“Aelin,” Rowan said again, trying to tug on that bond between them. But there was nothing. Only the gaping maw of some immortal, ancient beast. A beast that had opened an eye, a beast that spoke in the tongue of a thousand worlds. Ice flooded his veins. She was wearing the Wyrdkey. “Aelin.” But Rowan felt it then. Felt that bottom of her power crack open as if the beast within that Wyrdkey stomped its foot, and ash and crusted rock crumbled away beneath it. And revealed a roiling, molten core of magic beneath it. As if it were the fiery heart of Mala herself. Aelin plunged into that power.
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