My breath catches on that last thought.

Do they?

Is Des still out there?

My gaze sharpens on the soldier. Behind him, the door hangs open. Temper must’ve tipped him off that I was not in a good place.

“We need you,” the Night soldier repeats, shaking me a little.

His words finally register.

Our kingdom needs you.

I work my throat. He wants me to be a queen. To step up and rule now that my mate cannot.

The last decision I made killed my mate.

But there’s no one else left to make decisions. Every other ruler is dead or incapacitated.

I swallow and nod. “Okay,” I say, my voice hoarse.

He sets me down. I’m dripping luminous water all over the floor.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, my voice raw.

I know nothing about being a queen.

The soldier’s gaze travels over me.

“Rule. Rule and save us.”

The royal guard leaves soon after that. I don’t know how I manage to convince him that I’m alright. I’m not, and I probably shouldn’t be alone, even though I can’t bear the thought of sharing this grief with anyone else. It feels strangely personal.

I ring out my hair and then begin the laborious task of unpeeling my clothes and dressing in something dry. Even after I do, my wet hair drips onto the clothes.

Right about now Des would’ve dried my hair for me. He does weird, considerate things like that all the time.

Did.

I sit down heavily on my bed—our bed—a piece of paper rustling beneath me. The violent, breathless pain of my grief is slipping like poison through my veins.

I cover my eyes. Ugly, aching sobs rack my body.

I let it out, I let it all out until I feel drained dry of the last of my tears. Placing my hands on my thighs, I take a deep breath.

That’s about when I finally notice the unassuming piece of parchment that I’m sitting on, the paper crinkling every time I shift. It rests there, like Des just carelessly left it on the bed. But Des doesn’t do anything carelessly.

I pull it out from under me. It’s actually two pieces of paper, one a formal-looking document and a smaller note written by a familiar hand. I have to put the back of my palm to my mouth to stop another round of sobs.

Don’t be frightened of yourself, cherub. You are exactly as you should be. From flame to ashes, dawn to dusk, I am yours always. Till darkness dies.

~Your Bargainer

Des knew he was going to die.

That’s what this is—a post-mortem love note.

Suddenly I’m angry, brutally, grievously angry at him.

My hand shakes, the paper crinkling.

That bastard. How dare he leave me.

I almost don’t read the other piece of paper, I’m so furious. But then, this is all I have left of him. A short note and another piece of parchment.

Grimacing, I smooth out the paper, my eyes trailing over the words written in formal stanzas.

The Prophecy of Galleghar Nyx

Mighty Nyx came,

Mighty Nyx sought,

All that he could,

Of his dark lot.

In the deep night,

His kingdom rose,

Beware, great king,

Of that which grows.

Easy to conquer,

Easy to crown,

But even the strongest,

Can be cut down.

Raised in the shadows,

Reared in the night,

Your child will come,

And ascend by might.

And you, the slain,

Shall wait and see,

What other things,

A soul can be.

A body to curse,

A body to blame,

A body the earth,

Will not yet claim.

Beware the mortal,

Beneath your sky,

Crush the human,

Who’ll see you die.

Twice you’ll rise,

Twice you’ll fall,

Lest you can,

Change it all.

Or perish by day,

Perish by dawn,

The world believes,

You’re already gone.

So darken your heart,

My shadow king,

And let us see,

What war will bring.

I stare at the words for a long time. Horror, fear, and fury all churn within me. My emotions feel like a roulette table, spinning round and round. I’m not sure which emotion will win out.

Is this supposed to mean something to me? Because it doesn’t.

I set the parchment aside, my emotions spinning, spinning until eventually, they land on something like grim determination.

I will finish this. I will find the Thief, I will kill him and Galleghar along with him, and then I will scour the underworld for my lost mate. I won’t stop until Des is mine again.

Nothing else will do.

A knock on the door jerks me from my thoughts.

“Your Majesty?” The soldier who left me not so very long ago now calls out from the hallway. I guess he doesn’t trust me enough after all to leave me alone.

“Come in,” I call. I almost don’t recognize my voice. It’s cool and collected, like my world hasn’t just been upended.

Des is not here. Oh God, he’s not here and I have to still function.

You’ve functioned without him once before, back when you thought you’d never see him again. You’re an old hand at this.

But back then I at least knew that the Bargainer was out there somewhere in the vast universe, sipping espressos out of tiny cups and making deals with desperate men.

The heart might in fact be the shittiest organ out there because it can feel love and love is a terrible thing.

Hate is a much better emotion.

I have plenty of hate.

I let it heat up my veins as I get up and open the door.

“Your Majesty,” the guard says from the hallway, “the Queen of Flora is here, and she’s seeking sanctuary.”

Chapter 37

Mara Verdana is alive—alive and here in Somnia.

For a moment, I’m so shocked I forget about my own issues.

I can picture the Flora Queen so clearly in my mind’s eye. Her flame-red hair, those flowers twisted in her fiery locks. Her beautiful, poisonous smile.

Brazen, wicked Mara. By the end of my stay in her kingdom, she became a tragic figure. Like me, she watched her soulmate die. And also like me, she survived the ordeal.

“Get Temper,” I command one of the guards as I’m led to the throne room.

I might not have wanted the sorceress’s company as I fell apart, but I want her by my side for everything else.

The soldiers lead me to the throne room, and my throat bobs a little when I notice the single chair waiting for me. Someone discreetly removed the second one.

I take a seat, ignoring the room full of nobles and officials, here for one reason or another. My hands squeeze the armrests.

I’m barely breathing; I have no clue how I’m supposed to rule when I can hardly hold myself together.

The doors at the other end of the room are thrown open, and a retinue carries an ornate, velvet chair on slats. Sitting in it is the Flora Queen.

Her cheeks are gaunt, her flaming red hair has dulled, and the flowers growing in them are wilted, the edges of them browned.

The sight of her withering away, is sobering. Yet her chin is still raised in that haughty defiance I remember.

The retinue comes to a stop, their final footfalls echoing throughout the room, and the fairies carrying her cart now set it down.

In the silence that follows, one of the Flora guards trailing behind the procession steps forward.

“Her Majesty,” he announces, “Our Lady of Life, Mistress of the Harvest, Queen of the Flora Kingdom and All that Grows, Mara Verdana.”

Mara’s gaze falls to me. Even her eyes, which were once so strikingly green, have now lost their luster.