before he squeezed beneath the shut door. And
into Morath itself.
His senses might have been sharper, but he
had never realized how daunting a set of stairs
truly was without human legs.
He kept to the shadows, willing himself
into dust and gloom with every pair of feet
that strode by. Some were armored, some
were booted, some in worn shoes. All the
wearers pale and miserable.
No witches, thank the gods. And no Valg
princes or their grunts.
Certainly no sign of Erawan.
The tower he’d entered was a servants’
stair, one Manon had laid out during one of
her various explanations to Aelin. It was
thanks to her that he followed a mental map,
confirmed by his circling overhead for the
past few hours.