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But I have healed curses and broken bargains and held the love of every creature in all the Vale.

I am not my mother.

I am Rosalina O’Connell, and my magic is my own. Whatever I am capable of, it is limited only by my own beliefs about myself.

So there shall be no more limitations.

I know it in my heart. My magic cures.

The breeze tugs my hair, and it feels like courage. Closing my eyes, I reach for the glimmers of life, those golden orbs in my mind’s eye. My princes, the fae, the animals of the world—they’re all there. And like before, Sira’s creations are cold spots, not a part of Aurelia’s world.

But they can be a part of mine.

To each one, I extend the weave of the Vale, the same one that’s healed Castletree and restored magic to the realms, and offer a tether, like I would offer my hand. You are welcome. You are wanted. You are part of this world.

It’s up to them to take it.

64

Farron

The world is changing. Not only the land but everything. Everyone.

I wish I had my notebook.

Rosalina’s eyes are closed, and she hovers a few feet off the ground. Her wings flutter behind her. The magic emanating from her brushes over me like heat from a flame.

Nearby, I spy a cluster of goblins. Golden briars spring from the dirt, wrapping around their bodies. For three heartbeats, I can’t see anything beyond the thorns. Then the briars fall away. What is left is no creature I’ve seen in the Vale before. Instead of being covered in moss and rot, one goblin has flowers curling like hair from its head. Its skin has shifted from mold green to the bright color of new grass, speckled with pink spots.

I spin. A flock of fallen harpies rises out of golden briars. Their ash-gray skin now glimmers sky-blue. Long, silver hair flows down their backs, and their arms resemble swan wings.

I pull my glasses out of my pocket—which are only slightly cracked—to inspect further.

The water in the moat bubbles, and a dolphin-like creature leaps out, scales glittering and glowing. All Sira’s creations, gargoyles, trolls, the sea hags…they’re all transforming.

Jack leaps up, exclaiming in a language I don’t understand as golden briars embrace Kairyn.

Ezryn lurches toward his brother, then pauses. The golden briars fall away, revealing a man beneath. The tail and horns are gone, eyes dark brown instead of red. He wears no helm, his tawny skin streaked with dirt and blood, long black hair loose to his shoulders.

I only know his face from our brief time in Mount Rhuvenmark, but I truly recognize Kairyn from the resemblance he bears with Ezryn.

“Kai,” Ezryn says softly. I don’t think Ezryn ever thought he’d see his brother’s true face again.

There’s another sound, the whisper of a gasp. I wouldn’t have heard it if she weren’t right behind me. I chance a look over my shoulder to see Wrenley staring at Kairyn, her eyes wide and unblinking.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I fight to keep it down. This is like the ending of a romance novel that Rosalina would eat up. Two mates, torn apart by war, finally reunited at the end. Will she run to him? Leap into his arms? Will she⁠—

But Wrenley only squeezes her eyes shut, hands turning to fists. She stays like that for one heartbeat, maybe two, then slinks away behind Caspian, as if his shadow could hide her from Kairyn’s view.

Kairyn casts a look after her, opens his mouth…

And is quickly embraced in his brother’s arms as Ezryn tumbles to the ground and squeezes his brother into him.

“What’s happening?” An underfae staggers toward us. I’ve never spoken to her, but I recognize her from Voidseal Bridge. Aquila, the priestess and Faustrius’s second-in-command. She falls to her knees, gaze skyward. Golden vines crawl over her legs, her arms, then wrap around her horns before covering her completely. When they fall away, she appears…

Fae. Her hair has shifted from green to a soft red, her horns are gone, and her skin is olive. She blinks her eyes, dove-gray instead of yellow. Tentatively, she reaches behind her back, where two translucent wings flutter, spotted with pink and emerald. She begins to sob. “My wings…my wings.”

Around us, underfae leap into the air, each sprouting their own set of wings. Cheers and cries of delight arise.