CHAPTER
72
Bright, open air, the wind roaring in her ears, then—
Aelin landed on the open glass bridge a level below, her knees popping as she absorbed the impact and rolled. Her body shrieked in agony at the slices in her arms and back where bits of glass stuck clean through her suit, but she was already sprinting for the tower door at the other end of the bridge.
She looked in time to see Dorian hurtle right through the space she’d cleared, his eyes fixed on her.
Aelin flung open the door as the boom of Dorian hitting the bridge sounded.
She slammed the door behind her, but even that couldn’t seal out the growing
cold.
Just a little farther.
Aelin raced up the spiraling tower stairs, half sobbing through her gritted
teeth.
Rowan. Aedion. Chaol.
Chaol—
The door shattered off its hinges at the base of the spire and cold exploded through, stealing her breath.
But Aelin had reached the top of the tower. Beyond it, another glass footbridge, thin and bare, stretched far across to one of the other spires.
It was still shaded as the sun crept across the other side of the building, the uppermost turrets of the glass castle surrounding and smothering her like a cage of darkness.
Aelin had gotten out, and taken Dorian with her.
Chaol had bought her that time, in one final attempt to save his friend and his king.
When she had burst into his house this morning, sobbing and laughing, she’d explained what the Wing Leader had written, the payment the witch had given in exchange for saving her life. Dorian was still in there, still fighting.
She had planned to take them both on at once, the king and the prince, and he had agreed to help her, to try to talk Dorian back into humanity, to try to convince the prince to fight. Until that moment he’d seen his men hanging from
the gates.
Now he had no interest in talking.
If Aelin were to stand a chance—any chance—of freeing Dorian from that collar, she needed the king out of the picture. Even if it cost her the vengeance for her family and kingdom.
Chaol was glad to settle that score on her behalf—and on the behalf of many more.
The king looked at Chaol’s sword, then at his face, and laughed.
“You’ll kill me, Captain? Such dramatics.”
They’d gotten away. Aelin had gotten Dorian out, her bluff so flawless even Chaol had believed the Eye in her hands was the real thing, with the way she’d angled it into the sun so the blue stone glowed. He had no idea where she’d put the real one. If she was even wearing it.
All of it—all that they had done, and lost, and fought for. All of it for this moment.
The king kept approaching, and Chaol held his sword before him, not yielding one step.
For Ress. For Brullo. For Sorscha. For Dorian. For Aelin, and Aedion, and their family, for the thousands massacred in those labor camps. And for Nesryn —who he’d lied to, who would wait for a return that wouldn’t come, for time
they wouldn’t have together.
He had no regrets but that one.
A wave of black slammed into him, and Chaol staggered back a step, the marks of protection tingling on his skin.
“You lost,” Chaol panted. The blood was flaking away beneath his clothes, itching.
Another wave of black, identical to the one that had struck Dorian—which Dorian hadn’t been able to stand against.
Chaol felt it that time: the throb of unending agony, the whisper of pain to come.
The king approached. Chaol lifted his sword higher.
“Your wards are failing, boy.”
Chaol smiled, tasting blood in his mouth. “Good thing steel lasts longer.”
The sun through the windows warmed Chaol’s back—as if in an embrace, as if in comfort. As if it to tell him it was time.
I’ll make it count, Aelin had promised him.
He had bought her time.
A wave of black reared up behind the king, sucking the light out of the room.
Chaol spread his arms wide as the darkness hit him, shattered him, obliterated him until there was nothing but light—burning blue light, warm and welcoming.
Aelin and Dorian had gotten away. It was enough.
When the pain came, he was not afraid.