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forest.
Rowan kept a step behind Aelin and
Fenrys, Gavriel and Elide at the head of their
party, Lorcan at the rear, as they followed the
Little Folk.
Aelin had said nothing, done nothing
except rise when they told her it was time to
go. Rowan had offered her his cloak, and
she’d allowed it to pass through her bubble of
golden, clear flame to wrap around her naked
body.
She clutched it at her chest as they walked,
mile after mile, her feet bare. If the stones and
roots of the forest hurt her, she didn’t so much
as flinch. She only walked on, Fenrys at her
side within that sphere of fire, as if they were
two ghosts of memory.
A vision of old, striding through the trees,
the queen and the wolf.
The others spoke rarely as the hours and