“You brought this upon yourself, you
know,” said a lilting female voice.
He knew that voice. Would never forget it.
Lyria.
She stood behind him, peering up at Aelin.
Clad in Maeve’s dark armor, her brown hair
braided back from her delicate, lovely face.
“You brought it upon her, too, I suppose,” his
mate—his lie of a mate—mused.
Dead. Lyria was dead, and Aelin was the
one meant to survive—
“You would pick her over me?” Lyria
demanded, her chestnut eyes filling. “Is that
the sort of male you have become?”
He couldn’t find any words, anything to
explain, to apologize.
Aelin was dead.
He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to.
Connall was smirking at him. “Everything