seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Bulgaria
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Bulgaria
seen from Australia
seen from Poland
Darrow: You’re alive.
Aelin: No need to sound so disappointed.
Princess of Flame and Ash Chapter 25
Throne of Glass AU in which Erawan never returns. He stays in the coffin in Morath, bound by the lock forged by Mala. Aelin grows up in Orynth with her family. The King of Adarlan is never taken over by the Valg and is not evil. He and his kingdom are wary of magic wielders though. Maeve is still Valg and still a manipulative, scheming bitch.
Rowan x Aelin eventually. Cannon typical violence. Starts off as Teen, but eventually rating will escalate to Mature.
Masterlist Ao3 link here
Shift of Fur and Flame
Lysandra
The morning light streamed in through the warehouse’s dusty windows, casting long golden bars across the floor. The air still smelled faintly of smoke from the hearth where breakfast had been cooked, though most of the food had long since been picked over. They sat in a loose circle around the table in the warehouse’s upper apartment—Aelin, Aedion, Rowan, Gavriel, and Lysandra.
It was Lysandra who broke the silence first. “If Arobynn really knows I’ve turned on him, it’s only a matter of time before he sends someone to finish the job.” Her voice was calm, but her posture was tight, her fingers clenching the edge of her chair. “I shouldn’t stay here.”
Aelin frowned. “You’ve already risked everything by helping us. I won’t let you be left defenseless.”
“I’ll go,” Gavriel offered, his voice low and sure. “I can escort her to Terrasen. If she’s under your protection, Aelin, then it needs to be formalized. I know the safe routes. We’ll avoid patrols.”
Rowan looked to Aelin, his brow furrowed. “We’ll be short-handed here if you go.”
“I know,” Gavriel said. “But if Arobynn thinks we’re foolish enough to let one of our own just vanish, he might be careless. And if the girl is as important as you say she is—” he glanced at Lysandra, not unkindly “—then keeping her alive is worth it.”
Lysandra lifted her chin. “I can travel. I won’t slow anyone down.”
“No one’s questioning your strength,” Aelin said gently. “But this is about making sure we don’t lose the only solid lead we have inside Arobynn’s house. I agree. You should go.”
They were quiet a moment, the soft sound of shifting chairs the only noise.
Then Aelin turned to Lysandra with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “You could shift for the journey. Something fast. Something wild. It would make travel easier—and you’d be harder to recognize.”
Lysandra went still.
Aedion glanced between them, brows lifting. “She hasn’t shifted yet?”
Lysandra hesitated. Then, finally, “The last time I shifted... I was a child. Maybe six. I turned into a tabby cat. When my mother saw me, she screamed, called me a demon. Threw me out onto the street that same night.” Her tone didn’t waver, but her fingers curled into fists in her lap. “After that, Clarisse made it very clear that my shifting was something to be hidden. Controlled.”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
“I always preferred forms with fangs,” Lysandra said, shooting a smirk at Rowan. “Somehow felt safer that way.”
Aelin stood and crossed to her satchel, pulling free a book. She flipped through the pages, stopping on one and setting it in front of Lysandra.
A large cat, snow-pale with heavy muscles and bright eyes, stared up at them from the page.
“A snow leopard,” Aelin said. “Fanged. Beautiful. Dangerous. But elusive. You’d travel fast and unseen.”
Lysandra traced the page with a fingertip, drawn in despite herself. She stared at the book open on her lap—the page with the snow leopard staring out, its eyes bright and wild. She looked up at Aelin, then at the others. “I’ll try,” she said softly.
Aedion, meanwhile, looked mildly horrified. “Can you maybe try something smaller first? Like a fox? Or a bird? Something that isn’t going to give me nightmares in my sleep?”
That earned a quiet laugh from Lysandra, and a faint smile from Rowan.
But Lysandra’s eyes remained fixed on the page. “If I’m going to start running for my life again, I may as well do it on four legs.”
Aelin reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “You’re not running anymore. You’re moving forward.”
“Do you need anything?” Rowan asked. “Privacy, maybe?”
“No,” Lysandra said, her shoulders squaring. “You’ve all seen worse. Might as well see this too.”
She stepped into the open space near the hearth, drawing a deep breath. The warehouse fell quiet, everyone watching. Aelin rested a hand lightly on Aedion’s arm as he leaned forward, eyes narrowed in curiosity.
Lysandra closed her eyes.
She reached inward, deeper than she had dared in years, toward the pulsing well of magic coiled in her blood. Fear flickered—but so did something else. Power. Possibility. She thought of the snow leopard’s grace, its fierce elegance, and pushed toward it.
Her body shimmered.
The shift was near-silent, save for a rush of wind and the faint creak of shifting joints. One moment, Lysandra stood barefoot on the wood floor. The next, a massive snow-furred cat padded forward, muscles rippling beneath the thick white coat. She blinked up at them with pale green eyes that still held a glint of humor.
“Holy gods,” Aedion breathed.
Lysandra’s long tail twitched once. Then, with utter feline arrogance, she sauntered toward Aedion.
“Lysandra…” he warned, backing up a step.
She didn’t stop. With an almost smug swish of her tail, she brushed her flank along his legs, purring deeply.
Aedion yelped. “Nope. No, no, that’s too weird. That’s still you in there—gods-damned, why does it feel like you’re terrorizing me?”
The snow leopard gave what could only be described as a snort and flopped down beside the hearth, curling into a lounging pose that was pure Lysandra.
Aelin was doubled over laughing.
Even Rowan cracked a grin. “I think she’s enjoying this a bit too much.”
“She’s a menace,” Aedion muttered, backing away and scowling. “A beautiful, terrifying menace.”
Lysandra flicked her tail in approval.
Aelin wiped tears from her eyes. “Welcome back, shapeshifter.”
The snow leopard lifted her head and rumbled in reply.
It was a new beginning—one of many, perhaps. But for the first time in a long while, Lysandra felt the power to shape her own story. Literally.
And she intended to use it.
Aelin
The mid-afternoon sun was bright in the warehouse windows, the low rumble of distant voices and clattering hooves barely reaching the upper apartment. A single lantern hung in the center of the room, casting flickering shadows over the gathered four: Aelin, Aedion, Gavriel, and Rowan.
Lysandra was asleep downstairs, still exhausted from her shifting. They had all agreed she would not be involved in this particular mission—not yet. Not when the enemy they were hunting knew her face.
Aelin stood with her arms crossed near the window, watching the stars blink faintly above the city haze. “We need something concrete,” she said. “We’ve danced around the edges for too long. If we’re going to bring this information back to Terrasen, we need names, accounts, documents—anything that ties Arobynn or anyone else to Tern.”
“The Keep won’t give it up easily,” Rowan said, leaning back against the wall beside her. “They’re too careful. I’ve flown over it almost every night this week—there are guards on every entrance, a rotating patrol on the roof, and wards inside the walls.”
Aedion pulled a roughly drawn map from his coat and spread it over the table. “The eastern wing is less trafficked at night—probably the dormitories. We could slip in there and move through the inner halls, if we time it right.”
“Unless the hallways are warded,” Gavriel said. He crouched beside the map, studying it with narrowed eyes. “Do we have anyone with information about the layout inside?”
Aelin shook her head. “We have rough maps based on Lysandra’s recollections from her time there—but she was never invited into Arobynn’s study or the records room.”
Rowan crossed his arms. “Even if we get in, we’ll need time. Someone has to stay on watch, someone else needs to look for the ledgers, and we can’t afford to get trapped.”
“We won’t,” Aedion said, his jaw tight. “I’ll go with you, Aelin. I can buy us time if we need to fight our way out.”
“You’re not going alone,” Rowan cut in. “I’ll fly to the roof and shift inside. I’ll wait in the upper halls. If anything goes wrong, I’ll give the signal.”
Aelin looked between them, her lips a tight line. “This is a high-risk mission. If Arobynn or any of his inner circle catch wind of this—”
“They won’t,” Gavriel said calmly. “Because we’ll cover every angle. Plus Lysandra and I will create a distraction at the edge of the slums, near the apothecary stalls, before we leave Rifthold for Terrasen. If it pulls even one of his men off their post, it may give you the opening you need.”
Silence fell, tension humming in the air.
“Then we do it tonight,” Aelin said. “I’ll shift into a shadow if I have to, but we get those ledgers. We get the truth. I want names, faces—who ordered Tern to kill me, who paid for it, and why.”
Rowan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And when we have it—what then?”
“Depends on what we find,” Aelin replied.
“Tonight, then,” he said. “We hit the Keep.”
~~~~~
The moon hung low and sharp over Rifthold, the air heavy with the crisp edge of early autumn. Near the edge of the slums, just beyond the apothecary stalls, two shadows slunk through the darkened alleyways—one with sleek silver fur and emerald eyes, the other golden and massive, moving with a predator’s grace.
Lysandra, in her snow leopard form, brushed her whiskers along Gavriel’s flank, signaling the start. In perfect synchronization, they emerged into the main street with a wild snarl and roar, scattering vendors and customers alike. Chaos erupted as people screamed and dove for cover. One of the apothecary stalls went up in flames as Gavriel, with one deft swipe, toppled an oil lamp into a pile of dried herbs.
The guards from the Assassin’s Keep were drawn like moths to flame.
And the true mission began.
Aelin pressed her back to the brick wall of the alley beside the Keep. Aedion crouched at her side, every muscle tense, alert. Above them, Rowan circled in hawk form, his eyes scanning the rooftops and alleys, watching for reinforcements or surprises. He wouldn’t be going inside with them—his job was to keep the perimeter secure, and take out any threats if things went sideways.
Aelin’s heart beat fast—not with fear, but a strange electric anticipation. This would be her first time inside the Assassin’s Keep. The place she’d heard stories of, always lurking at the edge of rumor and fear, the center of Arobynn Hamel’s empire.
They slipped through the eastern side entrance—an old, half-rotted servant’s door that Rowan had spotted during his flights. It was unguarded, just as expected.
Inside, the Keep was darker than she imagined, colder. The walls were lined with weapons, maps, and training schedules. Every step she took echoed with the unshakable sense that a thousand eyes had once watched from the shadows here. She could feel them—spirits of the broken and betrayed.
They moved fast.
Aedion took point through the inner corridors, following a map Rowan had memorized and relayed. Aelin’s fire whispered beneath her skin, pulsing with restless energy.
They reached the inner sanctum: Arobynn’s office.
The door was slightly ajar. That was the first warning.
Inside, the room was stark—mahogany shelves, a broad desk, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling scroll cubbies. It smelled faintly of leather, cloves, and steel.
Aelin moved toward the desk. She tugged open a drawer. Nothing. Another. Empty. She tapped the bottom. Hollow.
“There.” Aedion pried up the false bottom and pulled out a black journal.
They flipped it open—names, dates, payments. A note beside Tern’s name.
“For the girl with fire.”
It was too easy. She examined the desk, feeling every edge and crevasse with her hands. In the very back of the underside, with the drawer pulled out, there was a slight indentation. She pushed and pulled. Nothing. She pushed the drawer back in. Click. A compartment opened on the underside of the desk. Aelin didn’t look, she grabbed all the documents in the hidden compartment and shoved them into her satchel and grabbed the journal.
Then, a voice sliced through the silence like a blade.
“Well. I can’t say I expected the infamous Queen of Terrasen to come strolling into my office.”
Aelin turned slowly.
A tall man stood in the doorway, handsome in a way that felt too sharp, too calculating. His gaze met hers, cool and appraising. Arobynn Hamel. King of the Assassins.
They had never met before, and yet she knew without a doubt it was him.
“I wondered when I’d finally get to lay eyes on the girl who lit the world on fire.”
“You’re not exactly what I imagined,” Aelin said coolly, even as her magic stirred with unease.
“Most things aren’t.” His gaze flicked to the journal in her hand. “That book’s worthless, you know. Planted, just in case someone came poking around.”
“Then you just admitted you expected someone would,” Aedion said.
Arobynn smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Doesn’t matter now. You’re already caught.”
And then all hell broke loose.
An arrow shrieked from a hallway behind them. Not aimed at Aelin or Aedion—but a cry of pain echoed through the burning corridors just outside the office. Rowan.
Aelin staggered with a choked sound, her shoulder erupting with phantom pain. She dropped to her knees, gasping.
“Aelin—what is it?” Aedion was already at her side.
“Rowan—” she panted.
A flare of pain surged through her again, searing down her spine.
Something inside her fractured.
Magic exploded from her skin in waves of molten heat. Her Fae form took hold without her willing it, fire igniting along her arms. The rage—terror—poured out of her like a flood.
“Get behind me, Aedion!”
The office burst into flame.
Arobynn vanished behind the licking fire, shouting orders, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.
“We have to get Rowan,” Aelin said through clenched teeth. “Now.”
Aedion nodded, not hesitating.
They raced through the corridors, now burning, filled with smoke and panic. Aelin’s magic swirled around her like a storm, part shield, part weapon. They found Rowan slumped in a hallway, pale and unmoving, an arrow lodged in his chest—too close to his heart.
Aelin dropped to her knees beside him, fire flickering wildly around her. Her hands shook as she touched his face, willing him to wake.
“I’ve got him,” Aedion said, hauling Rowan’s limp form into his arms.
They fought their way out through collapsing beams and falling debris. The entire Assassin’s Keep was going down in a blaze of gold and fury.
By the time they returned to the warehouse, Rowan was still unconscious, feverish and slick with blood. Aelin hovered, wild-eyed and shaking, wrapping his wound with trembling hands.
“We need help,” she whispered. “Find Nox,” she said to Aedion. “Tell him to go to the castle and find Dorian. He needs to convince Dorian to send his girlfriend, the healer, Sorscha.”
Aedion didn’t wait—he was out the door and sprinting toward the Hollow Boar.
Nox was there. Drinking again.
Aedion grabbed him by the arm. “Come with me.”
Nox stood instantly, his face grave.
Aedion relayed the instructions.
Nox disappeared into the night without another word.
Back at the warehouse, Aelin sat by Rowan’s side, her magic low and flickering, holding his hand as the Keep burned—reduced to ash, but not without cost.
Incorrect ToG Quotes
Evangeline: I joined a witch coven!
Lord Darrow: Oh Evangeline, you are delightfully filled with joy and stupidity
Husband reads Empire of Storms, part 3
Hubs: #TeamLordDarrow
Me: ....
Hubs: Aelin is upset she can’t just waltz into Terrasen and be queen. She’s like, hey man, I’m queen and this is my court, bow to me. And Lord Darrow does what any sensible adult would do in the face of a rebellious nineteen year old and goes: “Uh. No.” And you know why? Because of representative democracy. And I love representative democracy! Haha. I love this guy. After all that nonsense of Aelin being super shitty to everyone in the last few books, her getting a dressing down by this guy is like...
Hubs: It’s so perfect. sorry Aelin. Sorry you can’t just be a power hungry monarch. You need an army and strategy and make sure everyone won’t die if you’re going to war.
Me: I mean, there are a lot of things at play...
Hubs: #TEAMLORDDARROW #TEAMDEMOCRACY #TEAMSENSE
lord darrow: the council of lords of terrasen has convened and we will not accept your claim on the throne of terrasen
aelin:
Princess of Flame and Ash Chapter 18
Throne of Glass AU in which Erawan never returns. He stays in the coffin in Morath, bound by the lock forged by Mala. Aelin grows up in Orynth with her family. The King of Adarlan is never taken over by the Valg and is not evil. He and his kingdom are wary of magic wielders though. Maeve is still Valg and still a manipulative, scheming bitch.
Rowan x Aelin eventually. Cannon typical violence. Starts off as Teen, but eventually rating will escalate to Mature.
Masterlist Ao3 link here
To Rifthold
Rowan
Rowan stood in his guest chambers, buckling the final strap on his vambraces while Gavriel checked their weapons one last time. Their departure from Orynth was quiet, calculated. No fanfare, no goodbyes. Only the whisper of steel and the dull thud of boots as they prepared to escort Aelin and Aedion on their journey.
Neither of them had been told the details. Only that the princess and her cousin were pursuing a lead. They had insisted on escorting them as an additional layer of protection. Rowan had questions, but Aelin hadn’t offered answers. And though it grated against every instinct he had, Rowan obeyed.
“Whatever this is,” Gavriel said, adjusting the straps of his traveling gear, “they’re not telling us everything.”
“They don’t trust us,” Rowan replied, voice clipped. “And I don’t blame them.”
Gavriel’s golden eyes flicked toward him. “Still. We’re not here to play politics. Our oath is to train her—not interfere.”
“Maybe it’s better then, that we don’t know the details.” He already felt the edge of something beneath his skin—like this was more than a simple journey. But they were sworn to protect. And so they would follow.
Rowan slid his sword into its sheath, then turned to Gavriel with a grim look. “Before we leave, there’s something you should know. A few weeks ago, I overheard a conversation outside one of the castle windows. Darrow and some of the other lords. They were talking about obtaining magical restraints.”
Gavriel went still. “Restraints? For who?”
“For Aelin,” Rowan said. “They’re afraid of her fire. Of what it might mean for Terrasen. They were talking about acquiring something that could suppress her power—just in case.”
Gavriel swore under his breath. “And you didn’t tell her?”
Rowan shook his head. “Not yet. She has enough on her plate. But it means we need to stay close. Watch. Protect her if it comes to that.”
Gavriel nodded grimly, then hesitated. “Do you think it’s connected? To this lead they’re chasing? Could those restraints have something to do with what she’s heading into?”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
As they gathered the final pieces of gear, Rowan found himself quiet, distracted by thoughts he couldn’t fully voice. Aelin Galathynius had become a constant in his thoughts—fiery, defiant, maddening. There were moments when her scent alone seemed to reach inside him and crack something open. He told himself it was duty, frustration, responsibility. But that wasn’t all of it. He knew it.
He’d never met anyone like her. Never trained someone so powerful, yet so afraid of her own strength. It made him furious—how she resisted, how she pulled back when she could soar. But more than that, it made him curious. It made him care. And that… that terrified him.
He was beginning to feel a connection to her, something deeper than respect or responsibility. Something ancient, something dangerous. Maeve had warned him not to get attached. The memory of her cold voice echoed in his mind again, chilling and sharp. But he knew it was already too late.
Shit. He was in such deep, unending shit.
Aelin
In her chambers, Aelin stared down at the parchment one last time. Her handwriting was steady, the words precise:
Aedion and I are going to Rifthold. Please trust us. We’ll stay safe. We will return.
She signed it with her name and a drop of wax, pressing the Galathynius seal into it with shaking hands. Her heart thudded wildly as she left it on the table.
Her parents would be furious. But she couldn’t sit idle.
Not when answers waited.
Aedion was already waiting at the stables, two horses saddled and ready. The sky was still pale with early morning light, the city silent. They rode out through the southern gates, their cloaks drawn, their faces hidden.
At the edge of the Oakwald Forest, two figures emerged—one golden-furred, one a blur of gray wings.
Gavriel padded forward in lion form, regal and silent. Rowan circled above as a hawk, then landed in a shower of feathers, shifting fluidly into his Fae form beside them.
“You’re late,” Rowan said.
Aelin raised an eyebrow. “You flew. We didn’t.”
Gavriel returned to his two-legged form. “We’re ready.”
None of them asked questions.
And none of them knew what lay ahead—only that they were going together.
Even if Rowan and Gavriel still didn’t know the truth: that an assassin had tried to end Aelin’s life. That her return to Rifthold would be anything but simple.
Aelin tried not to bristle at Rowan and Gavriel’s presence, even though the tension curled tightly in her chest. She had wanted to do this with Aedion—just the two of them. She hadn’t wanted watchers. Didn’t want to be babysat. But Rowan had insisted, and Gavriel had backed him up, and something in Rowan’s expression had made her falter.
She didn’t want to trust him. She didn’t want to want to trust him. But she was drawn to him all the same. Drawn to the sharpness of his mind, the steadiness of his presence, the scent of pine and snow that always seemed to calm and ignite her in equal measure. He wasn’t afraid of her. He saw her fire and met it with his wind and ice, not fear.
And gods help her, she didn’t know what to do with that.
She clamped down on the feeling, forcing her focus back to the path ahead. This was a mission, not a romantic escapade. And Rowan. Gods, he was hundreds of years old. An immortal. And she was an 18 year old who couldn’t control her own power. She was nothing to him. A coward, he had called her. Her instincts were tangled, her thoughts a mess. She didn’t have room for confusion—not now.
The Oakwald swallowed them whole as they rode into its shadowed depths.
And behind them, Orynth slept on—unaware of the secrets carried silently into the woods.
Rowan
That night, in the heart of Oakwald, Rowan didn’t sleep long.
Their camp was quiet, save for the distant rustling of branches and the steady breathing of the others. He lay beneath the stars, a thin layer of pine needles cushioning his back, and tried to will himself into rest. But when sleep finally came, it brought with it a dream he hadn’t welcomed in years.
Lyria.
Her laughter, soft and golden, echoing across an autumn glade. The way she used to run her fingers through his hair. The exact pitch of her voice as she whispered his name—Rowan, not Prince, not Commander. Just Rowan.
And then, as always, the blood. The broken body. The silence.
He jolted awake with a shuddering breath, heart pounding, sweat slicking his spine. The camp was still quiet. Gavriel lay nearby, and across the fire, Aedion snored softly beneath his cloak.
But it was her scent—jasmine and crackling embers—that pulled Rowan’s eyes to the edge of camp where Aelin slept wrapped in her cloak, moonlight painting her in silver as if Deanna was protecting her.
He hated this. Hated how she was starting to slide beneath his skin. How his thoughts circled around her, always returning. How her fire had begun to warm something in him he’d long thought frozen. The way she challenged him, infuriated him—and how her power, her presence, her courage, stirred something primal in his bones.
It made him feel disloyal. To Lyria. To her memory.
Lyria had been his mate. His heart.
But the pull he felt toward Aelin was different—more intense, sharper, unavoidable. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t supposed to be possible.
And yet… something in him knew. Felt.
It wasn’t possible. And yet, something about it felt inevitable, undeniable.
It was stirring. Like a buried root pushing up through stone.
He wanted to rage against it. To deny it. But it was there all the same.
And that, more than anything, made him afraid.
He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, breathing in the cold, pine-laced air. But the image of Aelin sleeping by the fire lingered—untouchable, unknowable, and impossibly, irrevocably close.
Aedion
Aedion packed his saddlebags with practiced hands, his eyes flicking to the others as they moved through the quiet camp. Dawn filtered through the leaves, casting golden light over their modest campsite. Beside him, Aelin tightened the straps on her mare’s saddle, Rowan stalked the camp perimeter in silence, and Gavriel cooled a last night’s embers with a boot.
They were nearly ready.
He glanced toward the two Fae warriors again—Rowan and Gavriel. Legends, both of them. Stories he’d heard since he was a boy, tales told in war camps and whispered in noble halls. Warriors older than the kingdom itself. He’d imagined them as distant, aloof, untouchable.
And yet… last night by the fire, when he’d dragged stories out of them over salted meat and dried fruit, they’d laughed. Not often, and never without that Fae reserve—but they had. Rowan had even offered a tale so outrageous Aedion was still trying to decide if it was truth or deliberate bait.
They were not like the stories. But somehow, more real.
Still, what unsettled Aedion most wasn’t their prowess, their power, or their age.
It was the dynamic between Rowan and Aelin.
At first, he’d thought Rowan resented her. That their training had been brutal enough to crack bone and pride both. But now… now, watching them, he wasn’t so sure. There was something there—something unspoken. Tension, certainly, but also… something deeper.
When Aelin looked at Rowan, it wasn’t with disdain. And when Rowan looked at her… there was fury, yes. Frustration. But something gentler, too. Something careful, hidden beneath the layers.
Aedion didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t know if he liked it.
He slung his pack over his shoulder and gave his cousin a long look. She was different around Rowan. Not weaker. But guarded in a new way. She was trying to keep something at bay—and Aedion had a sinking suspicion that Rowan Whitethorn was the thing she was trying not to feel.
And Rowan…
He watched her like she was a flame he didn’t know whether to shield or burn with.
Aedion mounted his horse, jaw tight. They were heading into danger. He had to keep his focus. They all did.
Still, he kept an eye on Rowan circling above as they rode into the woods. Just in case.
Aedion mounted his horse, jaw tight. They were heading into danger. He had to keep his focus. They all did.
Still, he kept an eye on Rowan as they rode into the woods. Just in case.
That night, after a long day of riding, they made camp beneath a thick grove of trees. The fire crackled low as they sat in a quiet circle, eating what little they had cooked—salted meat, bread, dried fruit. The silence stretched until Aelin, staring into the firelight, finally broke it.
“What’s the blood oath like?” she asked.
Gavriel looked up, surprised. Rowan’s expression remained unreadable.
Aelin continued, voice soft but steady. “In Terrasen, the sovereign is allowed one blood-sworn protector. For me, that will be Aedion. But I’ve never understood how it really feels. What it does to you.”
Rowan leaned back against a tree trunk, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “It’s ancient. Binding. It ties your soul to another. Their life becomes your life, their death your death. You feel them—in your mind, your heart, your very bones. It is not something entered lightly.”
“It doesn’t feel like servitude,” Gavriel added. “It feels like… purpose. Like a vow that echoes every time you breathe.”
“There’s more to it, though,” Rowan said slowly. “The oath can shift depending on the nature of the bond and the will of the sovereign. It’s magic, yes—but intention shapes it. Some oaths grant absolute obedience. Others are tempered with free will. A wise ruler chooses not only who to bind, but how.”
Aelin hesitated. “And what about Maeve? What was her intention when she claimed your oaths?”
Rowan went still. Gavriel glanced at him, then down at his hands.
“She binds for control,” Rowan said at last, voice quiet. “For power. She wants loyalty not out of love or respect—but because it gives her dominion. Our oaths to her were absolute. A leash with no slack.”
Gavriel’s voice was rough when he added, “And she chooses warriors she knows will serve her without question… or she breaks them until they do.”
Aelin’s brows furrowed. “So it matters. The purpose behind it.”
Rowan nodded. “It always matters.”
She turned back to the fire, her expression unreadable, but the weight of her thoughts hung heavy in the silence that followed.
Rowan watched her across the flames, wondering what choice she would make—and what intention she would carry with it.
Rowan said nothing more, but he didn’t look away.
And neither did she.
Lord Darrow: With all due respect, Your Highness, perhaps it would be in all possibility preferable to all affiliated parties that would be significantly affected by your proposal if this courageous and somewhat radical policy were to be first taken temporarily into consideration by a select group of qualified and experienced individuals as agreed upon by both Her Royal Highness and the Lords of Terra, peace be onto them, and then thoroughly analyzed and reviewed by a committee within pre-specified parameters so as to ascertain that a smooth method of execution with minimal disruption to the countless organizations, bureaucracies, and governmental departments is achievable, so as to avoid the widespread chaos and disorder among the numerous denizens of the city of Orynth and the Kingdom of Terrasen and its administrative territories that I am particularly certain will follow as a result of the plans described in your documents “quietly” filed to my department at approximately 10:26 this morning. Aelin: (irritated) Oh, just make it happen, will you?
Darrow is literally the Throne of Glass equivalent to Keir in A Court of Thornes and Roses
