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

Lysandra had shivered in her tent, despite being curled into ghost-leopard form by the brazier, and had awoken before dawn simply because sleeping had become futile.

And because of the meeting that was moments away from taking place.

She strode toward Darrow’s large war tent, Ansel of Briarcliff at her side, the two of them bundled against the cold. Mercifully, the frigid morning kept any conversation between them to a minimum. No point in talking when the very air chilled your teeth to the point of aching.

The silver-haired Fae royals entered just before them, Prince Endymion giving her—giving Aelin—a bow of the head.

His cousin’s wife. That’s what he believed her to be. In addition to being queen. Endymion had never scented Aelin, wouldn’t know that the strange shifter’s scent was all wrong.

Thank the gods for that.

The war tent was nearly full, lords and princes and commanders gathered around the center of the space, all studying the map of the continent hanging from one of the wall flaps. Pins jutted from its thick canvas to mark various armies.

So many, too many, clustered in the South. Blocking off aid from any allies beyond Morath’s lines.

“She returns at last,” a cold voice drawled.

Lysandra summoned a lazy smirk and sauntered to the center of the room, Ansel lingering near the entrance. “I heard I missed some fun yesterday. I figured I’d return before I lost the chance to kill some Valg grunts myself.”

A few chuckles at that, but Darrow didn’t smile. “I don’t recall you being invited to this meeting, Your Highness.”

“I invited her,” Aedion said, stepping to the edge of the group. “Since she’s technically fighting in the Bane, I made her my second-in-command.” And thus worthy of being here.

Lysandra wondered if anyone else could see the hint of pain in Aedion’s face—pain, and disgust at the imposter queen swaggering amongst them.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she crooned to Darrow.

Darrow only turned back to the map as Ravi and Sol filtered in. Sol gave Aelin a respectful nod, and Ravi flashed her a grin. Aelin winked before facing the map.

“After our rout of Morath yesterday under General Ashryver’s command,” Darrow said, “I believe we should position our troops on Theralis, and ready Orynth’s defenses for a siege.” The older lords—Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood—grunted with agreement.

Aedion shook his head, no doubt already anticipating this. “It announces to Erawan that we’re on the run, and spreads us too far from any potential allies from the South.”

“In Orynth,” said Lord Gunnar, older and grayer than Darrow and twice as mean, “we have walls that can withstand catapults.”

“If they bring those witch towers,” Ren Allsbrook cut in, “then even Orynth’s walls will crumble.”

“We have yet to see evidence of those witch towers,” Darrow countered. “Beyond the word of an enemy.”

“An enemy turned ally,” Aelin—Lysandra—said. Darrow cut her a distasteful stare. “Manon Blackbeak did not lie. Nor were her Thirteen aligned with Morath when they fought alongside us.”

A nod from the Fae royals, from Ansel.

“Against Maeve,” sneered Lord Sloane, a reed-thin man with a hard face and hooked nose. “That battle was against Maeve, not Erawan. Would they have done the same against their own kind? Witches are loyal unto death, and craftier than foxes. Manon Blackbeak and her cabal might very well have played you for desperate fools and fed you the wrong information.”

“Manon Blackbeak turned on her own grandmother, the High Witch of the Blackbeak Clan,” Aedion said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I do not think the iron splinters we found in her gut wound were a lie.”

“Again,” Lord Sloane said, “these witches are crafty. They’ll do anything.”

“The witch towers are real,” Lysandra said, letting Aelin’s cool, unfazed voice fill the tent. “I’m not going to waste my breath proving their existence. Nor will I risk Orynth to their power.”

“But you’d risk the border towns?” Darrow challenged.

“I plan to find a way to take out the towers before they can pass the foothills,” she drawled. She prayed Aedion had a plan.

“With the fire that you’ve so magnificently displayed,” Darrow said with equal smoothness.

Ansel of Briarcliff answered before Lysandra could come up with a suitably arrogant lie. “Erawan likes to play his little mind games, to drum up fear. Let him wonder and worry why Aelin hasn’t wielded hers yet. Contemplate if she’s storing it up for something grand.” A roguish wink at her. “I do hope it will be horrific.”

Lysandra gave the queen a slash of a smile. “Oh, it will be.”

She felt Aedion’s stare, the well-hidden agony and worry. But the general said, “Eldrys was to thin our numbers, make us doubt Morath’s wisdom by sending his grunts here. He wants us to underestimate him. If we move to the border, we’ll have the foothills to slow his advance. We know that terrain; he doesn’t. We can wield it to our advantage.”

“And if he cuts through Oakwald?” Lord Gunnar pointed to the road past Endovier. “What then?”

Ren Allsbrook replied this time. “Then we know that terrain as well. Oakwald has no love for Erawan or his forces. Its allegiance is to Brannon. And his heirs.” A glance at her, cold and yet—warming. Slightly.