Page 230 of Kingdom of Ash

Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.

From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.

Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin …

Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.

Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.

If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.

Lorcan let out a low groan as he surfaced from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness.

“You are one lucky bastard.”

Too soon. Too damn soon after hovering near death to hear Fenrys’s drawl.

Lorcan cracked open an eye, finding himself lying on a cot in a narrow chamber. A lone candle illuminated the space, dancing in the golden hair of the Fae warrior who sat in a wooden chair at the foot of his bed.

Fenrys’s smirk was a slash of white. “You’ve been out for a day. I drew the short stick and had to look after you.”

A lie. For whatever reason, Fenrys had chosen to be here.

Lorcan shifted his body—slightly.

No hint of pain beyond a dull throb down his back and tight pull across his stomach. He managed to lift his head enough to rip away the heavy wool blanket covering his naked body. Where he’d been able to see his insides, only a thick red scar remained.

Lorcan thumped his head back on the pillow. “Elide.” Her name was a rasp on his tongue.

The last he remembered, they’d ridden through the gates, Aelin Galathynius’s unholy power spent. Then oblivion had swept in.

“Helping with the healing in the Great Hall,” Fenrys said, stretching out his legs before him.

Lorcan closed his eyes, something tight in his chest easing.

“Well, since you’re not dead,” Fenrys began, but Lorcan was already asleep.

Lorcan awoke later. Hours, days, he didn’t know.

The candle was still burning on the narrow windowsill, down to its base. Hours, then. Unless he’d slept so long they’d replaced the candle altogether.

He didn’t care. Not when the dim light revealed the delicate woman lying facedown on the end of his cot, the lower half of her body still on the wooden chair where Fenrys had been. Her arms cradled her head, one outstretched toward him. Reaching for his hand, mere inches from hers.

Elide.

Her dark hair spilled across the blanket, across his shins, veiling much of her face.

Wincing at the lingering ache in his body, Lorcan stretched his arm just enough to touch her fingers.

They were cold, their tips so much smaller than his. They contracted, pulling away as she sucked in a sharp, awakening breath.

Lorcan savored every feature as she grimaced at a crick in her neck. But her eyes settled on him.

She went still as she found him staring at her, awake and utterly in awe of the woman who had ridden through hell to find him …

Tired. She looked spent, yet her chin remained unbowed.

Lorcan had no words. He’d given her everything on the back of that horse anyway.

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