He sniffed the air. Looked right at Lysandra. At the blood leaking down her left arm, seeping into the ocean blue of Aelin’s worn tunic. His dark eyes widened with surprise and delight, the word taking form on his lips. Shifter. “Kill him,” she ordered the silver-haired Fae royals, her heart thundering. No one dared tell her to burn him herself. Endymion raised a hand, and the Valg-possessed man began gasping. Yet not before his eyes darkened wholly, until no white shone. Not from the death sweeping over him. But as he seemed to convey a message down a long, obsidian bond. The message that
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