: Part 2 – Chapter 118

Yrene slumped onto the three-legged stool amid the chaos of the Great Hall. The story was familiar, though the setting slightly altered: another mighty chamber turned into a temporary sick bay. Dawn was not far off, yet she and the other healers kept working. Those bleeding out wouldn’t be able to survive without them.

Human and Fae and witch and Wolf—Yrene had never seen such an assortment of people in one place.

Elide had come in at some point, glowing despite the injured around them.

Yrene supposed they all wore that same smile. Though her own had faltered in the past hour, as exhaustion settled in. She’d been forced to rest after dealing with Erawan, and had waited until her well of power had refilled only just enough to begin working again.

She couldn’t sit still. Not when she saw the thing that lay beneath Erawan’s skin every time she closed her eyes. Forever gone, yes, but … she wondered when she’d forget him. The dark, oily feel of him. Hours ago, she hadn’t been able to tell if the retching that ensued was from the memory of him or the babe in her womb.

“You should find that husband of yours and go to bed,” Hafiza said, hobbling over and frowning. “When was the last time you slept?”

Yrene lifted her head—heavier than it had been minutes ago. “The last time you did, I’d wager.” Two days ago.

Hafiza clicked her tongue. “Slaying a dark lord, healing the wounded … It’s a wonder you’re not unconscious right now, Yrene.”

Yrene was about to be, but the disapproval in Hafiza’s voice steeled her spine. “I can work.”

“I’m ordering you to find that dashing husband of yours and go to sleep. On behalf of the child in your womb.”

Och. When the Healer on High put it like that …

Yrene groaned as she stood. “You’re merciless.”

Hafiza just patted her shoulder. “Good healers know when to rest. Exhaustion makes for sloppy decisions. And sloppy decisions—”

“Cost lives,” Yrene finished. She lifted her eyes toward the vaulted ceiling high, high above. “You never stop teaching, do you?”

Hafiza’s mouth cracked into a grin. “This is life, Yrene. We never stop learning. Even at my age.”

Yrene had long suspected that love of learning was what had kept the Healer on High young at heart all these years. She just smiled back at her mentor.

But Hafiza’s eyes softened. Grew contemplative. “We will remain for as long as we are needed—until the khagan’s soldiers can be transported home. We’ll leave some behind to tend for any remaining wounded, but in a few weeks, we will go.”

Yrene’s throat tightened. “I know.”

“And you,” Hafiza went on, taking her hand, “will not return with us.”

Her eyes burned, but Yrene whispered, “No, I won’t.”

Hafiza squeezed Yrene’s fingers, her hand warm. Strong as steel. “I shall have to find myself a new heir apparent, then.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Whatever for?” Hafiza chuckled. “You have found love, and happiness, Yrene. There is nothing more that I could ever wish for you.”

Yrene wiped away the tear that slipped out. “I just—I don’t want you to think I wasted your time—”

Hafiza crowed with laughter. “Wasted my time? Yrene Towers—Yrene Westfall.” The ancient woman cupped Yrene’s face with her strong, ancient hands. “You have saved us all.” Yrene closed her eyes as Hafiza pressed a kiss to her brow. A blessing and a farewell.

“You will stay in these lands,” Hafiza said, her smile unwavering. “But even with the ocean dividing us, we will remain linked here.” She touched her chest, right over her heart. “And no matter the years, you will forever have a place at the Torre. Always.”

Yrene put a shaking hand over her own heart and nodded.

Hafiza squeezed her shoulder and made to walk back to her patients.

But Yrene said, “What if—”

Hafiza turned, brows rising. “Yes?”

Yrene swallowed. “What if, once I have settled in Adarlan, and had this babe … When the time is right, what if I established my own Torre here?”

Hafiza cocked her head, as if listening to the cadence of the statement while it echoed into her heart. “A Torre Cesme in the North.”

Yrene went on, “In Adarlan. In Rifthold. A new Torre to replenish what Erawan destroyed. To teach the children who might not realize they have the gift, and those who will be born with it.” Because many of the Fae streaming in from the battlefield were descendants of the healers who had gifted the Torre women with their powers—long ago. Perhaps they would wish to help again.

Hafiza smiled anew. “I like that idea very much, Yrene Westfall.”

With that, the Healer on High walked back into the fray of healing and pain.

But Yrene remained standing there, a hand drifting to the slight swelling in her belly.

And she smiled—broad and unfalteringly—at the future that opened before her, bright as the oncoming dawn.

Sunrise was near, yet Manon could not sleep. Had not bothered to find a place to rest, not while the Crochans and Ironteeth remained injured, and she had not yet finished her count of how many had survived the battle. The war.

There was an empty space inside her where twelve souls had once burned fiercely.

Perhaps that was why she had not found her bed, not even when she knew Dorian had likely procured sleeping arrangements. Why she still lingered in the aerie, Abraxos dozing beside her, and stared out at the silent battlefield.

When the bodies were cleared, when the snows melted, when the spring came, would a blasted bit of earth linger on the plain before the city? Would it forever remain as such, a marker of where they fell?

“We have a final count,” Bronwen said behind her, and Manon found the Crochan and Glennis emerging from the tower stairwell, Petrah at their heels.

Manon braced herself for it as she waved a hand in silent request.

Bad. But not as bad as it could have been.

When Manon opened her eyes, the three of them only stared at her. Ironteeth and Crochan, standing together in peace. As allies.

“We’ll collect the dead tomorrow,” Manon said, her voice low. “And burn them at moonrise.” As both Crochans and Ironteeth did. A full moon tomorrow—the Mother’s Womb. A good moon to be burned. To be returned to the Three-Faced Goddess, and reborn within that womb.

“And after that?” Petrah asked. “What then?”

Manon looked from Petrah to Glennis and Bronwen. “What should you like to do?”

Glennis said softly, “Go home.”

Manon swallowed. “You and the Crochans may leave whenever you—”

“To the Wastes,” Glennis said. “Together.”

Manon and Petrah swapped a glance. Petrah said, “We cannot.”

Bronwen’s lips curved upward. “You can.”

Manon blinked. And blinked again as Bronwen extended a fist toward Manon and opened it.

Inside lay a pale purple flower, small as Manon’s thumbnail. Beautiful and delicate.

“A bastion of Crochans just made it here—a bit late, but they heard the call and came. All the way from the Wastes.”

Manon stared and stared at that purple flower.

“They brought this with them. From the plain before the Witch-City.”

The barren, bloodied plain. The land that had yielded no flowers, no life beyond grass and moss and—

Manon’s sight blurred, and Glennis took her hand, guiding it toward Bronwen’s before the witch tipped the flower into Manon’s palm. “Only together can it be undone,” Glennis whispered. “Be the bridge. Be the light.”

A bridge between their two peoples, as Manon had become.

A light—as the Thirteen had exploded with light, not darkness, in their final moments.

“When iron melts,” Petrah murmured, her blue eyes swimming with tears.

The Thirteen had melted that tower. Melted the Ironteeth within it. And themselves.

“When flowers spring from fields of blood,” Bronwen went on.

Manon’s knees buckled as she stared out at that battlefield. Where countless flowers had been laid atop the blood and ruins where the Thirteen had met their end.

Glennis finished, “Let the land be witness.”

The battlefield where the rulers and citizens of so many kingdoms, so many nations, had come to pay tribute. To witness the sacrifice of the Thirteen and honor them.

Silence fell, and Manon whispered, her voice shaking as she held that small, impossibly precious flower in her palm, “And return home.”

Glennis bowed her head. “And so the curse is broken. And so we shall go home together—as one people.”

The curse was broken.

Manon just stared at them, her breathing turning jagged.

Then she roused Abraxos, and was in the saddle within heartbeats. She did not offer them any explanation, any farewell, as they leaped into the thinning night.

As she guided her wyvern to the bit of blasted earth on the battlefield. Right to its heart.

And smiling through her tears, laughing in joy and sorrow, Manon laid that precious flower from the Wastes upon the ground.

In thanks and in love.

So they would know, so Asterin would know, in the realm where she and her hunter and child walked hand in hand, that they had made it.

That they were going home.

Aelin wanted to, but could not sleep. Had ignored the offers to find her a room, a bed, in the chaos of the castle.

Instead, she and Rowan had gone to the Great Hall, to talk to the wounded, to offer what help they could for those who needed it most.

The lost Fae of Terrasen, their giant wolves and adopted human clan with them, wanted to speak to her as much as the citizens of Orynth. How they had found the Wolf Tribe a decade ago, how they’d fallen in with them in the wilds of the mountains and hinterlands beyond, was a tale she’d soon learn. The world would learn.

Their healers filled the Great Hall, joining the Torre women. All descended from those in the southern continent—and apparently trained by them, too. Dozens of fresh healers, each bearing badly needed supplies. They fell seamlessly into work alongside those from the Torre. As if they had been doing so for centuries.

And when the healers both human and Fae had shooed them out, Aelin had wandered.

Each hallway and floor, peering into the rooms so full of ghosts and memory. Rowan had walked at her side, a quiet, unfaltering presence.

Level by level they went, rising ever higher.

They were nearing the top of the north tower when dawn broke.

The morning was brutally cold, even more so atop the tower standing high over the world, but the day would be clear. Bright.

“So there it is,” Aelin said, nodding toward the dark stain on the balcony stones. “Where Erawan met his end at the hands of a healer.” She frowned. “I hope it will wash off.”

Rowan snorted, and when she looked over her shoulder, the wind whipping her hair, she found him leaning against the stairwell door, his arms crossed.

“I mean it,” she said. “It’ll be odious to have his mess there. And I plan to use this balcony to sun myself. He’ll ruin it.”

Rowan chuckled, and pushed off the door, going to the balcony rail. “If it doesn’t wash off, we’ll throw a rug over it.”

Aelin laughed, and joined him, leaning into his warmth as the sun gilded the battlefield, the river, the Staghorns. “Well, now you’ve seen every hall and room and stairwell. What do you make of your new home?”

“A little small, but we’ll manage.”

Aelin nudged him with an elbow, and jerked her chin to the nearby western tower. Where the north tower was tall, the western tower was wide. Grand. Near its upper levels, hanging over the perilous drop, a walled stone garden glowed in the sunlight. The king’s garden.

Queen’s, she supposed.

There had been nothing left but a tangle of thorns and snow. Yet she still remembered it, when it had belonged to Orlon. The roses and drooping latticework of wisteria, the fountains that had streamed right over the edge of the garden and into the open air below, the apple tree with blossoms like clumps of snow in the spring.

“I never realized how convenient it would be for Fleetfoot,” she said of the secret, private garden. Reserved only for the royal family. Sometimes just for the king or queen themselves. “To not have to run down the tower stairs every time she needs to pee.”

“I’m sure your ancestors had canine bathroom habits in mind when they built it.”

“I would have,” Aelin grumbled.

“Oh, I believe it,” Rowan said, smirking. “But can you explain to me why we’re not in there right now, sleeping?”

“In the garden?”

He flicked her nose. “In the suite beyond the garden. Our bedroom.”

She’d led him quickly through the space. Still preserved well enough, despite the disrepair of the rest of the castle. One of the Adarlanian cronies had undoubtedly used it. “I want it cleaned of any trace of Adarlan before I stay in there,” she admitted.

“Ah.”

She heaved a breath, sucking down the morning air.

Aelin heard them before she saw them, scented them. And when they turned, they found Lorcan and Elide walking onto the tower balcony, Aedion, Lysandra, and Fenrys trailing. Ren Allsbrook, tentative and wary-eyed, emerged behind them.

How they’d known where to find them, why they’d come, Aelin had no idea. Fenrys’s wounds had closed at least, though twin, red scars slashed from his brow to his jaw. He didn’t seem to notice—or care.

She also didn’t fail to note the hand Lorcan kept on Elide’s back. The glow on the lady’s face.

Aelin could guess well enough what that glow was from. Even Lorcan’s dark eyes were bright.

It didn’t stop Aelin from catching Lorcan’s stare. And giving him a warning look that conveyed everything she didn’t bother to say: if he broke the Lady of Perranth’s heart, she’d flambé him. And would invite Manon Blackbeak to roast some dinner over his burning corpse.

Lorcan rolled his eyes, and Aelin deemed that acceptance enough as she asked them all, “Did anyone bother to sleep?”

Only Fenrys lifted his hand.

Aedion frowned at the dark stain on the stones.

“We’re putting a rug over it,” Aelin told him.

Lysandra laughed. “Something tacky, I hope.”

“I’m thinking pink and purple. Embroidered with flowers. Just what Erawan would have loved.”

The Fae males gaped at them, Ren blinking. Elide ducked her head as she chuckled.

Rowan snorted again. “At least this court won’t be boring.”

Aelin put a hand on her chest, the portrait of outrage. “You were honestly worried it would be?”

“Gods help us,” Lorcan grumbled. Elide elbowed him.

Aedion said to Ren, the young lord lingering by the archway, as if still debating making a quick exit, “Now’s the chance to escape, you know. Before you get sucked into this endless nonsense.”

But Ren’s dark eyes met Aelin’s. Scanned them.

She’d heard about Murtaugh. Knew now was not the time to mention it, the loss dimming his eyes. So she kept her face open. Honest. Warm. “We could always use one more to partake in the nonsense,” Aelin said, an invisible hand outstretched.

Ren scanned her again. “You gave up everything and still came back here. Still fought.”

“All of it for Terrasen,” she said quietly.

“Yes, I know,” Ren said, the scar down his face stark in the rising sun. “I understand that now.” He offered her a small smile. “I think I might need a bit of nonsense myself, after this war.”

Aedion muttered, “You’ll regret saying that.”

But Aelin sketched a bow. “Oh, he certainly will.” She smirked at the males assembled. “I swear to you, I won’t bore you to tears. A queen’s oath.”

“And what will not boring us entail, then?” Aedion asked.

“Rebuilding,” Elide said. “Lots of rebuilding.”

“Trade negotiations,” Lysandra said.

“Training a new generation in magic,” Aelin went on.

Again, the males blinked at them.

Aelin angled her head, blinking right back at them. “Don’t you lot have anything worthwhile to contribute?” She clicked her tongue. “Three of you are ancient as hell, you know. I’d have expected better from cranky old bastards.”

Their nostrils flared. Aedion grinned, Ren wisely clamping his lips together to keep from doing the same.

But Fenrys said, “Four. Four of us are old as hell.”

Aelin arched a brow.

Fenrys smirked, the movement stretching his scars. “Vaughan is still out there. And now free.”

Rowan crossed his arms. “He’ll never be caught again.”

But Fenrys’s smirk turned knowing. He pointed to the camped Fae army on the plain, the wolves and humans amongst them. “I have a feeling someone down there might know where we could start.” He glanced at Aelin. “If you’d be amenable to another cranky old bastard joining this court.”

Aelin shrugged. “If you can convince him, I don’t see why not.” Rowan smiled at that, and scanned the sky, as if he could see his missing friend soaring there.

Fenrys winked. “I promise he’s not as miserable as Lorcan.” Elide smacked his arm, and Fenrys darted away, hands up as he laughed. “You’ll like him,” he promised Aelin. “All the ladies do,” he added with another wink to her, Lysandra, and Elide.

Aelin laughed, the sound lighter, freer than any she had made, and faced the stirring kingdom. “We promised everyone a better world,” she said after a moment, voice solemn. “So we’ll start with that.”

“Starting small,” Fenrys said. “I like it.”

Aelin smirked at him. “I rather liked the whole let’s-vote-on-the-Wyrdkeys thing we did. So we’ll start with more of that, too.”

Silence. Then Lysandra asked, “Voting on what?”

Aelin shrugged, sliding her hands into her pockets. “Things.”

Aedion arched a brow. “Like dinner?”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “Yes, on dinner. Dinner by committee.”

Elide coughed. “I think Aelin means on vital things. On how to run this kingdom.”

“You’re queen,” Lorcan said. “What’s there to vote on?”

“People should have a say in how they are governed. Policies that impact them. They should have a say in how this kingdom is rebuilt.” Aelin lifted her chin. “I will be queen, and my children …” Her cheeks heated as she smiled toward Rowan. “Our children,” she said a bit softly, “will rule. One day. But Terrasen should have a voice. Each territory, regardless of the lords who rule it, should have a voice. One chosen by its people.”

The cadre looked toward one another then. Rowan said, “There was a kingdom—to the east. Long ago. They believed in such things.” Pride glowed in his eyes, brighter than the dawn. “It was a place of peace and learning. A beacon in a distant and violent part of the world. Once the Library of Orynth is rebuilt, we’ll ask the scholars to find what they can about it.”

“We could reach out to the kingdom itself,” Fenrys said. “See if some of their scholars or leaders might want to come here. To help us.” He shrugged. “I could do it. Travel there, if you wish.”

She knew he meant it—to travel as their emissary. Perhaps to work through all he’d seen and endured. To make peace with the loss of his brother. With himself. She had a feeling the scars down his face would only fade when he willed it.

But Aelin nodded. And while she’d gladly send Fenrys wherever he wished—“The library?” she blurted.

Rowan only smiled. “And the Royal Theater.”

“There was no theater—not like in Rifthold.”

Rowan’s smile grew. “There will be.”

Aelin waved him off. “Need I remind you that despite winning this war, we are no longer flush with gold?”

Rowan slid his arm around her shoulders. “Need I remind you that since you beheaded Maeve, I am a Prince of Doranelle once again, with access to my assets and estates? And that with Maeve outed as an imposter, half of her wealth goes to you … and the other to the Whitethorns?”

Aelin blinked at him slowly. The others grinned. Even Lorcan.

Rowan kissed her. “A new library and Royal Theater,” he murmured onto her mouth. “Consider them my mating presents to you, Fireheart.”

Aelin pulled back, scanning his face. Read the sincerity and conviction.

And, throwing her arms around him, laughing to the lightening sky, she burst into tears.

It was to be a day for many meetings, Aelin decided as she stood in a near-empty, dusty chamber and smiled at her allies. Her friends.

Ansel of Briarcliff, bruised and scratched, smiled back. “Your shifter was a good liar,” she said. “I’m ashamed I didn’t notice it myself.”

Prince Galan, equally battered, huffed a laugh. “In my defense, I’ve never met you.” He inclined his head to Aelin. “So, hello, cousin.”

Aelin, leaning against the half-decayed desk that served as the lone piece of furniture in the room, smirked at him. “I saw you from a distance—once.”

Galan’s Ashryver eyes sparked. “I’m going to assume it was during your former profession and thank you for not killing me.”

Aelin chuckled, even as Rolfe rolled his eyes. “Yes, Privateer?”

Rolfe waved a tattooed hand, blood still clinging beneath his nails. “I’ll refrain from commenting.”

Aelin smirked. “You’re the Heir to the Mycenian people,” she said. “Petty squabbles are now beneath you.”

Ansel snorted. Rolfe shot her a look.

“What do you intend to do with them now?” Aelin asked. She supposed the rest of her court should have been here, but when she’d dispatched Evangeline to round up their allies, she’d opted to let them rest. Rowan, at least, had gone to seek out Endymion and Sellene. The latter, it seemed, was about to learn a great deal regarding her own future. The future of Doranelle.

Rolfe shrugged. “We’ll have to decide where to go. Whether to return to Skull’s Bay, or …” His sea-green eyes narrowed.

“Or?” Aelin asked sweetly.

“Or decide if we’d rather rebuild our old home in Ilium.”

“Why not decide yourself?” Ansel asked.

Rolfe waved a tattoed hand. “They offered up their lives to fight in this war. They should be able to choose where they wish to live after it.”

“Wise,” Aelin said, clicking her tongue. Rolfe stiffened, but relaxed upon seeing the warmth in her gaze. But she looked to Ilias, the assassin’s armor dented and scratched. “Did you speak at all this entire war?”

“No,” Ansel answered for him. The Mute Master’s son looked to the young queen. Held her stare.

Aelin blinked at the look that passed between them. No animosity—no fear. She could have sworn Ansel flushed.

Sparing her old friend, Aelin said to them all, “Thank you.”

They faced her again.

She swallowed, and put a hand over her heart. “Thank you for coming when I asked. Thank you on behalf of Terrasen. I am in your debt.”

“We were in your debt,” Ansel countered.

“I wasn’t,” Rolfe muttered.

Aelin flashed him a grin. “We’re going to have fun, you and I.” She surveyed her allies, worn and battle-weary, but still standing. All of them still standing. “I think we’re going to have a great deal of fun.”

At midday, Aelin found Manon in one of the witches’ aeries, Abraxos staring out toward the battlefield.

Bandages peppered his sides and wings. And covered the former Wing Leader.

“Queen of the Crochans and the Ironteeth,” Aelin said by way of greeting, letting out a low whistle that had Manon turning slowly. Aelin picked at her nails. “Impressive.”

Yet the face that turned toward her—

Exhaustion. Grief.

“I heard,” Aelin said quietly, lowering her hands but not approaching.

Manon said nothing, her silence conveying everything Aelin needed to know.

No, she was not all right. Yes, it had destroyed her. No, she did not wish to talk about it.

Aelin only said, “Thank you.”

Manon nodded vaguely. So Aelin walked toward the witch, then past her. Right to where Abraxos sat, gazing toward Theralis. The blasted patch of earth.

Her heart strained at the sight of it. The wyvern and the earth and the witch behind her. But Aelin sat down beside the wyvern. Brushed a hand over his leathery head. He leaned into her touch.

“There will be a monument,” she said to Abraxos, to Manon. “Should you wish it, I will build a monument right there. So no one shall ever forget what was given. Who we have to thank.”

Wind sang through the tower, hollow and brisk. But then footsteps crunched in hay, and Manon sat down beside her.

Yet Aelin did not speak again, and asked no more questions. And Manon, realizing it, let her shoulders curve inward, let her head bow. As she might never do with anyone else. As no one else might understand—the weight they both bore.

In silence, the two queens stared toward the decimated field. Toward the future beyond it.