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Again.
You do not yield.
Again.
You do not yield.
Again. Again.
Until she was alive with it, until her blood
was raining onto her face, washing away the
tears, until every pound of her fist into the
iron was a battle cry.
You do not yield.
You do not yield.
You do not yield.
It rose in her, burning and roaring, and she
gave herself wholly to it. Distantly, close by,
wood crashed. Like someone had staggered
into something. Then shouting.
Aelin hammered her fist into the metal, the
song within her pulsing and cresting, a tidal
wave racing for the shore.
“Get me that gloriella!”