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Her Second, her cousin, her friend, smiled, eyes bright as stars. “Live, Manon.” Manon blinked. Asterin smiled wider, kissed Manon’s brow, and whispered again, “Live.”
“Bring our people home, Manon.”
Manon dug her fingers into the stones so hard her iron nails cracked. Began shaking her head, something in her chest fracturing completely. Fracturing as the Thirteen slammed into the Ironteeth blockade.
Manon began screaming then. Screaming, endless and wordless, as that thing in her chest, as her heart, shattered.
But Asterin was already there. And it was not darkness, but light—light, bright and pure as the sun on snow, that erupted from Asterin. Light, as Asterin made the Yielding. As the Thirteen, their broken bodies scattered around the tower in a near-circle, made the Yielding as well. Light. They all burned with it. Radiated it. Light that flowed from their souls, their fierce hearts as they gave themselves over to that power. Became incandescent with it.
“Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.”
For hours, Manon knelt on the battlefield, Abraxos at her side. As if she might stay with them, her Thirteen, for a little while longer.
But it was Fenrys who asked Chaol, voice deadly soft, “You’d rather my queen die than your king?”
Rowan just stared and stared at his mate. His reason for breathing. Elide asked softly, “What is your vote, Aelin?” Aelin tore her eyes from Rowan, and he felt the absence of that stare like a frozen wind as she said, “It doesn’t matter.”
She threaded her fingers through his hair. “I wanted that thousand years with you,” she said softly. “I wanted to have children with you. I wanted to go into the Afterworld together.” Her tears landed in his hair. Rowan lifted his head. “Then fight for it. One more time. Fight for that future.” She gazed at him, at the life she saw in his face. All that he offered. All that she might have, too.
“Even when you’re … there,” he said, his pine-green eyes so bright under the moon. “I am with you.” He laid a hand on her heart. “Here. I am with you here.” She laid her own hand on his chest, and breathed his scent deep into her lungs, her heart. “As I am with you. Always.” Rowan kissed her. “I love you,” he whispered onto her mouth. “Come back to me.”
My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid.
She passed through a world of snowcapped mountains under shining stars. Passed over one of those mountains, where a winged male stood beside a heavily pregnant female, gazing at those very stars. Fae. They were Fae, but this was not her world. She flung out a hand, as if she might signal them, as if they might somehow help her when she was nothing but an invisible speck of power— The winged male, beautiful beyond reason, snapped his head toward her as she arced across his starry sky. He lifted a hand, as if in greeting.
A blast of dark power, like a gentle summer night, slammed into her. Not to attack—but to slow her down. A wall, a shield, that she tore and plunged through. But it slowed her. That winged male’s power slowed her, just enough. Aelin vanished from his world without a whisper. And there it was. There it was, the pine and the snow, the snaking spine of the mountains up her continent, the tangle of Oakwald to the right, the Wastes to the left. A land of many peoples, many beings.
“I will find you again,” he promised her. “In whatever life comes after this.” Lysandra nodded. “In every lifetime.”
Again, that horn blared, a roar of defiance. “That’s no horn of Morath,” Lysandra breathed. And then they appeared. Along the edge of the foothills. A line of golden-armored warriors, foot soldiers and cavalry alike. More and more and more, a great line spreading across the crest of the final hill. Filling the skies, stretching into the horizon, flew mighty, armored birds with riders. Ruks. And before them all, sword raised to the sky as that horn blew one last time, the ruby in the blade’s pommel smoldering like a small sun … Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.
yesterday. And when dawn had broken, the Lord of the North had knelt beside Aelin and offered himself as her mount. There was no saddle for him; none would ever be permitted or needed. Any rider he allowed on his back, Aelin knew, would never fall.
Leaving Morath wide open for the golden army as it slammed into them with the force of a tidal wave.
She had been an assassin long before she’d mastered her power.
And there she was. In the deepening blues of descending night, amid the snow beginning to fall, Aelin Galathynius had appeared before the sealed southern gate. Had appeared before Erawan and Maeve.
Lysandra let out a strangled sob. “She—she has no magic left.” The shifter’s voice broke. “She has nothing left.” Still Aelin lifted her sword. Flames ran down the blade. One flame against the darkness gathered. One flame to light the night. Aelin raised her shield, and flames encircled it, too. Burning bright, burning undaunted. A vision of old, reborn once more. The cry went down the castle battlements, through the city, along the walls. The queen had come home at last. The queen had come to hold the gate.
Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be afraid.
She had made it home. It was enough.
Maeve extended a hand before her, darkness swirling in her cupped palm. “There are no gods left to watch, I’m afraid. And there are no gods left to help you now, Aelin Galathynius.” Aelin smiled, and Goldryn burned brighter. “I am a god.” She unleashed herself upon them.
He said his silent farewell, sending what remained of his heart on the wind to the woman who had saved him in every way that mattered.
His fingers locked around hers. Aelin let out a low laugh. “I may have no magic,” she said, “but my mate does.”
Her heart sang, roaring, at the power that flowed from Rowan and into her. At her side, her mate held fast. Unbreakable. Rowan smiled—fierce and feral and wicked. A crown of flame, twin to her own, appeared atop his head. As one, they looked to Maeve.
Aelin only looked to Lorcan. “Anything to say?” Lorcan smiled grimly, surveying the Fae and wolf-riders wreaking havoc on the spiders. “Long live the queen.”
Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed. A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak, undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars. Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.”
Darrow smiled—just a bit. “So it is.” He bowed his head. Then his body. “Welcome,” he said, then added as he rose, “Your Majesty.” But Aelin looked to Evangeline, the girl still beaming. Win me back my kingdom, Evangeline.
“Ask me to stay,” was all he said. Her heart began racing. “Stay,” she whispered. Light, such beautiful light filled his dark eyes. “Ask me to come to Perranth with you.” Her voice broke, but she managed to say, “Come to Perranth with me.” Lorcan nodded, as if in answer, and his smile was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. “Ask me to marry you.” Elide began crying, even as she laughed. “Will you marry me, Lorcan Salvaterre?” He swept her up into his arms, raining kisses over her face. As if some final, chained part of him had been freed. “I’ll think about it.” Elide laughed, smacking
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In silence, the two queens stared toward the decimated field. Toward the future beyond it.
Rowan’s heart began thundering as everyone gazed down the now-empty aisle. As the music rose and rose, the Song of Terrasen ringing out. And when the music hit its peak, when the world exploded with sound, regal and unbending, she appeared. Rowan’s knees buckled as everyone rose to their feet. Clad in flowing, gauzy green and silver, her golden hair unbound, Aelin paused on the threshold of the throne room. He had never seen anyone so beautiful. Aelin gazed down the long aisle. As if weighing every step she would take to the dais. To her throne. The entire world seemed to pause with her,
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steps and knelt upon the top one. The only time in her reign that she would ever bow. The only thing she would ever kneel before. Her crown. Her throne. Her kingdom.
And Aelin bowed to them then. The near-invisible people who had saved her so many times, and asked for nothing. The Lord of the North, who had survived, as she had, against all odds. Who had never forgotten her. She would serve them, as she would serve any citizen of Terrasen.
It weighed on her, nestled against her bones, that new burden. No longer an assassin. No longer a rogue princess. And when Aelin lifted her head to survey the cheering crowd, when she smiled, Queen of Terrasen and the Faerie Queen of the West, she burned bright as a star.
“Walk with me,” Aelin said to them, the men and males falling into step behind. “My friends.” The bells still ringing, Aelin nodded to the guards at the castle gates. They opened at last, and the roar from the gathered crowds was loud enough to rattle the stars. As one, they walked out. Into the cheering city. Into the streets, where people danced and sang, where they wept and clasped their hands to their hearts at the sight of the parade of waving, smiling rulers and warriors and heroes who had saved their kingdom, their lands. At the sight of the newly crowned queen, joy lighting her eyes. A
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“We’re a long way from Innish,” Yrene whispered. “But lost no longer,” Aelin whispered back, voice breaking as they embraced. The two women who had held the fate of their world between them. Who had saved it.
Aelin let out a long sigh. “Will you let me cry in bed for the rest of today like a pathetic worm,” she asked at last, “if I promise to get to work on rebuilding tomorrow?” Rowan arched a brow, joy flowing through him, free and shining as a stream down a mountain. “Would you like me to bring you cakes and chocolate so your wallowing can be complete?” “If you can find any.”
He tucked her in closer. “I am thinking about how very grateful I am. That we made it. That I found you. And how, even with all that work to be done, I will not mind a moment of it because you are with me.”
“And tomorrow?” she asked breathlessly, and they both paused to look at each other. To smile. “Will you work to rebuild this kingdom, this world, with me tomorrow?” “Tomorrow, and every day after that.” For every day of the thousand blessed years they were granted together. And beyond.
The mountain wind brushed away her tears, carrying with it a song, ancient and lovely. From the very heart of Oakwald. The very heart of the earth. Rowan twined his fingers in hers and whispered, awe in every word, “For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you.” Aelin wept then. Wept in joy that lit her heart, brighter than any magic could ever be. For across every mountain, spread beneath the green canopy of Oakwald, carpeting the entire Plain of Theralis, the kingsflame was blooming.
