Page 199 of Curse of Darkness
Seas surge as the Father of Storms bursts free of the gilded net that saw him bound to the sea floor, his enormous trident gleaming bone-white under a distant sun.
Mrog the Warmonger smashes through the slate of his Hallow with his enormous battleaxe, the feathers in his woven hair a brilliant red.
West toward Maren’s court and the Dream Thief.
I catch a glimpse of his face in an ancient mirror—dark eyes so similar to mine—and then my power smashes through the glass.
“Come to me,” I call, fingers digging right through the stone of my Hallow as I drink that magic down. I can feel my body again, feel myself rising. It’s like thunder in my veins, a pure volcano about to explode.
North into Unseelie. Smashing through Hallow after Hallow. Waking them all. Freeing them.
Red Mag.
The Raven King.
Bloody Mara.
A howl echoes through the night as the Grimm One breaks free.
The Wraithenwold screams into existence.
The Frost Giant tears the ice apart and climbs through his Hallow.
All of them….
“Come to me,” I whisper, burning into being once more.
Spreading wings made of pure fire, I launch into the air, hovering over the Hallow at Eidyn. I am both a phoenix reborn, and a woman made of flame. All of the fire within me is finally free, and the crown of flames on my head threatens to obliterate all in its path.
With a whirl of power, the Warmonger steps into being in the center of my Hallow.
A cloak of ravens swirls into a tall, handsome male with claws.
One by one, they appear out of nowhere—those that were once vanquished and have now been set free.
The last to arrive is the Erlking, prowling right into the center of the Hallow as if he heard my call.
Thiago drives the Horned One back. Andraste jerks Amaya out of the way, protecting her with her own body. Edain and the goblin king stand between them and the Horned One, waiting for a chance to attack.
“Where is the Mother?” Red Mag rasps, a red line of blood painted right down the center of her face. “Where is Imrhien?”
I look down toward the stone at my feet, where her cloak once lay.
“Gone,” says the Erlking, slamming his fist to his chest in a sign of respect for her. “Gone to join her husband and children.”
The rest of them slam fists to chest.
And then they look at me.
“What would you have of us?” the Erlking demands, his eyes twinkling.
He knows full well his debt to me is not paid.
I turn toward the enormous warrior at my side, remembering what the Mother told me. “The Horned One seeks to vanquish the world—”
“Let him,” sneers Red Mag. “Let him wipe this fae scum from our lands.”
It’s the Dream Thief that steps forward, wearing a face so familiar that I dare not look too long upon it for fear I’ll distract myself from battle. He has to be related to the Horned One. “The problem is, Magwyddon, that he will not stop there. You know my brother. You know his hunger.” He turns those night-dark eyes upon me, the faintest smile playing about his lips. “What would you have of us, my child?”
