Their Fireheart

Chapter One

Aelin

Leaning against a worn oak bar, I listened carefully to the sounds of the crowded pleasure hall. The cacophony of cheers and moans and bawdy singing was grating to my fae senses.

It had been a choice to remain in my fae form, and at this moment I wasn't certain if it had been a good one.

The Vaults had chewed up and spat out several owners over the past few years, but it remained the same - uncomfortably hot, reeking of stale ale and unwashed bodies, and completely packed with low-lifes and career criminals.

A far cry from the pristine streets of Velaris.

More than a few swaggering upper class youths had staggered down the steps of this unscrupulous establishment to never see the light of day again. Whether they had flashed their silver and gold in front of the wrong person, been vain or drunk enough to jump into the fighting pits or mishandled one of the women for hire, it didn't matter. The end result remained the same.

A shallow grave, or a bloated corpse discovered in the dirty, infested water of the harbor.

I sipped from my mug of ale as I surveyed the room. It was watery and cheap, but at least the cold cut through the oppressive heat of the cavernous space. The scent of roasting meat and garlic teased my senses, but I wasn't stupid enough to order food - despite my grumbling stomach. Even the ale I'd had to carefully sniff before deeming it safe.

Dressed in dirty, but finely made clothes, I watched with eagle eyed intensity to learn what I needed from the Vaults: what the hell had happened in Rifthold in the many months I'd been gone.

And to see what client Arobynn Hamel wanted to see so desperately that he was risking a meeting in public - especially when Valg-controlled guards roamed the city in packs.

I'd noticed the onyx stone rings soon after docking, and smelled the familiar oily blackness as the ship had approached the harbor. For whatever reason, Erawan was unable to pull Valg grunts directly into Erilea like his brother had been able to do in Prythian, and the rings and collars were necessary conduits. I didn't understand why he had the Valg possessing magic-wielders, whether it was a difference in power or an intentional strategy, but I intended to find out.

One thing I did understand was the new uniforms. Black on black. Apparently, the King of Adarlan had grown tired of pretending he was anything other than the demon he was, abandoning the traditional crimson and gold of his empire and embracing a much more fitting black to clothe his growing army.

My auburn hair glinted in the candlelight - hastily dyed when I realized that despite the time I spent away from Rifthold embracing Aelin, here I was still Celeana.

Celeana - the King's Champion, who had failed in her task to assassinate Wendlyn's royal family.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. To be Celeana again.

Considering I'd shut off any and all emotion, retreating in the shallow pool of feeling that I'd relied on since my eight birthday as soon as I'd returned to this realm, it shouldn't matter.

Yet, I'd still somehow thought of myself as Aelin. Obviously, it couldn't last. I'd never admit it, but I needed the cruel callousness that came hand in hand with my mask as the assassin. If I felt too deeply now, I'd crumble, and all my carefully laid plans and sacrifices would be for nothing.

Not to mention that it seemed an eternity had passed in the few months I'd been gone. As wondrous and advantageous as the time in Prythian had been, I was scrambling to catch up with the current state of Erilea. I had information, important information, that likely would have taken me months or years longer to discover had I remained in this realm - but I needed to know more about Erawan's current plans.