Bloomsbury YA

“Beautiful.” But he isn’t looking at the necklace.

She had been willing to yield everything to save Terrasen, to save all of them. He could do nothing less. Aelin certainly had more to lose. A mate and husband who loved her. A court who’d follow her into hell. A kingdom long awaiting her return.
All he had was an unmarked grave for a healer no one would remember, a broken empire, and a shattered castle.

Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, consort, husband, and mate of the Queen of Terrasen, knew he was dreaming.
He knew it, because he could see her.

And tell him thank you—for walking that dark path with me back to the light.
It had been his honor. From the very beginning, it had been his honor, the greatest of his immortal life.

She was so tired. So, so tired.
For Terrasen, she had gladly done this. All of it. For Terrasen, she deserved to pay this price.
She had tried to make it right. Had tried, and failed.
And she was so, so tired.

Evalin’s face blazed with the fierceness of the women who had come before them, all the way back to the Faerie Queen whose eyes they both bore.
You do not yield.

And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he’d wrapped around his heart, he’d still found Aelin. Every horizon he’d gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he’d seen and wondered what lay beyond … It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it.

The sob that came out of Aelin at the hawk’s bellow of fury cracked Lorcan’s chest.

And behind them, Aelin continued as well. So Rowan followed her, as he would follow her until his last breath, and beyond it.

Aelin’s throat bobbed as she whispered, “I’m so tired, Rowan.”
His heart strained again. “I know, Fireheart.”