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Still, the image haunted his dreams throughout the night: a lovely girl gazing at the stars, and the stars who gazed back.
“You could rattle the stars,” she whispered. “You could do anything, if you only dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most.”
closed his eyes, and took another long breath. And when he opened his eyes, he let her go.
Celaena was Fae.
Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terrasen.
And she could bring down the king as Celaena Sardothien, thank you very much.
“You left me,” she repeated.
“I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”
She would fill the world with it, with her light—her gift. She would light up the darkness, so brightly that all who were lost or wounded or broken would find their way to it, a beacon for those who still dwelled in that abyss. It would not take a monster to destroy a monster—but light, light to drive out darkness.
They were carranam.
She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.
She lifted her face to the stars. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir of two mighty bloodlines, protector of a once-glorious people, and Queen of Terrasen. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—and she would not be afraid.
She was fire, and light, and ash, and embers. She was Aelin Fireheart, and she bowed for no one and nothing, save the crown that was hers by blood and survival and triumph.
I think—I think you would have been a wonderful king.
“You make me want to live, Rowan. Not survive; not exist. Live.”
“Ten years of shadows, but no longer. Light up the darkness, Majesty.”
Then she smiled with every last shred of courage, of desperation, of hope for the glimmer of that glorious future. “Let’s go rattle the stars.”
They were the beginning and the ending; they were eternity.
And at long last, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was home.
“The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by the dreamers, Rolfe.”
“I love you. There is no limit to what I can give to you, no time I need. Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.”
“I’d walk into the burning heart of hell itself to find you.”
“I’ll always find a way back to you.”
“It is not such a hard thing, is it—to die for your friends.”
A wyvern. A wyvern with shimmering wings. And behind it, descending upon the Fae fleet with wicked delight, flew twelve others.
“So your mate was given to another. And I let him fall in love, let him get her with child. And then I broke him. No one ever asked how those enemy forces came to pass by his mountain home.”
“Where is my wife?”
Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath … but to rattle the stars.
Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.
“I am not afraid,” he said softly, but not weakly. “And neither should you be.”
Chaol felt, perhaps for the first time, as if he was awake. And he was grateful, right down to his very bones, for it.
“I loved you before I ever set eyes on you,” he said.
Chaol’s back ached thanks to yesterday’s ride and last night’s … other ride. Multiple rides.
Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom …
They’d walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.
“I didn’t break,” she said quietly. His heart cracked at the words. “I didn’t tell them anything.”
“But I have never felt as humiliated as I did when you threw me into the snow. When you called me a lying bitch in front of our friends and allies. Never.”
“What was stolen has been restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon Crochan, Queen of Witches.”
“Light the Flame of War, Queen of Witches, and rally your host.”
“We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”
“Let’s make this a fight worthy of a song,”
“Live, Manon.”
All come to honor the Thirteen.
As if she might stay with them, her Thirteen, for a little while longer.
“It doesn’t matter.”
My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid.
Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.
Rowan wondered if the young assassin was smiling now—smiling to see her heaving the catapult into position.
I wiped it away from existence. Yet he only remembered it once. Only once. The first time he beheld you.
