Whitethorn knew—even at Mistward—that the queen hadn’t yet stepped into her birthright. Knew that this sort of power came around once in an eon, and to serve it, to serve her … A court that wouldn’t just change the world. It would start the world over. A court that could conquer this world—and any other it wished. If it wished. If that woman on the plain desired to. And that was the question, wasn’t it? “Lorcan,” Elide whispered, her voice breaking in longing for the queen, or terror of her, he didn’t know.
