“Meren can try.”
She glances up at me. Fierceness blazes in her expression now—not the guardian of endings who commanded a hundred thousand soldiers to rest, but the woman beneath. The one who refuses to be silenced.
“I’m not hiding anymore.”
“Good.”
“I mean it. No more running. No more working in the shadows, waiting for someone like you to drag me to the pyres.” Her grip tightens on my fingers. “If they want to burn me, they can fight for it.”
I stop walking. Turn to face her in the narrow tunnel, witch-lights casting uncertain shadows across her blood-stained features.
“They won’t touch you.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “Anyone who tries will have to go through me first.”
“That’s very alpha of you.”
“It’s the truth.”
Her free hand rises to my face. Traces the line of my jaw, the burn scars at my temple, the gray threading through the hair at my ears. Her touch is gentle. Wondering. Like she’s still surprised that she’s allowed to do this.
She can do whatever she wants. I’m not going anywhere.
“I know it’s the truth.” Her voice drops. “That’s why I love you, you oversized, fire-starting, corpse-burning idiot.”
She’s said it before. In the battlefield, with the realm collapsing around us. But this is different. This is deliberate. This is a woman who has made her choice and refuses to take it back.
I kiss her.
Not desperate, like in the King’s realm. Not claiming, like the first time our mouths met. Slow. Certain. The kind of kiss that saysI’m not going anywhereandthis is realandyou’re mine, I’m yours, and nothing is going to change that.
Her arms wind around my neck. She rises on her toes despite the exhaustion that should have her collapsed on the ground. The mark on her collarbone pulses against my throat where she’s pressed against me—an answering beat to the one burning beneath my armor.
Mates.
The word feels right in a way nothing else ever has.
We break apart slowly. Her forehead rests against mine. Her breath mingles with mine in the cold tunnel air.
“We should get to the surface,” she whispers.
“Mm.”
“The city probably needs?—”
“The city can wait.”
Her laugh is softer this time. Warmer. “The Ashwalker, telling the city to wait. What would the Council say?”
“The Council can go to?—”
She kisses me again, cutting off the profanity. Which is probably for the best. The words I was about to use weren’t appropriate for mixed company, and the witch in my arms seems to have strong opinions about unnecessary vulgarity.
When we finally pull apart, her eyes are brighter. Less exhausted. The power she burned through is still gone—that won’t come back for days, maybe weeks—but hope has taken its place.
Hope. Future. The possibility of a life that isn’t defined by death.
“Come on.” She takes my hand again. Turns toward the surface. “Let’s go remind the Council that they’re not in charge of anything.”
I follow her through the tunnel. Toward the light. Toward whatever comes next.