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leaping onto the battlements, or at Aelin.
At the Queen of Terrasen.
She’d found armor below the keep.
Beautiful, pale gold armor that gleamed like a
summer dawn. Holding back her braided hair,
a diadem lay flush against her head. Not a
diadem, but a piece of armor. Part of some
ancient set for a lady long since buried.
A crown for war, a crown to wear into
battle. A crown to lead armies.
There was no fear on her face, no doubt, as
Aelin hefted her shield, flipping Goldryn in
her hand once before the first of Morath’s
soldiers was upon her.
A swift, upward strike cleaved the Morath
grunt from navel to chin. His black blood
sprayed, but she was already moving, flowing
like a stream around a rock.
Rowan launched into movement, his blades
finding their marks, but still he watched her.