She had done this—done it before. Torn
into his mind. Twisted and taken from him
this most vital thing. Aelin.
He would not let her take it again.
Lorcan roared at the brand that shredded
through his senses, through Elide’s mocking
words, through the image of Perranth, the
home he wanted so badly and might never see.
Roared, and the world rippled. Became
snow and darkness and battle.
And Maeve. Poised before them, her pale
face livid.
Her power lunged for him, a striking
panther—
Elide now lay in a grand, opulent bed, her
withered hand reaching for his. An aged hand,
riddled with marks, the delicate blue veins
intertwining like the many rivers around
Doranelle.