Rowan's hawk swept into the camp, the warning shouts of the guards frozen in their throats with his ice.
Pulling his attention away from them, he dove for the large tent in the center of the camp as Lorcan and Gavriel sprinted below.
And then his wings faltered, his heart leapt to his throat, and he shifted in a flash of silver light as Aelin burst from the tent, blinking at the bright sunlight.
Before the sentries could move she had her chained hands looped around one's neck, her iron restraints sealing his magic deep within him as she pulled him in close and twisted him to intercept the sword of his partner. A human – Fae – shield.
A moment later, twin daggers of ice shot into the hearts of the sentries, Rowan holding his magic firm even as it baulked at the iron on Aelin.
His wife. His mate. And, typically, she couldn't leave him to do all the saving.
She looked up, eyes wide beneath that grotesque mask as she took him in, took in the two males that flanked him.
Instantly, Lorcan had her over his shoulder, and she hung limply, too drained to protest, as Gavriel scooped up the White wolf that had limped at her side, and at a nod from Rowan, they took off for the trees.
But Rowan hadn't finished yet.
Ducking into the tent, he took in the glowing table and red-hot instruments scattered by the brazier. Through the haze of smoke, he spotted Cairn's unconscious figure slumped across the table, an indent still visible where Aelin had lain, and the smell of her burning flesh filled his nostrils. He gagged.
Shoving through the mess, he bound Cairn to the table and waited.
And when he awoke, Rowan began.
He pressed Cairn into the hot metal, then froze him, bit by bit, with ice so cold it burned. And then he smashed him.
He worked his way up, keeping him alive to feel the pain. Drinking in the pain and terror of the man who had tortured his Queen. His wife. His mate.
And finally, when there was nothing left to smash or freeze, he took a smouldering blade from the fire and slowly, slowly, severed Cairn's head.