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Aelin looped her arm through his. “I’m going to start a rumor about you, then. Something truly grotesque.” He groaned. “I dread the thought of what you might come up with.” She adopted a harsh whisper as they passed a group of human soldiers. “You flew back onto the battlefield to peck out the eyes of our enemies?” Her gasp echoed off the rock. “And ate those eyes?” One of the soldiers tripped, the others whipping their heads to them. Rowan pinched her shoulder. “Thank you for that.” She inclined her head. “You’re very welcome.”
They halted, breathless and wild-eyed, before she could decide that it really wouldn’t be a bad idea to unfasten his pants right there, or that his hand, discreetly and lazily rubbing that damned spot between her thighs, should be inside her.
“What if you didn’t only ally with me,” he asked at last, “but with Adarlan itself?” Maeve didn’t answer. As if she were surprised by the offer. “A bigger alliance than merely working together to find the key,” Dorian mused, and shrugged. “You have no kingdom, and clearly want another. Why not lend your gifts to Adarlan, to me? Bring your spiders to our side.” “A breath ago, you were livid that I enslaved your friend.” “Oh, I still am. Yet I am not so proud to refuse to consider the possibility. You want a kingdom? Then join mine. Ally with me, work with me to get what we need from Erawan, and
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“Both of them will often say one thing, but mean something else entirely. And then deny it until their last breath.” Chaol shook his head. “Give Aedion time. When we reach Orynth, I have a feeling that Aedion will be happier to see you than he lets on.”
“I wish—I wish I had been so lucky to have you as my father.” Surprise and something far deeper passed across Gavriel’s face. His tattooed throat bobbed. “Thank you. Perhaps it is our lot—to never have the fathers we wish, but to still hope they might surpass what they are, flaws and all.”
The final Wyrdkey. He dropped her arm, sliding the Wyrdkey into his pocket, and turned for the portal. But a hand wrapped around his, feeble and shaking. He whirled, a hand going to Damaris, and found her staring up at him. Tears slid down her face. “Kill me,” she breathed. Dorian blinked. “You—you pushed it back.” Not the key, but the demon inside her, he realized. Somehow, with that healing magic— “Kill me,” she said, and began sobbing. “Kill me, please.”
A crown of stars. For the last Crochan Queen. Panting, rasping breaths neared, and Aedion glanced away from Manon Blackbeak to see Darrow hurry onto the city walls, gaping at the witch and her wyvern, at Aedion for not firing at her—her, whom Darrow believed to be an enemy come to parley before their slaughter. “We will not surrender,” Darrow spat.
She broke from the ice and the water, arcing through the air, and slammed right into Morath’s eastern flank. Soldiers screamed as she unleashed herself in a whirlwind of teeth and claws and a massive, snapping tail. Where the white sea dragon moved, black blood sprayed.
Petrah Blueblood. And behind the Heir to the Blueblood Witch-Clan, now slamming into Morath’s aerial legion from where they’d crept onto the battlefield from high above the clouds, were the Ironteeth. Hundreds of them. Hundreds of Ironteeth witches and their wyverns crashed into their own.
But Asterin was already there. And it was not darkness, but light—light, bright and pure as the sun on snow, that erupted from Asterin.