But as soon as I think it, I remember how my mother had no shame in crying when it was necessary. She never saw it as a weakness; rather, she believed it a strength to bear one’s soul. It was only the Kalovaxians who believed there was shame in it, and they don’t have the power to shame me anymore.

Looking out at the crowd, I realize that I am not the only one on the edge of tears, not the only one who has lost someone, not the only one to find tonight bittersweet. To pretend otherwise would be to do a disservice to both the dead and the ones they’ve left behind.

So I raise my glass high in the air and wait for the crowd to do the same.

“To Astrea,” I say, and this time my voice comes out clear and true, heavy with tears, but still strong. “To our land, our gods, and our people, both living and dead, who will never—never—wear chains again.”

“To Astrea,” the crowd echoes back and, as one, we drink.

Epilogue

THE THRONE ROOM IS AS silent as a crypt, empty of everyone except me. I’m sure that if I stepped outside this room, I would hear the sounds of celebratory reveling still pouring in from the banquet hall even now that the sun is rising and a new day has been born, but with the door closed, there is no sound at all except for the quiet rustling of my dress as I cross the wide expanse toward the throne, each step cautious.

The wine from the toasts has made my mind fuzzy at the edges, but I feel everything. Triumph, yes, but also grief, for Blaise and the others we’ve lost, and even for Cress, if I’m to be truly honest.

But I’m home, I remind myself.

This is not the throne room I grew up in. Though Blaise’s earthquakes were small and targeted enough to leave most of the room intact, it still appears worse for wear. After more than a decade with the Kalovaxians, the tile floors no longer glimmer in the early-morning sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. The floors are cracked and dirty, and every surface here looks in need of a good clean. The chandelier is too dusty to provide much light. The walls are dingy and stained. Even the throne itself looks worse for wear, the obsidian dull and waxy.

The Kalovaxians have always been good at taking things they wanted, less good at caring for things they had.

The wall that borders the garden balcony has been hastily repaired by a group of Earth Guardians to keep the whole palace from crumbling, but the cracks are still visible. The ground is still strewn with small bits of rubble. Maybe I’ll have them leave it like this, cracks and all, so that we never forget what happened here.

In the pale light of the morning sun, the throne room is golden and soft. Like something out of a dream. Even now, I’m not entirely sure this isn’t just that. Maybe in a moment, I’ll wake up in a tent outside the capital, or on a ship, or in Sta’Crivero, or maybe even in my old room in this palace, surrounded by Shadows, a prisoner in my own home. But if this is a dream, I intend to savor it for as long as I can.

When I was a child, I hated my mother’s throne. I imagined it wrapping black tendrils around her, holding her in place and turning her into someone I didn’t know. No longer my mother, but the Queen. I resented it and I feared it and I always gave it a wide berth.

Now, though, I walk toward it. I imagine my mother sitting upon it, as she did before the siege. I see her comfortable, legs crossed, hands twined in her lap. I see her with the same black-gold crown I wear now, with her head held high as she listened to the people who came to see her, to ask for her help. I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure, but I like to believe she was happy on that throne, was happy as Queen.

The obsidian arm of the throne is cold beneath my fingertips as I trace the design of flames etched into it. Countless generations of my ancestors have sat upon this throne. I would have learned their names one day, but anyone who would have known them, any record of their existence, has likely been lost to the Kalovaxians. The thought of that makes my heart ache.

Though I don’t want to think about her, I can’t help but imagine Cress on this throne. Did she find it comfortable? Or did it frighten her as much as it used to frighten me? I wonder if she will always haunt me. Part of me hopes she will, that I’ll hold on to a sliver of her, no matter how terrible that sliver may be.

Part of me doesn’t quite know yet how to live in this world without her.

I circle the dais, letting my hand trail over the throne’s hard, curving edges. When I reach the front again, I take a slow, shaking breath before lowering myself into the seat. Then I place my arms on the armrests and sit up as straight as I can.

This is not my mother’s throne anymore, I realize with a jolt that I feel down to my bones. It is not the Kaiser’s or Cress’s or any of my nameless ancestors.

This throne is mine, and mine alone, and I am no longer afraid of it.