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Nesryn chuckled. “Borte, meet—”
Another set of steps in the mud, heavier
and slower than Borte’s quick movements,
and then a young man stumbled in, his skin
not the gold-kissed brown of Borte or the
royals, but pale. “It’s back,” he panted, gaping
at Nesryn. “For days now, I swore I felt
something, noted changes, but today it just all
came back.”
Nesryn angled her head, her curtain of dark
hair sliding over an armored shoulder. “Who
...”
Borte squeezed the young man’s arm.
“Falkan. It’s Falkan, Nesryn.”
Prince Sartaq stalked to Nesryn’s side,
graceful as any Fae warrior. “How.”
But the young man had turned toward
Aelin, eyes narrowing. As if trying to place
her.
Then he said, “The assassin from the