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This thing between them, the force of it, could devour the world. And if they picked it, picked them, it might very well cause the end of it.
Witches did not mourn, because witches did not love enough to allow it to break them.
“You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”
“The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by the dreamers, Rolfe.”
Love had broken a perfect killing tool.
Oh, gods—this. This was what drove her out of her mind—this fire between them. They could burn the entire world to ashes with it. He was hers and she was his, and they had found each other across centuries of bloodshed and loss, across oceans and kingdoms and war.
“Even when you’re in another kingdom, Aelin, your fire is still in my blood, my mouth.”
Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.”
