ONE YEAR LATER

Her hands began to twitch when the Fae woman walked into the shop. It had been something she had noticed happening to her the very first week in Ankura. Magic. Magic was here, and it wanted her. The first time she had felt it was when she had grown angry at seeing another girl flirting with Sam. Her Sam, she had thought. She had felt like a volcano. Like a spring coiled and ready to strike out. It had been a feeling that had been suppressed for eight years bubbling up—from the deepest, darkest parts of her heart, headed straight for her skin—burning to be let out.

Celaena had ran from the room, ran out of The Typhoon to nowhere, to anywhere. And if she was being honest with herself, it hadn’t been away from the situation. It had been from herself.

Sam had found her on the docks hours later, when it had been dark. He hadn’t said a word. Neither of them had. But they had held hands on their way back—he had held her heart and led it home. Since then, they had never talked about that night, that day. Despite the numerous times he had reassured her that she could tell him anything. She knew that. She just didn’t know if she could admit the truth to herself. She didn’t even want to think about it.

Celaena didn’t know why the woman made her feel uneasy; she just did. Perhaps it was because she was Fae, perhaps it was because she was magic, or perhaps it was a second nature rising up in her—primal and territorial, monstrous.

She stepped out from behind the counter of her bookstore, walking straight up to the woman, and asked politely what she could do to help. “I don’t quite know yet,” the woman purred, flicking her eyes up from a scroll to gaze at her, through her—as if she were made of glass.

“If you require anything, please let me know,” Celaena said, barely stopping her fear from leaking through her voice.

“I will,” the woman said. “… Maria.” Celaena didn’t take more than a second to take in the sight of her, her tall, curved body, toned muscles curled under flawless cacao skin, a dark contrast to full amber eyes flecked with gold. Artfully arranged raided rows of hair draped down her back like a waterfall. Her clothes comprised of a white cotton skirt draping down to just below her knees; a cropped, sleeveless red silk shirt; and leather sandals which were more strap than shoe. Her cheekbones were so sharp, Celaena felt that she would cut her hands if she dared to touch them.

The entire walk back to her counter, she held her breath. She sat down as calmly as she could, her back rigid, her chin tilted higher than usual. She tried to continued reading, but she couldn’t concentrated, she couldn’t think, she couldn’t—

The feeling rose again, and she dashed behind the beaded curtain of the shop to the backroom. She meandered her way through the stacks upon stacks of books and crates, desperate to reach the backdoor before her power exploded, like it had before.

She loved Sam. She really did. But that didn’t stop him from doing stupid things. It didn’t stop him from going to Mandasura, paradise of devils. Known as the most famous den in Ankura—for high-risk gambling, prostitution, black market dealings, and, of course, of course, of course, fighting rings. Dogs, people, and otherwise. Otherwise being Fae and witches and creatures of magic and humans high on Amrita, an elixir to an immortal life in the Mandaran mythology, but coined for a street drug claimed to make one feel as powerful as a god, and it probably could as it was magic based.

It was a thousand times worse than the underworld of Rifthold.

She’d tried shouting his name. But he was in the ring, and he was concentrating on his opponent. His opponent—bloodshot and trembling and explosive from too much Amrita. Celaena had had half the mind to climb into the ring to beat up the both of them, but she figured Sam deserved a lesson, and she figured it’d hurt more if she stood to the side and know that she was watching him.

And it did. His expression grew pained when he locked eyes with her, which allowed his opponent to land a blow on his ribs. She flinched, despite herself. The entire time, worry ran through her. She couldn’t quite tell if Sam was faking it or if he was truly losing. The man landed more blows on him than he managed to deliver to him. When Sam received a nasty punch in the ear and fell to the floor, Celaena screamed.

She was about to climb into the ring, feeling all of that magic rise in her, letting it ride her, but Sam was back on his feet before she could push to the very front of crowd, and he was sweeping the man off of his feet. Sam gripped his pony tail and used it to pull the man’s head up, only to slam it back onto the ground. He didn’t get up after that, and Sam was declared the winner. Half of the room shouted in disappointment and the other half laughed.

He was out of the ring in seconds, and then she was pulling him into the crowd, and—Gods, why were there so many people? She pushed them all of out her way, desperate for air, desperate for home. Then they were finally free, and they were standing in the streets, under a string of lanterns. People stopped to stare at them as she started to shout at Sam in the Erilean common tongue. She didn’t know if they could understand her, and she didn’t know if she cared.

“How could you be so stupid?” She shoved him. “You could be killed! Don’t you know what the drug does?”

He didn’t reply, which was probably a good thing because all she wanted to do was yell at him. She couldn’t quite bring herself to care about what he had to say. It would all be horseshit anyway. Nothing was worth more than his life. Nothing.

Then she was running home, her feet pounding on the dirt streets, drumming her anger, her fire into it. She remembered Sam shouting for her to come back. She remembered him chasing after her, but she had been too fast for him—nothing could outrun wildfire.

But that was it. Her memories stopped there. But the next morning, the shop—the brand new one they had bought from a previously ambitious, talentless, bankrupt jeweler—had been buried in ashes, and it had been considered a miracle—and witchcraft—that Celaena had been found, unharmed, among them.

Her hand was on the doorknob, fumbling to turn it. But it was rusty and old because that was all they could afford, and at best, it was a pain to open. At worst, it wouldn’t at all. Gods, this was not her day.

Something sparked and she jumped. When she took the knob in her hand in her rush to leave, it was warm. A panic rose in her, and she wanted to scream and cry and explode.

A hand fell on her shoulder. The grip was firm and comforting, and she felt a sense of calming. The fire in her wavered into an ember.

Celaena turned and looked the Fae woman dead in her charcoal eyes, and both of them knew exactly what the other was. It felt like looking into a mirror.

“My name is Devika,” she said. In the common tongue. Not Madhavi, but the common tongue… “And I can help you.”

Celaena stared at her, dumbfounded.

The woman—Devika—smiled. “If you let me, of course.”

A ringing from the shop interrupted their moment, and Celaena glanced in the direction of the sound’s origin. She returned her attention to the woman, half expecting her to be gone, fully thinking she had just experienced a stupor. But Devika still stood there, and she was still smiling.

Crown Prince Dorian Havilliard tapped his fingers on the desk of his best friend impatiently, thinking of brutal ways to murder his father. It was blasphemy, of course, but what son didn’t dream of slaughtering his parents at one point?

“Why are you here, Dorian?” Chaol said, looking up from a stack of papers. When they had been children, Dorian had always imagined that Chaol would become Captain. But he’d also imagined that Chaol would spend all his waking hours with Dorian, protecting him from evil assassins and perhaps even dragons.

Dorian knew better now.

“I need…” he said, “a Champion…”

Chaol sighed. “I thought there wasn’t one suitable for you. Not one good enough.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore. I still need one, and I need one soon.” I need to win, he thought. But that wasn’t likely.

A few weeks ago, he had given up. The competition was a waste of time, a farce, a way to keep his father’s advisors in check and entertained. It didn’t matter in the long run. But his father’s comments at dinner the previous night…

Coward.

Whore.

No good son of—

Dorian needed to win.

And he needed to do it with a bang.

He leaned backwards, resting his weight on his hands which held him propped up on Chaol’s desk. Dorian could feel Chaol’s eye roll, which was followed by dropping his pen and, Dorian knew, leaning back into his chair.

The prince waited for his friend to speak.

“While I do appreciate the sight of your back muscles,” he eventually said, “I do have work to do. Your father would fire me if he believed I were inadequate.”

My father can go to hell.

“The Assassin’s Guild,” Dorian muttered.

“What?”

“The Assassin’s Guild,” Dorian repeated louder.

“Absolutely not, Dorian! We will do no such thing! It’s an unnecessary risk for your safety.” He hissed the last word. “Even if we managed to find someone, how well do you think they’d respond to the Crown Prince? No. No one from the Guild would have a motive to fight for you in the Championship. They’d sooner kidnap and ransom you.”

“Arobynn Hamel,” Dorian whispered, “would have a motive to send one of his henchmen. Maybe for the money, but definitely for immunity. Think about it. I’m sure my father would be more than willing to turn a blind eye to the Guild, especially if their victims were his enemies.”

“Dorian,” Chaol sighed. “It’s an idiotic idea. It’s not even an idea. It’s a death wish.”

“It’s bold,” Dorian insisted.

“Like you need your father’s attention,” Chaol said sarcastically.