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The Valg did not want to go back; they did not want to be ended, not after so long spent waiting to return to her world. But she crammed the light down their throats, burning up their black blood.
When the light and flames receded, all that remained of Narrok and the Valg were four Wyrdstone collars steaming in the wet grass.
“Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom … very much.”
It was a message to the world. Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.
She was as much a queen as Maeve. She was the sovereign of a strong people and a mighty kingdom. She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.
She knew the gold in her eyes had shifted to flame, because when she looked to Maeve, the queen’s face had gone bone-white. And then Celaena set the world on fire.
I claim you, Aelin. To whatever end.
No longer would they be locked away in her heart. No longer would she be ashamed.
Manon did not apologize. She could not stop hearing the sound made as Keelie hit the earth. And some part of her, perhaps a weak and undisciplined part, did not regret ensuring the animal’s sacrifice had not been in vain.
“They have made you into monsters. Made, Manon. And we feel sorry for you.”
He’d known, since the moment he figured out who she was, that while Celaena would always pick him, Aelin would not.
“All you monsters can burn in hell. Because my queen is coming—and she will spike you to the walls of your gods-damned castle. And I can’t wait to help her gut you like the pigs you are.”
Because for a flicker, as those turquoise eyes met with his, there was none of that rage or triumph. Only a message to the queen that Aedion would never see. And there were no words to convey it—the love and the hope and the pride. The sorrow at not knowing her as the woman she had become. The gift Aedion thought he was giving her in sparing Chaol’s life.
“And I will not serve you a moment longer. There is one true king in this room—there always has been. And he is not sitting on that throne.”
“There is a queen in the north, and she has already beaten you once. She will beat you again. And again. Because what she represents, and what your son represents, is what you fear most: hope. You cannot steal it, no matter how many you rip from their homes and enslave. And you cannot break it, no matter how many you murder.”
“When you come back,” the prince said, “burn this place to the ground.”
Dorian had known it, too. Known it, and still walked into it so Chaol could escape—to find Aelin and tell her what had happened here today. Someone had to get out. Someone had to survive.
He did not mind dying. Though he still wished he’d gotten a chance to see her—just once.
But when the arrow had fired at Chaol … that was the death he could not endure. Chaol had drawn his line—and Dorian was on his side of it. Chaol had called him his king.
Dorian fought like hell against the guards now pinning his arms, trying to drag up any ounce of power as his father brought the collar of Wyrdstone toward his neck.
There were screams, yes, but silence lurked beneath them. He did not want to know if Dorian was alive or dead. He couldn’t decide which was worse.
She lifted her face to the stars. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir of two mighty bloodlines, protector of a once-glorious people, and Queen of Terrasen. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—and she would not be afraid.
