“My queen” is all he says.
I flinch, hating the fear that blossoms at the title. I don’t want him to call me that, but the way he looks up at me is something I’ve wanted all my life. Like he sees me, truly sees me, no matter how I am. Covered in blood and dirt and dust, glowing with the potential of a renewed kingdom.
Like he sees all the sacrifices he’s made and doesn’t regret a single one.
I reach for the locket when another hand beats me there. My fingers pause, outstretched in the dusty air, lingering over Mather’s hand as he takes the locket from his father.
Mather unclasps the other half and slides it off his neck. He holds both halves out to me, his jewel-blue eyes glistening gray under the overcast sky. “Yours, my queen,” he says. His hands shake and he runs his tongue over his lips. Everything about him is strong, unwavering, but the look in his eyes speaks of a deeper fear. Fear of unbecoming, fear of all his many, many responsibilities shifting onto someone else’s shoulders.
I lift my hand. A hundred things push at me, a hundred different ways I want to apologize or grovel or cry. I’m sorry it’s me. I’m sorry his whole life was created to keep me safe, his entire existence shattered around this one simple lie. I’m sorry we had to grow up so abruptly. I’m sorry for everything.
But I don’t say any of that. I take the locket pieces from his hand, keeping my eyes on his, my mouth open like maybe, just maybe, I’ll find the right words.
Mather exhales when the locket leaves his skin. He folds into himself while at the same time rising up, standing with the weight of all that has happened. His lips twitch into the pale beginnings of a smile but he stays there, suspended between happiness and shock.
“I am yours to command, my queen,” he whispers, and bows his head.
I place my palm on his cheek before I even realize I’ve moved, the cut on my shoulder making me cringe.
I wish we wouldn’t hurt. Not now. Not after all this.
Numbness shoots up my hand and my eyes widen. I didn’t mean to call on the magic, but it’s alive now, awakened, and the numbness climbs, grows, and surges from my palm into Mather’s cheek.
He gasps. My whole body goes cold, icy and brilliant, and a new light shines in Mather’s eyes. It chases away his exhaustion and fear, filling him with the same strength that filled the Winterians. Nothing definite. Just a small ray to keep him going, to keep his uncertainty at bay until he finds the will to face it.
Is he relieved to have the burden of being king gone? Or is he just afraid?
Mather steps back, pulling out of my hand, and slides to the ground, mimicking Sir’s stance. Behind them, the cheering has dissipated into reverent awe, and every Winterian slowly slides to the ground. Their heads bow, their white hair smudged brown and red and black. My breath tightens, and I can’t decide whether I want them to stop or not. They look so happy. So whole. And I can’t break that happiness, no matter how terrifying it is that I’m the reason they’re bowing. Me, the orphaned soldier-girl.
I spot Dendera near the gate with Henn beside her as they kneel, both of them locked in an embrace that’s tight and intimate and makes me nearly intoxicated with happiness. Greer and Finn lean on each other, a bloody gash through Finn’s left leg. Conall, and Garrigan, and Nessa, and even Deborah—everyone is happy, and here, and safe.
And Theron. Behind them all, Theron lingers beyond the gate, a contingent of his father’s men battle-bruised around him. His eyes meet mine across the expanse between us and he smiles, a slow, deliberate smile that echoes the reverence of this moment. He bows his head, mimicking the Cordellans, the Autumnians, absorbing the awe and wonder of a kingdom that isn’t theirs. All of them smiling under the relief that came when Angra’s body vanished.
Maybe Angra did vanish. Maybe the Decay disintegrated and ripped him down with it. So many maybes. So many years of thinking maybe they’ll come, maybe they’ll save us, maybe we’ll see our kingdom whole again someday.
I bend down to Mather and Sir and put one hand on each of their shoulders. They look up at me, tears making them look morbidly happy.
I exhale and smile. “Let’s go home.”
With Angra gone, the other three work camps fall easily. Spring dissolves into a panicked chaos without its king, which makes our merged army’s job even easier as we move through the kingdom, fighting off the soldiers who hold the other Winterians captive. Any exhaustion or fear or pain the Winterians felt in the camps is snuffed out beneath the roaring joy we bring when we save them. It’s something I never get tired of, seeing their faces alight with the knowledge that they are free.