Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

“My mate,” Gavin snarled, “is the cost of this. My mate, should the keys be retrieved, will vanish forever. Do you know what that is like, young king? To have eternity—and then have it ripped away?” Dorian didn’t bother to reply. “You don’t wish me to find the third key because it will mean the end of Elena.” Gavin said nothing. Dorian let out a growl. “Countless people will die if the keys aren’t put back in the gate.” He shoved the Amulet of Orynth back into his jacket, and once again ignored the otherworldly hum pulsing against his bones. “You can’t be that selfish.”

“Your life will be forfeit, too. If you retrieve the keys and forge the Lock. Your soul will be claimed as well. Not one scrap of you will live on in the Afterworld.” “There’s no one who would really care about that anyway.” He certainly didn’t. And he’d certainly deserved that sort of end, when he’d failed so many times. With all he’d done. Gavin studied him for a long moment. Dorian held still beneath that fierce stare. A warrior who had survived the second of Erawan’s wars. “Elena helped Aelin,” Dorian pressed, his breath curling in the space between them. “She didn’t balk from it, even knowing what it meant for her fate. And neither did Aelin, who will have neither a long life with her own mate, nor eternity with him.” As I will not have, either. His heart began thundering, his magic rising with it. “And yet you would. You would run from it.”

“And yet your own fear of loss makes you choose one woman over the fate of the world.” “If you had the choice—your woman or Erilea—would you have chosen any differently?” Sorscha or the world. The question rang hollow. Some of the fire within him banked. Yet Dorian dared to say, “You’d delude yourself about the path ahead, yet you served the god of truth.” Chaol had told him of their discovery in the catacombs beneath Rifthold’s sewers this spring. The forgotten bone temple where Gavin’s deathbed confession had been written. “What does he have to say about Elena’s role in this?” “The All-Seeing One does not claim kinship with those spineless creatures,” Gavin growled.

Dorian could have sworn a dusty, bone-dry wind rattled through the pass. “Then what is he?” “Can there not be many gods, from many places? Some born of this world, some born elsewhere?” “That’s a question to debate at another time,” Dorian ground out. “When we’re not at war.”

He took a long breath. Another one. “Please,” he breathed. “Please help me save my friends. Help me make it right.” It was all he really had left—this task. Gavin again watched him, weighed him. Dorian withstood it. Let him read whatever truth was written on his soul. Pain clouded the king’s face. Pain, and regret, as Gavin finally said, “The key is at Morath.” Dorian’s mouth went dry. “Where in Morath?” “I don’t know.” Dorian believed him. The raw dread in Gavin’s eyes confirmed it. The ancient king nodded to Damaris. “That sword is not ornamental. Let it guide you, if you cannot trust yourself.” “It really tells the truth?” “It was blessed by the All-Seeing One himself, after I swore myself to him.” Gavin shrugged, a half-tamed gesture. As if the man had never really left the wilds of Adarlan where he’d risen from war leader to High King. “You’ll still have to learn for yourself what is truth and what is lie.” “But Damaris will help me find the key at Morath?” To break into Erawan’s stronghold, where all those collars were made … Gavin’s mouth tightened. “I cannot say. But I will tell you this: do not venture toward Morath just yet. Until you are ready.” “I’m ready now.” A foo...

“Morath is no mere keep,” Gavin said. “It is a hell, and it is not kind to reckless young men.” Dorian stiffened, but Gavin went on, “You will know when you are truly ready. Remain at this camp, if you can convince your companions. The path will find you here.” Gavin’s edges warped further, his face turning murky. Dorian dared a step forward. “Am I human?” Gavin’s sapphir...

Had they somehow overlooked the simplest option? For Maeve to have been in Doranelle this entire time, hidden from her subjects? But that commander had been lying filth. He’d spat in Lorcan’s face before they’d ended it. The other commander they’d found today, however, after a week of hunting him down at the nearest seaport, had claimed he’d received orders from a distant kingdom they’d searched three weeks ago. In the opposite direction of Doranelle. Lorcan toed at the dirt. None of them had felt like speaking since the commander this afternoon had contradicted the first’s claim. “Doranelle is Maeve’s stronghold,” Elide said at last, her steady voice filling the heavy quiet. “Simple as it is, it would make sense for her to bring Aelin there.” Whitethorn only stared into the fire. He hadn’t washed the blood from his dark gray jacket.

Elide’s eyes grew cold, so cold, as she said, “Maeve managed to conceal Gavriel and Fenrys from Rowan in Skull’s Bay. And somehow hid and spirited away her entire fleet.” Lorcan didn’t reply. Elide went on, her gaze unwavering, “Maeve knows Doranelle would be the obvious choice—the choice we’d likely reject because it’s too simple. She anticipated that we’d believe she’d haul Aelin to the farthest reaches of Erilea, rather than right back home.” “Maeve would have the advantage of an easily summoned army,” Gavriel added, his tattooed throat bobbing. “Which would make rescue difficult.”

Hellas damn him, he’d had to resort to giving his cut-up shirt to Whitethorn and Gavriel to hand to her for her cycle. He’d threatened to skin them alive if they’d said it was his, and Elide, with her human sense of smell, hadn’t scented him on the fabric.

I hope you spend the rest of your miserable, immortal life suffering. I hope you spend it alone. I hope you live with regret and guilt in your heart and never find a way to endure it. Her vow, her curse, whatever it had been, had held true. Every word of it. He’d broken something. Something precious beyond measure. He’d never cared until now. Even the severed blood oath, still gaping wide within his soul, didn’t come close to the hole in his chest when he looked at her.

But it hadn’t been Maeve’s sundering of the oath that had rescinded that offer. It had been a betrayal so great he didn’t know how to fix it. Where is Aelin? Where is my wife? Whitethorn’s wife—and his mate. Only this mission of theirs, this endless quest to find her, kept Lorcan from plunging into a pit from which he knew he would not emerge. Perhaps if they found her, if there was still enough left of Aelin to salvage after Cairn’s ministrations, he’d find a way to live with himself. To endure this … person he’d become. It might take him another five hundred years to do so.

felt smaller. Shorter. “I didn’t push for Akkadia to spite you,” he managed to say. “I don’t care.” She tried to edge around him, Lorcan easily keeping ahead of her. “I didn’t …” The words strangled him. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Elide let out a soft, vicious laugh. “Of course you didn’t. Why would you have intended for your wondrous queen to sever the blood oath?” “I don’t care about that.” He didn’t. He’d never spoken truer words. “I only wish to make things right.” Her lip curled. “I would be inclined to believe that if I hadn’t seen you crawling after Maeve on the beach.” Lorcan blinked at the words, the hatred in them, stunned enough that he let her walk past this time. Elide didn’t so much as look back. Not until Lorcan said, “I didn’t crawl after Maeve.” She halted, hair swaying. Slowly, she glanced over her shoulder. Imperious and cold as the stars overhead. “I crawled …” His throat bobbed. “I crawled after Aelin.”

Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, consort, husband, and mate of the Queen of Terrasen, knew he was dreaming. He knew it, because he could see her. There was only darkness here. And wind. And a great, yawning chasm between them. No bottom existed in that abyss, that crack in the world. But he could hear whispers snaking through it, down far below. She stood with her back to him, hair blowing in a sheet of gold. Longer than he’d seen it the last time. He tried to shift, to fly over the chasm. His body’s innate magic ignored him. Locked in his Fae body, the jump too far, he could only stare toward her, breathe in her scent—jasmine, lemon verbena, and crackling embers—as it floated to him on the wind. This wind told him no secrets, had no song to sing. It was a wind of death, of cold, of nothing. Aelin. He had no voice here, but he spoke her name. Threw it across the gulf between them.

He tried to shift, to fly over the chasm. His body’s innate magic ignored him. Locked in his Fae body, the jump too far, he could only stare toward her, breathe in her scent—jasmine, lemon verbena, and crackling embers—as it floated to him on the wind. This wind told him no secrets, had no song to sing. It was a wind of death, of cold, of nothing. Aelin. He had no voice here, but he spoke her name. Threw it across the gulf between them. Slowly, she turned to him. It was her face—or it would be in a few years. When she Settled. But it wasn’t the slightly older features that knocked the breath from him. It was the hand on her rounded belly. She stared toward him, hair still flowing. Behind her, four small figures emerged. Rowan fell to his knees. The tallest: a girl with golden hair and pine-green eyes, solemn-faced and as proud as her mother. The boy beside her, nearly her height, smiled at him, warm and bright, his Ashryver eyes near-glowing beneath his cap of silver hair. The boy next to him, silver-haired and green-eyed, might as well have been Rowan’s twin. And the smallest girl, clinging to her mother’s legs … A fine-boned, silver-haired child, little more than a babe, her blue eyes harking back to a lineage he did not know. Children. His children. Their children. With another mere weeks from being born. His family. The family he might have, the future he might have. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Aelin. Their children pressed closer to her, the eldest girl p...

Slowly, she turned to him. It was her face—or it would be in a few years. When she Settled. But it wasn’t the slightly older features that knocked the breath from him. It was the hand on her rounded belly. She stared toward him, hair still flowing. Behind her, four small figures emerged. Rowan fell to his knees. The tallest: a girl with golden hair and pine-green eyes, solemn-faced and as proud as her mother. The boy beside her, nearly her height, smiled at him, warm and bright, his Ashryver eyes near-glowing beneath his cap of silver hair. The boy next to him, silver-haired and green-eyed, might as well have been Rowan’s twin. And the smallest girl, clinging to her mother’s legs … A fine-boned, silver-haired child, little more than a babe, her blue eyes harking back to a lineage ...

Aelin. Their children pressed closer to her, the eldest girl peering up to Aelin in warning. Rowan felt it then. A lethal, mighty black wind sweeping for them. He tried to scream. Tried to get off his knees, to find some way to them. But the black wind roared in, ripping and tearing everything in its path. They were s...

Rowan jerked awake, his heart a frantic beat as his body bellowed to move, to fight. But there was nothing and no one to fight here, in this dusty field beneath the stars. A dream. That same dream. He rubbed at his face,

She wasn’t dead, because the bond still existed, yet … it was silent. He’d puzzled over it during the long hours they’d traveled, during his hours on watch. Even the hours when he should have been sleeping. He hadn’t felt pain in the bond that day in Eyllwe. He’d felt it when Dorian Havilliard had stabbed her in the glass castle, had felt the bond—what he’d so stupidly thought was the carranam bond between them—stretching to the breaking point as she’d come so, so close to death. Yet that day on the beach, when Maeve had attacked her, then had Cairn whip her—

Gently, he set the blade before him, staring into the ruby in the center of its hilt, the stone smoldering in the firelight. Aelin had felt the arrow he’d received during the fight with Manon at Temis’s temple. Or enough of a jolt that she’d known, in that moment, that they were mates. Yet he hadn’t felt anything at all that day on the beach.

He had a feeling he knew the answer. Knew that Maeve was likely the cause of it, the damper on what was between them. She’d gone into his head to trick him into thinking Lyria was his mate, had fooled the very instincts that made him a Fae male. It wouldn’t be beyond her powers to find a way to stifle what was between him and Aelin, to keep him from knowing that she’d been in such danger, and now to keep him from finding her.

But he should have known. About Aelin. Shouldn’t have waited to get the wyverns and the others. Should have flown right to the beach, and not wasted those precious minutes. Mate. His mate. He should have known about that, too. Even if rage and grief had turned him into a miserable bastard, he should have known who she was, what she was, from the moment he’d bitten her at Mistward, unable to stop the urge to claim her. The moment her blood ha...

Instead, they’d brawled. He’d let them brawl, so lost in his anger and ice. She’d been just as raging as he, and had spat such a hateful, unspeakable thing that he’d treated her like any of the males and females who had been under his command and mouthed off, but those early days still haunted him. Though Rowan knew that if he ever me...

He didn’t know what to do about the tattoo down his face, his neck and arm. The lie it told of his loss, and the truth it revealed of his blindness. He’d come to love Lyria—that had been true. And the guilt of it ate him alive whenever he thought of it, but he could understand now. Why Lyria had been so frightened of him for those initial months, why it had been so damn hard to court her, even with that mating bond, its truth unknown to Lyria as well. She had been gentle, and qui...

Even as the rage consumed him at the thought, at what had been stolen from him. From Lyria, too. Aelin had been his, and he had been hers, from the start. Longer than that. And Maeve had thought to break them, break her to get what she wanted. He wouldn’t let that go unpunished. Just as he could not forget that Lyria, regardless of what truly existed between them, had been carrying their child when Maeve had sent those enemy forces to his mountain home. He would never forgive that. I will kill you, Aelin had said when she’d heard what Maeve had done. How badly Maeve had manipulated him, shattered him...

And if he found her, if he freed her … Rowan did not let himself think beyond that. To the other truth that they would face, the other burden. Tell Rowan that I’m sorry I lied. But tell him it was all borrowed time anyway. Even before today, I knew it was all just borrowed time, but I still wish we’d had more of it. He refused to accept that. Would never accept that she would be the ultimate cost to end this, to save their world. Rowan scanned the blanket of stars overhead. While all other constellations had wheeled past, the Lord of the North remained, the immortal star between his antlers pointing the way home. To Terrasen. Tell him he has to fight. He must save Terrasen, and remember the vows he made to me.

But he had no intention of returning without her, parting request or no, regardless of the oaths he’d sworn upon marrying her to guard and rule Terrasen. And tell him thank you—for walking that dark path with me back to the light. It had been his honor. From the very beginning, it had been his honor, the greatest of his immortal life. An immortal life they would share together—somehow. He’d allow no other alternative. Rowan silently swore it to the stars. He could have sworn the Lord of the North flickered in response.

“Easier for smaller numbers to stay hidden.” Chaol pointed to the sky. “The cloud cover today makes it ideal for scouting, too.” When the worry in her face didn’t abate, he added, “We will have to fight in this war at some point, Yrene.” How many lives did Erawan claim for every day that they delayed? “I know.” She clasped the silver locket at her neck. He’d given it to her, had a master engraver carve the mountains and seas onto the surface. Inside, it still bore the note Aelin Galathynius had left her years ago, when his wife worked as a barmaid in a backwater port, and the queen lived as an assassin under another name. “I just … I know it’s foolish, but I somehow didn’t think it would come upon us this quickly.”

But Falkan had not spoken of those desires since they’d left the Tavan Mountains, and had instead dedicated himself to helping in whatever manner he could: scouting, mostly. But a time would soon come when they’d need his further assistance, as they had against the kharankui in the Dagul Fells. Perhaps as vital as the army they’d brought with them was the information they’d gleaned there. That Maeve was not a Fae Queen at all, but a Valg imposter. An ancient Valg queen, who had infiltrated Doranelle at the dawn of time, ripping into the two sister-queens’ minds and convincing them that they had an elder sister.

Perhaps the knowledge would bring about nothing in this war. But it might shift it in some way. To know that another enemy lurked at their backs. And that Maeve had fled to Erilea to escape the Valg king she’d wed, brother to two others—who in turn had sundered the Wyrdkeys from the gate, and ripped through worlds to find her. That the three Valg kings had broken into this world only to be halted here, unaware that their prey now lurked on a throne in Doranelle, had been a strange twist of fate. Only Erawan remained here of those three kings, brother to Orcus, Maeve’s husband. What would he pay to know who she truly was?

She didn’t tell the Healer on High that she wasn’t entirely sure how much longer she’d be a help—not yet. Hadn’t whispered a word of that doubt to anyone, even Chaol. Yrene’s hand drifted across her abdomen and lingered.

She’s pregnant?!

As Manon whirled, Dorian’s magic surged, already lashing at the unseen foe. A mighty white bear had risen from the snow behind her. Teeth flashing, it brought down its massive paw. Manon ducked, rolling to the side, and Dorian hurled out a wall of his magic—wind and ice. The bear was blasted back, hitting the snow with an icy thump. It was instantly up again, racing for Manon. Only Manon. Half a thought had Dorian flinging invisible hands to halt the beast. Just as it collided with his magic, snow spraying, light flashed. He knew that light. A shifter. But it was not Lysandra who emerged from the bear’s perfectly camouflaged hide. No, the thing that came out of the bear was made of nightmares. A spider. A great, stygian spider, big as a horse and black as night. Its many eyes narrowed on Manon, pincers clicking, as it hissed, “Blackbeak.”

“How is it that you can shape-shift?” Dorian asked, still pinning the spider in place as he approached Manon’s other side, one hand gripping the hilt of his ancient sword. “The legends make no mention of that.” Curiosity indeed brightened on his face. She supposed the white line through his golden skin on his throat was proof that he’d dealt with far worse. And supposed that whatever bond lay between them was also proof he had little fear of pain or death. A good trait for a witch, yes. But in a mortal? It would likely wind up getting him killed. Perhaps it was not a lack of fear, but rather a lack of … of whatever mortals deemed vital to their souls. Ripped from him by his father. And that Valg demon. The spider seethed. “I took two decades from a young merchant’s life in exchange for my silk. The gift of his shifting flowed through his life force—some of it, at least.” All those eyes narrowed on Manon. “He willingly paid the price.” “Kill her, and be done with it,” Asterin murmured.

Manon debated it. Then shrugged. “I shall keep this painless. Consider that my debt owed to you.” Sucking in a breath, Manon readied for the blow— “Wait.” The spider breathed the word. “Wait.” “From insults to pleading,” Asterin murmured. “Who is spineless now?” The spider ignored the Second, her depthless eyes devouring Manon, then Dorian. “Do you know what moves in the South? What horrors gather?” “Old news,” Vesta said, snorting. “How do you think I found you?” the spider asked. Manon stilled. “So many possessions left at Morath. Your scents all over them.” If the spider had found them here that easily, they had to move out. Now. The spider hissed, “Shall I tell you what I spied a mere fifty miles south of here? Who I saw, Blackbeak?” Manon stiffened. “Crochans,” the spider said, then sighed deeply. Hungrily. Manon blinked. Just once. The Thirteen had gone equally still. Asterin asked, “You’ve seen the Crochans?” The spider’s massive head bobbed in a nod before she sighed again. “The Crochans always tasted of what I imagine summer wine to be like. What chocolate, as you call it, would taste like.” “Where,” Manon demanded. The spider named the location—vague and unfamiliar. “I will show you where,” she said. “I will guide you.” “It could be a trap,” Sorrel said. “It’s not,” Dorian said, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. Manon studied the clarity of his eyes, the squared shoulders. The pitiless face, yet inquisitive angle to his head. “Let’s see if her information ...

A path into Morath. Not a physical road, not a course of travel, but this. The unholy terror remained quiet for a beat before she said, “Our gifts are strange and hungry things. We feed not just on your life, but your powers, too, if you possess them. Once magic was freed, I learned to wield the abilities the shape-shifter had transferred to me.” Damaris warmed in his hand. Truth. Every word the spider had spoken had been truth. And this … A way into Morath—as something else entirely. In another’s skin. Perhaps a human slave, like Elide Lochan. Someone whose presence would go unmarked.

lowly spider’s name,” she murmured, her depthless eyes setting on him. “You cannot pronounce it in your tongue, but you may call me Cyrene.” Manon ground her teeth. “It doesn’t matter what we call you, as you’ll be dead soon.” But Dorian cut her a sidelong glance. “The Ruhnns are a part of my kingdom. As such, Cyrene is one of my subjects. I think that gives me the right to decide whether she lives or dies.” “You are both at the mercy of my coven,” Manon snarled. “Step aside.” Dorian gave her a slight smile. “Am I?” A wind colder than the mountain air filled the pass. He could kill them all. Whether by choking the air from them or snapping their necks. He could kill them all, and the wyverns included. The knowledge carved out another hollow within him. Another empty spot. Had it ever troubled his father, or Aelin, to bear such power? “Bring her with us—question her more thoroughly at the next camp.” Manon snapped, “You plan to bring that with us?” In answer, the spider shifted, donning the form of a pale-skinned, dark-haired woman. Small and unremarkable, save for those unnerving black eyes. Not pretty, but with a deadly, ancient sort of allure that even a new hide couldn’t conceal. And utterly naked. She shivered, rubbing her hands down her thin arms. “Shall this form suffice to travel lightly?” Manon ignored the spider. “And when she shifts in the night to rip us apart?” Dorian only inclined his head, ice dancing at his fingertips. “She won’t.” Cyrene sucked in a breath....

The shattered arm, the splinters of bone jutting from her skin: gone. Or had never been. But it had felt real. More so than the other memories that pressed in, demanding she acknowledge them. Accept them. Aelin shoved her palms against the iron, muscles straining. It didn’t so much as shift. She tried again. That she had the strength to do so was thanks to the other services Maeve’s healers provided: keeping her muscles from atrophying while she lay here. A soft whine echoed into the box. A warning. Aelin lowered her hands just as the lock grated and the door groaned open. Cairn’s footsteps were faster this time. Urgent. “Relieve yourself in the hall and wait by this door,” he snapped at Fenrys. Aelin braced herself as those steps halted. A grunt and hiss of metal, and firelight poured in. She blinked against it, but kept still.

Cairn didn’t say anything as he unfastened the chains from their anchor. The most dangerous time for him, right before he moved her to the anchors on the altar. Even with her feet and hands bound, he took no chances. He didn’t today, either, despite not bothering with the gauntlets. Perhaps they’d melted away over that brazier, along with her skin. Cairn yanked her upright as half a dozen guards silently appeared in the doorway. Their faces held no horror at what had been done to her. She’d seen these males before. On a bloodied bit of beach.

“Varik,” Cairn said, and one of the guards stepped forward, Fenrys now at his side by the door, the wolf as tall as a pony. Varik’s sword rested against Fenrys’s throat.

It told her enough about how long she had been here. How long she had not been able to properly move, even with the healers’ ministrations to keep her muscles from wasting away. Cairn led her up a winding staircase that had her rasping for breath, the mist fading away to cool night air. Sweet smells. Flowers. Flowers still existed. In this world, this hell, flowers bloomed somewhere. The water’s bellow faded behind them to a blessedly dull rushing, soon replaced by merry trickling ahead. Fountains. Cold, smooth tiles bit into her feet, and through the hood flickering fire cast golden ripples. Lanterns. The air tightened, grew still. A courtyard, perhaps. Lightning pulsed down her thighs, her calves, warning her to slow, to rest. Then open air yawned again wide around her, the water once more roaring. Cairn halted, yanking her against his towering body, his various weapons digging into her chains, her skin. The other guards’ clothes rustled as they stopped, too. Fenrys’s claws clicked on stone, the sound no doubt meant to signal her that he remained nearby. She realized why he’d feel the need to do so as a female voice that was both young and old, amused and soulless, purred, “Remove the hood, Cairn.” It vanished, and Aelin needed only a few blinks to take everything in. She had been here before. Had been on this broad veranda overlooking a mighty river and waterfalls, had walked through the ancient stone city she knew loomed at her back. Had stood in this very spot, facing...

So elide was right, and she’s at doranelle

“I thought your rank should at least be acknowledged,” Maeve said, that spider’s smile never faltering as Aelin beheld what the wolf offered to the guard beside Cairn. “Put it on her,” the queen ordered. A crown, ancient and glimmering, shone in the guard’s hands. Crafted of silver and pearl, fashioned into upswept wings that met in its peaked center, encircled with spikes of pure diamond, it shimmered like the moon’s rays had been captured within as the guard set it upon Aelin’s head. A terrible, surprising weight, the cool metal digging into her scalp. Far heavier than it looked, as if it had a core of solid iron. A different sort of shackle. It always had been. Aelin reined in the urge to recoil, to shake the thing from her head. “Mab’s crown,” Maeve said. “Your crown, by blood and birthright. Her true Heir.” Aelin ignored the words. Stared toward the circle of glass shards. “Oh, that,” Maeve said, noting her attention. “I think you know how this shall go, Aelin of the Wildfire.” Aelin said nothing. Maeve gave a nod.

Her breath turned jagged as she began shaking, as a scream surged within her. She bit her lip, canines piercing flesh. She would not scream. Not yet. Breathe—breathe. The tang of her blood coated her mouth as she bit down harder. “A pity that there’s no audience to witness this,” said Maeve, her voice far away and yet too near. “Aelin Fire-Bringer, wearing her proper Faerie Queen’s crown at last. Kneeling at my feet.” A tremor shuddered through Aelin, rocking her body enough that the glass found new angles, new entries.

Maeve snapped her fingers. “Fenrys.” The wolf padded past and sat himself beside her throne. But not before he glanced at the black wolf. Just a turn of the head. The black wolf returned the look, bland and cold. And that was enough for Maeve to say, “Connall, you may finally tell your twin what you wish to say.” A flash of light. Aelin inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth, over and over. Barely registered the beautiful dark-haired male who now stood in place of the wolf. Bronze-skinned like his twin, but without the wildness, without the mischief shining from his face. He wore a warrior’s layered clothes, black to Fenrys’s usual gray, twin knives hanging at his sides. The white wolf stared up at his twin, rooted to the spot by that invisible bond. “Speak freely, Connall,” Maeve said, her faint smile remaining. The barn owl perched on the back of her throne watched with solemn, unblinking eyes. “Let your brother know these words are your own and not of my command.” A booted foot nudged Aelin’s spine, a subtle jab forward. Harder into the glass. No amount of breathing could draw her far enough away to rein in the muffled whimper. She hated it—hated that sound, as much as she hated the queen before her and the sadist at her back. But it still made its way out, barely audible over the thundering falls. Fenrys’s dark eyes shot toward her. He blinked four times. She could not bring herself to blink back. Her fingers curled and uncurled in her lap. “You brought th...

Kinda like Rhys with velaris

Maeve simply continued, “The dragons didn’t survive that war. And they never rose again.” Her lips curved, and Aelin knew Maeve had ensured it. Other fire-wielders—hunted and killed. She didn’t know why she felt it then. That shred of sorrow for creatures that had not existed for untold centuries. Who would never again be seen on this earth. Why it made her so unspeakably sad. Why it mattered at all, when her very blood was shrieking in agony.

The dragon from CC!!! The woman that ithan help escaped???

Aelin couldn’t stop the shaking that overtook her, the brutal numbness. Deep, deep, she drifted. It did not matter if Rowan wasn’t coming. If the others had obeyed her wishes to fight for Terrasen. She would save it in her own way, too. For as long as she could. She owed Terrasen that much. Would never fully repay that debt. From far away, the words echoed, and memory shimmered. She let it pull her back, pull her out of her body. She sat beside her father on the few steps descending into the open-air fighting ring of the castle. It was more temple than brawling pit, flanked by weathered, pale columns that for centuries had witnessed the rise of Terrasen’s mightiest warriors. This late in the summer afternoon, it was empty, the light golden as it streamed in. Rhoe Galathynius ran a hand down his round shield, the dark metal scarred and dinged from horrors long since vanquished. “Someday,” he said as she traced one of the long scratches over the ancient surface, “this shield will pass to you. As it was given to me, and to your great-uncle before me.” Her breath was still jagged from the training they’d done. Only the two of them—as he’d promised. The hour once a week that he set aside for her. Her father placed the shield on the stone step below them, its thunk reverberating through her sandaled feet. It weighed nearly as much as she did, yet he carried it as if it were merely an extension of his arm. “And you,” her father went on, “like the many great women and men of this ...

“I am growing bored of this,” Maeve said, her silver tray of food forgotten. She leaned forward on her throne, the owl behind her rustling its wings. “Do you believe, Aelin Galathynius, that I will not make the sacrifices necessary to obtain what I seek?” She had forgotten how to speak. Had not uttered a word here, anyway. “Allow me to demonstrate,” Maeve said, straightening. Fenrys’s eyes flared with warning. Maeve waved an ivory hand at Connall, frozen beside her throne. Where he’d remained since he’d brought the queen’s food. “Do it.” Connall drew one of the knives from his belt. Stepped toward Fenrys. No. The word was a cold clang through her. Her lips even formed it as she jerked against the chains, lines of liquid fire shooting along her legs. Connall advanced another step. Glass crunched and cracked beneath her. No, no— Connall stopped above Fenrys, his hand shaking. Fenrys only snarled up at him. Connall raised his knife into the air between them. She could not surge to her feet. Could not rise against the chains and glass. Could do nothing, nothing— Cairn gripped her by the neck, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and ground her again into the blood-drenched shards. A rasping, broken scream cracked from her lips. Fenrys. Her only tether to life, to this reality— Connall’s blade glinted. He’d come to help at Mistward. He had defied Maeve then; perhaps he’d do it now, perhaps his hateful words had been a deception— The blade plunged down. Not into Fenrys. But...

Aelin’s fingers curled in the ancient glass. “Think on it. Think on this night, Aelin.” Maeve snapped her fingers. “We’re done here.” Cairn’s hands wrapped around the chains. Her legs buckled, feet splitting open anew. She barely felt it, barely felt it through the rage and the sea of fire down deep, deep below. But as Cairn hauled her up, his savage hands roving, she struck. Two blows. A shard of glass plunged into the side of his neck. He staggered back, cursing as blood sprayed. Aelin whirled, glass ripping her soles apart, and hurled the shard in her other hand. Right at Maeve. It missed by a hairsbreadth. Scraping Maeve’s pale cheek before clattering off the throne behind her. The owl perched just above it screeched. Rough hands gripped her, Cairn shouting, raging shrieks of You little bitch, but she didn’t hear them. Not as a trickle of blood snaked down Maeve’s cheek. Black blood. As dark as night. As dark as the eyes that the queen fixed on her, a hand rising to her cheek. Aelin’s legs slackened, and she didn’t fight the guards heaving her away. A blink, and the blood flowed red. Its scent as coppery as her own. A trick of the light. A hallucination, another dream— Maeve peered at the crimson stain coating her pale fingers. An onyx wind snapped for Aelin, wrapping around her neck. It squeezed, and she knew no more.

Proof that’s she’s valg!!! Aelin caught her off guard, and if she wasn’t tortured then she’ll really caught on!!!

Cairn tied her to the altar and left her. Fenrys didn’t enter until long after she’d awoken. The blood was still leaking from where Cairn had also left the glass in her legs, her feet. It was not a wolf who slipped into the stone chamber, but a male. Each of Fenrys’s steps told her enough before she beheld the deadness of his eyes, the pallor of his usually golden skin. He stared at nothing, even as he stopped before where she lay chained. Beyond words, unsure her throat would even work, Aelin blinked three times. Are you all right? Two blinks answered. No. Lingering salt tracks streaked his cheeks. Her chains rustled as she stretched a shaking finger toward him. Silently, he slid his hand into hers. She mouthed the words, even though he likely couldn’t make them out with the slit of the mask’s mouth. I’m sorry. His grip only tightened. His gray jacket was unbuttoned at the top. It gaped open wide enough to reveal a hint of the muscled chest beneath. As if he hadn’t bothered to seal it back up in his hurry to leave. Her stomach turned over. What he’d undoubtedly had to do afterward, with his twin’s body still lying on the veranda tiles behind him … “I didn’t know he hated me so much,” Fenrys rasped. Aelin squeezed his hand. Fenrys closed his eyes, drawing in a shaking breath. “She gave me leave only to take out the glass. When it’s out, I—I go back over there.” He pointed with his chin toward the wall where he usually sat. He made to examine her legs, but she squeezed his ...

Their allies and soldiers believed Aelin Galathynius remained en route to them, allowing Lysandra to don the ghost leopard’s form. Ren Allsbrook had even commissioned plated armor for the leopard’s chest, sides, and flanks. So light as to not be a hindrance, but solid enough that the three blows she’d been too slow to stop—an arrow to the side, then two slashes from enemy swords—had been deflected. Little wounds burned along her body. Blood matted the fur of her paws from the slaughtering she’d done amongst the front lines and being torn open on fallen swords and snapped arrows. But she kept going, the Bane holding firm against what had been sent to meet them. Only five thousand. Only seemed like a ridiculous word, but it was what Aedion and the others had used.

Hours into this battle, it was instinct to clamp down, flesh splitting like a piece of ripe fruit. She was moving again before he hit the earth, spitting his throat onto the mud, leaving the advancing Bane to decapitate his corpse. How far away that courtesan’s life in Rifthold now seemed. Despite the death around her, she couldn’t say she missed it.

She didn’t dare see whose swords were still swinging. They would count their dead after the battle. There weren’t many of the enemy left now. A thousand, if that. The soldiers at her back numbered far more. So Lysandra kept killing, the blood of her enemy like spoiled wine on her tongue.