“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Dorian said, bracing his forearms on the table. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Chaol had been staring at nothing again. For a heartbeat, the weight of everything pressed so heavily upon him that he opened up his mouth.

But the boom of swords striking shields in salute echoed from the hallway, and Aedion Ashryver—­the King of Adarlan’s infamous General of the North and cousin to Aelin Galathynius—­stalked into the Great Hall.

The hall fell silent, including his father and the king at the high table. Before Aedion was halfway across the room, Chaol was positioned at the bottom of the dais.

It ­wasn’t that the young general was a threat. Rather, it was the way Aedion prowled toward the king’s table, his shoulder-­length golden hair gleaming in the torchlight as he smirked at them all.

Handsome was a light way of describing what Aedion was. Overwhelming was more like it. Towering and heavily muscled, Aedion was every inch the warrior rumor claimed him to be. Even though his clothes ­were mostly for function, Chaol could tell that the leather of his light armor was of fine make and exquisitely detailed. A white wolf pelt was slung across his broad shoulders, and a round shield had been strapped to his back—­along with an ancient-­looking sword.

But his face. And his eyes . . . Holy gods.

Chaol put a hand on his sword, schooling his features to remain neutral, disinterested, even as the Wolf of the North came close enough to slaughter him.

They ­were Celaena’s eyes. Ashryver eyes. A stunning turquoise with a core of gold as bright as their hair. Their hair—­even the shade of it was the same. They could have been twins, if Aedion ­weren’t twenty-­four and tanned from years in the snow-­bright mountains of Terrasen.

Why had the king bothered to keep Aedion alive all those years ago? Why bother to forge him into one of his fiercest generals? Aedion was a prince of the Ashryver royal line and had been raised in the Galathynius household—­and yet he served the king.

Aedion’s grin remained as he stopped before the high table and sketched a bow shallow enough that Chaol was momentarily stunned. “Majesty,” the general said, those damning eyes alight.

Chaol looked at the high table to see if the king, if anyone, noticed the similarities that could doom not only Aedion but also Chaol and Dorian and everyone he cared about. His father just gave him a small, satisfied smile.

But the king was frowning. “I expected you a month ago.”

Aedion actually had the nerve to shrug. “Apologies. The Staghorns ­were slammed with a final winter storm. I left when I could.”

Every person in the hall held their breath. Aedion’s temper and insolence ­were near-­legendary—part of the reason he was stationed in the far reaches of the North. Chaol had always thought it wise to keep him far from Rifthold, especially as Aedion seemed to be a bit of a two-­faced bastard, and the Bane—­Aedion’s legion—­was notorious for its skill and brutality, but now . . . why had the king summoned him to the capital?

The king picked up his goblet, swirling the wine inside. “I didn’t receive word that your legion was ­here.”

“They’re not.”

Chaol braced for the execution order, praying he ­wouldn’t be the one to do it. The king said, “I told you to bring them, General.”

“Here I was, thinking you wanted the plea­sure of my company.” When the king growled, Aedion said, “They’ll be ­here within a week or so. I didn’t want to miss any of the fun.” Aedion again shrugged those massive shoulders. “At least I didn’t come empty-­handed.” He snapped his fingers behind him and a page rushed in, bearing a large satchel. “Gifts from the North, courtesy of the last rebel camp we sacked. You’ll enjoy them.”

The king rolled his eyes and waved a hand at the page. “Send them to my chambers. Your gifts, Aedion, tend to offend polite company.” A low chuckle—­from Aedion, from some men at the king’s table. Oh, Aedion was dancing a dangerous line. At least Celaena had the good sense to keep her mouth shut around the king.

Considering the trophies the king had collected from Celaena as Champion, the items in that satchel ­wouldn’t be mere gold and jewels. But to collect heads and limbs from Aedion’s own people, Celaena’s people . . .

“I have a council meeting tomorrow; ­I want you there, General,” the king said.

Aedion put a hand on his chest. “Your will is mine, Majesty.”

Chaol had to clamp down on his terror as he beheld what glinted on Aedion’s finger. A black ring—­the same that the king, Perrington, and most of those under their control wore. That explained why the king allowed the insolence: when it came down to it, the king’s will truly was Aedion’s.

Chaol kept his face blank as the king gave him a curt nod—­dismissal. Chaol silently bowed, now all too eager to get back to his table. Away from the king—­from the man who held the fate of their world in his bloodied hands. Away from his father, who saw too much. Away from the general, who was now making his rounds through the hall, clapping men on the shoulder, winking at women.

Chaol had mastered the horror roiling in his gut by the time he sank back into his seat and found Dorian frowning. “Gifts indeed,” the prince muttered. “Gods, he’s insufferable.”

Chaol didn’t disagree. Despite the king’s black ring, Aedion still seemed to have a mind of his own—­and was as wild off the battlefield as he was on it. He usually made Dorian look like a celibate when it came to finding debauched ways to amuse himself. Chaol had never spent much time with Aedion, nor wanted to, but Dorian had known him for some time now. Since—

They’d met as children. When Dorian and his father had visited Terrasen in the days before the royal family was slaughtered. When Dorian had met Aelin—­met Celaena.

It was good that Celaena ­wasn’t ­here to see what Aedion had become. Not just because of the ring. To turn on your own people—

Aedion slid onto the bench across from them, grinning. A predator assessing prey. “You two ­were sitting at this same table the last time I saw you. Good to know some things don’t change.”

Gods, that face. It was Celaena’s face—­the other side of the coin. The same arrogance, the same unchecked anger. But where Celaena crackled with it, Aedion seemed to . . . pulse. And there was something nastier, far more bitter in Aedion’s face.