A chill wind edged in black mist danced between the fingers of his other hand. Not wind like Whitethorn’s, and not light and flame like Whitethorn’s bitch-queen. Not even raw magic like the new King of Adarlan. No, Lorcan’s magic was that of will—of death and thought and destruction. There was no name for it. Not even his queen had known what it was, where it had come from. A gift from the dark god, from Hellas, Maeve had mused—a dark gift, for her dark warrior. And left it at that. A wild smile danced on Lorcan’s lips as he let his magic rise to the surface, let its black roar fill his veins.
...more
