Page 239 of A Flame of the Phoenix

“I am with you. If you burn this world to ash, I’m burning with you. I’m on my knees for you, begging for you to hold on, to want this life. Bond with me, marry me, allow me the honor of ruling by your side. Because we will win. Together, and with our friends both standing and fallen, we cannot lose.”

Faythe sobbed, a sound that tore his heart to shreds. But it was an immense relief to see her emotions. She broke softly, and he broke with her. His sight slipped briefly to Zaiana, who gave an affirming nod. Faythe was letting go, and Zaiana was masterfully drawing the ruin’s power back into the stone slate.

“I want to live, Reylan. But I don’t know if I have the strength to see the end anymore,” she croaked.

“You do. But in times you think you don’t then lean on me. You’re not alone. Never.”

Faythe kneeled slowly, so calm it broke a terrifying chill over his skin. Before she let go of the ruin’s power completely, Reylan felt the tap into his mind, a gentle brush, like an omniscient presence that spread beyond this kingdom. He couldn’t believe it was possible, as Faythe spoke far and wide to the people of Ungardia.

“My name is Faythe Ashfyre, Queen of Rhyenelle and the last true Heir of Marvellas. I have touched death and seen worlds beyond ours. I have fallen, but I have never known defeat. From the ashes our world may burn to, I will always rise. And with me, so will all who stand with me. In this war we are not kingdoms—we are one people. Let your tears for the fallen water the ground we march on, for we, the living, are the soldiers who will grow peace from ashen soil. Never fear, never surrender, and always be ready. The beginning of the end is upon us.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Jakon

Jakon Kilnight harbored vengeance like wildfire through his veins in every marching step he took through Rhyenelle’s castle. For his wife, for Marlowe Kilnight, for the most caring, intelligent, and gentle soul to have ever lived, he would not stop until this world felt his grief.

With all the chaos, Jakon slipped past every guard. They all fought shadow creatures or raced through the halls to gather formation against the new foes. He’d left Faythe—there was nothing he could do against the darkness to save the Firebird anyway. He had no magick, no fae strength or speed. But he had a dagger in his hand and pain sharp enough to kill with it.

In the council room, only one person remained seated at the head. For a second, Jakon stopped still just past the threshold since Malin Ashfyre was so still. He clutched one hand covered fully in crimson to his neck, slumped into the tall red velvet seat, with his head hanging to the side.

No. He couldn’t be dead. His life washisto claim. For Marlow, his life was his!

Malin coughed—a tight, wheezing sound that flew his bloodshot eyes open, barely any white around his caramel irises anymore.

Jakon’s shoulders relaxed in relief, then they squared again with renewed retribution at the sight of his wife’s killer.

He couldn’t see straight; couldn’t think straight. Jakon stormed across the hall with reaping intent. Gripping the arm of the chair, the wooden legs screeched across the marble floor as Jakon turned Malin out to face him. Rage shook his whole body so violently he didn’t know where to begin unleashing it.

Malin’s eyes bulged from lack of air and bleeding out. Had Faythe slashed his throat enough to incapacitate him? Jakon had come prepared to face Malin in his full strength—maybe he would die tonight trying to kill him—but the prince was so weak, already dying. There was no satisfaction to watch him suffer when it was not by Jakon’s hand. That only enraged him more.

His hand lashed around Malin’s on his throat, rocking the chair back with the force. Malin choked, struggling against his hold. Malin was still fae, still stronger, but Jakon’s adrenaline-fueled wrath didn’t feel afraid.

“Why did she have to die!” Jakon yelled, accentuating his pain with another push, digging deeper into his neck wound.

Malin’s mouth floundered, and Jakon knew he couldn’t get answers unless he let go. Jakon’s anguish echoed through the hall, releasing his neck, but his other hand rose, and his dagger plunged into Malin’s thigh. Malin’s scream was a gurgle in his own blood. A wicked torture for a wicked soul.

Jakon stared down at the prince with his shoulders rising and falling to the beats of his impatient retribution. Malin’s pain subsided enough that he shuffled, trying to sit up more in the chair, but his purchase slipped on the side of the seat, slumping him down again.

This was hardly a victory when Malin’s life was already hanging on by a thread.

“She…” Malin choked again, and Jakon trembled with restraint. “She knew…too much.”

Jakon saw white. He pulled the dagger from Malin’s thigh, plunging it down into his other leg. Malin could hardly outwardly react to the pain, but his strangled cries were horrifying.

“She was far more than her power!” Jakon yelled. “She was everything good in this world. She was mine!” He pulled the dragger our again, aiming for his gut. “And you took her from me!” The blade lodged to the hilt.

Still, Malin held on.

Agony swam in his blood-filled eyes. “She saw…the end of the world.”

Jakon’s teeth clenched so tight.

“Her lie is as powerful as her truth,” Jakon muttered. Those were Marlowe’s last words, which had reeled in his mind as he’d wondered if there was something hidden in her meaning. He growled in frustration, turning his loathsome stare back to Malin. “Was it all worth it? Everything you’ve done to end here?”

“Jakon…” Malin coughed and choked. His eyes rolled to the back of his head before snapping back to him. He was borrowing minutes, perhaps seconds, now. “It’s all on you now.”

Malin’s body began to fall limp. Jakon removed the blade from his gut, making his eyes fly wide and lock onto his for his last breaths as he plunged the blade a final time into his heart.

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