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still bound.
As he beheld the blood soaking her skin,
the short white shift, her hair, longer than he’d
last seen and plastered to her head with gore.
His knees stopped working, and even his
magic faltered at the sight of her wild,
desperate race for the camp’s edge.
Soldiers ran toward her.
Lorcan surged into motion, flaring his
magic up and wide. Not to her, but to
Whitethorn, still charging for the center of the
camp.
She’s here, she’s here, she’s here , he
signaled.
But Lorcan was too far, the grassy bumps
and hollows between them now endless, as ten
soldiers converged on Aelin, blocking her
path toward the open field.
One swung his sword, a strike that would
cleave her skull in two.