CHAPTER 102
They had cleared a small chamber near the Great Hall for his viewing.
The room lit by whatever candles could be spared, the ancient stones were cast in flickering relief around the table where they’d
laid him.
Lysandra lingered in the doorway as she gazed toward the sheet-draped body at the
back of the room.
Ren knelt before him, head bowed. As he had done for hours now. Ever since word had come at sundown that Murtaugh had fallen.
Hewn down by Valg foot soldiers as he
sought to staunch their flow over the city walls courtesy of one of their siege towers.
They had carried Murtaugh back from the city wall, a throng of soldiers around him.
Even from the skies, flying in with the witches after Morath had given the order to halt once more, Lysandra had heard Ren’s scream. Had seen from high above as Ren ran
down the battlements to the body borne through the city streets.
Aedion had been there within seconds. Had kept Ren upright as the young lord had sobbed, and had half carried him here, despite the fresh wounds on the prince.
And so Aedion had stayed. Standing vigil
beside Ren all this time, a hand on his
shoulder.
Lysandra had come with Evangeline. Had held the stunned girl while she cried, and lingered while Evangeline strode to
Murtaugh’s body to press a kiss to his brow.
As much as the sheet would allow them to see,
after what the Valg had done.
She had escorted her ward from the
chamber just as Darrow and the others
arrived.
Lysandra hadn’t bothered to look at Darrow, at any of them who hadn’t dared to do what Murtaugh had done. His death, they’d learned, had rallied the men at the wall. Made them topple that siege tower. A lucky, costly
victory.
Lysandra had helped Evangeline bathe, made sure she got a hot meal, and tucked her into bed before returning.
Finding Aedion still beside Ren, his hand still on the kneeling lord’s shoulder.
So she’d lingered here, at the doorway. Her own vigil, while the well of her power refilled, while the wounds she’d sustained
healed over inch by inch.
Aedion murmured something to Ren, and withdrew his hand. She wondered if they were his first words in hours.
Aedion turned toward her then, blinking.
Hollowed out. Gutted. Exhausted and grieving and bearing a weight she couldn’t stand to see.
Even Aedion’s usual stalking gait was barely more than a trudge.
She followed him out, glancing back only once to where Ren still knelt, head bowed.
Such terrible silence around him.
Lysandra kept pace beside Aedion as he turned toward the dining hall. At this hour, food would be scarce, but she’d find it. For both of them. Would go hunting if she needed to.
She opened her mouth to tell Aedion just
that.
But tears slid down his face, cutting
through blood and grime.
Lysandra stopped, tugging him into a halt.
He didn’t meet her eyes as she wiped his tears away from one cheek. Then the other.
“I should have been at the western wall,”
he said, voice breaking.
She knew no words would comfort him. So she wiped Aedion’s tears again, tears he would only show in this shadowed hall, after all others had found their beds.
And when he still didn’t meet her stare, she cupped his face, lifting his head.
For a heartbeat, for eternity, they stared at each other.
She couldn’t stand it, the bleakness, the
grief, in his face. Couldn’t endure it.
Lysandra rose onto her toes and brushed her mouth over his.
A whisper of a kiss, a promise of life when death hovered.
She pulled away, finding Aedion’s face as distraught as it had been before.
So she kissed him again. And lingered by his mouth as she whispered, “He was a good man. A brave and noble man. So are you.” She kissed him a third time. “And when this war is over, however it may end, I will still be here, with you. Whether in this life or the next, Aedion.”
He closed his eyes, as if breathing in her words. His chest indeed heaved, his broad
shoulders shaking.
Then he opened his eyes, and they were pure turquoise flame, fueled by that grief and anger and defiance at the death around them.
He gripped her waist in one hand, the other plunging into her hair, and tipped her head
back as his mouth met hers.
The kiss seared her down to her ever- changing bones, and she wrapped her arms
around his neck as she held him tightly.
Alone in the dark, quiet hall, death squatting on the battlefield nearby, Lysandra gave herself to that searing kiss, to Aedion, unable to stop her moan as his tongue flicked against hers.
The sound was his unleashing, and Aedion twisted them, backing her against the wall.
She arched, desperate to feel him against all of her. He growled into her mouth, and the hand at her hip slid to her thigh, hoisting it around his waist as he ground into her, exactly where she needed him.
Aedion tore his mouth from hers and began to explore her neck, her jaw, her ear. She breathed his name, running her hands down his powerful back as it flexed under her touch.
More. More. More.
More of this life, this fire to burn away all
shadows.
More of him.
Lysandra slid her hands to his chest, fingers digging into the breast of his jacket, seeking the warm skin beneath. Aedion only nipped at her ear, dragged his teeth along her jaw, and seized her mouth in another plundering kiss that had her moaning again.
Footsteps scuffed down the hall, along with
a pointed cough, and Aedion stilled.
Loud—they must have been so loud—
But Aedion didn’t budge, though Lysandra unwrapped her leg from around his waist. Just
as the sentry walked past, eyes down.
Walked past quickly.
Aedion tracked the man the entire time, nothing human in Aedion’s eyes. An apex predator who had found his prey at last.
No, not prey. Never with him.
But his partner. His mate.
When the sentry had vanished around the
corner, no doubt running to tell everyone what he’d interrupted, when Aedion leaned to kiss her again, Lysandra halted him with a gentle
hand to his mouth. “Tomorrow,” she said softly.
Aedion let out a snarl—though one without
any bite.
“Tomorrow,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek, stepping out of his arms. “Live through tomorrow, fight through tomorrow, and we’ll … continue.”
His breathing was ragged, eyes wary. “Was this from pity?” A broken, miserable question.
Lysandra slid her hand against his stubble- coated cheek and pressed her mouth against his. Let herself taste him again. “It is because I am sick of all this death. And I needed you.”
Aedion made a low, pained sound, so Lysandra kissed him a final time. Went so far as to run her tongue along the seam of his lips.
He opened for her, and then they were tangled in each other again, teeth and tongues and
hands roaming, touching, tasting.
But Lysandra managed to extract herself again, her breathing as jagged as his own.
“Tomorrow, Aedion,” she breathed.
“We have enough left in our arsenal for our archers to use for another three days, maybe four if they conserve their stores,” Lord Darrow said, arms crossed as he read through the tally.
Manon didn’t dislike the old man—part of her even admired his iron-fisted control. But
these war councils each evening were beginning to tire her.
Especially when they brought bleaker and
bleaker news.
Yesterday, there had been one more standing in this chamber. Lord Murtaugh.
Today, only his grandson sat in a chair, his
eyes red-rimmed. A living wraith.
“Food stores?” Aedion asked from the other side of the table. The general-prince had seen better days, too. They all had. Every face in this room had the same bleak, battered
expression.
“We have food for a month at least,”
Darrow said. “But none of that will matter without anyone to defend the walls.”
Captain Rolfe stepped up to the table. “The firelances are down to the dregs. We’ll be
lucky if they last through tomorrow.”
“Then we conserve them, too,” Manon said. “Use them only for any higher-ranking
Valg that make it over the city walls.”
Rolfe nodded. Another man she begrudgingly admired—though his swaggering could grate.
It was an effort not to look to the sealed
doors to the chamber. Where Asterin and Sorrel should have been waiting. Defending.
Instead, Petrah and Bronwen stood there.
Not as her new Second and Third, but just representatives from their own factions.
“Let’s say we make the arrows last for four days,” Ansel of Briarcliff said, frowning deeply. “And make the firelances last for three, if used conservatively. Once they’re out, what remains?”
“The catapults still work,” provided one of the silver-haired Fae royals. The female one.
“They’re for inflicting damage far out on the field, though,” said Prince Galan, who, like Aedion, bore Aelin’s eyes. “Not close
fighting.”
“Then we have our swords,” Aedion said hoarsely. “Our courage.”
The latter, Manon knew, was running low, too.
“We can keep the Ironteeth at bay,” Manon said, “but cannot also aid you at the walls.”
They were indeed fighting a relentless tide that did not diminish.
“So is this the end, then?” Ansel asked. “In
four, five days, we offer our necks to
Morath?”
“We fight to the last of us,” Aedion growled. “To the very last one.”
Even Lord Darrow did not object to that.
So they departed, meeting over.
There wasn’t anything else to discuss.
Within a few days, they’d all be a grand feast for the crows.