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And for a moment, he could see the woman she’d become—was already becoming. Someone who, regardless of where she’d been born, any queen would prize at her side.
Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.”
And here, at the edge of the world, they had found each other again. Here at the edge of the world, just for a heartbeat, Elide felt the warm hand of her mother brush her shoulder.
Lorcan—Lorcan, blessed by Hellas himself, Rowan had told him on that skiff ride into the Dead Islands. Hellas, god of death. Who had traveled here with Anneith, his consort.
Only Ansel, who had once laughed at death as she’d leaped a ravine and convinced Aelin to nearly die doing the same, would mock a Valg king.
She had never contemplated what it would be like—to yield control. And not have it be weakness, but a freedom.
A wyvern. A wyvern with shimmering wings. And behind it, descending upon the Fae fleet with wicked delight, flew twelve others.
