At the end of March 455, Gaiseric, king of the Vandals, set sail with a hundred ships manned by Carthaginian sailors. His army landed north of the Tiber, creating panic in Rome. Rumors swirled about that Gaiseric intended to burn the city. Many tried to flee. The imperial troops mutinied. While attempting to escape, Emperor Maximus was slain by one of his own bodyguards. His body was dragged through the streets, torn to pieces, and thrown in the river. No general took over the defense; the troops were disorganized. On June 2, 455, the Vandals entered Rome, meeting no resistance.
From now until the Darkness claims us.
Asterin spoke first, cutting through the silence of the coven. “We
know their every move, every weapon. And now the Crochans do, too.
The Matrons are likely in a panic.”
She’d never seen her grandmother in a panic, but Manon huffed a
dark laugh. “We shall see tomorrow, I suppose.” She surveyed her
Thirteen. “You have come with me this far, but tomorrow it will be your
own kind that we face. You may be fighting friends or lovers or family
members.” She swallowed. “I will not blame you if you cannot do it.”
“We have come this far,” Sorrel said, “because we are all prepared for
what tomorrow will bring.”
Indeed, the Thirteen nodded. Asterin said, “We are not afraid.”
No, they were not. Looking at the clear eyes around her, Manon could
see that for herself.
“I’d expected at least some,” Vesta groused, “from the Ferian Gap to
join us.”
“They don’t understand,” Ghislaine said. “What we even offered
them.”
Freedom—freedom from the Matrons who had forged them into tools
of destruction.
“A waste,” Asterin grumbled. Even the green-eyed demon twins
nodded.
Silence fell again. Despite their clear eyes, her Thirteen were well
aware of the limitations of five thousand Crochans against the Ironteeth,
and the army beneath it.
So Manon said, looking them each in the eye, “I would rather fly with
you than with ten thousand Ironteeth at my side.” She smiled slightly.
“Tomorrow, we will show them why.”
Her coven grinned, wicked and defiant, and touched two fingers to
their brows in deference.
Manon returned the gesture, bowing her head as she did. “We are the
Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”
Bazı hikâyeler tam tahmin ettiğin gibi ilerler. Bazılarıysa son sayfada tüm bildiklerini sorgulatır. 🤯
Ters köşeleri seviyorsan, seni sonuna kadar merakta bırakacak 3 kitap önerisini keşfetmeye hazır ol!
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.
Where is his wife?
“Where is Aelin.”
There was pure panic, too—pure panic as Whitethorn saw the blood, the
scattered blades, and the shirt.
“Where is Aelin.”
What had he done, what had he done—
Pain sliced Lorcan’s neck, warm blood dribbled down his throat, his
chest.
Rowan hissed, “Where is my wife?”
Lorcan swayed where he knelt.
Wife.
Wife.
“Oh, gods,” Elide sobbed as she overheard, the words carrying the
sound of Lorcan’s own fractured heart. “Oh, gods …”
And for the first time in centuries, Lorcan wept.
Rowan dug the dagger deeper into Lorcan’s neck, even as tears slid
down Lorcan’s face.
What that woman had done …
Aelin had known. That Lorcan had betrayed her and summoned Maeve
here. That she had been living on borrowed time.
And she had married Whitethorn … so Terrasen could have a king.
Perhaps had been spurred into action because she knew Lorcan had already
betrayed her, that Maeve was coming …
And Lorcan had not helped her.
Whitethorn’s wife.
His mate.
Aelin had let them whip and chain her, had gone willingly with Maeve,
so Elide didn’t enter Cairn’s clutches. And it had been just as much a
sacrifice for Elide as it had been a gift to him.
She had bowed to Maeve.
For Elide.
They have Won
“We’re done being squashed by the House of Morgan and their goldsoaked nobles,” Brados says, “while we starve. We’re taking power for
ourselves.”
At my side, Malleus draws his sword. “Just try.”
Talan raises his hand. “Enough. Put your sword away. You look like an
idiot.”
Malleus flushes and sheathes his sword.
Talan meets Brados’s stare. “You’re right. This country shouldn’t be
ruled by the House of Morgan. In fact, the House of Morgan has never ruled
this kingdom.”
Brados stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Auberon lied. The throne was never his. Mordred is not his father. He
descends from Merlin.”
“Do we really need to worry about old history?” Aedan blusters.
“It’s true,” I say. “Mordred, son of Morgan, is still alive on Avalon. I am
his daughter. He told me this himself.”
“You’re lying,” Brados says coldly.
“Ask your advisor,” I say calmly. “She saw Mordred only yesterday.
They got along very well, actually.”
Brados turns to Nivene in shock. She purses her lips and gives him a
tiny nod.
“Well, then this makes it even clearer,” Brados says. “We’re not going
to let Mordred, whom none of us has seen in over a millennium, rule over
us. And we definitely won’t let a family of liars rule, either.”
“Neither will we,” Aedan says, his oily voice sharp and dangerous.
“Clearly, the strongest noble family should take charge. Farmers and
peasants don’t know how to run a kingdom.”
“The most powerful noble family?” Malleus raises his voice. “And who
would that be? My father holds the largest army—”
“Your father has the plague, boy,” Aedan spits.
“He’s already getting better—”
His Plan
“Lord Aedan!” Auberon whirls. “Get your bannermen here and arrest
Malleus. My son as well. And then we will deal with the human-loving
peasant mob outside.”
Aedan lifts his chin. “I think I prefer to stay out of this, Your Majesty.
Like the Dream Stalker, I have a great aversion to unnecessary death.”
As he speaks, I recall the poisons in his bedroom with a shudder. Man
loves his poisons.
Auberon pounds the table. “My son thrives on death. What is the
meaning of this?”
Aedan stands. “I tend to agree with Prince Talan. The kingdom has been
mismanaged, and that is the cause of the unrest now.”
Every word planted in his brain by Talan long ago.
“This is treason!” Arwenna’s father, the Marquis de Bosclair, gets to his
feet. “You will do as our king demands.”
“I will not.” Aedan looks resolute. “It is time to take a stand.”
The marquis’s cheeks turn pink. “Once we’ve dealt with the
commoners, I will march my own armies against any noble who refused to
obey His Majesty. The king is correct. Any commoners marching on the
king are trying to aid our enemies. They’re working for the filthy humans
who spread the famine. They’re our enemy within our kingdom, and we
must deal with them the way we do any threat to the crown.”
“That’s nonsense.” Ker-Ys’s shrill voice rises. “They’re not helping the
humans, and they’re not demi-Fey. They’re just starving. I stand with Prince
Talan.”
And here before me, each strand of Talan’s plan weaves together in
perfect precision.
Months of whispering dreams into nobles’ ears, of sowing thoughts like
threads—now, his schemes stitch themselves into place, a tapestry worthy
of Elaine of Shalott’s loom. He’s even managed to construct it so that KerYs has looked like his enemy. For months, he’s been controlling Ker-Ys to
oppose him. Now, I realize, it