She tried not to think of that, either. Of the
fact that they would be passing through
Endovier tomorrow, or the day after. That
she’d see those gray mountains that had
housed the salt mines.
Lying on her stomach atop her cot—no
point in making anyone set up a royal bed for
her and Rowan when they would be marching
within a few hours—Aelin winced against the
stinging burn along her back.
The clink of Rowan’s tools and the crackle
of the braziers were the only sounds in their
tent.
“Will it be done tonight?” she asked as he
paused to dip his needle in the pot of salt-
laced ink.
“If you stop talking,” was his dry reply.
Aelin huffed, rising onto her elbows to peer
over a shoulder at him. She couldn’t see what
he inked, but knew the design. A replica of
lily
(lily)
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