Aedion despised the Capital.

Rifthold was a prison of excess, a monument to the subjugation of Erilea. Every courtier was a reminder of their frivolity, every slave a symbol of the fall of Terrasen and the other Erilean kingdoms.

The King watched him like Aedion was a particularly mangy dog, interesting but unworthy of any real attention. The Prince took him a little bit more seriously, but Aedion would never forgive him.

Aelin had tried to be his friend, and he had refused her.

Aedion took a swig from his flask as he slipped out the back door of the inn, the sounds of merriment and chatter muffled as the door swung silently shut behind him. He made his way through the familiar dark, his Fae senses bringing the world into better focus than any mortal eyes, and set out for the meeting point.

Aedion needed to speak with what was left of Terrasen's - of her - court.

.

The healing woman was beautiful.

Dorian watched Sorscha as she fiddled with the small glass pots of ointment and bandages she'd brought in her basket. Not looking at him, she examined his hand quickly and began the process of repairing it.

If Celaena or Chaol were here, they would ask how he managed to earn such a petty injury, but Sorscha merely did her work in silence. A silence that, to Dorian, seemed to stretch on as his good hand fidgeted and he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from her.

"Aren't you going to ask how it happened?" he blurted out, suddenly unable to bear it any longer.

Her reply was cool, professional. "It's not my place to ask- and unless it's relevant to the injury, it's nothing I need to know."

She applied a salve that tingled against the wound and wrapped the bandage 'round, tying it off with expert hands. As she finished, Dorian asked, "Where are you from?"

A pause.

"Fenharrow."

"Where in Fenharrow?"

Another cool, to-the-point answer. Dorian continued to pry, asking her questions; it didn't take long to crack the cool exterior.

Dorian hissed slightly as she applied another stinging salve to his lips, but another part of him -the part that had been carefully quiet since Celaena- enjoying the intimacy as she studied his lips, her cheeks slightly flushed from his little interrogation.

He liked her, Dorian decided. He liked this healing woman with her clean, capable fingers.

"Sorscha?"