The Prince

He had been hunting for her since the moment

she was taken from him.

His mate.

He barely remembered his own name. And

only recalled it because his three companions

spoke it while they searched for her across

violent and dark seas, through ancient and

slumbering forests, over storm-swept

mountains already buried in snow.

He stopped long enough to feed his body

and allow his companions a few hours of

sleep. Were it not for them, he would have

flown off, soared far and wide.But he would need the strength of their blades and magic, would need their cunning and wisdom before this was through.

Before he faced the dark queen who had

torn into his innermost self, stealing his mate

long before she had been locked in an iron

coffin. And after he was done with her, after

that, then he’d take on the cold-blooded gods

themselves, hell-bent on destroying what

might remain of his mate.

So he stayed with his companions, even as

the days passed. Then the weeks.

Then months.

Still he searched. Still he hunted for her on

every dusty and forgotten road.

And sometimes, he spoke along the bond

between them, sending his soul on the wind to

wherever she was held captive, entombed.

I will find you.

The Princess

The iron smothered her. It had snuffed out the

fire in her veins, as surely as if the flames had

been doused.

She could hear the water, even in the iron box, even with the iron mask and chains adorning her like ribbons of silk. The roaring; the endless rushing of water over stone. It filled the gaps between her screaming.

A sliver of island in the heart of a mist- veiled river, little more than a smooth slab of rock amid the rapids and falls. That’s where they’d put her. Stored her. In a stone temple built for some forgotten god.

As she would likely be forgotten. It was better than the alternative: to be remembered for her utter failure. If there would be anyone left to remember her. If there would be anyone left at all. She would not allow it. That failure.

She would not tell them what they wished to know.

No matter how often her screams drowned out the raging river. No matter how often the snap of her bones cleaved through the bellowing rapids.

She had tried to keep track of the days. But she did not know how long they had kept her in that iron box. How long they had forced her to sleep, lulled into oblivion by the sweet smoke they’d poured in while they traveled here. To this island, this temple of pain.

She did not know how long the gaps lasted between her screaming and waking. Between

the pain ending and starting anew.

Days, months, years—they bled together, as her own blood often slithered over the stone floor and into the river itself.

A princess who was to live for a thousand years. Longer.

That had been her gift. It was now her curse.

Another curse to bear, as heavy as the one placed upon her long before her birth. To sacrifice her very self to right an ancient wrong. To pay another’s debt to the gods who had found their world, become trapped in it. And then ruled it.

She did not feel the warm hand of the goddess who had blessed and damned her with such terrible power. She wondered if that goddess of light and flame even cared that she now lay trapped within the iron box—or if the immortal had transferred her attentions to another. To the king who might offer himself in her stead and in yielding his life, spare their world.

The gods did not care who paid the debt. So she knew they would not come for her, save her. So she did not bother praying to them. But she still told herself the story, still sometimes imagined that the river sang it to her. That the darkness living within the sealed coffin sang it to her as well.

Once upon a time, in a land long since

burned to ash, there lived a young princess

who loved her kingdom … Down she would drift, deep into that darkness, into the sea of flame. Down so deep that when the whip cracked, when bone sundered, she sometimes did not feel it.

Most times she did.

It was during those infinite hours that she would fix her stare on her companion. Not the queen’s hunter, who could draw out pain like a musician coaxing a melody from an instrument. But the massive white wolf, chained by invisible bonds. Forced to witness this.

There were some days when she could not

stand to look at the wolf. When she had come

so close, too close, to breaking. And only the

story had kept her from doing so.

Once upon a time, in a land long since

burned to ash, there lived a young princess

who loved her kingdom … Words she had spoken to a prince. Once— long ago.

A prince of ice and wind. A prince who had

been hers, and she his. Long before the bond

between their souls became known to them.

It was upon him that the task of protecting

that once-glorious kingdom now fell.

The prince whose scent was kissed with

pine and snow, the scent of that kingdom she

had loved with her heart of wildfire.

Even when the dark queen presided over

the hunter’s ministrations, the princess

thought of him. Held on to his memory as if it

were a rock in the raging river.

The dark queen with a spider’s smile tried

to wield it against her. In the obsidian webs

she wove, the illusions and dreams she spun at

the culmination of each breaking point, the

queen tried to twist the memory of him as a

key into her mind.

They were blurring. The lies and truths and

memories. Sleep and the blackness in the iron

coffin. The days bound to the stone altar in the

center of the room, or hanging from a hook in

the ceiling, or strung up between chains

anchored into the stone wall. It was all

beginning to blur, like ink in water.

So she told herself the story. The darkness

and the flame deep within her whispered it,

too, and she sang it back to them. Locked in

that coffin hidden on an island within the

heart of a river, the princess recited the story,

over and over, and let them unleash an

eternity of pain upon her body.

Once upon a time, in a land long since

burned to ash, there lived a young princess

who loved her kingdom …

The snows had come early.

Even for Terrasen, the first of the autumnal

flurries had barreled in far ahead of their

usual arrival.

Aedion Ashryver wasn’t entirely sure it

was a blessing. But if it kept Morath’s legions

from their doorstep just a little longer, he’d

get on his knees to thank the gods. Even if

those same gods threatened everything he

loved. If beings from another world could be

considered gods at all.

Aedion supposed he had more important

things to contemplate, anyway.

In the two weeks since he’d been reunited

with his Bane, they’d seen no sign of

Erawan’s forces, either terrestrial or airborne.

The thick snow had begun falling barely three

days after his return, hindering the already-

slow process of transporting the troops from

their assembled armada to the Bane’s

sweeping camp on the Plain of Theralis.

The ships had sailed up the Florine, right to

Orynth’s doorstep, banners of every color

flapping in the brisk wind off the Staghorns:

the cobalt and gold of Wendlyn, the black and

crimson of Ansel of Briarcliff, the

shimmering silver of the Whitethorn royals

and their many cousins. The Silent Assassins,

scattered throughout the fleet, had no banner,

though none was needed to identify them—

not with their pale clothes and assortment of

beautiful, vicious weapons.

The ships would soon rejoin the rearguard left at the Florine’s mouth and patrol the coast

from Ilium to Suria, but the footsoldiers—

most hailing from Crown Prince Galan

Ashryver’s forces—would go to the front.

A front that now lay buried under several

feet of snow. With more coming.

Hidden above a narrow mountain pass in

the Staghorns behind Allsbrook, Aedion

scowled at the heavy sky.

His pale furs blended him into the gray and

white of the rocky outcropping, a hood

concealing his golden hair. And keeping him

warm. Many of Galan’s troops had never seen

snow, thanks to Wendlyn’s temperate climate.

The Whitethorn royals and their smaller force

were hardly better off. So Aedion had left

Kyllian, his most trusted commander, in

charge of ensuring that they were as warm as

could be managed.

They were far from home, fighting for a queen they did not know or perhaps even

believe in. That frigid cold would sap spirits

and sprout dissent faster than the howling

wind charging between these peaks.

A flicker of movement on the other side of

the pass caught Aedion’s eye, visible only

because he knew where to look.

She’d camouflaged herself better than he

had. But Lysandra had the advantage of

wearing a coat that had been bred for these

mountains.

Not that he’d said that to her. Or so much

as glanced at her when they’d departed on this

scouting mission.

Aelin, apparently, had secret business in

Eldrys and had left a note with Galan and her

new allies to account for her disappearance.

Which allowed Lysandra to accompany them

on this task.

No one had noticed, in the nearly two months they’d been maintaining this ruse, that

the Queen of Fire had not an ember to show

for it. Or that she and the shape-shifter never

appeared in the same place. And no one, not

the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert, or

Galan Ashryver, or the troops that Ansel of

Briarcliff had sent with the armada ahead of

the bulk of her army, had picked up the slight

tells that did not belong to Aelin at all. Nor

had they noted the brand on the queen’s wrist

that no matter what skin she wore, Lysandra

could not change.

She did a fine job of hiding the brand with

gloves or long sleeves. And if a glimmer of scarred skin ever showed, it could be excused

as part of the manacle markings that

remained.

The fake scars she’d also added, right

where Aelin had them. Along with the laugh

and wicked grin. The swagger and stillness.

Aedion could barely stand to look at her.

Talk to her. He only did so because he had to

uphold this ruse, too. To pretend that he was

her faithful cousin, her fearless commander

who would lead her and Terrasen to victory,

however unlikely.

So he played the part. One of many he’d

donned in his life.

Yet the moment Lysandra changed her

golden hair for dark tresses, Ashryver eyes for

emerald, he stopped acknowledging her

existence. Some days, the Terrasen knot

tattooed on his chest, the names of his queen

and fledgling court woven amongst it, felt like

a brand. Her name especially.

He’d only brought her on this mission to

make it easier. Safer. There were other lives

beyond his at risk, and though he could have

unloaded this scouting task to a unit within

the Bane, he’d needed the action.It had taken over a month to sail from

Eyllwe with their newfound allies, dodging

Morath’s fleet around Rifthold, and then these

past two weeks to move inland.

They had seen little to no combat. Only a

few roving bands of Adarlanian soldiers, no

Valg amongst them, that had been dealt with

quickly.

Aedion doubted Erawan was waiting until

spring. Doubted the quiet had anything to do

with the weather. He’d discussed it with his

men, and with Darrow and the other lords a

few days ago. Erawan was likely waiting until

the dead of winter, when mobility would be

hardest for Terrasen’s army, when Aedion’s

soldiers would be weak from months in the

snow, their bodies stiff with cold. Even the

king’s fortune that Aelin had schemed and

won for them this past spring couldn’t prevent

that.

Yes, food and blankets and clothes could

be purchased, but when the supply lines were

buried under snow, what good were they then?

All the gold in Erilea couldn’t stop the slow,

steady leeching of strength caused by months

in a winter camp, exposed to Terrasen’s

merciless elements.

Darrow and the other lords didn’t believe

his claim that Erawan would strike in deep

winter—or believe Ren, when the Lord of

Allsbrook voiced his agreement. Erawan was

no fool, they claimed. Despite his aerial

legion of witches, even Valg foot soldiers

could not cross snow when it was ten feet

deep. They’d decided that Erawan would wait

until spring.

Yet Aedion was taking no chances. Neither

was Prince Galan, who had remained silent in

that meeting, but sought Aedion afterward to

add his support. They had to keep their troops warm and fed, keep them trained and ready to

march at a moment’s notice.

This scouting mission, if Ren’s

information proved correct, would help their

cause.

Nearby, a bowstring groaned, barely

audible over the wind. Its tip and shaft had

been painted white, and were now barely

visible as it aimed with deadly precision

toward the pass opening.

Aedion caught Ren Allsbrook’s eye from

where the young lord was concealed amongst

the rocks, his arrow ready to fly. Cloaked in

the same white and gray furs as Aedion, a pale

scarf over his mouth, Ren was little more than

a pair of dark eyes and the hint of a slashing

scar.

Aedion motioned to wait. Barely glancing

toward the shape-shifter across the pass,

Aedion conveyed the same order.

warm and fed, keep them trained and ready to

march at a moment’s notice.

This scouting mission, if Ren’s

information proved correct, would help their

cause.

Nearby, a bowstring groaned, barely

audible over the wind. Its tip and shaft had

been painted white, and were now barely

visible as it aimed with deadly precision

toward the pass opening.

Aedion caught Ren Allsbrook’s eye from

where the young lord was concealed amongst

the rocks, his arrow ready to fly. Cloaked in

the same white and gray furs as Aedion, a pale

scarf over his mouth, Ren was little more than

a pair of dark eyes and the hint of a slashing

scar.

Aedion motioned to wait. Barely glancing

toward the shape-shifter across the pass,

Aedion conveyed the same order.

Their enemies moved deeper into the throat

of the pass. Ren’s arrow held steady.

Leave one alive, Aedion had ordered before

they’d taken their positions.

It had been a lucky guess that they’d

choose this pass, a half-forgotten back door

into Terrasen’s low-lying lands. Only wide

enough for two horses to ride abreast, it had

long been ignored by conquering armies and

the merchants seeking to sell their wares in

the hinterlands beyond the Staghorns.

What dwelled out there, who dared make a

living beyond any recognized border, Aedion

didn’t know. Just as he didn’t know why these

soldiers had ventured so far into the

mountains.

But he’d find out soon enough.

The demon company passed beneath them,

and Aedion and Ren shifted to reposition their

bows.

A straight shot down into the skull. He

picked his mark.

Aedion’s nod was the only signal before

his arrow flew.