The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

Finale

Venus: Four Years Later

E very time I look in the mirror, part of me feels like my soul stays frozen in time, forever trapped at age twenty-four while my body keeps ticking forward. The notion weighs heavier the older I get, so I try to forget that I turned fifty last month.

The other part, though, recoils at the woman I see in the reflective glass. Guilt-ridden. Lacking balance. Burnt out from the years of grappling control.

“Aging is a beautiful thing when it’s shared with you, my love,” Jericho whispers to me, crossing the last of my silk sashes down the back of my dress.

He knows that it isn’t the aging that summons grief to the surface, but we play pretend anyways. Despite all that we’ve done, we deserve one day of peace. If not any other day of the year, then at least today.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I tell him. “Happy birthday, old man.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles, placing a kiss onto the column of my throat. Jericho looks us both over in the mirror and smiles at what he sees, clinging tighter to me. The crimson fabric of my dress dips into his touch. “You’re just as beautiful of a bride as you were on this day, twenty-five years ago.”

He wears the same uniform he married me in—the same one he met me in. The medallions have started to rust along the edges, and the bright threading of the ribbons they dangle from have begun to lose their luster. But not Jericho. His raven hair has just started to pepper with grays, and it only makes him more devastatingly handsome. Proof of a long, worthwhile life together. His blue eyes are just as piercing as they were all those years ago, and I drown in them daily.

We take our dinner away from the congregated guests, a tradition we’ve savored over the years. Then, before we stuff ourselves to the point of pain, we make our way towards the festivities. The ballroom is filled to the brim with staff, another tradition we’ve implemented in recent years—specifically following the prophetic fire. No fancy balls or banquet food. No catering to noble guests. Just a night of dancing and drinking the castle’s liquor supply dry—two of our favorite things to do as a couple.

When we emerge, the staff cheers and raises their glasses, some of the attendees spilling their drinks in the process—mainly Tolcher’s newest recruits loitering near the champagne table. The seamstresses chortle among themselves, the younger ladies among them making eyes at some of the uniformed men. The new generation of gardeners I get to oversee wave at me with the same casual nature that a friend would, and for a suspended moment in time, my soul doesn’t hurt.

Until the musicians strike up their instruments and two singers approach the stage.

I don’t cast more than a passing glance at the performers—a man and a woman in sweeping, ceremonial black garments—but when my eyes catch on the lady’s swollen belly, I wrench my gaze away. Jericho registers the immediate distress in my bones. “Venus—”

“Just dance with me, my love.”

Neither of us look towards them again, and Jericho kisses my temple before swaying us in unhurried unison. When we were younger, we ruled the dancefloor the way we ruled nations—with no room for others and in a way that stole every show. But now, as our bodies have started to slow, everyone knows to take the floor with us.

Finally, I let one tear fall down my face, unbothered by the growing audience.

“Tell me what hurts you,” my husband murmurs.

“I’ve overcome a great deal of let-downs in my life,” I say, my voice hoarse. “But no matter how many years pass, and despite knowing I’m too far-gone to change reality, it never gets easier to see women who can give their loves a baby when I never could.”

Both of Jericho’s hands cradle my face, and in the touch, I feel his hardened calluses—the ones he developed from rebuilding North Star after the fire.

“You gave me the world without ever having to give me a child. How remarkable is that?”

I let him blot my tears with his sleeve. “I love you.”

“Do you still want one?”

“What?”

“A child?” he asks innocently.

I fall into stunned silence as we begin to dance again. “I . . .”

“Because I’ve been thinking about it ever since Pandora left us,” he says, and for once, the mention of her only hurts for a moment. “We claimed her as our own, even though she already had an amazing mother. But what about the kids who have no one, the kids in the marshes where you grew up?”

I taste my tears as they drip down to my lips, but we’re both smiling all the while.

“Your birthday has already come and gone,” he points out with the quirk of his brow. “But what if, for mine, we pay a visit to the orphanage in your hometown? I bet we can find a kid or two to give a better life to.”

“Or five.”

Jericho barks out a laugh. “As many as we want.”

The picture in my mind of the future suddenly excites me. It’s no longer shrouded in persisting guilt and unrequited remorse, but rather, gray hairs and quippy conversations with all our kids at the dinner table. Days spent getting to know all their unique personalities and nights spent ingraining how much we love them into their brains. Watching the older ones orchestrate practical jokes on the staff that make the younger ones keel over in laughter. Teaching them all life skills while silently observing what hobbies set their hearts on fire. Supporting them and providing them the kind of security that allows them to slowly forget about the pain they may be swimming in right now.

“Nothing would make me happier.”

I laugh into Jericho’s shoulder as glass shatters across the room. Two maintenance workers point accusatory fingers at one another, but when the one on the right hiccups to where it shakes his whole body, I start to outright cackle.

“Having fun, Your Majesties?”

Calliope and Eli make a pass near us, and I nod in answer, the newfound happiness of this moment making me feel like I already have two drinks in my system. Calliope leans in towards us. “Did you like our gift?”

“Gift?” I ask.

Calliope merely points to the stage before her husband spins her away from us.

Jericho and I go slack-jawed as we take a better look at the performers.

I always knew Pandora would make for a beautiful queen, even though I assumed I would not be alive to see it for myself. But seeing her not just as a ruler, but as an expectant mother —even just seeing her here . . .

Her body has adapted so beautifully to the future they have set up for themselves, and the king of Mosacia looks towards his wife with a gentle reverence that starkly contrasts the madman I remember him to be. I briefly recall meeting Madden as a child, and I wonder if their child will look anything like him. Wonder if, by some hilarious twist of fate, she’s not too far along, but rather, carrying twins.

“I can’t believe they’re here,” Jericho sighs, eyes going glassy.

“That’s not all,” a new voice I’ve been longing to hear again says from behind us.

We barely get a good look at Genny before Jericho and I rush her with enough force to knock the wind out of her—and she takes it like a champ. All my tears and blubbering, all of Jericho’s fragmented gratitude to the Saints, all the staff that swarms her to welcome her back.

And I know without her saying anything else that we’ll be alright. Even if things are still imperfect and conversations still need to be had, the fact that they’re all here is enough. It’s all I could ever ask for and more.

Because for so long, I convinced myself that building something formidable would make me feel secure, that force was the highest form of love. But I know now how many years I wasted on being strong, because all along, what mattered most was the people that made me weak.

Genny. Pandora. Calliope and Eli. Flora, Samuel, and Dorian. Tolcher. Ardian. Merrie.

Jericho.

Even the greatest of dynasties fell short in comparison to the feeling of family.