“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 those words made Aedion pity the captain despite himself. Plans—Aelin had plans for everything, it seemed. She had invited the captain over tonight, he realized, not to discuss anything with her, but for this very conversation. He wondered when she would start confiding in him.

These things took time, he reminded himself. She was used to a lifetime of secrecy; learning to depend on him would take a bit of adjustment.

“I can think of worse alternatives,” Aedion said. “Like Hollin.”

“And what will you and Aelin do about Hollin?” Chaol asked, gazing toward the smoke. “Where do you draw the line?”

“We don’t kill children.”

“Even ones who already show signs of corruption?”

“You don’t get the right to fling that sort of horseshit in our faces—not when your king murdered our family. Our people.”

Chaol’s eyes flickered. “I’m sorry.”

Aedion shook his head. “We’re not enemies. You can trust us—trust Aelin.”

“No, I can’t. Not anymore.”

“Then it’s your loss,” Aedion said. “Good luck.”

It was all he really had to offer the captain.

Chaol stormed out of the warehouse apartment and across the street to where Nesryn was leaning against a building, arms crossed. Beneath the shadows of her hood, her mouth quirked to the side. “What happened?”

He continued down the street, his blood roaring in his veins. “Nothing.”

“What did they say?” Nesryn kept up with him, meeting him step for step.

“None of your business, so drop it. Just because we work together doesn’t mean you’re entitled to know everything that goes on in my life.”

Nesryn stiffened almost imperceptibly, and part of Chaol flinched, already yearning to take the words back.

But it was true. He’d destroyed everything the day he fled the castle—and maybe he’d taken to hanging around with Nesryn because there was no one else who didn’t look at him with pity in their eyes.

Maybe it had been selfish of him to do it.

Nesryn didn’t bother with a good-bye before vanishing down an alley.

At least he couldn’t hate himself any more than he already did.

Lying to Aedion about the blood oath was … awful.

She would tell him—she would find a way to tell him. When things were less new. When he stopped looking at her as though she were a gods-damned miracle and not a lying, cowardly piece of shit.

Maybe the Shadow Market had been her fault.

Crouched on a rooftop, Aelin shook off the cloak of guilt and temper that had been smothering her for hours and turned her attention to the alley below. Perfect.

She’d tracked several different patrols tonight, noting which of the commanders wore black rings, which seemed more brutal than the rest, which didn’t even try to move like humans. The man—or was he a demon now?—hauling open a sewer grate in the street below was one of the milder ones.

She’d wanted to shadow this commander to wherever he made his nest, so she could at least give Chaol that information—prove to him how invested she was in the welfare of this piss-poor city.

This commander’s men had headed for the glowing glass palace, the thick river fog casting the entire hillside in greenish light. But he had veered away, going deeper into the slums and to the sewers beneath them.

She watched him disappear through the sewer grate, then nimbly climbed off the roof, hurrying for the closest entrance that would connect to his. Swallowing that old fear, she quietly entered the sewers a block or two down from where he’d climbed in, and listened carefully.

Dripping water, the reek of refuse, the scurrying of rats …

And splashing steps ahead, around the next big intersection of tunnels. Perfect.

Aelin kept her blades concealed in her suit, not wanting them to rust in the sewer dampness. She clung to the shadows, her steps soundless as she neared the crossroads and peered around the corner. Sure enough, the Valg commander was striding down the tunnel, his back to her, headed deeper into the system.

When he was far enough ahead, she slipped around the corner, keeping to the darkness, avoiding the patches of light that shone through the overhead grates.

Tunnel after tunnel, she trailed him, until he reached a massive pool.