CHAPTER 95

His father stood there. The man he had last
seen on a bridge in a glass castle, and yet not.
There was kindness on his face. Humanity.
And sorrow. Such terrible, pained sorrow.
Dorian’s magic faltered.
Even Aelin’s magic slowed in surprise, the
torrent thinning to a trickle, a steady and
agonizing drain.
“Stop,” the man breathed, staggering
toward them, glancing at the ribbon of power,
blinding and pure, feeding the Lock’s
formation.
Aelin said, “This cannot be stopped.”