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July 25 - October 15, 2025
The back of the dress was mostly open—revealing smooth, unblemished skin and the fine groove of her spine. It dipped low enough for him to make out the twin indentations in her lower back, as if some god had pressed his thumbs there.
“Skull’s Bay,” he threw out. “Tell her fire can be found at Skull’s Bay.” It was perhaps the one place Aelin would never go—down to the domain of the Pirate Lord.
“Don’t you waste one heartbeat being afraid of a coward who hunts women in the darkness,”
“If you don’t get him bandages and supplies right now, I’ll give you a wound to match.”
And Chaol took a step toward her.
He was standing. He was walking. And he was kissing her.
Aelin frightens everyone.” He snorted. “But not him. I think that’s why she fell in love with him, against her best intentions. Rowan beheld all Aelin was and is, and he was not afraid.”
“Mountains. And seas,” she whispered. “So you never forget that you climbed them and crossed them. That you—only you—got yourself here.”
It broke her, and unmade her, and rebirthed her.
Sartaq smiled at her—gently. Sweetly. In a way she had not yet seen. “I loved you before I ever set eyes on you,” he said.
“What did Aelin promise you?” Hasar smiled to herself. “A better world.”
She smiled at them as they approached—and the expression was not human. It was Valg.
“So I will go with you, with whatever ships I can bring, so that my sister will never again look over her shoulder in fear.”
He peered over Yrene’s shoulder, down to their interlaced fingers. To the twin rings now gracing both of their hands.
He’d almost told the princess that she could keep Hellas’s Horse, but there was something to be said about the prospect of charging down Morath foot soldiers atop a horse named Butterfly.
No longer Yrene Towers—but Yrene Westfall.
Fireheart, why do you cry? And from far away, deep within her, Aelin whispered toward that ray of memory, Because I am lost. And I do not know the way.
Aelin pounded her fist into the iron again. Again. You do not yield. Again. You do not yield. Again. Again. Until she was alive with it, until her blood was raining onto her face, washing away the tears, until every pound of her fist into the iron was a battle cry. You do not yield. You do not yield. You do not yield. It rose in her, burning and roaring, and she gave herself wholly to it.
Over and over, she pounded against the lid. Over and over, that song of fire and darkness flared through her, out of her, into the world. You do not yield.
“You once told me at Mistward that if I ever took a whip to you, then you’d skin me alive.” His eyes didn’t stray from hers as he said with lethal quiet, “I took it upon myself to bestow that fate on Cairn on your behalf. And when I was done, I took the liberty of removing his head from his body, then burning what remained.”
Aelin’s lips curved in a hint of a smile. She blinked at Fenrys—three times. Fenrys blinked once in answer.
A sea of stars—that’s what the cave had become. Beauty. There was still beauty in this world. Stars could still glow, still burn bright, even buried under the earth.
Chaol’s focus went cold and calculating. His wife was in the keep behind him. Pregnant with their child. He would not fail her.
“I went to the Torre,” Yrene said, her voice cracking. “I took the money you gave me, and went to the Torre. And I became the heir apparent to the Healer on High. And now I have come back, to do what I can. I taught every healer I could the lessons you showed me that night, about self-defense. I didn’t waste it—not a coin you gave me, or a moment of the time, the life you bought me.” Tears were rolling and rolling down Yrene’s face. “I didn’t waste any of it.”
“You were in rare form tonight.” Aelin saluted him with her hunk of hearty oaten bread. “Anyone who interrupts my dinner risks paying the price.”
“If you want a softhearted woman who will weep over hard choices and ultimately balk from them, then you’re in the wrong bed.”
Together. They would either outrun this or die together.
“Seems like that Crochan do-gooder behavior is rubbing off on you, Manon.”
“Light the Flame of War, Queen of Witches, and rally your host.”
You do not yield.
“This is far better than Cold-hearted bastard or I heard he killed someone with a table leg.” “You did kill someone with a table leg.” Rowan’s smirk grew. “And you are a cold-hearted bastard,” she threw in. Rowan snorted. “I never said those whispers were lies.”
“Just needed to rest.” Aelin jerked her chin at Rowan. “He requires frequent naps in his old age.”
“The gods demand it.” “The gods can go to hell.”
“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.”
“Aelin Galathynius will come for me, if she survives you. I do not plan to allow her the chance to do so.”
“You are young, and brash.” Dorian sketched a bow again. “I am also exceedingly handsome and willing to offer up my throne in a gesture of good faith.”
“I wish—I wish I had been so lucky to have you as my father.” Surprise and something far deeper passed across Gavriel’s face. His tattooed throat bobbed. “Thank you. Perhaps it is our lot—to never have the fathers we wish, but to still hope they might surpass what they are, flaws and all.”
“I am not afraid for myself,” Evangeline said. “But for my friends.”
And there is only one witch who will be my queen.
World-walker no longer, he said as his raw magic shifted her own. Changed its very essence. I suggest you invest in a good pair of shoes.
“I threw up earlier,” Evangeline whispered. Aedion said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Better than shitting your pants, sweetheart.”
“Please. I am begging you. I am begging you, Lysandra, to go.” Her chin lifted. “You are not asking our other allies to run.” “Because I am not in love with our other allies.”
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.
“We came,” Manon said, loud enough that all on the city walls could hear, “to honor a promise made to Aelin Galathynius. To fight for what she promised us.” Darrow said quietly, “And what was that?” Manon smiled then. “A better world.”
Indeed, the Thirteen nodded. Asterin said, “We are not afraid.” No, they were not. Looking at the clear eyes around her, Manon could see that for herself.
“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.”
“A dangerous time, bath time.”
So Lorcan did.
It was not Asterin. It was not any of the Thirteen. But Petrah Blueblood.
“For Keelie.”
