2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

Built near the top of a forested mountain, the Illyrian camp was all bare rock and mud,
interrupted only by crude, easy-to-pack tents centered around large fire pits. Near the tree
line, a dozen permanent buildings had been erected of the gray mountain stone. Smoke
puffed from their chimneys against the brisk cloudy morning, occasionally swirled by the
passing wings overhead.
So many winged males soaring past on their way to other camps or in training.
Indeed, on the opposite end of the camp, in a rocky area that ended in a sheer plunge off
the mountain, were the sparring and training rings. Racks of weapons were left out to the
elements; in the chalk-painted rings males of all ages now trained with sticks and swords
and shields and spears. Fast, lethal, brutal. No complaints, no shouts of pain.
There was no warmth here, no joy. Even the houses at the other end of the camp had no
personal touches, as if they were used only for shelter or storage.
And this was where Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian had grown up—where Cassian had been
cast out to survive on his own. It was so cold that even bundled in my fur-lined leather, I
was shivering. I couldn’t imagine a child going without adequate clothing—or shelter—
for a night, much less eight years.
Mor’s face was pale, tight. “I hate this place,” she said under her breath, the heat of it
clouding the air in front of us. “It should be burned to the ground.”
Cassian and Rhys were silent as a tall, broad-shouldered older male approached,
flanked by five other Illyrian warriors, wings all tucked in, hands within casual reach of
their weapons.
No matter that Rhys could rip their minds apart without lifting a finger.
They each wore Siphons of varying colors on the backs of their hands, the stones
smaller than Azriel and Cassian’s. And only one. Not like the seven apiece that my two
friends wore to manage their tremendous power.
The male in front said, “Another camp inspection? Your dog,” he jerked his chin at
Cassian, “was here just the other week. The girls are training.”
Cassian crossed his arms. “I don’t see them in the ring.”
“They do chores first,” the male said, shoulders pushing back and wings flaring slightly,
“then when they’ve finished, they get to train.”
A low snarl slipped past Mor’s mouth, and the male turned our way. He stiffened. Mor
flashed him a wicked smile. “Hello, Lord Devlon.”
The leader of the camp, then.
He gave her a dismissive once-over and looked back to Rhys. Cassian’s warning growl
rumbled in my stomach.
Rhys said at last, “Pleasant as it always is to see you, Devlon, there are two matters at
hand: First, the girls, as you were clearly told by Cassian, are to train before chores, not
after. Get them out on the pitch. Now.” I shuddered at the pure command in that tone. He