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dented, round metal.
Rhoe’s shield.
Aedion had never told Aelin. Had wanted
to wait until they returned to Orynth to reveal
that the shield he’d carried, had never lost,
had belonged to her father. And so many
others before that.
It had no name. Even Rhoe had not known
its age. And when Aedion had spirited it away
from Rhoe’s room, the only thing he grabbed
when the news came that his family had been
butchered, he had let the others forget about
it, too.
Even Darrow had not recognized it. Worn
and simple, the shield had gone unnoticed at
Aedion’s side, a reminder of what he’d lost.
What he’d defend to his final breath.
The soldiers from their allies’ armies
picked up the beat as Morath reached the edge
of the river. A barked command from the two