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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.”
“It’s called Truth-Teller,” he said in that soft voice, like shadows given sound. “And no, it cannot.” Bryce arched a brow. “So does it … tell the truth?” A hint of a smile, more chilling than the frigid air around them. “It gets people to do so.”
“Like calls to like,”
“When we stop again … can you show me how that contraption works?” “The phone?” The word couldn’t be translated into their language, and it sounded outright silly in their accent. But Nesta nodded, her eyes fixed on the tunnel ahead. “Trying to figure out what it does has been driving us all crazy.”
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.
His claws hadn’t gone through her shoulder. They’d punched straight through her throat.
Locking him inside the House of Flame and Shadow.