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veiled the bottom that sloped away as she
dove under the frigid surface.
The water was silent. Cool, and welcome,
and calm.
So Aelin loosened the leash—only a
fraction.
Flame leapt out, devoured by the frigid
water. Consumed by it.
It pulled away that pressure, that endless
fog of heat. Soothed and chilled until thoughts
took form.
With each stroke beneath the surface, out
into the darkness, she could feel it again.
Herself. Or whatever was left of it.
Aelin. She was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn
Galathynius, and she was Queen of Terrasen.
More magic rippled out, but she held her
grip. Not all—not yet.
She had been captured by Maeve, tortured
by her. Tortured by Cairn, her sentinel. But