Kingdom of Ash

Chaol hand-fed an apple to Farasha, the beautiful black mare skittish after her unprecedented flight.

It seemed even Hellas’s horse could be frightened, though Chaol supposed any wise person would find dangling hundreds of feet in the air to be unnerving.

“Someone else could do that for you.” Leaning against the stable wall of the keep, Yrene watched him work, monitoring each deeply limping step. “You should rest.”

Chaol shook his head. “She doesn’t know what the hell is happening. I’d like to try to calm her before she beds down.”

Before battle tomorrow—before they might stand a chance of actually saving Anielle.

He was still working through all that had transpired these months he’d been gone. The battles and losses. Where Dorian had gone with Manon and the Thirteen. Chaol could only pray his friend was successful—and that he didn’t take it upon himself to forge the Lock.

Needing to unravel all he’d learned, he’d left Aelin and the others near the Great Hall to find whatever food they could, immediately bringing Farasha down here with him. Mostly for the safety of everyone around the Muniqi horse, since Farasha had tried to take a chunk out of the soldier nearest her the moment her hood had come off. Even the hood hadn’t concealed from her what, exactly, was happening to the oversized crate they’d buckled her into.

But Farasha hadn’t bitten off his hand before she nibbled at the apple, so Chaol prayed she’d forgive him for the rough flight. Part of him half wondered if the mare knew that his back ached, that he needed his cane, but that he chose to be here.

He ran a hand down her ebony mane, then patted her strong neck. “Ready to trample some Valg grunts tomorrow, my friend?”

Farasha huffed, angling a dark eye at him as if to say, Are you?

Chaol smiled, and Yrene laughed softly. “I should head back to the hall,” his wife said. “See who needs help.” But she lingered.

Their eyes met over Farasha’s powerful back.

He came around the horse, still mindful of her biting. “I know,” he said quietly.

Yrene angled her head. “Know what?”

Chaol interlaced their fingers. And then laid their hands atop her still-flat abdomen.

“Oh,” was all Yrene said, her mouth popping open. “I—How?”

Chaol’s heart thundered. “It’s true, then.”

Her golden eyes scanned his. “Do you want it to be?”

Chaol slid a hand against her cheek. “More than I ever realized.”

Yrene’s smile was wide and lovely enough to fracture his heart. “It’s true,” she breathed.

“How far along?”

“Almost two months.”

He studied her stomach, the place that would soon swell with the child growing inside her. Their child. “You didn’t tell me, I’m assuming, because you didn’t want me to worry.”

Yrene bit her lip. “Something like that.”

He snorted. “And when you were waddling around, belly near bursting?”

Yrene whacked his arm. “I’m not going to waddle.”

Chaol laughed, and tugged her into his arms. “You’ll waddle beautifully, was what I meant to say.” Yrene’s laughter reverberated into him, and Chaol kissed the top of her head, her temple. “We’re having a child,” he murmured onto her hair.

Her arms came around him. “We are,” she whispered. “But how did you know?”

“My father,” Chaol grumbled, “apparently possesses better observational skills than I do.”

He felt, more than saw, her cringe. “You’re not angry I didn’t tell you?”

“No. I would have appreciated hearing it from your lips first, but I understand why you didn’t want to say anything yet. Stupid as it might be,” he added, nipping at her ear. Yrene jabbed him in the ribs, and he laughed again. Laughed, even though every day they’d fought in this battle, every opponent he’d faced, he’d dreaded making a fatal mistake. Had been unable to forget that should he fall, he’d be taking them both with him.

Her arms tightened around him, and Yrene nestled her head against his chest. “You’ll be a brilliant father,” she said softly. “The most brilliant one to ever exist.”

“High praise indeed, coming from a woman who wanted to toss me from the highest window of the Torre a few months ago.”

“A healer would never be so unprofessional.”

Chaol grinned, and breathed in her scent before he pulled back and brushed his mouth against hers. “I am happier than I can ever express, Yrene, to share this with you. Anything you need, I am yours to command.”

Her lips twitched upward. “Dangerous words.”

But Chaol ran his thumb over her wedding band. “I’ll have to win this war quickly, then, so I can have our house built by the summer.”

She rolled her eyes. “A noble reason to defeat Erawan.”

Chaol stole another kiss from her. “As much as I would like to show you just how much I am at your command,” he said against her mouth, “I have another matter to deal with before bed.”

Yrene’s brows rose.

He grimaced. “I need to introduce Aelin to my father. Before they run into each other.” The man hadn’t been near the hall when they’d arrived, and Chaol had been too worried for Farasha’s well-being to bother hunting him down.

Yrene cringed, though amusement sparked in her eyes. “Is it bad if I want to join you? And bring snacks?”

Chaol slung an arm around her shoulders, giving Farasha a farewell stroke before they left. Despite the cane, each step was limping, and the pain in his back lanced down his legs, but it was secondary. All of it, even the damned war, was secondary to the woman at his side.

To the future they’d build together.

As well as Yrene’s conversation with Chaol had gone, that’s how badly things went between Aelin Galathynius and his father.

Yrene didn’t bring snacks, but that was only because by the time they reached the Great Hall, they had intercepted his father. Storming toward the room where Aelin and her companions had gone for a reprieve.

“Father,” Chaol said, falling into step beside him.

Yrene said nothing, monitoring Chaol’s movements. The pain in his back had to be great, if he was limping this deeply, even while her magic refilled. She had no idea where he’d left his chair—if it had been crushed under falling debris. She prayed it had not.

His father snapped, “You fail to wake me when the Queen of Terrasen arrives at my castle?”

“It wasn’t a priority.” Chaol halted before the door that opened into the small chamber that had been vacated for the queen and knocked.

A grunt was the only confirmation before Yrene’s husband shouldered open the door enough to poke his head inside. “My father,” Chaol said to whoever was inside, presumably the queen, “would like to see you.”

Silence, then the rustling of clothes and steps.

Yrene kept back as Aelin Galathynius appeared, her face and hands clean, but clothes still dirty. At her side stood that towering, silver-haired Fae warrior—Rowan Whitethorn. Whom the royals had spoken of with such fear and respect months ago. In the room, Lady Elide sat against the far wall, a tray of food beside her, and the giant white wolf lay sprawled on the ground, monitoring with half-lidded eyes.

A shock to see the shift, to realize these Fae might be powerful and ancient, but they still had one foot in the forest. The queen, it seemed, preferred the form as well, her delicately pointed ears half-hidden by her unbound hair. Behind her, there was no sign of the golden-haired, melancholy warrior, Gavriel, or the utterly terrifying Lorcan. Thank Silba for that, at least.

Aelin left the door open, though their two court members remained seated. Bored, almost.

“Well, now,” was all the queen said as she stepped into the hall.

Chaol’s father looked over the warrior-prince at her side. Then he turned his head toward Chaol and said, “I assume they met in Wendlyn. After you sent her there.”

Yrene tensed at the taunting in the man’s voice. Bastard. Horrible bastard.

Aelin clicked her tongue. “Yes, yes, let’s get all that out of the way. Though I don’t think your son really regrets it, does he?” Aelin’s eyes shifted to Yrene, and Yrene tried not to flinch under that turquoise-and-gold stare. Different from the fire she’d beheld that night in Innish, but still full of that razor-sharp awareness. Different—they were both different from the girls they’d been. A smile curved the queen’s mouth. “I think he made out rather well for himself.” She frowned up at her consort. “Yrene, at least, doesn’t seem like the sort to hog the blankets and snore in one’s ear all night.”

Yrene coughed as Prince Rowan only smiled at the queen. “I don’t mind your snoring,” he said mildly.

Aelin’s mouth twitched when she turned to Chaol’s father. Yrene’s own laughter died at the lack of light on the man’s face. Chaol was tense as a drawn bowstring as the queen said to his father, “Don’t waste your breath on taunts. I’m tired, and hungry, and it won’t end well for you.”

“This is my keep.”

Aelin made a good show of gaping at the ceiling, the walls, the floors. “Is it really?”

Yrene had to duck her head to hide her grin. So did Chaol.

But Aelin said to the Lord of Anielle, “I trust you’re not going to get in our way.”

A line in the sand. Yrene’s breath caught in her throat.

Chaol’s father said simply, “Last I looked you were not Queen of Adarlan.”

“No, but your son is Hand to the King, which means he outranks you.” Aelin smiled with horrific sweetness at Chaol. “Haven’t you told him that?”

Yrene and Aelin were no longer the girls they’d been in Innish, yes, but that wildfire still remained in the queen’s spirit. Wildfire touched with insanity.

Chaol shrugged. “I figured I’d tell him when the time arose.”

His father glowered.

Prince Rowan, however, said to the man, “You’ve defended and prepared your people admirably. We have no plans to take that from you.”

“I don’t need the approval of Fae brutes,” the lord sneered.

Aelin clapped Rowan on the shoulder. “Brute. I like that. Better than ‘buzzard,’ right?”

Yrene had no idea what the queen was talking about, but she held in her laugh anyway.

Aelin sketched a mocking bow to the Lord of Anielle. “On that lovely parting note, we’re going to finish up our dinners. Enjoy your evening, we’ll see you on the battlements tomorrow, and please do rot in hell.”

Then Aelin was turning away, a hand guiding her husband inside. But not before the queen threw a grin over her shoulder to Yrene and Chaol and said, eyes bright—with joy and warmth this time, “Congratulations.”

How she knew, Yrene had no idea. But the Fae possessed a preternatural sense of smell.

Yrene smiled all the same as she bowed her head—just before Aelin slammed the door in the Lord of Anielle’s face.

Chaol turned to his father, any hint of amusement expertly hidden. “Well, you saw her.”

Chaol’s father shook with what Yrene supposed was a combination of rage and humiliation, and stalked away. It was one of the finest sights Yrene had ever seen.

From Chaol’s smile, she knew her husband felt the same.

“What a horrible man.” Elide finished off her chicken leg before handing the other to Fenrys, who had shifted back into his Fae form. He tore into it with a growl of appreciation. “Poor Lord Chaol.”

Aelin, her aching legs stretched out before her as she leaned against the wall, finished off her own portion of chicken, then dug into a hunk of dark bread. “Poor Chaol, poor his mother, poor his brother. Poor everyone who has to deal with him.”

At the lone, narrow window of the room, monitoring the dark army hundreds of feet below, Rowan snorted. “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.”

Rowan rolled his eyes, but smiled. Just as Aelin had seen him smile when they’d both scented what was on Yrene. The child in her.

She was happy for Yrene—for them both. Chaol deserved that joy, perhaps more than anyone. As much as her own mate.

Aelin didn’t let the thoughts travel further. Not as she finished her bread and came to the window, leaning against Rowan’s side. He slid an arm around her shoulders, casual and easy.

None of them mentioned Maeve.

Elide and Fenrys continued eating in silence, giving them what privacy they could in the small, bare room they’d be sharing, sleeping on bedrolls. The Lord of Anielle, it seemed, did not share her appreciation for luxury. Or basic comforts for his guests. Like hot baths. Or beds.

“The men are terrified,” Rowan said, gazing out at the levels of the keep below. “You can smell it.”

“They’ve held this keep for days now. They know what’s waiting for them at dawn.”

“Their fear,” Rowan said, his jaw tightening, “is proof they do not trust our allies. Proof they don’t trust the khagan’s army to actually save them. It will make for sloppy fighters. Could create a weakness where there shouldn’t be one.”

“Perhaps you should have told Chaol,” Aelin said. “He could give them some motivational speech.”

“I have a feeling Chaol has given them plenty. This sort of fear rots the soul.”

“What’s to be done for it, then?”

Rowan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

But she sensed he did know. Sensed that he wanted to say something else, and either their current company or some sort of hesitation barred him.

So Aelin didn’t push, and surveyed the battlements with their patrolling soldiers, the sprawling, dark army beyond. Baying cries and howls rent the night, the sounds unearthly enough that they dragged a shudder down her spine.

“Is a land battle easier or worse than one at sea?” Aelin asked her husband, her mate, peering at his tattooed face.

She’d only faced the ships in Skull’s Bay, and even that had been over relatively quickly. And against the ilken who’d swarmed them in the Stone Marshes, it had been more an extermination than anything. Not what awaited them tomorrow. Not what her friends had fought on the Narrow Sea while she and Manon had been in the mirror, then with Maeve on the beach.

Rowan considered. “They’re just as messy, but in different ways.”

“I’d rather fight on land,” Fenrys grumbled.

“Because no one likes the smell of wet dog?” Aelin asked over her shoulder.

Fenrys laughed. “Exactly because of that.” At least he was smiling again.

Rowan’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were hard as he surveyed the enemy army. “Tomorrow’s battle will be just as brutal,” he said. “But the plan is sound.”

They’d be on the battlements with Chaol, readying for any desperate maneuvers Morath might attempt when they found themselves being herded and crushed by the khagan’s army. Elide would be with Yrene and the other healers in the Great Hall, helping the injured.

Where Lorcan and Gavriel would be, Aelin could only assume. Both had peeled off upon arriving, the latter taking watch somewhere, and the former likely brooding. But they’d probably be fighting right alongside them.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Gavriel slipped into the room. “The army looks quiet enough,” he said by way of greeting, then unceremoniously dropped to the floor beside Fenrys and hauled the platter of chicken toward him. “The men are rife with fear, though. Days of defending these walls have worn on them.”

Rowan nodded, not bothering to tell the Lion they’d just discussed this as Gavriel ripped into the food. “We’ll have to make sure they don’t balk tomorrow, then.”

Indeed.

“I was wondering,” Elide said to none of them in particular after a moment. “Since Maeve is an imposter, who would rule Doranelle if she was banished with all the other Valg?”

“Or burned to a crisp,” Fenrys muttered.

Aelin might have smiled grimly, but Elide’s question settled into her.

Gavriel slowly set down the chicken.

Rowan’s arm dropped from Aelin’s shoulders. His pine-green eyes were wide. “You.”

Aelin blinked. “There are others from Mab’s line. Galan, or Aedion—”

“The throne passes through the maternal line—to a female only. Or it should have,” Rowan said. “You’re the sole female with a direct, undiluted claim to Mab’s bloodline.”

“And your household, Rowan,” Gavriel said. “Someone in your household would have a claim on Mora’s half of the throne.”

“Sellene. It would go to her.” Even as a prince, Rowan’s own heritage connecting him to Mora’s bloodline had thinned to the point of being in name only. Aelin was more closely related to Elide, probably to Chaol, too, than she was to Rowan, despite their distant ancestry.

“Well, Sellene can have it,” Aelin said, wiping her hands of dust that was not there. “Doranelle’s hers.”

She wouldn’t set foot in that city again, Maeve or no. She wasn’t sure if that made her a coward. She didn’t dare reach for her magic’s comforting rumble.

“The Little Folk truly knew,” Fenrys mused, rubbing his jaw. “What you were.”

They had always known her, the Little Folk. Had saved her life ten years ago, and saved their lives these past few weeks. They had known her, and left gifts for her. Tribute, she’d thought, to Brannon’s Heir. Not to …

Gavriel murmured, “The Faerie Queen of the West.”

Silence.

Aelin blurted, “Is that an actual title?”

“It is now,” Fenrys muttered. Aelin shot him a look.

“With Sellene as the Fae Queen of the East,” Rowan mused.

No one spoke for a good minute.

Aelin sighed up at the ceiling. “What’s another fancy title, I suppose?”

They didn’t answer, and Aelin tried not to let the weight of that title settle too heavily. All it implied. That she might not only look after the Little Folk on this continent, but with the cadre, begin a new homeland for any Fae who might wish to join them. For any of the Fae who had survived the slaughter in Terrasen ten years ago and might wish to return.

A fool’s dream. One that she would likely not come to see. To create.

“The Faerie Queen of the West,” Aelin said, tasting the words on her tongue.

Wondering how long she’d get to call herself such.

From the heavy quiet, she knew her companions were contemplating the same. And from the pain in Rowan’s eyes, the rage and determination, she knew he was already calculating if it might somehow spare her from the sacrificial altar.

But that would come later. After tomorrow. If they survived.

There was a gate, and eternity lay beyond its black archway.

But not for her. No, there would be no Afterworld for her.

The gods had built another coffin, this time crafting it of that dark, glimmering stone.

Stone her fire could never melt. Never pierce. The only way to escape was to become it—dissolve into it like sea-foam on a beach.

Every breath was thinner than the previous one. They had not put any holes in this coffin.

Beyond her confines, she knew a second coffin sat beside hers. Knew, because the muffled screams within still reached her here.

Two princesses, one golden and one silver. One young and one ancient. Both the cost of sealing that gate to eternity.

The air would run out soon. She’d already lost too much of it in her frantic clawing at the stone. Her fingertips pulsed where she’d broken nails and skin.

Those female screams became quieter.

She should accept it, embrace it. Only when she did would the lid open.

The air was so hot, so precious. She could not get out, could not get out—

Aelin hauled herself into waking. The room remained dark, her companions’ deep breathing holding steady.

Open, fresh air. The stars just visible through the narrow window.

No Wyrdstone coffin. No gate poised to devour her whole.

But she knew they were watching, somehow. Those wretched gods. Even here, they were watching. Waiting.

A sacrifice. That’s all she was to them.

Nausea churned in her gut, but Aelin ignored it, ignored the tremors rippling through her. The heat under her skin.

Aelin turned onto her side, nestling closer into Rowan’s solid warmth, Elena’s muffled screams still ringing in her ears.

No, she would not be helpless again.