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

by Sarah J. Maas

Maeve extended a hand before her, darkness swirling in her cupped palm. “There are no gods left to watch, I’m afraid. And there are no gods left to help you now, Aelin Galathynius.” Aelin smiled, and Goldryn burned brighter. “I am a god.” She unleashed herself upon them.

People screamed. Further into the city, people were screaming. Fleeing. Only a few blocks to the southern gate—to Aelin. And yet … those screams of terror and pain continued. Families. Children. Home. This was to be his home. Already was, if Aelin were with him. He would defend it. Rowan drew his sword and hatchet. Fire burst beyond the walls, bathing the city in gold. She couldn’t have more than an ember. Against Erawan and Maeve, she should already be dead. Yet her flame still raged. The mating bond held strong. White flashed beside him, and then there was Fenrys, stained with blood and snarling at the soldiers pouring over the walls. One neared them, and a swipe of a mighty paw was all it took for the grunt to be in pieces. A swipe—and then a burst of black wind. Lorcan. They halted for all of a heartbeat. Both males looked to him in question. They knew full well where Aelin was. What the plan had been. Another blast of flame from beyond the walls. But the screams of the innocent in the city … She would never forgive him for it. If he walked away. So Rowan angled his weapons. Turned toward the screaming. “We swore an oath to our queen and this court,” he snarled, sizing up the soldiers pouring over the walls. “We will not break it.”

“You’ve been dreaming,” Maeve said, running a finger over the mask still clamped to her face. “Such strange, wandering dreams, Aelin.” No. No, it had been real. She managed to lift her head enough to peer down at herself. At the shift and too-thin body. The scars still on her. Still there. Not wiped away. No new skin. “I can make this easy for you,” Maeve went on, brushing Aelin’s hair back with gentle, loving strokes. “Tell me where the Wyrdkeys are, swear the blood oath, and these chains, this mask, this box … all of it will go away.” They hadn’t yet begun. To tear her apart. All of it a dream. One long nightmare. The keys remained unbound, the Lock unforged. A dream, while they’d sailed here. Wherever here was. “What say you, niece? Will you spare yourself? Yield to me?” You do not yield. Aelin blinked. “It’s easier, isn’t it,” Maeve mused, bracing her forearms against the lip of the coffin. “To remain here. So you needn’t make such terrible choices. To let the others share the burden. Bear its cost.” A hint of a smile. “Deep down, that’s what haunts you. That wish to be free.” Freedom—she’d known it. Hadn’t she? “It’s what you fear most—not me, or Erawan, or the keys. That your wish to be free of the weight of your crown, your power, will consume you. Embitter you until you do not recognize your own self.” Her smile widened. “I wish to spare you from that. With me, you shall be free in a way you’ve never imagined, Aelin. I swear it.” An oath. She had sworn an oath. To ...

His dark power rose, a wave to devour the world. Yrene did not let it touch her. Touch any of them. Hope. It was hope that Chaol had said she carried with her. Hope that now grew in her womb. For a better future. For a free world. It was hope that had guided two women at opposite ends of this continent ten years ago. Hope that had guided Yrene’s mother to take up that knife and kill the soldier who would have burned Yrene alive. Hope that had guided Marion Lochan when she chose to buy a young heir time to run with her very life. Two women, who had never known each other, two women who the world had deemed ordinary. Two women, Josefin and Marion, who had chosen hope in the face of darkness. Two women, in the end, who had bought them all this moment. This one shot at a future. For them, Yrene was not afraid. For the child she carried, she was not afraid. For the world she and Chaol would build for that child, she was not afraid at all. The gods might have been gone, Silba with them, but Yrene could have sworn she felt those warm, gentle hands guiding her. Pushing upon Erawan’s chest as he thrashed, the force of a thousand dark suns trying to rip her apart. Her power tore through them all.

“Tell me his name,” he panted through his teeth. Yrene, clinging to his other hand, murmured her warning. Dorian barely heard it. Erawan only laughed again, choking as their power seared him. “Does it matter?” Yrene asked softly. Yes. He didn’t know why, but it did. His father had been wiped from the Afterworld, from every realm of existence, but he could still have his name given back to him. If only to repay the debt. If only so Dorian might grant the man some shred of peace. Erawan’s power surged for them again. Dorian and Yrene shoved it back. Now. It had to be now. “Tell me his name,” Dorian snarled. Erawan smiled up at him. No. “Dorian,” Yrene warned. Sweat slid down her face. She couldn’t hold him for much longer. And to risk her— Dorian sent their power rippling down the blade. Damaris’s hilt glowed. “Tell me—” It is your own. Erawan’s eyes widened as the words came out of him. As Damaris drew it from him. But Dorian did not marvel at the sword’s power. His father’s name … Dorian. I took his name, Erawan spat, writhing as the words flowed from his tongue under Damaris’s power. I wiped it away from existence. Yet he only remembered it once. Only once. The first time he beheld you. Tears slid down Dorian’s face at that unbearable truth. Perhaps his father had unknowingly hidden his name within him, a final kernel of defiance against Erawan. And had named his son for that defiance, a secret marker that the man within still fought. Had never stopped fighting. Dorian. H...

yet he took it into his heart, every bit of it. All that the future might offer. It did not frighten him.

The portal opened. Exactly as the Wyrdmarks in the books Chaol and Yrene had brought from the southern continent had promised. Precisely to where Aelin had intended. Where she had glimpsed as she’d tumbled back through the Wyrdgate. Where she and Rowan had ventured days ago, testing this very portal. The forest glen was silvered in the moonlight, the snows thick. Strange, old trees—older than even those in Oakwald. Trees that could only be found north of Terrasen, in the hinterlands beyond. But it was not the trees that made Maeve halt. No, it was the teeming mass of people, their armor and weapons glinting beneath their heavy furs. Amongst them, large as horses, wolves growled. Wolves with riders. Down the battlefield, portal after portal opened. Right where Rowan and the cadre had drawn them in their own blood as they fought. All to be opened upon this spell. This command. And beyond each portal, that teeming mass of people could be seen. The army. “I heard you planned to come here, you see,” Aelin said to Maeve, Rowan’s power a symphony in her blood. “Heard you planned to bring the kharankui-princesses with you.” She smiled. “So I thought to bring some friends of my own.” The first of the figures beyond the portal emerged, riding a great silver wolf. And even with the furs over her heavy armor, the female’s arched ears could be seen. “The Fae who dwelled in Terrasen were not wiped out so thoroughly,” Aelin said. Lorcan began grinning. “They found a new home—with the Wol...

Her flame danced over the battlefield. And the lost Fae of Terrasen, the fabled Wolf Tribe who had welcomed and protected them at their sides, charged through the portals. Right into Morath’s unsuspecting ranks.

“I’d say,” Aelin panted, speaking above the glorious roar of magic through her, the unbreakable song of her and Rowan, “that you haven’t wronged us the most at all.” Like alternating punches, Lorcan struck with them. Fire, then midnight death. Maeve’s dark brows narrowed. Aelin flung out a wall of flame that pushed Maeve back another step. “But him—oh, he has a score to settle with you.” Maeve’s eyes went wide, and she made to turn. But not fast enough. Not fast enough at all as Fenrys vanished from where he knelt, and reappeared—right behind Maeve. Goldryn burned bright as he plunged it through her back. Into the dark heart within.

“Anywhere?” Aelin asked, and let go of Rowan’s hand. The lack of his magic, his strength, hit her like plunging into an ice-cold lake. But she had plenty of her own. Not magic, never again as it had been, but a strength greater, deeper than that. Fireheart, her mother had called her. Not for her power. The name had never once been about her power.

So Aelin wrenched her sword free of the pile of ashes that had been Maeve. She lifted it high to the night sky, to the stars, and let her cry of victory fill the world. Let the name she shouted ring out, the soldiers on the field, in the city, taking up the call until all of Orynth was singing with it. Until it reached the shining stars of the Lord of the North gleaming above them, no longer needed to guide her way home.

But life, Chaol realized—life was just beginning.

Nesryn didn’t believe it. The enemy had just … collapsed. Even the kharankui-hybrids. It was as unlikely as the Fae and wolves who had simply appeared through holes in the world. A missing army, who had wasted no time launching themselves at Morath. As if they knew precisely where and how to strike. As if they had been summoned from the ancient myths of the North.

Aelin looked at the threshold of the gate. At the ancient, familiar stones, now caked in blood and gore. She sent a whisper of flame skittering over them. The last dregs of her power. When the fire vanished, the stones were again clean. New. As this city would be made anew, brought to greater heights, greater splendors. A beacon of learning and light once more. Rowan’s fingers tightened around hers, but she did not look at him as they crossed the threshold, passing through the gate. No, Aelin only looked at her people, smiling broadly and freely, as she entered Orynth, and they began to cheer, welcoming her home at long last.

Together, they knelt there, and he knew her grief was as real as his. Knew her grief was for Gavriel, but also for his own loss. The years he and his father would not have. The years he’d realized he wanted to have, the stories he wished to hear, the male he wished to know. And never would. Had Gavriel known that? Or had he fallen believing his son wished nothing to do with him? He couldn’t endure it, that potential truth. Its weight would be unbearable.

A grand burial, Aedion silently promised. With every honor, every scrap of stately regalia that could be found in the aftermath of this battle. He’d bury his father in the royal graveyard, amongst the heroes of Terrasen. Where he himself would be buried one day. Beside him. It was the least he could do. To make sure his father knew in the Afterworld.

Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed. A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak, undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars. Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.” His heart strained as he understood. As the loss of those twelve fierce, brilliant lives carved another hole within him. One he would not forget, one he would honor. Silently, he crossed the balcony. Manon did not back away as he slid his arms around her. “I am sorry,” he said into her hair. Tentatively, slowly, her hands drifted across his back. Then settled, embracing him. “I miss them,” she whispered, shuddering. Dorian only held her tighter, and let Manon lean on him for as long as she needed, Abraxos staring toward that blasted bit of earth on the plain, toward the mate who would never return, while the city below celebrated.

“My young ward and I were told that when you went to face Erawan and Maeve, your magic was heavily depleted.” “It was. And shall remain so forever.” Darrow shook his head. “Why?” Not about her magic being whittled to nothing. But why she had gone to face them, with little more than embers in her veins. “Terrasen is my home,” Aelin said. It was the only answer in her heart. Darrow smiled—just a bit. “So it is.” He bowed his head. Then his body. “Welcome,” he said, then added as he rose, “Your Majesty.” But Aelin looked to Evangeline, the girl still beaming. Win me back my kingdom, Evangeline. Her order to the girl, all those months ago. And she didn’t know how Evangeline had done it. How she had changed this old lord before them. Yet there was Darrow, gesturing to the gates, to the castle behind him. Evangeline winked at Aelin, as if in confirmation. Aelin just laughed, taking the girl by the hand, and led that promise of Terrasen’s bright future into the castle.

Instead she asked softly, “Where is he?” Wordlessly, Aedion led her from the dining hall. Down the winding passageways of the castle, their castle, to a small, candlelit room. Gavriel had been laid on a table, a wool blanket obscuring the body she knew was shredded beneath. Only his handsome face visible, still noble and kind in death. Aedion lingered by the doorway as Aelin walked up to the warrior. She knew Rowan and the others stood by him, her mate with a hand on Aedion’s shoulder. Knew Fenrys and Lorcan bowed their heads. She stopped before the table where Gavriel had been laid. “I wished to wait to offer you the blood oath until after your son had taken it,” she said, her quiet voice echoing off the stones. “But I offer it to you now, Gavriel. With honor, and gratitude, I offer you the blood oath.” Her tears plopped onto the blanket covering him, and she wiped one away before drawing her dagger from the sheath at her side. She pulled his arm from beneath the covering. A flick of the blade had her slicing his palm open. No blood flowed beyond a slight swelling. Yet she waited until a drop slid to the stones. Then opened up her own arm, dipped her fingers into the blood, and let three drops fall into his mouth. “Let the world know,” Aelin said, voice breaking, “that you are a male of honor. That you stood by your son, and this kingdom, and helped to save it.” She kissed the cold brow. “You are blood-sworn to me. And you shall be buried here as such.” She pulled away, s...

So many witches. There were so many witches, Ironteeth and Crochan, in the halls of the castle. Elide scanned their faces as she worked with the healers in the Great Hall. A dark lord and dark queen defeated—yet the wounded remained. And since she had strength left in her, she would help in whatever way she could. But when a white-haired witch limped into the hall, an injured Crochan slung between her and another witch Elide did not recognize … Elide was halfway across the space, across the hall where she had spent so many happy childhood days, by the time she realized she’d moved. Manon paused at the sight of her. Gave the wounded Crochan over to her sister-in-arms. But made no move to approach. Elide saw the sorrow on her face before she reached her. The dullness and pain in the golden eyes. She went still. “Who?” Manon’s throat bobbed. “All.” All of the Thirteen. All those fierce, brilliant witches. Gone. Elide put a hand to her heart, as if it could stop it from cracking. But Manon closed the distance between them, and even with that grief in her battered, bloodied face, she put a hand on Elide’s shoulder. In comfort. As if the witch had learned how to do such things. Elide’s vision stung and blurred, and Manon wiped away the tear that escaped. “Live, Elide,” was all the witch said to her before striding out of the hall once more. “Live.” Manon vanished into the teeming hallway, braid swaying. And Elide wondered if the command had been meant for her at all.

Elide laughed, smacking his shoulder. And then laughed again, louder. Lorcan set her down. “What?” Elide’s mouth bobbed as she tried to stop her laughing. “It’s just … I’m Lady of Perranth. If you marry me, you will take my family name.” He blinked. Elide laughed again. “Lord Lorcan Lochan?” It sounded just as ridiculous coming out. Lorcan blinked at her, then howled. She’d never heard such a joyous sound. He swept her up in his arms again, spinning her. “I’ll use it with pride every damned day for the rest of my life,” he said into her hair, and when he set her down, his smile had vanished. Replaced by an infinite tenderness as he brushed back her hair, hooking it over an ear. “I will marry you, Elide Lochan. And proudly call myself Lord Lorcan Lochan, even when the whole kingdom laughs to hear it.” He kissed her, gently and lovingly. “And when we are wed,” he whispered, “I will bind my life to yours. So we will never know a day apart. Never be alone, ever again.”

Yrene groaned as she stood. “You’re merciless.” Hafiza just patted her shoulder. “Good healers know when to rest. Exhaustion makes for sloppy decisions. And sloppy decisions—” “Cost lives,” Yrene finished. She lifted her eyes toward the vaulted ceiling high, high above. “You never stop teaching, do you?” Hafiza’s mouth cracked into a grin. “This is life, Yrene. We never stop learning. Even at my age.” Yrene had long suspected that love of learning was what had kept the Healer on High young at heart all these years. She just smiled back at her mentor.

“And you,” Hafiza went on, taking her hand, “will not return with us.” Her eyes burned, but Yrene whispered, “No, I won’t.” Hafiza squeezed Yrene’s fingers, her hand warm. Strong as steel. “I shall have to find myself a new heir apparent, then.” “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Whatever for?” Hafiza chuckled. “You have found love, and happiness, Yrene. There is nothing more that I could ever wish for you.” Yrene wiped away the tear that slipped out. “I just—I don’t want you to think I wasted your time—” Hafiza crowed with laughter. “Wasted my time? Yrene Towers—Yrene Westfall.” The ancient woman cupped Yrene’s face with her strong, ancient hands. “You have saved us all.” Yrene closed her eyes as Hafiza pressed a kiss to her brow. A blessing and a farewell. “You will stay in these lands,” Hafiza said, her smile unwavering. “But even with the ocean dividing us, we will remain linked here.” She touched her chest, right over her heart. “And no matter the years, you will forever have a place at the Torre. Always.” Yrene put a shaking hand over her own heart and nodded.

But Yrene remained standing there, a hand drifting to the slight swelling in her belly. And she smiled—broad and unfalteringly—at the future that opened before her, bright as the oncoming dawn.

Manon looked from Petrah to Glennis and Bronwen. “What should you like to do?” Glennis said softly, “Go home.” Manon swallowed. “You and the Crochans may leave whenever you—” “To the Wastes,” Glennis said. “Together.” Manon and Petrah swapped a glance. Petrah said, “We cannot.” Bronwen’s lips curved upward. “You can.” Manon blinked. And blinked again as Bronwen extended a fist toward Manon and opened it. Inside lay a pale purple flower, small as Manon’s thumbnail. Beautiful and delicate. “A bastion of Crochans just made it here—a bit late, but they heard the call and came. All the way from the Wastes.” Manon stared and stared at that purple flower. “They brought this with them. From the plain before the Witch-City.” The barren, bloodied plain. The land that had yielded no flowers, no life beyond grass and moss and— Manon’s sight blurred, and Glennis took her hand, guiding it toward Bronwen’s before the witch tipped the flower into Manon’s palm. “Only together can it be undone,” Glennis whispered. “Be the bridge. Be the light.” A bridge between their two peoples, as Manon had become. A light—as the Thirteen had exploded with light, not darkness, in their final moments. “When iron melts,” Petrah murmured, her blue eyes swimming with tears. The Thirteen had melted that tower. Melted the Ironteeth within it. And themselves. “When flowers spring from fields of blood,” Bronwen went on. Manon’s knees buckled as she stared out at that battlefield. Where countless flowers had been ...

Aelin heard them before she saw them, scented them. And when they turned, they found Lorcan and Elide walking onto the tower balcony, Aedion, Lysandra, and Fenrys trailing. Ren Allsbrook, tentative and wary-eyed, emerged behind them. How they’d known where to find them, why they’d come, Aelin had no idea. Fenrys’s wounds had closed at least, though twin, red scars slashed from his brow to his jaw. He didn’t seem to notice—or care. She also didn’t fail to note the hand Lorcan kept on Elide’s back. The glow on the lady’s face. Aelin could guess well enough what that glow was from. Even Lorcan’s dark eyes were bright. It didn’t stop Aelin from catching Lorcan’s stare. And giving him a warning look that conveyed everything she didn’t bother to say: if he broke the Lady of Perranth’s heart, she’d flambé him. And would invite Manon Blackbeak to roast some dinner over his burning corpse. Lorcan rolled his eyes, and Aelin deemed that acceptance enough as she asked them all, “Did anyone bother to sleep?” Only Fenrys lifted his hand. Aedion frowned at the dark stain on the stones. “We’re putting a rug over it,” Aelin told him. Lysandra laughed. “Something tacky, I hope.” “I’m thinking pink and purple. Embroidered with flowers. Just what Erawan would have loved.” The Fae males gaped at them, Ren blinking. Elide ducked her head as she chuckled. Rowan snorted again. “At least this court won’t be boring.” Aelin put a hand on her chest, the portrait of outrage. “You were honestly worried...

“People should have a say in how they are governed. Policies that impact them. They should have a say in how this kingdom is rebuilt.” Aelin lifted her chin. “I will be queen, and my children …” Her cheeks heated as she smiled toward Rowan. “Our children,” she said a bit softly, “will rule. One day. But Terrasen should have a voice. Each territory, regardless of the lords who rule it, should have a voice. One chosen by its people.” The cadre looked toward one another then. Rowan said, “There was a kingdom—to the east. Long ago. They believed in such things.” Pride glowed in his eyes, brighter than the dawn. “It was a place of peace and learning. A beacon in a distant and violent part of the world. Once the Library of Orynth is rebuilt, we’ll ask the scholars to find what they can about it.” “We could reach out to the kingdom itself,” Fenrys said. “See if some of their scholars or leaders might want to come here. To help us.” He shrugged. “I could do it. Travel there, if you wish.” She knew he meant it—to travel as their emissary. Perhaps to work through all he’d seen and endured. To make peace with the loss of his brother. With himself. She had a feeling the scars down his face would only fade when he willed it. But Aelin nodded. And while she’d gladly send Fenrys wherever he wished—“The library?” she blurted. Rowan only smiled. “And the Royal Theater.” “There was no theater—not like in Rifthold.” Rowan’s smile grew. “There will be.” Aelin waved him off. “Need I remind you...

At midday, Aelin found Manon in one of the witches’ aeries, Abraxos staring out toward the battlefield. Bandages peppered his sides and wings. And covered the former Wing Leader. “Queen of the Crochans and the Ironteeth,” Aelin said by way of greeting, letting out a low whistle that had Manon turning slowly. Aelin picked at her nails. “Impressive.” Yet the face that turned toward her— Exhaustion. Grief. “I heard,” Aelin said quietly, lowering her hands but not approaching. Manon said nothing, her silence conveying everything Aelin needed to know. No, she was not all right. Yes, it had destroyed her. No, she did not wish to talk about it. Aelin only said, “Thank you.” Manon nodded vaguely. So Aelin walked toward the witch, then past her. Right to where Abraxos sat, gazing toward Theralis. The blasted patch of earth. Her heart strained at the sight of it. The wyvern and the earth and the witch behind her. But Aelin sat down beside the wyvern. Brushed a hand over his leathery head. He leaned into her touch. “There will be a monument,” she said to Abraxos, to Manon. “Should you wish it, I will build a monument right there. So no one shall ever forget what was given. Who we have to thank.” Wind sang through the tower, hollow and brisk. But then footsteps crunched in hay, and Manon sat down beside her. Yet Aelin did not speak again, and asked no more questions. And Manon, realizing it, let her shoulders curve inward, let her head bow. As she might never do with anyone else. As n...

And then Aelin was at the three steps of the dais, and Darrow strode to their edge. As he had instructed her last night, as she had practiced over and over in a dusty stairwell for hours, Aelin ascended the three steps and knelt upon the top one. The only time in her reign that she would ever bow. The only thing she would ever kneel before. Her crown. Her throne. Her kingdom. The hall remained standing, even as Darrow motioned them to sit. And then came the words, uttered in the Old Language. Sacred and ancient, spoken flawlessly by Darrow, who had crowned Orlon himself all those decades ago. Do you offer your life, your body, your soul to the service of Terrasen? She answered in the Old Language, as she had also practiced with Rowan last night until her tongue turned leaden. I offer all that I am and all that I have to Terrasen. Then speak your vows. Aelin’s heart raced, and she knew Rowan could hear it, but she bowed her head and said, I, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, swear upon my immortal soul to guard, to nurture, and to honor Terrasen from this day until my very last. Then so it shall be, Darrow responded, and reached out a hand. Not to her, but to Evangeline, who stepped forward with a green velvet pillow. The crown atop it. Adarlan had destroyed her antler throne. Had melted her crown. So they had made a new one. In the ten days since it had been decided she was to be crowned here, before the world, they had found a master goldsmith to forge one from the r...

But not yet. Aelin turned to the left. Toward Aedion. And said quietly, but not weakly, “This has been yours from the day you were born, Prince Aedion.” Aedion went still as Aelin pushed back the gauzy sleeve of her gown, exposing her forearm. Aedion’s shoulders shook with the force of his tears. Aelin didn’t fight hers as she asked, lips wobbling, “Will you swear the blood oath to me?” Aedion just fell to his knees before her. Rowan silently handed her a dagger, but Aelin paused as she held it over her arm. “You fought for Terrasen when no one else would. Against all odds, beyond all hope, you fought for this kingdom. For me. For these people. Will you swear to continue to do so, for as long as you draw breath?” Aedion’s head bowed as he breathed, “Yes. In this life, and in all others, I will serve you. And Terrasen.” Aelin smiled at Aedion, at the other side to her fair coin, and sliced open her forearm before extending it to him. “Then drink, Prince. And be welcome.” Gently, Aedion took her arm and set his mouth to her wound. And when he withdrew, her blood on his lips, Aelin smiled down at him. “You said you wanted to swear it before the entire world,” she said so only he could hear. “Well, here you go.”

Aelin looked to Darrow, still waiting. “Where were we?” The old lord smiled slightly and gestured to the throne. “The last piece of this ceremony.” “Then lunch,” Fenrys muttered, sighing. Aelin suppressed her smile, and took the two steps to the throne. She halted again as she turned to sit. Halted at the small figures who poked their heads around the throne room doors. A small gasp escaped her, enough that everyone turned to look. “The Little Folk,” people murmured, some backing away as small figures darted through the shadows down the aisle, wings rustling and scales gleaming. One of them approached the dais, and with spindly greenish hands, laid their offering at her feet. A second crown. Mab’s crown. Taken from her saddlebags—wherever they had wound up after the battle. With them, it seemed. As if they would not let it be lost once more. Would not let her forget. Aelin picked up the crown they had laid at her feet, gaping toward the small gathering who clustered in the shadows beyond the pews, their dark, wide eyes blinking. “The Faerie Queen of the West,” Elide said softly, though all heard. Aelin’s fingers trembled, her heart filling to the point of pain, as she surveyed the ancient, glimmering crown. Then looked to the Little Folk. “Yes,” she said to them. “I will serve you, too. Until the end of my days.” And Aelin bowed to them then. The near-invisible people who had saved her so many times, and asked for nothing. The Lord of the North, who had survived, as she ha...

The ritual was not over. Not yet. As the bells rang out over the city, declaring her coronation, the gathered city beyond cheered. Aelin went to greet them. Down to the castle gates, her court, her friends, following her, the crowd from the throne room behind. And when she stopped at the sealed gates, the ancient, carved metal looming, the city and world awaiting beyond it, Aelin turned toward them. Toward all those who had come with her, who had gotten them to this day, this joyous ringing of the bells. She beckoned her court forward. Then smiled at Dorian and Chaol, at Yrene and Nesryn and Sartaq and their companions. And beckoned them forward, too. Brows rising, they approached. But Aelin, crowned and glowing, only said, “Walk with me.” She gestured to the gates behind her. “All of you.” This day did not belong to her alone. Not at all. And when they all balked, Aelin walked forward. Took Yrene Westfall by the hand to guide her to the front. Then Manon Blackbeak. Elide Lochan. Lysandra. Evangeline. Nesryn Faliq. Borte and Hasar and Ansel of Briarcliff. All the women who had fought by her side, or from afar. Who had bled and sacrificed and never given up hope that this day might come. “Walk with me,” Aelin said to them, the men and males falling into step behind. “My friends.” The bells still ringing, Aelin nodded to the guards at the castle gates. They opened at last, and the roar from the gathered crowds was loud enough to rattle the stars.

As one, they walked out. Into the cheering city. Into the streets, where people danced and sang, where they wept and clasped their hands to their hearts at the sight of the parade of waving, smiling rulers and warriors and heroes who had saved their kingdom, their lands. At the sight of the newly crowned queen, joy lighting her eyes. A new world. A better world.

She felt as if she had been crying without end for minutes now. Yet this parting, this final farewell … Aelin looked at Chaol and Dorian and sobbed. Opened her arms to them, and wept as they held each other. “I love you both,” she whispered. “And no matter what may happen, no matter how far we may be, that will never change.” “We will see you again,” Chaol said, but even his voice was thick with tears. “Together,” Dorian breathed, shaking. “We’ll rebuild this world together.” She couldn’t stand it, this ache in her chest. But she made herself pull away and smile at their tear-streaked faces, a hand on her heart. “Thank you for all you have done for me.” Dorian bowed his head. “Those are words I’d never thought I’d hear from you.” She barked a rasping laugh, and gave him a shove. “You’re a king now. Such insults are beneath you.” He grinned, wiping at his face. Aelin smiled at Chaol, at his wife waiting beyond him. “I wish you every happiness,” she said to him. To them both. Such light shone in Chaol’s bronze eyes—that she had never seen before. “We will see each other again,” he repeated. Then he and Dorian turned toward their horses, toward the bright day beyond the castle gates. Toward their kingdom to the south. Shattered now, but not forever. Not forever.

“Will you work to rebuild this kingdom, this world, with me tomorrow?” “Tomorrow, and every day after that.” For every day of the thousand blessed years they were granted together. And beyond. Aelin kissed him again and took his hand, guiding him into the castle. Into their home. “To whatever end?” she breathed. Rowan followed her, as he had his entire life, long before they had ever met, before their souls had sparked into existence. “To whatever end, Fireheart.” He glanced sidelong at her. “Can I give you a suggestion for what we should rebuild first?” Aelin smiled, and eternity opened before them, shining and glorious and lovely. “Tell me tomorrow.”

Aelin reached the heavy curtains, feeling for the handle to the balcony door. With a final smile to Rowan, she slipped into the morning sun and chill breeze. She went still, her hands slackening at her sides, as she beheld what the dawn had revealed. “Rowan,” she whispered. From the rustle of sheets, she knew he was instantly awake. Stalking toward her, even as he shoved on his pants. But Aelin didn’t turn as he rushed onto the balcony. And halted, too. In silence, they stared. Bells began pealing; people shouted. Not with fear. But in wonder. A hand rising to her mouth, Aelin scanned the broad sweep of the world. The mountain wind brushed away her tears, carrying with it a song, ancient and lovely. From the very heart of Oakwald. The very heart of the earth. Rowan twined his fingers in hers and whispered, awe in every word, “For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you.” Aelin wept then. Wept in joy that lit her heart, brighter than any magic could ever be. For across every mountain, spread beneath the green canopy of Oakwald, carpeting the entire Plain of Theralis, the kingsflame was blooming.