She was busy wiping down a copper pot when someone let out a low, appreciative whistle in her direction. “Now that is one of the most glorious black eyes I’ve ever beheld.” A tall old man—­handsome despite being around Emrys’s age—­strode through the kitchen, empty platter in his hands.

   “You leave her be, too, Malakai,” Emrys said from the hearth. His husband—­mate. The old man gave a dashing grin and set down the platter on the counter near Celaena.

   “Rowan ­doesn’t pull punches, does he?” His gray hair was cropped short enough to reveal his pointed ears, but his face was ruggedly human. “And it looks like you don’t bother using a healing salve.” She held his gaze but gave no reply. Malakai’s grin faded. “My mate works too much as it is. You don’t add to that burden, understand?”

   Emrys growled his name, but Celaena shrugged. “I don’t want to bother with any of you.”

   Malakai caught the unspoken warning in her words—so don’t try to bother with me—­and gave her a curt nod. She heard, more than saw, him stride to Emrys and kiss him, then the rumble of some murmured, stern words, and then his steady footsteps as he walked out again.

   “Even the demi-­Fae warrior males push overprotective to a ­whole new level,” Emrys said, the words laced with forced lightness.

   “It’s in our blood,” Luca said, lifting his chin. “It is our duty, honor, and life’s mission to make sure our families are cared for. Especially our mates.”

   “And it makes you a thorn in our side,” Emrys clucked. “Possessive, territorial beasts.” The old man strode to the sink, setting down the cool kettle for Celaena to wash. “My mate means well, lass. But you’re a stranger—­and from Adarlan. And you’re training with . . . someone none of us quite understand.”

   Celaena dumped the kettle in the sink. “I don’t care,” she said. And meant it.

   •

   Training was horrible that day. Not just because Rowan asked if she was going to vomit or piss herself again, but also because for hours—hours—he made her sit amongst the temple ruins on the ridge, battered by the misty wind. He wanted her to shift—­that was his only command.

   She demanded to know why he ­couldn’t teach her the magic without shifting, and he gave her the same answer again and again: no shift, no magic lessons. But after yesterday, nothing short of him taking his long dagger and cutting her ears into points would get her to change forms. She tried once—­when he stalked into the woods for some privacy. She tugged and yanked and pulled at what­ever lay deep inside her, but got nothing. No flash of light or searing pain.

   So they sat on the mountainside, Celaena frozen to the bone. At least she didn’t lose control again, no matter what insults he threw her way, either aloud or through one of their silent, vicious conversations. She asked him why he ­wasn’t pursuing the creature that had been in the barrow-­wights’ field, and he merely said that he was looking into it, and the rest was none of her concern.

   Thunderclouds clustered during the late afternoon. Rowan forced her to sit through the storm until her teeth ­were clattering in her skull and her blood was thick with ice, and then they finally made the trek to the fortress. He ditched her by the baths again, eyes glimmering with an unspoken promise that tomorrow would be worse.

   When she finally emerged, there ­were dry clothes in her room, folded and placed with such care that she was starting to wonder whether she didn’t have some invisible servant shadowing her. There was no way in hell an immortal like Rowan would have bothered to do that for a human.

   She debated staying in her rooms for the rest of the night, especially as rain lashed at her window, lightning illuminating the trees beyond. But her stomach gurgled. She was light-­headed again, and knew she’d been eating like an idiot. With her black eye, the best thing to do was eat—­even if it meant going to the kitchens.

   She waited until she thought everyone had gone upstairs. There ­were always leftovers after breakfast—­there had to be some at dinner. Gods, she was bone-­tired. And ached even worse than she had this morning.

   She heard the voices long before she entered the kitchen and almost turned back, but—­no one had spoken to her at breakfast save Malakai. Surely everyone would ignore her now, too.

   She’d estimated a good number of people in the kitchen, but was still a bit surprised by how packed it was. Chairs and cushions had been dragged in, all facing the hearth, before which Emrys and Malakai sat, chatting with those gathered. There was food on every surface, as if dinner had been held in ­here. Keeping to the shadows atop the stairs, she observed them. The dining hall was spacious, if a bit cold—­why gather around the kitchen hearth?

   She didn’t particularly care—­not when she saw the food. She slipped in through the gathered crowd with practiced stealth and ease, filling up a plate with roast chicken, potatoes (gods, she was already sick of potatoes), and hot bread. Everyone was still chatting; those who didn’t have seats ­were standing against the counters or walls, laughing and sipping from their mugs of ale.

   The upper half of the kitchen door was open to let out the heat from all the bodies, the sound of rain filling the room like a drum. She caught a glimmer of movement outside, but when she looked, there was nothing there.

   Celaena was about to slip back up the stairs when Malakai clapped his hands and everyone stopped talking. Celaena paused again in the shadows of the stairwell. Smiles spread, and people settled in. Seated on the floor in front of Emrys’s chair was Luca, a pretty young woman pressed into his side, his arm casually draped around her shoulders—­casually, but with enough of a grip to tell every other male in the room that she was his. Celaena rolled her eyes, not at all surprised.

   Still, she caught the look Luca gave the girl, the mischief in his eyes that sent a pang of jealousy right through her. She’d looked at Chaol with that same expression. But their relationship had never been as unburdened, and even if she hadn’t ended things, it never would have been like that. The ring on her finger became a weight.

   Lightning flashed, revealing the grass and forest beyond. Seconds later, thunder shook the stones, triggering a few shrieks and laughs.

   Emrys cleared his throat, and every eye snapped to his lined face. The ancient hearth illuminated his silver hair, casting shadows throughout the room. “Long ago,” Emrys began, his voice weaving between the drumming rain and grumbling thunder and crackling fire, “when there was no mortal king on Wendlyn’s throne, the faeries still walked among us. Some ­were good and fair, some ­were prone to little mischiefs, and some ­were fouler and darker than the blackest night.”

   Celaena swallowed. These ­were words that had been spoken in front of hearths for thousands of years—­spoken in kitchens like this one. Tradition.