And left them to it, the sounds of their outraged, frightened screams ringing out.
There was still one last task to seal the gate forever.
Aelin unfurled her palm, studying the Lock she had forged. She let it float into the heart of this misty, door-filled space.
She was not afraid. Not as she opened her other palm, and power poured forth.
Mala’s final gift. And defiance.
The force of a thousand exploding suns ruptured from Aelin’s palm.
Lock. Close. Seal.
She willed it, willed it, and willed it. Willed it to close as she offered over her power.
But not that last bit of self.
The debt has already been paid enough.
A map home, a map inked in the words of universes, would lead the way.
More and more and more. But not all.
She would not give it up. Her innermost self.
She would not surrender.
They would not take this lingering kernel of her.
She would not yield it.
Light flowed through the Lock, fracturing like a prism, shooting to all those infinite doorways.
Closing and sealing and shutting. An archway to everywhere now sealing.
They would not destroy her. They would not be allowed to take this.
Come back to me.
More and more and more, Mala’s last power funneling out of her and into the Lock.
They would not win. They couldn’t take it—couldn’t have her.
She refused.
She was screaming now. Screaming and roaring her defiance.
A beam of light shot to the archway behind her. Beginning to seal it, too.
She would live. She would live, and they could all go to hell.
A better world. With no gods, no fates.
A world of their own making.
Aelin bellowed and bellowed, the sound ringing out across all worlds.
They would not beat her. They would not get to take this, this most essential kernel of self. Of soul.
Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom.…
Her kingdom. Her home. She would see it again.
It was not over.
Behind her, the archway slowly sealed.
The odds were slim; the odds were insurmountable. She had not been destined to escape this—to reach this point and still be breathing.
Aelin’s hand drifted to her heart and rested there.
It is the strength of this that matters, her mother had said, long ago. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home.
No matter where she was.
No matter how far.
Even if it took her beyond all known worlds.
Aelin’s fingers curled, palm pressing into the pounding heart beneath. This will lead you home.
The archway to Erilea inched closed.
World-walker. Wayfarer.
Others had done it before. She would find a way, too. A way home.
No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds.
She would not go quietly.
She was not afraid.
So Aelin ripped out her power. Ripped out a chunk of what Mala had given her, a force to level a world, and flung it toward the Lock.
The final bit. The last bit.
And then Aelin leaped through the gate.
CHAPTER 99
She was falling.
Falling and being thrown.
The Wyrdgate sealed behind her, and yet she was not home.
As it closed, all worlds overlapped.
And she now fell through them.
One after another after another. Worlds of water, worlds of ice, worlds of darkness.
She slammed through them, faster than a shooting star, faster than light.
Home.
She had to find home—
Worlds of lights, worlds of towers that stretched to the skies, worlds of silence.
So many.
There were so many worlds, all of them miraculous, all of them so precious and perfect that even as she fell through them, her heart broke to see them.
Home. The way home—
She fumbled for the tether, the bond in her soul. Inked into her flesh.
Come back to me.
Aelin plunged through world after world after world.
Too fast.
She would hit her own world too fast, and miss it completely.
But she could not slow. Could not stop.
Tumbling, flipping over herself, she passed through them one by one by one by one by one.
It is the strength of this that matters. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home.
Aelin roared, a spark of self flashing through the sky.
The tether grew stronger. Tighter. Reeling her in.
Too fast. She had to slow—
She plummeted into the last of herself, into what remained, grappling for any sort of power to slow her racing.
She passed through a world where a great city had been built along the curve of a river, the buildings impossibly tall and glimmering with lights.
Passed through a world of rain and green and wind.
Roaring, she tried to slow.
She passed through a world of oceans with no land to be seen.
Close. Home was so close she could nearly smell the pine and snow. If she missed it, if she passed by it—
She passed through a world of snowcapped mountains under shining stars. Passed over one of those mountains, where a winged male stood beside a heavily pregnant female, gazing at those very stars. Fae.
They were Fae, but this was not her world.
She flung out a hand, as if she might signal them, as if they might somehow help her when she was nothing but an invisible speck of power—
The winged male, beautiful beyond reason, snapped his head toward her as she arced across his starry sky.
He lifted a hand, as if in greeting.
A blast of dark power, like a gentle summer night, slammed into her.
Not to attack—but to slow her down.
A wall, a shield, that she tore and plunged through.
But it slowed her. That winged male’s power slowed her, just enough.
Aelin vanished from his world without a whisper.
And there it was.
There it was, the pine and the snow, the snaking spine of the mountains up her continent, the tangle of Oakwald to the right, the Wastes to the left. A land of many peoples, many beings.
She saw them all, familiar and foreign, fighting and at peace, in sprawling cities or hidden deep within the wilds. So many people, revealed to her. Erilea.
She threw herself into it. Grabbed the tether and bellowed as she hauled herself toward it. Down it.
Home.
Home.
Home.
It was not the end. She was not finished.
She willed herself, willed the world to halt. Just as the Wyrdgate slammed shut with a thunderous crack, all other doors with it.
And Aelin plunged back into her own body.
The Wyrdmarks faded into the rocky ground as the sun rose over Endovier.
Rowan was on his knees before Aelin, readying for her last breaths, for the end that he hoped would somehow take him, too.
He’d make it his end. When she went, he’d go.
But then he’d felt it. As the sun rose, he’d felt it, that surge down the frayed mating bond.
A blast of heat and light that welded the broken strands.
He didn’t dare to breathe. To hope.
Even as Aelin collapsed to her knees where the Wyrdmarks had been.
Rowan was instantly there, reaching for her limp body.
A heartbeat echoed in his ears, into his own soul.
And that was her chest, rising and falling. And those were her eyes, opening slowly.
The scent of Dorian’s and Chaol’s tears replaced the salt of Endovier as Aelin stared up at Rowan and smiled.
Rowan held her to his chest and wept in the light of the rising sun.
A weak hand landed on his back, running over the tattoo he’d inked. As if tracing the symbols he’d hidden there, in a desperate, wild hope. “I came back,” she rasped.
She was warm, but … cold, somehow. A stranger in her own body.
Aelin sat up, groaning at the ache along her bones.
“What happened?” Dorian asked, held upright by the arm Chaol had around his waist.
Aelin cupped her palms before her. A small lick of flame appeared within them.
Nothing more.
She looked at Rowan, then Chaol, and Dorian, their faces so haggard in the rising light of day.
“It’s gone,” she said quietly. “The power.” She turned her hands, the flame rolling over them. “Only an ember remains.”