A Court of Dusk and Dragons

6

Aelin stares at the piece of paper, at the names that had been signed long before tonight, the men who decided against her without meeting her, the men who had changed her future, her kingdom, with just their signatures.

"This is absurd." Fisrae scoffs. "Our doom gathers in the South of Adarlan - yet this is what you focus on?"

"When we have need of the Princesses... skill set, we will send word." Darrow sneers.

"The Bane." Aedion says with a hint of that legendary insolence. "Will answer to none but Aelin Galathynius."

"The Bane." Darrow spits. "Is now ours to command. In the event that there is no fit ruler on the throne, the lords control the armies of Terrasen." He again surveys Aelin. "Set foot in Orynth, girl, and you will pay."

"Is that a threat?" Aedion snarls, a hand darting to grip the hilt of the Sword of Orynth sheathed at his side.

"It is the law." Darrow correctd. "One generations of Galathynius rulers have honored."

"The Valg march on us - a Valg king marches on us." Aedion pushes. "And your queen, Darrow, might be the only person capable of keeping them at bay."

"War is a game of numbers, not magic. You know this, Aedion. You fought at Theralis." Darrow points out. "Magic failed us once before. We will not trust in it again."

"We will need allies-" Aedion snaps.

"There are no allies." Darrow counters. "Unless Her Highness decides to be useful and gain us men and arms through marriage." A sharp glance at Rowan. "We are alone." Darrow gives her small, satisfied smile. "Find me allies, Aelin Galathynius, and perhaps we shall consider your role in Terrasens future. Think on it. Thank you for asking us to meet. Silently, Aelin rises to her feet. The other do as well, save for Darrow. She plucks up the piece of paper he had signed and examines the damning words, the scribbled signatures. The crackling fire is the only sound. Aelin silences it. And the candles. And the wrought-iron chandelier over the table. Darkness falls, cleaved only by twin sharp inhales of breath - Murtaugh and Ren. The patter of rain fills the dark room.

"I suggest, Lord Darrow, that you become accustomed to this. For if we lose this war, darkness will reign forever." Aelin tells Darrow. A scratch and a hiss - then a match sputters as it lights a candle on the table. Darrows wrinkled, hateful face flickers into view.

"Men can make their own light, Heir of Brannon." Darrow scoffs. Aelin stares at the sole flame Darrow had sparked. The paper in her hand wilts into ashes. "This is out law - our right. You ignore that decree, Princess, and you defile all that your family stood and died for. The Lords of Terrasen have spoken." Rowan places his hand on Aelins lower back. But Aelin looks to Ren, his face tight.

"Whether or not you vote in my favor, there is a spot for you in this court. For what you helped Aedion and the captain do. For Nehemia." Aelin states. Nehemia, who had worked with Ren, fought with him. Something like pain ripples in Ren's eyes, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Darrow cuts him off.

"What a waste of a life that was," Darrow spits. "A princess actually dedicated to her people, who fought until her last breath for—"

"One more word," Rowan says softly, "and I don't care how many lords support you or what your laws are. One more word about that, and I will gut you before you can get up from that chair. Understand?" For the first time, Darrow looks into Rowan's eyes and blanches at the death he finds waiting there. But the lord's words had found their mark, leaving a shuddering sort of numbness in their wake. Aedion snatches Aelin's dagger off the table.

"We'll take your thoughts into consideration." Aedion scoops up his shield and puts a hand on Aelin's shoulder to guide her from the room. It was only the sight of that dented and scarred shield, the ancient sword hanging at his side, that set her feet moving, slicing through that thick numbness. Ren moves to open the door, stepping into the hall beyond to scan it, giving Lysandra a wide berth as she padds past, Evangeline and Fleetfoot on her fluffy tail, secrecy be damned. Aelin meets the young lord's eyes and draws in a breath to say something, when Lysandra snarls down the hall. A dagger is instantly in Aelin's hand, angled and ready. But it is Darrow's messenger, hurtling for them.