The Final Chapter

Twentieth of September, 813
 
From the desk of Viscountess Elinor Sterling-Blumett
 
I have never been thought of as one given to sudden impulses. No, throughout my life, I have been described in ways both flattering and unkind—astute and dependable by some, stuffy or uninteresting by others. Above all, I have been a planner. Each moment of my day is accounted for, every task carefully assigned to its proper hour. Such has been my manner for as long as I can remember, though it must be confessed that this tendency towards order and procedure intensified sharply after the loss of both my father and my brother.
 
In the days following their passing, I was untethered, rudderless amidst a sea of upheaval. All that had once been so firmly in my grasp slipped away. The bank that had been my focus was taken from me, and I was thrust instead into the management of the mines. My mother, left fragile and trembling under the weight of her grief, looked to me for support, her shattered nerves requiring attention I scarcely knew how to provide.
 
It pains me to admit that I did not like the person I became in the aftermath of my father’s and brother’s deaths. Cynical and steely. Bitter. But truly, what reason had I to persist in hope? My dearest friend, my brother, was gone. The business I had poured my heart into, taken from me. And now, society demanded I subject myself to its trivialities and secure a marriage I had no desire to entertain. It was enough to drive even the most agreeable woman to her wits’ end.
 
Feeling the chaos close in on every side, I did what I thought necessary to stave it off: I tightened my grip on all that I could control. Every action, every moment, was governed by an unyielding sense of order. My family, bless them, allowed me this rigidity without protest, though their pitying glances were impossible to ignore.
 
In time, I found my footing within the mining operations, a field that had long held my heart. Yet, even in my success, there lingered a bitterness I could not dispel. The shadow of what might have been hung heavy over me. To see Dominic handed so easily all that I had worked tirelessly to achieve was a wound that festered in silence. It was not envy alone, but a deep sorrow for a future that could never be reclaimed.
 
And then, as if by fate, I met Dahlia. My brilliant, talented, beautiful wife. How extraordinary those words feel as I write them now—how improbable that they should ever have come to pass! I had long ago resigned myself to the notion of never marrying. My life was to be devoted to my work, my studies, and the singular purpose of supporting my family. I was content, or so I believed, for what could marriage offer but another soul to consider and care for when I could scarcely manage my own feelings?
 
Moreover, I was not, by any measure, a person who inspired affection. In business and academic circles, I navigated with ease, yet on a personal level, I was thought brusque, even abrasive. It was of no consequence. Davinor had been the charming one, the partner of everyone’s dreams—intelligent, kind, and endlessly charismatic. The family had no need of me for such matters; my value was in what I could accomplish, not who I was.
 
But then Davinor was gone. The weight of my family’s future bore down on my shoulders, and I accepted it with grim determination. My purpose became clear: to secure an advantageous match that would bring the Sterling name to even more prominence. It was a duty, and I approached it as I did all others, with diligence and unwavering focus.
 
It was during this time that the Countess of Blumett extended her invitation for tea. The Blumetts were formidable in both society and magical prowess, and the connection was of great interest to us all. Duty called, and I answered, fully expecting the encounter to be one of necessity rather than pleasure.
 
How mistaken I was!
 
I recall descending the staircase that day, prepared to engage with a family I assumed would be preoccupied with society’s frivolities—lace and perfumes, silks and florals. How pleasantly astonished I was to find instead a family of remarkable intellect and curiosity, their conversations brimming with insight and wit. And at the heart of it all was Dahlia.
 
From the first, she unsettled me in ways I could not articulate. She challenged my carefully constructed world, shaking its foundations with her brilliance and charm. What began as an obligation transformed into something unspoken but undeniable.
Then the world descended into chaos. It began with Dominic’s friend Gregor, taken under dreadful circumstances, followed by Nicholas’ Fitz, the attack on the Menagerie, and Dominic’s subsequent arrest. Each event was a fresh wave of calamity, culminating in the siege of Shadowby Castle and the battle at Justice Square.
 
I truly believed I would not survive that castle. Part of me had accepted it, even welcomed it. My focus, as ever, was the family. If my death could protect them, could save Dominic, then so be it. What was my life compared to the future of those I loved? Even if it meant robbing Dahlia and myself of any chance at happiness, it was a sacrifice I was prepared to make.
 
Yet fate decreed otherwise. Dove and I fled that cursed tower, leaving destruction in our wake, only to find more awaiting us in the square. The sight was harrowing—burned and frozen bodies, blood pooling in the craters. I saw Frankincense commanding an army of tiny Fae, Nicholas desperately calling for aid as Lily lay motionless, and Philip Shadowby, standing apart with sword and pistol in hand.
 
Choosing compassion over vengeance, I brought Frank Blumett to Nicholas’ side to tend to Lily’s wounds. But even amidst the cacophony of battle, the crack of a gunshot was unmistakable. Turning, I saw Philip, his pistol smoking, his expression stricken. Bernard Vaneforge stood before him, equally shocked, before crumpling to the ground.
 
I found in that moment that sometimes inaction is just as deadly as the choices we make.
 
Rage consumed me. Grasping Philip, I soared into the sky, driven by a tempest of fury and grief. Yet his resignation, his utter surrender, extinguished my anger as quickly as it had flared. I let him fall—not as punishment, but because I could no longer bear the weight of him, of it all.
 
The rest of the battle was a blur, a chaotic cacophony of sound and fury. I scarcely recall the moments between Philip’s fall and the stillness that followed, save for the dreadful weight in my chest and the ringing in my ears. Justice Square was a ruin, the ground littered with debris and stained crimson. Somewhere amidst it all, I found myself kneeling in the rubble, my hand resting on the shoulder of a man I had come to consider a dear friend. His blood soaked through my sleeve, warm and sticky, as I stared at the devastation around me.
 
Eventually Dahlia knelt beside me, her voice low and steady, weaving together a melody of song and druidic magic. The sound was achingly beautiful, a thread of hope stitched through the fabric of despair. I do not know if it was enough to save the wounded lying around us, but it saved me in that moment. Her presence, her song—it was a tether, anchoring me to the present, keeping me from drowning in the depths of my own grief.
 
Eventually, the battle’s end was declared. The enemy was routed, my family accounted for—alive, though battered and bloodied. But my friend was dead, and the sight of his lifeless form haunts me still. I could not linger in the square any longer, could not bear the weight of what we had endured.
 
When I returned to Sterling Manor, the composure I had fought so hard to maintain crumbled almost instantly. My mother opened her arms to me without hesitation. I fell into her embrace, unable to hold back the flood of tears that had been building since the castle. She held me as if I were still a child, murmuring soft reassurances as I wept into her shoulder.
 
For the first time in years, I allowed myself to grieve—openly, freely, without fear of judgment or reprisal. I grieved for my friend, for the lives lost, for the innocence stolen by the horrors of that day. But most of all, I grieved for the person I had been, the person I would never be again.
 
How strange it feels now to look back now and realize how impulsive I had been in the time following the battle. Me, who had spent my life mapping every moment, orchestrating each decision with precision. And yet, in that moment, none of it mattered. Order, planning, logic—all were swept away by the urgency of my heart.
 
When I asked Dahlia to run away with me, I was not entirely sure she would agree. To my immense relief, she did, her eyes alight with the same need to escape, to be untethered from the weight of our respective families, even if just for a single day. It was selfish, perhaps, but it was ours.
 
Our departure was swift and unsentimental, save for the hurried notes we left behind. I cannot imagine what our families must have thought upon reading them—how their minds must have raced with questions and speculations. But in that moment, the opinions of others were mere whispers compared to the clarity of what I felt.
 
Within the hour, we were riding out of Donlon, the wind catching in our cloaks as the sun dipped low on the horizon. The city’s bustle gave way to the quiet of the countryside, and with every mile, the tension in my chest eased. I remember glancing over at Dahlia, her hair catching the last rays of sunlight, and thinking that I would give up the world to keep that image with me always.
 
The chapel where we wed was a modest one, tucked away amidst rolling hills and ancient oaks. Its stone walls bore the weight of centuries, and the air inside carried a sacred stillness. It was perfect in its simplicity.
 
The priest, a kindly man with a voice like the rumble of distant thunder, led us through our vows. Dahlia’s hands were warm in mine, her gaze steady and unwavering. When I spoke my own vows, I barely recognized my voice—soft, unsteady, vulnerable in a way I had never allowed myself to be. I meant every word, and as I looked into her eyes, I saw the same certainty reflected back at me.
 
There were no grand celebrations, no raucous laughter or clinking of champagne glasses. Just the two of us, standing together in that quiet chapel, as the last of the day’s light painted the stained glass in hues of amber and rose. It was both more and less than I had imagined my wedding would be.
 
I had thought such a moment would feel monumental, that I would feel transformed. Instead, it was something quieter, deeper—an anchor settling firmly within me. The weight of the world did not vanish, but it became bearable, shared between us.
We stayed the night in a small inn just outside the village. The room was modest, the bed narrow, but it felt like a palace. We spoke for hours, whispering secrets and dreams as the candle burned low. For the first time in years, I felt truly free, as if I had stepped into a world where nothing mattered but us.
 
Tomorrow would bring reality crashing back. Letters to be written, explanations to be given, responsibilities to be resumed. But that night, as I lay beside Dahlia, I let myself believe—if only for a moment—that the world could wait a little longer.