Sarah Maas - Heir of Fire

The creatures and Narrok had captured a prize far greater than the demi-­Fae. The joy of feeding on her was something they planned to relish for a long, long while. Everything ­else was secondary—­as if they’d forgotten to continue advancing, swept up in the frenzy of feasting.

Behind them, the fighting continued, as it had for the past twenty minutes. Wind and ice ­were of no use against the darkness, though Rowan had hurled both against it the moment the barrier fell. Again and again, anything to pierce that eternal black and see what was left of the princess. Even as he started hearing a soft, warm female voice, beckoning to him from the darkness—­that voice he had spent centuries forgetting, which now tore him to shreds.

“Rowan,” Gavriel murmured, tightening his grip on Rowan’s arm. Rain had begun pouring. “We are needed inside.”

“No,” he snarled. He knew Aelin was alive, because during all these weeks that they had been breathing each other’s scents, they had become bonded. She was alive, but could be in any level of torment or decay. That was why Gavriel and Lorcan ­were holding him back. If they didn’t, he would run for the darkness, where Lyria beckoned.

But for Aelin, he had tried to break free.

“Rowan, the others—”

“No.”

Lorcan swore over the roar of the torrential rain. “She is dead , you fool, or close enough to it. You can still save other lives.”

They began hauling him to his feet, away from her. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll rip your head from your body,” he snarled at Lorcan, the commander who had offered him a company of warriors when he had nothing and no one left.

Gavriel flicked his eyes to Lorcan in some silent conversation. Rowan tensed, preparing to fling them off. They would knock him unconscious sooner than allow him into that dark, where Lyria’s beckoning had now turned to screaming for mercy. It ­wasn’t real. It ­wasn’t real.

But Aelin was real, and was being drained of life with every moment they held him ­here. All he needed to get them unconscious was for Gavriel to drop his magical shield—­which he’d had up against Rowan’s own power from the moment he’d pinned him. He had to get into that dark, had to find her. “ Let go ,” he growled again.

A rumbling shook the earth, and they froze. Beneath them some huge power was surging—­a behemoth rising from the deep.

They turned toward the darkness. And Rowan could have sworn that a golden light arced through it, then disappeared.

“That’s impossible,” Gavriel breathed. “She burned out.”

Rowan didn’t dare blink. Her burnouts had always been self-­imposed, some inner barrier composed of fear and a lingering desire for normalcy that kept her from accepting the true depth of her power.

The creatures fed on despair and pain and terror. But what if—­what if the victim let go of those fears? What if the victim walked through them—­embraced them?

As if in answer, flame erupted from the wall of darkness.

The fire unfurled, filling the rainy night, vibrant as a red opal. Lorcan swore, and Gavriel threw up additional shields of his own magic. Rowan didn’t bother.

They did not fight him as he shrugged off their grip, surging to his feet. The flame didn’t singe a hair on his head. It flowed above and past him, glorious and immortal and unbreakable.

And there, beyond the stones, standing between two of those creatures, was Aelin, a strange mark glowing on her brow. Her hair flowed around her, shorter now and bright like her fire. And her eyes—­though they ­were red-­rimmed, the gold in her eyes was a living flame.

The two creatures lunged for her, the darkness sweeping in around them.

Rowan ran all of one step before she flung out her arms, grabbing the creatures by their flawless faces—­her palms over their open mouths as she exhaled sharply.

As if she’d breathed fire into their cores, flames shot out of their eyes, their ears, their fingers. The two creatures didn’t have a chance to scream as she burned them into cinders.

She lowered her arms. Her magic was raging so fiercely that the rain turned to steam before it hit her. A weapon bright from the forging.

He forgot Gavriel and Lorcan as he bolted for her—­the gold and red and blue flames utterly hers, this heir of fire. Spying him at last, she smiled faintly. A queen’s smile.

But there was exhaustion in that smile, and her bright magic flickered. Behind her, Narrok and the remaining creature—­the one they had faced in the woods—­were spooling the darkness into themselves, as if readying for attack. She turned toward them, swaying slightly, her skin deathly pale. They had fed on her, and she was drained after shredding apart their brethren. A very real, very final burnout was steadily approaching.

The wall of black swelled, one final hammer blow to squash her, but she stood fast, a golden light in the darkness. That was all Rowan needed to see before he knew what he had to do. Wind and ice ­were of no use ­here, but there ­were other ways.

Rowan drew his dagger and sliced his palm open as he sprinted through the gate-­stones.

•

The darkness built and built, and she knew it would hurt, knew it would likely kill her and Rowan when it came crashing down. But she would not run from it.

Rowan reached her, panting and bloody. She did not dishonor him by asking him to flee as he extended his bleeding palm, offering his raw power to harness now that she was well and truly emptied. She knew it would work. She had suspected it for some time now. They ­were carranam .

He had come for her. She held his gaze as she grabbed her own dagger and cut her palm, right over the scar she’d given herself at Nehemia’s grave. And though she knew he could read the words on her face, she said, “To what­ever end?”

He nodded, and she joined hands with him, blood to blood and soul to soul, his other arm coming around to grip her tightly. Their hands clasped between them, he whispered into her ear, “I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”

The wave of impenetrable black descended, roaring as it made to devour them.

Yet this was not the end—­this was not her end. She had survived loss and pain and torture; she had survived slavery and hatred and despair; she would survive this, too. Because hers was not a story of darkness. So she was not afraid of that crushing black, not with the warrior holding her, not with the courage that having one true friend offered—­a friend who made living not so awful after all, not if she ­were with him.

Rowan’s magic punched into her, old and strange and so vast her knees buckled. He held her with that unrelenting strength, and she harnessed his wild power as he opened his innermost barriers, letting it flow through her.

The black wave was not halfway fallen when they shattered it apart with golden light, leaving Narrok and his remaining prince gaping.

She did not give them a moment to spool the darkness back. Drawing power from the endless well within Rowan, she pulled up fire and light, embers and warmth, the glow of a thousand dawns and sunsets. If the Valg craved the sunshine of Erilea, then she would give it to them.

Narrok and the prince ­were shrieking. The Valg did not want to go back; they did not want to be ended, not after so long spent waiting to return to her world. But she crammed the light down their throats, burning up their black blood.

She clung to Rowan, gritting her teeth against the sounds. There was a sudden silence, and she looked to Narrok, standing so still, watching, waiting. A spear of black punched into her head—­offering one more vision in a mere heartbeat. Not a memory, but a glimpse of the future. The sounds and smell and look of it ­were so real that only her grip on Rowan kept her anchored in the world. Then it was gone, and the light was still building, enveloping them all.