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Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius
Rowan’s marking. A mate’s marking.
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.
Not just a prince, not anymore. Consort to the Queen of Terrasen.
Mate. His mate.
Aelin had been his, and he had been hers, from the start. Longer than that.
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.
“Am I not keeping you warm enough these days, wife?”
Over a month later, and he was still marveling at the word: wife. At the woman by his side, who had healed his fractured and weary soul.
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.
Aelin opened her eyes. Lifted her bound hands before her.
And gave Maeve an obscene gesture, as filthy and foul as she’d ever made.
“It was real, Aedion,” she said. “All of it. I don’t care if you believe me or not. But it was real for me.”
It is the strength of this that matters. No matter where you are, no matter how far, this will lead you home.
You do not yield. Then she was gone, like dew under the morning sun. But the words lingered. Blossomed within Aelin, bright as a kindled ember. You do not yield.
You do not yield.
You do not yield. You do not yield. You do not yield.
You do not yield.
“Shut me up, then,”
It warmed Chaol enough to say, “My wife. Lady Yrene Towers Westfall.”
People were easy to flatter, easy to trick, regardless of whether they had pointy ears or round.
Don’t be angry, Finnula had taught her. Be smart.
It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it. They’d walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.
He’d never had anything like her. He sometimes wondered if she’d never had anything like him, either.
“I care about more than I should. I even care about you.”
The sob that came out of Aelin at the hawk’s bellow of fury cracked Lorcan’s chest.
His Fireheart.
“I am your mate,”
Her magic flared in answer, a ripple of power dancing through her. As if it had found a mirror of itself in the world, as if it had found the countermelody to its own song.
But he’d work with her, help in whatever way he could. And if she never returned to who she had been before this, he would not love her any less.
“I told you once that even if death separated us, I would rip apart every world until I found you.” He gave her a slash of a smile. “Did you really believe this would stop me?”
“I don’t care about me! I didn’t care about me on that beach!” “Well, I do.”
“To whatever end,” he whispered. Silver lined her eyes. “To whatever end.”
There was still beauty in this world. Stars could still glow, still burn bright, even buried under the earth.
“I’m your mate,” she said, needing to voice it. “And you are mine.”
The couch Chaol had brought with him from the southern continent—the couch from which Yrene had healed him, from which he had won her heart—was
still safely aboard their ship. Waiting, should they survive, to be the first piece of furniture in the home he’d build for his wife. For the child she carried.
The young queen let out a broken laugh of joy and flung her arms around his neck. Pain lanced down his spine at the impact, but Chaol held her right back, every question fading from his tongue. Aelin was shaking as she pulled away. “I knew you would,” she breathed, gazing down his body, to his feet, then up again. “I knew you’d do it.”
But Aelin’s gaze fell upon the wedding band on Yrene’s finger, and when she glanced to Chaol, he grinned.
Gods above, Chaol was walking again. And married to Yrene Towers, who had healed him.
A thread in a tapestry. That’s what it had felt like the night she’d left the gold for Yrene in Innish. Like pulling a thread in a tapestry, and seeing just how far and wide it went.
Rowan laid a hand on her shoulder, and when she looked up, she found him near laughter. “What’s so funny, exactly?” she hissed. Rowan smirked. “That for once, you are the one who gets knocked on your ass by a surprise.”
Aelin whispered conspiratorially to the girl, “Make them roll over before you offer them a treat.”
“Because it will help me understand how I did the same.”
“No. But you have to realize that he swore the blood oath to Aelin for you. For no one else. So he could remain near you. Even knowing well enough that you will have a mortal lifespan.”
“And a day of death has made me want to hold you,” the prince said, giving her that disarming grin she had no defenses against. Especially as he added, “And do other things with you.”
“I wanted it to be you,” she said. “After Wesley, after all of it, I wanted it to be you. What Aelin asked me to do had no bearing on that. What she asked me to do never felt like a burden, because I wanted it to be you in the end anyway.”
Then he said, “I meant every promise I made to you on that beach in Skull’s Bay.”
For what he’d done to the shifter who had held his heart from the moment she’d shredded into those Valg soldiers in the sewers of Rifthold.
Chaol’s heart thundered. “It’s true, then.” Her golden eyes scanned his. “Do you want it to be?” Chaol slid a hand against her cheek. “More than I ever realized.”
