Page 103 of Veradel
But the lullaby that escapes my lips is still for them: an altered version to give them the end to the story they never got to witness themselves.
Round and round, the Monster prowled,
Starved for the rightful throne.
He used his claws, he used his teeth.
He tore down the ancient stone.
Even as Lucan listens, his face rapt with attention, I continue to sing forher, for the tiniest sliver of a chance that somehow, the light that once ebbed and flowed in this body before me can hear.
On the vaguest whisper of a hope that one day, we will all get an experiencebeyondlife. To smile. To hug. To say hello again.
On and on the girl did march,
Starved for the mythical light.
She, a nightmare, he, a monster…
Together, they made it right.
I lean my forehead against her one last time, then finally pick myself up. Catching Lucan’s eye, I sniff and give a half-smile. “I know. I’m a better healer than singer.”
He shakes his head, nothing but that same rapt attention all over his face. “Your voice isn’t about tone or cadence or pitch, Saskia. It’s about the words you put out in the world when you have the freedom to do so. And I think your words…” He grazes a thumb along my cheek. “...are as beautiful as the rest of you.”
I clear the lump out of my throat and give a shaky exhale. Then I nod.
“I’ll admit, they’re more beautiful thanthatsound.”
We both glance over our shoulders as a few citizens start to drag the Guardians’ heavy, lifeless bodies past us, the sound scraping across the floor like table legs.
Lucan winces. “Yeah, I’ll go help with that.”
As I watch, he strides over to the citizens who are already wiping their brows and throws two lifeless, marble statues over each bulging shoulder before marching toward the double doors again.
Knowing that he’ll have plenty of fun throwing them off the balcony like he did to Arad, I finally turn to assess the room, squinting for any signs of…
“Malcolm!” I cry, rushing over to the figure Taika is bending over between the third and fourth thrones.
My breath whooshes out of me in stark relief when I see Malcolm’s chest rise, and his eyes flutter open to give me a weak smile.
“You’re all right,” I tell him, my own smile wobbling.
“Better than ever,” he grunts. “I got to see history in the making.”
“You got towritehistory in the making,” I correct him. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”
And he certainly paid for it. The gash Rosalyn gave him is a lot worse than I initially thought. As Taika busies himself replacing the bandages beneath a makeshift tourniquet, I see how deep it goes—all the way through muscle, to the bone—and flinch away.
Malcolm, however, looks haunted and proud of himself at the same time, probably remembering how Rosalyn used her power to try to control our bodies what feels like so long ago.
“I didn’t realize it was so bad until the fight was over, but it was worth it.”
He smiles, especially when a certain coworker limps over with a water jug. Walter, bruised and bloody but in one piece, brings the jug to Malcolm’s lips and lets him take a few sips before he kisses away the droplets dribbling down his chin.
Satisfied that they’re both going to be okay and finally together, I stand up again, casting my gaze around the throne room to all the tentative interactions that sprout between servants and citizens, Chosen Ones and werewolves. Vivian and Merrick are assembling makeshift stretchers, made from sheets they must have collected from the thousands of beds in this palace, to help transport the wounded to the Healing Center.
Soren’s own voice drops an octave as he stares with blazing intensity across the room and says, “If I’d known how beautiful the women in here were, I would have tried to speed up the whole Wall destruction process.”
