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As one, the Thirteen lifted their fingers to their brows. As one, they lowered them. Manon looked toward the sea, her throat tight. “Aelin Galathynius willingly handed over her freedom so an Ironteeth witch could walk free,” Manon said. Elide straightened, pulling from Asterin’s arms. But Manon continued, “We owe her a life debt. And more than that … It is time that we became better than our foremothers. We are all children of this land.”
Rowan had married Aelin before dawn barely two days ago.
Aelin had known, though. That he was her mate. And she had not pushed it, or demanded he face it, because she loved him, and he knew she’d rather carve out her own heart than cause him pain or distress. His Fireheart. His equal, his friend, his lover. His wife. His mate.
His Fireheart, locked in the dark. She’d tried to tell him. Right before the ilken converged. Tried to tell him she’d vomited her guts up on the ship that day not because she was pregnant but because she’d realized she was going to die. That the cost of sealing the gate, forging a new Lock to do so, was her life. Her immortal life.
“Where is Aelin Galathynius?” the stranger asked a bit breathlessly as he scanned them. And his accent … “Who are you,” Rowan ground out. But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the color of his eyes. Turquoise—with a core of gold. Aedion breathed as if in a trance, “Galan.” Galan Ashryver, Crown Prince of Wendlyn.
In a voice hoarse from disuse, Ilias asked him, “We have come to fulfill our life debt to Celaena Sardothien—to Aelin Galathynius. Where is she?” “You are the sessiz suikast,” Dorian said, shaking his head. “The Silent Assassins of the Red Desert.”
“Tell Aelin Galathynius that Wendlyn has never forgotten Evalin Ashryver,” Galan said to him, to Aedion. “Or Terrasen.”
Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath … but to rattle the stars.
“When we are done, I will join you in Terrasen, Aedion,” the King of Adarlan promised. “So that when you get back, Rowan—when both of you get back—there will be something left to fight for.”
Unleashing a cry that set the world trembling, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.
