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Epilogue: A season of light

Months passed.

The leaves began to turn gold, the winds cooler, and for the first time in years, the woods were quiet. Not silent, for life thrived—children laughed in the rebuilt villages, blacksmiths rang their hammers again, and the songs of birds returned to trees once choked in smoke. But the quiet was one of peace. Of breathing.

I walked often without guards now.

The people didn’t bow as much anymore. They smiled. They met my gaze. I liked that. I wanted them to see their queen not as an untouchable figure of fate, but as someone who chose this path for their sake. For the hope of a future where war stories would be just that—stories.

One evening, I returned to the grove where I’d first met the Eldertree, a sacred place older than any scroll. I placed my hand on its bark, whispering a silent thanks.

Ashley joined me not long after, carrying two cups of warmed berry wine.

“You’re becoming a symbol, you know,” she said, handing me one. “I heard one of the children in the village say they want to ‘grow up to be like Queen Diana—who punches shadows.’”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “I don’t want to be a symbol. Just a leader. One who can sleep at night.”

“You’ve earned more than sleep,” she said gently. “But you’re wise to stay grounded. Power can poison even the purest intentions.”

I glanced at her. “You think I’ll become like him one day?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Because you fear it. That’s what keeps you from it. Malachi never feared himself—he believed he was owed everything.”

I looked back at the trees. “He’ll return.”

Ashley nodded. “Yes. He will. But next time, you won’t be standing alone.”

I smiled at that. It was true. We had allies now. Kingdoms once divided by politics and pride were beginning to reach out. The Flame had ignited more than just power—it had awakened unity.

Still, there was an ache I couldn’t name. Perhaps it was the knowledge that peace is always temporary. That the next war, when it came, might cost more than we could afford. But for now, the world was breathing. And so was I.

A few nights later, I stood on the balcony of my hall, gazing at the stars. They stretched endlessly, a reminder of how small we were—but how brightly we could shine when we chose to.

A small voice called behind me.

“Mother?”

I turned. My son stood there, wrapped in a blanket, his eyes sleepy.

I knelt and opened my arms.

“What are you doing up, love?” I asked.

“I had a dream,” he whispered, snuggling close. “There was a man made of smoke. But you were there too. You told him to go away, and he listened.”

I held him tightly, heart catching.

“Then that means the world is still listening,” I murmured.

He smiled. “You’ll protect us forever, won’t you?”

I kissed his forehead.

“I’ll try, my love. With everything I have.”

And as he drifted to sleep in my arms, I looked back to the stars and promised myself:

No matter the darkness, I would always be the light.