Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The High Fae with long, burnt orange hair walked in, but must have winnowed out, because I heard the guard pause for only a brief moment at the other being's room. But it did pause. I watched his red and yellow eyes peer through the window in my door next, and then I crawled back over to the shadows that connected our rooms.

I had been too scared to go in so far. I wasn’t used to hearing others down here, not in this section. Not unless they were screaming.

I heard the new being stifle a sob again, and I stepped through the shadows

into their room.

The being looked… human. A bit like the one hung on Amarantha’s wall: round ears, dull hair, and an undercurrent to their scent that was not Fae. I cocked my head in interest. I’d never met a live human before.

“H-Hello,” I whispered, keeping my voice quiet. My shadows stayed close to the edges of the room, silent and subtle as they explored the new space. A more nervous one glided, thin and translucent, to the darkest corners of the doorframe, alert for guards or listening ears. I resisted the urge to call it back; I couldn’t hear anything. We were safe, for now.

The human girl, I realised, when her head whipped up as I spoke, had stormy eyes and brown hair that might have been a dark blonde if it were clean. Her eyes were wary.

“My room’s next door,” I added awkwardly, pointing at the wall we shared. “apart from Tuesdays.”

“What do you want?” she asked suspiciously, a tired, confused, frown creased her forehead, though her face was so streaked with dirt it was hard to tell.

As introductions went, it was actually a pretty common response. There was usually more sneering though. I couldn’t think of a reason to lie, though I knew that was one of my many failings.

“I don’t usually get to talk much. You’re… human?”

It could be dangerous to ask so directly, to be so obvious in my curiosity. I should dance around the subject, distract her with other questions and glean the answer myself… if I ever listened to anything in the Throne room. But the Fae there were cruel, or terrified, and so I’d found doing to opposite usually sat better with me.

This girl might not be human. She could be glamoured to look human, here to teach me a lesson, to catch me out for leaving my room without permission. But she didn’t smell like a trap, and there was something… my mind suggested ‘less’ but that felt too much like Amarantha. Not less but… matte, instead of shine? And she had enough bruises to suggest she wasn’t one either.

“Yes,” the girl admitted without guile, and I tried to stop overthinking it. “Are you?” She asked in return, “My name’s Feyre.”

I realised I was hiding in the shadow of the wall, a dimness my shadows only encouraged. I stepped closer and knelt down before the human - Feyre - and tucked my hair behind my own ears. It kept falling forward, annoyingly short after its last cut, and shortest on the left. The guard that Amarantha had instructed to shear it shorter was not pleased to be given such a dull and boring task. Especially since she grew bored of seeing how high they could cut me. The winner, before the game fizzled out, was Arexus, who caught both my ear lobes.

“No, not human.”

I didn’t offer my name. I didn’t have one. I answered to whatever was given, and dreamed of one day being good enough to deserve one. I shaped her name in my mouth.

“Feyre’s a pretty name.” I offered instead.

She smiled, small and tentative. “Thank you,” she shifted, her eyes darting to the door fearfully. “Why are you here?”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I might frighten her, that she might fear what I might do. I suppose, given where she was, her experience of Fae was probably as good as mine. I shrugged again, keeping my shoulders rounded over my knees, crouched low, staying unassuming, unthreatening.

It didn’t help make me any less nervous, but at least her heart rate stopped speeding up. Or maybe it was going as fast as it could already.

“I live here.” My hair fell in front of my eyes again and I huffed at the short, dark, lengths in annoyance. The air puffed over my nose and swayed my hair in the short, pointless breeze. I stopped looking at it and beyond instead to the frightened girl. “You?” I asked.

Her wariness remained, but she didn’t recoil any further. Nor did she glance again at the door: although she was still alive, so she was smart enough to understand no help would come if she screamed.  “Amarantha is going to set me three tasks, to free Tamlin and the Spring Court.”

Cold shock washed through me at her blunt admission. “You -you made a bargain? With Amarantha?” I shook my head, pity and disbelief flooding me as I stared at this human - this doomed human. When had she met High Lord Tamlin? Why was she only going to free Spring? Why choose one Court, over all the others? It was her choice to make, that’s what my teacher would say, but I still I wanted to know - even if I had no right to. Information was useful, information could keep me alive. I settled in, crossing my legs and making sure my shadows kept to themselves. No need to frighten her any more than she already was.

“When’s the first one? What will it be?”

She didn’t know anything, except that it would be when the moon was full. I nodded vaguely as if I knew what that meant. I’d never seen the moon, or the stars people liked to talk about, or the sky they sat in. I used to dream about one day going to the surface and seeing all these mythical things, about open air and a distant horizon but I knew how many times I would sleep between now and then.

”She’ll use tricks and loopholes,” I said regretfully, “to make everything worse. She’ll make it as difficult and painful as she can.”

Feyre sighed, picking at the hay she sat on.

A part of me wondered if I should offer some line, some tidbit of hope. But the greater part of me knew it was the hope that killed. Better she was realistic.

I made to leave, rising to a stand and half turning to the wall, but she looked so small and alone I hesitated. I knew that feeling, knew it well. So, so many times I’d wished someone was there with me, even if they couldn’t change anything. 

I plopped back down on the dirty floor and we both sneezed in the dust. I asked her to tell me a story about where she was from. Distraction in it’s most basic form but I figured it might help, to think about something else other than Fae and tricks and bargains and games - and her inevitable death. Because it was inevitable. This human named Feyre would never leave this mountain. At some point I should ask her what she’d prefer happen with her body: fed to Amarantha’s creatures? Burned to ash? There was a burial area, too. If I could sneak her in.

Probably not a question for today.

She sucked a breath in through her teeth at my question and I quickly offered to tell her a story instead, remembering the last book I’d been given on Tuesday. I could retell it for her, the effect would hopefully be the same. I’d never told a story before, but how badly could I do reciting one already written? My teacher had mentioned once that after nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories were the thing we need most in the world, food for our souls.

*

I stayed until my voice was hoarse - talking wasn’t something I did very often, let alone for long periods. My throat ached from the strain, but it felt good in a strange way, like stretching a muscle before a match.

Back in my own room next door, I crouched low, letting the dim, flickering torchlight in the hallway to guide me. Room. I called it that because the word "cell" felt like it didn’t apply after all this time. Cell implied a punishment, a place one spent a period of time. But I lived here because I was worth less than the space of a bedroom in the floors above. But it was a cell. Four walls of damp, grey stone pressed in close around me, the air thick with the tang of mildew.

The floor was as cold and unforgiving as ever, the thin layer of hay beneath my feet offering little relief. I kept most of it piled in one corner, to soften the ground wh,n I needed to sleep. I reached for that pile now, skimming my fingers through it. If I was careful and did it over a few days I could get more for Feyre too. Not too much, not enough for anyone to notice, but enough to keep most of the chill away when she rested. And I could spare one of my blankets for now. They were both threadbare, but I’d always thought the navy blue one was a bit softer. I folded it quickly, deciding to steal into the hay store before I could change my mind. The cold didn’t bother me as much as it used to, not when I had spent years growing accustomed to its icy bite, and it would definitely have a greater impact on the mortal.

She was dozing, half asleep when I shadow stepped back to her cell, so I tucked the blanket around her shoulders and piled the hay next to her, out of view of the door. Only then did I go back to my room and finally sit down, ignoring the chill that seeped through the thin layers of my rough trousers and shirt with practised ease. The screaming earlier had been horrible, but the silence now was heavy, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere: maybe Feyre’s cell.

*

Stealing from the kitchens was a necessity I had mastered long ago. I had first learned to walk through shadows when I was little, when I realised they weren’t just pools of darkness at my feet. Back then, they felt magical, a secret treasure hidden in my veins. Now, it was a tool, a lifeline. I had been using it to swipe food since I was old enough to understand that survival wasn’t promised to anyone.

Grabbing extra for Feyre made the task feel… different. Less like theft, more like… rebellion. More invigorating than terrifying. The servants in the kitchens were oblivious, their memories resetting thanks to Amarantha’s curse so they never remembered the same trick twice. It was a cruel, the curse, but one I used to my advantage when I could. I’d have been dead long ago if not.

The third time I brought her a bowl of stew, only slightly spilled, and some bread, Feyre surprised me. She watched me carefully as I set the food down and then asked, her voice hoarse from disuse, “Why are you helping me? What do you want?”

Her question caught me off guard, though I supposed I should have expected it. She was sharp, even in her weakened state, and unwilling to take anything at face value. I could understand that. If you wanted to live, trust should be doled out as a rare quantity, and I had not earned anything yet. She stared at me, suspicion clouding her eyes, though her hands hesitated only a moment before reaching for the bread.

The curse didn’t affect her - my guess was a limitation of her race, or her distance to the origin of the curse when it was cast. I’d pondered it for hours, staring into the darkness, wondering if that meant all mortals would remember me. If I got out of here, maybe I could live amongst them.

I shrugged in response to her question, keeping my focus on my own meal while I thought about how to reply properly. The stew was tepid and bland, but it was warm, and that counted for something. Why does anyone help anyone? I thought. For favours, for leverage, for trade. What did I want?

“I want a friend,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I’d intended. “Friends help friends. So I’m helping.”

Her expression softened, though it didn’t quite ease into trust. She smiled—a sad, weary thing that didn’t reach her eyes. She didn’t agree, but she didn’t disagree either. That small gesture was enough for me to take heart. It was something.

“Tomorrow is Tuesday,” I reminded her, looking away as I wiped at a stain on my tunic. “I won’t come then, but I’ll be here as early as I can the day after.”

I fumbled with the edges of my shirt, nervous as I handed her a small sweet pastry I’d swiped on my way out of the kitchens. It was an apology of sorts, for the coming absence. I had no idea what it was, but it was palm-sized and smelt like berries and sugar. I didn’t usually take sweet things: there were fewer of them, for one, and I always worried there was someone close to Amarantha measuring the output of the kitchens. And also I’d been told many times precisely what I deserved: delicacies, expensive things like chocolate, sugary treats had all been covered. It was one of the few lessons that stuck outside of those taught by my teacher. As far as I could tell, Feyre had done nothing wrong except earning Amarantha’s legendary wrath. Surely they wouldn’t notice one little pastry.

*

For as long as I could remember, Tuesdays had been the highlight of my weeks. Amarantha went through phases of wanting to see me, wanting me to perform or train or otherwise amuse her, but Tuesdays were a rare constant, a piece of time untainted by her whims.

Every Tuesday, I was allowed a full day in the good room. I got to sleep in the good room. Not my cell, but a room with a bed - a real bed, with a real, feather stuffed pillow and a thick, heavy blanket that smelled faintly of lavender and something herbal. The room had proper faelights too, soft and golden, so unlike the flickering, sputtering torches in the lower corridors.

Tuesdays were a day of rituals. I was forced - but I never needed to be forced - to bathe, always with hot, clean water and sometimes even in a bath, steaming and luxurious. It was by far my favourite way to get clean, over and above having cold water thrown at me, being forced beneath a bucket, and all the other methods I’d been treated to. There was nice soap, the kind that smelled faintly of flowers I’d only read about, a phantom of a world I tried but failed to even picture.

There were clothes for Tuesdays: softer, darker grey trousers and a matching shirt of blue, or red, or purple - once it was yellow - always freshly laundered and neatly folded. They felt heavenly against my skin, a reprieve from the coarse linen I wore every other day. When these days first started, I used to spend ages just running my fingers over the soft fabric.

Someone - I had yet to see who - brought meals to the good room. I was allowed juice (usually apple) and fruit (usually an apple, or a pear, but sometimes I was given berries). Once a year, there was a biscuit. Just one.

I had counted thirteen biscuits so far, though I knew that wasn’t the measure of my years. There must have been a time before, when I was too small to eat a biscuit.

Or maybe it was before Tuesdays, when my little world had been a different kind of small. I try not to think about it, but sometimes the memory sneaks in anyway. I remember a different room, warmer and brighter than the cell, with a little bed just for me, and a toy doll whose yarn hair was tangled from years of my tiny fingers tugging at it. And I remember the sylph.

She was kind. I know that much, though I can’t recall her face anymore, only the way she’d hum as she worked, her voice as soft and airy as the magic she wielded. The tone of her voice as she spoke. She would brush and braid my hair and make me laugh, and though I didn’t know enough to understand, I think she loved me. Or maybe I just wanted her to and I transferred that over.

I wish the memory ended there.

But it doesn’t. It ends with her blood. Too much of it, staining the stone floor and soaking into the edge of my little bed, my toes stained with it. I don’t remember what happened, or why. I went to my new room, the cell, after that. The doll disappeared, the warmth was replaced with the cold echo of dripping water down stone walls, and no one ever mentioned her again.

I don’t think about the sylph very often. What good would it do? But sometimes, on Tuesdays, when I lie beneath the heavy blanket and pretend my world isn’t what it is, I wonder what I did. I must have done something wrong, for her to have been taken from me. We were in my room, she was looking after me… so Tuesdays were both a salvation and a cruelty. A reminder of what I’d lost and could never have again. But even so, I clung to them with a fiercely, determined not to lose the bright spot of my weeks again. Not to cause the death of my teacher like I’d undoubtedly caused the death of my caregiver.

I never asked why I was allowed these moments of grace, and no one ever explained.

*

I waited by my cell door, bouncing lightly on my bare, dirty toes, for a stretch of time I didn’t bother to count. Eventually, Kanzen arrived to collect me, his greeting a low, rumbling snarl. It was a familiar sound - his disposition was never pleasant, not in all the years he’d been assigned to guard duty. Perhaps that was why Amarantha had chosen him for the job.

The minotaur was an imposing figure, and one of only four of his kind I’d seen working for Amarantha. He stood at well over seven feet tall, maybe even close to eight, but the nature of most hallways meant he hunched his tall form over. His large, bone-white, horns curled up and outward on either side of his bull-like head. His reddish-brown hide was matted in places, and marked with what looked suspiciously like blood stains, and his amber eyes burned with a constant, simmering irritation. Every step of his hooved gait thudded against the stone floor, and his tail flicked behind him in agitation. He grouched and growled the entire walk up the levels, his guttural complaints nearly drowning out the echo of our footsteps.

When we finally reached the door to the nice room, Kanzen shoved it open with a heavy grunt and motioned me inside with a sharp jerk of his horned head. He didn’t bother waiting for me to fully step through before slamming it shut behind me. The edge of the door caught the backs of my heels, sharp enough to sting.

I ran into the small room at the back. It was my lucky day! Instead of a basin, there was a small, deep, wooden bath, which was already being filled with steaming water from the outlet above it. I quickly discarded my dirty clothes and climbed into the bath before it had even finished filling, eager to once again be clean.

My skin was pink from the thorough scrubbing before I was done: if word reached Amarantha that I‘d done a poor job, it wouldn’t be worth the time saved. I wrapped myself in a towel, and turned the same attention to my usual clothes. If I didn’t clean them, they would never be cleaned. If I cleaned them now they’d be nearly dry by the time I had to leave, and smell better too.

A plate of still-warm flatbread slathered in butter, slices of cooked chicken, and a thick slice of cheese, along with a crisp, pink apple, waited for me on the desk beside the bed I couldn’t wait to lie down in later. My visits to Feyre must still be going unnoticed if I was getting such treats. I saved the cheese for her, quickly stashing it in a small cubby I’d found under the desk eleven biscuits ago. But the apple - I ate that with a grin, taking a satisfying, crisp bite that took out nearly a third of it in one go and juice ran down my chin. The pink apples were my favourite. 

I pulled last week’s book from my little pocket of shadows, where I kept it safe. The shadows curled around my hand as I reached in, cool and weightless, like dipping my fingers into a still pond at midnight. The book slid into my grasp easily, undisturbed and pristine despite its time in that strange, otherworldly space.

I hadn’t yet managed to make the pocket any bigger, though I often practiced when I was alone. The shadows were temperamental, as if they had minds of their own: sometimes cooperating, sometimes resisting my will entirely. I’d learned through trial and error that the pocket would hold only certain items, things that were inert and unchanging was safest: food spoiled immediately, wood grew icy and cracked. I’d never dared to keep anything alive in there.

Settling onto the bed, I opened the book to one of my favourite parts. I had finished it nearly five whole days ago, but some words deserved to be read more than once, their weight lingering in my mind long after the pages were closed.

The quick knock on the door announced his arrival, and I rushed to the heavy door, knowing this time it would open for me - and it did. When I was younger I’d tried to leave the room a few times: the door never opened. No matter how I begged or raged, the solid wood refused to yield.

When Amarantha found out about my attempts, she took great pleasure in mocking my stupidity, crafting games out of my efforts and disappointment. She once built a maze, and told me the door at the centre was the only way out. When I finally got to the middle, I assumed it was unlocked. It wouldn’t budge.

I didn’t try anymore.

My teacher stood there, completely nonplussed, as if I hadn’t been waiting for this moment all week. The rumours Under the Mountain about him were as brutal as they were obscene, depending on what Court was doing the talking. He wore his usual fare of smart, black trousers and a black shirt underneath a brocaded black vest - this one had two rows of silver buttons down the front.

He was also the only person that remembered me - outside of Amarantha’s allies. Although unlike them, he only remembered me on Tuesdays. He remembered our previous Tuesdays, but nothing in-between. I didn’t question it. If I opened the door to a blank, questioning face one day I think my heart might break.

I smiled when he looked at me like he always did. “Hi Rhysand. Come in.”

“What did you think?” he asked, skipping the small talk as he stepped inside with a nod. I had always been eager to get through the pretend conversations about my week and dive straight into discussing whatever he wanted to cover that day, or to talk about whatever new book he’d brought.

I passed him the thin volume from last week and eyed the sheets of paper he held in one hand curiously. We’d covered learning to write years ago, so what were they for?

“I liked it -”

He grinned that slow, lazy grin I had tried to emulate many times in the shadows of my room downstairs. “You’ve never not liked one of them.”

It was a fair point. I’d come close a few times, skimming through stories that felt dull or clumsy, but the idea of handing a book back with anything less than enthusiasm seemed… ungrateful. Risky, even. What if he decided I didn’t deserve a new one next week? A book was better than no book, even if it wasn’t perfect.

“I liked it,” I repeated with a small smile, smoothing my tone, before continuing. “I don’t really get what made the fruit so large. I mean, I know it was the powdered crystal from the second scene, but… which crystal? In what quantity? Was there something in the ground already to interact with it?”

“It’s a children’s tale, dear one,” he said, amusement softening the words.

“I think the author should have thought higher of their readers' intelligence.”

“I thought it would be a good palate cleanser after last week, but it appears I was wrong.” He laughed softly, pulling a thicker book from the leather satchel slung surreptitiously over his shoulder. He placed it into my eager hands without any preamble and I eagerly turned it over, greedily reading the title, the author, the blurb on the inside as quickly I could.

“It was the opposite of the last one,” I agreed, breathing out the final word more than saying it, “but… have you got—” I shook my head. No, this was a bad idea.

He cocked his head to one side. “Have I got what?”

I waved him off and pointed at the paper in his hand. “Is that for… now?”

He put it on the desk instead of answering, pulling a pen from his inner suit jacket pocket. “You used to love writing little stories when you were younger. I haven’t seen you do that in some time. I thought it would be good for you to write out a short story of your own. But I haven’t seen any paper here either, so…” he waved the sheets in the air.

No, he wouldn’t have. When Amarantha found out I was sneaking what little information I knew to someone from the Winter Court, not only did I never see them again, the punishment was severe. There hadn’t been paper in the good bedroom since, and I’d walled off the memory, pushing it down and deep under a lake of shadows in my mind. There were a lot of things that I put there. 

I touched the paper gently, reverently. Felt the slightly rough texture under the pads of my fingertips. I wondered where I could hide it after he left, so it would still be here next week. So Amarantha wouldn’t find out.

“I’ll write it later,” I said quietly, then remembered to add, “thank you.”

Not remembering my manners had been painful before. Not from Rhysand. My teacher had never corrected me, it was true, but I didn’t trust him not to turn one day, not really, not given the things I’d seen him do at Amarantha’s bidding.

I forced a gentle smile into place, the one that wasn’t too wide, but wasn’t too timid either, and casually redirected the conversation back to the book he’d brought for this week. This tome was much thicker, was demonstrably not a children’s book, and would probably take me most of the next few days to read, at least. When we were finished pulling apart my initial impressions of the new one, and the themes of the last, he pulled out a paper booklet filled with mathematical problems and challenged me to work through as many as I could. Another plate of food (meat and vegetable hand pastries, and a bowl of stewed fruits and yogurt) arrived after that, with a pitcher of water. After we’d eaten - he a small amount, me as much as I could eat without feeling overtly sick - he moved on to the different inheritance laws for the different Courts, and why that was important, and how that differed to the title of High Lord and its transference. Some of it we’d covered before, especially after the last failed rebellion of the Summer Court, but much of it was new

His allocated time ended before I was ready, as it did every week. I always wished for a little longer to talk to someone who treated me like a person with thoughts and feelings and a mind. After he left, which he did in the same way he always did—like he assumed I would spend the time between now and our next meeting in a similar state - I knew the precise amount of time remaining enjoy the soft clothes that real people wore, the warmth of the good bedroom, and the luxury of using an actual toilet that wasn’t a bucket, or a hole in the ground.

So I did the only thing that seemed sane: I slid between the covers, which were soft and heavy and smooth on my skin, closed my eyes, and slept.

Chapter Text

The day they came for Feyre was obvious hours before the armed guards marched down to the cells: my shadows kept sneaking back reporting lots of movement in areas we didn’t usually see it. I listened to the growing, distant clamour after they took the human away, knowing I should stay still, stay quiet, stay safe in my room.

But she was all alone up there, at the mercy of whatever Amarantha had concocted, and something that felt like guilt roiled uncomfortably in my stomach. There was probably nothing I could do. Probably the red-haired male that she said healed her before I met her would be better placed… but what if he wasn’t here? What if Lord Tamlin didn’t help her? What if she got hurt and Amarantha grew bored and left her somewhere? Forgotten? It wouldn’t be the first time.

I swallowed my fear, the large, hard block of it in my throat refusing to move easily, until finally it joined the guilt in my gut. I didn’t usually venture further than the hay store, or the kitchens, but I knew there must be a way through my shadows to other parts of the mountain. I walked into the shadows and stepped

                                                                          into the cool, welcoming dark. It surrounded me, cushioned me and was endless. I cast my thoughts out, telling the darkness what I was looking for. Feyre, the mortal girl. I wanted somewhere quiet, near her.

I felt the response seep in through the chill. It was as if it whispered left except, of course, the dark cannot speak. Not like my shadows. And neither have the same perception of distance. I walked for longer than I have ever dared to before, until finally I saw a flicker of light and my next step fell

                                                                          out of a dark corner of a dim, dusty, apparently disused storage room.

The air felt heavy and smelt so stale I could practically taste it on my tongue. Earth and mildew and dust. A dim, flickering glow came from a solitary light somewhere above, probably embedded in the ceiling, its light dulled over years of neglect. Its dimness encouraged shadows to stretch out along the stone walls, forever caught in long, languid stretches.Thick cobwebs draped the high, vaulted ceiling like ghostly curtains, their silken threads shimmering faintly in the weak light. They trailed down the walls, catching on the edges of crooked shelves that had sagged from whatever weight they used to hold. Dust blanketed every surface in a thick layer, softening the outlines of old, mismatched crates and barrels, their wood splintered and warped from the damp.

As soon as I spotted the thick, wooden door I sent a shadow questing underneath to find out where we were. Closer to the noise, I knew that much. I could practically feel the vibrations of the crowd Amarantha had clearly gathered in the stone beneath my feet. My shadow returned some minutes later, just when I was starting to get nervous, informing me we were down a winding corridor that did, eventually, join the main concourse and that too, eventually, led to where the noise was coming from.

I left the storage room and crept, quiet as a wraith, along what looked like a barely lit, hopefully rarely used, servant hallway until I’d made it as close as I dared to go, my heart beating fiercely, fearfully, in my chest. It sounded like every current resident was there today, in the huge area I knew she must be entertaining in. The crowd sounded blood-thirsty. I couldn’t make my feet take me any closer.

I wrapped myself in shadows, flattening myself in an alcove behind a bust of Amarantha she must have ordered be made at some point. I listened as she laid out the challenge for Feyre, taunting her. The crowd went wild. Not all of the cries were out eager for pain, as I strained my ears and held my breath. Some were fearful, disbelieving, wishing it would be over already: but they were still there. Watching. Consenting. Not everyone in Amarantha’s nightmare court was a monster, but I was far past believing any were heroes.

I witnessed it all secondhand. I saw none of it, but I filled in the blanks from what I heard. There was a rising roar from the crowd and then the arena grew quiet as Amarantha spoke again, announcing that only one person believed Feyre would win. It must have been Lord Tamlin, betting on his human love. It was over, and somehow, amazingly, miraculously, Feyre had survived.

Footsteps began echoing closer, gossip and chatter drawing closer as the crowd began to trickle out of the arena. It was time to go, before I was spotted. I twisted forward, then practically threw myself back into the dark and

                                                                          into my room.

I fell to my knees, dizzy from the distance and the exertion of doing it twice in a day so close together. It was the furthest I’d ever been in one step. I felt a thrill of adventure, and smashed it quickly. It felt too much like hope. I leant my head onto my knees and waited to hear Feyre return.

*

The sight that greeted me when I went to see Feyre was gruesome: her arm was broken, the bone jutting out from the dirt-covered flesh. I saw the hopeful look in her mortal eyes and felt shame flush over my cheeks.

“I can’t heal,” I admitted sadly, rubbing at my ribs. “I can’t fix that.”

Feyre looked pale beneath the muck caked on her skin. Whatever it was smelt disgusting, and I had to resist scrunching up my nose.

“Can you find something to put on it?” She asked, wincing. “Something to stop it from getting infected?”

I thought for a moment, biting my lip as I sifted through possibilities in my head. I nodded, but the shame of not being able to heal her with magic made the words get stuck as I wallowed in my own reproach. I pushed the food the guard had shoved through the door further away from her. The smell was sweet, but the rotten kind. It wouldn’t help her one bit. “I’ll find something better to eat. That stuff will probably make you sick.”

It took some time, and a lot of trial and error, to find my way to the right kitchen (there were three, and I usually just went to whichever one I found first). I usually avoided walking into places I didn’t know: the further I travelled through a shadow, the more tiring it became, and shadows didn’t come with labels. But now I’d done it twice in a day. I was already tired from my earlier, generous use of my shortcuts. Sometimes they tried to warn me off, but it was hard to explain exactly how the shadows did it. They were not-quite-sentient, some chatty, some silent, some patient, some in a rush. Some were portals, doors to other shadows, and some weren’t. There was a shadow I’d known since I realised I could talk to them, it liked to hide under my arm: I couldn’t walk through that one. But the shadow cast by a door? That I could walk through, but not talk to. There was no one else like me Under the Mountain, and no one I dared ask, not even my teacher.

I brought the stolen food to Feyre first and was promising to look for something to help her arm, when I heard the tell-tale creaking hinge of the door at the end of the corridor. I froze mid-word, listening for more clues, and heard the heavy tread and swish that I knew must mean Amarantha’s favoured Attor was paying one of us a visit.

A better Fae might have hoped it was them, instead of the injured mortal, but I was not a better Fae. I did not want to deal with Arexus. I knew that made me as bad as him, and I hated the fear that made me weak. I hurried, sliding quickly through the cool darkness in a breath back to my own room, and not a moment too soon. Arexus slammed the door open with one clawed hand and curled a long finger at me expectantly, a cruel smirk on his thin lips that curved across the tight skin of his face to reveal his sharp, elongated canines.

“She wants you,” he said, eager glee lacing his words.

Fear uncurled in my belly in response. It was cold, and heavy, and pulled my breath down with it. “What for?”

“The quicker you get moving,” he said, his smile turning sinister, “the quicker you’ll find out.”

Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be fun. I thought of Feyre, alone and injured next door. Would she survive until I could make it back? She couldn’t outwit an injury, couldn’t outrun infection, not like how she’d described the first Task. Where was that red-headed Fae that healed her last time?

Arexus taunted me with a sadistic sort of glee that was a degree more keen than his usual fare. He was often like this, when the boredom of day to day life serving his Queen was broken up with something particularly cruel, or gruesome. Fortunately, he wasn’t the most creative of creatures: he liked to threaten disembowelment, which did truly terrify me as a child. But he must have listed every single way to do so, twice, years ago and as he retrod old ground (he would like to slice me open neck to navel, and see if he could make a cloak from my intestines) my fear stayed stale, and level. It didn’t grow to something insurmountable, something that left my legs weak and eyes watery. It didn’t disappear, either (his claws featured in a great many of my nightmares, tearing me apart in all the ways he’d spent so much time describing to me over the years) but I could ignore him, and focus on panicking over what Amarantha wanted instead. Amarantha was a horrifying combination of creative, vindictive, and, frequently, bored.

It didn’t take long before we arrived at the large doors to the Throne room, my frustrated escort pushing me hard between the shoulders when I wouldn’t answer his taunts, or move fast enough into the space. My knees smashed into the red marble with a crack, and Arexus dragged me by a handful of my hair, his nails digging into my scalp, sharp enough to bleed, until we were before her large, black, throne.

“Better late than never, I suppose,” Amarantha drawled, a displeased sneer pulling at the edge of her mouth.

I willed the cold, red marble beneath my feet to suck the fear out of me before it could eat me up and all that remained was a shell that looked like me. Amarantha tolerated silence as much as imperfections.

“How can I help you today, ma’am?” I asked, my voice surprisingly steady given how fast my heart thudded in my chest.

“My entertainment for the day didn’t go… as planned,” Amarantha said, her tone as casual as it was cutting.

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

Her eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as she toyed with me, her power palpable in the space between us. “You will have to entertain me instead.”

“Me?”

Amarantha folded an elegant hand beneath her sharp chin, an unpleasant smile twisting her ruby-red lips, as vivid and unforgiving as freshly spilled blood. Her eyes, cold and calculating, flickered with something far darker than boredom today. She was wearing her usual golden crown, and I couldn’t help but notice the way the black jewels glinted like eyes in the chandelier light. It sat heavy on her head, woven perfectly into the intricate braids of her copper hair, a stark contrast to her pale skin.

I had always admired her hair, the way it shimmered like molten metal in the light. When I was much younger, before I knew better, I used to imagine what I’d look like if I had been born with hair like hers, instead of the dark, dull brown I pulled in front of my face when I felt small.

Arexus, had gone through a cruel phase several biscuits ago where he compared my hair to the colour of shit at every opportunity, even going so far as to smear my head with it to compare the colours. Would Amarantha have favoured me more if our hair matched? Would she have stopped him? If I looked more like her, more like the image of perfection she so effortlessly displayed?

I’d never know. I didn’t, and that was all there was to it. Amarantha’s smile widened, the edge of it sinister, and it curled like the claws of some ancient predator as she spoke again.

“Yes, it’s time you practised. Spar with Arexus.”

My stomach dropped. The Attor growled low behind me, the sound of his rumbling snarl reverberated through the cold stone floor beneath my bare feet. His presence loomed, shadowy and suffocating. He stalked forward, his massive form cutting through the space as he passed me with a flick of his leathery wing, cuffing me on the back of the head as if I were nothing more than an insolent child. I stumbled but forced myself to stand tall, curling my toes against the chill of the floor, letting the icy sensation ground me.

“Now?”

“Would you prefer I let someone use you for whipping practice instead?” Amarantha’s eyes gleamed with cruel delight. “Perhaps we can see precisely how long it takes you to cry like a little girl.”

My blood ran cold. I shook my head furiously, fear thickening in my throat. “No, ma’am,” I whispered. “I’d be grateful to practice.”

I turned to face Arexus, my limbs stiff and reluctant, but I couldn’t afford hesitation. Not here. Not under Amarantha’s sharp gaze. I shifted my weight, sliding into a defensive stance, tightening every muscle until I felt like a coiled spring while he paced back and forth, taking and placing bets with a few of her favoured Court members where they lolled about on various chaise’s and cushions.

I rolled my shoulders and tilted my head side to side, forcing myself to take a breath as one group argued over how many bones he would break before it finished.

The room felt vast and hollow and super bright, everything suddenly sharper than it was before. I focused on Arexus, trying to ignore everyone else. Especially Lord Tamlin, who sat silent and still like a trophy next to Amarantha, as if his refusal to move or speak made him less implicated, less complicit.

I’d rarely seen him down here before now. He used to live on the fabled outside, and the masks he and the others from Spring wore were some kind of punishment from Amarantha, or so the story went. It seemed like a pretty mild punishment given some of the ones she’d given me, but maybe I was missing something. The reason he and his Court were being punished seemed to centre around the High Lord himself, but here he was, sitting next to Amarantha and letting the little mortal who loved him fight a pointless set of Trials, so I chalked that all up to rumour. Never trust anything anyone in here says: one of Rhysand’s first lessons.

The first fight was brutal and short. Arexus has never shown any being a shred of mercy, myself included. His clawed hands raked through the air, always aiming to maim, to punish, and it took every ounce of strength and skill I had to dodge and counter. When I managed to land a hit, scraping my nails across his cheek in a pitiful mimic of his own, it felt like a hollow victory and the brief moment of satisfaction was swallowed by the next strike he landed.

By the time Amarantha was satisfied, my body felt utterly battered. In the last match he’d landed a solid blow to my shoulder that forced me stumbling back as it made a sickly pop sound. Even my toes hurt: he’d stomped on them, ground his heel down until I managed to twist out of his grasp but the searing pain from my dislocated shoulder was drowning out everything else by the time she called an end to it.

I’d given Arexus two sets of scratches, and perhaps a couple of bruises. My nails had raked down his cheek and one of his arms. Not enough to truly wound him, but enough to prove I’d fought back I suppose.

On the long walk back to my room, which now felt twice as long as it had on the way up, neither of the escorting guards paused when I reset my shoulder with a wince and a yelp I couldn’t quite bite back quick enough. I held the arm to my stomach gingerly, but I forced myself to walk upright, refusing to limp from the dead leg I’d been given either. There was no point cataloging any other injuries: I wouldn’t get any treatment for them. I walled off the pain as best I could, compartmentalising it into a box and pushing it into the dark, hoping I could ignore it. At least nothing was gushing with blood.

I was still struggling to keep the pain boxed away when we missed the turn that led down to my room. I stopped dead in my tracks. “Hey, it’s that way,” I said, jerking my chin toward the usual route.

Kanzen didn’t even bother with a reply. The minotaur grabbed one of my arms in his massive, calloused hand, the ridges of his knuckles digging into my skin like dull stones. The other guard, a hulking brute with a cruel grin perpetually plastered across his face, clamped down on my other arm, and together they hauled me forward like a misbehaving child.

“Where’re we going?” I demanded, trying to twist out of their grip. I knew it was pointless, but I tried anyway. My feet scuffed against the uneven stone floor as I tried to keep pace.

“The Pits,” Kanzen grunted, his voice as rough and guttural as the scrape of his hooves on the ground.

I froze mid-step, panic clawing up my throat. “What?” My voice cracked, sharp with terror. “No! I did what she said!”

“Said you looked rusty,” the minotaur replied without so much as a glance my way.

“Bullshit!” The word exploded out of me indignantly. “He’s an Attor! I barely even get to stretch my legs every day —”

Kanzen let out a low snort, his wide nostrils flaring in faint amusement. The other guard, however, turned to grin at me, a smile so wide and toothy it sent shivers down my spine. His sharp teeth gleamed in the dim torchlight, and the malice in his eyes made my skin crawl.

“Can I watch when you say that to her?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “Or d’you wanna save us all some time and get down to the Pits like y’been told?”

I swallowed hard and yanked my aching arms free, rubbing the bruises I knew would bloom there later. My breath came fast and shallow, a match for my heart courtesy of the flood of adrenaline coursing its way through my body as I all but growled a reply, my voice raw and edged with fear. “No, I’ll go.”

Kanzen rumbled something unintelligible, and the other guard’s grin widened as he gestured mockingly toward the curved steps that descended towards the lowest levels. The air grew colder as we approached, the faint sound of clashing metal and pained cries growing louder with every step.

I clenched my fists, willing my hands to stop shaking. Adrenaline, it was just adrenaline. If I repeated it enough times, maybe it would be true. I hated the Pits. The very thought of them twisted my stomach into knots, and my legs trembled beneath me. The Pits were a place of nightmares, my nightmares, frequently. A place the weak didn’t survive in for long. I straightened my spine and forced myself to take a deep breath, ignoring the way my body wanted to run into the shadows. I was not weak: not this time, not the last time, or the times before. I wasn’t about to start now.

Chapter Text

Every time I left the Pits, my status in the rankings was removed: which meant every time Amarantha shoved me back down there, I had to start all over again. It was a brutal and harrowing learning curve the first time, and I cried for nearly a whole day. But with each fight, I got a little harder. I got a little better.

This would be the fifth time, and I didn’t have any tears left. They’d never helped anyway. I let the guards push me into the large holding cell, deep, deep underground. From what I’d been able to find out, this was the deepest, and lowest, part of the mountain. You could literally fall no lower than being shoved into the Pits. I got to my feet swiftly as the bars slammed shut and locked heavily behind me, the sound of gears turning and locking into position resounding in the sudden silence brought on by the arrival of a new combatant - me.

I had a few seconds to get the measure of the holding cell, to try and gain as much information as possible, before I had to decide what to do. My shoulder joint still ached fiercely from its attempt at freedom, and it only felt more acute as tension knitted them towards my ears. Beyond the large cell that housed all the Pits combatants was the training gym, and beyond that, the arena, surrounded by high, flat walls topped with viewing areas for people to come and be entertained by blood, pain, and death.

I ignored the ones being put through their paces in the training gym: the locks were bolted shut and they were as trapped out there as I was in here. What I needed to do was figure out who was here, what groups and alliances existed… Who to avoid. I cast a quick gaze around the space, taking in as much detail as I could: something I’d learnt from my time outside of the Pits, but equally useful here. It was always better to know who was in a room, who they were with, as soon as possible. Less chance they could surprise me that way.

There were two larger groups and a third smaller group of outcasts. Things hadn’t changed that much. I recognised a few faces, long time warriors trapped down here on Amarantha’s whims. I’d even befriended a couple of them over my visits, but they wouldn’t remember me now.

I met every stare that felt challenging but didn’t hold anyones gaze, to do so would be seen as a challenge. I kept my steps quiet, my stride short as I moved over to the group of outcasts: they were in theory, the least likely to try anything with an unknown, untried combatant. I recognised the large Illyrian in the group, one I’d met several times since his arrival four years ago, and slid down the nearest empty bit of wall near him. Tiarnan might have forgotten, but he was almost my friend once.

“Aren’t you a little small to be thrown down here?” he asked, taking my measure. He voiced a similar opinion every time I arrived. I smiled sadly at the memories. Every time I saw him he looked more worn, more scarred, more tired.

“I’m taller than I was last time.” My usual response, though I don’t know how true it was. No one had ever cared if I grew or shrank, and the most recent replacements of my trousers had been due to them being ruined or utterly shredded, not because someone decided there was too much ankle on show.

He grunted. “Last time?” he asked, “Never seen you down here before.”

“Memory curse,” I said with a shrug, “we’ve met… three? Times before.”

I stared out into nothing when he didn’t respond to that other than a derisive snort of disbelief. No-one ever believed me. I listened to my shadows as they tentatively spread out in the space, though some of them went no further than the darkness underneath Tiarnan’s wings. They were quite vocal today, trying to distract me. I heard Tiarnan shift. I tried not to think about the few other Illyrians I’d seen: there weren’t many, and their rarity made them all the more memorable. Amarantha despised them, for reasons I’d never been privy to. She took particular enjoyment in killing them as slowly as possible: starting with their wings. I fidgeted uncomfortably, leaning back into the wall to feel the scrape of the wall against my back. Tiarnan’s wings twitched, the soft rustle breaking the stillness between us, even as the rest of the cell’s occupants carried on as before. He shifted his gaze away from me, scanning the cavernous room, a frown forming deep crevices on his forehead. His black hair was cropped short - harder to use as leverage that way - and his skin a pale brown that made me think he would be darker skinned in the sunlight. A new scar bisected one of his eyebrows and carried on over the bridge of his nose. 

I knew him pretty well, I knew his tells, his expressions. I coughed, getting his attention and cutting off his self reflection before he strained himself trying to remember. It was always the same. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not you: it’s everyone. It’ll be mostly fine, here. It’s pretty small… I never really got that.”

Tiarnan blinked, then scowled, the frustration clear in his expression.

My shadows flitted about, testing the space, lingering briefly under the cover of his wings before spreading wider and I cautioned them to stay thin and out of sight. The last thing I needed was a bunch of angry, anxious, overworked fighters getting into a panic. They whispered softly, their voices carrying a familiar hum of warning. Something was off in the room, as usual. Probably someone plotting something short-sighted or poorly-planned.

"What got you stuck down here, then? You look High Fae." Tiarnan finally asked, breaking the silence, his voice gruff but not unkind. There was an edge of protectiveness there, as if some part of him still remembered, even if his mind didn’t. I knew I was probably prescribing feelings where there wasn’t any, but I had to get through reintroductions somehow.

“Didn’t fight good enough. Or maybe I just breathed wrong.”

He grunted again, which I took as a sign of agreement. I wondered how much he’d remember tomorrow.

Across the room, a commotion stirred among the other groups. I tensed, my shadows flooding closer protectively. A tall male, Pict from the looks of him,​​ stepped forward from one, his posture aggressive, challenging. His wholly black eyes glared menacingly and his voice cut through the low murmur of the room, mocking his target, though I couldn’t make out the words.

Tiarnan’s wings shifted beside me, his gaze sharpening. “That’ll be trouble.”

“Always is,” I muttered, already assessing the situation. 

The male had cornered someone - a smaller male. His back was to me, but I could see his tense posture, the way he stood defensively, his shoulders stiff, arms tense at his sides. His translucent, shimmering blue wings defied his unease behind him though, they were stiff and tucked back, trembling periodically.

“Who’s the shithead?”

“Brecan? Got caught in a Hunt a while ago. Still salty about it.”

“Can see that.”

Brecan shoved the smaller Fae, sharp teeth catching the light. 

I stood, feeling Tiarnan’s eyes on me as I threaded through the growing group of onlookers, keeping my movements smooth and unthreatening. Brecan loomed over his prey, his voice dripping with cruelty.

“You’re weak,” he taunted the male, “Useless. I bet I can finish you off in less than five minutes.”

I stepped up beside them, drawing his attention. “Leave him alone.”

The one called Brecan turned to look at me, his sneer widening. “And who are you?”

"Back off," I said quietly, taking a small step forward, “before this becomes a problem you can’t handle.”

For a brief moment, he hesitated. Ge looked me up and down, a leer twisting his features as he dismissed me. “You think you’re that problem?” 

I ducked quickly inside his guard and delivered a brutal knee straight to his groin, and smacked a quick elbow into his face for good measure. He collapsed to the floor, holding his favourite body parts, and I skipped quickly out of the each of his arms in case he changed his mind. A couple of others whistled, whether in appreciation or in sympathy, I couldn’t tell.

“You alright?” I asked the other male.

He nodded, though his eyes were wide with a mix of fear and confusion. “Why did you do that? What do you want?”

“Nothing,” I shrugged, “I don’t like dickheads.”

“Brecan holds grudges: he’ll come for you.”

I gave him my driest, most unimpressed look. “Do I look worried?”

The smaller male blinked at me, his translucent wings still trembling. “No… but you should be. He’s got friends.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” I replied, watching as Brecan groaned on the ground, still clutching himself. A few others laughed, though most kept their distance. No one wanted to get involved themselves.

Tiarnan’s deep voice reached me from where he leaned casually against the nearest wall. “You made an enemy after five minutes?”

“I collect them,” I called back without looking at him, my eyes still on Brecan’s downed form.

The smaller winged Fae glanced nervously between me and Brecan, his wings fluttering as he shuffled his feet. “Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t mention it,” I said, stepping back. “Literally. Don’t.”

He gave a small, shaky, confused laugh, and without another word, he turned and slipped back into his own crowd, disappearing like a ghost.

I could feel Brecan’s eyes boring into me from the ground as he slowly regained his breath. His sneer was back, though weaker now, laced with humiliation fuelled rage. “You’ll regret this.”

I crouched down, keeping my voice low but cold. “If you try anything, next time it won’t be your pride that gets bruised.”

His eyes flickered with uncertainty, but he forced a grin that showed all his teeth, his black eyes boring into mine. “You’re dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

I rose to my feet and walked away, leaving him to stew in his failure. Tiarnan’s wings twitched as I approached, his expression a mix of amusement and concern.

“You're chasing the clouds before seeing where the storm is headed.” he muttered, pushing off the wall.

I glanced at him, letting out a sigh. “No one remembers me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember how this place works.”

“You sure? You’re catching the wrong kind of attention.”

I shrugged. “There’s a right kind?”

Tiarnan raised a brow. “You’re either brave or stupid.”

“Definitely stupid.” I agreed. I knew Tiarnan was right. The Pits weren’t just about survival; they were about dominance. Every fight was a challenge, every move a test of power, and any sign of weakness could be the last mistake you made. I could feel the tension thickening in the air, a mix of anticipation and dread. Everyone here was waiting for something - maybe for me to make the wrong move, or for Brecan to make his next one.

I cast a look around the barred cell. The mix of fae, though I was the only High Fae that I could see, were all in an uneasy truce, held together by the threat of what lay beyond the iron gates more than any real sense of allyship. There was no real telling when that would break, but I could guarantee that at least three would turn on each other before the end of the next pit fight. When it came to choosing your own life or someone else's, there wasn’t much contest. Kill someone and breathe again for one more day? Or succumb to guilt or feeling and die in the dirt?

*

It was hard to tell the time Under the Mountain. My routine in my room was largely guided by the state of the kitchen when I snuck in for food: they always knew whether they were serving breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Sometimes if I woke up and felt like I’d slept for longer than I expected, I reset myself with a visit there.

In the Pits that wasn’t possible: there was some kind of warding around the space that prevented me from using the shadows to escape, and stopped others from winnowing. I’d tried it precisely once, the first time I ended up down here. It was years ago now, and I was still a small, scrawny thing more elbows and knees than anything else. As soon as I felt everyone was suitably asleep or distracted with each others bodies, I stepped into the nearest shadow and found myself with nowhere to go. I kept trying to step out but got confused, and got more and more upset until I eventually found my starting point again and fell, breathless and shaking and tired, back into a dim corner of the holding cell. No one even noticed I was gone.

Since then I've made a point of orienting myself around my point of entry whenever I shadow-stepped: never let it be said I didn't learn from my mistakes.

So, when I was finally dozing off, accepting at last that whatever move Brecan would undoubtedly make against me to put me in my place, it wasn’t going to be that day, I assumed it must be night - a large number of others were doing the same. But apparently I hadn’t been paying attention to when they fell asleep. 

Scias bellowed his hideous roar that never failed to make the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end. As I jolted awake, I searched hopefully for any sign that someone had got in a good blow and the noise was the terrifying Trogg being injured. But no, his magma-like skin still clung to his rounded head, marred by an existing, hook-shaped scar that bisected one eyebrow and curved down the side of his skull in a puckered length nearly two finger widths wide. As he roared again, a plume of smoke escaped the triple, twisted nostrils set in the still crooked, stumpy nose. Beneath his rounded head, I knew there was little chance of damage. His skin was like plates of scaled armour, his head the largest and most obvious weak point. He scratched the long, talon-like nails of down the wall with a gleeful grin as he caught sight of me.

As one of Amarantha’s favoured captains, he remembered me. His tail whipped the air behind him, scaled like the rest of him and ending in a  double prong I knew to be venomous by the number of slow executions he liked to carry out on those he deemed utterly useless and bad performers for the crowds.

“Well lookie here,” he growled, “princess come back to the Pits, has she?”

Tiarnan cocked an eyebrow at me. I rolled my eyes and stood quickly. It wouldn’t do me any good to talk back.

“Oh look,” he sneered, “it can learn.”

I balled my hands into fists, felt my nails bite into the skin, but kept my mouth on the right side of shut.

“Come on you lazy slugs, you get two hours of practice before grub. Matches tonight. You too, princess.”

My stomach growled in agreement, but that was the only noise I let escape. 

*

The heat of the Pits pressed down like a heavy weight, suffocating in the sweaty humidity. The distant roar of the crowds filtered down through the stone walls, growing louder as the time for the evening’s “entertainment” approached. They loved the bloodshed, loved the spectacle of us fighting to the death, especially when it was fresh meat. And tonight, that was me.

Scias had given the orders with a gleeful sneer, his red plated skin rippling with delight at the thought of a new fight to break up the monotony of the week. I had barely sat down after the “practice” session when Breacan’s voice rang out across the pit, cutting through the chatter.

“She’s new here, and look at her,” he said, his voice carrying easily as he gestured toward me with a mocking grin. “Shouldn’t we weed out the weak before they start stinking up the place.”

A ripple of agreement went through the cell, some of the fighters nodding, others eyeing me like I was already halfway to a corpse. I clenched my fists, trying not to show how my heart rate spiked. Scias didn’t miss a thing, his molten eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, his tail flicking behind him.

“You want a test, do you?” Scias rumbled, the gravelly tone sending a shiver up my spine. We both knew I wasn’t new at this. And we both knew I would win. “Fine. You can fight her yourself.”

The grin on Breacan’s face faltered for a fraction of a second before he forced it back, twisting his features into a snarl. “Fine by me.”

Of course it was fine by him. This was exactly what he wanted. But I wasn’t some helpless fae who’d fold under the first punch. Not for a long time.

Scias let out a barking laugh, his hands clapping together. “Then it’s settled. To the death, let’s sort the weak from the strong, eh?” His grin widened, dark smoke curling from his twisted nostrils.

I swallowed the knot forming in my throat. The whole room was watching now, the weight of their stares like stones on my chest. I met Tiarnan’s gaze across the cell, and he gave me the barest nod of warning. I already knew what it meant: Be careful.

“Get to the ring, both of you!” Scias ordered, his grin still stretched unnervingly wide over his rows of sharp, sharp teeth.

Breacan shoved his way through the gathered fae, his broad frame moving with an unsettling ease. He radiated confidence, his sharp teeth bared in anticipation of the fight. As he passed me, he whispered low enough that only I could hear: “You’ll regret crossing me.”

I said nothing, keeping my expression neutral, nervous even, but my blood simmered beneath my skin. Let him underestimate me. Let him see what he wanted to see. I followed with cowed shoulders and small steps into the centre of the Pits, the space cleared and so far, dry. Apart from the grate that we entered by, the walls were smooth stone and nearly fifteen feet high before they levelled off into the viewing area, where a hungry crowd jeered and cheered, already placing bets.

The ground felt cold under my feet, the stone under the thin layer of dirt cold and unyielding. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide: the grate back to the holding cell and practice area shutting with a resounding clang of metal. Just me, Breacan, and the crowd that bayed so loud it became a wash of background noise as they waited for the carnage to begin.

His sneer twisted into a snarl, and without warning, he lunged.

The first punch came fast - but not faster than me. I turned my body just enough to let it whisper past my shoulder instead of my face. I pasted a shocked look onto my face.

Breacan grinned like a predator sensing weakness, moving in for another strike. As his fist swung toward me, I ducked low and spun, my foot sweeping out to catch him off balance. He stumbled, just for a moment, then righted himself. So: he had better footwork than most.

I didn’t give him time to recover. I surged forward, delivering a solid double punch to his ribs and leaving myself open deliberately. Sometimes the pain of a hit was better, it lulled them into a sense of false security. He grunted, the sound satisfying, but before I could follow up, his elbow came down hard on my back, sending me sprawling to the ground.

The crowd jeered, some shouting encouragement to Breacan, others simply laughing at the sight of me on the ground. I pushed myself up quickly, trying not to let the pain slow me down. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, and slowing down would mean more hits, or death. Today was not going to be the day I died.

Breacan smirked, circling me like a predator “This’ll be easier than I thought.”

I kept my eyes on him, my muscles tensed for the next move. He was stronger, but he’d favoured strength over speed, and I bet I had more experience.

 He lunged again, again leading with his right, and this time, I didn’t back away. Instead, I stepped into his attack, grabbing his wrist as he threw a fist and twisting it sharply until something cracked. I ducked out and swept out his legs again. He crashed to the ground. I flicked him on the nose and danced out the way.

A collective gasp went through the crowd, many laughing. Breacan’s eyes blazed with fury as he scrambled to his feet, blood trickling from a split in his lip. He cradled his injured arm. “You’ll pay for that,” he growled.

I grinned. “I’m sure you’ll try.”

With a roar of rage, Breacan charged. I ducked, twisted, and let him overextend himself. He was moving faster than I gave him credit for, and I missed a blow to my temple at the cost of an elbow to the face. I smashed my knee up into his stomach. Really, how had he lasted this long? He was all rage and predictable charges. He doubled over with a grunt, and I followed up with my own sharp elbow to the back of his neck.

He hit the ground face-first, coughing and gasping for air. The crowd erupted into cheers and boos, some of them impressed, and at least half disappointed in Breacan’s performance.

I stepped back, breathing hard but steady. “Yield,” I said quietly, but loud enough for him to hear. If he yielded, he would be whipped and ridiculed, but he’d live. It was the one and only chance I could give him.

For a moment, it seemed like he might actually listen, his hand gripping the dirt, his breathing laboured. Scias’ laughter echoed from the other side of the pit.

“Come on, Breacan! Get up! Don’t let that slip of a female show you up!”

His eyes narrowed with hatred, and I knew he wasn’t done. He rose slowly, a simmering hatred radiating from every limb. Or maybe it was adrenaline. Or fear. I would take any of the three. The crowd above us roared louder, eager for more violence, more bloodshed. Breacan’s gaze locked onto mine in challenge. He wasn’t going to stop.

“You should’ve yielded,” I said, my voice low but steady as I braced myself for his next move. I didn’t want to kill him. I had never wanted to take anyone’s life down here. But I would always choose my life over theirs. I sighed, affected a look of boredom and stepped back again, gesturing for him to come again.

This time, there was no strategy, no planning, just brute force and rage. He swung at me, fast and vicious. I barely managed to duck under his first punch, the force of it sending a rush of air past my face. His second punch grazed my shoulder, the impact jolting me sideways. I kept my feet, barely.

I circled him, trying to keep my movements smooth, fluid. He was bigger, stronger, but he was reckless, and injured. 

He lunged again, this time going for my midsection. I sidestepped and spun around him, bringing my elbow down hard at his kidneys. He grunted, stumbling forward, but didn’t fall.

He whipped around, his eyes wild with anger. “You think you can win?” he snarled. “You think this is some game?”

I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say.

Breacan came at me again, throwing a wild blow aimed at my head. I ducked, but his other fist caught me me in the ribs. Pain exploded in my side, sharp and hot, and I gasped, doubling over instinctively. Maybe I was getting rusty? He followed up with a vicious kick to my leg, sending me sprawling to the ground.

I rolled quickly, barely dodging the stomp that came down where my head had been a moment before. He was relentless. I had to keep moving, anything to avoid getting pinned down.

But I was running out of space, and he knew it. He grinned, his teeth sharp and gleaming in the dim light as he closed in on me.

I scrambled to my feet, my breathing ragged, my body aching. He swung again, but this time, I was ready. I caught his wrist, using his own momentum to twist his arm behind his back. He let out a howl of pain, but before he could retaliate, I slammed my knee into his lower back, sending him crashing to the ground.

I didn’t let go. Instead, I twisted his arm harder, forcing him to cry out again as his shoulder and elbow fought against the angle.

“Yield,” I said, my voice low and deadly.

Breacan snarled, his face twisted with pain and rage, but he refused to submit. “Never,” he spat.

Never let it be said I didn’t try. I snapped his neck without ceremony, stood up, raising my hands in victory. I stared at Breacan’s body, waiting for the guilt, but none came.

Chapter Text

By the time I was allowed to leave, my body was a mass of rainbow bruises and my muscles were stiff from overuse. Every inch of me ached, a bone-deep soreness that sleep barely touched. I’d fought in eight matches, each to the death, and I’d lost count of the minor bouts and practice rounds. I told myself I should remember the kills, the deaths, that I should hold them in my conscience but… it was mostly a cover to hide the pride I had in myself for surviving eight times. I locked the memories away, pushing them down and down into the depths of my mind, where they wouldn’t bother me any more. Especially the last match, pride won out by a slim margin against the guilt at having to face a male I’d almost considered my friend. By my count, I’d missed at least one Tuesday, but I’d not heard even a whisper of Rhysand looking for me, nor did I expect one. I wasn’t entirely sure, but I suspected he showed up because of routine, not memory. Or maybe he was just grateful for the break. And maybe he would take my absence as a reason to never turn up again.

When Kanzen shoved me into my room, I was almost grateful. The jolt of my knees skidding onto the floor, feeling the skin tear and my aching ribs seize was enough to knock the urge right out of me. I bit my tongue to stop the curse that threatened to blow out of my mouth, and then the door was slammed shut and locked behind me.

The shadows that had stayed here curled possessively around my knees and chins and wrapped themselves around my wrists in cool velvet caress as I slumped against the nearest wall and groaned. I knew I should check on Feyre. The mortal needed someone to lookout for her, someone who didn’t want to hurt or use her. But if she’d survived for this long, she could survive me having a rest. My first real sleep since before Amarantha decided to throw me into the Pits: there, you slept with one eye open or you might not wake up. 

The guilt hit as soon as I rubbed open my gritty eyes. The memory of her sitting there, that horribly broken arm, stirred itself from the lake of my memories and haunted me for my entire sleep. First things first then: food. The food in the cells was vile, hardly fit for the rats that scurried through the dungeons, let alone for a human with a broken arm. But I didn’t deliver the food myself. Instead, I asked my shadows to carry it. I wasn’t certain, but I had a strong suspicion that the guards down there had caught my scent the last time. If they suspected I was sneaking around again, that could be the end of it. Worse: they might figure out how.

I slept long and deep three more times before Arexus came to tell me Amarantha had demanded my presence. My stomach twisted with unease and a part of me yearned for the simplicity of the Pits again. They were cruel, yes, but predictable in their cruelty. Amarantha thrived on being unpredictable.

I watched the Attor warily as he crowded my small room with wide wings and a grin that was all sharp teeth and malicious intent. “Why?” I sighed.

 “She wants you to come watch.” The smugness in his voice grating.

“Oh, goody,” I muttered, rolling my eyes even though I knew he’d hear it. I barely ducked in time to avoid the cuff to the head that followed, his heavy hand missing me by a hair. If it had connected, I probably would’ve been knocked straight into the wall. “I’m not going to pretend to be excited.” I said.

Arexus growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through the air like a storm waiting to break. Before I could brace myself, he shoved me hard between the shoulders, sending me lurching forward towards the doorway. I stumbled but kept my feet under me as he herded me along at a pace he was happier with. The cold stone corridors blurred past, the familiar gloom swallowing us both until we finally reached the entrance to the smaller ballroom, a place Amarantha was particularly fond of, especially for spectacles.

It was gilded with shimmering gold accents reflecting the light of the many diamond and gemstone chandeliers overhead. The air smelled faintly of incense, something floral and heavy that clung to my senses like a fog. Arexus wasted no time sloping off toward Amarantha’s throne, his hulking frame moving with surprising grace as he took his place near her. I, however, had no intention of making myself visible. He would report my presence, no doubt about that. The ballroom was smaller than some of the others, but still large enough that I could lurk undisturbed at the back. The shadows here were softer, less easy to hide in without being obvious, and it made me jumpy. I had to settle for making myself small, and meek, and quiet: a different kind of invisible. Experience told me the unfolding spectacle would hold everyone's attention if I could go unnoticed long enough.

I leaned against one of the ornate pillars to my side, letting the cool marble press against my bruised skin, trying to ease some of the strains that hadn’t yet healed. Although the past few days of sleep and better food had seen most of the worst of it go away, large patches of my skin were still a yellow and brown patch work of fading bruises where I’d taken the brunt of some of the worst impacts. The thought of more physical exertion any time soon made my stomach turn. 

Amarantha’s voice floated through the air, cold and commanding, but I didn’t focus on her words. Whatever she wanted me to watch, it wouldn’t be pleasant. Nothing ever was in this gilded prison of hers. The crowd muttered and murmured as I pushed off from the cool pillar and carefully picked my way around the edge, clinging to the shadowed edges, until I was loitering nearer those from the Winter Court than the Autumn Court. The Fae from Autumn were ugly in a way that seeped into their skin and scent, in a way that made my skin crawl. They were muttering about the second task. 

The talking rose to a subdued crescendo, and then Feyre was there, being forced to kneel. It was busy enough - and everyone was distracted enough - that I didn’t even hesitate to form a box of darkness to stand on, to see over the crowd and watch what was going to happen to the doomed, mortal, girl.

Tamlin and Feyre gazed at each, an unspoken exchange heavy with meaning, and I watched with growing dread as rage fluttered across Amarantha’s face. Her expression twisted briefly before she masked it with that too-smooth smile, but I had seen it. The anger that lurked just beneath the surface of her control. It wasn’t long before the bets started flying across the room, coins and promises changing hands in the aftermath of their abrupt little verbal spar. People were always eager to gamble on these cruel games of hers.

I watched, uneasy, as the platform beneath Feyre began to lower into the ground. I had never seen the floor do that before. Was it magic? Or something mechanical? My mind wandered for a brief moment, recalling the book Rhysand had given me some time ago - one about gears and cogs and pulleys. I’d enjoyed that one, sinking into the pages of something that wasn’t about this place, something that explained the world. Perhaps he would know how this worked too, though I could see him now, looking as bored as ever at the spectacle playing out before him. It wasn’t Tuesday, and he wasn’t my teacher. No, the Fae over there wearing his face was not someone I wanted to speak with.

A scream scattered my thoughts, echoing up from the hole. The sound sent a shiver down my spine, but it wasn’t from the human girl. No, it was a male voice, Fae, and that only made the knot of worry in my chest tighten. Was she alright? I strained my ears, listening for any sign. Was she already dead? Who was down there with her? Were they a friend, or a foe? The thought made me take half a step forward, almost tumbling off the shadow-made step I stood on. I wanted to see, needed to know, but common sense stopped me from getting closer. If Feyre was dead, there was nothing I could do. If she needed help… there was still nothing I could do. The helplessness burned in my throat, bitter and sharp.

I stepped down and the shadows twined up to my shoulders, offering to cloak me, as if they knew I needed it more now. I didn’t want anyone noticing me. And that meant not wreathing myself in darkness when I didn’t have anything like that kind of power. Not as far as anyone knew. Flame: that was what I had. Fire, and only fire. I encouraged them under my hair and into my own shadow instead, their presence alone some comfort.

The noise in the room shifted, a murmur of shock rippling through the crowd. It took several long seconds before the realisation hit me: Feyre had won. And then she emerged, walking stiffly but alive. My heart beat painfully in my chest, and my eyes flicked toward Amarantha. Her black eyes were locked on the human girl, practically burning holes in the back of her head. If looks could kill, Feyre would’ve been reduced to ash on the spot.

But she kept walking. She walked like she had nothing else left in her but the motion of her legs, one in front of the other. Like she didn’t know where to go, or if there was anywhere left to go at all. The room exploded into chaotic noise, bets being settled, people arguing, and Amarantha’s icy fury vibrating through the air.

I used the commotion to find Kanzen, standing guard by the door. I put on a show of being shocked to see him there, afraid of being caught trying to escape the ballroom, and struggled enough to earn a few more finger shaped bruises on my arm as he forced me back to my room, only a minute behind Feyre. I wasn’t sure what else to do, but I could at least make sure no one bothered her. As we followed, I could hear the soft, broken sounds of her crying, and I felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. Relief that she was alive. Sorrow that, in this place, even surviving was an agony of its own.

*

I wasn’t invited to the third trial. Instead, I heard it as it presumably reached its peak - a roar of voices, the tang of magic, and then suddenly, silence. Had Feyre won? Lost? Everything stayed quiet in the aftermath of the cacophony. I toyed with the idea of sending a shadow out for information. But it was one thing to hide in them and escape notice, another to send one slinking like a cat - it’s not a skill I’m good at. Eventually, I realised my legs were stiff from standing still for so long, just staring through the crack in the door waiting for something to happen. When was the last noise? At least one guard should have shown their ugly faces by now? I decided it was worth the risk, and slipped a small slither of shadow into the corridor, urging it to find others. 

I was contemplating a nap when it finally returned with news of… no-one. No guards. No fae.

The news woke me up like an ice bath and I stepped straight into the thickest patch of shadows in the next breath, barely emerging at the top of the long, dark corridor to my room. A small part of me - the smarter part, arguably - was insistent that this was a trap, a new game, to entertain Amarantha, or one of her captains. But my shadow was insistent too, and that made me intensely curious. I peered out, not daring to step fully out of the comforting darkness. But there was nobody there. I couldn’t hear any of the usual rasping breaths, nor smell any of the usual sour scents. Even the distant echoes of the busy mountain were quieted. 

I stepped out into the corridor properly and pushed open the heavy door, slipped through the gap as soon as it was wide enough, and clung to the edges of the wall, encouraging the shadows to wrap around me like a cloak, hiding me from view. It was dark enough to get away with down here. But there was no one there either. Every juncture, every room, that I came across was empty: the kitchens, the Pits, my Tuesday room. Emboldened, I shadow jumped 

                      further

                                            and closer

                                                                  to the throne room, and finally, finally I found Fae. 

Excited. Scared. Hopeful.

And rushing. 

All of them, rushing to leave.

I blinked away my fatigue at quite so many shadowsteps in so short of time and dodged out of the path of the Fae rushing about. They were, all of them, used to ignoring me. So I ducked and weaved through them until I found a reason for the commotion: she lay on the floor, a mess. People alternately gathered and pointed, or shied away. Most looked shocked, and happy. A few angry.

Amarantha was dead.

I stared openly at the dead Queen’s torn out throat, at the sword through her head. What remained was a mess, and bloody. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I stared and waited, waited for the ancient female to move, to curl a lip in a sneer and pull the sword free, but nothing happened. I felt the number of people around me diminish as they escaped, and still I waited. 

And waited. 

Until finally it dawned on me.

The woman who birthed me was dead.

I was free.

*

I made it through three hallways before my brief taste of freedom was brutally snatched away. Arexus was there, growling low at another of his kind and I was so focused on the idea of escape - of seeing the fabled sun, the mythical moon, of feeling the kiss of starlight on my skin for the first time - that I didn’t notice my shadows curling in distress around me, trying to warn me. By the time I realised, I was upon them, and there was no turning back.

Arexus grabbed me before I could a panicked step into the shadows and disappear, his hand clamping down on my arm, tight as an iron manacle. I bit back a cry as his claws bit into my skin, tiny droplets of blood welling as they pierced into my arm.

"Just the miscreant I was looking for," he growled, his breath hot against the back of my neck. I tried to shake him off, tugging at my arm with all the force I could muster, but he didn’t budge.

"Let me go!" I snapped, the sting of his claws digging deeper into my skin made me finish with a hiss.

Arexus grinned, a dark, twisted thing. "I think the King of Hybern will be very interested in you."

My heart stuttered. "I don’t," I said quickly. Fear coiled in my gut like a snake.

"He’s been in need of a new pet," Arexus continued, ignoring my protests. "It’s been so long since his last... met an unfortunate end."

The world I had almost touched, the distant moon I had never seen, the warmth of the sun I had imagined, slipped away, vanishing into the cold, unfeeling stone of the palace walls. It felt like a physical loss, like something precious had been torn out of my reach just before I could grasp it. Even when I knew it was stupid: how could I miss something I’d never know?

Panic surged through me, a flame that burned hotter with every passing second. Before I knew it, heat flared in my palms, raw and wild. I didn’t even think. I slapped my hand against his chest, the heat exploding from my skin in a desperate, fiery burst.

Arexus cursed, but his grip didn’t loosen. Instead, he snarled in pain and slammed me against the wall. My head hit the stone with a crack, and blackness washed over me. The last thing I felt was the cold stone beneath my cheek, the shadows slipping away from me as everything faded.

*

The floor beneath me was cold, damp and hard. Not hay. Not a mattress. I blinked slowly, my eyes adjusting to the dim, cold light that barely seeped into the cell. All I saw was stone walls, dark and rough, closing in around me, and a shimmering, translucent wall of magic where a door should have been. My head throbbed and nausea roiled in my stomach. I lay still, taking in the room's details trying not to aggravate either. Damp had soaked through my clothes and I fingered the wet fabric in confusion, until a drip behind me made me, carefully, turn my head.

I was right next to a wall where water dripped steadily down, carving a moss-lined path from some unseen crack above. Great. If they didn’t give me water, I could always lick the wall. The absurd thought was a weak comfort as I groaned and pushed myself upright. The walls swam until I shut my eyes tight and kept them that way until I felt like opening them wouldn’t give me cause to vomit.

The cool stone felt like ice against my skin as I leaned my forehead against it, hoping it would stop the spinning world from throwing me off balance. Gingerly, I reached up to probe the back of my head, my fingers brushing over a crust of dried blood and a nasty bump. Of course. Just my luck. I cursed Arexus under my breath, spitting the words like venom.

When the world finally deigned to stop spinning, I took a few cautious steps, heading toward the shimmering barrier that stood between me and freedom. Two paces. I followed it along its length - five paces. Then I made my way to the farthest wall - five more paces. A ten-pace cage. Fantastic. My old room at least had a door, and the floor had hay to keep me warm. This... this was nothing more than a cold, stone prison. I wrinkled my nose and turned back toward the magical barrier.

The corridor beyond was just as bleak, lined with the same dark stone bricks that made up my cell. Sparsely lit, barely a flicker of warmth in the air. Hesitantly, I stretched out a hand, touching the shimmering wall with the tip of my finger. A sudden, biting shock raced across my skin, shooting all the way up my arm. I hissed in pain, yanking my hand back as if I’d been burned, but there wasn’t a mark to be seen on my finger. The sound of my own voice echoed in the empty space, hollow and unsettling. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like hearing myself here. It made the silence feel even heavier, like it was pressing down on me.

But no one came. No one barked at me for making noise, no one stormed in to see what I was up to. There were no guards. At least, none that I could see. I glanced warily around the corridor, then steeled myself, pushing harder against the magical wall this time. The sharp jolt of pain returned, biting deeper. I gritted my teeth and pressed harder. My entire hand twitched violently from the shock, but the wall didn’t budge. There was no breaking through.

I let my hand drop, the lingering pain making my fingers twitch involuntarily. Was it safe to shadow-step here? I bit down on my lip as I shook out my hand and considering the option. This wasn’t the mountain, I was as certain as I could be about that. But the mountain was all I’d ever known, as much as I’d hated it, it was also the boundaries by which I defined my life. Everything here told me I was no longer there, and where I wanted to feel joy and relief, I only felt a growing panic. The smell was different, less damp earth and more cold stone and stale air. The magic tasted different. The stone of the walls was different: instead of carved, it was bricked, with mortar crumbling between the cracks. And the light was too dim, the hue not quite right. What if the shadows didn’t work the same way here? What if the distance was too far? What if I lost my way inside the shadows and couldn’t find my way back? What if it was all for naught and it was warded like the cell in the Pits?

No. I wasn’t desperate enough to try that, or to extinguish the small flame of hope, currently dim beneath my fear, that I could leave. Not yet.

With a long, frustrated sigh, I leaned my back against the stone wall, letting the cold seep into my bones. This cell was smaller than I thought, both in size and hope. For now, all I could do was wait.

*

There were no Tuesday escapes from my new prison. No breaks, no brief reprieves. Rhysand never knocked on the non-existent door with a lesson or a book, and there was no bath to wash away the grime, or a soft bed to look forward to. Without our Tuesday lessons, had he forgotten me entirely? He was the only person outside of Amrantha’s circle who ever remembered I existed, if only once a week. The thought of how utterly I’d clung to that constant, tore something, a rip with only darkness beneath it.

The guards arrived eventually, but never returned at regular intervals. Or, maybe they did, and I had simply lost track of time. Sometimes my stomach twisted painfully with hunger by the time they arrived, and other times it was just a hollow grumble. I couldn’t tell if hours passed, or days.Solitude stretched like a suffocating fog. I had always relied on external markers to gauge time, but now? There was nothing. No light, no warmth, no routine. So, I did what my body told me to do. I ate when I was hungry, slept when exhaustion dragged me down, moved when I felt antsy and read when I was bored - though the last one was proving extremely tiresome.

I pulled the last book Rhysand had given me from its shadowy pocket after furtively checking the corridor outside. I traced my fingertips over the embellished title, my thumb following the intricate decorative edges. The familiar weight of it in my hands should have been comforting, but the worn cover no longer sparked the same joy. I had read it so many times now that the storylines blurred and the words had lost their magic. I could recite three quarters of it from memory.

After nine restless sleeps, I took the plunge and tried to shadow-step. The empty days and lack of threats had dulled my fear and slowed my heartbeat from its original constant, racing pace. I had been putting it off, afraid of what I might find - or worse, what I wouldn’t. The fear of what could be coming for me was starting to outweigh what could happen if I tried.

I stood in the middle of the cell, eyes scanning the dark corners for the best place to start. The far right wall seemed the most promising. It always felt a little darker, the shadows there thicker in a way that had nothing to do with the light. I knew that all shadows met in the same darkness eventually, but I trusted my instincts. My little shadow friends curled around my arms and whispered softly near my ears.

I took a deep breath and stepped

                                            into the dark.

The darkness enveloped me like a wave, familiar and comforting. It was exactly how I remembered: soft, silent, endless. I stepped forward, anticipating the usual pathways, the instinctive pull that had always guided me through the shadows, even without knowing their destination. But this time, there was only none. Just a solid wall of darkness blocking my way. 

I shifted to the right. But once again, I ran into the same unyielding barrier. It was as if the darkness itself had turned against me, impassive yet unmovable. Panic flickered at the edge of my mind, but I forced it back, steadying myself. I turned left, hoping for an opening, only to find the path blocked once more.Panic pressed harder, creeping up the back of my throat, tightening into a vice around my thoughts. I fought it, pushing it down with each shallow breath. I made smaller turns, taking careful, measured steps, trying to find a way out. Finally, there was a spot where the shadows softened, allowing me a pathway out, an exit. The same one I’d come in from: back into my cell.

Whatever wards Amarantha had used in the Pits, Hybern had here, too.

Chapter Text

The King of Hybern’s smile was a thin and unpleasant thing that I had seen more than I had ever wished to see, even as a child when his good opinion made a difference to Amarantha’s opinion in turn. I’d always known he was exempt from her curse Amarantha, but just how far she’d gone, how she’d designed it to fully exclude the his court as well, was a mystery. None of them ever forgot me. They never forgot what made me jump, twitch, freeze, or scowl. What it took to make me cry, or scream.

I felt like a jester, pulled out of my cell for their sick amusement, to perform or to be used. A part of me longed for the Pits, where at least I had learnt something useful while amusing her. Here, all the King wanted was to see the different ways pain could be inflicted. The subject was more often than not, me. Although recently he had diverted into a different kind of pain, making me watch as he had others hurt. Someone better might have preferred it the other way round, but I wasn’t. I was just grateful it was no longer my own screams, my own tears, my own sobs that were no longer being pulled from me. Watching others be hurt was a different hurt.

Today looked to be no different. Two soldiers marched unceremoniously into my cell, pulled me to my feet heedless of my still healing back, slapped on the dreaded stone manacles that made everything so cold, my magic so distant, muted even my shadows, and forced me to walk between them, at the head of a column of fae as they marched through the halls towards the Throne Room. I knew the route well.

The doors were thrown open and slammed against the walls either side and I caught another glimpse of the male I hated. He sat on his throne of bones, bidding me forward with black eyes that glinted in the light, so like Amarantha’s.

The walls were clean and bone-white again: he’d had them scrubbed since I’d last been here, not a week before. It was my blood, another’s as well, Amarantha would have called them vermin or Lesser fae, and some helpless member of the Folk. They played a game to see who could survive the most lashes: I won.

I could hear the violent sea crashing into the rocks far, far below. What would kill me first? The fall, or drowning? Would I make it that far before someone captured or killed me? I pulled against the manacles at my wrists and felt the cold bite of the stone against the chafed and bruised skin.

”Another lesson,” he said simply, gesturing to another group in the room I hadn’t noticed, given how the throne attracted my attention each and every time. Like prey keeping one eye on the predator in the room. “Hold her: she is not to move.”

I heard the soldiers nod, their armour moving with a whisper of leather against leather and metal smoothly rubbing on metal. They dragged me with them as they stood in formation at the wall of the room. There was no point fighting it, and I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I was in too much shock at seeing my teacher there.

Rhysand was here. Hope rose, wide and warm and bright: he was here for me. He had to be. He’d remembered one Tuesday and he was here to help me. His cold gaze flickered to me for all of a second, and dismissed me just as quickly.

It was an old hurt. Familiar, even. I shouldn’t care. It wasn’t a Tuesday, and I hadn’t had a lesson with him in months - but still, hope had flared like a balloon in my chest and been deflated in a look. As much as I’d loved my lessons, I wished they’d never happened, that I didn’t feel something stupid like hope at seeing someone I wished was just another stranger.

He stood with Feyre, which I didn’t expect. Hadn’t she been in love with Lord Tamlin? She looked distraught, but much better than the last time I saw her: desolate and miserable, injured and utterly bereft after the second task. And, I realised, Tamlin was there, but he and the red-haired fae I’d seen entering Feyre’s cell stood apart from Rhysand and his group, the postures and expressions on both sides implying the groups were at odds. What was going on?

There were two Illyrian males and a High fae female with Rhysand, ones I’ve never seen before. They must have escaped the confines of the Mountain. Rhysand, the giver of books and paper, lessons on law and mathematics looked… angry. Calmly furious, if I wanted to try and label it. That was a dangerous emotion: Amarantha was always at her most dangerous when she was in similar moods. Boredom was another deceptively dangerous feeling to be around in High fae, in my experience. 

I squirmed and wiggled but the soldiers held me in equal, unrelenting grasps. We were on the front row of soldiers, and I had a perfect view. The amusement emanating from the King did not bode well for the ones before his throne.

“I’m not going with you,” Feyre seethed at Tamlin, confusing me even further, “And even if I did… You spineless, stupid fool for selling us out to him! Do you know what he wants to do with that Cauldron?”

It was good to see her no longer listless. Anger looked good on her. But wasn’t she in love with him? Wasn’t that why she was down there in the first place, to save him? To free his court? Why was she cursing him? Shouting at him?

“Oh, I’m going to do many, many things with it,” the King said, mockingly, interrupting their little spat. The Cauldron, the one I’d heard so many whispers about, appeared between them. Illusion or transportation magic? There was no way to tell. It stood as tall as Feyre’s chest, easily ten feet around and made of thick, dark metal. It should just look like an oversized cooking pot, innocuous, possibly smelling quite tempting, but it didn’t. The air around it felt… charged. Thicker, closer, a combination of scents that reminded me of moss and earth and metal. “Starting now.” He continued.

The King carried on mocking Feyre, and I listened carefully, trying to catch clues and piece together answers to the rumours I’d been hearing for months. To fill the gaping gap in my knowledge between Feyre wanting to do anything to save the High Lord, to he and she being… enemies? But then the doors open again, and four humans walked in, of all things. Four female humans, immaculately dressed in fine gowns and cloaks and jewellery, with crowns on their heads and their chins held high. Some kind of royalty? Princesses? Queens? Behind them, more guards dragged in others, more mortals - without crowns - their dresses dirty and torn. I spotted Feyre pinch herself, which seemed like an odd reaction.

“You made a very big mistake,” the King said to Rhysand, who stood behind Feyre, wrapping an arm around her, stroking her hair. That was… interesting. “The day you went after the Book. I had no need of it. I was content to let it lie hidden. But the moment your forces started sniffing around … I decided who better than to be my liaison to the human realm than my newly reborn friend, Jurian? He’d just finished all those months of recovering from the process, and longed to see what his former home had become, so he was more than happy to visit the continent for an extended visit.”

The four human queen's bowed at the king and a male - or, now I looked closer, a mortal male, lounged recklessly near Lord Tamlin. I’d assumed he was fae, his wavy, mahogany brown hair was long enough to cover his ears, brushing the top of his shoulders. I looked closer - his golden skin did perhaps lack the natural inherent glow of a fae. But given the smirk he wore, I felt safe in assuming he was Jurian, reborn and reassembled somehow. Last time I’d seen him, he was roving eyeball in a ring.

“The brave, cunning Jurian, who suffered so badly at the end of the War - now my ally. Here to help me convince these queens to aid in my cause. For a price of his own, of course, but it has no bearing here. And wiser to work with me, my men, than to allow you monsters in the Night Court to rule and attack. Jurian was right to warn their Majesties that you’d try to take the Book - that you would feed them lies of love and goodness, when he had seen what the High Lord of the Night Court was capable of. The hero of the human forces, reborn as a gesture to the human world of my good faith. I do not wish to invade the continent - but to work with them. My powers ensconced their court from prying eyes, just to show them the benefits.” The king smirked in the direction of one of the other males, the one with a wooden bolt through his chest and most of his blood on the floor. “Such impressive attempts to infiltrate their sacred palace, Shadowsinger - and utter proof to their Majesties, of course, that your court is not as benevolent as you seem.”

Shadowsinger - the word made me do a double take at the injured male, looking at him more closely while I let the rest of the threats and shouts being exchanged wash over me. I looked closer, squinting needlessly. I wasn’t looking at just shadows and light. No, some of those shadows were shadows. One curled around his abdomen, another around his neck, like cats. I didn’t dare reach out a thought to my own, to see if they would hear me, to see if they could find out more about this stranger like me. I couldn’t risk the king learning about my ability, not when the manacles didn’t completely block them out. It hurt, but they were still there. And if it wasn’t for the wards around the castle, I could shadowstep right out of here.

A powerful burst of magic interrupted my inspection of the shadow-wrapped male, so bright it looked white from behind my hastily squeezed shut eyelids. Someone screamed, and I hoped it wasn’t the one already injured, the one who had shadow friends like mine. When the light cleared, I could see that now the other Illyrian male was hurt, his large black wings shredded and bleeding. I shivered in sympathy.

“Please refrain from getting any stupid ideas, Rhysand.” The king said, then he smiled at Feyre. “If any of you interfere, the shadowsinger dies. Pity about the other brute’s wings. Ladies, eternity awaits. Prove to their Majesties the Cauldron is safe for… strong-willed individuals.”

One of the dirty female humans was hauled, crying, shaking, sobbing the whole way, over to the where the Cauldron waited. The other woman shouted and screamed at the guards but she was as effective as a puff of air, even if I admired her spirit.

“Stop.” said Tamlin, his voice so low it was practically a growl. He was glaring was fiercely at the King, practically vibrating with anger. But for now, his hands remained away from the hilts of his weapons, and he was armed with a number of them - a bandolier was strapped over his chest, every slot filled with a knife.

Next to him, the red-haired fae was less restrained. He put his hand on his sword, making him an active threat. “Stop this!”

The other mortal - the not-as-pretty-one by the Kings standards, continued fighting for the other, bellowing with rage, spitting and twisting like a cat, but the King paid her not a single moment of attention, only lazily, wordlessly, waving a hand at the Cauldron. The sound of liquid pouring into a container came from the Cauldron, until it was full to the brim with a liquid that definitely was not water. The mortal queens only watched, their faces as still and cold as stone, unblinking in the face of obvious wild, devastating panic and rage. Shouldn’t they care? Was this not one of their people about to be subjected to whatever was in the Cauldron, against her will? Why wasn’t Rhysand helping? Why was he standing there so still and restrained? I tugged at the arms of my own jailers and felt two more move to stand closer behind me instead, whilst the one of my right twisted his grip sharply, forcing my arm around to an angle that made me wince.

“This was not part of our deal,” Tamlin said, his voice cold with rage, to the king, “Stop this now.”

“I don’t care.”

Tamlin launched himself at the throne, as if he’d tear him to shreds, his fingers lengthened to claws in the blink of an eye. He should have thrown a knife at the same time and doubled his chances. White hot magic slammed into him before he took three full strides, leashing him, a collar at his neck, round his wrists. I winced in sympathy, I knew how much that hurt. And yet he struggled against them anyway, snarling angrily at the one responsible.

The red-haired male staggered a step as the sobbing female was lifted up off the floor by her arms, her feet kicking uselessly in the air as if she was hoping to tip over the large, ancient thing that stood before her. “That is enough!” He surged towards them both, but the king leashed him to the ground too.

Amarantha preferred to drag things out, but the king just made another imperious, almost careless, gesture, and the mortal was pushed under the liquid in another heartbeat. It felt like everyone in the room held their breath - Feyre looked devastated, but she wasn’t trying to save them, either, neither was the female with her, or Rhysand. Seconds later, the Cauldron tipped onto its side of its own volition, making the guards around me flinch as it hit heavily against the stone floor. Black, smoke-coated liquid poured out of it, and the human was thrown out and onto the stones. The queens gasped. Was she dead? I looked closer, straining against their grasps to get a better look at the - not the human, the fae. There are pointed ears where before they were rounded, skin with a healthy glow rather than human pallor. The guard to my right pulled me back with a grunt.

“So we can survive,” the dark-haired of the human queens said in an admiring, breathy whisper, her eyes bright. The Cauldron put itself back upright. And with it, I realised that was what I missed: this is what these royals wanted. Immortality. 

Across the throne room Feyre fell to her knees with a sob, but she was looking at the one that had fallen out of the Cauldron, not the queens. And belatedly, I finally noticed what was nagging me about her: Feyre was fae too. When did that happen? She was human when I last saw her, before the third task and before the mountain emptied. But the king wasn’t done with his test, with his spectacle, and he ordered the other woman to be put into the Cauldron while I spun the question around in my mind.

The other human woman clawed and kicked, bucked and screamed and made the guards fight for every inch they dragged her closer to the Cauldron. I didn’t know who she was, but I both liked her and questioned her sanity to so openly defy the King. Inevitably, she was eventually pulled the entire distance and hauled into the Cauldron like a bag of unwanted potatoes. The guards forced her head under the dark water, and Feyre vomited as the surface stilled over the woman’s submerged head. She stayed under longer than the last. Finally, it tilted again and smacked onto the floor, spewing more of its smoking liquid, and latest unwilling test subject back onto the stone.

When the second one emerged, I didn’t have a delayed moment of dawning realisation for her conversion. It felt like everyone in the room recoiled, taking a step back. There was a new predator in the room. The newly made fae took in the room, its inhabitants, in one brief sweep of rage and cunning, of barely restrained power, and found them wanting, silver flames flickering in her eyes for a heartbeat before disappearing. Did the King realise what he’d just created? I looked at him and thought, perhaps, he suspected it. Maybe even feared it.

I wasn’t frightened. I was frightened of so many things, but not her. I watched the seething, angry female, and the quiet, shocked female too. Wondered how they knew each other, knew Feyre. Were they friends? The others started talking about mates, and more bargains, and I kept watching. When I noticed the guards watching the scene unfolding around them with rapture as well, I tested my manacles again, wondering if that bright force of magic had weakened them at all. It hadn’t. At least grips on my arms were marginally looser.

A blinding wave of light suddenly surged out of Feyre, wave after wave of it and then just as surprising as it started, it ended, and Feyre was in a ball on the floor, blinking up with doe eyes as she stared at Tamlin. And… I could hear my shadows, could feel them as they curled around my ears, my ankles, the nape of my neck. 

Feyre simpered at the Spring Court’s High Lord, and Lucien bellowed loudly when the female with Rhysand winnowed over and grabbed the two newly changed fae. I blinked. She winnowed. I’d never been able to do that, but… I turned my head slightly, looking for a shadow that might be open to taking me through the dark. The rest of Rhysand’s group departed quickly, leaving the King and Feyre to exchange a few more angry words, which I ignored. What was the point in me watching all this? A lesson, he said. No whipping, no torture, no beatings? I considered it the easiest of the lot.

I considered the winnowing again: regardless of the ability, that was magic - the first I’d seen used outside of Hybern since stepping in. Something had happened in that burst of light, something that gave me my shadows back and destroyed the wards, if they were transporting out. My magic was still locked away as long as the manacles remained locked onto my wrists but… I could work with this. I refused to acknowledge the balloon inflating inside, filled with hope and longing for a world beyond these walls.

I needed to reach a shadow, fast - before the wards were fixed. 

When Feyre, Tamlin and Lucien left, I threw my entire weight down, a dead weight. The two holding me stumbled and shouted with surprise. I drove an elbow at the one to my left. I smashed a heavy manacled wrist into his nose next, then flung myself backwards, behind the throne of bones, and into the shadow 

                              out of the castle.

Free.

Chapter Text

Azriel

Feyre was our High Lady. Feyre was our High Lady, and in enemy territory with not even half a year of training in fighting or magic under her belt. The knowledge sat in my mind like an itch, one that I’d been forbidden to scratch. It was a ceremonial title, of course, the magic of the court wasn’t something that could be told to double, or split, at the whims of its present chosen holder.

Trust her, he’d said. Trust her words, that she was going to bring down the Spring Court from the inside. Alone. A twenty year old from south of the wall, who had precious months of experience of our ways? Who knew next to nothing of the courts, of the allies and friendships? Rhysand’s trust in her abilities was admirable, but having no other contact in that house… The gap in our knowledge, in my knowledge, burned. Had Tamlin really bought the bluff? He was not new to his position, not new to lies, as the deceiver or the deceived. I’d been ordered to be cautious in who I dispatched, who I placed and where I placed them… and ordered to not venture near the Manor House myself. That one, I would take under advisement. Feyre was our spy, Feyre was our insider, with a direct line to Rhysand himself, yes. But by his own doing she was now my High Lady, and the need to keep her safe, to have a way to extract her from, at best, neutral territory, came before Rhysand’s desires to let her do as she wished.

I forced myself to chew and swallow down whatever it was Cassian had bought as we stared across the river. He, stretching his healed wings into the wind, letting the gusts buffet and reassure him that they were whole, and me, actively counting the ways I could get someone into that house, onto the grounds, into the surrounding woodland. Who could be sent. The food tasted like ash, but at least here by the river, the scent was only sea, layered over the plethora of scents that made up the city, and a hint of future rain. Not that of our High Lady, lingering on the sofa cushions, in the jacket hanging from a hook in the hallway. A reminder of my failures.

“Want to take a bet on if Rhysand will return tonight?” Cassian asked, brushing crumbs off his shirt, two paper wrappers balled up in his hand. We were both eating larger portions and more often right now, the injuries our bodies sustained meaning they were busy replenishing themselves despite the healings. We’d taken to visiting our favourite street food vendors to lessen the impact our appetites had on everybody else, so that when they opened the cupboards they didn’t find them frequently and unexpectedly bare.

I shook my head. “No point,” I said quietly, “we both know what he’s doing.”

He grunted in response, and perhaps I should have engaged his humour for a minute, but I wasn’t in the mood. If the guilt and frustration built whenever we were reminded of where Feyre was not, that was nothing on what our brother suffered. Perhaps he thought he was subtle, but the male couldn’t even sit still for an entire meal before he was moving again, planning his next letter to the other High Lords, deciding which war camps we should visit next, how many more weapons we needed, checking stocks of ores and metals, of precious gems and consumables we might need to trade, preparing to rally the Illyrians to war, meeting for hours with Mor as they laid out how she would prepare the Hewn City for the same.

Cassian sighed heavily beside me, stretching his wings high and wide again with an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, as if he were some kind of adolescent, as if he couldn’t help himself. “We should be doing something,” he muttered.

“We are,” I said, though the words felt hollow even to me.

Cassian huffed a humourless laugh. “No, Az. You are pacing the city like one of your spies is about to drop dead in front of you, and Rhys is trying to prepare the entire fucking world for what’s next just to keep himself from losing it. Mor’s just as bad and Amren’s so sharp right now every word cuts to the bone. And me? I’m eating half a bakery a day just to keep from snapping at her and getting myself turned into a wall ornament.”

I didn’t answer.

“You could at least pretend you’re listening,” he grumbled.

We both knew I was listening, so I didn’t bother to rise to the bait. I was listening to the water lapping at the riverbanks, to the far-off clatter of carts rolling over cobblestones, to the distant laughter spilling from the bars and cafes still open despite the looming war. Rhys hadn’t made any announcements, or released any information on what was coming beyond what had been said after Hybern’s first attack on the city. But if war came to us, and it would, this city would have to change. It had cost him everything to protect it for the last fifty years, to protect its people from Amarantha, but he couldn’t protect the people within it from the truth of the world outside its boundaries any longer. And what about the villages across the rest of the court? It was one thing to bed down, to retreat and be cautious for 50 years, to raise early warning wards and train farmers and blacksmiths to fight off raiding parties… it was another for all out war to return to these shores. Velars simply didn’t have the space to take in the rest of the population as refugees. What then? What to do?

So I was listening. To my brother. To the innocence of my city. To the ebb and flow around me for something, anything, that would tell me what I had missed.

Cassian groaned, crumpling his food wrappers into a ball and tossing them at my head. I let my shadows swallow them midair and dumped them on his own head again. “I hate it when you do that.”

“You’re just mad you missed,” I murmured, gaze fixed on the horizon.

His answering laugh was quiet, but his expression sobered. “You’ve got someone out there, right? She’s not alone? Despite what Rhys ordered.”

I flicked a sideways glance at him. I didn’t bother lying. Cassian knew me too well. But even the General did not get to know the movements of those that gathered my information, and this wasn’t the General asking anyway, it was Cass. “I haven’t moved anyone.”

He didn’t push, though. He just nodded, heard what I didn’t say, and let the easy silence stretch between us.

The shadows twined tighter around me, unsettled. Like a prickle at the back of my neck. They had sensed something. Magic, distant but sharp, like a knife gliding through the air. I exhaled slowly, watching the sky darken, let my senses stretch through the interconnected shadows of the earth, following the tug of something in the shadows themselves. A disturbance, faint, almost insignificant. But it was undoubtedly like, calling to like. A shadowsinger?

“There’s something,” I murmured, already turning toward the city.

Cassian stiffened. “Where?”

“East of Dawn.”

“Hybern?”

I didn’t answer immediately, letting the shadows give me more. Not an army, not a force, but… something. Someone. Moving through shadows.

“No banners,” I finally said. “No insignia. Just a traveller, alone.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “We’re tracking lone travellers now?”

I hesitated. The shadows, the part of me that lived in the space between certainty and suspicion, curled tight with unease. If Feyre, no, when Feyre succeeded she would have completed her task alone, too. “They’re using shadows.”

Cassian must have caught something in my voice, because he straightened. “You want to go check it out.”

It wasn’t a question.

I was already moving, already stepping back towards the nearest building, where the shadows thickened. I called my own up higher, encouraged them to wrap around me like a cloak. If it was something, if there was someone else moving in the shadows the same way as I did, not a wraith, not a Tartaran… that was information I needed to know. “If I’m not back by tomorrow, tell Rhys I followed a lead.”

Cassian’s wings flared as he turned to watch me go, his brow furrowed. “You sure this is worth it?”

No.

But I left before I had to answer.

*

I tracked the echo as far as the east coast of Dawn, but no closer. I took to the sky to survey the area, but the open landscape gave me no clues, no break in the natural patterns of calm below me, no signs of a past gathering or bloodshed, no anomaly that might justify the unease curling in my gut. But the landscape just stretched wide beneath me, rolling fields of grass and pink heather that yielded to the low, rocky mountains that shielded the coast here. The grass was a battlefield once, soaked in blood and the dying.

The wind carried only the scent of damp earth and distant rain, the skies a dull grey. The mountains that shielded the coast here weren’t as high as those in Illyria or the ones that loomed over Velaris, but they were jagged, sheer in places where the rock had fractured over centuries. A natural defence against invaders… or against those who wished to vanish. I knew my shadows weren’t wrong. Someone had been here, or was here still, maybe someone like me.

But there was nothing below. Nothing.

The itch under my skin deepened. I liked information. I liked certainty. I had neither.

I adjusted my course, banking left to make another slow, sweeping pass over the land, heading further inland. My shadows whispered something, but the echoes they had followed had since faded into nothing, leaving me chasing ghosts.

Until —

A flicker of movement. Small, just at the edge of my vision.

My head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing. Someone moved at the tree line, dark-haired and with the slight of frame that typically indicated a female. A lone figure, quick and deliberate, vanishing into the cover of a small copse of trees before I could get a proper look.

I hovered for a moment, wings beating against the wind as I considered my options. If they had felt me above, they would keep moving. If they were a shadowsinger, they would already be gone. And my shadows were silent. The questions settled in my mind like stones. This was a risk. But my instincts, the very ones that had kept me alive for centuries, told me to look closer. But were they the same person my shadows had found? Or was I conflating the two?

I landed quietly a reasonable distance away, my wings barely stirring the undergrowth as I wrapped myself in shadows and told them where I wanted to go. The treeline. The woods weren’t large, just a small stretch of trees before the land opened up again into more rolling fields going in land. There were no roads, no villages in sight. This wasn’t a place someone stumbled into by chance.

My steps were near silent as I moved through the undergrowth, shifting my weight carefully to avoid breaking twigs or crunching dead leaves. I let my shadows curl around me, dimming my scent, dulling my presence. Unseen. Unheard.

The figure I had glimpsed was just ahead, crouched by the base of an old, hollowed-out tree.

I stayed back, watching.

A blanket, patched and mended, was folded with precise, practiced motions. She turned her attention to the makeshift barrier overhead. It was simple: a roof of twigs, half-woven into the gnarled hollow of the tree. She reinforced it carefully, hands deftly threading through gaps where some had come loose, adding new ones from a small pile at her feet. It didn’t look like it would do much to stop a deluge, but I suppose it was better than nothing.

I waited, watching for a hint of power, for a flicker of shadows shifting unnaturally in the dim light, waiting to spot one curling around her from, or drifting off against the direction of sunlight. Nothing. There was no scent of magic in the air, no telltale stir of something hidden. And yet…

A tightness settled in my chest. A faint, echoing pull, like a thread brushing against my ribs. Familiar, but not. Another war. Rhysand. Feyre. Hybern. I had to focus without letting paranoia turn every stray fae into a threat without any cause or evidence. Not even my gut said this female was a threat. I had chased a ghost here, let my worry get the better of me. I clenched my jaw, forcing my thoughts elsewhere.

Withdrawing as silently as I’d arrived, I moved back into the trees, back toward the open sky.

By the time I took to the air again, I had already pushed the encounter from my mind, prioritised and filed the information and reminded myself of the long list of other items that needed my attention. It would be more efficient to shadow back, but I needed the challenge to my wings, to push my endurance, so I remained in flight. I needed to check in with those I had throughout Spring, and those along their borders with the other courts. Whatever Feyre had planned, we needed to be ahead of it. If she was successful, if Tamlin wasn’t the experienced Lord he was supposed to be, the whole thing could fall. If Tamlin died, who would the magic fall to next? Who were the strongest Fae in the familial line? In the court? I hadn’t updated my shortlist of likely candidates since before being trapped in Velaris. Suddenly that information was jostling for joint priority position amount a least ten other, critical priority, items. I’d calculated that if I slept only three hours a day, for the next decade, and cared nothing for what the current state of affairs and the needs of now, then I should hopefully be caught up on everything that happened while Rhys was trapped. While we were stuck, sat on our asses. While Rhys —

I beat my wings harder. I needed to work harder, be better. I needed to stop anything like that ever happening again, to any one. I reminded myself to push Cass again on harsher punishments for those breaking the wing clipping rule for Illyrian females.

The wind howled past my ears as I climbed higher into the sky, my wings just starting to burn with exertion. I welcomed the ache, the stretch of sinew and muscle as I pushed himself harder, faster, the ocean far below me as I skirted widely around the shores of Day.

It was easy, up here, to let instinct take over. To fly until exhaustion muted the thoughts constantly circling in my head, but I was far from exhaustion yet. I didn’t know Tamlin well, but Rhys and Feyre’s mentions of his unpredictability haunted me. The presence of Hybern. The possibility of war creeping ever closer, again. I watched a distant cart pulled by two horses on a road led to the steep slopes below me. I exhaled sharply. If… when… it came to that, we needed to ensure Prythian’s supply lines held. Not just Nights. No army, no city, no court could function without steady access to resources, and if Spring, or any of the other courts, fell into chaos, it could ripple outward, destabilising everything.

Cassian had already begun securing Illyria, fortifying their people, ensuring their warriors had the weapons and training necessary. But the more remote parts of the Night Court needed caring for, too. We’d seen firsthand how quickly forgotten regions could become liabilities. Amren was handling much of Velaris’s internal affairs, but she was better at the broad strokes, less concerned with the finer details of maintaining supply routes, mapping potential weak points, and tracking enemy movement. Mor swore she had the Hewn City under control. But every other village? Every other township and remote farm? Who watched out for them?

That fell to me.

My wings dipped slightly as his thoughts turned, unbidden, to the faint whisper of shadows that had pulled me across all the way to Dawn just hours ago. I’d followed the trail across Prythian only to find… nothing of consequence. A lone female in the wilderness, not a threat. But the itch hadn’t fully left me. I pushed harder, determined to return home faster, scowling at himself. There were bigger concerns than a single stray, one who could clearly care for herself.

Chapter Text

Seeing the sunrise will never get old, even if I lived for centuries. I watched it every morning, watched as the sun slowly pushed broad brush strokes of light across the sky and landscape, painting the world in colour. It never did it the same way twice - the colours were never exactly the same, the clouds in the sky variations all of their own, the only constant that it would rise, every day, without fail.

I had similar thoughts about sunset. If anything, I liked sunsets more. The way the sky was prone to such strong colours, from reds and oranges to pinks and indigos, blazing and bright like the sun just wanted one last hurrah. And when it was done, the stars blinked awake until the sky was full of them. But I thought, given how suspicious everyone was of me everyday, that was a bit cliché, so if anyway asked: it was the sunrises that I liked best. The banishing of the dark, rather than the welcoming of it.

I fidgeted against the log I was leaned against, itching my back, waiting for the group of misfits I liked to visit with to wake up. We’d worked out a system that, so far, seemed to be working. I was no longer being greeted by death threats and weapons every time at least. Daire and Aderyn had written a coded note to themselves, on stone no less, and put it somewhere that they had to move it or trip over it every day. I’d given them that tip: simple paper notes, letters and such were easily ignored, dismissed and forgotten. Whatever their coded stone tablet said, one of them would emerge from their hidden cave network and say hello every morning, wary but bemused.

Today, it was Daire. He was part Tartera, evident in his coal-black eyes and tall, lean frame, but no shadows wrapped around his dark-skin like they would his ancestors. His parents, last he heard, had been trapped Under the Mountain. That was ten years ago, when he was nine years old, and he had heard nothing since. He was, in theory, on his way to the Night Court, looking for his aunt but like most of the people in their little group, he’d stalled. The world was frightening, dangerous, and imperfect. Daire had once had an older sister, before I ever met him.

“Morning… Blaze, is it?”

“Hullo, Daire,” I nodded. Blaze was the name they’d given me after they helped crack of the blue stone manacles and my magic leapt to the surface before I could do anything other than aim it away from them.

He crouched next to me, facing the sunrise. He looked… torn. My shadows whispered and danced nearby, experts at navigating the cave system I wasn’t trusted to know about. He’d reached his decision on the aunt. He sighed, fiddling with the flattened grass.

I looked at him expectantly. “Everything okay?” I prompted, “Do you all have enough for breakfast? I can help forage, if you want.”

I’d gotten very good at it, very quickly. Necessity from a hungry stomach was a great motivator. And it only took me one night of retching everything in my stomach until I was a shaking, weak mess to remember to test new finds on my skin, then my lip, and then wait a while before I actually ate it.

“No,” he shook his head, “that’s not it.”

He fell silent, so I left him to his thoughts, content to listen to the rising chorus of birds around us as they welcomed in the morning too. There was so much sound up here, I’d yet to find somewhere that was as silent as my old room.

There was so much of everything up here, really. Space, light, sound. The first time I saw the sky I thought I was going to loose myself in the endless, shifting expanse of it. It wasn’t just the impossible vastness of the sky, it was the way it moved, the clouds that reached higher than I thought the sky went, the way they moved. Under the mountain, the ceilings were solid, unmoving… alternately a comfort and oppressive. The sky was the opposite and it taunted me, teasing me to find it’s roof. How high did it go?

The horizon, too, was impossibly far. Every time I tried to focus on where it ended, it felt like it stretched further, mocking me. It was terrifying at first - the openness of it all. There were no walls to enclose me, no stone to ground me. Just air and light and too much space. The sounds were unbearable that first day. The wind roared like a beast, birds that shrieked and screamed and sang. Even the constant rustle of unseen things moving through grass and trees was like something cold creeping down my spine. I’d huddled in the first corner I could find that first day, my hands clamped over my ears, my eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming brightness until the sky didn’t fall and didn’t suck me up into it’s endless oblivion, until I recognised calls and answers in the birds songs, until I could open my eyes and not wince.

The sun was nearly naked above the horizon, the final stars winking goodbye, when Daire finally spoke again. ”I’m leaving,” he said. Daire had started jumping into conversations as if he could remember who I was, as if her remembered our previous conversations. It was a detail I appreciated, but also made me painfully curious about the coded messages. What did they detail? How long were they now? How much of it was assumptions? How much was fact? Was I trusted? Or was I tolerated?

I watched several fluffy, white clouds drift lazily in the distance. What they would feel like on my skin? Would they be cold? It was May, but the height the clouds flew, it would be cooler. And would they be soft? In the books Rhysand had given me they were alternately described often like… pillows, I supposed. But also in a scientific book, it described them as suspended water. Cold pillows? I sighed, looking away from them.

”For the Night Court?” I asked.

He nodded, kicking his long legs out in front of him with a sigh. I wondered if the tablet detailed anything of our previous conversations on this: I was broadly against it, heading for Night, but I was also intensely curious what the rest of the world looked like. I would go wherever those who held any semblance of memory went - even if that meant writing scraps of information into stone.

It was a long trek to make alone, one he was unlikely to survive given what I’d seen of his fighting skills. We were in Dawn Court now, barely. Only a few day's travel would have us back at the foothills of Winter.

“It’s a long way, Daire.” I said, “Dangerous.”

“I know,” he said tiredly. How many times had he had this conversation with others? With his friends in the caves? “There’s a few of us that are thinking of moving on, I wouldn’t go alone.”

We had the mountains at our backs and the sea in front of us up here, my hide out a fair distance away in a small copse of trees. I liked the little home I’d built there: I had a little cosy nook in an old tree. Small, dark, safe. But not buried under earth. A little cold. I didn’t like it when it rained: I’d had to build a makeshift roof from what I could find, and my experience with weaving before now was precisely zero, so it wasn’t very watertight. I was pretty sure one of them had followed me there one day, watched me. I’d not sensed them on the walk down, leaving me impressed with their ability to remain unseen, but the creeping realisation had settled on me somewhere in my chest as I fell under the dimmed light of the canopy. I’d kept my shadows leashed and hidden, myself small and boring, until I felt the tension leave the woods.

”To the scariest court of them all,” I said. It wasn’t a question. The reputation the Night Court was well earned. It was hardly a desired destination, not like the white beaches and turquoise waters of Adriata in the Summer Court.

Not that I had seen those beaches, yet. I’d yet to feel their warm sand between my toes, or salt-sticky breezes against my skin. But I had heard of them, just as I had heard of the dark corridors, their ceilings plated with gold, that swallowed screams from the Night Court. Families that sold their daughters early, not for love, but for alliances, for power. The sort of power that was sharpened on blood and cruelty but just like most blades, it had a flat side. A side that didn’t look dangerous.

And Rhysand, my only real tie to… anything… was the perfect example.

On Tuesdays, he had been my teacher, patient and instructive, his words always clear, his magic always controlled, his demeanour always pleasant. But any other day? When I saw him in the throne room, in the ball room, in the halls Under the Mountain? He had been a nightmare in wrapped in flesh. Coldly cruel, dark, and utterly terrifying.

I swallowed.

Enough of the courtiers there were like him that it wasn’t an accident. Maybe the whole court was populated by monsters draped in silk, whispering sweet words whilst waiting for the next excuse to bare their teeth, or ones with innocent faces and false kindness to hide their deadly claws.

“I’m not going to the court proper,” he countered, “I’m just going to find my aunt.”

“What if she’s in the court?”

“Let me worry about that.”

I shook my head. “That’s a shitty plan. It’s not even a plan. What’re you going to eat? What route are you going to take? Do you even have a weapon? Can you winnow? Do you have a death wish?”

“So what, I stay here? Not knowing?” 

The sea breeze pulled at my hair, teasing some of it free so it whipped across my face. Not for the first time, I contemplated cutting it off, but then shied away from the thought as memories of my previous ‘haircuts’ bubbled to the surface of the dark lake I’d pushed them under. I rubbed my ears absently. I could see why so many people favoured longer hair given the method of trimming it. Arexus had nearly taken off an ear lobe more than once.

“We can’t stay here forever,” he pushed, “Come winter it will be too cold to lodge so open to the elements.”

”The further north we go, the harsher the winter. The Solar Courts don’t mess with the weather at all, not like the Seasonal’s,” I pointed out, “if anything, we should go back on ourselves, creep through Autumn and aim for Spring or Summer.”

Except I didn’t want to go anywhere near the Spring Court, with its High Lord who’d bargained with King Hybern. A king who then took two mortal women and used them as experimental proof, expendable test subjects to make a point. And for all that Tamlin had fought to save them, what else was in that deal he brokered? Why was he there voluntarily? Why was Feyre standing against him, at least to begin with? Had Rhys really held her in a thrall?

And most of those with us wanted to avoid the Summer Court, wary of the ones that - through weakness or complacency - had ended up so destroyed by Amarantha. They were the ones most riotously avoiding the courts, so outspoken about avoiding all of them all together. Of building something new, something run differently, a break from the mould.

“You don’t want to go that way,” he said knowingly. I cursed that tablet of theirs silently.

“Fine.” I ground out, “Alright. So? A plan?”

“We go west until we get to the foothills of the mountains, and then we follow them north until we get to Day,” he said eagerly, “and then do the same there, until we reach the sea at Dusk Bay. Follow that inland until we reach the border of the Night Court and the mountains there. We ask around until we find the nearest Tartera-held mine.”

“And if your Aunt isn’t at the first mine we find?” Because life was never that simple, or that kind.

He shrugged, “She probably won’t be. Fate isn’t that kind.” I smiled at him as he echoed my thoughts, “But with any luck someone will know of her, or my mother, or they can point just to the next place to try, if nothing else.”

“Awfully light on the details there, Daire.”

“Why make plans for the Cauldron to laugh at?”

We shared a knowing, sad smile that felt almost like something friends might do. It was something one of the other Summer males had used to say: before he went on a supply run and never returned. On my optimistic days, I figure he just went back to whatever friends or family he originally left behind. On my realistic days I figure something ate him.

Daire shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll pack whatever dry food we can carry, and nothing says we can’t trade at a village for more. And we can hunt for fresh food before it gets too cold.”

“We? So not just you? How many? Can any of you winnow?” 

“Seven. And no.”

”Who”

“Riona and Thom, plus Kael and Aderyn. They’re hoping we’ll find relatives of theirs on the way, in the thickest of the woods in Dawn. Apparently some trees told them to look there on our way through Winter.”

Aderyn and Kael were part wood nymph, and probably the most keen of all to leave this mostly tree-devoid spot we’d holed up in. Nature was rife here, took her fill in long grasses, in the fields of heather that grew for miles. The shrubby bushes, my favourite were the wild rosemary and lavender. But the small copse I had found my nook in was the only one for miles, a lonely cluster down from the foothills of the cliffs, like they’d noted the lack, and planted themselves there, stubbornly. Apart from them, you had to walk for hour to the next. Even the large gulls that were riding the air currents nearby slept in nests built into the cliff, not trees. I guess it felt like a barren place for creatures who were used to forests thick with whispering canopies and the slow, steady pulse of ancient roots beneath their feet.

True wood nymphs could weave themselves into the trees, their essence mingling with the slow life-force of the bark and leaves, their veins thrumming with the same patient rhythm as the roots that stretched unseen beneath the soil. They did not just live among trees; they were a part of them. Even those with only a touch of nymph blood, like Aderyn and Kael, felt the absence of a proper forest like a limb half-missing, a voice in their soul silenced, as they told it. I had seen Aderyn press her palm and face against the rough bark of one of the pines, eyes half-lidded, until her skin took on the imprint of the bark. Like she was trying to sink into it, to hear something beyond the wind and the birds. Kael, ever restless, walked the perimeter of the copse most days, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon like he expected a grand oak or an ash to rise from the barren fields overnight. My guess was it was Kael who’d followed me there that day, and if the silence of his footsteps didn’t match what I saw every other day? Well, who else could it be?

Riona and Thom were Firbolg, and were even more recent strays to the rag-tag band of misfits than me. I’d not been able to get out of them where they were from, only where they were aiming for - Dawn. Thom was a towering figure, easily seven feet, and Riona only an inch taller than my five and a half feet. Rhysand had not been able to answer why it was measured in feet when I asked him, and it still irked me: he was certain it would have been a historically agreed unit, or one that had been around since before the land and magic was divided, because all the courts used it, but whose foot was lost to time. I liked Riona and Them, they were a patchwork of contradictions: hulking yet gentle, wild in looks, yet oddly serene in nature. They both had deep, mahogany brown hair - Riona’s in a shaggy cut around her shoulders, Thom’s no longer than my fingers. They both had trimmed beards in the same colour, and strong, wide noses. Their skin was pale blue-grey skin, and rough as river stone, and both bore various scars that I didn’t think it polite to ask about. I’d never met a Firbolg Under the Mountain and didn’t hide my fascination well, but they were kind and patient whenever curiosity got the better of me. They wore a patchwork of brown leathers, worn soft with use, and smelt like damp earth and crushed leaves, although Riona’s was threaded through with something like spun sugar, and Thom’s with honey.

The way they told it, they were displaced, rather than seeking a different way of life like some of the others. All the talk of living in a non-court system had stiffened their spines in discomfort since their first day, but they didn’t object to the discussions, and joined in quietly when they wished. They were headed for Dawn originally, looking for a new home and space to set up their dream: a doll shop for children. Despite their general quiet natures, when they got started on the topic they could and would talk for hours. I’d got them talking about it four times, since they never remembered, and every time the say passionate fire kindled in their eyes as they described the precision needed when sewing the tiny clothes, when considering how to fashion the hair, making sure they made a variety as wide and varied as the Fae and Folk children who enjoyed their creations.

“Eimear’s keen to get moving, too,” Daire continued, ticking off the names on his long fingers and bringing me back to the present. Eimear was High Fae, like me, but her parents were from Day. Unfortunately for her family, they were the most renowned bakers in all of the Solar Courts, as Eimear told the story. They were forcefully recruited to cook in the kitchens for Amarantha. I’d never seen them, and I didn’t know what happened to them. She’d been ignored - by virtue of her not being a cook - and escaped, and for being all of six years old at the start of Amarantha’s reign. She was hoping her parents had escaped back to their home Court when Amarantha died. I thought she was chasing a rainbow.

”Guess we better start getting ready then,” I said eventually. If both the people that wrote and coded that special little tablet were leaving, there was no way I was staying here without them. This was the first time anyone who had any semblance of recall appeared to not hate me - even if it was all written down, instead of memories. “How do the rest of them feel about you all leaving?”

“How do you think they feel about it? Name some.”

I huffed. Right: time to prove I do know them, again. Despite his general warm demeanour, he made me prove myself every single day. To prove that I was the person talked about on the tablet. “Castor’s going to be annoyed at you all. Probably blaming me and making out like I’ve somehow caused it?”

His lips curved into a small smile. Emboldened, I continued, tapping my fingers on my knees. “Evander… probably just recounting the ways this could go wrong. Kora will be freaking out listening to him… I dunno. The rest probably just… skeptical.”

Daire moved his hand from side to side in so-so motion, “Not far off on any of those.”

“So I passed?” I asked dryly.

“You passed,” he agreed, “We’ll leave tomorrow morning at dawn. Be here if you want to come.”

*

I shivered into the biting wind as it whipped at my cheeks and howled past my ears. The first time it kissed my skin I thought it was the most refreshing thing I’d ever experienced but I’d been put right on that opinion since we’d begun this ill-fated trek. Cold, unrelenting wind was in the ranks of worst weather ever invented. It just didn’t care how tightly I buttoned my jacket, how well wrapped my scarf was, it cut through the layers of fabric like a sharpened knife through flesh.

Today it screamed over the jagged peaks above us, seeming to twist and turn no matter which direction the tiny trail headed, the wind always seemed to be in our faces. If there wasn’t an entrance to a Tartara mine - or any mine - up here, I had no idea how we were going to get down, and certainly not before night fell. We’d been at this all day, my thighs and calves burning with the strain. The sun remained hidden, trapped behind thick, grey clouds that had no end in sight. The same clouds that hid the sun also hid the top of the mountain, the first peak of the Night Court realm, making even a guess at how far remained pointless.

Daire trudged on beside me, his tired steps a contrast to how alertly he scanned the surroundings, looking for any sign of the mine entrance. And it was only Daire. Of the original seven of us that parted ways with the original group by the cliffs of Dawn we were the only two that remained.

It started well: Aderyn and Kael found their wood nymph kin within days of us entering the woods - the trees passed their messages along. They helped Eimear too, and even though she did not find her parents, with enough asking around, she was remembered, and we trekked a week out of the way to get her to a grandmother and aunt, and a cousin. A veritable entire family so happy and overjoyed to have one of their lost relatives back.

I liked to think about those three successes, rather than what happened after that. We fell into a sense of complacency after sorting out Aderyn, Kael and Elmer so quickly, and running into so few problems on the journey. A little over a week after we parted ways with Eimear, the clues started but, if any one else noticed them, they dismissed them just as quickly as I did. The first thing I remember noticing, and ignoring, was a faint, acrid scent in the air, like damp earth and rotting leaves, thick enough to taste when the wind shifted. Maybe there were signs before that, when they first caught our trail but I didn’t see those, either. We - I - should have recognised the scent for what it was. But we were tired, and riding high on confidence, a deceptively dangerous combination that combined to create a brutal, blind arrogance. We thought it would be as easy to the end as it had been from the start. We were wrong. It cost Riona and Them their lives.

The first sign that something was wrong, one that we all noticed, was the stillness. In hindsight, it was probably too late already. One afternoon, not long after we’d stopped for a break around noon, we realised there was no birdsong, no rustling leaves, in the forest we walked alongside. Just the kind of quiet, watchful tension that sets your nerves screaming. We walked on, jittery but presuming we just needed to put that section of forest behind us.

Then the shadows slipped between the trees, faster than our eyes could track. We didn’t hear them until it was too late. They split us up so easily - we even dived between the trees thinking it would help, would make us harder to find. It only made us easier prey: separated, weak. They played us like it was a game they’d played a thousand times before. Maybe they had. One moment, I was running beside Riona, her breaths ragged but determined; the next, she was gone. Just like that. Thom’s shouts echoed somewhere to my left, frantic and sharp, before they, too, fell silent.

I don’t remember much about those first frantic minutes. I just remember running, my heart slamming against my ribs, and how the forest seemed endless. Every tree looked the same. Every shadow felt dangerous, like it might hide another creature in its depths. Somehow, I found Daire again. The relief was fleeting; the Naga had already caught our scent, and one of them was closing in.

Fighting it was a blur of blood, claws, and a kind of breathless terror that I remember feeling in my first fight down in the Pits. I don’t know how we managed to kill it, but we did. The two of us, backs to one another, fighting like cornered animals. When the Naga finally lay still, its black blood steaming in the cool night air, we stood there for a moment, just breathing, too stunned to speak.

And then we started searching.

We found them not far from where we’d been ambushed, near the road. What was left of them, anyway. Riona’s hair was matted with dirt and blood, her midsection a mess of blood and organs and gore, her face frozen in a look of defiance that broke something in me. Thom - Cauldron, Thom - he still had his knife in hand. The hand was ten feet away from the rest of him. They’d fought. Of course they’d fought.

We sat with their bodies until dawn, the two of us hollowed out and silent. When the first light crept through the trees, I burnt them to ash, carved their names into stones and placed them beneath the gnarled roots of an old oak.

I don’t know if it was enough. It didn’t feel like enough. I ground my teeth together until my jaw ached and flashes of their broken bodies no longer seared my vision.

”Can you see it yet?” I called out to Daire. The wind stole my words faster than I could get them out. I much preferred the milder weather of May in Dawn.

I thought I heard him shout something back, saw his arm gesture to a fissure up ahead, and resolved myself to press on behind him. He disappeared. 

My stomach fell like a stone. Where did he go? Was he alright? I cursed, pushing my tired legs harder to catch up, forcing them to move faster than the aching limbs felt capable of until I was tripped over a rock, my palms burning with the sting of catching the rest of me from face planting the shale pathway. I cursed in frustration and readied a knife of shadow: I would not loose him the same way we lost the others. “Daire?” I called out, finally approaching the spot he’d disappeared from.

I leaned out over the edge of the rocky trail, scanning the jagged slopes below. If he’d fallen, I would’ve heard it… wouldn’t I? Or had I been too lost in my own thoughts to notice? The thought tightened my chest, and I stepped closer to the edge, straining for any sign of movement in the haze below.

Then something yanked hard on the back of my jacket.

Instinct kicked in before thought, every muscle tensing as I braced for the inevitable: the slam of stone, the snap of jaws, the burn of claws raking across skin. My mind raced, frantically piecing together what could be hunting this high in the mountains. Not another Naga? Not even I had luck that bad. A Yietch, maybe? Something worse?

”It’s me,” a voice said quickly.

”Daire! What the hell!” I spun to face him, my heart still hammering in my chest.

”You would have walked right by it -“

”By what -“

”The door -“

”What door!”

Before he could answer, a deep, resonant thud echoed around us as something slammed shut. Daire tugged me further inside, and it hit me: he was right. The fissure in the rock wasn’t a fissure at all, but a concealed entrance.

I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The hallway we stood in was unnervingly tall; I could sense the ceiling looming at least twenty feet above us, but it disappeared into the pitch-black void so quickly it felt like we should be stooping. The walls were no less claustrophobic: if I spread my arms, my fingertips would scrape both sides.

“Huh. That door.” I pulled my jacket straight and stepped out of his grasp. “You could see it?”

“Sort of,” he said, shrugging as if that explained everything.

I squinted at him, debating whether to press further. He didn’t elaborate though, and I let it drop. I couldn’t decide out whether he was being cryptic because he was half High Fae, or because he was half Tartera. Asking felt like a gamble: guess wrong, and I’d insult him. Especially since I still didn’t know what he was writing on that damned stone tablet of his every night. I’d chanced a few peeks but it really was written in some kind of code. Thin as it was, it had to be running out of space by now. He’d bought a second thin sheet with him for the journey, well, he and Aderyn had, but since she’d joined her kin he’d carried it without complaint.

We started walking, our footsteps soft against the stone floor. The silence pressed in around us, thick and unbroken. Even my shadows came up empty, slithering into the darkness ahead and finding nothing.

”You’re sure there are people here?”

”I’m sure,” he muttered. He didn’t sound sure. I rolled my eyes at him and kept pace with his long strides silently.

We walked forever. Long minutes, maybe hours. I was beginning to wonder if there was some kind of spell on the hallway that made it never end, and then one of my shadows came back and whispered it was just a little more, just a little more and then there would be an angled turn, perhaps a door, and we would arrive. I said none of this to Daire: he still didn’t know about my little shadow secret, and he hadn’t uttered a single whisper of doubt, just walked resolutely on, without pause or hesitation. Did he have something whispering to him in the dark in secret too?

My little shadow was right: ten minutes (or was it an hour?) later, there was a sharp angled bend until we were nearly parallel along another corridor. Perhaps twenty feet in front of us stood four Tartera guards, tall and lean and entirely in the shadows. I only knew they were there because their shadows were not… shadows. Not in the same way. Four pairs of coal black eyes stared down at us.

”Who seeks entry?” Said one of the guards, their voice like gravel.

Daire stared blankly back. I drew level and elbowed him swiftly in the ribs.

”I do?” Daire said hesitantly. I cringed. This did not seem like the kind of place to show hesitation. I didn’t doubt that despite no weapons being visible that there would be plenty guarding this entrance. I elbowed him again, harder. “I do,” he repeated, darting a glare in my direction. “My name is Daire out of Niamha, sister to Neve. My mother passed, I’m seeking my kin.”

“And the other?” The guard spoke with barely a glance in my direction, asking the question of Daire rather than me. If it was supposed to unsettle me, they were going to have to try harder.

I rounded my shoulders, making myself smaller, more unassuming, just an intimidated female who was in no way a threat. “I’m just trying to help him get there and stop him getting eaten on the way.” I said quietly.

“You are not only Tartera.” I was certain that came from the one on the left, they carried on accusingly, “Why not seek your other kin?”

I couldn’t see if Daire rolled his eyes or not, but I was fairly certain he did when the darkness wrapped guards bristled with indignation, annoyance? Anger? Maybe all three. ”I do not know the circumstances of my conception, or it was with. I was raised Tartera,” he said bluntly, “that is who I am, the kinship I want to claim.”

One of the guards disappeared in with no more sign than a disturbance in the darkness, a section of it thinning and a pair of eyes blinking out of existence, without further comment from either of them, and we were left waiting in awkward silence with the one that remained. At least no one had kicked us out, or tried to kill us? That seemed like a good start, or at least a reasonably neutral one.

Several minutes later, there was another movement in the thick shadows and the darkness deepened, and another pair of eyes was there, staring down at us again. Presumably the same guard, but it was little more than a presumption on my part. There weren’t many visual cues that I could discern, except height and their eyes, and their scents weren’t useful either. They were subtle, as if the darkness that concealed their forms also smothered their scents, making them hard to discern one from another.

“Neve does not reside here: she resides in a city far from here.”

Disappointment swooped down into my belly and banked up on a current of a hope at the last minute. Next to me, Daire stiffened when no more information followed the first, a muscle ticking along his jaw.

“Which city?” He ground out.

There was a long pause, the eyes of the guards turning to face each other as they clearly conferred, despite making no noise. Where they speaking mind to mind? Or was there something blocking the sound? “It is called Velaris,” the one one the right said at length, ”Follow the mountains going north west, until they turn north for the second time. Follow them, and you will find it.”

Another mountain range? The area they were suggesting was miles away, it would take us weeks to get there, if we got there at all. We were down to our last day or two of dried food, our water skins empty. Times like this I wished I could winnow, whisk Daire and I directly to the mysterious city to reunite he and his aunt. But I held that wish simultaneously with the gladness that I couldn’t, and neither that Daire couldn’t either, because the minute he got what he was looking for, he wouldn’t need me to keep him company any more.

“It is quite a journey from here,” said the one on the left, voice flat and hard, “we suggest you get started.”

Subtle. I raised an eyebrow at the pair of red, glowing eyes and reached out to tug Daire’s sleeve. “C’mon, sounds like the adventure continues and our quick departure is desired.”

Chapter Text

*

The city that sprawled out beneath us took my breath away. This was Velaris? It stretched out from the base of flat-topped red mountains in the north, all the way to the edge of a shimmering sea in the west, finishing with a small port. Throughout its sprawl, it wrapped itself around a winding river that meandered lazily all the way to the sea. The water reflected the clear autumn sky above us in a blue, rippling brilliance, broken only periodically by bridges.

How many Fae lived here? It was already bigger than anything I’d ever imagined in the Night. Did everyone know each other? Why couldn’t I hear any screaming? Did everyone have their own building? Surely so given the size of it. I itched to rush in and explore it, find out what noises filled it, what the buildings looked like up close, how the streets felt beneath my street. Were they dirt? Stone? Cobbles?

“How have we never heard of this place?” Daire muttered in disbelief. He let out a long sigh, his chest heaving it out in one long breath. It meant something along the lines of shock.

Something glinted in the side of the far mountain, little squares of light that caught the sun. What was that? Windows? A quartz mine? “Maybe your mother had just never heard of it?” I suggested as I squinted, trying to make out more details.

“With her sister living there?” Daire asked doubtfully. I turned to look at him, and the eyebrow he’d raised in my direction.

“Yeah that’s weird.” I scratched my hairline, turning the next steps we could take over in my head. “Reckon we can just… walk in? It hasn’t even got an outer wall.”

"One way to find out," he replied with a shrug, already taking long, loping steps down the steady slope that would lead us to the city that waited below.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” I asked, hurrying to cross the distance already opening up between us. “What if they’re not the friendly types?”

“You said it yourself, they haven’t even got an outer wall for defences,” he gestured to the city edges, “how unfriendly could they be?”

This had to be the most unthought through approach possible. And yes, the city did look open and welcoming, but some of the prettiest flowers ever documented were also the deadliest. “What if they have a ‘kill all outsiders on sight’ rule!” I argued, “No need for walls then!”

“Then my aunt would already be dead,” he said, giving me an unimpressed side eye, “not informing others of her new location. Stop panicking, Blaze.”

“I’m not,” I answered automatically. But he had a point, so I stopped making a fool of myself and kept my increasing list of ways this could go wrong to myself instead. He gave me a far too knowing look.

For a city in the Night Court, I had expected something much darker, more ominous. Not townhouses and shops, copper roofs interspersed with slate, paved roads and frequent street lighting. Perhaps intimidating, creaking wrought iron fences and dead ivy? Tall gates topped with deadly spikes and decorated with eerie symbols, or decomposing skeletons hanging from city walls (which it didn’t even have) to deter away unwanted visitors? Maybe fighting pits packed with bloodthirsty spectators cheering for the next gruesome event? But there was none of that. Velaris was... beautiful. Almost impossibly so. It radiated a sense of calm busy-ness, more like a long-lived in sanctuary than the dangerous hub of power I had imagined. As we joined a paved, smooth stone road that led inward, fae of all kinds moved about us with ease. Faint music even drifted from somewhere further in on a salty, sea breeze.

There were no dark surprises, despite moving deeper into the city, following the stone road. The most dangerous thing we came across was having to jump out of the way of a fast moving horse-drawn cart, laden with crates of goods. Small gathering spaces centred around fountains or little flower gardens, cobblestone paths veered off to house lined side streets, and larger ones edged by shops and cafes and workshops. There was ivy, but it was living and green and climbing buildings gleefully. I could hardly believe that a place like this existed in Prythian. A city, untouched by wars? Thriving under the rule of Night, of all of the courts? I felt adrift with its existence, so at odds with what I’d expected. We passed one cafe that spilled out onto the streets, bustling with song as someone carefully carried out a cake topped with so many candles I was surprised it hadn’t melted. I poked Daire in the side, gesturing over, but he was already looking at it, naked longing in his eyes.

For a moment, I let myself imagine staying here. Being invited to a birthday party, singing along with a group of people that I might even call friends. Maybe we could go for kahve, or even tea, afterwards. Perhaps walk along the riverfront. Maybe one day I would have a group of friends to celebrate a birthday with, someone would bring out a little cake on for me —

But that dream, like so many others, was snuffed out as quickly as it started. I was not part of this city. The woman who’d birthed me wanted to control people, not nurture them. And no one was ever going to invite me to a gathering for cake, or meet me for a walk - you didn’t do that with strangers. And I was ever the stranger.

Daire's steps quickened with every street we crossed, his eyes scanning every face, but dusk soon had us seeking out somewhere to sleep. We were short on both coin and food, and ignorant of what the rules were about hunting down our own dinner. I was having an unspoken competition between our two stomachs on which could rumble louder when a bakery closing it’s pretty, pale green painted window shutters caught my eye. I felt in my pocket for the two single copper marks and jogged over to the Fae locking the shutters in place, his deep brown eyes widening in surprise as I smiled sheepishly, stopping out of arms reach.

“I’ve got two copper marks,” I said by way of greeting, nodding to the shop behind them. Hunger stopped any shame I might have felt, although I knew Daire would feel differently. It was why he was probably still walking away, pretending I wasn’t with him. Hopefully not too far though. I started a mental countdown in my head. “Anything that was going to go in the bin that you’d rather sell?”

He raised his eyebrows, frown lines marring his forehead. There was a faint pattern to his brown skin, like worn down tree-bark, that suggested he had urisk heritage somewhere in his family line. I held in a sigh and smiled again, stretched and false but a smile none the less, and started to turn back to the road behind me.

“Wait,” he said, his voice deep but clear. “I was thinking, young one.” It was obviously a censure, but easily the softest one I’d ever received, there wasn’t a hint of anger in his bearing or tone. I bit my lip and turned back to face him, my hand still wrapped tightly around the two copper marks. When he saw he had my attention again he held out a hand in a universal gesture to stay still, “Wait there.”

They finished locking the shutters and disappeared back inside the building, the aroma of bread still escaping the doorway. My stomach rumbled with complaint at the taunt. When was the last time we had something like bread? We’d had some flour after parting ways with Eimear, courtesy of her extended family, and eaten flatbreads until that ran out… but that was weeks ago. Before the leaves started turning. A few minutes later he emerged with a bundle wrapped in string and thin paper and my mouth watered even while I reeled at my luck. There was more than two copper marks worth of bread in a bundle that size.

“We all hit rough times,” he said, handing over the parcel, which was heavier than I expected too. I tucked it into my chest carefully and gave him a real, genuine smile this time that tugged all the way into my cheeks as I held out the money.

“Thank you, here,” I said gratefully, but he pushed my hand back.

“As I said, we all hit rough times, and this would not have kept overnight. You are helping me out really, it was a slow day. Better it went in someones belly than in the bin.”

“I-Are you - I mean…are you sure?” I kept my hand out between us, palm up, but he only shook his head.

“Go catch up with your friend. There is a barn on the outskirts, if you follow this road you won’t be able to miss it. The owner doesn’t mind anyone in need taking shelter in it, so long as you leave at dawn and aren’t noisy.”

I clutched the breads to my chest, my fist tight around the coins I didn’t expect to still have and thanked him repeatedly, even as I backed away and ran to catch up with Daire, where he waited a few buildings further up.

“He just… gave you all this?” Daire asked in shock as we sat in the hay loft of the barn we’d been directed to. Our feast of a few strips of dried meat from our last hunt, full waterskins filled from a public water fountain, two apples I palmed during the walk through the city outskirts on our way in and, the pinnacle: two double-palm sized breads stuffed with spiced potatoes and cheese and onions, a thick flatbread topped with honey and seeds, and an entire loaf. I was practically drooling.

I ripped the potato-stuffed bread in half and tossed it at him. Daire caught it easily, his brow furrowed. “And he just refused the marks?”

I shrugged, breaking off a piece for myself. “Said he was closing up for the night and it was going to go in the bin.”

He took a bite, groaning as he chewed. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Less talking, more eating.” I said around a mouthful of food, smirking. I swallowed the ball of food too early and coughed, “Hurry up before we loose all the light, you need to write yourself a message.”

He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue, reaching for another piece. We made quick work of everything except the loaf, saving that for tomorrow. Better slightly stale bread than an empty stomach, and despite my arguments towards a little petty theft to feed ourselves, Daire remained committed to his zero crime rule until we knew more about the punishments. I would have been more offended by the implication that I would do something so amateur as get caught if I’d shared either my years of practice, or my shadow ability, but I’d shared neither so kept my indignation to myself. The final light was a dying thing when he frantically etched whatever coded message he wanted to add to the scant remaining space that remained.

After two days of wondering around, we still had yet to see the dark underbelly that rumour told us should be prevalent here. And where were the fae I’d seen Under the Mountain? All the high ranking members from Night had been High Fae, not a hint of anything else. But here, it was practically a melting pot. Feline shifters walked arm in arm with Urisk, goblins hobnobbed with dwarves… and most people were nice. We ran into a few with less than pleasant dispositions, more than a few who were distrustful of strangers but, nobody with whips, or armed to the teeth hunting us down. I’d toyed with the idea that there was some kind of secret police keeping everyone in line, or that this whole city was the bait of a trap to lure in weary travellers but… nothing.

Two days of fraught searching and filling into the final inches of the tablet late at night, and not getting captured by evil secret police, we finally were directed by a kind stranger to a small shop in one of the clearly more affluent districts. The sign overhead was simple, etched with intricate patterns of silver and gold, but the quality of the craftsmanship spoke volumes, it’s simplicity that of elegance rather than gaudy declarations. Daire stopped at the door, his hand hesitating on the handle.

“She’s never even met me,” he muttered under his breath, tension threading his shoulders taut.

“Blood knows blood,” I said softly, though I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it. Obviously I had a father originally - was he still alive out there somewhere? Was he like Amarantha? Better? Worse? Would he know me if he met me, like in the children’s stories Rhysand used to lend me? Still, Daire needed the encouragement and he was the one seeking out his relatives, not me, so I told the white lie.

Daire took a deep breath, and just when I thought maybe he was going to sigh in defeat and turn around, he pushed the door open instead. A bell above the door chimed softly, and we stepped into a dark space, lit by only a single, soft faelight above a counter filled with elegant earrings and bracelets and necklaces, all gleaming with gemstones, their metals polished to a high sheen that caught the daylight from the windows either side of the door. At the far end of the room, a figure wrapped in shadows sat at a jeweller’s bench, her fingers darting out of the darkness as they worked with the precision of someone who had mastered their craft decades ago. As the shadows shifted and flowed, I had the sense of black hair, and a tall, lean figure.

Daire moved in just enough to let me inside, but not an inch more. I squeezed in, shutting the door behind me as he stared and stared at the figure at the bench. It’s the hope that kills you, really, and I pleaded silently to the Cauldron that Daire wasn’t about to have his smashed into the ground. I watched them both carefully, but the jeweller remained entranced with their work and Daire remained watching them in silence. Finally, when I thought I might have to intervene, he worked his jaw a couple of times, clenched his fists, and said, “Hello?”

Well, it was a greeting, I supposed. Possibly-Neve glanced up, coal-black eyes narrowing slightly as they took us in. Their gaze lingered on Daire, a flicker of confusion crossing her face.

“Hello. Can I help you?” they asked, setting down her tools and rising from her seat.

Daire swallowed, shifting from foot to foot, his usual confidence wavering. “I’m Daire. I think… I think I might be your nephew.” His voice was low and quiet, but I could hear the fear and the hope in it, see it in the gaze he kept on her. He took a small, faltering step closer, as if he had to force his legs to move. “My mother was Niamha.”

For a moment, Possibly-Neve didn’t react. She stood frozen, her sharp eyes searching Daire’s face, taking in every feature and cataloguing it. She stared at his hair, his forehead, his ears. His eyes, his nose, his eyes, the shape of his mouth, his jaw, and I could see the recognition slowly dawning. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she took an unsteady step forward. Just like in the stories.

“By the Cauldron... I thought... I thought I’d never -” she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief. 

She reached out, her dark shadows moving with her and Daire closed the distance, stepping straight into her embrace as his shoulders finally fell in relief. It was awkward at first, the two of them clinging to each other like strangers learning how to hold something precious. But then, as the reality of it sank in, I saw Neve’s arms tighten around him, and Daire’s face buried itself in her shoulder, his breath coming in shaky, muted gasps.

“I didn’t even know if she had a child,” Neve whispered, pulling back slightly to cup his face. “I haven’t seen my sister in... so long. I never thought...”

“She’s gone.” Daire’s voice was thick as he spoke, the grief still not willing to lie still and quiet. “She’s been gone for years.”

Neve’s face crumpled, the weight of it all settling on her shoulders. “I should’ve looked for her. I should’ve found a way —”

“You couldn’t have known,” Daire said softly. “But you’re all I have left now.”

The silence between them was heavy, and watching them, I felt a pang for something I hadn’t expected. This was what Daire needed. A family. A place where he could belong, free of the burdens we’d carried with the others. And here I was, intruding on it all, taking things that I wasn’t entitled to. Just like Amarantha. The realisation made me look away from the pair of them, sticking my gaze to my feet as I bit my lip.

He’d dropped his backpack when he went to her. It rested on the floor, leaning heavily against the side table behind the door. Still avoiding their emotional reunion, I moved quietly towards it, letting a few shadows unspool from where they’d lingered, restless and frustrated in my own shadows, content it was dim enough here already they would be noticed. They helped steady the bag, and watch Daire and Neve, as I slipped the stone tablet free, fingers lingering on the cool stone for a moment longer than necessary before I pulled it free. This was why I’d come. To help him find his family. We couldn’t continue like this, him scrawling so much of our lives in tiny coded glyphs, it was madness.

I glanced back at Daire, his face softened in a way I hadn’t seen before, the ticking muscle in his jaw finally lax. He didn’t need me anymore. This was his chance at happiness, at a family and a life in a city that had been so welcoming to two strangers.

Without another word, I turned and backed out of the shop, my shadows muffling the sound of the door’s bell as I quickly faded into the busy streets outside.

*

I spent that night hiding in the eaves of a building not far from Neve’s shop, close enough to see it, to see him through the window, realising the dream that pulled him through this entire trek was real. I wrapped my shadows around myself, round and round like a thick cloak, until I was just a smudge in a corner, unremarkable. Just another dark patch in the night. I’d stay just until I was sure he was safe, that it was real.. that’s what I told myself. Told myself it was desire for his safety that kept me watching, not jealousy, not envy that he was right, there was someone for him here. Someone who loved him just because they were family.

I hugged my knees tighter, the thought to chase away the cold with a flame in my hands as thick and tempting as honey. These autumn nights were colder than the ones I’d spent sleeping out in the open during summer though, and I missed the barns we’d found since our arrival. I fell asleep watching the light in the small apartment above the shop.

The next day greeted me with a crisp blue sky, not a cloud in sight, and my breath fogged in front of me like dragon breath. I spent the day meandering around a section of the city that seemed to be almost entirely devoted to arts, stealing an apple here, a pastry there, with a modicum of guilt, but was quickly quietened by my growling stomach: Daire wasn’t here now to beg me not to, and it wasn’t like anyone would catch me.

I lost count of the art galleries and studios I passed. There were ones dedicated to glassblowing, to music, to pottery… and tiny bookshops, and little art shops, each with their own individual flare. I’d stumbled across no less than three sculpture gardens (one full of well, statues, one of topiary and one of metal) and two sprawling street murals on the sides of buildings, both looking like they were depicting a battle, with a defender that looked very much like Feyre stood in the centre of the main, rainbow coloured square. By late afternoon I was trying to pretend to myself that I wasn’t looping back in the direction of Daire’s aunts jewellery shop, just to check if he was alright, when someone walked past me, towards the street of jewellers, and I thought nothing of it until they stopped and turned around, right in my path.

“Excuse you,” I muttered, already trying to move around them. The familiar scent - jasmine and citrus - made me pause.

“What are you doing here?”

That voice: I knew that voice. I looked up from the mid distance where I’d fixed my gaze, and found Rhysand looking back at me. Looking at me like he knew me. 

“It’s Tuesday?” I asked, the shock and disbelief flooding into my voice. What was the High Lord of the Night Court doing down here? I’d not seen any suggestion in the city that this was where the throne of the court sat somewhere. He nodded curtly, seemed to consider something for a second, and then gestured for me to follow him, away from the jewellers. It wasn’t a short walk, wherever we were going, and I’d been up at dawn with Daire for the final trek into the city yesterday, and again today. My legs ached and my feet chafed in the stolen boots I’d purloined a few months ago when the weather was warmer. The falling sun was drawing long shadows on the streets when Rhysand turned into the small front garden on an end townhouse. The walls were low, well kept, red stone and the gravel path crunched under our feet up to the navy blue painted front door, which opened on smooth, oiled hinges.

He led me into a living room off the hallway, still silent. He hadn’t spoken to me at all since questioning my presence, only turning every now and then to make sure I was still there. The house fascinated me: was this where he lived? The floor was a polished, dark toned wood and the walls panelled in a soft, warm tan wood. There was a large fireplace on one wall through a set of double doors, with large, low-backed deep blue sofas surrounding it. 

My gaze was drawn to the towering bookshelves that lined the wall beside the fireplace. They were crammed with books of every size and colour, the worn spines speaking of years of use. It was a confusion of scents, more than I could pick out. Flowers and cedar and citrus, the sea and leather and wood. He lived here with other people? This place? There was a particular air about the room that felt both ancient and lived-in, like it had seen countless evenings with the sofas filled and conversations had, evenings spent reading books and keeping warm around the fire.

“Would you like a drink?”  Rhysand asked, his voice breaking through the silence, and my thoughts.

I shook my head, too wound up from the tense silence to manage more than that. With nothing but silence from him, I had no idea what he was thinking. He sat down with an effortless grace on one of the sofas, his violet eyes watching me with a level of intensity that felt like a weight pressing against my chest. I shifted uneasily.

“You look like a skittish cat,” he observed, his tone dry but not unkind as his swirled the amber liquid in his own glass. I blinked, and realised I still stood in the hallway, one hand braced on the doorframe, leaning into the shadows by the wall, my body half turned towards the front door. I stepped inside with steps that probably looked just like Daire’s yesterday, like I was forcing my legs to move: because I was. The warmth of the living room contrasted sharply with the unusual chill of the wind outside. His gaze followed me, steady but careful, like he was trying to figure me out while not wanting to be seen as actually caring. Or like a predator watching prey. Which Rhysand was this? Was this my teacher? Or was that a facade he only wore while he was trapped under the mountain. When he gestured toward the nearest sofa, I forced my legs to bend, though I kept my movements slow and deliberate.

He leaned back, still watching. “What happened to you after we were all freed from the mountain?”

I spent a lot of time deliberately not thinking about that time. I’d dedicated no small amount of effort to not thinking about it. My voice felt tight in my throat when I answered. “Nothing worth repeating,” I said tightly, “not until one of you took the wards down at Hybern’s castle.”

I saw something flicker across his face at the mention of Hybern, too quick to name. Perhaps it was the mention of the male who’d hurt his friends. “You were at Hybern’s castle?”

“Yes,” I replied, “when you all came, and he put those two mortal females in the Cauldron.”

Rhysand’s expression darkened. His voice turned cold, laced with distrust that stabbed at my chest. So, not my teacher then. “And what were you doing there? When he was putting my High Lady’s sisters in the Cauldron?”

High Lady? I set that aside and let the pain of his doubt gnaw at me, but kept my expression in its well-trained mask. “Trapped,” I said carefully. How best to cover this when he clearly had no memory? Only Tuesdays remained, only Tuesdays survived whatever magic Amarantha had cast. I should be grateful, I reminded myself, that Rhysand remembered that at least, it was one day more than anyone else not on her side ever had. Unfortunately ‘not on her side’ and ‘on my side’ were not the same thing. “with Faebane cuffs,” I continued, “and guards holding me. You saw me, I promise.You just don’t remember, it’s not your fault, or mine,” I added hastily, “I saw you all winnow away, and then realised those were same wards stopped me from escaping, too. I got out not long after that.”

I bit my tongue. That was dangerously close to admitting I had another way to travel, someway other than winnowing.

“That was months ago.” He observed, taking a drink from the glass that smelt of alcohol, whiskey, if I was right. We sat in silence until he sighed, sounding disappointed. “What happened after that? Where did you go?”

“Nothing, and nowhere really,” I said with a shrug. Again, I was skimming. But he wasn’t going to be interested in the lonely nights, the overwhelming sky that I thought might crush me, or let me float away, up and up, until there was no air left. He wasn’t interested in the horizon that was too big and too impossibly far, or how I didn’t know where to go, where to find food, or where to sleep. How to look after myself in a world that wasn’t limited by stone walls and provided for with stolen food. He wanted the headline details, a summary that would reassure him I wasn’t a threat. “I ended up running into some other displaced fae from her reign, and then… helped some of them get back to their family, or what was left of it. I tried to stop them dying on the way —” An image of the devoured remains of Riona and Thom, of my failure, my stupidity, flashed to the front of my mind and I shuddered, “The last one happened to be here.” My smile was thin and tinged with bitterness, “Everyone’s safe and sound now.”

Because that didn’t include me, but there was no one to care if I was safe, no one to check that I was alright. Come tomorrow, he wouldn’t even remember this conversation. I hesitated, unsure how, or even if, to ask about what I wanted. I wanted to know if everything I’d heard in Hybern’s throne room was true. If he’d really tricked Feyre into loving him, stolen her from High Lord Tamlin, forged a bond to keep her close. Or if the rumours I’d heard here were true, and they were really in love. Was she the High Lady he referred to? Was she the female in the murals in the art district? My chest tightened. And when had she become Fae? So much of what I’d seen in Hybern’s castle didn’t make sense, didn’t tally with the rumours I’d heard since I got here. I liked certainties, and information. Knowledge kept me safe. Everything about this situation felt too much of the opposite. “I have lots of questions,” I said instead, my voice trailing off.

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed, as though he was piecing something together. “I would have sensed you in the throne room if you were there.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” I replied calmly, as if this were completely normal. Because it was. For me. “It wasn’t Tuesday.”

“You keep mentioning the day of the week.” His face remained impassive but I heard the undercurrent of frustration, the slight change in pace and pitch of his voice. One of his fingers tightened on the glass imperceptibly.

This was not the first time I had gone over this with him. “You only recognise me, even remember me, on Tuesdays, Rhysand. And only if you see me. The rest of the time I just… slip away. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. Nobody else even remembers me at all.”

He shook his head, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “No, that’s not possible.”

”Well it’s been possible for at least thirteen years, so I’d say you’re wrong.” It came out sharper than it should have, but I was so tired of having this conversation, of this issue always being the issue. For his part, he looked completely unfazed by my tone. In truth, he had rarely cared if I showed him deference or the respect due of a High Lord Under the Mountain either. Instead, his eyes searched mine, looking for deceit, or answers, I wasn’t sure, but it made my head itch, and while he looked at me, I looked back and I still couldn’t see anger. Not yet. Frustration, yes. And that was only a short step away from its more dangerous cousin. ”Why didn’t the curse break with her death?”

“It’s not tied to her, it’s tied to me.” I said, and I felt the weight of years of being forgotten pressing down on me, pressing the air from my lungs. Amarantha had cursed me to be forgotten, to slip away from people’s minds like a wisp of smoke. She hadn’t even bothered to give me a name. The warmth of the fire grew distant as the reminder of my permanent loneliness settled into my bones afresh. I’d been able to forget for awhile, thanks to Daire and his tablet. I forced myself to fill my lungs again. “Were they alright? The females that got Made? You took them with you.” I asked, abruptly changing the subject.

His eyes narrowed at the shift, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t a topic I wanted to linger on.

“It has been… difficult,” he said.

”I’m getting the impression I’m not supposed to ask.”

”Correct.”


I tsked the way Daire liked to when he disapproved, but my opinion held little sway anywhere, let alone here with a male who could probably squish me like a bug. “Can I ask if Feyre is alright?” I tried instead, “Last time I saw her before that was before the third trial, and she was mortal then. But at the castle she was Fae.”

Rhysand’s brow furrowed, lines carving their marring lines into his forehead. ”When did you see Feyre in the mountain?”

”Well, her room was right next to mine,” I said with a shrug, “I wanted to know who was in there and why they were getting visitors - other than the guards.”

”Her room?’ He shook his head slowly from side to side, his mouth pressing into a thin line, then he continued slowly, as if explaining something to a child, “She had her kept in a cell in the dungeons. Your room was on the tenth floor.”

“That was my Tuesday room,” I said, just as slowly back. “I was only allowed in it on Tuesdays.”

He stared at me for a long moment, the silence growing heavy between us. He took a longer drink from his glass, swallowed it deliberately, and only then did he finally speak. I wondered what thoughts that revelation had kicked off. “You lived in the dungeon.”

I nodded, and after another long pause, he said, “And I will forget you after today. Until next week. If I see you.”

“Yes,” I said, more warily this time, but he only stared pensively at his drink, his gaze not quite on the drink, but somehow distant. “So… Feyre?” I prompted, “What happened?”

Rhysand’s expression grew darker. He shifted on the sofa, the air around him suddenly felt more charged that before, more dangerous. The set of his jaw moved to something tense, angry. “Feyre passed the third trial,” he said shortly, “but the bargain for the Spring Court’s freedom was deliberately vague on the timeframe. Her only chance to break the curse immediately was to solve an additional riddle. And Amarantha took her anger out on Feyre, as you can imagine. ”

He wasn’t really here in the room with me. I could almost see whatever memory he was reliving playing behind his violet eyes, and the power in the room seemed to hum with tension. I adjusted my position on the sofa, closer to the edge, readying myself to move, and fast.

“She solved it,” he said, voice low and quiet, “moments before Amarantha killed her.”

I frowned. Killed her? I was certain that was what he’d just said, but it was also impossible. “She was very much not dead when I saw her.” I said aloud.

“Each of the High Lords gave her a drop of magic, to bring her back, to Make her,” he continued, “as recompense for breaking the curse.”

The missing piece of the puzzle slotted into place and I nodded, moving the parts back around. That made sense, actually. There was no other way I’d heard of bringing someone back from the dead, unless you were in a very old story. The mystery of Feyre’s transformation finally had an answer, and I filed it away. It still didn’t explain how she ended up with him instead of Tamlin.

Rhysand’s voice broke through my musings as I speculated on possible reasons why and how. “Have I tried to break the curse on you before?” 

No, he’d never tried to break it before. But before, what would have happened if suddenly everyone else remembered me all the time? What would she have done? What if she just cursed me all over again, removing him from the equation? So I’d never asked. “There’s never been a chance,” I waved him off with a shrug, “and you always forget. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” He said it like it was a fact, a certainty. It made me want to smile, made me think that someone might care, if only for a day. But that was dangerous: to let something like that in. To hope. It was the hope that would kill me, one day, I was sure of it. The weight of the dashed ones, the lost hopes, the broken promises and unspoken severed bonds of friendship that never had a chance to form.

“It has to be fine, Rhysand, it’s not like there’s any other option.” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve got a theory I want to try, and I saw a port here. I’m going to buy passage on a ship - maybe if I go far enough, I’ll find the edges of the curse.”

He studied me, tapping his fingers on the edge of his near-empty glass. He looked at me thoughtfully. Did he know I’d just made up the idea today? Had been toying with it whilst I debated if it was safe to leave Daire to his new life? “You said your friend lives here now, with his aunt. You aren’t tempted to stay?”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.” The laugh that bubbled up was bitter and dry, nothing of hope about it. “He’ll have already forgotten me: it’s the same for everyone, even you. I thought maybe it was just people under the mountain that were affected, but it’s everyone. I just… fade. It’s like you forget while you sleep, or even once I’m out of sight.”

Before he could respond, the front door opened, and a male voice filled the house, announcing how the wind was unusually cold tonight and that he needed a drink.

“In here, Cassian,” said Rhysand.

I stood, my heart sinking. “That’s my cue.”

I turned toward the door, my heartbeat quickening as the male I’d last seen with shredded wings in Hybern’s castle walked into the room. The cold from outside still clung to him, the sharpness of it cutting through the warmth of the fire. He was taller than I remembered, broader too, and undoubtedly better looking that my memory. His wings, the ones I thought had been beyond saving, now stretched wide and whole behind him, the membranous skin lit up in golds and reds by the sun casting through it before he tucked them in to his back. I felt an odd rush of relief seeing him, healed and strong again: skin golden brown, not pallid, a smile on his lips instead of a drawn, pained frown. The memory of him broken, his wings hanging in tatters, had been etched into my mind like a scar.

But now… he was alive, his wings intact, as if it had never happened. A memory of my last match in the Pits threatened to reach out of the depths I’d forced it into, a flash of a wing, the bite of a talon across my thigh, vacant brown eyes. I turned away quickly, squeezing my eyes shut to force the memory back. When I turned back, the male was looking between me and Rhysand with a raised brow, before nodding in greeting at Rhysand, effectively dismissing me in the same breath. He had no idea who I was, of course. I was just a passing face, one he would forget the moment in short order. A quiet sadness settled in my chest as I slipped out of the warm and welcoming townhouse, closing the door softly behind me. The cool night air hit my face like a splash of cold water, and I pulled my jumper tighter around myself, glancing back at the glowing windows regretfully, pushing the longing down. I wouldn’t be returning. Not now, not ever.

I made my way down the cobbled streets of Velaris, my steps light and deliberate, like I was already slipping away from their memories. By tomorrow, none of them would remember I’d ever been there.

Chapter Text

Azriel

The scent of sweat and steel still clung to my skin as I unwrapped my bloodied knuckles, Rhys doing the same next to me. Somewhere above the clouds, the stars were just beginning to pierce the dimming night sky.

There was something new in Velaris and it had preoccupied me for the entire session, leading to Rhys getting more hits in than he usually did. I thought at first the feeling was related to Feyre’s in Spring, but when I followed up, my sources informed me there was no movement against us there. No open movement, at least.

Although, unrest was rising in that court. The outer villages along its border were rife with rumour and stories of sentries being whipped - sentries Tamlin had sacrificed for years in the name of breaking the curse. I couldn’t warp my head around it. Tamlin wasn’t raised for the position of High Lord, true, but he was a soldier, through and through. He’d learnt how to command troops, how to lead, how to get the best from people. He knew how important moral was in an army.

Perhaps, now, his own people had begun to question why, and the guilt of that question was what nagged at the High Lord? Why. Why their brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, had been cast into the jaws of something unseen for so long. Why, after all those years, it had never worked. Why he sent her back at the twelfth hour anyway. But why would that lead to whippings? What transgression could they have committed to reach such a punishment?

Not only did those rumours not tell me what I needed to know, they made my head spin with questions and theories and possibilities. I rubbed distractedly at my jaw where Rhys’ fist had caught me solidly when he slipped through my block. I stretched out my wings to catch a cool, evening breeze and lifted my face to the unseen moon above. Deliberately placed footfalls, not heavy, not soft, told me Rhys was approaching. I flicked him a glance, still rubbing my jaw as he stopped beside me, his own wings spread.

The latest news was that there were members of Hybern’s court there, at Tamlin’s invitation, apparently. Rhysand had not been pleased to hear that, but he didn’t break. No, he’d just had that look on his face that had me dragging him up here at the first opportunity. His trust, and more importantly, his belief, in Feyre was unwavering, even as his concern and worry mounted. All of ours did. His face had remained unreadable as he listened, as he sifted through the truth and the exaggerations. He trusted Feyre to be our eyes, our ears. But by the time I forced him from war preparations to spar, it was quickly clear how much he was holding in. We were both bruised, bloody messes now.

And yet.

I had spent decades, centuries, planting my network, cultivating whispers into voices, voices into sources. I had spies in every court, threads of information that wove a tapestry I could navigate with ease, that I could use to trace patterns, to see what might be forming in the bigger picture.

But not in the Manor House. Never in the Manor House.

I had tried. I had sent operatives in, carefully chosen, given them time to embed themselves into the household, to gather what they could. They either found nothing or were turned away before they could get close.

I had tried bribery, too. Money, power, freedom: promises tailored to those most likely to take them. And yet, no one whispered back.

Rumours told me that Tamlin’s court was fractured, his sentries unhappy, threatening to break from his house, but somehow, no one was willing to speak against him. That was… strange. Unsettlingly so.

Perhaps he had nothing to hide. Perhaps his people were simply that loyal. Perhaps they saw this as a problem for the ruling Fae, not themselves. Or maybe there was something darker at work, or something keeping them silent, keeping them afraid. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe they simply didn’t care - maybe they agreed with him.

The lack of certainty was like a tic in my side.

And now, Hybern’s court was there. And still, my spies could tell me nothing, and no one had been able to get closer to the Manor House, and I still didn’t have a line to Feyre. Aside from Rhys himself.

The itch at the base of my spine, the one that had been there since Feyre left, only dug deeper.

It was an old feeling. The kind I’d learned to trust, to listen to. I frequently argued with my brothers and with Mor that I wasn’t paranoid, just jaded. And my instincts on these things were usually right. Because it didn’t sit right. None of it did. Not the rumours, not the silence, not the way my network, usually so informative, had such a pointed blind spot. Even the fifty years of being trapped in Velaris shouldn’t have degraded it that much, although, my information on Spring had never been deep. Never been enough. The last time I missed something it cost Rhys his sister and mother. One day, I might finally be worthy of asking forgiveness for that.

And my instincts said there wassomething different in the city. Something I’d not been able to put my finger on. At first, I’d chalked it up to nerves. Then Feyre. When Rhys dismissed that, I’d assigned it to Hybern positioning themselves while we were still scrambling to prepare and organise with the other courts. That didn’t sit right, either.

A shadow swept along the darkening ground and curled around my foot, stretching up and up around and around until it sang to me that Cass was nearly here. I nodded goodbye to Rhys, knowing Cass would be making sure our brother ate something before he buried himself in work, and leapt into flight, heading for the city below. A little gap between our handover might fool Rhys for perhaps ten whole minutes before he realised were keeping a close eye on him.

It was time to make another circuit of my city. I’d been walking through the streets at every opportunity, at odd hours, whenever my duties allowed. If I didn’t have time for that, or if exhaustion was pulling too strongly for me to ignore, I flew above, watching, waiting, searching for some sign that Velaris had changed, for some break in the rhythm of the city I knew as well as my own breathing.

There was nothing. Or the next day. Nothing out of place, nothing obvious, nothing I could present to Rhysand, or talk to Amren about without sounding like I was chasing ghosts.

Just… something.

It was nearly a week later when I found myself restlessly searching the city once more. I catalogued everything, again. Every change, every unknown face, every shift in the patterns of the city. The older fae couple who usually walked the length of the Sidra together in the evenings: tonight, only one of them strolled, alone. A new fae vendor in the market, selling carved wooden charms said to protect against unwanted magic. A tawny-haired female, brows furrowed, hands in his pockets. A male I vaguely remembered from a pleasure house last year, walking arm in arm with a new partner. The part-nymph who usually tended the east-side fountains was absent today.

Tiny shifts, all normal. All explainable.

And yet, my shadows pulled at me, restless, slipping between buildings and bridges, chasing something just beyond my reach. I hated not knowing. I adjusted my path, turning down a quieter street. My boots barely made a sound as I walked, even over the uneven cobblestone.

Nothing was out of place.

No one was watching me.

I could feel it.

And yet… the nagging pull remained.

I swept my gaze across the street, counting the boats in the port, the ropes left coiled at other moorings, scanning for anything out of place. A fae male laughing with a companion near the port wall. A red-haired female exiting a fishmongers, a paper wrapped bundle under her arms. A dark-haired female slipping into an alley —

I paused.

My shadows twitched, curling toward where she had disappeared. But there was nothing else about her, just a face I’d not noticed before. I’m arrogant, but I’m not arrogant enough to claim I know every being in this city. I forced myself to keep walking, to move past it. Just another resident. Just another fae in a city of thousands.

I forced myself to keep walking, turning away from the alley. The city pulsed with life around me, laughter drifting from taverns, the scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries curling through the air. Recovered from its abrupt introduction to the rest of the world, though its scars remained in broken brickwork and small memorials dotted where innocents had fallen. But it was peaceful again. For now. The knowledge that soon, all of this, the laughter, the ease, the peace, could be gone, pushed me to work later. To fly harder, to fly faster, to infiltrate deeper into every space. Rhysand sacrificed not just his magic, but his body and mind awe well to buy us peace and safety. And already it was threatened again?

Rhysand didn’t let his worry show, but I knew better. Saw how his fingers curled too tightly around the missives he read, how his shoulders tensed whenever Cassian mentioned the state of Illyria’s forces. Knew that he barely slept, that he spent more and more time locked in his studies, usually up at the House of Wind, buried in maps and strategies and negotiations with the other High Lords. I’d been spending some of my days working with Amren and Mor, overseeing supply chains, securing trade routes, making sure we wouldn’t get caught by surprise, that we wouldn’t fall due to a disgruntled partner or sabotaged road. Ensuring that Velaris had what it needed, and stockpiles of essentials, before resources were stretched thin. And if we had to introduce rationing? We prepared for that too, detailing where the points of unrest were most likely to form, who was likely to need the most help, who might break to secure something. Even now, I was tracking the arrival and departure of shipments: steel for the war camps, spices and preserved foods from Summer, textiles from Day. The city’s economy was a calm ocean in peacetime, but war created waves bigger than most people realised.

And Illyria, Illyria could make or break us when war came, if they didn’t agree to join us. In theory, they had little choice. They came under Rhysand’s banner, but realistically, it wouldn’t take much to cause revolt in that area.

I clenched my jaw at the thought, eyes still lingering on the alley I’d seen the unknown female walk into as my shadows churned at my feet, trying to encourage me to move. I glared down at them. But like the stubborn Illyrians, my shadows refused to be quelled, still wanting me to investigate the alley. It wasn’t just the Illyrian’s stubbornness that irritated me, it was their refusal to embrace change from their backward traditions. It was their attitude. Their ingrained hatred of anyone not Illyrian, as if they were the peak of all beings. I snorted to myself at the thought, curling my scarred hands into fists. As much as I hated it, we needed them. Needed their numbers, their battle-honed aggression. Needed their loyalty, however fickle it was for a leader they didn’t trust.

But I wouldn’t trust them to protect Velaris. Not this city. I knew Cassian would. We disagreed on that. I exhaled, shaking off the thought. I urged my shadows back, tugging them sharply, but they didn’t give up. I sighed. Cassian spent days working with the warriors in the nearest war camps, training them, honing them, trying to shape them into what we wanted, needed. He always argued he knew them better, but I know they had the potential to be a wildfire, just waiting for a spark. He’d taken his childhood and turned their culture into something to fix. I’d taken my childhood and turned away from it all.

Across the street, a young fae male bartered with a vendor over the price of a knife. A few feet away, two females murmured over a board of painted job postings: calligraphers needed, stoneworkers sought for a restoration project, cook wanted.

A world still turning. A city still living. I know I was supposed to find the normalcy reassuring. Knew it was supposed to settle me, to ground me.

Instead, my shadows tugged insistently against my hold again and my heart continued to beat just a fraction faster than it should.

I cursed under my breath, looping back toward the alley, but whoever she was was long gone. The alley opened out to a small square, itself with four more exits. There was nothing suspicious in the route, nothing suspicious in her not dallying at the fountain.

But the feeling didn’t leave me. That nagging, unshakable sense that something - someone - was here.

*

The scent of roasted vegetables and scorched bread greeted me as I padded barefoot into the House of Wind’s kitchen, the stone floor cool beneath my feet. The sky outside the arched windows had just begun to pale with cool, pre-dawn light.

Cassian sat at the long wooden table, shirtless, his wings drooping with tiredness and a half-eaten plate of something in sauce in front of him. One hand nursed a bruised rib, the other tore off a piece of bread and dunked it into whatever oily mess he'd reheated.

He looked up as I entered, eyes still a little too bright, a little too awake. “You missed the part where Rhys nearly took my head off.”

I went to the sideboard, pouring myself a glass of water. “Would’ve paid to see that.”

Cassian snorted. “You and me both.” He gestured to the bench opposite. “Sit. Pretend you’re capable of relaxing.”

I considered it, then sat. My shadows flickered under the table, restless even now. Cassian’s eyes tracked them briefly but didn’t comment.

“I thought you went to bed,” he said after a moment.

“I did.” I reached for a discarded apple and turned it over in my hand. “Didn’t stick.”

Cassian chewed. “Still thinking about Spring?”

I didn’t answer and he didn’t press.

Then, softly, “He didn’t say anything. Barely spoke.”

He didn’t need to clarify who. We both knew. Neither of us knew what it was like to have a mate, had no feeling to compare whatever it was that pulled at Rhys, left him on edge and subtly frantic. Not that I’d often describe my brother as frantic, they key descriptor was subtly. He had his tells.

“I think,” I said slowly, “he’s past words.”

Cassian looked down at his food. “He was—” He shook his head. “It was like sparring a storm that didn’t care what it destroyed. And he didn’t stop. Not until he couldn’t lift his sword anymore.”

That tracked with the tension I’d seen in him. The way he'd moved like he was holding something in his bones that wanted out. Something that he wouldn’t let out anywhere most would see.

Cassian ripped off another piece of bread, chewed, swallowed. “Do you think she’s okay?”

I bit into the apple, stalling. “Yes,” I said finally, “I think Spring would be a lot flatter and a lot emptier if she wasn’t.”

He huffed a quiet breath, pushed his plate away. “You going to sleep now?”

I glanced at the sky, the hint of blue beyond the windows. “Too late. I’m meeting someone just after dawn.”

He stood stiffly, wings drooping so subtly most wouldn’t noticed. “Too early,” he muttered, stretching. “Try anyway.”

I didn’t answer. Just sat there a while longer after he left, apple core in one hand, shadows curling gently at my wrists and under my wings.

By the time the sun breached the horizon, I’d ignored Cassian’s advice and I was already gone. The shadows pooled thick at my feet, cold and eager, curling up my ankles like a thick smoke.

I let them take me.

The world folded in on itself. Sight and sound devoured were by darkness as I stepped between. Not winnowing, not quite, although many people thought it worked the same. The was… Quieter. And yet a complete overwhelm of the senses. A slipping through the cracks whilst also being squeezed between plates of the world.

When I emerged, the air was warmer, the ground softer. The borderlands between Spring and Summer stretched out before me in marshes that grew in humidity in relation to their closeness to the warmer court. I stood in the shadow of a moss-covered hill, not far from a crumbling barrow. The trees here leaned forward, like they were listening.

She was already waiting. Pacing.

Small, hooded, nervous.

“Rinya,” I said. Not quite a chastisement. But she should have been hidden, watching cautiously. What if I had been compromised?

She turned sharply at the sound of her name, hand drifting toward the blade at her hip before she saw me. Her fingers stilled. “Azriel.”

“Better,” I said mildly.

Her throat bobbed, but she nodded, flushed. “Sorry. You startled me.”

I gestured for her to walk, and we moved together through the trees, careful, quiet. My shadows were already circling, mapping the area around us. They brushed against nothing unusual. Yet.

“Report?” I asked.

“Three days ago,” she said, voice hushed, “the scout I mentioned crossed back into Summer. He was careful: masked his scent trail, stepped carefully, used streams instead of footpaths whenever he could. I tracked them to a village a few miles east. He met with someone.”

“Someone?”

“I couldn’t distinguish a gender, and I was too far away to scent them. They argued.” She pulled a small scrap of parchment from her satchel, rough sketches scrawled in charcoal. “They handed him a satchel. It looked like a healer’s bag, but it was too heavy from the way they held it.”

“Did you follow them?”

Rinya glanced at me. “I stayed out of sight. Like you’ve taught me. But I marked the tree they disappeared from. There was something on the bark. Just a smear. I followed the scout back to the village, and then back through to Spring.”

“The person he met, did they winnow?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No... it wasn’t like that. They didn’t disappear, exactly. Just… slipped?”

I went still. “Show me.”

“One second they were there, the next they weren’t. Like a shadow moving wrong.” She looked up at me. “I thought maybe, they were like you?”

“No.” My voice was quiet. Flat. It was a hike out to the tree she’d marked, sweat beading along my hairline in the warmer climate. Eventually, she pointed out the spot and I crossed to the tree, crouching to find the mark left behind. My shadows recoiled. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. I touched the dried smear, smaller than my palm. Cold. Wrong. There was an oily shimmer to it, like it had tried to disguise itself, even after death.

“They weren’t like me,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

I didn’t answer. Because I was sure, and I’d never seen a point in repeating myself.

There had been remnants of this before, in the last war. Places where unnatural magic left a stain behind.

The screams had long since stopped. Only the wind moved, whispering through the dead in the grove like it mourned the bodies left behind. He was younger then. Still learning how to use his shadows for war. How to ensure he always had the advantage. Still earning the description that would become a title.

Rhysand’s father stood in the centre of the small clearing, gloved hands still grasping the pommel of his broadsword.

Azriel stared at the tree behind him, its bark blackened. Shadow pooled at its base. Wrong shadows. Not his. These… they were like black sap, slow and seeping and sticky.

“Can you feel them?” the High Lord asked.

Azriel nodded, slow. He didn’t want to, but he could.

“Can you use them?”

He shook his head vehemently. “They’re — they’re wrong,”

Rhysand’s father hadn’t much to say to that, had him study them for a while longer until his palms were clammy and a cold sweat dripped down his spine under his leathers. He never forgot the way the shadow lingered, thick and viscous and wrong. The way it felt dead, and yet still moved. How it didn’t sing to him softly, like his shadows, no, it was ore like a keening death cry.

I didn’t speak for a long moment, still crouched by the tree as the memories bled away.

Rinya shifted her weight behind me, uneasy.

When I rose, I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the mark on the tree. “You won’t follow that trail.”

Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t argue. “Why?”

“Because whatever that was, it isn’t for you to chase. Not yet.”

Not ever, if I had anything to say about it. She was sharp. Careful. Good at listening. And more importantly, good at disappearing. That was what I needed from her now.

“You’ll stay in the village,” I said. “Start laying roots. Work where they’ll have you. Observe. Blend in. If anyone’s recruiting or watching too closely, I want their names. I want to know who drinks where and who leaves early. I want rhythms. Patterns. Rumours. Local myths. All of it. Any opportunity you get to move further into Spring, take it.”

She straightened slightly, something settling in her spine. “And if something like this happens again?”

“Don’t follow. Don’t engage. Just watch and send word.”

She nodded, and I caught the flicker of relief in her eyes. “What does the magic feel like to you?”

Surprise flared in her expression for a heartbeat before she schooled her expression, and I ticked an eyebrow up at the delay. She looked down at the smear, tension stiffening her stance ever so slightly.

“Like I don’t want to look at it,” she said finally, “like my magic is, like it’s frightened of it.”

I stepped away from the tree, my shadows curling tightly around my shoulders.

“Whatever that was,” I said, quiet again, “I’ve seen it before. Long ago. If it happens again, don’t engage, and send word.”

Rinya didn’t ask for the story. Smart of her.

I didn’t offer it.

Chapter Text

Weeks passed after I left Rhysand’s townhouse, and each day felt longer than the last, even though the opposite was true, and the days got steadily shorter as winter crept closer. Another thing I’d only read about before now, that suddenly was a real and tangible fact about life outside of the Mountain. I knew the theory of it, but witnessing it in person gave it a viscerally different effect.

My plan to leave Velaris quickly after seeing Daire to his aunt, and finding out Rhysand lived in the city, fell to pieces almost as soon as I made it. Perhaps plan was an overstatement. Either way, I’d vastly underestimated the cost of passage on a boat to the continent by several orders of magnitude. And despite being able to find work, there wasn’t a lot of options for someone like me: someone with no experience, no training, no previous apprenticeship or family name, and no tutor to name drop. That left me with fewer options. And what I could find wasn’t well paid. With my extended stay I’d had to invest in somewhere to sleep, on top of the recurring need to eat. I’d imagined that getting out of here would be simple: that I could just save enough, quickly, find a willing captain, and sail away to some distant land where no one had ever heard of Amarantha, sail past whatever circle of power she’d cast, and finally live a life like those around me. Like in stories, when any obstacle can be overcome by the hero with a cheeky wink, or a funny quip. But I was no hero, and this was no story. Life was drudgery and work, and paying to live while dreaming about living. With the way things were going, I was looking at months more of scrubbing tables and cleaning plates, scrounging for every single coin and walking the careful line between stealing instead of spending carefully.

The work I’d managed to get was simple enough at least. Given the only family I knew of excelled at manipulation and spell work and murder, I’d obviously not mentioned that to anyone. I’d kept my ear to the ground for a fighting ring but so far come up with nothing. The lack of readily available information suggested that wherever it was, it was highly unofficial, because I refused to believe that there wasn’t one, not with how blood thirsty the crowd Under the Mountain had been. Never surprised, only eagerness for a spectacle. So instead I worked in a dimly lit little tavern near the docks, spending my nights cleaning glasses, clearing tables, washing dishes, dodging patrons wandering hands, and restocking barrels of ale.

The tavern crouched in a row of other buildings at the edge of the road that led along the docks. Leaning slightly, its wooden beams swollen with salt air and time. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale ale and sweat and sea brine. Dim lanterns swung from the low ceiling, casting flickering pools of gold across scarred tables and the floor the remained sticky no matter how many times it was washed, how hot the water. The dim glow of the faelight lanterns did little to chase away the perpetual shadows lurking in the corners, but I rather thought they made the place feel cosy, rather than dangerous.

The customers were nearly all regulars, locals who had decided this was their favourite inn. Sailors, mostly. Nursing tankards of ale, their voices a constant murmur of crude jokes and half-whispered dealings. After three nights I was pretty sure the male with cropped, fire-red hair and curling horns at his hair line was selling mirthroot at least.

It was menial work, but it was all I could do without drawing attention to myself, where no one expected or wanted to notice me, and where simply turning up every day was enough. As long as I arrived before dusk, I had a good chance of getting a shift.

At least, I thought I wasn’t drawing any attention: the shadowsinger was making me wonder if I was doing a poor job. I’d seen him about with increasing regularity, moving through the streets of Velaris like a living shadow. He was always silent, always watching, and each time I saw him, my heart would jump into my throat. My shadows were desperately curious about him. They swirled around me, whispering about him, wanting to reach out and meet those that swept around and wrapped him up so tightly. I had to fight them down every time, pulling them back with sharp commands and twists of my fingers to get them to behave, all the while trying not to stare too long as he stalked down streets, seeming to have no difficulty with his own shadows whatsoever.

I didn’t want to be noticed, not by him, not by anyone with any kind of power. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious about the court that, by reputation and my own experience, was supposed to be full of fae that were at best uncaring, and at worst terribly cruel. Driven in their desires and decisions by power of any kind, and… none of whom I’d glimpsed so far. I hadn’t seen a single face I’d noticed Under the Mountain here in Velaris, save for Rhysand.

So, every time I caught a glimpse of the shadowsinger, I ducked out of sight, slipping into the darkest corners of the city. My shadows helped with that, curling around me, hiding me in plain sight. But even then, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he sensed me, that he knew I was there, just out of reach, just like I did with him. That maybe his shadows were just as curious as mine. And it was either my imagination, or the places I caught sight of him were getting increasingly close to where I worked and slept. Or maybe I was being paranoid.

During the day, I found it more difficult to find work given that nobody remembered me. Occasionally I would find some, especially if I lingered by the markets where extra arms were often useful, but more often than not I found myself at a loss. To keep myself occupied, I ventured out as far as I could, meandering beyond the outskirts of Velaris, imagining I was a river in reverse, letting my feet take me towards where the hills met the sky and the wind swept down from the mountains.

In the empty quiet countryside, the wind gusted under and through me, bringing with it the wild scents of forest and snow that I could practically taste it. After over a week of resisting the urge to reach up into the grey, unending sky, I gave in.

Amarantha was disappointed by many things about me, but by far one of my worst failures was something I had no say in: the wings at my back. Wings that I learned early on to shift away, through many painful and bloody lessons. They were some of the most memorable I’d ever had from her.

"Disgusting," she’d say, her voice silk-soft, almost curious as she trailed a dagger along the outermost bones. "I expected better. Expected more." A shallow cut - not deep enough to maim, just enough to remind me of who held the power here. To shame me. “Filth from somewhere in your fathers bloodline, no doubt.”

She wasn’t angry. That was the worst part. She never raised her voice, never raged, never lost control. No, disappointment dripped from her words like honey laced with venom. Like I was some broken thing she had the misfortune of inheriting.

"I suppose it makes sense," she mused once, watching as I struggled to force them to disappear. Every minute I didn’t, she trailed the dagger along the bone again. "No real power of your own, so your body clings to the past like a pathetic little parasite. Is that what you are? Some wretched remnant of something that’s already been bred out?”

I had no answer. I never did. Even now, long after I’d learned to tuck the wings away, I still heard her voice in my head. The phantom echoes of the painful lessons stuck with me even now, the guilt of them weighing far heavier than the appendages themselves. But sometimes the wind called too loudly, the sky taunting me with something that wasn’t just fear of being crushed beneath it: sometimes all I saw was the open freedom of escaping up above everything and anything that wanted to pull me down to the earth. Sometimes it felt like I’d never be able to catch my breath until I was breathing it from the wind in the sky itself.

I’d never actually flown before. My wings weren’t as big as the ones on the two males I’d seen with Rhysand, nor any of the few Illyrian’s I’d seen Under the Mountain. Nor were they even as wide as Arexus’. I bent my knees, cast my arms out wide, feeling silly, and scrunched up my face while I concentrated. They felt awkward and unwieldy. But, after a couple of attempts, I felt them both flare like I wanted, stretching out from their tucked state past my finger tips. I winced at the tightness I felt there, shivering in the alien discomfort in my back, along the bones that held the membranes. Then promptly fell straight forward.

“Shit,” I muttered into the quiet, dusting off my palms where they’d caught my fall before I face planted the ground. Having them open played hell with my sense of balance. “Again, then.”

I didn’t count how many tries it took me to open them out and tuck them in again without falling over, but I kept at it until I no longer stumbled and the tightness in my back and wings became unbearable. By then dusk was far closer than noon, so I shifted them away with a roll of my shoulders, both relieved to have them hidden again, and sad to no longer feel the air on them any more.

Over the days that followed, whenever I couldn’t get paying work, I grew bolder and braver in my practice. My takeoffs were clumsy, stuttering leaps into the air that ended more often than not with me sprawled in the dirt or tangled in low-hanging branches. Still, I forced myself to get up and try again, brushing the grit from my palms and snapping twigs out of my hair. My trousers were more repair than fabric. Every successful moment off the ground was hard-won, but even I could see the improvement: the inch between my feet and the ground grew to two, then three, the landings steadier. Progress came in fits and starts, but it came.

Yet no amount of progress could make the knot of fear that twisted in my gut every time I stretched my wings fully. No amount of reassurance from my shadows that I was alone, that it was safe, could make me forget Amarantha’s threats. Her venomous words clung to me, their sting as sharp as the day she first spoke them. If anyone saw me... I rubbed my side where her punishments had once landed, the ache there just memory now. So, I kept them shifted away, masking the truth with the practiced ease of long habit, pretending I was no different from anyone else.

But no matter how much I tried to blend in, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadowsinger was getting closer.

Soon, it didn’t matter anyway.

*

It started when I was trying to fly. For the first time, I made it into the air for more than two measly minutes, and the world seemed to expand around me as I managed to finally crest the tree tops in a way that felt freeing, rather than terrifying, even if every beat of my wings was wobbly, and difficult. The forest stretched out beneath my wings, my legs hanging awkwardly below me, a tapestry of green and gold, the treetops swaying gently as if to cheer me on. The sun still hung high in the sky, far above the horizon, and I swore I could feel more warmth from it already, even as the cool wind tugged at my hair and told me I was being fanciful. The thrill of finally staying aloft rushed through me, my heart pounding as the wind buoyed me higher. I beat my wings furiously, each stroke pulling me farther from the ground, farther from failure. For the first time, it felt like I belonged up here, among the clouds and open air, weightless and free. I threw my arms out and closed my eyes.

I was so caught up in the exhilaration of it all that I didn’t keep track of where I started.

And when I fell from the sky, I didn’t land anywhere near where I started.

I crashed into a tree, and not just any tree: a tall, very unforgiving one. The kind whose branches seemed to deliberately reach out and smack me on my way down, punishing me for my short-sightedness. I bounced off limbs, snagged on every leaf, twig, and jagged edge, until I finally hit the ground in an unceremonious heap.

For a moment, I just lay there, dazed, the cold earth pressing against my grazed cheek. I groaned and tried to push myself upright, only to gasp as pain shot through me. Not my back, not my arm. Except… my wing. I wasn’t used to checking those. I peered over my shoulder and saw the sharp tear in the left membrane. I must have caught it on something during the fall. I braced myself to stand, but as soon as I put weight on my leg, a sharper pain lanced through my ankle and the world tilted. My knees buckled, and I sank back down, hissing through clenched teeth as the reality of my injuries settled in.

The world continued to spin violently as I stared up at the now-looming tree, trying to gather my senses. My vision wavered, and the dizziness refused to settle, like I was still falling. I pressed my hand to my head, which throbbed from the impact, and took a shaky breath. The wind, which had been annoying earlier, had picked up to something more howling, an icy cold, bitter thing. It had been gusting hard enough to throw me off course, which was probably what sent me plummeting in the first place.

A fat raindrop landed on my face, cold and jarring. I blinked up at the darkening sky through the trees and more drops followed, faster and heavier.

“Starting to hate rain,” I muttered, to no one. There was always no one. I’d wandered into Daire’s aunt’s shop after meeting with Rhysand, hoping - just hoping - that Neve and Daire might see me and remember. I’d even played out a little scene in my head, where I walked in and Neve did a double take, perhaps she was leaning over Daire, teaching him the beginnings of her trade at that little table, and she’d recognise me from arriving with Daire, and then Daire would look up and grin, and say ‘hello Blaze’.

In reality, they didn’t. Not even a flicker of recognition.

Now, sitting there in the mud with a torn wing and a possibly sprained ankle, I winced and prodded it gently through my the boot, hastily loosening the knotted laces to ease the pressure and trying to remember how many days the last sprain had taken to heal.

It had taken me over an hour to hike out here, to this secluded spot where I thought I’d have privacy to practise flying. Now, with the sky growing darker by the minute and the wind slicing through me, rain lashing through my clothes, I realised I had to get moving. Fast. I folded my wings away with a wince, shifting them back into nothingness, the torn one sending sharp stabs of pain up and down my back, across my shoulders and arms, as it went. Would it heal while it was gone? A problem for another day.

“Time to go,” I sighed, struggling to my feet as I used the tree for leverage.

The moment I tried to put weight on my ankle, I nearly cried out from the agony that shot up my leg. I wobbled, using the nearest branch to steady myself. This was worse than a sprain. I gently eased more weight onto it, and felt something shift where there wasn’t supposed to be shifting. Fractured then. It heal eventually, but right now? Right now, I was going to have to wall off the pain and limp back to my small room. I wouldn’t be able to work tonight.

Walking was excruciating, every step sent a wave of hot pain up my leg as I hobbled along, grinding my teeth in an effort to keep my mouth shut. It was just pain. I just needed to forget about it, pretend it was someone else’s, and make my way back to the city.

After what felt like an eternity, I’d barely made it more than a quarter of the distance back, and the weather hadn’t improved. If anything, it had deteriorated. The cold gusts of wind kept whipping icy rain across my face, cutting through the fabric of my clothes and making me flinch at the noise and the sensations. 

I’d heard people in the tavern talking about winter storms rolling in from the sea, but I hadn’t realised how brutal they could be. Or how terrifying. Storms had always been something I’d read about before this, not experienced. There wasn’t much weather Under the Mountain. My clothes clung to my skin like a second, sodden layer, cold and unrelenting, and every step sent sharp jolts of pain lancing through my ankle. The ache in my torn wing throbbed with every gust of wind, a constant reminder of my fall despite however many times I reminded myself it was just a phantom pain, that it couldn’t be real because right now, my wings were not real, so how could they hurt? Rain poured in relentless sheets, soaking me to the bone and trickling down my back in icy rivulets. My shivers so violent that my teeth chattered, the sound almost drowned out by the howling wind and the relentless drumming of rain on the trees around me. The world was a blur of shadow and storm, and still, the city was nowhere in sight.

After two hours of stumbling and limping, I realised something else was wrong. More than the weather, and the bones in my ankle I shouldn’t feel grinding. The ground was getting steeper instead of flattening out, and the trees around me were unfamiliar, and there was no way I could have flown so far in so short of amount of time that I wouldn’t be able to even see the city by now, surely? Fear, which had already crept in like a slow and cautious spider up my spine as the storm overwhelmed my senses, began to bloom into panic as I glanced around the darkened forest.

When did I get lost?

Why wouldn’t the rain stop?

I belatedly tried to find shelter, anything to keep me out of the worst of the storm until the rain eased, but the trees were too sparse, the wind too biting. Branches groaned and snapped in the gusts, and more than once I found myself on my hands and knees in the mud, slipping and stumbling as I searched for any kind of path, my hands caked in mud and littered with tiny cuts and grazes.

Eventually, I gave up. With no sense of direction, no idea how far I’d wandered, all I could do was sit beneath a half-fallen tree, miserable, and wait for the storm to pass. For hours, it lashed down in sheets, soaking me through until I could barely feel my fingers or toes. The world around me was an endless blur of rain and darkness. I knew logically that being cold was extremely unlikely to kill me  - I was Fae, not mortal, but it did little to console me as my breath came in short, painful, gasps and the world narrowed to my own cold limbs and the storm that surrounded me.

I tried to shut it out, to send my mind somewhere else, but I couldn’t complete the thought. Every time the wind and rain blasted at my body, I remembered the Pits, as it whipped at my hair I remembered Hybern’s castle, and my thoughts circled again, in ever smaller patterns.

I lost track of time. The world shrank down to the bitter cold, the rain, the wind, the pain in my ankle, the terror in my chest. The moon had long since vanished, and the sky as black as pitch, a suffocating darkness that made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.

And then I heard it.

A low, guttural growl that sliced through the howling wind like a knife.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. My heart pounded, louder than the storm. Slowly, I turned my head toward the sound, squinting through the sheets of rain.

Another growl, closer this time.

Something moved in the shadows, barely visible against the shadows of the forest. A hulking, animal shape with glowing red eyes, watching me from between the trees.

Before I could even react, the creature lunged.

A wolf, or something like a wolf. Massive and snarling, with fangs that glistened in the rain, its massive maw dripping with viscous fluid. It slammed into me with terrifying force, knocking me to the ground. I cried out, throwing my arms up to shield my face from its teeth as claws ripped into my side. Pain exploded in my abdomen but I couldn’t think on it. The creature was on top of me, its breath hot and rancid, jaws snapping, biting for my throat.

I kicked and struggled, adrenaline giving me the strength to shove the beast off. It snarled, snapping its jaws at me, but I was already scrambling to my feet, grappling for a fallen branch from the ground. My fingers met wet mud as my vision doubled, then settled on the rough, slick bark on the second try.

It lunged again.

I swung the branch with everything I had, connecting with its muzzle. The wolf-like creature yelped, but it didn’t stop. I swung again, aiming for its head, desperation fuelling my movements. The beast staggered back, dazed just long enough for me to push myself to my feet and back away.

My abdomen was on fire. A deep, vicious cut that I could feel bleeding freely, the heat of my blood almost a welcome relief against the cold, but I couldn’t spare time checking how deep it was. Not with the creature still snarling at me, circling like it was deciding how to eat me. Nothing was spurting out, at least.

It lunged once more, but this time I was ready. I drove heat into the branch until it scalded my own skin and thrust into its side with a savage cry, hard enough that the wolf yelped again and slunk back into the trees, finally disappearing into the shadows.

For a moment, I just stood there, chest heaving, drenched in rain and blood. My hands shook as I dropped the hot, smoking branch, already extinguished, the cold sinking its claws into me once again.

But my side… that felt bad. I glanced down and felt nausea rise up in my throat. Blood was pouring from a deep gash, soaking through my shirt. Every breath felt like it was lacing fire up my side as I stood there numbly, waiting for it to heal, or at least slow, but the blood kept coming through the fingers I held clasped over it. Venom? Poison?

When my fingers were red and sticky and still it was bleeding, I tore awkwardly at my soaked shirt with trembling fingers, ripping it into strips. I tied them tightly around my abdomen, wincing as the rough fabric bit into the torn skin, but there was no time to be gentle. I had to stop the bleeding, had to keep walking, had to make it back to the city before the storm, or another one of those things, swallowed me whole.

Gritting my teeth, I grimaced in anticipation and forced myself to move. The hours dragged on, each one feeling colder than the last. My body no longer felt like my own. My body didn’t hurt like this, didn’t feel numb at the edges like this. The wound in my side pulsed with every heartbeat. The storm was still terrifying, but I’d been frightened for so long, it was second to the goal of surviving. I was soaked to the bone, shivering, injured. I kept going. One foot in front of the other. 

Eventually, finally, lights came into view in the distance, hazy through the endless rain but undeniably lights. I stumbled forward, my legs nearly giving out beneath me, but I couldn’t stop now. Not now the end was in sight. I had to make it.

By the time I reached the city’s edge, the first light of dawn was creeping over the horizon, weak and grey against the storm ridden sky. I was a mess of mud, blood, and exhaustion. It felt like my body was barely holding it together. I could feel my shadows writhing in a mirror of distress. Whatever was on that beast's claws was stopping the cut in my side from healing, possibly my ankle too and making my own magic feel far away, like it was just out of reach.

I was mostly certain it was Tuesday. If it wasn’t, it probably wouldn't matter anyway.

I stepped into the deep shadow of the nearest building

                          and out onto the doorstep of Rhysand's townhouse.

Chapter Text

My eyes snapped open when my body realised I was in a bed, not stood at a doorway. Soft, yielding, easily the most comfortable surface I’d ever laid on. I was wrapped in thin, smooth sheets pulled up to my chest, dry, and warm. An unfamiliar sensation after the bone-deep chill of sucking wet clothes stuck to my skin. My side felt significantly better, the sharp agony dulled to a manageable ache. I tentatively circled my ankle and it moved as if it was never injured. My clothes were different, soft and loose, replaced by someone while I had been unconscious.

And I wasn’t alone.

Fear flooded through me, a cold wave that rushed from my head all the way to my toes. My eyes tracked to where I could sense him, before my eyes even saw him - the male presence leaning against the wall across the room, his predator-like stillness betraying nothing. The shadows curling around me responded before I could stop them, my mind still sluggish with sleep: tendrils of darkness creeping out from under my arms, the back of my neck, reaching for his and trying to wrap in their security at the same time. I willed them to settle, to be still, even as my skin prickled with unease at the intense scrutiny I was being subjected to.

“You’re a shadowsinger.” The voice was low, even, and familiar. It belonged to the male I had seen at Hybern’s castle, with an ash bolt lodged in his chest. I’d heard him speak a few times during my stay in Velaris as he seemed to circle closer and closer to where I worked, where I slept.

Never this close, though.

Now, his gaze was sharp, appraising, the faint hum of restrained power surrounding him like a second skin. He pushed off of the wall and dropped casually into a low-backed chair beneath a curtained window, an arms reach from the side of the bed. He sat with his arms crossed casually over his chest, his wings tucked in tight. Shadows flickered in the corners of the room, drawn to him like moths to a flame. He looked better, beautiful, really, far healthier with his blood inside his body, though that was a low bar to beat, granted. A long dagger glinted from a sheath on his thigh.

“What day is it?” My voice croaked, ignoring his comment. If he’d seen my shadows move, there was little I could say, and information on what happened between when I aimed for Rhysand’s house and now, and it would be far more useful that denying something he would forget anyway.

“Tuesday,” he replied, his head tipping slightly to one side as he considered his word, causing a long, slightly curled fringe of black hair to fall across the intense hazel eyes that saw everything, missed nothing. Two cobalt blue siphons, one on each hand, gleamed in the lamp light. “It’s late. You collapsed on the doorstep at dawn on the tails of a storm, barely breathing.”

I hummed noncommittally as a sense of relief unfurled in my chest and left me in a soft whoosh. Tuesday. Tuesdays were safe, if Rhysand was here. But the clock was ticking. It was always ticking. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, ignoring the tug at my side. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through me and I bit my lip to hold back a groan of nausea.

“Something attacked me,” I murmured, answering the question he didn’t ask. My hand instinctively drifted to the spot where the creature’s claws had ripped through my flesh. “It didn’t heal.”

“It looked like Gavaudan poisoning,” he offered.

Gavaudan. The name hit me like a slap. I hadn’t thought of the creature’s name in the chaos of the attack last night. Gavaudan were werewolf-like creatures that liked the taste of fae and mortal flesh alike. Unlike wolves, their prehensile tails were as long as their bodies, and their jaws were lined with two rows of razor sharp teeth that could easily cut through bone. If you managed to avoid getting your throat ripped out, you also needed to avoid their poison-tipped claws. Which I hadn’t. I pulled at the shirt to inspect my side. The deep gash was now a puckered scar, angry and red, the skin around it inflamed.

“They’ve never come down from their territories before. Where were you?” Azriel continued, his tone laced with a mild curiosity. Or maybe that was suspicion. “We had a healer come: she gave you the first dose of the antidote. You’ll need the second dose after twenty-four hours.”

Twenty-four hours. My heart sank. After today, they wouldn’t remember me, the healer would forget I existed. It would be like I’d never been here at all.

I tested my ankle again, wiggling my toes under the sheets, moving it back and forth as a tired yawn threatened to escape. It still ached at either extreme, but the sharp pain from before was definitely gone. At least I wouldn’t be limping around the city, dripping blood and looking half-dead while I figured out how and where to get my hands on the second half of the antidote.

“You’re a shadowsinger,” he repeated. Apparently we weren’t dropping the original subject, then.

I met his gaze, noting the hard edge in his eyes, his jaw, the way his shadows flickered, as if mirroring the tension in the room. Never let them see your fear: an early lesson from the Pits. It was unfortunate he’d been watching me so intently as I woke, my shadows were always hardest to hide then. I willed my heart to beat slower and shrugged carelessly. “So are you. Not a crime, is it?”

His eyes narrowed. “Amarantha didn’t use you Under the Mountain?” So, Rhysand had told him where he knew me from. But there was no accusation in his tone, not yet. Just a razor sharp demand for an answer.

The cold knot in my chest tightened, a heavy weight sliding down into my stomach and settling there. “Believe what you want, I wasn’t stupid enough to let her know. Rhysand doesn’t know either.”

Azriel tilted his head, his shadows curling tighter around him, like tendrils of smoke coiling around a flame. “But you’re stupid enough to let anyone else know?” 

The insult didn’t bother me, but his scepticism made my skin crawl. In a few hours, he would reset, forget this conversation, and it would be fine. I’d have a whole other set of problems to get through to survive, instead. I swallowed, trying to push down the rising dread that felt all the more overwhelming against the backdrop of exhaustion that still now pulled at my eyelids. This was fine. This was a temporary problem. I could feel suspicion building like pressure in the room. The room felt smaller, as if his feelings had thickened the air, leaving me no space to breathe. Or maybe that was the shadows he pulled closer, thicker, darker. This was dangerous ground. If he thought I was a threat, there was a chance he’d just eliminate me. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen someone in the Night Court sort out a problem before it became a Problem.

Still, I forced my hand to stay steady as I pushed it through my dirty hair, watching his shadows wrap around him in thick, sinuous coils. It was deliberate, that display of power. I knew it well from watching the machinations of the various courts. “People see what they expect to see,” I said, letting one of my own shadows - just a wisp, thin and translucent - curl around my fingertips like a whisper of smoke. I urged it back under control, settling it behind my neck where it melded into the shadows of my hair. “No one expects a shadow to be more than the absence of light. No one expects to see a female disappear around a corner and have walked into the shadows. No one thinks to check if their shadow is darker than it should be.” I gestured to his shadows, numerous and blatant. “That’s gratuitous. Maybe the better question is, why are you walking around wreathed in them? Got something to prove?”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. His silence stretched, pressing on my chest until I could barely stand it. My stomach growled, loud and unbidden, intruding on the tense quiet, but Azriel’s expression didn’t change.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” he said finally, standing in one fluid motion. His wings twitched as he moved toward the door, and even then, I couldn’t shake the feeling I would be no safer even if he was out of the room: his shadows would remain. It’s what I would do. I blew out a slow breath when he was gone, regardless, eying the ones he’d not so surreptitiously left behind. He felt dangerous in a way that reminded me too much of life Under the Mountain. Cold. Observant. Calculating.

I hated it.

I shifted, testing the soreness in my side, and scanned the room for my clothes. They were nowhere in sight, but I didn’t have long to think about it. Azriel returned, carrying a tray piled high with steaming soup, a fresh bread roll, and a thick slice of cheese. The smell alone made my stomach clench with hunger. He balanced it effortlessly with one hand, the other holding a glass jug of water, capped with a cup. He set the tray down in front of me.

“Your shadows remind you why you went downstairs, or did you remember the whole time?” I asked, interested. Every fae had a slightly different reaction time to the curse. 


He didn’t answer, gesturing silently to the food instead. Fine, if he didn’t want to give me information, I didn’t need to bother with politeness. I dug into the food, shovelling a mouthful of soup into my mouth, wincing at the heat, then tearing into a roll, dunking it into the soup and doing it all over again. What was that aftertaste? Surely there wasn’t chalk in this. “Where’s Rhysand?” I asked between bites.

“Unavailable.” Azriel said, watching me closely as I ate, his tone guarded. “He’ll be by later tomorrow, if he can.”

“But it’s Tuesday today,” I said, swallowing a hasty lump of cheese without chewing it anywhere near enough. It scraped my throat on the way down. I chased it with water, trying to ignore the way he was scrutinising me like I was a puzzle to be solved. “Why did you help me then?”

“Rhysand recognised you before he left.”

I paused, mid-bite. “He tell you anything else?”

Azriel raised an eyebrow, his shadows whispering around him as he leaned back slightly. “Something about a convenient curse came up.”

I tried not to notice how tan his golden skin was, how strong his jawline was, how the black of his hair contrasted and highlighted the amber in his hazel eyes — I absolutely was not going to check out this stranger. The other Illyrians I’d seen had similar complexions, relatively similar builds. I focused on the soup. “That’s an interesting interpretation,” I muttered.

Azriel’s tone sharpened. “It would be very useful for a Hybern spy.”

My hand stilled over the bread. “I’m not a spy!” I hissed, setting the roll down harder than I intended.

He didn’t back down. “Raised by Amarantha,” he said, ticking off a finger, “a guest in Hybern’s castle,” another finger, “and now you conveniently show up in Velaris at an... interesting time.”

His words burned like acid and struck like a whip, each one a lash against my skin. Raised by Amarantha. The rage that had been simmering below the surface roared to life, white-hot and searing. Shadows twisted in my peripheral vision, reflecting the fire that begged to be released. The accusation was like a knife to the gut. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. How dare he —

I felt the heat building at my fingertips, pooling in my palms as fire surged against my control. My shadows writhed, twisting into spears and snakes, no need to hide them given he’d spotted them already.

“Raised by Amarantha?” I repeated, my voice shaking with fury. “A guest —”

The words died on my tongue, my throat tight with the urge to scream. Memories bubbled like boiling lava beneath the dark lake I’d shoved them under in my mind, before the bubbles turned to bile in my throat. The desire to hurl the truth in his face, to lay my life bare and ask if it matched his twisted assumptions, was overwhelming.

Instead of words, I hurled the tray.

The food splattered across Azriel’s chest and face, soup dripping from his chin, bread rolling to the floor. He blinked, stunned for a brief second, before his shadows surged forward, wrapping around the remnants of the meal and yanking it away. His expression remained controlled, but I saw it: beneath the calm exterior, his anger simmered, dark and palpable and dangerous.

He wiped a hand across his jaw, flicking the soup to the floor, and his voice was cold when he spoke. “You’d do well to be careful with your temper,” he warned, shadows curling tighter around his wrists like chains ready to strike.

But I wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not when he hadn’t actually done anything. Cold words and glares didn’t frighten me. Arexus would have already broken my arm.

“You don’t know me,” I spat, my hands shaking with fury. “And by tomorrow, you’ll forget this ever happened.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his gaze dark and unreadable as he stared at me for a long, tense moment. “We’ll just have to wait and see about that.”

*

Something was tickling my face. I swotted it and muttered something about its mother, but it tickled me again. I flapped a hand, trying to grab it but met only air. I opened my eyes to glare at a particularly unrepentant shadow.

“What.” I growled at it. And then I realised why. It was waking me up. I didn’t mean to fall asleep but minutes after Azriel had definitively shut and locked the door, my eyes and body demanded it. The aftertaste in the soup… he’d drugged me? Or was it the blood loss? It didn’t matter now. Morning sunlight was trickling in through the partially closed curtains. And with it, a new day. It was no longer Tuesday. And I was still in the nice bed with the soft covers, in the soft, borrowed shirt and shorts that were not my own. With no shoes, and no second vial of antidote in sight.

”Shit,” I muttered, quickly pushing down the sheets and slipping out of the bed. The new scar pulled tight. I held my hand against it: it felt hot, hotter than yesterday, and whilst it didn’t look like it was in danger of reopening as I moved, it didn’t feel right either. I poked my head under the bed, hoping to see my boots - and huffed a thanks to the Cauldron when they were there.

Picking the lock was as simple: it was a bedroom door lock, meant to deter accidental entry, not a prison cell. My shadows were more than up to the small challenge, and minutes later I slipped as quietly onto the landing as I could, which is to say, silently. I paused, listening, and sent a couple of shadows questing down the stairs. They didn’t come back when I expected them to, and I sighed. If you want something done properly…

I turned back and walked into the shadow of the bedroom door, emerging in the shadow of the staircase. A frivolous use, but such a small step didn’t use too much of my energy, and escaping before anyone still around noticed I was here was the priority. I could feel them in the next room, what were they doing? Was it Rhysand, or Azriel? Not that it mattered now Tuesday was over. I wrapped another layer of shadows around me and reached out to the door handle —

And felt the cool bite of metal at my neck.

“Who are you?”

His low voice was cold and clipped and I knew it was Azriel. The scent of night mist and trees wrapped around me. Any vague hope he remembered me still, given the tray I hurled at his head, disappeared. Maybe there was a smudge of memory, the sense of something that had already been seen. Something that irked him, annoyed him, angered him, but it was hard to tell with my face was pushed against the wall next to the door, one arm twisted awkwardly behind my back at enough of an angle my shoulder ached. My other arm was held by shadows, immovable. “Drug females often, do you?” I bit out.

I felt the metal bite more sharply, felt the hot burn of blood welling in the shallow cut.

“Who are you?”

“I was here yesterday. You were going to give me the second half of an antidote.” I muttered, trying not to move my throat and cut myself open more, as if he wasn’t in complete control of the situation. He spun me round by the twisted arm and pushed me back against the nearest wall, one blade at my neck, another pointing into my side. Ready to puncture an organ. Efficient. 

“That’s not an answer.”

“I forgive you for forgetting.” Really, I was running my mouth now? I gulped at the restrained violence in his eyes. “I was just leaving.”

“How did you get in? Where were you hiding? How long have you been here?” I heard the unspoken question, the one that fuelled the anger, the fear, behind the questions. How had he not known? Of course, he wasn’t going to like the answer of ‘you did, you dick’. No one liked to be told they weren’t in control of their own mind, their own memories. There was no answer I could give that he would like.

“You and Rhysand let me in yesterday, I was injured. I fell asleep upstairs in one of the bedrooms: I didn’t mean to, didn’t want to. Pretty sure you drugged my soup.”

I felt the knife bite back into my skin and a trickle of blood slipped down my neck. “Liar,” he snarled.

We were at a stalemate. I felt my chest tighten: any move I made would probably end with a permanent new air vent in my neck. “I’m not —”

Pain, then nothing.

*

It was dark when I woke up, the familiar dimness of a small room lit only by a faint, high-placed faelight. My side was on fire, searing pain pulsing through me with every movement. The back of my head throbbed like it had been slammed against something solid. It probably had, given what I last remembered.

“Fuck!” I whispered angrily into the silence. My voice cracked.

My time in my room, and then in Hybern’s castle had taught me many things - how to send my shadows whispering ahead, how to coax them into thin, wispy tendrils that could slip unseen through cracks and crevices, how to listen to the silent stories they returned with.

If they could find a way out, I could escape. Maybe I was in the basement of the townhouse? If it even had one. That wouldn’t be too hard to slip from. I just needed to find a healer who understood Gavaudan poisoning because that had to be the cause of the fire beneath my skin, the searing, unbearable heat that licked at my insides with every twitch in a way completely unrelated to my magic.

I sent my shadows out and waited.

I tried to imagine them as they curled through the space, exploring, searching, disappearing into a dark beyond my reach. My breath stayed shallow, my heartbeat thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I could almost feel them brushing along the walls, the floor, slipping through any cracks, any gaps, any way out.

But the first one came back, cold and silent, pressing against my cheek like an apology.

No.

I sent another. Waited longer this time. Maybe the first had missed something.

But the second returned with the same answer.

No.

I swallowed, forcing my limbs to stay loose, though every muscle screamed at me to bolt. Again, I sent them out, begging them to go farther, faster. I barely breathed as I listened, as I waited for them to return with something different. A door. A window. Steps leading up.

Instead, they found stone.

Earth.

Walls upon walls of rock.

And steps, finally yes, steps… but they went deeper.

Down, into the dark.

Higher, yes, but only into more rooms beneath the endless earth.

No sky. No exit. No end.

A trembling exhale shuddered through me, the burn beneath my skin momentarily forgotten beneath the weight of realisation.

I was underground.

Trapped.

Again.

A sob rose in my throat, but I bit down on it. If I gave into the tears now, the panic would win. How had I been so careless? Making noise before I knew who or what was around? Leaving the room before finding out what or who was nearby?

I pressed myself against the smooth stone door, no handle in sight, and a tiny, narrow window barely wide enough to slip a hand through. I peered through it. There was an empty, equally dim corridor of the same stone. Utterly featureless, utterly devoid of life, and not a sound broke the oppressive silence.

I sank down by the door, my breath coming in shallow, panicked bursts. I tried to take deep breaths, tried to calm myself, but each one stuck in my throat, chopped short by rising terror and the burning winding its way up from my side.

I was alone. Trapped.

And no one remembered I existed.

Chapter Text

Azriel

How, how had I missed this? Hybern outmanoeuvred me and now we were caught on the back foot. Reacting. This was supposed to be my duty - to prepare Rhysand with this information, so he could make informed decisions. So we could keep as many children, as many people safe as possible.

And now Adriata was under siege?

The magnitude of my failure felt like a lead weight tied around my chest. I’d been so busy figuring out how the Raven’s got into the Library I forgot —

“Has Tarquin called for aid?” Cassian asked Amren, as we stood in the foyer on the townhouse. Her lover was the one who sent the message, I was sure of it. Not Tarquin, not after the way he’d been played a fool. A bridge I wasn’t certain we should have burnt, but that was not my call. Amren confirmed it with her posture as much as her words, and I watched him catalogue the information as he moved on to the next piece on the board.

Cassian nodded once and turned to Rhys. “Did the Summer Court have a mobile fighting force readied when you were there?”

“No,” Rhys said. “His armada was scattered along the coast.” He glanced at me and guilt gnawed at my wings.

“Half is in Adriata - the other dispersed,” I supplied readily. “His terrestrial army was moved to the Spring Court border … after Feyre. The closest legion is perhaps three days’ march away. Very few can winnow.”

“How many ships?” Rhys asked tightly.

“Twenty in Adriata, fully armed.” That much at least I knew was true and correct, as recently as this morning. How did I miss Hybern’s approach? What else had I missed? I’d been so focused on the Ravens, so sure their infiltration was a sign of movement on us, on Velaris again, I hadn’t considered it was merely sleight of hand, a distraction. That maybe they were the odd feeling my shadows kept chasing after. It was a mistake a novice might make. Not me.

Cass and Rhys continued to drill into the details, until they forced Amren’s hand into revealing the message was from Varian verbally.

“We cannot leave Tarquin to face them alone,” Feyre said, skipping over the details. I already knew Rhys was of the same mind, could see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the fire that burnt in his eyes.

The Darkbringer’s were nowhere near prepared enough, and we both knew it. We’d have to pull the Illyrians in, and only the Illyrians.

The numbers were unlikely to be in our favour against an army that had been preparing for hundreds of years. Rhys handed out his orders, and I noted both, anticipating precisely where Cass would want to deploy the battalions, and where we needed more information before that, to give us the best hope of winning with minimal losses, to not have success come at so steeper cost it would cost us the war.

I tapped the siphon atop each of my hands and felt the summoned scaled armour unfurl like a wave across my body, the rest of the siphons with it. Checking the buckles of each of my belts and the quiver was second nature, a tug on each one to assure myself of its hold, taking in a visual of each handle and angle. And then, with a nod, I ordered the shadows from our feet to take me through to the meeting point of two of my closest spies, the shadows for their summoning having left the minute Amren’s bombshell broke. Then on to Adriata.

*

No other courts were there, that was clear quickly. I set my people their tasks, made sure they knew their exit strategies in event winnowing was impossible. I required every field spy in my service to be able to winnow, or a similar ability. It was a death sentence to attempt many of the missions they fulfilled without it. Those more deeply rooted, more entrenched in their roles didn’t have such a requirement, though I still preferred it. Once my people had their orders, I returned to the impromptu war camp on the hill that overlooked the city and took command of the battalion of Illyrian warriors waiting for me.

The sounds of the battle below reached up and up to us, the screams and the clamour of lives wagered and lost. It wasn’t a sound I ever wished to hear again. But here we were, trying to save as many as we could. I surveyed the males that stood in loose formation before me and flared my wings, shouted at them to form up and pay a-fucking-ttention.

I repeated our orders. I wasn’t as charismatic as either of my brothers, not in this context, but I could hold a crowd, I could rile them up so the adrenaline was fuelled from anticipation and passion, rather than fear or antipathy. Told them to fly swift, kill true, to not hesitate. I told them to live.

Illyrians were made for this. Our blood practically cries out for battle, for the chance to prove our prowess, our skill, our power. I took to the skies first, bellowing for them to follow. Lead from the front: it had always been our way, my brothers and me. It was undoubtedly going to get us killed at some point.

But not today.

The scents of brine and smoke filled my lungs as I plunged into the chaos. Below, Adriata burned. The turquoise waters of the bay ran red with blood, bodies from both sides floating between the wreckage of splintered ships. Hybern’s fleet had torn through the outer defences before we arrived, their black sails like ink blots against the horizon. Now flames raged across the harbour, licking at the docks, consuming anything and anyone caught in the crossfire.

I twisted midair, wings tight to my back as I narrowly avoided a burst of magic, black and crackling, so saturated with power it left a ringing in my ears. My siphons flared, shielding me just in time. I pushed a burst of magic back, telling it to rip and rend, but what landed below was not what it should be. I knew my own power. Something was interfering. I frowned and beat my wings to get more elevation, then repeated another burst, with the same mitigated impact.

Shit.

Hybern soldiers were pouring into the city, pushing up from the docks, into the palace and the tiered streets beyond. If they took the high ground, it would be over, and Adriata would fall.

I slammed into the first soldier I reached, the force of my descent shattering his ribs before I drove a knife into his throat. I didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to watch him fall. I was already moving, already twisting, already cutting through the enemy ranks. Above me, Illyrian wings filled in swathes the sky, our forces colliding with Hybern’s in a frenzy of steel and magic. I spotted Cassian above to my left, a war cry tearing from his throat as he led another battalion into the fray, his siphons turning his blade to molten death.

Good.

At least one of us was enjoying this.

I struck again, parried a sword aimed for my gut, ducked beneath a halberd meant to take off my head. Used my shadows to rip one enemy limb from limb as I stepped into the shadow of another, ventilating their neck before they realised where I’d gone. I was moving to the next before their body hit the ground. The battle narrowed to what was in front of me, the weight of my blades, the scent of iron, the screams and clash of steel. My shadows wove ahead, slipping through the cracks of helmets and armour, around corners and under barricades and fences, whispering the locations of weaknesses and unseen threats.

Like: three behind me.

I pivoted, slicing through the first before the second could react. The third was smarter, blocking my strike with a shield etched in Hybern’s sigils, but it didn’t matter. A dagger in my left hand, quick and precise, found the gap beneath his ribs.

A roar split the sky above us. I looked up just in time to see a beast formed of blue flame, twice the size of an Illyrian, sink its fiery teeth into a warrior mid-flight, from midsection and below, half his wings included, incinerated.

I shifted course.

With a jump and single beat of my wings, I shot upward, scanning for the fae that had to be creating it. My siphons flared as they absorbed the impact of a blow meant for my head and I ducked, ripping the spear from the air with a whip of shadow. There. A female, hair shorn short on half her head, braided tightly on the other, was twisting her arms and focussing intently on the flamed creation as it took out another warrior mid-flight. I threw out a net of shadows, ensnaring her hands and smashing her into the ground. She shrieked, thrashing, but the shadows held long enough for me to sever her throat in a clean, practiced motion. I spun to check the thing would disappear with its masters death, saw it sputter and disappear, ash falling from the sky.

The Illyrians it had caught was already gone. I didn’t let myself think about them beyond that.

The battle raged on. Minutes stretched into eternity. Hybern’s forces were slowing, but not enough. Too many ships still littered the bay, too many enemy troops still surged through Adriata’s streets, breaking through Sidra’s defenders.

A shift in the air had me turning.

A Hybern commander, flanked by two more soldiers, raised his hands toward the sky.

Magic swelled.

I dove, bracing for impact.

The explosion of power sent shockwaves through the air, knocking several from the sky. Some caught themselves mid-fall, wings flaring. Others—

I saw one warrior crash hard into the burning remains of a ship.

I gritted my teeth against the ringing in my skull, felt blood drip from somewhere above ear as my siphons dimmed from absorbing the brunt of the magic blast. Cassian was already charging toward the commander, bellowing as he raised his sword.

Good. Let him handle that one.

I turned my attention to the city.

*

The battle ended not with a triumphant cry, but with a growing quiet, a shift in the cries from anger and rage to just… pain, and loss.

Hybern’s forces were routed, their surviving ships limping back into open waters not long after Rhys dealt with whatever dampener was diluting our magic, turning ships into mist with his rage and his magic.

Adriata remained standing, though.

Smoke choked the air, the scent of charred wood and spilled blood thick in my throat. Bodies from both sides littered the bay, the docks, the streets. Some still twitched, groaning as they bled out onto the stone.

I forced my breathing to steady, forced myself to push past the exhaustion weighing down my limbs. There was no time to rest, not yet.

Cassian landed beside me, his wings trembling with the effort of staying airborne for so long. Blood streaked his face, his leathers cut and scorched, but he was still standing. “We need to get our wounded out of here,” he said, scanning the devastation. “The hills above the city should work. We can set up a proper camp there.”

I nodded, already reaching for my shadows, already letting them stretch out over the battlefield, seeking. Searching.

It wasn’t difficult to find the injured. The groans and weak cries gave them away. I collared the nearest and least injured looking warriors and ordered them with me. One by one, I catalogued every one we came across: who was breathing, who wasn’t, who might make it through the night… and who wouldn’t. The Illyrian healers didn’t favour the tagging system, so it was simply my judgement and however many we could save. One of the younger warriors, barely past his first century, was crumpled near the remains of a collapsed wall, his wings bent at angles so unnatural I schooled my face into something neutral as I crouched beside him, incase he woke up. I pressed two fingers to his throat. His pulse was weak.

I signalled one of the warriors. “Get him up the hill. Now. Then come back. The shadows will show you where to find us.”

The warrior, his two red siphons dimmed from overuse, nodded and lifted him without complaint, careful of his wings, and if he took a few more laboured beats of his wings than usual to get airborne, he wouldn’t be the only one.

Around us, survivors moved with grim efficiency, carrying injured toward the makeshift camp Cassian had ordered, or into the palace. The dead would be collected later.

I stayed until I was finding only the dead, until the battlefield was nothing but bodies and blood and guts and shit, and wearily followed the winding path up to join my brother.

Cassian barked orders as he moved between the warriors, pointing out which tents should go where, which sentries should be posted along the ridges, how often he wanted to see patrols circling the perimeter. The city had suffered, but the war wasn’t over. Hybern could return.

I commandeered the nearest tent with nothing more than a word to Cassian, quickly recruiting whoever was free and able as scouts to track the Hybern fleet, to follow every blood-stained trail and check who remained. I sent my shadows out, whisper thin, questing out every hushed conversation and sideways glance, in case there were traitors in our midst, new or embedded. Need, to prove myself, to make up for my oversight, coursed hot through my veins even as exhaustion pulled at my senses. I ignored the ache in my wings, the stiffness in my side where some faceless soldier I’d already forgotten had landed a well-aimed blow; the dried blood down my neck. Every and any piece of information we found could be critical to the war effort, to our survival. The sun had long set when I stepped out into the cool air, inhaling the sea breeze and letting my wings arch a little to catch more of it.

Between Cass’ relentless orders and the Illyrian’s familiarity with the task the camp had taken shape quickly was I was busy. A central area had been cleared for the healers, their tents lined with cots and supplies, the injured laying in neat rows, some barely conscious, others groaning as healers worked over them. A few were silent, their bodies wrapped in simple shrouds. I lingered outside one of the larger tents, my mind too full and my body too tired to keep my shadows from covering my form, hiding me from view so easily in the dark of night. I watched from the shadows as Feyre sat on a discarded, overturned bucket, her movements sluggish, her eyes distant. Concern flooded me and I reached out instinctively for my bond with Rhysand, tugging it, pulling him to me without even words. Feyre, I finally said into it, when his attention curled towards me, Feyre needs you. She’d done well today, if such a description should ever be used for someone’s first battle. Was seeing the horror of so much death up close ever a good thing? Was the first time one meted out death on a large scale, and told it was a good and honourable thing to do, something to celebrate?

I know the answer is supposed to be yes. I’m Illyrian. Born to battle like birds are to sing. And a part of me thrives on it, just like every other Illyrian. But… I am glad Elain wasn’t here. I am glad Nesta wasn’t here. That they, at least for now, are still protected from this brutal new fact of their lives: we are at war.

Feyre’s head bobbed down to her chest. I couldn’t see any wounds, couldn’t smell any of her blood, but her head hung heavy, her shoulders round and low, her breaths slow. Fatigue was all but inscribed on her body. When she listed to one side, started to pitch forward, I stepped out of the dark and caught her form before she landed face first in the mud.

I left her with a guard of shadows when Rhysand arrived to sit by her bed, ignoring the quirked eyebrow he gave me as he noticed them.

“Take them with you, Az.” Rhys said, just as I was pulling open the fabric to let myself out.

“Later,” I replied, not waiting to hear his response, following the trail of shadows I’d kept tethered to Cass. Rhys could rail on me about it later. But just like he liked to keep a mental line open to us, I liked to keep shadows with my small family, especially after something deathly dangerous. When the heat of danger still echoed loudly enough to make hearts beat just a touch too fast, and salty sweat bead hairlines.

My shadows led me to Cass as we all ignored Rhys’ attempt to use his darkness to interfere. It never worked, and it was a token effort at this point. He was sat in the centre of it all, next to a large campfire where a few other war lords still remained awake, dissecting the battle. His wings had the smallest of droop, and though they were in no danger of dragging on the floor, the upper talons twitched minutely.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “You look like shit.”

And he did. There were circles under his glazed eyes, he still wore his armour but whist it had been hastily scrubbed clean, his neck and wrists were ringed with dried blood, visible in the moonlight.

He scowled. “Likewise.”

I pushed a hand through my hair and made a noise somewhere between disagreement and laugh. We all looked like shit, everyone of us. We were all covered in blood, and guts, and gore, we were all exhausted, not just in body, but in mind and magic too. This was just one battle. One day. Soon this would be the norm, again, if we couldn’t halt Hybern in his tracks, remove his piece from the board…

I glanced toward the horizon instead, beyond the city between us, where the ocean stretched endlessly beneath the night sky. A flicker of unease stirred in my chest, like I’d forgotten something, something important. I told myself it was the fatigue, the chaos. But the feeling didn’t pass, it settled heavy in my chest. What else had I missed? How many lives would it cost? Somewhere beyond that horizon, Hybern was already planning his next move. He’d retreated to the sea, rather than Spring, but I didn’t trust that would buy us long.

Chapter Text

Days became an abstract, blurry monotony of pain and never-ending silence. The wound in my side throbbed, the fire under my skin burned hotter and hotter and my thoughts scattered. I hadn’t received the second dose of whatever Azriel had mentioned, and my imagination filled in the gaps as I imagined the remaining poison slowly spreading, eating away at me. Would I have already been dead without the first dose?

Would that have been better?

No one came to torment me, to shout, to demand answers. No one crept in at night. No one came to teach me a lesson, or to punish me for a mistake, for fun, for existing. There were no footsteps in the corridor outside, no voices echoing through the empty stone hallways. Nothing. Only the steady, maddening silence.

I would have welcomed a voice, any voice. Even if it was spitting accusations at me. Or whispering threats in my ear. But there was only me and the earth and the stone. Outside of the cell, the weight of the earth pressed heavier every time I closed my eyes. No wind stroked my skin, no sunlight warmed it, no rain washed all of it away. No sun and no moon. Just stone, and walls, and silence.

Food and water appeared out of nowhere every day. Just there, like magic: because it was magic. The waste bucket, which I’d eyed warily, fearing how long I’d have to sit next to it, was emptied without a word or glimmer or muted footfall. I was at once grateful for that mercy, and terrified that no one even needed to come down to feed me. On the infrequent occasions when my head felt clearer, I wandered about the mechanics of the spell or enchantment powering it all.

I had no blanket, no warmth, nothing to soften the chill stone that surrounded me. The cold seeped up through the floor, into my bones, creeping over my skin until my teeth chattered, my magic skittering out of my grasp. It didn’t matter how hard I pressed against myself or curled into a ball; the cold was relentless. Even when the fire from my side spread its taloned fingers out to the rest of my body, made me sweat and twist on the floor, trying to escape the burn, I couldn’t shake the cold. It felt like I’d never been warm in my life, could never be warm again, that I’d been always cold.

I knew the fever was getting worse: my head felt light, my thoughts a spiralling, disjointed mess far more often than they were coherent. Every movement made the wound in my side scream, a reminder that the poison was still inside me, and I had no healer to stop it.

I didn’t get off the floor for hours. At least, it felt like hours? Maybe it was minutes. Maybe it was days. Other times, I forced myself to crawl to the tiny window in the door, to pull myself up on wobbling legs to peer out into the corridor as though some miracle might make someone appear. As if someone would remember I was here. But the hall remained empty. Time became a fuzzy concept. It was never something I was great at even before Amarantha died. One of my many failings.

I tried using my shadows again, when I could corral my thoughts and focus enough anyway. I sent them beyond the door to explore, to find a way out, or at least some sign of life. But they returned with the same answers every time - stone, silence, more stone, more silence.

*

“Get Madja!"

A hand pressed gently against my head, then slid down to my neck. I flinched away from the touch, my fevered skin sensitive and painful and then groaned. Even flinching hurt, a wave of needle sharp pain radiated from my side. Everything hurt. Every shallow breath felt like fire pouring into my lungs, like streams of lava crawling up my spine. 

"That's it, wake up. Open your eyes."

I tried to open them, but they were gritty and dry, as though they hadn’t been used in days. When had I last opened them? Even the effort of parting my eyelids was exhausting, but I managed, just enough to make out a female-shaped figure hovering above me.

“What happened to you? How did you get down here?”

Her voice was almost familiar, but my mind felt like a puzzle with half the pieces missing, the rest scattered beyond my reach. I squinted, trying to make sense of her features, but everything remained blurry, unfocused. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a pitiful moan and I shut up quickly.

The voices around me started to blur, coming in and out of focus. Someone lifted me, and the motion tore through my side like a hot blade. Something inside me ripped. I screamed. Not even a proper scream, just raw, broken noise that was cut short by the violent coughing that followed. I tasted blood, thick and metallic, choking me until I coughed again, harder, tasted more blood, felt something tear again. Somewhere, someone cursed, but it felt distant, irrelevant. 

I barely registered the moment when I was laid down on something soft… a bed? Hay? Grass? The pain was too much, too overwhelming to care. I gagged as another mouthful of blood rose in my throat and my head was propped up quickly. Hands were on me, turning me to choke out the blood, pulling at my shirt. Every touch scratched at my skin like sandpaper but my body no longer listened to me.

A moment later, someone pressed down where the Gauvadan’s claws had shredded my flesh. It felt like a searing hot poker was being driven into it. I tried to twist away, to beg them to stop, that I was sorry, but my body refused to obey. All that came out was a wet sob. 

Time faded to a background noise, irrelevant and useless. I knew there were people near me, knew I should be panicking, but my world had narrowed to the rolling, fever aches and the freezing shivers that wracked my body, that, and the piercing, all-encompassing pain that radiated from my side in endless, cresting waves.

*

I could hear someone in the room with me: their breathing was soft, steady, unhurried. I don’t think I’d ever felt this tired in my life, but falling asleep got me thrown into a cell, and I wasn’t entirely sure how that had ended up with me… wherever I was right now. Maybe I never escaped Hybern at all. Maybe this was all some new torment he’d concocted to try and break me. Maybe I was still down in that cell and everything was a lie. A fever dream.

I pushed through the tar holding me down, took a deeper breath, and forced my eyes open. Whoever it was, they were a stranger, someone whose scent of chamomile and orange I didn’t recognise. 

“Nice of you to rejoin us,” she said, leaning into my field of vision. Her voice was dry but not unkind, her brown eyes clear and kindled with a steady warmth. “Can you manage some water?”

My response wasn’t needed. She held up a cup filled with water and a straw. Drinking just made me more tired, but when my eyes began to drift closed again despite my best efforts, she frowned. Her knobby fingers, warm and sure, came to rest on my head and side. Soft, cooling magic that felt sweet as spring water, spread outward, lifting the heaviness from my limbs and clearing the fog in my mind.

I blinked in confusion.

“My name is Madja,” she said, using the pillows behind me to help ease me more upright. “I’m a Healer.”

With my head clearer, I took her measure: a High Fae, possibly the oldest I’ve ever seen because her deep brown skin was lined with wrinkles. Her hair was pale and fine, almost white, pulled back loosely from her face. Despite her apparent advanced years, her brown eyes were sharp but warm. Her knobbly hands were completely steady as she adjusted the pillows at my back.

Was this a trick? The thought clawed back into my mind. A kind looking female, healing me? Was I still in the cell in the ground somewhere? Because this was surely too good to be true. Was I still in the castle? Maybe I was unconscious in the Pits, one too many blows to the head having driven me from my senses. Maybe Amarantha was still alive. I swallowed and licked my dry lips. “What happened?”

“Untreated Gauvadan poisoning,” she said, a questioning look on her face, “interestingly enough, not long ago I noticed I was missing the first vial from the treatment. And then today I am called here urgently, and find you, a person I have never seen before, in the final stages of it.”

I hummed noncommittally. This would be a strange angle for Hybern, and Amarantha had never bothered with this kind of deceit. 

“And to add to the intrigue: you were locked in a cell. And none of them remember putting you there.”

Who was them? Where was here? My last clear memory was Azriel knocking me out in the townhouse. Was he part of the ‘them’? 

“How…  why am I not there now?” 

She wordlessly offered me more water. “No one knew why you were there,” she said, an eyebrow raised in question.

“It wasn’t for stealing a poison remedy, I promise.” I said dryly. “What day is it?”

“Monday.”

I nodded, trying to piece together fragments of memory that were little more than scraps of paper I couldn’t quite grasp in my mental hands. “How long’ve I been here?”

“They found you three days ago,” a small frown line creased her forehead. “The side effects of untreated Gauvadan poisoning can linger for some time. Your natural healing will be slower than usual for a while, and you’ll tire more easily. In rarer cases, there can be brief lapses in magical control.”

My hand drifted to my side. I was once more in a soft linen shirt not my own, this one beige, and pulled up the fabric to see my side unmarred by swelling or redness, just a smooth, healed scar from the deepest of its claws. But if I’d been here for three days… I looked up at her curiously. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

She smiled wanly, “It was nearly too late. Another day, perhaps less.”

I was probably supposed to be disturbed I’d nearly died. Frankly I found it hard to feel much at all, except for something like relief: I don’t think Hybern would have bothered. Maybe even something like disappointment: whatever came next, it couldn’t have been more lonely than the life I lived before. I guess I could be thankful the curse didn’t kick in while someone was still in my presence, regardless of whether or not I was conscious, and so she’d remembered enough to keep healing me.

“Thanks,” I said, because it seemed like that was what would be expected. “And where is… here?”

She quirked that eyebrow up again, but didn’t pry. “The House of Wind?”

I shifted carefully in the bed feeling how soft it was and tried to estimate how much more force it would take to throw myself out of her reach if it came to it. I still wasn’t wholly convinced this was not a trick. “In Velaris,” I hedged.

She nodded and started to rise and fear gripped my heart so hard I felt it stutter in my chest. If she left – “Wait!”

“Yes?”

“Who — who knows I’m here?”

“Several members of the Court were here when I arrived: they asked me to see you healed but none of them were able to stay for long, given what happened in Spring, and then Summer.” Confusion flicked briefly over her face and her eyes flicked to the windows behind me, “I was thinking they would check in by now, but they must have been otherwise engaged.”

I didn’t have the energy to explain they’d simply forgotten I existed and didn’t know to check I was alive. Just like Azriel put me in a cell and then left me there to rot, simply because I slipped his mind. I clenched my jaw, anger rising on the bitter taste of remembered fear. Why couldn’t have his shadows been different? Why couldn’t they have been exempt?

“Now you’re awake, I need to check in on some of my other charges. I’ll return in a few hours.”

No, you won’t, I thought, but I kept that to myself. Fear curled like a heavy cat sleeping on my chest as she smiled reassuringly and slipped out of the heavy wooden door, leaving me alone again. My stomach gurgled hungrily as the door clicked shut, but as I started to reach for the cup of water she’d left behind, mindful of my tender, if visually healed, abdomen, a tray of food blinked into existence in my lap. Broth, savoury and fragrant enough to make my fear take a backseat and my mouth water, and slice of wholemeal bread slathered in thick, creamy butter. I forced myself to eat it all slowly, until I cleaned the bowl with the bread and sat back with a sigh and the tray disappeared. Apparently this room was magicked to provide food, just like the cells.

I was contemplating whether the chest of drawers in the corner of the room would hold any useful clothes when there was a perfunctory knock on the door and it opened before I could reply.

Azriel stood in the doorway, Madja behind him.

I stared at him, tension curling under my skin. The last two times we’d spoken it hadn’t gone well. The last time I’d seen him, he held a knife to my throat hard enough to break the skin, then knocked me unconscious and left me in a cell. And forgotten all about me.

I watched them both warily. It had been minutes, but she’d been with me for days. She wouldn’t have forgotten, right? But Azriel was looking at me like a stranger once again. On the bright side, at least that meant he’d forgotten about my abilities.

Madja huffed at the tall Illyrian in the doorway and slipped past him, ignoring the shadows that hugged him so closely and the glare he sported. Although, he obviously wasn’t glaring at her so perhaps she just didn’t care. His eyes looked dark in the shadow of his hair. “What do you mean,” she said sharply, “you have no idea what I’m talking about? She’s right here.” 

The Healer gestured to me, clearly irritated. I let my head fall back against the headboard with a sigh. Of course. Here we go again.

His jaw shifted like he was grinding his teeth, watching me closely. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“False,” I said flatly. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned as he pressed them together with displeasure. 

“I didn’t say you were lying,” I added, voice colder now, “but you have met me before. Twice. No, three times, technically. But I’ll be generous and ignore the first, seeing as we didn’t speak.”

He held my gaze for a beat, unreadable, then looked away dismissively, as if I didn’t matter enough to warrant more than a glance. That stung more than I wanted it to.

He turned to Madja instead, tone more measured and expression neutral. “Rhysand and Feyre are on their way: it could be some trick from Hybern, maybe a sleeper agent dropped during the invasion. What has it said to you?”

 It. Not she. I clenched my jaw and looked away, stoking the anger rather than letting the hurt drive its cracks too deep. Who did he think he was calling me an it. I saw shock pass over Madja’s face, saw her flick a look of suspicion my way that threatened to encourage the hurt to rise up and overtake the anger.

“Not much, she’s only just awoken.”

“Feyre?” I interrupted, before they could cast any more aspersions on my character, and before he could try to minimise my existence into an impersonal object any further, “How are her sisters?”

“You are privy to that information how?” Azriel asked coldly.

I scoffed. “It’s not information, Rhysand explained who they were after I said I saw them at Hybern’s castle.”

It occurred to me only after I should have kept my mouth shut. Reacting before thinking was still a habit I’d yet to break. And I wasn’t exactly at my best right now, given I’d been awake for less than ten minutes. Azriel pinned me with his cold gaze, more calculating now, and I resisted the urge to shy back into the pillows if only to get more distance between us. “So you do know Hybern.”

“No,” I said quickly, too quickly, “that’s not —”

But the words caught in my throat, and the door opened again before I could finish, or dig myself a bigger hole for Azriel to bury me in. Rhysand strode inside with Feyre just behind him. 

Azriel didn’t so much as blink or glance away as they entered, no doubt watching and cataloguing my reaction. My heart lurched at the sight of them both, the power radiating from Rhysand like a suffocating wave. The air in the room thickened with tension. Feyre’s sharp, assessing eyes flicked over me, and I immediately wished I could disappear under the blankets. Gone was the scared, injured mortal girl shivering in the squalor of Amarantha’s hospitality.

He glanced at me, those piercing violet eyes seeming to peel back every layer of my defences until even my scalp prickled uncomfortably. Feyre stood beside him, her expression as unreadable as his, but I thought I saw something odd flicker across her face. I didn’t have much time to dwell on whatever it was. 

“Azriel tells me we have a... guest?” Rhysand said, his voice smooth as silk, laced with something darker, something I couldn’t quite place. 

I tried to sit up straighter, to shift minutely closer to the edge. “Guest? Is that what I am now?”

“You are not a prisoner. What evidence would we imprison you with?” Rhysand’s lips twitched, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yet?” I shot back, my voice sharp with fear as a flash of the silence in that cell, of my body pressed against the floor to find some relief from the fire in my side. “How kind of you.”

He ignored the barb. “By all accounts, nobody knows you are." 

I held his gaze but refused to fall into the trap of saying too much again. 

He turned to Madja. “Is she healthy enough to be questioned?” The lack of jest in his tone nearly turned my insides to ice. 

Madja frowned, perhaps uncomfortable with the direction this was going. Was she not their usual Healer of choice for questioning prisoners? Who was usually here? Or did they simply just not normally need one. Or perhaps she was merely frowning as she estimated the odds of how much persuasive questioning I could take.

“Her body is still healing from Gauvadan poisoning,” Madja replied, her voice steady and calm, “The second dose of the antidote helped, but it will be some time before her body fully recovers. Healing will be slow.”

Rhysand nodded, though I didn’t miss the calculating gleam in his eyes. Feyre, however, stepped forward, her gaze softening as she addressed me directly.

“I… I’ve met you before,” she said, quiet but sure, surprising everyone in the room. “We met during the Trials.”

A jolt of hope surged through me, “Yes,” I breathed out the word. That flicker I’d seen pass over her expression, that was recognition? I doubt Amarantha had ever expected me to meet a mortal, and never that that mortal would be Made. I’d finally found an angle not covered by her very thorough curse. “You remember me?”

“I think so,” Feyre’s brows furrowed, “most of it is… blurry.”

“We met Under the Mountain, when you were mortal, and the curse didn’t affect you then, either. I don’t think she covered mortals. I’m not a spy,” I said quickly, before Azriel could accuse me again and I explained the curse as quickly and succinctly as I could. “You forget I exist because you’re Fae now,” I finished, “It’s not by choice. It’s not something I can control.”

“How convenient,” Azriel muttered. crossing his arms as shadows curled tighter around him. “She could have been put down there to spy on you, Feyre. That you remember her isn’t a positive.”

Rhysand’s expression darkened, his mouth tightening into a grim line. He shared a glance with Feyre, that lasted for long enough I realised he must have been speaking into her mind, a silent conversation passing between them that I wasn’t privy to. I could see the scepticism in his eyes, but there was something else too… curiosity, perhaps. Hopefully not the morbid kind.

“It’s a curse,” I continued, my voice rising slightly in desperation. “By Amarantha. I told you. She made sure I couldn’t be remembered, not by anyone outside her court, and her allies. Except you, Rhysand. Every Tuesday, you remember. But only for that day. After that, it’s like I was never here.”

Rhysand’s face betrayed nothing, but I saw Feyre’s eyes soften with something that could have been pity.

“And how does that benefit you?” Azriel asked, clearly not convinced, “You expect us to believe you just stumbled upon Velaris? Now, of all times? That you don’t have some kind of ulterior motive?”

“Benefit!” I clenched my fists, trying to contain the rising frustration. “What motive could I possibly have? What do I gain from this? Are you serious? I don’t choose to be forgotten. I didn’t choose any of this!”

The silence that followed was heavy, tense. I could feel the weight of their judgement pressing down on me, the suspicion swirling in the air like a thick, toxic, fog. They didn’t really trust me. And why should they? I was an anomaly, a potential threat they couldn’t fully understand. A stranger.

”I came to help a friend find a relative,” I said, holding out my hands imploringly at Feyre, who seemed to at least be more sympathetic, “His mother was Tartaran, and we followed word of mouth through their mines until we found out his Aunt lived here. Her name’s Neve.”

Rhysand stepped forward, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. “Let us assume that is true, and your friend is delivered to his Aunt, then why are you still here?”

“Everyone,” I said bitterly, “everyone in this Cauldron-forsaken land forgets me. I was hoping if I could get far enough away, to the continent or something, the curse wouldn’t affect people. And you have a port here. But travel is expensive.”

“It’s Monday,” said Feyre. I looked at her expectantly. “To prove whether she is telling the truth or not, all we have to do is wait.”

“And not leave,” I said doubtfully, “once I’m out of sight, you’ll forget before too long. How do you think I ended up in that cell?”

Rhysand and Feyre exchanged another loaded glance, until Azriel’s shoulders tightened in displeasure. I watched his shadows wrap tighter, then several dispersed into the room. 

“Azriel, take Madja back to the city please, and speak with Neve.” Feyre continued, “We’ll stay until tomorrow. I would like to know why, indeed, you ended up in one of our cells.”

And that’s how I ended up having a sleepover with the High Lord of the Night Court and the first Made Fae in centuries.

Chapter Text

"So you think I partially remember you because I was Made? Because the memories are from when I was mortal?” Feyre asked, sitting on the edge of the very large bed, her voice gentle but curious. She wore the same type of clothes I'd seen her in at Hybern’s castle: loose, flowing trousers in a dark fabric that sat high on her waist, short black laced boots, and a fitted, peach coloured top with gossamer sleeves that left a sliver of her midriff bare. The outfit suited her. It was a far cry from the rags she'd been left in Under the Mountain. 

Rhysand, however, seemed to fill the space with tension as he pulled a chair over from the dressing table I hadn't noticed earlier and sat next to her. He was wearing an outfit much like he often wore on Tuesdays: black trousers, a deep, dark purple shirt and a black waistcoat with a double row of silver buttons. His presence felt heavy, his dark gaze watching me with thinly veiled suspicion. He was always guarded, but this felt different from before. More calculated, more mistrustful. Which mask was he wearing today? Because he didn’t look or feel like the male that showed up on Tuesdays. Was he the calculating Fae who observed everything from the sidelines? Or was he the feared High Lord of the dreaded Night Court, who could rip into Fae’s minds with a thought? Or something else? The dread of not knowing started to catch my breath, forcing it shorter and shorter, so I focused on Feyre instead, a small smile tugging at my lips as I took in how happy and healthy she looked compared to the last time I’d seen her.

"I guess so? I’ve never met anyone not born Fae before, and when you were mortal you never seemed to have a problem remembering me,” I shrugged, my voice quieter now, already sounding worn after days of silence. “So I just assumed the curse didn’t affect mortals. I mean, granted, you’re the only one I ever met? I don’t think Amarantha ever expected one to come into her court,” I spread my hands in front of me, a silent supplication, “or she didn’t care. I doubt she ever thought about a mortal being turned into Fae, either."

"Probably that," Feyre agreed, her tone deliberately light. "It was... before the first Trial, I think. That’s when we met?"

I nodded. “Not long after you arrived. I was in the next room.”

Feyre let out a short, humourless laugh. ”You mean cell?”

"For you, it was a cell, for me, it was just my room,” I said agreeably. All I needed to do was keep this conversation calm, and not end up in a cell, forgotten again. It felt like I was walking along a narrow ledge, sheer drops of torture and dying alone in a cell on either side of me. “Amarantha made it... clear, that it was all someone like me was allowed. For you, it was punishment. For me... it just was."

Rhysand’s voice interrupted, direct and controlled. "How did you get into her cell?"

I flicked my gaze over to him, catching the sharpness in his tone. He’d reined in the sense of impending doom and overwhelming power, so much greater than I remembered it being before. I cocked my head at him, casual, questioning. Absolutely not having an internal panic over what to reveal. Rhysand had never known about my shadow abilities. And Azriel? He’d already forgotten. I needed to keep my lies simple, key myself safer. One step in front of the other. An ordinary Fae, with ordinary magic was far less dramatic, far less dangerous than someone who could walk through shadows.

"The same way you got in," I said, careful to keep my tone nonchalant and completely non-confrontational, slightly easier now Azriel wasn’t lurking like a gargoyle. “I was in the room next to hers when you came to visit, and before you, it was the red-head. The walls weren’t exactly thick."

“I’m sorry I couldn’t heal you, by the way,” I added, turning to Feyre, pushing down the temptation to taunt him about not knowing something. “I know it hurt a lot.”

She lay a hand on Rhysand’s arm, turning to him, “The more I try to remember, the more comes back to me,” she left her hand resting gently there before looking at me again, “You apologised back then, and it wasn’t your fault anyway.” She waved her other hand dismissively and told me not to worry about that. But I couldn’t forget. The fragile mortal girl in the next room, slowly dying from a wound that could’ve been healed in moments by any Healer, it haunted me. 

Rhysand tilted his head to the side, and I froze. Was he mirroring me on purpose, or had I subconsciously picked up that movement from him? Would he notice? Did it matter? He’d remember me tomorrow, just like he always did. And then forget I existed, just like he always did. Hopefully, they’d let me go tomorrow, and then I’d never see any of them again. I swallowed the knot of anxiety rising in my throat, forcing myself to stay still.

“Where were you? During the Trials?”

“In my room for the first one. Amarantha wanted me to watch the second. I think they knew ---” My voice faltered as hesitation crept in, unsure if I was walking straight into a trap. The feeling of being cornered washed over me like ice water. I felt like prey, and Rhysand was the hunter, with Feyre standing just close enough that I couldn’t tell if she was helping him, or me. “That I was helping her,” I said haltingly, “I stayed at the back. Never found it a good idea to... attract attention.”

"Why?" he challenged, "If everyone forgets you, as you say?"

I laughed bitterly, watching idly as Feyre entwined her finger with his. “Everyone *except* the members of her Court, and her allies,” I reminded him. “I’ve told you that already. You’re either really bad at listening to details, or you think I’m lying. I’ve known you for *years*. I know it’s not the first one. If you want tales of my dismal childhood growing up as a stranger to all except those who took delight in hurting me, tricking me, using me, then you’ll have to wait for another day.”

His eyebrows lifted, a silent acknowledgement? Or mentally counting to ten? He glanced at Feyre. There was a flicker of something between them. Doubt? Curiosity? 

“Alright. I’ll ask,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “How long *have* we known each other?”

“Time was weird there. No real days, no way to track anything properly.” I shrugged, feeling the exhaustion wash into my bones as fast as the anger fell away. “I think it’s been about fifteen. Years, I mean. Not centuries. But I was just counting biscuits.” I sighed. How many times would I have to explain the same thing before someone killed me because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, with someone that knew me the day before? “You’ll remember tomorrow.”

“And how did we know each other for those years?”

I smiled, small but real. “You were my teacher. You taught me about literature, mathematics, alchemy, to *think*. You taught me about the courts, and laws, about what lay beyond the Mountain. You gave me a new book to read every week. I’ve still got your last one.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “And what book is that?”

Rhysand wouldn’t believe me, not yet. Here, in this room, I was just another Fae, someone to be scrutinised and doubted. He didn’t know about the shadows, and I wasn’t about to reveal that secret now. I left the book in its shadow pocket. “The Game of Courts,” I replied. “I don’t have it with me. It’s the first of a series, or so it says. But then the third Trial came, and you all left.”

”And that’s when you went to Hybern’s castle?”

“No,” I corrected, keeping my voice steady. “I didn’t *go* to Hybern’s castle. Arexus caught me before I could escape and took me there.”

”Arexus?” Feyre asked.

“Her favoured Attor,” Rhysand supplied darkly, and I saw the way Feyre’s face twisted in disgust, the mere mention of the creature causing a visceral reaction. I wondered briefly what horrors Arexus had inflicted on her to elicit such hatred, and yet she didn’t know his name. But I wasn’t surprised, he’d not become one of Amarantha’s most favoured for his witty banter.

“I got out of Hybern’s castle not long after you somehow broke the wards,” I added quickly, wanting to skip over the months I’d spent there before they asked for any details. There was nothing from back then worth remembering.

They lapsed into silence then, exchanging glances periodically. They seemed comfortable with the silence, or maybe that was because I was right and Rhysand was talking in her head, but it was something I hated. Silence stretched endlessly, swallowing up every scream, every thought.

I cleared my throat, breaking the stillness. “He told me how you were Made,” I said, turning to Feyre. “And... You did all those trials to save Tamlin. You said you were in love with him.”

Feyre’s eyes flickered with something, pain, maybe, or regret? But she didn’t look away.

Rhysand, though... His expression was unreadable, his body deceptively relaxed. But there was tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled just slightly where they rested on the other arm of his chair. Jealousy? Possessiveness? Or something quieter, something colder?

I felt like I was sliding on ice on this ledge of a conversation, like he was as if he was waiting for me to slip, to reveal something that would confirm his suspicions. And I couldn’t tell if Feyre shared his doubts or if she was caught somewhere in between.

"I was, once," Feyre said softly, her eyes clouded with memories. "After the Mountain... he was different. I was different. I couldn’t be who he wanted me to be, and he wasn’t who I thought he was.”

Her words hung in the air, and I couldn’t help the disbelief that must have flashed across my face. What did any of that even mean? Feyre noticed, her gaze turning curious as she studied me. "Have you ever been in love?"

"Considering that you all forget me every day?" I replied, shaking my head. A dry laugh barked out of my throat. "In my experience, love at first sight isn’t really a thing."

Rhysand leaned forward slightly, his presence an ever-present weight in the room. "What about lust at first sight?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

A memory from Hybern’s castle surged to the surface, the scent of burnt orange and pepper, sudden and vivid, peeled from the depths of mind like the juice from a crushed fruit. My hands gripped the sheet beneath me, knuckles whitening. "No." My voice was sharp, more forceful than I intended.

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed, something flickering in the depths of them as I swallowed back the urge to vomit, raking my nails viciously through my hair instead, feeling them scratch and hurt against my itching skin.

He changed the subject. ”You’ve known me for fifteen years? How old are you? Which court did you come from?”

There was danger in his tone, despite the abrupt subject switch, a razor edge beneath the calm exterior. This was another question I didn’t want to answer. I’d never been sure if Rhysand knew the truth about Amarantha’s connection to me, or even *why* he had always visited on Tuesdays. He’d implied a few times over the years he assumed I was an orphan, sometimes theorising Summer, sometimes Winter. I didn’t pry into those assumptions, didn’t shatter the illusions or encourage mysteries, didn’t want to. Now he was too close, circling a truth I couldn’t afford to reveal. I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat, tangled in my fear. I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth and reminded myself that I had nothing to hide, that the scents in this room were different people as I pushed the memory back down. “I don’t remember anything before being Under the Mountain.” 

A yawn cracked open my jaw like a silent roar and Feyre looked bemused. 

"Why don’t we all relax for a while?" she suggested gently, "There are still hours yet before tomorrow, and you’re obviously tired. Madja said it will be a while before you’re completely better.”

I scanned the room, noting how bare it was, devoid of distractions, and notebooks. There wasn’t even a bookshelf or desk in sight, nothing to occupy my thoughts or keep my hands busy. Although I doubt I’d be at a loose end for long: sleep beckoned even though I’d been awake barely an hour.

"Just ask the House for anything you want," Feyre said with a small smile, demonstrating as she turned to the empty space beside her. "I’d like my watercolours, paintbrushes, a cup of water, and my small sketchpad, please."

Sure enough, between one blink and the next, they appeared on the floor next to her. My eyes widened in surprise. That seemed considerably more complex than the food magic. Rhysand, who had been watching me carefully, reached over and handed me a book he must have summoned somehow. I glanced down at the cover, my heart skipping a beat.

"The second Game of Courts book?" I asked, unable to hide my disbelief. A real smile tugged at my lips, strange and unfamiliar after so long.

“Since you’ve finished the first one.” He said carefully. I heard the unspoken ‘apparently’ at the end of the sentence, but ignored it. I shifted carefully, mindful of the dull ache in my abdomen as I opened the book.

*

The room settled into silence while we occupied ourselves. I was relieved that the relentless questions had stopped, but I could still feel the intensity of Rhysand’s attention. He wasn’t done. He was just waiting for me to relax, to let my guard down, to make a mistake, to slip up. 

A cat, waiting for the mouse to forget it was perched above its home. 

He alternated between staring into space, reading a book, and watching Feyre as she painted, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.

As dusk crept in, they eventually asked the House for something to eat. The warm orange glow from outside was fading into the soft grey of twilight. My stomach growled, and I realised I was hungrier than I’d thought. Maybe it had been rumbling for a while, and I just hadn’t noticed? The book in my hands had captured me completely. I barely looked up as I devoured a sandwich with one hand, flipping the pages with the other. My eyes itched with tiredness, but who knew when I’d get my hands on this book again? 

It wasn’t until I was nearing the end of the story, maybe an hour from finishing, that Rhysand pointedly cleared his throat. The sound snapped me out of my focus, and I blinked at him in mild confusion, my eyes gritty and heavy. 

"It’s been Tuesday for... six minutes," he said, his voice calm but pointed. 

I glanced outside the window and felt a shock ripple through me. The dark of night had long since fallen. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed. How long had I been sitting here? How long had they been waiting for Tuesday to begin? 

Feyre stirred in her armchair, which the House had conjured into existence for her. She blinked blearily at Rhysand, then at me. She looked so at ease, as if the tension hanging in the room hadn’t touched her. I envied her. Sleep was the furthest thing from my mind, despite the lethargy that pulled at my senses. Between the prospect of being remembered, not being alone, the fear of being forgotten, of being tossed into another cell, alone and forgotten, and the intrigue of a new book, there was no chance I was even closing my eyes now. Unless someone knocked me out, again.

I turned to Rhysand, waiting expectantly. His expression had softened, his demeanour no longer a veiled threat. It was the Rhysand I knew from Tuesdays. 

“When did you remember?” I asked quietly, searching his face.

“When I looked at you,” he said simply.

“Politely: I told you so,” I muttered under my breath. I wanted to ask how that would have worked before, Under the Mountain, but I didn’t. Not now. The corners of my mouth tugged up, and I fought the feeling. Hope was always a disappointment. Hope was always dangerous. 

Feyre frowned, still half-asleep. “Why is that? How?” she asked, confused, her brows knitting together.

I glanced at her, then at Rhysand. “He’s always been different. No one ever told me why.” I shrugged, trying to keep my tone casual, though the curiosity was there. Always there, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. Why did Rhysand remember when no one else did? Why only on Tuesdays?

He nodded, his voice quieter now, more reflective. “She wasn’t happy about it.” His words surprised me. It was the first time he’d spoken openly about Amarantha’s reaction to his exception from the full effects of the curse. His gaze drifted to the book in my lap. “I should’ve given you longer books if you read them that quickly.”

I shrugged again, the weight of exhaustion threatening to press down on me with renewed vigour now that the conversation was turning casual, the immediate threat passing with the ticking of a clock. I’d stepped off the dangerous ledge and was finally standing on the other side. Words felt hard to form, my mouth as reluctant as my thoughts were sluggish. “Is it alright if I finish this later?” I asked, closing the book with a soft tap of my fingers against the cover. "I’ll leave it on the doorstep."

I swung my legs out from under the sheets, the cool air sending a shiver up my spine. There was hope flickering at the edges of my mind, fragile and unwelcome, like a candle in a drafty room. I didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to let it grow. Hopes like this... they never lasted.

Rhysand’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his tone more curious than anything else, just a hint of a cautious undertone I couldn’t ignore.

“Well, now that we’ve established I’m not a threat?” I said, swallowing hard. My throat tightened, and I fought against the lump forming there, the one that sometimes seemed to swallow my words whole. “I assume you’ll let me go, right?”

“No,” he said, his voice steady, calm, and entirely too firm. My body tensed. “We need to find a way to break the curse.”

The laugh that burst from me was sharp, sudden. It startled all of us, even me. The sound was harsh and bitter, bouncing off the walls before fading into an uneasy silence. “Good one,” I said, wiping a hand over my mouth as if I could brush the laugh away. “I need to be out of here before Tuesday ends, somewhere safe, and I’m so, so tired. I need to go before I fall asleep on my feet and get caught out. Again.”

Rhysand’s gaze sharpened, his eyes locking onto mine with a sudden intensity that made my pulse quicken in fear. “Do you know who broke the wards on Hybern’s castle?” 

I shook my head, no, I didn’t. I had my assumptions though, and gestured vaguely toward the pair of them. “You?”

“Just Feyre.” Rhysand nodded towards the female, who offered a small, humble smile.

“I know you’re trying to make a point,” I said as I frowned in confusion. That had not been my theory, “but I’m not getting it.”

“Just... sit there for a minute,” Rhysand instructed, his voice slipping into something softer, more insistent. Like when he wanted me to try again with a problem he’d posed and I was getting frustrated. Feyre closed her eyes, and I felt magic flood the room: an almost imperceptible hum of energy in the air, like the faintest shift in the current of magic that surrounded us. It smelled like some kind of flower. My heart rate spiked, but I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot by a heady mix of adrenaline, exhaustion, and most deadly of all, curiosity.

The seconds ticked on. I was all the way to one hundred and sixty-eight when Feyre opened her eyes and nodded with a confident smile. “It’s done. Broken.”

I looked back and forth between them while Rhysand thanked and congratulated her with a kiss that made me realise that they were definitely not just here as close friends, or allies, or anything else neutral. 

“I didn’t feel anything,” I said aloud, looking down at myself with extreme scepticism and pulled the sheets back up on the bed, erasing my presence as I pulled them tight and neat. I felt no different. Surely if something that had so monumentally shaped and defined my life was gone, I’d have felt *something? Seen* something of it leaving my skin? **“So is there some clothes ‘round here I can borrow? I think I see snow down there? How do I get back down to the city? We’re pretty high, right?”

“You don’t believe us?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe them, but letting myself believe this curse might be broken was like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff, backwards. And there was no evidence that it *was* broken. I’d fallen too many times to trust the ground beneath me anymore. I crossed my arms, defiance creeping into my posture. 

“I can’t *afford* to believe you,” I said, the words coming out harsher than I intended. But it was true. Hope, fragile as it was, was just as dangerous as rage. “I’ll come by the townhouse tomorrow, or every day until you’re there,” I offered, knowing they’d forget to wait in for me. If you remember me, then I’ll know it worked. But I’m not staying here now. I’m not risking getting thrown in your dungeons or whatever again.” My voice wavered and I flexed my jaw, forcing air into my lungs, “I won’t get left behind to rot again.”

Feyre held my gaze for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Finally, she nodded, the barest movement of her head. “I’ll fetch you something warm to wear, and then Rhysand can drop you off. We’ll meet you at the townhouse first thing tomorrow.” She glanced at him briefly before slipping out of the room, her movements purposeful. I watched her go, noticing how Rhysand’s eyes followed her until she disappeared from sight, how his expression softened as he watched her before he turned his attention back to me. “You’ll have to decide what you want to do, with the curse broken.”

I hummed in response, keeping my emotions carefully in check. I busied myself by straightening the sheets again. When that didn’t take long enough, I ran my fingers through my tangled hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it. It had grown long, falling nearly halfway to my elbows in dark unruly waves, and I knew I’d need to cut it soon, especially if I ever joined a voyage over the sea. Wind, it seemed, was not kind to hair. But I also liked *having* long hair. Amarantha had always forcibly kept it shorn to my ears.

“Can I ask you something?” I ventured, still avoiding his gaze.

“Of course,” Rhysand replied, his voice calm and immediate.

I hesitated for a second, then finally looked at him. “Do you have the next book? The one after this one. I’ll get it back to you.”

A half-smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, but it was small, almost sad. “You don’t believe it’s broken.”

“Please?” I asked, not hiding the insistence from my voice. I didn’t earn a lot from my shifts, and between my need for a roof over my head, food in my belly, and saving to leave, I’d had precious little to put towards buying things for pleasure.

He sighed, relenting quickly, as I suspected he would. He’d always been willing to support any information about the world, or books, that I’d asked for. With a flick of his fingers, the rest of the series materialised on the bed between us, a large square of flat fabric beneath. I gathered them up and tied up the edges quickly, clutching them to my chest like a lifeline. Feyre returned then, carrying a bundle of warm clothes and a thick coat draped over her arm. I felt an unexpected surge of gratitude as she handed them to me, the warmth of her gesture catching me off guard.

“Thank you,” I muttered, nearly hugging her before retreating behind the nearby changing screen to put on the fresh clothes. The layers felt good against my skin, the coat especially thick and heavy, offering protection against the chill I already suspected was waiting for me outside. Winter was so far proving to be my least favourite season.

And then Rhysand was flying me. That had been a surprise of so many kinds: the fact that he had wings, massive and leathery and black, an Ilyrian’s wings. Far more powerful than my own, but hidden like mine were. He flew with ease, while I had always struggled to even get airborne. It was the only way out of the House of Wind unless I wanted to run down ten thousand steps, apparently. I was likely to fall asleep after a few hundred at most, so I chose to be grateful for the lift, as strange as it was to be carried by the male.

He set me down gently on the street I’d indicated, the city quiet and still under the night sky. I adjusted the coat around my shoulders, the cold nipping in around the edges of the warmth Feyre had given me.

“Come find me,” Rhysand said, his voice soft, almost wistful. He gestured to the books I held tightly in my arms. “At least to let me know what you think, to let me know you’re alright.”

I nodded, unable to speak. Something in my throat had tightened again, the hope inside me swelling like a balloon. It was light, buoyant, and so fragile that I didn’t dare breathe on it, in case it burst. Still, it floated there, big and undeniable, and for the first time in a long while, I let it linger.

Chapter Text

I slept in fitful, unfulfilling bursts the minute my head hit the lumpy pillow on my thin mattress. I barely moved even after that, except to read or grab food from the café across the street, using the meagre savings I'd hidden inside the mattress. The bed was nothing like the one in the House of Wind. No soft, inviting luxury. No down-filled duvet, no pillows that cushioned my head like a hug.

But it was mine. It was home, it was safe.

Warded with as much magic as I knew, the apartment was as protected as I could make it. Several of my shadows immediately dispersed to watch the window and door the second I stepped over the threshold. I knew every crevice and crack. “Apartment” might have been a stretch. It was more accurately a third of a disused loft space being rented out on the cheap in a rundown part of the city. The room was just wide enough for my bed: an old pallet with a hay-stuffed mattress, a thrifted pillow, and a pile of blankets. Next to the bed was a two-drawer cabinet: the top drawer held my one clean set of clothes, while the bottom was home to a very modest collection of one book I'd picked up. So perhaps ‘collection' was a bit of a stretch, too. I kept a basin for cold water on another small cabinet at the other end of the room, and a pile of cushions that I liked to throw myself onto to read.

Given I had no idea what had happened to the clothes I was wearing in the cell, perhaps it was time to sell my book and cushions back to get another pair of trousers and a jumper. I pulled at the body of the soft, knitted, dark green jumper Feyre had given me. It was simple, and warm, and felt wonderful against my skin. The trousers were of similar quality, buttery soft but surprisingly thick against the cold. I'd not seen anything like this at the second hand clothing stores I'd visited before.

When Wednesday's morning sun broke over the horizon, I watched the townhouse from across the street, cloaked in as many shadows as I dared risk in case Azriel was nearby. I stayed until the sun was clear in the sky and the city was awake with movement. Warm lights glowed through several of the windows, indicating someone was awake. But there was no clear sign of who was in. Was Rhysand there? Feyre? Did they remember their promise? Was the curse really broken?

I decided that showing up with clothes and books they could easily mistake as stolen was a bad idea. I stashed them out of sight near the wall, asking one of the more helpful shadows to keep them suspended just off the ground by a sliver.

Before I could even finish my second knock, the door swung open. Feyre stood in the doorway, breathless with excitement, a wide smile lighting up her face.

“You came!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright with relief and warmth.

I took an involuntary step back, glancing behind me. There was no one else behind me. 

She was talking to me. She was talking like she — “You remember me?”

“I told you it worked. Get in here and out of the cold. Have you had breakfast yet?”

”Just a second,” I held up a hand and dashed back a few steps to the front wall and grabbed the clothes and books, “these are yours, and the book from yesterday like I said.”

She took them and placed them on a wooden console table in the tiled hallway, leading me straight through to the sitting room I'd sat in last time I'd spoken with Rhysand here. “Nuala made cinnamon bread and I saved you some, do you want to try it? I pretty much had to fight Cass off with a bread knife.”

My eyes widened, likely as large as saucers, as she kept talking, moving with ease through the open double doors into a large dining room, and then further into a light, airy kitchen. The aroma hit me before I even stepped inside: warm cinnamon, sweet and fragrant, and fresh yeasty dough. It smelled divine.

Nuala and Cerridwen, two figures I recognised from Under the Mountain, were there. We'd never spoken. They slipped away quietly as soon as Feyre nearly skipped into the room.

“To be fair,” Feyre added with a grin, “I think Rhys told him that if he didn't leave any for me, or for you, he'd think of something creative.”

The mention of Rhysand sent a small jolt through me, a reminder of the tangled reality I was somehow now in. Part of me still couldn't believe it. The curse was broken, they remembered me… it felt too good to be true. Would it last? Would it somehow fix itself? Would I wake up with a sword to my throat tomorrow?

I sat down at the large wooden table as Feyre fetched the bread, setting it before me with a smile. “Go on, try it,” she urged, her eyes sparkling with the same enthusiasm as earlier.

I hesitated, my fingers brushing the warm, soft bread. This all felt surreal, far too good to be true. I couldn't quite let go of the feeling that whatever illusion I was living in was going to shatter any second, and I'd be left back in my old room, allowed only whatever Amarantha deemed acceptable. But I bit into the bread anyway, just in case. It tasted as delicious as it smelt. Sweeter than anything I was normally allowed before, not without having to steal it. 

Feyre sat down across from me, resting her chin on one hand and toying with her hair so it fell over her shoulder with the other as she watched me eat, looking genuinely pleased. "What do you plan to do now?" she asked, her tone casual, but the weight of the question lingered in the air between us.

I swallowed, glancing down at the half-eaten slice. “I… don't know,” I admitted honestly. "I haven't really… I mean I didn't want to, think about it? I didn't know it worked…" My voice trailed off, the reality of what might now be possibly swimming before me. The magnitude of it was daunting. ‘Thank you' seemed like a poor attempt at conveying my gratitude for even one extra day of being seen but I said it anyway.

I'd never seen the point in planning any further than ‘survive' for as long as I could remember. The concept felt as enormous as the night sky felt endless.

Feyre tilted her head slightly, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “You won't need to hide anymore, you know. You can settle somewhere, make friends.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to feel the same certainty she did. But hope was….Naive, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. It would be nice though, wouldn't it? To wake up somewhere knowing I would see people who knew me that day, to share a meal with other people who knew me. To have someone smile at me who both knew who I was and didn't hate me. 

How quickly would those smiles turn to contempt when they realised where, and who, I came from? Family lines were important. And fae had long memories. Feyre had been mortal before this, maybe things were different on the other side of the Wall. I looked down at the bread, picking at the edge, my fingers restless. “It… would be nice,” I said softly, the words barely audible. I tried to change the subject. “Have you seen much of Prythian? What was your favourite place, where do you think I should see?”

Verbal manoeuvring had never been my strong point.

“I've mostly been in Spring and Night,” she replied, her tone light, “a little of Adriata.”

“Where was your favourite? Where are you going next?” I raised my eyes to meet hers.

“Here,” she said simply. The smile that lit up her face was wide, happy, and genuine. Too genuine. The brightness in her expression, the sheer joy she exuded… it radiated so freely that it made me uncomfortable. 

“Night is your favourite?” My voice was sharper than I meant it to be and I bit the inside of my cheek. But who would willingly choose this place? Sure, I hadn't seen anything like the depravity exhibited by them under the mountain in this city, but I'd decided it was surely only a matter of time. Or maybe Velaris was the exception, rather than the rule. Maybe there was another city somewhere, the dark side of this coin.

“Oh, right,” she said, her mouth forming a small "O," as though she'd forgotten something obvious. Footsteps sounded on the stairs nearby, and then Rhysand's familiar voice filled the room.

“Rhys says he can explain that.”

“Explain what?” I asked, suspicion tingling up my spine. Every answer felt like it led to more questions.

“You only know the Court of Nightmares,” Rhysand's voice came from behind me as he kissed the top of Feyre's head and moved a kettle onto the stove. It was such a normal, domestic scene that I pinched my leg under the table, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Was this real? Was any of it real? Maybe I was dying in the wilds, freezing in the snow and poisoned. Maybe I was still in that cell, fever ridden and dying.

I winced at the memory and dragged my attention back to the fae opposite me. The Court of Nightmares? What kind of name was that? His courtiers were the sort I made sure to avoid whenever I was forced to cross paths with them, those and the ones from Autumn. Beron and his sons seemed to be the worst of their group, but nearly every member of the Night Court I'd ever come across was dark in dangerous, arrogant ways that set them apart. Except for Rhysand: he was… distant. Coldly detached, more often than not. Just as deadly, but not so eager, so excited, as the others. That hadn't stopped him going along with some of their antics.

Except on Tuesday's, when he was different again. Inside that room, he'd been a friendly and willing teacher. He was the only person I thought I could trust… and yet the many masks he wore meant I knew I shouldn't trust him.

“The Court of Nightmares is very real,” Rhysand continued, pulling out three mugs from a cupboard, and a jug of milk from the coolbox. “And it was necessary to let that be all that was known, especially while Amarantha held us all in her power —”

“and in general,” Feyre interrupted, her gaze knowing. “This secret was always been bigger than just her.”

Intrigue flared in me, but I tamped it down quickly, trying to keep my curiosity in check. It wasn't safe to get too drawn in, not yet. I focused on the cinnamon bread, pulling it to pieces, looking at each piece before I ate it, as if the answers I sought inside. “Oh?” I prompted, keeping my voice neutral.

“Velaris has long been the best-kept secret of the Night Court, probably in all of Prythian,” Rhysand explained, but then winced. “Until recently. Hybern put an end to that.”

Hybern put an end to a lot of things. I kept that thought to myself, focusing instead on the questions that seemed to pile up higher every time they spoke. Their answers were never quite enough. “Feyre was trying to make staying in the Night Court sound like the best option,” I said, my tone careful but leading.

“The Court of Nightmares is the outward face of the Night Court, but it is kept well away from this city,” Rhysand said, his expression growing serious. “It has long been that way. Many, many centuries ago, long before even my father was High Lord, it was the whole of Night. Until one of my ancestors decided there was a better way, and formed the Court of Dreams.”

I blinked, the words slowly sinking in. “So… what? The Court of Dreams is some secret haven? A utopia hidden from the rest of Prythian?”

Rhysand met my gaze steadily. “Something like that. It's a place where our people can live freely, without the threats of the rest of the world.”

It sounded too perfect, too ideal. A dream hidden behind a nightmare. I wanted to laugh, but the sound got caught in my throat, choked by the deep-seated wariness I couldn't shake. “And I'm supposed to believe that this dream exists?”

“You've already seen part of it: Velaris is the pinnacle of that dream,” Feyre said softly, her voice filled with a quiet conviction. “You're sitting in it.”

I glanced around the kitchen, the warmth and light so at odds with the shadows of my past. Part of me wanted to believe her, but the rest of me… What if this is just another illusion? A terrifying thought entered my head then: Rhysand could make people see what he wanted. What if I was still Under the Mountain, and this was some new trick Amarantha was entertaining herself with? I suddenly felt trapped in the warm, cosy kitchen.

“There are some horrible people in that Court,” I managed to say, but the words stuck in my throat. There was something fragile in saying it aloud, like admitting that I was still looking for the threat. “They do horrible things.”

When I'd been about eight, there had been a feast, another one of Amarantha's pointless celebrations. The dining hall had overflowed with roasted meats, spiced sauces, roasted vegetables and dishes of savoury rolls, the scents tormenting me as I served dish after dish until my arms shook. Despite my small frame back then, I'd been ordered to wait on the tables, weaving between towering High Fae and their decadent laughter. Most of the guests were visiting dignitaries from Hybern, but I recognised a few faces from Prythian's Courts. They ate for hours, drinking even longer, until the hall finally fell silent. I lingered in the shadows, waiting until I was sure no one remained. Then, stomach growling, I crept back to the table. Among the crumpled napkins and half-filled goblets, I spotted a small, leftover roll pushed to the edge of a platter.

I snatched it quickly, heart pounding, the stale crust warm against my chilled palm.

“I didn't realise we had thieving rats down here.”

The voice sent a jolt through me. I whirled to find a tall High Fae male leaning against the archway, his pale face twisted into a mocking sneer.

“I—I'm sorry,” I stammered, clutching the roll to my chest.

He stepped closer, his fine black coat embroidered with silver stars glinting in the faint candlelight, as did his blonde hair. I knew he was from Night. His dark eyes, a brown that looked black in the shadowed space, locked onto mine with a quiet, searing disdain.

“Why do rats think they can eat the food meant for their betters? The food off our own table?” he asked, his voice quiet but cutting, “What do rats deserve?”

I couldn't find an answer, only tightened my grip on the roll.

“No answer?” His lip curled. “Let me help you decide.”

Before I could react, he plucked the roll from my hands and studied it with mock seriousness. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he dropped it to the ground and ground it beneath his polished boot. The crumbs scattered, mingling with the dirt of the floor.

“That's where you belong, isn't it? Scrambling for scraps on the ground.” His voice sharpened and he spat on the crumbs. “Eat up.”

I stared at the crushed remains, hunger and shame twisting in my stomach. But I didn't cry. Not then.

“It's complicated,” Rhysand said tiredly, jolting me from the memory. The kettle whistled, and he moved to pull the kahve from the stove, checking its contents with slow, deliberate motions, as though it was a reprieve from the conversation.

“How complicated can it be?” I muttered, bitterness threading through my words. “I've seen you unalive people with your mind.” I shot him a glance from the corner of my eye as he set the press on the table. I'd, once, made the mistake of talking back to Amarantha, something to the effect of asking why she couldn't be more like Rhysand, and then the next day she had me attend the Throne Room as she tortured two captured Folk for no reason other than entertainment. When she grew bored of making them scream, she had Rhysand do it. And then he killed them.

Feyre frowned at me, her face tightening for just a second before smoothing back into something softer. I refused to meet her eyes. Let her frown. Velaris, for all its beauty, didn't erase the things I knew: things Feyre clearly hadn't seen yet. Sure, the fae I'd come across in Velaris had been decent enough, but that didn't mean everyone here was the perfect, benevolent citizen they painted themselves to be when they were in public.

“Where is the Nightmare court, then? Is it everywhere but here? Or isolated to one place? Is there some special coloured path that you can safely walk through the rest of your lands to get here, and every step outside of that is a risk?”

“This isn't the Sorcerer of Eraz,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The Court of Nightmares is restricted to the Hewn City, it lies far east of here. The courtiers you knew were exclusively from there. Most of our people are just like all the other peoples in Prythian, no better, no worse.”

“Except for the perfect people in your perfect city?” I challenged, my eyebrows raised. He didn't rise to the bait, so I chewed the last of the cinnamon bread, savouring it despite the tension coiling in my gut. As they ate in silence, I pushed my plate away with a sigh. I knew what I had to do: I couldn't stay. No matter how much I might want to believe there was a place for me here, their words only reaffirmed what I'd always known: the Night Court wasn't safe. This city was a polite lie they told themselves, while they kept their dirty, dangerous secrets somewhere else, where it was okay to hurt and trick and maim, to be cruel and uncaring. A constant threat to all if they misbehaved. Knowing my luck I'd get thrown into it just as the curse returned somehow. I needed to save up my coin and get out of here.

“It's fine,” I said into the silence, trying to keep the frustration from bleeding through, though it snuck into my tone. “You live in this black and white world where all your monsters conveniently live in one place, and everyone in this one, specific, city is completely good. The bad ones, the monsters, the ones that don't fit this idea of perfection, you keep them separate, hidden, forgotten by most, and then you don't have to think about them.” I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, my eyes narrowing on them both. “And sod everyone in the villages and towns, they're too grey to go to either. They can just grow your food for you.”

“It's not —” Rhysand started, frustration edging into his tone, but I cut him off.

“Got bad fae here too? Ones you watch? Never had bodies washing up from the river?”

“No I—” he tried again, but I wasn't done.

“No one is born evil, you told me that. I bet not everyone down in your Nightmare Court started mean and dark.”

I don't even know why I was defending them. They were all horrible, all awful, every single one of them I'd come across. But I knew what it was like to be cast aside, kept in place, forgotten. Treated as less.

Rhysand's jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he pressed his lips together, swallowing whatever retort he wanted to throw back at me. I'd never antagonised him when he was my teacher, too afraid my Tuesdays would stop. That risk always outweighed the temptation to provoke, to push, to make a strong enough impression that might linger beyond. Feyre rested a hand briefly on his, a calming gesture that felt all the more foreign in the tense moment.

“There is no such thing as a perfect city,” Feyre said, her voice patient, her words deliberate. She wasn't trying to argue. “And there's no such thing as a city without its less desirable districts. Nowhere is free from crime and Velaris is no exception to that either.”

I shifted in my seat as she took the kahve from Rhysand, pouring it into the three mugs. Even though I had been halfway to standing, she slid a cup across the table toward me. The gesture was clear: sit, stay. Against my better judgement, I sat down again, my fingers wrapping around the warm mug.

“Of course Velaris has them, although I am new here, as you know, so I am not as familiar with the city as others,” Feyre continued, ignoring the tension simmering between me and Rhysand. “There's a neighbourhood in the north…” She paused, turning to Rhysand for confirmation. He nodded, and she continued. “North of the Sidra River. It's home to many on lower incomes, its buildings are rundown, in need of repair at best, or demolishing at worst. It's right next to another district in the north east, which is where many of the pleasure houses are found.”

I knew exactly where she was talking about. That north district, just far enough from the heart of Velaris to be a little forgotten was where I had my little room. Generously, it could be said to be on the northwest edge of the city, but the truth was, it was part of the very place Feyre had just described. 

Rhysand let out a heavy sigh, his fingers tightening around the mug in front of him. “Yes, I'm the High Lord,” he began, “And with that power comes decisions not everyone will always understand. Do you think I enjoy keeping the Court of Nightmares the way it is? Do you think I like letting that place fester while the rest of my people live in peace? No, not every member of that Court is a monster. And not every person in this city is without their own darkness. We have laws here for that very purpose, trials and punishments that befit the crime and the motivations behind them.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, unsure of what to say.

“The Court of Nightmares holds the loyalty of key families. Families with key armies,” he continued, voice hardening. “Armies we will need when Hybern marches. And he will march again. Numbers and skillsets matter in war: remember your lessons on strategy. I can't risk it.”

“But you can't let them have that power forever, and this war has only been on your doorstep for a few months, you've been in charge for centuries,” I pressed, still not willing to relent. “You've let them get more secure, more entrenched. Said it's alright to act how they act with your inaction. They'll only grow stronger, more entrenched. You taught me that too.” I saw it in the Pits all the time too, but I didn't say that out loud.

“I know that,” Rhysand said, and his eyes flashed dangerously, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He pushed his chair back slightly and stood, pacing a few steps away from the table, staring out the window into the streets of Velaris. I'd never really questioned him before, not really. “When I was new to my position, my only option would have been violence, and we were only decades out of a war that devastated every population. The High Fae have never had a high birth rate, many of the Fae do not.

If I force their hand now, if I try to rip that control from them too fast, or too soon, I risk civil war not least because I am neither fae nor Illyrian, which is a blessing and a burden. I don't want more bloodshed, more death. With Hybern on the horizon, I can't afford for my own court to be divided. We need their armies. Just like we need the Illyrians.”

I frowned, taken aback by the mention of the mysterious Illyrians who were becoming increasingly… common. I could count on one hand how many I'd seen before Amarantha was killed (four: three killed violently at her whims, and the last in the Pits). And yet since then I'd already seen two, three if I counted him, given his wings. Could they all hide their wings? Was my father one of them? Or his father? Or maybe a more distant relative? “Illyrians?”

“Yes,” Rhysand said, turning back to face me, his expression grim. “The Illyrians are a vital part of the Night Court's military strength: fierce, disciplined, and skilled in battle. But they—” He shook his head in frustration. “It's not something we got around to covering. Much of their culture is rich, steeped in history and honour and tradition, but some of it is… dated. Some of it is borne of fear thousands of years old and now a tradition in itself, like their views on females. Again: if I push too hard, too fast, there would be a revolt. We already walk a careful line in the war camps. And if that happens, we lose a critical part of our defence. Hybern would sweep in, and the Night Court would be finished, Velaris destroyed.”

“So you just… let them continue?” I asked, disbelief creeping into my voice. “You let them all carry on as they are? You don't fight it? Knowing the kind of Fae there? What they do -”

Rhysand's jaw clenched, and Feyre shifted uncomfortably next to him. “Of course I've made changes. I've tried to move the needle, little by little. But you don't break tradition overnight. Not without shattering everything else in the process.”

I stared at him, conflicted. Part of me understood what he was saying, but the other part couldn't accept it. I wanted to see only what Feyre saw: the bright, shiny happiness of this city. But every light cast a shadow. “And what about the people suffering because of it right now?” I asked. “You just said not all of them are monsters. But they're trapped there, surrounded by them. How do you justify that? Of having only moved the needle a little.”

Rhysand's eyes darkened. “I don't justify it,” he said, “I hate it. But if I act recklessly, if I move without care, then everyone suffers. Feyre, my family, all of Velaris. We could lose everything.” He raised his eyebrows in disbelief? A final warning? I couldn't tell. “And I don't actually need to sit here and explain myself to you.”

Perhaps the latter then. The room fell into a heavy silence, the gravity of his words pressing down on me as my heart beat out a speedy rhythm in my chest despite the fact that nobody had shouted, or threatened, or pulled a weapon.

I exhaled sharply and leaned back in my chair, trying to sort through my swirling thoughts and reassure myself that there was no danger here. Just my teacher and someone who actually remembered me. “It sounds like a war is coming no matter what: first with Hybern, and then in your own court,” I looked at Feyre incredulously. “and you want to stay here? When you haven't seen Dawn? Or Day?”

“It is,” Rhysand confirmed, his voice grim. “Hybern is coming, and he won't stop until he crushes us all. He's already sent one wave to this city, a bigger one to Adriata in Summer. I need to hold this court together long enough, and bring the others in to stand with us, so that we can all work together against him.”

I shook my head. “These are all excellent reasons to leave as soon as possible.”

”If Hybern wins, you think he won't keep coming until every land flies his banner?” Feyre asked incredulously, “You said you were at his castle, do you think he'll stop with this land?”

I tipped my head in agreement. No, he wouldn't. On the one hand, Rhysand was my one connection to my own past. Feyre too, in a way. And Azriel… he was like me. I wanted to ask him what he knew about our powers, what could he do, could we do the same things? But on the other hand, to stay here was to knowingly put myself in the path of the coming war. If I left, I could outrun it, hide from it, maybe until its end. And staying here meant being complicit in the facade, of having to trust that the other side of this place wouldn't be used as punishment. But the lure of staying had its hook in my heart, of being around someone who knew me.

Someone who could fix the curse if it turned out not to be permanent. 

I cast about for a way to change the subject, feeling awkward. Normally all I had to do was… leave. Run away from a situation and it resolved itself in short order, because everyone else always forgot. This time I'd pushed and pushed and they would both remember.

I couldn't deny I wanted to stay here, while I got used to the curse being broken, while I got used to people remembering me. Knowing Rhysand knew me felt... comforting. He hadn't even raised a hand or used magic to stop me asking questions.

“So… if war is coming either way, I could… I can stay in Velaris? I won't get in your way,” I added hastily, “I spend most my time near the docks anyway.”

“You're free to do as you choose,” Feyre said, smiling lightly, just a small tug of her mouth either side, “I would very much like to get to know you properly. My memories are so… blurry, of you then.”

I flicked a careful look at Rhysand, knowing I'd just pushed him further than I had ever dared to before. He didn't look pleased, but he didn't have a look of frozen rage or dangerous detachment about him, either.

“Of course you can,” he said, he sighed, “I can't commit to every Tuesday, there's much more for me to do now we're free, but I will arrange to make sure someone is available to continue your lessons. Feyre will be having instruction in economics, politics, and law, as time allows. I'm sure you can benefit from those too.”

I nodded eagerly even as Feyre mimed falling asleep. Freed of Amarantha, freed of Hybern, free of the curse? My life was so different now to everything I'd ever known, I felt like I was floating, adrift and free in the air half the time. I just couldn't figure out if I was going to learn to fly, or fall.

Chapter Text

I couldn’t believe my fortune. I’d been edging towards desperation when I caught sight of light in the endless darkness I’d been trapped inside for countless centuries. Perhaps even thousands. Long enough time no longer held any meaning.

I hadn’t expected to wake within the body of a Fae female. A recently changed Fae female, no less, because it was very quickly apparent from her recent memory that she’d been born human, grown and matured and experienced only ever the mortal world. She knew no fireside stories of my kind, no age old myths or warnings. Which was a shame really, the fear I might have induced if she had a concept to draw on would have been enjoyable.

As it was, while she fought the suddenly overwhelming world that deluged itself over every one of her newly expanded senses, I rooted into the crevices of her mind, where thought blurred and dream twisted, where her grip on reality weakened, and I slid between the cracks. Between the grief, the rage, the guilt, the loneliness…So many perfect little fractures to pry open and hide in.

And she had no idea.

She thought the nightmares were from the transformation. Thought the flickers in the corner of her vision were the product of a mind still adjusting. Thought the way she sometimes lost time, or said something she didn’t remember thinking, was merely part of the trauma of transformation.

No, little flower. That was me.

And she, she was so very close to power now. Within reach of those new High Lords, the so-called saviors of their crumbling realms. So young, this one, little beyond a newly crowned babe. So ripe.

I have seen kings rise and fall and rise again. I have watched empires reduced to ash under my shadow. I have known true power, not the kind bought by luck or destiny or the fluke of a familial bloodline. The kind that consumes, corrodes, lasts.

And now here I am, wearing the skin of a pretty, untested female who doesn’t yet know what she is, doesn’t know the depths of the power now thrumming in her veins, let alone what she carries besides.

She resists me in small ways. Flickers of will. But she is no trained mind-reader, despite some natural aptitude, and doesn’t truly know what is happening. And I have patience, I can wait. Each time she weakens, each night her mind spirals inward, I move closer to taking a bite. Once I am finished, I will have her whole life and they will not even realise she is gone.

The others suspect nothing. One of them watches her too closely, perhaps, a male whose shadows cling to him like a second skin. I don’t like him. There used to be more of his kind when there were more of my kind, but the others speak of him as if he is singular now. He watches her with something like caution. Not love, nor desire, though I have already begun to suggest otherwise.

*

Time means little to me. But I feel it in her, in the way she measures her days by the arc of the sun. Days that will add up to years, years that used to measure a lifetime, and now are just an endless expanse of time with no end clear in sight.

She never used to sit in the sunlight so deliberately. She spent her first few days hidden under fabric, ears and eyes covered to block out all the new noises, all the new colours. Now, she seeks it. Turns her face to it like a flower would reach for the sun, as if the warmth might root her, tether her to the world she thinks is slipping from her grasp. Because know’s something is wrong, even if she doesn’t know what, doesn’t know who I am. Doesn’t have the words, the stories, to pull from.

So she tells no one. Not the one with hair like darkened gold, who watches her with hopeful eyes. Not the other, who drowns her fury in silence. Certainly not the males with the wings, watching her like she is a breakable thing.

But I hear her trembling thoughts when she is alone, and she is so often alone.

I’m not crazy.
Something’s wrong.
It’s not mine, that feeling.
Is it?

She speaks gently to herself, in the quiet of her mind. Folds over her fear like petals, trying to keep it contained. But every time she questions her sanity, doubts her memory, wonders if she’s truly alone in her own body, her fear grows. And her fear is a veritable feast.

She doesn’t understand what the sun does, not truly. She doesn’t understand how it weakens me, or why. She doesn’t understand how its warmth chases me into the farthest recesses of her mind, how its light sharpens the edge of her awareness. I have lived in darkness since before her kind ever walked this realm. I am shaped from it, fed by it. The sun is not meant for me.

And so she sits in it. Every day, if she can. A small rebellion. One she doesn’t quite understand. But I have waited countless centuries before my flower, and she is immortal now, so the slowing of progress grates little: I can be patient.

I had not anticipated finding myself in the orbit of a High Lord, so relatively newly crowned, yet already draped in power and prophecy. He is not reckless with his magic; no, he wields it with precision, always just enough to impress, never enough to betray the weight it truly carries. But I see what he tries to hide, the fractures beneath the marble veneer of strength. Two cities for his Court, both claiming large amounts of power, large amounts of capital, but only one whose people who kneel out of loyalty. The others kept in line with fear, and income. And then there’s the Illyrians. Ancient warriors I remember from their earliest tribes here, now bristling beneath the command of a High Lord who they don’t class as one of them. They obey too, for now. But I’ve seen such cracks before. Papered over with charm and silence, mistaken for strength. But I don’t see strength, I see potential I can grasp and pull, and unravel.

When I’m finished hollowing out this delicate vessel, when she’s too far gone to fight, too broken for anyone to save, I will eventually discard her. Let her body die, quietly, tragically. But first I need her, the perfect temptation to draw in the shadowed male. Like calls to like, though his own shadows despise me, my kind, that is a small detail. If I twist him, bend him into something mine, he will become the perfect blade, the perfect tool. And then, with no one the wiser, I can slip into true power into their High Lord. He could take some time to break, but it will be an enjoyable challenge after so long idle, after my little flower was so easy. Once I wear his face, wield his magic, my plans will move much faster. I just need to be patient until I hold that throne. I will break the others one by one, perhaps. Break those loyal bonds and leave them adrift… it will make everything much easier once I am the High Lord.

Eventually the prison that hold my brothers will crumble, and we will rise again from the ruins.

Chapter Text

After our tense breakfast meeting, Rhysand had said he would arrange for the highest members of his court, not the Nightmare one, to gather at the townhouse. Feyre called them the ‘Inner Circle’ and I’d tried not to laugh when I realised they were both completely serious. Now, evening had fallen and the bright, flickering glow of the large fireplace lit the room enough to make the space feel warm and cosy, but not enough to truly illuminate the darkest corners, and my shadows pulled at my control, longing to stretch out.

I was just grateful I wouldn’t have to go back to the place inside the mountain. The House of Wind, he’d called it. The House of Crushing Fear, is what I called it, no matter how pretty it looked from the outside with all its windows glowing warmly at night. At least I finally understood what was reflecting the light up in the mountainside. Not veins of crystal, or ore, but windows. Now I knew it was there, I could see them clearly when I looked up from the city down below. The sisters who I’d seen transformed by the Cauldron were living there now, getting accustomed to their new senses, and in the case of one of them, trying to grasp her new magic from lessons with Amren. I wondered if they felt trapped up there, or protected. I didn’t dare ask anyone.

It had taken all day to get everyone together, away from their duties and commitments, and I’d had a whole day to anxiously consider all the ways this could go wrong. What if the curse snapped back into place just before? Or part way through? I’d be totally outnumbered, completely outmatched. What if they realised who my mother was? What if they realised I had nothing to offer? I wasn’t particularly powerful, or smart, or cunning. I was just enough of all three to be capable, and not enough of any to be more than a disappointment. Amarantha had made that clear repeatedly, and when she was gone Hybern took up the mantle, comparing me endlessly, pointing out all the ways I didn’t measure up to his favourite.

I made myself think of nothing as Rhysand showed me into the house. He dropped onto the same couch as Feyre, both completely at ease. The two he introduced as Cassian, an Illyrian, and Morrigan, a High Fae, took another sofa, the latter with her feet in the formers lap. 

I was beginning to realise there was a general consistency of looks with Illyrians: dark hair, wide shoulders, olive skin. Only Rhysand broke that mould with his violet eyes, and he was already unusual given he didn’t have wings half the time. It still made me wonder if my father was one though, although the more I thought about, the more I wasn’t sure. My wings were smaller than those I’d seen on every other Illyrian. Maybe some kind of cousin race? There weren’t many winged fae I’d come across, though there were plenty of Folk with different forms of wings.

I watched Morrigan and Cassian curiously. He was massaging the balls of her feet. They didn’t smell like mates, but maybe mating worked differently for a half Illyrian couple? In contrast to the dark haired Illyrians, Morrigan was a blonde haired female, her wide, deep brown eyes a contrast to her pale skin. She was beautiful, there was no other way to think of her. She had the cheekbones and softly angled features that were common among many of the other high born courtiers I’d encountered Under the Mountain, but was far more relaxed in her countenance and dress than any I’d observed. She wore fitted leather trousers and a slim, sleeveless, red shirt fastened with tiny gold buttons that left a slither of her midriff bare.

 Azriel lurked near the fireplace, his shadows and those of the room casting him half into darkness. There was no way that was an accident. Was he always so dramatic about his shadows? I kept my own shadows small and inconspicuous, even though it was tiring doing it for such long periods of time, and I could tell they desperately wanted to explore and sate their curiosity, especially with others so nearby. I wasn’t ready to reveal my ability just yet, especially given how we’d antagonised each other before. If the curse stayed broken, I wouldn’t get the benefit of a nightly do-over this time.

Another fae, whom I’d never seen before, sat with one leg crossed over the other in the only high backed armchair in the room. Her straight, dark hair was cut short, her skin pale like moonlight, and her eyes glowed as if they were made from molten silver. Something about her made my shadows curl tightly under my hair when they noticed her sat there, like they were frightened, even though she’d done nothing more than sit still. Preternaturally still.

The peaceful setting, with its soft lighting, warm fire and cups of tea, seemed almost mocking considering the strange charge in the air. At first I thought I was the only one that felt it: the unease, the suspicion. One of them was getting a foot massage! But then I realised: Cassian was studying me intently, almost as closely as the shadowsinger behind him, and that the interaction with Morrigan was just a guise. A distraction, so I’d look there, instead of at him. Clever.

Morrigan simply rested her head on her hand and watched me, overt but with a pretence of boredom, her long hair falling gracefully over her shoulders. My hand reached automatically back to my own much darker hair, bound as it was in a length of string. It was tangled and dry, and I needed to spend some of my coin on access to a public bathhouse to really wash it. I’m not sure it would ever look as smooth and pretty as hers.

Rhysand settled back, crossing his arms with a relaxed expression and a faint smile on his lips that said he was amused by the whole thing when I shrugged at him, unsure of how or if I was supposed to start. I’d never had this many people look at me before, faced this many people expecting something from me before. Not without a weapon in my hand.

“Feyre, you know, is my High Lady. This is Cassian,” he introduced, giving his friend a nod, “our General. Azriel, you’ve met. He is my Spymaster. Mor oversees the Hewn City, and is our third in command. Amren here is my political advisor and second in command. Much of what I taught you about politics, I learnt from her.”

I let the surprise of that curl onto my face even as Cassian leaned forward, an easy grin even as his gaze sharpened, sizing me up. “And you are…?” he asked, waiting.

“Someone who likes kahve better than tea,” I replied lightly, offering a faint, apologetic smile. It didn’t smell drugged, but neither had the soup Azriel bought me. I set the mug of undrunk tea down carefully, still remembering the chalky aftertaste of the last time I’d eaten here, and shifted my attention to Morrigan… Mor.

Information, that’s what I wanted, what I needed. I needed to arm myself with more of it. I’d never really gotten the hang of the court politics I’d witnessed so much of from the edges over the years, but I remembered the broad strokes. Distract. Deflect. Pretend.

“You’re in charge of the Hewn City? How… How does that work? Like, economy-wise?”

“Let’s start instead at the part where you tell us who you are? Rhysand likes to be dramatic and didn’t tell us much.” Mor drawled.

I couldn’t hide my huff of annoyance as I glanced in his direction, but he only raised his eyebrows over his mug as he sipped his own drink.

“I… I met Feyre Under the Mountain, when she was still mortal. I was helping a friend find someone and ended up here, and then Feyre broke the curse that stopped people remembering me.”

“You missed the part where we found you nearly dead in one of the cells under the House of Wind,” Cassian said, eyebrow quirking upward, “and then forgot all about it, apparently. Rhys had to tell us about it.”

“Why tell you about something you don’t remember?” I countered. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Your entire history doesn’t matter?” Azriel questioned quietly, “That’s how the curse worked, apparently. You would keep us in the dark of your entire past?”

“I —” I swallowed down a frustrated breath, “No, it doesn’t. All the matters is right now.”

“I would argue differently.”

“Of course you would,” I muttered, before looking at Feyre in desperation.

“Azriel is not a fan of secrets.” Was all she said, a hint of something like amusement in her voice.

I turned back to Cassian, ignoring Azriel for now. “I got injured by a Gauvadan and didn’t know where to go. I ended up back at the townhouse because I’d talked with Rhysand one week. He had a healer come and fix me up, give me the first dose of the antidote, but when I woke up only Azriel was there. He gave me soup drugged with… something. When I woke up again, I tried to get out of the townhouse, but he caught me trying to leave. I didn’t have the answers he wanted, so he knocked me out and dropped me in that cell you found me in.”

I ground my teeth as they sat in the answer for a minute. Cassian exchanged a brief look behind him with Azriel, but I couldn’t tell what, or why.

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter.” I said into the quiet. I slipped an easy grin of my own onto my face. “I don’t know much about Illyrian training, but from what I do know, I think they’re different to the usual Fae training methods?”

Rhysand’s curious look caught my eye, though I avoided meeting it for too long. Of course he wouldn’t know about my time in the Pits, or the scraps of knowledge I’d picked up there. I’d mentioned it earlier, but he’d either ignored or misunderstood. During our lessons, I’d never brought up any interest in fighting, let alone in Illyrian techniques. Why would I? I had no wings. I didn’t even fight, as far as he was concerned. And the longer I could keep them all talking to me, the less chance they’d have to ask about me.

Cassian raised a brow, intrigued by my sudden pivot, and launched into a detailed explanation of the Illyrians’ favoured styles. I leaned forward, both not needing to feign interest and eager to continue steering the conversation away from myself. He didn’t press further, and later, when Mor admitted she just wasn’t in the mood to discuss the Hewn City in detail, I turned to Amren instead.

Azriel stayed quiet, his shadows coiling around him in the corner. I ignored him, though I was acutely aware of his observation. Was he always this quiet? Or was this a dynamic of all of them together, they spoke while he observed as Spymaster? Unless he felt the need to intervene. Was I caught in some kind of web? Was I going to trip myself up and get caught saying the wrong thing?

A few times, my words caught in my throat, sentences faltering midstream as I spoke more than I ever had before. I was doing that a lot lately. But no one tapped their fingers or shifted in frustration. No exasperated sighs or rolled eyes filled the awkward pauses. I wasn’t sure if their patience unsettled me or comforted me. If they’d thrown something at me, a drink, a dagger; if they’d cursed some obscene phrase; if they punished me… I knew how to handle that. This combination of reserved, cool, and friendly demeanours between them was as alien to me as the sky had been.

Hours later, the others left for their own homes, or their own bedrooms upstairs, and Rhysand’s gaze flicked toward me, sharp and assessing. I stood to move as well: I was exhausted, I’d never spoken so much in my entire life, and my throat felt sore, but he gestured for me to stay as Feyre kissed him gently on the cheek and left. Only then did he finally speak. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” I asked warily, standing from the sofa and calculating where best to dodge for cover, and what my chances were of getting to a door.

“You moved the conversation on when Cassian asked you your name,” he said, a faint hint of admiration in his voice but also a trace of confusion. “I realise my memory is flawed when it comes to you, but I can’t recall you ever actually introducing yourself. Feyre said she doesn’t know your name either, that you used to dodge the question when you were in the cells together back then so often she stopped asking.”

I looked away, a knot forming in my chest. It was one thing to dodge questions with strangers, but Rhysand’s gaze felt too steady, too knowing. And I couldn’t fallback on the curse, letting it reset and remove the question overnight, letting me start again tomorrow. Not any more.

“Amarantha said I didn’t deserve one,” I murmured quietly, shame making my face flush, I looked at the fraying laces on my worn boots instead of facing the agreement on his face. “She gave me nicknames, I didn’t really care for any of those.” I added bitterly, then added with some reluctance that I occasionally went by Blaze.

It reminded me of Rion, of Thom, but I still regarded the nickname with fondness. I didn’t dare look up from the spot on the floor I kept my gaze on. Was this when he realised what he’d introduced to his friends? Someone who hadn’t even earned a name? My breath hitched in my throat as I waited for him to agree with my dead mother.

“Is there any point in me asking what those nicknames were? I don’t remember her ever being very original in her insults.”

There it was again, that dangerous flutter of hope. It almost sounded like he didn’t like her, which did and didn’t match what I’d heard. That was another topic I needed more information on, desperately now. I thought back again to the rumours I’d heard Under the Mountain: none of them matched the male I knew from Tuesdays. Or today.

I finally dared a look up at him through my lashes, worrying my lip between my teeth as I watched him study me for a long moment. A strange look crossed his face, as if searching for something he couldn’t quite place. “I kept a journal of our lessons, and a full lesson plan I must have made at some point,” he finally said quietly, “I didn’t know what it was until today… or didn’t remember enough for it to make any sense, I suppose. There was a metal bookmark on my desk, engraved with a reminder to myself to look at it on Tuesdays.” He pulled a hand through his hair, “Your name is Lexia.” 

A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt a twinge of disbelief. “Lexia?”

“I’m sorry: I just assumed you must know your own name,” he pushed his hand back through his hair, dishevelling it completely, then seemed to catch himself and put his hands in his pockets, sighing, “I must have assumed your parents would have told you at some point, just like they must have told me.” 

I didn’t dare correct him: Amarantha didn't seem the type to bother giving a person a name and then taking it away again. But… maybe Rhysand had known my father. That would make sense, especially if he were an Illyrian too. Maybe they met at one of the war camps Cassian mentioned earlier? I tucked the thought away and felt the name settle over me like a comfortable cloak, both familiar and foreign. “Lexia,” I said again, rolling the sounds around my mouth, testing them on my tongue. “My name is Lexia.” I repeated, feeling my mouth stretch into a smile as I said it again, and again.

*

Feyre made it her personal mission after that to show me every single thing she loved about Velaris. Or at least, it felt that way as she met me bright and early the next morning, and the next, and the next, as the cool morning air fogged our breath and she proceeded to lead me down what felt like every single street. She also made a point of buying something to eat from nearly every street vendor, café, or market stall that we came across. Spending was good for the economy, she told me when I tried to say pay her back, and Rhys couldn’t simply inject money into city without negative consequences, but buying things, commissions projects, spending was different. I remembered something like this from my own lessons on the economy and couldn’t argue. The hollow feeling in my belly, which had been a near constant since arriving in Velaris, finally started to ease, and the thinness in my arms and legs that I’d noticed after Feyre broke the curse was steadily filling out again.

I didn’t know how to tell her that it was… too much, sometimes. The city sprawled in all directions, its streets winding like veins through districts bursting with life. Artisans hunched over their work in open-air studios, their hands shaping clay or brushing colour onto enormous canvases. Musicians played in the squares, their melodies weaving into the hum of conversation and laughter. Vendors shouted about the brilliance of their wares, their food. Cafés spilled onto the cobbled streets, the scent of fresh bread and spiced drinks lingering in the crisp air. Before now I’d ventured into the city as necessary, and usually in small doses. Retreating back to my loft, or some quiet corner, when it all got too much, but with Feyre’s arm hooked into my own that didn’t feel like an option, and I didn’t want to disappoint her by asking.

Too many sounds, too many people, too much space and not enough space at the same time. It was overwhelming. I wasn’t sure how to exist in it.

Feyre, to her credit, didn’t try to force me to enjoy it. She only pointed out her favourite places: the best bookshop, the artist who was using colour in a way she loved, the illustrator working on a series she thought Cassian would like, the bakery that made nutty pastries so soft they melted on your tongue, the quiet little sculpture garden tucked away from the crowds where a chalk artist liked to draw beautiful seascapes on the stone pavement. That one, at least, I’d found on my own already.

“I’ve made up a room in the townhouse for you, you know," she said casually as we strolled along the river, a week after she broke the curse. She said it like it was barely a thing, like it wasn’t everything.

I blinked at her, my steps faltering. "What?"

She gave me a knowing look, then nodded toward the district stretching out ahead. “Where have you been staying?”

I hesitated, then gestured vaguely in the rough direction of my small apartment. I didn’t want her to see it. Not after seeing the understated, lived-in luxury of the townhouse, the warmth of the rooms, the comfort of its chairs, and atmosphere of a home.

Feyre studied me for a moment. Then, with deliberate nonchalance, she said, “The townhouse has more books. And really comfy beds. And cinnamon bread. And kahve.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. I’d come to really enjoy the dark, bitter, brew. “That’s a low blow.”

She only smiled. “Just think about it.”

I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t. But as we continued walking, the idea took root. My old daydream about being near people who knew me flooded back. This was my chance, as terrifying as it was.

We turned a corner onto a quieter street, and I let out a slow breath. “I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You won’t be.” Feyre’s voice was warm, steady. “We have the space, and I —” She hesitated, then shrugged. “I want you to have somewhere you don’t just have to survive in. Somewhere you can just... be. I don’t know where you are living now, and if it’s great and you love it, you can ignore me, but if you don’t, I just wanted you to know that you can stay with us. It’s busy, but it’s safe and warm and like I said,” her smile was small but teasing, like we were both in on the same joke, “we have cinnamon bread.”

Something twisted in my chest. I rubbed at the ache, pretending it was just the cold and not something as dangerous as hope, once again. “I could try it out,” I said, forcing the words out before I could swallow them back. “For a little while. I’ll keep my other place though, in case you guys need the space back for your sisters —“

“There’s rooms set aside for them already, don’t worry. Yours was the guest room, but it’s not like there’s not an entire palace built into a mountain we can’t use if we have guests, right?”

“I — or…” What if they decided they didn’t want me around? That I wasn’t worth the space, or the hassle of having around? I trailed off, not wanting to plant my own seeds in her mind.

Feyre’s grin turned blinding, ignorant of my own thoughts. “Good.”

That night, as I lay in a bed too soft to be mine, listening to the quiet hum of the townhouse, I wondered what I’d just agreed to.

*

The weeks that followed were surreal. I had a name. I lived in a house with other people. Who remembered me. If the broken curse had completely flipped my world, having a name utterly reframed it. I couldn’t wait to use it, spent evenings practising saying it, over and over and over again, the different ways I could greet people, different ways I could add it to a response. Lexia. Me. I. Not Girl, not You. Not Scum, not It.

And suddenly, what I said mattered. I could make people frustrated, annoyed, angry, just like I always had… but they would remember. They could say my name as a laugh, or as a curse, and everything in between. Before, strong emotional reactions were my key to even have a chance of a lingering impression, of leaving an echo of memory or of feeling behind, but nothing more. Nothing permanent. 

Now, I alternated between trying to make an impression that would last if they left the room, and being terrified that I’d overstep and be told to leave altogether. The fear was irrational, no one here had given me any reason to think they’d cast me out so easily so far, but experience told me that it would come sooner or later. At some point I would do something stupid, or wrong, and then it would all be over.

And maybe I already had. That thought haunted me. I’d lost control of my magic more than once since waking up in that bed in the House of Wind, just as their healer suggested I might. Nothing dramatic, nothing scorched or shattered, no injuries, but enough to rattle me. I was hoping nobody had noticed, that none of these very powerful Fae had noticed I lacked control right now, control and power. That none of them noticed that it wasn’t just fire I could call.

Once, while with Feyre on one of her morning tours, I’d been startled by a rearing horse nearby, and the stones beneath my feet had cracked in a perfect circle around me. Another time, a basin of water I’d barely touched had frozen solid, fire refusing to come to my beckoning to thaw it. My shadows crept into corners of the tavern I hadn’t meant to touch, curling around oblivious, half drunk patrons before retreating.

But the strangest one was after a nightmare I couldn’t quite shake. Strange because there was no way it could have been me, and yet it might have been this one strange moment that damned me - if anyone had been around to notice.

This nightmare was a recent one to the roster: Rhysand’s casual dismissal. Feyre’s quiet disappointment. Cassian’s exasperated tone, or Amren’s terrifying intimidating stare. Azriel’s empty stare as he threatened me with another knife to my throat. All telling me to leave, to get out, to get away. The scenes blurred together, but the ache in my chest always lingered when I woke. One night, breathless with fear when I woke, I went outside to breathe. To walk it off in the garden just before dawn. The sky was perfectly clear. Then, an hour later, when I was slipping out for the day, thick grey clouds had rolled in from nowhere and rain began falling, cold and sharp. Only over this side of the city, as far as I could see.

I tried not to think much of it. Where I’d come from, the air didn’t change. The ceiling never wept. The light never shifted. Weather was a strange and fickle thing, from what I’d come to understand, and I hadn’t lived beneath the sky long enough to understand its rules in practice. But I knew the theory, knew what Rhysand and books had taught me: that such a small, localised change in weather was nearly always magical, because rain didn’t form from nothing, and rainclouds didn’t form in cloudless sky on a dry morning.

But I hadn’t touched my magic, hadn’t reached for it. It wasn’t mine, couldn’t have been mine. But I caught sight of Feyre in an upstairs window, looking up at the sky. Just for a moment. Like something about it tugged at her attention. She didn’t look down at the street, didn’t see me, but her attention catching on the weather that felt strange to me too kept me away all day, and the next. Out of sight, out of mind.

*

It was surprisingly easy to keep my previous job now that they remembered me. I didn’t have to plead convincingly, or beg them to take me on every single day. I had agreed days. I didn’t need to negotiate to get paid at the end of my shift every time, they paid me every three days during my consecutive shifts.

The reliability of it was comforting, and I soon found a pattern that worked well for me. I got up the minute I woke up, whenever I woke up: sunlight didn’t bother me by it’s presence or absence given I had lived for years without ever seeing it. It often meant I was up before everyone else, though not always.

Azriel and Cassian kept odd hours. Most days I snuck out into the nearest shadow once I was out of sight of the house, and jumped through them all the way to the foot of the mountains, the distance not far enough to be tiring if I walked back. I’d found a nice, large clearing a few hundred feet up where the slope was still steady. And where I’d hunted for hours for Gauvadan with a borrowed kitchen knife to make sure I didn’t get myself nearly killed again. Once was an accident, but twice was foolish.

I’d always craved interactions with people before. When finding someone who wasn’t sympathetic to Amarantha and who was willing to talk to someone they saw as a stranger was a challenge, I eagerly sought them out. But I didn’t have that challenge any more. I found the constant presence of people somewhat overwhelming, in reality, just like the busy streets and endless sky. I didn’t realise I would crave solitude like I once craved socialisation. My hours alone felt Cauldron-sent, especially if I ended up caught in a group breakfast before I could leave the house.

The thing about group breakfasts was that there didn’t seem to be any pattern or reason for the days they fell on. The first time I accidentally ended up at one, I’d only meant to grab a cup of water before heading out. I bought most of my food from the city, as I had before. I was already taking up a bed, I didn’t want to take food out of their mouths as well (and I’d seen how much Cassian could eat when he was simply raiding the kitchen for a snack).

“Lex! Where are you off to so early?” Cassian said, his hands busy carrying, somehow, four mugs of tea into the dining room as I entered from the hallway.

The thrill of hearing my own name, and a nickname at that, still made me smile on reflex, softening the reflexive jump at his unexpected presence.

“Velaris is big, I’m still exploring,” I offered, making for the cabinet with glasses as he stalled in the double doors that divided the room. It had been my go-to reason on the odd occasion that someone had enquired as to what I was doing. On the whole, they were all too busy themselves to question it. I quickly filled the cup and drank it to save expanding on my answer.

Cassian, however, was not having it today. His hair was tied in its usual half up style, the divided section folded over on itself and it bobbed side to side as he shook his head, the rest curling loosely above his shoulders. “Not on an empty stomach you’re not, come on.”

He backed into one of the doors, not spilling a single drop of tea, and gestured with his head into the room beyond as he held it open. “I promise, we have fed Azriel his morning kahve and he is almost fully awake now.”

I bit back a smile. I was surprised to learn in one of my run-ins with the pair of Illyrian’s on my second morning just how much Azriel disliked early starts. And he was regularly up early. Thankfully that first day they’d both been headed up to one of the war camps in the Illyrian mountains and were too busy to chat. Today that was apparently not the case. I refilled my water glass, stalling for time in the hopes he would continue on, letting the door shut behind him and giving me an excuse to disappear, but he stood there expectantly, the edges of his mouth tugging upward.

“Please don’t make me take cold tea to Feyre,” he said, the smile growing wider, “I promise we don’t bite.”

I pulled myself away from the water jug and reluctantly followed in his wake to find Feyre, Rhysand, Azriel, and Mor quietly chatting over a table full of fruit, honey, yogurt and the toasted nuts and oats that I wasn’t quite sure how to eat.

“Good morning, Lexia,” said Feyre, a surprised smile lighting up her face, “Come, have breakfast with us, there’s far too much for even these two to eat.”

Cassian scoffed, muttering about that sounding like a challenge, but Azriel said nothing, sipping a steaming mug of black kahve. I pulled my shadows close out of habit. At some point I would have to come clean about our matching abilities, but after our first disastrous conversation I wasn’t eager to have it anytime soon. The way his eyes tracked my movements as I pulled out the spare chair at the end of the table made me wonder how much longer I could put it off. Could he tell? Was that something I just didn’t know how to do? Or had I slipped up already, and he was biding his time? Was there a ledger of my wrongdoings? I swallowed the fear down with a gulp of water and eased a smile onto my face instead, reflecting Feyre’s pleasure back.

I let their conversation wash over me, catching passing details of their days plans and dismissing them as soon as I realised they didn’t involve the area I was heading to, nor the tavern I worked in. Another two details I wasn’t sure I wanted to share. They talked to each other so easily, finished each others sentences and referenced jokes and incidents from days and weeks and years past. It all came so naturally to all of them. How would I ever acclimate to this kind of interaction? The thought blunt my appetite.

Dinners were easier to predict. They had scheduled ‘family dinner’ nights of which so far, I had avoided every single one, thanks to my shifts at the tavern.

Feyre kept making me promise to tell her where I was disappearing to, and I kept changing the subject. It had become a bit of a dance.

Tonight was not a family dinner night, and I was hoping to get back and go out again before they all started gradually returning from their days. The thought of the quiet house waiting for me felt like an oasis in the chaos as the faint chill of the early evening seeped into my clothes despite my brisk pace.

The townhouse was, as I’d hoped, empty. Rhys was still off on whatever important tasks required his attention, Feyre was likely with him, or her mysterious sisters, who I’d not seen much of. A note left on the dining room table mentioned Amren was cloistered in her apartment, while Mor was at the Hewn City. Even Cassian and Azriel were absent, training or strategising or spying somewhere else, probably. The note was in Feyre’s careful handwriting, and I wondered if it was to reassure me that they were coming back, or that they would be late back to the house. I decided it didn’t really matter.

I headed upstairs to my room, peeling off my jacket as I went. The warmth of the house crept over my skin, and I caught my reflection in the window at the landing. Dirt smudged my face, and my clothes bore streaks of mud from my morning in the woods. Not really work-suitable.

The bathroom was blissfully warm as well, even the tiles under my feet, and I scrubbed myself clean quickly, letting the hot water soothe the ache in my muscles from trying to fly, and all the falls that followed. I rolled my shoulders back in the hope it would ease the phantom pain of my shifted wings, knowing that it wouldn’t. I washed and braided my hair neatly before I slipped into fresh clothes: dark, sturdy trousers that sat high on my waist but grew wider at the bottoms, before they cuffed in at the ankle. Feyre had picked them, as well as the slim fitting long sleeved, navy blouse. I laced up my old boots efficiently and nodded to myself in the mirror: this, at least, wouldn’t have the owner of the tavern scowling at me.

As I crept quietly down the stairs, I nearly missed the slight movement in the shadows at the far end of the hall. Nuala and Cerridwen emerged, quiet as ever, their twin faces bearing identical expressions of polite curiosity.

“You’re heading out?” Nuala asked softly.

I nodded, hesitating at the final step, my fingers light on the wooden bannister. Cerridwen tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over me in that way of hers that always made me feel like she was cataloging every detail. And I knew she was. I just wasn’t certain who they reported it to: was it Rhysand as their High Lord? Azriel as the Spymaster? Or Amren, the second in command? Perhaps it was all the same difference.

“You’re very good at coming and going unnoticed.”

I shrugged. “Old habit.” I muttered, then offered, “So are you.”

They didn’t press further, and I didn’t either. Nuala merely smiled faintly, and Cerridwen inclined her head in understanding before they both drifted back into the shadows. I made my way downstairs, slipping out into the city without a sound.

The streets were alive with activity as the city settled into its evening rhythm. I kept my head down as I wove through the crowds, reaching the tavern with time to spare. The owner greeted me with a brisk nod, already busy setting up for the night’s rush and the relief of not having to explain who I was washed over me again like a warm breeze.

I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed a clean towel from the basket by the kitchen, and tied a small, sturdy homespun apron around my waist, settling into the familiar hum of the job. It was tiring, but the simplicity of it, the constant, steady flow of things to do, let my mind drift peacefully most of the time. There was nothing brutal about this work, no secret motive to discern, nobody to truly fear or hide from. Nobody to fight to the death. I didn’t need to work out where any weak spots were, or keep an eye on the exits, although I had memorised where they were on my first day. For a few hours, at least, I could forget everything else.

When I returned to the townhouse after my shift, the house was still, dawn far closer than midnight. The others had clearly gone to bed, if they’d returned at all. 

My stomach twisted as I passed the kitchen. It’d been too busy to grab anything to eat earlier, and the lunch I’d bought during the day felt like a distant memory. A familiar ache curled low in my gut.

I ignored it, as I had so many times before.

Amarantha had always rationed the basics, just enough to keep me going, but never enough to truly satisfy, which is why I got so good at sneaking into the kitchens. Her reasons were always cruel: punishment, or reminding me how powerless I was, how worthless, how useless. How expensive I was to keep alive, and how little I offered back. How she expected better, how she wished Hybern had picked differently. That lesson lingered. 

I tried to tell myself it wasn’t fear that stopped me from raiding the pantry, after all, I’d raided the kitchens Under the Mountain on a nearly regular basis. But they were just… kitchens. Generic. This was where Rhysand lived. This was Feyre’s home. This was their kitchen. What if they noticed I’d eaten something and didn’t want me to? What if I took too much? I hadn’t even covered what it was going to cost me to stay here yet, and I really ought to. Who knew how much my bill could be, how large the incredible debt, which started with “Remove curse” had somehow grown exponentially since then, if they changed their minds and decided they needed compensation? 

I ignored the kitchen and crept up the stairs with light, careful steps, avoiding the creaky board near the top. Even in the sleep-filled quiet, I hesitated to make noise. Just in case the curse wasn’t really broken, just in case this was the silent calm before the storm, and the next time I saw them all, it would be with blank expressions, suspicion and swords.

*

The next morning it was my stomach that woke me with a grumble so loud I felt it shift angrily. I scooted deeper under the covers as the awareness of daylight streaming through the curtains I always forgot to close made itself unrelentingly known.

I was not up as early as I usually was. And I was still tired. And I could hear voices downstairs.

I threw back the soft, thick covers I was learning to love the existence of and stared up at the ceiling, debating my options. I could wait here until they all left, but there was no guarantee they would all leave. I could creep downstairs and out the front door and hope not to be heard until I was out of sight, then shadow step far away. I could creep downstairs and shadow step straight from the hallway, where the wards allowed it. But if Azriel was downstairs, there was no way of knowing if he knew if I shadowstepped so close to him. Would I know if he did similar? I hadn’t been around to see him do it yet. Either way, that was a risk in itself, never mind anyone seeing me do it, so the hallway was out. I could  just pretend I wasn’t terrified and just go downstairs and talk.

I blew out a breath, puffing the hair away from my face, hair that I really needed to brush and braid, or cut off. I discarded that thought: finally having control over the length of my own hair meant I hadn’t bothered to cut it yet, and I wouldn’t until I needed to for travel to the continent. Unfortunately having never had the implements or, well, hair, to do anything with before, I was trying to learn how to braid by trying to recreate the patterns I saw in the hair of others. It was fiddly. I’d mastered a three strand braid, but anything more complicated ended up in knots. I sat up in the bed and scraped the hair back from my head that had refused to move, and groaned in frustration.

My shadows skittered about the room, sensing my agitation, wavering between edging towards the door and cowering under the bed, just like me. I was not feeling brave enough for a group breakfast today. Unease was an unwelcome passenger in my gut and my lungs felt just a little short of the air they wanted, my chest tight. That left escaping to the street. I looked forlornly at my window: if I took that route, I’d be visible from the dining room.

The smell of fresh bread and strong kahve filled the townhouse as I dressed and slipped down the stairs, my stomach tightening as much from hunger as anything and everything else as I heard the voices banter in the dining room.

It was happening again.

Another group breakfast. Another morning where they would want me to sit at their table, listen to their easy conversations, and pretend like I was normal. Like I belonged.

I should have slipped out earlier, should have asked my shadows to wake me with the sun. Should have known Cassian would be in the hallway again, herding me in with that damnably cheerful grin, like he did then.

“I swear you time these things to catch me,” I muttered as I saw him at the doorway, beckoning me in with a wide grin, a crumb of toast on his chin.

Cassian chuckled around a mouthful of toast, half-shrugging as he gestured at the spread in the dining room. “You say that like I have some kind of sixth sense for making sure you don’t starve.”

I slumped into the nearest empty chair without looking up.

“You mean a basic level of care for other people?” Feyre chimed in, smirking over her tea. She looked at me knowingly, “Armies and their stomachs, there’s a saying about those.”

I shot her a flat look, but reached for the nearest thing to occupy my hands, an apple, small and firm, the red skin shining in the morning light. It gave me something to focus on as my thoughts curled tighter around my ribs. “I’m not in his army,” I muttered.

How long would this last? How long before the warmth in this house turned, before someone told me it was time to go? Before the quiet kindness of having a place here became something I had only imagined?

Azriel’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and low. “You’re glaring at that apple like it insulted you.”

I glanced up, startled. He was watching me, his gaze unreadable as he relaxed in his chair. Shadows curled lazily around his shoulders, shifting like cats.

I forced a smirk, holding the apple out in my flattened palm. “It’s thinking about it.”

Azriel hummed noncommittally and focussed back on his breakfast, dismissing me entirely. I glared at the top of his head.

Feyre cleared her throat, giving me a look I couldn’t quite decipher before changing the subject. “You’re up late today, you’re usually up with the birds,” she noted. “What’re you up to this morning?”

I took a bite of the apple to buy myself time. The crisp snap echoed in the quiet, and I chewed, trying to ignore the weight of their attention. It was strange, having people, well, a person at least, ask about what I was doing. I couldn’t remember anyone ever having done so before I ended up here. “Exploring.” I finally said.

“Again?” Azriel asked, finally looking up. His tone mild was but something in it set my teeth on edge. “Velaris isn’t that large.”

“Yes, again,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

Cassian raised his brows, his gaze flicking between the two of us like he was watching a sparring match.

Azriel just tilted his head slightly, studying me with those quiet, calculating eyes. “You seem to be exploring a lot of places you don’t want to talk about.”

A prickle of unease ran down my spine. “And?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in his chair, watching me the way a hawk might watch prey scrabbling between cover. “It’s interesting.”

The words were neutral, but I heard the accusation underneath them. The spymaster was talking to me, not the male I happened to share a house with. I wasn’t entirely sure I could lie while he watched me like that, especially not with others observing too. Who knew what they saw when they compared notes? But what could I give them? Nothing, nothing that didn’t lead to more secrets, more lies. I didn’t want to mention my job at the tavern, and what little coin it earned me. I didn’t want to mention my regular jaunts to the forests on the far outskirts of the city, where I practised what should have been impossible. I didn’t want to mention the way my magic wasn’t quite right, the way a mug had exploded in my hands the night before at the tavern when someone brushed too close behind me, the shards covered in frost. I didn’t want to talk about the way shadows moved when I was too tired to hold them back, shadows I couldn’t talk about anyway. And I really didn’t want to talk about the way the ground cracked and shuddered beneath me when I face-planted a bad landing.

“Maybe I just like my privacy.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe. But he didn’t believe that. Not for a second. It was written in every facet of his carefully neutral face. The tension at the table felt palpable now, a thick, suffocating thing pressing against my skin. Even Feyre’s usual light touch couldn’t break it. I’d done this. I’d ruined this meal they were sharing together.

I shouldn’t be here.

I pushed my chair back abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor. “I should go,” I muttered, ignoring the way Feyre frowned.

Cassian, at least, had the decency not to press it and threw another apple at me. “Don’t starve, Lex.”

I nodded, shoving the rest of the apple into my mouth and the extra in my pocket before making for the door.

Azriel said nothing as I passed, but I felt his suspicious eyes on me the entire way out.

Chapter Text

I finished checking in on Feyre’s sisters, lingering longer than I should have outside Elain’s room. I could hear the quiet sound of her breathing, steady and slow. She’d been curled in the chair by the window again, where the sun poured in, golden and thick as honey. The image of her sitting there, bathed in that light, the room behind her in shadows, etched itself into my mind like a portrait. I didn’t know what she was doing. She looked anything but empty and listless, and yet… so much not who she’d been when we first met. Perhaps she was remembering her previous life. 

The House of Wind was doing what it could. Nesta snarled at any overt help more often than she accepted it, while Elain… drifted. Even the breeze through the halls seemed tuned to a different frequency, one that reduced noises for the newly Made fae learning how to carry the weight of new senses, new lives. And subtle enough a change that Nesta likely had no idea the house was trying to accommodate her. 

Because when Nesta emerged from the Cauldron, it felt to me like every edge and emotion she’d had as a formidable, bluntly spoken human female had been sharpened, honed until they were wicked and deadly in the space of a few breaths. The Cauldron had stripped away any superficial softness, but what remained was still Nesta. With Elain… it was like she’d been pushed under water and not all of her had reached the surface yet.

Of course, I could be wrong. I knew that. I’d had precious little time to gather much information on Feyre’s sisters, distance and time pressures being what they were. Most of what I knew about them came from Feyre herself, and while her observations were earnest, they were still those of a younger sister. That perspective came with its own particular kind of weight, and its own blind spots. Sibling memory could be distorted by love just as easily as resentment. Feyre told stories of Elain’s kindness, her sweetness, and her beauty. She painted a flat picture of her sister, one lacking depth despite its pretty vivid colours. And not all of it tallied with what I saw now: she’d mentioned Elain was a keen gardener, a natural at tending to plants, but not once had she shown an interest in leaving her room since she and her sister were brought here. Nesta had asked us to make sure there were several potted plants in her sister’s room, but Elain had shown no interest in even keeping them watered. Had the Cauldron stripped her of her love of plants? Or was it the trauma? I didn’t know, and I disliked not knowing. 

 My shadows nudged at me, reminding me I should sleep, that I should eat. I hummed dismissively at them and stayed anyway, a hand pressed against the closed door, listening to those breaths on the other side. 

I could admit here, alone and into the silence, that she captivated me in a way few others did. In a way I didn’t yet understand. She stirred a strange kind of restlessness in me whenever she was near; made my shadows shrink and release their usual haunts. I dared not ask my brother if he’d felt a similar way around Feyre, dared not admit to any longing or hope for what this feeling could mean. So instead, I lingered, leaning closer to the door until the barest of breathes separated me from the wooden obstacle.

I thought of Elain’s large, loam brown eyes. Her creamy, pale skin, her delicate nose. Her golden brown hair, tied half heartedly lately at the nape of her neck. A part of me wanted to sweep it aside, let it down and comb through the tangles. 

My shadows tugged at me, urged me away. Their insistence gave me pause, so strangely at odds with what I wanted to do. 

Usually they were the quiet, persistent voice that reminded me of whatever I didn’t want to admit to myself, but whenever I listened to them things invariably worked out well. This was the first time we’d ever disagreed about anything, ever. The list of things and people that needed my attention before I could rest for the day was so long, they reminded me. I already knew it would be well into the darkest hours of the night before I finished, and that was before I tallied here. What was a few minutes more, I argued back.

I could hear her breathing in the room beyond the door, steady and even, unchanged, but I felt something shift in the air, a prickle at the nape of my own neck. My shadows curled closer, murmuring in their way. Move.

I exhaled slowly and stepped back from the door. This was pointless. Both of the sisters were as well as could be expected, it was time I continued with the day. But the moment my hand left the wood, the latch clicked softly.

“Elain?” I asked quietly.

Silence.

Then… soft footsteps. A rustle of fabric. And the door opened.

She stood, half framed in the golden light of her room, bathed in the rays of the bright sun beaming through the large window so one half of her face was illuminated in the golden light, the other half cast into shadow. Her simple gown, a soft lilac, still swayed lightly around her ankles. She tilted her head slightly, as if surprised to see me standing there.

I studied her. Something in me tensed, waiting for… what? My shadows retreated behind my wings, the bare skin of my neck and arms suddenly hyper aware of the distance between us. I called a few back to my hands, feeling them move comfortingly around my hands and weave between my fingers.

“I was only checking in,” I said pointlessly. I’d checked in twenty minutes ago, she’d just been… drifting, at the time. Either she hadn’t noticed me or had chosen not to acknowledge me. I just hadn’t left.

The smallest tilt of her mouth curved her lips, “I’m still here,” she said softly, her voice low.

She stepped closer, bare feet soundless against the floor. Her eyes held mine, unwavering. Her fingers lifted, just slightly, as if reaching for me, then hesitated. She let them linger by her collarbone, drawing attention to the curve of her neck, the expanse of bare skin there. I didn’t expect the heat that shot down my spine. Her lashes lowered, lips parting ever so slightly, as if she were about to speak, but she only took a breath instead before saying, “Good day, Azriel.”

And then the door was closing, so gently I almost thought she wanted me to stop it.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the wood, the space where she had been. The warmth of the sun lingered on my skin like a memory.

*

The wind pulled at my wings, but I barely felt it. A part of my mind was focussed on the skies, my surroundings, on checking out the safe houses, collecting the coded messages from two of my more deeply embedded spies. And splitting my attention was second nature, and a far more active part of my mind was distracted by the tension curled in my gut.

And yet—

Elain’s voice lingered, as did the way she had looked at me. Waiting. For what? For me? But no. She would never want me. I was reading into things that weren’t there. Again. She was captivating: perfect, immaculate, untainted. Feyre’s sister. And I… I had been marked by my actions and choices for centuries.

Even my shadows resisted her. They hid from her, recoiled at her presence, urging me to stay no longer than necessary. I had never seen them behave like this before. Perhaps they simply agreed that I was reading into things, that I wasn’t worthy of such a perfect vision, and were trying to save me from the embarrassment. 

A memory rose, unbidden: her fingers brushing the smooth skin at her collarbone, lingering as though adjusting to something beneath the surface, something unfamiliar. The way her pupils dilated strangely in the light, the brief moment when her gaze had not tracked me but something just over my shoulder, as if watching something behind me.

I had told myself it was nothing more than her new senses, the strange remnants of being Made. But the thought returned to me even now, hours later, tugging at some part of me I could not name. Was it that unease my shadows felt?

I gritted my teeth and angled toward the townhouse, the early stars already dancing in the sky above, descending with controlled precision. I landed lightly in front of the gate, letting some of the more restless shadows slink away from me. Even they were still unsettled. Tension thrummed beneath my skin. I needed to find Cassian and drag him out to spar, and then drag him to a bar. 

But it wasn’t until I stepped inside, boots barely making a sound against the polished stone floor, that the tension pulling my skin taut over my bones, tugging at my ribs twisted taut under my chest.

Lexia was in the hallway, tugging on her coat, a well worn but sturdy brown one that would do for autumn but once we got deeply into winter, she was going to find it lacking.

Her kahve-brown hair was damp from a recent wash, its long length hastily braided to one side in the style Feyre favoured. It wasn’t perfect, some of the sections loose, not quite even, but she was getting better. She paused mid-stride when she saw me, braid swinging over her shoulder, those dark blue eyes narrowing as if I was a locked door in her path rather than a person.

"Off to one of your many pressing engagements? Or was it exploring again?" I asked dryly, folding my arms across my chest. 

Rhys had impressed upon me the need to not delve into her secrets, to let her have her space and give her time to open up to us, vouching for her on the basis of having known her for years Under the Mountain. I still maintained that that was foolhardy: by all accounts he had not known her at all, he simply remembered she existed once a week, and taught her for only a few hours of that single day. One did not equal the other. But still, as curious as I was as to her activities, I respected the decision. Mostly. 

If I’d instructed a few trusted contacts in the city to keep an eye out for a female matching her description…  that was just being cautious. It didn’t mean I distrusted her. Not exactly.

She didn’t smile. She rarely did, especially when she looked at me. Her first reaction to most things was not a smile, it was usually to freeze. To assess. She wore expressions like costumes, or masks, slipping them on when she knew what the occasion was. 

She tilted her head at me, eyes wide in surprise, the mock-innocent look on her face that she used like armour. "So witty. Do you also play the part of the court jester?”

I bit back a sigh. She was young, still testing how far she could push. I didn’t take the cheap bait. “It’s late.”

“That’s how night works, yes.” She scoffed, pulling her collar up around her neck. “It comes in the second half of the day, by default.” 

 Oh yes, Feyre had regaled us with that recounting as soon as possible, while Rhys drank expensive whiskey and frowned.

I ignored that jab, too. “As you’ve noted, there’s no such thing as a perfect city. There are still dangers, and those dangers increase with the dark.”

“Do you also warn Rhys when he leaves the house?” She asked, low and flat, a thread of anger tightening her words. “Or is it because I’m a female? Do you warn Feyre? Or Mor? Or is this just a special courtesy because you don’t think I can handle myself?"

There it was again, that instinct to test, to lash out before she could be wounded first. It wasn’t personal. It rarely was, with people like her. I should know.

My wings twitched anyway, telegraphing my annoyance. Something about her, about the way she always asked questions like that, always tested, itched beneath my skin. I’d barely spoken and she was already snapping at me. 

I stepped forward a fraction, making sure I left a visible path to the door, but crowding her space just enough to see if she’d hold her ground. If she were decades older, this might be a different dance, a different game, but she wasn’t. She was just young, and unsure of her place in the world she suddenly found herself a part of, and angry about it. 

"I know you can handle yourself," I said, keeping my voice deliberately calm and even. "That doesn't mean you should have to."

Her brows rose, mocking. “So generous of you, Azriel. Now do you mind dialling down the overbearing male vibe? I have to go to work.”

“You’re going to work?”

“Cauldron, really? Those superior spying skills really coming in handy, aren’t they?” She rolled her eyes, “Last I checked, I’m not your concern.”

No. She wasn’t. Feyre had vouched for her. Rhys had decided she deserved our trust. And yet.

The shadows curled around my neck, around my shoulders and arms, wrapped themselves around my wings. They responded to things I hadn’t fully admitted to myself. Or things I didn’t realise. Was she a threat? 

She noticed. Of course she did. Lexia tilted her head, studying me in that sharp, calculating way of hers that she must have learnt from Rhys during their years of lessons, because the resemblance was uncanny. She looked like Rhysand did when he was gathering every piece on the board before making his move. “What’s got to you? You look like you’re about to start a fight.”

Maybe I was. Or maybe I just wanted one, some outlet for the restlessness gnawing my patience. She wasn’t the right target, and I knew it, but there she was standing here trying to provoke me, making it easy. 

And still, beneath the flippancy, the anger, there was fear. She didn’t move back, but I caught the way her pulse fluttered in her throat, how her scent shifted. And her reaction was to bite back, to react with claws and teeth.

I understood that better than I wanted to admit. 

I clenched my jaw against the urge to bite back, barely, keeping silent except for a slightly aggressive raise of wings, which I doubted she’d understand. I was still thinking too much of things I should let go of, things I should in no way let evolve in my head with Elain, and should definitely not let get confused with here, and now, with Lexia.

The silence stretched and her words settled, like ticklish feathers or heavy weights, I imagined, as I waited for her to either double down or retreat. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Her heartbeat was a war drum now, quick, loud, relentless. But her chin remained high, her expression sharp.

"You’re a fool if you think you’d even last a minute,” I said at last, cold and final. Then I turned, deliberately, and walked away.

The door slammed shut behind her moments later.

Silence returned to the hallway, but it didn’t settle me. I should have been thinking about Cassian, about arranging that spar that I desperately needed. I should have been thinking about what came next. About what intel I needed on Hybern and his movements. About the reports waiting on my desk. About the new cipher one of my contacts had developed.

But all I could see was Elain’s face, blank and unreadable hours earlier, her expression strange in a way I couldn’t name. The way she’d looked when I first stopped by her room: cold, distant, half-present. But when the sunlight spilled through the window, when she opened the door to me that second time, something shifted. Just a flicker. Like the light made her clearer. I couldn’t explain it. And it was gone barely a moment later when she spoke.

There was a weight in her eyes I hadn’t seen before, that wasn’t there when she was mortal. And I hated that I didn’t know what it meant.