on his face stark in the moonlight. “But he chose fire.”
Aelin went impossibly still.
Aedion snarled. “You’re a prick for suggesting the attack was a message for her.”
Chaol at last turned his attention toward him. “You think it’s not true?”
Aelin cocked her head. “You came all this way to fling accusations in my face?”
“You told me to stop by tonight,” Chaol retorted, and Aedion was half tempted to punch his teeth down his throat for the tone he used. “But I came to ask why you haven’t moved on the clock tower. How many more innocent people are going to be caught in the crossfire of this?”
It was an effort to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t need to speak for Aelin, who said with flawless venom, “Are you suggesting that I don’t care?”
“You risked everything—multiple lives—to get out one man. I think you find this city and its citizens to be expendable.”
Aelin hissed, “Need I remind you, Captain, that you went to Endovier and did not blink at the slaves, at the mass graves? Need I remind you that I was starved and chained, and you let Duke Perrington force me to the ground at Dorian’s feet while you did nothing? And now you have the nerve to accuse me of not caring, when many of the people in this city have profited off the blood and misery of the very people you ignored?”
Aedion stifled the snarl working its way up his throat. The captain had never said that about the initial meeting with his queen. Never said he hadn’t stepped in while she was manhandled, humiliated. Had the captain even flinched at the scars on her back, or merely examined them as though she were some prize animal?
“You don’t get to blame me,” Aelin breathed. “You don’t get to blame me for the Shadow Market.”
“This city still needs protecting,” Chaol snapped.
Aelin shrugged, heading for the roof door. “Or maybe this city should burn,” she murmured. A chill went down Aedion’s spine, even though he knew she’d said it to piss off the captain. “Maybe the world should burn,” she added, and stalked off the roof.
Aedion turned to the captain. “You want to pick a fight, you come to me, not her.”
The captain just shook his head and stared across the slums. Aedion followed his gaze, taking in the capital twinkling around them.
He’d hated this city from the very first time he’d spotted the white walls, the glass castle. He’d been nineteen, and had bedded and reveled his way from one end of Rifthold to the other, trying to find something, anything, to explain why Adarlan thought it was so gods-damned superior, why Terrasen had fallen to its knees before these people. And when Aedion had finished with the women and the parties, after Rifthold had dumped its riches at his feet and begged him for more, more, more, he’d still hated it—even more than before.
And all that time, and every time after, he’d had no idea that what he truly sought, what his shredded heart still dreamed of, was dwelling in a house of killers mere blocks away.
At last, the captain said, “You look more or less in one piece.”
Aedion gave him a wolf’s grin. “And you won’t be, if you speak to her that way again.”
Chaol shook his head. “Did you learn anything about Dorian while you were in the castle?”
“You insult my queen and yet have the nerve to ask me for that information?”
Chaol rubbed his brows with his thumb and forefinger. “Please—just tell me. Today has been bad enough.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been hunting the Valg commanders in the sewers since the fight in the Pits. We tracked them to their new nests, thank the gods, but found no sign of humans being held prisoner. Yet more people have vanished than ever—right under our noses. Some of the other rebels want to abandon Rifthold. Establish ourselves in other cities in anticipation of the Valg spreading.”
“And you?”
“I don’t leave without Dorian.”
Aedion didn’t have the heart to ask if that meant alive or dead. He sighed. “He came to me in the dungeons. Taunted me. There was no sign of the man inside him. He didn’t even know who Sorscha was.” And then, maybe because he was feeling particularly kind, thanks to the golden-haired blessing in the apartment beneath, Aedion said, “I’m sorry—about Dorian.”
Chaol’s shoulders sagged, as if an invisible weight pushed against them. “Adarlan needs to have a future.”
“So make yourself king.”
“I’m not fit to be king.” The self-loathing in