Chapter 1

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 alreadyslow

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 pl

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