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The whispered word floated through the eternal night, a glimmer of sound, of light. Fireheart. The woman’s voice was soft, loving. Her mother’s voice. Aelin turned her face away. Even that movement was more than she could bear. Fireheart, why do you cry? Aelin could not answer. Fireheart.
The Crochan pointed to the blue mare huddled beside Abraxos. “He is smaller, yet he dotes on her. Nuzzles her when no one is looking.”
“Your eyes are brown.”
Trying not to dwell on the unbearable smoothness of her hand as it wrapped around his, Rowan helped her aboard,
“Plan for what?” Fenrys asked, coming closer. A member of this court. Of Lorcan’s own court. The three of them once again bound—and yet freer than they’d ever been.
He just turned to her and blinked three times. Are you all right? A gull’s cry pierced the gray world, and Aelin blinked back twice. No.
I didn’t waste it—not a coin you gave me, or a moment of the time, the life you bought me.”
The hair, the broad-planed face … yes, it was the same. But where Aedion was fire, Gavriel seemed to be stone. Indeed, his eyes were solemn as he said, “Aedion is my pride.”
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.
It was so quiet. Inside her, and on the plain. So quiet, and empty.
Had she looked, she would have seen the small white flowers they bore. Would have wondered how and where they had gotten them in the dead heart of winter.
And as Chaol Westfall dismounted and ran the last few feet toward Dorian, the King of Adarlan wept.
“Your parents are … They are so very proud of you. They asked me to tell you that they love you so very much.”
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.
Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be 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.
Yrene put her hands atop Chaol’s and brought them brow to brow. “You are my joy,” was all she said to him. Her husband, her dearest friend, closed his eyes.
I name you Elentiya, “Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.”
“How,” Maeve asked again. “How did you not break?” “Because I am not afraid,” Aelin said.
As Damaris drew it from him. But Dorian did not marvel at the sword’s power. His father’s name … Dorian. I took his name, Erawan spat, writhing as the words flowed from his tongue under Damaris’s power. I wiped it away from existence. Yet he only remembered it once. Only once. The first time he beheld you.
The years he and his father would not have. The years he’d realized he wanted to have, the stories he wished to hear, the male he wished to know. And never would. Had Gavriel known that? Or had he fallen believing his son wished nothing to do with him? He couldn’t endure it, that potential truth. Its weight would be unbearable.
Aedion watched, silent and ripped open. Yet happy for her—he would always be happy for her, for any ray of light she found.
Dorian still tightened his hand around the golden hilt and said, “I am human.” It warmed in his hand.
“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.”
Abraxos staring toward that blasted bit of earth on the plain, toward the mate who would never return, while the city below celebrated.
She stopped before the table where Gavriel had been laid. “I wished to wait to offer you the blood oath until after your son had taken it,” she said, her quiet voice echoing off the stones. “But I offer it to you now, Gavriel. With honor, and gratitude, I offer you the blood oath.” Her tears plopped onto the blanket covering him,
“Let the world know,” Aelin said, voice breaking, “that you are a male of honor. That you stood by your son, and this kingdom, and helped to save it.” She kissed the cold brow. “You are blood-sworn to me. And you shall be buried here as such.” She pulled away, stroking his cheek once. “Thank you.”
She went still. “Who?” Manon’s throat bobbed. “All.”
“Live, Elide,” was all the witch said to her before striding out of the hall once more. “Live.”
“I never realized how convenient it would be for Fleetfoot,” she said of the secret, private garden. Reserved only for the royal family. Sometimes just for the king or queen themselves. “To not have to run down the tower stairs every time she needs to pee.”
“I’m thinking pink and purple. Embroidered with flowers. Just what Erawan would have loved.”
“Thank you for coming when I asked. Thank you on behalf of Terrasen. I am in your debt.” “We were in your debt,” Ansel countered. “I wasn’t,” Rolfe muttered.
And Manon, realizing it, let her shoulders curve inward, let her head bow. As she might never do with anyone else. As no one else might understand—the weight they both bore.
A new world. A better world.
Your father informed me of what he did with my letters to you. I informed him I shall not be returning to Anielle.
