Saltwhistle
was the kind of harbor that announced itself by the salt before the sail. Aelin had not expected to recognize the lamp at the lighthouse — and yet there it was, the same crooked seam in the glass.
Eight years. Long enough for a town to forget the shape of a name. Not, she suspected, long enough for it to forgive the leaving of one.
She did not call her brother's name. She had practiced not calling it for eight years; one more night was nothing.
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Chapter Three · The Pact
The wind off the channel had teeth that night, and it was the wind that finally turned her toward the keep. Marek would not be at the harbor; Marek had never been the kind to wait.
Inside the lamp room, the floor still gave under the weight of the iron stove. Mira's loom was gone. The chart she had pinned above the window was still pinned above the window — sun-dulled, but still pinned.
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