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body, her hands. Didn’t know what to say as
Aelin stumbled over root and rock, the mask
and the chains clanking, blood soaking her.
Not just blood from her own wounds, but
those of others.
She was thin, her golden hair so much
longer. Too long, even with the time apart. It
fell nearly to her navel, most of it dark with
caked blood. As if she’d run through a rain of
it.
No sign of Rowan or Gavriel. But no grief
on Lorcan’s face, nothing beyond urgency,
given how he monitored the sky, the trees.
Searching for any pursuit.
Aelin halted at the edge of the clearing.
Her feet were bare, and the thin, short shift
she wore revealed no major injuries.
But there was little recognition in Aelin’s
eyes, shadowed with the mask.
Lorcan said to the queen, “We’ll wait here