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Maybe this city did deserve Aelin Galathynius’s flames. Maybe Chaol deserved to burn, too.
A thud silenced the city square. People applauded—applauded. The sound covered the second thud of the man’s head falling and rolling away. Then Chaol was in another room, in the castle that had once been his home, listening to the thud of flesh and bone on marble, red mist coating the air, Dorian screaming— Oath-breaker. Liar. Traitor. Chaol was all of those things now, but not to Dorian. Never to his true king.
Aedion Ashryver was ready to die.
“When you shatter the chains of this world and forge the next, remember that art is as vital as food to a kingdom. Without it, a kingdom is nothing, and will be forgotten by time. I have amassed enough money in my miserable life to not need any more—so you will understand me clearly when I say that wherever you set your throne, no matter how long it takes, I will come to you, and I will bring music and dancing.”
She was the heir of fire. She was fire, and light, and ash, and embers. She was Aelin Fireheart, and she bowed for no one and nothing, save the crown that was hers by blood and survival and triumph.
Behind them, across the hall, the dancers shattered their roses on the floor, and Aedion grinned at his queen as the entire world went to hell.
She was a whirling cloud of death, a queen of shadows, and these men were already carrion.
It was with no small amount of horror that she found Dorian strolling toward them.
The Ironteeth took after our Valg ancestors more, while the Crochans got more of the Fae traits.
But he wished she had killed him. He hated her for not killing him.
She just stretched out her legs like a cat
feline motion
there was another scent entwined with hers. Staggeringly powerful and ancient and—male.
she was Death incarnate.
“Ansel of Briarcliff,”
Gods help them all.
But a world in which the ordinary human voice would be nothing more than a whisper.
“Blue,” she whispered. “My blood runs blue.” “Good choice, witchling,” Manon said, and the word was a challenge and an order. She turned away, but glanced over her shoulder. “Welcome to the Blackbeaks.” Witchling. Elide stared after her.
Rowan was the most powerful full-blooded Fae male alive. And his scent was all over her. Yet she had no gods-damned idea.
“I don’t leave without Dorian.”
At least he couldn’t hate himself any more than he already did.
Wyrdhound—that’s
The creature’s voice stopped her cold. Not the voice of a demon, or a man. But the king.
“Who is that?” Nesryn asked. Aedion smiled. “Rowan.”
Rowan stiffened a bit beneath her grip. Neither male broke their stare as they neared. Territorial nonsense.
“Your hair! You cut it all off!” She pulled off her own hood as she crossed the distance between them. Indeed, the long silver-white hair was now cropped short. It made him look younger, made his tattoo stand out more, and … fine, it made him more handsome, too. Or maybe that was just her missing him. “Since you seemed to think that we would be doing a good amount of fighting here, shorter hair is more useful. Though I can’t say that your hair might be considered the same. You might as well have dyed it blue.” “Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I
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His skin had deepened to a golden brown—he must have spent time outdoors these past weeks. Without clothing, apparently.
“Someday, I want to see you wear this.”
“You met his father. A few weeks ago. Gavriel.”
But she would. She would go to war for him. He saw it in her eyes.
But the prince’s mouth quirked into a smile, as if saying to Aedion, You think you can take me, cub? Aedion grinned. Any place, any time, Prince.
Blood-sworn. Aelin went pale. Aedion asked, “What did he just say?” Rowan had taken the blood oath to Aelin. His blood oath.
That easily, she leashed the mighty, immortal warrior.
He’d sell his soul to the dark god to never have her look like that again.
“My encounters with other females usually didn’t involve parading around in nightclothes.” “And what clothes did they involve?” “Usually, none at all.”
He wished that woman had killed him.
“From me,” Kaltain said, in a voice that was dead and hollow and yet vicious. “It has always been there—asleep. And now it has been awoken. Shaped anew.”
“No, I didn’t squash him like a grape.” He gave the queen a feral smile. “I ripped the leg off the table and impaled him with it.”
Aedion marveled for a heartbeat at the softness in the warrior’s face. Until Rowan shifted his eyes toward him and they were full of ice.
the clothes might be tight—not that I’m objecting to that one bit—but
Conveniently, in all her storytelling, Aelin had forgotten to mention that the prince was so handsome.
bruh there aint no way this man isnt gay😭😭
Another failure that fell on his shoulders—another disaster.
She did not falter. She did not do anything but plow ahead, burning bright. Even if it meant killing Dorian.
“I didn’t deserve her,”
“I didn’t deserve Sam.”
Royal Theater,
He’d been so quiet for the past thirty minutes—as if he’d pulled back into a place where she couldn’t reach him.
it felt like standing in a tomb.
When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan’s eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her.
And when Lorcan walked right into that den of Valg commanders and the Wyrdhound that had come to retrieve their reports, when the clash of weapons and roar of dying filled her ears, Aelin merely sauntered down the street, whistling to herself.
