racing past tents, past soldiers who whipped
their heads toward her, as if puzzled. She
clenched the poker in her ironclad hands,
refusing to see what the commotion was, if
Cairn raged behind her.
But then she heard them. Bellowed orders.
Rushing steps in the grass behind, closing
in. People ahead alerted by their cries.
Bare feet flying over the ground, her
exhausted legs screamed to stop.
Still Aelin aimed for the eastern horizon.
Toward the trees and mountains, toward the
sun cresting over them.
And when the first of the soldiers blocked
her path, shouting to stop, she angled the iron
poker and did not falter.
Death sang to Lorcan.
From the birds of prey that speared farther
and farther into the camp, he knew