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dirt.
Her knees barked, skinning beneath her
pants, and her dagger scattered from her hand.
“I win,” he panted. “Let’s eat.”
Aelin glared up at him. “Another round.”
Rowan just sheathed his sword. “After
breakfast.”
She growled. He growled right back.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’ll lose all
that muscle if you don’t feed your body. So
eat. And if you still want to train afterward,
I’ll train with you.” He offered her a tattooed
hand. “Though you’ll likely hurl your guts
up.”
Either from the exertion or from the
innkeeper’s suspect cooking.
But Aelin said, “People are dying. In
Terrasen. In—everywhere. People are dying,
Rowan.”
“Your eating breakfast isn’t going to