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My sun is setting, Elena. You must find a way to ensure yours still rises.
“You would be the undisputed queen if you got the kingsflame to bloom again.”
We burn not just within our magic, but also in our very souls. For better or worse.”
At the ancient queen across it, readying her armada. Aelin stuck out her tongue.
Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.
Dorian said smoothly, “You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”
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.
Despite herself, despite what she’d done, she decided she wanted Rowan to call her milady at least once every day.
Because Aelin … Aelin was going to sail that ship right into the heart of the enemy fleet and blow them all out of the water.
And Aelin Galathynius remembered her own name as she shattered through the cage that goddess had shoved her into, as she grabbed that goddess by the damned throat and hurled her out, out, out through that gaping hole where she had infiltrated her, and sealed it—
to ask Mala Fire-Bringer to let me stay with the woman I love.”
“I really, really hate that old windbag.”
will not be afraid. A line in the burning brightness. My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius … And I will not be afraid.
Two strikes, both so fast even the Wing Leader didn’t see them. A backhanded blow to Manon’s face. For leaving Elide.
Aelin had called him Uncle Kitty-Cat all of one time before Aedion had snarled viciously enough to make her think carefully before using the term again.
“I will always find you,” he swore to her.
“You and me,” she promised him. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”
Aelin lifted her brows as she glanced between their two blades. “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.
The Queen of Flame and Shadow, the Heir of Fire, Aelin of the Wildfire, Fireheart …
There was a cost—there had to be a cost to such power.
That full mouth slanted into a half grin as Ansel of Briarcliff, Queen of the Wastes, drawled, “Who gave you permission to use my name in pit fights, Aelin?”
A wyvern. A wyvern with shimmering wings. And behind it, descending upon the Fae fleet with wicked delight, flew twelve others.
Rowan hissed, “Where is my wife?”
His Fireheart. His equal, his friend, his lover. His wife. His mate.
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.
