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.
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