Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #0.1–0.5, 1–7)

by Sarah J. Maas

“What would it take—to win the Crochans over? To join us in war?” Glennis adjusted her cape in the mirror. “Only a Crochan Queen may ignite the Flame of War, to summon every witch from her hearth.” Manon blinked at the frank answer. “The Flame of War?” Glennis jerked her chin toward the tent flaps, to the fire pit beyond. “Every Crochan family has a hearth that moves with them to each camp or home we make; the fires never extinguish. The flame in my hearth dates back to the Crochan city itself, when Brannon Galathynius gave Rhiannon a spark of eternally burning fire. My mother carried it with her in a glass globe, hidden in her cloak, when she smuggled out your ancestor, and it has continued to burn at every royal Crochan hearth since then.” “What about when magic disappeared for ten years?” “Our seers had a vision that it would vanish, and the flame would die. So we ignited several ordinary fires from that magic flame, and kept them burning. When magic disappeared, the flame indeed winked out. And when magic returned this spring, the flame again kindled, right in the hearth where we had last seen it.” Her great-grandmother turned toward her. “When a Crochan Queen summons her people to war, a flame is taken from the royal hearth, and passed to each hearth, one camp and village to the other. The arrival of the flame is a summons that only a true Crochan Queen may make.” “So I only need to use the flame in that pit out there and the army will come to me?” A caw of laughter. ...

“So, Erawan knows you’re not Aelin.” She whipped her head to him. “What?” A quick, vague question to buy herself time. Had Aedion risked telling him the truth? Nox gave her a half smile. “I figured as much when I saw the surprise on that demon’s face.” “You must be mistaken.” “Am I? Or do you not remember me at all?” She did her best to look down her nose at him, even as the messenger-thief towered over her. Aelin had never mentioned a Nox Owen. “Why should I remember one of Darrow’s lackeys?” “A decent attempt, but Celaena Sardothien looked a little more amused when she cut men into ribbons.” He knew—who Aelin was, what she’d been. Lysandra said nothing, and kept walking toward her tent. If she told Aedion, how quickly could Nox be buried under the frozen earth? “Your secret is safe,” Nox murmured. “Celaena—Aelin was a friend. Is still one, I’d hope.” “How.” She’d admit no more than that regarding her role in this. “We fought in the competition together at the glass castle.” He snorted. “I had no idea until today. Gods, I was there for Minister Joval as a spy for the rebels. It was my first time out of Perranth. My first time, and I wound up unwittingly training alongside my queen.” He laughed, low and amazed. “I’d been working with the rebels for years, even as a thief. They wanted me to be their inside eyes on the castle, the king’s plans. I reported the strange goings-on until it became too dangerous. Until Cel—Aelin warned me to run. I listened, and came back here. Jo...

At dinner, Nox Owen laced the wine he’d personally served—as a groveling apology for letting in the Valg soldier—to Lords Darrow, Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood. Not to kill them, but to send them into a deep, dreamless sleep. Even a roaring bear couldn’t wake this lout, Ansel of Briarcliff had sniffed when she’d stood over Lord Gunnar’s cot, lifted his limp arm, and let it drop. The lord didn’t stir, and Lysandra, wearing a field mouse’s form and tucked into the shadows behind the queen, deemed it proof enough. The four lords’ loyal banner men also found themselves sleeping deeply that night, courtesy of the wine that Galan Ashryver, Ilias, Ren, and Ravi had made sure was handed out at their fires. And when they all awoke the next day, there was only whipping snow beyond their tents. The camp was gone. The army with it.

“Last I looked, boy, I was still Lord of Anielle. You gladly turned your back on it. Twice.” “You have Terrin.” “Terrin’s a scholar. Why do you think I sent him away with his mother like a nursing babe?” His father sneered. “Have you come back to bleed for Anielle, then? To bleed for this city at last?” “Don’t you talk to him like that,” Yrene said with dangerous calm. His father ignored her. But Yrene stepped up to Chaol’s side once more. “I am the heir apparent to the Healer on High of the Torre Cesme. I came at your son’s behest, back to the lands of my birth, to help in this war, along with two hundred healers from the Torre itself. Your son spent the last several months forging an alliance with the khaganate, and now all of the khagan’s armies sail to this continent to save your people. So while you sit here in your miserable keep, tossing insults at him, know that he has done what no other could do, and if your city survives, it will be because of him, not you.”

“Do you know the story of the queen who walked through worlds?” Seated on the mossy carpet of an ancient glen, one hand toying with the small white flowers strewn across it, Aelin shook her head. In the towering oaks that formed a lattice over the clearing, small stars blinked and shimmered, as if they’d been snared by the branches themselves. Beyond them, bathing the forest with light bright enough to see by, a full moon had risen. All around them, faint, lilting singing floated on the warm summer air. “It is a sad story,” her aunt said, one corner of her red-painted mouth curling upward as she leaned back on her seat carved into a granite boulder. Her usual place, while they had these lessons, these long, peaceful chats deep into the balmy summer nights. “And an old one.” Aelin lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t I a little old for faerie stories?” She’d indeed just celebrated her twentieth birthday three days ago, in another clearing not too far from here. Half of Doranelle had come, it had seemed, and yet her mate had found a way to sneak her from the revelry. All the way to a secluded pool in the forest’s heart. Her face still warmed to think of that moonlit swim, what Rowan had made her feel, how he’d worshipped her in the sun-warmed water. Mate. The word was still a surprise. As it had been to arrive here at spring’s end and see him beside her aunt’s throne and simply know. And in the months since, their courting … Aelin indeed blushed at the thought of it. What they’d done ...

“Do you know what pains me most, Aelin?” Maeve’s words were soft as a lover’s. “It’s that you believe I’m the villain in this.” Aelin sobbed through her teeth as she tried and failed to move her arm. Both arms. She cast her gaze through the space, this real-yet-not room. They’d repaired the box. Had welded a new slab of iron over the lid. Then over the sides. The bottom. Less air trickled in, the hours or days now spent inside in near-suffocating heat. It had been a relief when she’d finally been chained to the altar. Whenever that had been. If it had even happened at all. “I have no doubt that your mate or Elena or even Brannon himself filled your head with lies about what I’ll do with the keys.” Maeve ran a hand over the stone lip of the altar, right through her splattered blood and shards of bone. “I meant what I said. I like this world. I do not wish to destroy it. Only improve it. Imagine a realm where there is no hunger, no pain. Isn’t that what you and your cohorts are fighting for? A better world?” The words were a mockery. A mockery of what she’d promised so many. What she had promised Terrasen, and still owed it.

“You can feel it, even now,” Maeve went on. “The urge of your body to say yes.” Aelin opened her eyes, and confusion must have glittered there, because Maeve smiled. “Do you know what being encased in iron does to a magic-wielder? You wouldn’t feel it immediately, but as time goes on … your magic needs release, Aelin. That pressure is your magic screaming it wants you to come free of these chains and release the strain. Your very blood tells you to heed me.” Truth. Not the submission part, but the deepening pressure she knew would be worse than any pain from burnout. She’d felt it once, when plunging as far into her power as she’d ever gone. That would be nothing compared to this.

Overhead, the stars shone clear and bright, and though Mala had only once appeared to him at dawn, on the foothills across this very city, though she might be little more than a strange, mighty being from another world, he offered up a prayer anyway. Then, he had begged Mala to protect Aelin from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive. Then, he had begged Mala to let him remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. The goddess had been little more than a sunbeam in the rising dawn, and yet he had felt her smile at him. Tonight, with only the cold fire of the stars for company, he begged her once more. A curl of wind sent his prayer drifting to those stars, to the waxing moon silvering the camp, the river, the mountains.

He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he’d wrapped around his heart, he’d still found Aelin. Every horizon he’d gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he’d seen and wondered what lay beyond … It had been her. 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.

Karsyn spoke at last. “Your wyvern seems like more of a dog than anything.” It was not an insult, Manon reminded herself. The Crochans kept dogs as pets. Adored them, as humans did. “His name is Abraxos,” Manon said. “He is … different.” “He and the blue one are mates.” Asterin started. “They’re what?” 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.” Manon exchanged a glance with Asterin. Their mounts incessantly flirted, yes, but to mate— “Interesting,” Manon managed to say. “You didn’t know they did such things?” Karsyn’s brows knotted. “We knew they bred.” Asterin stepped in at last. “But we haven’t witnessed it being for … choice.” “For love,” the Crochan said, and Manon nearly rolled her eyes. “These beasts, despite their dark master, are capable of love.”

Hurry northward, the wind sang, day and night. Hurry, Blackbeak. When Karsyn was gone, Asterin remained staring at Abraxos and Narene, scratching her hair. “You really think they’re mated?” Abraxos lifted his head from where it rested atop Narene’s back and looked toward them, as if to say, It took you long enough to figure it out.

“I like the ice best,” Dorian admitted at last, realizing he’d let the silence drip on. “It was the first element that came out of me—I don’t know why.” “You’re not a cold person.” He arched a brow. “Is that your professional opinion?” Manon studied him. “You can descend to those levels when you are angry, when your friends are threatened. But you are not cold, not at heart. I’ve seen men who are, and you are not.” “Neither are you,” he said a bit quietly. The wrong thing to say. Manon stiffened, her chin lifting. “I am one hundred seventeen years old,” she said flatly. “I have spent the majority of that time killing. Don’t convince yourself that the events of the past few months have erased that.” “Keep telling yourself that.” He doubted anyone had ever spoken to her that baldly—relished that he now did, and kept his throat intact. She snarled in his face. “You’re a fool if you believe the fact that I am their queen wipes away the truth that I have killed scores of Crochans.” “That fact will always remain. It’s how you make it count now that matters.” Make it count. Aelin had said as much back in those initial days after he’d been freed of the collar. He tried not to wonder whether the icy bite of Wyrdstone would soon clamp around his neck once more.

I even care about you. Manon scowled as she turned in her sleep, wedged between Asterin and Sorrel. Only hours remained until they were to move out—to head to Eyllwe and whatever force might be waiting to ally with the Crochans. And in need of help. Caring doesn’t make you weak. The king was a fool. Little more than a boy. What did he know of anything? Still the words burrowed under her skin, her bones. Is it so bad, to care? She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

Aelin yanked uselessly, her feet sliding against the still-cool metal. Not like this— Cairn reached into his pocket and withdrew some flint. This wasn’t just a breaking of her body. But a breaking of her—of the fire she’d come to love. To destroy the part of her that sang. He’d melt her skin and bones until she feared the flame, until she hated it, as she hated those healers who had come again and again to repair her body, to hide what was real from what had been a dream. Fenrys’s snarl rolled on, endless.

The hand she’d been dealt. It was the hand she had been dealt, and she would endure it. Even as a word took form on her tongue. Please. She tried to swallow it. Tried to keep it locked in as Cairn crouched beside the table, flint raised. You do not yield. You do not yield. You do not yield. “Wait.” The word was a rasp. Cairn paused. Rose from his crouch. “Wait?” Aelin shook, her breathing ragged. “Wait.” Cairn crossed his arms. “Do you have something you’d like to say at last?” He’d let her promise anything to him, to Maeve. And then would still light those fires. Maeve would not hear of her yielding for days. Aelin made herself meet his stare, her gauntlet-covered fingers pressing into the iron slab beneath her. One last chance. She’d seen the stars overhead. It was as great a gift as any she’d received, greater than the jewels and gowns and art she’d once coveted and amassed in Rifthold. The last gift she would receive, if she played the hand she’d been dealt. If she played him right. To end this, end her. Before Maeve could put the Wyrdstone collar around her neck.

Fenrys had seen his twin drive a knife through his heart. Had watched Connall bleed out onto the tiles and die. And had then been ordered to kneel before Maeve in that very blood as she’d bade him to attend her. He’d sat in a stone room for two months, witness to what they’d done to a young queen’s body, her spirit. Had been unable to help her as she’d screamed and screamed. He’d never stop hearing those screams. But it was the sound that came out of her as Cairn hurled her into the chest of drawers where Fenrys had watched him arranging his tools, the sound she made as she hit the floor, that shattered him entirely. A small sound. Quiet. Hopeless. He’d never heard it from her, not once. Cairn got to his feet and wiped his bloodied, broken nose. Aelin Galathynius stirred, trying to rise onto her forearms. Cairn pulled the red-hot poker from the brazier. He pointed it at her like a sword. Fenrys strained against his invisible bindings as Aelin glanced at him, toward where he’d sat for the past two days, in that same damned spot by the tent wall. Despair shone in her eyes. True despair, without light or hope. The sort of despair that wished for death. The sort of despair that began to erode strength, to eat away at any resolve to endure. She blinked at him. Four times. I am here, I am with you. Fenrys knew it for what it was. The final message. Not before death, but before the sort of breaking that no one would walk away from. Before Maeve returned with the Wyrdstone collar....

Pain shuddered Aelin as she lay sprawled, panting, arms straining to hold her head and chest off the ground. It was not Cairn and the poker she stared at. But Fenrys, rising upward, his body rippling with tremors of pain, snout wrinkled in rage. Even Cairn halted. Looked toward the white wolf. “Stand down.” Fenrys snarled, deep and vicious. And still he struggled to his feet. Cairn pointed the poker at the rug. “Lie down. That is an order from your queen.” Fenrys spasmed, his hackles lifting. But he was standing. Standing. Despite the order, despite the blood oath’s commands. Get up. From far away, the words sounded. Cairn roared, “Lie down!” Fenrys’s head thrashed from side to side, his body bucking against invisible chains. Against an invisible oath. His dark eyes met Cairn’s. Blood began running from the wolf’s nostril. It’d kill him—to sever the oath. It would break his soul. His body would go soon after that. But Fenrys put one paw forward. His claws dug into the ground. Cairn’s face paled at that step. That impossible step. Fenrys’s eyes slid toward hers. Neither needed the silent code between them for the word she beheld in his gaze. The order and plea. Run. Cairn read the word, too. And he hissed, “Not with a shattered spine, she can’t,” before he brought the poker slamming down for Aelin’s back. With a roar, Fenrys leaped. And with it, he snapped the blood oath completely.

Fenrys and Cairn circled again, step after step. Wearing him out, wearing him down. Cairn knew the cost of severing the blood oath. Knew he had only to wait it out before Fenrys was dead. Fenrys knew it, too. He charged, teeth snapping for Cairn’s throat as his paws swiped for the male’s shins. Aelin grabbed the poker, planted her heels, and drove the rod upward. It strained against the heated links in the chain, and she shoved and shoved her feet downward, her arms buckling. Cairn and Fenrys rolled, and Aelin gritted her teeth, bellowing. The chain between her legs snapped. It was all she needed. She scrambled to her feet, but halted. Fenrys, pinned by Cairn, met her gaze. Snarled in warning and command. Run. Cairn whipped his head toward her. Toward the chain hanging free between her ankles. “You—” But Fenrys surged up, his jaws clamping around Cairn’s shoulder. Cairn shouted, arching, grabbing for Fenrys’s back. Fenrys met her stare again, ripping into Cairn’s shoulder even as the male shoved them into the edge of the table. Hammered Fenrys’s spine into the metal, hard enough that bone cracked. Run. Aelin did not hesitate. She sprinted for the tent flaps. And into the morning beyond.

“We need to go,” Gavriel said, his own voice thick as he took in Fenrys, standing proud and watchful beside Aelin. “We need to put distance between us and the camp, and find somewhere to halt for the night.” Where they’d reassess how and where to leave this kingdom. Heading into the forest, toward the mountains, would be their best bet. These trees offered plenty of coverage, and plenty of caves in which to hide. “Can you walk?” Lorcan asked Fenrys. Fenrys slid dark, baleful eyes to Lorcan. Oh, that fight would come. That vengeance. The wolf gave him a curt nod. Elide reached for one of the packs stashed near the base of a tree. “Which way?” But Rowan didn’t get to answer. Silent as wraiths, they appeared across the glen. As if they’d simply sparked into existence in the shade of the foliage. Little bodies, some pale, some black as night, some scaled. Mostly concealed, save for spindly fingers and wide, unblinking eyes. Elide gasped. “The Little Folk.”

Elide hadn’t seen a whisper of the Little Folk since the days before Terrasen fell. Then, it had been flashes and rustling within Oakwald’s ancient shade. Never so many, never so openly. Or as open as they would ever allow themselves to be. The half dozen or so who had gathered across the clearing kept mostly hidden behind root and rock and cluster of leaves. None of the males moved, though Fenrys’s ears cocked toward them. A miracle—that’s what had happened with the queen and the wolf. Though Fenrys seemed drained, his eyes were clear as the Little Folk gathered. Aelin barely looked toward them. A pale, spindly hand rose over a moss-speckled boulder and curled. Come. Rowan asked, voice like granite, “You wish us to follow you?” Again, the hand made the motion. Come. Gavriel murmured, “They know this forest better than even we do.” “And you trust them?” Lorcan demanded. Rowan’s eyes settled on Aelin. “They saved her life once.” That night Erawan’s assassin had returned for Aelin. “They will do so again now.”

Aelin had said nothing, done nothing except rise when they told her it was time to go. Rowan had offered her his cloak, and she’d allowed it to pass through her bubble of golden, clear flame to wrap around her naked body. She clutched it at her chest as they walked, mile after mile, her feet bare. If the stones and roots of the forest hurt her, she didn’t so much as flinch. She only walked on, Fenrys at her side within that sphere of fire, as if they were two ghosts of memory. A vision of old, striding through the trees, the queen and the wolf.

Nooks and alcoves had been built into the side of the rock, some equipped with bedrolls, some with what seemed to be piles of clothes, and some with food. A small fire burned near one, and past it, tucked against the wall, a natural stone trough gleamed with water, courtesy of a small stream. But farther into the cave, on the other side of the chamber, flowing right up to the black rock itself, a great lake stretched into the darkness. There were countless subterranean lakes and rivers beneath these mountains—places so deep in the earth that even the Fae had not bothered or dared to explore. This one, it seemed, the Little Folk had claimed for themselves, going so far as to outfit the space with sprawling birch branches against the walls. They’d hung small garlands and wreaths from the white limbs, and amongst the leaves, little bluish lights twinkled. Magic—old, strange magic, those lights. Like they’d been plucked from the night sky.

He’d never spoken to her—not really. Had barely given her more than a passing glance, or grimaced his way through polite conversation with her. And yet here she stood, the woman who had taken out a third of Morath, who had devoured a Valg prince from sheer will alone. “How did you do it?” he whispered. “How did you break free of its control?” He had to know. If he was walking into hell itself, if it was more than likely he’d wind up with a new collar around his throat, he had to know. Kaltain studied his neck before she met his stare. “Because I raged against it. Because I did not feel that I deserved the collar.” The truth of her words slammed into him as surely as if she’d shoved his chest.

Let go—the shifting magic’s command. Let go of everything. Let go of that wall he’d built around himself the moment the Valg prince had invaded him, and look within. At himself. Perhaps what the sword had asked him to do in summoning Kaltain instead. Who do you wish to be? “Someone worthy of my friends,” he said into the quiet night. “A king worthy of his kingdom.” For a heartbeat, snow-white hair and golden eyes flashed into his mind. “Happy,” he whispered, and wrapped a hand around Damaris’s hilt. Let go of that lingering scrap of terror.

She had not trusted this world, this dream. The companions who had walked with her, led her here. The warrior-prince with pine-green eyes and who smelled of Terrasen. Him, she had not dared to believe at all. Not the words he spoke, but the mere fact that he was there. She did not trust that he’d removed the mask, the irons. They had vanished in other dreams, too—dreams that had proved false. But the Little Folk had told her it was true. All of this. They had said it was safe, and she was to rest, and they would look after her. And that terrible, relentless pressure writhing in her veins—it had eased. Just enough to think, to breathe and act beyond pure instinct. She’d siphoned off as much as she dared, but not all. Certainly not all. So she had slept. She’d done that, too, in those other dreams. Had lived through days and weeks of stories that then washed away like footprints in the sand. Yet when she opened her eyes, the cave remained, dimmer now. The thrumming power had nestled deeper, slumbering. The ache in her ribs had faded, the slice down her forearm had healed—but the scab remained. The only mark on her. Aelin prodded it with a finger. Dull pain echoed in response. Smooth—not the scab, but her finger. Smooth like glass as she rubbed the pads of her thumb and forefinger together. No calluses. Not on her fingers, on her palms. Utterly blank, wiped of the imprint from the years of training, or the year in Endovier. But this new scab, this faint throbbing beneath it—t...

Rowan lingered at the shore’s edge, a hand extended for Aelin while she approached. Each of her steps seemed considered—as if she still marveled at being able to move freely. As if still adjusting to her legs without the burden of chains. “Why?” Lorcan mused aloud, more to himself. “Why go to these lengths for us?” He got his answer—they all did—a heartbeat later. Aelin halted a few feet away from the boat and Rowan’s outstretched hand. She turned back toward the cave itself. The Little Folk peeked from those birch branches, from the rocks, from behind stalagmites. Slowly, deeply, Aelin bowed to them. Rowan could have sworn all those tiny heads lowered in answer. A pair of bony grayish hands rose above a nearby rock, something glittering held between them, and set the object on the stone. Rowan went still. A crown of silver and pearl and diamond gleamed there, fashioned into upswept swan’s wings. “The Crown of Mab,” Gavriel breathed. But Fenrys looked away, toward the looming dark, his tail curling around him. Aelin staggered a step closer to the crown. “It—it fell into the river.” Rowan didn’t want to know how she’d encountered it, why she’d seen it fall into a river. Maeve had kept her sisters’ two crowns under constant guard, only bringing them out to be displayed in her throne room on state occasions. In memory of her siblings, she’d intoned. Rowan had sometimes wondered if it was a reminder that she had outlasted them, had kept the throne for herself in the end. The g...

You do not yield. She knew that had been true—that it had been her mother’s voice who had spoken and none other. So she would not yield to this. What had been done. What remained.

Rowan remained still as she approached, something clenched in her palm. It was only when she stopped close enough for him to touch her that she unfurled her fingers. Two golden rings lay there. “I don’t know the Fae customs,” she said. The thicker ring held an elegantly cut ruby within the band itself, while the smaller one bore a sparkling rectangular emerald mounted atop, the stone as large as her fingernail. “But when humans wed, rings are exchanged.” Her fingers trembled—just slightly. Too many unspoken words lay between them. Yet now was not the time for that conversation, for that healing. Not when they had to be on their way as swiftly as possible, and this offer she’d made him, this proof that she still wanted what lay between them, the vows they’d sworn … “I assume the sparkly emerald is for me,” Rowan said with a half smile. She huffed a laugh. The soft, whispered sound was as precious as the rings she’d found for them in this hoard. She took his hand, and he tried not to shudder in relief, tried not to fall to his knees as she slid the ruby ring onto his finger. It fit him perfectly, the ring no doubt forged for the king lying in this barrow. Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. “To whatever end,” he whispered. Silver lined her eyes. “To whatever end.” A reminder—and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they’d sworn on that ship. To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terr...

Beauty remained—and she would fight for it. Needed to fight. It was a constant thrum in her blood, her bones. Right alongside the power that she shoved down deep and dismissed with each breath. Fight—one last time. She’d escaped so she might do it. Would think of all those still defying Morath, defying Maeve, while she trained. She wouldn’t hesitate. Didn’t dare to pause. She’d make this time count. In every way possible. The emerald on her marriage band glistened with its own fire. Selfish of her, to enforce that bond when her very blood destined her for a sacrificial altar, and yet she had gotten out of the boat to find them. The rings. Raiding the trove had been an afterthought. But if she was to have no scars on her, no reminder of where she’d been and who she was and what she’d promised, then she’d needed this one scrap of proof. Aelin could have sworn the living stars overhead sang, a celestial choir that floated through the caves. A star-song carried along the river current, running beside them, for the last miles to the sea.

She knew there was nothing kind, nothing warm on her face. A witch’s face. A Blackbeak’s face. “Morath is suicide. Erawan will find you in any form you wear, and you will wind up with a collar around your throat.” “I don’t have another choice.” “We agreed,” Manon said, pacing a step. “We agreed that looking for the keys was no longer a priority—” “I knew better than to argue with you about it.” His eyes glowed like blue fire. “My path doesn’t impact your own. Rally the Crochans, fly north to Terrasen. My road leads to Morath. It always has.” “How can you have looked at Kaltain and not seen what awaits you?” She held up her arm and pointed to where Kaltain’s scar had been. “Erawan will catch you. You cannot go.” “We will lose this war if I do not go,” he snapped. “How do you not care about that?” “I care,” she hissed. “I care if we lose this war. I care if I fail to rally the Crochans. I care if you go into Morath and do not return, not as something worth living.” He only blinked. Manon spat on the mossy ground. “Now do you wish to tell me that caring is not such a bad thing? Well, this is what comes of it.” “This is why I didn’t say anything,” he breathed. Her heart turned raging, its pulse echoing through her body, though her words were cold as ice. “You wish to go to Morath?” She prowled up to him, and he didn’t back down an inch. “Then prove it. Prove you are ready.” “I don’t need to prove anything to you, witchling.” She gave him a brutal, wicked smile. “Then perhaps p...

The ship was a step above ramshackle, all the finer vessels commandeered for the war, but it seemed steady enough to make the weeks-long crossing. For the gold they paid, the captain yielded his own quarters to Aelin and Rowan. If the man knew who they were, what they were, he said nothing. Aelin didn’t care. Only that they sailed with the midnight tide, Rowan’s magic propelling them swiftly out to the moonlit sea. Far from Maeve. From her gathered forces. From the truth that Aelin might have glimpsed that day in Maeve’s throne room, the dark blood that had turned to red. She hadn’t told the others. Didn’t know if that moment had been real, or a trick of the light. If it had been another dreamscape, or some fragment that had blended into the very real memory of Connall’s death.

When all were gathered, Petrah, still standing in the doorway where she’d appeared, merely said, “My life debt for an audience, Blackbeak.” Manon swallowed, her tongue as dry as paper. Seated atop Abraxos, she could see every shifting movement in the crowd, the wide eyes or hands gripping swords. “I will not tell you the particulars of who I am,” Manon said at last. “For I think you have already heard them.” “Crochan bitch,” someone spat. Manon set her eyes on the Blackbeaks, stone-faced where the others bristled with hatred. It was for them she spoke, for them she had come here. “All my life,” Manon said, her voice wavering only slightly, “I have been fed a lie.” “We don’t have to listen to this trash,” another sentinel spat. Asterin snarled at Manon’s side, and the others fell silent. Even disgraced, the Thirteen were deadly. Manon went on, “A lie, about who we are, what we are. That we are monsters, and proud to be.” She ran a finger over the scrap of red fabric binding her braid. “But we were made into them. Made,” she repeated. “When we might be so much more.” Silence fell. Manon took that as encouragement enough. “My grandmother does not plan to only reclaim the Wastes when this war is done. She plans to rule the Wastes as High Queen. Your only queen.” A murmur at that. At the words, at the betrayal Manon made in revealing her Matron’s private plans. “There will be no Bluebloods, or Yellowlegs, not as you are now. She plans to take the weapons you have built here, pl...

“They were once men,” Chaol called, his voice carrying over the clamor of the battle beyond the keep walls, “they can still die like them.” A few swords stopped quivering. “You are people of Anielle,” Chaol went on, hefting his shield and angling his sword. “Let’s show them what that means.” The siege tower slammed into the side of the keep, and the metal bridge at its uppermost level snapped down, crushing the battlement parapets beneath. Chaol’s focus went cold and calculating. His wife was in the keep behind him. Pregnant with their child. He would not fail her.

When Salkhi came close enough to rip several Valg off their horses and shred them apart in his talons, Nesryn fired at the commander. She didn’t see if the shot landed. Not as a horn cut through the din. A cry rose from the rukhin, all glancing eastward. Toward the sea. To where the Darghan cavalry and foot soldiers charged for the unprotected eastern flank of Morath’s army, Hasar atop her Muniqi horse, leading the khagan’s host herself.

Done. It was done, here on this unnamed field before Perranth. Then a call went across the breaking lines. The fleeing men began to pause. To turn toward the direction of the news. Aedion skewered a Morath soldier on his sword before he fully understood the words. The queen has come. The queen is at the front line. For a foolish heartbeat, he scanned the sky for a blast of flame. None came. Dread settled into his heart, fear deeper than any he’d known. The queen is at the front line—at the right flank. Lysandra. Lysandra had taken on Aelin’s skin. He whirled toward the nonexistent right flank. Just as the golden-haired queen in borrowed armor faced two ilken, a sword and shield in her hands. No. The word was a punch through his body, greater than any blow he’d felt. Aedion began running, shoving through his own men. Toward the too-distant right flank. Toward the shape-shifter facing those ilken, no claws or fangs or anything to defend her beyond that sword and shield. No. He pushed men out of the way, the snow and mud hindering each step as the two ilken pressed closer to the shifter-queen. Savoring the kill. But the soldiers slowed their fleeing. Some even re-formed the lines when the call went out again. The queen is here. The queen fights at the front line. Exactly why she had done it. Why she had donned the defenseless, human form. No. The ilken towered over her, grinning with their horrible, mangled faces. Too far. He was still too damn far to do anything— One of the ...

The khagan’s forces had dealt enough of a blow to Morath that the bone drums had ceased. Not a sign of sure defeat, but enough to make Chaol’s heavily limping steps feel lighter as he entered Princess Hasar’s sprawling war tent. Her sulde had been planted outside, the roan horsehair blowing in the wind off the lake. Sartaq’s own spear had been sunk into the cold mud beside his sister’s. And beside the Heir’s spear … Leaning on his cane, Chaol paused at the ebony spear that had also been planted, its jet-black horsehair still shining despite its age. Not to signify the royals within, a marker of their Darghan heritage, but to represent the man they served. Ivory horsehair for times of peace; the Ebony for times of war. He hadn’t realized the khagan had given his Heir the Ebony to bring to these lands.

A cleared throat cut through the tent, and they all turned toward the open flaps to find one of the Darghan captains, his sulde clenched in his mud-splattered hand. Someone was here to see them, the man stammered. Neither royal asked who as they waved the man to let them in. A moment later, Chaol was glad he was sitting down. Nesryn breathed, “Holy gods.” Chaol was inclined to agree as Aelin Galathynius, Rowan Whitethorn, and several others entered the tent. They were mud-splattered, the Queen of Terrasen’s braided hair far longer than Chaol had last seen. And her eyes … Not the soft, yet fiery gaze. But something older. Wearier. Chaol shot to his feet. “I thought you were in Terrasen,” he blurted. All the reports had confirmed it. Yet here she stood, no army in sight. Three Fae males—towering warriors as broad and muscled as Rowan—had entered, along with a delicate, dark-haired human woman. But Aelin was only staring at him. Staring and staring at him. No one spoke as tears began sliding down her face. Not at his being here, Chaol realized as he took up his cane and limped toward Aelin. But at him. Standing. Walking. 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.” “Not alone,” he said th...

Her grin softened as Yrene blushed, and Aelin held up the scrap of paper. “May I keep this?” She eyed Yrene’s locket. “Or does it go in there?” Yrene folded the queen’s fingers around the paper. “It is yours, as it always was. A piece of your bravery that helped me find my own.” Aelin shook her head, as if to dismiss the claim. But Yrene squeezed Aelin’s closed hand. “It gave me courage, the words you wrote. Every mile I traveled, every long hour I studied and worked, it gave me courage. I thank you for that, too.”

“Lorcan Salvaterre, formerly of Doranelle, and now a blood-sworn member of my court.” As if that weren’t a shock enough, Aelin winked at the imposing male. Lorcan scowled. “We’re still in the adjustment period,” she loudly whispered, and Yrene chuckled. Lorcan Salvaterre. Chaol hadn’t met the male this spring in Rifthold, but he’d heard all about him. That he’d been Maeve’s most trusted commander, her most loyal and fierce warrior. That he’d wanted to kill Aelin, hated Aelin. How this had come about, why she was not in Terrasen with her army … “You, too, have a tale to tell,” Chaol said. “Indeed I do.” Aelin’s eyes guttered, and Rowan put a hand on her lower back. Bad—something terrible had occurred. Chaol scanned Aelin for any hint of it. He stopped when he noticed the smoothness of the skin at her neck. The lack of scars. The missing scars on her hands, her palms. “Later,” Aelin said softly. She straightened her shoulders, and another golden-haired male came forward. Beautiful. That was the only way to describe him. “Fenrys … You know, I don’t actually know your family name.” Fenrys threw a roguish wink at the queen. “Moonbeam.” “It is not,” Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh. Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. “I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?”

Aelin wiped her hands. “Well, that’s over and done with,” she announced, and strode to the desk and map. “Shall we discuss where you all plan to march once we beat the living shit out of this army?”

Borte had gone back to studying the Fae males. Not their considerable beauty, but their size, their pointed ears, their weapons and elongated canines. Aelin whispered conspiratorially to the girl, “Make them roll over before you offer them a treat.” Lorcan glared, but Fenrys shifted in a flash, the enormous white wolf filling the space. Hasar swore, Sartaq backing away a step, but Borte beamed. “You are all truly Fae, then.” Gavriel, ever the gallant knight, sketched a bow. Lorcan, the bastard, just crossed his arms. Yet Rowan smiled at Borte. “Indeed we are.” Borte whirled to Aelin. “Then you are Aelin Galathynius. You look just how Nesryn said.” Aelin grinned at Nesryn, the woman leaning against Sartaq’s side. “I hope you only said horrible things about me.” “Only the worst,” Nesryn said with dead flatness, though her mouth twitched.

Aelin nodded, then winked at the shifter. “I suppose you didn’t need me to slay that stygian spider after all.” But Falkan tensed, his attention going to Nesryn and Sartaq, to Borte, still gawking at the Fae males. “Do they know?” Aelin had a feeling she’d need to sit down again. Chaol indeed patted the chair beside him, earning a chuckle from Yrene. Doing herself a favor, Aelin indeed sat, Rowan taking up his place behind her, both of his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. His thumb ran along the nape of her neck, then drifted over the mating marks again scarring one side thanks to the seawater they’d used to seal them. But as her muscles soothed beneath that loving touch, her soul with it, her breath remained tight. It didn’t get any better when Nesryn said, “The stygian spiders are Valg.” Silence. “We encountered their kin, the kharankui, deep in the Dagul Fells. They came into this world through a temporary crack between realms, and remained afterward to guard the entrance, should it ever reappear.” “This cannot end well,” Fenrys muttered. Elide hummed her agreement. “They feed on dreams and years and life,” Falkan said, a hand on his own chest. “As my friends have said the Valg do.” Aelin had seen Valg princes drain a human of every last drop of youth and vigor and leave only a dried corpse behind. She wouldn’t put it past the spiders to have a similar gift. “What does this mean for the war?” Rowan asked, his thumbs still stroking Aelin’s neck. “Will they join Era...

Rowan’s hands tightened on Aelin’s shoulders as the words settled into her, hollow and cold. “Maeve is a Valg queen?” he breathed. Aelin said nothing. Couldn’t find the words. Her power roiled. She didn’t feel it. Nesryn nodded solemnly. “Yes. The kharankui told us the entire history.” And so Nesryn did as well. Of how Maeve had somehow found a way into this world, fleeing or bored with her husband, Orcus. Erawan’s elder brother. Of how Erawan, Orcus, and Mantyx had torn apart worlds to find her, Orcus’s missing wife, and only halted here because the Fae had risen to challenge them. Fae led by Maeve, whom the Valg kings did not know or recognize, in the form she had taken. The life she had crafted for herself. The minds of all the Fae who had existed that she had ripped into, convincing them that there had been three queens, not two. Including the minds of Mab and Mora, the two sister-queens who had ruled Doranelle. Including Brannon himself. “The spiders claimed,” Nesryn went on, “that even Brannon didn’t know. Even now, in the Afterworld, he doesn’t know. That was how deep Maeve’s powers went into his mind, into all their minds. She made herself their true queen.” The words, the truth, pelted Aelin, one after another. Elide’s face was white as death. “But she fears the healers.” A nod toward Yrene. “She keeps that owl, you said—an enslaved Fae healer—should the Valg ever discover her.” For that was the other piece of it. The other thing Nesryn had revealed, Chaol and Yre...

Aelin said quietly, “I was Maeve’s prisoner for two months.” Utter silence in the tent. Then she explained—all of it. Why she was not in Terrasen, who now fought there, where Dorian and Manon had gone. Aelin swallowed as she finished, leaning into Rowan’s touch. “Maeve wished me to reveal the location of the two Wyrdkeys. Wanted me to hand them over, but I managed to get them away before she took me. To Doranelle. She wanted to break me to her will. To use me to conquer the world, I thought. But it perhaps now seems she wanted to use me as a shield against the Valg, to guard her always.” The words tumbled out, heavy and sharp. “I was her captive until nearly a month ago.” She nodded toward her court. “When I got free, they found me again.” Silence fell again, her new companions at a loss. She didn’t blame them. Then Hasar hissed, “We’ll make the bitch pay for that, too, won’t we?” Aelin met the princess’s dark stare. “Yes, we will.”

“We’re leaving.” Elide’s low voice cut through the roaring silence of his thoughts. “The ruks are ready,” she added. There was no fear or pity on her face, her black hair gilded by the torches and campfires. Of all of them, she’d mastered the news with little difficulty, stepping up to the desk as if she’d been born on a battlefield. “I didn’t know,” he said, voice strained. Elide knew what he meant. “We have bigger things to worry about anyway.” He took a step toward her. “I didn’t know,” he said again. She tipped her head back to study his face and pursed her mouth, a muscle ticking in her jaw. “Do you want me to give you some sort of absolution for it?” “I served her for nearly five hundred years. Five hundred years, and I just thought her to be immortal and cold.” “That sounds like the definition of a Valg to me.” He bared his teeth. “You live for eons and see what it does to you, Lady.” “I don’t see why you’re so shocked. Even with her being immortal and cold, you loved her. You must have accepted those traits. What difference does it make what we call her, then?” “I didn’t love her.” “You certainly acted like you did.” Lorcan snarled, “Why is that the point you keep returning to, Elide? Why is it the one thing you cannot let go of?” “Because I’m trying to understand. How you could come to love a monster.” “Why?” He pushed into her space. She didn’t balk one step. Indeed, her eyes were blazing as she hissed, “Because it will help me understand how I did the same.” Her...

Chaol stole another kiss from her. “As much as I would like to show you just how much I am at your command,” he said against her mouth, “I have another matter to deal with before bed.” Yrene’s brows rose. He grimaced. “I need to introduce Aelin to my father. Before they run into each other.” The man hadn’t been near the hall when they’d arrived, and Chaol had been too worried for Farasha’s well-being to bother hunting him down. Yrene cringed, though amusement sparked in her eyes. “Is it bad if I want to join you? And bring snacks?”

His father snapped, “You fail to wake me when the Queen of Terrasen arrives at my castle?” “It wasn’t a priority.” Chaol halted before the door that opened into the small chamber that had been vacated for the queen and knocked. A grunt was the only confirmation before Yrene’s husband shouldered open the door enough to poke his head inside. “My father,” Chaol said to whoever was inside, presumably the queen, “would like to see you.” Silence, then the rustling of clothes and steps. Yrene kept back as Aelin Galathynius appeared, her face and hands clean, but clothes still dirty. At her side stood that towering, silver-haired Fae warrior—Rowan Whitethorn. Whom the royals had spoken of with such fear and respect months ago. In the room, Lady Elide sat against the far wall, a tray of food beside her, and the giant white wolf lay sprawled on the ground, monitoring with half-lidded eyes. A shock to see the shift, to realize these Fae might be powerful and ancient, but they still had one foot in the forest. The queen, it seemed, preferred the form as well, her delicately pointed ears half-hidden by her unbound hair. Behind her, there was no sign of the golden-haired, melancholy warrior, Gavriel, or the utterly terrifying Lorcan. Thank Silba for that, at least. Aelin left the door open, though their two court members remained seated. Bored, almost. “Well, now,” was all the queen said as she stepped into the hall. Chaol’s father looked over the warrior-prince at her side. Then he tur...

“I was wondering,” Elide said to none of them in particular after a moment. “Since Maeve is an imposter, who would rule Doranelle if she was banished with all the other Valg?” “Or burned to a crisp,” Fenrys muttered. Aelin might have smiled grimly, but Elide’s question settled into her. Gavriel slowly set down the chicken. Rowan’s arm dropped from Aelin’s shoulders. His pine-green eyes were wide. “You.” Aelin blinked. “There are others from Mab’s line. Galan, or Aedion—” “The throne passes through the maternal line—to a female only. Or it should have,” Rowan said. “You’re the sole female with a direct, undiluted claim to Mab’s bloodline.” “And your household, Rowan,” Gavriel said. “Someone in your household would have a claim on Mora’s half of the throne.” “Sellene. It would go to her.” Even as a prince, Rowan’s own heritage connecting him to Mora’s bloodline had thinned to the point of being in name only. Aelin was more closely related to Elide, probably to Chaol, too, than she was to Rowan, despite their distant ancestry. “Well, Sellene can have it,” Aelin said, wiping her hands of dust that was not there. “Doranelle’s hers.” She wouldn’t set foot in that city again, Maeve or no. She wasn’t sure if that made her a coward. She didn’t dare reach for her magic’s comforting rumble. “The Little Folk truly knew,” Fenrys mused, rubbing his jaw. “What you were.” They had always known her, the Little Folk. Had saved her life ten years ago, and saved their lives these past few wee...

“Tell me to stay,” he said, and the words had no warmth, no kindness. “Tell me to stay with you, if that’s what you want.” His invisible fingers grew talons and scraped over her skin. Manon’s throat bobbed. “But you won’t say that, will you, Manon?” Her breathing turned jagged. He continued to stroke her neck, her jaw, her throat, caressing skin he’d tasted over and over. “Do you know why?” When she didn’t answer, Dorian let one of those phantom talons dig in, just slightly. She swallowed, and it was not from fear. Dorian leaned in close, tipping his head back to stare into her eyes as he purred, “Because while you might be older, might be deadly in a thousand different ways, deep down, you’re afraid. You don’t know how to ask me to stay, because you’re afraid of admitting to yourself that you want it. You’re afraid. Of yourself more than anyone else in the world. You’re afraid.” For several heartbeats, she just stared at him. Then she snarled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” and stalked away. His low laugh ripped after her. Her spine stiffened. But Manon did not turn back.

Manon kept her feet under her. Saw where one Matron moved and the other left a dangerous gap exposed. She was not a broken-spirited Wing Leader unsure of her place in the world. She was not ashamed of the truth before her. She was not afraid. Manon’s grandmother led the attack, her maneuvers the deadliest. It was from her that the first slice of pain appeared. A rip of iron nails through Manon’s shoulder. But Manon swung her sword, again and again, iron on steel ringing out across the icy peaks. No, she was not afraid at all.