Aedion Throne Of Glass Novelas e Histórias

she said carefully, “this was found among the princess’s dowrys, as you instructed.” I recognized it instantly. My bridal mantle—woven in cloth-of-gold, embroidered with the northern stag and the southern lion, commissioned for a future queen. I stood at once. “Why is that in your hands?” Ethan waved dismissively. “Pack it and send it to Lady Ava’s residence. You have no right to wear state colors reserved for a sovereign’s bride. That mantle will serve her far better.” I moved toward it instinctively, but he caught my wrist and pushed me back.

She says making me go silent to listen to her. "Of course, you know that too, because as much as I am happy that you have found someone you can pronounce you love even if it sounds very dumb as its your first time meeting her, we both know something does not sit right, with the king being killed by the stake of Adonis and finding a human that looks just like the goddess, Aphrodite." She tells me honestly as I still remain silent knowing that her words are true and bothering, to say. Adonis and Aphrodite, what is the lord of the heavens planning?

And I was ready to face it. The throne room’s silence was taut, not calm. Sunlight poured through the vast windows, red-and-gold carpets muffling every step. Aedan stood on the steps before the throne, not seated. He did not show unmoving power. Another strength was needed now. I stood beside him, in the pale blue silk that held the hues of dawn. My hair spilled loose down my back. His hand held mine. Not crushing, but never letting go. The great doors creaked open. The herald entered first, white-haired, in a deep blue cloak. Three times his staff struck.

"Let her watch the lowlands drown from her seat." ​The grand throne room is a landscape of humiliation. ​The high, cracked glass windows look out over a lower courtyard that is entirely consumed by fire and blood, the black liquid shadow of Clyde’s wolf-spirit thrashing against a sea of western iron below. I am shoved onto the cold obsidian throne, my silver-cuffed wrists resting heavily on the stone armrests, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps as the silver poison burns through my skin. ​Diana paces before the dais, her grey silk kirtle trailing in the dust, her eyes fixed on the low, beautiful curve of my stomach. Malakai’s spies were thorough; she knows exactly why my fire is broken

And they were walking straight into it. The throne itself rose from the center of the Vale, carved from obsidian and bone, crowned with flame that never flickered. It pulsed with ancient magic, the kind that didn’t ask permission. Aria felt it in her chest, pressing against the unborn flame inside her. Luna stopped walking. “He’s here,” she said. Kaelion nodded. “Then we finish this.”

And there it stood. The Blood Throne. It was carved from obsidian, veins of red crystal pulsing through it like a beating heart. The floor was cracked around it, as though the throne had erupted from the earth. Before it knelt a man. Or what was left of one. He was bone and ash wrapped in black robes. His hair was silver, his skin like charred marble. He did not look up—he only whispered in a language none of them understood. Aelin whimpered. “He’s trying to bind to me. To make me sit.”

The entire ceiling to floor stained glass refracted colour lights into the room to lighten the atmosphere, but it only added to the finality of it. This was the last thing you would see before your life was yanked away from you and judgment was passed. Kael sat on the larger throne, looking like a king carved from ice with how stern his face was, while Elena sat beside him in a golden could that caught the light from the stained glass. Auy other day, I would admit that she looked pretty, but today? She looked like the spawn of the devil. The moment she saw me, her lips twitched for a second like she found the entire situation humourous, before she forced it and her face contorted into a mask

The bond burns bright, pulling, dragging, binding me like a leash made of starlight and shadows. And then I see it. The Throne. It is not a throne the way mortal minds imagine—no carved stone, no gilded seat. It is a wound in the world. A jagged crown of bone and glass rising from a sea of black fire, pulsing like the heart of a god. And at its center— Kael. Gods. He sits slouched like a king too tired to rule, bare-chested, his skin veined with silver fire and shadow bleeding like smoke from his hair. His eyes—once storm-dark—are twin novas of ruin, burning with hunger so vast it could hollow out eternity.

For years, every kingdom suffered under the regime of tyrant King Elijah. He whipped women, took the men as nothing but drum fetchers. The entire eight kingdoms were under him and he did no good. He was a bad king to his own Kingdom, and a worser one to others. Until six years ago, when he was finally brought down and killed by Lord Alejandro, a child he had undermined so badly. As punishment for him not having a male heir, the Lords took his one and only daughter, Meandra, and declared that she suffers the sins of her father. She’s to serve each kingdom for a year, as a slave nonetheless, tortured and broken just like her father did them.