He didn’t complain. He’d demanded to be allowed to help, and Aelin had refused.

He’d insisted he was fit to fight, and she had merely said, “Prove it.”

So here they were. He and the Fae Prince had been going through a workout routine with sparring sticks for the past thirty minutes, and it was thoroughly kicking his ass. The wound on his side was one wrong move away from splitting, but he gritted through it.

The pain was welcome, considering the thoughts that had kept him up all night. That Rhoe and Evalin had never told him, that his mother had died to conceal the knowledge of who sired him, that he was half Fae—and that he might not know for another decade how he would age. If he would outlast his queen.

And his father—Gavriel. That was a whole other path to be explored. Later. Perhaps it’d be useful, if Maeve made good on the threat she posed, now that one of his father’s legendary companions was hunting Aelin in this city.

Lorcan.

Shit. The stories he’d heard about Lorcan had been full of glory and gore—mostly the latter. A male who didn’t make mistakes, and who was ruthless with those who did.

Dealing with the King of Adarlan was bad enough, but having an immortal enemy at their backs … Shit. And if Maeve ever saw fit to send Gavriel over here … Aedion would find a way to endure it, as he’d found a way to endure everything in his life.

Aedion was finishing a maneuver with the stick that the prince had shown him twice now when Aelin paused her own exercising. “I think that’s enough for today,” she said, barely winded.

Aedion stiffened at the dismissal already in her eyes. He’d been waiting all morning for this. For the past ten years, he had learned everything he could from mortals. If warriors came to his territory, he’d use his considerable charms to convince them to teach him what they knew. And whenever he’d ventured outside of his lands, he’d made a point to glean as much as he could about fighting and killing from whoever lived there. So pitting himself against a purebred Fae warrior, direct from Doranelle, was an opportunity he couldn’t waste. He wouldn’t let his cousin’s pity wreck it.

“I heard a story,” Aedion drawled to Rowan, “that you killed an enemy warlord using a table.”

“Please,” Aelin said. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Quinn—your uncle’s Captain of the Guard. He was an admirer of Prince Rowan’s. He knew all the stories.”

Aelin slid her eyes to Rowan, who smirked, bracing his sparring stick on the floor. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “What—you squashed him to death like a pressed grape?”

Rowan choked. “No, I didn’t squash him like a grape.” He gave the queen a feral smile. “I ripped the leg off the table and impaled him with it.”

“Clean through the chest and into the stone wall,” Aedion said.

“Well,” said Aelin, snorting, “I’ll give you points for resourcefulness, at least.”

Aedion rolled his neck. “Let’s get back to it.”

But Aelin gave Rowan a look that pretty much said, Don’t kill my cousin, please. Call it off.

Aedion gripped the wooden sparring stick tighter. “I’m fine.”

“A week ago,” Aelin said, “you had one foot in the Afterworld. Your wound is still healing. We’re done for today, and you’re not coming out.”

“I know my limits, and I say I’m fine.”

Rowan’s slow grin was nothing short of lethal. An invitation to dance.

And that primal part of Aedion decided it didn’t want to flee from the predator in Rowan’s eyes. No, it very much wanted to stand its ground and roar back.

Aelin groaned, but kept her distance. Prove it, she’d said. Well, he would.

Aedion gave no warning as he attacked, feinting right and aiming low. He’d killed men with that move—sliced them clean in half. But Rowan dodged him with brutal efficiency, deflecting and positioning to the offensive, and that was all that Aedion managed to see before he brought up his stick on pure instinct. Bracing himself against the force of Rowan’s blow had his side bleating in pain, but he kept focused—even though Rowan had almost knocked the stick from his hands.

He managed to strike the next blow himself. But as Rowan’s lips tugged upward, Aedion had the feeling that the prince was toying with him.

Not for amusement—no, to prove some point. Red mist coated his vision.

Rowan went to sweep his legs out, and Aedion stomped hard enough on Rowan’s stick that it snapped in two. As it did, Aedion twisted, lunging to bring his own stick straight into Rowan’s face. Gripping the two pieces in either hand, the Fae warrior dodged, going low, and—

Aedion didn’t see the second blow coming to his legs. Then he was blinking at the wooden beams of the ceiling, gasping for breath as the pain from his wound arced through his side.

Rowan snarled down at him, one piece of the stick angled to cut his throat while the other pushed against his abdomen, ready to spill his guts.

Holy burning hell.

Aedion had known he’d be fast, and strong, but this … Having Rowan fight alongside the Bane might very well decide battles in any sort of war.

Gods, his side hurt badly enough he thought he might be bleeding.

The Fae Prince spoke so quietly that even Aelin couldn’t hear. “Your queen gave you an order to stop—for your own good. Because she needs you healthy, and because it pains her to see you injured. Do not ignore her command next time.”

Aedion was wise enough not to snap a retort, nor to move as the prince dug in the tips of his sticks a little harder. “And,” Rowan added, “if you ever speak to her again the way you did last night, I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it down your throat. Understand?”

With the stick at his neck, Aedion couldn’t nod without impaling himself on the jagged end. But he breathed, “Understood, Prince.”

Aedion opened his mouth again as Rowan backed away, about to say something he would surely regret, when a bright hello sounded.

They all whirled, weapons up, as Lysandra closed the rolling door behind her, boxes and bags in her arms. She had an uncanny way of sneaking into places unnoticed.

Lysandra took two steps, that stunning face grave, and stopped dead as she beheld Rowan.

Then his queen was suddenly moving, snatching some of the bags from Lysandra’s arms and steering her into the apartment a level above.

Aedion eased from where he’d been sprawled on the ground.

“Is that Lysandra?” Rowan asked.

“Not too bad on the eyes, is she?”

Rowan snorted. “Why is she here?”

Aedion gingerly prodded the wound in his side, making sure it was indeed intact. “She probably has information about Arobynn.”

Whom Aedion would soon begin hunting, once his gods-damned wound was finally healed, regardless of whether Aelin deemed him fit. And then he’d cut the King of the Assassins into little, tiny pieces over many, many days.

“Yet she doesn’t want you to hear it?”

Aedion said, “I think she finds everyone but Aelin boring. Biggest disappointment of my life.” A lie, and he didn’t know why he said it.

But Rowan smiled a bit. “I’m glad she found a female friend.”

Aedion marveled for a heartbeat at the softness in the warrior’s face. Until Rowan shifted his eyes toward him and they were full of ice. “Aelin’s court will be a new one, different from any other in the world, where the Old Ways are honored again. You’re going to learn them. And I’m going to teach you.”

“I know the Old Ways.”

“You’re going to learn them again.”

Aedion’s shoulders pushed back as he rose to his full height. “I’m the general of the Bane, and a prince of both Ashryver and Galathynius houses. I’m not some untrained foot soldier.”

Rowan gave a sharp nod of agreement—and Aedion supposed he should be flattered. Until Rowan said, “My cadre, as Aelin likes to call them, was a lethal unit because we stuck together and abided by the same code. Maeve might be a sadist, but she ensured that we all understood and followed it. Aelin would never force us into anything, and our code will be different—better—than Maeve’s. You and I are going to form the backbone of this court. We will shape and decide our own code.”