A wall of muscle slammed into her, shielding her and shoving her to the stones.
And the witch’s arrow went clean through Rowan’s shoulder.
60 
For a moment, the world stopped.
Rowan slammed onto the temple stones, his blood spraying on the aging rock.
Aelin’s scream echoed down the ravine.
But then he was up again, running and bellowing at her to go. Beneath the dark arrow protruding through his shoulder, blood already soaked his tunic, his skin.
If he had been one inch farther behind, it would have hit his heart.
Not forty paces down the bridge, the Wing Leader closed in on them. Aedion rained arrows on her sentinels with preternatural precision, keeping them at bay by the tree line.
Aelin wrapped an arm around Rowan and they raced across the temple stones, his face paling as the wound gushed blood. She might have still been screaming, or sobbing—there was such a roaring silence in her.
Her heart—it had been meant for her heart.
And he had taken that arrow for her.
The killing calm spread through her like hoarfrost. She’d kill them all. Slowly.
They reached the second bridge just as Aedion’s barrage of arrows halted, his quiver no doubt emptied. She shoved Rowan onto the planks. “Run,” she said.
“No—”
“Run.”
It was a voice that she’d never heard herself use—a queen’s voice—that came out, along with the blind yank she made on the blood oath that bound them together.
His eyes flashed with fury, but his body moved as though she’d compelled him. He staggered across the bridge, just as—
Aelin whirled, drawing Goldryn and ducking just as the Wing Leader’s sword swiped for her head.
It hit stone, the pillar groaning, but Aelin was already moving—not toward the second bridge but back toward the first one, on the witches’ side.
Where the other witches, without Aedion’s arrows to block them, were now racing from the cover of the woods.
“You,” the Wing Leader growled, attacking again. Aelin rolled—right through Rowan’s blood—again dodging the fatal blow. She uncurled to her feet right in front of the first bridge, and two swings of Goldryn had the chains snapping.
The witches skidded to a stop at the lip of the ravine as the bridge collapsed, cutting them off.
The air behind her shifted, and Aelin moved—but not fast enough.
Cloth and flesh tore in her upper arm, and she barked out a cry as the witch’s blade sliced her.
She whirled, bringing Goldryn up for the second blow.
Steel met steel and sparked.
Rowan’s blood was at her feet, smeared across the temple stones.
Aelin Galathynius looked at Manon Blackbeak over their crossed swords and let out a low, vicious snarl.
Queen, savior, enemy, Manon didn’t give a shit.
She was going to kill the woman.
Their laws demanded it; honor demanded it.
Even if she hadn’t slaughtered Baba Yellowlegs, Manon would have killed her just for that spell she’d used to freeze her in place.
That was what she’d been doing with her feet. Etching some foul spell with the man’s blood.
And now she was going to die.
Wind-Cleaver pressed against the queen’s blade. But Aelin held her ground and hissed, “I’m going to rip you to shreds.”
Behind them, the Thirteen gathered on the ravine’s edge, cut off. One whistle from Manon had half of them scrambling for the wyverns. She didn’t get to sound the second whistle.
Faster than a human had a right to be, the queen swept out a leg, sending Manon tripping back. Aelin didn’t hesitate; she flipped the sword in her hand and lunged.
Manon deflected the blow, but Aelin got past her guard and pinned her, slamming her head against stones that were damp with the Fae warrior’s blood. Splotches of dark bloomed in her vision.
Manon drew in breath for the second whistle—the one to call off Asterin and her arrows.
She was interrupted by the queen slamming her fist into Manon’s face.
Black splintered further across her vision—but she twisted, twisted with every bit of her immortal strength, and they went flipping across the temple floor. The drop loomed, and then—
An arrow whizzed right for the queen’s exposed back as she landed atop Manon.
Manon twisted again, and the arrow bounced off the pillar instead. She threw Aelin from her, but the queen was instantly on her feet again, nimble as a cat.
“She’s mine,” Manon barked across the ravine to Asterin.
The queen laughed, hoarse and cold, circling as Manon got to her feet.
Across the other side of the ravine, the two males were helping the wounded Fae warrior off the bridge, and the golden-haired warrior charged—
“Don’t you dare, Aedion,” Aelin said, throwing out a hand in the male’s direction.
He froze halfway across the bridge. Impressive, Manon admitted, to have them under her command so thoroughly.
“Chaol, keep an eye on him,” the queen barked.
Then, holding Manon’s gaze, Aelin sheathed her mighty blade across her back, the giant ruby in the pommel catching in the midday light.
“Swords are boring,” the queen said, and palmed two fighting knives.
Manon sheathed Wind-Cleaver along her own back. She flicked her wrists, the iron nails shooting out. She cracked her jaw, and her fangs descended. “Indeed.”
The queen looked at the nails, the teeth, and grinned.
Honestly—it was a shame that Manon had to kill her.
Manon Blackbeak lunged, as swift and deadly as an adder.
Aelin darted back, dodging each swipe of those lethal iron nails. For her throat, for her face, for her guts. Back, and back, circling around the pillars.
It was only a matter of minutes before the wyverns arrived.
Aelin jabbed with her daggers, and the witch sidestepped her, only to slash with her nails, right at Aelin’s neck.
Aelin spun aside, but the nails grazed her skin. Blood warmed her neck and shoulders.
The witch was so damn fast. And one hell of a fighter.
But Rowan and the others were across the second bridge.
Now she just had to get there, too.
Manon Blackbeak feinted left and slashed right.
Aelin ducked and rolled aside.
The pillar shuddered as those iron claws gouged four lines deep into the stone.
Manon hissed. Aelin made to drive her dagger into her spine; the witch lashed out with a hand and wrapped it clean around the blade.
Blue blood welled, but the witch bore down on the blade until it snapped into three pieces in her hand.
Gods above.
Aelin had the sense to go in low with her other dagger, but the witch was already there—and Aedion’s shout rang in her ears as Manon’s knee drove up into her gut.
The air knocked from her in a whoosh, but Aelin kept her grip on the dagger, even as the witch threw her into another pillar.
The stone column rocked against the blow, and Aelin’s head cracked, agony arcing through her, but—
A slash, directly for her face.
Aelin ducked.
Again, the stone shuddered beneath the impact.
Aelin squeezed air into her body. Move—she had to keep moving, smooth as a stream, smooth as the wind of her carranam, bleeding and hurt across the way.
Pillar to pillar, she retreated, rolling and ducking and dodging.
Manon swiped and slashed, slamming into every column, a force of nature in her own right.