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The gauntlets had been locked at her wrist,
overlapping slightly with the shackle. Both
had small keyholes. Both were made from
iron.
Elide shifted slightly, bracing her weight
on her uninjured leg, to get a view of where
the mask was bound to the back of Aelin’s
head.
That lock was more complicated than the
others, the chains thick and ancient.
Lorcan had fitted the tip of a slender
dagger into the lock of the gauntlet, and was
now angling it, trying to pick the mechanism.
“Take it off.” The queen’s guttural words
were swallowed by the moss-crusted trees.
“I’m trying,” Lorcan said—not gently,
though certainly without his usual coldness.
The dagger scraped in the lock, but to no
avail.
“Take it off.” The queen began trembling.