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

by Sarah J. Maas

Manon only looked to Aedion, that smile lingering. “Long ago, the Crochans fought beside Terrasen, to honor the great debt we owed the Fae King Brannon for granting us a homeland. For centuries, we were your closest allies and friends.” That crown of stars blazed bright upon her head. “We heard your call for aid.” Lysandra began weeping. “And we have come to answer it.” “How many,” Aedion breathed, scanning the skies, the mountains. “How many?” Pride and awe filled the Witch-Queen’s face, and even her golden eyes were lined with silver as she pointed toward the Staghorns. “See for yourself.” And then, breaking from between the peaks, they appeared. Red cloaks flowing on the wind, they filled the northern skies. So many he could not count them, nor the swords and bows and weapons they bore upon their backs, their brooms flying straight and unwavering. Thousands. Thousands of them descended upon Orynth. Thousands of them now swept over the city, his soldiers gaping upward at the stream of fluttering red, undaunted and untroubled by the enemy force darkening the horizon. One by one by one, they alit upon the empty castle battlements. An aerial legion to challenge the Ironteeth. The Crochans had returned at last.

Every Crochan who could fly and wield a sword had come. For days, they had raced northward, keeping deep to the mountains, then cutting low over Oakwald before making a wide circuit to avoid Morath’s detection. Indeed, as Manon and the Thirteen perched on the city walls, the Crochans streaming overhead while they made their way to whatever landing place they might find on the castle battlements, it was still hard to believe they had made it. And without an hour to spare. The farther north they had flown, the more Crochans had fallen into the lines. As if the crown of stars Manon wore was a lodestone, summoning them to her. Every mile, more appeared from the clouds, the mountains, the forest. Young and old, wise-eyed or fresh-faced, they came. Until five thousand trailed behind Manon and the Thirteen.

So Manon said, looking them each in the eye, “I would rather fly with you than with ten thousand Ironteeth at my side.” She smiled slightly. “Tomorrow, we will show them why.” Her coven grinned, wicked and defiant, and touched two fingers to their brows in deference. Manon returned the gesture, bowing her head as she did. “We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”

Manon turned to Glennis. “You truly intend to fight?” Glennis nodded, firm and unyielding. “Five hundred years ago, my mother chose the future of the royal bloodline over fighting beside her loved ones. And though she never regretted her choice, the weight of what she left behind wore on her. I have carried her burden my entire life.” The crone gestured to Bronwen, then to Asterin. “All of us who fight here today do so with someone standing invisible behind us.” Asterin’s gold-flecked black eyes softened a bit. “Yes,” was all Manon’s Second said as her hand drifted to her abdomen. Not in memory of the hateful word branded there, of what had been done to her. In memory of the stillborn witchling who had been thrown by Manon’s grandmother into the fire before Asterin had a chance to hold her. In memory of the hunter whom Asterin had loved, as no Ironteeth ever had loved a man, and had never gone back to, for shame and fear. The hunter who had never stopped waiting for her to return, even when he was an old man. For them, for the family she had lost, Manon knew her Second would fight today. So it might never happen again. Manon would fight today to make sure it never did, too. “So we come to it after five hundred years,” said Glennis, her voice unwavering yet distant, as if pulled into the depths of memory. The rising sun bathed the white walls of Orynth in gold. “The final stand of the Crochans.” As if the words themselves were a signal, Bronwen lifted the horn of Telyn Vano...

Aedion nocked an arrow into his bow, arm straining as he pulled back the string. As one, the army gathered on the city walls did the same. “Let’s make this a fight worthy of a song,” Aedion said.

The Valg prince hissed with every blast, as if enraged that his power could not break that shield. Rhoe’s shield. There was no magic in it. Brannon had never borne it. But one of them had forged it, one of the unbroken line of kings and queens who had come after him, who had loved their kingdom more than their own lives. Who had carried this shield into battle, into war, to defend Terrasen. And as Aedion and the Valg prince fought along the walls, as that ancient shield refused to yield, he wondered if there was a different sort of power in the metal. One that the Valg could never and would never understand. Not true magic, not as Brannon and Aelin had. But something just as strong—stronger. That the Valg might never break, no matter how they tried.

His laugh was a brush of hot air along her spine. “Why can’t you be both human and Fae? Why choose at all?” “Because people always seem to demand that you be one thing or another.” “You’ve never bothered to give a damn what other people demand.” She smiled slightly. “True.”

Her hands twined around his neck, and Lorcan lifted her, carrying her not to the bath, but to the cot behind them, his lips never leaving hers. Home. This, with him. This was home, as she had never had. For however long they might share it. And when Lorcan laid her out on the cot, his breathing as uneven as her own, when he paused, letting her decide what to do, where to take this, Elide kissed him again and whispered, “Show me everything.” So Lorcan did.

Abraxos, Abraxos— Hers. He was hers, and she was his, and the Darkness had chosen them to be together.

Her warrior-hearted mount. Who had saved her far more than she had ever saved him. Who had saved her in the ways that counted most. “PLEASE.” She screamed it—screamed it with every scrap of her shredded soul. Iskra only laughed. And the bull did not let go, even as Abraxos tried and tried to get them closer to the ground. Her tears ripped away in the wind, and Manon freed the last of the buckles on her saddle. The gap between the wyverns was impossible, but she had been lucky before. She didn’t care about any of it. The Wastes, the Crochans and Ironteeth, her crown. She didn’t care about any of it, if Abraxos was not there with her.

Shooting from the heavens, faster than a star racing across the sky, a roaring form careened into Iskra’s bull. Those jaws came free of Abraxos’s neck, and then they were falling, twisting. Manon had enough sense to grab onto the saddle, to cling with everything she had as the wind threatened to tear her from him. His blood streamed upward as they fell, but then his wings spread wide, and he was banking, flapping up. He steadied enough that Manon swung into the saddle, strapping herself in as she whirled to see what had occurred behind her. Who had saved them. It was not Asterin. It was not any of the Thirteen. But Petrah Blueblood. And behind the Heir to the Blueblood Witch-Clan, now slamming into Morath’s aerial legion from where they’d crept onto the battlefield from high above the clouds, were the Ironteeth. Hundreds of them. Hundreds of Ironteeth witches and their wyverns crashed into their own. Petrah and Iskra pulled apart, the Blueblood Heir flapping toward Manon while Abraxos fought to stay upright. Even with the wind, the battle, Manon still heard Petrah as the Blueblood Heir said to her, “A better world.” Manon had no words. None, other than to look toward the city wall, to the force trying to enter through the river grates. “The walls—” “Go.” Then Petrah pointed to where Iskra had paused in midair to gape at what unfolded. At the act of defiance and rebellion so unthinkable that many of the Morath Ironteeth were equally stunned. Petrah bared her teeth, revealin...

Two hundred feet to the earth. Then a hundred. Manon couldn’t get down a breath. Fifty feet. And as the ground seemed to rise to meet them, Manon heard Petrah’s only words to Iskra like they had been carried on the wind. “For Keelie.” Petrah’s wyvern flung out its wings, banking sharper than any wyvern Manon had ever witnessed. Rising up, wing tip grazing the icy ground before it shot back into the skies. Leaving Iskra and her bull to splatter on the earth.

The wound to his neck was so much worse than she’d thought. And still he’d fought for her. Stayed in the skies. Manon shoved her hands against the deep bite wound, blood rushing past her fingers like water through a cracked dam. “Help is coming,” she told him, and found her voice to be a broken rasp. “They’re coming.” The Thirteen landed, Sorrel sprinting into the castle to no doubt drag a healer out if she had to, and then there were eleven pairs of hands on Abraxos’s neck. Staunching the flow of his blood. Pressing as one, to keep that precious blood inside him while the healer was found. Manon couldn’t look at them, couldn’t do anything but close her eyes and pray to the Darkness, to the Three-Faced Mother as she held her hands over the bleeding gashes. Racing footsteps sounded over the battlement stones, and then Sorrel was there beside Manon, her hands rising to cover his wounds, too. An older woman unpacked a kit, warning them to keep applying pressure. Manon didn’t bother to tell her that they weren’t going anywhere. None of them were. Even while the battle raged in the skies and on the land below.

“We have five minutes,” Manon snapped. She whirled to the Thirteen. “We have trained for this. To break apart enemy ranks. We can get through them. Take apart that tower.” But they all looked at one another. Like they’d had some unspoken conversation and agreement. The Thirteen stalked toward their own mounts. Sorrel clasped Manon’s shoulder as she passed, then climbed onto her wyvern’s back. Leaving Asterin before Manon. Her Second, her cousin, her friend, smiled, eyes bright as stars. “Live, Manon.” Manon blinked. Asterin smiled wider, kissed Manon’s brow, and whispered again, “Live.” Manon didn’t see the blow coming. The punch to her gut, so hard and precise that it knocked the wind from her. Sent her to her knees. She was struggling to get a breath down, to get up, when Asterin reached Narene and mounted the blue mare, gathering the reins. “Bring our people home, Manon.” Manon knew then. What they were going to do. Her legs failed her, her body failed her, as she tried to get to her feet. As she rasped, “No.” But Asterin and the Thirteen were already in the skies.

As all of them watched that witch tower approach, their doom gathering within it. As the Thirteen raced for it, raced against the wind and death itself. A wall of Ironteeth rose up before the tower, blocking their path. A hundred against twelve. Inside the witch tower, close enough now that Manon could see through the open archway of the uppermost level, a young witch in black robes stepped toward the hollowed interior. Stepped toward where Manon’s grandmother stood, gesturing to the pit below. The Thirteen neared the enemy in their path and did not falter. Manon dug her fingers into the stones so hard her iron nails cracked. Began shaking her head, something in her chest fracturing completely. Fracturing as the Thirteen slammed into the Ironteeth blockade. The maneuver was perfect. More flawless than any they’d done. A lethal phalanx that speared through the enemy’s ranks. Aiming right for the tower. Seconds. They had seconds until that young witch summoned the power and unleashed the Yielding in a blast of blackness. The Thirteen punched through the Ironteeth, spreading wide, pushing them to the side. Clearing a path right to the tower as Asterin swept in from the back, aiming for the uppermost level. Imogen went down first. Then Lin. And Ghislaine, her wyvern swarmed by their enemy. Then Thea and Kaya, together, as they had always been. Then the green-eyed demon twins, laughing as they went. Then the Shadows, Edda and Briar, arrows still firing. Still finding their mark...

Down the battlement steps. Out through the castle gates and into the city streets beyond. She didn’t care that others followed. More and more of them. The streets were filled with blood and rubble, all of it gilded by the rising sun. She didn’t feel the warmth of that sun on her face while they walked through the southern gate and onto the plain beyond. She didn’t care that someone had opened the gate for them. At her side, Abraxos nudged aside piles of Valg soldiers, clearing a path for her. For all those who trailed in their wake. It was so quiet. Inside her, and on the plain. So quiet, and empty. Manon crossed the still battlefield. Didn’t stop until she reached the center of the blast radius. Until she stood in its heart. Not a trace of the tower. Or those who had been in it, around it. Even the stones had been melted into nothing. Not a trace of the Thirteen, or their brave, noble wyverns. Manon fell to her knees. Ashes rose, fluttering, soft as snow as they clung to the tears on her face. Abraxos lay beside her, his tail curling around her while she bowed over her knees and wept. Behind her, had she looked, she would have seen Glennis. And Bronwen. Petrah Blueblood. Aedion Ashryver and Lysandra and Ren Allsbrook. Prince Galan and Captain Rolfe and Ansel of Briarcliff, Ilias and the Fae royals beside them. 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. Had she l...

The world went quiet. The approaching rider halted, another—a beautiful woman Dorian could only describe as golden—right behind. But Dorian stared at the rider before him. At the posture of the body, the commanding seat he possessed. And as Chaol Westfall dismounted and ran the last few feet toward Dorian, the King of Adarlan wept.

To open the gate, she must become the gate. Erawan had begun the process of turning Kaltain Rompier into that gate—had put the stone within her arm not for safekeeping, but to prepare her body for the other stones. To turn her into a living Wyrdgate that he might control. Just one sliver in her body had destroyed Kaltain. To put all three in her own … My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid.

His father stood there. The man he had last seen on a bridge in a glass castle, and yet not. There was kindness on his face. Humanity. And sorrow. Such terrible, pained sorrow. Dorian’s magic faltered. Even Aelin’s magic slowed in surprise, the torrent thinning to a trickle, a steady and agonizing drain. “Stop,” the man breathed, staggering toward them, glancing at the ribbon of power, blinding and pure, feeding the Lock’s formation. Aelin said, “This cannot be stopped.” His father shook his head. “I know. What has begun can’t be halted.” His father. “No,” Dorian said. “No, you cannot be here.” The man only looked down—to Dorian’s side. To where a sword might be. “Did you not summon me?” Damaris. He had been wearing Damaris within that ring of Wyrdmarks. In their world, their existence, he still did. The sword, the unnamed god it served, apparently thought he had one truth left to face. One more truth, before his end. “No,” Dorian repeated. It was all he could think to say as he looked upon him, the man who had done such terrible things to all of them. His father lifted his hands in supplication. “My boy,” he only breathed. Dorian had nothing to say to him. Hated that this man was here, at the end and beginning. Yet his father looked to Aelin. “Let me do this. Let me finish this.” “What?” The word snapped from Dorian. “You were not chosen,” Aelin said, though the coldness in her voice faltered. “Nameless is my price,” the king said. Aelin went still. “Nameless is my price,...

Aelin’s magic tore out of her, a piece so vital and deep that she cried out, swaying. Only the king’s grip kept her from falling. The Lock was nearly finished, the two overlapping circles of the Eye almost complete. Her magic writhed, begging her to stop. But she could not. Would not. “Soon now,” the king promised. She found the man smiling. “I was given a message for you,” he said softly. His edges blurred, as the last of his power drained away. But he still smiled. Still looked at peace. “Your parents are … They are so very proud of you. They asked me to tell you that they love you so very much.” He was nearly invisible now, his words little more than a whisper of wind. “And that the debt has been paid enough, Fireheart.” Then he was gone. The last of him flowed into the Lock. Wiped from existence. She barely felt the tears on her face as she fell to her knees. As she gave and gave her magic, her very self. My name is Aelin Ashryver Galath— A choking scream tore out of her as the last of the Lock sealed. As the Lock became forged once more, as real as her own flesh. As Aelin’s magic completely vanished.

Aelin turned away from the Fire-Bringer. And said to none of them in particular, “I should like to make a bargain with you.” The gods stilled. Deanna hissed, “A bargain? You dare to ask for a bargain?” “I would hear it,” said one whose voice was kind and loving. The thing in her arm writhed, and Aelin willed it to reveal what they sought. The portal to their realm. Sunlight over a rolling green country nearly blinded her. They whirled toward it, some sighing at the sight. But Aelin said, “A trade. Before you fulfill your end.” Words were distant, so difficult and pained. But she forced them out. The gods halted. Aelin only looked at Elena. Smiled softly. “You have sworn to take Erawan with you. To destroy him,” Aelin said, and the one with a voice like death faced her. As if remembering they had indeed promised such an outrageous thing. “I would like to trade,” she said again. And managed to point, with that arm that held all of eternity within it. “Erawan’s soul for Elena’s.” Mala turned toward her now. And stared. Aelin said into their silence, “Leave Erawan to Erilea. But in exchange, leave Elena. Let her soul remain in the Afterworld with those she loves.” “Aelin,” Elena whispered, and tears like silver flowed down her cheeks. Aelin smiled at the ancient queen. “The debt has been paid enough.” She had wanted them to debate it—her friends. Had asked for a vote on the gate not just to ease the burden of the choice, but to hear it from them, to hear them say that they cou...

One by one, the gods strode through the archway into their own world. Some sneered down at her as they passed. They would not take Erawan. Would not … would not do anything. Her chest was hollow, her soul gutted out, and yet this … And yet this … Aelin clawed at the mist-shrouded ground-that-was-not-ground as the last of them vanished. Until only one remained. A pillar of light and flame. Shining in the mists. Mala lingered on the threshold of her world. As if she remembered. As if she remembered Elena, and Brannon, and who knelt before her. Blood of her blood. The recipient of her power. Her Heir. “Seal the gate, Fire-Bringer,” Mala said softly. But the Lady of Light still hesitated. And from far away, Aelin heard another woman’s voice. Make sure that they’re punished someday. Every last one of them. They will be, she’d sworn to Kaltain. They had lied. Had betrayed Elena and Erilea, as they had believed themselves betrayed. Their green sun-drenched world rippled away ahead. Groaning, Aelin climbed to her feet. She was no lamb to slaughter. No sacrifice on an altar of the greater good. And she was not done yet. Aelin met Mala’s burning stare. “Do it,” Mala said quietly. Aelin looked past her, toward that pristine world they had sought to return to for so long. And realized that Mala knew—saw the thoughts in her own head. “Aren’t you going to stop me?” Mala only held out a hand. In it lay a kernel of white-hot power. A fallen star. “Take it. One last gift to my bloodline.” ...

They would not win. They couldn’t take it—couldn’t have her. She refused. She was screaming now. Screaming and roaring her defiance. A beam of light shot to the archway behind her. Beginning to seal it, too. She would live. She would live, and they could all go to hell. A better world. With no gods, no fates. A world of their own making. Aelin bellowed and bellowed, the sound ringing out across all worlds. They would not beat her. They would not get to take this, this most essential kernel of self. Of soul. Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom.… Her kingdom. Her home. She would see it again. It was not over. Behind her, the archway slowly sealed. The odds were slim; the odds were insurmountable. She had not been destined to escape this—to reach this point and still be breathing. Aelin’s hand drifted to her heart and rested there. It is the strength of this that matters, her mother had said, long ago. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home. No matter where she was.

World-walker. Wayfarer. Others had done it before. She would find a way, too. A way home. No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds. She would not go quietly. She was not afraid.

Tumbling, flipping over herself, she passed through them one by one by one by one by one. It is the strength of this that matters. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home. Aelin roared, a spark of self flashing through the sky. The tether grew stronger. Tighter. Reeling her in. Too fast. She had to slow— She plummeted into the last of herself, into what remained, grappling for any sort of power to slow her racing. She passed through a world where a great city had been built along the curve of a river, the buildings impossibly tall and glimmering with lights. Passed through a world of rain and green and wind. Roaring, she tried to slow. She passed through a world of oceans with no land to be seen. Close. Home was so close she could nearly smell the pine and snow. If she missed it, if she passed by it— She passed through a world of snowcapped mountains under shining stars. Passed over one of those mountains, where a winged male stood beside a heavily pregnant female, gazing at those very stars. Fae. They were Fae, but this was not her world. She flung out a hand, as if she might signal them, as if they might somehow help her when she was nothing but an invisible speck of power— The winged male, beautiful beyond reason, snapped his head toward her as she arced across his starry sky. He lifted a hand, as if in greeting. A blast of dark power, like a gentle summer night, slammed into her. Not to attack—but to slow her down. A wall, a shield, that she ...

Sure enough, a massive shape was lumbering toward them. Evangeline’s stomach dropped to her feet. “Is—is it one of those witch towers?” “A siege tower is different,” Darrow said with his usual gruffness. “Thank the gods.” “Still deadly,” Murtaugh said. “Just in a different way.” The old man frowned at Darrow. “I’ll head down there.” Evangeline blinked at that. None—none of the older lords had gone to the front. “To warn them?” Darrow asked carefully. Murtaugh patted the hilt of his sword. “Aedion and Ren are stretched thin. Kyllian, too, if you want to keep telling yourself that he’s the one leading them.” Murtaugh didn’t so much as lower his chin to Darrow, who stiffened. “I’ll handle the western wall. And that siege tower.” A wink at Evangeline. “We can’t all be brave messengers, can we?” Evangeline made herself smile, even though dread pooled in her. “Should—should I warn Aedion that you’ll be there?” “I’ll tell him myself,” Murtaugh said, and ruffled her hair as he walked by. “Be careful on the ice,” he warned her again. Darrow didn’t try to stop him as Murtaugh walked off the battlements. Slow. He looked so slow, and old, and frail. And yet he kept his chin high. Back straight. If she’d been able to choose a grandfather for herself, it would have been him. Darrow’s face was tight when Murtaugh disappeared at last. “Old fool,” Darrow said, worry in his eyes as he turned to the battle raging ahead.

He hadn’t let go of her once. Not once, since she’d come back. Since she’d walked through worlds. She could see them still. Even walking in silence under the trees, the darkness yielding toward the grayish light before dawn, she could see each and every one of those worlds she’d broken through. Perhaps she’d never stop seeing them. Perhaps she alone in this world and all others knew what lay beyond the invisible walls separating them. How much life dwelled and thrived. Loved and hated and struggled to claw out a living. So many worlds. More than she could contemplate. Would her dreams forever be haunted by them? To have glimpsed them, but been unable to explore—would that longing take root? Oakwald’s branches formed a skeletal lattice overhead. Bars of a cage. As her body, and this world, might be.

“So the world was only partly saved,” Yrene said. “Better than nothing.”

Even if his thoughts still drifted northward—to a golden-eyed witch who walked with death beside her and did not fear it.

Borte waved off Aelin’s words. “Hasar calls everyone a stupid cow. You’re in good company.” Another smile from Aelin at that. “But I’m not here to talk about that. I want to talk about you and me.” “My favorite subject,” Aelin said, chuckling slightly. Borte grinned. “You’re alive. You made it. We all thought you’d be dead.” She drew a line across her neck for emphasis, and Elide cringed. “Sartaq is probably going to have me leading one of the flanks into battle, but I’ve done that. Been good at that.” That grin widened. “I want to lead your flank.” “I don’t have a flank.” “Then who shall you ride with into battle?” “I hadn’t gotten that far,” Aelin said, lifting a brow. “Since I expected to be dead.” “Well, when you do, expect me to be in the skies above you. I’d hate for the battle to be dull.” Only the fierce-eyed rukhin would have the nerve to call marching on a hundred thousand soldiers dull. But before Aelin could say anything, or Elide could ask Borte whether the ruks were ready against the wyverns, the ruk rider was gone.

She couldn’t stand it, the bleakness, the grief, in his face. Couldn’t endure it. Lysandra rose onto her toes and brushed her mouth over his. A whisper of a kiss, a promise of life when death hovered. She pulled away, finding Aedion’s face as distraught as it had been before. So she kissed him again. And lingered by his mouth as she whispered, “He was a good man. A brave and noble man. So are you.” She kissed him a third time. “And when this war is over, however it may end, I will still be here, with you. Whether in this life or the next, Aedion.”

Rowan saw at last what she beheld. Who emerged between the trees. Against the snow, he was nearly invisible with his white fur. Would have been invisible were it not for the golden flame flickering between his proud, towering antlers. The Lord of the North. And at his feet, all around him … The Little Folk. Snow clinging to her lashes, a small sound came out of Aelin as the creature nearest curled its hand, beckoning. As if to say, Follow us. The others gaped in silence at the magnificent, proud stag who had come to greet them. To guide home the Queen of Terrasen. But then the wind began to whisper, and it was not the song that Rowan usually heard. No, it was a voice that they all heard as it streamed past them. Doom is upon Orynth, Heir of Brannon. You must hurry. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold skittered down Rowan’s skin. “The storm,” Aelin blurted, the words swallowed by the snow. You must hurry. We will show you the way, swift and unseen. Aelin only stilled. Said to that voice, as ancient as the trees, as old as the rocks between them, “You have already helped me so many times.” And you have given much yourself, Heir of Brannon. We who remember him know he would have made such a choice, had he been able to do so. Oakwald shall never forget Brannon, or his Heir. Aelin straightened, scanned the trees, the snow-whipped wind. Dryad. That was the word he sought. Dryad. A tree spirit. “What is your cost?” Aelin asked, her voice louder now. “Do you really want t...

“That’s what Terrasen has always meant to me, you know,” Evangeline went on, speaking more to herself. “As soon as Aelin freed Lysandra, and offered to let us join her court, Terrasen has always meant home. A place where … where the sort of people who hurt us don’t get to live. Where anyone, regardless of who they are and where they came from and what their rank is can dwell in peace. Where we can have a garden in the spring, and swim in the rivers in the summer. I’ve never had such a thing before. A home, I mean. And I would have liked for Caraverre, for Terrasen, to have been mine.” She chewed on her lip. “So I would choose to fight. Until the very end. For my home, new as it is. I choose to fight.”

Darrow unbuckled the sword at his side and extended it to Aedion. Silence began to ripple through the hall at the sight of the sword—Aedion’s sword. The Sword of Orynth. Darrow held it between them, the ancient bone pommel gleaming. “Terrasen is your home.” Aedion’s haggard face remained unmoved. “It has been since the day I arrived here.” “I know,” Darrow said, gazing at the sword. “And you have defended it far more than any natural-born son would ever be expected to. Beyond what anyone might ever reasonably be asked to give. You have done so without complaint, without fear, and have served your kingdom nobly.” He extended the sword. “You will forgive a proud old man who sought to do so as well.” Aedion slid his arm from Lysandra’s shoulder, and took the sword in his hands. “Serving this kingdom has been the great honor of my life.” “I know,” Darrow repeated, and glanced down to Evangeline before he looked to Lysandra. “Someone very wise recently told me that Terrasen is not merely a place, but an ideal. A home for all those who wander, for those who need somewhere to welcome them with open arms.” He inclined his head to Lysandra. “I formally recognize Caraverre and its lands, and you as its lady.” Lysandra’s fingers found Evangeline’s and squeezed tight. “For your unwavering courage in the face of the enemy gathered at our doorstep, for all you have done to defend this city and kingdom, Caraverre shall be recognized, and yours forevermore.” A glance between her and Aedio...

Abraxos shifted his wing so that it shielded her from the wind. “I would have liked to have seen it,” Manon said quietly. “The Wastes. Just once.” Abraxos huffed, nudging her gently with his head. She stroked a hand over his snout. And even with the darkness squatting on the battlefield, she could picture it—the rolling, vibrant green that flowed to a thrashing gray sea. A shining city along its shore, witches soaring on brooms or wyverns in the skies above it. She could hear the laughter of witchlings in the streets, the long-forgotten music of their people floating on the wind. A wide, open space, lush and evergreen. “I would have liked to have seen it,” Manon whispered again.

The western gate buckled, iron screaming as it began to peel apart. He had to go—had to go down there to lead the fight at the gate. Where he’d make his last stand. Where he’d meet his end, defending the place he’d loved most. It was the least he could do, with all the warriors who had fallen thanks to him, to his choices. To fall himself for Terrasen. A death worthy of a song. An end worthy of being told around a fire. If in Erawan’s new world of darkness, flames would be allowed to exist.

Together, they turned toward the stairs that would take them down to the gates. To death’s awaiting embrace. A horn cleaved through the air, through the battle, through the world. Aedion went still. Whirled toward the direction of that horn, to the south. Beyond Morath’s teeming ranks. Beyond the sea of blackness, to the foothills that bordered the edge of Theralis’s sprawling plain. Again, that horn blared, a roar of defiance. “That’s no horn of Morath,” Lysandra breathed. And then they appeared. Along the edge of the foothills. A line of golden-armored warriors, foot soldiers and cavalry alike. More and more and more, a great line spreading across the crest of the final hill. Filling the skies, stretching into the horizon, flew mighty, armored birds with riders. Ruks. And before them all, sword raised to the sky as that horn blew one last time, the ruby in the blade’s pommel smoldering like a small sun … Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.

Through the ancient, forgotten pathways of Oakwald, through the Perranth Mountains, the Lord of the North and Little Folk had led them. Swift and unfaltering, racing against doom, they had made their last push northward. They had barely stopped to rest. Had left any unnecessary supplies behind. The ruk scouts had not dared to fly ahead for fear of being discovered by Morath. For fear of ruining the advantage in surprise. Six days of marching, that great army hurrying behind her. Inhospitable terrain smoothed out. Little rivers froze over for their passing. The trees blocked out the falling snow. They had traveled through the night yesterday. And when dawn had broken, the Lord of the North had knelt beside Aelin and offered himself as her mount. There was no saddle for him; none would ever be permitted or needed. Any rider he allowed on his back, Aelin knew, would never fall. Some had knelt when she rode by. Even Dorian and Chaol had inclined their heads. Rowan, atop a fierce-eyed Darghan horse, had only nodded. As if he had always expected her to wind up here, at the head of the army that galloped the final hours to the edge of Orynth. She had fitted her battle-crown to her head, along with the armor she’d gathered in Anielle, and outfitted herself with whatever spare weapons Fenrys and Lorcan handed to her.

Manon Blackbeak had not broken her vow. And neither would she. Aelin glanced at her hand, hidden beneath the gauntlet. To where a scar should have been. I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come.

The horns blew a third and final time, the rallying cry singing out across the bloody plain. The Lord of the North reared up, jutting Goldryn higher into the sky, and Aelin unleashed a flash of fire through the ruby—the signal the army behind her had awaited. For Terrasen. All of it, for Terrasen. The Lord of the North landed, the immortal flame within his antlers shining bright as he began the charge. The army around and behind her flowed down the hillside, gaining with each step, barreling toward Morath’s back ranks. Barreling toward Orynth. Toward home.

In the city, along Orynth’s walls, a white-haired queen bellowed, “Push! Push! Push!” Exhausted witches took to the skies, on broom and beast, swords lifting. Racing for the front of the aerial legion turning to the ruks. To crush the Ironteeth legion between them. On the bloody ground, Morath aimed spears, pikes, swords, anything they bore at the thundering cavalry. It was not enough to stop them. Not when shields of wind and flame and blackest death locked into place—and sliced into the front lines of Morath. Felling the soldiers braced for battle. Exposing those behind still waiting to raise weapons. Leaving Morath wide open for the golden army as it slammed into them with the force of a tidal wave.

Yet Fenrys battled near Rowan’s other side, Lorcan on his left—a dark, deadly wind lashing out in time with his sword. Once, they had been little more than slaves to a queen who had unleashed them across the world. Together, they had taken on armies and decimated cities. He had not cared then whether he walked off those distant battlefields. Had not cared whether those kingdoms fell or survived. He had been given his orders, and had executed them. But here, today … Aelin had given them no order, no command other than the very first they’d sworn to obey: to protect Terrasen. So they would. And together, they would do so, cadre once more. They would fight for this kingdom—their new court. Their new home. He could see it in Fenrys’s eyes as he cut a soldier in two with a deep slice to the middle. Could see that vision of a future on Lorcan’s raging face as the warrior wielded magic and blade to rip through the enemy ranks. Cadre, yet more than that. Brothers—the warriors fighting at his side were his brothers. Had stayed with him through all of it. And would continue to do so now. It steeled him as much as the thought of his mate, still fighting ahead. He had to get to her, keep close. They all did. Orynth depended upon it. No longer slaves. No longer raging and broken. A home. This would be their home. Their future. Together. Morath soldiers fell before them. Some outright ran as they beheld who battled closer. Perhaps why Maeve had gathered them in the first place. Yet she ...

So Aedion charged down to the western gate, a battle cry on his lips as his men let him right up to the iron doors and the enemy army just visible through the sundering plates. The moment the gate opened, it would be over. Aedion’s drained legs shook, his arms strained, but he held his ground. For whatever few breaths he had left. Aelin had come. It was enough.

He had never seen battle. Knew he never wished to again. The chaos, the noise, the blood, the horses screaming— But he was not afraid. And Chaol, riding near him, breaking soldiers between them, did not hesitate. Only slaughtered onward, teeth gritted. For Adarlan—for what had been done to it and what it might become. The words echoed in his every panting breath. For Adarlan.

Their horses charged bold and dauntless beneath them, gaining ground, but he could not see Aelin. Only the Lord of the North, bounding across the battlefield, aiming for Oakwald. As if he had been set free. Fenrys, face splattered with black blood, shouted, “Where is she?” Rowan scanned the field, heart thundering. But the bond in his chest glowed strong, fire-bright. Lorcan only pointed ahead. To the city walls by the southern gate. To the ghost leopard tearing through the droves of Morath soldiers, spurts of flame accompanying her as a golden-armored warrior raced at her side. To the three siege towers wreaking havoc on the walls. With the towers’ open sides, Rowan could see everything as it unfolded. Could see Aelin and Lysandra charge up the ramp within, slicing and shredding soldiers between them, level after level after level. Where one missed a soldier, the other felled him. Where one struck, the other guarded. All the way up, to the small catapult near its top. Soldiers screamed, some leaping from the tower as Lysandra shredded into them. While Aelin threw herself at the rungs lining the catapult’s wheeled base, and began pushing. Turning it. Away from Orynth, from the castle. Precisely as Aelin had told him Sam Cortland had done in Skull’s Bay, the catapult’s mechanisms allowed her to rotate its base. Rowan wondered if the young assassin was smiling now—smiling to see her heaving the catapult into position. All the way to the siege tower at its left. On the second...

“We have to get the gate shut again,” Aedion said, pointing to the two cleaved but intact doors pushed against the walls. Access to them blocked by the Morath grunts still trying to break past Gavriel’s shield. “Or they’ll overrun the city before our forces can regroup.” Getting behind the walls would make no difference if the western gate was wide open. His father followed his line of sight. Looked upon the soldiers trying to get past his defenses, their flow forced to a trickle by the wyvern he’d so carefully downed before them. “Then we shall shut them,” Gavriel said, and smiled grimly. “Together.” The word was more of a question, subtle and sorrowful. Together. As father and son. As the two warriors they were. Gavriel—his father. He had come. And looking at those tawny eyes, Aedion knew it was not for Aelin, or for Terrasen, that his father had done it. “Together,” Aedion rasped. Not just this obstacle. Not just this battle. But whatever would come afterward, should they survive. Together. Aedion could have sworn something like joy and pride filled Gavriel’s eyes. Joy and pride and sorrow, heavy and old. Aedion strode back to the line of the Bane, motioning the soldier beside him to make room for Gavriel to join their formation. One great push now, and they’d secure the gate. Their army would enter through the southern one, and they’d find some way to rally before the new army reached the city. But the western one, they’d clear it and seal it. Permanently. Father and s...

Rowan lowered his head. “I hope you found peace, my brother. And in the Afterworld, I hope you find her again.”

But Evangeline pointed a finger. Out toward the gates, toward Maeve and Erawan. “Look.” And there she was. In the deepening blues of descending night, amid the snow beginning to fall, Aelin Galathynius had appeared before the sealed southern gate. Had appeared before Erawan and Maeve. Her unbound hair billowed in the wind like a golden banner, a last ray of light with the dying of the day. Silence fell. Even the screaming stopped as all turned toward the gate. But Aelin did not balk. Did not run from the Valg queen and king who halted as if in delight at the lone figure who dared face them. Lysandra let out a strangled sob. “She—she has no magic left.” The shifter’s voice broke. “She has nothing left.” Still Aelin lifted her sword. Flames ran down the blade. One flame against the darkness gathered. One flame to light the night. Aelin raised her shield, and flames encircled it, too. Burning bright, burning undaunted. A vision of old, reborn once more. The cry went down the castle battlements, through the city, along the walls. The queen had come home at last. The queen had come to hold the gate.

Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be afraid.

Not one more step. Not one more step toward Orynth would she allow them to make. Maeve smiled. “What a very long way you’ve traveled, Aelin.” Aelin only angled Goldryn. Met Erawan’s golden stare. His eyes flared as he took in the sword. Remembered it. Aelin bared her teeth. Let the flame she fed into the sword glow brighter. Maeve turned to the Valg king. “Shall we, then?” But Erawan looked at Aelin. And hesitated. She would not have long. Not long at all until they realized that the power that made him hesitate was no more. But she had not remained outside the southern gate to defeat them. Only to buy time. For those in the city she loved so greatly to get away. To run, and live to fight tomorrow. She had made it home. It was enough. The words echoed with her every breath. Sharpened her vision, steeled her spine. A crown of flame appeared atop her head, swirling and unbreakable. She could never win against both of them. But she wouldn’t make it easy. Would take one of them down with her, if she could. Or at least slow them enough for the others to enact their plan, to find a way to either halt or defeat them. Even if either option seemed unlikely. Hopeless. But that was why she remained here. To give them that slim shred of hope. That will to keep fighting. At the end of this, if that was all she was able to do against Erawan and Maeve, she could go to the Afterworld with her chin held high. She would not be ashamed to see those she had loved with her heart of wildfire.