“You’re last, Rowan.” “I vote no. Not now, not ever.” Her eyes were cold, distant. The way they’d been in Mistward. “It’s decided, then,” Chaol said quietly. Sadly. “At dawn, the Lock will be forged and the keys go back into the gate,” Dorian finished. Rowan just stared and stared at his mate. His reason for breathing.
Here we go
