Rowan lingered in the steep hills above the southern entrance to the camp. He'd easily kept hidden from the sentries in the trees, his wind masking any trace of his scent.
Down below, spread across the grassy eastern plain, the army camp glittered.
She had to be there. Aelin had to be there.
If they had come so close but wound up being the very thing that had caused Maeve to take Aelin away again, to bring her along to the outpost...
Rowan pushed against the weight in his chest.
The bond within him lay dark and slumbering.
No indication of her proximity.
Essar had no idea that Aelin was being kept here until Elide informed her. How many others hadn't known? How well had Maeve hidden her?
If Aelin wasn't in that camp tomorrow, they'd find Cairn, at least. And get some answers then. Give him a taste of what he'd done--Rowan shut out the thought. He didn't let himself think of what had been done to her.
He'd do that tomorrow, when he saw Cairn.
When he repaid him for every moment of pain.
Overhead, the stars shone clear and bright, and though Mala had only once appeared to him at dawn, on the foothills across this very city, though she might be little more than a strange, mighty being from another world, he offered up a prayer anyway.
Then, he had begged Mala to protect Aelin from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive. Then, he had begged Mala to let him remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. The goddess had been little more than a sunbeam in the rising dawn, and yet he had felt her smile at him.
Tonight, with only the cold fire of the stars for company, he begged her once more.
A curl of wind sent his prayer drifting to those stars, to the waxing moon silvering the camp, the river, the mountains.
He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he'd wrapped around his heart, he'd still found Aelin. Every horizon he'd gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he'd seen and wondered what lay beyond... It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it.
They'd walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.
A small hole had been cut into the tent's ceiling.
Aelin couldn't fight the trembling in her mouth at the night sky, at the pinpricks of light shining in.
Stars. Just two, but there were stars overhead.
... It was not the heaviness of full night, but rather a murky, graying black.
Dawn. Likely an hour or so away, if the stars remained out. Perhaps she would last long enough to see sunlight.
Fenrys's eyes shot open, and he lifted his head, ears twitching.
Aelin took steadying breaths as Cairn shoved through the tent flaps, offering a glimpse of fires and lightening darkness beyond. Nothing else.
Dawn neared, the stars dimming one by one.
Rowan lurked by the southernmost entrance to the camp, his power thrumming.
Go, a quiet voice urged. Go now.
One last chance. She'd seen the stars overhead. It was as great a gift as any she'd received, greater than the jewels and gowns and art she'd once coveted and amassed in Rifthold. The last gift she would receive, if she played the hand she'd been dealt. If she played him right.
Essar's sister had advised to wait until dawn. When the shift was weakest. When she'd make sure certain guards didn't arrive on time. Go now.
That voice, warm and yet insistent, tugged.
Pushed him toward the camp.
Rowan bared his teeth, his breathing roughening. Lorcan and Gavriel would be waiting for the signal, a flare of his magic, when he got far enough into the camp.
Aelin huffed another laugh, haughty and cool, and gazed toward the ceiling, toward the lightening sky. The last she'd see, if she played this right.
He knew that voice, had felt its warmth. And if the Lady of Light herself whispered at his ear...
Rowan didn't give himself time to consider, to rage at the goddess who urged him to act but would gladly sacrifice his mate to the Lock.
So Rowan steeled himself, willing ice into his veins.
She ran--or tried to. With the chains at her feet, on her legs, she could barely walk, but she stumbled past him, knowing he was already twisting, already rising up.
Fenrys's eyes slid toward hers. Neither needed the silent code between them for the word she beheld in his gaze. The order and plea.
She scrambled to her feet, but halted. Fenrys, pinned by Cairn, met her gaze. Snarled in warning and command. Run.
Her weakened legs stumbled on the grass, her still-bound hands restricting the full range of motion, but she ran. Picked a direction, any direction but the river mists to her left, and ran.
The sun was rising, and the army camp... There was motion behind her. Shouting.
She blocked it out and aimed right. Toward the rising sun, as if it were Mala's own welcoming embrace.
