Two Bad Bitches and a Bunch Of Fae // Throne of Glass

Chapter 2:

Ends on a cliffhanger, but hey, it's arrived!

Celaena

The tool she'd been given was a heavyweight in her shackled hands. Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan's great assassin, dug into the hard rock, barely listening to the noise around her. It wasn't as though anything was interesting to hear; the only sounds were those of the pickaxes striking stone, and the other slaves crying out in time to a whip.

What a pitiful situation she was in.

Celaena scowled at the rock in front of her, the sun beating down on her back. She'd not broken in her time here, no, but she'd perhaps been subdued. Her fire was not flushed out, as Adarlan's wicked king had likely hoped, but it had dimmed, or rather, she had dimmed it, for survival's sake.

She hit the rock thrice more, it splintering at the last impact, and then bent down to pick up the shattered pieces of salt scattered throughout the shards of stone.

That was when the hooded man came.

The guards bowed to him, so Celaena figured he was someone important. She expected him to walk past her, but instead, he stopped. She stood. If he was, indeed, important, that meant something was about to happen. And Celaena, despite her time in Adarlan's saltiest pit, had not lost her appreciation for the dramatic.

His voice was ruff, yet smooth, scraggly, yet elegant, as he said: "I'm looking for Celaena Sardothien?"

The said assassin smiled, straightening her back; mustering her arrogance, "Here."

She could barely see his face under his hood, but his jaw was chiseled, and his brown eyes sizzled with something. Celaena steeled herself, tensing.

Then, gruff as hell, he grabbed her arm, tightened the chains on her arms, and motioned they be followed by an armed group of soldiers.

It wasn't as though Celaena wasn't accustomed to being escorted everywhere at swordpoint, she was Adarlan's greatest assassin, after all, anything less would be disappointing. So, she let herself be pulled along by the very, very gruff man, and then went footstep by footstep into the palace.

Mallory

The redecoration of the 'throne room' took far longer than both Dorian and Mallory had expected, and by the time the announcement of Chaol's return had echoed through the halls, they had only finished the throne itself. But Dorian, in all his princely arrogance, rested himself on the chair, for it was a throne in name only, and Mallory stood beside him, mustering whatever composure she could, in this palace of iron that made even her bones groan in protest.

"What are you going to say to her?" Mallory asked. She held her arms at her front, clasped, and hoped she looked respectable. This may have been a prisoner, but she had heard many, many things of the infamous Celaena Sardothien, and respected the woman. She seemed strong, a role model even, though Mallory certainly didn't want to be an assassin. Forgetting that she already had been, for many, many years. Had spent most of her life as one.

Dorian thought for a second, "I... I don't know yet. I don't know her. That, perhaps, is the issue. Once I've talked to her, I'll be able to come up with an approach."

Mallory nodded, "Good idea. You need to know who you're dealing with."

"Indeed," Dorian said, and then the door swung open, the rusted iron hinges creaking with every inch.

In stepped Chaol, whose dark hood drew Mallory's eyes first, and beside him...

It can't be it was a struggle for Mallory not to fall to her knees. It's Celaena Sardothien not- as the assassin's eyes wandered to her own, she could tell she had also made the connection.

"Adarlan's assassin," Dorian greeted. Mallory ripped herself back into the present, straightening her back and banishing her emotions. This situation could wait, at least until Dorian had hired her successfully. That, Mallory knew, was the most important thing. It gave time for other situations.

"Adarlan's prince," the assassin replied. Mallory didn't know what else to call her. Whether it be her Queen, her cousin, or her enemy.

She breathed deep, trying to banish the thoughts in the way the fae of the far, far south, further than even the Kaghan's lands, had taught her. In through her nose, count to ten, out through her mouth, count to six, repeat.

"I'm excited to be here, in your wonderful palace - so beautifully decorated by the way - but why?" The assassin continued. Dorian cocked his head in a way that told Mallory he was doing just as he intended to. And, as he stood, Mallory could tell that he'd decided on action, albeit action prefaced by some courtly games.

"We recently redecorated," Dorian replied, stepping down the stairs, only recently polished. Mallory wasn't sure if one could eat off of them, but a reflection was certainly visible. She'd seen worse, yet had seen better too.

"Very recently, it seems," the assassin snarked. Mallory had to admit, whoever this woman may have been to her, she certainly had an appreciable sense of sarcasm. However, it seemed the head overseer did not have the same idea of humor as Mallory.

"You will treat your prince with respect," he hissed, kicking her down to the floor. Mallory straightened, stepping forward as though to stop the overseer but then thinking better of it. Just like Dorian, she needed to think not to do.

"Overseer, please refrain from kicking our guests," Mallory instead said. The least she could do was say something; anything to help.

A wry grin from the assassin, bordering on smirking territory, "Thank you, Lady Draven."

Every word, every syllable that woman said had a hidden purpose. Just like Dorian and Mallory had, she was assessing the situation. Mallory did not intend to give her any information until she got her own.

"You are very welcome, Ms. Sardothien, though I am certainly no lady," but a princess Mallory wanted to add, but that would give away all her cards, and that was something she could not afford. An ace up your sleeve is a day to your name, the same fae who had taught her battle techniques had always mattered. She'd learned to live by that code, had always repeated it to herself. An ace up your sleeve is a day to your name.

"Then what are you?" It was a loaded question, and as the assassin tilted her head, Mallory could feel that metaphorical ace slipping down her sleeve, and she knew that Celaena or Aelin or whoever she might be, knew who she was.

But Mallory's answer was loaded too, as she replied: "Nobody. A simple advisor to our honorable prince, the heir to Adarlan's throne." An outright lie, but not one the assassin would be able to detect. Mallory had carefully hidden her tracks. No one knew of her. At least no one alive. She'd made sure of that much, at least.

The assassin cocked an eyebrow but did not say anything else. Beside Mallory, Dorian spoke up again.

"Anyway. Miss Sardothien, is it?"

The assassin nodded. Lie.

"Well," Dorian stood up from the throne, and Chaol immediately rushed to stop him, "do you know why we are here?"

Mallory held up a hand to stop Chaol. Dorian could take care of himself.

"No. In case you haven't noticed, I've been in Endovier all this time. There isn't much news in the pits," the assassin replied. Mallory bit back a grin.

Dorian walked towards her. Mallory narrowed her eyes. 

This, she could tell, was going to be interesting...