That it wasn’t magic. It was something more. Her god, Aethios, flowing through her, giving her the power to heal the world. Rafe had spent most of his life resenting his magic. It had saved him, but not his parents. It had made him an outcast, something to be feared. It had made him a fugitive, someone filled with fear. It had turned his brother into a liar and his life into a lie. But standing there, watching her, for the first time Rafe understood his magic was a gift. Because his magic had saved her. His magic had created this moment. And she, and this, were magnificent.
