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Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom …
“I crawled …” His throat bobbed. “I crawled after Aelin.”
The words were a gentle brush down her cheek. Fireheart, why do you cry? And from far away, deep within her, Aelin whispered toward that ray of memory, Because I am lost. And I do not know the way.
You do not yield.
Aelin hammered her fist into the metal, the song within her pulsing and cresting, a tidal wave racing for the shore.
His canvas had been wiped bare, ready for him to paint red.
With a roar, Fenrys leaped. And with it, he snapped the blood oath completely.
“Two months, three days, and seven hours.”
But where Aedion was fire, Gavriel seemed to be stone.
“Make them roll over before you offer them a treat.”
“What was stolen has been restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon Crochan, Queen of Witches.”
A horse whose name meant butterfly—stomping all over Valg foot soldiers.
“Together, Fireheart,”
“We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”
Her Second, her cousin, her friend, smiled, eyes bright as stars. “Live, Manon.”
“Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.”
And far away, across the snow-covered mountains, on a barren plain before the ruins of a once-great city, a flower began to bloom.
Not an ember. Only a droplet, just one, of water.
No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds.
She passed through a world where a great city had been built along the curve of a river, the buildings impossibly tall and glimmering with lights.
She passed through a world of snowcapped mountains under shining stars. Passed over one of those mountains, where a winged male stood beside a heavily pregnant female, gazing at those very stars. Fae. They were Fae, but this was not her world.
