been at Mistward.
She shoved her legs into her pants, then
buckled on her sword belt. “No, it can’t.”
Aelin dodged to the side, Rowan’s blade
sailing past her head, snipping a few strands
from the end of her braid.
She blinked, breathing hard, and barely
brought Goldryn up in time to parry his next
attack. Metal reverberated through the
stinging blisters coating her hands.
New blisters—for a new body. Three weeks
at sea, and her calluses had barely formed
again. Every day, hours spent training at
swordplay and archery and combat, and her
hands were still soft.
Grunting, Aelin crouched low, thighs
burning as she prepared to spring.
But Rowan halted in the dusty courtyard of
the inn, his hatchet and sword dropping to his