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But Aelin had promised herself, months and months ago, that she would not pretend to be anything but what she was. She had crawled through darkness and blood and despair—she had survived.
“You are my Fireheart.”
Aelin said, “I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come. I promise you on my blood, on my family’s name, that I will not turn my back on Terrasen as you have turned your back on me. I promise you, Darrow, that when the day comes and you crawl for my help, I will put my kingdom before my pride and not kill you for this. I think the true punishment will be seeing me on the throne for the rest of your miserable life.”
All Rowan now had to offer his queen were the strength of his sword, the depth of his magic, and the loyalty of his heart.
“Aelin is my heart. I taught her what I knew, and it worked because our magics understood each other deep down—just as our souls did.
The sunlight gilded the balcony as Asterin whispered, so softly that only Manon could hear, “Bring my body back to the cabin.”
Manon looked to the Thirteen, standing around Asterin in a half circle. One by one, they lifted two fingers to their brows. A murmur went through the crowd. The gesture not to honor a High Witch. But a Witch-Queen.
Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.
The seas are my haven—upon the waves, we will always be free.”
“If you do not fight in this war, Gavriel, then you doom your son to die.”
“You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”
Rolfe let out a low laugh. “The talk of young idealists and dreamers.” “The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by the dreamers, Rolfe.” “The world will be saved by the warriors, by the men and women who will spill their blood for it. Not for empty promises and gilded dreams.”
Love had broken a perfect killing tool. Lorcan wondered if it would take him centuries more to stop being so pissed about it.
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.
They had not come ten years ago. She wanted them to know she had not forgotten it.
“Every key has a lock. Tell the Queen Who Was Promised to retrieve it soon, for all the allies in the world shall make no difference if she does not wield the Lock, if she does not put those keys back with it. Tell her flame and iron, together bound, merge into silver to learn what must be found. A mere step is all it shall take.” Then she looked away again.
And Rowan realized what the power in her hand was. Realized that the flame she would unleash would be so cold it burned, realized it was the cold of the stars, the cold of stolen light. Not wildfire—but moonfire.
“I love you. I am in love with you, Rowan. I have been for a while. And I know there are limits to what you can give me, and I know you might need time—” His lips crushed into hers, and he said onto her mouth, dropping words more precious than rubies and emeralds and sapphires into her heart, her soul, “I love you. There is no limit to what I can give to you, no time I need. Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.”
“I see you. I see every part of you. And I am not afraid.” I will not be afraid. A line in the burning brightness. My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius … And I will not be afraid.
The Queen of Flame and Shadow, the Heir of Fire, Aelin of the Wildfire, Fireheart …
They both turned, giving Rowan Whitethorn horrifyingly innocent smiles. The Fae Prince, to his credit, only winced after they looked away again.
Queen, and lover, and friend—and more. He hadn’t cared that they had an audience. He had needed to touch her, to reassure himself that she was all right, to feel the woman who could do such great and terrible things and still look at him with that beckoning, vibrant life in her eyes. You make me want to live, Rowan.
Rowan gave him a lazy smile but refrained from commenting on the delicate, dark-haired young woman who now held Lorcan’s own leash.
“I gave myself permission to use your name however I please, Ansel, the day I spared your life instead of ending you like the coward you are.” That cocky smile widened. “Hello, bitch,” Ansel purred. “Hello, traitor,” Aelin purred right back, surveying the armada spread before them. “Looks like you made it on time after all.”
“The fear of loss … it can destroy you as much as the loss itself.”
If someone had told him that the drunken, brawling, bitter woman would become the one thing he could not live without … Rowan shut the door.
Unless you would like to learn precisely what parts of me are made of iron the next time you touch me, I decide those things.
Not just gods, but beings of a higher, different existence. For whom time was fluid, and bodies were things to be shifted and molded. Who could exist in multiple places, spread themselves wide like nets being thrown. They were as mighty and vast and eternal as a human was to a mayfly. They had not been born in this world. Perhaps had become trapped here after wandering through a Wyrdgate. And they had struck some bargain with her father, with Mala, to at last send them home, banishing Erawan with them. And she had ruined it.
Now the dark queen’s flag vanished entirely, as Fae ships bearing the silver banner of the House of Whitethorn opened fire upon their own armada.
“I am going to find the Crochans. And I am going to raise an army with them. For Aelin Galathynius. And her people. And for ours.”
Rowan had married Aelin before dawn barely two days ago.
His Fireheart. His equal, his friend, his lover. His wife. His mate.
To contain her. To break her. To torture her. His Fireheart, locked in the dark.
Fight it, he willed her, sending the words down the bond—the mating bond, which perhaps had settled into place that first moment they’d become carranam, hidden beneath flame and ice and hope for a better future. Fight her. I am coming for you. Even if it takes me a thousand years. I will find you, I will find you, I will find you.
I’m going to call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners.
Where are our allies, Aelin? Where are our armies? She had taken the criticism—taken it, because he knew she hadn’t wanted to disappoint them if she failed.
For Terrasen. For them. For a better world.
Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath … but to rattle the stars.
A chance. His wife, his mate, had bought them a fool’s shot at this war.
Aelin would never stop fighting.
“Bring her back, Prince,” Aedion said, voice cracking. “Bring her home.” Rowan held his brother’s stare and nodded. “We will see you again. All of you.”
Rowan brought the shirt to his face and breathed in her scent. Felt something stir in him—felt the bond flicker.
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.
