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Mayıs 2024 tarihinde katıldı
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He has a hold of Her
Aelin ripped at the immovable mask, either unaware or uncaring of
the prince before her. Her consort, husband, and mate.
“Aelin.”
Take it off, take it off, take it off.
Her screams were unbearable. Worse than those that day on the beach
in Eyllwe.
Gavriel came to stand beside Elide, his golden skin pale as he took in
the frantic queen.
Slowly, Rowan knelt before her. “Aelin.”
She only tipped her head up to the forest canopy and sobbed.
Blood ran down her neck from the scratches she’d dug into her skin,
mingling with what already coated her.
Rowan reached out a trembling hand, the only sign of the agony Elide
had little doubt was coursing through him. Gently, he laid his hands on
her wrists; gently, he closed his fingers around them. Halting the brutal
clawing and digging.
Aelin sobbed, her body shuddering with the force of it. “Take it off. ”
Rowan’s eyes flickered, panic and heartbreak and longing shining
there. “I will. But you have to be still, Fireheart. Just for a few
moments.”
“Take it off. ” The sobs ebbed, tricking into something broken and
raw. Rowan ran his thumbs over her wrists, over those iron shackles. As
if it were nothing but her skin. Slowly, her shaking eased.
No, not eased, Elide realized as Rowan rose to his feet and stalked
behind the queen. But contained, turned inward. Tremors rippled through
Aelin’s tense body, but she kept still as Rowan examined the lock.
She Escaped
“Someone’s making a move this way,” Lorcan murmured to Gavriel.
“But Whitethorn’s still over there.”
Fenrys. Or Connall, perhaps. Maybe Essar’s sister, who he’d never
liked. But he wouldn’t give a shit about that if she hadn’t betrayed them.
He pointed north of the entrance. “You take that side. Be ready to
strike from the flank.”
Gavriel sped off, a predator ready to pounce unseen when Lorcan
attacked head-on.
Death glimmered. Whitethorn was nearly at the camp’s center. And
that force approaching their eastern entrance …
To hell with waiting.
Lorcan broke from the cover of trees, dark power swirling, primed to
meet whatever broke through the line of tents.
Freeing the sword at his side, he searched the sky, the camp, the world
as death flickered, as the rising sun gilded the rolling grasses and set the
dew steaming.
Nothing. No indication of what, of who—
He’d reached the first of the hollows that flowed to the camp edge,
the dips narrow and steep, when Aelin Galathynius appeared.
Lorcan didn’t expect the sob in his throat as she raced between the
tents, as he beheld the iron mask and the chains on her, hands still bound.
As he beheld the blood soaking her skin, the short white shift, her
hair, longer than he’d last seen and plastered to her head with gore.
His knees stopped working, and even his magic faltered at the sight of
her wild, desperate race for the camp’s edge.
Soldiers ran toward her.
Lorcan surged into motion, flaring his magic up and wide. Not to her,
but to Whitethorn, still charging for the center of the camp.
She’s here, she’s here, she’s here, he signaled.
But Lorcan was too far, the grassy bumps and hollows between them
Nox Owen Knows
“So, Erawan knows you’re not Aelin.”
She whipped her head to him. “What?” A quick, vague question to
buy herself time. Had Aedion risked telling him the truth?
Nox gave her a half smile. “I figured as much when I saw the surprise
on that demon’s face.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“Am I? Or do you not remember me at all?”
She did her best to look down her nose at him, even as the messengerthief towered over her. Aelin had never mentioned a Nox Owen. “Why
should I remember one of Darrow’s lackeys?”
“A decent attempt, but Celaena Sardothien looked a little more
amused when she cut men into ribbons.”
He knew—who Aelin was, what she’d been. Lysandra said nothing,
and kept walking toward her tent. If she told Aedion, how quickly could
Nox be buried under the frozen earth?
“Your secret is safe,” Nox murmured. “Celaena—Aelin was a friend.
Is still one, I’d hope.”
“How.” She’d admit no more than that regarding her role in this.
“We fought in the competition together at the glass castle.” He
snorted. “I had no idea until today. Gods, I was there for Minister Joval
as a spy for the rebels. It was my first time out of Perranth. My first time,
and I wound up unwittingly training alongside my queen.” He laughed,
low and amazed. “I’d been working with the rebels for years, even as a
thief. They wanted me to be their inside eyes on the castle, the king’s
plans. I reported the strange goings-on until it became too dangerous.
Until Cel—Aelin warned me to run. I listened, and came back here.
Joval is dead. Fell in a skirmish with a band of rebels by the border this
spring. Darrow plucked me up to be his own messenger and spy. So here
I am.” A sidelong glance at her, awe still on his face. “I am at your
disposal, even if you’re not … you.” He angled his head. “Who are
Glennis
“I am Glennis. My family served the Crochan royals, long before the
city fell.” The ancient witch’s eyes went to the strip of red cloth tying
Manon’s braid. “Rhiannon found you, then.”
Dorian had listened when Manon had explained to the Thirteen the
truth about her heritage, and who her grandmother had bade her to
slaughter in the Omega.
Manon kept her chin up, even as her golden eyes flickered. “Rhiannon
didn’t make it out of the Ferian Gap.”
“Bitch,” a witch snarled, others echoing it.
Manon ignored it and asked the ancient Crochan, “You knew her,
then?”
The witches fell silent.
The crone inclined her head, that sorrow filling her eyes once more.
Dorian didn’t need Damaris’s confirming warmth to know her next
words were true. “I was her great-grandmother.” Even the whipping
wind quieted. “As I am yours.”
A dream
Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, consort, husband, and mate of
the Queen of Terrasen, knew he was dreaming.
He knew it, because he could see her.
There was only darkness here. And wind. And a great, yawning
chasm between them.
No bottom existed in that abyss, that crack in the world. But he could
hear whispers snaking through it, down far below.
She stood with her back to him, hair blowing in a sheet of gold.
Longer than he’d seen it the last time.
He tried to shift, to fly over the chasm. His body’s innate magic
ignored him. Locked in his Fae body, the jump too far, he could only
stare toward her, breathe in her scent—jasmine, lemon verbena, and
crackling embers—as it floated to him on the wind. This wind told him
no secrets, had no song to sing.
It was a wind of death, of cold, of nothing.
Aelin.
He had no voice here, but he spoke her name. Threw it across the gulf
between them.
Slowly, she turned to him.
It was her face—or it would be in a few years. When she Settled.
But it wasn’t the slightly older features that knocked the breath from
him.
It was the hand on her rounded belly.
She stared toward him, hair still flowing. Behind her, four small
figures emerged.
Rowan fell to his knees.
The tallest: a girl with golden hair and pine-green eyes, solemn-faced
and as proud as her mother. The boy beside her, nearly her height, smiled
at him, warm and bright, his Ashryver eyes near-glowing beneath his cap
of silver hair. The boy next to him, silver-haired and green-eyed, might