He had to look at him, this thing who had ordered him enslaved, who had butchered Sorscha. And if he was fortunate—maybe he’d kill him.

He could remain in this form and strike. But it would be so much more satisfying to return to his own body, to draw Damaris, and end him. To let Erawan see the pale band around his throat and know who killed him, that he hadn’t broken him yet.

And then Dorian would find that key.

The silence showed him the way, perhaps more so than the mental map he’d memorized.

Halls emptied out. The air became thick, cold. As if Erawan’s corruption leaked from him.

There were no guards, human or Valg, standing watch before the open doors.

No one to mark the hooded figure who strode in, black cape flowing.

Dorian hurried, skittering after that figure just as the doors shut. His magic swelled, and he willed it to calm, to coil, an asp poised to strike.

One blow to get Erawan down, then he’d shift and draw Damaris.

The figure halted, cloak swaying, and Dorian dashed for the nearest shadow—by the crack between the door and floor.

The chamber was ordinary, save for a table of black glass in its center. And the golden-haired, golden-eyed man seated at it.

Manon had not lied: Erawan had indeed shed Perrington’s skin for something far fairer.

Though still dressed in finery, Dorian realized as the Valg king rose, his gray jacket and pants immaculately tailored. No weapons lay at his side. No hint of the Wyrdkey.

But he could feel Erawan’s power, the wrongness leaking from him. Could feel it, and remember it, the way that power had felt inside him, curdling his soul.

Ice cracked in his veins. Quick—he had to be quick. Strike now.

“This is an unexpected delight,” Erawan said, his voice young and yet not. He gestured to the spread of food—fruits and cured meats. “Shall we?”

Dorian’s magic faltered as two moon-pale, slender hands rose from the folds of the black cloak and pushed back the cowl.

The woman beneath was not beautiful, not in the classical way. Yet with her jet-black hair, her dark eyes, her red lips … She was striking. Mesmerizing.

Those red lips curved, revealing bone-white teeth.

Cold licked down Dorian’s spine at the pointed, delicate ears peeking above the curtain of dark hair. Fae. The woman—female was Fae.

She removed her cloak to reveal a flowing gown of deepest purple before she settled herself across the table from Erawan. Not an ounce of hesitation or fear checked her graceful movements. “You know why I have come, then.”

Erawan smiled as he sat, pouring a goblet of wine for the female, then for himself. And all thoughts of killing vanished from Dorian’s head as the Valg king asked, “Is there any other reason you would deign to visit Morath, Maeve?”

CHAPTER 69

Orynth had not been this quiet since the day Aedion and the remnants of Terrasen’s court had marched to Theralis.

Even then, there had been a hum to the ancient city erected between the mouth of the Florine and the edge of the Staghorns, Oakwald a ripple of wood to the west.

Then, the white walls had still been shining.

Now they lay stained and grayish, as bleak as the sky, while Aedion, Lysandra, and their allies strode through the towering metal doors of the western gate. Here, the walls were six feet thick, the blocks of stone so heavy that legend claimed Brannon had conscripted giants from the Staghorns to heave them into place.

Aedion would give anything for those long-forgotten giants to find their way to the city now. For the ancient Wolf Tribes to come racing down the towering peaks behind the city, the lost Fae of Terrasen with them. For any of the old myths to emerge from the shadows of time, as Rolfe and his Mycenians had done.

But he knew their luck had run out.

Their companions knew it, too. Even Ansel of Briarcliff had gone as silent as Ilias and his assassins, her shoulders bowed. She had been that way since the heads of her warriors had landed amongst their ranks, her wine-red hair dull, her steps heavy. He knew her horror, her guilt. Wished he had a moment to comfort the young queen beyond a swift apology. But Ilias, it seemed, had taken it upon himself to do just that, riding beside Ansel in steady, quiet company.

The city had been laid at the feet of the towering, near-mythic castle built atop a jutting piece of rock. A castle that rose so high its uppermost turrets seemed to pierce the sky. Once, that castle had glowed, roses and creeping plants draped along its sun-warmed stones, the song of a thousand fountains singing in every hall and courtyard. Once, proud banners had flapped from those impossibly high towers, standing watch over the mountains and forest and river and Plain of Theralis below.

It had become a mausoleum.

No one spoke as they trudged up the steep, winding streets. Grim-faced people either stopped to stare or continued rushing to prepare for the siege.

There was no way to outrun it. Not with the Staghorns at their backs, Oakwald to the west, and the army advancing from the south. Yes, they might flee eastward across the plains, but to where? To Suria, where it would only be a matter of time before they were found? To the hinterlands beyond the mountains, where the winters were so brutal they claimed no mortal could survive? The people of Orynth were as trapped as their army.

Aedion knew he should square his shoulders. Should grin at these people—his people—and offer them a shred of courage.

Yet he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop himself from wondering how many had lost family, friends, in the battle by the river. In the weeks of fighting before that. How many were still praying that the streaming lines of soldiers making their way toward the city would reveal a loved one.

His fault, his burden. His choices had led them here. His choices had left so many bodies in the snow, a veritable path of them from the southern border, all the way to the Florine.

The white castle loomed, larger with every hill they ascended. At least they had that—the advantage of higher ground.

At least they had that.

Darrow and the other lords were waiting.

Not in the throne room, but in the spacious council chamber on the other side of the palace.

The last time Aedion had been in the room, a preening Adarlanian prick had presided over the meeting. The Viceroy of Terrasen, he’d called himself.

It seemed the man had taken his finery, chairs and wall hangings included, and run off the moment the king had been killed.

So an ancient worktable now served as their war desk, an assortment of half-rotting chairs from various rooms in the castle around it. Currently occupied by Darrow, Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood. Murtaugh, to Aedion’s surprise, was amongst them.

They rose as Aedion and his companions entered. Not out of any respect to Aedion, but for the royals with him.

Ansel of Briarcliff surveyed the piss-poor space, as she’d done for the entirety of the walk through the dim and dreary castle, and let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said Adarlan raided your coffers.” Her first words in hours. Days.

Aedion grunted. “To the copper.” He halted before the table.

Darrow demanded, “Where is Kyllian?”

Aedion gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Ren tensed, reading the warning in that smile. “He bade me to go ahead while he led the army here.” Lie.

Darrow rolled his eyes, then fixed them upon Rolfe, who was still frowning at the shabby castle. “We have you to thank for the lucky retreat, I take it.”