“And you love this world. You love Erilea.”

Maeve’s dark eyes scanned Aelin, then Rowan and Lorcan, before she answered. “Yes. In the way that I can love anything.”

Aelin kept her hand outstretched. The unspoken offer in it. “And if I choose to banish you, you will go wherever it is we decide. And never bother us again, or any other.”

“Yes,” Maeve snapped, grimacing at the immortal blade piercing her heart. The queen bowed her head, panting, and took Aelin’s outstretched hand.

Aelin drew close. Just as she slid something onto Maeve’s finger.

And whispered in Maeve’s ear, “Then go to hell.”

Maeve reared back, but too late.

Too late, as the golden ring—Silba’s ring, Athril’s ring—shone on her pale hand.

Aelin backed to Rowan’s side as Maeve began to scream.

Screaming and screaming toward the dark sky, toward the stars.

Maeve had wanted the ring not for protection against Valg. No, she was Valg. She’d wanted it so that no other might have it.

Yet when Elide had given it to Aelin, it had not been to destroy a Valg queen. But to keep Aelin safe. And Maeve would never know it—that gift and power: friendship.

What Aelin knew had kept the queen before her from becoming a mirror. What had saved her, and this kingdom.

Maeve thrashed, Goldryn burning, twin to the light on her finger.

Immunity from the Valg. And poison to them.

Maeve shrieked, the sound loud enough to shake the world.

They only stood amongst the falling snow, faces unmoved, and watched her.

Witnessed this death for all those she had destroyed.

Maeve contorted, clawing at herself. Her pale skin began to flake away like old paint.

Revealing bits of the creature beneath the glamour. The skin she’d created for herself.

Aelin only looked to Rowan, to Lorcan and Fenrys, a silent question in her eyes.

Rowan and Lorcan nodded. Fenrys blinked once, his mauled face still bleeding.

So Aelin approached the screaming queen, the creature beneath. Walked behind her and yanked out Goldryn.

Maeve sagged to the snow and mud, but the ring continued to rip her apart from within.

Maeve lifted dark, hateful eyes as Aelin raised Goldryn.

Aelin only smiled down at her. “We’ll pretend my last words to you were something worthy of a song.”

She swung the burning sword.

Maeve’s mouth was still open in a scream as her head tumbled to the snow.

Black blood sprayed, and Aelin moved again, stabbing Goldryn through Maeve’s skull. Into the earth beneath.

“Burn her,” Lorcan rasped.

Rowan’s hand, warm and strong, found Aelin’s again.

And when she looked up at him, there were tears on his face.

Not at the dead Valg queen before them. Or even at what Aelin had done.

No, her prince, her husband, her mate, gazed to the south. To the battlefield.

Even as their power melded, and she burned Maeve into ash and memory, Rowan stared toward the battlefield.

Where line after line after line of Valg soldiers fell to their knees mid-fight with the Fae and wolves and Darghan cavalry.

Where the ruks flapped in amazement as ilken tumbled from the skies, like they had been struck dead.

Far out, several shrill screams rent the air—then fell silent.

An entire army, midbattle, midblow, collapsing.

It rippled outward, that collapsing, the stillness. Until all of Morath’s host lay unmoving. Until the Ironteeth fighting above realized what was happening and veered southward, fleeing from the rukhin and witches who now gave chase.

Until the dark shadow surrounding that fallen army drifted away on the wind, too.

Aelin knew for certain then. Where Erawan had gone.

Who had brought him down at last.

So Aelin wrenched her sword free of the pile of ashes that had been Maeve. She lifted it high to the night sky, to the stars, and let her cry of victory fill the world. Let the name she shouted ring out, the soldiers on the field, in the city, taking up the call until all of Orynth was singing with it. Until it reached the shining stars of the Lord of the North gleaming above them, no longer needed to guide her way home.

Yrene.

Yrene.

Yrene.

CHAPTER 116

Chaol awoke to warm, delicate hands stroking over his brow, his jaw.

He knew that touch. Would know it if he were blind.

One moment, he’d been fighting his way down the battlements. The next—oblivion. As if whatever surge of power had gone through Yrene had not only weakened his spine, but his consciousness.

“I don’t know whether to start yelling or crying,” he said, groaning as he opened his eyes and found Yrene kneeling before him. A heartbeat had him assessing their surroundings: some sort of stairwell, where he’d been sprawled over the lowest steps near a landing. An archway open to the frigid night revealed a starry, clear sky beyond. No wyverns in it.

And cheering. Victorious, wild cheering.

Not one bone drum. Not one snarl or roar.

And Yrene, still stroking his face, was smiling at him. Tears in her eyes.

“Feel free to yell all you like,” she said, some of those tears slipping free.

But Chaol just gaped at her as it hit him what, exactly, had happened. Why that surge of power had happened.

What this remarkable woman before him had done.

For they were calling her name. The army, the people of Orynth were calling her name.

He was glad he was sitting down.

Even if it did not surprise him one bit that Yrene had done the impossible.

Chaol slid his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. “It’s over, then,” he said against her skin, unable to stop the shaking that took over, the mix of relief and joy and lingering, phantom terror.

Yrene just ran her hands through his hair, down his back, and he felt her smile. “It’s over.”

Yet the woman he held, the child growing within her …

Erawan might have been over, his threat and army with it. And Maeve with it, too.

But life, Chaol realized—life was just beginning.

Nesryn didn’t believe it. The enemy had just … collapsed. Even the kharankui-hybrids.

It was as unlikely as the Fae and wolves who had simply appeared through holes in the world. A missing army, who had wasted no time launching themselves at Morath. As if they knew precisely where and how to strike. As if they had been summoned from the ancient myths of the North.

Nesryn alit on the blood-soaked city walls, watching the rukhin and allied witches chase the Ironteeth toward the horizon. She would have been with them, were it not for the claw-marks surrounding Salkhi’s eye. For the blood.

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.