It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it...

It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she'd played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration-a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing.
Perhaps that was why she'd gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of that she was, of what she struggled to keep.
Up and up it built, the sound breaking from the pianoforte like the heart-song of a god, until Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument, until she whispered to him, "
," and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note.
The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater. The hollow silence that had been inside her for so many months now overflowed with sound.
She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord.
When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan's eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her.
He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, "Show me-show me how you did that."
So she obliged him.