They were far from home, ighting 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 licker of movement on the other side of the pass caught Aedion’s
eye, visible only because he knew where to look.
She’d camoulaged 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 ine 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 played the part. One of many he’d donned in his life.
Yet the moment Lysandra changed her golden hair for dark tresses,
Ashryver eyes for emerald, he stopped acknowledging her existence.
Some days, the Terrasen knot tattooed on his chest, the names of his
queen and ledgling court woven amongst it, felt like a brand. Her name
especially.
He’d only brought her on this mission to make it easier. Safer. There
were other lives beyond his at risk, and though he could have unloaded
this scouting task to a unit within the Bane, he’d needed the action.
It had taken over a month to sail from Eyllwe with their newfound
allies, dodging Morath’s leet around Rifthold, and then these past two
weeks to move inland.
They had seen little to no combat. Only a few roving bands of
Adarlanian soldiers, no Valg amongst them, that had been dealt with
