Shouts rang across the castle. A heartbroken cry that started at it's very core and spread like a dark stain.

"The queen is dead! Long live the queen!"

A thousand years had seemed a long time. It had stretched out before them, endless and eternal.

Too short.

But Rowan Whitehorn Galathynius did not cry out.

He traced fingers through his beloved's shining, white hair, over her withered lips, her too frail bones.

"What are you dreaming of, Fireheart?"

The queen's lips did not move. Her eyes did not open and sparkle with mischief.

A small smile played around Rowan's lips.

"I hope you keep a place for me in those dreams."

He stroked Aelin's hair again. As he had done in Mistward, a thousand years ago.

"Eleyntia will make a good queen, won't she?"

And indeed their daughter would. With both her mother's loyalty and devotion, and her father's fearlessness.

Rowan pressed a kiss to his carranam's brow.

And faded, into distant crackling flames. Into the arms of his beloved.