeling the oppressive weight of years of fear beginning to lift.

My voice doesn’t tremble, and neither does the light that flows from me. It’s steady, sure… the kind of illumination that comes from within rather than being imposed from without.

“I won’t disappear. I won’t run. I won’t hide behind fate or blood or the name ‘huntress.’”

With each word, the light grows stronger, like the light of dawn breaking after a long, stormy night—gradual but inexorable. The shadows that have clung to the corners of the rotunda retreat, not banished but transformed, becoming the natural darkness that gives meaning to light.

I draw my blade, and the steel rings like crystal chimes. The metal itself seems to glow, and not with the etchings that indicate the presence of evil. Or used to. I’m not sure it works that way anymore. “I am not the end of the line. I’m what comes next.”

The light that has been building around us reaches its crescendo—a gentle flowering, like the sun finally breaking through clouds that have covered the sky for too long.

It touches every face in the chamber, every surface, every shadow, not destroying but transforming.

The darkness becomes something natural, balanced, part of the greater whole rather than a corruption of it.

In that light, I can see the faces around me clearly for the first time.

The fear is still there, but it’s balanced now by wonder, by the recognition that something profound has changed.

The children’s eyes are bright with their returning magic, but it’s controlled, purposeful, no longer the wild hunger of the curse but the natural power of their heritage.

And when I step down from the center of the mosaic, the light doesn’t fade. It settles into the stones, into the walls, into the very air of the chamber. The rotunda will never be dark again—not because the light is forced or artificial, but because it has remembered what it was always meant to be.

No one looks away as I descend. The light continues to grow, spreading beyond the chamber, beyond the tower, into the streets of Mirendel itself.

What matters is the sound of children’s laughter echoing from the square outside—not the desperate, brittle laughter of those who have nothing left to lose, but the genuine joy of those who have found something to believe in.

The darkness is not destroyed, but balanced, made part of a greater whole. And in the heart of Mirendel, light and shadow dance together in patterns that speak of hope, of healing, of the kind of magic that builds rather than breaks.

And the light I carry will be enough.