"Thank the Gods," her cousin repeated, putting out his arm and leaning against the bars of her cell to steady himself.
"The Gods are gone, Aedion." She replied softly. "There's no one left for you to thank."
He let out a mirthless laugh. "After eight years, that's what you have to say to me?"
"Here I sit, there you stand, with a thousand miles and moments between." She shrugged nonchalantly, though there was nothing to be nonchalant about. "What is there to say?"
"I don't know! Have you forgotten pleasantries?"
"It's so nice to see you, my dearest cousin. I hope you're doing well, and that the prospect of my imminent death sentence isn't doing anything to ruin your day." She deadpanned with faux cheerfulness, a heaviness she wasn't used to feeling burdening her heart. He rolled his eyes.
"Your jokes aren't going to get you anywhere, Aelin." He said seriously. Celaena fought back a wince at his grim face. "So how are we going to have you escape?"
She froze. "What?" He couldn't be serious.
He tossed her an impatient glance. "Of course we're getting you out of here. Terrasen needs you." He leaned against the bars, making sure she kept eye contact with him. "I just got you back, Aelin. I'm not about to stand by and let you get carted off like so much meat to those dogs in the slave labour camp. We can finally go home."
Go home? Return to the place where she'd lost the Amulet of Orynth, where she'd lost everything?
And she wasn't stupid. She knew what Aedion was expecting her to do. Escaping Adarlan and travelling to Terrasen would lead to unveiling herself to her people - people who were no longer hers. It would include gaining people's support, giving hope. Fighting back.
Rebelling against Adarlan.
She swallowed. "Home." She echoed. The word reverberated through her mind, dredging up phantom feelings. A home with her parents. A home with her grandfather. A home with Sam.
All gone and turned to dust by Adarlan.
She looked up, resolving to debate on this later. One's decision's about life were often made in bias when one is faced with the prospect of nine lifetimes in a death camp. "First thing's first," she said. "Let's not get in over our heads. I have to get out of this gods-damned prison cell first."
He cracked a barely there smile. "How can the Gods damn something when they no longer exist?" She fought a scowl.
Nevertheless, he joined her in consideration. "The wagons they use to escort prisoners are generally accompanied by one guard per prisoner, but I'm sure they'll be a touch more careful with Adarlan's Assassin. I'll see what I can do."
She glared at him, not reassured in the least. "You'll see what you can do?"
He nodded. "I have faith in you, Aelin. Can you have faith in me?"
The fact that he punctuated his first sentence with her old name made her stomach crawl. He had faith in Aelin, the girl he'd always protected - not Celaena.
But she met his eyes, so similar to her own, and willed him to look through her. Willed him to see her blood-stained soul, and her utter uselessness at anything besides killing. Her cousin continued looking at her, perfectly steady, with that same dependability she remembered from all those years ago. But he had changed as well - perhaps just as much as her.
She nodded. "Alright."
Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Aedion nodded once then turned and marched down the corridor with all the authority that befitted a General. She'd forgotten to ask him about the title the Crown Prince had addressed him with. She watched him go, wearing a mask of apathy.
Could she really do this? Could she really go back there? Not so long ago she'd stood on the beach in Skull's Bay, listening to the hissing of the sea and felt a cold breeze smelling of pine and snow, of a city still in winter's grasp. She'd stood there as the moon went behind a cloud and watched as the stars and constellations shone brighter, the Stag, Lord of the North, the brightest of all as he pointed out to her the way home. She stood there, basking in his light, but known in her heart that she could never return to the city with the opal tower.
She could never return to Orynth. To Terrasen.
She looked down at her hands. They were small and looked delicate - a pianist's hands, built for playing the pianoforte as beautifully as she did. But they were covered in countless scars and scrapes, painted with blue, black, red and purple like someone had squeezed berries over the pages of a book, the faint mapping of veins she could see just below the surface the words obscured. Her veins pulsed with power, the way a word pulses with meaning.
But magic was gone, and with it, any powerful advantage she might hold. Her veins held no corporeal power, like a word in a language you didn't speak might.
Celaena took a deep breath, surprised to find within her a thread of steel forming her resolve. She did not have to decide now. She just needed to trust Aedion and escape this life she'd thought she would be stuck with forever. Then she could continue from there.
It wouldn't free Terrasen. But it was a start.
Chaol Westfall scowled at his closest friend as he made a fool out of himself in front of the King. Once Dorian had been dismissed Chaol dragged him down the corridors of the glass castle, his sturdy boots colliding with the floor so hard a part of him half-feared he would punch right through the transparent material.
Once they were a good hundred paces from the throne room, Dorian yanked away from where the Captain had him by the collar of his shirt and scowled at his lifelong friend, resembling in that moment nothing more than a child whose just had his favourite toy wrestled away from him. "What was that for?!"
Chaol gritted his teeth. "As much as I hate to admit it, Aedion Ashryver-" He spat the name; that arrogant fool was the last person he'd give respect to. Whilst they were fighting for the same kingdom, Aedion was a traitor to his homeland. "-was right. Your father has two sons. You know you're already out of favour with him due to the fact you prefer to read rather than fight. It's the most spectacularly stupid thing you can do, aggravating him. If you give him back talk, he might decide you're just not worth the effort of becoming the next king. And I would really like it if I didn't wake up one day to find you with your throat slit and Hollin being addressed as the Crown Prince. You have an empire to inherit, Dorian. Grow up and prove you're worthy."
He supposed he was an idiot for not anticipating the round of droll, sarcastic clapping that followed his little - albeit passionate - rant. "Calm down, Chaol," Dorian drawled, his voice as slow as his applause. "As awe-inspiring and motivational as that speech was, I'm not in any immediate danger."
"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" Chaol practically yelled in response. He forcibly quietened his voice, steering himself and the prince into a more secluded part of the castle. "You never take anything seriously! I'd bet half my gold that if the glass castle were to smash and come toppling down you would continue reading your book amongst the onslaught. You need to take action. You need to-"
The words died in his mouth. He would try to call them back, but the sight that greeted him as they rounded a corner was filling every square inch of available space in his mind.
A man - Chaol thought he recognised him as one of his guards - lay on the floor, clearly dead. No person remained alive after that had been done to them.
Half of the flesh on his face had been stripped away, bones jutting out of the mass of gore like stiff white fingers in the grip of rigor mortis. One fluid motion had sliced him open from nape to navel, the empty, bloody cavities inside showing where his internal organs had been removed. A hole was bashed in his skull, judging by the amount of damage around the area. The blood that polished the floor seemed too much to fit into the shrivelled husk of a body. Numerous smears were rubbed around the body and on the walls, but Chaol didn't know what to make of them.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dorian's face drop from the mocking grin to a silent gasp of abject horror. Chaol met his eyes and set his mouth in a grim line.
A scream wrenched them back into reality a moment later when a serving girl - one of the ones often seen winking at Dorian, Chaol noted distantly - came round the corner at the opposite end of the corridor. The moment her eyes landed on the body she screamed, a high, heart-shattering scream, dropped her basket and fled like whatever had done this to the man might go for her. The basket rolled, the white clothes in it falling out and getting soaked in crimson once they landed amongst all the blood on the floor.
So much blood.
Chaol took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. He was trained for this. "Ress," he called, catching the attention of the guard on duty in this hallway. A pair of frightened but stoic brown eyes were turned to him, awaiting orders. "Raise the alarm. Alert the king of what happened, and gather the rest of the guards. Let's see what happened here." He turned to Dorian. "I really hope I don't have to tell you to leave."
"You don't," his old friend replied solemnly. To his surprise, Dorian left without an argument.
Chaol let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, bracing his palms on his thighs, before he looked back at the corpse. What sort of monster would do this?
If you have any requests for where you want the plotline of this to go, I'm all ears.
I'll be introducing Nehemia next chapter!
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