“Do it,” I say, hating myself for the words even as they leave my lips, though at least they seem to bring him peace. He nods once and closes his eyes again.

The tremor that goes through the earth this time is so strong, it almost knocks me off my feet, but I hold on tightly to Blaise, to the sword in my hand. All around us, I hear the walls of the palace crumble, I feel the slaves push in toward me, getting away from the edges of the garden, where they fear wreckage will fall. Instead the rooms around the garden implode, careening to the edges in heaps of rubble, the sound of destruction and screams echoing throughout the air.

One of the screams, I know, is Cress’s, but I can’t think about that right now. All I can think about is Blaise in my arms, burning up from the inside out, his body trembling as fiercely as the earth beneath our feet. He forces his eyes open, and in them I see him doing battle with himself, fighting to maintain control. But it is a battle he is losing.

“Now,” he says, his voice strained, forcing its way out between clenched teeth. “Theo, please.”

The sword falters in my hand, but I force myself to hold it tight, to keep it pressed against his heart. I close my eyes, standing on my tiptoes and pulling him down so I can rest my head against his.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and then in a single motion, I force the sword upward, into his flesh.

Blaise gives one last gasp of air, eyes flying open, seeing everything and nothing at once. For a moment, the world goes still around us. Then, he crumples to the ground, lifeless.

AFTER THE CENTER OF THE palace collapses, the battle yawns to a close, though I only know that because of the sounds, how the cacophony of war fades to a quiet din, then shouts of celebration, a clatter of swords being thrown to the ground.

The shouts of celebration are in Astrean, and a rush of triumph pierces through my daze. We’ve won, I think. Despite everything. But the feeling is quickly replaced by a pang of guilt. Because we’ve won and Blaise will never be able to see it. He will never see Astrea free, even though it couldn’t have happened without his sacrifice.

I’m hazily aware of the doorway to the garden opening, of Heron and Artemisia slipping through, making their way to where I sit, frozen, next to Blaise’s body. The hostages who were corralled in the garden are gone, taken somewhere to eat and clean up, so it’s only us, surrounded by rubble, with Blaise’s body cold on the ground.

All of that time I spent worrying about how hot his skin was, I never paused to think about how it would feel once it went cold.

No one speaks. Heron must have told Art about Blaise, because she isn’t surprised to see him, but still, she’s shaken, her eyes stuck on his body, cold and lifeless. I suppose it’s a different thing altogether to see it firsthand.

“It’s over?” I ask, barely looking at them.

Heron nods, his eyes downcast.

I imagined this moment so many times, how triumphant I would feel, how happy. In my imagination, all of us cheered and laughed and celebrated. In my imagination, Blaise was always there, cheering with us.

“He died a hero,” Artemisia says finally, her voice soft.

A laugh tears its way through me, harsh and ugly. “What difference does that make? A dead hero is still dead.”

“He knew what he was doing,” Heron says after a moment.

“He wanted to die, you mean,” I say, my voice coming out raw. “Yes, I know. He told me so often enough.”

Heron shakes his head, brow creasing. “He didn’t want to die,” he says, searching for the right words. “He wanted Astrea to live. He just knew that both of those things couldn’t happen, so he made a choice. The same one any of us here would have made, if we’d been given it. The same one you made with the Kaiserin when she offered you the Encatrio.”

I know there is truth to his words, but they bring me no comfort, not now. “Did she die in the earthquake?” I ask, looking up at Heron. “Cress? Was her body found?”

Heron and Artemisia exchange looks, and for a moment, I think Art might correct me about calling Cress by her first name again. If she does, I honestly think I might hit her.

“No,” she says instead, before hesitating. “I mean yes, her body was found, but no she didn’t die in the earthquake. We found her in the rubble by the throne room, unconscious, but alive. She’s in the dungeon now, stripped of all Fire Gems. Last I heard, she was still unconscious.”

I nod, the news not surprising me. Of course an earthquake wouldn’t kill Cress. Suddenly I feel foolish for expecting it would have, for expecting that the gods would give her such an easy death or allow me to have no hand in it. No. I’ve always known this can only end one way.

“She’s mine-mad,” I tell them. “Even without gems, she could be dangerous. Post Water Guardians on her at all times and set her execution for dawn.”

Artemisia nods, not looking surprised by either proclamation. I suppose I’m not the only one in a daze.

“You have to get up,” she tells me, her voice firm. “Astrea is free, her people are celebrating—your people. They’ll want to hear from their Queen.”

I swallow. The idea of standing before thousands of cheering people, celebrating, makes me feel sick.

“He would want you to,” Heron adds. “And your people need you to. Many of them were children before the siege, many were slaves this morning. Now they’re unsure of what to do with the freedom you’ve given them. They need a leader right now; they need an example.”

I don’t feel like a leader. I certainly don’t feel like a queen. But I know he’s right. I look at Blaise again and reach out to touch his hand, limp and cold at his side.

“Have his body cleaned,” I say. “Prepare it for burning—a hero’s ceremony.”

Artemisia nods. “There are a lot of dead heroes today, Theo,” she tells me, her voice gentle but with a hard edge.

You aren’t the only one who’s lost someone today. Harsh as it is, she’s right.

“Tomorrow night, we’ll have a ceremony for all of them at once,” I tell her. “And we’ll honor the anniversary of it every year forward.”

It doesn’t seem like enough, but I don’t think anything will ever seem like enough.

Heron holds a hand out to me and I take it, releasing Blaise as I do. Artemisia wraps an arm around my waist, Heron’s arm going around my shoulders.

“We won,” Art tells me, tasting the words tentatively. “Astrea is free.”

“We won,” I agree, hoping that if I say the words enough times, they will begin to feel real.

As we walk out of the garden, I don’t look back over my shoulder, worried that if I do, that is how I will remember him—cold and dead and lifeless. Instead I think of him laughing, his eyes bright, mouth soft. I think of him in the heat of battle with an expression drawn tight and fierce. I remember him singing to me, his voice wobbly and off-key. I remember how it felt when he kissed me.

I etch him into my memory just like that. That is the Blaise I want to remember for the rest of my days.

* * *

—

Artemisia helps me into a clean gown, a deep violet silk chiton with a gold pin at my shoulder that is shaped like a cluster of flames. We end up back in my old room, though I know that now the royal wing is mine. I’m not ready for it yet, not ready to sleep in the same bed the Kaiser did, the same bed Cress did. Until we can get new furniture, this room will suit me fine.

When I’m dressed and my face is clean, Art brings me a red velvet box, not unlike the one the Kaiser used to use to send me my ash crown.

I know without asking that the crown lying inside this time isn’t made from ash. Still, when she presents it to me, I touch it to be sure. The black gold is cold beneath my fingertips, the rubies winking in the candlelight. My throat feels tight as I remember seeing my mother wear it, how beautiful she looked, her head held high, the gems glittering like flames themselves. I remember how she used to set it on my head sometimes, her fingers delicate and cool, how it was always too big, how it fell down around my neck.

I remember Hoa, too. How time and time again she would lift that ash crown from its box as delicately as she could. I wish that both of them could be here now, to see this moment.

But it’s Artemisia who lifts the crown from the box and sets it on top of my head, the circlet coming down over my brow, the metal cool against my skin.

It isn’t too big anymore. It fits me perfectly.

* * *

—

S?ren, Sandrin, and Dragonsbane are waiting outside the room when Art and I emerge, the three of them slouched against the far wall, as quiet as the dead. But they aren’t dead—they’re alive, and the sight of them forces all the breath from my lungs, a relief so sharp, it makes me want to weep, though I don’t think I have any tears left.

As soon as they see me, all three push away from the wall. Sandrin and S?ren both drop into bows, and after a second, Dragonsbane does the same.