Manon, at least, had refused finery. She wore her witch leathers—though her crown of stars lay upon her brow, casting its light upon Petrah Blueblood and Bronwen Crochan, seated on her either side.

Aedion’s swallow was audible, and Rowan glanced to the open doors. Then to where Lord Darrow stood beside the empty throne.

Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected from the sad lot of candidates.

Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his eyes glowed.

The trumpets rang out.

A four-note summons. Repeated three times.

Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.

Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand, sprawling orchestra that might accompany an event of this magnitude, but better than nothing.

It didn’t matter anyway.

Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.

Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.

For Aelin’s coronation.

Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but what she was.

The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take down Erawan.

Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.

Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming, those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran. Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for him to convince the other lords to agree to this.

To Aelin’s right to the throne.

They had delivered the documents two days ago. Signed by all of them.

Elide took up a spot on the right side of the throne. Then Lysandra. Then Evangeline.

Rowan’s heart began thundering as everyone gazed down the now-empty aisle. As the music rose and rose, the Song of Terrasen ringing out.

And when the music hit its peak, when the world exploded with sound, regal and unbending, she appeared.

Rowan’s knees buckled as everyone rose to their feet.

Clad in flowing, gauzy green and silver, her golden hair unbound, Aelin paused on the threshold of the throne room.

He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Aelin gazed down the long aisle. As if weighing every step she would take to the dais.

To her throne.

The entire world seemed to pause with her, lingering on that threshold.

Shining brighter than the snow outside, Aelin lifted her chin and began her final walk home.

 

Every step, every path she had taken, had led here.

The faces of her friends, her allies, blurred as she passed by.

To the throne that waited. To the crown Darrow would place upon her head.

Each of her footfalls seemed to echo through the earth. Aelin let some of her embers stream by, bobbing in the wake of her gown’s train as it flowed behind her.

Her hands shook, yet she clutched the bouquet of evergreen tighter. Evergreen—for the eternal sovereignty of Terrasen.

Each step toward that throne loomed and yet beckoned.

Rowan stood to the right of the throne, teeth bared in a fierce grin that even his training could not contain.

And there was Aedion at the throne’s left. Head high and tears running down his face, the Sword of Orynth hanging at his side.

It was for him that she then smiled. For the children they had been, for what they had lost.

What they now gained.

Aelin passed Dorian and Chaol, and threw a nod their way. Winked at Ansel of Briarcliff, dabbing her eyes on her jacket sleeve.

And then Aelin was at the three steps of the dais, and Darrow strode to their edge.

As he had instructed her last night, as she had practiced over and over in a dusty stairwell for hours, Aelin ascended the three steps and knelt upon the top one.

The only time in her reign that she would ever bow.

The only thing she would ever kneel before.

Her crown. Her throne. Her kingdom.

The hall remained standing, even as Darrow motioned them to sit.

And then came the words, uttered in the Old Language. Sacred and ancient, spoken flawlessly by Darrow, who had crowned Orlon himself all those decades ago.

Do you offer your life, your body, your soul to the service of Terrasen?

She answered in the Old Language, as she had also practiced with Rowan last night until her tongue turned leaden. I offer all that I am and all that I have to Terrasen.

Then speak your vows.

Aelin’s heart raced, and she knew Rowan could hear it, but she bowed her head and said, I, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, swear upon my immortal soul to guard, to nurture, and to honor Terrasen from this day until my very last.

Then so it shall be, Darrow responded, and reached out a hand.

Not to her, but to Evangeline, who stepped forward with a green velvet pillow.

The crown atop it.

Adarlan had destroyed her antler throne. Had melted her crown.

So they had made a new one. In the ten days since it had been decided she was to be crowned here, before the world, they had found a master goldsmith to forge one from the remaining gold they’d stolen from the barrow in Wendlyn.

Twining bands of it, like woven antlers, rose to uphold the gem in its center.

Not a true gem, but one infinitely more precious. Darrow had given it to her himself.

The cut bit of crystal that contained the sole bloom of kingsflame from Orlon’s reign.

Even amid the shining metals of the crown, the red-and-orange blossom glowed like a ruby, dazzling in the light of the morning sun as Darrow lifted the crown from the pillow.

He raised it toward the shaft of light pouring through the bank of windows behind the dais. The ceremony chosen for this time, this ray of sun. This blessing, from Mala herself.

And though the Lady of Light was forever gone, Aelin could have sworn she felt a warm hand on her shoulder as Darrow held up the crown to the sun.

Could have sworn she felt them all standing there with her, those whom she had loved with her heart of wildfire. Whose stories were again inked upon her skin.

And as the crown came down, as she braced her head, her neck, her heart, Aelin let her power shine. For those who had not made it, for those who had fought, for the world watching.

Darrow set the crown upon her head, its weight heavier than she’d thought.

Aelin closed her eyes, letting that weight, that burden and gift, settle into her.

“Rise,” Darrow said, “Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen.”

She swallowed a sob. And slowly, her breathing steady despite the heartbeat that threatened to leap out of her chest, Aelin rose.

Darrow’s gray eyes were bright. “Long may she reign.”

And as Aelin turned, the call went up through the hall, echoing off the ancient stones and into the gathered city beyond the castle. “Hail, Aelin! Queen of Terrasen! ”

The sound of it from Rowan’s lips, from Aedion’s, threatened to send her to her knees, but Aelin smiled. Kept her chin high and smiled.