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others entered the tent.
They were mud-splattered, the Queen of
Terrasen’s braided hair far longer than Chaol
had last seen. And her eyes ... Not the soft,
yet fiery gaze. But something older. Wearier.
Chaol shot to his feet. “I thought you were
in Terrasen,” he blurted. All the reports had
confirmed it. Yet here she stood, no army in
sight.
Three Fae males—towering warriors as
broad and muscled as Rowan—had entered,
along with a delicate, dark-haired human
woman.
But Aelin was only staring at him. Staring
and staring at him.
No one spoke as tears began sliding down
her face.
Not at his being here, Chaol realized as he
took up his cane and limped toward Aelin.
But at him. Standing. Walking.