She had barely the breath to scream for a healer as she dismounted.
Barely the breath to unsaddle the ruk, murmuring to the bird as she did. So much blood, the gouging lines from the ilken sentry deep. No sheen of poison, but—
“Are you hurt?” Sartaq. The prince’s eyes were wide, his face bloodied, as he scanned her from head to toe. Behind him, Kadara panted on the battlements, her feathers as bloody as her rider.
Sartaq gripped her shoulders. “Are you hurt?” She’d never seen such panic in his face.
Nesryn only pointed to the now-still enemy, unable to find the words.
But others did. One word, one name, over and over. Yrene.
Healers raced up the battlements, aiming for both ruks, and Nesryn allowed herself to slide her arms around Sartaq’s waist. To press her face against his armored chest.
“Nesryn.” Her name was a question and a command. But Nesryn only held him tightly. So close. They had come so, so close to utter defeat.
Yrene. Yrene. Yrene, the soldiers and people of the city shouted.
Sartaq ran a hand down her matted hair. “You know what victory means, don’t you?”
Nesryn lifted her head, brows narrowing. Behind them, Salkhi patiently stood while the healer’s magic soothed over his eye. “A good night’s rest, I hope,” she said.
Sartaq laughed, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “It means,” he said against her skin, “that we are going home. That you are coming home—with me.”
And even with the battle freshly ended, even with the dead and wounded around them, Nesryn smiled. Home. Yes, she would go home with him to the southern continent. And to all that waited there.
Aelin, Rowan, Lorcan, and Fenrys lingered on the plain outside the city gates until they were certain the fallen army was not going to rise. Until the khagan’s troops went between the enemy soldiers, nudging and prodding. And received no answer.
But they did not behead. Did not sever and finish the job.
Not for those with the black rings, or black collars.
Those whom the healers might yet save.
Tomorrow. That would come tomorrow.
The moon had reached its peak when they wordlessly decided that they had seen enough to determine Erawan’s army would never rise again. When the ruks, Crochans, and rebel Ironteeth had vanished, chasing the last of the aerial legion into the night.
Then Aelin turned toward the southern gate to Orynth.
As if in answer, it groaned open to meet her.
Two arms flung wide.
Aelin looked to Rowan, their crowns of flame still burning, undimmed. Took his hand.
Heart thundering through every bone in her body, Aelin took a step toward the gate. Toward Orynth. Toward home.
Lorcan and Fenrys fell into step behind them. The latter’s wounds still leaked down his face, but he had refused Aelin and Rowan’s offers to heal him. Had said he wanted a reminder. They hadn’t dared to ask of what—not yet.
Aelin lifted her chin high, shoulders squaring as they neared the archway.
Soldiers already lined either side.
Not the khagan’s soldiers, but men and women in Terrasen armor. And civilians amongst them, too—awe and joy in their faces.
Aelin looked at the threshold of the gate. At the ancient, familiar stones, now caked in blood and gore.
She sent a whisper of flame skittering over them. The last dregs of her power.
When the fire vanished, the stones were again clean. New. As this city would be made anew, brought to greater heights, greater splendors. A beacon of learning and light once more.
Rowan’s fingers tightened around hers, but she did not look at him as they crossed the threshold, passing through the gate.
No, Aelin only looked at her people, smiling broadly and freely, as she entered Orynth, and they began to cheer, welcoming her home at long last.
CHAPTER 117
Aedion had fought until the enemy soldier before him had slumped to his knees as if dead.
But the man, a black ring on his finger, was not dead at all.
Only the demon inside him.
And when soldiers of countless nations began to cheer, when word spread that a Torre Cesme healer had defeated Erawan, Aedion simply turned from the battlements.
He found him by scent alone. Even in death, the scent lingered, a path that Aedion followed through the wrecked streets and throngs of celebrating, weeping people.
A lone candle had been lit in the empty barracks room where they’d set his body atop a worktable.
It was there that Aedion knelt before his father.
How long he stayed there, head bowed, he didn’t know. But the candle had nearly burned down to its base when the door creaked open, and a familiar scent flitted in.
She said nothing as she approached on silent feet. Nothing as she shifted and knelt beside him.
Lysandra only leaned into him, until Aedion put his arm around her, tucking her in tight.
Together, they knelt there, and he knew her grief was as real as his. Knew her grief was for Gavriel, but also for his own loss.
The years he and his father would not have. The years he’d realized he wanted to have, the stories he wished to hear, the male he wished to know. And never would.
Had Gavriel known that? Or had he fallen believing his son wished nothing to do with him?
He couldn’t endure it, that potential truth. Its weight would be unbearable.
When the candle sputtered out, Lysandra rose, and took him with her.
A grand burial, Aedion silently promised. With every honor, every scrap of stately regalia that could be found in the aftermath of this battle. He’d bury his father in the royal graveyard, amongst the heroes of Terrasen. Where he himself would be buried one day. Beside him.
It was the least he could do. To make sure his father knew in the Afterworld.
They stepped into the street, and Lysandra paused to wipe away his tears. To kiss his cheeks, then his mouth. Loving, gentle touches.
Aedion slid his arms around her and held her tightly under the stars and moonlight.
How long they stood in the street, he didn’t know. But then a throat cleared nearby, and they peeled apart to turn toward its source.
A young man, no older than thirty, stood there.
Staring at Lysandra.
Not a messenger, or a soldier, though he wore the heavy clothes of the rukhin. There was a self-possessed purpose to him, a quiet sort of strength in his tall frame as he swallowed.
“Are you—are you Lady Lysandra?”
Lysandra angled her head. “I am.”
The man took a step, and Aedion suppressed the urge to push her behind him. To draw his sword on the man whose gray eyes widened—and shone with tears.
Who smiled at her, broad and joyous.
“My name is Falkan Ennar,” he said, putting a hand on his chest.
Lysandra’s face remained the portrait of wary confusion.
Falkan’s smile didn’t waver. “I have been looking for you for a very, very long time.”
And then it came out, Falkan’s tears flowing as he told her.
Her uncle. He was her uncle.
Her father had been much older than him, but ever since Falkan had learned of her existence, he’d been searching for her. Ten years, he’d hunted for his dead brother’s abandoned child, visiting Rifthold whenever he could. Never realizing that she might have his gifts, too—might not wear any of his brother’s features.
But Nesryn Faliq had found him. Or they’d found each other. And then they had figured it out, a bit of chance in this wide world.
His fortune as a merchant was hers to inherit, if she would like.
“Whatever you wish,” Falkan said. “You shall never want for anything again.”
Lysandra was crying, and it was pure joy on her face as she flung her arms around Falkan and embraced him tightly.
Aedion watched, silent and ripped open. Yet happy for her—he would always be happy for her, for any ray of light she found.
Lysandra pulled away from Falkan, though. Still smiling bright, more lovely than the night sky above. She laced her fingers with Aedion’s and squeezed tight as she answered her uncle at last, “I already have everything I need.”
Hours later, still sitting on the balcony where Erawan had been blasted away into nothing, Dorian didn’t quite believe it.
He kept staring at that spot, the dark stain on the stones, Damaris jutting up from it. The only trace left.