Long Live the Queen
Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected
from the sad lot of candidates.
Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his
eyes glowed.
The trumpets rang out.
A four-note summons. Repeated three times.
Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.
Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small
group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand,
sprawling orchestra that might accompany an event of this magnitude,
but better than nothing.
It didn’t matter anyway.
Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her
braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because
she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this
walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.
Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown
back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the
dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.
For Aelin’s coronation.
Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in
green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but
what she was.
The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take
down Erawan.
Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and
Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.
Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming,
those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran.
Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for
The queen
But Evangeline pointed a finger. Out toward the gates, toward Maeve
and Erawan. “Look.”
And there she was.
In the deepening blues of descending night, amid the snow beginning
to fall, Aelin Galathynius had appeared before the sealed southern gate.
Had appeared before Erawan and Maeve.
Her unbound hair billowed in the wind like a golden banner, a last ray
of light with the dying of the day.
Silence fell. Even the screaming stopped as all turned toward the gate.
But Aelin did not balk. Did not run from the Valg queen and king who
halted as if in delight at the lone figure who dared face them.
Lysandra let out a strangled sob. “She—she has no magic left.” The
shifter’s voice broke. “She has nothing left.”
Still Aelin lifted her sword.
Flames ran down the blade.
One flame against the darkness gathered.
One flame to light the night.
Aelin raised her shield, and flames encircled it, too.
Burning bright, burning undaunted. A vision of old, reborn once
more.
The cry went down the castle battlements, through the city, along the
walls.
The queen had come home at last.
The queen had come to hold the gate.
0-30p: Kontrollü okuyucu 📖
40-70p: Hafif bağımlı 👀
80p+: Geçmiş olsun, kitaplar seni ele geçirmiş 😅
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
Don't
Elide faced Maeve, who did not deign to glance her way. “Please, please
—”
Aelin simply nodded at the Fae Queen. Her acceptance and surrender.
Maeve bowed her head, triumph dancing on her red lips. “Lorcan,
release her.”
The warrior’s hands slackened at his sides.
And because she had won, Maeve even loosened her power’s grip on
Aelin’s bones. Allowed Aelin to turn to Elide and say, “Go with Manon.
She will take care of you.”
Elide began crying, shoving away from Lorcan. “I’ll go with you, I’ll
come with you—”
The girl would. The girl would face Cairn, and Maeve … But Terrasen
would need that sort of courage. If it was to survive, if it was to heal,
Terrasen would need Elide Lochan.
“Tell the others,” Aelin breathed, trying to find the right words. “Tell the
others that I am sorry. Tell Lysandra to remember her promise, and that I
will never stop being grateful. Tell Aedion … Tell him it is not his fault, and
that …” Her voice cracked. “I wish he’d been able to take the oath, but
Terrasen will look to him now, and the lines must not break.”
Elide nodded, tears sliding down her blood-splattered face.
“And tell Rowan …”
Aelin’s soul splintered as she saw the iron box the escorts now carried
between them. An ancient, iron coffin. Big enough for one person. Crafted
for her.
“And tell Rowan,” Aelin said, fighting her own sob, “that I’m sorry I
lied. But tell him it was all borrowed time anyway. Even before today, I
knew it was all just borrowed time, but I still wish we’d had more of it.”
She fought past her trembling mouth. “Tell him he has to fight. He must
save Terrasen, and remember the vows he made to me. And tell him … tell
him thank you—for walking that dark path with me back to the light.”
Nightmares are Dreams too
Raphael’s fingers tighten on my waist. “We’re disoriented somehow.
Have we been drugged? All we need to do is get outside.”
“Well, we came from the left passage,” I say. “So we should probably
take the right.”
I start walking, but everything seems to be moving slowly, much too
slowly. I’m walking as fast as I can, but I can hardly budge. I look down
and realize that my feet are stuck in the threadbare rug, and with each step,
I’m getting pulled back. The rug has become a strange, muddy goo.
“I’m sinking in the rug!” I shout in alarm.
“Don’t shout,” Raphael says. “Hang on. Where’s Viviane?”
It’s just the two of us now, and I’m knee-deep in the rug and sinking
faster.
“We must have been drugged.” Raphael’s grip around my waist is solid,
but somehow, I’m sinking and he’s not.
“No.” My stomach swoops. “The Castle of Dreams has become the
castle of nightmares. This is the Dream Stalker’s work.”
It’s obvious now. Prince Talan must have realized his map is missing,
and now, he’s trapped us.
“No way,” Raphael says. “He doesn’t even know who we are.”
“He doesn’t need to.” I’ve visited a dozen minds, minds belonging to
the prince’s confidants, enough to learn things about him. “He can sense
people’s subconscious when they’re nearby. We’re trying to get out, and
we’re scared of being caught. That makes us different from everyone else in
this place. He’s honed in on our minds and wrapped us up in this dream.”
Raphael’s grip tightens around my waist. “And he knows where we
are?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Not yet. But if we don’t get out,
they’ll find us eventually.” I’m up to my thighs now in the liquidized rug.
“Raphael, I’m drowning in this.”
“It’s in our minds,” Raphael says slowly. “Nia, even dreams can be
