In its wake, a sated sort of clarity shone. Such as she had not felt in a long, long time.
His sapphire eyes lingered on her face, and Manon turned toward him. Slowly removed her crown of stars and set it aside.
Then she drew up the blankets around them both.
He didn’t so much as flinch as she scooted closer, into the solid muscle of his body.
No, Dorian only draped an arm over her, and pulled her tightly against him.
Manon was still listening to his breathing when she fell asleep, warm in his arms.
She awoke at dawn to a cold bed.
Manon took one look at the empty place where the king had been, at the lack of supplies and that ancient sword, and knew.
Dorian had gone to Morath. And had taken the two Wyrdkeys with him.
CHAPTER 63
Aedion and Kyllian kept their panicking troops in line as they marched, all the way to the banks of the Florine.
There was no use running northward. Not when the bone drums began pounding. And grew louder with every passing minute that Aedion ordered their legion into formation.
Stalking for the front lines, his armor so heavy it could have been made of stone, the lack of the ancient sword at his side like some phantom limb, Aedion said to Ren, “I need you to do me a favor.”
Ren, buckling on his quiver, didn’t bother to look up. “Don’t tell me to run.”
“Never.” Close—they were so close to Theralis. How fitting it would have been to at last die on the field where Terrasen had fallen a decade ago. To have his blood soak into the earth where so many of the court he’d loved had died, for his bones to join theirs, unmarked on the plain.
“I need you to call for aid.”
Ren looked up then. His scarred face was leaner than it had been weeks ago. When was the last time any of them had a proper meal? Or a full night’s rest? Where Lysandra was, what form she wore, Aedion didn’t know. He had not sought her out last night, and she had stayed away from him entirely.
“I’m no one now,” Aedion said, the lines of soldiers parting for them. Bane and Fae, Silent Assassin and Wendlynian and Wastes-hailing soldier alike. “But you are Lord of Allsbrook. Send out messengers. Send out Nox Owen. Call for aid. Dispatch them to every direction, to anyone they might find. Tell Nox and the others to beg if they have to, but tell them to say that Terrasen calls for aid.”
Only Aelin had the authority to do so, or Darrow and his council, but Aedion didn’t care.
Ren halted, and Aedion paused with him, well aware of the soldiers within earshot. Of the Fae hearing many possessed. Endymion and Sellene already stood by the front line of the left flank, their faces grave and weary. A home—that was what they’d lost, what they now fought to gain. If any should survive this. What would his father make of his son, fighting alongside his people at last?
“Will anyone come?” Ren asked, aware of those listening ears, too. Aware of the grim faces that remained with them, despite the death that marched at their backs.
Aedion fitted his helmet onto his head, the metal bitingly cold. “None came ten years ago. But maybe someone will bother this time.”
Ren gripped his arm, tugging him close. “There might be nothing left to defend, Aedion.”
“Send out the call anyway.” He jerked his chin to the lines they’d passed through. Ilias was polishing his blades amongst a cluster of his father’s assassins, his attention pinned on the enemy ahead. Preparing to make a final stand on this snowy plain so far from his warm desert. “You insist I’m still your general? Then here’s my final order. Call for aid.”
A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. But he said, “Consider it done.” Then he was gone.
They didn’t bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.
So Aedion continued, alone, to the front lines. Two Bane soldiers stepped aside to make room, and Aedion hefted up his shield, seamlessly fitting it between their unified front. The metal wall against which Morath would strike first, and hardest.
The snows swirled, veiling all beyond a hundred or so feet.
Yet the bone drums pounded louder. Soon the earth shook beneath marching feet.
Their final stand, here on an unnamed field before the Florine. How had it come to this?
Aedion drew his sword, the other soldiers following suit, the cry of ringing metal cutting through the howling wind.
Morath appeared, a line of solid black emerging from the snow.
Each foot they gained, more appeared behind. How far back was that witch tower? How soon would its power be unleashed?
He prayed, for the sake of his soldiers, that it would be quick, and relatively painless. That they would not know much fear before they were blasted into ashes.
The Bane didn’t clash their swords on their shields this time.
There was only the marching of Morath, and the drums.
Had they gone to Orynth when Darrow demanded, they would have made it. Had time to cross the bridge, or take the northern route.
This defeat, these deaths, rested upon his shoulders alone.
Down the line, motion caught his eye—just as a fuzzy, massive head poked between Prince Galan and one of his remaining soldiers. A ghost leopard.
Green eyes slid toward him, drained and bleak.
Aedion looked away first. This would be bad enough without knowing she was here. That Lysandra would undoubtedly stay until she, too, fell.
He prayed he went first. So he wouldn’t witness it.
Morath drew close enough that Ren’s order to the archers rang out.
Arrows flew, fading into the snows.
Morath sent an answering volley that blotted out the watery light.
Aedion angled his shield, crouching low. Every impact reverberated through his bones.
Grunts and screams filled their side of the battlefield. When the volley stopped, when they straightened again, many men did not rise with them.
It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.
But heads. Human heads, many still in their helmets. Bearing Ansel of Briarcliff’s roaring wolf insignia.
The rest of the army that she’d promised. That they’d been waiting for.
They must have intercepted Morath—and been obliterated.
Shouts rose from the army behind him as the realization rippled through the ranks. One female voice in particular carried over the din, her mournful cry echoing through Aedion’s helmet.
The milky, wide eyes of the decapitated head that had landed near his boots stared skyward, the mouth still open in a scream of terror.
How many had Ansel known? How many friends had been amongst them?
It wasn’t the time to seek out the young queen, to offer his condolences. Not when neither of them would likely survive the day. Not when it might be the heads of his own soldiers that were launched at Orynth’s walls.
Ren ordered another volley, their arrows so few compared to what had been unleashed seconds before. A spattering of rain compared to a downpour. Many found their marks, soldiers in dark armor going down. But they were replaced by those behind them, mere cogs in some terrible machine.
“We fight as one,” Aedion called down the line, forcing himself to ignore the scattered heads. “We die as one.”
A horn blared from deep within the enemy ranks. Morath began its all-out run on their front line.
Aedion’s boots dug into the mud as he braced his shield arm. Like it could possibly hold back the tide stretching into the horizon.
He counted his breaths, knowing they were limited. A ghost leopard’s snarl ripped down the line, a challenge to the charging army.
Fifty feet. Ren’s archers still fired fewer and fewer arrows. Forty. Thirty.
The sword in his hand was no equal to the ancient blade he’d worn with such pride. But he’d make it work. Twenty. Ten.
Aedion sucked in a breath. The black, depthless eyes of the Morath soldiers became clear beneath their helmets.
Morath’s front line angled their swords, their spears—
Roaring fire blasted from the left flank.
His left flank.
Aedion didn’t dare take his focus off the enemy upon him, but several of the Morath soldiers did.
He slaughtered them for it. Slaughtered their stunned companions, too, as they whirled toward another blast of flame.
Aelin. Aelin—
Soldiers behind him shouted. In triumph and relief.