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Celaena crossed her arms. Nonsense—magic always led to nonsense like this. “What’s your name?” “What is your name?” “Celaena Sardothien,” she ground out. The skull barked a laugh. “Oh, that is too funny! The funniest thing I’ve heard in centuries!”
If the heir of Terrasen, Aelin Galathynius, had lived, would she have become a friend, an ally? His bride, perhaps?
“One of them has to break,” the queen said to the princess. “Only then can it begin.” “I know,” the princess said softly. “But the prince isn’t ready. It has to be her.” “Then do you understand what I am asking of you?” The princess looked up, toward the shaft of moonlight spilling into the tomb. When she looked back at the ancient queen, her eyes were bright. “Yes.”
“She won’t understand. And when she goes over the edge, there will be nothing to pull her back.”
He had never learned anything about the mark that had glowed on her head during the duel. The Wyrdmark was impossible to decipher. It either meant “nameless” or “unnamed,” or something akin to “anonymous.”
Celaena shook her head, looking at the sunlight pouring into the tomb from the shaft above. “Will you ever stop giving me commands?” Elena let out a soft laugh. “When you stop running from your past, I will.”
“I promise,” she whispered again. “On my name, on my life, even if it takes until my last breath, I promise I will see Eyllwe freed.”
