Page 357 of Kingdom of Ash

He had to go—had to go down there to lead the fight at the gate.

Where he’d make his last stand. Where he’d meet his end, defending the place he’d loved most. It was the least he could do, with all the warriors who had fallen thanks to him, to his choices. To fall himself for Terrasen.

A death worthy of a song. An end worthy of being told around a fire.

If in Erawan’s new world of darkness, flames would be allowed to exist.

The Morath Ironteeth legion barreled into their rebel kin; the exhausted Crochans alit on the stones as they guzzled down water, checked injuries. A breath before their final push.

Along the wall, Valg soldiers surged and surged and surged over the battlements.

So Aedion leaned in, and kissed Lysandra, kissed the woman who should have been his wife, his mate, one last time. “I love you.”

Sorrow filled her beautiful face. “And I you.” She gestured to the western gate, to the soldiers waiting for its final cleaving. “Until the end?”

Aedion hefted his shield, flipping the Sword of Orynth in his hand, freeing the stiffness that had seized his fingers. “I will find you again,” he promised her. “In whatever life comes after this.”

Lysandra nodded. “In every lifetime.”

Together, they turned toward the stairs that would take them down to the gates. To death’s awaiting embrace.

A horn cleaved through the air, through the battle, through the world.

Aedion went still.

Whirled toward the direction of that horn, to the south. Beyond Morath’s teeming ranks. Beyond the sea of blackness, to the foothills that bordered the edge of Theralis’s sprawling plain.

Again, that horn blared, a roar of defiance.

“That’s no horn of Morath,” Lysandra breathed.

And then they appeared. Along the edge of the foothills. A line of golden-armored warriors, foot soldiers and cavalry alike. More and more and more, a great line spreading across the crest of the final hill.

Filling the skies, stretching into the horizon, flew mighty, armored birds with riders. Ruks.

And before them all, sword raised to the sky as that horn blew one last time, the ruby in the blade’s pommel smoldering like a small sun …

Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.

CHAPTER 106

Through the ancient, forgotten pathways of Oakwald, through the Perranth Mountains, the Lord of the North and Little Folk had led them. Swift and unfaltering, racing against doom, they had made their last push northward.

They had barely stopped to rest. Had left any unnecessary supplies behind.

The ruk scouts had not dared to fly ahead for fear of being discovered by Morath. For fear of ruining the advantage in surprise.

Six days of marching, that great army hurrying behind her.

Inhospitable terrain smoothed out. Little rivers froze over for their passing. The trees blocked out the falling snow.

They had traveled through the night yesterday. And when dawn had broken, the Lord of the North had knelt beside Aelin and offered himself as her mount.

There was no saddle for him; none would ever be permitted or needed. Any rider he allowed on his back, Aelin knew, would never fall.

Some had knelt when she rode by. Even Dorian and Chaol had inclined their heads.

Rowan, atop a fierce-eyed Darghan horse, had only nodded. As if he had always expected her to wind up here, at the head of the army that galloped the final hours to the edge of Orynth.

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