Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7) by Sarah J. Maas

But it did take time. The sun had fully set, the muddy camp cast in deep shadows amid the fires, by the time he neared Kyllian’s tent.

Elgan, one of the Bane captains, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, the man’s grizzled face set in a grim smile. “Not a bad first day, whelp,” Elgan grumbled. He’d called Aedion that since those initial days in the Bane’s ranks, had been one of the first men here to treat him not as a prince who had lost his kingdom, but as a warrior fighting to defend it. Much of his battlefield training, he owed to Elgan. Along with his life, considering the countless times the man’s wisdom and quick sword had saved him.

Aedion grinned at the aging captain. “You fought well, for a grandfather.” The man’s daughter had given birth to a son just this past winter.

Elgan growled. “I’d like to see you wield a sword so well when you’re my age, boy.”

Then he was gone, aiming for a campfire that held several other older commanders and captains. They noticed Aedion’s attention and lifted their mugs in salute.

Aedion only inclined his head, and continued on.

“Aedion.”

He’d know that voice if he were blind.

Lysandra stepped from behind a tent, her face clean despite her muddy clothes.

He halted, finally feeling the weight of the dirt and gore on himself. “What.”

She ignored his tone. “I could fly to Darrow tonight. Give him whatever message you want.”

“He wants us to move the army back to him, and then to Orynth,” Aedion said, making to continue to Kyllian’s tent. “Immediately.”

She stepped in his path. “I can go, tell him this army needs time to rest.”

“Is this some attempt to reenter my good graces?” He was too tired, too weary, to bother beating around the truth.

Her emerald eyes went as cold as the winter night around them. “I don’t give a damn about your good graces. I care about this army being worn down with unnecessary movements.”

“How do you even know what was said in the tent?” He knew the answer as soon as he’d voiced the question. She’d been in some small, unnoticed form. Precisely why so many kingdoms and courts had hunted down and killed any shifters. Unparalleled spies and assassins.

She crossed her arms. “If you don’t want me sitting in on your war councils, then say so.”

He took in her face, her stiff posture. Exhaustion lay heavy on her, her golden skin pale and eyes haunted. He didn’t know where she was staying in this camp. If she even had a tent.

Guilt gnawed on him for a heartbeat. “When, exactly, will our queen make her grand return?”

Her mouth tightened. “Tonight, if you think it wise.”

“To miss the battle and only appear to bask in the glory of victory? I doubt the troops would find that heartening.”

“Then tell me where, and when, and I’ll do it.”

“Just as you blindly obeyed our queen, you’ll now obey me?”

“I obey no man,” she snarled. “But I’m not fool enough to believe I know more about armies and soldiers than you do. My pride is not so easily bruised.”

Aedion took a step forward. “And mine is?”

“What I did, I did for her, and for this kingdom. Look at these men, your men—look at the allies we’ve gathered and tell me that if they knew the truth, they would be so eager to fight.”

“The Bane fought when we believed her dead. It would be no different.”

“It might be for our allies. For the people of Terrasen.” She didn’t back down for a moment. “Go ahead and punish me for the rest of your life. For a thousand years, if you wind up Settling.”

With Gavriel for his father, he might very well. He tried not to dwell on the possibility. He’d barely interacted with the Fae royals or their soldiers beyond what was necessary. And they mostly kept to themselves. Yet they did not sneer at him for his demi-Fae status; didn’t really seem to care what blood flowed in his veins so long as he kept them alive.

“We have enough enemies as it is,” Lysandra went on. “But if you truly wish to make me one of them as well, that’s fine. I don’t regret what I did, nor will I ever.”

“Fine,” was all he could think to say.

She shrewdly looked him over. As if weighing the man within. “It was real, Aedion,” she said. “All of it. I don’t care if you believe me or not. But it was real for me.”

He couldn’t bear to hear it. “I have a meeting,” he lied, and stepped around her. “Go slither off somewhere else.”

Hurt flashed in her eyes, quickly hidden. He was the worst sort of bastard for it.

But he continued into Kyllian’s tent. She didn’t come after him.



She was a stupid fool.

A stupid fool, to have said anything, and to now feel something in her chest crumpling.

She had enough dignity left not to beg. To not watch Aedion go into Kyllian’s tent and wonder if it was for a meeting, or because he was seeking to remind himself of life after so much killing today. To not give one inch of space to the burning in her eyes.

Lysandra made her way toward the comfortable tent Sol of Suria had given her near his. A kind, sharply clever man—who had no interest in women. The younger brother, Ravi, had eyed her, as all men did. But he’d kept a respectful distance, and had talked to her, not her chest, so she liked him, too. Didn’t mind having a tent in their midst.