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closed around his.
In halting, small movements, she guided
his finger to trace the symbol onto the shackle
around her ankle.
A soft flare of greenish light, then—
The hiss and sigh of the lock filled the
clearing. The shackle tumbled to the moss.
Lorcan swore.
Rowan offered his hand, his blood, again.
The shackle around her other ankle yielded to
the Wyrdmark.
Then the manacles around her wrists. Then
the beautiful, horrible gauntlets thudded to the
moss.
Aelin lifted her bare hands to her face,
reaching for the lock behind the mask, but
halted.
“I’ll do it,” Rowan said, his voice still soft,
still full of that love. He moved behind her,
and Elide stared at the horrible mask, the suns