The force of Rowan’s magic hit her,
ancient and raging. Ice and wind turned to
searing flame.
Her heart sang, roaring, at the power that
flowed from Rowan and into her. At her side,
her mate held fast. Unbreakable.
Rowan smiled—fierce and feral and
wicked. A crown of flame, twin to her own,
appeared atop his head.
As one, they looked to Maeve.
Maeve hissed, her dark power massing
again. “Rowan Whitethorn does not have the
brute power that you once did.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t,” Lorcan said from a
step behind them, his eyes clear and free, “but
together, we do.” He glanced to Aelin, a hand
rising to the angry red burn marring his chest.
“And beyond us,” Aelin said, sketching a
mark through the snow with the blood she’d
spilled—her blood, and Rowan’s—“I think
lily
(lily)
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