Page 96 of Wrath of the Never Queen

No.

My mind blanks. My ophid burns. My rage swells.

Au’mana, usually warm and sweet, courses through me like wildfire, sending every nerve alight. I send it to the great front doors of the castle and slam them shut before he can escape. Around me, the castle glows an angry, dark shade of purple. The colour of bruises and poison and wrath. The ground splinters and rises like tendrils, the walls snap and crack, writhing furiously. My heart thunders in my ears, and my skin burns. Theo steps back from me, his mouthopen. When I turn to him, the muscles in my neck scream.

“Run,” I whisper.

He hesitates, and I send a fraction of my magic to the ground at his feet. It rumbles and moves like a snake beneath him, dragging him out of the hall and safely outside.

“Shivani!” he cries before the door slams shut again for the final time.

I turn to the king.

He and the guards stare at me, terrified and trembling. There is some part of me, deep in the back of my mind, wondering if I should feel pity. But I do not. There is only resentment and anger there. Dark purple seeps into the corners of my vision like storm clouds. My ophid pulses painfully from where I had been stabbed, and my rage grows, fuelling my au’mana. The castle rumbles and groans as it collapses around us. A chunk of the ceiling breaks loose, falling and shattering against the marble floor.

“Please!” the king cries out, his voice breaking with desperation. “Mercy!”

I clench my teeth.

“Your death will be the mercy this town deserves,” I spit.

I reach through the marble floor, splitting it with a crack. Broken pieces grab the king’s leg, forcing him to the ground.

“Morraine,” I whisper.

The marble swallows his other leg.

“Lucian.”

His arm sinks into the ground, held fast.

“Honora.”

The king cries out as his last free limb is pulled behind him, leaving him stuck and helpless.

“For all of us, you will know what it is to die alone.”

I flick my wrists, and the ceiling crumbles above us.

The king and his guards scream like trapped animals, wild and hoarse. I close my eyes and let the castle fall, silencing them forever.

Epilogue

“My condolences, Your Highness.” A man with a rough-hewn face bows in front of Theo, tipping his hat. Theo gives a soft smile in return.

The man is dressed in deep black for mourning, except for the colourful fabric flower pinned to the chest of his tunic. Most of Mossgarde is donned in similar attire as they come to give their sympathies to the freshly crowned king.

Theo stands patiently next to the casket, back straight and hands clasped behind him as he accepts the steady stream of villagers and citizens from nearby. It is a long and grand affair and he is struggling to rid himself of the tension in his shoulders.

I reach up and squeeze his hand. He squeezes it back.

The small portrait of Honora, smiling and content, sits next to the casket. We had no bodyto bury, so instead, the villagers chose to each put in a small fabric flower. It is soon overflowing.

“Love lives on,” I whisper to Theo, kissing the back of his hand. His eyes are wet, but he smiles.

“Svellenta,” he says quietly, putting a hand on the casket.

We are slightly outside of central Mossgarde, in a bare field with the wind at our backs. The ground is firm, and the trees are sparse, allowing a view of the open sky. A polished statue of the Idol, Honora’s Saint, towers over us. We worked for weeks, carefully carving it from black rock—the colour of strength and perseverance. It glistens in the sun. Even though the Saints are not my gods, I now keep a small statue of Shivanya at my bedside to remind me of what justice truly means.

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