It is done, then, said the one with many faces, approaching the Lock that hovered in midair. A flick of a ghostly, ever-changing hand and the Lock floated toward Aelin. Landed on her lap, gold and glittering.
But they remained there, in the crossroads of all things.In bodies that were not their bodies, they stood amid all those doorways, their power pouring out, pooling before them. Blending and merging, a ball of light, of creation, hovering in midair.
Every ember that flowed from them into the growing sphere before them, into the Lock taking form, would not return. It would not replenish.A well running dry. Forever.More and more and more, ripping from them with each breath. Creation and destruction.
The sphere swirled, its edges warping, shrinking. Forming into the shape theyd chosen, a thing of gold and silver. The Lock that would seal all these infinite doors forever.Still they gave over their power, still the forming of the Lock demanded more.
And it began to hurt.
She was Aelin and yet she was not.One false move, and her fire would melt him.
Only the Lion and Fenrys stood in the chamber, stationed by the doors.Rowan and Lorcan had snarled at her order to stay in the hall, but Aelin had declared that they would only hinder her efforts here.
Aelin sipped from her own tankard and hummed. An odd day, when one has to compliment their enemys good taste in ale.Vernon frowned at the tankard.