The wooden chair was smooth beneath her. Her head still ached, and the places where Farran’s men had struck her were still sore.

The room was large, but sparsely appointed. She’d been shoved into a chair set in the center of the room, a safe distance from the massive table on the far end—the table at which twelve men sat facing her.

She didn’t care who they were, or what their role was. She could feel their eyes on her, though. Everyone in the room—the men at the table and the dozens of guards—was watching her.

A hanging or a beheading. Her throat closed up.

There was no point in fighting, not now.

She deserved this. For more reasons than she could count. She should never have allowed Sam to convince her to dispatch Farran on his own. It was her fault, all of it, set in motion the day she’d arrived in Skull’s Bay and decided to make a stand for something.

A small door at the back of the room opened, and the men at the table got to their feet.

Heavy boots stomping across the floor, the guards straightening and saluting …

The King of Adarlan entered the room.

She wouldn’t look at him. Let him do what he wanted to her. If she looked into his eyes, what semblance of calm she had would be shredded. So it was better to feel nothing than to cower before him—the butcher who had destroyed so much of Erilea. Better to go to her grave numb and dazed than begging.

A chair at the center of the table was pulled back. The men around the king didn’t sit until he did.

Then silence.

The wooden floor of the room was so polished that she could see the reflection of the iron chandelier hanging far above her.

A low chuckle, like bone against rock. Even without looking at him, she could sense his sheer mass—the darkness swirling around him.

“I didn’t believe the rumors until now,” the king said, “but it seems the guards were not lying about your age.”

A faint urge to cover her ears, to shut out that wretched voice, flickered in the back of her mind.

“How old are you?”

She didn’t reply. Sam was gone. Nothing she could do—even if she fought, even if she raged—could change that.

“Did Rourke Farran get his claws on you, or are you just being willful?”

Farran’s face, leering at her, smiling so viciously as she was helpless before him.

“Very well, then,” the king said. Papers being shuffled, the only sound in the deathly silent room. “Do you deny that you are Celaena Sardothien? If you do not speak, then I will take your silence for acquiescence, girl.”

She kept her mouth shut.

“Then read the charges, Councilor Rensel.”

A male throat was cleared. “You, Celaena Sardothien, are charged with the deaths of the following people …” And then he began a long recitation of all those lives she’d taken. The brutal story of a girl who was now gone. Arobynn had always seen to it that the world knew of her handiwork. He always got word out through secret channels when another victim had fallen to Celaena Sardothien. And now, the very thing that had earned her the right to call herself Adarlan’s Assassin would be what sealed her doom. When it was over, the man said, “Do you deny any of the charges?”

Her breathing was so slow.

“Girl,” the councilman said a bit shrilly, “we will take your lack of response to mean you do not deny them. Do you understand that?”

She didn’t bother to nod. It was all over, anyway.

“Then I will decide your sentence,” the king growled.

Then there was murmuring, more rustling papers, and a cough. The light on the floor flickered. The guards in the room remained focused on her, weapons at the ready.

Footsteps suddenly thudded toward her from the table, and she heard the sound of weapons being angled. She recognized the footsteps before the king even reached her chair.

“Look at me.”

She kept her gaze on his boots.

“Look at me.”

It made no difference now, did it? He’d already destroyed so much of Erilea—destroyed parts of her without even knowing it.

“Look at me.”

Celaena raised her head and looked at the King of Adarlan.

The blood drained from her face. Those black eyes were poised to devour the world; the features were harsh and weathered. He wore a sword at his side—the sword whose name everyone knew—and a fine tunic and fur cloak. No crown rested on his head.

She had to get away. Had to get out of this room, get away from him.

Get away.

“Do you have any last requests before I announce your sentence?” he asked, those eyes still searing through every defense she’d ever learned. She could still smell the smoke that had suffocated every inch of Terrasen nine years ago, still smell the sizzling flesh and hear the futile screams as the king and his armies wiped out every last trace of resistance, every last trace of magic. No matter what Arobynn had trained her to do, the memories of those last weeks as Terrasen fell were imprinted upon her blood. So she just stared at him.

When she didn’t reply, he turned on his heel and walked back to the table.

She had to get away. Forever. Brash, foolish fire flared up, and turned her—only for a moment—into that girl again.

“I do,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.

The king paused and looked over his shoulder at her.

She smiled, a wicked, wild thing. “Make it quick.”

It was a challenge, not a plea. The king’s council and the guards shifted, some of them murmuring.

The king’s eyes narrowed slightly, and when he smiled at her, it was the most horrific thing she’d ever seen.

“Oh?” he said, turning to face her fully.

That foolish fire went out.

“If it is an easy death you desire, Celaena Sardothien, I will certainly not give it to you. Not until you have adequately suffered.”

The world balanced on the edge of a knife, slipping, slipping, slipping.

“You, Celaena Sardothien, are sentenced to nine lives’ worth of labor in the Salt Mines of Endovier.”

Her blood turned to ice. The councilmen all glanced at one another. Obviously, this option hadn’t been discussed beforehand.

“You will be sent with orders to keep you alive for as long as possible—so you will have the chance to enjoy Endovier’s special kind of agony.”

Endovier.

Then the king turned away.

Endovier.

There was a flurry of motion, and the king barked an order to have her on the first wagon out of the city. Then there were hands on her arms, and crossbows pointed at her as she was half-dragged out of the room.

Endovier.

She was thrown in her dungeon cell for minutes, or hours, or a day. Then more guards came to fetch her, leading her up the stairs, into the still-blinding sun.

Endovier.

New shackles, hammered shut. The dark interior of a prison wagon. The turn of multiple locks, the jostle of horses starting into a walk, and many other horses surrounding the wagon.

Through the small window high in the door wall, she could see the capital, the streets she knew so well, the people milling about and glancing at the prison wagon and the mounted guards, but not thinking about who might be inside. The golden dome of the Royal Theater in the distance, the briny scent of a breeze off the Avery, the emeraldtiled roofs and white stones of every building.