The Last Fey Queen: Book Two Of The Dreamweaver Legacy by Vincent C. Pidgeon

Author:Vincent C. Pidgeon [Pidgeon, Vincent C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vincent C. Pidgeon
Published: 2025-12-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen: Gods, Girls, And Other Mischiefs

The palace still stank of ruin—blood steeped deep into ancient stone, smoke curling through shattered porticoes, and the sharp tang of fire clinging to the air like a warning that would not lift. The battle had passed, but its wounds ran through everything: marble gouged and bitten, torn banners drooping like accusations, and a silence more harrowing than any scream. Servants moved in solemn rhythm, sweeping ash from cracked mosaics and picking their way over broken furniture and strewn weapons, as if the slow, deliberate rites of order could undo what had been etched in flame and iron.

Alasdair moved through the ruined halls, his steps soundless even as faint crackles of glass gave way beneath his boots. He bore stillness like a drawn blade, flame banked low behind his shadowed eyes, his thoughts edged and uneasy. Ahead, Aralon walked with a smile, her small hand clenched tightly in Istria's cloak. Rataka balanced on her shoulder, red tail flicking as he sniffed the smoky air, alert and tense. Roselyn followed with Whiskey Jack and the four newly adopted girls close behind. The burned Ivan was the very last in the company, three steps behind, with soft prayers on his lips. The throne room loomed before them, its great doors half-wrenched from their hinges.

A servant bowed low and murmured something to Istria. The Dragmir elf gave a small nod and turned, her voice low but gentle. "The baths are ready. Let the little ones come."

Roselyn had vanished—slipped away sometime between the throne room and the passage, her absence quiet but heavy. Aralon turned and gestured silently. From a side corridor, the noble Sylvani girls emerged in a hushed cluster, cloaks streaked with soot, their eyes wide and blinking like owlets drawn too soon from the nest. Rataka clung to Aralon's shoulder still, his tail curled tightly, nose twitching at the scent of damp tile and rose oil. The girls followed Istria through the servants' passage toward the older wing, the one the fire had spared.

The bath chamber stood half-ruined, its ceiling yawning open to the twilight sky, marble basins blackened at the rims. But warm water steamed in the sunken pools, hauled in by hand and heated over fresh-lit braziers. The scent of rose oil hung in the air, stubborn and sweet, and firelight danced over broken columns and chipped tile.

"Alasdair, Whiskey Jack, Ivan—you guard the door," Istria said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "We'll call you when we're ready."

Alasdair nodded once, his expression unreadable, and stepped back into the corridor. Whiskey Jack took position on one side of the doorway, Ivan on the other. The god settled himself against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes distant. He understood. This was not his place. Not yet.

As the women and girls stepped inside, Ceryn let out a small gasp, her ladylike composure faltering slightly as she took in the ruined grandeur. The warm steam rose around them like a blessing, and for a moment, the horror of the night seemed very far away.

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