Aelin awoke in darkness. Panic flared as she reached to feel the lid of the iron coffin. It had all been a dream after all.
Then her hand went through where the lid should be, and she realised – she hadn't been fully healed.
Rowan must have roughly healed her, but his battlefield training didn't extend to such quick healing of such extensive wounds.
She was safe.
But – where was she?
She rolled onto her side to see many small pairs of eyes peeking out at her from behind rocks. The Little Folk.
And beside her, still sleeping, was Rowan. Her mate.
A small cut on his outstretched arm was crusted in dried blood, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.
The high iron levels in all her food had kept her blood from being of any use to her.
But Rowan – Rowan's blood – Suddenly she knew what to do.
For the first time in months, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius had a plan.
She would free her chains with wyrdmarks, and then, with her mate at her side, she would rattle the stars.