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.

CHAPTER 121

Rowan knew this day would be hard for her.

For all of them, who had become so close these weeks and months.

Yet a week after Aelin’s coronation, they gathered again. This time not to celebrate, but to say farewell.

The day had dawned, clear and sunny, yet still brutally cold. As it would be for a time.

Aelin had asked them all to stay last night. To wait out the winter months and depart in the spring. Rowan knew she’d been aware her request was unlikely to be granted.

Some had seemed inclined to think it over, but in the end, all but Rolfe had decided to go.

Today—as one. Scattering to the four winds. The Ironteeth and Crochans had left before first light, vanishing swiftly and quietly. Heading westward toward their ancient home.

Rowan stood beside Aelin in the castle courtyard, and he could feel the sorrow and love and gratitude that flowed through her as she took them in. The khaganate royals and rukhin had already said their good-byes, Borte the most reluctant to say farewell, and Aelin’s embrace with Nesryn Faliq had been long. They had whispered together, and he’d known what Aelin offered: companionship, even from thousands of miles away. Two young queens, with mighty kingdoms to rule.

The healers had gone with them, some on horseback with the Darghan, some in wagons, some with the rukhin. Yrene Westfall had sobbed as she had embraced the healers, the Healer on High, one last time. And then sobbed into her husband’s arms for a good while after that.

Then Ansel of Briarcliff, with what remained of her men. She and Aelin had traded taunts, then laughed, and then cried, holding each other. Another bond that would not be so easily broken despite the distance.

The Silent Assassins left next, Ilias smiling at Aelin as he rode off.

Then Prince Galan, whose ships remained under the watch of Ravi and Sol in Suria and who would ride there before departing to Wendlyn. He had embraced Aedion, then clasped Rowan’s hand before turning to Aelin.

His wife, his mate, his queen had said to the prince, “You came when I asked. You came without knowing any of us. I know I’ve already said it, but I will be forever grateful.”

Galan had grinned. “It was a debt long owed, cousin. And one gladly paid.”

Then he, too, rode off, his people with him. Of all the allies they’d cobbled together, only Rolfe would remain for the winter, as he was now Lord of Ilium. And Falkan Ennar, Lysandra’s uncle, who wished to learn what his niece knew of shape-shifting. Perhaps build his own merchant empire here—and assist with those foreign trade agreements they’d need to quickly make.

More and more departed under the winter sun until only Dorian, Chaol, and Yrene remained.

Yrene embraced Elide, the two women swearing to write frequently. Yrene, wisely, just nodded to Lorcan, then smiled at Lysandra, Aedion, Ren, and Fenrys before she approached Rowan and Aelin.

Yrene remained smiling as she looked between them. “When your first child is near, send for me and I will come. To help with the birth.”

Rowan didn’t have words for the gratitude that threatened to bow his shoulders. Fae births … He didn’t let himself think of it. Not as he hugged the healer.

For a moment, Aelin and Yrene just stared at each other.

“We’re a long way from Innish,” Yrene whispered.

“But lost no longer,” Aelin whispered back, voice breaking as they embraced. The two women who had held the fate of their world between them. Who had saved it.

Behind them, Chaol wiped at his face. Rowan, ducking his head, did the same.

His good-bye to Chaol was quick, their embrace firm. Dorian lingered longer, graceful and steady, even as Rowan found himself struggling to speak past the tightness in his throat.

And then Aelin stood before Dorian and Chaol, and Rowan stepped back, falling into line beside Aedion, Fenrys, Lorcan, Elide, Ren, and Lysandra. Their fledgling court—the court that would change this world. Rebuild it.

Giving their queen space for this last, hardest good-bye.

She felt as if she had been crying without end for minutes now.

Yet this parting, this final farewell …

Aelin looked at Chaol and Dorian and sobbed. Opened her arms to them, and wept as they held each other.

“I love you both,” she whispered. “And no matter what may happen, no matter how far we may be, that will never change.”

“We will see you again,” Chaol said, but even his voice was thick with tears.

“Together,” Dorian breathed, shaking. “We’ll rebuild this world together.”

She couldn’t stand it, this ache in her chest. But she made herself pull away and smile at their tear-streaked faces, a hand on her heart. “Thank you for all you have done for me.”

Dorian bowed his head. “Those are words I’d never thought I’d hear from you.”

She barked a rasping laugh, and gave him a shove. “You’re a king now. Such insults are beneath you.”

He grinned, wiping at his face.

Aelin smiled at Chaol, at his wife waiting beyond him. “I wish you every happiness,” she said to him. To them both.

Such light shone in Chaol’s bronze eyes—that she had never seen before. “We will see each other again,” he repeated.

Then he and Dorian turned toward their horses, toward the bright day beyond the castle gates. Toward their kingdom to the south. Shattered now, but not forever.

Not forever.

Aelin was quiet for a long time afterward, and Rowan stayed with her, following as she strode up to the castle battlements to watch Chaol, Dorian, and Yrene ride down the road that cut through the savaged Plain of Theralis. Until even they had vanished over the horizon.

Rowan kept his arm around her, breathing in her scent as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Rowan ignored the faint ache that lingered there from the tattoos she’d helped him ink the night before. Gavriel’s name, rendered in the Old Language. Exactly how the Lion had once tattooed the names of his fallen warriors on himself.

Fenrys and Lorcan, a tentative peace between them, also now bore the tattoo—had demanded one as soon as they’d caught wind of what Rowan planned to do.

Aedion, however, had asked Rowan for a different design. To add Gavriel’s name to the Terrasen knot already inked over his heart.