Aelin lunged with Goldryn, spearing for
Erawan as she raised her shield against
Maeve. She sent a wave of flame searing for
their sides, herding them closer together.
Erawan blasted it back, but Maeve halted.
Halted while Aelin leaped away a step,
panting.
The coppery tang of blood coated her
mouth. A herald of the looming burnout.
Maeve watched Aelin’s flame sizzle
through the snow, melting it down to the dried
grasses of Theralis. An undulating sea of
green in the warmer months. Now a muddy,
blood-soaked ruin.
“For a god,” Maeve said, their first words
since this dance had begun minutes or hours
or an eternity ago, “you do not seem so
willing to smite us.”
“Symbols have power,” Aelin panted,
smiling as she flipped Goldryn in her hand,
lily
(lily)
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