A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

But it was enough.

A small caravan had left the eastern city gates, departing down the bare road that led through the hills.

“I don’t see a prison wagon,” Cassian said over the wind.

Azriel’s gaze remained on the earth below. “They don’t need one,” he said with quiet venom.

Cassian had to wait until the next gap in the clouds to see.

No, they hadn’t needed a prison wagon. Because riding atop a white horse at the front of the party, side by side with a hunched, small figure, was Eris.

“Stupid asshole,” Cassian snarled. “She snared him with the Crown.”

“No,” Az said quietly. “Look at his left. He’s still got the dagger at his side. If he was in her thrall, he’d have already handed it over.”

“So possessing another Made object does protect him against the Crown.” Which meant … “Traitor.” Cassian spat. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” His hands curled into fists. “Let’s get him, drag his ass home, and tear him apart.” He’d been drawn away from Nesta for this? For Eris’s games?

Azriel’s voice cut through the howling wind. “We follow them. Capture Eris now and we might not get anything out of him. At least not quickly. We trail them and learn just how far this betrayal goes. See who they’re meeting with. It has to be important, for them to leave the safety of the castle.”

There was no arguing with the logic of it, even if Cassian’s heart screamed at him with every flap of his wings to fly back home.



Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn hadn’t even reached the bridge when a new group of males closed in, armed with bows and arrows.

“We can make it,” Emerie panted, sprinting at the head of their pack toward the bridge, now visible through the snow-crusted trees. “We can outrun them.”

Arrows whizzed past.

Emerie hit the bridge first, the rickety contraption bouncing with her weight as she practically flew across it. Arrows thudded into the trees, the ground, the bridge posts, and Nesta didn’t hesitate as she raced over the slats, not daring to look at the plunge below to a barren riverbed, only at Emerie as she cleared the bridge—

A scream of pain blasted behind them, and Nesta whirled at the end of the bridge to find Gwyn still on the other side with an arrow through her thigh. Down. Too close to the males closing in—

“CUT IT!” Gwyn roared.

“Get up,” Nesta ground out. “Get up.”

The priestess tried. She made it to her feet, but she’d never cross the bridge in time.

So Nesta took the Illyrian bow off her shoulder. Took the coil of rope off, too, and handed it blindly to Emerie. “Tie one end to that tree, and then around yourself.” Nesta didn’t wait to see if she was obeyed before she knotted the other end to the arrow. Fitted the arrow into the bow.

“We didn’t learn archery,” Emerie breathed.

But Nesta nocked the arrow in place. Took aim. Right at Gwyn, who eyed the rope tied to the arrow, the other end around the tree and Emerie, and understood.

“My sister taught me.” Nesta’s arms trembled as she drew back the string. “A long time ago.”

Teeth gritted, grunting, Nesta strained for every inch. Aimed for Gwyn as her friend ran toward the bridge, hobbling, face white with pain, leaving a trail of blood in the snow behind her.

Nesta let the arrow soar as the first of the males broke through the trees.

It flew true. Landed in the snow at Gwyn’s feet.

The priestess grabbed the arrow and wrapped the rope around her middle, over and over again as she ran for the bridge—

Nesta dropped the bow. Gwyn had reached the bridge’s far side and was yelling, “CUT IT CUT IT CUT IT!”

The males cleared the trees. They raced toward the bridge and the limping Gwyn, gaining on her fast. Nesta had only to throw out a hand before Emerie tossed the sword to her.

Gwyn, limping halfway down the bridge, didn’t stop moving. The males were only a few feet behind, crowding onto the rickety structure.

Nesta brought the blade down upon the bridge’s ropes. Even as the wood fell out from beneath her, Gwyn still seemed to be running, then leaping into the open air, only that rope around her middle to keep her from death as she began to plunge—

But Nesta had grabbed on to the rope, dropping before the bridge post and wrapping her legs around it, holding on tightly as inch after inch of rough fiber ripped through her hands. Behind her, braced against the pine tree, Emerie held on just as tightly.

Gwyn fell toward the ravine floor, Illyrian males shrieking as they tumbled, untethered, with her.

Nesta screamed, her palms on fire. Red coated the rope, but she clamped her torn hands tighter and breathed through the ripping, tearing sensation.

Until Gwyn halted her plunge, yanked to a stop. The entire world seemed to suck in a breath as Nesta waited for the snap of the rope.

But Gwyn only careened toward the rock face, grunting in pain as she hit.

The Illyrians who had fallen had carried the only bows, thankfully, and the males on the other side cursed and spat.

But Nesta and Emerie paid them no heed as they hauled Gwyn upward, bloodied hands turning the rope redder still. Each pull had Nesta panting against the pain until Gwyn cleared the cliff edge, grimacing as the arrow through her thigh touched the ground. It had been a clean shot, but blood soaked her leg. Her face was already pale.