CHAPTER 364: WHAT REMAINS

He succeeded. Riona survived—if that was the only thing he wanted. Riona gritted her teeth and forced down the surge of anger clawing its way to the surface. She had never asked him to do that.

She let out a long sigh, burying her face in her palms as her emotions spilled over, raw and relentless. I never asked him to do that, she thought again, the words echoing like a drumbeat in her head.

She wanted to drag him back from wherever ancestors ended up, just to kill him herself for making decisions without her, for doing exactly as he pleased.

It had always been like this. The Fallen One had appeared out of nowhere, speaking to her like some all-knowing force, full of self-importance just because he was an ancestor. And then, without warning, he dropped the revelation—she was the Blood Moon child.

As if that revelation alone wasn’t already world-shattering, he had gone ahead and forced her into saving the world. A task so absurd and outrageous, she could barely believe it was real.

If Florian hadn’t been involved in all of this, Riona doubted she would have agreed to go through with it at all.

Still, the memories with the ancestor weren’t entirely bad. Annoying, yes—he had been a constant, nagging presence, always commenting, rarely helping. He would show up at the worst moments, often spouting cryptic nonsense that only made things more confusing.

And yet, now that he was gone, she missed him.

It didn’t feel real. It felt more like he had simply gone quiet, just like he always did when he’d said something foolish or couldn’t come up with a witty reply to her sarcasm. This had to be one of those days, when he’d pretend not to be there, even though he was secretly listening to everything.

"Riona..."

Florian’s voice pulled her out of her daze. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until then. Her vision was blurry, but the tears kept falling, unstoppable. Gently, Florian wiped a tear from her cheek.

And then it hit her.

"Hey!" she called out—louder than she meant to. It was the first time she had ever spoken to the Fallen One openly, in front of someone else, but desperation tore the hesitation from her voice. "You showed me fake images, right? You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?"

But even as the words left her mouth, they rang hollow. It didn’t make sense. Why would he deceive her like that?

Besides, she knew deep down that she wouldn’t still be alive if the Fallen One hadn’t done exactly what she’d seen in those visions. The pieces all fit too perfectly.

She just didn’t want to believe it.

"It’s not your fault," Florian said. His words carried more weight than just sympathy. They were meant for both the Fallen One’s passing and everything between them.

He had regretted what he said the last time they argued. He shouldn’t have told her she had caused him pain because it wasn’t true. The pain had come from within him, from his own insecurity, not from anything Riona had done. It wasn’t her fault that she was exceptional. It wasn’t her fault that she loved her brother too much.

"But it was," Riona whimpered, her voice trembling. "It’s because I was stubborn. If only I had listened to him from the beginning..."

She gently cupped Florian’s face in her hand, brushing her thumb across his cheek.

"You survived," she said. "I should’ve trusted in that. But I didn’t. I still saw you as a little boy, not the tough bat you really are. I faltered. I doubted. That’s on me."

"No, it’s not."

Florian’s hands closed around her wrists, steady and firm.

"You did your best. He did his best. I’ve done mine too. We all have. And sometimes... even when we give it everything, it still hurts. But that doesn’t mean it’s anyone’s fault."

Riona stared at him, stunned.

Had Florian really just said that? Those words, that calm wisdom—she could hardly believe it. When had he grown so much?

He was no longer the timid little boy she had once vowed to protect at all costs. Florian had grown into someone strong. Independent. Wise beyond his years.

"Besides, it’s not your place to steal his redemption," Thorin said at last, breaking his silence.

He hadn’t yet moved past the overwhelming mix of relief and the choking fear of losing Riona. But now wasn’t the time for his own emotions—she needed him to be strong. So he swallowed everything down and chose to be there for her.

He straightened up and gently pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest. With steady hands, he stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head, and rocked her in a soothing rhythm, trying to calm her trembling body.

"This was his final redemption," Thorin murmured. "I can only hope that God, the universe, or whatever power governs the Ancestors will recognize the sincerity of his choice."

Florian leaned his head against Riona’s back, still trembling slightly. Puck let out a long breath of relief.

Then, slowly, the others began to arrive. One by one, familiar faces from their journey appeared: Zane. Trudy. Charna. The elders of the Nightshade Coven. Sir Kai. Even Sir Orlo.

But among the key figures in this war, two were conspicuously absent—Princess Lisbeth and Lady Maris did not come.

***

A little farther from where Riona rested, a small crowd had gathered—those who hadn’t immediately come to ask her what had happened. Their attention was elsewhere, drawn to another center of grief.

The princess’s wailing carried far through the air, raw and piercing. Riona might have noticed it, if not for the storm raging inside her own heart. But everyone was grieving in their own way.

For Princess Lisbeth, it was her father she had lost—her king, her idol. The man whose approval she had yearned for all her life. The man who, at the very end, had finally shown her his love—not with words, but through the ultimate act: sacrificing himself for her.

Lisbeth’s face was a mess of blood and tears, streaking down reddened cheeks worn raw by her cries. The moment she awoke from the nightmare, she had collapsed at her father’s side, pressing her face to his chest as though she could will him back to life.

Her fingernails were caked with earth where she’d clawed at the ground—not to find anything, not to uncover anything, but simply to do something. To release the agony that had no outlet. She knew he was gone. Nothing she did could change that. And that truth was unbearable.

Her chest ached with a suffocating weight. In a desperate attempt to breathe, she struck herself in the chest again and again, trying to break the pressure. But it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Everyone who witnessed the scene was moved to tears. No one could remain unmoved by such raw pain.

Even Lumi, despite her serious injuries, was crying—not for herself, but for Lisbeth. Cielo, trying to keep herself composed, kept sniffling and wiping her eyes, as if pretending not to feel it would make it go away.

Lady Maris—the only woman King Valentin had ever truly loved, the one who had stood by his side until the very end, asking for nothing in return but his love—knelt in silence.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she gently rubbed her daughter’s back. Her lips were pressed tightly together, trembling as she bit back the sobs building in her chest.

If she had been alone, she might have done exactly what Lisbeth had—clung to the king’s body, wept, begged for him to return. But Lady Maris had been loved by him all her life. She had known his tenderness, his devotion. Her daughter, however, had only just begun to experience that love.

And so, the grief struck Lisbeth differently—sharper, more bitter, like a bond finally forming only to be torn away.

Lady Maris knew that. She felt it as deeply as her own pain because she was a mother. And a mother had to be strong—for her child, even when breaking inside.