When her cousin and the captain were almost to the top of the stairs, when it became clear no one was about to burst in, she followed them. But pausing had cost her; pausing had let the razor-sharp focus slip, let every thought she’d kept at bay come sweeping in. Every step she took was heavier than the last.

One foot up, then the next, then the next.

By the time she made it to the second floor, Chaol had taken Aedion into the guest bedroom. The sound of running water gurgled out to greet her.

Aelin left the front door unlocked for Lysandra, and for a moment, she just stood in her apartment, bracing a hand on the back of the couch, staring at nothing.

When she was certain she could move again, she strode into her bedroom. She was naked before she reached the bathing chamber, and she sat herself right in the cold, dry tub before she turned on the water.

Once she emerged, clean and wearing one of Sam’s old white shirts and a pair of his undershorts, Chaol was waiting for her on the couch. She didn’t dare look at his face—not yet.

Lysandra popped her head in from the guest room. “I’m just finishing cleaning him up. He should be fine, if he doesn’t burst the stitches again. No infection, thank the gods.”

Aelin lifted a limp hand in thanks, also not daring to look into the room behind Lysandra to see the massive figure lying on the bed, a towel around his waist. If Chaol and the courtesan had been introduced, she didn’t particularly care.

There was no good place to have this talk with Chaol, so she just stood in the center of the room and watched as the captain rose from his seat, his shoulders tight.

“What happened?” he demanded.

She swallowed once. “I killed a lot of people today. I’m not in the mood to analyze it.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

She couldn’t dredge up the energy to even feel the sting of the words. “The next time you decide you don’t trust me, try not to prove it at a time when my life or Aedion’s is on the line.”

A flash of his bronze eyes told her he’d somehow already seen Nesryn. Chaol’s voice was hard and cold as ice as he said, “You tried to kill him. You said you’d try to get him out, to help him, and you tried to kill him.”

The bedroom where Lysandra was working had gone silent.

Aelin let out a low snarl. “You want to know what I did? I gave him one minute. I gave up one minute of my escape to him. Do you understand what can happen in one minute? Because I gave one to Dorian when he attacked Aedion and me today—to capture us. I gave him a minute, in which the fate of my entire kingdom could have changed forever. I chose the son of my enemy.”

He gripped the back of the sofa as though physically restraining himself. “You’re a liar. You’ve always been a liar. And today was no exception. You had a sword over his head.”

“I did,” she spat. “And before Faliq arrived to wreck everything, I was going to do it. I should have done it, as anyone with common sense would have, because Dorian is gone.”

And there was her breaking heart, fracturing at the monster she’d seen living in Dorian’s eyes, the demon that would hunt her and Aedion down, that would stalk her dreams.

“I do not owe you an apology,” she said to Chaol.

“Don’t talk down to me like you’re my queen,” he snapped.

“No, I’m not your queen. But you are going to have to decide soon whom you serve, because the Dorian you knew is gone forever. Adarlan’s future does not depend on him anymore.”

The agony in Chaol’s eyes hit her like a physical blow. And she wished she had mastered herself better when explaining it, but … she needed him to understand the risk she’d taken, and the danger he’d let Arobynn manipulate him into putting her in. He had to know that there was a hard line that she must draw, and that she would hold, to protect her own people.

So she said, “Go to the roof and take the first watch.”

Chaol blinked.

“I’m not your queen, but I’m going to attend to my cousin right now. And since I hope Nesryn is lying low, someone needs to take the watch. Unless you’d like for us all to be caught unawares by the king’s men.”

Chaol didn’t bother replying as he turned on his heel and strode out. She listened to him storming up the stairs and onto the roof, and it was only then that she loosed a breath and scrubbed at her face.

When she lowered her hands, Lysandra was standing in the guest bedroom doorway, her eyes wide. “What do you mean, queen?”

Aelin winced, swearing under her breath.

“That’s exactly the word I’d use,” Lysandra said, her face pale.

Aelin said, “My name—”

“Oh, I know what your real name is, Aelin.”

Shit. “You understand why I had to keep it a secret.”

“Of course I do,” Lysandra said, pursing her lips. “You don’t know me, and more lives than yours are at stake.”

“No—I do know you.” Gods, why were the words so damn hard to get out? The longer the hurt flickered in Lysandra’s eyes, the wider the gap across the room felt. Aelin swallowed. “Until I had Aedion back, I wasn’t going to take any chances. I knew I would have to tell you the moment you saw us in a room together.”

“And Arobynn knows.” Those green eyes were hard as chips of ice.

“He’s always known. This—this changes nothing between us, you know. Nothing.”

Lysandra glanced behind her, to the bedroom where Aedion now lay unconscious, and loosed a long breath. “The resemblance is uncanny. Gods, the fact that you went undiscovered for so many years boggles the mind.” She studied Aedion again. “Even though he’s a handsome bastard, it’d be like kissing you.” Her eyes were still hard, but—a flicker of amusement gleamed there.

Aelin grimaced. “I could have lived without knowing that.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I was ever nervous you would start bowing and scraping.”

Light and understanding danced in Lysandra’s eyes. “Where would the fun be in that?”

Several days after running into the Wing Leader, Elide Lochan’s ankle was sore, her lower back a tight knot, and her shoulders aching as she took the last step into the aerie. At least she’d made it without encountering any horrors in the halls—though the climb had nearly killed her.

She hadn’t grown accustomed to the steep, endless steps of Morath in the two months since she’d been dragged to this horrible place by Vernon. Just completing her daily tasks made her ruined ankle throb with pain she hadn’t experienced in years, and today was the worst yet. She would have to scrounge up some herbs from the kitchen tonight to soak her foot; maybe even some oils, if the ornery cook was feeling generous enough.

Compared with some of the other denizens of Morath, he was fairly mild. He tolerated her presence in the kitchen, and her requests for herbs—especially when she oh-so-sweetly offered to clean a few dishes or prepare meals. And he never blinked twice when she inquired about when the next shipment of food and supplies would come in, because Oh, she’d loved his whatever-fruit pie, and it would be so nice to have it again. Easy to flatter, easy to trick. Making people see and hear what they wanted to: one of the many weapons in her arsenal.

A gift from Anneith, the Lady of Wise Things, Finnula had claimed—the only gift, Elide often thought, that she’d ever received, beyond her old nursemaid’s good heart and wits.

She’d never told Finnula that she often prayed to the Clever Goddess to bestow another gift on those who made the years in Perranth a living hell: death, and not the gentle sort. Not like Silba, who offered peaceful ends, or Hellas, who offered violent, burning ones. No, deaths at Anneith’s hands—at the hands of Hellas’s consort—were brutal, bloody, and slow.