Page 122 of Kingdom of Ash

No calluses. Not on her fingers, on her palms. Utterly blank, wiped of the imprint from the years of training, or the year in Endovier.

But this new scab, this faint throbbing beneath it—that remained, at least.

Curled on the rock floor, she took in the cave.

The white wolf lay at her back, snoring softly. Their sphere of transparent flame still burned around them, easing the strain ember by ember. But not wholly.

Aelin swallowed, tasting ash.

Her magic opened an eye in response.

Aelin sucked in a breath. Not here—not yet.

She whispered it to the flame.Not yet.

But the flame around her and the wolf flared and thickened, blotting out the cave. She clenched her jaw.

Not yet, she promised it. Not until it could be done safely. Away from them.

Her magic pushed against her bones, but she ignored it. Leashed it.

The bubble of flame shrunk, protesting, and grew transparent once more. Through it she could make out a water-carved basin, the slumbering forms of her other companions.

The warrior-prince slept only a few feet from the edge of her fire, tucked into an alcove in the cave wall. Exhaustion lay heavy upon him, though he had not disarmed himself.

A sword hung from his belt, its ruby smoldering in the light of her fire.

She knew that sword. An ancient sword, forged in these lands for a deadly war.

It had been her sword, too. Those erased calluses had fit its hilt so perfectly. And the warrior-prince now bearing it had found the sword for her. In a cave like this one, full of the relics of heroes long since sent to the Afterworld.

She studied the tattoo snaking down the side of his face and neck, vanishing into his dark clothes.

I am your mate.

She had wanted to believe him, but this dream, this illusion she’d been spun …

Not an illusion.

He had come for her.

Rowan.

Rowan Whitethorn. Now Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, her husband and king-consort. Her mate.

She mouthed his name.

He had come for her.

Rowan.

Silently, so smoothly that not even the white wolf awoke, she sat up, a hand clutching the cloak that smelled of pine and snow. His cloak, his scent woven through the fibers.

She rose to her feet, legs sturdier than they’d been. A thought had the bubble of flame expanding as she crossed the few feet toward the sleeping prince.

She peered down at his face, handsome and yet unyielding.

His eyes opened, meeting hers as if he’d known where to find her even in sleep.

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