Aelin gave Rowan a sidelong, warning glance.
We have to get to Harksword, the glance said.
Are you out of your mind? The psycho will kill us! Rowan responded in the look language.
I don't care. Aelin hardened her features. You work for the Guild anyways. This should be everyday to you, Rank Twelve, Rowan.
Whatever. If I die, it's your fault.
Aelin shot him an icy glare but Rowan kept his ground. She rolled her eyes and broke into a sprint. She ran down the main street, the booming bass of the music inside the clubs pounding in her heart. She had friends there at Harksword. More than friends. She smiled slightly at the thought of Sam Cortland, the boy who was currently infatuated with her, and she with him.
She jumped at the sound of huffing behind her, and realized it was Rowan, who wasn't doing so well keeping up.
"Not used to running, Rank Twelve?" Aelin sneered.
"Oh, I'll show you running." Rowan snorted, panting all the while. "Turn back around." He ordered, and since he was twelve and she ten, she obeyed. There was a sound of someone clearing their throat, and Rowan appeared beside her, running at her pace perfectly.
There was a strange sheen to his figure, Aelin realized. "When'd you get so shiny?" she puffed.
He ignored her with a pointed look. It wasn't a voiced order, not yet anyways, so she could keep prodding.
"You're not exactly the glowing type," She said. She curved her feet as she rounded the corner off the main street and into one of the smaller dirt roads. She twisted around the curvy path, her feet guiding the way. There was a much easier way to get to Harksword, except it was longer, and she wanted to test Rowan.
"Trust me, I'm much more than you think," he declared, not missing a breath.
She poked him in the side. "No but really, super-speed? What are you, Fae?" She snorted jokingly, mentioning the popular Wendlynite legend.
He shifted away from her.
"You're joking." She said. He just stared.
"You're not… really…. Right? This is just some joke." She said, mostly to herself.
"Watch out, Sardothien." Rowan spat as she almost ran into a wall. She moved up, and brushed herself off quickly. She ran again.
"A few more blocks." She said, and he grunted.
They were halfway down the second to last block when they heard feet pounding behind them.
Dorian ran. As soon as Roland pulled out the knife and held it like a psychopath, he jumped to the door and burst down the hall. The elevator took a while, and when it finally came, Roland was a few yards in front of the doors. They slid open and Dorian sprang in, jamming the Door Close button as Roland made a wild leap towards the doors. His nose and fingers got caught in the door, and as they shut, a bloodcurdling crunch was heard from them, and Roland slid the extremities out as the elevator began its descent.
When he reached the ground floor, he saw Nehemia leaving the lobby with a black purse, wearing a jean jacket over top of her clothes from earlier that day. He ran towards the doors, and she jumped back surprised, and got into the section of the revolving doors behind him. When they got out, she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.
"What the hell are you doing?" She hissed. "First you come up to me with a question about fricking Assassin's Keep and then you burst out of the elevators like there's a madman chasing you!" she scoffs.
"Because there is," Was Dorian's only reply. And as if on cue, Roland burst out of the elevators and into the empty lobby, still brandishing the knife as if it was his only hope of life. And Dorian deeply wished it wasn't.
"Run," he hissed at Nehemia, and pulled her wrist. He broke into a run, and she stumbled after him. He ran through streets at random, until she wrenched herself from his grip and ran alongside him.
"Who is he?" Nehemia asked, slightly out of breath.
"Cousin. Tried to dissect me in the room. Or something," Dorian wheezed.
"Harsh," Nehemia grunted.
Then they saw the two people, a man and a woman, running ahead in front of them. The man was strong-built and tall, with a mass of silver-white hair atop his head. Dorian saw, on the back of his neck, a splotch of ink, but it wasn't a splotch. It was a carefully inked, black as hell, tattoo. The girl had long silver hair, braided back in a tight plait that glimmered in the moonlight. She was slim, but well-muscled.
Then they stopped short, and whirled around at lightning speed.
"Who the hell are you?" The man hissed. Gods, he was huge. Dorian saw that the tattoo curled up his collarbones and up his neck, almost reaching his jaw. He looked both young and inhumanly old. His features were chiseled and strong, prominent. He looked like he could be the prince of his own country. Little did Dorian know.
The woman, on the other hand… She seemed to be more of a girl, around his age, not more. Her skin was pale, her lips were a soft neutral peach, and her features were softer, smoother, and melded together, uniting her face in a mark of beauty. And, oh gods, her eyes… Being the brightest thing on her that instant, they stood out like two emeralds in a sea of stones. They were a brilliant turquoise, with gold as pure as any crown rimming the irises. She was impossibly beautiful, with the eyes to match.
Something sparked in the back of his minds. The legends. The legends of the Ashryver Eyes, the eyes that all the rulers of the great country of Terrasen bore. Terrasen had long since fallen, at war with Adarlan for several years. This was several centuries back, but the queen… No one knew if she or her daughter escaped… Maybe they did, and the daughter had children, who had children, who bore the eyes? Maybe she was a descendant… Or maybe it was all bedtime stories.
"I said, who are you?" The man repeated, slowly, lethally. His voice was little more than a low growl but it was enough to send a weak man running.
"We have somewhere to be, pretty boy. It's urgent. Involves a Havilliard, you know the ass?" The girl chirped, her voice melodic and soft, but had deadly edge.
"I'm–I'm a Havilliard and–" Dorian began, but the man grabbed him by the waist and slung him onto his back.
"Get the girl too, Aelin." The man said, and the girl –Aelin– grabbed her by the forearm, clasping them together in an unbreakable grip.
"We can't be sure it's him," The girl whispered to the man as they sprinted through the streets. "He doesn't look psychotic enough. We need to keep going to Harksword, could be his brother. If he did murder the assassins all those years ago, I don't think he'd be pounding through the streets at such volume, especially not with his girlfriend."
"She's not my–" Dorian began, but the man squeezed his waist, hard, on the pressure point there.
"Zip it, pretty boy. No one needs to hear your relationship struggles." Aelin said, raising her voice, and then continued in a whisper.
"Harksword, now." She said harshly.
The man sighed, and turned a corner at a T shaped intersection.
"Rank Ten, commanding a Twelve. Who did you ever think you were, Aelin Sardothien?" The man chuckled, as they stopped in front of the house with the golden AK on the door.
A/N: YES I KNOW. AELIN SARDOTHIEN. I had to alter it a bit, because she knows she's Aelin, not Celaena, but she's in Wendlyn, so if people find out she's a Galathynius, they'll know- Ashryvers married into Galathyniuses and ruled Terrasen. Terrasen fell, some survived.