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There were no survivors. Not one.
Open to attack.
They both turned, giving Rowan Whitethorn horrifyingly innocent smiles. The Fae Prince, to his credit, only winced after they looked away again.
Kaltain Rompier had just turned the tide in this war. Dorian had never been more ashamed of himself.
“Melisande’s fleet is now our fleet. And its capital is now ours, too.” She jerked her chin at Aelin. “You’re welcome.” Manon Blackbeak burst out laughing.
A living god—Mala’s heir and conqueror of the known world.
She had never contemplated what it would be like—to yield control. And not have it be weakness, but a freedom.
Aelin and Manon stood in silence as the scene unfolded. As the truth, at last the truth, now wove together.
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.
ROWANNNNNN
Rowan had not possessed an army of his own to give to Aelin. To give to Terrasen. So he had won an army for her. Through the only things Aelin had claimed were all she wanted from him. His heart. His loyalty. His friendship.
A wyvern. A wyvern with shimmering wings. And behind it, descending upon the Fae fleet with wicked delight, flew twelve others.
“I hope you spend the rest of your miserable, immortal life suffering. I hope you spend it alone. I hope you live with regret and guilt in your heart and never find a way to endure it.”
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.
