Page 101 of Kingdom of Ash

As he beheld the blood soaking her skin, the short white shift, her hair, longer than he’d last seen and plastered to her head with gore.

His knees stopped working, and even his magic faltered at the sight of her wild, desperate race for the camp’s edge.

Soldiers ran toward her.

Lorcan surged into motion, flaring his magic up and wide. Not to her, but to Whitethorn, still charging for the center of the camp.

She’s here, she’s here, she’s here, he signaled.

But Lorcan was too far, the grassy bumps and hollows between them now endless, as ten soldiers converged on Aelin, blocking her path toward the open field.

One swung his sword, a strike that would cleave her skull in two.

The fool didn’t realize who he faced. What he faced.

That it wasn’t a fire-breathing queen bound in iron who charged at him, but an assassin.

With a twist, arms lifting, Aelin met that sword head-on.

Just as she’d planned.

The male’s sword fell short of his intended target, but hit precisely where she wished.

In the center of the chains that bound her hands.

Iron snapped.

Then the male’s sword was in her freed hands. Then his throat was spraying blood.

Aelin whirled, slamming into the other soldiers who stood between her and freedom. Even as he ran for her, Lorcan could only gape at what unfolded.

She struck before they knew where to turn. Slash, duck, lunge.

She got her other hand on one of their daggers.

Then it was over. Then there was nothing between her and the camp entrance but the six guards drawing their weapons—

Lorcan lashed out with his magic, a lethal net of power that had those guards crashing to their knees. Necks snapped.

Aelin didn’t falter as they wilted to the ground. She charged past, aiming straight for the field and hills. To where Lorcan ran for her.

He signaled again.To me, to me.

Whether Aelin recognized it, or him, she still raced his way.

Whole. Her body looked whole, and yet she was so thin, her blood-splattered legs straining to keep her upright.

A rolling field of steep bumps and hollows lay between them. Lorcan swore.

She wouldn’t make it, not over that terrain, not drained like that—

But she did.

Aelin vanished into the first dip, and Lorcan’s magic flared over and over. To her, to Whitethorn.

And then she was up, cresting the hill, and he could see the slowness taking over, the sheer exhaustion from a body at its limit.

Arrows twanged from bows, and a wall of them shot into the sky. Aiming for her on those exposed hills.

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