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this kingdom at Erawan’s mercy.”
“There are arguments to be made for both,”
Prince Endymion said, stepping forward. The
oldest among them, though he looked not a
day past twenty-eight. “Your army remains
too small to risk dividing in half. All must go
—either south, or back north.”
“I would vote for the South,” said Princess
Sellene, Endymion’s cousin. Rowan’s cousin.
She’d been curious about Aelin, Lysandra
could tell, but had stayed away. As if hesitant
to forge a bond when war might destroy them
all. Lysandra had wondered more than once
what in the princess’s long life had made her
that way—wary and solemn, yet not wholly
aloof. “There are more routes for escape, if
the need arises.” She pointed a tanned finger
to the map, her braided silver hair shining
amongst the folds of her heavy emerald cloak.
“In Orynth, your backs will be against the