Rowan faced her—­slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. It was Celaena’s gaze, not Maeve’s, that he met, his eyes shining.

   “By my blood that flows in you,” Maeve said. “Through no dishonor, through no act of treachery, I hereby free you, Rowan Whitethorn, of your blood oath to me.”

   Rowan just stared and stared at her, and Celaena hardly heard the rest, the words Maeve spoke in the Old Language. But Rowan took out a dagger and spilled his own blood on the stones—­whatever that meant. She had never heard of a blood oath being broken before, but had risked it regardless. Perhaps not in all the history of the world had one ever been broken honorably. His friends ­were wide-­eyed and silent.

   Maeve said, “You are free of me, Prince Rowan Whitethorn.”

   That was all Celaena needed to hear before she tossed the ring to Maeve, before Rowan rushed to her, his hands on her cheeks, his brow against her own.

   “Aelin,” he murmured, and it ­wasn’t a reprimand, or a thank-­you, but . . . a prayer. “Aelin,” he whispered again, grinning, and kissed her brow before he dropped to both knees before her.

   And when he reached for her wrist, she jerked back. “You’re free. You’re free now.”

   Behind them, Maeve watched, brows high. But Celaena could not accept this—­could not agree to it.

   Complete and utter submission, that’s what a blood oath was. He would yield everything to her—­his life, any property, any free will.

   Rowan’s face was calm, though—­steady, assured. Trust me.

   I don’t want you enslaved to me. I won’t be that kind of queen.

   You have no court—­you are defenseless, landless, and without allies. She might let you walk out of ­here today, but she could come after you tomorrow. She knows how powerful I am—­how powerful we are together. It will make her hesitate.

   Please don’t do this—­I will give you anything ­else you ask, but not this.

   I claim you, Aelin. To what­ever end.

   She might have continued to silently argue with him, but that strange, feminine warmth that she’d felt at the campsite that morning wrapped around her, as if assuring her it was all right to want this badly enough that it hurt, telling her that she could trust the prince, and more than that—­more than anything, she could trust herself. So when Rowan reached for her wrist again, she did not fight him.

   “Together, Fireheart,” he said, pushing back the sleeve of her tunic. “We’ll find a way together.” He looked up from her exposed wrist. “A court that will change the world,” he promised.

   And then she was nodding—­nodding and smiling, too, as he drew the dagger from his boot and offered it to her. “Say it, Aelin.”

   Not daring to let her hands shake in front of Maeve or Rowan’s stunned friends, she took his dagger and held it over her exposed wrist. “Do you promise to serve in my court, Rowan Whitethorn, from now until the day you die?” She did not know the right words or the Old Language, but a blood oath ­wasn’t about pretty phrases.

   “I do. Until my last breath, and the world beyond. To what­ever end.”

   She would have paused then, asked him again if he really wanted to do this, but Maeve was still there, a shadow lurking behind them. That was why he had done it now, ­here—­so Celaena could not object, could not try to talk him out of it.

   It was such a Rowan thing to do, so pigheaded, that she could only grin as she drew the dagger across her wrist, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. She offered her arm to him.

   With surprising gentleness, he took her wrist in his hands and lowered his mouth to her skin.

   For a heartbeat, something lightning-­bright snapped through her and then settled—­a thread binding them, tighter and tighter with each pull Rowan took of her blood. Three mouthfuls—­his canines pricking against her skin—­and then he lifted his head, his lips shining with her blood, his eyes glittering and alive and full of steel.

   There ­were no words to do justice to what passed between them in that moment.

   Maeve saved them from trying to remember how to speak as she hissed, “Now that you have insulted me further, get out. All of you.” His friends ­were gone in an instant, padding off for the shadows, taking those wretched whips with them.

   Celaena helped Rowan to his feet, letting him heal the wound on her wrist as his back knitted together. Shoulder to shoulder, they looked at the Fae Queen one last time.

   But there was only a white barn owl flapping off into the moonlit night.

   •

   They hurried out of Doranelle, not stopping until they found a quiet inn in a small, half-­forgotten town miles away. Rowan didn’t even dare to swing by his quarters to collect his belongings, and claimed he had nothing worthwhile to take, anyway. His friends did not come after them, did not try to bid them good-­bye as they slipped across the bridge and into the night-­veiled lands beyond. After hours of running, Celaena tumbled into bed and slept like the dead. But at dawn, she begged Rowan to retrieve his needles and ink from his pack.

   She bathed while he readied what he needed, and she scrubbed herself with coarse salt in the tiny inn bathroom until her skin gleamed. Rowan said nothing as she walked back into the bedroom, hardly gave her more than a passing glance as she removed her robe, bare to the waist, and laid on her stomach on the worktable he’d ordered brought in. His needles and ink ­were already on the table, his sleeves had been rolled up to the elbows, and his hair was tied back, making the elegant, brutal lines of his tattoo all the more visible.

   “Deep breath,” he said. She obeyed, resting her hands under her chin as she played with the fire, weaving her own flames among the embers. “Have you had enough water and food?”

   She nodded. She’d devoured a full breakfast before getting into the bath.

   “Let me know when you need to get up,” he said. He gave her the honor of not second-­guessing her decision or warning her of the oncoming pain. Instead, he brushed a steady hand down her scarred back, an artist assessing his canvas. He ran strong, callused fingers along each scar, testing, and her skin prickled.

   Then he began the pro­cess of drawing the marks, the guide he would follow in the hours ahead. Over breakfast, he’d already sketched a few designs for her approval. They ­were so perfect it was as if he’d reached into her soul to find them. It hadn’t surprised her at all.

   He let her use the bathing room when he’d finished with the outline, and soon she was again facedown on the table, hands under her chin. “Don’t move from now on. I’m starting.”

   She gave a grunt of ac­know­ledg­ment and kept her gaze on the fire, on the embers, as the heat of his body hovered over hers. She heard his slight intake of breath, and then—