Page 235 of Of Iron and Moonlight

He rose and crossed to her, gathering his own blanket around them both.

“Good morning,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

Her heart tightened at the simplicity of it. “Good morning.”

“Shall we have some tea?” he asked.

Kora nodded. “I will find a pot.”

Duncan shook his head. “Allow me.”

He pulled away and disappeared, returning a short while later with a kettle, two cups, and a tray. Kora curled into one of the deep chairs and tucked her legs beneath her. She watched him move about the room with an ease that quieted the last of her unrest.

Here he seemed different.

Not a duke. Not a soldier. Not a third son.

Simply Duncan.

She had found at last where she belonged.

Epilogue

Norrelian scholars, Albrecht once told him, believed the residue of ancient betrayals still clung to the ridges of the Niverna Mountains and lingered in the shadows of Selenar Castle—traces from a time before the first fae set foot on Oraith, their consequences plaguing the land and cursing all who walked it beyond reversal.

That history prickled along Firrigan’s spine as he was led through a violet-lit corridor toward Oorlon’s chambers. He thought of his own broken vows—obligations he had never wanted, curdled into a life spent watching others take what should have been his.

Born not to inherit. Not to rule. Always second: second son, second thought, second choice. His father’s hand had belonged to Wolmer. His mother’s affection had been spent on Wolmer’s children. Even the moonpriests had offered him only polite smiles when he spoke of rising to Moonfather—smiles that indulged a boy with dreams too large for the Sanctum.

Yet something in him had refused to die. It endured like a coal buried beneath ash, waiting for breath. The path he walked now belonged to the man neglect had shaped. And the second son of House derVaelclair no longer carried the air of a Moonwarden denied his future. Now that the silks of his station were gone, he wore hunger instead.

Hunger for a crown.

For recognition.

For the certainty that his life would never again be eclipsed by another man’s birth.

“Your Majesty,” Firrigan said, lowering himself to one knee before Oorlon.

The High King of Norrelia fixed his violet-green gaze on Firrigan with a focus that cut through him. “I grow tired of humans wandering into my kingdom. What is it you want?”

“I come to you not as a servant of the human empire, but as one cast aside,” Firrigan said, bowing his head. “I believe you and I can serve each other’s interests.”

“Serve me?” Oorlon scoffed. “The last human who promised the same failed rather thoroughly in fulfilling his end of the bargain.”

“I am not Kryovarre.”

“That is true,” Oorlon replied. “You are worse.” He chuckled. “I am told you ran at his beck and call in the palace, carrying out orders like a loyal hound.”

“So he believed.” Firrigan smirked. “But his ambitions were never mine.”

Oorlon regarded him with faint irritation. “Then tell me, what are your ambitions?”

Firrigan lifted his head and met the king’s eyes. “I meant to help Kryovarre retake the throne,” he said, “so I could remove him and claim it myself.”

“Ah.” Oorlon exhaled, now faintly amused. “You could not simply seize your beloved brother’s throne. The people would have despised you for that.” He stroked his chin. “You intended to arrive as the savior—the derVaelclair who avenged his murdered brother, struck down the wicked duke, and restored the throne to its rightful House.”

“Precisely.” Firrigan’s smile deepened. “Valdir’s error was assuming my aid was support.”