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“It is in our history, Rhysand,” Amren said gravely. “But the Asteri were not known by that name. Here, they were called the Daglan.”
“The glowing letters inked on her back … they’re the same as those in the Book of Breathings.”
“What you were born to do—to accomplish the task for which your father brought you into existence,” Apollion said before fading into nothing, leaving Aidas standing alone before the prisoners. Shock reared up in Hunt, dampened by the weight of an old, unbidden hurt. “I have no father.” Aidas’s expression was sad as he stepped out of the shadows. “You spent too long asking the wrong questions.” “What the fuck does that mean?” Aidas shook his head. “The black crown once again circling your brow is not a new torment from the Asteri. It has existed for millennia.”
Showing a masked queen, a crown upon her head, bearing instruments in her hand and standing before an adoring crowd.
“At the beginning of the tunnels,” Nesta said, “there was that carving of a young female … you said her name was Silene.” “The carving’s an exact likeness,” Bryce said, nodding. “But who is she?” Azriel said softly, voice tinged with pain, “She looks like Rhysand’s sister.”
But my mother, Theia, used the time she served the Daglan to learn all she could about their instruments of conquest. The Dread Trove, we called it in secret. The Mask, the Harp, the Crown, and the Horn.
“Why now?” Hunt asked. “I’ve been enslaved to them for centuries, for Urd’s sake.” “Perhaps they’ve at last learned what your father bred you to be.” Even the miserable itching in his back was forgotten at those words. “What the fuck does that mean?” But Aidas only shook his head. “A tale for another time, Athalar.”
But maybe she could turn him into a worm and step on him. That’d be a mercy.
He might not have explored her body—on this plane, anyway—but their souls had definitely fucked,
Apollion lifted a hand. Pure, sizzling lightning danced around it, arcing out to meet Hunt’s. “Welcome, son,” said the Prince of the Pit.
“And she,” the Under-King went on, gesturing to that unusual depiction of Urd towering above him, “was not a goddess, but a force that governed worlds. A cauldron of life, brimming with the language of creation. Urd, they call her here—a bastardized version of her true name. Wyrd, we called her in that old world.”
It confirmed what Lidia had long guessed. Why she had named Brannon after the oldest legends from her family’s bloodline: of a Fae King from another world, fire in his veins, who had created stags with the power of flame to be his sacred guards.
“Rhysand will be fine? The guy who brings darkness incarnate—” “He and Randall bonded about being overprotective dads,” Ember said.
