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form. He tore into it with a growl of
appreciation. “Poor Lord Chaol.”
Aelin, her aching legs stretched out before
her as she leaned against the wall, finished off
her own portion of chicken, then dug into a
hunk of dark bread. “Poor Chaol, poor his
mother, poor his brother. Poor everyone who
has to deal with him.”
At the lone, narrow window of the room,
monitoring the dark army hundreds of feet
below, Rowan snorted. “You were in rare
form tonight.”
Aelin saluted him with her hunk of hearty
oaten bread. “Anyone who interrupts my
dinner risks paying the price.”
Rowan rolled his eyes, but smiled. Just as
Aelin had seen him smile when they’d both
scented what was on Yrene. The child in her.
She was happy for Yrene—for them both.
Chaol deserved that joy, perhaps more than