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October 30 - December 22, 2024
Hand trembling, Asterin pressed her fingers to her brow and extended them. “Bring our people home, Manon,” she breathed. Manon angled Wind-Cleaver, readying for the strike. The Blackbeak Matron snapped, “Be done with it, Manon.” Manon met Sorrel’s eyes, then Asterin’s. And Manon gave the Thirteen her final order. “Run.” Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.
He was over five hundred years old—and this … this girl, young woman, she-devil, whatever she was, had just bluffed and lied her way into a job.
Anger. It was boiling rage that made her shake. At the inspection, at the leering of the guards. An idealist—that’s what Marion was. Someone who wanted to fight for her queen, who believed, as Nik did, that this world could be better.
At his side, Rowan plowed through the storm, the rain and wind seeming to part for him.
The one with night-dark eyes and an edged grin looked Rowan over and drawled, “I liked your hair longer.” A dagger embedding itself in the wall not an inch from the male’s ear was Rowan’s only answer.
Fenrys snorted, toying with a small curl of golden hair at his nape. “How you even manage to walk with that much steel on you, Whitethorn, has always been a mystery to me.” Rowan said smoothly, “How no one has ever cut out your tongue just to shut you up has always been a mystery to me as well.”
So yes—my Fireheart is one flame in the sea of darkness. But she is willing to fight, Fenrys. She is willing to take on Erawan, take on Maeve and the gods themselves, if it means peace can be had.”
Honestly, Dorian had no idea how Aelin had survived months of this—let alone fallen in love with the warrior while she did. Though he supposed both the queen and prince possessed a sadistic streak that made them compatible.
Even in the watery light, Dorian could perfectly see the woman sitting at Rolfe’s desk, her black clothes dirty, weapons gleaming, and her feet propped on the dark wooden surface. Aelin Galathynius, her hands laced behind her head, grinned at them all and said, “I like this office far better than your other one, Rolfe.”
“Get out of my chair,” Rolfe said too quietly. Aelin did no such thing. She just gave Rowan a sultry sweep from foot to face. Rowan’s expression remained unreadable, eyes intent— near-glowing. And then Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, “You, I don’t know. But I’d like to.” Rowan’s lips tugged upward. “I’m not on the market, unfortunately.” “Pity,” Aelin said, cocking her head as she noticed a bowl of small emeralds on Rolfe’s desk. Don’t do it, don’t— Aelin swiped up the emeralds in a hand, picking them over as she glanced at Rowan beneath her lashes. “She must be a rare, staggering
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Dorian said smoothly, “You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”
Aelin snorted, and with a flash of her fingers, an emerald—the fourth one Dorian had forgotten—appeared between her fingers. “Good. At least your eyesight isn’t failing in your old age.” “And the other one,” Rolfe said through clenched teeth. Aelin grinned again. And then leaned back in Rolfe’s chair, tipped up her head, and spat out an emerald she’d somehow kept hidden under her tongue. Dorian watched the gem arc neatly through the air. Its plunk in the dish was the only sound.
Fenrys’s dark eyes glittered, but not at Rolfe, as Aelin rose to her feet. Her black clothes were travel-worn, her golden hair gleaming in the gray light. And even in a room of professional killers, she took the lion’s share of air.
Rolfe spat, “You nearly wrecked everything I’ve worked for. Your silver tongue and arrogance won’t get you through this.” Just for the hell of it, she smiled and stuck out her tongue. Not the real thing—but a forked tongue of silver fire that wriggled like a snake’s in the air.
“The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by the dreamers, Rolfe.”
Aelin shrugged. “Rowan’s always looking for an excuse to show off. Dramatic rescues give him purpose and fulfillment in his dull, immor- tal life.” There was a pointed cough from the open balcony doors above them, sharp enough to inform her that Rowan had heard and wouldn’t forget that little quip when they were alone.
Lorcan had known, as he’d pinned Rowan into the grass outside Mistward, the prince thrashing and screaming for Aelin Galathynius, that everything was about to change. Knew that the commander he’d valued was altered irrevocably. No longer would they glut themselves on wine and women; no longer would Rowan gaze toward a horizon without some glimmer of longing in his eyes. Love had broken a perfect killing tool.
And the queen—princess, whatever Aelin called herself … She was a fool. She could have bartered Athril’s ring for Maeve’s armies, for an alliance to wipe Morath off the earth. Even not knowing what the ring was, she could have used it to her advantage. But she’d chosen Rowan. A prince with no crown, no army, no allies. They deserved to perish together.
Aelin tried not to flinch at the truth of that word—love. That day … when Rowan had looked into her eyes as he drank her blood … she’d started to realize what it was. That the feeling that passed between them, so powerful there was no language to describe it … It was not mere friendship, but something born of and strengthened by it.
Rowan traced his thumb over her mouth. “Even if Maeve had kept me enslaved, I would have fought her. Every day, every hour, every breath.” He kissed her softly and said onto her lips, “I would have fought for the rest of my life to find a way to return to you again. I knew it the moment you emerged from the Valg’s darkness and smiled at me through your flames.”
Oh, gods—this. This was what drove her out of her mind—this fire between them. 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.
“Even when you’re in another kingdom, Aelin, your fire is still in my blood, my mouth.”
Rowan leaned in, murmuring something in Rolfe’s ear that made him blanch, then shoved him a bit harder into the table before stalking for Aelin.
Aelin was insane, Dorian realized. Brilliant and wicked, but insane. And perhaps the greatest, most unremorseful liar he’d ever encountered.
She was not a rebel princess, shattering enemy castles and killing kings. She was a force of nature. She was a calamity and a commander of immortal warriors of legend. And if those allies did not join with her … she wanted them to think of today, of what she would do, and wonder if they might find her on their shores, in their harbors, one day, too. They had not come ten years ago. She wanted them to know she had not forgotten it.
She lifted her head to study his face, the harsh planes and the curving tattoo. He leaned in to brush a kiss to her mouth. And as his lips met hers, he joined their bleeding palms.
And when Rolfe shouted, Now! Rowan knew he had forgotten to his detriment. A pillar of flame that did not burn erupted from Aelin, slamming into the sky, turning the world into red and orange and gold.
Ice flooded his veins. She was wearing the Wyrdkey. “Aelin.” But Rowan felt it then. Felt that bottom of her power crack open as if the beast within that Wyrdkey stomped its foot, and ash and crusted rock crumbled away beneath it. And revealed a roiling, molten core of magic beneath it. As if it were the fiery heart of Mala herself. Aelin plunged into that power. Bathed in it.
Rowan. And as his face became clear, his tattoo stark in the sun, as that fist full of unimaginable power now opened toward his heart— There was no force in any world that could keep her contained. 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—
The Queen Who Was Promised.
And for the first time, he hated his cousin. He hated Aelin for asking this of Lysandra, both to defend them and to secure the Mycenians to fight for Terrasen.
Aedion you piece of shit. Aelin can’t do anything right. You get mad when she doesn’t ask for help and then you hate her for asking for help? Fuck off. You’re one of the worst.
So maybe it was the gods at work. Maybe it was some force beyond them, beyond mortal comprehension. Or maybe it was just for what and who Celaena would never be.
Get your shit together Celaena
See, there was this archway that went through the bottom of the watchtower—so you could see through it to the other side of the hill. And one of the stable boys told my sister that if you looked through the archway on the night of the summer solstice, then you might see into another world.”
Gate?
“That’s the stag,” Celaena breathed. “The Lord of the North.”
“You have five minutes to pack your things and leave the fortress,” Celaena said quietly. “Because in twenty minutes, I’m going up to the battlements and I’m going to fire an arrow at you. And you’d better hope that you’re out of range by then, because if you’re not, that arrow is going straight through your neck.”
But she’d also promised Ansel that she had twenty minutes to get out of range. Celaena had fired after twenty-one.
“When you give your master his letter, also give him this. And tell him that in the Red Desert, we do not abuse our disciples.”
Could she ever tell him everything?
“Deep down,” she said, “I’m a coward.” His brows rose. “I’m a coward,” she repeated. “And I’m scared. I’m scared all the time. Always.”
He’d honed her anger into a lethal blade. And she’d let him.
She had to get away. Forever. Brash, foolish fire flared up, and turned her—only for a moment—into that girl again.
