““You’re going to give me your armada. You’re going to arm it with those firelances I know you’ve ordered, and you will ship any extras to the Mycenian fleet when they arrive.” Silence. Rolfe barked a laugh and sat again. “Like hell I am.” He waved that tattooed hand over the map, the waters inked on it churning and changing in some pattern she wondered if only he could read. A pattern she needed him to be able to read, to find that Lock. “This just shows how utterly outmatched you are.” He chewed over her words. “The Mycenian fleet is little more than a myth. A bedside tale.” Aelin looked to the hilt of Rolfe’s sword, to the inn itself and his ship anchored just outside. “You are the heir of the Mycenian people,” Aelin said. “And I have come to claim the debt you owe my bloodline on that account, too.” Rolfe did not move, did not blink. “Or were all the sea dragon references from some personal fetish?” Aelin asked. “The Mycenians are gone,” Rolfe said flatly. “I don’t think so. I think they have been hiding here, in the Dead Islands, for a long, long time. And you somehow managed to claw your way back to power.” The three Fae males were glancing between them. Aelin said to Rolfe, “I have liberated Ilium from Adarlan. I took back the city—your ancient home—for you. For the Mycenians. It is yours, if you dare to claim your people’s inheritance.””
