A Court of Dusk and Dragons

5

Aedion and Rowan did not let Darrows messenger go ahead to warn the lords of their arrival. The dragons and Fisrae had returned to their Fae forms, to not draw unwanted attentions with their massive wings. The tavern was erected at a crossroads just inside the tangle of Oakwald. With the rain and night settling in, it was packed, and they had to pay double to stable their horses. Lysandra had padded off half a mile away, and when they arrived she slunk from the bushes and nodded her fuzzy, drenched head at Aelin. All clear. Inside the inn, there were no rooms to be found for rent, and the taproom itself is crammed full of travellers, hunters and whoever else was escaping the downpour. Some even sit against the walls. A few heads twist their way as they enter, but dripping hoods and cloaks conceal their faces and weapons, and those heads quickly return to their drinks or cards or drunken songs. Lysandra had finally shifted back into her human form. The mental bond between Fisrae and her bloodsworn tells her that they are all alert and scanning for danger. The messenger and Aedion turn down a hallway. They pause before a wooden door, knocking once. Fleetfoot brushes against Aelins calf, tail wagging, and Aelin smiles down at the hound, who shakes herself again, flingling droplets of water. Lysandra snorts and Fisrae smiles. Very queenly to bring a wet dog into a meeting. Or at least in most places, had Fisrae brought a dog to one of the Inner Circles meetings, Rhys wouldnt have cared less and adored it, Mor would have fawned over it, Amren would tolerate it, Cass would play tug of war with it and Az would pet it. The whole Inner Circle would have been delighted to have a dog in their meeting, even if it would distract them- Fisrae swallows a lump in her throat and ignore the questions of her bloodsworn as she stops thinking about it. Aedion steps into the room.

"Just like you bastards to make us trudge through the rain because you didnt want to get wet. Ren, looking put-out, as usual. Murtaugh, always a pleasure. Darrow - your hair looks as bad as mine." Aedion says to those inside.

"Given the secrecy with which you arranged this meeting, one would think you were sneaking through your own kingdom, Aedion." A dry, cold voice comments from within. Aelin reaches the ajar door, stepping in front of Lysandra and Evangeline, and she pauses in the doorway to survey the private dining area. One window, cracked to soothe the stifling heat of the inn. A large rectangular table before a roaring hearth, littered with empty plates, crumbs, and worn serving platters. Two old men sit at it, one with the messenger whispering something in his ear too softly to hear before he bows to all of them and sees himself out. Both old men straighten as they look past where Aedion stands before the table- to Aelin. But Aelin focuses upon the dark-haired young man by the hearth, an arm braced against the mantel, his scarred, tan face slack. Aelin tugs back her hood and the man, who Fisrae guessed was Ren, starts. The old men rise to their feet.

"Lord Darrow." Aelin inclines her head, a crooked grin already on her lips. "You look toasty." Darrows plain face remains unmoved. Unimpressed. Aelin watches Darrow, waiting - refusing to break his stare until he bowed. A dip of his head is all he offers.

"A bit lower." She purrs. Fisrae sends a mental reprimend to Aelin as Aedions gaze snaps to Aelin as well, full of warning. Darrow does no such thing. It was Murtaugh who bows deeply at the waist.

"Majesty. We apologize for sending the messenger to fetch you - but my grandson worries after my health." Murtaugh attempts to smile. "To my chagrin." Ren ignores his grandfather and pushes off the mantel, his boot-steps the only sound as he rounds the table.

"You knew." He breathes to Aedion. Lysandra, wisely, shuts the door and bids Evangeline and Fleetfoot to stand by the window - to watch for any peering eyes. Fisraes bloodsworn lean against the wall, except Nevaeh, who stands besides her.

"Suprise." Aedion gives Ren a little smile. Before the young lord can retort, Rowan steps to Aelins side and pulls back his hood. The men stiffen as the Fae warrior is revealed in his undimmed glory - glazed violence already in his eyes. Already focused on Lord Darrow. Fisrae decides to pull back her hood, the glamour, that she had used to cover most of the features that marked her as a half High Fae, half Illyrian, had been taken off, now she radiates royalty as she assesses the lords with an expression that hints that she is well versed in politics. Nevaeh doing the same, her gold eyes sparkling with wisdom and experience despite her appearance of youth, the silver band around her head marking her as Fisraes advisor and second in command.