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bare, pale hands.
Lysandra’s stomach churned as she clasped
a hand to the throbbing gash on her upper arm.
She knew what beat within the man’s chest. A
heart of iron and Wyrdstone.
The messenger laughed, hissing. “Run to
your castle. We’re—”
He sniffed the air. Looked right at
Lysandra. At the blood leaking down her left
arm, seeping into the ocean blue of Aelin’s
worn tunic.
His dark eyes widened with surprise and
delight, the word taking form on his lips.
Shifter.
“Kill him,” she ordered the silver-haired
Fae royals, her heart thundering.
No one dared tell her to burn him herself.
Endymion raised a hand, and the Valg-
possessed man began gasping. Yet not before
his eyes darkened wholly, until no white