For Dorian, whom he’d abandoned in that castle.
That moment, over and over, the darkness showed him.
As Dorian held his ground. As he revealed his magic, as good as a death sentence, and bought him time to run.
He had been so afraid—so afraid of magic, of loss, of everything. And that fear … it had driven him to it anyway. It had hurried him down this path. He had clung so hard, had fought against it, and it had cost him everything. Too late. He’d been too late to see clearly.
And when the worst had happened; when he saw that collar; when he saw his men swinging from the gates, their broken bodies picked over by crows …
It had cracked him through to his foundation. To this hollow pit beneath the mountain he’d been.
He had fallen apart. Had let himself lose sight of it.
And he had found some glimmer of peace in Rifthold, even after the injury, and yet …
It was like applying a patch over a knife wound to the gut.
He had not healed. Unmoored and raging, he had not wanted to heal.
Not really. His body, yes, but even that …
Some part of him had whispered it was deserved.
And the soul-wound … He had been content to let it fester.
Failure and liar and oath-breaker.
The darkness swarmed, a wind stirring it.
He could stay here forever. In the ageless dark.
Yes, the darkness whispered.
He could remain, and rage and hate and curl into nothing but shadow.
But Dorian remained before him, still smiling faintly. Waiting.
Waiting.
For—him.
He had made one promise. He had not broken it yet.
To save them.
His friend, his kingdom.
He still had that.
Even here at the bottom of this dark hell, he still had that.
And the road that he had traveled so far … No, he would not look back.
What if we go on, only to more pain and despair?
Aelin had smiled at his question, posed on that rooftop in Rifthold. As if she had understood, long before he did, that he would find this pit. And learn the answer for himself.
Then it is not the end.
This …
This was not the end. This crack in him, this bottom, was not the end.
He had one promise left.
To that he would still hold.
It is not the end.
He smiled at Dorian, whose sapphire eyes shone with joy—with love.
“I’m coming home,” he whispered to his brother, his king.
Dorian only bowed his head and vanished into the darkness.
Leaving Yrene standing behind him.
She was glowing with white light, bright as a newborn star.
Yrene said quietly, “The darkness belongs to you. To shape as you will. To give it power or render it harmless.”
“Was it ever the Valg’s to begin with?” His words echoed into nothing.
“Yes. But it is yours to keep now. This place, this final kernel of it.”
It would remain in him, a scar and a reminder. “Will it grow again?”
“Only if you let it. Only if you do not fill it with better things. Only if you do not forgive.” He knew she didn’t just mean others. “But if you are kind to yourself, if you—if you love yourself …” Yrene’s mouth trembled. “If you love yourself as much as I love you …”
Something began to pound in his chest. A drumbeat that had gone silent down here.
Yrene held a hand toward him, her iridescence rippling into the darkness.
It is not the end.
“Will it hurt?” he asked hoarsely. “The way back—the way out?”
The path back to life, to himself.
“Yes,” Yrene whispered. “But just this one last time. The darkness does not want to lose you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say the same.”
Yrene’s smile was brighter than the glow rippling off her body. A star. She was a fallen star.
She extended her hand again. A silent promise—of what waited on the other side of the dark.
He still had much to do. Oaths to keep.
And looking at her, at that smile …
Life. He had life to savor, to fight for.
And the breaking that had started and ended here … Yes, it belonged to him. He was allowed to break, so that this forging might begin.
So that he might begin again.
He owed it to his king, his country.
And he owed it to himself.
Yrene nodded as if to say yes.
So Chaol stood.
He surveyed the darkness, this piece of him. He did not balk at it.
And smiling at Yrene, he took her hand.
56
It was agony and despair and fear. It was joy and laughter and rest.
It was life, all of it, and as that darkness lunged for Chaol and Yrene, he did not fear it.
He only looked toward the dark and smiled.
Not broken.
Made anew.
And when the darkness beheld him …
Chaol slid a hand against its cheek. Kissed its brow.
It loosened its grip and tumbled back into that pit. Curled up on that rocky floor and quietly, carefully, watched him.
He had the sense of rising up, of being sucked through a too-thin door. Yrene grasped him, hauling him along with her.
She did not let go. Did not falter. She speared them upward, a star racing into the night.
White light slammed into them—
No. Daylight.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the brightness.
The first thing he felt was nothing.
No pain. No numbness. No ache or exhaustion.
Gone.
His legs were … He moved one. It flowed and shifted without a flicker of pain or tension.
Smooth as butter.
He looked to the right, to where Yrene always sat.
She was simply smiling down at him.
“How,” he rasped.
Joy lit her stunning eyes. “My theory … I’ll explain later.”
“Is the mark—”
Her mouth tightened. “It is smaller, but … still there.” She poked a point on his spine. “Though I do not feel anything when I touch it. Nothing at all.”
A reminder. As if some god wanted him to remember this, remember what had occurred.
He sat up, marveling at the ease, the lack of stiffness. “You healed me.”
“I think we both get considerable credit this time.” Her lips were too pale, skin wan.
Chaol brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “Are you feeling well?”
“I’m—tired. But fine. Are you feeling well?”
He scooped Yrene into his lap and buried his head in her neck. “Yes,” he breathed. “A thousand times, yes.”
His chest … there was a lightness to it. To his shoulders.
She batted him away. “You still need to be careful. This newly healed, you could still injure yourself. Give your body time to rest—to let the healing set.”
He lifted a brow. “What, exactly, does resting entail?”
Yrene’s smile turned wicked. “Some things that only special patients get to learn.”
His skin tightened over his bones, but Yrene slid off his lap. “You might want to bathe.”
He blinked, looking at himself. At the bed. And cringed.
That was vomit. On the sheets, on his left arm.
“When—”
“I’m not sure.”