She could do nothing when the stag threw
himself into a wall of flame spread like a net
between two burning oaks.
He did not emerge.
The white wolf was watching her again.
Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius
ran an ironclad finger over the rim of the
stone altar on which she lay.
As much movement as she could manage.
Cairn had left her here this time. Had not
bothered moving her to the iron box against
the adjacent wall.
A rare reprieve. To wake not in darkness,
but in flickering firelight.
The braziers were dying, beckoning in the
damp cold that pressed to her skin. To
whatever wasn’t covered by the iron.
She’d already tugged on the chains as
quietly as she could. But they held firm.