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Chaol said to whoever was inside, presumably
the queen, “would like to see you.”
Silence, then the rustling of clothes and
steps.
Yrene kept back as Aelin Galathynius
appeared, her face and hands clean, but
clothes still dirty. At her side stood that
towering, silver-haired Fae warrior—Rowan
Whitethorn. Whom the royals had spoken of
with such fear and respect months ago. In the
room, Lady Elide sat against the far wall, a
tray of food beside her, and the giant white
wolf lay sprawled on the ground, monitoring
with half-lidded eyes.
A shock to see the shift, to realize these
Fae might be powerful and ancient, but they
still had one foot in the forest. The queen, it
seemed, preferred the form as well, her
delicately pointed ears half-hidden by her
unbound hair. Behind her, there was no sign of