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In this world, this place, she did not have
scars, either.
Another illusion, another spun dreamscape
—
She screamed again. Screamed at her
ruined arm, the unscarred skin, screamed at
the lingering echo of the severed mating bond.
“Do you know what pains me most,
Aelin?” Maeve’s words were soft as a lover’s.
“It’s that you believe I’m the villain in this.”
Aelin sobbed through her teeth as she tried
and failed to move her arm. Both arms. She
cast her gaze through the space, this real-yet-
not room.
They’d repaired the box. Had welded a new
slab of iron over the lid. Then over the sides.
The bottom. Less air trickled in, the hours or
days now spent inside in near-suffocating
heat. It had been a relief when she’d finally
been chained to the altar.