Kingdom of Ash

Yet her flames made no appearance. They hadn’t shown so much as an ember these weeks, despite how hard they’d trained.

Occasionally, he’d spy Goldryn’s ruby gleaming while she held it, as if fire glowed in the heart of the stone. But nothing more.

Not even when they’d tangled in their bed on the ship, when his teeth had found that mark on her neck.

Elide surveyed them all, their silence, and said to their new companions, “Perhaps we should determine a plan of action regarding tomorrow’s battle.” And give them time, later tonight, to sort through this colossal mess.

Chaol nodded. “We brought a trunk of books with us,” he said to Aelin. “From the Torre. They’re all full of Wyrdmarks.” Aelin didn’t so much as blink, but Chaol finished, “If we get through this battle, they’re yours to peruse. In case there’s anything in them that might help.” Against Erawan, against Maeve, against his mate’s terrible fate.

Aelin just vaguely nodded.

So Rowan forced himself to shove away the shock and disgust and fear, and focus upon the plan ahead. Only Gavriel seemed able to do the same, Fenrys staying where he was, and Lorcan just staring and staring at nothing.

Aelin remained in her chair, simmering. Roiling.

They planned it quickly and efficiently: they would return with Chaol and Yrene to the keep, to help with the fighting tomorrow. The khaganate royals would push from here, Nesryn and Prince Sartaq leading the ruks, and Princess Hasar commanding the foot soldiers and Darghan cavalry.

A brilliantly trained, lethal group. Rowan had already marked the Darghan soldiers, with their fine horses and armor, their spears and crested helmets, while they’d strode for this tent, and breathed a sigh of relief at their skill. Perhaps the last sigh of relief he’d have in this war. Certainly if the khagan’s forces hadn’t yet decided where they would take this army afterward.

He supposed it was fair—so many territories were now in Morath’s path—but when this battle was over, he’d make damn sure they marched northward. To Terrasen.

But tomorrow—tomorrow they’d hammer Morath’s legion against the keep walls, Chaol and Rowan leading the men from inside, picking off enemy soldiers.

Aelin didn’t volunteer to do anything. Didn’t indicate that she’d heard them.

And when they’d all deemed the plan sound, along with a contingency plan should it go awry, Nesryn only said, “We’ll find you ruks to carry you back to the keep,” before Aelin stormed into the frigid night, Rowan barely keeping up with her.

No embers trailed her. Mud did not hiss beneath her boots.

There was no fire at all. Not a spark.

As if Maeve had snuffed out that flame. Made her fear it.

Hate it.

Aelin cut through the neatly organized tents, past horses and their armored riders, past foot soldiers around campfires, past the ruk riders and their mighty birds, who filled him with such awe he had no words for it. All the way to the eastern edge of the camp and the plains that stretched past, the space wide and hollow after the closeness of the army.

She didn’t stop until she reached a stream they’d crossed only hours ago. It was nearly frozen over, but a stomp of her boot had the ice cracking. Breaking free to reveal dark water kissed with silvery starlight.

Then she fell to her knees and drank.

Drank and drank, cupping the water to her mouth. It had to be cold enough to burn, but she kept at it until she braced her hands on her knees and said, “I can’t do this.”

Rowan sank to a knee, the shield he’d kept around her while she stalked here sealing out the cold wind off the open plain.

“I—I can’t—” She took a shuddering breath, and covered her face with her wet hands.

Gently, Rowan gripped her wrists and lowered them. “You do not face this alone.”

Anguish and terror filled those beautiful eyes, and his chest tightened to the point of pain as she said, “It was a fool’s shot against Erawan. But against him and Maeve? She gathered an army to her. Is likely bringing that army to Terrasen right now. And if Erawan summons his two brothers, if the other kings return—”

“He needs the two other keys to do that. He doesn’t have them.”

Her fingers curled, digging into her palms hard enough that the tang of her blood filled the air. “I should have gone after the keys. Right away. Not come here. Not done this.”

“It is Dorian’s task now, not yours. He will not fail at it.”

“It is my task, and always has been—”

“We made the choice to come here, and we will stick to that decision,” he snarled, not bothering to temper his tone. “If Maeve is indeed bringing her army to Terrasen, then it only confirms that we were right to come here. That we must convince the khagan’s forces to go northward after this. It is the only chance we stand of succeeding.”

Aelin ran her hands through her hair. Streams of blood stained the gold. “I cannot win against them. Against a Valg king and queen.” Her voice turned to a rasp. “They have already won.”

“They have not.” And though Rowan hated each word, he growled, “And you survived two months against Maeve with no magic to protect you. Two months of a Valg queen trying to break into your head, Aelin. To break you.”

Aelin shook. “She did, though.”

Rowan waited for it.

Aelin whispered, “I wanted to die by the end, before she ever threatened me with the collar. And even now, I feel like someone has ripped me from myself. Like I’m at the bottom of the sea, and who I am, who I was, is far up at the surface, and I will never get back there again.”

He didn’t know what to say, what to do other than to gently pull her fingers from her palms.

“Did you buy the swagger, the arrogance?” she demanded, voice breaking. “Did the others? Because I’ve been trying to. I’ve been trying like hell to convince myself that it’s real, reminding myself I only need to pretend to be how I was just long enough.”

Long enough to forge the Lock and die.

He said softly, “I know, Aelin.” He hadn’t bought the winks and smirks for a heartbeat.

Aelin let out a sob that cracked something in him. “I can’t feel me—myself anymore. It’s like she snuffed it out. Ripped me from it. She, and Cairn, and everything they did to me.” She gulped down air, and Rowan wrapped her in his arms and pulled her onto his lap. “I am so tired,” she wept. “I am so, so tired, Rowan.”

“I know.” He stroked her hair. “I know.” It was all there really was to say.

Rowan held her until her weeping eased and she lay still, nestled against his chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

“You fight,” he said simply. “We fight. Until we can’t anymore. We fight.”

She sat up, but remained on his lap, staring into his face with a rawness that destroyed him.

Rowan laid a hand on her chest, right over that burning heart. “Fireheart.”

A challenge and a summons.

She placed her hand atop his, warm despite the frigid night. As if that fire had not yet gone out entirely. But she only gazed up at the stars. To the Lord of the North, standing watch. “We fight,” she breathed.

Aelin found Fenrys by a quiet fire, gazing into the crackling flames.

She sat on the log beside him, raw and open and trembling, but … the salt of her tears had washed away some of it. Steadied her. Rowan had steadied her, and still did, as he kept watch from the shadows beyond the fire.

Fenrys lifted his head, his eyes as hollow as she knew hers had been.

“Whenever you need to talk about it,” she said, her voice still hoarse, “I’m here.”

Fenrys nodded, his mouth a tight line. “Thank you.”

The camp was readying for their departure, but Aelin scooted closer, and sat beside him in silence for long minutes.

Two healers, marked only by the white bands around their biceps, hurried past, arms full of bandages.

Aelin tensed. Focused on her breathing.

Fenrys marked her line of sight. “They were horrified, you know,” he said quietly. “Every time she brought them in to … fix you.”