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“The people you love are just weapons that will be used against you.”
Fireheart—why do you cry? “Because I am lost,” she whispered onto the earth. “And I do not know the way.”
“You cannot pick and choose what parts of her to love.”
“I have no doubt that you’ll be able to free the slaves from the labor camps some day. No matter what name you use.”
So she left Rowan in the hall. But it did not stop her from wishing she could keep him.
That was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black. That was when they shut up. And when the conductor raised his arms, it was not a symphony that filled the cavernous space. It was the Song of Eyllwe. Then the Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labor camps. And finally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become, they played the Song of Adarlan. When the final note finished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one, they looked to the boxes, to all those
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So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.”
“I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”
“I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”
It was a message to the world. Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.
She was as much a queen as Maeve. She was the sovereign of a strong people and a mighty kingdom. She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.
No longer would they be locked away in her heart. No longer would she be ashamed.
She lifted her face to the stars. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir of two mighty bloodlines, protector of a once-glorious people, and Queen of Terrasen. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—and she would not be afraid.
