The shattered arm, the splinters of bone jutting from her skin: gone. Or had never been. But it had felt real. More so than the other memories that pressed in, demanding she acknowledge them. Accept them. Aelin shoved her palms against the iron, muscles straining. It didn’t so much as shift. She tried again. That she had the strength to do so was thanks to the other services Maeve’s healers provided: keeping her muscles from atrophying while she lay here. A soft whine echoed into the box. A warning. Aelin lowered her hands just as the lock grated and the door groaned open. Cairn’s footsteps
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