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humming darkness and the Lord of the North
glistening above, pointing the way north. To
her.
He found his companions waiting for his
orders.
He opened his mouth to voice them, but
halted. Considered. “We need to draw Maeve
out—away from Aelin.” His voice rumbled
over the drowsy buzzing of insects in the
grasses. “Just long enough for us to infiltrate
Doranelle.” For even with the three of them
together, they might not be enough to take on
Maeve.
“If she hears we’re coming,” Lorcan
countered, “Maeve will spirit Aelin away
again, not come to meet us. She’s not that
foolish.”
But Rowan looked to Elide, the Lady of
Perranth’s eyes wide. “I know,” he said, his
plan forming, as cold and ruthless as the