Lorcan swore.

Rowan offered his hand, his blood, again. The shackle around her other ankle yielded to the Wyrdmark.

Then the manacles around her wrists. Then the beautiful, horrible gauntlets thudded to the moss.

Aelin lifted her bare hands to her face, reaching for the lock behind the mask, but halted.

“I’ll do it,” Rowan said, his voice still soft, still full of that love. He moved behind her, and Elide stared at the horrible mask, the suns and flames carved and embossed along its ancient surface.

A flare of light, a click of metal, and then it slid free.

Her face was pale—so pale, all traces of the sun-kissed coloring gone.

And empty. Aware, and yet not.

Wary.

Elide kept still, letting the queen survey her. The males moved to face her, and Aelin looked upon them in turn. Gavriel, who bowed his head. Lorcan, who stared right back at her, his dark gaze unreadable.

And Rowan. Rowan, whose breathing became jagged, his swallow audible. “Aelin?”

The name, it seemed, was an unlocking, too.

Not of the queen she’d so briefly known, but the power inside her.

Elide flinched as flame, golden and blazing, erupted around the queen. The shift burned away into ashes.

Lorcan dragged Elide back, and she allowed it, even as the heat vanished. Even as the flare of power contracted into an aura around the queen, a shimmering second skin.

Aelin knelt there, burning, and did not speak.

The flames flickered around her, though the moss, the roots, did not burn. Didn’t so much as steam. And through the fire, Aelin’s now-long hair half hiding her nakedness, Elide got a good look at what had been done to her.

Aside from a bruise along her ribs, there was nothing.

Not a mark. Not a callus.

Not a single scar. The ones Elide had marked in those days before Aelin had been taken were gone.

As if someone had wiped them away.

CHAPTER 31

They had taken her scars.

Maeve had taken them all away.

It told Rowan enough about what had been done. When he’d seen her back, the smooth skin where the scars of Endovier and the scars from Cairn’s whipping should have been, he’d suspected.

But kneeling, burning in nothing but her skin … There were no scars where there should have been. The almost-necklace of them from Baba Yellowlegs: gone. The shackle marks from Endovier: gone. The scar where she’d been forced by Arobynn Hamel to break her own arm: gone. And on her palms …

It was upon her exposed palms that Aelin now gazed. As if realizing what was missing.

The scars across her palms, one from the moment they had become carranam, the other from her oath to Nehemia, had disappeared entirely.

Like they had never been.

Her flames burned brighter.

Healers could remove scars, yes, but the most likely reason for the lack of them on Aelin, on all the places where he’d once traced them with his hands, his mouth …

It was new skin. All of it. Save for her face, since he doubted they would be stupid enough to take off the mask.

Nearly every inch of her was covered in new skin, unvarnished as fresh snow. The blood coating her had burned away to reveal it.

New skin, because they’d needed to replace what had been destroyed. To heal her so they could begin again and again.

Gavriel and Elide had moved to where Fenrys lay, the battlefield healing the former had done on the warrior likely not enough to keep death at bay.

Gavriel said to no one in particular, “He doesn’t have much longer.”

He’d broken the blood oath. Through sheer will, Fenrys had broken it. And would soon pay the price when his life force bled out entirely.

Aelin’s gaze shifted then. From her hands, her horrifically pristine skin, to the wolf across the clearing.

She blinked twice. And then slowly rose.

Unaware or uncaring of her nakedness, she took an unsteady step. Rowan was instantly there—or as close as the flames would allow.

He could push through, shielding himself in ice or simply by cutting off the air that fed her flames. But to cross that line, to shove into her flames when so much, too much, had been stolen from her … He didn’t let himself think about the distant, wary recognition on her face when she’d seen him—seen all of them. As if she wasn’t entirely certain to trust them. Trust this.

Aelin managed another step, teetering.

He glimpsed her neck as she passed. Even the twin bite marks, his mark of claiming, had vanished.

Encased in flame, Aelin walked to Fenrys. The white wolf did not stir.

Sorrow softened her face, even with that quiet distance. Sorrow, and gratitude.

Gavriel and Elide remained on Fenrys’s other side as she approached. Backed away a step. Not from fear, but to give her space in this moment of farewell.

They had to go. Lingering here, despite the miles between them and the camp, was folly. They could carry Fenrys until it was over, but … Rowan couldn’t bring himself to say it. To tell Aelin that it might not be wise to draw out this good-bye the way she needed. They had minutes, at best, to spare before they had to be on the move.

But if scouts or sentries found them, he’d make sure they didn’t get close enough to disturb her.

Gavriel and Lorcan seemed to be having the same thought, their eyes meeting from across the clearing. Rowan jerked his chin toward the western tree line in silent order. They stalked for it.

Aelin knelt beside Fenrys, and her flame enveloped them both. The fire gave way to a reddish-gold aura, a shield that he knew would melt the flesh of anyone who tried to cross. It flowed and rippled around them, a bubble of coppery air, and through it, Rowan watched as she ran a hand down the wolf’s battered side.

Gavriel had healed most of the wounds, but the blood remained.

Aelin made long, gentle strokes over his fur, her head angled as she spoke too softly for Rowan to hear.

Slowly, painfully, Fenrys cracked open an eye. Agony filled it—agony and yet something like relief, and joy, at the sight of her bare face. And exhaustion. Such exhaustion that Rowan knew death would be a welcome embrace, a kiss from Silba herself, goddess of gentle ends.

Aelin spoke again, the sound either contained or swallowed by her shield. No tears. Only that sorrow—and clarity.

A queen’s face, he realized as Lorcan and Gavriel took up spots along the glen’s border. It was a queen’s face that looked upon Fenrys. A queen who took his massive paw in her hands, pushing back folds of fur and skin to unsheathe a curved claw.

She slid it over her bare forearm, splitting skin. Leaving blood in its wake.

Rowan’s breath caught. Gavriel and Lorcan whirled toward them.

Aelin spoke again, and Fenrys blinked once in answer.

She deemed that answer enough.

“Holy gods,” Lorcan breathed as Aelin extended her bleeding forearm to Fenrys’s mouth. “Holy rutting gods.”

For Fenrys’s loyalty, for his sacrifice, there was no greater reward she could offer. To keep him from death, there was no other way to save him.

Only this. Only the blood oath.

And as Fenrys managed to lap the blood from her wound, as he swore a silent vow to their queen, blinking a few more times, Rowan’s chest became unbearably tight.

Severing the blood oath to one queen had snapped his life force, his soul. Swearing the blood oath to another might very well repair that cleaving, the ancient magic binding Fenrys’s fading life to Aelin’s.

Three mouthfuls. That’s all Fenrys took before he laid his head back on the moss and closed his eyes.

Aelin curled on her side next to him, flames encompassing them both.

Rowan couldn’t move. None of them moved.

Aelin mouthed a short, curt word.

Fenrys did not respond.

She spoke again, that queen’s face unfaltering.

Live.

She’d use the blood oath to force him to remain on this side of life. Still Fenrys didn’t stir.

Across the bubble of flame and heat, Elide put a hand over her mouth, eyes shining bright. She’d read the word on Aelin’s lips, too.

Aelin spoke a third time, teeth flashing as she gave Fenrys her first order. Live.

Rowan didn’t breathe as they waited. Long minutes passed.

Then Fenrys’s eyes cracked open.

Aelin held the wolf’s gaze, nothing in her face save that grave, unyielding command.