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sandaled feet. Braziers smoldered all around.
A tent. She was in a tent. Murmuring
sounded outside—not nearby, but close
enough for her Fae hearing to pick up. People
speaking in both her tongue and the Old
Language, someone muttering about the
cramped camp conditions.
An army camp, full of Fae.
A more secure location, Cairn had said.
Maeve had wanted her here, to guard her from
Morath. Until Maeve clamped the cold
Wyrdstone collar around her neck.
But then oblivion swept in. When she
awoke, cleaned and without an ache, she knew
Cairn was soon to begin. His canvas had been
wiped bare, ready for him to paint red. His
terrible, grand finale, not to pry information
from her, not with Maeve’s triumph at hand,
but for his own pleasure.
Aelin was ready, too.