The three Fae males were glancing between them.

Aelin said to Rolfe, “I have liberated Ilium from Adarlan. I took back the city—your ancient home—for you. For the Mycenians. It is yours, if you dare to claim your people’s inheritance.”

Rolfe’s hand shook slightly. He fisted it, tucking it beneath the table.

She allowed a flicker of her magic to rise to the surface then, allowed the gold in her eyes to glow like bright flame. Gavriel and Fenrys straightened as her power filled the room, filled the city. The Wyrdkey between her breasts began thrumming, whispering.

She knew there was nothing human, nothing mortal on her face.

Knew it because Rolfe’s golden-brown skin had paled to a sickly sheen.

She closed her eyes and loosed a breath.

The tendril of power she’d gathered rippled away in an invisible line. The world shuddered in its wake. A city bell chimed once, twice, in its force. Even the waters in the bay shivered as it swept past and out into the archipelago.

When Aelin opened her eyes, the mortality had returned.

“What the rutting hell was that?” Rolfe at last demanded.

Fenrys and Gavriel became very interested in the map before them.

Rowan said smoothly, “Milady has to release bits of her power daily or it can consume her.”

Despite herself, despite what she’d done, she decided she wanted Rowan to call her milady at least once every day.

Rowan continued on, pressing Rolfe about the moving army. The Pirate Lord, who Lysandra had confirmed weeks ago was Mycenian thanks to Arobynn’s own spying on his business partners, seemed barely able to speak, thanks to the offer she’d laid out for him. But Aelin merely waited.

Aedion and Lysandra arrived after some time—and her cousin only spared Gavriel a passing glance as he stood over the map and fell into that general’s mindset, demanding details large and minute.

But Gavriel silently stared up at his son, watching her cousin’s eyes dart over the map, listening to the sound of his voice as if it were a song he was trying to memorize.

Lysandra drifted to the window, monitoring the bay.

Like she could see that ripple Aelin had sent out into the world.

The shifter had told Aedion by now—of why they had truly gone to Ilium. Not only to see Brannon, not only to save its people … but for this. She and the shifter had hatched the plan during the long night watches together on the road, considering all pitfalls and benefits.

Dorian strolled in ten minutes later, his eyes going straight to Aelin. He’d felt it, too.

The king gave a polite greeting to Rolfe, then remained silent as he was briefed on the positioning of Erawan’s armies. Then he slid into a seat beside her while the other males continued discussing supply routes and weapons, being led in circle after circle by Rowan.

Dorian just gave her an unreadable glance and folded his ankle over a knee.

The clock struck eleven, and Aelin rose to her feet in the middle of whatever Fenrys had been saying about various armor and Rolfe possibly investing in the ore to supply the demand.

Silence fell again. Aelin said to Rolfe, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

And then turned away. She made it a step before he demanded, “That’s it?”

She looked over her shoulder, Rowan approaching her side. Aelin let a bit of that flame rise to the surface. “Yes. If you will not give me an armada, if you will not unite what is left of the Mycenians and return to Terrasen, then I’ll find someone else who will.”

“There is no one else.”

Again, her eyes went to the map on his table. “You once said I would pay for my arrogance. And I did. Many times. But Sam and I took on your entire city and fleet and destroyed it. All for two hundred lives you deemed less than human. So perhaps I’ve been underestimating myself. Perhaps I do not need you after all.”

She turned again, and Rolfe sneered, “Did Sam die still pining after you, or did you finally stop treating him like filth?”

There was a choking sound, and a slam and rattle of glasses. She looked slowly to find Rowan with his hand around Rolfe’s neck, the captain pressed onto the map, the figures scattered everywhere, Rowan’s snarling teeth close to ripping off Rolfe’s ear.

Fenrys smirked a bit. “I told you to choose your words carefully, Rolfe.”

Aedion seemed to be doing his best to ignore his father as he said to the captain, “Nice to meet you.” Then he strolled toward where Aelin, Dorian, and Lysandra waited by the door.

Rowan leaned in, murmuring something in Rolfe’s ear that made him blanch, then shoved him a bit harder into the table before stalking for Aelin.

Rolfe set his hands on the table, pushing up to bark some surely stupid words at them, but went rigid. As if some pulse thrashed through his body.

He turned his hands over, fitting the edges of his palms together.

His eyes lifted—but not to her. To the windows.

To the bells that had begun ringing in the twin watchtowers flanking the mouth of the bay.

The frantic pealing set the streets beyond them halting, silencing.

Each bleat’s meaning was clear enough.

Rolfe’s face went pale.

Aelin watched as black—darker than the ink that had been etched there—spread across his fingers, to his palms. Black such as only the Valg could bring.

Oh, there was no doubt now that the map worked.

She said to her companions, “We leave. Now.”

Rolfe was already storming toward her—toward the door. He said nothing as he flung it open, striding onto the quay, where his first mate and quartermaster were already sprinting for him.

Aelin shut the door behind Rolfe and surveyed her friends. And the cadre.

It was Fenrys who spoke first, rising to his feet and watching through the window as Rolfe and his men rushed about. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Dorian said quietly, “If that force reaches this town, these people—”

“It won’t,” Aelin said, meeting Rowan’s stare. Pine-green eyes held her own.

Show them why you’re my blood-sworn, she silently told him.

A hint of a wicked smile. Rowan turned to them. “Let’s go.”

“Go,” Fenrys blurted, pointing to the window. “Where?”

“There’s a boat,” Aedion said, “anchored on the other side of the island.” He inclined his head toward Lysandra. “You’d think they’d notice a skiff being tugged out to sea by a shark last night, but—”

The door banged open, and Rolfe’s towering figure filled it. “You.”

Aelin put a hand on her chest. “Me?”

“You sent that magic out there; you summoned them.”

She barked a laugh, pushing off the table. “If I ever learn such a useful talent, I’d use it for summoning my allies, I think. Or the Mycenians, since you seem so adamant they don’t exist.” She glanced over his shoulder—the sky was still clear. “Good luck,” she said, stepping around him.

Dorian blurted, “What?”

Aelin looked the King of Adarlan over. “This isn’t our battle. And I won’t sacrifice my kingdom’s fate over a skirmish with the Valg. If you have any sense, you won’t, either.” Rolfe’s face contorted with wrath—even as fear, deep and true, shone in his eyes. She took a step toward the chaotic streets but paused, turning to the Pirate Lord. “I suppose the cadre will be coming with me, too. Since they’re now my allies.”

Silently, Fenrys and Gavriel approached, and she could have sighed with relief that they did so without question, that Gavriel was willing to do whatever it took to stay near his son.

Rolfe hissed, “You think withholding your assistance will sway me into helping you?” But far beyond the bay, between the distant, humped islands, a cloud of darkness gathered.

“I meant what I said, Rolfe. I can do fine without you, armada or no. Mycenians or no. And this island has now become dangerous for my cause.” She inclined her head toward the sea. “I’ll offer a prayer to Mala for you.” She patted the hilt of Goldryn. “A bit of advice, from one professional criminal to the other: cut off their heads. It’s the only way to kill them. Unless you burn them alive, but I bet most would jump ship and swim to shore before your flaming arrows can do much damage.”