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her thumb and forefinger together.
No calluses. Not on her fingers, on her
palms. Utterly blank, wiped of the imprint
from the years of training, or the year in
Endovier.
But this new scab, this faint throbbing
beneath it—that remained, at least.
Curled on the rock floor, she took in the
cave.
The white wolf lay at her back, snoring
softly. Their sphere of transparent flame still
burned around them, easing the strain ember
by ember. But not wholly.
Aelin swallowed, tasting ash.
Her magic opened an eye in response.
Aelin sucked in a breath. Not here—not
yet.
She whispered it to the flame. Not yet.
But the flame around her and the wolf
flared and thickened, blotting out the cave.