Page 112 of Prince of the Sun

For several seconds, Daerios doesn’t speak, and I think he’s going to let me drift off to sleep again. Instead, featherlight fingers flutter over my bare arm, and I open my eyes.

His voice is soft. “You don’t even know, do you?”

I tilt my head. “Know what?”

“You did it, Quinn.” He looks on the verge of tears. “You saved Elaërion.”

“I-I did?”

“You did. When you drove the Shadow Sword into your chest—a decision about which we are going to have a very serious discussion in the near future—”

“No, we are not.” I try to sit up, but my body gives a great shriek of pain. Daerios lays a gentle hand on my shoulder and eases me back onto the bed.

“Regardless,” Daerios continues. His hand lingers on my shoulder, tracing little circles with his thumb that send sparks dancing through my chest. “When you drove the Shadow Sword into your chest, you fulfilled the prophecy. You sacrificed the Lightbearer. And the effect was immediate—light exploded from your body like a bomb going off. And it just kept growing. And growing. You were a fucking human sun.” He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “For several seconds, no one could see a thing. You blinded us. But when the light faded, the whole world had changed.”

Cautious excitement flutters in my chest. “What do you mean, changed?”

“I meaneverything. The leaves, the trees, the grass, the sky. The fuckingsun, Quinn.” His eyes glow a brilliant silver. “Birds. Flowers. Color. Fuckingcolor,everywhere.It was back. It was all back. The valley of Árrion. My old home—just as I remembered it.”

To my surprise, a lump builds in my throat. “I wish I could have seen it.”

He smiles. After reaching out and gently taking my hand, he says, “You will.”

I want to relish in that promise. In the fact that we might have a future atall, when not long ago, I thought I lost himforever. But I have more questions. “And the Shadow Elves?”

“Fled the minute you lit up. They knew what was happening. We didn’t go to Shadowfell to check, but, as far as I know, that’s where they are. Back where they belong.”

“Along with the urrath and the skria and all the other beasts?”

“All of it, Quinn.” He reaches up and lays a palm on the side of my face. I lean into it and shut my eyes, breathing in his scent. “You saved my home.”

For several moments, we stay that way: my face tucked into Daerios’s palm, his body pressed up against the bedframe. My eyes remain shut. I say nothing. Daerios says nothing. We sit in silence, listening to breath drag in and out of my chest. The same chest into which I plunged a three-foot, razor-sharp piece of metal. I should be dead. I should. I know that Daerios said I’m strong, that the sword missed my heart, that they helped sew me up with magic, but it certainly didn’tfeellike the sword missed my heart. And if I hadn’t truly died, then how would Elaërion’s curse truly be lifted?

I open my eyes and begin to ask exactly that, but Daerios interrupts:

“Now,” he says, reluctantly dropping his palm from my face. “About your decision to shove a sword into your chest—”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “No conversation to be had. I did what I had to do.”

“What you had to do,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

His voice softens. “And what was it that you had to do, Quinn?”

“I had to sacrifice myself.”

“Why?”

I look down at the blanket, saying nothing.

“Was it to save Elaërion?”

“No.”

“Was it to save your friends?”

I thumb the edge of the blanket. “Partly.”