She had walked out there for the same reason she had snapped that day in Endovier.

But the Valg princes had not killed her yet.

She had felt their plea­sure as she begged for the whipping. It was their sustenance. Her mortal flesh was nothing to them—­it was the agony within that was the prize. They would draw this out forever, keep her as their pet.

There was no one to save her, no one who could enter their darkness and live.

One by one, they groped through her memories. She fed them, gave them everything they wanted and more. Back and back, sorting through the years as they plunged into the dark, twining together. She did not care.

She had not looked into the Valg prince’s eyes expecting to ever again see sunrise.

•

She did not know how long she fell with them.

But then there was a rushing, roaring below—­a frozen river. Whispers and foggy light ­were rising to meet them. No, not rising—­this was the bottom.

An end to the abyss. And an end to her, perhaps, at last.

She didn’t know if the Valg princes’ hissing was from anger or plea­sure as they slammed into that frozen river at the bottom of her soul.

54

Trumpets announced his arrival. Trumpets and silence as the people of Orynth crowded the steep streets winding up to the white palace that watched over them all. It was the first sunny day in weeks—­the snow on the cobblestone streets melting quickly, though the wind still had a final bite of winter to it, enough so that the King of Adarlan and his entire massive party ­were bundled in furs that covered their regalia.

Their gold and crimson flags, however, flapped in the crisp wind, the golden poles shining as brightly as the armor of their bearers, who trotted at the head of the party. She watched them approach from one of the balconies off the throne room, Aedion at her side running a constant commentary about the state of their ­horses, armor, weapons—­about the King of Adarlan himself, who rode near the front on a great black warhorse. There was a pony beside him, bearing a smaller figure. “His sniveling son,” Aedion told her.

The ­whole castle was miserably quiet. Everyone was dashing around, but silently, tensely. Her father had been on edge at breakfast, her mother distracted, the ­whole court snarly and wearing far more weapons than usual. Only her uncle seemed the same—­only Orlon had smiled at her today, said she looked very pretty in her blue dress and golden crown, and tugged one of her freshly pressed curls. No one had told her anything about this visit, but she knew it was important, because even Aedion was wearing clean clothes, a crown, and a new dagger, which he’d taken to tossing in the air.

“Aedion, Aelin,” someone hissed from inside the throne room—­Lady Marion, her mother’s dearest friend and handmaiden. “On the dais, now.” Behind the lovely lady peeked a night-­black head of hair and onyx eyes—­Elide, her daughter. The girl was too quiet and breakable for her to bother with usually. And Lady Marion, her nursemaid, coddled her own daughter endlessly.

“Rat’s balls,” Aedion cursed, and Marion went red with anger, but did not reprimand. Proof enough that today was different—­dangerous, even.

Her stomach shifted. But she followed Lady Marion inside, Aedion at her heels as always, and preched on her little throne set beside her father’s. Aedion took up his place flanking her, shoulders back and head high, already her protector and warrior.

The ­whole of Orynth was silent as the King of Adarlan entered their mountain home.

•

She hated the King of Adarlan.

He did not smile—­not when he stalked into the throne room to greet her uncle and parents, not when he introduced his eldest son, Crown Prince Dorian Havilliard, and not when they came to the great hall for the largest feast she’d ever seen. He’d only looked at her twice so far: once during that initial meeting, when he’d stared at her long and hard enough that her father had demanded to know what he found so interesting about his daughter, and their ­whole court had tensed. But she hadn’t broken his dark stare. She hated his scarred, brutish face and furs. Hated the way he ignored his dark-­haired son, who stood like a pretty doll beside him, his manners so elegant and graceful, his pale hands like little birds as they moved.

The second time the king had looked at her had been at this table, where she now sat a few seats down, flanked by Lady Marion on the side closest to the king and Aedion on the other. There ­were daggers on Lady Marion’s legs beneath her dress—­she knew because she kept bumping into them. Lord Cal, Marion’s husband, sat beside his wife, the steel on him gleaming.

Elide, along with all the other children, had been sent upstairs. Only she and Aedion—­and Prince Dorian—­were allowed ­here. Aedion puffed with pride and barely restrained temper when the King of Adarlan viewed her a second time, as if he could see through to her bones. Then the king was swept into conversation with her parents and uncle and all the lords and ladies of the court who had placed themselves around the royal family.

She had always known her court took no chances, not with her and not with her parents or uncle. Even now, she noticed the eyes of her father’s closest friends darting to the windows and doorways as they maintained conversation with those around them.

The rest of the hall was filled with the party from Adarlan and the outer circles of Orlon’s court, along with key merchants from the city who wanted to make ties with Adarlan. Or something like that. But her attention was on the prince across from her, who seemed utterly ignored by his father and his own court, shoved down near the end with her and Aedion.

He ate so beautifully, she thought, watching him cut into his roast chicken. Not a drop moved out of place, not a scrap fell on the table. She had decent manners, while Aedion was hopeless, his plate littered with bones and crumbs scattered everywhere, even some on her own dress. She’d kicked him for it, but his attention was too focused on the royals down the table.

So both she and the Crown Prince ­were to be ignored, then. She looked at the boy again, who was around her age, she supposed. His skin was from the winter, his blue-­black hair neatly trimmed; his sapphire eyes lifted from his plate to meet hers.

“You eat like a fine lady,” she told him.

His lips thinned and color stained his ivory cheeks. Across from her, Quinn, her uncle’s Captain of the Guard, choked on his water.

The prince glanced at his father—­still busy with her uncle—­before replying. Not for approval, but in fear. “I eat like a prince,” Dorian said quietly.

“You do not need to cut your bread with a fork and knife,” she said. A faint pounding started in her head, followed by a flickering warmth, but she ignored it. The hall was hot, as they’d shut all the windows for some reason.

“Here in the North,” she went on as the prince’s knife and fork remained where they ­were on his dinner roll, “you need not be so formal. We don’t put on airs.”

Hen, one of Quinn’s men, coughed pointedly from a few seats down. She could almost hear him saying, Says the little lady with her hair pressed into careful curls and wearing her new dress that she threatened to skin us over if we got dirty.

She gave Hen an equally pointed look, then returned her attention to the foreign prince. He’d already looked down at his food again, as if he expected to be neglected for the rest of the night. And he looked lonely enough that she said, “If you like, you could be my friend.” Not one of the men around them said anything, or coughed.

Dorian lifted his chin. “I have a friend. He is to be Lord of Anielle someday, and the fiercest warrior in the land.”

She doubted Aedion would like that claim, but her cousin remained focused down the table. She wished she’d kept her mouth closed. Even this useless foreign prince had friends. The pounding in her head increased, and she took a drink of her water. Water—­always water to cool her insides.

Reaching for her glass, however, sent spikes of red-­hot pain through her head, and she winced. “Princess?” Quinn said, always the first to notice.

She blinked, black spots forming. But the pain stopped.

No, not a stop, but a pause. A pause, then—