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Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.
“Fly, Abraxos.” And her gentle, warrior-hearted mount flew.
“To the very end, Abraxos,” she said. His roar was his only confirmation.
“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. 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.
“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.”
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.
Rowan gave him a lazy smile but refrained from commenting on the delicate, dark-haired young woman who now held Lorcan’s own leash.
Everything had been taken from you—everything—and yet you still fought. You did not yield.
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.
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.
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.
