They walked in silence, Evangeline’s chin high, down to the Great Hall for what might very well be their last breakfast.

They were nearly there when an old voice said, “I would like a word.”

Darrow.

Evangeline turned before Lysandra did.

The ancient lord stood in the doorway of what seemed to be a study, and beckoned them inside. “It will not take long,” he said upon noting the displeasure still on Lysandra’s face.

She was done making herself appear nice for men whom she had no interest in being nice to.

Evangeline peered at her in silent question, but Lysandra jerked her chin toward the old man. “Very well.”

The study was crammed with stacks of books—piles and piles against the walls, along the floors. Well over a thousand. Many half-crumbling with age.

“The last of the sacred texts from the Library of Orynth,” Darrow said, aiming toward the desk piled with papers before a narrow glass window. “All that the Master Scholars managed to save ten years ago.”

So few. So few compared to what Aelin had said once existed in that near-mythic library.

“I had them brought out of hiding after the king’s demise,” Darrow said, seating himself behind the desk. “A fool’s optimism, I suppose.”

Lysandra strode to one of the piles, peering at a title. In a language she did not recognize.

“The remains of a once-great civilization,” Darrow said thickly.

And it was the slight catch in his voice that made Lysandra turn. She opened her mouth to demand what he wanted, but glimpsed what sat beside his right hand.

Encased in crystal no larger than a playing card, the red-and-orange flower within seemed to glow—just like the power of its namesake.

“The kingsflame,” she breathed, unable to stop herself as she approached.

Aelin and Aedion had told her of the legendary flower, which had bloomed across the mountains and fields the day Brannon had set foot on this continent, proof of the peace he brought with him.

And since those ancient days, only single blossoms had been spotted, so rare that their appearance was deemed a sign that the land had blessed whatever ruler sat on Terrasen’s throne. That the kingdom was truly at peace.

The one entombed in crystal on Darrow’s desk, Aelin had said, had appeared during Orlon’s reign. Orlon, Darrow’s lifelong love.

“The Master Scholars grabbed the books when Adarlan invaded,” Darrow said, smiling sadly at the kingsflame. “I grabbed this.”

The antler throne, the crown—all of it destroyed. Save for this one treasure, as great as any belonging to the Galathynius household.

“It’s very beautiful,” Evangeline said, coming up to the desk. “But very small.”

Lysandra could have sworn the old man’s lips twitched toward a smile. “It is indeed,” Darrow said. “And so are you.”

She didn’t expect the softening of his voice, the kindness. And didn’t expect his next words, either.

“Battle will be upon us before midday,” Darrow said to Evangeline. “I find that I will have need for someone of quick wit and quicker feet to assist me here. To run messages to our commanders in this castle, and fetch me supplies as needed.”

Evangeline angled her head. “You wish me to help?”

“You have trained with warriors during your travels with them, I take it.”

Evangeline glanced up at Lysandra in question, and she nodded to her ward. They had all overseen Evangeline learning the basics of swordplay and archery while on the road.

The girl nodded to the old lord. “I have some ability, but not like Aedion.”

“Few do,” Darrow said wryly. “But I shall need someone with a fearless heart and steady hand to help me. Are you that person?”

Evangeline didn’t look up to Lysandra again. “I am,” she said, chin lifting.

Darrow smiled slightly. “Then head down to the Great Hall. Eat your breakfast, and when you return here, there shall be armor waiting for you.”

Evangeline’s eyes widened at the mention of armor, no trace of fear dimming them at all.

Lysandra murmured to her, “Go. I’ll be down with you in a minute.”

Evangeline dashed out, braid flying behind her.

Only when Lysandra was certain she had gone downstairs did she say, “Why?”

“I assume that question means you are allowing me to commandeer your ward.”

“Why.”

Darrow picked up the kingsflame crystal. “Nox Owen is of no use to me now that his allegiance has been made clear, and apparently has vanished to the gods know where, likely at Aedion’s request.” He turned the crystal over in his thin fingers. “But beyond that, no child should have to watch as her friends are cut down. Keeping her busy, giving her a purpose and some small power will be better than locking her in the north tower, scared out of her wits at every horrible sound and death.”

Lysandra did not smile, did not bow her head. “You would do this for the ward of a whore?”

Darrow set down the crystal. “It’s the faces of the children that I remember the most from ten years ago. Even more than Orlon’s. And Evangeline’s face yesterday as she looked out at that army—it was the same despair I saw back then. So you may think me a champion bastard, as Aedion would say, but I am not so heartless as you might believe.” He nodded toward the open doorway. “I will keep an eye on her.”

She wasn’t entirely certain what to say. If she should spit in his face and tell him to hell with his offer.

Yet the brightness in Evangeline’s eyes, the way she’d run out of here … Purpose. Darrow had offered her purpose and guidance.

So she turned from the room, from the precious trove, the ancient books worth more than gold. Darrow’s silent, mournful companions. “Thank you.”

Darrow waved her off, and went back to studying whatever papers were on his desk—though his eyes did not move along the pages.

The battlement walls of the city were lined with soldiers. Each stone-faced at what marched closer.

The witch tower was still down, thank the gods. But even from the distance, Aedion could spy soldiers toiling to repair its damaged wheel. Yet without another wyvern to replace the one felled yesterday, it would not be moving soon.

It wouldn’t make today any easier, though. No, today would hurt.

“They’ll be within the archers’ range in about an hour,” Elgan reported. Darrow’s orders be damned. Kyllian was still general, yes, but every report his friend received, Aedion got as well.

“Remind them to make their shots count. Pick targets.”

The Bane knew that without being told. The others—they had proved their mettle in these battles, but a reminder never hurt.

Elgan aimed for the sections of the city walls that Ren and the Fae nobles had deemed the best advantage for their archers. Against a hundred thousand troops, they might only stand to thin the lines, but to let the enemy charge unchallenged at the walls would be utter folly. And break the spirit of these people before they met their end.

“What is that?” Ren murmured. Pointing to the horizon.

Sharp—Ren’s eyes had to be sharper than most humans, since it was still just a smudge on the horizon to Aedion.