Page 63 of Kingdom of Ash

Darrow was waiting on horseback atop a hill when the army finally arrived at nightfall. A full day’s march, the snow and wind whipping them for every damned mile.

Aedion, atop his own horse, broke from the column of soldiers aiming for the small camp and galloped across the ice-crusted snow to the ancient lord. He gestured with a gloved hand to the warriors behind him. “As requested: we’ve arrived.”

Darrow barely glanced at Aedion as he surveyed the soldiers making camp. Exhausting, brutal work after a long day, and a battle before that, but they’d sleep well tonight. And Aedion would refuse to move them tomorrow. Perhaps the day after that, too. “How many lost?”

“Less than five hundred.”

“Good.”

Aedion bristled at the approval. It wasn’t Darrow’s own army, wasn’t even Aedion’s.

“What did you want that warranted us to haul ass up here so quickly?”

“I wanted to discuss the battle with you. Hear what you learned.”

Aedion gritted his teeth. “I’ll write a report for you, then.” He gathered the reins, readying to steer his horse back to the camp. “My men need shelter.”

Darrow nodded firmly, as if unaware of the exhausting march he’d demanded. “At dawn, we meet. Send word to the other lords.”

“Send your own messenger.”

Darrow cut him a steely look. “Tell the other lords.” He surveyed Aedion from his mud-splattered boots to his unwashed hair. “And get some rest.”

Aedion didn’t bother responding as he urged his horse into a gallop, the stallion charging through the snow without hesitation. A fine, proud beast that had served him well.

Aedion squinted at the wailing snow as it whipped his face. They needed to build shelter—and fast.

At dawn, he’d go to Darrow’s meeting. With the other lords.

And Aelin in tow.

A foot of snow fell overnight, blanketing the tents, smothering fires, and setting the soldiers sleeping shoulder to shoulder to conserve warmth.

Lysandra had shivered in her tent, despite being curled into ghost-leopard form by the brazier, and had awoken before dawn simply because sleeping had become futile.

And because of the meeting that was moments away from taking place.

She strode toward Darrow’s large war tent, Ansel of Briarcliff at her side, the two of them bundled against the cold. Mercifully, the frigid morning kept any conversation between them to a minimum. No point in talking when the very air chilled your teeth to the point of aching.

The silver-haired Fae royals entered just before them, Prince Endymion giving her—givingAelin—a bow of the head.

His cousin’s wife. That’s what he believed her to be. In addition tobeing queen. Endymion had never scented Aelin, wouldn’t know that the strange shifter’s scent was all wrong.

Thank the gods for that.

The war tent was nearly full, lords and princes and commanders gathered around the center of the space, all studying the map of the continent hanging from one of the wall flaps. Pins jutted from its thick canvas to mark various armies.

So many, too many, clustered in the South. Blocking off aid from any allies beyond Morath’s lines.

“She returns at last,” a cold voice drawled.

Lysandra summoned a lazy smirk and sauntered to the center of the room, Ansel lingering near the entrance. “I heard I missed some fun yesterday. I figured I’d return before I lost the chance to kill some Valg grunts myself.”

A few chuckles at that, but Darrow didn’t smile. “I don’t recall you being invited to this meeting, Your Highness.”

“I invited her,” Aedion said, stepping to the edge of the group. “Since she’s technically fighting in the Bane, I made her my second-in-command.” And thus worthy of being here.

Lysandra wondered if anyone else could see the hint of pain in Aedion’s face—pain, and disgust at the imposter queen swaggering amongst them.

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