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acourtofquestions · 3 days ago

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Made it out alive,

He scanned the starry sky, the slumbering lands beyond, the Lord of the North above.

It hit him a heartbeat later. Erupted around him and roared. Over and over and over, as if it were a hammer against an anvil. The others whirled to him.

That raging, fiery song charged closer. Through him. Down the mating bond. Down into his very soul. A bellow of fury and defiance. From down the hill, Lorcan rasped, "Rowan." It was impossible, utterly impossible, and yet--"North," Gavriel said, turning nis bay gelding. "The surge came from the North." From Doranelle.

A beacon in the night. Power rippling into the world, as it had done in Skull's Bay.

It filled him with sound, with fire and light. As if it screamed, again and again, I am alive, I am alive, I am alive. And then silence. Like it had been cut off. Extinguished.

He refused to think of why. The mating bond remained. Stretched taut, but it remained.

So he sent the words along it, with as much hope and fury and unrelenting love as he had felt from her. I will find you.

There was no answer. Nothing but humming darkness and the Lord of the North glistening above, pointing the way north. To her.

But I think I lost it.

"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.

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."

Said that I was fine,

Aelin's finger scratched along the curved edge of the altar again. The wolf blinked at her--thrice. In the early days, months, years of this, they had crafted a silent code between them. Using the few moments she'd been able to dredge up speech, whispering through the near-invisible holes in the iron coffin.

One blink for yes. Two for no. Three for Are you all right? Four for I am here, I am with you. Five for This is real, you are awake.

Fenrys again blinked three times. Are you all right?

Aelin swallowed against the thickness in her throat, her tongue peeling off the roof of her mouth. She blinked once. Yes.

She counted his blinks.

Six.

He'd made that one up. Liar, or something like it. She refused to acknowledge that particular code. She blinked once again. Yes.

Said it from the coffin,

So she told herself the story. The darkness and the flame deep within her whispered it, too, and she sang it back to them. Locked in that coffin hidden on an island within the heart of a river, the princess recited the story, over and over, and let them unleash an eternity of pain upon her body.

Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom...

They had entombed her in darkness and iron. She slept, for they had forced her to--had wafted curling, sweet smoke through the cleverly hidden airholes in the slab of iron above. Around. Beneath. A coffin built by an ancient queen to trap the sun inside.

Draped with iron, encased in it, she slept. Dreamed. Drifted through seas, through darkness, through fire. A princess of nothing. Nameless.

The princess sang to the darkness, to the flame. And they sang back.

There was no beginning or end or middle. Only the song, and the sea, and the iron sarcophagus that had become her bower.

Until they were gone. . .

. . . Everything. She had given everything for this, and had been glad to do it.

Aelin lay in darkness, the slab of iron like a starless night overhead.

She'd awoken in here. Had been in here for... a long time…

But she still told herself the story, still sometimes imagined that the river sang it to her. That the darkness living within the sealed coffin sang it to her as well.

Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom...

Remember how I died?

She found herself atop the landing, staring at the door. It had been unlocked and left slightly ajar. -- A strangled sort of noise broke out of her, and she ran the last few feet, barely noticing as she threw open the door and burst into the apartment. She was going to scream at him. And kiss him. And scream at him some more. A lot more. How dare he make her-- Arobynn Hamel was sitting on her couch. Celaena halted. The King of the Assassins slowly got to his feet. She saw the expression in his eyes and knew what he was going to say long before he opened his mouth and whispered, "I'm sorry." -- The silence struck.

"Where is Nehemia?" But Archer just shook his head, his eyes bright with tears. "They aren't going to question her, Celaena. And by the time my men get there, I think it will be too late." Too late. Celaena turned to Chaol. His face was stricken and pale. Archer shook his head again. "I'm sorry." -- Not again. Not again, she told herself with each step, each pound of her heart. Please. Celaena hit the top of the stairs. She could hear shouts from behind her, but she wouldn't stop, couldn't stop. Not again. Never again. The shouts behind her grew, people were calling her name. She would stop for no one. She turned down the familiar hallway, nearly sobbing with relief at the sight of the wooden door. It was shut; there were no signs of forced entry. -- Nehemia was dead.

"And tell Rowan,..." Aelin said, fighting her own sob, "that I'm sorry I lied. But tell him it was all borrowed time anyway. Even before today, I knew it was all just borrowed time, but I still wish we'd had more of it." She fought past her trembling mouth. "Tell him he has to fight. He must save Terrasen, and remember the vows he made to me. And tell him ... tell him thank you--for walking that dark path with me back to the light." …

… Rowan just stared at Aelin. At his mate, who had lied to him. To all of them. "It wasn't enough--the two of us together. It would have destroyed us both," Dorian wept. "Yet Damaris somehow summoned my father, and... he took my place. He offered to take my place so she..." Dorian lunged, reaching for Aelin's hand, but he'd left the ring of Wyrdmarks. They now kept him out. A wall that sealed in Aelin. The mating bond stretched thinner and thinner. "She and him--they're going to end it," Dorian said, shaking. Rowan barely heard the words. He should have known. Should have known that if their plan failed, Aelin would never willingly sacrifice a friend. Even for this. Even for her own future. She had known he'd try to keep her from forging the Lock if she'd mentioned that possibility, what she would do if it all went to hell. Had agreed to let Dorian help her only to get herself here. Would likely have dropped Dorian's hand without his father appearing. Over--she had said so many times that she wished if to be over. He should have listened. Chaol gripped Dorian, and the young lord said to Rowan, softly and sadly, "I'm sorry." She had lied. His Fireheart had lied. And he would now watch her die.

— He’d never forgive her. Her mate. She had needed him to let her go, needed him to accept it. She would never have been able to do it, to come here, had he been begging her not to, had he been weeping as she had wanted to weep when she had kissed him one last time. Come back to me, he had whispered. She knew he'd wait. Until he faded into the Afterworld, Rowan would wait for her to return. To come back to him. . .

When you started walking?

She wouldn't leave him like this, in this cold, dark room. . .

But just seeing the lividness written all over him had her riding that reckless, stupid edge again, and clinging to the anger was easier than embracing the quiet darkness that wanted to pull her down, down, down. "You know, it might be better if you just slapped me instead."

"Instead of what?"

"Instead of reminding me again and again how rutting worthless and awful and cowardly I am. Believe me, I can do the job well enough on my own. So just hit me, because I'm damned tired of trading insults. And you know what? You didn't even bother to tell me you'd be unavailable. If you'd said something, I never would have come. I'm sorry I did. But you just left me downstairs." Saying those last words made a sharp, quick panic rise up in her, an aching pain that had her throat closing. "You left me," she repeated. Maybe it was only out of blind terror at the abyss opening up again around her, but she whispered, "I have no one left. No one." She hadn't realized how much she meant it, how much she needed it not to be true, until now. -- She walked away without another word. With each step she took back to her room, that flickering light inside of her guttered. And went out. . .

She wouldn't leave him. Footsteps heading toward the door--then the snick of it closing as Arobynn left. Celaena closed her eyes. She wouldn't leave him. She wouldn't leave him.

That’s my life,

That was the moment that had broken everything Aelin Galathynius was and had promised to be. Celaena was lying on the ground--on the bottom of the world, on the bottom of hell. That was the moment she could not face--had not faced.

For even then, she had known the enormity of that sacrifice.

There was more, after the moment she'd hit the water. But those memories were hazy, a mix of ice and black water and strange light, and then she knew nothing more until Arobynn was crouched over her on the reedy riverbank, somewhere far away. She awoke in a strange bed in a cold keep, the Amulet of Orynth lost to the river. Whatever magic it had, whatever protection, had been used up that night.

Then the process of taking her fear and guilt and despair and twisting them into something new. Then the hate--the hate that had rebuilt her, the rage that had fueled her, smothering the memories she buried in a grave within her heart and never let out.

She had taken Lady Marion's sacrifice and become a monster, almost as bad as the one who had murdered Lady Marion and her own family.

That was why she could not, did not, go home.

She had never looked for the death tolls in those initial weeks of slaughter, or the years afterward. But she knew Lord Lochan had been executed. Quinn and his men. And so many of those children ... such bright lights, all hers to protect. And she had failed.

Celaena clung to the ground.

It was what she had not been able to tell Chaol, or Dorian, or Elena: that when Nehemia arranged for her own death so it would spur her into action, that sacrifice ... that worthless sacrifice ... She could not let go of the ground. There was nothing beneath it, nowhere else to go, nowhere to outrun this truth.

There was a scrape and crunch of shoes, then a small, smooth hand slid toward her. But it was not Chaol or Sam or Nehemia who lay across from her, watching her with those sad turquoise eyes. Her cheek against the moss, the young princess she had been-- Aelin Galathynius--reached a hand for her. "Get up," she said softly. Celaena shook her head. Aelin strained for her, bridging that rift in the foundation of the world. "Get up." A promise--a promise for a better life, a better world. The Valg princes paused… She had wasted her life, wasted Marion's sacrifice. Those slaves had been butchered because she had failed--because she had not been there in time… "Get up," someone said beyond the young princess. Sam. Sam, standing just beyond where she could see, smiling faintly. "Get up," said another voice--a woman's. Nehemia. "Get up." Two voices together--her mother and father, faces grave but eyes bright. Her uncle was beside them, the crown of Terrasen on his silver hair. "Get up," he told her gently.

One by one, like shadows emerging from the mist, they appeared. The faces of the people she had loved with her heart of wildfire. And then there was Lady Marion, smiling beside her husband. "Get up," she whispered, her voice full of that hope for the world, and for the daughter she would never seen again.

A tremor in the darkness.

The earth on which her kingdom lay, green and mountainous and as unyielding as its people.

Her people. Her people, waiting for ten years, but no longer. She could see the snow-capped Staghorns, the wild tangle of Oakwald at their feet, and ... and Orynth, that city of light and learning, once a pillar of strength--and her home. It would be both again.

She would not let that light go out.

She would fill the world with it, with her light--her gift. She would light up the darkness, so brightly that all who were lost or wounded or broken would find their way to it, a beacon for those who still dwelled in that abyss. It would not take a monster to destroy a monster--but light, light to drive out darkness.

She was not afraid.

She would remake the world--remake it for them, those she had loved with this glorious, burning heart; a world so brilliant and prosperous that when she saw them again in the Afterworld, she would not be ashamed. She would build it for her people, who had survived this long, and whom she would not abandon. She would make for them a kingdom such as there had never been, even if it took until her last breath. She was their queen, and she could offer them nothing less.

Aelin Galathynius smiled at her, hand still outreached. "Get up," the princess said. Celaena reached across the earth between them and brushed her fingers against Aelin's. And arose.

That's my life.

Aelin blocked out his words. Did nothing but gaze into the dark. She was so tired. So, so tired. For Terrasen, she had gladly done this. All of it. For Terrasen, she deserved to pay this price. She had tried to make it right. Had tried, and failed. And she was so, so tired.

Fireheart.

The whispered word floated through the eternal night, a glimmer of sound, of light. Fireheart.

The woman's voice was soft, loving. Her mother's voice. Aelin turned her face away. Even that movement was more than she could bear. Fireheart, why do you cry? Aelin could not answer. Fireheart.

The words were a gentle brush down her cheek. Fireheart, why do you cry? And from far away, deep within her, Aelin whispered toward that ray of memory, Because I am lost. And I do not know the way.

Cairn was still talking. Still scraping his knife over the coffin's lid. But Aelin did not hear him as she found a woman lying beside her. A mirror--or a reflection of the face she'd bear in a few years' time. Should she live that long. Borrowed time. Every moment of it had been borrowed time. Evalin Ashryver ran gentle fingers down Aelin's cheek. Over the mask. Aelin could have sworn she felt them against her skin. You have been very brave, her mother said. You have been very brave, for so very long. Aelin couldn't stop the silent sob that worked its way up her throat. But you must be brave a little while longer, my Fireheart. She leaned into her mother's touch. You must be brave a little while longer, and remember...

Her mother placed a phantom hand over Aelin's heart. It is the strength of this that matters. No matter where you are, no matter how far, this will lead you home. Aelin managed to slide a hand up to her chest, to cover her mother's fingers. Only thin fabric and iron met her skin. But Evalin Ashryver held Aelin's gaze, the softness turning hard and gleaming as fresh steel. It is the strength of this that matters, Aelin. Aelin's fingers dug into her chest as she mouthed, The strength of this. Evalin nodded. Cairn's hissed threats danced through the coffin, his knife scraping and scraping. Evalin's face didn't falter. You are my daughter. You were horn of two mighty bloodlines. That strength flows through you. Lives in you. Evalin's face blazed with the fierceness of the women who had come before them, all the way back to the Faerie Queen whose eyes they both bore.

You do not yield.

I'll put up a fight,

"My name is Celaena Sardothien," she whispered, "and I will not be afraid." The wagon cleared the wall and stopped. Celaena raised her head. I will not be afraid. Celaena Sardothien lifted her chin and walked into the Salt Mines of Endovier.

"Celaena," Chaol said gently. And then she heard the scraping noise as his hand came into view, sliding across the flagstones. His fingertips stopped just at the edge of the white line. "Celaena? he breathed, his voice laced with pain--and hope. This was all she had left--his outstretched hand, and the promise of hope, of something better waiting on the other side of that line. A quarter of an inch from Chaol, the thick white mark separating them. She lifted her eyes to his face, and found his gaze lined with silver. "Get up," was all he said. And in that moment, somehow his face was the only thing that mattered. She stirred, and couldn't stop her sob as her body erupted with pain that made her lie still again. But she kept her focus on his brown eyes, on his tightly pressed lips as they parted and whispered, "Get up."

What if we go on, only to more pain and despair? Then it is not the end. It was not the end. And she was not finished. But they were. "To a better world," Mala said, and walked through the doorway into her own. A better world. A world with no gods. No masters of fate. A world of freedom. She had been a slave and a pawn once before. She would never be so again. Not for them. Never for them. The debt has already been paid enough. A map home, a map inked in the words of universes, would lead the way. More and more and more. But not all. She would not give it up. Her innermost self. She would not surrender. They would not take this lingering kernel of her. She would not yield it. They would not destroy her. They would not be allowed to take this. Come back to me. She would live. She would live, and they could all go to hell. A better world. With no gods, no fates. A world of their own making. Aelin bellowed and bellowed, the sound ringing out across all worlds. They would not beat her. They would not get to take this, this most essential kernel of self. Of soul. Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom.... Her kingdom. Her home. She would see it again. It was not over. Aelin's hand drifted to her heart and rested there. It is the strength of this that matters, her mother had said, long ago. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home. No matter where she was. No matter how far. Even if it took her beyond all known worlds. Aelin's fingers curled, palm pressing into the pounding heart beneath. This will lead you home. The archway to Erilea inched closed. World-walker. Wayfarer. Others had done it before. She would find a way, too. A way home. No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds. She would not go quietly. She was not afraid.

Taking out my earrings.

The girl wore her scars the way some women wore their finest jewelry. — They had taken her scars. Maeve had taken them all away. -- There were no scars where there should have been. The almost-necklace of them from Baba Yellowlegs: gone. The shackle marks from Endovier: gone. The scar where she'd been forced by Arobynn Hamel to break her own arm: gone. And on her palms... It was upon her exposed palms that Aelin now gazed. As if realizing what was missing. The scars across her palms, one from the moment they had become carranam, the other from her oath to Nehemia, had disappeared entirely. Like they had never been.--New skin, because they'd needed to replace what had been destroyed. To heal her so they could begin again and again.

"There are no gods left to watch, I'm afraid. And there are no gods left to help you now, Aelin Galathynius." — Light and darkness. Life and death. Where do I fit in? The thought sent a jolt through her so strong that her hands fumbled for anything to use against him. Not like this. She'd find a way--she could find a way to survive. I will not be afraid. She'd whispered that every morning in Endovier; but what good were those words now? A demon came at her, and a scream--not of terror or of despair, but rather a plea--burst from her throat. A call for help. And from another world, Elena swept down, cloaked in golden light. "I cannot protect you," whispered the queen, her skin glowing. Her face was different, too--sharper, more beautiful. Her Fae heritage. "I cannot give you my strength." She traced her fingers across Celaena's brow. "But I can remove this poison from your body." --Elena put a hand on Celaena's forehead. "Take it," said the queen. Celaena strained to reach the remnant of the staff, her vision flashing between the sunny veranda and the endless dark. "Be gone," Elena barked, forming a symbol with her fingers. A bright blue light burst from her hands. "Stand," Elena said. She was becoming translucent. Her hands drifted from Celaena's cheeks, and a white light filled the sky. The poison left Celaena's body. Cain, once again a man of flesh and blood, walked over to the sprawled assassin. "Stand." Elena whispered again, and was gone. The world appeared. — Aelin smiled, and Goldryn burned brighter. "I am a god."

Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be afraid. Maeve and Erawan halted. So did the army poised behind them, a final blow of the hammer, ready to land upon Orynth. The magic in her veins was little more than a sputtering ember. But they did not know that. Her shaking hands threatened to drop her weapons, but she held firm. Held fast. Not one more step. — Hold the line. — A crown of flame appeared atop her head, swirling and unbreakable. She could never win against both of them. But she wouldn't make it easy. Would take one of them down with her, if she could. Or at least slow them enough for the others to enact their plan, to find a way to either halt or defeat them. Even if either option seemed unlikely. Hopeless. But that was why she remained here. To give them that slim shred of hope. That will to keep fighting. At the end of this, if that was all she was able to do against Erawan and Maeve, she could go to the Afterworld with her chin held high. She would not be ashamed to see those she had loved with her heart of wildfire. — A Fire-Bringer no more. But Aelin all the same.

Don't you know the vibe?

"Yield to me?" You do not yield. Aelin blinked. "It's easier, isn't it," Maeve mused, bracing her forearms against the lip of the coffin. "To remain here. So you needn't make such terrible choices. To let the others share the burden. Bear its cost." A hint of a smile. "Deep down, that's what haunts you. That wish to be free? Freedom--she'd known it. Hadn't she? "It's what you fear most--not me, or Erawan, or the keys. That your wish to be free of the weight of your crown, your power, will consume you. Embitter you until you do not recognize your own self." Her smile widened. "I wish to spare you from that. With me, you shall be free in a way you've never imagined, Aelin. I swear it." An oath. She had sworn an oath. To Terrasen. To Nehemia. To Rowan. Aelin closed her eyes, shutting out the queen above her, the mask, the chains, the iron box. Not real. This was not real. Wasn't it? "I know you're tired," Maeve went on, gently, coaxingly. "You gave and gave and gave, and it was still not enough. It will never be enough for them will it?" -- Would never stop feeling it, the whisper of the pain. -- Cairn ran a hand over the rim of the coffin. "I broke some part of you, didn't I?" I name you Elentiya, "Spirit That Could Not Be Broken?" Aelin traced her metal-encrusted fingers over her palm. Where a scar should be. Where it still remained. Would always remain, even if she could not see it. Nehemia--Nehemia, who had given everything for Eyllwe. And yet... And yet, Nehemia had still felt the weight of her choices. Still wished to be free of her burdens. It had not made her weak. Not in the slightest. Her hands curled into fists. Iron groaned. Spirit that could not be broken. Spirit that could not be broken. You do not yield. She would endure it again, if asked. She would do it. Every brutal hour and bit of agony. And it would hurt, and she would scream, but she'd face it. Survive against it. Arobynn had not broken her. Neither had Endovier. She would not allow this waste of existence to do so now. Her shaking eased, her body going still. Waiting. Maeve blinked at her. Just once. Aelin sucked in a breath--sharp and cool. She did not want it to be over. Any of it. Aelin sat up in the coffin. Maeve backed away all of a step. Aelin surveyed the illusion, so artfully wrought. The stone chamber, with its braziers and hook from the ceiling. The stone altar. The open door and roar of the river beyond. She made herself look. To face down that place of pain and despair. It would always leave a mark, a stain on her, but she would not let it define her. Hers was not a story of darkness. This would not be the story. She would fold it into herself, this place, this fear, but it would not be the whole story. It would not be her story. "How?" Maeve simply asked. Aelin knew a world and a battlefield raged beyond them. But she let herself linger in the stone chamber. Climbed from the iron coffin. Maeve only stared at her. "You should have known better," Aelin said, the lingering embers within her shining bright. "You, who feared captivity and did all this to avoid it. You should have known better than to trap me. Should have known l'd find a way." "How?" Maeve asked again. "How did you not break?" "Because I am not afraid," Aelin said.

Don't you know the feeling?

“You make me want to live, Rowan. Not survive. Not exist. Live.” — “You make me want to live, too, Aelin Galathynius,” he said. “Not exist—but live.”

Live, Aelin. — Live.

You should spend the night,

"Do you want to know what your first mission will be?" She looked at his golden-brown eyes and all of the promises that lay within them, and linked her arm with his as she smiled. "Tell me tomorrow."

"Can I give you a suggestion for what we should rebuild first?" Aelin smiled, and eternity opened before them, shining and glorious and lovely. "Tell me tomorrow."

Catch me on your ceiling.

Celaena sat on the edge of her roof, looking out across the city. . . She didn't want to be a part of this tangled web. Not when Arobynn had made it perfectly clear that she could never win. . . "I thought you might be up here," Sam said, striding across the flat roof to where she sat atop the wall that lined the edge. He surveyed the city. "Some view; I can see why you decided to move." She smiled slightly, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

That's your prize,

He understood what she meant by this--this relationship between them, this bond that was forming, so unbreakable and unyielding that it made the entire axis of her world shift toward him. That terrified her more than anything. "I can wait," he said thickly, kissing her collarbone. "We have all the time in the world." Maybe he was right. And spending all the time in the world with Sam ... That was a treasure worth paying anything for. . . He brushed his lips against hers. "I love you," he breathed against her mouth. "And from today onward, I want to never be separated from you. Wherever you go, I go. Even if that means going to Hell itself, wherever you are, that's where I want to be. Forever." Celaena put her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, giving him her silent reply. Beyond them, the sun set over the capital, turning the world into crimson light and shadows…

That's your prize.

"Rowan," she whispered. From the rustle of sheets, she knew he was instantly awake. Stalking toward her, even as he shoved on his pants. But Aelin didn't turn as he rushed onto the balcony. And halted, too. In silence, they stared. Bells began pealing; people shouted. Not with fear. But in wonder. A hand rising to her mouth, Aelin scanned the broad sweep of the world. The mountain wind brushed away her tears, carrying with it a song, ancient and lovely. From the very heart of Oakwald. The very heart of the earth. Rowan twined his fingers in hers and whispered, awe in every word, "For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you." Aelin wept then. Wept in joy that lit her heart, brighter than any magic could ever be. All the time in the world. . . A better world.

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