So Aedion charged down to the western
gate, a battle cry on his lips as his men let him
right up to the iron doors and the enemy army
just visible through the sundering plates. The
moment the gate opened, it would be over.
Aedion’s drained legs shook, his arms
strained, but he held his ground. For whatever
few breaths he had left.
Aelin had come. It was enough.
Dorian’s magic snapped out of him, felling
the charging soldiers. Side by side with Chaol,
the wild men of the Fangs around them, they
cleared a path through Morath’s ranks, their
swords plunging and lifting, their breath a
burn in their throats.
He had never seen battle. Knew he never
wished to again. The chaos, the noise, the
blood, the horses screaming—
But he was not afraid. And Chaol, riding