CHAPTER 53

Someone had set fire to her thigh.
Not Aelin, because Aelin was gone, sealed
in an iron sarcophagus and taken across the
sea.
But someone had burned her down to the
bone, so thoroughly that the slightest of
movements on wherever she lay—a bed? A
cot?—sent agony searing through her.
Lysandra cracked open her eyes, a low
groan working its way up her parched throat.
“Easy,” a deep voice rumbled.
She knew that voice. Knew the scent—like
a clear brook and new grass. Aedion.