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“Maybe we could find the way back together.”
“Together, then.”
“You cannot pick and choose what parts of her to love.”
“But I also think you like to suffer. You collect scars because you want proof that you are paying for whatever sins you’ve committed.
It was hers to command—not the other way around. She was not its slave. She was no one’s slave anymore.
“Fireheart.”
“I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”
One by one, like shadows emerging from the mist, they appeared. The faces of the people she had loved with her heart of wildfire.
She would not let that light go out. She would fill the world with it, with her light—her gift. She would light up the darkness, so brightly that all who were lost or wounded or broken would find their way to it, a beacon for those who still dwelled in that abyss. It would not take a monster to destroy a monster—but light, light to drive out darkness.
She was not afraid.
“To whatever end?”
“I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”
Yet this was not the end—this was not her end. She had survived loss and pain and torture; she had survived slavery and hatred and despair; she would survive this, too. Because hers was not a story of darkness.
It was a message to the world. Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.
Hold on, the riders told the world. Hold on.
She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.
I claim you, Aelin. To whatever end.
“Together, Fireheart,”
“A court that will change the world,” he promised.
She lifted her face to the stars. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir of two mighty bloodlines, protector of a once-glorious people, and Queen of Terrasen. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—and she would not be afraid.
