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“You seem remarkably calm for a king who’s just been declared a traitor to his crown and robbed of his throne.”
that it was Fenrys who had wanted the task of handling Aelin Galathynius this past spring. Fenrys loved anything that was wild and beautiful,
“You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”
“Rowan’s always looking for an excuse to show off. Dramatic rescues give him purpose and fulfillment in his dull, immortal life.”
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.
“Every key has a lock. Tell the Queen Who Was Promised to retrieve it soon, for all the allies in the world shall make no difference if she does not wield the Lock, if she does not put those keys back with it. Tell her flame and iron, together bound, merge into silver to learn what must be found. A mere step is all it shall take.”
Not wildfire—but moonfire.
“One said he wanted to marry you.” A low snarl. He yielded a foot but held eye contact with her as he grinned. “But you know what I told them? I said that they didn’t stand a chance in hell.” Aedion lowered his voice, holding her pained, exhausted stare. “Because I am going to marry you,” he promised her. “One day. I am going to marry you. I’ll be generous and let you pick when, even if it’s ten years from now. Or twenty. But one day, you are going to be my wife.”
“Because I’m the only one arrogant and insane enough to ask Mala Fire-Bringer to let me stay with the woman I love.”
“I love you. I am in love with you, Rowan. I have been for a while. And I know there are limits to what you can give me, and I know you might need time—”
“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.”
A dangerous time, for any Fae male, when they first took a lover. Worse, when it meant something more.
He’d enjoy wringing those rarely seen manners from her again.
“As far as anyone’s concerned, you’re still my wife.”
Dorian gave a half smile. “You have a preference for immortal warriors. Why can’t I?”
“I have no interest in human women,” he purred. “Too breakable.”
Manon said a bit numbly, as if it was the first time she’d even spoken it to herself, “I am the last Crochan Queen—the last direct descendant of Rhiannon Crochan herself.”
“I made a promise to protect you. I will not break it, Elide.” She made to pull away, but he gripped her a little harder, keeping her eyes on him. “I will always find you,” he swore to her. Her throat bobbed. Lorcan whispered, “I promise.”
“Blood to blood and soul to soul, together this was done, and only together it can be undone. Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.”
“What’s your sword called?” “Wind-Cleaver.” Aelin clicked her tongue. “Good name.” “Yours?” “Goldryn.” A slash of iron teeth as they were bared in a half smile. “Not as good a name.” “Blame my ancestor.” She certainly did. For many, many things.
“Remember who you are. Every step of the way down, and every step of the way back. Remember who you are. And that you’re mine.”
Lorcan’s onyx eyes were unreadable as he scanned her face. And then he said quietly, “I wanted to go to Perranth with you.” Lorcan dropped the shield.
Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!
“She told me to tell you …” A shuddering inhale. But Aelin didn’t break her stare, even as tears continued cutting through the dirt on her cheeks. “Your mother told me to tell you that she loves you—very much. Those were her last words to me. ‘Tell my Elide I love her very much.’ ”
They both turned, giving Rowan Whitethorn horrifyingly innocent smiles. The Fae Prince, to his credit, only winced after they looked away again.
Manon smirked at Lorcan. “Your claim on her, male, is at the very bottom of the list.”
Kaltain Rompier had just turned the tide in this war.
The power in that cluster alone was staggering. And Elide … Manon had murmured something to Aelin on their walk back into the ruins about Elide being watched over by Anneith. Watched over, as the rest of them seemed to be by other gods.
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. The hair on Dorian’s arms rose. Scions—each of them touched by a different god, each of them subtly, quietly, guided here. It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.
“Manon Blackbeak, Heir to the Blackbeak Witch-Clan and now the last Crochan Queen … meet Ansel of Briarcliff, assassin and Queen of the Western Wastes.”
“The fear of loss … it can destroy you as much as the loss itself.”
“You once asked me where I stand on the line between killing to protect and killing for pleasure.” His fingers grazed the seam of the scar across her abdomen. “I’ll stand on the other side of the line when I find your grandmother.”
😱😱😱😱
Elena nodded. “He was a voice in the void, a secret, silent dreamer. And so were his companions. But the Fae Prince, he was …” Aelin reined in her sob. “I know. I’ve known for a long time.” “I wanted you to know that joy, too,” Elena whispered. “However briefly.” “I did,” Aelin managed to say. “Thank you.”
Aelin knew it would do her no good. So she said to Elide, “I’m glad we met. I’m proud to know you. And I think your mother would have been proud of you, too, Elide.”
And for the sake of their world, Manon prayed the Queen of Terrasen could survive it. If only so Aelin could then die for them all.
Rowan hissed, “Where is my wife?”
Elide said to Lorcan, “I hope you spend the rest of your miserable, immortal life suffering. I hope you spend it alone. I hope you live with regret and guilt in your heart and never find a way to endure it.”
Asterin shrugged. “Five centuries of pure-blooded Ironteeth couldn’t bring us home. Maybe you can.” A child not of war … but of peace.
“Aelin Galathynius willingly handed over her freedom so an Ironteeth witch could walk free,” Manon said. Elide straightened, pulling from Asterin’s arms. But Manon continued, “We owe her a life debt. And more than that … It is time that we became better than our foremothers. We are all children of this land.”
“I am going to find the Crochans. And I am going to raise an army with them. For Aelin Galathynius. And her people. And for ours.”
Aelin had never planned to see Terrasen again.
She had made plans for all of them—and none for herself.
Rowan had married Aelin before dawn barely two days ago.
His Fireheart. His equal, his friend, his lover. His wife. His mate.
Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath … but to rattle the stars.
She’d known that she would not get to lead it. But she would still hold true to her promise to Darrow: I promise you on my blood, on my family’s name, that I will not turn my back on Terrasen as you have turned your back on me.
“Bring her back, Prince,” Aedion said, voice cracking. “Bring her home.”
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.
