I wake slowly.
Not with panic.
Not with the echo of screams or fire clawing at my lungs.
But with warmth.
Soft sheets. Steady air. The muted glow of daylight filtering through tall windows and brushing my skin like a promise kept. For a moment, I don't move. I just breathe. Deep. Full. The kind of breath that reaches places of grief once strangled.
Midday.
I can tell by the way the sun spills across the bed, lazy and unhurried, painting gold along the floorboards. I turn my head instinctively—and my chest tightens for a second when I find the other side of the bed empty.
Kieran isn't here.
The ache comes quietly. Not sharp. Not suffocating. Just… present. Like a scar you trace without meaning to. I feel him, somewhere in the castle bustling around.
I sit up slowly, the sheets slipping down my waist, and for the first time since everything shattered, I realize something startling.
I slept.
Not collapsed.
Not exhausted into unconsciousness.
I slept.
That realization alone brings tears to my eyes.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, stretching muscles that feel sore but alive. I catch my reflection briefly in the mirror across the room—hair loose, eyes tired, but steady. Still me. Changed, yes. But still Samantha.
I wash my face, run water over my wrists, grounding myself in the small rituals that once kept me sane when the world felt too loud. The grief is still there. It always will be. Cameran and Enoch sit heavy in my chest, their absence a hollow that no power could ever fill.
But it doesn't cripple me anymore.
It doesn't knock the breath from my lungs or drop me to my knees.
It just… aches.
Emma stirs softly inside me, not sharp or snarky the way she used to be. Her presence is calmer now. Older.
'Grief doesn't leave,' she murmurs gently. 'It just learns where to sit.'
I swallow hard. I miss her, I admit. I miss them both.
'I know,' Emma answers. 'But you felt it. You saw it. They're happy. Together. Whole.'
The image flashes unbidden in my mind—sunlight, laughter, the ocean stretching endlessly. Cameran's grin. Enoch's arms around her waist. My parents smiling like the world never hurt them.
I know, I whisper back.
As I dress and step into the hallway, the memories try to crowd in.
The attack.
The chaos.
The betrayal.
The blood.
The moment my power answered my grief without restraint.
There's a flicker of guilt—old and reflexive—but it doesn't take root. I know what I did. I know what burned. And I know this, too:
The Moon Goddess flowed through me.
But the choices?
They were mine.
I don't flinch from that truth anymore.
I descend the stairs slowly, my steps echoing through the castle, and I feel it then—not fear, not uncertainty—but something settling into place.
Acceptance.
The crown no longer feels like a weight pressing down on my skull. It feels… aligned. Like something that finally fits.
I walk into the dining room, already hoping—absurdly—that lunch has been left out, that something normal has survived all of this.
And I stop.
Kieran is there.
Melanie sits nearest to him, the twins flanking her both sides, both of them hovering in that unconscious way mated males do—hands brushing shoulders, fingers curling protectively. Callen stands near the table, arm draped around Mayla's shoulders as she leans into him, her expression tired but steady.
For a split second, everything in me goes still.
Then they notice me.
Every chair scrapes back at once.
They stand.
Heads bow.
"Our Queen."
"Your Majesty."
"Sire."
The words ripple through the room like a tide.
My throat tightens.
I nod gently, not trusting my voice yet, and cross the room to Kieran. I press a kiss to his cheek—brief, familiar, grounding—and only when I sit do they follow, one by one, reclaiming their seats.
No one speaks.
They wait.
My gaze drifts—unbidden, unavoidable—to the two empty chairs at the table.
Cameran's.
Enoch's.
The silence sharpens.
"I—" My voice cracks, and I stop, breathing through it. "We can't have a normal funeral."
I smile sadly, blinking fast. "Cameran would haunt me if we didn't live it up."
Kieran's hand closes over mine instantly, warm and solid. "Then we won't make it normal," he says quietly. "We'll have a party. A warrior's send-off. In their honor."
"With tequila," Melanie adds thickly, swiping at her nose.
"Cameran loved her tequila," Mayla says, voice soft but sure.
Something in my chest loosens. I hadn't realized how deeply they'd all grown to love her. How effortlessly Cameran had woven herself into their lives.
"A warrior's burial wouldn't be honored without tequila and a little roughhousing," David says, clearing his throat.
"Enoch would enjoy that too," Dawson adds quietly.
I look around the table, at the shared smiles and misty eyes, and for the first time since losing them, my grief feels… communal.
Not something I have to carry alone.
"It's settled then," I say softly. "A warrior's party."
As if on cue, a warm breeze slips through the room—gentle, playful, unmistakable. It brushes my cheek, lifts a loose strand of hair, dances across the table.
Everyone feels it.
Melanie's breath hitches. The twins tense. Mayla's eyes widen.
"She kept her promise," Mayla whispers.
Callen frowns. "What promise?"
Kieran's lips curve into a soft, knowing smile. "She said she'd haunt us all."
A laugh breaks through the grief—quiet, genuine.
And for just a moment, it feels like Cameran is right there with us with Enoch not too far away admiring her like he always did.
Still swearing.
Still laughing.
Still home.