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

by Sarah J. Maas

Manon’s fingers closed on the hilt, the blade singing as she whipped it around to face the High Witches again. “Rhiannon Crochan held the gates for three days and three nights, and she did not kneel before you, even at the end.” A slash of a smile. “I think I shall do the same.” Dorian could have sworn the sacred flame burning to their left flared brighter. Could have sworn Glennis sucked in a breath. That every Crochan watching did the same. Manon’s knees bent, swords rising. “Let us finish what was started then, too.”

Gone was the witch who had slept and wished for death. Gone was the witch who had raged at the truth that had torn her to shreds. And in her place, fighting as if she were the very wind, unfaltering against the Matrons, stood someone Dorian had not yet met. Stood a queen of two peoples.

Yielding only those few steps, and nothing more. Because Manon with conviction in her heart, with utter fearlessness in her eyes, was wholly unstoppable.

No one seemed to breathe at all as Manon plunged Bronwen’s sword into the icy earth beneath and bent to take the crown of stars from the Yellowlegs witch’s fallen head. He had never seen a crown like it. A living, glowing thing that glittered in her hand. As if nine stars had been plucked from the heavens and set to shine along the simple silver band. The crown’s light danced over Manon’s face as she lifted it above her head and set it upon her unbound white hair. Even the mountain wind stopped. Yet a phantom breeze shifted the strands of Manon’s hair as the crown glowed bright, the white stars shining with cores of cobalt and ruby and amethyst. As if it had been asleep for a long, long time. And now awoke. That phantom wind pulled Manon’s hair to the side, silver strands brushing across her face. And beside him, around him, the Thirteen touched two fingers to their brow in deference. In allegiance to the queen who stared down the two remaining High Witches. The Crochan Queen, crowned anew. The sacred fire leaped and danced, as if in joyous welcome.

Spared by the Crochan Queen on behalf of the daughter who had given Manon the gift of speaking to the Ironteeth. Within seconds, the Blueblood Matron was in the skies, the Yellowlegs witch’s wyvern soaring beside her. Leaving Manon’s grandmother alone. Leaving Manon with swords raised and a crown of stars glowing upon her brow. Manon was glowing, as if the stars atop her head pulsed through her body. A wondrous and mighty beauty, like no other in the world. Like no one had ever been, or would be again.

A hateful, wasted scrap of existence. That’s what her grandmother was. She had never realized how much shorter the Matron stood. How narrow her shoulders were, or how the years of rage and hate had withered her. Manon’s smile grew. And she could have sworn she felt two people standing at her shoulder. She knew no one would be there if she looked. Knew no one else could see them, sense them, standing with her. Standing with their daughter against the witch who had destroyed them.

Manon scooped up both swords, sheathing Wind-Cleaver across her back, and stalked toward where Glennis and Bronwen stood, monitoring her every breath. Wordlessly, Manon handed Bronwen her sword, nodding in thanks. Then she removed the crown of stars and extended it toward Glennis. “This belongs to you,” she said, her voice low. The Crochans murmured, shifting. Glennis took the crown, and the stars dimmed. A small smile graced the crone’s face. “No,” she said, “it does not.” Manon didn’t move as Glennis lifted the crown and set it again on Manon’s head. Then the ancient witch knelt in the snow. “What was stolen has been restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon Crochan, Queen of Witches.” Manon stood fast against the tremor that threatened to buckle her legs. Stood fast as the other Crochans, Bronwen with them, dropped to a knee. Dorian, standing amongst them, smiled, brighter and freer than she’d ever seen. And then the Thirteen knelt, two fingers going to their brows as they bowed their heads, fierce pride lighting their faces. “Queen of Witches,” Crochan and Blackbeak declared as one voice. As one people.

The siege tower groaned as it slowed to a stop. Just as the wall under them shuddered at its impact, Fenrys whispered, “Holy gods.” Not at the bridge that snapped down, soldiers teeming in the dark depths inside. But at who emerged from the keep archway behind them. What emerged. Rowan didn’t know where to look. At the soldiers pouring out of the siege tower, leaping onto the battlements, or at Aelin. At the Queen of Terrasen. She’d found armor below the keep. Beautiful, pale gold armor that gleamed like a summer dawn. Holding back her braided hair, a diadem lay flush against her head. Not a diadem, but a piece of armor. Part of some ancient set for a lady long since buried. A crown for war, a crown to wear into battle. A crown to lead armies. There was no fear on her face, no doubt, as Aelin hefted her shield, flipping Goldryn in her hand once before the first of Morath’s soldiers was upon her. A swift, upward strike cleaved the Morath grunt from navel to chin. His black blood sprayed, but she was already moving, flowing like a stream around a rock. Rowan launched into movement, his blades finding their marks, but still he watched her. Aelin slammed her shield against an oncoming warrior, Goldryn slicing through another before she plunged the blade into the soldier she’d deflected. She did it again, and again. All while heading toward that siege tower. Unhindered. Unleashed. A call went down the line. The queen has come. Soldiers waiting their turn whirled toward them. Ae...

She was no helpless princess. She had never been.

Not helpless. Not contained. Never again.

What Lorcan and the Lion would do upon reaching the bottom, how they’d dislodge the tower, she didn’t know. Didn’t think about it. Not from this place of killing and movement, of breath and blood. Of freedom. Death had been her curse and her gift and her friend for these long, long years. She was happy to greet it again under the golden morning sun.

Farasha did not balk from the Morath soldiers who made it onto the battlements. From the ones who emerged from the second siege tower that docked down the wall, or those who made it up the ladders. No, that magnificent horse trampled them, fearless and wicked, just as Chaol had predicted. A horse whose name meant butterfly—stomping all over Valg foot soldiers.

A black mare reared, her cry a sharp warning before she slashed her hooves at the handler. Lord Chaol’s horse. The handler shrieked and fell back, barely grasping the reins as the horse stomped, her ears flat to her head. Elide did not think. Did not reconsider. She limped for the horses and the stables. She said to the frantic handler, still backing away from the half-wild horse, “I’ll get her.” The man, white-faced, threw her the reins. “Good luck.” Then he, too, ran. The mare—Farasha—yanked so hard on the reins that Elide was nearly hurled across the stones. But she planted her feet, leg screaming, and said to the horse, “I have need of you, fierce-heart.” She met Farasha’s dark, raging eyes. “I have need of you.” Her voice broke. “Please.” And gods above, that horse stilled. Blinked. Horses and handlers streamed past them, but Elide held firm. Waited until Farasha lowered her head, as if in permission.

Elide gathered the reins. “To the battlefield, Farasha.” With a whinnying cry, Farasha plunged into the fray. Soldiers leaped from their path, and Elide did not stop to apologize, did not stop for anyone, as she and the black mare charged toward the gates. Then through them. And onto the plain.

“I could try to track him,” Gavriel offered. Rowan shook off his creeping dread. “I’ll fly out, try to pinpoint him, and signal back to you—” “Don’t bother,” said Princess Hasar, and Rowan was about to snarl his retort when she pointed to the battlefield. “She’s already ahead of you.” Rowan whirled, the others following suit. “No,” Fenrys breathed. There, galloping across the plain on a familiar black horse, was Elide. “Farasha,” Chaol murmured. “She’ll be killed,” said Gavriel, tensing as if he might jump off the battlements and chase after her. “She’ll be—” Farasha leaped over fallen bodies, weaving between the injured and dead, Elide twisting this way and that in the saddle. And from the distance, Rowan could make out her mouth moving, shouting one word, one name, over and over. Lorcan. “If any of you go down there,” Hasar warned, “you’ll be killed, too.” It went against every instinct, against the centuries of training and fighting he’d done with Lorcan, but the princess was right. To lose one life was better than several. Especially when he would need his cadre so badly during the rest of this war. Lorcan would agree—had taught Rowan to make those sorts of hard calls. Still Aelin remained silent, as if she’d descended deep within herself, and gazed at the battlefield. At the small rider and the mighty horse racing across it.

Still Elide kept riding. Racing against death itself. Princess Hasar said quietly, “The girl is a fool. The bravest I’ve ever seen, but a fool nonetheless.” Aelin said nothing, her eyes distant. Like she’d retreated into herself at the realization that this sliver of hope was about to be washed away. Her friends with it. “Hellas guards Lorcan,” Fenrys murmured. “And Anneith, his consort, watches over Elide. Perhaps they will find each other.” “Hellas’s horse,” Chaol said. They turned toward him, dragging their eyes from the field. Chaol shook his head and gestured to the field, to the black mare and her rider. “I call Farasha Hellas’s horse. I’ve done so from the moment I met her.” As if meeting that horse, bringing her here, was not as much for him as it was for this. For this desperate race across an endless battlefield. Yrene clasped his hand, like she understood, too. Silence fell along their section of the battlement. There were no words left to say.

“I promised to always find you. I promised you, and you promised me. I came for you because of it; I am here because of it. I am here for you, do you understand? And if we don’t get onto that horse now, we won’t stand a chance against that dam. We will die.” Lorcan panted for another heartbeat. Then another. And then, gritting his teeth, his hands white-knuckled on the saddle, he lifted his leg enough to slide one foot into the stirrup.

Elide at last dared to look at the dam. A ruk soared from it, frantically waving a golden banner. Soon. It would break soon. Elide gathered Farasha’s reins. “To the keep, friend,” she said, digging her heels into the horse’s side. “Faster than the wind.” Farasha obeyed. Elide rocked back into Lorcan as the mare launched into a gallop, earning another groan of pain. But he remained in the saddle, despite the pounding steps that drew agonized breaths from him. “Faster, Farasha!” Elide called to the horse as she steered her toward the keep, the mountain it had been built into. Nothing had ever seemed so distant. Far enough that she could not see if the keep’s lower gate was still open. If anyone held it, waited for them. Hold the gate. Hold the gate. Every thunderous beat of Farasha’s hooves, over the corpses of the fallen, echoed Elide’s silent prayer as they raced across the endless plain. Hold the gate.

His name on her lips had been a summons he could never deny, even when death had held him so gently, nestled beneath all those he’d felled, and waited for his last breaths. And now, charging toward that too-distant keep, so far behind the droves of soldiers and riders racing for the gates, he wondered if these minutes would be his last. Her last. She had come for him.

The horse galloped and galloped, as if she might outrace death itself. “I love you,” he whispered in Elide’s ear. “I have loved you from the moment you picked up that axe to slay the ilken.” Her tears flowed past him in the wind. “And I will be with you …” His voice broke, but he made himself say the words, the truth in his heart. “I will be with you always.” He was not frightened of what would come for him once he tumbled off the horse. He was not frightened at all, if it meant her reaching the keep.

Slammed her heels into the dark flank and screamed, “FLY, FARASHA.” She cracked the reins. “FLY, FLY, FLY!” And gods help her, that horse did. As if the god that had crafted her filled the mare’s lungs with his own breath, Farasha gave a surge of speed. Faster than the wind. Faster than death.

But Aelin was not at his side. She was not on the battlement at all. Rowan’s heart halted. Simply stopped beating as a ruddy-brown ruk dropped from the skies, spearing for the center of the plain. Arcas, Borte’s ruk. A golden-haired woman dangling from his talons. Aelin. Aelin was— Arcas neared the earth, talons splaying. Aelin hit the ground, rolling, rolling, until she uncoiled to her feet. Right in the path of that wave. “Oh gods,” Fenrys breathed, seeing her, too. They all saw her. The queen on the plain. The endless wall of water surging for her. The keep stones began shuddering. Rowan threw out a hand to brace himself, fear like nothing he had known ripping through him as Aelin lifted her arms above her head. A pillar of fire shot up around her, lifting her hair with it. The wave roared and roared for her, for the army behind her. The shaking in the keep was not from the wave. It was not from that wall of water at all. Cracks formed in the earth, splintering across it. Spiderwebbing from Aelin. “The hot springs,” Chaol breathed. “The valley floor is full of veins into the earth itself.” Into the burning heart of the world. The keep shook, more violently this time. The pillar of fire sucked back into Aelin. She held out a hand before her, her fist closed. As if it would halt the wave in its tracks. He knew then. Either as her mate or carranam, he knew. “Three months,” Rowan breathed. The others stilled. “Three months,” he said again, his knees wobbling. “She’s been ma...

For three months, she had sung to the darkness and the flame, and they had sung back. For three months, she had burrowed so deep inside her power that she had plundered undiscovered depths. While Maeve and Cairn had worked on her, she had delved. Never letting them know what she mined, what she gathered to her, day by day by day. A death blow. One to wipe a dark queen from the earth forever. She’d kept that power coiled in herself even after she’d been freed from the irons. Had struggled to keep it down these weeks, the strain enormous. Some days, it had been easier to barely speak. Some days, swaggering arrogance had been her key to ignoring it. Yet when she had seen that wave, when she had seen Elide and Lorcan choosing death together, when she had seen the army that might save Terrasen, she’d known. She’d felt the fire sleeping under this city, and knew they had come here for a reason. She had come here for this reason. A river still flowed from the dam, harmless and small, wending toward the lake. Nothing more. Aelin lifted a glowing hand before her as blessed, cooling emptiness filled her at last. Slowly, starting from her fingertips, the glow faded. As if she were forged anew, forged back into her body. Back into Aelin. Clarity, sharp and crystal clear, filled its wake. As if she could see again, breathe again. Inch by inch, the golden glow faded into skin and bone. Into a woman once more. Already, a white-tailed hawk launched skyward. But as the last of the glow fad...

Outside, the wind howled. And when they kneeled before each other, bare from the waist up, that crown of stars still atop her head, Manon said softly, “We could make an alliance. Between Adarlan, and the Crochans. And any Ironteeth who might follow me.” It was her answer, he realized. To his request for a convincing reason to remain.

“I’m no one now,” Aedion said, the lines of soldiers parting for them. Bane and Fae, Silent Assassin and Wendlynian and Wastes-hailing soldier alike. “But you are Lord of Allsbrook. Send out messengers. Send out Nox Owen. Call for aid. Dispatch them to every direction, to anyone they might find. Tell Nox and the others to beg if they have to, but tell them to say that Terrasen calls for aid.”

“You insist I’m still your general? Then here’s my final order. Call for aid.” A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. But he said, “Consider it done.” Then he was gone. They didn’t bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.

But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside. Everyone halted—then rushed to the windows. Yrene’s smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield. To where the rest of the khagan’s army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them. Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words. From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome. Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin … Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky. Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last. If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.

So Lorcan said softly, “I meant every word.” His heart thundered, so wildly it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. “And I will until the day I fade into the Afterworld.” Lorcan didn’t breathe as Elide gently reached out her hand. And interlaced their fingers. “I love you,” she whispered. He was glad he was lying down. The words would have knocked him to his knees. Even now, he was half inclined to bow before her, the true owner of his ancient, wicked heart. “I have loved you,” she went on, “from the moment you came to fight for me against Vernon and the ilken.” The light in her eyes stole his breath. “And when I heard you were somewhere on that battlefield, the only thing I wanted was to be able to tell you that. It was the only thing that mattered.” Once, he might have scoffed. Declared that far bigger things mattered, in this war especially. And yet the hand grasping his … He’d never known anything more precious. Lorcan ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I am sorry, Elide. For all of it.” “I know,” she said softly, and no regret or hurt dimmed her face. Only clear, unwavering calm shone there. The face of the mighty lady she was growing into, and had already become, and who would rule Perranth with wisdom in one hand and compassion in the other. They stared at each other for minutes. For a blessed eternity.

But this new, fragile thing humming between them … He would not risk it for all the world. Elide, thank the gods, had no such worries. None at all, it seemed, as she lifted a hand to his cheek and ran her thumb along it. Every breath was an effort of control. Lorcan held absolutely still as she brought her mouth to his. Brushed her lips across his own. She pulled back. “Rest, Lorcan. I’ll be here again when you wake.” Anything she asked, he’d give her. Anything at all. Too shaken by that soft, beautiful kiss to bother with words, he lay back down.

The sun rose, full and golden, as if it were the solitary note of a song filling the world. Manon opened her mouth. “Terrasen calls for aid!” A young Crochan’s voice rang through the camp. Manon and Asterin whirled, others following suit as the witch sprinted for Glennis’s tent. The crone emerged as the witch skidded to a halt. A scout, no doubt, breathless and hair wind-tossed. “Terrasen calls for aid,” the scout panted, bracing her hands on her knees as she bent over to gulp down breaths. “Morath routed them at the border, then at Perranth, and advances on Orynth as we speak. They will sack the city within a week.” Worse news than Manon had anticipated. Even if she’d needed it, waited for it. The Thirteen closed in, Bronwen a step behind, and Manon didn’t dare breathe as Glennis stared toward the immortal flame burning in the fire pit mere feet away. The Flame of War. Then she turned toward Manon. “What say you, Queen of Witches?” A challenge and a dare. Manon lifted her chin at the two paths before her. One to the east, to Morath. The other northward, to Terrasen and battle. The wind sang, and in it, she heard the answer. “I shall answer Terrasen’s call,” Manon said. Asterin stepped to her side, fearless as she surveyed the assembled camp. “As shall I.” Sorrel flanked Manon’s right. “So shall the Thirteen.” Manon waited, hardly daring to acknowledge the thing that began burning in her chest. Then Bronwen stepped up, her dark hair blowing in the chill wind. “The Vanora h...

Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went. Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame. But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen. So hearth to hearth, it went. To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high. Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, “Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?” Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine. And swords—ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin. Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time. Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer. Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people. Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war. A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies i...

She summoned the magic—the drop of water her mother’s bloodline had given her. Mab’s bloodline. A tiny ball of water took form in her hand. Over the calluses she’d so carefully rebuilt. She let the gentle, cooling power trickle over her. Let it smooth the jagged bits inside herself and sing them to sleep. Her mother’s gift. You do not yield. When the Lock took everything, would it claim this part as well? This most precious part of her power? She tucked away those thoughts, too.

Chaol only stared at him. Blinked once, as if it would quell the roaring in his head, his heart. His mother had never forgotten him. Never stopped writing to him. Chaol smiled slightly. “Keep the letters,” he said, steering his chair back to the doors. “Now that she’s left you, it might be your only way to remember her.” He opened the study door and looked over his shoulder. His father remained beside the trunk, stiff as a sword. “I don’t make bargains with bastards,” Chaol said, smiling again as he entered the hall beyond. “I’m certainly not going to start with you.”

This final push north, homeward … She smiled grimly at the looming mountains, at the army stretching away behind them. And just because she could, just because they were headed to Terrasen at last, Aelin unleashed a flicker of her power. Some of the standard-bearers behind them murmured in surprise, but Rowan only smiled. Smiled with that fierce hope, that brutal determination that flared in her own heart, as she began to burn. She let the flame encompass her, a golden glow that she knew could be spied even from the farthest lines of the army, from the city and keep they left behind. A beacon glowing bright in the shadows of the mountains, in the shadows of the forces that awaited them, Aelin lit the way north.

Aedion would give anything for those long-forgotten giants to find their way to the city now. For the ancient Wolf Tribes to come racing down the towering peaks behind the city, the lost Fae of Terrasen with them. For any of the old myths to emerge from the shadows of time, as Rolfe and his Mycenians had done. But he knew their luck had run out.

The city had been laid at the feet of the towering, near-mythic castle built atop a jutting piece of rock. A castle that rose so high its uppermost turrets seemed to pierce the sky. Once, that castle had glowed, roses and creeping plants draped along its sun-warmed stones, the song of a thousand fountains singing in every hall and courtyard. Once, proud banners had flapped from those impossibly high towers, standing watch over the mountains and forest and river and Plain of Theralis below.

Darrow rolled his eyes, then fixed them upon Rolfe, who was still frowning at the shabby castle. “We have you to thank for the lucky retreat, I take it.” Rolfe fixed his sea-green stare upon the man. “That you do.” Darrow sat again, the other lords following suit. “And you are?” “Privateer Rolfe,” the pirate said smoothly. “Commander in Her Majesty’s Armada. And Heir to the Mycenian people.” The other lords straightened. “The Mycenians vanished an age ago,” Lord Sloane said. But the man noted the sword at Rolfe’s side, the sea dragon pommel. Had no doubt spied the fleet creeping up the Florine. “Vanished, but did not die out,” Rolfe countered. “And we have come to fulfill an old debt.” Darrow rubbed at his temple. Old—Darrow truly looked his age as he leaned against the table edge. “Well, we have the gods to thank for that.” Lysandra said, simmering with rage, “You have Aelin to thank for that.” The man narrowed his eyes, and Aedion’s temper honed itself into something lethal. But Darrow’s voice was exhausted—heavy, as he asked, “Not pretending today, Lady?” Lysandra only pointed to Rolfe, then Ansel, then Galan. Swept her arm to the windows, to where the Fae royals and Ilias of the Silent Assassins tended to their own on the castle grounds. “All of them. All of them came here because of Aelin. Not you. So before you sneer that there is no Her Majesty’s Armada, allow me to tell you that there is. And you are not a part of it.”

“Is it betrayal?” Maeve mused. “To find an alternative to you and Aelin Galathynius paying the ultimate price? It was what I intended for her all along: to keep her from being a sacrifice to unfeeling gods.” “Those gods are powerful beings.” “Then where are they now?” She gestured to the room, the keep. Silence answered. “They are afraid. Of me, of Erawan. Of the keys.” She gave him a serpent’s smile. “They are afraid of you. You, and Aelin Fire-Bringer. Powerful enough to send them home—or to damn them.” He didn’t answer. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

“What if you didn’t only ally with me,” he asked at last, “but with Adarlan itself?” Maeve didn’t answer. As if she were surprised by the offer. “A bigger alliance than merely working together to find the key,” Dorian mused, and shrugged. “You have no kingdom, and clearly want another. Why not lend your gifts to Adarlan, to me? Bring your spiders to our side.” “A breath ago, you were livid that I enslaved your friend.” “Oh, I still am. Yet I am not so proud to refuse to consider the possibility. You want a kingdom? Then join mine. Ally with me, work with me to get what we need from Erawan, and I shall make you queen. Of a far bigger territory, with a people who will not rise up against you. A new start, I suppose.” When she still did not speak, Dorian leaned against the door. The portrait of courtly nonchalance. “You think I’m trying to trick you. Perhaps I am.” “And Manon Blackbeak? What of your promises to her?” “I have made her no promises regarding my throne, and she wants nothing to do with them, anyway.” He didn’t hide the bitterness as he shrugged again. “Marriages have been built on far more volatile foundations than this one.” “Aelin of the Wildfire might very well mark you as an enemy, should we make a true union.” “Aelin will not risk killing an ally—not right now. And she will discover that she is not the only one capable of saving this world. Perhaps she’ll even come to thank me, if she’s as eager to avoid being sacrificed as you claim.” Maeve’s red mouth curv...

The Lion gave him a slight smile. “I did not have the chance to congratulate you on your happy news.” An odd thing for the warrior to say, given that they’d barely spoken beyond councils, but Chaol bowed his head. “Thank you.” Gavriel stared toward the snow and mountains—toward the distant north. “I was not granted the opportunity you have, to be present from the start. To see my son grow into a man.” Chaol thought of it—of the life growing in Yrene’s womb, of the child they’d raise. Thought of what Gavriel had not experienced. “I’m sorry.” It was the only thing, really, to say. Gavriel shook his head, tawny eyes glowing golden, flecks of emerald emerging in the blinding sun. “I did not tell you for sympathy.” The Lion looked at him, and Chaol felt the weight of every one of Gavriel’s centuries weighing upon him. “But rather to tell you what you perhaps already know: to savor every moment of it.” “Yes.” If they survived this war, he would. Every damn second.

And though Aedion was Gavriel’s son, Chaol said, “I’m sure you already know this, but Aedion is as stubborn and hotheaded as they come.” He jerked his chin toward Aelin, riding ahead, saying something to Fenrys that made Rowan snicker—and Fenrys bark a laugh. “Aelin and Aedion might as well be twins.” That Gavriel didn’t stop him told Chaol he’d read the lingering wound in the Lion’s eyes well enough. “Both of them will often say one thing, but mean something else entirely. And then deny it until their last breath.” Chaol shook his head. “Give Aedion time. When we reach Orynth, I have a feeling that Aedion will be happier to see you than he lets on.” “I am bringing back his queen, and riding with an army. I think he’d be happy to see his most hated enemy, if they did that for him.” Worry paled the Lion’s tanned features. Not for the reunion, but for what his son might be facing in the North. Chaol considered. “My father is a bastard,” he said quietly. “He has been in my life from my conception. Yet he never once bothered to ask the questions you pose,” Chaol said. “He never once cared enough to do so. He never once worried. That will be the difference.” “If Aedion chooses to forgive me.” “He will,” Chaol said. He’d make Aedion do it. “Why are you so certain?” Chaol considered his words carefully before he again met Gavriel’s striking gaze. “Because you are his father,” he said. “And no matter what might lie between you, Aedion will always want to forgive you.” There it was...

Not a prince, not a king. The collars reached for him with invisible, clawing fingers. He was no better than them. Had learned to enjoy what the Valg prince had shown him. Had shredded apart good men, and let the demon feed off his hate, his rage. The room began to eddy, spiraling, dragging him into its depths. Not human—not entirely. Perhaps he didn’t want to be. Perhaps he would stay in another form forever, perhaps he’d just submit— A dark wind snapped through the room. Snatched him in its gaping maw and dragged him. He thrashed, screaming silently. He wouldn’t be taken. Not like this, not again— But it hauled him away from the collars. Under the door and out of the room. Into the palm of a pale hand. Dark, depthless eyes peered down at him. An enormous red mouth parted to reveal bone-white teeth. “Stupid boy,” Maeve hissed. The words were a thunderclap. He panted, the gnat’s body shaking from wingtip to wingtip. One press of her finger and he’d be gone. He braced himself, waiting for it. But Maeve kept her palm open. And as she began to walk down the hall, away from the sealed chamber, she said, “What you felt in there—that is why I left their world.” She gazed ahead, a shadow darkening her face. “Every day, that was what I felt.”

“I did not think it would be so terrible,” Evangeline whispered, hands digging into Lysandra’s heavy cloak. “I did not think it would be so wretched.” Lysandra pressed a kiss to the top of her red-gold hair. “No harm shall come to you.” “I am not afraid for myself,” Evangeline said. “But for my friends.”

Dorian said into the dark chasm of her mind, I was a slave once. You didn’t really think I’d allow myself to be so once again, did you? She thrashed, but he held her firm. You will free me, she hissed, and the voice was not that of a beautiful queen, but something vicious and cold. Starved and hateful. You’re old as the earth, and yet you thought I would truly fall for your offer. He chuckled, letting a wisp of his fire burn her. Maeve shrieked, silent and endless in their minds. I’m surprised you fell for my trap. I will kill you for this. Not if I kill you first. His fire became a living thing, wrapping around her pale throat. In the real world, in the place where their bodies existed. You hurt my friend, he said with lethal calm. It will not be so very difficult to end you for it. Is this the king you wish to be? Torturing a helpless female? He laughed again. You are not helpless. And if I could, I would seal you in an iron box for eternity. Dorian glanced to the windows. To the night beyond. He had to go—quickly. But he still said, The king I wish to be is the opposite of what you are. He gave Maeve a smile. And there is only one witch who will be my queen. A groan rumbled through the mountain beneath them. Morath shuddered. Maeve’s eyes widened further. A crack louder than thunder echoed through the stones. The tower swayed. Dorian’s mouth curved upward. You didn’t think I spent all those hours merely searching, did you? He wouldn’t allow it to exist another day—that ...

“It’s up to you whether you want the healing at all. I only want you to have a better idea of the road ahead.” She smiled at the lady. “It’s up to you to decide how you wish to face it.”

Elide said, “I don’t know if I can face that pain again.” Yrene nodded. “With that sort of injury, it would require facing a great many things inside yourself.” She smiled toward the wagon entrance. “My husband and I just went through one such journey together.” “Was it hard?” “Incredibly. But he did it. We did it.” Elide considered, then shrugged. “We’d have to survive this war first, I suppose. If we live … then we can talk about it.”

It was the only question she could really think of, that really mattered. “Why do any of it?” “Since my breaths are limited,” Vernon said, “I suppose it makes no difference what I tell you.” A small smile curled his lips. “Because I could,” her uncle said. Lorcan growled. “Because my brother, your father, was an insufferable brute, whose only qualification to rule was the order of our birth. A warrior-brute,” Vernon spat, sneering toward Lorcan. Then at Elide. “Your mother’s preference seems to have passed to you, too.” A hateful shake of the head. “Such a pity. She was a rare beauty, you know. Such a pity that she was killed, defending Her Majesty.” Heat flared across the room, but Aelin’s face remained unmoved. “There might have been a place for her in Perranth had she not—” “Enough,” Elide said softly, but not weakly. She took another step toward him. “So you were jealous. Of my father. Jealous of his strength, his talent. Of his wife.” Vernon opened his mouth, but Elide lifted a hand. “I am not done yet.” Vernon blinked. Elide kept her breathing steady, shoulders back. “I do not care why you are here. I do not care what they plan to do with you. But I want you to know that once I walk from this room, I will never think of you again. Your name will be erased from Perranth, from Terrasen, from Adarlan. There will never be a whisper of you, nor any reminder. You will be forgotten.” Vernon paled—just slightly. Then he smiled. “Erased from Perranth? You say that as if you d...

Aedion grinned, and ruffled her red-gold hair. “The battle won’t be pretty,” he said as Evangeline sipped her milk. “And you will likely throw up again. But just remember that this fear of yours? It means you have something worth fighting for—something you care so greatly for that losing it is the worst thing you can imagine.” He pointed to the frost-covered windows. “Those bastards out there on the plain? They have none of that.” He laid his hand on hers and squeezed gently. “They have nothing to fight for. And while we might not have their numbers, we do have something worth defending. And because of that, we can overcome our fear. We can fight against them, to the very end. For our friends, for our family …” He squeezed her hand again at that. “For those we love …” He dared to look up at Lysandra, whose green eyes were lined with silver. “For those we love, we can rise above that fear. Remember that tomorrow. Even if you throw up, even if you spend the whole night in the privy. Remember that we have something to fight for, and it will always triumph.”

Only when Lysandra was certain she had gone downstairs did she say, “Why?” “I assume that question means you are allowing me to commandeer your ward.” “Why.” Darrow picked up the kingsflame crystal. “Nox Owen is of no use to me now that his allegiance has been made clear, and apparently has vanished to the gods know where, likely at Aedion’s request.” He turned the crystal over in his thin fingers. “But beyond that, no child should have to watch as her friends are cut down. Keeping her busy, giving her a purpose and some small power will be better than locking her in the north tower, scared out of her wits at every horrible sound and death.” Lysandra did not smile, did not bow her head. “You would do this for the ward of a whore?” Darrow set down the crystal. “It’s the faces of the children that I remember the most from ten years ago. Even more than Orlon’s. And Evangeline’s face yesterday as she looked out at that army—it was the same despair I saw back then. So you may think me a champion bastard, as Aedion would say, but I am not so heartless as you might believe.” He nodded toward the open doorway. “I will keep an eye on her.” She wasn’t entirely certain what to say. If she should spit in his face and tell him to hell with his offer. Yet the brightness in Evangeline’s eyes, the way she’d run out of here … Purpose. Darrow had offered her purpose and guidance. So she turned from the room, from the precious trove, the ancient books worth more than gold. Darrow’s silent, m...

The screamed warning shattered down the battlements, and Aedion and Lysandra ducked as they whirled toward the attack coming at their backs. Thirteen wyverns raced from the Staghorns, plunging toward the city walls. And as they shot toward Orynth, people and soldiers screaming and fleeing before them, the sun hit the smaller wyvern leading the attack. Lighting up wings like living silver. Aedion knew that wyvern. Knew the white-haired rider atop it. “HOLD FIRE,” he bellowed down the lines. His commanders echoed the order, and all the arrows that had been pointed upward now halted. “It’s …,” Lysandra breathed, her hand dropping from his while she walked forward a step, as if in a daze. “It …” Soldiers still fell back from the city walls as Manon Blackbeak and her Thirteen landed along them, right before Aedion and Lysandra. It was not the witch he had last seen on a beach in Eyllwe. No, there was nothing of that cold, strange creature in the face that smiled grimly at him. Nothing of her in that remarkable crown of stars atop her brow. A crown of stars. For the last Crochan Queen. Panting, rasping breaths neared, and Aedion glanced away from Manon Blackbeak to see Darrow hurry onto the city walls, gaping at the witch and her wyvern, at Aedion for not firing at her—her, whom Darrow believed to be an enemy come to parley before their slaughter. “We will not surrender,” Darrow spat. Asterin Blackbeak, her blue wyvern beside Manon’s, let out a low laugh. Indeed, Manon’s lips cu...