He almost spoke her words then. Almost said them back to Lysandra as something like sorrow and longing entered her face.
But Aedion ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Lysandra barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the expression on Aedion’s face, heard his words.
He didn’t expect to survive this battle. Didn’t expect any of them to.
She should have gone after him. Run down the tower stairs after him.
And yet she didn’t.
Dawn broke, a bright day with it. So they might see the size of the host waiting for them all the more clearly.
Lysandra braided Evangeline’s hair, the girl more straight-backed than she’d been yesterday. She could thank Aedion for that. For the words that had allowed the girl to sleep last night.
They walked in silence, Evangeline’s chin high, down to the Great Hall for what might very well be their last breakfast.
They were nearly there when an old voice said, “I would like a word.”
Darrow.
Evangeline turned before Lysandra did.
The ancient lord stood in the doorway of what seemed to be a study, and beckoned them inside. “It will not take long,” he said upon noting the displeasure still on Lysandra’s face.
She was done making herself appear nice for men whom she had no interest in being nice to.
Evangeline peered at her in silent question, but Lysandra jerked her chin toward the old man. “Very well.”
The study was crammed with stacks of books—piles and piles against the walls, along the floors. Well over a thousand. Many half-crumbling with age.
“The last of the sacred texts from the Library of Orynth,” Darrow said, aiming toward the desk piled with papers before a narrow glass window. “All that the Master Scholars managed to save ten years ago.”
So few. So few compared to what Aelin had said once existed in that near-mythic library.
“I had them brought out of hiding after the king’s demise,” Darrow said, seating himself behind the desk. “A fool’s optimism, I suppose.”
Lysandra strode to one of the piles, peering at a title. In a language she did not recognize.
“The remains of a once-great civilization,” Darrow said thickly.
And it was the slight catch in his voice that made Lysandra turn. She opened her mouth to demand what he wanted, but glimpsed what sat beside his right hand.
Encased in crystal no larger than a playing card, the red-and-orange flower within seemed to glow—just like the power of its namesake.
“The kingsflame,” she breathed, unable to stop herself as she approached.
Aelin and Aedion had told her of the legendary flower, which had bloomed across the mountains and fields the day Brannon had set foot on this continent, proof of the peace he brought with him.
And since those ancient days, only single blossoms had been spotted, so rare that their appearance was deemed a sign that the land had blessed whatever ruler sat on Terrasen’s throne. That the kingdom was truly at peace.
The one entombed in crystal on Darrow’s desk, Aelin had said, had appeared during Orlon’s reign. Orlon, Darrow’s lifelong love.
“The Master Scholars grabbed the books when Adarlan invaded,” Darrow said, smiling sadly at the kingsflame. “I grabbed this.”
The antler throne, the crown—all of it destroyed. Save for this one treasure, as great as any belonging to the Galathynius household.
“It’s very beautiful,” Evangeline said, coming up to the desk. “But very small.”
Lysandra could have sworn the old man’s lips twitched toward a smile. “It is indeed,” Darrow said. “And so are you.”