The silence after Orin’s dissolution isn’t empty.
It’s not peace. It’s not victory. It’s the kind of stillness that follows a detonation—when the smoke hasn’t cleared, when the blood hasn’t dried, when the world is intact but nothing will ever be the same. Blackthorn Vale stands in ruins around us, its trees broken, their roots scorched, the air thick with the scent of ash and crushed moonpetals. The well of bone is gone—reduced to whispers, to nothing. The chains of memory lie in fragments, their edges glowing faintly with silver-green light before crumbling into dust.
And I—
I’m on my knees.
Not in defeat. Not in submission.
In release.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, golden, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. My magic stirs—vines twitching beneath my skin, thorns pricking at my sleeves—but this time, they don’t lash out. They don’t burn. They just… breathe.
And then—
Something happens.
Something I’ve never seen before.
A single vine curls from my wrist, not black and thorned, but soft, silver-green, its leaves edged with light. It unfurls slowly, gently, like a hand reaching for the sky. And at its tip—
A bloom.
Not a rose. Not a thorn. But a flower—white as moonlight, delicate as breath, its petals trembling in the wind.
I freeze.
So does Cassien.
He turns to me, his golden eyes wide, his breath catching. “Rowan…”
I don’t answer. Just watch as the vine grows, as more sprout from my arms, my neck, my spine—silver-green, glowing faintly, each one cradling a single white bloom. They don’t attack. Don’t twist. Don’t burn. They just… live.
And then—
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, not like fire, not like rage, but like a wave of pure, unfiltered life. I gasp, staggering, my magic surging—but not in violence. In bloom. Vines erupt from the ground, the air, the trees—silver-green, glowing, each one cradling white flowers that open like eyes, like hands, like prayers. They wrap around the shattered trunks, the broken roots, the scorched earth, weaving through the wreckage, healing as they go. Cracks seal. Stone reforms. Roots knit back together.
And in the center—
Where the well of bone once stood—
A tree grows.
Not from the ground. Not from magic.
From me.
It rises slowly, its trunk black as night, its bark etched with thorned sigils, its branches spreading wide, its leaves silver-green, each one cradling a white bloom. And at its heart—
A single black rose.
Perfect. Unblemished. Alive.
I collapse to my knees.
Kaelen catches me before I hit the earth, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me against his chest. I don’t fight. Don’t speak. Just press my face into his neck, my breath hot and ragged, my body trembling. My magic still hums beneath my skin, but it’s different now. Lighter. Softer. Like it’s no longer a weapon.
Like it’s finally home.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs, his hand threading through my hair.
I don’t answer. Just cling to him, my fingers digging into his coat, my tears soaking into his collar. I don’t know why I’m crying. Not from pain. Not from grief. Not even from relief.
From recognition.
Because this—this bloom, this tree, this quiet, aching beauty—this is who I am.
Not just vengeance.
Not just rage.
Not just a weapon.
I’m life.
I’m growth.
I’m love.
And I didn’t have to burn the world down to find it.
I just had to stop fighting myself.
Kaelen holds me, his breath warm against my ear, his heart steady beneath my palm. “You were brilliant,” he says, voice low.
“So were you.”
He presses his forehead to mine, his golden eyes burning. “You lied about something.”
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not like before.
Not in battle. Not in grief. Not in rage.
But slow. Soft. Aching.
Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s thanking me. Like he’s promising me.
And when he pulls back—
There’s a single tear on his cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb. “You’re crying.”
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
My breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” I whisper. “For me. For us. For the future we’re to build.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me.
And for the first time—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I don’t feel like vengeance.
I feel like home.
We ride back to the Obsidian Court in silence, the bond humming between us, the wind sharp with the promise of snow. The Night Guard flanking us are silent, their faces grim, their weapons drawn. Cassien rides at the rear, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but I feel it—his tension, his awareness. He knows something has shifted. Not just in the air. Not just in the bond.
In us.
When we reach the Court, I don’t go to the chambers. Don’t shed my cloak. I walk straight to the Garden of Thorns—a hidden courtyard at the heart of the fortress, where black roses bloom from living vines, their petals edged with silver, their scent sharp as a blade. It’s quiet here. Sacred. The kind of place where the dead are remembered, where the living come to grieve.
But today—
It’s different.
The air hums with magic, with life, with something I can’t name. The vines along the walls tremble, their thorns softening, their leaves turning silver-green. And at their tips—
Blooms.
White as moonlight. Delicate as breath.
Just like mine.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I gasp, my magic erupting—vines bursting from the ground, the air, the walls, curling around a single stone bier, wrapping it in a living shroud of thorned roses, their petals unfurling like a final embrace.
And then—
I burn.
Not with fire. Not with flame.
With magic.
White-hot, searing, unstoppable. The vines ignite, their thorns glowing like embers, their leaves curling into ash as they consume the stone, the air itself. The scent of roses and blood fills the courtyard, the heat so intense it warps the light, the sound like a thousand whispers rising into the night.
And when it’s over—
There’s nothing left.
No bier. No stone.
Just a single, perfect black rose, resting on the moss-covered earth.
Kaelen steps forward, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He kneels.
Not in submission.
Not in surrender.
In witness.
He presses his palm to the earth, right where the black rose rests. And then—
He whispers.
Not to me. Not to the Court. Not to the world.
To her.
“Lysandra,” he says, voice rough, broken. “I kept my promise. I protected her. I loved her. And now—” His golden eyes burn as he lifts his gaze to me. “—she’s free.”
The rose trembles.
And then—
It blooms.
Not one petal. Not two.
A hundred.
Each one unfurling like a hand, like a prayer, like a thank you.
I collapse to my knees beside him, my breath catching, my magic humming beneath my skin. I press my palm to the earth, right beside his. “Mother,” I whisper. “I know the truth. I know what you did. And I—” My voice breaks. “—I forgive you.”
The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through us both. The vines along the walls erupt, not in thorns, not in fire, but in silver-green life, their leaves trembling, their blooms opening wide. And in the center—
A tree grows.
Just like the one at the Spire.
Black trunk. Silver-green leaves. White blooms.
And at its heart—
A single black rose.
Perfect. Unblemished. Alive.
Kaelen reaches for me.
Not to pull me up.
Not to speak.
To press his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips. “You’re not just my heir,” he says, voice low. “You’re not just my daughter. You’re the future.”
“And you’re my past,” I whisper. “My protector. My king.”
He smiles—faint, aching. “And you’re my redemption.”
I don’t answer.
Just press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through us, a wave so intense the air shimmers, the vines ignite, their thorns glowing like embers, their petals curling into ash. The runes flare—white-hot, alive—and the bond ignites, not just between us, but through the chamber, through the Court, through the world.
And everyone sees.
The truth.
The love.
The blood.
And the future.
When it’s over, we rise—breathless, trembling, ruined. The vines retreat. The runes dim. The air is thick with the scent of blood, magic, and ash. And we—
We’re still bound.
Not by magic.
Not by law.
By choice.
As we walk back to the chambers, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
But for the first time—
We’re not alone.
The peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
But tonight—
I let myself believe—
That we’ve earned it.
That we’ve built it.
That we’re not just surviving.
We’re blooming.
And as I press my palm to the mark, feeling the pulse of heat, the whisper of magic, the truth of who I am—
I know—
This is only the beginning.
Because the Thorned Blood doesn’t just survive.
It grows.
It heals.
It blooms.
And so do I.