Page 89 of The Sundered Blade

Oh yes.

Hope.

There were still refugees to house, a city to rebuild, politics to be wrangled, and prisoners to be dealt with. So many burdens he’d never thought would be his. But even as he contemplated the uncertainty of the future, that same fiery warmth settled in his heart and refused to die.

Whatever came in the days ahead, he would not face it alone, and that hope changed everything.

“I think,” he said, laying back on the grass with closed eyes and a crooked smile on his lips, “that a nap is in order. Someone wake me when all of the unpleasantness is over, would you?”

“You think that just because Karreya is unconscious that no one else will threaten to stab you?” Kyrion rumbled, jabbing the toe of his boot into Vaniell’s ribs. “Get up, Your Highness, or I will leave you to my mother’s tender mercies.”

Vaniell sighed, opened his eyes, and rose reluctantly to his feet. “Soon,” he said, with a theatrical sigh. “Soon, I will be king, and then maybe you will show more respect for my wishes.”

“I very much doubt it,” Leisa chimed in, “but then, it would not be the strangest thing to have happened in these past few months.”

Indeed, it would not.

And as the three of them made their way back into the city, towards all the changes that awaited them, Vaniell gave silent thanks for the strangeness that had led them all here, to the end of a road he’d embarked on so many years ago.

There was finally hope, not just for him, but for all of Abreia, and he could ask for no better ending than that.

EPILOGUE

Vaniell tugged at his collar and told himself sternly that he was not nervous. Prince Vaniell of Garimore did notgetnervous.

Except he wasn’t actually Prince Vaniell any longer. The Garimoran nobles had unanimously accepted his claim to the crown weeks ago, so today was just a formality. He would be making his first appearance as king, before informing his people of a few key changes he intended to make, along with a handful of decisions that had, indeed, already been made.

None of which were up for debate.

He knew of at least one person who was likely to argue with him, and it was the thought of that argument that was responsible for his nerves. But the matter was too important, and he did not intend to lose. Not this time.

The knock finally came, and he answered it after a long, deep sigh.

“Enter.”

The man who had come to fetch him was not immediately familiar, but once he took in the uniform of Farhall and adjusted his expectations…

“Zander, is it?”

“Indeed.” The man was perhaps in his forties, with brown skin and curling dark hair liberally laced with gray. His countenance was stern and his back remained perfectly straight as he bowed ever so slightly. “I was sent to escort you to the ceremony, Your Majesty.”

“Pah,” Vaniell scoffed. “I much preferred what you called me on the occasion of our last meeting. ‘You!’ wasn’t it?”

“And possibly worse,” the man admitted. “But I have hoped for some time that we would meet again so that I could tell you… You were right.”

Vaniell’s brows shot up. “A perilous admission, considering our relationship at the time. What exactly was I right about?”

“Your brother is indeed a good man,” Zander said quietly. “And I am grateful for both my own sake and that of my queen that you took it upon yourself to convince us of that fact.”

Vaniell looked down with a rush of embarrassment. He hadn’t done it for gratitude.

“But you were also wrong,” Zander continued.

“Ah, now there are words I am far more familiar with.” Vaniell offered the older man a quirky grin and a wink. “Of what do I stand accused?”

“You told me that if we ever met again, that you would have failed, and Abreia would be no more.”

Oh. He had said that, hadn’t he? Vaniell laughed softly as he remembered the lonely, desperate prince who had run from his engagement while carrying the weight of Abreia’s survival on his shoulders.

---