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And that terrible, relentless pressure
writhing in her veins—it had eased. Just
enough to think, to breathe and act beyond
pure instinct.
She’d siphoned off as much as she dared,
but not all. Certainly not all.
So she had slept. She’d done that, too, in
those other dreams. Had lived through days
and weeks of stories that then washed away
like footprints in the sand.
Yet when she opened her eyes, the cave
remained, dimmer now. The thrumming
power had nestled deeper, slumbering. The
ache in her ribs had faded, the slice down her
forearm had healed—but the scab remained.
The only mark on her.
Aelin prodded it with a finger. Dull pain
echoed in response.
Smooth—not the scab, but her finger.
Smooth like glass as she rubbed the pads of