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kills stayed down. Swords and spears flashed
in the afternoon light as they rose and fell,
severing heads. Rowan had always
remembered the chaos and rush of battle, but
this—the dazed, weary aftermath—this, he’d
forgotten.
Healers already made their way over the
battlefield, their white banners stark against
the sea of black and gold. Those who needed
more intensive help were carried off by ruks
and brought right to the chaos of the Great
Hall.
Atop the blood-slick battlements, their
allies and companions around them, Rowan
wordlessly passed Aelin the waterskin. She
drank deeply, then handed it to Fenrys.
An unleashing and release. That’s what the
battle had been for his mate.
“Minimal losses,” Princess Hasar was
saying, a hand braced on a small section of the