Kingdom of Ash

His father stood there. The man he had last seen on a bridge in a glass castle, and yet not.

There was kindness on his face. Humanity.

And sorrow. Such terrible, pained sorrow.

Dorian’s magic faltered.

Even Aelin’s magic slowed in surprise, the torrent thinning to a trickle, a steady and agonizing drain.

“Stop,” the man breathed, staggering toward them, glancing at the ribbon of power, blinding and pure, feeding the Lock’s formation.

Aelin said, “This cannot be stopped.”

His father shook his head. “I know. What has begun can’t be halted.”

His father.

“No,” Dorian said. “No, you cannot be here.”

The man only looked down—to Dorian’s side. To where a sword might be. “Did you not summon me?”

Damaris. He had been wearing Damaris within that ring of Wyrdmarks. In their world, their existence, he still did.

The sword, the unnamed god it served, apparently thought he had one truth left to face. One more truth, before his end.

“No,” Dorian repeated. It was all he could think to say as he looked upon him, the man who had done such terrible things to all of them.

His father lifted his hands in supplication. “My boy,” he only breathed.

Dorian had nothing to say to him. Hated that this man was here, at the end and beginning.

Yet his father looked to Aelin. “Let me do this. Let me finish this.”

“What?” The word snapped from Dorian.

“You were not chosen,” Aelin said, though the coldness in her voice faltered.

“Nameless is my price,” the king said.

Aelin went still.

“Nameless is my price,” his father repeated. The warning of an ancient witch, the damning words written on the back of the Amulet of Orynth. “For the bastard-born mark you bear, you are Nameless, yet am I not so as well?” He glanced between them, his eyes wide. “What is my name?”

“This is ridiculous,” Dorian said through his teeth. “Your name is—”

But where there should have been a name, only an empty hole existed.

“You …,” Aelin breathed. “Your name is … How is it that you don’t have one, that we don’t know it?”

Dorian’s rage slipped. And the agony of having his magic, his soul, shredded from him became secondary as his father said, “Erawan took it. Wiped it from history, from memory. An ancient, terrible spell, so powerful it could only be used once. All so I might be his most faithful servant. Even I do not know my name, not anymore. I lost it.”

“Nameless is my price,” Aelin murmured.

Dorian looked then. At the man who had been his father. Truly looked at him.

“My boy,” his father whispered again. And it was love—love and pride and sorrow that shone in his face.

His father who had been possessed as he had, who had tried to save them in his own way and failed. His father, who had everything taken from him, but had never bowed to Erawan—not entirely.

“I want to hate you,” Dorian said, his voice breaking.

“I know,” his father said.

“You destroyed everything.” He couldn’t stop his tears. Aelin’s hand only tightened in his.

“I am sorry,” his father breathed. “I am sorry for all of it, Dorian.”

And even the way his father said his name—he had never heard him speak it like that.

Dismiss him. Throw him into some hell-world. That’s what he should do.

And yet Dorian knew for whom he had really brought down Morath. For whom he’d buried that room of collars, the hateful tomb around them.

“I’m sorry,” his father said again.

He did not need Damaris to tell him the words were true.

“Let me pay this debt,” his father said, stepping closer. “Let me pay this, do this. Does Mala’s blood not flow through my veins as well?”

“You don’t have magic—not like we do,” Aelin said, her eyes sorrowful.

His father met Aelin’s stare. “I have enough—just enough in my blood. To help.”

Dorian glanced over his shoulder, toward the archway that opened to Erilea. To home. “Then let him,” he said, though the words did not come out with the iciness he wished. Only heaviness and exhaustion.

Aelin said softly to his father, “I had planned to before it got to the end.”

“Then you will not be alone now,” his father replied. Then the man smiled at him—a vision of the king, the father, he might have been. Had always been, despite what had befallen him. “I am grateful—that I got to see you again. One last time.”

Dorian had no words, couldn’t find them. Not as Aelin turned to him, tears sliding down her face as she said, “One of us has to rule.”

Before Dorian could understand, before he could realize the agreement she’d just made, Aelin ripped her hand from his.

And shoved him through that gateway behind them. Back into their own world.

Roaring, Dorian fell.

As the Wyrdgate’s misty realm vanished, Dorian saw Aelin take his father’s hand.