“Is that worry I detect?”

“You’re just going to waltz into the palace and think a different hair color will keep you from being noticed? You trust Arobynn that much?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Lysandra’s shrug was the definition of nonchalance. “I happen to know a thing or two about playing different roles. How to turn eyes away when you don’t want to be seen.”

“I do know how to be stealthy, Lysandra. The plan is sound. Even if it was Arobynn’s idea.”

“What if we killed two birds with one stone?”

She might have dismissed it, might have shut her down, but there was such a wicked, feral gleam in the courtesan’s eyes.

So Aelin rested her forearms on the table. “I’m listening.”

For every person Chaol and the rebels saved, it seemed there were always several more who made it to the butchering block.

The sun was setting as he and Nesryn crouched on a rooftop flanking the small square. The only people who’d bothered to watch were the typical lowlifes, content to breathe in the misery of others. That didn’t bother him half as much as the decorations that had been put up in honor of Dorian’s birthday tomorrow: red and gold streamers and ribbons hung across the square like a net, while baskets of blue and white flowers bordered its outer edges. A charnel house bedecked in late-spring cheer.

Nesryn’s bowstring groaned as she pulled it back farther.

“Steady,” he warned her.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Aelin muttered from a few feet away.

Chaol cut her a glance. “Remind me why you’re here?”

“I wanted to help—or is this an Adarlanians-only rebellion?”

Chaol stifled his retort and turned his glare onto the square below.

Tomorrow, everything he cared about depended on her. Antagonizing her wouldn’t be smart, even if it killed him to leave Dorian in her hands. But—

“About tomorrow,” he said tightly, not taking his attention off the execution about to unfold. “You don’t touch Dorian.”

“Me? Never,” Aelin purred.

“It’s not a joke. You. Don’t. Hurt. Him.”

Nesryn ignored them and angled her bow to the left. “I can’t get a clear shot at any of them.”

Three men now stood before the block, a dozen guards around them. The boards of the wooden platform were already deeply stained with red from weeks of use. Gatherers monitored the massive clock above the execution platform, waiting for the iron hand to hit the six o’clock evening marker. They’d even tied gold and crimson ribbons to the clock’s lower rim. Seven minutes now.

Chaol made himself look at Aelin. “Do you think you’ll be able to save him?”

“Maybe. I’ll try.” No reaction in her eyes, in her posture.

Maybe. Maybe. He said, “Does Dorian actually matter, or is he a pawn for Terrasen?”

“Don’t even start with that.” For a moment he thought she was done, but then she spat, “Killing him, Chaol, would be a mercy. Killing him would be a gift.”

“I can’t make the shot,” Nesryn said again—a bit more sharply.

“Touch him,” Chaol said, “and I’ll make sure those bastards down there find Aedion.”

Nesryn silently turned to them, slackening her bow. It was the only card he had to play, even if it made him a bastard as well.

The wrath Chaol found in Aelin’s eyes was world-ending.

“You bring my court into this, Chaol,” Aelin said with lethal softness, “and I don’t care what you were to me, or what you have done to help me. You betray them, you hurt them, and I don’t care how long it takes, or how far you go: I’ll burn you and your gods-damned kingdom to ash. Then you’ll learn just how much of a monster I can be.”

Too far. He’d gone too far.

“We’re not enemies,” Nesryn said, and though her face was calm, her eyes darted between them. “We have enough shit to worry about tomorrow. And right now.” She pointed with her arrow toward the square. “Five minutes until six. Do we go down there?”

“Too public,” Aelin said. “Don’t risk exposing yourself. There’s another patrol a quarter mile away, headed in this direction.”

Of course she knew about it. “Again,” Chaol said, “why are you here?” She’d just … snuck up on them. With far too much ease.

Aelin studied Nesryn a bit too thoughtfully. “How good’s your accuracy, Faliq?”

“I don’t miss,” Nesryn said.

Aelin’s teeth gleamed. “My kind of woman.” She gave Chaol a knowing smile.

And he knew—he knew that she was aware of the history between them. And she didn’t particularly care. He couldn’t tell whether or not it was a relief.

“I’m debating ordering Arobynn’s men off the mission tomorrow,” Aelin said, those turquoise eyes fixed on Nesryn’s face, on her hands, on her bow. “I want Faliq on wall duty instead.”

“No,” Chaol said.

“Are you her keeper?” He didn’t deign to respond. Aelin crooned, “I thought so.”

But Nesryn wouldn’t be on wall duty—and neither would he. He was too recognizable to risk being close to the palace, and Aelin and her piece-of-shit master had apparently decided he’d be better off running interference along the border of the slums, making sure the coast was clear. “Nesryn has her orders already.”

In the square, people began swearing at the three men who were watching the clock with pale, gaunt faces. Some of the onlookers even threw bits of spoiled food at them. Maybe this city did deserve Aelin Galathynius’s flames. Maybe Chaol deserved to burn, too.

He turned back to the women.

“Shit,” Aelin swore, and he looked behind him in time to see the guards shove the first victim—a sobbing, middle-aged man—toward the block, using the pommels of their swords to knock his knees out from under him. They weren’t waiting until six. Another prisoner, also middle-aged, began shaking, and a dark stain spread across the front of his pants. Gods.

Chaol’s muscles were locked, and even Nesryn couldn’t draw her bow fast enough as the ax rose.

A thud silenced the city square. People applauded—applauded. The sound covered the second thud of the man’s head falling and rolling away.

Then Chaol was in another room, in the castle that had once been his home, listening to the thud of flesh and bone on marble, red mist coating the air, Dorian screaming—

Oath-breaker. Liar. Traitor. Chaol was all of those things now, but not to Dorian. Never to his true king.

“Take out the clock tower in the garden,” he said, the words barely audible. He felt Aelin turn toward him. “And magic will be free. It was a spell—three towers, all built of Wyrdstone. Take out one, and magic is free.”

She glanced northward without so much as a blink of surprise, as though she could see all the way to the glass castle. “Thank you,” she murmured. That was it.

“It’s for Dorian’s sake.” Perhaps cruel, perhaps selfish, but true. “The king is expecting you tomorrow,” he went on. “What if he stops caring about the public knowing and unleashes his magic on you? You know what happened with Dorian.”

She scanned the roof tiles as if reading her mental map of the celebration—the map he’d given her. Then she swore. “He could lay traps for me—and Aedion. With the Wyrdmarks, he could write out spells on the floor or in the doors, keyed to me or Aedion, and we would be helpless—the exact same way I trapped that thing in the library. Shit,” she breathed. “Shit.”

Gripping her slackened bow, Nesryn said, “Brullo told us the king has his best men escorting Aedion from the dungeons to the hall—perhaps spelling those areas, too. If he spells them.”

“If is too big a gamble to make. And it’s too late to change our plans,” Aelin said. “If I had those gods-damned books, I could maybe find some sort of protection for me and Aedion, some spell, but I won’t have enough time tomorrow to grab them from my old rooms. The gods know if they’re even still there.”