Kingdom of Ash

“Together,” Dorian breathed, shaking. “We’ll rebuild this world together.”

She couldn’t stand it, this ache in her chest. But she made herself pull away and smile at their tear-streaked faces, a hand on her heart. “Thank you for all you have done for me.”

Dorian bowed his head. “Those are words I’d never thought I’d hear from you.”

She barked a rasping laugh, and gave him a shove. “You’re a king now. Such insults are beneath you.”

He grinned, wiping at his face.

Aelin smiled at Chaol, at his wife waiting beyond him. “I wish you every happiness,” she said to him. To them both.

Such light shone in Chaol’s bronze eyes—that she had never seen before. “We will see each other again,” he repeated.

Then he and Dorian turned toward their horses, toward the bright day beyond the castle gates. Toward their kingdom to the south. Shattered now, but not forever.

Not forever.

 

Aelin was quiet for a long time afterward, and Rowan stayed with her, following as she strode up to the castle battlements to watch Chaol, Dorian, and Yrene ride down the road that cut through the savaged Plain of Theralis. Until even they had vanished over the horizon.

Rowan kept his arm around her, breathing in her scent as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Rowan ignored the faint ache that lingered there from the tattoos she’d helped him ink the night before. Gavriel’s name, rendered in the Old Language. Exactly how the Lion had once tattooed the names of his fallen warriors on himself.

Fenrys and Lorcan, a tentative peace between them, also now bore the tattoo—had demanded one as soon as they’d caught wind of what Rowan planned to do.

Aedion, however, had asked Rowan for a different design. To add Gavriel’s name to the Terrasen knot already inked over his heart.

Aedion had been quiet while Rowan had worked—quiet enough that Rowan had begun telling him the stories. Story after story about the Lion. The adventures they’d shared, the lands they’d seen, the wars they’d waged. Aedion hadn’t spoken while Rowan had talked and worked, the scent of his grief conveying enough.

It was a scent that would likely linger for many months to come.

Aelin let out a long sigh. “Will you let me cry in bed for the rest of today like a pathetic worm,” she asked at last, “if I promise to get to work on rebuilding tomorrow?”

Rowan arched a brow, joy flowing through him, free and shining as a stream down a mountain. “Would you like me to bring you cakes and chocolate so your wallowing can be complete?”

“If you can find any.”

“You destroyed the Wyrdkeys and slew Maeve. I think I can manage to find you some sweets.”

“As you once said to me, it was a group effort. It might also require one to acquire cakes and chocolate.”

Rowan laughed, and kissed the top of her head. And for a long moment, he just marveled that he could do it. Could stand with her here, in this kingdom, this city, this castle, where they would make their home.

He could see it now: the halls restored to their splendor, the plain and river sparkling beyond, the Staghorns beckoning. He could hear the music she’d bring to this city, and the laughter of the children in the streets. In these halls. In their royal suite.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, peering up at his face.

Rowan brushed a kiss to her mouth. “That I get to be here. With you.”

“There’s lots of work to be done. Some might say as bad as dealing with Erawan.”

“Nothing will ever be that bad.”

She snorted. “True.”

He tucked her in closer. “I am thinking about how very grateful I am. That we made it. That I found you. And how, even with all that work to be done, I will not mind a moment of it because you are with me.”

She frowned, her eyes dampening. “I’m going to have a terrible headache from all this crying, and you’re not helping.”

Rowan laughed, and kissed her again. “Very queenly.”

She hummed. “I am, if anything, the consummate portrait of royal grace.”

He chuckled against her mouth. “And humility. Let’s not forget that.”

“Oh yes,” she said, winding her arms around his neck. His blood heated, sparking with a power greater than any force a god or Wyrdkey could summon.

But Rowan pulled away, just far enough to rest his brow against hers. “Let’s get you to your chambers, Majesty, so you can commence your royal wallowing.”

She shook with laughter. “I might have something else in mind now.”

Rowan let out a growl, and nipped at her ear, her neck. “Good. I do, too.”

“And tomorrow?” she asked breathlessly, and they both paused to look at each other. To smile. “Will you work to rebuild this kingdom, this world, with me tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, and every day after that.” For every day of the thousand blessed years they were granted together. And beyond.

Aelin kissed him again and took his hand, guiding him into the castle. Into their home. “To whatever end?” she breathed.

Rowan followed her, as he had his entire life, long before they had ever met, before their souls had sparked into existence. “To whatever end, Fireheart.” He glanced sidelong at her. “Can I give you a suggestion for what we should rebuild first?”

Aelin smiled, and eternity opened before them, shining and glorious and lovely. “Tell me tomorrow.”

A Better World

Brutal winter gave way to soft spring.

Throughout the endless, snowy months, they had worked. On rebuilding Orynth, on all those trade agreements, on making ties with kingdoms no one had contacted in a hundred years. The lost Fae of Terrasen had returned, many of the wolf-riders with them, and immediately launched into rebuilding. Right alongside the several dozen Fae from Doranelle who had opted to stay, even when Endymion and Sellene had returned to their lands.

All across the continent, Aelin could have sworn the ringing of hammers sounded, so many peoples and lands emerging once more.

And in the South, no land worked harder to rebuild than Eyllwe. Their losses had been steep, yet they had endured—remained unbroken. The letter Aelin had written to Nehemia’s parents had been the most joyous of her life. I hope to meet you soon, she’d written. And repair this world together.

Yes, they had replied. Nehemia would wish it so.

Aelin had kept their letter on her desk for months. Not a scar on her palm, but a promise of tomorrow. A vow to make the future as brilliant as Nehemia had dreamed it could be.

And as spring at last crept over the Staghorns, the world became green and gold and blue, the stained stones of the castle cleaned and gleaming above it all.

Aelin didn’t know why she woke with the dawn. What drove her to slip from under the arm that Rowan had draped over her while they slept. Her mate remained asleep, exhausted as she was—exhausted as they all were, every single evening.

Exhausted, both of them, and their court, but happy. Elide and Lorcan—now Lord Lorcan Lochan, to Aelin’s eternal amusement—had gone back to Perranth only a week ago to begin the rebuilding there, now that the healers had finished their work on the last of the Valg-possessed. They would return in three weeks, though. Along with all the other lords who had journeyed to their estates once winter had lightened its grasp. Everyone would converge on Orynth, then. For Aedion and Lysandra’s wedding.