A dream. Just a dream.

She twisted, setting her feet to the threadbare carpet on the uneven wood floor.

“Dawn isn’t for another hour,” Rowan said.

Yet Aelin reached for her shirt. “I’ll get warmed up, then.” Maybe run, as she had not been able to do in weeks and weeks.

Rowan sat up, missing nothing. “Training can wait, Aelin.” They’d been doing it for weeks now, as thorough and grueling as it had been at Mistward.

She shoved her legs into her pants, then buckled on her sword belt. “No, it can’t.”

Aelin dodged to the side, Rowan’s blade sailing past her head, snipping a few strands from the end of her braid.

She blinked, breathing hard, and barely brought Goldryn up in time to parry his next attack. Metal reverberated through the stinging blisters coating her hands.

New blisters—for a new body. Three weeks at sea, and her calluses had barely formed again. Every day, hours spent training at swordplay and archery and combat, and her hands were still soft.

Grunting, Aelin crouched low, thighs burning as she prepared to spring.

But Rowan halted in the dusty courtyard of the inn, his hatchet and sword dropping to his sides. In the first light of dawn, the inn could have passed for pleasant, the sea breeze from the nearby coast drifting through the lingering leaves on the hunched apple tree in the center of the space.

A gathering storm to the north had forced their ship to find harbor last night—and after weeks at sea, none of them had hesitated to spend a few hours on land. To learn what in hell had happened while they’d been gone.

The answer: war.

Everywhere, war raged. But where the fighting occurred, the aging innkeeper didn’t know. Boats didn’t stop at the port anymore—and the great warships just sailed past. Whether they were enemy or friendly, he also didn’t know. Knew absolutely nothing, it seemed. Including how to cook. And clean his inn.

They’d need to be back on the seas within a day or two, if they were to make it to Terrasen quickly. There were too many storms in the North to have risked crossing directly there, their captain had said. This time of year, it was safer to make it to the continent’s coast, then sail up it. Even if that command and those very storms had landed them here: somewhere between Fenharrow and Adarlan’s border. With Rifthold a few days ahead.

When Rowan didn’t resume their sparring, Aelin scowled. “What.”

It wasn’t so much of a question as a demand.

His gaze was unfaltering. As it had been when she’d returned from her run through the misty fields beyond the inn and found him leaning against the apple tree. “That’s enough for today.”

“We’ve hardly started.” She lifted her blade.

Rowan kept his own lowered. “You barely slept last night.”

Aelin tensed. “Bad dreams.” An understatement. She lifted her chin and threw him a grin. “Perhaps I’m starting to wear you down a bit.”

Despite the blisters, she’d gained back weight, at least. Had watched her arms go from thin to cut with muscle, her thighs from reeds to sleek and powerful.

Rowan didn’t return her smile. “Let’s eat breakfast.”

“After that dinner last night, I’m in no hurry.” She didn’t give him a blink of warning before she launched herself at him, swiping high with Goldryn and stabbing low with her dagger.

Rowan met her attack, easily deflecting. They clashed, broke apart, and clashed again.

His canines gleamed. “You need to eat.”

“I need to train.”

She couldn’t stop it—that need to do something. To be in motion.

No matter how many times she swung her blade, she could feel them. The shackles. And whenever she paused to rest, she could feel it, too—her magic. Waiting.

Indeed, it seemed to open an eye and yawn.

She clenched her jaw, and attacked again.

Rowan met each blow, and she knew her maneuvers were descending into sloppiness. Knew he let her continue rather than seizing the many openings to end it.

She couldn’t stop. War raged around them. People were dying. And she had been locked in that damned box, had been taken apart again and again, unable to do anything—

Rowan struck, so fast she couldn’t track it. But it was the foot he slid before her own that doomed her, sending her careening into the dirt.

Her knees barked, skinning beneath her pants, and her dagger scattered from her hand.

“I win,” he panted. “Let’s eat.”

Aelin glared up at him. “Another round.”

Rowan just sheathed his sword. “After breakfast.”

She growled. He growled right back.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’ll lose all that muscle if you don’t feed your body. So eat. And if you still want to train afterward, I’ll train with you.” He offered her a tattooed hand. “Though you’ll likely hurl your guts up.”

Either from the exertion or from the innkeeper’s suspect cooking.

But Aelin said, “People are dying. In Terrasen. In—everywhere. People are dying, Rowan.”

“Your eating breakfast isn’t going to change that.” Her lips curled in a snarl, but he cut her off. “I know people are dying. We are going to help them. But you need to have some strength left, or you won’t be able to.”

Truth. Her mate spoke truth. And yet she could see them, hear them. Those dying, frightened people.

Whose screams so often sounded like her own.

Rowan wriggled his fingers in silent reminder. Shall we?

Aelin scowled and took his hand, letting him haul her to her feet. So pushy.

Rowan slid an arm around her shoulders. That’s the most polite thing you’ve ever said about me.

Elide tried not to wince at the grayish gruel steaming in front of her. Especially with the innkeeper watching from the shadows behind his taproom bar. Seated at one of the small, round tables that filled the worn space, Elide caught Gavriel’s eye from where he pushed at his own bowl.

Gavriel raised the spoon to his mouth. Slowly.

Elide’s eyes widened. Widened further as he opened his mouth, and took a bite.

His swallow was audible. His cringe barely contained.

Elide reined in her smile at the pure misery that entered the Lion’s tawny stare. Aelin and Rowan had been finishing up a similar battle when she’d entered the taproom minutes ago, the queen wishing her luck before striding back into the courtyard.

Elide hadn’t seen her sit still for longer than it took to eat a meal. Or during the hours when she’d instructed them in Wyrdmarks, after Rowan had requested she teach them.

It had gotten her out of the chains, the prince had explained. And if the ilken were resistant to their magic, then learning the ancient marks would come in handy with all they faced ahead. The battles both physical and magic.

Such strange, difficult markings. Elide couldn’t read her own language, hadn’t tried to in ages. Didn’t suppose she’d be granted the opportunity anytime soon. But learning these marks, if it helped her companions in any way … she could try. Had tried, enough to know a few of them now.

Gavriel dared another mouthful of the porridge, offering the innkeeper a tight smile. The man looked so relieved that Elide picked up her own spoon and choked down a bite. Bland and a bit sour—had he put salt in it, rather than sugar?—but … it was hot.