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“The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by the dreamers, Rolfe.”
She was a liar, and a murderer, and a thief, and Aelin had a feeling she’d be called much worse by the end of this war.
Today her message would thunder across the realms. She was not a rebel princess, shattering enemy castles and killing kings. She was a force of nature. She was a calamity and a commander of immortal warriors of legend. And if those allies did not join with her … she wanted them to think of today, of what she would do, and wonder if they might find her on their shores, in their harbors, one day, too. They had not come ten years ago. She wanted them to know she had not forgotten it.
Well, at least he now knew what secret form Lysandra had been working on. And why Aelin had insisted on getting inside Brannon’s temple. Not just to see the king, not just to reclaim the city for the Mycenians and Terrasen, but … for Lysandra to study the life-size, detailed carvings of those sea dragons. To become a living myth.
The Queen of Flame and Shadow, the Heir of Fire, Aelin of the Wildfire, Fireheart …
“You are Nehemia,” she said. The princess whirled, her hunting leathers stained and damp, the gold tips on her braided hair clinking. An assessing look with eyes that were too old for barely eighteen; eyes that had stared long into the darkness between the stars and yearned to know its secrets. “And you are Elena.” Elena nodded. “Why have you come?” The Princess of Eyllwe jerked her elegant chin toward the stone chest. “Am I not called to open it? To learn how to save us, and to pay the price?” “No,” Elena said quietly. “Not you. Not in this way.” A tightening of her lips was the only sign of
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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.
