Changing winds—a changing world.

Perhaps a changing Thirteen, too. And herself.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

But Manon hoped they’d all survive it.

She hoped.

For three weeks they rode straight north, keeping off the main roads and out of the villages. There was no need to announce that Aelin was on her way back to Terrasen. Not until she saw her kingdom for herself and knew what she faced, both from within and from what gathered down in Morath. Not until she had somewhere safe to hide the great, terrible thing in her saddlebag.

With her magic, no one noticed the Wyrdkey’s presence. But Rowan would occasionally glance at the saddlebag and angle his head in inquiry. Each time, she’d silently tell him she was fine, and that she hadn’t noticed anything strange regarding the amulet. Or regarding the Eye of Elena, which she again wore at her throat. She wondered if Lorcan was indeed on his way to hunt down the second and third keys, perhaps where Perrington—Erawan—had held them all along. If the king hadn’t been lying.

She had a feeling Lorcan would start looking in Morath. And prayed the Fae warrior would defy the odds stacked against him and emerge triumphant. It would certainly make her life easier. Even if he’d one day come to kick her ass for deceiving him.

The summer days grew cooler the farther north they rode. Evangeline, to her credit, kept pace with them, never complaining about having to sleep on a bedroll night after night. She seemed perfectly happy to curl up with Fleetfoot, her new protector and loyal friend.

Lysandra used the journey to test out her abilities—sometimes flying with Rowan overhead, sometimes running as a pretty black dog alongside Fleetfoot, sometimes spending days in her ghost leopard form and pouncing on Aedion whenever he least expected it.

Three weeks of grueling travel—but also three of the happiest weeks Aelin had ever experienced. She would have preferred a little more privacy, especially with Rowan, who kept looking at her in that way that made her want to combust. Sometimes when no one was watching, he’d sneak up behind her and nuzzle her neck or tug at her earlobe with his teeth, or just slide his arms around her and hold her against him, breathing her in.

One night—just one gods-damned night with him was all she wanted.

They didn’t dare stop at an inn, so she was left to burn, and to endure Lysandra’s quiet teasing.

The terrain grew steeper, hillier, and the world turned lush and green and bright, the rocks becoming jagged granite outcroppings.

The sun had barely risen as Aelin walked beside her horse, sparing it from having to carry her up a particularly steep hill. She was already on her second meal of the day—already sweaty and dirty and cranky. Fire magic, it turned out, came in rather handy while traveling, keeping them warm on the chill nights, lighting their fires, and boiling their water. She would have killed for a tub big enough to fill with water and bathe in, but luxuries could wait.

“It’s just up this hill,” Aedion said from her left.

“What is?” she asked, finishing her apple and chucking the remains behind her. Lysandra, wearing the form of a crow, squawked in outrage as the core hit her. “Sorry,” Aelin called.

Lysandra cawed and soared skyward, Fleetfoot barking merrily at her as Evangeline giggled from atop her shaggy pony.

Aedion pointed to the hillcrest ahead. “You’ll see.”

Aelin looked at Rowan, who had been scouting ahead for part of the morning as a white-tailed hawk. Now he walked beside her, guiding his black stallion along. He lifted his brows at her silent demand for information. I’m not going to tell you.

She glowered at him. Buzzard.

Rowan grinned. But with every step, Aelin did the calculations about what day it was, and—

They crested the hill and halted.

Aelin released the reins and took a staggering step, the emerald grass soft underfoot.

Aedion touched her shoulder. “Welcome home, Aelin.”

A land of towering mountains—the Staghorns—spread before them, with valleys and rivers and hills; a land of untamed, wild beauty.

Terrasen.

And the smell—of pine and snow … How had she never realized that Rowan’s scent was of Terrasen, of home? Rowan came close enough to graze her shoulder and murmured, “I feel as if I’ve been looking for this place my entire life.”

Indeed—with the wicked wind flowing fast and strong between the gray, jagged Staghorns in the distance, with the dense spread of Oakwald to their left, and the rivers and valleys sprawling toward those great northern mountains—it was paradise for a hawk. Paradise for her.

“Right there,” Aedion said, pointing to a small, weather-worn granite boulder carved with whorls and swirls. “Once we pass that rock, we’re on Terrasen soil.”

Not quite daring to believe she wasn’t still asleep, Aelin walked toward that rock, whispering the Song of Thanks to Mala Fire-Bringer for leading her to this place, this moment.

Aelin ran a hand over the rough rock, and the sun-warmed stone tingled as if in greeting.

Then she stepped beyond the stone.

And at long last, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I think it’s common knowledge by now that I’d cease to function without my soul-twin, Jaeger copilot, and Threadsister, Susan Dennard.

Sooz, you are my light in dark places. You inspire and challenge me to not only be a better writer, but to also be a better person. Your friendship gives me strength and courage and hope. No matter what happens, no matter what might be waiting around the next bend in the road, I know I can face it, I can endure and triumph, because I have you at my side. There is no greater magic than that. I can’t wait to be majestic tiger-vampires with you for the rest of eternity.

To my fellow lady-in-arms and appreciator of all things feral/shape-shifting, Alex Bracken: How can I ever thank you enough for reading this book (and all my others) so many times? And how can I ever thank you enough for the years of e-mails, the countless lunches/drinks/dinners, and for always having my back? I don’t think I would have enjoyed this wild journey half as much without you—and I don’t think I would have survived this long without your wisdom, kindness, and generosity. Here’s to writing many more scenes with flimsy excuses for having shirtless dudes.

These books would not exist (I would not exist!) without my hardworking, supremely badass teams at the Laura Dail Literary Agency, CAA, and Bloomsbury worldwide. So my eternal love and gratitude go to Tamar Rydzinski, Cat Onder, Margaret Miller, Jon Cassir, Cindy Loh, Cristina Gilbert, Cassie Homer, Rebecca McNally, Natalie Hamilton, Laura Dail, Kathleen Farrar, Emma Hopkin, Ian Lamb, Emma Bradshaw, Lizzy Mason, Sonia Palmisano, Erica Barmash, Emily Ritter, Grace Whooley, Charli Haynes, Courtney Griffin, Nick Thomas, Alice Grigg, Elise Burns, Jenny Collins, Linette Kim, Beth Eller, Kerry Johnson, and the tireless, wonderful foreign rights team.

To my husband, Josh: Every day with you is a gift and a joy. I’m so lucky to have such a loving, fun, and spectacular friend to go on adventures with around the world. Here’s to many, many more.

To Annie, aka the greatest dog of all time: Sorry for accidentally eating all your turkey jerky that one time. Let’s never mention it again. (Also, I love you forever and ever. Let’s go cuddle.)