Kingdom of Ash

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.

A Prince of Wendlyn no longer, but a true Lord of Terrasen.

Aelin smiled at the thought as she slipped on her dressing robe, shuffling her feet into her shearling-lined slippers. Even with spring fully upon them, the mornings were chill. Indeed, Fleetfoot lay beside the fire on her little cushioned bed, curled up tightly. And as equally exhausted as Rowan, apparently. The hound didn’t bother to crack open an eye.

Aelin threw the blankets back over Rowan’s naked body, smiling down at him when he didn’t so much as stir. He much preferred the physical rebuilding—working for hours on repairing buildings and the city walls—to the courtly bullshit, as he called it. Meaning, anything that required him to put on nice clothing.

Yet he’d promised to dance with her at Lysandra and Aedion’s wedding. Such unexpectedly fine dancing skills, her mate had. Only for special occasions, he’d warned after her coronation.

Sticking out her tongue at him, Aelin turned from their bed and strode for the windows that led onto the broad balcony overlooking the city and plain beyond. Her morning ritual—to climb out of bed, ease through the curtains, and emerge onto the balcony to breathe in the morning air.

To look at her kingdom, their kingdom, and see that it had made it. See the green of spring, and smell the pine and snow of the wind off the Staghorns. Sometimes, Rowan joined her, holding her in silence when all that had happened weighed too heavily upon her. When the loss of her human form lingered like a phantom limb. Other times, on the days when she woke clear-eyed and smiling, he’d shift and sail on those mountain winds, soaring over the city, or Oakwald, or the Staghorns. As he loved to do, as he did when his heart was troubled or full of joy.

She knew it was the latter that sent him flying these days.

She would never stop being grateful for that. For the light, the life in Rowan’s eyes.

The same light she knew shone in her own.

Aelin reached the heavy curtains, feeling for the handle to the balcony door. With a final smile to Rowan, she slipped into the morning sun and chill breeze.

She went still, her hands slackening at her sides, as she beheld what the dawn had revealed.

“Rowan,” she whispered.

From the rustle of sheets, she knew he was instantly awake. Stalking toward her, even as he shoved on his pants.

But Aelin didn’t turn as he rushed onto the balcony. And halted, too.

In silence, they stared. Bells began pealing; people shouted.

Not with fear. But in wonder.

A hand rising to her mouth, Aelin scanned the broad sweep of the world.

The mountain wind brushed away her tears, carrying with it a song, ancient and lovely. From the very heart of Oakwald. The very heart of the earth.

Rowan twined his fingers in hers and whispered, awe in every word, “For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you.”

Aelin wept then. Wept in joy that lit her heart, brighter than any magic could ever be.

For across every mountain, spread beneath the green canopy of Oakwald, carpeting the entire Plain of Theralis, the kingsflame was blooming.