Kingdom of Ash
: Part 2 – Chapter 119

It took ten days for everything to be arranged.

Ten days to clear out the throne room, to scrub the lower halls, to replace the food and cooks they needed. Ten days to clean the royal suite, to replace proper clothing, and outfit the throne room in queenly splendor.

Evergreen garlands hung from the pews and rafters, and as Rowan stood on the dais of the throne room, monitoring the assembled crowd, he had to admit that Lysandra had done an impressive job. Candles flickered everywhere, and fresh snow had fallen the night before, covering the scars still lingering from battle.

At his side, Aedion shifted on his feet, Lorcan and Fenrys looking straight ahead.

All of them washed and brushed and wearing clothes that made them look … princely.

Rowan didn’t care. His green jacket, threaded with silver, was the least practical thing he’d ever donned. At his side, at least, he bore his sword, Goldryn hanging from his other hip.

Thankfully, Lorcan looked as uncomfortable as he did, clad in black. If you wore anything else, Aelin had tutted to Lorcan, the world would turn on its head. So burial-black it is.

Lorcan had rolled his eyes. But Rowan had glimpsed Elide’s face when he’d spotted her and Lysandra in the hall off the throne room moments before. Had seen the love and desire when she beheld Lorcan in his new clothes. And wondered how soon this hall would be hosting a wedding.

A glance at Aedion, clad in Terrasen green as well, and Rowan smiled slightly. Two weddings, likely before the summer. Though neither Lysandra nor Aedion had mentioned it.

The last of their guests finished filing into the packed space, and Rowan surveyed the rulers and allies seated in the front rows. Ansel of Briarcliff kept fidgeting in her equally new pants and jacket, Rolfe draping an arm over the pew behind her as he smirked at her discomfort. Ilias, clad in the white, layered clothes of his people, sat on Ansel’s other side, the portrait of unruffled calm. A row ahead, Galan lounged in his princely regalia, chin high. He winked as his Ashryver eyes met Rowan’s.

Rowan only inclined his chin back to the young man. And then inclined it toward his cousins, Enda and Sellene, seated near the aisle, the latter of whom had needed a good few hours of sitting in silence when Rowan had told her that she was now Queen of Doranelle. The Fae Queen of the East.

His silver-haired cousin hadn’t dressed for her new title today, though—like Enda, she had opted for whatever clothing was the least battle-worn.

Such changes would come to Doranelle—ones Rowan knew he could not predict. The Whitethorn family would rule, Mora’s line restored to power at last, but it would remain up to them, up to Sellene, how that reign would shape itself. How the Fae would choose to shape themselves without a dark queen lording over them.

How many of those Fae would choose to stay here, in Terrasen, would remain to be seen. How many would wish to build a life in this war-torn kingdom, to opt for years of hard rebuilding over returning to ease and wealth? The Fae warriors he’d encountered these two weeks had given him no indication, yet he’d seen a few of them gaze toward the Staghorns, toward Oakwald, with longing. As if they, too, heard the wild call of the wind.

Then there was the other factor: the Fae who had dwelled here before Terrasen’s fall. Who had answered Aelin’s desperate plea, and had returned to their hidden home amongst the Wolf Tribe in the hinterlands to prepare for the journey here. To return to Terrasen at last. And perhaps bring some of those wolves with them.

He’d work to make this kingdom worthy of their return. Worthy of all who lived here, human or Fae or witch-kind. A kingdom as great as it had once been—greater. As great as what dwelled in the far South, across the Narrow Sea, proof that a land of peace and plenty could exist.

The khaganate royals had told him much about their kingdom these days—their policies, their peoples. They now sat together on the other side of the throne room, Chaol and Dorian with them. Yrene and Nesryn also sat there, both lovely in dresses that Rowan could only assume had been borrowed. There were no shops open—and none with supplies. Indeed, it was a miracle that any of them had clean clothes at all.

Manon, at least, had refused finery. She wore her witch leathers—though her crown of stars lay upon her brow, casting its light upon Petrah Blueblood and Bronwen Crochan, seated on her either side.

Aedion’s swallow was audible, and Rowan glanced to the open doors. Then to where Lord Darrow stood beside the empty throne.

Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected from the sad lot of candidates.

Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his eyes glowed.

The trumpets rang out.

A four-note summons. Repeated three times.

Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.

Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand, sprawling orchestra that might accompany an event of this magnitude, but better than nothing.

It didn’t matter anyway.

Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.

Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.

For Aelin’s coronation.

Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but what she was.

The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take down Erawan.

Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.

Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming, those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran. Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for him to convince the other lords to agree to this.

To Aelin’s right to the throne.

They had delivered the documents two days ago. Signed by all of them.

Elide took up a spot on the right side of the throne. Then Lysandra. Then Evangeline.

Rowan’s heart began thundering as everyone gazed down the now-empty aisle. As the music rose and rose, the Song of Terrasen ringing out.

And when the music hit its peak, when the world exploded with sound, regal and unbending, she appeared.

Rowan’s knees buckled as everyone rose to their feet.

Clad in flowing, gauzy green and silver, her golden hair unbound, Aelin paused on the threshold of the throne room.

He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Aelin gazed down the long aisle. As if weighing every step she would take to the dais.

To her throne.

The entire world seemed to pause with her, lingering on that threshold.

Shining brighter than the snow outside, Aelin lifted her chin and began her final walk home.

Every step, every path she had taken, had led here.

The faces of her friends, her allies, blurred as she passed by.

To the throne that waited. To the crown Darrow would place upon her head.

Each of her footfalls seemed to echo through the earth. Aelin let some of her embers stream by, bobbing in the wake of her gown’s train as it flowed behind her.

Her hands shook, yet she clutched the bouquet of evergreen tighter. Evergreen—for the eternal sovereignty of Terrasen.

Each step toward that throne loomed and yet beckoned.

Rowan stood to the right of the throne, teeth bared in a fierce grin that even his training could not contain.

And there was Aedion at the throne’s left. Head high and tears running down his face, the Sword of Orynth hanging at his side.

It was for him that she then smiled. For the children they had been, for what they had lost.

What they now gained.

Aelin passed Dorian and Chaol, and threw a nod their way. Winked at Ansel of Briarcliff, dabbing her eyes on her jacket sleeve.

And then Aelin was at the three steps of the dais, and Darrow strode to their edge.

As he had instructed her last night, as she had practiced over and over in a dusty stairwell for hours, Aelin ascended the three steps and knelt upon the top one.

The only time in her reign that she would ever bow.

The only thing she would ever kneel before.

Her crown. Her throne. Her kingdom.

The hall remained standing, even as Darrow motioned them to sit.

And then came the words, uttered in the Old Language. Sacred and ancient, spoken flawlessly by Darrow, who had crowned Orlon himself all those decades ago.

Do you offer your life, your body, your soul to the service of Terrasen?

She answered in the Old Language, as she had also practiced with Rowan last night until her tongue turned leaden. I offer all that I am and all that I have to Terrasen.

Then speak your vows.

Aelin’s heart raced, and she knew Rowan could hear it, but she bowed her head and said, I, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, swear upon my immortal soul to guard, to nurture, and to honor Terrasen from this day until my very last.

Then so it shall be, Darrow responded, and reached out a hand.

Not to her, but to Evangeline, who stepped forward with a green velvet pillow.

The crown atop it.

Adarlan had destroyed her antler throne. Had melted her crown.

So they had made a new one. In the ten days since it had been decided she was to be crowned here, before the world, they had found a master goldsmith to forge one from the remaining gold they’d stolen from the barrow in Wendlyn.

Twining bands of it, like woven antlers, rose to uphold the gem in its center.

Not a true gem, but one infinitely more precious. Darrow had given it to her himself.

The cut bit of crystal that contained the sole bloom of kingsflame from Orlon’s reign.

Even amid the shining metals of the crown, the red-and-orange blossom glowed like a ruby, dazzling in the light of the morning sun as Darrow lifted the crown from the pillow.

He raised it toward the shaft of light pouring through the bank of windows behind the dais. The ceremony chosen for this time, this ray of sun. This blessing, from Mala herself.

And though the Lady of Light was forever gone, Aelin could have sworn she felt a warm hand on her shoulder as Darrow held up the crown to the sun.

Could have sworn she felt them all standing there with her, those whom she had loved with her heart of wildfire. Whose stories were again inked upon her skin.

And as the crown came down, as she braced her head, her neck, her heart, Aelin let her power shine. For those who had not made it, for those who had fought, for the world watching.

Darrow set the crown upon her head, its weight heavier than she’d thought.

Aelin closed her eyes, letting that weight, that burden and gift, settle into her.

“Rise,” Darrow said, “Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen.”

She swallowed a sob. And slowly, her breathing steady despite the heartbeat that threatened to leap out of her chest, Aelin rose.

Darrow’s gray eyes were bright. “Long may she reign.”

And as Aelin turned, the call went up through the hall, echoing off the ancient stones and into the gathered city beyond the castle. “Hail, Aelin! Queen of Terrasen! ”

The sound of it from Rowan’s lips, from Aedion’s, threatened to send her to her knees, but Aelin smiled. Kept her chin high and smiled.

Darrow gestured to the awaiting throne, to those last two steps.

She would sit, and the ceremony would be done.

But not yet.

Aelin turned to the left. Toward Aedion. And said quietly, but not weakly, “This has been yours from the day you were born, Prince Aedion.”

Aedion went still as Aelin pushed back the gauzy sleeve of her gown, exposing her forearm.

Aedion’s shoulders shook with the force of his tears.

Aelin didn’t fight hers as she asked, lips wobbling, “Will you swear the blood oath to me?”

Aedion just fell to his knees before her.

Rowan silently handed her a dagger, but Aelin paused as she held it over her arm. “You fought for Terrasen when no one else would. Against all odds, beyond all hope, you fought for this kingdom. For me. For these people. Will you swear to continue to do so, for as long as you draw breath?”

Aedion’s head bowed as he breathed, “Yes. In this life, and in all others, I will serve you. And Terrasen.”

Aelin smiled at Aedion, at the other side to her fair coin, and sliced open her forearm before extending it to him. “Then drink, Prince. And be welcome.”

Gently, Aedion took her arm and set his mouth to her wound.

And when he withdrew, her blood on his lips, Aelin smiled down at him. “You said you wanted to swear it before the entire world,” she said so only he could hear. “Well, here you go.”

Aedion choked out a laugh and rose, throwing his arms around her and squeezing tightly before he backed to his place on the other side of the throne.

Aelin looked to Darrow, still waiting. “Where were we?”

The old lord smiled slightly and gestured to the throne. “The last piece of this ceremony.”

“Then lunch,” Fenrys muttered, sighing.

Aelin suppressed her smile, and took the two steps to the throne.

She halted again as she turned to sit.

Halted at the small figures who poked their heads around the throne room doors. A small gasp escaped her, enough that everyone turned to look.

“The Little Folk,” people murmured, some backing away as small figures darted through the shadows down the aisle, wings rustling and scales gleaming.

One of them approached the dais, and with spindly greenish hands, laid their offering at her feet.

A second crown. Mab’s crown.

Taken from her saddlebags—wherever they had wound up after the battle. With them, it seemed. As if they would not let it be lost once more. Would not let her forget.

Aelin picked up the crown they had laid at her feet, gaping toward the small gathering who clustered in the shadows beyond the pews, their dark, wide eyes blinking.

“The Faerie Queen of the West,” Elide said softly, though all heard.

Aelin’s fingers trembled, her heart filling to the point of pain, as she surveyed the ancient, glimmering crown. Then looked to the Little Folk. “Yes,” she said to them. “I will serve you, too. Until the end of my days.”

And Aelin bowed to them then. The near-invisible people who had saved her so many times, and asked for nothing. The Lord of the North, who had survived, as she had, against all odds. Who had never forgotten her. She would serve them, as she would serve any citizen of Terrasen.

Everyone on the dais bowed, too. Then everyone in the throne room.

But the Little Folk were already gone.

So she placed Mab’s crown atop the one of gold and crystal and silver, the ancient crown settling perfectly behind it.

And then finally, Aelin sat upon her throne.

It weighed on her, nestled against her bones, that new burden. No longer an assassin. No longer a rogue princess.

And when Aelin lifted her head to survey the cheering crowd, when she smiled, Queen of Terrasen and the Faerie Queen of the West, she burned bright as a star.

The ritual was not over. Not yet.

As the bells rang out over the city, declaring her coronation, the gathered city beyond cheered.

Aelin went to greet them.

Down to the castle gates, her court, her friends, following her, the crowd from the throne room behind. And when she stopped at the sealed gates, the ancient, carved metal looming, the city and world awaiting beyond it, Aelin turned toward them.

Toward all those who had come with her, who had gotten them to this day, this joyous ringing of the bells.

She beckoned her court forward.

Then smiled at Dorian and Chaol, at Yrene and Nesryn and Sartaq and their companions. And beckoned them forward, too.

Brows rising, they approached.

But Aelin, crowned and glowing, only said, “Walk with me.” She gestured to the gates behind her. “All of you.”

This day did not belong to her alone. Not at all.

And when they all balked, Aelin walked forward. Took Yrene Westfall by the hand to guide her to the front. Then Manon Blackbeak. Elide Lochan. Lysandra. Evangeline. Nesryn Faliq. Borte and Hasar and Ansel of Briarcliff.

All the women who had fought by her side, or from afar. Who had bled and sacrificed and never given up hope that this day might come.

“Walk with me,” Aelin said to them, the men and males falling into step behind. “My friends.”

The bells still ringing, Aelin nodded to the guards at the castle gates.

They opened at last, and the roar from the gathered crowds was loud enough to rattle the stars.

As one, they walked out. Into the cheering city.

Into the streets, where people danced and sang, where they wept and clasped their hands to their hearts at the sight of the parade of waving, smiling rulers and warriors and heroes who had saved their kingdom, their lands. At the sight of the newly crowned queen, joy lighting her eyes.

A new world.

A better world.