with sightless eyes.
His tattooed throat ripped out. His sword
still gripped in his hand.
Gavriel.
His father.
Morath’s army pulled back from the secured
western gate. Pulled back and retreated to the
arms of the advancing army. To the rest of
Morath’s host.
Limping from a deep gash in his leg, his
shoulder numb from the arrow tip that
remained lodged in it, Rowan drove his blade
through the face of a fleeing soldier. Black
blood sprayed, but Rowan was already
moving, aiming for the western gate.
Where things had gone so, so still.
He’d only aimed for it when he’d spied
Aelin battling her way toward the distant
southern gate, Ansel with her, after they’d