One flick of the wrist, and she could slit his throat. Or she could disable him the way she’d disabled Grave. She could give him the injuries Grave had given Nehemia. She smiled.

“You’re not a murderer,” he whispered.

“Oh, I am,” she purred, torchlight dancing on the dagger as she considered what to do with him.

“Nehemia wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

And though she knew she shouldn’t listen, the words struck home.

Don’t let that light go out.

The darkness that thrived in her soul had no light left. No light—save for a kernel, a faint flicker that grew smaller by the day. Wherever she was now, Nehemia knew how small the flame had become.

Don’t let that light go out.

Celaena felt the tension go out of her body, but she kept her dagger on Archer’s throat until she was on her feet.

“You’re leaving Rifthold tonight,” she told him. “You and all of your friends.”

“Thank you,” Archer breathed, standing.

“If I find out you’re still in the city at dawn,” she said, putting her back to him as she stalked toward the tunnel stairs, “I’ll kill you.” Enough. It was enough.

“Thank you,” Archer said again.

She kept walking, listening for any sign of him moving to attack her back.

“I knew you were a good woman,” he said.

Celaena halted. Turned.

There was a hint of triumph in his eyes. He thought he’d won. Manipulated her again. One foot after another, she walked back toward him with predatory calmness.

She stopped, close enough to kiss him. He gave her a wary smile.

“No, I’m not,” she said. Then she moved, too fast for him to stand a chance.

Archer’s eyes went wide as she slid the dagger home, jamming it up into his heart.

He sagged in her arms. She brought her mouth to his ear, holding him upright with one hand and twisting the dagger with the other as she whispered, “But Nehemia was.”

Chapter 52

Chaol watched blood bubble out of Archer’s lips as Celaena let him slump to the stone floor. She stared down at the body, her final words to him hovering in the air, running claws over Chaol’s already chilled skin. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back as she took a long breath—as if she were embracing the death before her, and the stain it left as payment for her vengeance.

He had arrived in time to hear Archer beg for his life—and utter the words that had been his last mistake. Chaol shifted his boot against the step to warn her that he was there. How much of her Fae senses did she retain when she looked like a human?

Archer’s blood spread across the dark stones, and Celaena opened her eyes as she slowly turned to Chaol. The blood had soaked the ends of her hair, turning them a brilliant red. And her eyes … There was nothing there, as though she’d been hollowed out. For a heartbeat, he wondered if she would kill him, too—just for being there, for seeing the dark truth of her.

She blinked, and the killing calm in her eyes vanished, replaced only by bone-deep weariness and sorrow. An invisible burden that he couldn’t begin to imagine made her shoulders slump. She picked up the black book that Archer had dropped on the damp stones, but let it dangle from her fingers as if it were a piece of dirty clothing.

“I owe you an explanation,” was all she said.

Celaena refused to let the healer look at her until Fleetfoot’s leg had been fixed. It was only a long scratch, but it was deep. Celaena had held Fleetfoot’s head in her arms as the thrashing dog was forced to swallow water laced with a sedative. Dorian helped as best he could while the healer worked on the dog lying unconscious on Celaena’s dining-room table. Chaol leaned against the wall of the room, arms crossed over his chest. He’d said nothing to Dorian since they’d gone down into the passageway.

The young, brown-haired healer didn’t ask any questions, either. Once Fleetfoot was patched up and moved to Celaena’s bed, Dorian insisted Celaena get her head looked at. But Celaena waved him off and told the healer that if she didn’t inspect the Crown Prince first, she’d report her to the king. Scowling, Dorian let the young woman clean the small wound on his temple, received when Celaena had knocked him out cold. Considering how bloody Celaena and Chaol were, he felt utterly ridiculous, even if his head still pounded.

The healer finished with him, giving him a timid, slightly concerned smile. And when it was time to decide who should be looked at next, the glaring contest between Chaol and Celaena was one for the ages.

At last, Chaol just shook his head and slumped into the seat that Dorian had recently vacated. He had blood everywhere, and ended up peeling off his tunic and shirt so the healer could cleanse his minor wounds. Despite the scratches and cuts, the abrasions on his hands and knees, the healer still asked no questions, her pretty face an unreadable, professional mask.

Celaena turned to Dorian, her voice quiet. “I’ll come to your rooms when I’m done here.”

From the corner of his eye, he sensed Chaol stiffening, and Dorian bit down on his surge of jealousy as he realized he was being dismissed. The captain was making a good show of not looking at them. What had happened during the time he’d blacked out? And what had happened when she’d gone to kill Archer?

“Fine,” Dorian said, and thanked the healer for her help.

At least he had time now to piece himself together, to sort through all that had happened in the last few hours. And to plan how to explain his magic to Chaol.

But even as he walked out of the dining room, part of him realized that his magic—that he—was the least of their concerns. Because even from that first day in Endovier, this had always been about them.

Celaena didn’t need a healer to look at her head. When the magic had taken her over, it had somehow healed everything. All that was left of her wounds now were bloodstains and torn clothing. And exhaustion—utter exhaustion.

“I’m taking a bath,” she told Chaol, who still sat shirtless under the healer’s ministrations.

She needed to wash Archer’s blood off her.

She shucked off her clothing and bathed, scrubbing herself until her skin hurt, washing her hair twice. When she emerged, she slipped into a clean tunic and pants, and just as she finished combing out her dripping hair, Chaol walked into her bedroom and sat at the chair before her desk. The healer gone, he’d put his shirt back on, and she could see the white bandages peeking through the rips in the dark cloth.

Celaena checked on Fleetfoot, who was still unconscious on the bed, and then walked to the balcony doors. She studied the night sky for a long moment, seeking out a familiar constellation—the Stag, the Lord of the North. She took a long breath.

“My great-grandmother was Fae,” she said. “And even though my mother couldn’t switch into an animal form the way the Fae can, I somehow inherited the ability to shift. Between my Fae form and my human form.”

“And you can’t shift anymore?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “When magic stopped ten years ago, I lost my ability. It’s what saved my life, I think. As a child, when I was scared or upset or had tantrums, I couldn’t control the shift. I was learning to master it, but I would have given myself away at some point.”