Kingdom of Ash

Even moving as fast as they could, the khagan’s army was too slow. Too slow, and too large, to reach Terrasen in time.

In the week that they’d been pushing northward, Aelin begging Oakwald, the Little Folk, and Brannon for forgiveness as she razed a path through the forest, they were only just now nearing Endovier, and the border mere miles beyond it. From there, if they were lucky, it’d be another ten days to Orynth. And would likely become a disaster if Morath had kept forces stationed at Perranth after the city’s capture.

So they’d chosen to skirt the city on its western flank, going around the Perranth Mountains rather than cutting to the lowlands for the easier trek across the land. With Oakwald as their cover, they might be able to sneak up on Morath at Orynth.

If there was anything left of Orynth by the time they arrived. They were still too far for the ruk riders to do any sort of scouting, and no messengers had crossed their paths. Even the wild men of the Fangs, who had remained with them and now swore to march to Orynth to avenge their kin did not know of a faster path.

Aelin tried not to think of it. Or about Maeve and Erawan, wherever they might be. Whatever they might have planned.

Endovier, the only outpost of civilization they’d seen in a week, would be their first news since leaving the Ferian Gap.

She tried not to think of that, either. Of the fact that they would be passing through Endovier tomorrow, or the day after. That she’d see those gray mountains that had housed the salt mines.

Lying on her stomach atop her cot—no point in making anyone set up a royal bed for her and Rowan when they would be marching within a few hours—Aelin winced against the stinging burn along her back.

The clink of Rowan’s tools and the crackle of the braziers were the only sounds in their tent.

“Will it be done tonight?” she asked as he paused to dip his needle in the pot of salt-laced ink.

“If you stop talking,” was his dry reply.

Aelin huffed, rising onto her elbows to peer over a shoulder at him. She couldn’t see what he inked, but knew the design. A replica of what he’d written on her back this spring, the stories of her loved ones and their deaths, written right where her scars had been. Exactly where they’d been, as if he had their memory etched in his mind.

But another tattoo lay there now. A tattoo that sprawled across her shoulder bones as if it were a pair of spread wings. Or so he’d sketched for her.

The story of them. Rowan and Aelin.

A story that had begun in rage and sorrow and become something entirely different.

She was glad to have him leave it at that. At the happiness.

Aelin rested her chin atop her hands. “We’ll be near Endovier soon.”

Rowan resumed working, but she knew he’d listened to every word, thought through his response. “What do you want to do about it?”

She winced at the sting of a particularly sensitive spot near her spine.

“Burn it to the ground. Blast the mountains into rubble.”

“Good. I’ll help you.”

A small smile curved her lips. “The fabled warrior-prince wouldn’t tell me to avoid carelessly expending my strength?”

“The fabled warrior-prince would tell you to stay the course, but if destroying Endovier will help, then he’ll be right there with you.”

Aelin fell silent while Rowan continued working for another few minutes.

“I don’t remember the tattoo taking this long the last time.”

“I’ve made improvements. And you’re getting a whole new marking.”

She hummed, but said nothing more for a time.

Rowan kept at it, wiping away blood when necessary.

“I don’t think I can,” Aelin breathed. “I don’t think I can stand to even look at Endovier, let alone destroy it.”

“Do you want me to?” A calm, warrior’s question. He would, she knew. If she asked him, he’d fly to Endovier and turn it into dust.

“No,” she admitted. “The overseers and slaves are all gone anyway. There’s no one to destroy, and no one to save. I just want to pass it and never think of it again. Does that make me a coward?”

“I’d say it makes you human.” A pause. “Or whatever a similar saying might be for the Fae.”

She frowned at her interlaced fingers beneath her chin. “It seems I’m more Fae these days than anything. I even forget sometimes—when the last time was that I was in my human body.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” His hands didn’t falter.

“I don’t know. I am human, deep down, Faerie Queen nonsense aside. I had human parents, and their parents were human, mostly, and even with Mab’s line running true … I’m a human who can turn into Fae. A human who wears a Fae body.” She didn’t mention the immortal life span. Not with all they had ahead of them.

“On the other hand,” Rowan countered, “I’d say you were a human with Fae instincts. Perhaps more of them than human ones.” She felt him smirk. “Territorial, dominant, aggressive …”

“Your skills when it comes to complimenting women are unparalleled.”

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.”

She gritted her teeth as his needle pierced along her spine. “I’m glad you’re here—that I’ll see Endovier again for the first time with you here.”

To face that part of her past, that suffering and torment, if she couldn’t yet look too closely at the last several months.

His tools, the numbing pain, halted. Then his lips brushed the top of her spine, right above the start of the new tattoo. The same tattoo he’d had Gavriel and Fenrys inking on his own back these past few days, whenever they stopped for the night. “I’m glad to be here, too, Fireheart.”

For however much longer the gods would allow it.

Elide slumped onto her cot, groaning softly as she bent to untie the laces of her boots. A day of helping Yrene in the wagon was no easy task, and the prospect of rubbing salve into her ankle and foot seemed nothing short of divine. The work, at least, kept the swarming thoughts at bay: what she’d done to Vernon, what had befallen Perranth, what awaited them at Orynth, and what they could ever do to defeat it.

From the cot opposite hers, Lorcan only watched, an apple half peeled in his hands. “You should rest more often.”

Elide waved him off, yanking away her boot, then her sock. “Yrene is pregnant—and throwing up every hour or so. If she doesn’t rest, I’m not going to.”

“I’m not entirely certain Yrene is fully human.” Though the voice was gruff, humor sparked in Lorcan’s eyes.

Elide fished the tin of salve from her pocket. Eucalyptus, Yrene had said, naming a plant Elide had never heard of, but whose smell—sharp and yet soothing—she very much enjoyed. Beneath the pungent herb lay lavender, rosemary, and something else mixed in with the opaque, pale liniment.

A rustle of clothing, and then Lorcan was kneeling before her, Elide’s foot in his hands. Nearly swallowed by his hands, actually. “Let me,” he offered.

Elide was stunned enough that she indeed let him take the tin from her grip, and watched in silence as Lorcan dipped his fingers into the ointment. Then began rubbing it into her ankle.

His thumb met the spot on her ankle where bone ground against bone. Elide let out a groan. He carefully, with near-reverence it seemed, began easing the ache away.

These hands had slaughtered their way across kingdoms. Bore the faint scars to prove it. And yet he held her foot as if it were a small bird, as if it were something … holy.

They had not shared a bed—not when these cots were too small, and Elide often passed out after dinner. But they shared this tent. He’d been careful, perhaps too careful, she sometimes thought, to give her privacy when changing and bathing.

Indeed, a tub steamed away in the corner of the tent, kept warm courtesy of Aelin. Many of the camp baths were warm thanks to her, to the eternal gratitude of royal and foot soldier alike.

Alternating long strokes with small circles, Lorcan slowly coaxed the pain from her foot. Seemed content to do just that all night, should she wish it.

But she was not half-asleep. For once. And each brush of his fingers on her foot had her sitting up, something warming in her core.

His thumb pushed along the arch of her foot, and Elide indeed let out a small noise. Not at the pain, but—

Heat flared in her cheeks. Grew warmer as Lorcan looked up at her beneath his lashes, a spark of mischief lighting his dark eyes.

Elide gaped a bit. Then smacked his shoulder. Rock-hard muscle greeted her. “You did that on purpose.”

Still holding her gaze, Lorcan’s only answer was to repeat the motion.

Good—it felt so damned good—

Elide snatched her foot from his grip. Closed her legs. Tightly.

Lorcan gave her a half smile that made her toes curl.

But then he said, “You are well and truly Lady of Perranth now.”

She knew. She’d thought about it endlessly during these hard days of travel. “This is what you really wish to talk about?”

His fingers didn’t halt their miraculous, sinful work. “We haven’t spoken of it. About Vernon.”

“What of it?” she said, trying and failing for nonchalance. But he looked up at her from beneath his thick lashes. Well aware of her evasion. Elide loosed a breath, peering up at the tent’s peaked ceiling. “Does it make me any better than Vernon—how I chose to punish him in the end?”

She hadn’t regretted it the first day. Or the second. But these long miles, as it had become clear that Vernon was likely dead, she’d wondered.

“Only you can decide that, I think,” Lorcan said. Yet his fingers paused on her foot. “For what it’s worth, he deserved it.” His dark power rumbled through the room.

“Of course you’d say that.”

He shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “Perranth will recover, you know,” he offered. “From Morath’s sacking. And all Vernon did to it before now.”

That had been the other thought that weighed heavily with each mile northward. That her city, her father and mother’s city, had been decimated. That Finnula, her nursemaid, might be among the dead. That any of its people might be suffering.

“That’s if we win this war,” Elide said.

Lorcan resumed his soothing strokes. “Perranth will be rebuilt,” was all he said. “We’ll see that it is.”

“Have you ever done it? Rebuilt a city?”

“No,” he admitted, his thumbs coaxing the pain from her aching bones. “I have only destroyed them.” His eyes lifted to hers, searching and open. “But I should like to try. With you.”

She saw the other offer there—to not only build a city, but a life. Together.

Heat rose to her cheeks as she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “For however long we have.”

For if they survived this war, there was still that between them: his immortality.

Something shuttered in Lorcan’s eyes at that, and she thought he’d say more, but his head dipped. Then he began to unlace her other boot.

“What are you doing?” Her words were a breathless rush.

His deft fingers—gods above, those fingers—made quick work of her laces. “You should soak that foot. And soak in general. As I said, you work too hard.”

“You said I should rest more.”

“Because you work too hard.” He jerked his chin toward the bath as he pulled off the boot and helped her rise. “I’ll go find some food.”

“I already ate—”

“You should eat more.”

Giving her privacy without the awkwardness of her needing to ask for it. That’s what he was trying to do.

Barefoot before him, Elide peered into his granite-hewn face. Shrugged out of her cloak, then jacket. Lorcan’s throat bobbed.

She knew he could hear her heart as it began racing. Could likely scent every emotion on her. But she said, “I need help. Getting into the bath.”

“Do you, now.” His voice was near-guttural.

Elide bit her lip, her breasts becoming heavy, tingling. “I might slip.”

His eyes drifted down her body, but he made no move. “A dangerous time, bath time.”

Elide found it in herself to walk toward the copper tub. He trailed a few feet behind, giving her space. Letting her steer this.

Elide halted beside the tub, steam wafting past. She tugged the hem of her shirt from her pants.

Lorcan watched every move. She wasn’t entirely certain he was breathing.

But—her hands stalled. Uncertain. Not of him, but this rite, this path.

“Show me what to do,” she breathed.

“You’re doing just fine,” Lorcan ground out.

But she gave him a helpless look, and he prowled closer. His fingers found the loose hem of her shirt. “May I?” he asked quietly.

Elide whispered, “Yes.”

Lorcan still studied her eyes, as if reading the sincerity of that word. Deeming it true.

Gently, he pulled the fabric from her. Cool air kissed her skin, pebbling it. The flexible band around her breasts remained, but Lorcan’s gaze remained on her own. “Tell me what you want next,” he said roughly.

Hand shaking, Elide grazed a finger over the band.

Lorcan’s own hands shook as he unbound it. As he revealed her to the air, to him.

His eyes seemed to go wholly black as he took in her breasts, her uneven breathing. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

Elide’s mouth curled as the word settled within her. Gave her enough courage that she lifted her hands to his jacket and began unbuckling, unbuttoning. Until Lorcan’s own chest was bare, and she ran her fingers over the smattering of dark hair across the sculpted planes. “Beautiful,” she said.

Lorcan trembled—with restraint, with emotion, she didn’t know. That darling purr of his rumbled into her as she pressed her mouth against his pectoral.

His hand drifted to her hair, each stroke unbinding her braid. “We only go as far and long as you want,” he said. Yet she dared to glance down his body—to what strained under his pants.

Her mouth went dry. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Anything you do will be enough,” he said.

She lifted her head, scanning his face. “Enough for what?”

Another half smile. “Enough to please me.” She scoffed at the arrogance, but Lorcan brushed his mouth against her neck. His hands bracketed her waist, his thumbs grazing her ribs. But no higher.

Elide arched into the touch, a small sound escaping her as his lips brushed just beneath her ear. And then his mouth found hers, gentle and thorough.

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.

There was a gate, and a coffin.

She had chosen neither.

She stood in a place that was not a place, mist wreathing her, and stared at them. Her choices.

A thumping pounded from within the coffin, muffled female screams and pleading rising.

And the gate, the black arch into eternity—blood ran down its sides, seeping into the dark stone. When the gate had finished with the young king, this blood was all that remained.

“You’re no better than me,” Cairn said.

She turned to him, but it was not the warrior who had tormented her standing in the mists.

Twelve of them lurked there, formless and yet present, ancient and cold. As one they spoke. “Liar. Traitor. Coward.”

The blood on the gate soaked into the stone, as if the gate itself devoured even this last piece of him. The one who had gone in her place. The one she’d let go in her place.

The thumping from within the coffin didn’t cease.

“That box will never open,” they said.

She blinked, and she was inside that box—the stone so cold, the air stifling. Blinked, and she was pounding on the lid, screaming and screaming. Blinked, and there were chains on her, a mask clamped over her face—

Aelin awoke to dim braziers and the pine-and-snow scent of her mate wrapped around her. Outside their tent, the wind howled, setting the canvas walls swaying and swelling.

Tired. She was so, so tired.

Aelin stared into the dark for long hours and did not sleep again.

Even with the cover of Oakwald, despite the wider path that Aelin incinerated on either side of the ancient road running up through the continent like a withered vein, she could feel Endovier looming. Could feel the Ruhnn Mountains jutting toward them, a wall against the horizon.

She rode near the front of the company, not saying much as the morning, then the afternoon passed. Rowan stayed by her side, always remaining on her left—as if he might be a shield between her and Endovier—while she sent out plumes of flame that melted ancient trees ahead. Rowan’s wind stifled any smoke from alerting the enemy of their approach.

He’d finished the tattoos the night before. Had taken a small hand mirror to show her what he’d done. The tattoo he’d made for them.

She’d taken one look at the spread wings—a hawk’s wings—across her back and kissed him. Kissed him until his own clothes were gone, and she was astride him, neither bothering with words, or capable of finding them.

Her back had healed by morning, though it remained tender in a few spots along her spine, and in the hours that they’d ridden closer to Endovier, she’d found the invisible weight of the ink to be steadying.

She’d gotten out. She’d survived.

From Endovier—and Maeve.

And now it was upon her to ride like hell for the North, to try to save her people before Morath wiped them away forever. Before Erawan and Maeve arrived to do just that.

But it did not stop the heaviness, that tug toward the west. To look to the place that she had taken so long to escape, even after she’d been physically freed.

After lunch, she found Elide on her right, riding in silence under the trees. Riding taller than she’d seen the girl before. A blush on her cheeks.

Aelin had a feeling she knew precisely why that blush bloomed there, that if she looked behind to where Lorcan rode, she’d find him with a satisfied, purely male smile.

But Elide’s words were anything but those of a lovesick maiden.

“I didn’t think I’d really get to see Terrasen again, once Vernon took me out of Perranth.”

Aelin blinked. And even the blush on Elide’s face faded, her mouth tightening.

Of all of them, only Elide had seen Morath. Lived there. Survived it.

Aelin said, “There was a time when I thought I’d never see it again, too.”

Elide’s face grew contemplative. “When you were an assassin, or when you were a slave?”

“Both.” And maybe Elide had come to her side just to get her to talk, but Aelin explained, “It was a torture of another kind, when I was at Endovier, to know that home was only miles away. And that I would not be able to see it one last time before I died.”

Elide’s dark eyes shone with understanding. “I thought I’d die in that tower, and no one would remember that I had existed.”

They had both been captives, slaves—of a sort. They had both worn shackles. And bore the scars of them.

Or, Elide did. The lack of them on Aelin still ripped at her, an absence that she’d never thought she’d regret.

“We made it out in the end, though,” Aelin said.

Elide reached over to squeeze Aelin’s hand. “Yes, we did.”

Even if she now wished for it to be over. All of it. Her every breath felt weighed down by it, that wish.

They continued on after that, and just as Aelin spied the fork in the road—the crossroads that would take them to the salt mines themselves—a warning cry went up from the rukhin, soaring along the edge between the forest and mountains.

Aelin instantly had Goldryn drawn. Rowan armed himself beside her, and the entire army pausing as they scanned the woods, the skies.

She heard the warning just as a dark shape shot past, so large it blotted out the sun above the forest canopy.

Wyvern.

Bows groaned, and the ruks were racing by, chasing after that wyvern. If an Ironteeth scout spotted them—

Aelin readied her magic. The wyvern banked toward them, barely visible through the latticework of branches.

But light flared then. Blasted back the rukhin—harmlessly.

Not light. But ice, flickering and flashing before it turned to flame.

Rowan recognized it, too. Roared the order to hold their fire.

It was not Abraxos who landed at the crossroads. And there was no sign of Manon Blackbeak.

Light flashed again. And then Dorian Havilliard stood there, his jacket and cape stained and worn.

Aelin galloped down the road toward him, Rowan and Elide beside her, the others at their backs.

Dorian lifted a hand, his face grave as death, even as his eyes widened at the sight of her.

But Aelin sensed it then.

What Dorian carried.

The Wyrdkeys.

All three of them.