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September 22 - September 25, 2025
“Get up,” the voice said. I tore my eyes away from the sky, away from my hand, to the angular face of the man who leaned over me. He swept a strand of long, fair hair behind his ear and gave me an appraising stare. We had never met—not directly. But of course I recognized him. I’d seen him in countless paintings. I’d seen his visage illuminated over the skyline of Sivrinaj, the capital of the House of Night. And I’d seen his likeness torn down by Rishan soldiers, after Raihn had killed him. Vincent—dead vampire king of the House of Night—held out a hand to me. “Get up,” he said. “I hear we
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“Mische Iliae.” Vincent clutched my arm, yanking me from the riptide. “You cannot go. Not yet.”
“I’m giving credit to its rightful owner. I did not kill Atroxus. Mische Iliae did, and she deserves to have her name painted in the stars for it.”
Mische Iliae would be remembered by the bones of time itself, and I knew it because I would write her story there with my blood if I had to.
As if the gods had seen some beauty in mortality but failed to realize that the imperfection of it was what made it remarkable.
“Mische Iliae, Dawndrinker or Shadowborn, living or dead, I will never let you go.”
“We should all be afraid of power. Anyone who isn’t doesn’t deserve to wield it.
“For whatever of your mistakes, Mische Iliae,” he said, quietly, firmly, “for whatever of your faults, for whatever unintended pains you may bring this world, I will love you anyway.”
Raihn had stood so abruptly his chair nearly tipped over. He breathed my name in a single exhale of relief.
“You have,” he said, “so much explaining to do. So. Much.”
“I get to ask questions now. Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea the things that we have been doing to find you? You couldn’t send us a letter? A few fucking sentences saying, Hello, Raihn. How’s the weather? I’m alive!”
Luce. The best girl.
“Do you think I don’t know what this is like? To lose the—” His voice caught. “The greatest love you’ve ever known? I do know this. And it was the fault of my own mistakes. No one else’s. No, Mische Iliae. I’m not here to earn Nyaxia’s favor. I am here because someone I once loved very much believed in the power of fate. The power of even the most inconsequential person to change it. Her goddess sent me to you, not my own. And I know that there is nothing I can ever do to right the terrible ways I wronged her. Not in life, and certainly not in death. But.” He leaned closer, fury burning in the
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“You slayed a god,” Vincent said. “And you hold a piece of Alarus’s power within you, just as your lover did.”
“A tiny, stolen piece,” I said. “I don’t have his blood.” “Blood.” He scoffed. “What do you think gave your lover the best of his power? A drop of a god’s lineage, diluted by a dozen generations? You found his crown, his eye, his heart. How do you think you brought yourself closer to life? Did you think Asar did that? No. You were the one who wielded the eye of Alarus. You climbed out of Srana’s forge, remade. You.”
“The underworld is not the territory of the gods,” he said. “It is the kingdom of the dead. And the dead have chosen you.”
We can be imperfect together.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, Asar Voldari, Warden of Morthryn, king of the underworld, heir of Alarus. I love you, and in this life or the next, worlds mortal or divine, I will never let you go.”
“I am, you idiot. I am interested. It’s just the most Asar marriage proposal I’ve ever heard.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “ ‘I am, you idiot,’ ” he repeated. “The most Mische proposal acceptance I’ve ever heard.”
In the darkness, I found solace. In the underworld, I found hope. And here, in this twin soul, in this love we built together, I finally found it: Home.
