The plaza before Nyx's newly raised throne throbbed like a living organism, every stone beneath their feet humming with the resonance of power newly awakened. Lanterns floated above the crowd in slow orbits, their flames shifting through seven jewel-tones—green, orange, gold, white, black, red, and purple—casting fractured reflections across banners that hung like veins of silk and blood. The air itself tasted heavy, thick with incense, iron, and something older, something ancestral. Nyx stood upon the dais at the heart of it all, his posture unyielding, his presence pressing down on the assembled masses like gravity made flesh. The Blood Jewels burned faintly at his chest, their combined power sending a constant vibration through his bones, as though the world itself now moved to the rhythm of his pulse.
Before him stood everyone who remained—witches in carved ceremonial robes, werewolves with bristling fur and restrained hunger in their eyes, vampires whose fangs glinted in the lanternlight, and the scattered humans who had not yet fled, their faces etched with fear, awe, and disbelief. When Nyx raised his hand, the sound of the crowd collapsed into silence, instant and absolute. The Book of Past had long since closed, yet its revelations lingered like a wound left open to the air.
Nyx spoke, his voice steady, controlled, carrying without effort across the vast plaza.
"You saw your names written in that book," Nyx said evenly. "You heard both the lie and the truth."
He stepped down from the dais, descending among them not as a man but as something crowned by inevitability.
"I read those pages long before tonight," he continued, his gaze sweeping across faces that dared not look away. "I read them in Jamie's library. I learned where the Blood Jewels slept. I learned what destiny demanded of me."
He paused, the silence sharpening.
"I wrote their locations in the Book of Blood," Nyx said. "Destiny has teeth—and I chose to bite back."
A tremor moved through the crowd as he walked, measured and deliberate, until he stopped before Nia. The air between them tightened, charged with memory, blood, and things unsaid. Nyx lowered himself slightly and took both of her hands in his, the jewels at his chest throwing fractured light across her face.
"You know my truth," Nyx said softly, his voice meant only for her, though every ear strained to hear it. "You share a lineage with Pony Mare—the hand that birthed both the Book of Past and the green pea that began this ruin. It was always meant that someone of your blood would touch the key to the curse."
Nia did not pull away. Her expression remained calm, but beneath it storms gathered.
Nyx inhaled, then spoke again, forcing the words from a place deeper than command.
"I love you," Nyx said plainly. "Marry me. Become queen. Stand beside me while I remake both worlds as one."
The confession rippled outward, fragile and dangerous, and for a single heartbeat, hope dared to exist in the open air.
Nia stepped back.
Her voice, when she spoke, was steady—but it cut.
"I love you," Nia said, the truth of it ringing painfully clear. "But not in the way you want."
She lifted her chin, eyes burning not with defiance but conviction.
"You have not saved us," Nia continued. "You have bound us to your design. If the curse is real—if the Book spoke true—you will cause more death than you prevent. I cannot be queen to a world that drowns beneath its crown."
The silence that followed was not emptiness—it was rupture.
From the edge of the crowd, Stacy felt the shift ripple through her body like a breaking bone. She stepped forward before doubt could claim her, her heart pounding louder than reason.
"Nyx," Stacy said, her voice raw but unwavering.
All eyes turned to her.
"I love you," she said. "I will take your hand. Be my king. Let me be your queen. I would rather stand beside you broken than watch you rule alone."
Her words struck deep, not strategic, not rehearsed—pure devotion offered without shield.
Nyx looked at her for a long moment.
Then he smiled—not cruelly, but with finality.
"So be it," Nyx declared, his voice rising like a banner unfurled by storm. "In three days, we will be wed."
The plaza erupted.
Carl stepped forward, grief and rage tangled in his voice.
"This is madness!" Carl shouted.
Morvain Mare raised his voice in protest, followed by Raym Gald and Ziess, their objections colliding in a chaos of fear and loyalty. Then a frail but commanding voice cut through them all.
"My son," Old Gald said, stepping forward, his hands trembling but his spine unbroken. "Dissolve this power. Restore the boundary. Do not let this blood repeat its sin."
Nyx turned slowly.
For a fleeting moment, something like hesitation flickered across his face.
Then his hand clenched.
With a single, effortless snap, Old Gald disintegrated into ash, collapsing into a quiet pile of dust that scattered across the stone like a private eclipse.
A scream tore through the crowd.
Nyx did not flinch.
"Opposition will not be tolerated," Nyx said coldly.
He raised his hand again, power coiling—
—but before it could strike, Nia whispered an incantation, sharp and fast as a blade. The spell severed the force mid-cast. Carl, Morvain, and Raym staggered, their forms wavering before fading from sight like smoke torn by wind.
Into the stunned silence stepped Domino, leader of the werewolves. He knelt, fur bristling, eyes alight with ambition.
"Make me your minister," Domino said. "Let my claws enforce your order."
Nyx regarded him once.
"Domino," Nyx said. "You shall be my minister."
The wolves howled their approval.
Under Nyx's command, witches raised an elvish palace of impossible beauty. Ronko was sent to hunt dissenters. From the Blood Jewels, Nyx forged seven sentient shadow-shifters, naming them and commanding them to build, guard, and enforce his will.
That night, in the palace baths glowing blue beneath torchlight, Stacy joined Nyx. What passed between them was quiet, intimate, and heavy with consequence—confessions, promises, and the fragile stitching of tenderness amid rising tyranny.
They slept beneath constellations of lantern-light while the city reshaped itself below.
Elsewhere, Nia sat alone, the emerald jewel cold in her palm, contemplating what she had refused.
Nyx had a queen, a minister, a city, and a crown.
But power, as every book of past knows, is built on human hearts—
—and hearts always learn how to fight back.