“I NEVER TOLD HER I LOVED HER?—”
“I WAS WRONG ABOUT THE WAR?—”
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO LEAVE?—”
“I’M SORRY?—”
“I’M SORRY?—”
“I’M SORRY?—”
The words keep coming. An avalanche of confession and regret, of love never expressed and apologies never given. Every soldier trapped in the King’s core is speaking at once, pouring out final truths that have been festering for centuries.
And at the center of it all, Aradya holds firm.
She’s the eye of the storm. The stillness at the heart of the chaos. Magic pours through her—not from her anymore, but through her, channeling the King’s enforced release into truths that can finally be heard.
Her knees give out.
I catch her before she hits the ground.
Her magic is still flowing, still pulling confessions from the King’s dissolving form, but her body has nothing left. She weighs almost nothing in my arms—a shell emptied by the demands of power she was never meant to wield. Her eyes are half-closed, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching weakly at my armor.
“Not yet—” Her whisper is barely audible over the King’s ongoing flood of truths. “It has to say?—”
“That’s enough.”
I cup her face in my hands. Force her to meet my eyes. She’s pale beneath the blood that stains her cheeks, but those darkeyes are still burning with determination. Still trying to give the dead what they need even as it kills her.
“Aradya. That’s enough.”
She shakes her head weakly. “It has to?—”
“It’s said what it needs to say.” I press my forehead to hers. The mark on my collarbone blazes in response to the one on hers—matched brands, matched claims, burning brighter than they’ve ever burned. “Now let it go. The same way you told the soldiers to let go. Let it rest.”
Her eyes search mine. Looking for permission. Looking for the certainty she’s lost somewhere in the flood of grief she’s been channeling.
I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Let go.
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods.
Her lips move. Form a single word.
“Rest.”
The King dissolves.
Not screaming. Not fighting. Not raging against the end it never believed would come. The formless mass of grief and death magic simply... releases. The darkness drains from it like water through cupped hands, dissolving into mist that rises to join the golden light still ascending from the battlefield.
The soldiers that formed the core—the ones too lost to remember their own names, too angry to accept the peace I offered—they’re speaking now. Individually. Finally.
I loved my children.
I miss the sunrise.
I wish I’d been braver.
I forgive you.