Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

Erawan had taken the bait, had let the doubt she’d planted take root in his mind. She had known it was only a matter of time until he sensed Yrene’s power. She only prayed Yrene Towers was ready to meet him.

“I had always hoped that you and I were true equals, in a way,” Maeve went on. “That you, more than Erawan, understood the true nature of power. Of what it means to wield it. What a disappointment that deep down, you wished to be so ordinary.”

The shield had become unbearably heavy. Aelin didn’t dare look behind her to see where Erawan had gone. What he was doing. She’d felt Yrene’s flare of power, had dared hope it might even be a signal, a lure, but nothing since then. It had drawn Erawan away, though. It was enough.

The darkness around Maeve writhed. “The Queen Who Was Promised is no more,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Now you’re nothing but an assassin with a crown. And a commoner’s gift of magic.”

Twin whips of brutal power speared for Aelin’s either side.

Throwing up her shield, swinging Goldryn with her other arm, Aelin deflected, flame flashing.

The shield buckled, but Goldryn burned steady.

But she felt it. The familiar, unending pain. The shadows that could devour.

Pressing closer. Eating away at her power.

Maeve glanced to the blazing sword. “Clever of you, to imbue the sword with your own gifts. No doubt done before you yielded everything to the Wyrdgate.”

“A precaution, should I not return,” Aelin panted. “A weapon to kill Valg.”

“We shall see.” Maeve struck again. Again.

Forcing Aelin to concede a step. Then another.

Back toward the invisible line she’d drawn between them and the southern gate.

Maeve stalked forward, her dark hair and robes billowing. “You have denied me two things, Aelin Galathynius. The keys I sought.” Another whip of power sliced for Aelin. Her flame barely deflected it this time. “And the great duel I was promised.”

As if Maeve opened the lid to a chest on her power, plumes of darkness erupted.

Aelin sliced with Goldryn, the fire within the blade unfaltering. But it was not enough. And as Aelin retreated another step, one of those plumes snapped across her legs.

Aelin couldn’t stop the scream that shattered from her throat. She went down, shield scattering in the icy mud.

Training kept her fingers clenched on Goldryn.

But pressure, unbearable and slithering, began to push into her head.

“Wake up.”

The world shifted. Snow replaced by firelight. The ground for a slab of iron.

The pressure in her head writhed, and Aelin bowed over her knees, refusing to acknowledge it. Real—this battle, the snow and blood, this was real.

“Wake up, Aelin,” Maeve whispered.

Aelin blinked. And found herself in the iron box, Maeve leaning over the open lid. Smiling. “We’re here,” the Fae Queen said.

Not Fae. Valg. Maeve was Valg—

“You’ve been dreaming,” Maeve said, running a finger over the mask still clamped to her face. “Such strange, wandering dreams, Aelin.”

No. No, it had been real. She managed to lift her head enough to peer down at herself. At the shift and too-thin body. The scars still on her.

Still there. Not wiped away. No new skin.

“I can make this easy for you,” Maeve went on, brushing Aelin’s hair back with gentle, loving strokes. “Tell me where the Wyrdkeys are, swear the blood oath, and these chains, this mask, this box … all of it will go away.”

They hadn’t yet begun. To tear her apart.

All of it a dream. One long nightmare. The keys remained unbound, the Lock unforged.

A dream, while they’d sailed here. Wherever here was.

“What say you, niece? Will you spare yourself? Yield to me?”

You do not yield.

Aelin blinked.

“It’s easier, isn’t it,” Maeve mused, bracing her forearms against the lip of the coffin. “To remain here. So you needn’t make such terrible choices. To let the others share the burden. Bear its cost.” A hint of a smile. “Deep down, that’s what haunts you. That wish to be free.”

Freedom—she’d known it. Hadn’t she?

“It’s what you fear most—not me, or Erawan, or the keys. That your wish to be free of the weight of your crown, your power, will consume you. Embitter you until you do not recognize your own self.” Her smile widened. “I wish to spare you from that. With me, you shall be free in a way you’ve never imagined, Aelin. I swear it.”

An oath.

She had sworn an oath. To Terrasen. To Nehemia. To Rowan.

Aelin closed her eyes, shutting out the queen above her, the mask, the chains, the iron box.

Not real.

This was not real.

Wasn’t it?

“I know you’re tired,” Maeve went on, gently, coaxingly. “You gave and gave and gave, and it was still not enough. It will never be enough for them, will it?”

It wouldn’t. Nothing she had ever done, or would do, would be enough. Even if she saved Terrasen, saved Erilea, she’d still need to give more, do more. The weight of it already crushed her.

“Cairn,” Maeve said.

Strolling footsteps sounded nearby. Scuffing on stone.

Tremors shook her, uncontrollable and unsummoned. She knew that gait, knew— Cairn’s hateful, sneering face appeared beside Maeve’s, the two of them studying her. “How shall we start, Majesty?”

He’d spoken the words to her already. They had done this dance so many times.

Bile coated her throat. She couldn’t stop shaking. She knew what he’d do, how he’d begin. Would never stop feeling it, the whisper of the pain.

Cairn ran a hand over the rim of the coffin. “I broke some part of you, didn’t I?”

I name you Elentiya, “Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.”

Aelin traced her metal-encrusted fingers over her palm. Where a scar should be. Where it still remained. Would always remain, even if she could not see it.

Nehemia—Nehemia, who had given everything for Eyllwe. And yet …

And yet, Nehemia had still felt the weight of her choices. Still wished to be free of her burdens.

It had not made her weak. Not in the slightest.

Cairn surveyed her chained body, assessing where he would begin. His breathing sharpened in anticipatory delight.

Her hands curled into fists. Iron groaned.

Spirit that could not be broken.

You do not yield.

She would endure it again, if asked. She would do it. Every brutal hour and bit of agony.

And it would hurt, and she would scream, but she’d face it. Survive against it.

Arobynn had not broken her. Neither had Endovier.

She would not allow this waste of existence to do so now.

Her shaking eased, her body going still. Waiting.

Maeve blinked at her. Just once.

Aelin sucked in a breath—sharp and cool.

She did not want it to be over. Any of it.

Cairn faded into the wind. Then the chains vanished with him.

Aelin sat up in the coffin. Maeve backed away all of a step.

Aelin surveyed the illusion, so artfully wrought. The stone chamber, with its braziers and hook from the ceiling. The stone altar. The open door and roar of the river beyond.

She made herself look. To face down that place of pain and despair. It would always leave a mark, a stain on her, but she would not let it define her.

Hers was not a story of darkness.

This would not be the story. She would fold it into herself, this place, this fear, but it would not be the whole story. It would not be her story.

“How,” Maeve simply asked.

Aelin knew a world and a battlefield raged beyond them. But she let herself linger in the stone chamber. Climbed from the iron coffin.

Maeve only stared at her.

“You should have known better,” Aelin said, the lingering embers within her shining bright. “You, who feared captivity and did all this to avoid it. You should have known better than to trap me. Should have known I’d find a way.”

“How,” Maeve asked again. “How did you not break?”

“Because I am not afraid,” Aelin said. “Your fear of Erawan and his brothers drove you, destroyed you. If there was ever anything worthwhile to destroy.”

Maeve hissed, and Aelin chuckled. “And then there was your fear of Brannon. Of me. Look what it brought about.” She gestured to the room around them, the world beyond it. “This is all you’ll have left of Doranelle. This illusion.”