Aelin stepped forward cautiously to the mysterious ring of wyrdmarks. Interspersed among them were words in the Old Language.
These marks aren't something I recognize, Rowan stated.
"I can't recognize them ei-" Aelin was cut off by a sudden wind. The air swirled and swirled around them, disturbing twigs, leaves, and scaring away birds.
The wyrdmarks started glowing. The wind swirled faster and faster, ripping leaves off tree branches. Small twigs joined the leaves in the swirling mass of air. The wind twisted faster and faster, until it suddenly stopped.
They were in a clearing, but it was different from the one they came from. The trees were fresh younger, not the old, weary ones they left from. If they even left. The wyrdmarks were still there, but they were faded. A leaf skittered over them, and it brushed away the marks.
"Well, there goes our way back from wherever we are," Aelin sighed. "I hope Aedion doesn't ruin my kingdom."
Rowan raised his brow. "I think we're still in your kingdom."
Aelin frowned and sent a bit of magic to scan the surrounding area. It sang to her, showing that the trees were the same as the clearing that they just left. Except for the age, everything was exactly the same. Aelin frowned at Rowan. Where were they?
Rowan read the question in her eyes. Wherever we are, we'll find a way out. Together, Fireheart.
Aelin nodded.
Rowan shifted into his hawk and soared through the air, heading north. Aelin kept up behind him, relishing the freedom of running through the woods, the wind in her hair. She leaped over rocks and shrubs, ducked under low branches, and vaulted over the long roots of the trees around her. In minutes, she and Rowan were out of Oakwald. They walked through just in time to see a bastion of Adarlanian soldiers head straight for Orynth.
"What the..." Rowan muttered.
"Why the rutting hell would Dorian send Adarlanian soldiers to Orynth?" Aelin was this close to exploding. She was tired of all these new surprises.
"Cool it, Fireheart. We'll figure it out," Rowan sent an ice-kissed wind to blow around her.
"I really hope so," Aelin grumbled. "Dorian will have an immortal faerie queen, sorry, faerie goddess after him for the rest of his immortal life if he doesn't have a good reason for sending a battalion to Terrasen."
Rowan rolled his eyes. Sometimes, his mate was a bit too dramatic. A sudden movement caught his eye at the gates of Orynth. He squinted, and Aelin followed suit. What she saw there made her blood run cold.
Wearing a golden dress, flowing out into a tulle skirt with white pearls lining the waist, looking cute and pretty, was the 8-year-old princess of Terrasen. In other words, Aelin. 25 years ago.