Still they gave over their power, still the
forming of the Lock demanded more.
And it began to hurt.
She was Aelin and yet she was not.
She was Aelin and yet she was infinite; she
was all worlds, she was—
She was Aelin.
She was Aelin.
And by letting the keys into her, they had
entered the true Wyrdgate. A step, or a
thought, or a wish would allow them to access
any world they desired. Any possibility.
An archway lingered behind them. An
archway that would smell of pine and snow.
Slowly, the Lock formed, light turning to
metal—to gold and silver.
Dorian was panting, his jaw stretched tight,
as they gave and gave and gave their power
toward it. Never to see it again.