UNCLEAN

Twirling, twisting, blades flying, Asterin slaughtered her way toward Manon’s grandmother.

The High Witch of the Blackbeak Clan backed away, shaking her head. Her mouth moved, as if she breathed, “Asterin, no—”

But Asterin was already there.

And it was not darkness, but light—light, bright and pure as the sun on snow, that erupted from Asterin.

Light, as Asterin made the Yielding.

As the Thirteen, their broken bodies scattered around the tower in a near-circle, made the Yielding as well.

Light. They all burned with it. Radiated it.

Light that flowed from their souls, their fierce hearts as they gave themselves over to that power. Became incandescent with it.

Asterin tackled the Blackbeak Matron to the ground, Manon’s grandmother little more than a shadow against the brightness. Then little more than a scrap of hate and memory as Asterin exploded.

As she and the Thirteen Yielded completely, and blew themselves and the witch tower to smithereens.

CHAPTER 90

Manon sank to the stones of the castle battlements and did not move for a long, long while.

She didn’t hear those who spoke to her, who touched her shoulder. Didn’t feel the cold.

The sun arced and descended.

At some point, she lay down upon the stones, curled against the wall. When she awoke, a wing had covered her, and warm breath whispered across her head as Abraxos dozed.

She had no words in her. Nothing but a ringing silence.

Manon got to her feet, easing past the wing that had shielded her.

The dawn was breaking.

And where that witch tower had stood, where the army had been, only blasted earth remained.

Morath had drawn back. Far back.

The city and walls still stood.

She roused Abraxos with a hand to his side.

He couldn’t fly, not yet, so they walked together.

Down the battlement steps. Out through the castle gates and into the city streets beyond.

She didn’t care that others followed. More and more of them.

The streets were filled with blood and rubble, all of it gilded by the rising sun.

She didn’t feel the warmth of that sun on her face while they walked through the southern gate and onto the plain beyond. She didn’t care that someone had opened the gate for them.

At her side, Abraxos nudged aside piles of Valg soldiers, clearing a path for her. For all those who trailed in their wake.

It was so quiet. Inside her, and on the plain.

So quiet, and empty.

Manon crossed the still battlefield. Didn’t stop until she reached the center of the blast radius. Until she stood in its heart.

Not a trace of the tower. Or those who had been in it, around it. Even the stones had been melted into nothing.

Not a trace of the Thirteen, or their brave, noble wyverns.

Manon fell to her knees.

Ashes rose, fluttering, soft as snow as they clung to the tears on her face.

Abraxos lay beside her, his tail curling around her while she bowed over her knees and wept.

Behind her, had she looked, she would have seen Glennis. And Bronwen. Petrah Blueblood.

Aedion Ashryver and Lysandra and Ren Allsbrook.

Prince Galan and Captain Rolfe and Ansel of Briarcliff, Ilias and the Fae royals beside them.

Had she looked, she would have seen the small white flowers they bore. Would have wondered how and where they had gotten them in the dead heart of winter.

Had she looked, she would have seen the people gathered behind them, so many they streamed all the way to the city gates. Would have seen the humans standing side by side with the Crochans and Ironteeth.

All come to honor the Thirteen.

But Manon did not look. Even when the leaders who had come with her, walked with her all this way, began to lay their flowers upon the blasted, bloodied earth. Even when their tears flowed, dropping into the ashes alongside their offerings of tribute.

They didn’t speak. And neither did the streaming line of people who came after them. A few bore flowers, but many brought small stones to lay on the site. Those who had neither laid down whatever personal effects they could offer. Until the blast site was covered, as if a garden had grown from a field of blood.

Glennis stayed until the end.

And when they were alone on the silent battlefield, Manon’s great-grandmother put a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, her voice somehow distant, “Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.”

Manon didn’t hear the words. Didn’t notice when even Glennis returned to the city looming at her back.

For hours, Manon knelt on the battlefield, Abraxos at her side. As if she might stay with them, her Thirteen, for a little while longer.

And far away, across the snow-covered mountains, on a barren plain before the ruins of a once-great city, a flower began to bloom.

CHAPTER 91

Dorian hadn’t believed it—hadn’t dared to hope for what he saw.

A foreign army, marching northward. An army he’d grown up studying. There were the khagan’s foot soldiers, and the Darghan cavalry. There were the legendary ruks, magnificent and proud, soaring above them in a sea of wings.

He’d aimed as close to the head of the army as he could get, wondering which of the royals had come. Wondering if Chaol was with them. If the presence of this miraculous army meant his friend had succeeded against all odds.

The ruks had spied him then.

Chased him, and he’d begun signaling as he’d neared. Hoping they’d pause.

But then he’d landed at the crossroads. And then he’d seen them. Seen her.

Aelin, galloping for him. Rowan at her side, Elide and the others with her.

Maeve had believed Aelin had headed to Terrasen. And here she was, with the khagan’s army.

Aelin’s smile faded the moment she grew close. As if she sensed what he bore.

“Where’s Manon?” was all she asked.

“Terrasen,” he breathed, panting slightly. “And likely with the Crochans, if it went according to plan.”

She opened her mouth, eyes wide, but another rider came galloping down the road.

The world went quiet.

The approaching rider halted, another—a beautiful woman Dorian could only describe as golden—right behind.

But Dorian stared at the rider before him. At the posture of the body, the commanding seat he possessed.

And as Chaol Westfall dismounted and ran the last few feet toward Dorian, the King of Adarlan wept.

Chaol didn’t hide his tears, the shaking that overtook him as he collided with Dorian and embraced his king.

No one said a word, though Chaol knew they were all gathered. Knew Yrene stood behind him, crying with them.

He just held his friend, his brother.

“I knew you’d do it,” Dorian said, voice raw. “I knew you’d find a way. For all of it.”

The army. The fact that he was now standing.

Chaol only gripped Dorian tighter. “You have one hell of a story to tell yourself.”

Dorian pulled back, his face solemn.

A story, Chaol realized, that might not be as happy as his own.

Yet before whatever doom Dorian carried could fall upon them, Chaol gestured to where Yrene had dismounted and now wiped away her tears.

“The woman responsible for this,” Chaol said, motioning to his standing, his walking, to the army stretching down the road. “Yrene Towers. A healer at the Torre Cesme. And my wife.”

Yrene bowed, and Chaol could have sworn a flicker of sorrow darkened Dorian’s eyes. But then his king was taking Yrene’s hands, lifting her from her bow. And though that sorrow still edged his smile, Dorian said to her, “Thank you.”

Yrene went scarlet. “I’ve heard so much about you, Your Majesty.”

Dorian only winked, a ghost of the man he’d been before. “All bad things, I hope.”

Yrene laughed, and the joy on her face—the joy that Chaol knew was for both of them—made him love her all over again.

“I have always wanted a sister,” Dorian said, and leaned to kiss Yrene on either cheek. “Welcome to Adarlan, Lady.”

Yrene’s smile turned softer—deeper, and she laid a hand on her abdomen. “Then you shall be pleased to hear that you’ll soon be an uncle.”