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“I see her slipping away, bit by bit, because you shove her down when she so desperately needs someone to help her back up.”
The music was a tapestry woven of light and dark and color, building delicate links in a chain that latched on to her heart and spread out into the world, binding her to it, connecting everything.
Not to hurt or mar—but to weld. To forge.
“I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”
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.
It was a message to the world. Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.
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.
