“Nesryn.” Her name was a question and a command. But Nesryn only held him tightly. So close. They had come so, so close to utter defeat.
Yrene. Yrene. Yrene, the soldiers and people of the city shouted.
Sartaq ran a hand down her matted hair. “You know what victory means, don’t you?”
Nesryn lifted her head, brows narrowing. Behind them, Salkhi patiently stood while the healer’s magic soothed over his eye. “A good night’s rest, I hope,” she said.
Sartaq laughed, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “It means,” he said against her skin, “that we are going home. That you are coming home—with me.”
And even with the battle freshly ended, even with the dead and wounded around them, Nesryn smiled. Home. Yes, she would go home with him to the southern continent. And to all that waited there.
Aelin, Rowan, Lorcan, and Fenrys lingered on the plain outside the city gates until they were certain the fallen army was not going to rise. Until the khagan’s troops went between the enemy soldiers, nudging and prodding. And received no answer.
But they did not behead. Did not sever and finish the job.
Not for those with the black rings, or black collars.
Those whom the healers might yet save.
Tomorrow. That would come tomorrow.
The moon had reached its peak when they wordlessly decided that they had seen enough to determine Erawan’s army would never rise again. When the ruks, Crochans, and rebel Ironteeth had vanished, chasing the last of the aerial legion into the night.
Then Aelin turned toward the southern gate to Orynth.
As if in answer, it groaned open to meet her.
Two arms flung wide.
Aelin looked to Rowan, their crowns of flame still burning, undimmed. Took his hand.
Heart thundering through every bone in her body, Aelin took a step toward the gate. Toward Orynth. Toward home.
Lorcan and Fenrys fell into step behind them. The latter’s wounds still leaked down his face, but he had refused Aelin and Rowan’s offers to heal him. Had said he wanted a reminder. They hadn’t dared to ask of what—not yet.
Aelin lifted her chin high, shoulders squaring as they neared the archway.
Soldiers already lined either side.
Not the khagan’s soldiers, but men and women in Terrasen armor. And civilians amongst them, too—awe and joy in their faces.
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.
CHAPTER 117
Aedion had fought until the enemy soldier before him had slumped to his knees as if dead.
But the man, a black ring on his finger, was not dead at all.
Only the demon inside him.
And when soldiers of countless nations began to cheer, when word spread that a Torre Cesme healer had defeated Erawan, Aedion simply turned from the battlements.
He found him by scent alone. Even in death, the scent lingered, a path that Aedion followed through the wrecked streets and throngs of celebrating, weeping people.
A lone candle had been lit in the empty barracks room where they’d set his body atop a worktable.
It was there that Aedion knelt before his father.
How long he stayed there, head bowed, he didn’t know. But the candle had nearly burned down to its base when the door creaked open, and a familiar scent flitted in.
She said nothing as she approached on silent feet. Nothing as she shifted and knelt beside him.
Lysandra only leaned into him, until Aedion put his arm around her, tucking her in tight.
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.
When the candle sputtered out, Lysandra rose, and took him with her.
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.
They stepped into the street, and Lysandra paused to wipe away his tears. To kiss his cheeks, then his mouth. Loving, gentle touches.
Aedion slid his arms around her and held her tightly under the stars and moonlight.
How long they stood in the street, he didn’t know. But then a throat cleared nearby, and they peeled apart to turn toward its source.
A young man, no older than thirty, stood there.
Staring at Lysandra.
Not a messenger, or a soldier, though he wore the heavy clothes of the rukhin. There was a self-possessed purpose to him, a quiet sort of strength in his tall frame as he swallowed.
“Are you—are you Lady Lysandra?”
Lysandra angled her head. “I am.”
The man took a step, and Aedion suppressed the urge to push her behind him. To draw his sword on the man whose gray eyes widened—and shone with tears.
Who smiled at her, broad and joyous.
“My name is Falkan Ennar,” he said, putting a hand on his chest.
Lysandra’s face remained the portrait of wary confusion.
Falkan’s smile didn’t waver. “I have been looking for you for a very, very long time.”
And then it came out, Falkan’s tears flowing as he told her.
Her uncle. He was her uncle.
Her father had been much older than him, but ever since Falkan had learned of her existence, he’d been searching for her. Ten years, he’d hunted for his dead brother’s abandoned child, visiting Rifthold whenever he could. Never realizing that she might have his gifts, too—might not wear any of his brother’s features.
But Nesryn Faliq had found him. Or they’d found each other. And then they had figured it out, a bit of chance in this wide world.
His fortune as a merchant was hers to inherit, if she would like.
“Whatever you wish,” Falkan said. “You shall never want for anything again.”
Lysandra was crying, and it was pure joy on her face as she flung her arms around Falkan and embraced him tightly.
Aedion watched, silent and ripped open. Yet happy for her—he would always be happy for her, for any ray of light she found.
Lysandra pulled away from Falkan, though. Still smiling bright, more lovely than the night sky above. She laced her fingers with Aedion’s and squeezed tight as she answered her uncle at last, “I already have everything I need.”
Hours later, still sitting on the balcony where Erawan had been blasted away into nothing, Dorian didn’t quite believe it.
He kept staring at that spot, the dark stain on the stones, Damaris jutting up from it. The only trace left.
His father’s name. His own name. The weight of it settled into him, not a wholly unpleasant thing.
Dorian flexed his bloodied fingers. His magic lay in scraps, the tang of blood lingering on his tongue. An approaching burnout. He’d never had one before. He supposed he’d better become accustomed to them.
On shaking legs, Dorian yanked Damaris from the stones. The blade had turned black as onyx. A swipe of his fingers down the fuller revealed it was a stain that would not be cleansed.
He needed to get off this tower. Find Chaol. Find the others. Start helping the injured. And the unconscious soldiers on the plain. The ones who had not been possessed had already fled, pursued by the strange Fae who had appeared, the giant wolves and their riders amongst them.
He should go. Should leave this place.
And yet he stared at the dark stain. All that remained.
Ten years of suffering and torment and fear, and the stain was all that remained.
He turned the sword in his hand, its weight heavier than it had been. The sword of truth.
What had the truth been in the end? What was the truth, even now?
Erawan had done this, slaughtered and enslaved so many, so he might see his brothers again. He wanted to conquer their world, punish it, but he’d wanted to be reunited with them. Millennia apart, and Erawan had not forgotten his brothers. Longed for them.
Would he have done the same for Chaol? For Hollin? Would he have destroyed a world to find them again?
Damaris’s black blade didn’t reflect the light. It didn’t gleam at all.
Dorian still tightened his hand around the golden hilt and said, “I am human.”
It warmed in his hand.
He peered at the blade. Gavin’s blade. A relic from a time when Adarlan had been a land of peace and plenty.
And it would be that way once more.
“I am human,” he repeated, to the stars now visible above the city.
The sword didn’t answer again. As if it knew he no longer needed it.
Wings boomed, and then Abraxos was landing on the balcony. A white-haired rider atop him.
Dorian stood, blinking, as Manon Blackbeak dismounted. She scanned him, then the dark stain on the balcony stones.
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.
Aelin strode with Rowan up the steep streets of Orynth.
Her people lined those streets, candles in their hands. A river of light, of fire, that pointed the way home.
Straight to the castle gates.
To where Lord Darrow stood, Evangeline at his side. The girl beaming with joy.
Darrow’s face was stone-cold. Hard as the Staghorns beyond the city as he remained blocking the way.
Rowan let out a low growl, the sound echoed by Fenrys, a step behind them.
Yet Aelin let go of her mate’s hand, their crowns of flame winking out as she crossed the last few feet to the castle archway. To Darrow.
Silence fell down the illuminated, golden street.
He’d deny her entry. Here, before the world, he would throw her out. A final, shaming slap.
But Evangeline tugged on Darrow’s sleeve—as if in reminder.
It seemed to spur the old man into speech. “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.
Every ancient, scarred hall brought her back. Snatched her breath away and set her tears running. At the memory, how they’d been. At how they now appeared, sad and worn. And what they would become once more.
Darrow led them toward the dining hall, to find whatever food and refreshment might be available in the dead of night, after such a battle.
Yet Aelin took one look at who waited in the faded grandeur of the Great Hall, and forgot about her hunger and thirst.
The entire hall grew silent as she hurtled for Aedion, and flung herself onto him so hard they rocked back a step.
Home at last; home together.
She had the vague sense of Lysandra joining Rowan and the others behind her, but didn’t turn. Not as her own joyous laugh died upon seeing Aedion’s haggard, weary face. The sorrow in it.
She laid a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
Aedion closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, mouth wobbling.
She didn’t remark on the shield across his back—her father’s shield. She had never realized he carried it.
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, stroking his cheek once. “Thank you.”
It was all there was left to say.
When she turned away, it was not Aedion alone who had tears streaking down his face.
She left them there. The cadre, the brotherhood, who now wished to say farewell in their own way.
Fenrys, his bloodied face still untended, sank to a knee beside the table. A heartbeat later, Lorcan did the same.
She’d reached the door when Rowan knelt as well. And began to sing the ancient words—the words of mourni
ng, as old and sacred as Terrasen itself. The same prayers she’d once sung and chanted while he’d tattooed her.
Rowan’s clear, deep voice filling the room, Aelin looped her arm through Aedion’s, and let him lean on her as they walked back to the Great Hall. “Darrow called me ‘Your Majesty,’ ” she said after a minute.
Aedion slid his red-rimmed eyes to her. But a spark lit them—just a bit. “Should we be worried?”
Aelin’s mouth curved. “I thought the same damn thing.”
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.
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