“Today has been wonderful,” Yrene said, and wasn’t lying. “Thank you.”

Hasar was quiet for a beat, looking Yrene over with unusual softness. “I know I am not an easy person to care for, or an easy friend to have,” she said, her dark eyes meeting Yrene’s at last. “But you have never once made me feel that way.”

Yrene’s throat tightened at the bald words. Hasar inclined her head, waving to the party around them. “This is the least I can do to honor my friend.” Renia gently patted Hasar’s arm, as if in approval and understanding.

So Yrene bowed her head and said to the princess, “I have no interest in easy friends—easy people. I think I trust them less than the difficult ones, and find them far less compelling, too.”

That brought a grin to Hasar’s face. She leaned down the table to survey Chaol and drawl, “You look quite handsome, Lord Westfall.”

“And you are looking beautiful, Princess.”

Hasar, while well dressed, would never be called such. But she accepted the compliment with that cat’s smile that somehow reminded Yrene of that stranger in Innish—that knowledge that beauty was fleeting, yet power … power was a far more valuable currency.

The feast unfolded, and Yrene suffered through a not-so-unguarded toast from Hasar to her dear, loyal, clever friend. But she drank with them. Chaol, too. Wine and honey ale, their glasses refilled before Yrene could even notice the near-silent reach of the servants pouring.

It took all of thirty minutes before talk of the war started.

Arghun began it first. A mocking toast, to safety and serenity in such tumultuous times.

Yrene drank but tried to hide her surprise as she found Chaol doing so as well, a vague smile plastered on his face.

Then Hasar began musing on whether the Western Wastes, with everyone so focused upon the eastern half of the continent, was fair game to interested parties.

Chaol only shrugged. As if he’d reached some conclusion this afternoon. Some realization about this war, and the role of these royals in it.

Hasar seemed to notice, too. And for all that this was meant to be a birthday party, the princess pondered aloud to no one in particular, “Perhaps Aelin Galathynius should drag her esteemed self down here and select one of my brothers to marry. Perhaps then we would consider assisting her. If such influence remained in the family.”

Meaning all that flame, all that brute power … tied to this continent, bred into the bloodline, never to be a threat.

“My brothers would have to stomach being with someone like that, of course,” Hasar went on, “but they are not such weak-blooded men as you might believe.” A glance at Kashin, who seemed to pretend not to hear, even as Arghun snorted. Yrene wondered if the others knew how adept Kashin was at drowning out their taunting—that he never fell for their baiting simply because he couldn’t be bothered to care.

Chaol answered Hasar with equal mildness, “As interesting as it would be to see Aelin Galathynius deal with all of you …” A secret, knowing smile, as if Chaol might very well enjoy seeing that sight. As if Aelin might very well make blood sport out of them all. “Marriage is not an option for her.”

Hasar’s brows lifted. “To a man?”

Renia gave her a sharp look that Hasar ignored.

Chaol chuckled. “To anyone. Beyond her beloved.”

“King Dorian,” Arghun said, swirling his wine. “I’m surprised she can stomach him.”

Chaol stiffened, but shook his head. “No. Another prince—foreign-born and powerful.”

All the royals stilled. Even Kashin looked their way.

“Who, pray tell, is that?” Hasar sipped her wine, those keen eyes darkening.

“Prince Rowan Whitethorn, of Doranelle. Former commander to Queen Maeve, and a member of her royal household.”

Yrene could have sworn the blood drained wholly from Arghun’s face. “Aelin Galathynius is to wed Rowan Whitethorn?”

From the way the prince said the name … he’d indeed heard of this Rowan.

Chaol had mentioned Rowan more than once in passing—Rowan, who had managed to heal much of the damage in his spine. A Fae Prince. And Aelin’s beloved.

Chaol shrugged. “They are carranam, and he swore the blood oath to her.”

“He swore that oath to Maeve,” Arghun countered.

Chaol leaned back in his seat. “He did. And Aelin got Maeve to free him from it so he could swear it to her. Right in Maeve’s face.”

Arghun and Hasar swapped glances. “How,” the former demanded.

Chaol’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Through the same way Aelin achieves all her ends.” He flicked his brows up. “She encircled Maeve’s city in fire. And when Maeve told her that Doranelle was made of stone, Aelin simply replied that her people were not.”

A chill snaked down Yrene’s spine.

“So she is a brute and a madwoman,” Hasar sniffed.

“Is she? Who else has taken on Maeve and walked away, let alone gotten what they want out of it?”

“She would have destroyed an entire city for one man,” Hasar snapped.

“The most powerful pure-blooded Fae male in the world,” Chaol said simply. “A worthy asset for any court. Especially when they had fallen in love with each other.”

Though his eyes danced as he spoke, a tremor of tension ran beneath the last words.

But Arghun seized on the words. “If it is a love match, then they risk knowing their enemies will go after him to punish her.” Arghun smiled as if to say he was already thinking of doing so.

Chaol snorted, and the prince straightened. “Good luck to anyone who tries to go after Rowan Whitethorn.”

“Because Aelin will burn them to ash?” Hasar asked with poisoned sweetness.

But it was Kashin who answered softly, “Because Rowan Whitethorn will always be the person who walks away from that encounter. Not the assailant.”

A pause of silence.

Then Hasar said, “Well, if Aelin cannot represent her continent, perhaps we shall look elsewhere.” She smirked at Kashin. “Perhaps Yrene Towers might be offered in the queen’s stead.”

“I am not noble-born,” Yrene blurted. “Or royal.” Hasar had lost her mind.

Hasar shrugged. “I’m sure Lord Westfall, as Hand, can find you a title. Make you a countess or duchess or whatever terms you call them. Of course, we’d know you were little more than a milkmaid dressed in jewels, but if it stayed amongst us … I’m sure there are some here who would not mind your humble beginnings.” She’d done as much with Renia—for Renia.

The amusement faded from Chaol’s face. “You sound as if you now want to be a part of this war, Princess.”

Hasar waved a hand. “I am merely musing on the possibilities.” She surveyed Yrene and Kashin, and the food in Yrene’s stomach turned leaden. “I’ve always said you would make such beautiful children.”

“If they were allowed to live by your future khagan.”

“A small consideration—to be later dealt with.”

Kashin leaned forward, his jaw tight. “The wine goes to your head, sister.”

Hasar rolled her eyes. “Why not? Yrene is the unspoken heir of the Torre. It is a position of power—and if Lord Westfall were to bestow upon her a royal title … say, spin a little story that her royal lineage was newly discovered, she might very well wed you, Ka—”

“She will not.”

Chaol’s words were flat. Hard.

Color stained Kashin’s face as he asked softly, “And why is that, Lord Westfall?”

Chaol held the man’s gaze. “She will not marry you.”

Hasar smiled. “I think the lady may speak for herself.”

Yrene wanted to flip her chair back into the pool and sink to the bottom. And live there, under the surface, forever. Rather than face the prince waiting for an answer, the princess who was smirking like a demon, and the lord whose face was hard with rage.

But if it was a serious offer, if doing something like that could lead to the full might of the southern continent’s armies coming to help them, save them …