His father’s name. His own name. The weight of it settled into him, not a wholly unpleasant thing.

Dorian flexed his bloodied fingers. His magic lay in scraps, the tang of blood lingering on his tongue. An approaching burnout. He’d never had one before. He supposed he’d better become accustomed to them.

On shaking legs, Dorian yanked Damaris from the stones. The blade had turned black as onyx. A swipe of his fingers down the fuller revealed it was a stain that would not be cleansed.

He needed to get off this tower. Find Chaol. Find the others. Start helping the injured. And the unconscious soldiers on the plain. The ones who had not been possessed had already fled, pursued by the strange Fae who had appeared, the giant wolves and their riders amongst them.

He should go. Should leave this place.

And yet he stared at the dark stain. All that remained.

Ten years of suffering and torment and fear, and the stain was all that remained.

He turned the sword in his hand, its weight heavier than it had been. The sword of truth.

What had the truth been in the end? What was the truth, even now?

Erawan had done this, slaughtered and enslaved so many, so he might see his brothers again. He wanted to conquer their world, punish it, but he’d wanted to be reunited with them. Millennia apart, and Erawan had not forgotten his brothers. Longed for them.

Would he have done the same for Chaol? For Hollin? Would he have destroyed a world to find them again?

Damaris’s black blade didn’t reflect the light. It didn’t gleam at all.

Dorian still tightened his hand around the golden hilt and said, “I am human.”

It warmed in his hand.

He peered at the blade. Gavin’s blade. A relic from a time when Adarlan had been a land of peace and plenty.

And it would be that way once more.

“I am human,” he repeated, to the stars now visible above the city.

The sword didn’t answer again. As if it knew he no longer needed it.

Wings boomed, and then Abraxos was landing on the balcony. A white-haired rider atop him.

Dorian stood, blinking, as Manon Blackbeak dismounted. She scanned him, then the dark stain on the balcony stones.

Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed.

A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak, undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars.

Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.”

His heart strained as he understood. As the loss of those twelve fierce, brilliant lives carved another hole within him. One he would not forget, one he would honor. Silently, he crossed the balcony.

Manon did not back away as he slid his arms around her. “I am sorry,” he said into her hair.

Tentatively, slowly, her hands drifted across his back. Then settled, embracing him. “I miss them,” she whispered, shuddering.

Dorian only held her tighter, and let Manon lean on him for as long as she needed, Abraxos staring toward that blasted bit of earth on the plain, toward the mate who would never return, while the city below celebrated.

Aelin strode with Rowan up the steep streets of Orynth.

Her people lined those streets, candles in their hands. A river of light, of fire, that pointed the way home.

Straight to the castle gates.

To where Lord Darrow stood, Evangeline at his side. The girl beaming with joy.

Darrow’s face was stone-cold. Hard as the Staghorns beyond the city as he remained blocking the way.

Rowan let out a low growl, the sound echoed by Fenrys, a step behind them.

Yet Aelin let go of her mate’s hand, their crowns of flame winking out as she crossed the last few feet to the castle archway. To Darrow.

Silence fell down the illuminated, golden street.

He’d deny her entry. Here, before the world, he would throw her out. A final, shaming slap.

But Evangeline tugged on Darrow’s sleeve—as if in reminder.

It seemed to spur the old man into speech. “My young ward and I were told that when you went to face Erawan and Maeve, your magic was heavily depleted.”

“It was. And shall remain so forever.”

Darrow shook his head. “Why?”

Not about her magic being whittled to nothing. But why she had gone to face them, with little more than embers in her veins.

“Terrasen is my home,” Aelin said. It was the only answer in her heart.

Darrow smiled—just a bit. “So it is.” He bowed his head. Then his body. “Welcome,” he said, then added as he rose, “Your Majesty.”

But Aelin looked to Evangeline, the girl still beaming.

Win me back my kingdom, Evangeline.

Her order to the girl, all those months ago.

And she didn’t know how Evangeline had done it. How she had changed this old lord before them. Yet there was Darrow, gesturing to the gates, to the castle behind him.

Evangeline winked at Aelin, as if in confirmation.

Aelin just laughed, taking the girl by the hand, and led that promise of Terrasen’s bright future into the castle.

Every ancient, scarred hall brought her back. Snatched her breath away and set her tears running. At the memory, how they’d been. At how they now appeared, sad and worn. And what they would become once more.

Darrow led them toward the dining hall, to find whatever food and refreshment might be available in the dead of night, after such a battle.

Yet Aelin took one look at who waited in the faded grandeur of the Great Hall, and forgot about her hunger and thirst.

The entire hall grew silent as she hurtled for Aedion, and flung herself onto him so hard they rocked back a step.

Home at last; home together.

She had the vague sense of Lysandra joining Rowan and the others behind her, but didn’t turn. Not as her own joyous laugh died upon seeing Aedion’s haggard, weary face. The sorrow in it.

She laid a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Aedion closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, mouth wobbling.

She didn’t remark on the shield across his back—her father’s shield. She had never realized he carried it.

Instead she asked softly, “Where is he?”

Wordlessly, Aedion led her from the dining hall. Down the winding passageways of the castle, their castle, to a small, candlelit room.

Gavriel had been laid on a table, a wool blanket obscuring the body she knew was shredded beneath. Only his handsome face visible, still noble and kind in death.

Aedion lingered by the doorway as Aelin walked up to the warrior. She knew Rowan and the others stood by him, her mate with a hand on Aedion’s shoulder. Knew Fenrys and Lorcan bowed their heads.

She stopped before the table where Gavriel had been laid. “I wished to wait to offer you the blood oath until after your son had taken it,” she said, her quiet voice echoing off the stones. “But I offer it to you now, Gavriel. With honor, and gratitude, I offer you the blood oath.” Her tears plopped onto the blanket covering him, and she wiped one away before drawing her dagger from the sheath at her side. She pulled his arm from beneath the covering.

A flick of the blade had her slicing his palm open. No blood flowed beyond a slight swelling. Yet she waited until a drop slid to the stones. Then opened up her own arm, dipped her fingers into the blood, and let three drops fall into his mouth.

“Let the world know,” Aelin said, voice breaking, “that you are a male of honor. That you stood by your son, and this kingdom, and helped to save it.” She kissed the cold brow. “You are blood-sworn to me. And you shall be buried here as such.” She pulled away, stroking his cheek once. “Thank you.”

It was all there was left to say.

When she turned away, it was not Aedion alone who had tears streaking down his face.

She left them there. The cadre, the brotherhood, who now wished to say farewell in their own way.

Fenrys, his bloodied face still untended, sank to a knee beside the table. A heartbeat later, Lorcan did the same.

She’d reached the door when Rowan knelt as well. And began to sing the ancient words—the words of mourning, as old and sacred as Terrasen itself. The same prayers she’d once sung and chanted while he’d tattooed her.