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his cupped palm. Her fingers curled, the
gauntlet clicking. As if it were another
answer, too.
“She can’t do it with the iron,” Elide said.
“If it’s on her hands. It interferes with the
magic in the blood.”
A blink from her, in that silent language.
“It’s why she put them on you, isn’t it,”
Elide said, her chest straining. “To be sure
you couldn’t use your own blood with the
Wyrdmarks to free yourself.” As if all the
other iron wasn’t already enough.
Another blink, her face still so hollow and
cold. Tired.
Rowan’s jaw clenched. But he just dipped
his finger into the blood in his palm and
offered his hand to her. “Show me, Fireheart,”
he said again.
Elide could have sworn he shuddered, and
not from fear, as Aelin’s metal-crusted hand