She nodded. “As you will it.”

Battles. There would be battles, because even now that Dorian Havilliard was king, the duke had no plans to let go—not with this army. As soon as those witch towers were built and he found another source of shadowfire, Aelin Galathynius and her forces would be obliterated.

Manon quietly hoped that Elide would not be on those battlefields.

The council meeting was soon over, and Manon paused as she walked past Vernon on her way out. She put a hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin, and he yelped as she brought her iron teeth close to his ear. “Just because she is dead, Lord, do not think that I will forget what you tried to do to her.”

Vernon paled. “You can’t touch me.”

Manon dug her nails in deeper. “No, I can’t,” she purred into his ear. “But Aelin Galathynius is alive. And I hear that she has a score to settle.” She yanked out her nails and squeezed his shoulder, setting the blood running down Vernon’s green tunic before she stalked from the room.

“What now?” Asterin said as they studied the new aerie they’d commandeered from one of the lesser covens. “Your grandmother arrives, and then we fight in this war?”

Manon gazed out the open archway to the ashy sky beyond. “For now, we stay. We wait for my grandmother to bring those towers.”

She didn’t know what she’d do when she saw her grandmother. She glanced sidelong at her Second. “That human hunter … How did he die?”

Asterin’s eyes gleamed. For a moment she said nothing. Then: “He was old—very old. I think he went into the woods one day and lay down somewhere and never came back. He would have liked that, I think. I never found his body.”

But she’d looked.

“What was it like?” Manon asked quietly. “To love.”

For love was what it had been—what Asterin perhaps alone of all the Ironteeth witches had felt, had learned.

“It was like dying a little every day. It was like being alive, too. It was joy so complete it was pain. It destroyed me and unmade me and forged me. I hated it, because I knew I couldn’t escape it, and knew it would forever change me. And that witchling … I loved her, too. I loved her in a way I cannot describe—other than to tell you that it was the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt, greater than rage, than lust, than magic.” A soft smile. “I’m surprised you’re not giving me the ‘Obedience. Discipline. Brutality’ speech.”

Made into monsters.

“Things are changing,” Manon said.

“Good,” Asterin said. “We’re immortals. Things should change, and often, or they’ll get boring.”

Manon lifted her brows, and her Second grinned.

Manon shook her head and grinned back.

With Rowan circling high above the castle on watch, and with their departure scheduled for dawn, Aelin took it upon herself to make one last trip to Elena’s tomb as the clock struck twelve.

Her plans, however, were ruined: the way to the tomb was blocked by rubble from the explosion. She’d spent fifteen minutes searching for a way in, with both her hands and her magic, but had no luck. She prayed Mort hadn’t been destroyed—though perhaps the skull door knocker would have embraced his strange, immortal existence coming to an end at last.

The sewers of Rifthold, apparently, were as clear of the Valg as the castle tunnels and catacombs, as if the demons had fled into the night when the king had fallen. For the moment, Rifthold was safe.

Aelin emerged from the hidden passageway, wiping the dust off her. “You two make so much noise, it’s ridiculous.” With her Fae hearing, she’d detected them minutes ago.

Dorian and Chaol were seated before her fireplace, the latter in a special wheeled chair that they’d acquired for him.

The king looked at her pointed ears, the elongated canines, and lifted a brow. “You look good, Majesty.” She supposed he hadn’t really noticed that day on the glass bridge, and she’d been in her human form until now. She grinned.

Chaol turned his head. His face was gaunt, but a flicker of determination shone there. Hope. He would not let his injury destroy him.

“I always look good,” Aelin said, plopping onto the armchair across from Dorian’s.

“Find anything interesting down there?” Chaol asked.

She shook her head. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look one last time. For old time’s sake.” And maybe bite Elena’s head off. After she got answers to all her questions. But the ancient queen was nowhere to be found.

The three of them looked at each other, and silence fell.

Aelin’s throat burned, so she turned to Chaol and said, “With Maeve and Perrington breathing down our necks, we might need allies sooner rather than later, especially if the forces in Morath block access to Eyllwe. An army from the Southern Continent could cross the Narrow Sea within a few days and provide reinforcements—push Perrington from the south while we hammer from the north.” She crossed her arms. “So I’m appointing you an official Ambassador for Terrasen. I don’t care what Dorian says. Make friends with the royal family, woo them, kiss their asses, do whatever you have to do. But we need that alliance.”

Chaol glanced at Dorian in silent request. The king nodded, barely a dip of his chin. “I’ll try.” It was the best answer she could hope for. Chaol reached into the pocket of his tunic and chucked the Eye toward her. She caught it in a hand. The metal had been warped, but the blue stone remained. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“He was wearing that for months,” Dorian said as she tucked the amulet into her pocket, “yet it never reacted—even in peril. Why now?”

Aelin’s throat tightened. “Courage of the heart,” she said. “Elena once told me that courage of the heart was rare—and to let it guide me. When Chaol chose to …” She couldn’t form the words. She tried again. “I think that courage saved him, made the amulet come alive for him.” It had been a gamble, and a fool’s one, but—it had worked.

Silence fell again.

Dorian said, “So here we are.”

“The end of the road,” Aelin said with a half smile.

“No,” Chaol said, his own smile faint, tentative. “The beginning of the next.”

The following morning, Aelin yawned as she leaned against her gray mare in the castle courtyard.

Once Dorian and Chaol had left last night, Lysandra had entered and passed out in her bed with no explanation for why or what she’d been doing beforehand. And since she was utterly unconscious, Aelin had just climbed into bed beside her. She had no idea where Rowan had curled up for the night, but she wouldn’t have been surprised to look out her window and spy a white-tailed hawk perched on the balcony rail.

At dawn, Aedion had burst in, demanding why they weren’t ready to leave—to go home.

Lysandra had shifted into a ghost leopard and chased him out. Then she returned, lingering in her massive feline form, and again sprawled beside Aelin. They managed to get another thirty minutes of sleep before Aedion came back and chucked a bucket of water on them.

He was lucky to escape alive.

But he was right—they had little reason to linger. Not with so much to do in the North, so much to plan and heal and oversee.

They would travel until nightfall, where they’d pick up Evangeline at the Faliqs’ country home and then continue north, hopefully uninterrupted, until they reached Terrasen.