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“Aelin is alive.”
And sometimes it sounded like Aelin—Aelin, whom he had loved, who should have been his queen, and to whom he would have one day sworn the blood oath.
the sword that should have been Aelin’s.
until everyone believed that he was a traitorous, butchering bastard who made a mockery of the sword just by touching it.
Aelin were dead. It was that reminder he’d carried with him on his back, the reminder of who the sword belonged to, and to whom, when he took his last breath and went to the Otherworld, he’d finally give it.
The story of Aelin, his Queen, in a death camp, and then serving in her enemy’s house.
she hated their closeness, the way Malakai’s eyes lit up every time he saw him. Hated it so much that she choked on it.
“You don’t bite the women of other males.”
so chaol is her mate rt but that gone be reveled 5books later
She didn’t fail to notice the small, glowing eyes that gathered, peering through the brambles or over boulders or around trees.
Her instincts, warped as they had felt these last few weeks, didn’t raise any alarms, either. So she didn’t tell them off, and didn’t really mind them at all.
But the forest had gone quiet. Those little watching eyes had vanished.
Then she ripped everything from that well inside her, ripped it out with both hands and her entire raging, hopeless heart.
It was a weapon, her power. A different sort of weapon than blades or arrows or her hands. A curse.
Not submissive in the least, that sound. A threat—a promise. The bait beast wanted a shot at Titus.
Titus had been a brute and a killer, yet this wyvern before her … he was a warrior.
“Are you going to kill my father?” “Does he not deserve to die?”
“My queen will die heirless sooner than marry a man from Adarlan.”
And that day in Endovier—that first day, he had felt as if there were something familiar about her … Oh gods.
The Yellowlegs Matron had been here for a reason. Aedion was willing to bet good money that whatever monstrosities or weapons the king was creating, they would see them soon enough, perhaps with the witches in tow.
But he would face what was coming just as he had every other trial in his life: precisely, unyieldingly, and with lethal efficiency.
“When she returns,” Aedion said quietly, “what she will do to the King of Adarlan will make the slaughtering ten years ago look merciful.” And in his heart, Aedion hoped he spoke true.
As she dusted the block off, an image emerged of a stag with a glowing star between its antlers, so like the one in Terrasen.
Gods—when had she smiled last, at anyone or anything?
The thought of marrying like that, of someone else’s body on hers, someone who was not Chaol … She shoved the thought away.
It was a smell she’d scented twice now—once in that bloody chamber a decade ago, and then recently
Her parents had been assassinated. She’d seen the wounds. But the smell in their room had been so similar …
“Then we’ve got to bury her.”
Arobynn had ordered Sam tortured and killed, and then devised a trap for Celaena that got her hauled off to Endovier.
All that blood money—all these things just proof of what she’d lost. What he’d failed to protect.
And the scent still clinging to the entire apartment belonged to a woman—so similar to what he remembered from childhood, but wrapped in mystery and secret smiles.
With every breath, Aedion felt that lingering scent wrapping tighter around his heart and soul. When she came back, he was never letting her go.
And there were birds flying up toward us that were only found in your country. I was counting them to distract myself while—” Another pause, as if Aedion hadn’t meant to say that. “I don’t remember hearing any birds from the three southern kingdoms.”
like Aedion, Ren and Murtaugh had experienced a frenzy of local animals and twin waves of something the day magic had disappeared.
“I’m doing what I have to do.” He didn’t think Aedion would understand, anyway.
Roaring pain surged from his core and up his throat, and he gagged. There was another wave, and a cool breeze tried to kiss his face, but it vanished
Vile. The blood tasted rotten, as if it had curdled or festered inside a corpse for days.
Maiden. Mother. Crone.
Abraxos was a warrior who’d had all the odds stacked against him and survived. Learned from it. Triumphed.
Neither of them had reported anything about the men tasting strange.
trying to do something nice for her.
More than that, she wanted to find the creature and destroy it, for those it had murdered and for what it had made her walk through.
Arobynn had done everything he could to make her hate her heritage, to fear it. What he’d done to her, what she’d allowed herself to become … “This will not end well,” she breathed.
testing out the senses that told her where the trees were without seeing them—the
ok twilight
letting the moves she’d honed as an assassin blend into the instincts of her Fae body.
Celaena hadn’t suggested otherwise, but she wondered why he felt the need to add it.
Over her rotting corpse was she letting these people get away with shutting curtains in her face—or letting them think that she was here to plunder.
So she politely refused, and they set out down the street,
Her mother had called her Fireheart.
A power that was a gift—or a weapon.
They thought they were speaking quietly, but it was with an immortal’s ears that she listened in the near-dark.
