Kingdom of Ash

Dorian hadn’t believed it—hadn’t dared to hope for what he saw.

A foreign army, marching northward. An army he’d grown up studying. There were the khagan’s foot soldiers, and the Darghan cavalry. There were the legendary ruks, magnificent and proud, soaring above them in a sea of wings.

He’d aimed as close to the head of the army as he could get, wondering which of the royals had come. Wondering if Chaol was with them. If the presence of this miraculous army meant his friend had succeeded against all odds.

The ruks had spied him then.

Chased him, and he’d begun signaling as he’d neared. Hoping they’d pause.

But then he’d landed at the crossroads. And then he’d seen them. Seen her.

Aelin, galloping for him. Rowan at her side, Elide and the others with her.

Maeve had believed Aelin had headed to Terrasen. And here she was, with the khagan’s army.

Aelin’s smile faded the moment she grew close. As if she sensed what he bore.

“Where’s Manon?” was all she asked.

“Terrasen,” he breathed, panting slightly. “And likely with the Crochans, if it went according to plan.”

She opened her mouth, eyes wide, but another rider came galloping down the road.

The world went quiet.

The approaching rider halted, another—a beautiful woman Dorian could only describe as golden—right behind.

But Dorian stared at the rider before him. At the posture of the body, the commanding seat he possessed.

And as Chaol Westfall dismounted and ran the last few feet toward Dorian, the King of Adarlan wept.

Chaol didn’t hide his tears, the shaking that overtook him as he collided with Dorian and embraced his king.

No one said a word, though Chaol knew they were all gathered. Knew Yrene stood behind him, crying with them.

He just held his friend, his brother.

“I knew you’d do it,” Dorian said, voice raw. “I knew you’d find a way. For all of it.”

The army. The fact that he was now standing.

Chaol only gripped Dorian tighter. “You have one hell of a story to tell yourself.”

Dorian pulled back, his face solemn.

A story, Chaol realized, that might not be as happy as his own.

Yet before whatever doom Dorian carried could fall upon them, Chaol gestured to where Yrene had dismounted and now wiped away her tears.

“The woman responsible for this,” Chaol said, motioning to his standing, his walking, to the army stretching down the road. “Yrene Towers. A healer at the Torre Cesme. And my wife.”

Yrene bowed, and Chaol could have sworn a flicker of sorrow darkened Dorian’s eyes. But then his king was taking Yrene’s hands, lifting her from her bow. And though that sorrow still edged his smile, Dorian said to her, “Thank you.”

Yrene went scarlet. “I’ve heard so much about you, Your Majesty.”

Dorian only winked, a ghost of the man he’d been before. “All bad things, I hope.”

Yrene laughed, and the joy on her face—the joy that Chaol knew was for both of them—made him love her all over again.

“I have always wanted a sister,” Dorian said, and leaned to kiss Yrene on either cheek. “Welcome to Adarlan, Lady.”

Yrene’s smile turned softer—deeper, and she laid a hand on her abdomen. “Then you shall be pleased to hear that you’ll soon be an uncle.”

Dorian whirled to him. Chaol nodded, unable to find the words to convey what flooded his heart.

But Dorian’s smile dimmed as he faced where Aelin now leaned against a tree, Rowan and Elide beside her.

“I know,” Aelin said, and Chaol knew she didn’t mean about the pregnancy.

Dorian closed his eyes, and Chaol laid a hand on his king’s shoulder at whatever burden he was about to reveal.

“I retrieved the third from Morath,” Dorian said.

Chaol’s knees buckled, and Yrene was instantly there, an arm around his waist.

The Wyrdkeys.

Chaol asked Dorian, “You have all three now?”

Dorian nodded once.

A look from Rowan had his cadre peeling off to make sure none from the army got close enough to hear.

“I snuck into Morath to get the third,” Dorian said.

“Holy gods,” Aelin breathed. Chaol just blinked.

“That was the easy part,” Dorian said, paling. The khaganate royals emerged from the ranks, and Dorian smiled at Nesryn. Then nodded to the royals. Introductions would come later.

“Maeve was there,” Dorian said to Aelin.

Flame danced at Aelin’s fingertips as she rested her hand atop Goldryn. The fire seemed to sink into the blade, the ruby flickering. “I know,” she said quietly.

Dorian’s brows rose. Aelin just shook her head, motioning him to continue as the cadre returned.

“Maeve discovered my presence, and …” Dorian sighed, and the whole story came tumbling out.

When he was done, Chaol was glad Yrene had kept her arm around his waist. Silence fell, thick and taut. Dorian had destroyed Morath.

“I have little doubt,” Dorian admitted, “that both Erawan and Maeve survived Morath’s collapsing. It likely only served to enrage them.”

It didn’t stop Chaol from marveling at his friend, the others gawking.

“Well done,” Lorcan said, scanning the king from head to toe. “Well done indeed.”

Aelin let out an impressed whistle. “I wish I could have seen it,” she said to Dorian, shaking her head. Then she turned to Rowan. “Your uncle and Essar came through, then. They kicked Maeve to the curb.”

The Fae Prince snorted. “You said your letter was strongly worded. I should have believed you.” Aelin sketched a bow. Chaol hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about, but Rowan went on, “So if Maeve cannot be Queen of the Fae, she will find herself another throne.”

“Bitch,” Fenrys spat. Chaol was inclined to agree.

“Our worst fears have been confirmed, then,” Prince Sartaq said, glancing to his siblings. “A Valg king and queen united.” A nod toward Elide. “Your uncle did not lie.”

“Maeve has no army now,” Dorian reminded them. “Just her power.”

Nesryn cringed. “The hybrids she created with the princesses might be disaster enough.”

Chaol glanced to Yrene, the woman who held the greatest weapon against the Valg within her own body.

“When did you leave Morath?” Rowan asked.

“Three days ago,” Dorian said.

Rowan turned to Aelin, ashen-faced as she remained leaning against the tree. Chaol wondered if she did so only because her own legs might not be able to support her. “Then at least we know that Erawan has not yet come to Terrasen.”

“His Ironteeth host went ahead of him,” Dorian said.

“We know,” Chaol said. “They’re already at Orynth.”

Dorian shook his head. “That’s impossible. They left soon after I did. I’m surprised you didn’t see them flying past in the Ruhnns.”

Silence.

“The full Ironteeth host isn’t yet at Orynth,” Aelin said softly. Too softly.

“I counted over a thousand in the host that I flew with,” Dorian said. “Many bore soldiers with them—all Valg.”

Chaol closed his eyes, and Yrene’s arm tightened around him in silent comfort.

“We knew the rukhin would be outnumbered anyway,” Nesryn said.

“There won’t be anything left of Terrasen for the rukhin to defend,” Prince Kashin said, rubbing his jaw. “Even if the Crochans arrived before us.”

The Queen of Terrasen pushed off from the tree at last. “We have two choices, then,” she said, her voice unwavering despite the hell that swept upon them. “We continue north, as fast as we can. See what there is to fight when we arrive at Terrasen. I might be able to bring down a good number of those wyverns.”

“And the other option?” Princess Hasar asked.

Aelin’s face was stark. “We have the three Wyrdkeys. We have me. I can end this now. Or at least take Erawan out of play before he can find us, steal those keys back, and rule over this world and all others.”

Rowan started, shaking his head. But Aelin held up a hand. And even the Fae Prince stood down. “It’s not my choice alone.”

And Chaol realized that it was indeed a queen standing before them, not the assassin he’d dragged out of a salt mine a few miles down the road. Not even the woman he’d seen in Rifthold.

Dorian squared his shoulders. “The choice is also mine.”

Slowly, so slowly, Aelin looked at him. Chaol braced himself. Her voice was deadly soft as she said to Dorian, “You retrieved the third key. Your role in this is done.”

“Like hell it is,” Dorian said, sapphire eyes flashing. “The same blood, the same debt, flows in my veins.”

Chaol’s hands curled at his sides as he fought to keep his mouth shut. Rowan seemed to be doing the same as the two rulers squared off.

Aelin’s face remained unmoved—distant. “You’re so eager to die?”

Dorian didn’t retreat. “Are you?”

Silence. Utter silence in the clearing.

Then Aelin shrugged, as if the weight of entire worlds didn’t hang in the balance. “Regardless of who will put the keys back into the gate, this is a fate that belongs to all of us. So all of us should decide.” Her chin lifted. “Do we continue on to war, hope we make it to Orynth in time, and then destroy the keys? Or do we destroy the keys now, and then you continue northward.” A pause, horrible and unbearable. “Without me.”

Rowan was shaking, whether with restraint or in dread, Chaol couldn’t tell.

Aelin said, unwavering and calm, “I would like to put it to a vote.”

A vote.

Rowan had never heard of anything so absurd.

Even as part of him glowed with pride that she had chosen now, here, as the moment when that new world she had promised would rise.

A world in which a few did not hold all the power, but many. Beginning with this, this most vital choice. This unbearable fate.

All of them had moved farther down the road, and it was not lost on Rowan that they stood at a crossroads. Or that Dorian and Aelin and Chaol stood in the heart of that crossroads, merely a few miles from the salt mines. Where so much of this had begun, just over a year ago.

There was a dull roar in Rowan’s ears as the debate raged.

He knew he should fall on his knees and thank Dorian for retrieving the third key. But he hated the king all the same.

He hated this path they’d been put on, a thousand years ago. Hated that this choice lay before them, when they had already fought so much, given so much.

Prince Kashin was saying, “We march on a hundred thousand enemy troops, possibly more. That number will not change when the Wyrdgate is closed. We will need the Fire-Bringer to cut through them.”

Princess Hasar shook her head. “But there is the possibility of that army’s collapse should Erawan vanish. Cut off the beast’s head and the body could die.”

“That’s a big risk to take,” Chaol said, his jaw tight. “Erawan’s removal from all this might help, or it might not. An enemy army this big, full of Valg who might be eager to fill his place, could be impossible to stop at this point.”

“Then why not use the keys?” Nesryn asked. “Why not bring the keys north and use them, destroy the army, and—”

“The keys cannot be wielded,” Dorian cut in. “Not without destroying the bearer. We’re not entirely sure a mortal could withstand the power.” He nodded toward Aelin, silent and watchful while it took all of Rowan’s training not to hurl up his guts. “Just putting them back in the gate requires everything.” He added tightly, “From one of us.”

Rowan knew he should be arguing against this, should be bellowing.

Dorian went on, “I should do it.”

“No.” The word broke from Chaol—and Aelin. Her first word since this debate had begun.

But it was Fenrys who asked Chaol, voice deadly soft, “You’d rather my queen die than your king?”

Chaol stiffened. “I’d rather neither of my friends die. I’d rather none of this happen.”

Before Fenrys could snarl his answer, Yrene cut in. “So when the Lock is forged and the Wyrdgate is sealed, the gods will be gone?”

“Good riddance,” Fenrys muttered.

But Yrene stiffened at the casual dismissal, and put a hand over her heart. “I love Silba. Dearly. When she is gone from this world, will my powers cease to exist?” She gestured to the gathered group.

“Doubtful,” Dorian said. “That cost, at least, was never demanded.”

“What of the other gods in this world?” Nesryn asked, frowning. “The thirty-six of the khaganate. Are they not gods as well? Will they be sent away, or just these twelve?”

“Perhaps our gods are of a different sort,” Princess Hasar mused.

“Can they not help us, then?” Yrene asked, sorrow for the goddess who had blessed her still darkening her golden eyes. “Can they not intervene?”

“There are indeed other forces at work in this world,” Dorian said, touching Damaris’s hilt. The god of truth—that’s who had blessed Gavin’s sword. “But I think if those forces had been able to aid us in this manner, they would have done so already.”

Aelin tapped her foot on the ground. “Expecting divine handouts is a waste of our time. And not the topic at hand.” She fixed her burning stare on Dorian. “We are also not debating who shall pay the cost.”

“Why.” Rowan’s low question was out before he could halt it.

Slowly, his mate turned toward him. “Because we’re not.” Sharp, icy words. She cut Dorian a look, and the King of Adarlan opened his mouth. “We’re not,” she snarled.

Dorian opened his mouth again, but Rowan caught his eye. Held his stare and let him read the words there. Later. We shall debate this later.

Whether Aelin noted their silent conversation, whether she beheld Dorian’s subtle nod, she didn’t let on. She only said, “We don’t have time to waste on endless debate.”

Lorcan nodded. “Every moment we have all three keys is a risk of Erawan finding us, and finally gaining what he seeks. Or Maeve,” he added, frowning. “But even with that, I would go north—let Aelin put a dent in Morath’s legions.”

“Be objective,” Aelin growled. She surveyed them all. “Pretend you do not know me. Pretend I am no one, and nothing to you. Pretend I am a weapon. Do you use me now, or later?”

“You are not no one, though,” Elide said quietly. “Not to a good many people.”

“The keys go back in the gate,” Aelin said a bit coldly. “At some point or another. And I go with them. We are deciding whether that is now, or in a few weeks.”

Rowan couldn’t bear it. To hear another word. “No.”

Everyone halted once more.

Aelin bared her teeth. “Not doing anything isn’t an option.”

“We hide them again,” Rowan said. “He lost them for thousands of years. We can do it again.” He pointed to Yrene. “She could destroy him all on her own.”

“That is not an option,” Aelin growled. “Yrene is with child—”

“I can do it,” Yrene said, stepping from Chaol’s side. “If there’s a way, I could do it. See if the other healers could help—”

“There will be Valg by the thousands for you to destroy or save, Lady Westfall,” Aelin said with that same cold. “Erawan could slaughter you before you even get the chance to touch him.”

“Why are you allowed to give up your life for this, and no one else?” Yrene challenged.

“I am not the one carrying a child within me.”

Yrene blinked slowly. “Hafiza might be able to—”

“I will not play a game of what-ifs and mights,” Aelin said, in a tone that Rowan had heard so rarely. That queen’s tone. “We vote. Now. Do we put the keys back in the gate immediately, or continue to Terrasen and then do it if we are able to stop that army?”

“Erawan can be stopped,” Yrene pushed, unfazed by the queen’s words. Unafraid of her wrath. “I know he can. Without the keys, we can stop him.”

Rowan wanted to believe her. Wanted more than anything he’d ever desired in his life to believe Yrene Westfall. Chaol, glancing at Dorian, seemed inclined to do the same.

But Aelin pointed at Princess Hasar. “How do you vote?”

Hasar held Aelin’s stare. Considered for a moment. “I vote to do it now.”

Aelin just pointed to Dorian. “You?”

Dorian tensed, the unfinished debate still raging in his face. But he said, “Do it now.”

Rowan closed his eyes. Barely heard the other rulers and their allies as they gave their replies. He walked to the edge of the trees, prepared to run if he began to vomit.

Then Aelin said, “You’re last, Rowan.”

“I vote no. Not now, not ever.”

Her eyes were cold, distant. The way they’d been in Mistward.

“It’s decided, then,” Chaol said quietly. Sadly.

“At dawn, the Lock will be forged and the keys go back into the gate,” Dorian finished.

Rowan just stared and stared at his mate. His reason for breathing.

Elide asked softly, “What is your vote, Aelin?”

Aelin tore her eyes from Rowan, and he felt the absence of that stare like a frozen wind as she said, “It doesn’t matter.”