The king merely said, “You came all this way to tell me that?”
“I came all this way to tell you that when I face your rebels, your enemies, I shall have no interest in prisoners. And the Thirteen are not a caravan to transport them as you will.”
She stepped closer to the prince’s horse. “Dorian,” she said. A command and a challenge.
Sapphire eyes snapped to hers. No trace of otherworldly darkness.
Just a man trapped inside.
She faced the king. “You should send your son to Morath. It’d be his sort of place.” Before the king could reply, Manon walked back to Abraxos.
She’d planned on telling the king about Aelin. About the rebels who called themselves Aedion and Rowan and Chaol.
But … they were human and could not travel swiftly—not if they were injured.
She owed her enemy a life debt.
Manon climbed into Abraxos’s saddle. “My grandmother might be High Witch,” she said to the king, “but I ride at the head of the armies.”
The king chuckled. “Ruthless. I think I rather like you, Wing Leader.”
“That weapon my grandmother made—the mirrors. You truly plan to use shadowfire with it?”
The king’s ruddy face tightened with warning. The replica inside the wagon had been a fraction of the size of what was depicted in the plans nailed to the walclass="underline" giant, transportable battle towers, a hundred feet high, their insides lined with the sacred mirrors of the Ancients. Mirrors that were once used to build and break and mend. Now they would be amplifiers, reflecting and multiplying any power the king chose to unleash, until it became a weapon that could be aimed at any target. If the power were Kaltain’s shadowfire …
“You ask too many questions, Wing Leader,” the king said.
“I don’t like surprises,” was her only reply. Except this—this had been a surprise.
The weapon wasn’t for winning glory or triumph or the love of battle. It was for extermination. A full-scale slaughter that would involve little fighting at all. Any opposing army—even Aelin and her warriors—would be defenseless.
The king’s face was turning purple with impatience.
But Manon was already taking to the skies, Abraxos beating his wings hard. She watched the prince until he was a speck of black hair.
And wondered what it was like to be trapped within that body.
Elide Lochan waited for the supply wagon. It didn’t come.
A day late; two days late. She hardly slept for fear it would arrive when she was dozing. When she awoke on the third day, her mouth dry, it was already habit to hurry down to help in the kitchen. She worked until her leg nearly gave out.
Then, just before sunset, the whinny of horses and the clatter of wheels and the shouts of men bounced off the dark stones of the long Keep bridge.
Elide slipped from the kitchen before they could notice her, before the cook could conscript her into performing some new task. She hurried up the steps as best she could with her chain, her heart in her throat. She should have kept her things downstairs, should have found some hiding spot.
Up and up, into Manon’s tower. She’d refilled the water skein each morning, and had amassed a little supply of food in a pouch. Elide threw open the door to Manon’s room, surging for the pallet where she kept her supplies.
But Vernon was inside.
He sat on the edge of Manon’s bed as if it were his own.
“Going somewhere, Elide?”
63 
“Where on earth could you be headed?” Vernon said as he stood, smug as a cat.
Panic bleated in her veins. The wagon—the wagon—
“Was that the plan all along? To hide among those witches, and then run?”
Elide backed toward the door. Vernon clicked his tongue.
“We both know there’s no point in running. And the Wing Leader isn’t going to be here anytime soon.”
Elide’s knees wobbled. Oh, gods.
“But is my beautiful, clever niece human—or witch-kind? Such an important question.” He grabbed her by the elbow, a small knife in his hand. She could do nothing against the stinging slice in her arm, the red blood that welled. “Not a witch at all, it seems.”
“I am a Blackbeak,” Elide breathed. She would not bow to him, would not cower.
Vernon circled her. “Too bad they’re all up north and can’t verify it.”
Fight, fight, fight, her blood sang—do not let him cage you. Your mother went down fighting. She was a witch, and you are a witch, and you do not yield—you do not yield—
Vernon lunged, faster than she could avoid in her chains, one hand gripping her under the arm while the other slammed her head into the wood so hard that her body just—stopped.
That was all he needed—that stupid pause—to pin her other arm, gripping both in his hand while the other now clenched on her neck hard enough to hurt, to make her realize that her uncle had once trained as her father had. “You’re coming with me.”
“No.” The word was a whisper of breath.
His grip tightened, twisting her arms until they barked in pain. “Don’t you know what a prize you are? What you might be able to do?”
He yanked her back, opening the door. No—no, she wouldn’t let him take her, wouldn’t—
But screaming would do her no good. Not in a Keep full of monsters. Not in a world where no one remembered she existed, or bothered to care. She stilled, and he took that as acquiescence. She could feel his smile at the back of her head as he nudged her into the stairwell.
“Blackbeak blood is in your veins—along with our family’s generous line of magic.” He hauled her down the stairs, and bile burned her throat. There was no one coming for her—because she had belonged to no one. “The witches don’t have magic, not like us. But you, a hybrid of both lines …” Vernon gripped her arm harder, right over the cut he’d made, and she cried out. The sound echoed, hollow and small, down the stone stairwell. “You do your house a great honor, Elide.”
Vernon left her in a freezing dungeon cell.
No light.
No sound, save for the dripping of water somewhere.
Shaking, Elide didn’t even have the words to beg as Vernon tossed her inside. “You brought this upon yourself, you know,” he said, “when you allied with that witch and confirmed my suspicions that their blood flows through your veins.” He studied her, but she was gobbling down the details of the cell—anything, anything to get her out. She found nothing. “I’ll leave you here until you’re ready. I doubt anyone will notice your absence, anyway.”
He slammed the door, and darkness swallowed her entirely.
She didn’t bother trying the handle.
Manon was summoned by the duke the moment she set foot in Morath.
The messenger was cowering in the archway to the aerie, and could barely get the words out as he took in the blood and dirt and dust that still covered Manon.
She’d contemplated snapping her teeth at him just for trembling like a spineless fool, but she was drained, her head was pounding, and anything more than basic movement required far too much thought.
None of the Thirteen had dared say anything about her grandmother—that she had approved of the breeding.
Sorrel and Vesta trailing mere steps behind her, Manon flung open the doors to the duke’s council chamber, letting the slamming wood say enough about what she thought of being summoned immediately.