A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. But he said, “Consider it done.” Then he was gone.
They didn’t bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.
So Aedion continued, alone, to the front lines. Two Bane soldiers stepped aside to make room, and Aedion hefted up his shield, seamlessly fitting it between their unified front. The metal wall against which Morath would strike first, and hardest.
The snows swirled, veiling all beyond a hundred or so feet.
Yet the bone drums pounded louder. Soon the earth shook beneath marching feet.
Their final stand, here on an unnamed field before the Florine. How had it come to this?
Aedion drew his sword, the other soldiers following suit, the cry of ringing metal cutting through the howling wind.
Morath appeared, a line of solid black emerging from the snow.
Each foot they gained, more appeared behind. How far back was that witch tower? How soon would its power be unleashed?
He prayed, for the sake of his soldiers, that it would be quick, and relatively painless. That they would not know much fear before they were blasted into ashes.
The Bane didn’t clash their swords on their shields this time.
There was only the marching of Morath, and the drums.
Had they gone to Orynth when Darrow demanded, they would have made it. Had time to cross the bridge, or take the northern route.
This defeat, these deaths, rested upon his shoulders alone.
Down the line, motion caught his eye—just as a fuzzy, massive head poked between Prince Galan and one of his remaining soldiers. A ghost leopard.
Green eyes slid toward him, drained and bleak.
Aedion looked away first. This would be bad enough without knowing she was here. That Lysandra would undoubtedly stay until she, too, fell.
He prayed he went first. So he wouldn’t witness it.
Morath drew close enough that Ren’s order to the archers rang out.
Arrows flew, fading into the snows.
Morath sent an answering volley that blotted out the watery light.
Aedion angled his shield, crouching low. Every impact reverberated through his bones.
Grunts and screams filled their side of the battlefield. When the volley stopped, when they straightened again, many men did not rise with them.
It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.
But heads. Human heads, many still in their helmets. Bearing Ansel of Briarcliff’s roaring wolf insignia.
The rest of the army that she’d promised. That they’d been waiting for.
They must have intercepted Morath—and been obliterated.
Shouts rose from the army behind him as the realization rippled through the ranks. One female voice in particular carried over the din, her mournful cry echoing through Aedion’s helmet.
The milky, wide eyes of the decapitated head that had landed near his boots stared skyward, the mouth still open in a scream of terror.
How many had Ansel known? How many friends had been amongst them?
It wasn’t the time to seek out the young queen, to offer his condolences. Not when neither of them would likely survive the day. Not when it might be the heads of his own soldiers that were launched at Orynth’s walls.
Ren ordered another volley, their arrows so few compared to what had been unleashed seconds before. A spattering of rain compared to a downpour. Many found their marks, soldiers in dark armor going down. But they were replaced by those behind them, mere cogs in some terrible machine.
“We fight as one,” Aedion called down the line, forcing himself to ignore the scattered heads. “We die as one.”
A horn blared from deep within the enemy ranks. Morath began its all-out run on their front line.
Aedion’s boots dug into the mud as he braced his shield arm. Like it could possibly hold back the tide stretching into the horizon.
He counted his breaths, knowing they were limited. A ghost leopard’s snarl ripped down the line, a challenge to the charging army.
Fifty feet. Ren’s archers still fired fewer and fewer arrows. Forty. Thirty.
The sword in his hand was no equal to the ancient blade he’d worn with such pride. But he’d make it work. Twenty. Ten.
Aedion sucked in a breath. The black, depthless eyes of the Morath soldiers became clear beneath their helmets.
Morath’s front line angled their swords, their spears—
Roaring fire blasted from the left flank.
His left flank.
Aedion didn’t dare take his focus off the enemy upon him, but several of the Morath soldiers did.
He slaughtered them for it. Slaughtered their stunned companions, too, as they whirled toward another blast of flame.
Aelin. Aelin—
Soldiers behind him shouted. In triumph and relief.
“Close the gap,” Aedion growled to the warriors on either side of him, and pulled back enough to see the source of their salvation, free and safe at last—
It was not Aelin who unleashed fire upon the left flank.
It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river.
Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet.
But many, so many he couldn’t count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon.
Rolfe’s fleet. The Mycenians.
Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once gone into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-looking contraption, scarves over their mouths.
Firelances.
A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleashed white-hot flame into Morath’s ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy.
Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light.
As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe’s Mycenians marched onward, firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy.
Morath turned and ran.
Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew!
The fools did not realize that there was no magic—none beyond pure luck and good timing.
Then a familiar voice rang out. “Quickly! On board, all of you!” Rolfe.
For the ships in the river had pulled up, gangways lowered and rowboats already at the shore.
Aedion wasted no time. “To the river! To the fleet!”
Their soldiers didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the awaiting armada, onto any ship they could reach, leaping into the longboats. Chaotic and messy, but with Morath on retreat for only the gods knew how long, he didn’t care.
Aedion kept his position at the front line, ensuring no soldier lagged behind.
Down the line, Prince Galan and a spotted, furry form did the same. Beside them, red hair waving in the wind, Ansel of Briarcliff held her sword pointed at their enemy. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks. The heads of her men lay scattered in the snow around her.
And ahead of them, still unleashing flame, Rolfe’s Mycenians bought them the time to retreat.
Each second dripped by, but slowly, those boats filled. Slowly, their army left the shore, every boat that departed was replaced by another. Many Fae shifted, birds of prey filling the gray sky as they soared over the river.
And when there were none left but a few boats, among them a beautiful ship with a mast carved after an attacking sea dragon, Rolfe roared from the helm, “Fall back, all of you!”
A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. But he said, “Consider it done.” Then he was gone.
They didn’t bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.
So Aedion continued, alone, to the front lines. Two Bane soldiers stepped aside to make room, and Aedion hefted up his shield, seamlessly fitting it between their unified front. The metal wall against which Morath would strike first, and hardest.
The snows swirled, veiling all beyond a hundred or so feet.
Yet the bone drums pounded louder. Soon the earth shook beneath marching feet.
Their final stand, here on an unnamed field before the Florine. How had it come to this?
Aedion drew his sword, the other soldiers following suit, the cry of ringing metal cutting through the howling wind.
Morath appeared, a line of solid black emerging from the snow.
Each foot they gained, more appeared behind. How far back was that witch tower? How soon would its power be unleashed?
He prayed, for the sake of his soldiers, that it would be quick, and relatively painless. That they would not know much fear before they were blasted into ashes.
The Bane didn’t clash their swords on their shields this time.
There was only the marching of Morath, and the drums.
Had they gone to Orynth when Darrow demanded, they would have made it. Had time to cross the bridge, or take the northern route.
This defeat, these deaths, rested upon his shoulders alone.
Down the line, motion caught his eye—just as a fuzzy, massive head poked between Prince Galan and one of his remaining soldiers. A ghost leopard.
Green eyes slid toward him, drained and bleak.
Aedion looked away first. This would be bad enough without knowing she was here. That Lysandra would undoubtedly stay until she, too, fell.
He prayed he went first. So he wouldn’t witness it.
Morath drew close enough that Ren’s order to the archers rang out.
Arrows flew, fading into the snows.
Morath sent an answering volley that blotted out the watery light.
Aedion angled his shield, crouching low. Every impact reverberated through his bones.
Grunts and screams filled their side of the battlefield. When the volley stopped, when they straightened again, many men did not rise with them.
It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.
But heads. Human heads, many still in their helmets. Bearing Ansel of Briarcliff’s roaring wolf insignia.
The rest of the army that she’d promised. That they’d been waiting for.
They must have intercepted Morath—and been obliterated.
Shouts rose from the army behind him as the realization rippled through the ranks. One female voice in particular carried over the din, her mournful cry echoing through Aedion’s helmet.
The milky, wide eyes of the decapitated head that had landed near his boots stared skyward, the mouth still open in a scream of terror.
How many had Ansel known? How many friends had been amongst them?
It wasn’t the time to seek out the young queen, to offer his condolences. Not when neither of them would likely survive the day. Not when it might be the heads of his own soldiers that were launched at Orynth’s walls.
Ren ordered another volley, their arrows so few compared to what had been unleashed seconds before. A spattering of rain compared to a downpour. Many found their marks, soldiers in dark armor going down. But they were replaced by those behind them, mere cogs in some terrible machine.
“We fight as one,” Aedion called down the line, forcing himself to ignore the scattered heads. “We die as one.”
A horn blared from deep within the enemy ranks. Morath began its all-out run on their front line.
Aedion’s boots dug into the mud as he braced his shield arm. Like it could possibly hold back the tide stretching into the horizon.
He counted his breaths, knowing they were limited. A ghost leopard’s snarl ripped down the line, a challenge to the charging army.
Fifty feet. Ren’s archers still fired fewer and fewer arrows. Forty. Thirty.
The sword in his hand was no equal to the ancient blade he’d worn with such pride. But he’d make it work. Twenty. Ten.
Aedion sucked in a breath. The black, depthless eyes of the Morath soldiers became clear beneath their helmets.
Morath’s front line angled their swords, their spears—
Roaring fire blasted from the left flank.
His left flank.
Aedion didn’t dare take his focus off the enemy upon him, but several of the Morath soldiers did.
He slaughtered them for it. Slaughtered their stunned companions, too, as they whirled toward another blast of flame.
Aelin. Aelin—
Soldiers behind him shouted. In triumph and relief.
“Close the gap,” Aedion growled to the warriors on either side of him, and pulled back enough to see the source of their salvation, free and safe at last—
It was not Aelin who unleashed fire upon the left flank.
It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river.
Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet.
But many, so many he couldn’t count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon.
Rolfe’s fleet. The Mycenians.
Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once gone into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-looking contraption, scarves over their mouths.
Firelances.
A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleashed white-hot flame into Morath’s ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy.
Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light.
As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe’s Mycenians marched onward, firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy.
Morath turned and ran.
Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew!
The fools did not realize that there was no magic—none beyond pure luck and good timing.
Then a familiar voice rang out. “Quickly! On board, all of you!” Rolfe.
For the ships in the river had pulled up, gangways lowered and rowboats already at the shore.
Aedion wasted no time. “To the river! To the fleet!”
Their soldiers didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the awaiting armada, onto any ship they could reach, leaping into the longboats. Chaotic and messy, but with Morath on retreat for only the gods knew how long, he didn’t care.
Aedion kept his position at the front line, ensuring no soldier lagged behind.
Down the line, Prince Galan and a spotted, furry form did the same. Beside them, red hair waving in the wind, Ansel of Briarcliff held her sword pointed at their enemy. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks. The heads of her men lay scattered in the snow around her.
And ahead of them, still unleashing flame, Rolfe’s Mycenians bought them the time to retreat.
Each second dripped by, but slowly, those boats filled. Slowly, their army left the shore, every boat that departed was replaced by another. Many Fae shifted, birds of prey filling the gray sky as they soared over the river.
And when there were none left but a few boats, among them a beautiful ship with a mast carved after an attacking sea dragon, Rolfe roared from the helm, “Fall back, all of you!”
The Mycenians and their firelances made a quick retreat, hurrying for the longboats returning to shore.
Lysandra and Ansel ran with them, and Aedion followed suit. It was the longest sprint of his life.
But then he was at the gangplank of Rolfe’s ship, the river deep enough that they’d been able to pull up close to the shore. Lysandra, Galan, and Ansel were already past him, and Aedion had barely cleared the deck when the gangway was lifted. Below, around, the Mycenians leaped into their longboats and rowed like hell. Not a single soldier left behind. Only the dead.
Light flashed, and Aedion whirled toward the ship’s helm in time to see Lysandra shift from ghost leopard to woman, naked as the day she was born.
Rolfe, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised as she flung her arms around his neck. And to his credit once more, the Pirate Lord wrapped his cloak around her before he gripped her back.
Aedion reached them, panting and so relieved he might vomit upon the shining planks.
Rolfe let go of Lysandra, offering her his cloak completely. As the shifter wrapped it around herself, he said, “You looked like you were in need of a rescue.”
Aedion only embraced the man, then nodded toward Rolfe’s gloved hands. “I assume we have that map of yours to thank.”
“Turns out it’s good for something other than plundering.” Rolfe smirked. “Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border,” he admitted. “They thought you might be in trouble—and sent us this way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They remain with what’s left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won’t have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here.” The Pirate Lord’s tan face tightened. “So here I am.”
Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. “Thank you,” he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.
Rolfe shook his head, gazing toward the mass of Morath soldiers still retreating. “We surprised them, but it won’t hold them off for long.”
Lysandra stepped to Rolfe’s side. Aedion tried not to cringe at the sight of her bare feet and legs, her uncovered shoulders, as the bitter wind off the river bit at them. “We only need to get to Orynth and behind its walls. From there, we can regroup.”
“I can’t carry your entire army to Orynth,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the soldiers massed on the far shore. “But I can bear you there now, if you would like to arrive in advance to prepare.” The Pirate Lord studied the shore, as if looking for someone. “She’s not here, is she.”
Lysandra shook her head. “No.”
“Then we’ll make do,” was all Rolfe said, the portrait of cool command. His sea-green eyes slid to where Ansel of Briarcliff stood at the ship’s rail, staring toward the field of heads left in the snow.
None of them spoke as the young queen slid to her knees, armor thunking on the deck, and bowed her head.
Aedion murmured, “Let me send word to our troops to march to Orynth, and then we’ll sail for the city.”
“I’ll do it,” Lysandra said, not looking at him. She didn’t bother to say anything else. Cloak falling to the planks, she shifted into a falcon and aimed for where Kyllian now climbed out of a longboat. They exchanged only a few words before Kyllian turned toward Aedion and lifted a hand in farewell.
Aedion raised one in answer, and then Lysandra shifted again. When she landed on the ship, returning to her human form and snatching up the cloak, it was to Ansel that she walked.
In silence, the shifter laid a hand on the queen’s armored shoulder. Ansel didn’t so much as glance up.
Aedion asked Rolfe, “How many of those firelances do you have?”
The Pirate Lord drew his gaze from Ansel to the black mass fading behind them. His mouth tightened. “Not enough to outlast a siege.”
And even the firelances would do nothing, absolutely nothing, once the witch towers reached Orynth’s walls.
CHAPTER 64
Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.
At the disaster they’d narrowly avoided, at the deaths she’d witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.
Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.
All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.
A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.
Yrene knelt over a ruk rider, the woman’s chest slashed open from a sword blow, and held out her bloodied, glowing hands.
Magic, clean and bright, flowed from her into the woman, mending torn skin and muscle. The blood loss would take time to recover from—but the woman had not lost so much of it that Yrene needed to expend her energy on refilling its levels.
She needed to rest soon. For a few hours.
She’d been asked to inspect the queen when she’d been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn’t been able to stop her hands from shaking as she’d hovered them over Aelin’s unconscious body.
There had been no sign of harm beyond a few already-healing cuts and slices from the battle itself. Nothing at all beyond a sleeping, tired woman.
Who held the might of a god within her veins.
Yrene had then inspected Prince Rowan, who looked in far worse shape, a sizable gash snaking down his thigh. But he’d waved her off, claiming he’d come too near a burnout, and just needed to rest as well.
So Yrene had left them, only to tend to another.
To Lorcan, whose injuries … Yrene had needed to summon Hafiza to help her with some of it. To lend her power, since Yrene’s had been so depleted.
The unconscious warrior, who had apparently tumbled right off Farasha as he and Elide had passed through the gates, didn’t so much as stir while they worked on him.
That had been hours ago. Days ago, it felt.
Yes, she needed to rest.
Yrene aimed for the water station in the back of the hall, her mouth dry as paper. Some water, some food, and perhaps a nap. Then she’d be ready to work again.
But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside.
Everyone halted—then rushed to the windows. Yrene’s smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield.
To where the rest of the khagan’s army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them.
Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.
From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.
Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin …
Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.
Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.
If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.
Lorcan let out a low groan as he surfaced from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness.
“You are one lucky bastard.”
Too soon. Too damn soon after hovering near death to hear Fenrys’s drawl.
Lorcan cracked open an eye, finding himself lying on a cot in a narrow chamber. A lone candle illuminated the space, dancing in the golden hair of the Fae warrior who sat in a wooden chair at the foot of his bed.
Fenrys’s smirk was a slash of white. “You’ve been out for a day. I drew the short stick and had to look after you.”
A lie. For whatever reason, Fenrys had chosen to be here.
Lorcan shifted his body—slightly.
No hint of pain beyond a dull throb down his back and tight pull across his stomach. He managed to lift his head enough to rip away the heavy wool blanket covering his naked body. Where he’d been able to see his insides, only a thick red scar remained.
Lorcan thumped his head back on the pillow. “Elide.” Her name was a rasp on his tongue.
The last he remembered, they’d ridden through the gates, Aelin Galathynius’s unholy power spent. Then oblivion had swept in.
“Helping with the healing in the Great Hall,” Fenrys said, stretching out his legs before him.
Lorcan closed his eyes, something tight in his chest easing.
“Well, since you’re not dead,” Fenrys began, but Lorcan was already asleep.
Lorcan awoke later. Hours, days, he didn’t know.
The candle was still burning on the narrow windowsill, down to its base. Hours, then. Unless he’d slept so long they’d replaced the candle altogether.
He didn’t care. Not when the dim light revealed the delicate woman lying facedown on the end of his cot, the lower half of her body still on the wooden chair where Fenrys had been. Her arms cradled her head, one outstretched toward him. Reaching for his hand, mere inches from hers.
Elide.
Her dark hair spilled across the blanket, across his shins, veiling much of her face.
Wincing at the lingering ache in his body, Lorcan stretched his arm just enough to touch her fingers.
They were cold, their tips so much smaller than his. They contracted, pulling away as she sucked in a sharp, awakening breath.
Lorcan savored every feature as she grimaced at a crick in her neck. But her eyes settled on him.
She went still as she found him staring at her, awake and utterly in awe of the woman who had ridden through hell to find him …
Tired. She looked spent, yet her chin remained unbowed.
Lorcan had no words. He’d given her everything on the back of that horse anyway.
But Elide asked, “How do you feel?”
Aching. Exhausted. Yet finding her sitting at his bedside … “Alive,” he said, and meant it.
Her face remained unreadable, even as her eyes dipped to his body. The blanket had slid down enough to reveal most of his torso, though it still hid the scarred-over wound in his abdomen. Yet he’d never felt so keenly naked.
It was an effort to keep his breathing steady beneath her sharp-eyed gaze. “Yrene said you would have died, if they hadn’t gotten to you when they did.”
“I would have died,” he said, voice like gravel, “if you hadn’t braved hell to find me.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “I made you a promise.”
“So you said.”
Was that a hint of color stealing across her pale cheeks? But she didn’t balk. “You said some interesting things, too.”
Lorcan tried to sit up, but his body gave a burst of pain in protest.
Elide explained, “Yrene warned that though the wounds are healed, some soreness will linger.”
Lorcan gritted his teeth around the sharp stab in his back, his stomach. He managed to get onto his elbows, and deemed that progress enough. “It’s been a while since I was so gravely injured. I’d forgotten what an inconvenience it is.”
A faint smile tugged on her mouth.
His heart halted. The first smile she had given him in months and months. Since that day on the ship, when he’d touched her hand as they’d swayed in their hammocks.
Her smile faded, but the color on her cheeks lingered. “Did you mean it? What you said.”
He held her stare. Let some inner wall within him come crumbling down. Only for her. For this sharp-eyed, cunning little liar who had slipped through every defense and ironclad rule he’d ever made for himself. He let her see that in his face. Let her see all of it, as no one had ever done before. “Yes.”
Her mouth tightened, but not in displeasure.
So Lorcan said softly, “I meant every word.” His heart thundered, so wildly it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. “And I will until the day I fade into the Afterworld.”
Lorcan didn’t breathe as Elide gently reached out her hand. And interlaced their fingers. “I love you,” she whispered.
He was glad he was lying down. The words would have knocked him to his knees. Even now, he was half inclined to bow before her, the true owner of his ancient, wicked heart.
“I have loved you,” she went on, “from the moment you came to fight for me against Vernon and the ilken.” The light in her eyes stole his breath. “And when I heard you were somewhere on that battlefield, the only thing I wanted was to be able to tell you that. It was the only thing that mattered.”
Once, he might have scoffed. Declared that far bigger things mattered, in this war especially. And yet the hand grasping his … He’d never known anything more precious.
Lorcan ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I am sorry, Elide. For all of it.”
“I know,” she said softly, and no regret or hurt dimmed her face. Only clear, unwavering calm shone there. The face of the mighty lady she was growing into, and had already become, and who would rule Perranth with wisdom in one hand and compassion in the other.
They stared at each other for minutes. For a blessed eternity.
Then Elide untangled their hands and rose. “I should return to help Yrene.”
Lorcan caught her hand again. “Stay.”
She arched a dark brow. “I’m only going to the Great Hall.”
Lorcan caressed his thumb over the back of her hand once more. “Stay,” he breathed.
For a heartbeat, he thought she’d say no, and was prepared to be fine with it, to accept these last few minutes as more of a gift than he’d deserved.
But then Elide sat on the edge of his cot, right beside his shoulder, and ran a hand through his hair. Lorcan closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, unable to stop the deep purr that rolled through his chest.
She made a low noise of wonder, perhaps something more, and her fingers stroked again.
“Say it,” she whispered, fingers stilling in his hair.
Lorcan opened his eyes, finding her gaze. “I love you.”
She swallowed hard, and Lorcan gritted his teeth as he sat up fully. This close, he had forgotten how much he towered over her. Atop that horse, she had been a force of nature, a defiant storm. His blanket slipped dangerously low, but he let it lie where it pooled in his lap.
He didn’t miss the dip of her stare. Or the long, upward drag of her eyes along his torso. He could almost feel it, lingering on every muscle and scar.
A soft groan came out of him as she continued to look her fill. Asking for things that he sure as hell was in no shape to give her. And that she might not yet be ready to give him, declarations aside.
He was immediately challenged to prove his resolve as Elide ran slightly shaking fingers across the new scar on his abdomen.
“Yrene said you might always have this,” she said, her hand mercifully falling away.
“Then it will be the scar I treasure most.” Fenrys would laugh until he cried to hear him speak this way, but Lorcan didn’t care. To hell with the rest of them.
Another one of those small smiles curved her lips, and Lorcan’s hands tightened in the sheets with the effort it took not to taste that smile, to worship it with his own mouth.
But this new, fragile thing humming between them … He would not risk it for all the world.
Elide, thank the gods, had no such worries. None at all, it seemed, as she lifted a hand to his cheek and ran her thumb along it. Every breath was an effort of control.
Lorcan held absolutely still as she brought her mouth to his. Brushed her lips across his own.
She pulled back. “Rest, Lorcan. I’ll be here again when you wake.”
Anything she asked, he’d give her. Anything at all.
Too shaken by that soft, beautiful kiss to bother with words, he lay back down.
She smiled at his utter obedience, and, as if she couldn’t help herself, leaned in once more.
This kiss lingered. Her mouth traced his, and at the slight pressure of her lips, the gentle request, he answered with his own.
The taste of her threatened to undo him entirely, and the tentative brush of her tongue against his own drew another rolling purr from deep in his chest. But Lorcan let Elide explore him, slowly and sweetly, giving her whatever she asked.
And when her mouth became more insistent, when her breathing turned ragged, he slipped a hand around her neck to cup her nape. She opened for him, and at her low moan, Lorcan thought he’d fly out of his skin.
His hand slipped from her nape to run down her back, savoring the warm, unbreakable body beneath the layers of clothes. Elide arched into the touch, another of those small noises coming from her. As if she’d been just as starved for him.
But Lorcan made himself pull away. Made himself withdraw his hand from her lower back. Panting slightly, sharing breath, he said onto her mouth, “Later. Go help the others.”
Dark eyes glazed with desire met his, and Lorcan adjusted the fall of the blanket over his lap. “Go help the others,” he repeated. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to sleep.”
The unspoken request lingered, and Elide pulled back, studying him once more.
“Sleep only,” Lorcan said, not bothering to hide the heat rising in his stare. “For now.”
Until she was ready. Until she told him, showed him, she wished to share everything with him. That final claiming.
But until then, he wanted her here. Sleeping at his side, where he might watch over her. As she had watched over him.
Elide’s face was flushed as she rose, her hands shaking. Not from fear, but from the same effort that it now took Lorcan not to reach for her.
He’d very much enjoy driving her out of her mind. Slowly teaching her all he knew about pleasure, about wanting. He had little doubt he’d be learning a good number of things from her, too.
Elide seemed to read that on his face, and her cheeks reddened further. “Later, then,” she breathed, limping to the door.
Lorcan sent a flicker of his power to wrap around her ankle. The limp vanished.
A hand on the knob, she gave him a small, grateful nod. “I missed that.”
He heard the unspoken words as she disappeared into the busy hall.
I missed you.
Lorcan allowed himself a rare smile.
CHAPTER 65
Dorian had gone to Morath.
Had flown from the camp on wings of his own making. He would have chosen some sort of small, ordinary bird, Manon knew. Something even the Thirteen would not have noted.
Manon stood at the edge of the outlook, gazing eastward.
Crunching snow told her Asterin approached. “He left, didn’t he.”
She nodded, unable to find words. She had offered him everything, and had thought he’d meant to accept it. Had thought he did accept it, with what they’d done afterward.
Yet it had been a farewell. One last coupling before he ventured into the jaws of death. He would not cage her, would not accept what she’d given.
As if he knew her better than she knew herself.
“Do we go after him?”
In the breaking light of dawn, the camp was stirring. Today—today they would decide where to go. Today, she’d dare ask the Crochans to follow. Would they heed her?
But to head to Morath, where they would be recognized long before they approached, to head back into hell …
The sun rose, full and golden, as if it were the solitary note of a song filling the world.
Manon opened her mouth.
“Terrasen calls for aid!” A young Crochan’s voice rang through the camp.
Manon and Asterin whirled, others following suit as the witch sprinted for Glennis’s tent. The crone emerged as the witch skidded to a halt. A scout, no doubt, breathless and hair wind-tossed.
“Terrasen calls for aid,” the scout panted, bracing her hands on her knees as she bent over to gulp down breaths. “Morath routed them at the border, then at Perranth, and advances on Orynth as we speak. They will sack the city within a week.”
Worse news than Manon had anticipated. Even if she’d needed it, waited for it.
The Thirteen closed in, Bronwen a step behind, and Manon didn’t dare breathe as Glennis stared toward the immortal flame burning in the fire pit mere feet away. The Flame of War.
Then she turned toward Manon. “What say you, Queen of Witches?”
A challenge and a dare.
Manon lifted her chin at the two paths before her.
One to the east, to Morath. The other northward, to Terrasen and battle.
The wind sang, and in it, she heard the answer.
“I shall answer Terrasen’s call,” Manon said.
Asterin stepped to her side, fearless as she surveyed the assembled camp. “As shall I.”
Sorrel flanked Manon’s right. “So shall the Thirteen.”
Manon waited, hardly daring to acknowledge the thing that began burning in her chest.
Then Bronwen stepped up, her dark hair blowing in the chill wind. “The Vanora hearth shall fly north.”
Another witch squared her shoulders. “So shall the Silian.”
And so it went.
Until the leaders of all seven of the Great Hearths stood gathered there.
Until Glennis said to Manon, “Long ago, Rhiannon Crochan rode at King Brannon’s side into battle. So has her likeness been reborn, so shall the old alliances be forged anew.” She gestured to the eternal flame. “Light the Flame of War, Queen of Witches, and rally your host.”
Manon’s heart raced, so wildly it pulsed in her palms, but she picked up a birch branch set amongst the kindling.
No one spoke as she plunged it into the eternal flame.
Red and gold and blue leaped upon the wood, devouring it. Manon withdrew the branch only when it had caught, deep and true.
Even the wind did not jostle the flame as Manon lifted it, a torch in the new day.
The Crochan crowd parted, revealing a straight path toward Bronwen’s hearth. The witch was already waiting, her coven gathered around her.
Each step was a drumbeat of war. An answer to a question posed long ago.
Bronwen’s eyes were bright as Manon stopped.
Manon only said, “Your queen summons you to war.”
And touched her flame to that in Bronwen’s hearth.
Light flared, bright and dancing.
Bronwen picked up a branch of her own, a long log burning in the fire. “The Vanora will fly.”
She withdrew the wood and stalked to the next clan’s hearth, where she plunged that kernel of the sacred fire into their pit. Again the light flared, just as Bronwen declared, loud and clear as the breaking day around them, “Your queen summons you to war. The Vanora fly with her. Will you?”
The hearth leader only said, “The Redbriar will fly,” and ignited her own torch before hurrying to the next clan’s fire.
Hearth to hearth. Until all seven in the camp had accepted and ignited the fire.
Then, and only then, did the young scout from the final clan take her burning torch, grab her broom, and leap into the skies. To find the next clan, to tell them the call had gone out.
Manon and the Thirteen, the Crochans around them, watched until the scout was nothing but a smoldering speck against the sky, then nothing at all.
Manon offered a silent prayer on the wind that the sacred flame the young scout bore would burn steadfast over the long, dangerous miles.
All the way to the killing fields of Terrasen.
Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went.
Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame.
But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen.
So hearth to hearth, it went.
To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high.
Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, “Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?”
Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine.
And swords—ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin.
Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time.
Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer. Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people.
Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war.
A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies in their red cloaks, swords strapped to their backs, brooms shedding years of dust with each mile northward.
Witches who bade their families farewell, offering no explanation before they kissed their sleeping babes and vanished into the starry night.
Mile after mile, across the darkening world, the call went out, ceaseless and unending as the eternal flame that passed from hearth to hearth.
“Fly, fly, fly!” they shouted. “To the queen! To war!”
Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.
CHAPTER 66
Aelin awoke to the scent of pine and snow, and knew she was home.
Not in Terrasen, not yet, but in the sense she would always be home, if Rowan was with her.
His steady breaths filled her right ear, the sound of the well and truly asleep, and the arm he’d draped across her middle was a solid, warm weight. Silvery light glazed the ancient stones of the ceiling.
Morning—or a cloudy day. The halls beyond the room offered shards of sound that she sorted through, piece by piece, as if she were assembling a broken mirror that might reveal the world beyond.
Apparently, it had been three days since the battle. And the rest of the khagan’s army, led by Prince Kashin, his third-eldest son, had arrived.
It was that tidbit that had her rising fully to consciousness, a hand sliding to Rowan’s arm. A caress of a touch, just to see how deeply the rejuvenating sleep held him. Three days, they’d slept here, unaware of the world. A dangerous, vulnerable time for any magic-wielder, when their bodies demanded a deep sleep to recover from expending so much power.
That was another sliver she’d picked up: Gavriel sat outside their door. In mountain lion form. People drew quiet when they approached, not realizing that as soon as they passed him, their whispers of That strange, terrifying cat could be detected by Fae ears.
Aelin ran a finger over the seam of Rowan’s sleeve, feeling the corded muscle beneath. Clear—her head, her body felt clear. Like the first icy breath inhaled on a winter’s morning.
During the days they’d slept, no nightmare had shaken her awake, hunted her. A small, merciful reprieve.
Aelin swallowed, her throat dry. What had been real, what Maeve had tried to plant in her mind—did it matter, whether the pain had been true or imagined?
She had gotten out, gotten away from Maeve and Cairn. Facing the broken bits inside her would come later.
For now, it was enough to have this clarity back. Even though releasing her power, expending that mighty blow here, had not been her plan.
Aelin slid her gaze toward Rowan, his harsh face softened into handsomeness by sleep. And clean—the gore that had splattered them both was gone. Someone must have washed it away while they slept.
As if he sensed her attention, or just felt the lingering hand on his arm, Rowan’s eyes cracked open. He scanned her from head to toe, deemed everything all right, and met her stare.
“Show-off,” he muttered.
Aelin patted his arm. “You put on a pretty fancy display yourself, Prince.”
He smiled, his tattoo crinkling. “Will that display be the last of your surprises, or are there more coming?”
She debated it—telling him, revealing it. Maybe.
Rowan sat up, the blanket sliding from him. Is this the sort of surprise that will end with my heart stopping dead in my chest?
She snorted, propping her head with a fist as she traced idle marks over the scratchy blanket. “I sent a letter—when we were at that port in Wendlyn.”
Rowan nodded. “To Aedion.”
“To Aedion,” she said, quietly enough that Gavriel couldn’t hear from his spot outside the door. “And to your uncle. And to Essar.”
Rowan’s brows rose. “Saying what?”
She hummed to herself. “Saying that I was indeed imprisoned by Maeve, and that while I was her captive, she laid out some rather nefarious plans.”
Her mate went still. “With what goal in mind?”
Aelin sat up, and picked at her nails. “Convincing them to disband her army. Start a revolt in Doranelle. Kick Maeve off the throne. You know, small things.”
Rowan just looked at her. Then scrubbed at his face. “You think a letter could do that?”
“It was strongly worded.”
