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shone.
Not from the death sweeping over him. But
as he seemed to convey a message down a
long, obsidian bond.
The message that might doom them: Aelin
Galathynius was not here.
“Enough of this,” Aedion snarled, and fear
—real fear blanched his face as he, too,
realized what the messenger had just relayed
to his master.
The Sword of Orynth flashed, black blood
spraying, and the man’s head tumbled to the
rug-covered ground.
In the silence, Lysandra panted, lifting her
hand from her arm to survey the wound. The
cut was not deep, but it would be tender for a
few hours.
Ansel of Briarcliff sheathed her wolf-
headed sword and gripped Lysandra’s
shoulder, her red hair swaying as she assessed