Two days later, Nesryn Faliq was still recovering from the ball that had lasted until dawn.
But what a celebration it had been.
Nothing as majestic as anything in the southern continent, but the sheer joy and laughter in the Great Hall, the feasting and dancing … She would never forget it, as long as she lived.
Even if it might take her until her dying day to feel rested again.
Her feet still ached from dancing and dancing and dancing, and she’d spotted both Aelin and Lysandra grousing about it at the breakfast table just an hour ago.
The queen had danced, though—a sight Nesryn would never forget, either.
The first dance had been Aelin’s to lead, and she had selected her mate to join her. Both queen and consort had changed for the party, Aelin into a gown of black threaded with gold, Rowan into black embroidered with silver. And what a pair they had been, alone on the dance floor.
The queen had seemed shocked—delighted—as the Fae Prince had led her into a waltz and had not faltered a step. So delighted that she’d crowned them both with flames.
That had been the start of it.
The dance had been … Nesryn had no words for the swiftness and grace of their dance. Their first as queen and consort. Their movements had been a question and answer to each other, and when the music had sped up, Rowan had spun and dipped and twirled her, the skirts of her black gown revealing Aelin’s feet, clad in golden slippers.
Feet that moved so quickly over the floor that embers sparked at her heels. Trailed in the wake of her sweeping dress.
Faster and faster, Aelin and Rowan had danced, spinning, spinning, spinning, the queen glowing like she’d been freshly forged as the music gathered into a clashing close.
And when the waltz slammed into its triumphant, final note, they halted—a perfect, sudden stop. Right before the queen threw her arms around Rowan and kissed him.
Nesryn was still smiling about it, sore feet and all, as she stood in the dusty chamber that had become the headquarters for the khaganate royals, and listened to them talk.
“The Healer on High says it will be another five days until the last of our soldiers are ready,” Prince Kashin was saying to his siblings. To Dorian, who had been asked into this meeting today.
“And you will depart then?” Dorian asked, smiling a bit sadly.
“Most of us,” Sartaq said, smiling with equal sadness.
For it was friendship that had grown here, even in war. True friendship, to last beyond the oceans that would separate them once more.
Sartaq said to Dorian, “We asked you here today because we have a rather unusual request.”
Dorian lifted a brow.
Sartaq winced. “When we visited the Ferian Gap, some of our rukhin found wyvern eggs. Untended and abandoned. Some of them now wish to stay here. To look after them. To train them.”
Nesryn blinked, right along with Dorian. No one had mentioned this to her. “I—I thought the rukhin never left their aeries,” Nesryn blurted.
“These are young riders,” Sartaq said with a smile. “Only two dozen.” He turned to Dorian. “But they begged me to ask you if it would be permissible for them to stay when we leave.”
Dorian considered. “I don’t see why they couldn’t.” Something sparked in his eyes, an idea formed and then set aside. “I would be honored, actually.”
“Just don’t let them bring the wyverns home,” Hasar groused. “I never want to see another wyvern for as long as I live.”
Kashin patted her on the head. Hasar snapped her teeth at him.
Nesryn chuckled, but her smile faded as she found Dorian smiling sadly at her, too.
“I think I’m about to lose another Captain of the Guard,” the King of Adarlan said.
Nesryn bowed her head. “I …” She hadn’t anticipated having this conversation. Not right now, at least.
“But I will be glad,” Dorian went on, “to gain another queen whom I can call friend.”
Nesryn blushed. It deepened as Sartaq smirked and said, “Not queen. Empress.”
Nesryn cringed, and Sartaq laughed, Dorian with him.
Then the king embraced her tightly. “Thank you, Nesryn Faliq. For all you have done.”
Nesryn’s throat was too tight to speak, so she hugged Dorian back.
And when the king left, when Kashin and Hasar went to find an early lunch, Nesryn turned to Sartaq and cringed again. “Empress? Really?”
Sartaq’s dark eyes glittered. “We won the war, Nesryn Faliq.” He tugged her close. “And now we shall go home.”
She’d never heard such beautiful words.
Chaol stared at the letter in his hands.
It had arrived an hour ago, and he still hadn’t opened it. No, he’d just taken it from the messenger—one of the fleet of children commanded by Evangeline—and brought it back to his bedroom.
Seated on his bed, the candlelight flickering through the worn chamber, he still couldn’t bring himself to crack the red wax seal.
The doorknob twisted, and Yrene slipped in, tired but bright-eyed. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you,” he said with a pointed look to her abdomen.
She waved him off, as easily as she’d waved off the titles of Savior, and Hero of Erilea. As easily as she waved off the awed stares, the tears, when she strode by.
So Chaol would be proud for both of them. Would tell their child of her bravery, her brilliance.
“What’s that letter?” she asked, washing her hands, then her face, in the ewer by the window. Beyond the glass, the city was silent—sleeping, after a long day of rebuilding. The wild men of the Fangs had even remained to help, an act of kindness that Chaol would ensure did not go unrewarded. Already, he had looked into where he might expand their territory—and the peace between them and Anielle.
Chaol swallowed. “It’s from my mother.”
Yrene paused, her face still dripping. “Your … Why haven’t you opened it?”
He shrugged. “Not all of us are courageous enough to take on Dark Lords, you know.”
Yrene rolled her eyes, dried her face, and plopped down on the bed beside him. “Do you want me to read it first?”
He did. Damn him, but he did. Wordlessly, Chaol handed it to her.
Yrene said nothing as she opened the sealed parchment, her golden eyes darting over the inked words. Chaol tapped a finger on his knee. After a long day of healing, he knew better than to try to pace. Had barely made it back here with the cane before he’d sunk to the bed.
Yrene put a hand to her throat as she turned the page, read the back.
When she lifted her head again, tears slid down her cheeks. She handed him the letter. “You should read it yourself.”
“Just tell me.” He’d read it later. “Just—tell me what it says.”
Yrene wiped at her face. Her mouth trembled, but there was joy in her eyes. Pure joy. “It says that she loves you. It says that she has missed you. It says that if you and I are amenable to it, she would like to come live with us. Your brother Terrin, too.”
Chaol reached for the letter, scanning the text. Still not believing it. Not until he read,
I have loved you from the moment I knew you were growing in my womb.
He didn’t stop his own tears from falling.
Your father informed me of what he did with my letters to you. I informed him I shall not be returning to Anielle.
Yrene leaned her head against his shoulder while he read and read.
The years have been long, and the space between us distant, his mother had written. But when you are settled with your new wife, your babe, I would like to visit. To stay for longer than that, Terrin with me. If that would be all right with you.
Tentative, nervous words. As if his mother, too, did not quite believe that he’d agree.
Chaol read the rest, swallowing hard as he reached the final lines.
I am so very proud of you. I have always been, and always will be. And I hope to see you very soon.
Chaol set down the letter, wiped at his cheeks, and smiled at his wife. “We’re going to have to build a bigger house,” he said.
Yrene’s answering grin was all he’d hoped for.
The next day, Dorian found Chaol and Yrene in the sick bay that had been moved to the lower levels, the former in his wheeled chair, helping his wife tend to a wounded Crochan, and beckoned them to follow.
They did, not asking him questions, until he found Manon atop the aerie. Saddling Abraxos for his morning ride. Where she’d been each day, falling into a routine that Dorian knew was as much to keep the grief at bay as it was to maintain order.
Manon stilled as she beheld them, brows narrowing. She’d met Chaol and Yrene days ago, their reunion quiet but not chilly, despite how poorly Chaol’s first encounter with the witch had gone. Yrene had only embraced the witch, Manon holding her stiffly, and when they’d pulled apart, Dorian could have sworn some of the paleness, the gauntness, had vanished from Manon’s face.
Dorian asked the Witch-Queen, “Where do you go, when everyone leaves?”
Manon’s golden eyes didn’t leave his face.
He hadn’t dared ask her. They hadn’t dared speak of it. Just as he had not yet spoken of his father, his name. Not yet.
“To the Wastes,” she said at last. “To see what might be done.”
Dorian swallowed. He’d heard the witches, both Ironteeth and Crochans, talking about it. Had felt their growing nerves—and excitement. “And after?”
“There will be no after.”
He smiled slightly at her, a secret, knowing smile. “Won’t there be?”
Manon asked, “What is it that you want?”
You, he almost said. All of you.
But Dorian said, “A small faction of the rukhin are remaining in Adarlan to train the wyvern hatchlings. I want them to be my new aerial legion. And I would like you, and the other Ironteeth, to help them.”
Chaol coughed, and gave him a look as if to say, You were going to tell me this when?
Dorian winked at his friend and turned back to Manon. “Go to the Wastes. Rebuild. But consider it—coming back. If not to be my crowned rider, then to train them.” He added a bit softly, “And to say hello every now and then.”
Manon stared at him.
He tried not to look like he was holding his breath, like this idea he’d had mere minutes ago in the khaganate royals’ chamber wasn’t coursing through him, bright and fresh.
Then Manon said, “It is only a few days by wyvern from the Wastes to Rifthold.” Her eyes were wary, and yet—yet that was a slight smile. “I think Bronwen and Petrah will be able to lead if I occasionally slip away. To help the rukhin.”
He saw the promise in her eyes, in that hint of a smile. Both of them still grieving, still broken in places, but in this new world of theirs … perhaps they might heal. Together.
“You could just marry each other,” Yrene said, and Dorian whipped his head to her, incredulous. “It’d make it easier for you both, so you don’t need to pretend.”
Chaol gaped at his wife.
Yrene shrugged. “And be a strong alliance for our two kingdoms.”
Dorian knew his face was red when he turned to Manon, apologies and denials on his lips.
But Manon smirked at Yrene, her silver-white hair lifting in the breeze, as if reaching for the united people who would soon soar westward. That smirk softened as she mounted Abraxos and gathered up the reins. “We’ll see,” was all Manon Blackbeak, High Queen of the Crochans and Ironteeth, said before she and her wyvern leaped into the skies.
Chaol and Yrene began bickering, laughing as they did, but Dorian strode to the edge of the aerie. Watched that white-haired rider and the wyvern with silver wings become distant as they sailed toward the horizon.
Dorian smiled. And found himself, for the first time in a while, looking forward to tomorrow.