dissolve, mist to float into the fog around
them.
It was agony like Dorian had never known.
His very self, unraveled thread by thread.
The shape of the Lock, Elena had told
Aelin, did not matter. It could have been a
bird or a sword or a flower for all this place,
this gate, cared. But their minds, what was left
of them as they frayed, chose the shape they
knew, the one that made the most sense. The
Eye of Elena, born again—the Lock once
more.
Aelin began screaming. Screaming and
screaming.
His magic ripped away from that sacred,
perfect place inside him.
It would kill them to forge it. It’d kill them
both. They had come here out of the desperate
hope they’d both leave.