And behind them, snaking into the distance, the army of the khagan moved.

Part of it, at least. Half the ruks and Darghan riders would march under Kashin’s banner on the eastern side of the mountains, to draw out the forces from the Ferian Gap into open battle in the valley. While they snuck behind, right through their back door.

Snow lay heavy on the Fangs, the gray sky threatening more, but the rukhin scouts and wild men had assessed that no bad weather would hit them for a while yet—not until they reached the Gap, at least.

Five days’ trek, with the army and mountains. It would be three for the army that marched along the lake’s edge and river.

Aelin tipped her face toward that cold sky as they began the endless series of switchbacks up the mountainsides. The rukhin could carry much of the heavier equipment, thank the gods, but the climb into the mountains would be the first test.

The khagan’s armies had crossed every terrain, though. Mountains and deserts and seas. They did not balk now.

So Aelin supposed she would not, either. For whatever time she had left, until it was over.

This final push north, homeward … She smiled grimly at the looming mountains, at the army stretching away behind them.

And just because she could, just because they were headed to Terrasen at last, Aelin unleashed a flicker of her power. Some of the standard-bearers behind them murmured in surprise, but Rowan only smiled. Smiled with that fierce hope, that brutal determination that flared in her own heart, as she began to burn.

She let the flame encompass her, a golden glow that she knew could be spied even from the farthest lines of the army, from the city and keep they left behind.

A beacon glowing bright in the shadows of the mountains, in the shadows of the forces that awaited them, Aelin lit the way north.

PART TWO

Gods and Gates

CHAPTER 68

The black towers of Morath rose above the smoking forges and campfires of the valley below like a cluster of dark swords raised to the sky.

They jutted into the low clouds, some broken and chipped, some still standing proud. The wrath and final act of Kaltain Rompier written all over them.

Spreading his soot-colored wings wide, Dorian caught a wind that reeked of iron and carrion and banked around the fortress. He’d learned to harness winds during these long days of travel, and though he’d covered much of the journey as a swift, red-tailed hawk, he’d shifted this morning into an ordinary crow.

Flocks of them circled Morath, their caws as plentiful as the ringing of hammers on anvils throughout the valley. Even with hell unleashed in the north, there was still more camped down here. More troops, more witches.

Dorian followed the example of the other crows and gave the wyverns a wide berth, flying low as coven after coven went about their scouting or reporting or training. So many Ironteeth. All waiting.

He circled Morath’s uppermost towers, scanning the keep, the army in the valley, the wyverns in their lofty aeries. With each flap of his wings, the weight of what he’d hidden in a rocky outcropping ten miles north grew heavier.

It would have been madness to bring the two keys here. So he had buried them in the shale rock, not even daring to mark the spot. He could only pray it was far enough away to avoid Erawan’s detection.

At the side of a tower, two servants bearing armloads of laundry emerged from a small door and began winding up the exterior stair, heads bowed as if trying to ignore the army that rippled far below. Or the wyverns whose bellows echoed off the black rock.

There. That door.

Dorian flapped toward it, willing his heart to calm, his scent—the one thing that might doom him—to remain unmarked. But none of the Ironteeth flying overhead noticed the crow-that-did-not-smell-like-a-crow. And the two laundresses winding up the tower stairs didn’t call out as he landed on the small stone railing and folded his wings neatly.

A hop, and he was on the stones.

A shift, muscles and bones burning, and the world had become smaller, infinitely deadlier.

And infinitely less aware of his presence.

Dorian’s whiskers twitched, his oversized ears cocking. The roar of the wyverns rocked through his small, furred body, and he gritted his teeth—large, almost too big for his little mouth. The reek grew near-nauseating.

He could smell … everything. The lingering freshness of the laundry that had passed by. The gamey musk of some sort of broth clinging to the laundresses after their lunch. He’d never thought mice to be extraordinary, yet even soaring as a hawk, he had not felt this alertness, this level of being awake.

In a world designed to kill them, he supposed mice needed such sharpness to survive.

Dorian allowed himself one long breath before he squeezed beneath the shut door. And into Morath itself.

His senses might have been sharper, but he had never realized how daunting a set of stairs truly was without human legs.

He kept to the shadows, willing himself into dust and gloom with every pair of feet that strode by. Some were armored, some were booted, some in worn shoes. All the wearers pale and miserable.

No witches, thank the gods. And no Valg princes or their grunts.

Certainly no sign of Erawan.

The tower he’d entered was a servants’ stair, one Manon had laid out during one of her various explanations to Aelin. It was thanks to her that he followed a mental map, confirmed by his circling overhead for the past few hours.

Erawan’s tower—that’s where he’d begin. And if the Valg king was there … he’d figure it out. Whether he might repay Erawan for all he’d done, regardless of Kaltain’s warning.

His breathing ragged, Dorian reached the bottom of the winding steps, curling his long tail around him as he peered to the dim hallway ahead.

From here, he’d need to cross the entire level, take another staircase up, another hall, and then, if he was lucky, Erawan’s tower would be there.

Manon had never gained access to it. Never known what waited up there. Only that it was guarded by Valg at all hours. A good enough place to begin his hunt.

His ears twitched. No approaching steps. No cats, mercifully.

Dorian turned the corner, his grayish brown fur blending into the rock, and scuttled along the groove where the wall met the floor. A guard stood on watch at the end of the hall, staring at nothing. He loomed, large as a mountain, as Dorian approached.

Dorian had nearly reached the guard and the crossroads he monitored when he felt it—the stir, and then the silence.

Even the guard straightened, glancing to the slit of a window behind him.

Dorian halted, tucking himself into a shadow.

Nothing. No cries or shouts, yet …

The guard returned to his post, but scanned the hall.

Dorian remained still and quiet, waiting. Had they discovered his presence? Sent out a call?

It couldn’t have been as easy as it had seemed. Erawan no doubt had traps to alert him of any enemy presence—

Rushing, light steps sounded around the corner, and the guard turned toward them. “What is it?” the man demanded.

The approaching servant didn’t check his pace. “Who knows these days with the company we keep? I’m not lingering to find out.” Then the man hurried on, rushing past Dorian.

Not rushing toward something, but away.

Dorian’s whiskers flicked as he scented the air. Nothing.

Waiting in a hallway would do no good. But to plunge ahead, to seek out whatever might be happening … Not wise, either.

There was one place he might hear something. Where people were always gossiping, even at Morath.

So Dorian ventured back down the hall. Down another set of stairs, his little legs barely able to move fast enough. Toward the kitchens, hot and bright with the light of the great hearth.

Lady Elide had worked here—had known these people. Not Valg, but people conscripted into service. People who would undoubtedly talk about the comings and goings of this keep. Just as they had at the palace in Rifthold.

The various servants and cooks were indeed waiting. Staring toward the stairs on the opposite side of the cavernous kitchen. As was the lean, green-eyed tabby cat across the room.

Dorian made himself as small as possible. But the beast paid him no mind, its attention fixed on the stairs. As if it knew, too.

And then steps—quick and hushed. Two women entered, empty trays in their hands. Both wan and trembling.