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her very blood destined her for a sacrificial
altar, and yet she had gotten out of the boat to
find them. The rings. Raiding the trove had
been an afterthought. But if she was to have
no scars on her, no reminder of where she’d
been and who she was and what she’d
promised, then she’d needed this one scrap of
proof.
Aelin could have sworn the living stars
overhead sang, a celestial choir that floated
through the caves.
A star-song carried along the river current,
running beside them, for the last miles to the
sea.