Kingdom of Ash
The khagan’s soldiers had gathered by the walls, both outside and within the city. The southern gate now stood closed.
Not enough. Not nearly enough to face what marched, fresh and unwearied. The creatures she could just barely make out teeming within its ranks. Valg princesses—there were Valg princesses amongst them.
Chaol. Where was Chaol—
Elide and the old man were speaking. “We cannot face that number of soldiers and walk away,” the lady said, her voice so unlike any tone Yrene had heard from her. Commanding and cold. Elide pointed to the battlefield. The darkness—holy gods, the darkness—that massed over it.
A chill slithered over Yrene’s body.
“Do you know what that is?” Elide asked too quietly. “Because I do.”
The old man only swallowed.
Yrene knew it then. What was in that darkness. Who was in it.
Erawan.
The last of the sun vanished, setting the bloodied snows in hues of blue.
A flash of light flared behind them, and the child whirled, a sob breaking from her throat as a stunningly beautiful woman, bloodied and battered, appeared. She wrapped a cloak around her naked body like a gown, not even shivering with the cold.
A shape-shifter. She opened her arms to the girl, embracing her.
Lysandra, Chaol had called her. A lady in Aelin’s court. Unknown niece to Falkan Ennar.
Lysandra turned to the old man. “Aedion and Rowan sent up the order, Darrow. Any who can are to evacuate immediately.”
The old man—Darrow—just stared toward the battlefield. At a loss for words as that army prowled closer and closer and closer.
As two figures took form at its head.
And walked, unhindered, toward the city walls, darkness swarming around them.
Erawan. The golden-haired young man. She’d know it if she were blind.
A dark-haired, pale-skinned woman strode at his side, robes billowing around her on a phantom wind.
“Maeve,” Lysandra breathed.
People began screaming then. In terror and despair.
Maeve and Erawan had come. To personally oversee Orynth’s fall.
They stalked toward the city gates, the darkness behind them gathering, the army at their backs swelling. Pincers clicked within that darkness. Creatures who could devour life, joy.
Oh gods.
“Lord Darrow,” Elide cut in, sharp and commanding. “Is there a way out of the city? Some sort of back door through the mountains that the children and elderly could take?”
Darrow dragged his eyes from the approaching Valg king and queen.
It was helplessness and despair that filled them. That broke his voice as he said, “No route that will allow them to escape in time.”
“Tell me where it is,” Lysandra ordered. “So they might try, at least.” She grabbed for the girl’s arm. “So Evangeline might try to run.”
A defeat. What had seemed like a triumphant victory was about to become an absolute defeat. A butchering.
Led by Maeve and Erawan, now a mere hundred yards from the city walls.
Only ancient stone and iron stood between them and Orynth.
Darrow hesitated. In shock. The old man was in shock.
But Evangeline pointed a finger. Out toward the gates, toward Maeve and Erawan. “Look.”
And there she was.
In the deepening blues of descending night, amid the snow beginning to fall, Aelin Galathynius had appeared before the sealed southern gate.
Had appeared before Erawan and Maeve.
Her unbound hair billowed in the wind like a golden banner, a last ray of light with the dying of the day.
Silence fell. Even the screaming stopped as all turned toward the gate.
But Aelin did not balk. Did not run from the Valg queen and king who halted as if in delight at the lone figure who dared face them.
Lysandra let out a strangled sob. “She—she has no magic left.” The shifter’s voice broke. “She has nothing left.”
Still Aelin lifted her sword.
Flames ran down the blade.
One flame against the darkness gathered.
One flame to light the night.
Aelin raised her shield, and flames encircled it, too.
Burning bright, burning undaunted. A vision of old, reborn once more.
The cry went down the castle battlements, through the city, along the walls.
The queen had come home at last.
The queen had come to hold the gate.
CHAPTER 110
Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius.
And she would not be afraid.
Maeve and Erawan halted. So did the army poised behind them, a final blow of the hammer, ready to land upon Orynth.
The magic in her veins was little more than a sputtering ember.
But they did not know that.
Her shaking hands threatened to drop her weapons, but she held firm. Held fast.
Not one more step.
Not one more step toward Orynth would she allow them to make.
Maeve smiled. “What a very long way you’ve traveled, Aelin.”
Aelin only angled Goldryn. Met Erawan’s golden stare.
His eyes flared as he took in the sword. Remembered it.
Aelin bared her teeth. Let the flame she fed into the sword glow brighter.
Maeve turned to the Valg king. “Shall we, then?”
But Erawan looked at Aelin. And hesitated.
She would not have long. Not long at all until they realized that the power that made him hesitate was no more.
But she had not remained outside the southern gate to defeat them.
Only to buy time.
For those in the city she loved so greatly to get away. To run, and live to fight tomorrow.
She had made it home.
It was enough.
The words echoed with her every breath. Sharpened her vision, steeled her spine. A crown of flame appeared atop her head, swirling and unbreakable.
She could never win against both of them.
But she wouldn’t make it easy. Would take one of them down with her, if she could. Or at least slow them enough for the others to enact their plan, to find a way to either halt or defeat them. Even if either option seemed unlikely. Hopeless.
But that was why she remained here.
To give them that slim shred of hope. That will to keep fighting.
At the end of this, if that was all she was able to do against Erawan and Maeve, she could go to the Afterworld with her chin held high. She would not be ashamed to see those she had loved with her heart of wildfire.
So Aelin sketched a bow to Erawan and said with every remaining scrap of bravado she possessed, “We’ve met a few times, but never as we truly are.” She winked at him. Even as her knees quaked, she winked at him. “Pretty as this form is, Erawan, I think I miss Perrington. Just a little bit.”
Maeve’s nostrils flared.
But Erawan’s eyes slitted in amusement. “Was it fate, you think, that we encountered each other in Rifthold without recognizing the other?”
Such casual, easy words from such horrible, corrupt filth. Aelin made herself shrug. “Fate, or luck?” She gestured to the battlefield, her wrecked city. “This is a far grander setting for our final confrontation, don’t you think? Far more worthy of us.”
Maeve let out a hiss. “Enough of this.”
Aelin arched a brow. “I’ve spent the past year of my life—ten years, if you consider it another way—building to this moment.” She clicked her tongue. “Forgive me if I want to savor it. To talk with my great enemy for longer than a moment.”