2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

CHAPTER
46
I was so cold I might never be warm again. Even during winter in the mortal realm, I’d
managed to find some kernel of heat, but after nearly emptying my cache of magic that
afternoon, even the roaring hearth fire couldn’t thaw the chill around my bones. Did spring
ever come to this blasted place?
“They pick these locations,” Cassian said across from me as we dined on mutton stew
around the table tucked into the corner of the front of the stone house. “Just to ensure the
strongest among us survive.”
“Horrible people,” Mor grumbled into her earthenware bowl. “I don’t blame Az for
never wanting to come here.”
“I take it training the girls went well,” Rhys drawled from beside me, his thigh so close
its warmth brushed my own.
Cassian drained his mug of ale. “I got one of them to confess they hadn’t received a
lesson in ten days. They’d all been too busy with ‘chores,’ apparently.”
“No born fighters in this lot?”
“Three, actually,” Mor said. “Three out of ten isn’t bad at all. The others, I’d be happy if
they just learned to defend themselves. But those three … They’ve got the instinct—the
claws. It’s their stupid families that want them clipped and breeding.”
I rose from the table, taking my bowl to the sink tucked into the wall. The house was
simple, but still bigger and in better condition than our old cottage. The front room served
as kitchen, living area, and dining room, with three doors in the back: one for the cramped
bathing room, one for the storage room, and one being a back door, because no true
Illyrian, according to Rhys, ever made a home with only one exit.
“When do you head for the Hewn City tomorrow?” Cassian said to her—quietly enough
that I knew it was probably time to head upstairs.
Mor scraped the bottom of her bowl. Apparently, Cassian had made the stew—it hadn’t
been half-bad. “After breakfast. Before. I don’t know. Maybe in the afternoon, when
they’re all just waking up.”
Rhys was a step behind me, bowl in hand, and motioned to leave my dirty dish in the
sink. He inclined his head toward the steep, narrow stairs at the back of the house. They
were wide enough to fit only one Illyrian warrior—another safety measure—and I glanced
at the table one last time before disappearing upstairs.
Mor and Cassian both stared at their empty bowls of food, softly talking for once.
Every step upward, I could feel Rhys at my back, the heat of him, the ebb and flow of