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THIRTY-FIVE

LUCIEN

T he Court of Claws was a graveyard.

Not just in bodies—but in legacy.

The throne room lay in ruin, its stained-glass sigils shattered, the blackstone dais cracked clean through the center. Blood streaked the marble. The ancient runes once carved into the walls had dimmed, as if mourning their mistress—or perhaps relieved to be freed from her hold.

Lucien stood in the stillness of it, watching the dust dance through shafts of grey morning light.

His shoulders ached. His ribs throbbed from the wound that had stopped his heart.

But he was alive.

Because she had chosen him.

Evryn stood at the edge of the dais, not seated on the throne, but near it—hands wrapped around the hilt of Lucien’s blade, now buried tip-first in the floor.

The others had come.

Seraphine.

Calder.

Malrik.

All flanking what remained of the royal house. All waiting.

A silence hung between them, heavy and expectant.

One of the older advisors—one who had survived the night and now smelled more of fear than loyalty—stepped forward.

“The Queen is dead,” he announced to the room.

No one corrected him.

No one said long live the Queen either.

He looked at Lucien. “You are her son. The bloodline falls to you.”

Lucien didn’t speak at first. He stepped forward slowly, the torn remains of his coat sweeping across the blood-soaked floor. He looked to Evryn, meeting her eyes. Her gaze was steady, gold-flecked and wild, full of fire and history.

She had become what they’d tried to kill her for.

He turned to the gathered court.

“I will not wear her crown.”

Murmurs rippled.

Lucien lifted a hand.

“I was raised as her weapon. Sharpened. Pointed. Used. That ends with me. This House does not need another tyrant masked in velvet and promises.”

He walked to the throne, then turned his back to it—facing Evryn.

“This throne was never meant for control,” he said. “It was forged by a Panther Queen. And now, by blood and battle, she has returned.”

He knelt.

To her .

“Evryn Hale,” he said, voice steady. “You are the Panther Queen reborn. Sovereign of shadow. Flame of the old blood. My heart. My ruler.”

The chamber held its breath.

Evryn didn’t answer with words. She walked to him, slow and sure and took his hand. Lifted him up. Then turned to the Court, power radiating from her skin like dusk and wildfire.

“I did not ask for this,” she said. “But I will bear it. And I will not rule with fear.”

She looked at Lucien again. Her voice broke soft.

“But I will never stand alone.”

He nodded once as the Court of Claws bowed.