I was made from Mama's womb and skin and bone, so I knew, in the deepest pit of my stomach, that I would grow to be just like her. Beautiful in my own way, but hungry.
The white wolf
The white wolf was watching her again.
Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius ran an ironclad finger over
the rim of the stone altar on which she lay.
As much movement as she could manage.
Cairn had left her here this time. Had not bothered moving her to the
iron box against the adjacent wall.
A rare reprieve. To wake not in darkness, but in flickering firelight.
The braziers were dying, beckoning in the damp cold that pressed to
her skin. To whatever wasn’t covered by the iron.
She’d already tugged on the chains as quietly as she could. But they
held firm.
They’d added more iron. On her. Starting with the metal gauntlets.
She did not remember when that was. Where that had been. There had
only been the box then.
The smothering iron coffin.
She had tested it for weaknesses, over and over. Before they’d sent
that sweet-smelling smoke to knock her unconscious. She didn’t know
how long she’d slept after that.
When she’d awoken here, there had been no more smoke.
She’d tested it again, then. As much as the irons would allow. Pushing
with her feet, her elbows, her hands against the unforgiving metal. She
didn’t have enough room to turn over. To ease the pain of the chains
digging into her. Chafing her.
The lash wounds etched deep into her back had vanished. The ones
that had cleaved her skin to the bone. Or had that been a dream, too?
She had drifted into memory, into years of training in an assassin’s
keep. Into lessons where she’d been left in chains, in her own waste,
until she figured out how to remove them.
But she’d been bound with that training in mind. Nothing she tried in
the cramped dark had worked.
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To Celena
Young, and yet her face … It was an ancient face, wary and cunning and
limned with power. Beautiful, with the sun-kissed skin, the vibrant
turquoise eyes. Turquoise eyes, with a core of gold around the pupil.
Ashryver eyes.
The same as the golden-haired, handsome man who came up beside her,
muscled body tense as he assessed whether he’d need to spill blood, a bow
dangling from his hand.
Two sides of the same golden coin.
Aelin. Aedion.
They were both staring at her with those Ashryver eyes.
Aelin blinked. And her golden face crumpled as she said, “Are you
Elide?”
It was all Elide could do to nod. Lorcan was taut as a bowstring, his
body still half angled over her.
Aelin strode closer, eyes never leaving Elide’s face. Young—she felt so
young compared to the woman who approached. There were scars all over
Aelin’s hands, along her neck, around her wrists … where shackles had
been.
Aelin slid to her knees not a foot away, and it occurred to Elide that she
should be bowing, head to the dirt—
“You look … so much like your mother,” Aelin said, her voice cracking.
Aedion silently knelt, putting a broad hand on Aelin’s shoulder.
Her mother, who had gone down swinging, who had died fighting so
this woman could live—
“I’m sorry,” Aelin said, shoulders curving inward, head dropping low as
tears slid down her flushed cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” How many years had
those words been locked up?
Elide’s arm ached, but it didn’t stop her from touching Aelin’s hand,
clenched in her lap.
Touching that tanned, scarred hand. Warm, sticky skin met her
The Lady of the Lake
But as I crouch there, curled up like prey, something shifts in my
thoughts. With the heavy fog out of my mind, I can feel the pulse of magic
flowing through me, stronger than ever. The veil I’ve been using to shield
myself from Talan must have been leeching my magic, smothering my
powers all this time, but it’s gone.
My magic roars to the surface.
When Tana first told me I was the Lady of the Lake, I didn’t know what
it meant. Mordred had promised these powers would grow in Brocéliande,
surrounded by a world of magic. Magic feeds on magic, blooming from the
soil of enchantment here. But only now can I truly feel the Lady of the
Lake’s powers cascading through me, a waterfall of strength.
I’m not alone after all.
An ancient, unbreakable bond connects me to the Ladies of the Lake
who came before me, a magical current flowing through time and merging
with Nimuë’s spirit. This is her home now, and her body lies buried in the
soil of Brocéliande. Her magic lives in the ground beneath me. Her spirit
rushes through the trees and shimmers on the forest rivers.
But it’s Morgan’s power, too. Before she ruled as queen, she was the
Lady of the Lake. Now, her magic ripples through my body.
All three of us—Nimuë, Morgan, and me—are entwined, our forces
churning together.
I am no longer just Nia Melisande, hunted and alone. I am a covenant of
three. A sisterhood. A triple spiral carved into the stones, strong as the oaks,
old as the rocks. Fathomless as the lake itself.
As the magical current flows into my soul, my senses grow sharper,
Fey-like. I am the living keeper of Lake Avalon’s power.
I hear Vidal and the other attackers creeping toward me, their pounding
hearts and labored breaths. My senses drink in every detail: the thick scent
of their hair oils, the faint creak of
A Rageful Brother
My eyes snap open, my heart racing, danger sliding into my thoughts. At
first, I’m not sure what woke me, but then I hear it again, and my breath
catches. Men’s voices ring out from the forest. Did Talan bring someone
back with him?
I rise from the bed and pull on a thin silk gown over my naked body. I
cross to the window, and my heart skips a beat. I leap away from the glass,
then carefully peer around the side again, taking care not to be seen.
It’s not Talan—it’s the King’s Watch. At least twenty soldiers are
marching toward the cottage, all wearing the engraved armor of the king’s
guard. Their swords are drawn, and they look sharp and vicious.
My blood roars as I recognize the man in the center of the group. He’s
larger than the rest, his lip curled with a bone-chilling ferocity. He’s
wielding his monstrously large sword, the one he used when he captured
Raphael.
It’s Vidal, Maertisa’s brother, and based on the look on his face, I think
this mission is personal to him. He knows what I did to his twin.
Slowly, realization sinks in like snow melting into soil.
Talan told me yesterday that no one would recognize my face in town.
But what if Vidal came looking for me here, hunting for his sister’s killer?
He must have pieced together that it was me, probably right after we left
Aedan’s palace. His sister, after all, had already suspected me. She must
have whispered something to him, but Vidal bided his time. An attack in
Perillos would have been foolish.
He’d been waiting for his chance to strike the moment I left the castle.
And if he knew I was here, I imagine he’s been spending his days speaking
to anyone in villages near one of the prince’s hunting cottages and asking
them to inform him if they saw me. Yesterday, they’d stared at me as I
showed up in town. Had
His well laid trap
skin.
I feel strangely protective toward him, which is insane. I’m specifically
here to help plan his assassination.
But I have more questions about him than I started with, and I won’t
ever have another opportunity like this, with him in a drug-induced sleep.
He won’t wake easily or sense me at all.
I wait until I’m sure he’s asleep, his breathing slow and his body
relaxed, and touch his shoulder. It happens without effort when my fingers
touch his skin. Unlike my encounters with others, there’s no pain, and his
thoughts drift closer to me like toy sailboats floating on a stream. It’s
effortless.
In his mind, I see a woman standing over him, her eyes dark as his, her
hair streaming over a white gown. Behind her is a tapestry of a weeping
willow.
His mother.
Now, a raging storm clouds the sky, lightning igniting the landscape.
Thunder rumbles over the horizon.
She’s led to a wooden scaffold, her hair draped over a long, thin gown.
Her arms are tied behind her back. Wind tears at the landscape, rain
hammering, as she’s bound to a stake with kindling at her feet. A keening
sound rends the air as someone brings a torch to the wood. Talan’s fear cuts
me to the bone.
He wants everyone to feel like he does.
I’m shaking now, but the storm in his mind rages, sweeping the image
away.
He’s alone, wandering through empty gothic halls. It’s like he’s been in
these halls in solitude for centuries.
Finally, I catch a stray thought, more of an image than a sentence. A
map. I recognize it at once. I’ve studied this map myself for weeks,
alongside other agents of Avalon.
