Aelin ran. Her weakened legs stumbled on the grass, her still-bound hands restricting the full range of motion, but she ran. Picked a direction, any direction but the river mists to her left, and ran. The sun was rising, and the army camp … There was motion behind her. Shouting. She blocked it out and aimed right. Toward the rising sun, as if it were Mala’s own welcoming embrace. She couldn’t get down enough air through the mask’s thin slit, but she kept moving, racing past tents, past soldiers who whipped their heads toward her, as if puzzled. She clenched the poker in her ironclad hands,
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