After the Fact

Prologue--Part 3

Rowan

Some days, it was just cold, empty silence. His mind was a barren wasteland where she had once been, all cocky grins and fiendish plans that made his heart stop in his chest. Where her fire had burned and burned and burned there was only ice and wind and nothingness. It was a void that would never, ever be filled, right next to the hole where he had, once upon a time, held Lyria close.

Lyria may have left a hole when he died, but Aelin's death had ripped his heart to shreds and run the whole damn thing through a mess of knives and hammers just for the hell of it. He had loved her so, so much and she was gone. Gone, all for a stupid mistake her rutting ancestor had made.

Some days, he felt like screaming and screaming and screaming until his throat was raw and he could barely speak. Some days, he did. A hard shell of air would encase his room to keep the others from running in, demanding answers he didn't have and trying to give him comfort where there was none to be had.

They all meant well, but Rowan knew better than to burden them with his problems. Not when they were all a little broken inside.

Lysandra, he imagined, hadn't really thought about what kind of an effect she'd have. The emotional gut punch she delivered every time she walked into a room had been strong enough, in the first few months, to stagger back against the wall.

She looked like her, grinned like her, laughed like her. But she wasn't his Fireheart.

Not even close.

At best, Lysandra was a piss-poor substitute. At worst, she was a gaudy, cheap fraud. A mockery of Aelin.

And they all knew it, no one better than her.

On all the other days, he felt like he was invincible. He fought the urge to laugh as the others treated him like pieces of broken china. He bit back a grin when they tried not the mention her name in front of him. He wanted to chuckle at the way their eyes would always dart between him and Lysandra as if they expected him to scream, break down in tears, or both.

He hadn't cried when she died. He hadn't cried when they defeated Erawan and sent the Valg King spiraling into the Wyrdgate. He hadn't cried when they had all returned to Orynth to crown Aelin—Lysandra—Queen of Terrasen. And he hadn't cried since.

All of his tears had been locked up inside of him somewhere he couldn't reach, right where the words Aelin had whispered to him as she died were kept.

"I love you, Rowan Whitethorn.

"Don't you dare lose yourself.

"I'm sorry."

It was those last two words that broke him, utterly and completely. His heart shattered as he looked down at the woman in his arms, smiling faintly, eyes closing, body growing limp.

"I'm sorry."

A/N The real plot begins with the next chapter.