Rena Goldsmith’s unearthly music wove through the cavernous space, wrapping them in a spell that he would have called magic had he not known better. But Celaena and Chaol just sat there, staring at each other. And not just staring, but something more than that. Dorian stopped hearing the music.
She had been betrayed – betrayed by Harding or someone like him, someone who would benefit from her being permanently gone, with no hope of ever coming back. And Arobynn still hadn’t rescued her. He’d find her, though. He had to.
So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.
The masked strangers swaggered down the steps, one of them keeping close to the dark-haired youth. That one had a sword, she noticed, and from his tensed shoulders, she could tell he wasn’t entirely pleased to be here. But the lips of the ringleader parted in a grin as he stalked into the crowd. Gods above, even with the mask obscuring half of his features, he was handsome.
The Lion lingered in the brush, keeping out of sight and sound as the Wolf watched over the dragon still sprawled across the beach.
He wanted to bury her in Velaris. Somewhere full of light and warmth, full of kind people. Far away from these mountains.
The attack, Lorcan supposed, was Hellas’s way of telling him to keep his cock in his pants and mind out of the gutter.
And there – standing in a copse of thorns – was a white stag. Celaena’s breath hitched. She clenched the bars of the small window as the creature looked at them. His towering antlers seemed to glow in the moonlight, crowning him in wreaths of ivory. “Gods above,” one of the guards whispered. The stag’s enormous head turned slightly – toward the wagon, toward the small window. The Lord of the North.
Ice and fire. Frost and embers. Locked in a battle, pushing and pulling.
Do not linger in the watchtower after dark.
Better die with my chin high than a groveling, cowering worm. Even if his answering growl was the definition of wrath and rage.
I have no interest in easy friends... easy people. I think I trust them less than the difficult ones, and find them far less compelling, too.
A breeze filled the wagon, lifting away the smells of the past two weeks. Her trembling paused for a heartbeat. She knew that breeze. She knew the chill bite beneath it, knew it carried the hint of pine and snow, knew the mountains from which it hailed. A northern breeze, a breeze of Terrasen.
Rowan moved deeper into the entry hall, every step laced with power and death, coming to a stop at her side. “You can call me Rowan. That’s all you need to know.” He cocked his head to the side, a predator assessing prey. “Thank you for the oil,” he added. “My skin was a little dry.” Arobynn blinked – as much surprise as he’d show. It took her a moment to process what Rowan had said, and to realize that the almond smell hadn’t just been coming from her. He’d worn it, too.
The trauma of any injury requires some internal reflection during the healing and aftermath.
Celaena sheathed her blades and plunged into the smelly, oily water. Her throat closed up, but she willed herself to keep from vomiting. She was not swimming through the entire capital’s refuse. She was not swimming through rat-infested waters. She was not going to die.
She hoped it would happen too quickly for her to recognize just how she was dying, to know what part of her broke first.
She was not a rebel princess, shattering enemy castles and killing kings. She was a force of nature. She was a calamity and a commander of immortal warriors of legend.
And from the way darkness seemed to ripple from him, from those violet eyes that burned like stars.
Even when they burn my body, I’ll love you.