With each day, he felt the barriers melting. He let them melt. Because of her genuine laugh, because he caught her one afternoon sleeping with her face in the middle of a book, because he knew that she would win. She was a criminal--a prodigy at killing, a Queen of the Underworld--and yet . . . yet she was just a girl, sent at seventeen to Endovier. It made him sick every time he thought about it. He'd been training with the guards at seventeen, but he'd still lived here, still had a roof over his head and good food and friends. Dorian had been in the middle of courting Rosamund when he was that age, not caring about anything. But she--at seventeen--had gone to a death camp. And survived. He wasn't sure if he could survive Endovier, let alone during the winter months. He'd never been whipped, never seen anyone die. He'd never been cold and starving. Celaena laughed at something Dorian said. She'd survived Endovier, and yet could still laugh. While it terrified him to see her down there, a hand's breadth from Dorian's unprotected throat, what terrified him even more was that he trusted her. And he didn't know what that meant about himself.