Aelin had promised herself, months and months ago, that she would not pretend to be anything but what she was. She had crawled through darkness and blood and despair-she had survived.

I'm going to call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners.

Aelin was no savior to rally behind, but a cataclysm to be weathered.

Aedion rubbed at his face. "Do you understand what it was like to sit on my ass while you were gone? You said two hours. What was I supposed to think?"
"Aedion," she said as calmly as she could, and pulled off her filthy gloves before taking his broad, callused hand. "I get it. I do.

Aedion touched her shoulder. "Welcome home, Aelin."

A land of towering mountains-the Stagehorns-spread before them, with valleys and rivers and hills; a land of untamed, wild beauty.

Terrasen.

And the smell-of pine and snow.. How had she never realized that Rowan's scent was of Terrasen, of home? Rowan came close enough to graze her shoulder and murmured, "I feel as if I've been looking for this place my entire life.

Your soldiers look like they have seen better days." "Oh, they always look like that. I've tried and tries to get them to focus on outside appearances as much as improving their inner beauty, but... you know how men are.