Between the Shadow and the Soul

by sburnheart

Summary:

There were only a few things in life that Elara every really wanted: for her older brother, Rhysand, to finally start paying attention to her, to live a life free out from under the oppressive thumb of her father and marry the male she loved more than anything, and to feel the wind beneath her wings.

Only she didn't live to see any of that.

Taken near death, stripped of her memory, and given a new identity, she ends up on the wrong side of the war with Hybern. With every horrible thing she does in the name of the King of Hybern, she becomes more and more of the soulless monster that they want her to be.

Then, when a certain shadowsinger takes an interest in her, missing pieces start to fall back into place.

Will she ever be able to piece together the life that had been ripped to shreds that day in the Illyrian mountains? Does she even deserve to? Or is Elara truly gone forever?

Chapter 1

Notes:

Wow! Okay, so this story came to me after a very nostalgic conversation at D&D one night about the best season of Power Rangers (In Space, in case you were wondering). So I was heavily inspired by the plot of that. And yes, that means that this story is a take on the good ole Rhys' Sister is Alive trope.

And I'm playing fast and loose with the timeline and ages here, just a warning.

** Revised: January 2025

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

In secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

- Pablo Neruda

---

540 Years Before the Cursebreaker

"Rhys?"

Azriel didn't know why he had bothered to call out and announce his presence – he hadn't even needed the use of his shadows to try and find his brother.

He knew that he had found Rhysand immediately by the heady smell that was radiating out from the High Lord's study.

The shadowsinger stepped into the dimly lit room, the heavy scent of wine assaulting his senses, mingling with something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Although it wasn't completely unpleasant, it hung thick in the air and was certainly out of the ordinary.

But it was still overwhelmed by the pungent scent of the strong faerie wine.

Wine, it appeared, that his brother had already heavily indulged in.

"Is this why nobody has been able to find you today, brother?" Azriel quipped, trying to lighten the mood as he took in the scene before him. He knew Rhysand had a penchant for disappearing when he needed time to himself; in the years that Azriel had come to know Rhys, he'd always been the type of male to shoulder his worries alone. It had taken him time, even after their friendship had developed and morphed into something more familial, to even confide in Cassian or himself.

But this… it seemed different somehow.

"It is still the morning, for the Mother's sake."

The curtains were drawn, casting an unusual pallor over the study. It was mid-morning, the sun brightening in the sky. But no one would be able to tell from the darkness of the study.

From the doorway, Azriel could just make out the outline of his brother, sitting in the armchair at the corner of the room. He sent his shadows across the room and towards the curtains, the wisps pulling them tightly back to let the light in.

As the light filtered in, Azriel's gaze fell upon his brother.

Rhys flinched as the light hit his eyes, wincing at the sudden intrusion to the darkness. He held a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand, not even bothering to use a glass. His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle as Azriel moved closer to get a better look. His violet eyes, usually bright and alert, were dull and bloodshot from the wine.

Another bottle, full and untouched, sat within arm's reach at the table beside him.

"Rhys," Azriel called softly, his voice tinged with concern. He moved slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movements might cause his brother to bolt. "What's going on?"

Rhysand looked up; his gaze unfocused as he struggled to meet Azriel's eyes.

Azriel had never seen his friend this bad before – not during those nights in the seediest of taverns where they were all in their cups. Not even when the High Lord had been particularly cruel. For the briefest of moments, there was a haunted look in Rhys' eyes before it was replaced by a sudden surge of fiery anger. Without a word, he gestured wildly to the air surrounding them, the half-drunk bottle of wine still tight in his grasp.

"What?" Rhysand's voice was hollow, devoid of its usual warmth as he met Azriel's gaze. "You can't smell it?"

Azriel prided himself on his senses; he was observant to a fault. It was something that had paid off as he took on the role of spymaster. He knew how to read people, to pick up on someone's tells almost instantly, to know instinctively when they were lying or hiding something. So, he was embarrassed to say that he blinked at Rhys's words.

No, he hadn't smelled anything except the fumes of alcohol.

But Azriel took a deep breath in, opening his senses as he tried to pinpoint just what his brother was referring to. It took him a moment… but sure enough, hidden beneath the overwhelming smell of wine, Azriel could smell it.

It was a faint, soft scent, something different amidst the overpowering aroma of the now stale faerie wine. But as he focused on it, even though Azriel had never encountered it before, he knew instinctively what exactly it was. His brows furrowed, then rose, in realization.

Oh.

Oh.

"She's pregnant," Rhysand confirmed what Azriel now suspected, his words slurring as he gestured vaguely towards the bottle on the table. As if it had explained everything.

Azriel's eyes widened in surprise.

"Really? Rhys, that's wonderful news!" he exclaimed, moving forward to congratulate his brother – to slap him on the back - but Rhys waved him off dismissively. Azriel stopped right in his tracks and his brows furrowed again – why wasn't Rhys happy about this?

"I don't understand why my mother would want to bring another child into this family," Rhysand murmured bitterly, his words slurred from the alcohol as he reached for the bottle once more. His grip tightened around the neck as he drank, the deep red liquid spilling from the corner of his mouth and staining his cheek. "Why she would want to subject another child to him."

Rhys' movements had become even more sluggish if that were possible, letting the bottle balance precariously on his knee rather than setting it down.

Azriel knew what his brother was talking about; Silas was much more than just a strict father. Having worked as a spymaster since he had gained control of his shadows, Azriel knew just how demanding the High Lord could be. And, of course, Rhys's relationship with his father was certainly not the warmest.

Silas's had high expectations for his son and heir, often bordering on impossible.

But High Fae children were so rare – this was a blessing, wasn't it?

Azriel couldn't even remember if he had seen a High Fae infant in all his time at court. He'd certainly never saw an infant as a child, having been robbed of spending time with other children his own age. By now, he'd seen children in the streets of Velaris, toddlers bumbling about under the doting eyes of their parents. But never a newborn.

And Lyra – well, Lyra was a wonderful mother. She had raised Rhys with enough tenderness and warmth to more than make up for what had been sorely lacking in Silas's own parenting. She had welcomed Azriel and Cassian into her heart as if they were her own. It certainly wasn't as though the child would be unloved.

But Azriel remained silent, allowing his brother to voice his thoughts.

Rhys continued; his voice tinged with resignation. "At least if it's a son, my father has a second chance at a suitable heir."

Was this what this was all about? Rhys had certainly never cared about any of that before.

"You're already strong and powerful as it is, Rhys," Azriel interjected, unsure why his friend couldn't see that already. "And the powers of the High Lord will undoubtedly pass to you when the time comes… if you're worried about competition."

But Azriel highly doubted that was the case.

Rhys scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him as he shook his head. "I don't even want it," he muttered, his words slurring slightly as he took another swig from the bottle. "He can have it."

Azriel didn't doubt that – he knew his brother well enough. Rhysand was a dreamer – he wanted to leave the world a better place than the one that he was born in to. But he never wanted to seize power, and shoulder that kind of responsibility.

The two of them fell into a heavy silence.

Azriel searched for words of comfort, but none came to him. He'd never been particularly eloquent – rarely speaking during the formative years of childhood would do that to any male. He'd rarely knew what to say in situations to lighten the mood – that was Cassian's job.

But today, Rhys didn't seem interested in words or platitudes that would offer false comfort. He seemed content to wallow in his own misery.

And Azriel could do that – could wallow with him.

After a few moments passed, Rhys extended the half-empty bottle to Azriel with a mixture of resignation. As if he knew that Azriel wasn't going anywhere. Azriel eyed the bottle and hesitated. He hadn't been exaggerating earlier; it was still only mid-morning – far too early to begin indulging.

Rhys jiggled the outstretched bottle, the contents of it sloshing inside.

With a resigned sigh, Azriel reached out and accepted the offering, his fingers curling around the cool glass neck of the bottle. Without another word, he brought it to his lips and took a long swig, feeling the sweet sear of wine as it slid down his throat.

"You know," Azriel said as he passed the near empty bottle back to Rhys, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "The child – it could be a girl."

Rhysand, at least, had the good sense to look horrified at that particular prospect.

---

The chill of the Illyrian mountains hung heavy in the air as Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian sparred together, their breath forming little clouds in the frigid atmosphere.

They were alone, as they often were during their training sessions. The rest of the camp seemed to fade into the background, the other young Illyrians deliberately keeping their distance like they always did. None of them wanted to associate with the bastard outcasts and the half breed – even if one of them was the High Lord's son. In fact, it only made them even more of pariahs.

But they didn't mind the solitude – in fact, they preferred it.

The three males were much better on their own than they were with anyone else.

Cassian and Rhysand danced across the training grounds, their swords clashing as they charged at one another.

"Come on, Rhys, you're as graceful as a drunken Sylph today," Cassian ribbed, his grin widening as he dodged a retaliatory swipe.

"At least I'm not tripping over my own feet like you usually do, Cass." Rhysand laughed, his own blade deflecting Cassian's strike. It was almost too easy, Rhys thought, to rile up his brother. Cass never balked at the challenge. In fact, he often reveled in it – refusing to give up once the gauntlet was thrown.

Predictably, Cassian roared at the insult, charging at Rhys in retaliation.

But Rhys knew his brother – had known him for so long now, that he was able to identify his tells. Cassian relied on his brute strength to carry him through, and one look at the Illyrian's boots gave his direction away. Rhys sidestepped his brother, laughing as his brother charged into nothing but empty space.

"And you've just proved my point."

Rhys looked to his other brother – Az – for recognition of his besting Cassian.

"Shouldn't you both be taking this more seriously?" Azriel remarked dryly, "I've seen toddlers spar with more finesse."

"If you think you can do better, Az," Cassian chuckled, sweat glistening on his brow as he parried another of Rhysand's strikes. "Then come down here and prove it."

Rhys chuckled at the goading.

Az opened his mouth to answer – no doubt another dry retort at the ready. But before he could speak, dark shadows began to swirl around him, whispering to him in their silent language. The shadowsinger's brow furrowed in concentration, his usually impassive expression shifting into something more focused.

Something was happening.

Sometimes, Rhys couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy towards his friend. It was Az who had the most contact with Silas. When Lyra had brought Azriel to their home – the little cabin tucked away from Silas and the rest of his court, she had instructed both him and Cassian to keep the young boy's fledging powers a secret. Just a child himself, Rhys hadn't understood just what it meant to be a shadowsinger – how useful it was. But he had honored his mother's wishes, never speaking of the near silent child that his mother had taken in.

There was no describing Silas' fury when he found out what his mate and son were keeping from him – in his anger, he had shaken Ramiel, destroying entire war camps in the ensuing avalanches. But from that moment on, Azriel had become indispensable to the High Lord. And while Rhys' own powers were formidable, Silas treasured the versatility and subtlety of Azriel's shadows.

Sometimes, he wondered if Silas valued his shadowsinger more than his own son.

It wasn't Az's fault – Rhys knew that he hated working for Silas. Despite the value that his spying brought to the Night Court, Silas never fully accepted Az or Cassian. They were bastards, born too low for him to pay them any real mind. He barely tolerated them. He used Azriel for his abilities – and that was it.

Cassian’s usual grin faltered as he noticed Azriel’s sudden change in demeanor. He lowered his sword, stepping back from Rhysand. “What is it, Az?” he asked, his voice more serious now.

Rhys also lowered his sword, "Had my father decided to send you back out to the Continent yet again?"

Azriel ignored the both of them as he listened to the whispers of his shadows. Finally, he looked up at his friends, shaking his head at Rhys' question. “It’s-" he started, but then his expression softened with a hint of gravity. “It’s your mother’s time, Rhys.”

They needed no further explanation.

Rhysand groaned, throwing the steel in his hand towards the ground.

“Of course, my father can’t even be bothered to winnow here and tell me himself,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Probably too busy doing everything in his power to make sure that – even at that last moment - this child will be his heir.”

Cassian chuckled, the tension easing slightly as he clapped a hand on Rhysand’s shoulder. “Well, at least he’s consistent,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood. “Let’s get you cleaned up and ready, future big brother.”

Azriel nodded, his expression serious but supportive. “We should hurry,” he said, sheathing his dagger. “Your mother wants you there.”

The trio made their way off the training grounds, the cold air biting at their skin as they moved swiftly through the camp. As they walked, Rhysand couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions – anxiety for his mother, irritation at his father’s distant behavior, and… dread.

Dread that this child – yet to be born – would have to face the same scrutiny… the same vitriol as he had at Silas' hands.

He had never fully forgiven his parents – especially his mother – for wanting to bring another child into the world. The day that he had scented the pregnancy on his mother he had gotten rip roaring drunk in his father's study – digging into the vintages his father had been saving for special occasions. Az had found him that day and talked him off the ledge.

But even when the haze of the faerie wine had cleared… his mother was still pregnant, and Rhys would still have sibling to contend with.

That anxiety had never fully gone away.

He hadn't worried about whatever power his new sibling would possess – he'd meant it when he told Azriel that the child could be the heir. It wasn't thoughts about inheritance that kept him up at night. What if the babe grew up to be exactly like Silas? Could he handle a brother who had the same cold, calculating demeanor as his father?

Could Prythian handle another Silas?

Rhys took hold of Cassian and all three of them winnowed as far as they could before reaching the magical wards of the House of Wind. Upon sensing the magical barriers, the three males unfurled their wings, taking flight toward the upper levels of the House.

As they soared through the air, Cassian’s voice cut through the wind.

“Get ready, Rhys. Your father will have you relegated to nappy duty for the new favorite princeling,” he teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Rhysand gave a halfhearted chuckle, the sound carried away by the wind. When he had first heard the news of his mother’s pregnancy, he wouldn't have been able to laugh at the joke. It might have even sent him spiraling further than he already had that day that he had drank through half of his father's wine reserves.

“I’m sure Father will find a way to make my life even more miserable,” Rhys replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “But at least I’ll have you two idiots to keep me company.”

Azriel, flying just ahead of them, glanced back, and added dryly, “Just don’t expect us to change any nappies.”

Their laughter faded as they landed on the wide terrace, the sound of their boots crunching on frosty stone now the only thing breaking the silence. Rhysand took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever awaited him inside.

With a nod to his friends, he pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor.  Rhysand took a deep breath, steadying himself before looking at his friends. “Let’s do this.”

Cassian clapped him on the back, his grip firm and reassuring.

Azriel nodded, his expression calm and composed.

Rhysand led the way inside, steeling himself to face whatever mood his father was in. It was much warmer inside, and as they walked through the halls, the familiar sights and sounds of home enveloped them.

At the moment, Rhys would have preferred the frigid air atop Ramiel.

There was no fleeting sense of comfort of being home as they reached his father's study. Rhys knew his father – knew that he would not be caught anywhere near his mates' room that night. Propriety, and no doubt Silas' own personal preference, dictated that he remain at a distance until Lyra and the babe had been cleaned up and given the all clear by Madja.

And so Rhys wasn't surprised to see, after entering the dimly lit study, that Silas stood by the grand fireplace, a glass of brown liquor in his hand. He only turned as the door clicked shut behind Azriel.

Rhysand squared his shoulders, even though his heart sank at the sight of his father. He'd be expected to wait here with Silas for news of his mother – to endure his father's company for however long the birth took.

He'd rather endure the Blood Rite again.

"Father," Rhysand greeted.

"Rhysand," Silas acknowledged curtly. His gaze hardened as he took in his son's appearance, trailing up the Illyrian leathers that were covered in dirt and grime from their training session. The High Lord sniffed once, his lips curling into a sneer, "You couldn't be bothered to change into something more appropriate?"

Rhysand only shrugged, not wanting to fight with his father tonight of all nights, "We came as soon as we got word."

Silas's eyes flicked to Cassian and Azriel. "I see you brought your little band of bastards with you."

Cassian bristled, but a slight shake of Rhysand's head kept him silent. Rhysand met his father's gaze, trying to keep his voice calm. "They are my brothers, Father. They've been by my side through everything."

Silas's lip curled further. "Brothers? Do not insult our bloodline, Rhysand."

Azriel's shadows swirled around him. But they stayed behind the shadow singer's wings, reined in by Az's impeccable control. Rhys couldn't say the same for himself - he couldn't even help it as his own hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Silas's expression remained impassive as his grip tightened on the glass in his hand.

"This is a family matter," he replied icily. "I will not have outsiders lurking about."

Rhysand's frustration boiled beneath the surface – Cassian and Azriel weren't outsiders, by the Cauldron - but he knew better than to push his father further. With a resigned sigh, he nodded to Cassian and Azriel. If it were any other day, he might have had more words to say to his father – but this wasn't the time or place.

Cassian and Azriel exchanged a knowing look before nodding in understanding. With one last glance at Rhysand, they turned and left the study, leaving father and son alone.

Rhysand watched them go, feeling a pang of loss as the door closed behind them.

The atmosphere in the study grew heavier as Rhysand faced his father. Silas's steely gaze bore into Rhysand, the shadows from the fire dancing across his face. The flickering light highlighted the lines of disapproval etched deeply into the High Lord’s features.

"You know," Silas began, his voice low and authoritative. "You should spend less time with those Illyrian bastards and more time with the court you will one day inherit."

Rhysand clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his rising temper in check. The High Lord would be content if his son forgot all about his Illyrian heritage. How had his mother put up with it for all these years?

"They are not bastards, Father," Rhysand retorted, biting back all the things he really wanted to say to Silas. "They are my friends." His voice held a firmness that dared his father to challenge it.

Silas's lip curled in disdain. "Friends or not, they are not fit to be by your side," he declared, with a wave of his hand, as if the matter were as simple as that.

Rhysand bristled at the insult, but he held his tongue. He felt like a caged animal, prowling in the confines of his father’s expectations. This… this was what his father did to him.

"If you're lucky, Father, your new son could inherit everything," Rhysand retorted, his tone laced with bitterness. He didn’t particularly care if his words stung; he wanted his father to feel at least a fraction of his frustration.

"Perhaps that would be for the best," Silas replied coolly, his lips quirking into a derisive smirk.

With a heavy sigh, Rhysand helped himself to a glass of brown liquor from the cart by the fireplace. The warmth of the alcohol spread through him, dulling the edges of his frustration. He took a long, slow sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.

If he could get through the rest of the night in at least tolerable silence between him and his father, he would consider the night a success.

With the glass of whiskey in hand, Rhysand settled into one of the plush armchairs in the study, his eyes fixed on the crackling fire in the hearth. The flames danced and flickered, casting a warm glow over the room, but it did little to ease the cold knot of tension in his stomach.

How long would he have to endure this?

From across the vast expanse of the House of Wind, Rhysand could hear the unmistakable sounds of his mother's birthing pains. The cries and moans of agony echoed faintly through the halls, reaching his ears and tugging at his heart.

He couldn't help but wonder about his own future – about the female who would one day become his wife, his consort. Cauldron willing, a mate. How much pain would she have to endure for their children? How much sacrifice would be required of her?

He couldn’t stand it — he tried to block out the sound.

The hours stretched on, the silence between Rhysand and Silas unbroken except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of labor.

He prayed to the Cauldron that his mother would come through this unscathed. The cries from across the House became louder, more frequent and Rhys couldn't help but wince every time he heard his mother. 

After what felt like an eternity, there was a small knock at the door to the study. Rhysand tensed, his heart pounding in his chest. Madja entered the room, her forehead glistening with sweat, and her hands up to her elbows stained with dried blood. Her normally composed demeanor was overshadowed by the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.

Rhysand watched as his father's eyes narrowed at the ancient healer. Silas's cold gaze swept over Madja, lingering on the blood. Rhysand half-expected his father to scold her for not bothering to clean up before presenting herself before the High Lord, just as he had with his son.

But Silas only looked down from the bridge of his nose to the small female, his expression stern and unyielding.

"Well?" he demanded, his voice icy.

Madja took a deep breath, exhaustion evident in every line of her face.

"There was a lot of bleeding," she began. "But your mate is stable. She will live."

Relief flooded through Rhysand as he heard the words, his shoulders sagging as if he had been unburdened of all this weight.

"And the child?" Silas’ eyes narrowed further.

"She is small," Madja's expression softened slightly as she met Silas's gaze. "Her weight is low for a newborn babe. But she will be fine."

She.

The single word echoed in Rhysand's mind.

His father wouldn't get the second chance at an heir that he wanted, and there was less of a risk of the child turning out like Silas.

But Rhys still felt a sense of dread – the same dread he had been feeling since first scenting the pregnancy on his mother. But this time, it was because it was a girl. He wasn't blind – he knew of the different, and sometimes infinitely harsher, expectations that traditions of their court placed on females.

How was he supposed to protect a defenseless girl from the cruelty of their own father?

Silas's reaction was unreadable. "Very well," he said curtly, dismissing Madja with a wave of his hand. "See to it that they are both taken care of."

Madja nodded, her tired eyes flickering to Rhysand for a brief moment before she turned and left the room. Rhysand watched her go, his mind racing with thoughts of the newborn girl across the House. How would his father treat his sister? Would she be subjected to the same relentless pressure and expectations that had been placed upon him?

Rhysand turned his gaze back to the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across the study. Doubt gnawed at him as his father eventually left, grumbling something about his duty to be at his mate's side.

Would he be a good brother if he couldn't stand up to his father? Every time he had tried, he had failed, and each failure had only solidified Silas's power over him.

He'd never be able to protect her from the cold, relentless scrutiny of their father.

The night wore on, Rhysand remaining in the study long after the fire had died down.

The reality of his own powerlessness settled over him, and he couldn't shake the nagging doubt that, despite his best intentions, he might never be able to protect his sister. The dread that had been simmering since he first scented his mother's pregnancy solidified into a cold, hard certainty: he was not enough.

And that failure, more than anything, was what he feared most.

---

Madja's gentle voice broke the heavy silence of the study, drawing Rhysand's attention. In the time that his father had left, Rhys had helped himself to another glass of Silas' finest whiskey… and then another.

He looked up, meeting Madja's steady gaze as she stood in the doorway, her expression soft yet somber. He knew what Madja's presence here meant.

"She would like to see you," Madja said quietly.

Rhysand nodded, keeping his expression cool despite the fluttering in his gut. Silas would have scolded him for showing any kind of weakness in front of his subjects – Madja included. So, he kept his expression neutral as he rose from his seat and downed the remaining contents of glass.

His movements were slow, as if he were stepping into uncharted territory.

And, in a way, he was.

Leaving the study behind, Rhysand followed Madja through the winding corridors of the House of Wind, as if it hadn't been one of his official residences for the twenty years that he had been alive. But with the way that his mind was racing, he was content to let Madja lead the way through his own home.

They finally reached his mother's chambers, the door standing slightly ajar. Madja stepped aside, allowing Rhysand to enter alone. The room was bathed in a warm, flickering light from the roaring fireplace.

Lyra lay on the bed, her eyes tired yet bright as she looked up at him. His shoulders sagged in relief as he took in the sight of his mother, wings resting on the low, dipped headboard, looking exhausted but alright.

 Beside her, nestled in her arms, was a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets.

As if it had sensed his presence, the bundle of blankets emitted a soft, small cooing noise, sending a rush of panic coursing through Rhysand. He looked up at his mother, eyes widened.

"Rhys," his mother greeted him, her voice soft and weary yet filled with love. "Come, meet your sister."

He would have been rather content to stay exactly where he was, watching the bundle of blankets from afar.

But when Lyra looked like that – tired and content – well, he would deny his mother nothing. Rhysand approached the bed, his footsteps soft so as not to disturb the small bundle. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the tiny form cradled in his mother's arms.

His sister.

His thoughts swirled as he took another step closer, finally able to see her delicate features, the way her tiny fingers curled against her mother's chest. Carefully, almost hesitantly, Rhysand reached out to touch her, his calloused fingertips brushing against her soft skin.

He swallowed hard, unsure of what to do.

"You can hold her, you know."

Carefully, almost reluctantly, he extended his hands towards the tiny bundle in his mother's arms. With a hesitant breath, Rhysand accepted the weight of his sister in his arms as Lyra gently passed her over. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of aversion at how small and delicate she appeared. She was so… tiny.

How did his mother know that he wouldn't break her?

As he held her, he felt something unexpected – the faintest fluttering against his forearms. He looked down and saw them, delicate bat-like wings - just like his own and his mother's. He had never seen a set of wings so small before. His breath caught in his throat as he marveled at the sight, the corners of his lips pulling up into a small smile.

"She's beautiful," Rhysand whispered, his voice barely more than a breath as he gazed down at the newest addition to their family. "What's her name?"

His mother smiled tiredly, her eyes shining with pride.

"Elara," she said softly. "Her name is Elara."

---

538 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Rhysand stepped through the familiar halls of the House of Wind. It had been months since he last set foot in these halls - months since he had seen his family.

It took only about six weeks after Elara's birth for the incessant crying to be enough to drive him mad, and he had absconded to the Illyrian mountains to ensure that the scattered and remote settlements were still abiding by their High Lord.

He'd secured Silas's permission easily enough, after Rhys had laid heavy on the fact that he would be representing the High Lord's interests in some of the most remote reaches of Night Court territory and reminding them of his power.

It hadn't taken any convincing to get Cassian and Azriel to agree to go with him, either. Azriel had been called away here and there on business with his father. But for the most part, time away from Velaris – and his family - with his brothers had been exactly what Rhysand had needed.

Until, that is, his mother had sent word requesting that he come back.

He approached the door to his mother's chambers, having made sure that this had been the first stop he'd made upon landing. Lyra would have been livid if Rhys had stopped anywhere else before coming to see his mother.

Taking a deep breath, Rhysand pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was bathed in warm, golden light, the soft glow of the setting sun casting long shadows across the floor. His mother sat at a table near the window, a pile of fabric in her lap as she worked on stitching up dresses – having never fully let go of her seamstress roots.

And there, in the corner of the room, was Elara.

He barely recognized her. Elara had grown so much in the time he'd been away, her features more defined, her wings stretching out behind her now. She looked less like a scrunched-up doll and more like an actual fae now. She played quietly in the corner of the room, wooden blocks strewn about in front of her.

He had missed so much.

For a moment, Rhysand hesitated, unsure of how to approach. He had avoided being home as much as possible over the past year, unable to bear the constant sound of Elara's crying and the overwhelming sense of responsibility that had plagued him since she had been born. He'd never really learned how to interact with her.

"Rhys," his mother greeted him, her voice warm and welcoming as she looked up from her work. "It's good to see you home."

Rhysand managed a weak smile, his eyes lingering on Elara as she played with a small toy in her hands.

"She's grown so much," Rhysand murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper as he took a hesitant step forward. Elara looked up at him, her eyes bright with curiosity as she reached out a tiny hand towards him. Gingerly, she got up from her position on the floor, swaying on unsteady legs as she pulled herself to a standing position.

She could walk now?

Rhysand watched his sister waddle around on shaky legs, a smile tugging at his lips as her little wings splayed out to help her find balance. There was something undeniably endearing about her determination as she tried to make her way to him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the sight.

His mother looked up from her stitching, her gaze softening as it fell upon her children.

"I wish you were around more, Rhys," she said, her voice tinged with a mixture of sadness and longing. "Elara misses you, and so do I."

Rhysand's smile faded slightly, replaced by a pang of guilt. "I know, Mother," he replied, his tone heavy with regret. "I've just...had a lot to handle."

It wasn't a complete lie –Silas had been the first in a long line of Night Court rulers to try and reign in the more traditional war bands. There were still plenty in the remote reaches of Illyria that chafed under his rule. Rhys had been doing a lot of good in the remote parts of their territory, even if his reasoning for doing so had been nothing but selfish.

"I know," Lyra put down her stitching, her expression turning serious as she regarded her son. "And I know that you like to take a break from it every once in a while – to be with your brothers. But Elara needs her brother."

Rhysand sighed, running a hand through his hair. He'd perfected the mask of indifference in front of everyone else – even Az and Cass – but never Lyra. There was no use trying to act tough in front of his mother, she would see right through him – even without Daemati gifts.

Lyra reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. " Elara adores you. She lights up whenever she hears your name."

Rhysand looked over at his sister, who was now examining a piece of scrap fabric with intense curiosity.

"She does?" he asked, his voice softening.

Lyra smiled. "Yes, she does. And she needs you in her life, Rhys. You may not realize it, but you mean the world to her."

Rhysand considered his mother's words for a moment. He couldn't imagine anyone – especially an impressionable infant – looking up to him. He was about to say that very thing to his mother, but before he could reply, one of the servants appeared at the door, a look of urgency on her face. "Lady Lyra, we need you to finalize some decisions regarding the upcoming delegation from the Autumn Court."

Lyra sighed, giving Rhysand an apologetic look as she rose to her feet. If Rhysand knew his mother at all – she would have rather done anything else in the world than make decisions that would make their upcoming Autumn Court visitors more comfortable.

"Duty calls," she said, squeezing his arm gently. "Will you watch Elara for a moment?"

Rhysand nodded, watching as his mother followed Moira out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving him alone with his sister. Elara, sensing the change, toddled over to him with her arms outstretched, making little grabby hands in a silent plea to be picked up.

"Up, up," she babbled, her wings fluttering with excitement. Rhys couldn't help but raise his brows – it would appear that she even knew some of her words now, too.

Rhysand hesitated for a moment, the familiar sense of unease creeping back in – he wouldn't even begin to know what to do with a child.

But as he looked into Elara's bright, trusting eyes, he felt something in his heart thaw.

With a deep breath, he reached down and scooped her up into his arms. Her wings stretched out and splayed, brushing against his face as she giggled with delight.

She kept up the movement and his lips curled upward.

"You want to fly, don't you?" Rhysand murmured, more to himself than to her.

Elara's eyes sparkled with anticipation, her little hands gripping his shirt as she looked up at him with pure, unbridled excitement. He wasn't sure if his mother would be okay with this – he had never been alone with Elara before, let alone in the air.

But the look on Elara's face…

Rhysand chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, what the hell," he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Let's go flying."

 

Notes:

So you might be able to see, this first part of this fic is going to take place before the events of ACOTAR. Since that's over five-hundred years, expect some time jumps! And expect multiple POVs, which I hardly ever do, not going to lie. But I'm gong to need it for this story to work.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Fair warning to anyone reading this - Az is going to be noticeably absent for the first few chapters. It'll be kind of obvious why, plot-wise. But I also wanted to make sure that Elara was a character with a personality and relationships in her own right.

Also, she's a kid in this chapter. And I'm not about to write another Ratatouille Cullen situation.

** Revised: January 2025

533 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara was bored.

She sat by the window in her room, chin resting on her knees as she gazed out at the city below the House of Wind.

If she squinted hard enough, she could just make out the colorful rooftops of the Rainbow – her favorite part of Velaris. She loved the way that the artists there always let her pick out her favorite colors to use in their paintings, and even sometimes let her paint on torn canvases. She begged her mother and father to take her to the Rainbow this week – she just loved walking around looking at the pretty paintings.

But her mother had returned to the mountains for a few days and her father had claimed that he was too busy.

And so, she had instead begged her mother to take her to Illyria – she'd never actually been to the mountains before, even though her mother was born there. She had cried and pleaded – she would have loved to see Rhysand, but her father had said absolutely not with an anger in his voice that even Elara knew better than ask again.

He never let her go. It was so unfair.

She wanted desperately to go to the mountains – having only heard stories about it from her mother and brother - but she was stuck inside. Instead, her father filled her time with tutors – on the history of Prythian and the Night Court, on etiquette, on things that were boring.

She never got to do anything fun.

She huffed, her small wings twitching with impatience – her father would be furious to find out that she had summoned them. Her father preferred her to keep them hidden, only summoning them when absolutely necessary.

But she liked her wings and she liked to fly.

She didn't know why her father hated them so much.

Her etiquette tutor, a stern-faced fae named Miss Rellian, was currently searching for her somewhere in the House. Having decided that she had enough of her lessons for the day, Elara had slipped away when Miss Rellian's back was turned. If she could keep away from Miss Rellian, Elara would have the rest of the afternoon to herself.

"Elara, where are you?" Miss Rellian's voice echoed through the halls, growing louder as she approached.

Elara cringed and pressed herself tighter against the wall.

She didn't want to learn about the customs of the other courts or practice proper etiquette. She didn't care about the right wine glasses to select at a dinner table – she wasn't even old enough to drink wine. What use for it did she even have?

Those lessons were boring, and they made her feel trapped. There was only one reason why she needed to learn how to run a household. Her father had already started telling her that she would one day marry a high-ranking lord from another court for political advantage.

The thought of it terrified her.

She wanted to train like her brother. She had heard her parents talking – well, arguing - about all of the time that Rhys spent in the mountains. Elara wanted to do that too. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair and the thrill of flying freely.

But her father wouldn't let her.

No daughter of his would need to train, he had said. She would be brought up as a proper lady of the Night Court, whatever that meant.

A door creaked open, and Elara peeked out from her hiding spot just in time to see Miss Rellian entering the room. The tutor's expression was one of exasperation as she scanned the area, clearly frustrated by Elara's absence. In truth, Miss Rellian was always frustrated with Elara, whether it be her insolence or arrogance.

It wasn’t Elara's fault, really. She couldn't be blamed for the fact that these lessons were so boring, and she had really no choice except to make a break for it.

But the stern-faced tutor didn't seem to even scent Elara from her little hiding spot.

It gave Elara a smug sense of satisfaction. She knew all the good hiding spots in the House – the ones that even her brother didn't know about.

"Elara, this is no time for games," Miss Rellian called out once more. "You know your father expects you to learn these lessons. It is important for your future."

Elara rolled her eyes, her small hands clenching into fists. She didn't care about her future - not the way her father did. She wanted to be free, to explore the world and have adventures.

Slowly, she slipped out from behind the curtain and tiptoed down the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest.

She needed to find a way to escape, even if it was just for a little while. She made her way to one of the side doors that led to the courtyard, pausing to listen for any sign of Miss Rellian. When she heard nothing, she pushed the door open and slipped outside.

The fresh air hit her face, and she took a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. The courtyard was empty, and she glanced around, trying to decide where to go. Her wings itched with the desire to spread and take flight, but she knew her father would be furious if he found out.

Elara wasn't scared of much – but she was terrified of her father.

She didn't know why he didn't want her to fly. Rhysand and her mother had wings – they were allowed to fly whenever they wanted. How was she any different? She had begged her mother to take her flying, but Lyra only looked at her daughter with this sadness in her eyes.

Lyra had tried to convince her father to let Elara train and fly, but Silas was adamant. He'd even forced her to hide her wings in public – insisting that she learn the magic to make them disappear like her brother had.

Elara sighed, wishing her mother was here now to help her escape Miss Rellian's clutches.

A sudden noise made her freeze, and she ducked behind a large stone statue, peering out cautiously. Her shoulders fell when she saw that it was Miriel, one of the servants who often helped her sneak extra treats from the kitchen. Elara stepped out from her hiding spot and waved.

"Miriel!" she whispered loudly, catching the fae's attention.

Miriel turned and smiled when she saw Elara. "What are you doing out here, little one? Shouldn't you be at your lessons?"

"I don't want to learn about the right way to host dinner parties." Elara pouted, crossing her arms. "That stuff is boring. I want to train like Rhysand."

"I know, little one." Miriel's expression softened, and she knelt so that she was at Elara's level. "But you are a lady – and, well, your father has different plans for you."

"But it's not fair!" Elara stomped her foot, frustration bubbling up inside her. "Why can't I do what I want?"

Miriel sighed and placed a gentle hand on Elara's shoulder. "Sometimes, we have to do things we don't want to. But, when you are older, you'll be able to do more of the things you would like."

But that was forever from now. Elara looked down, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. She didn't want to cry, not in front of Miriel.

"I don't want to wait until I'm older," she whispered.

"I know," Miriel said softly, and there was a look of sadness on the female's face. "But don't stay out here too long, little one, or else your tutor will have a fit. Maybe I can sneak you some sweets later, okay?"

Elara nodded reluctantly, watching as Miriel gathered her things at made her way back into the house.

Elara sighed, her small wings twitching in frustration. Sometimes it seemed like Miriel was her only friend – but Miriel was grown. Elara wished there were other children her age around – or at least, that they were allowed to play with her. She'd seen other children when she accompanied her mother to Velaris, but her father insisted they were beneath her, not good enough company for a High Lord's daughter.

She even wished her brother was around more. He was grown too, but Elara found it didn't bother her as much. She didn't really know much about Rhysand – he was always off doing something else, something exciting. He was far too busy to come back and visit her.

But every time he did come home, he brought her lovely gifts. Those were nice – but Elara wanted something more than just presents.

Suddenly, she heard the frantic footsteps of Miss Rellian approaching. Elara realized she'd been in the same place – out in the open – for a long time now. Before she could make another escape, Miss Rellian's stern face appeared around the corner.

"Elara! There you are," she scolded, grabbing Elara's arm with enough force to make her wince. She tried to wriggle out of the force of the tutor's grasp, but it was like a vice. "I've been looking everywhere for you. You know better than to run off during lessons."

"I’m sorry, Miss Rellian," she mumbled as she hung her head, but she didn’t mean it. Not really.  

Miss Rellian shook her head, her grip firm as she led Elara towards her father’s study. "We’ll see what your father has to say about this."

Elara’s heart sank as they approached the heavy doors of her father's study. Miss Rellian had always threatened to go to her father with every misdeed, but this was the first time the tutor made good on her threats. Elara's feeling of dread intensified with each step – she knew what happened when she disobeyed him.

Miss Rellian knocked sharply, and they were quickly summoned inside. Silas stood behind his desk; his eyes cold as he regarded his daughter while Miss Rellian recounted Elara's earlier escape – for the third time this week!

"Why must my children disobey me?" Silas's voice was low and dangerous, but there was a little bit of exasperation in his tone as well.

Elara trembled, not knowing what to say. She was frightened of her father – he was the High Lord, after all - and she was only five years old.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice small and shaky. This time, she really meant it.

Silas's gaze bore into her, and she could already feel the pain in her hands— phantom pain from the last time she had been rapped on the knuckles for disobeying her father.

She braced herself, trying to hide her fear. Her father didn't like it when she showed emotions on her face – sometimes, it earned her more strikes.

Before Silas could respond, the door to the study swung open and Lyra entered the room. Her mother was beautiful – with dark hair falling down her back and wings that took up the entirety of the doorway – but she could also be fierce. And the look on her face was one that Elara knew all too well – her mother was angry.

Elara shifted where she stood – what was her mother doing back from the mountains so soon? She wasn’t supposed to arrive back until that evening. How did she get here so quickly? Was her mother also there to punish her?

"What happened here?" Lyra demanded.

Silas straightened, as if he were also surprised to see his wife back so soon, but his expression remained hard. "Your daughter thought it would be a good use of her time to sneak away from her tutors, yet again."

Lyra turned to Elara, her eyes softening. "Elara, why did you do that?"

Elara hesitated, her small voice barely above a whisper. "Because I was bored."

She could hear her father scoff, but Lyra's eyes flashed with understanding and her gaze quickly shifted back to Silas, "She needs friends, Silas. She cannot be hidden here for her whole life. Elara is overworked, spending too much time with tutors and not enough with children her own age. She needs to be a child."

Elara watched her parents argue, feeling heat rising in her cheeks.

"She doesn’t need friends. She needs discipline," Silas snapped, his voice rising. "She will learn to behave and follow orders, or she will suffer the consequences."

"She is five years old, Silas!" Lyra's eyes flashed with anger. "You cannot treat her like this. She needs to play and have friends. She needs to grow up with the wind underneath her wings. You are stifling her."

"I am preparing her for her future, Lyra." Silas's face darkened with rage. "You coddle her too much. She needs to understand her place and her duties – as a member of this court, not of some back woods war band."

Elara's heart pounded as the argument escalated. She had never seen her parents fight like this, and it scared her. She stepped back, keeping her head down.

"You are breaking her spirit. She is lonely and miserable." Lyra stepped closer to Silas, her voice low but fierce. Elara had never seen her mother this angry. "If you keep this up, you will lose her. Just like you have lost your son."

Silas slammed his hand on the desk, making Elara jump. "This discussion is over, Lyra. We will talk about this later."

Lyra ignored him and scooped Elara into her arms. Even though Elara was tall for her age, it didn't seem to bother her mother at all, who had the blood of Illyrian warriors flowing through her veins.

Elara nestled against her, comforted by her mother's warmth and strength, but the lingering fear and sadness didn’t leave her.

---

Silas had finally caved.

She hadn't known what her mother had ended up doing to convince him after that day in the study – the fight between her parents had continued long after she had gone to bed at night. But, before long, she was allowed to spend time with the twins of a high-ranking merchant, hand selected by her father to ensure that her companions were of "the right stock".

But Elara hadn’t minded – there were new people in her life, and that was all that mattered. She had friends.

Conn and Fiona were only two years older than her, although Conn would claim that he was two years and seven minutes older, much too Fiona's chagrin. It often sparked fights between the two of them. The twins bickered often enough, and Elara loved to watch it.

She never got to bicker with her brother – he was much too mature to bicker like that, and he was hardly around for her to bicker with, besides. Sometimes, watching Conn and Fiona argue, she'd feel that familiar pang of jealousy – she wanted that for herself.

But she wouldn’t be greedy. She had friends now, and that was enough.

Elara didn't get to see them as often as she liked, though. Her mother had to fly down to Velaris to get them because her father still wouldn't let her go to the city unless it was a special occasion.

They had decided that day to play hide and seek. There had already been a few turns of the game, with Elara besting them both – she did, after all, know all the good hiding spots.

Conn was currently trying to find them, giving the girls a sixty second head start before he came looking for them. Elara darted through the kitchens and the servants' quarters, searching for the perfect hiding spot. But bustling activity of the servants made it difficult to find a place where she wouldn't be discovered.

She finally spotted a door slightly ajar in the hallway and decided to tiptoe in. She knew it was her father's study, a place she was usually forbidden to enter unless it was to receive punishment for her misbehavior.

But she also knew there was a little crevice behind the large bookshelf where she could hide from view. Conn would never look for her there.

With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, Elara slipped inside and carefully closed the door behind her. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the crackling fire in the hearth. The air smelled of leather and aged parchment – just like her father.

Elara crept toward the bookshelf, her small footsteps barely making a sound on the plush red carpet. She found the crevice she remembered and squeezed herself into it, trying to make herself as small as possible. She held her breath, listening intently for any signs of Conn approaching.

The quiet of her father's study was a so different from the chaos of the kitchens. She could hear the distant laughter of Fiona and the occasional calling out from Conn – he must have already found his twin sister. Which meant that left only her to be found.

"Good luck trying to find me here," Elara whispered to no one but herself, feeling the smug satisfaction of knowing that she'd win yet another turn of this game.

"Elara, where are you?" Conn's voice echoed faintly from the hall. She cringed and pressed herself tighter against the wall, hoping her hiding spot was good enough. She didn't think Conn would dare come into the High Lord's study – but one never knew. Conn was so much braver than her.

Elara nearly jumped when she heard the study door creak open.  

Her heart leaped when she recognized her father's voice, followed closely by another voice that sounded like her brother's. Her pulse quickened, and a flutter of excitement filled her small chest. She hadn't seen Rhysand in weeks, as he had been spending time with Cassian and Azriel in the mountains.

As usual.

She deflated a little at the thought of the two Illyrians who were always at her brother's side. Rhysand often referred to Cassian and Azriel as his brothers – which was absolutely ridiculous. They weren't family, not like she was.

But it seemed that Rhysand didn't have a lot of time for her, preferring to spend time with the Illyrians rather than his own flesh and blood.

She didn't know why.

She pressed herself closer to the wall, straining to hear their conversation.

"I've told you time and again— no," Silas's voice was stern and commanding, the kind that made Elara's stomach twist in fear. It was the voice he used when he didn't want to continue a conversation, stopping any begging and pleading on Elara's part right in its tracks.

"But why?" Rhysand pressed, frustration evident in his tone. Elara would never have the courage to speak to her father like that – she didn't know how Rhys did it.  "Why shouldn't they learn to fight? To defend themselves?"

Elara perked up at the conversation – who was learning to fight? She shifted silently in her hiding spot, straining to hear better.

"Because they are females," Silas replied, his voice dripping with exasperation – as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Elara straightened even more at the idea of females learning to fight. Would she be able to, as well? "I see that bastard friend of yours has gotten into your head."

"He's not wrong," Rhysand's voice bristled with anger at the word 'bastard.'

"You should know by now that things are done a certain way in Illyria. Those brutes don't take well to change."

"Brutes?" Rhys's voice rose, and Elara could almost see his face contorted with anger. "You do realize that your wife is one of those brutes. And your children are too."

Elara sucked in a breath.

"Believe me, I'm well aware," Silas said coolly and Elara heard the shuffling of papers. "I've done everything in my power to make sure that you didn't end up like those backwards, lesser fae. But it seems as though you continue to disappoint me."

Elara's eyes widened, her small frame trembling. Tears welled up, but she fought to keep quiet. How could her father think of them like that? How could he say such things about Rhysand?

Did she disappoint him as well?

There was a moment of silence before Rhysand spoke again, his voice quieter but no less intense. "Is that why you won't let Elara out of here? Why you won't let Mother take her to the mountains? Is that why you barely let her fly? You don't want her winding up like me?"

Elara had to put her hand over her mouth to suppress a gasp. Her eyes burned from fighting back the tears.

The study fell into a heavy silence. Elara's heart ached, her small body trembling as she tried to process the hurtful words exchanged between her father and brother.

Her excitement at hearing Rhysand's voice had evaporated, replaced by a deep, gnawing sadness.

Her father grunted in what could only be an agreement. Elara heard the heavy footsteps as he stormed out of the office, and she finally let out the breath she had been holding. She couldn't help the whimper that had followed – only grateful that the study was now filled with an empty silence.

She started to relax, but then she saw Rhys’ familiar violet eyes - eyes that matched her own - peering into the alcove where she was hiding.

"How much of that did you hear?" he asked, his voice calm but serious.

Elara worried that her older brother might yell at her, so she only shrugged as she pushed herself further against the wall. She had seen Silas's fury before, but never Rhy’. She didn't know what his temper was like. Would he be angry at her for eavesdropping? She hadn't even meant to.

Rhysand seemed to sense her fear. He sighed and ran a hand down his face.

"Come here," he said gently.

Large hands helped her out of the alcove, and before she knew it, Rhysand was on his haunches, bringing him almost to her eye level. His hands moved to her shoulders, and she was forced to look at her brother.

"What he said back there, Elara," he began, anger flickering in his eyes. But it was not directed at her, that much she understood. "He's wrong. There is nothing wrong with who you are or where you come from."

"I know," she replied, trying to sound strong like him, but her voice came out so soft. Honestly, she didn't know – because if there was nothing wrong with her, then her father would let her wear her wings proudly and fly. But she wasn't going to say that to Rhys. Not when he was so angry.

Rhys sighed before he wrapped his arms around her and pulled Elara in for a hug. It was strange – she couldn't remember the last time he had done that, Rhys often liked to tousle her hair instead. But she liked it. His embrace felt warm and protective, even if it was so different from the cold words she had just overheard.

Footsteps came charging down the hall, and Conn burst into the study.

"What are you doing here? Were you even trying to hide?" he asked, looking at Elara with a mix of confusion and annoyance.

She found herself getting mad at the intrusion – and even madder at the insinuation that Conn had easily found her, but before she could say anything, Rhys let her go and stood up.

"Go on, with your friends," he said softly, giving her a gentle push.

Elara turned to Conn, refusing to let her new friend see that she had been crying, and crossed her arms, "It's not my fault you took so long to find me."

Elara looked up at her brother one last time before dashing out of the study with Conn.

---

Rhysand watched as Elara ran off with the merchant's son - Conn, he recalled from some distant part of his memory. He'd heard his mother mention the twins Elara played with once or twice, but he hadn't been paying much attention. He had often tuned out when his mother began talking about his sister, refusing to engage with the subtle hints that Lyra had wanted him home more often – to be closer to Elara.

It didn't seem to matter – she had her own life here, her own friends.

Anger still seethed within him, as it did whenever he was in the same room as Silas. His father's cruel words echoed in his mind, and he clenched his fists. Once Elara and Conn were out of sight, he turned back to his father's study, the fury boiling over.

He marched over to the decanter of his father's finest single malt and poured himself a generous glass. The amber liquid sloshed into the crystal tumbler, and he took a long, searing sip, feeling the warmth spread through him.

But it did nothing to calm his rage.

Silas had refused again. Refused to see reason. Refused to let the Illyrian females train. Cassian had such good ideas about how to modernize the war bands, and yet Silas dismissed them all, stuck in his backward ways. Did he think that a mere ban on wing clipping was enough?

The High Lord's stubbornness wasn't just infuriating—it was dangerous.

Rhysand’s grip on the glass tightened.

And then there was Elara. Sweet, innocent Elara, who had heard every word of their fight. She’d heard their father practically denounce their heritage. Rhysand had spent so much of his life at odds with his father, trying to shield his sister from the man's harshness. But it had only made things worse for her – Silas was desperate for a child that didn't favor the feeling of the wind beneath their wings, and he was trying to mold Elara to that.

She was isolated, alone, with no one but stern tutors and her father’s impossible expectations for company.

The glass in his hand cracked, a fine line splintering down its side.

The memory of Elara's frightened eyes, the way she had looked at him as if she didn't know how he would react, was like a slap in the face. He'd seen her fear - had felt it radiating from her mind. She hadn't inherited the Daemati gifts like he had, nor learned to shield at such a young age, so he could still peer into her mind and see the shadow of terror that lingered there.

She was terrified – terrified of him.

Rhysand looked down at the glass in his hand, the crack spreading like a spiderweb.

 With a bitter laugh, he set it down on the desk, knowing his father would find it later. A small act of defiance – one that probably did not matter in the grand scheme of things - but it was all he could muster now.

He reached out mentally to Cassian and Azriel – having flown back with him from Illyria, they were around here somewhere. He needed a distraction - needed to blow off some steam somehow. A night out at Rita's, a pleasure hall, it didn't matter.

Where are you guys? he sent the thought out, hoping at least one of them wasn't already otherwise occupied.

Cassian responded almost immediately. Training ring. Get your ass down here.

Rhysand’s lips curved into a grim smile. A good fight was exactly what he needed.

---

531 Years Before the Cursebreaker

"You'll never catch me, Conn!" Elara shouted, her breath visible in the winter air as she darted across the frozen Sidra. Winter had cloaked Velaris in a blanket of snow and ice, turning the river into the perfect playground. Elara let out a laugh as she glided away from him, her wings fluttering to help her balance on the slippery ice.

"That's cheating!" Conn shouted as he stumbled to keep himself upright. His brown hair, almost red in the sun, glinted as he ran.

Elara laughed, her wings twitching with excitement. The past year had been wonderful, with more trips down to the city, away from the confines of the House of Wind. Perhaps her father had loosened the reins a little – perhaps it was just because she was older now. But she wouldn't question it – she was having way too much with her friends.

"Tag, you're it!" Conn tapped his sister on the shoulder, and Fiona cried out in defeat, her freckled cheeks flushed with cold and excitement.

Fiona charged at Orla, one of their friends from town, as the rest of them scattered away. Elara tried to sprint, using her wings as balance, but she lost her traction and landed with soft thud on the ice. Taking full advantage of Elara's misfortune, Fiona came barreling over before crashing into her. "You're it!" she declared triumphantly, her giggles filling the air.

“Hey, Elara! Bet you can’t catch me!” Another boy from town, Eamon, called out, his face lighting up with a challenge.

“Oh, we’ll see about that!” Elara grinned as she stood herself up off the ice, pushing herself to run faster. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she didn’t care. Why would she? She was here, down in the city, away from the House of Wind and Miss Rellian and the rest of her tutors. She was with her friends.

It was perfect.

But then, as she ran across the ice, her foot slipped on a thin patch. Her heart lurched as she felt the surface give way beneath her, the ice cracking with a sickening sound.

Before she could register what was happening, before she could attempt to regain her balance, she plunged into the icy water, the shock of the cold stealing her breath in an instant.

She could feel the ice in her veins as she struggled to keep her head above water.

“Elara!” Conn shouted, his face pale with fear as he and Fiona skidded to a halt, the compromised ice groaning under their weight.

Elara flapped her wings desperately, trying to lift herself out of the water. If she could just launch herself into the air…

She could feel the cold seeping into her bones, the water lapping at her wings. She tried to rise, but her muscles weren't strong enough. Her wings, soaked and heavy, only dragged her down further. She felt herself starting to sink, the freezing water clawing at her with icy fingers.

She tried to kick, tried to swim, but the cold sapped her strength. Her muscles felt sluggish, her limbs numb and unresponsive the longer she remained in the water. She could see the jagged edge of the ice above her, just out of reach. It didn't matter anyway.

Each movement she took seemed to drag her further down.

Panic surged through her, a desperate, wild fear. Her chest burned, her lungs screaming for air. She clawed at the water. The cold was unbearable, numbing her limbs and making it hard to think, to focus on anything other than the overwhelming need to breathe.

“Elara!” Fiona’s voice joined Conn’s, both crying out for help, their faces stricken with terror as they watched her struggle. The ice around them groaned once more, threatening to break under their weight if they moved any closer.

Through her blurry, tear-filled vision, she saw a dark shadow —the silhouette of wings— pass overhead. Her heart skipped a beat, hope flaring briefly in her chest. Rhys, she thought. Her brother was here to rescue her.

She strained to see, to reach out, but the water was too cold, too heavy.

Boots crunched on the ice above her. She tried to focus, tried to see her brother’s familiar face, but her vision was fading, the cold stealing her strength.

Then, strong hands plunged into the water, grasping her with a grip that felt like a lifeline. She was pulled from the icy depths with a swift, powerful motion and cradled against a broad chest as they flew to the riverbank. Shivering uncontrollably, she clung to her savior, her small body drenched and cold.

They landed gently, and her savior wrapped her in his massive cloak. It was only when he stepped away that Elara could see the face of the male who has saved her… and her shoulders fell as she realized it wasn't her brother.  

She was swimming in the large Illyrian garment, her teeth chattering as she tried to pull away from Cassian, embarrassed and resentful.

The Illyrian warrior didn't seem to even notice her resistance, no matter how hard she tried. He was much bigger and stronger than her. Cassian only tucked the cloak around her tighter, with concern etched on his face as he asked, "What happened there?"

"I fell through the ice," She said, pointedly. Wasn't it obvious? Or was this warrior actually as dim as her father had said? But she felt the hardness thaw as she looked out to the now-Elara sized hole on the frozen Sidra and let out a shudder.

If Cassian hadn't been flying overhead when he did, she would have sunk into the river by now.

"I can see that," Cassian nodded, following her gaze to the spot on the ice where she had fallen through, "But why didn’t you fly out?"

"I can't," she said softly, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. "The water was too heavy."

Cassian was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. He secured the cloak around her, enveloping her in its warmth. As Cassian stood up, she glanced over at Conn and Fiona, who were watching from the riverbank, their faces full of concern.

The fun of the day had evaporated, leaving her cold, wet, and miserable.

---

Rhys couldn’t believe this.

He stormed through the halls of the House of Wind. His vision blurred with rage, and his mind replayed Cassian's frantic explanation over and over. Cassian had arrived at the House, shirt drenched and face pale, recounting how Elara had nearly drowned in the Sidra.

From what Cassian had relayed, the poor girl seemed frightened and embarrassed, and Rhys knew that he should probably go visit her – to make sure that she was alright. To comfort his little sister and tell her that there was nothing to be ashamed of, that it wasn't her fault. But he was still seeing red.

Because he knew whose fault it was.

He reached Silas' office and, without hesitation, threw open the door with a blast of his magic. The slam reverberated through the room, but Silas didn’t even look up from his work.

“She almost drowned today,” Rhys hissed through gritted teeth.

Silas continued writing, barely acknowledging him. “Who?”

Who? By the Cauldron, his father was a piece of work. Who else would Rhys have been talking about? What kind of male was he – what kind of father was he – that he didn't immediately get concerned about the safety of his children?

“Your daughter,” Rhys spat, his voice rising. “She fell through the ice on the Sidra today.”

Silas paused for a moment – not even bothering to look up from whatever he was doing, then resumed his writing as if Rhys’s words held no weight. “And she didn’t just fly out of the water?”

Rhys knew his father didn't understand the nuances of flying – the way that his wings twitched and fluttered at almost every sensation. Silas couldn't recognize that the Illyrians were keeping their wings up – not letting them drag on the ground – as a show of strength. He would never be able to understand just how much strength his own daughter needed to do the same.

How much strength it would take for her to lift herself up when tons of frozen water were weighing her down.

He'd never bothered to learn, for their sakes.

“No. She isn’t strong enough." Rhys’s fury boiled over. He slammed his palms down on the desk, leaning over it, his teeth bared. "She has not been allowed to train her wings or fly often enough to support heavier weight. You are putting her at risk.”

“That is absurd,” Silas said dismissively, his pen scratching across the paper.

“No, what is absurd is that you refuse to allow her to train.” Rhys’s voice was a dangerous growl. He straightened up, pacing the room. “By her age, I already had a sword in hand. But you deny Elara even the most basic of training. And for what? Because you’re ashamed of your children’s heritage?”

Silas’s face turned red, a vein throbbing at his temple. He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing.

“My daughter does not need to train,” he snapped. “She will be looked after—she will be provided for. And when she makes a good match, her husband will do the sa—”

“And you,” Rhys interrupted, stepping closer to his father, “would be so sure this random male you choose for her won’t hurt her? Who do you plan to marry her off to? Who will make the best match? A son of the High Lord of Spring? Or better yet, one of Beron's whelps? Do you really need me to explain what they are like? How they treat their females?”

Silas’s face deepened to a furious purple. He slammed his fists onto the desk, his eyes blazing with anger. Finally – some sort of reaction out of him.

“You would leave your own child—part of your legacy—so defenseless?” Rhys pressed. He leaned in over the desk until he was almost nose to nose with Silas.

Silas sputtered, his words failing him. Rhys had to admit, he could some sick satisfaction at seeing his father so flustered and out of sorts.

"You dare question my decisions within my own House?" Silas growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhys met his father's gaze, unflinching. "When those decisions put my sister's life at risk, yes."

Silas's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with suppressed anger. "You think you know what's best for her?"

"I think she deserves a chance to defend herself," Rhys retorted,. "To save herself. And not rely on Cassian to pull her out of the water like he did today."

Silas's nostrils flared, but he said nothing, his silence speaking volumes.

Rhys gave him one last scathing look, then turned on his heel and walked out of the office, his wings snapping sharply against his back. He knew he had won this round, but the victory felt hollow.

Chapter 3

Summary:

El finds herself growing up a bit, and finds one of her friendships deepening into something... more.

Notes:

Ah! Thank you so much for all of your feedback for this fic. I know the first chapters are kind of slow, but I really wanted to establish Elara's personality before the War, and what she was like growing up, and her complicated relationship with Rhysand. And of course... because i can't go too long without writing about him, there's a little bit of Az at the end here.

** Revised: January 2025

525 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara’s hands flexed around the hilt of her practice sword, the worn leather biting into her palms as she adjusted her grip. Her breath came steady, though her heart pounded hard enough that she swore Conn could hear it.

The chill of the crisp morning air stung her cheeks, but she was still relatively warm – thanks to how fast she was moving. Her heart was pumping with the exertion of the morning's exercise, and she still had the feeling in her fingers.

In fact, she was doing very well for herself –she had not yet dropped her sword. Her heart was beating fast, yet she was not winded. She had come so far from where she had started.

They'd been at this for the better part of twenty minutes now, and she hadn't yet tired.

She could hear Fiona's laughter mingling with the clash of metal and the gruff instructions from their sword master, Alaric, who continually grumbled at the three of them to focus whenever they became distracted or overexcited.

It was easy to get overexcited these days.

She shifted her weight, her boots scraping against the dirt as Conn circled her. A playful smirk curved his lips, and the sunlight hit his hair just so, igniting it in shades of auburn and gold.

“Think you can keep up, Elara?” His voice carried that teasing edge, the one that made her stomach twist—not unpleasantly.

She bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a grin, raising her blade slightly. “We’ll see about that.”

Her eyes never left, her wings twitching with anticipation. Despite her father's grumblings, Alaric insisted that she train with her wings out, as she needed to know how to use what gave her the best advantage.

From the sidelines, Fiona’s laugh rang out, bright and carefree, mixing with the clang of blades and Alaric’s sharp corrections. “Eyes on him, Elara!” the swordmaster barked. “He’s trying to unnerve you!”

Alaric had been a surprising addition to her life, arriving soon after that humiliating incident on the ice.

That was six years ago now – she had just passed her thirteenth birthday – but her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment at the thought of having to be rescued by her brother's hulking friend, Cassian. She still couldn't look the Illyrian in the eye.

But not long after that day, her father had insisted that she start training, much to her surprise.

And to her delight.

Initially, she had begged to go to Illyria, her mother’s homeland, to train just like Rhys had done. It was only fair, after all. But her father refused, settling instead on hiring Alaric. She still resented not being able to train in the Illyrian mountains, but she also couldn't imagine not having the gruff Alaric in her life.

And training on the grounds of the House of Wind meant she could train with Fiona and Conn – who had become her favorite sparring partners.

Well, her only sparring partners.

"Ready?" Alaric’s voice cut through her thoughts.

"Come on, Elara, show me what you've got," Conn said, his tone both challenging and teasing.

She tightened her grip, her knuckles whitening against the dark leather. Conn lunged, his blade cutting through the air in a low arc. She sidestepped just in time, her heart leaping into her throat as she parried. Their swords collided with a satisfying clang, the vibration running up her arm.

“Not bad,” Conn said, that grin never faltering as he pressed her back a step. “But not good enough.”

Heat bloomed in her chest—part determination, part frustration. He was taller, stronger, and older by two years, but she was fast.

“Don’t get cocky,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes locked on his.

His blade came for her shoulder, but she was quicker, darting to the side and bringing her own sword up in a tight arc. Conn deflected easily, but his surprise was evident in the brief hitch of his movements.

“Better,” Alaric called out, his tone grudgingly approving.

"Stop showing off, Conn," Fiona called, rolling her eyes. Her sword lay strewn about somewhere on the sidelines, as Fiona never had much interest in training with the blade. She only stuck around because Elara and Conn were so competitive, and she was perfectly content to poke fun on the sidelines, "You’re just mad because she’s faster than you."

"Quiet, Fiona," Conn snapped, his cheeks reddening. He glanced back at Elara, but his gaze quickly shifted away when he saw that she was looking at him.

"Again," Alaric instructed with the wave of his hand; he often got tired of the bickering between the siblings. But once Conn and Fiona got going, it was a struggle to reign them in.

Conn seemed to listen though, as he lifted the practice sword once more and began to advance on her.

Elara’s heart pounded as she saw an opening. Conn was tiring, his strikes becoming sloppy.

She crouched slightly, muscles coiling as the cold seeped through her boots into the soles of her feet. When Conn advanced again, his sword angled high for a feint, she didn’t fall for it. Instead, she dropped low and swept her leg out.

The satisfying thud of Conn hitting the ground was nearly drowned out by the clatter of his sword spinning across the stone yard. Elara darted forward, kicking it further out of reach—straight to Fiona, who caught it with an arched brow and a smirk.

It probably wasn't her most impressive disarmament, but at least she got the job done.

"Got you," she said, a triumphant grin spreading across her face as she turned to Alaric, feeling a rush of pride. She glanced back at Conn, expecting him to be impressed by her newest maneuver.

But before she could savor her victory, something barreled into her. The impact knocked the air from her lungs as she hit the ground hard, Conn’s weight pinning her shoulders.

Her mind reeled. Conn’s face hovered inches above hers, flushed with a mix of frustration and, perhaps, embarrassment at being bested. The cold stone pressed into her back, and her heart raced—not just from the surprise.

"Not so fast," he growled, his voice low, almost teasing, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his annoyance.

“Get off me!” she cried, but the laughter bubbling in her voice made it sound less like a command and more like a plea. She swatted at his chest, her fists connecting harmlessly with his padded tunic

"Enough, Conn," Alaric’s voice was firm as he stepped in.

Conn sprang back, muttering something under his breath, his face a brilliant shade of red. Elara pushed herself up, brushing dust from her trousers, her cheeks burning. She stole a glance at Conn, whose eyes quickly became interested in the boots he was wearing.

"You and Fiona head inside," Alaric instructed. Conn shot Elara one last, unreadable look before he turned and walked off, Fiona following close behind with a scowl aimed at her brother. As they left the training grounds, Elara could hear the echoes of Fiona's voice – tormenting her brother for getting beaten by a girl.

The reminder made Elara stand a little taller.

Alaric stepped forward, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped a smudge of dirt from Elara’s cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, given the gruff tone that he usually used for their lessons. "You did well, Elara. Your reflexes have improved a lot since I first started training you. I'm proud of you."

Elara beamed at the compliment, feeling a swell of pride. She wasn’t sure she had heard anyone ever say those words to her before. If she was improving – if she had gotten strong enough… The question was out of her mouth before she even really had time to think about it. "Do you think... maybe you could talk to my father? Convince him to let me train in Illyria? Like Rhys?"

"Is my training not good enough anymore?" Alaric mocked offense as he laughed, putting a hand over his heart.

"Come on, now." Elara rolled her eyes at Alaric's attempt at humor. It was so unlike their sword master to make jokes – he was usually the one to stop the playful banter in favor of more serious training. "You know what I mean."

"Elara, your father wants you here – in Velaris – where it's safe." Alaric's expression softened, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "This is where he believes you belong, as a lady of the court."

Her smile faltered at the mention of her place – the role that she would someday be expected to take up. These days training with Alaric or roaming the streets of the Rainbow of Velaris with Fiona… they felt like a tease. The threat of marriage still hung over her head. “But all this training—what's the point? They still prepare me for marriage, nothing else.”

Alaric put a hand on her shoulder, searching her eyes, "Don't you want to get married? Have children of your own some day?"

Elara's cheeks flushed crimson – she hadn't expected to talk about this with Alaric of all people. The truth was that she had thought about the idea of marriage – she had been groomed since birth to think about it. But it was always an abstract concept – something far off in the future, not to worry about.

For most of her life, she hadn't even thought about boys in that way, the idea too gross for her to even truly give credence to it. But now – she was thirteen. Her mother had broached the topic of marriage more – Miss Rellian had even begun to discuss the prospect.

And the more she thought about it, the more she could imagine that kind of life for herself. Especially if it was a marriage to –

No, she didn't even want to give voice to that thought.

Alaric’s hand lingered on her shoulder, his grip reassuring. “Elara, remember this: you’re not just training for someone else’s expectations. You’re doing this because it makes you happy. That’s never a waste of time.”

---

523 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara bustled through the crowded streets of Velaris, her breath forming little clouds in the crisp winter air. The city was alive with Solstice preparations. She could hear music – accompanied by the faint sound of sleighbells – from one of the shops and it made her heart swell.

It was her favorite time of year.

She wasn't a fan of the stuffy family dinner that she'd be forced to attend, despite her mother's best efforts to make the night just a little bit warmer. She was sure that she'd be subjected to more awkward dinner conversations about her many tutors or listening to Silas drone on about trade deals with the cities across the Continent. And she was most certainly not looking forward to the requisite trip to the Hewn City in two days' time.

There was certainly nothing festive about that.

But she loved watching people this time of year – to see their excitement for the holiday as plain as day on their faces as they sought the perfect Solstice presents to give to their loved ones. She loved the music that performers played in the street, and the general feeling of warmth that this time of year seemed to bring to everyone else.

Elara had come to Velaris with a specific mission in mind: to gather gifts for her family.

So far, her haul included blank journals for Fiona, who was always scribbling away, new sewing needles for her mother, a fine bottle of aged whisky for her father, and custom leather cuffs for Conn.

She had just picked up the cuffs from a shop in the Palace of Thread and Jewels. The leather was soft, the stitching impeccable, and she had the shop wrap them up nicely – far nicer than she would have ever been able to do on her own. They had been expensive – far more expensive than the gifts she had gotten for anyone else – but it had been worth it.

The stitching on Conn's pair had been coming apart at training, and it had been getting in the way of fighting – even Alaric had noticed.

Conn would love them; she was sure of it.

Elara paused, mentally ticking off the gifts in her mind. Journals, needles, whisky, cuffs... Shit. She cursed to herself as she realized she had forgotten someone—her brother.

She suppressed a groan, bringing a hand to her mouth. Did she really need to get him something? There was no guarantee that Rhys would even show up to the family dinner. He hadn’t bothered to come to the last one, preferring to spend the evening with his friends at the cabin.

What did they even do there that was so enthralling? Hunt? Drink? Sit around basking in their own importance? The thought soured her mood further. Not that she would ever know—Rhys had never invited her, not once.

If he couldn't be bothered to care, why should she?

Still, she had to get him something. There was a little voice in her head – one that sounded eerily like Miss Rellian – that was insisting that not getting a gift for her brother was in poor form. Even when he hadn't bothered to attend last year, he had still sent Elara gifts – a beautiful hair pin that doubled as a small dagger.

She never wore it – not knowing what even to wear it to – but it was a nice gesture all the same. 

What would Rhys even like? She glanced at the storefronts lining the street, her mind racing as it tried to find something. She didn’t know him well enough to know what he would appreciate.

Determined, she pushed through the door of the next store, the warm air inside carrying the mingled scents of pine and leather. People bustled about, their chatter filling the space. Shelves crowded with trinkets and tools stretched to the ceiling, but nothing immediately screamed Rhysand.

“El!” a voice called from across the shop.

Elara’s head snapped up. Conn was weaving through the crowd toward her, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his grin wide and disarming.

Her own cheeks flushed, but not from the cold.

“Happy Solstice,” he said, offering her a warm smile.

“Happy Solstice,” she replied, feeling a bit flustered and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “What are you doing here?”

“Just picking up a few last-minute gifts,” Conn said, holding up a small, wrapped package. “You?”

“Same. I almost forgot a gift for my brother,” she admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed as she glanced down at her hands.

But Conn hadn't seemed to notice as he took her arm – ever the gentleman – and they began wandering through the shop together, moving from one display to another.

Elara found herself stealing glances at Conn, noticing the way his eyes lit up as he talked about his family's plans for Solstice, which sounded infinitely better than her own. He seemed so at ease, so comfortable, and she wished she could feel the same.

“So, what are you giving Fiona?” Conn asked, picking up a small trinket and examining it, turning it over in his hands.

“Journals. She’s always writing something,” Elara said with a grin, imagining her friend’s delighted expression. “How about you? What did you get your sister?”

“New paints,” Conn said, his voice tinged with affection. “She’s been really into art lately.”

“That’s nice. I’m sure she’ll love them,” Elara said. His consideration for his sister made her heart swell a bit.

As they continued browsing, Elara’s eyes landed on a beautifully crafted whetstone. Her eyes flicked over to the sign on the display – it was enchanted too, to always create the sharpest edges on a blade. She picked it up, running her fingers over the smooth, polished surface.

“This would be perfect for Alaric,” she murmured, more to herself than to Conn, but loud enough for him to hear.

Conn peered over her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear. “A whetstone? That’s a great idea. He’ll love it.”

She smiled, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction. “I hope so. He’s done so much for me. It feels like I can never repay him.”

They moved to another section of the shop, their steps falling in sync. Elara’s gaze landed on a display of woolen socks, neatly folded and stacked in a small pyramid. She reached for a pair, the soft fabric warm against her fingertips.

“Maybe these for Rhys,” she murmured, almost to herself. The words sounded flat, even to her. But surely Rhys could use a new pair of socks?

Conn, ever attuned, picked up on it. “Socks?” His tone held a teasing lilt as he leaned closer, inspecting the pair in her hands. “You picked out a thoughtful gift for Alaric, but your brother deserves... socks?”

A small laugh escaped her.

“They’re practical,” she said, brushing off the comment.

Conn raised a brow, his grin widening. “I could help you pick something less practical. Something that says... effort.”

She rolled her eyes, but the flutter in her chest betrayed her. She really did not want to think about her brother right now. “Thanks, but I think the socks will do. He doesn’t exactly make himself easy to shop for.”

Conn chuckled, his hand brushing hers as he reached to examine the stack of socks himself.

She tucked the chosen pair under her arm and moved toward the counter to pay, acutely aware of Conn trailing behind her.

After the transaction, they lingered by a display of ornaments glittering under a strand of fae lights. Conn stopped abruptly, his hand shooting out to point. “Elara,” he said, his voice bright with excitement. “Look at this one. It’s got little wings—just like yours.”

Her lips curved into a genuine smile as she stepped closer, peering at the ornament. Delicate and intricately carved, it caught the light, the etched wings glinting like they might flutter at any moment.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, her fingers brushing its edge.

Conn didn’t reply immediately. When she glanced at him, he wasn’t looking at the ornament. His gaze was fixed on her, soft and unguarded in a way that made her pulse stumble.

“It is,” he said, his voice quiet, barely audible above the rustling and chatter of the shop. She quickly turned back to the display, pretending to study the other ornaments, but her heart pounded so hard she wondered if Conn could hear it.

She plucked a random piece off the shelf, holding it up as a distraction. “This one’s nice too,” she said, her voice pitched higher than usual.

After they left the shop, Conn continued to walk with her. They strolled through the bustling streets of Velaris, making small talk. Elara matched Conn’s pace as they strolled, her steps unhurried for once.

It felt natural, walking with Conn like this. She’d known him for years at this point, could recall vividly the first time she’d met him and Fiona. That giddy thrill of finally having friends hadn’t faded, but lately, there was a different kind of excitement when Conn was near.

As they neared one of the bridges arching over the river, Conn slowed, stopping at the railing. The Sidra flowed beneath them, reflecting the starlight above. He turned to her, his hands tucked into his coat, his expression somewhere between nervous and pleased.

“You know,” he said, a little hesitantly, “I actually have something for you.”

Elara blinked, caught off guard. “For me?”

Without a word, he pulled a small, carefully wrapped parcel from his cloak. The paper was plain, but the neatness of the folds and the dark ribbon tied around it.

Her cheeks warmed as she took it, the ribbon smooth against her fingers as she worked to untie it. She tried to steady her hands, but excitement made them tremble slightly. When she finally unwrapped it, her breath caught.

A bracelet lay nestled inside, crafted from soft leather that gleamed faintly in the lamplight. Intricate whirls and patterns were etched into the band, simple yet impossibly elegant. She ran her thumb over the designs, marveling at the care in each groove.

“Conn,” she whispered, looking up at him, her voice soft. “This is... It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Elara slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, the leather cool and supple against her skin. It fit perfectly, as if it had been crafted just for her. She turned her arm slightly, admiring the way the designs caught the light.

Immediately, it had become her most valuable possession.

“I’ll wear it every day,” she said, glancing up at him.

His grin was warm and genuine, the kind of smile that could make the chill of winter melt away. Behind him, the lights of Velaris shimmered in the darkness, but they seemed dim compared to the quiet brightness in his eyes.

“I hoped you would,” Conn replied, his voice quieter now.

Feeling a surge of courage, she remembered the gift she had for Conn and smiled.

Elara hesitated for a moment, then took a steadying breath. With a flick of her fingers, she summoned the small parcel into her palm.

“Actually,” she began, holding out the parcel, “I have something for you, too.”

Conn’s brows lifted in surprise, his lips parting slightly. “El, you didn’t have to—”

“Happy Solstice,” she interrupted, her cheeks warming under his gaze. She shifted her weight, resisting the urge to glance away as she watched him take the gift from her hand.

He unwrapped it slowly, the paper crinkling softly in the quiet between them. When he pulled back the last layer and revealed the leather cuffs, his mouth curved into a wide grin. The cuffs were sturdy yet elegant, the dark leather etched with subtle, swirling designs similar to those on her bracelet.

Conn let out a soft laugh, holding the cuffs up to the light. His eyes darted between them and her wrist. “We really were thinking the same thing, weren’t we?”

Elara’s laugh came unbidden, light and easy, even as heat crept up her neck. “Looks like it,” she said, unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

“These are incredible,” Conn said, sliding one cuff over his wrist and fastening the laces. He flexed his hand, testing the fit. The leather hugged his arm snugly, the craftsmanship impeccable. He ran a finger over the etched designs, his expression earnest. “Thank you, El. I really love them.”

She beamed, pleased —probably more than she should be— that he liked her gift. “I’m glad.”

They continued wandering through the bustling streets of Velaris, past shops adorned with twinkling fae lights and festive decorations. Elara was in her element, and Conn had humored her as she continued to people watch. Her attention darted from one sight to another—the children chasing each other around a towering evergreen, the hawkers calling out their wares, the small family huddled by a fire, hands outstretched for warmth.

She caught his smirk more than once as she paused to watch the street performers or lingered by a particularly charming display of trinkets. He didn’t complain—Conn never did—but when the mouthwatering scent of spiced cider wafted through the air, he seized the opportunity.

“Wait here,” he said, already making his way to the hawker stall before she could protest.

She tried not to smile as he returned moments later, a steaming cup in hand. “Your royal cider, milady,” he teased, handing it to her with an exaggerated bow.

Elara laughed, taking the cup and savoring the warmth that seeped into her chilled fingers. The cider was sweet and spicy, each sip chasing away the bite of the cold. “I could get used to this,” she said, glancing up at him.

“You being pampered? I’d say it suits you,” Conn replied, his grin mischievous.

Elara nudged his arm lightly, shaking her head as they continued walking.

When they reached one of the bridges over the Sidra, they stopped again, this time leaning against the railing and looking out over the frozen river.

Conn turned to her, his expression thoughtful. “You know, this has been one of the best Solstices I can remember – and it isn't even Solstice yet,” he said softly.

 “Me too,” she admitted with a laugh, trying to ignore how her heart skipped a beat as she looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the shimmering lights.

Conn smiled, his eyes meeting hers. “Thanks for spending it with me.”

“Thank you for the bracelet,” she said, touching the leather on her wrist, feeling its warmth against her skin.

 

Notes:

I somehow managed to write this during my two day (and still going strong) panic attack and this isn't beta'd so I apologize for any errors!

Chapter 4

Summary:

Rhys learns something about his little sister; the War begins.

Notes:

There are a couple of time jumps in this chapter, just warning you!

***** Revised: January 2025

521 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara could not believe it. How could they?

She stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her. The echoes of Hewn City – that vile, horrid place - still buzzed in her mind. It was as if she could still hear their twisted laughter in her ears. She didn’t even want to know how many baths it would take to get the feel of that wretched court off her skin.

Her cloak hit the floor in a heap, and she clawed at the high collar of her dress, the lace of it scratching against her throat. She caught her reflection in the mirror—painted lips, kohl-lined eyes, everything that was decidedly not her.

She had to turn away.

She hated every minute of those visits, despising the cold, calculating mask she had to wear.

She hadn't minded it when she was younger – it had felt like playing dress up, getting to wear a costume, and it had meant she got to see her cousin, Mor. Seeing her was the only bright spot in those dark visits, but even then, they could only be themselves behind closed doors.

Now that she was older, it was like she was under even more scrutiny – the leers from members of Keir's court become more brazen.

She’d caught the High Lord of Autumn’s emissary staring today—his gaze lingering far too long. Her stomach churned at the memory.

And the talk—Mother above, the talk.

Today had been the worst of it with the talk of Mor’s betrothal to the High Lord of Autumn’s eldest son still ringing in her ears. Keir had orchestrated the match, and the deal was all but done. But tradition dictated that even Keir needed the High Lord's approval for the betrothal to move forward. Her father, for his part, gave it without any hesitation.

“Mor’s betrothal to the eldest son of Beron Vanserra will unite our courts,” Keir had said, his voice oily with self-satisfaction. “A strategic alliance of unprecedented strength.”

Elara could still hear her father’s voice, warm and jovial as he gave his approval, as if selling his niece off like a broodmare was an accomplishment to be celebrated. Silas had even toasted to the match, his wineglass gleaming under the black chandeliers of Hewn City.

And then Keir—his voice grating and smug—had turned to her.

“Elara’s future will be next to secure. I have several fine candidates, well-placed in the Court of Nightmares.”

Her throat tightened at the memory, her hands curling into fists. Her father merely nodded along, as if it were a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having and discussing her like she was a prized possession to be traded.

Even her mother’s unease had been hidden behind the practiced neutrality of her expression. Only her fingers—tightly gripping the stem of her goblet—had betrayed her.

And Rhys. He’d lounged on his throne, his expression bored as they planned her fate. He hadn’t even glanced her way, as if she wasn’t even there.

Elara bit the inside of her cheek, forcing the anger back down. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t rage. Not there.

And Elara had to keep silent— feigning her own cool disinterest— when the entire time she had wanted to scream. But she couldn’t. Silas would have never forgiven the outburst, and it would have made it entirely worse for Elara. He might’ve even married her off right there for her defiance.

She paced to the bed, her breath shallow. Her fingers traced the braided leather bracelet on her wrist, the familiar texture grounding her. It wasn’t enough.

Elara stood abruptly. That day — it had already been too much, and she still couldn’t escape the lingering thoughts about the Hewn City. The black dress that had been picked for her now clung to her like a funeral shroud. She didn’t bother changing; instead, she stepped out onto her balcony and closed her eyes, summoning her wings.

Cold air rushed over her, sharp and bracing. She closed her eyes and let the wind bite her cheeks. Her wings unfurled, their shimmer catching the moonlight.

They unfurled from her back, shimmering in the moonlight, and she felt a familiar thrill course through her. The ache in her chest eased as they stretched wide.

She needed to get out of here.

She'd pay for it later – if Silas ever found out that she had snuck out of the House without permission.

But she didn't care — she had been sneaking out for more than a few months now. The cold air hit her face as she took off, and she reveled in the sensation. Perhaps, she the air would get the stench of Hewn off her. The wind whipped through her hair, lifting it from her shoulders. She soared higher, the city of Velaris spread out beneath her.  

Streets teemed with life, laughter spilling from taverns, windows glowing with quiet domesticity. Her chest tightened. All those lives, whole and steady, while hers unraveled thread by thread.

She climbed higher, chasing the weightlessness that only the sky could offer.

Flying was freedom—pure, unfiltered. It was hers alone. Something that her father could not take from her, despite how much he tried.  She angled her wings, dipping into a slow roll, then straightened. The stars spun as she looped, the world tilting and righting itself in her periphery. Her lips twitched, almost smiling, as the wind roared around her.

For a while, she flew aimlessly, letting the night sky envelop her.

She twisted and turned, performing lazy loops and rolls that made her feel more alive than she had all night. The moon cast a silver glow on the river below, and the city lights flickered like a thousand tiny stars.

Elara tipped her head back, letting the cold air fill her lungs, chasing away the stifling remnants of the day.

Eventually, her flight carried her toward familiar territory—a quiet townhome on a tucked-away street. The warm glow of a single lamp spilled from a window, pooling onto the cobblestones below. Elara hovered, her wings barely stirring the air as she peered inside.

Fiona sat on her bed, a book open in her lap. Her brow furrowed in concentration, oblivious to the world outside.

Elara’s heart twisted, but she ignored it, tapping lightly on the glass.

Fiona startled, her head snapping up. Her eyes widened, first in surprise, then in worry, as she set the book aside and crossed the room. She unlatched the window, the cold air rushing in as she pushed it open.

“Elara,” Fiona whispered, her voice soft and tinged with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Elara stepped in, her wings brushing the frame before folding neatly behind her. She barely made it to the bed before collapsing onto it, her legs tucked under her. Her breaths came quick, her mind still caught between the sky and the memory of Hewn City. “Everything,” she murmured, her voice muffled against Fiona’s quilt.

Fiona sat down beside her, tucking one leg under the other as she reached for the book she’d abandoned. She placed it on the bedside table without a glance. “Start from the beginning,” she said quietly.

Elara shifted, lifting her head just enough to look at Fiona.

“They started talking about my marriage,” she began, her voice thick with frustration. “Keir—of all people—threw out names like it was some casual trade deal. And my father? He just… nodded along, like it made perfect sense. Like I wasn’t even in the room.”

Fiona frowned, her dark brows knitting together. “What names?”

“Does it even matter?” Elara’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Keir’s idea of ‘suitable matches’ all come from the Court of Nightmares. Probably some sadistic male who thinks ‘courting’ means wielding power over me.”

Fiona’s fingers tightened around her knee. “That’s disgusting. And your father? He just sat there?”

Fiona's father was well to do – but the male had never once suggested that Fiona would be forced to marry for some kind of business advantage. Fiona had never been able to wrap her head around Silas' machinations for his daughter. She was so envious of that – of the family that Fiona and Conn had been born into.

Elara nodded, the words clogging her throat. “He didn’t just sit there, Fiona. He smiled. Agreed like it was nothing. Like my life isn’t my own.” Her wings shifted restlessly, brushing against the bedposts. “Even my mother didn’t say anything. And Rhys…”

She trailed off, anger mixing with something more fragile.

Fiona leaned closer. “What about Rhys?”

“He didn’t care,” Elara whispered, her voice raw. “He sat there bored, like it wasn’t worth his attention. Like I wasn’t worth it.”

Fiona reached for her hand, holding it tightly between her own. “Elara, you are worth so much more than any of them realize. You know that, right?”

Elara huffed out a breath, but it didn’t quite hold. “Sometimes I don’t know, Fiona. Not when they talk about me like that, decide my life for me like I’m some kind of bargaining chip.”

Fiona squeezed her hand harder, her voice sharpening. “You are not a bargaining chip. And if your father or Keir—or anyone—tries to force you into something, Conn and I will make sure you have a way out.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Elara knew that, when it came down to it, there was nothing that her friends could do. The choice didn't belong to them – it didn't even belong to her, really. Unless she somehow magically found her mate before being carted off and forced to marry there was nothing to be done for her.

As if that would ever happen.

But as she sat there, Fiona’s steady presence beside her, Elara let herself imagine it anyway.

A knock at the door interrupted them and Conn’s head appeared, his hair mussed, as though he’d just woken, though his amber eyes were bright and alert. “Knew I heard voices.”

Elara straightened instinctively, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her knees. She tucked her wings away, freeing up space as Conn slipped inside and perched on the edge of the bed.

He leaned back casually, his shoulder brushing hers, and Elara felt it like a spark. Warmth spread across her skin, and she fought to keep her expression neutral.

Conn’s gaze darted between them. “What are we talking about?”

Elara glanced at Fiona, but her friend only rolled her eyes and plucked at the quilt. “Nothing exciting. Elara was being all broody again.” Fiona shot her friend a look, grateful — she hadn’t wanted to explain the intricacies of courting to Conn, after all.

Conn turned to Elara, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You? Broody? Never.”

Elara nudged him with her elbow, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened at his nearness. “If you’re going to be annoying, I’ll leave.”

“Not a chance.” His grin widened as he wrapped an arm around her to keep her from wriggling in the bed, and she felt herself smile despite everything.

“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” Elara asked, needing the distraction but also desperate to keep the conversation going.

Fiona shrugged casually. “I’m happy here in Velaris.”

Elara nodded, unsurprised by her friend's answer. Fiona made her feelings on training, and travel, very clear.

Conn stretched out beside Elara, his arm brushing against hers. “I’d go to the mortal lands.”

Elara felt her pulse quicken at the simple touch, and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, taking in the way his eyes sparkled with excitement. His presence was electric, making her heart flutter.

“Why?” Fiona wrinkled her nose. “You can see humans in other courts—they're slaves.”

Conn leaned back on his hands, his gaze distant as he spoke. “I’ve heard stories—from traders who’ve been there. Cities with towering castles, marketplaces that stretch for miles, filled with things we’d never even dream of. And the people… they’re not all dull. Some fight back. Some rise above their stations. They have this… grit. I’d like to see it for myself.”

Elara watched him as he spoke, the way his eyes lit up and his voice carried a quiet wonder. She tried to focus on his words, but her attention kept snagging on the curve of his smile, the faint rumble of his laugh as Fiona made a face at him.

“Humans are trouble,” Fiona muttered, leaning back against her headboard. “You’d probably get yourself killed.”

Conn only shrugged, his shoulder brushing Elara’s again. “Maybe. But wouldn’t it be worth it? To see something new?”

Elara’s gaze lingered on Conn. She tried to imagine the humans he spoke of—their defiance, their will to fight. Slavery had been outlawed in the Night Court longer than she’d been alive, and her life had been so carefully confined within its borders that the idea of mortals, of their struggles, had always felt distant—irrelevant.

But now, listening to Conn speak, they didn’t feel distant at all.

“They want to fight back?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Conn nodded, his amber eyes catching hers, steady and alight with something that made her chest tighten. “They do. They know the odds are stacked against them, but they still believe they can change things. It’s reckless and dangerous, sure, but... it’s something.”

The way he said it—soft but resolute—sent a shiver through her. She leaned forward without meaning to, the space between them shrinking.

As Conn talked about the tales he’d heard, Elara’s thoughts drifted inward. What would it feel like, she wondered, to fight for something with that kind of passion? To pour yourself into a cause, even when the odds were against you? The idea both thrilled and unsettled her.

“They’re brave,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.

“They are,” Conn agreed, his voice softening. “Bravery is sometimes all we have.”

For all that talk of freedom, Elara’s spirits lifted, the weight of the day easing. The soft glow of Fiona’s bedside lamp cast a cozy light on the room, and Elara found herself sinking deeper into the comfort of her friends' presence. The laughter and idle chatter had chased away her earlier frustration, and for a moment, she felt a rare sense of peace.

She always felt that way around Conn and Fiona.

Conn shifted beside her, and the faint brush of his arm against hers sent a spark zipping through her skin.

Fiona spoke up then, her tone light and teasing. “You’re both getting awfully philosophical for the middle of the night.”

Elara smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. Conn chuckled, low and warm, and the sound made something flutter in her chest.

Her gaze drifted to the ornate timepiece on the mantle. The hour was later than she’d thought. She groaned softly, the spell of comfort broken.

“I should get back,” she murmured, reluctant to move. The thought of returning to the House of Wind—of slipping back into its cold silence—made her chest tighten. She could only hope her father was already asleep so that she could sneak back in with no issue.

Fiona squeezed her hand, offering a sympathetic smile. “You’ll be okay, El.”

Elara nodded and stood, stretching her arms to stave off the lingering tension in her shoulders. She hated this part—leaving. Leaving the warmth of her friends, the rare peace of being herself, even for a little while.

 

“I’ll walk you out,” Conn said, already on his feet.

Elara opened her mouth to protest, gesturing to the window. “I can fly. I came in that way; I’ll leave the same.” She tried to sound casual, though the thought of Conn walking her out had sent her pulse skittering.

Conn just shook his head, his grin lopsided and easy, “No more sneaking.”

Elara opened her mouth to protest, gesturing to the window. “I can fly. I came in that way; I’ll leave the same.” She tried to sound casual, though the thought of Conn walking her out had sent her pulse skittering.

Conn just shook his head, his grin lopsided and easy. “No sneaking tonight,” he said, his tone teasing but firm.

He led the way, and Elara followed, trailing slightly behind him down the narrow hall. The house felt quieter now, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound until they stepped out into the night.

Velaris shimmered under the stars, lanterns casting their light across the cobblestone streets.

They stopped just outside the doorway. She wasn’t sure why she felt so aware of him—the brush of his shoulder against hers, the way he tilted his head slightly to look at her.

Conn had grown – he was no longer the little boy who used to tackle her in a fit of jealous rage when he lost as sword play. And she was no longer that same little girl either…

When had that happened?

Conn stopped abruptly, turning to face her. The movement was so sudden that Elara nearly walked into him. His eyes searched hers for a moment before dropping to her wrist. A smile tugged at his lips when they landed on the leather bracelet she always wore — his Solstice gift.

Two years had passed, and she hadn’t taken it off, not once.

"Elara," he began softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made her breath catch.

She tilted her head, her voice low when she answered, “What is it?”

He stepped closer, closing the space between them. Slowly, his hand reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, warm against her skin. The faintest shiver ran down her spine as his touch lingered, and before she could think better of it, she leaned into his hand.

“You deserve to be happy,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of her cheekbone.

Her heart stuttered. Had he overheard her with Fiona? She wanted to ask but couldn’t find the words. His eyes held her captive, their intensity enough to unravel her thoughts. His gaze flickered down then back to her, as if waiting.

Her breath caught.

Conn leaned in, slowly enough that she could have stepped away. She didn’t. She couldn’t. The world around them seemed to dissolve, leaving only the sound of her racing heartbeat and the quiet rasp of his breathing.

 

When his lips met hers, it was soft, tentative—barely a brush of warmth. Elara’s eyes fell shut, and something inside her unfurled. His hand slid to her jaw, thumb stroking her skin in slow, soothing circles.

His other hand settled at the small of her back, pulling her close. Her hands found his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palms anchoring her in the moment.

Conn tasted faintly of mint and something sweeter, something unmistakably him. She responded instinctively, her lips answering his in a rhythm that felt so incredibly natural.

When they finally broke apart, it was unhurried. Neither moved far. Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the cool night air. Elara opened her eyes to find Conn watching her, his gaze bright, vulnerable, and full of something that left her dizzy.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, his voice low, nearly lost in the soft rustle of leaves around them.

Elara smiled, a wide, genuine smile that reached her eyes. A warmth spread through her chest, mixing with the lingering sensation of his lips on hers. She reached up, brushing her fingers lightly against his cheek.

"I'm glad you did," she replied softly.

With a lightness in her step, Elara took a few steps back from Conn. She turned towards the open sky, summoning her wings with a flicker of magic.

“I should go,” she murmured, the words catching slightly in her throat.

Conn nodded, though his expression remained unreadable, his jaw set but his eyes soft. “Fly safe, Elara.”

There was something in the way he said her name that made her heart stutter. She nodded, a flicker of mischief sparking in her gaze despite the heaviness of parting.

Her wings flared wide, catching the faint light of the street lamps. With a powerful beat, she launched herself into the air. The wind rushed to meet her, cold and bracing, but it couldn’t touch the quiet heat still humming beneath her skin.

The city stretched below her in a patchwork of golden light and shadow.

She glanced back once, catching Conn's silhouette against the backdrop of the townhouse, his face illuminated by a soft glow from the fae lights on the street. A smile touched her lips as she turned forward again, towards home.

---

“What news from the other courts?” the High Lord asked, his voice calm but expectant.

Azriel stood at attention, his expression betraying none of the tension he sensed from his brother earlier in the evening. His wings were folded neatly behind him, and his hands were clasped in front of him, the picture of control.

“The King of Hybern has elevated a new general,” Azriel said, his tone flat, factual. “A female. Ruthless, cunning, and dangerously ambitious. Her rise has unsettled several of his inner circle.”

Silas tapped a finger against the armrest of his chair, the soft sound amplified by the quiet of the study. “Do we know her plans?”

 

“Not yet,” Azriel replied. “Only that her strategies are said to be unpredictable—bordering on reckless..”

He'd been summoned tonight to give his report, not long after Rhys and his family had returned from the Hewn City. Rhys had declared the visit rather uneventful, though Azriel knew it had taken all of his brother's control to suppress his fury at the mention of not just Mor’s betrothal to Eris but the talk of a potential match for Elara from Hewn.

Azriel could still feel the residual anger radiating from Rhys as he recounted the story earlier.

The worst part was, Rhys had seethed, was that Elara had been an open book the entire visit. Her mind shields were down and Rhys could sense the disdain radiating off her – the disappointment that her brother hadn't stepped up to put an end to the conversation.

Azriel had listened in silence as Rhys paced, the guilt rolling off his brother in waves. But what could Rhys have done? To openly challenge Silas, especially before Keir, would’ve been a disaster. Azriel understood that, even if Rhys couldn’t forgive himself for his supposed inaction.

Azriel hadn't seen Elara in years; she was often confined to the House of Wind or making her daily trips to Velaris to visit the few friends she had in the city. His shadows sometimes reported her movements, but he paid them no mind—what Rhys’s sister did was none of his concern.

“There’s unrest in the mortal cities,” Azriel said, his voice cutting cleanly through the stillness of the room. “The free humans are calling for the release of their kin still enslaved in other courts. The Black Lands, in particular, are growing restless. Whispers of rebellion are spreading.”

Silas grumbled, continuing to write at his desk. “There’s always talk of rebellion,” he muttered, dismissive. “Every few decades, the humans decide they’ve had enough. And yet, nothing ever changes. Why should this time be different?”

Azriel glanced out the window, spotting a winged figure approaching the House of Wind. His brow furrowed slightly, but Silas was still too engrossed in his writing to notice the change to his shadowsinger. He focused on the winged figure trying to determine who it was, and if they posed a threat.

Whoever it was, the figure was far too small to be Rhys or Cassian, and he knew Lyra was at home, a few floors above.

It is Elara of Night, his shadows supplied, Sneaky, sneaky Elara.

He masked his reaction, his expression cool as he turned back to Silas. “It appears this time, they may not be acting alone. My spies in the mortal realm have observed increasing contact between human leaders and Fae dissidents. This uprising has roots—and resources.”

Silas looked up, a gleam of interest in his eyes. For all his faults, Silas had never supported the use of human slaves and had banned them from his court, extending that authority even to the Hewn City, despite Keir's objections. It was one of the only reasons Azriel had felt comfortable serving Silas in this capacity.

That, and the knowledge that in due time, that same service would extend to Rhysand.

"Very well," Silas set his quill down, his gaze sharp. “Monitor the situation. If this so-called alliance gains traction, I want to know the moment it happens.”

Azriel inclined his head, already piecing together how to relay the orders to his network. Within hours, the first whispers would begin spreading through the mortal lands and beyond. Not that he expected swift developments—talks of rebellion, especially between humans and fae, were glacial at best. Distrust ran too deep on both sides.

"Is there anything else?" Silas asked, his tone dismissive.

Azriel’s gaze drifted to the window, but the winged silhouette was gone. Elara had vanished into the night as easily as she’d appeared. His shadows hummed softly in his ear, confirming it and Azriel let himself relax.

He knew Silas would probably want to know his daughter had been sneaking out to Cauldron-knows-where in the middle of the night. Azriel knew the kind of tight leash the High Lord kept when it came to his only daughter. Azriel also knew that he would likely be rewarded for that kind of information.

But he had heard Rhys talk about Elara and the oppressive way she lived under their father's thumb. He understood the need to escape from time to time, to carve out a life for herself, just as Rhys had.

Azriel kept his face impassive, his decision made. "Nothing more, my lord."

Silas nodded, and Azriel was dismissed.

Notes:

Ah! What's Elara going to do?

Let me know what you think!

Chapter 5

Summary:

the end of the War & it's aftermath

515 Years Before the Cursebreaker

“And when the girl finally outsmarted the wicked imp,” Conn murmured, his voice low and rich as his fingers traced lazy patterns across Elara’s bare shoulder, “she spun her way to freedom and lived happily ever after with the king.”

The two of them lay entwined in the silken sheets, with no other sounds but the gentle rustle of the fabric and Conn's soft voice. By the Cauldron, this was perfect. Conn's lips brushed against her hair as he recounted one of his favorite human fables - the tale of a mortal girl who spun straw into gold.

His warm breath tickled her scalp, sending shivers down her spine.

Elara let out a contented hum, her cheek pressed against his chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath her ear grounded her, as if this—this moment—was the only place she was meant to be. Her thumb moved in slow circles over the curve of his arm.

“You really love those human stories,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

Conn shifted, just enough to brush a strand of her hair away from her face. He pressed a kiss to her temple, soft and unhurried, and her pulse quickened.

“They’re simple, but they make sense,” he said, his lips lingering against her skin. “Good wins. Bad loses. No grey areas. Don’t tell me you’re not a little charmed by them too.”

Her lips quirked as she tilted her head to meet his gaze. “I think I’m more charmed by how much you love them,” she admitted, her voice teasing.

Conn chuckled, the sound low and intimate, as he cradled her face in his hand. His thumb brushed along her cheek. “Flattery, El? Trying to butter me up on your birthday?”

She laughed, the sound soft and breathy as she leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Well… it already is the best birthday ever. But why… is it working?” she murmured between kisses, loving the way the stubble of his jaw felt against her lips.

Conn’s hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair as he tilted her face to look at him.

“You don’t have to try,” he said, his voice dipping, his expression tender in a way that made her stomach flutter. “You could ask me for the moon, and I’d find a way to give it to you.”

His hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin in slow, gentle motions. She loved it when he said things like that – she never, once doubted what this was between them.

They lay there for a moment, the silence between them filled with that crazy daydream the both of them had – the one where they actually could be like this forever. Elara's heart swelled as she took in every detail of his face, every line and shadow that she had come to know so well. She reached up, tracing the curve of his cheek with her fingers, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her touch.

"Do you remember the first story you told me?" she asked, her voice a gentle whisper.

Conn chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath her ear. “The knight who faced down the Bogge to save his village,” he said, the corners of his mouth quirking into a faint smile. “Of course, I remember.”

She smiled too, her eyes closing as the memory washed over her. “I thought you were making it up to impress me.”

“Maybe I was,” Conn admitted, his hand sliding to cradle the back of her head as he pressed a kiss to her temple. His lips lingered there for a moment, the heat of him making heat pool once again in her lower belly. “But now I just want to make you happy.”

“You do,” she said, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes softened as she reached for his face, brushing her thumb along his cheekbone. “Every day.”

Conn’s arms tightened around her, pulling her closer until she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her hand. She nestled into him, her head finding its place against his chest. His fingers trailed idly along her arm, the light touch sending shivers down her skin.

She could think of no better way to spend her twentieth birthday than wrapped in his arms, away from the constant orders and expectations of her father. His fingers trailed lazily up and down her arm, sending gentle shivers through her skin. She felt truly content, her worries momentarily forgotten in the presence of the male she loved.

Her lashes grew heavy, her body melting into his warmth, when the sharp echo of footsteps shattered the stillness.

They were much too heavy – too purposeful – to be one of the servants.

“Shit—no one was supposed to be home for hours,” she whispered, her voice low but urgent. She bolted upright, scrambling to disentangle herself from Conn’s hold.

“El—” Conn started, his hand catching her wrist, but she was already moving, her bare feet hitting the cold floor.

Her father had left for Hewn City, dragging her mother along under the pretense of business. He’d wanted Elara to join them, no doubt to “learn” from his endless maneuvering and schemes, but she had managed—barely—to talk her way out of it.

Not on her birthday.

It was the last thing wanted. Especially if they were going to bring up those Cauldron blasted marriage prospects again – which always seemed to happen whenever she made the trip with her family to Hewn. She could almost hear her father’s voice outlining her future as if she had no say in the matter.

But now, it appeared, she had more pressing things to worry about than marriage proposals.

How were they home this early?

Her stomach churned as she yanked her dress from the floor, her heart hammering loud enough that she half-expected the footsteps outside to pause and hear it. Her arms fumbled through the sleeves, the fabric twisting and snagging in her rush.

“They shouldn’t be home,” she muttered, her breath coming fast. “Why are they home?”

She threw Conn's clothes at him, her hands shaking.

He caught them with practiced ease, a wry smirk tugging at his lips even as he pulled on his shirt.

He caught them midair, his shirt dangling from one hand as a crooked grin spread across his face. “You know,” he whispered, his voice low, teasing, “if you just let me talk to your father, we wouldn’t have to sneak around like this.”

Elara rolled her eyes, still fumbling with the laces of her corset. It was the same comment he had been making for the past two years – when they had first started this.

"If I let you talk to my father, Silas would find a way to banish you from Velaris. I'd never see you again."

The thought warmed her in a way that was dangerous—foolish. It wasn’t the first time she’d imagined it, but reality had always been quick to remind her of the impossibility. She was the daughter of a High Lord, and Silas had plans for her.

She shook the thought away, focusing instead on tightening the laces of her corset. Behind her, Conn stepped closer, his hand brushing against her back as he reached to untwist the stubborn fabric at her shoulder. She stilled at his touch, the warmth of it seeping through her even in her panic.

“Someday,” he said quietly, his voice steady and sure. “We won’t have to hide.”

Her heart clenched at the words, at the truth she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud. If the Cauldron willed it—if the bond ever snapped into place for them.

She prayed to the Mother for that every day.

Conn’s fingers brushed hers as she fumbled with the stubborn laces of her corset. “Here, let me,” he said already taking over the task. His hands moved quickly, tying the laces with a precision that made her stomach flutter despite the pounding footsteps outside.

He leaned in, stealing a quick kiss that sent a spark through her—brief, fleeting, and maddeningly distracting.

The footsteps grew louder, each sharp click of a boot against the polished floor driving a spike of panic into her chest. Her gaze darted to Conn, who was already scanning the room.

Normally, she would have flown him out of the House, but the sound of boots was already too close to her room. They were purposeful, and it sounded as though they were headed right for them. Elara wouldn’t have time to get him out without being seen – especially as it was still midday and the sun was bright in the sky.

She had to do something.

Without really thinking about it, she motioned frantically for him to go under the bed.

Conn raised an eyebrow at her and then looked down at himself. The last few years had changed Conn; while he had always been tall, he now had broad shoulders and well-defined muscles that strained against the fabric of his shirt. There was no way he'd fit under the bed, the space too narrow and cluttered with the few items she’d hastily thrown aside.

She spotted the bathing chamber, the door ajar. Grabbing his arm, she pushed him toward it, her movements frantic.

“El, really?” Conn hissed, half amused, half alarmed, his voice barely louder than a breath.

“Just get in there!” she shot back, shoving him through the doorway.  The last thing she needed was for anyone to see Conn in her private rooms. He went, though not without a low, muttered curse, and she closed the door behind him, leaving just the smallest crack so he could see out.

The footsteps reached her door, the sound of heavy boots and the faint rustle of fabric. There was a knock, sharp and insistent. Elara took a deep breath, smoothing her dress and adjusting her hair, trying to look composed. She grabbed a bottle of perfume from her nightstand and spritzed it around herself, the scent of jasmine and vanilla mingling with the faint scent of her own nervous sweat.

Hopefully, it would be enough to mask the scent of Conn on her, too.

“Come in,” she called, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart. She and Conn had never come this close to being caught before. She perched on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs at the ankles, trying to look as composed as possible.

The door creaked open, and it was neither her mother nor her father that stepped through.

Rhys’ tall frame filled the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room. He looked the same as always—yet not. The familiar darkness of his hair, tousled as if he’d flown here in a rush. The faint hollows beneath his eyes spoke of long nights spent elsewhere — because of course, he was never at the House.

And he already looked uncomfortable.

“Rhys?” she asked, her voice catching slightly before she steadied it.

His jaw tightened at the sound, though whether from discomfort or anger or something else entirely, she couldn’t tell. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“You weren’t expecting me,” he said, his tone neutral, but there was a flicker—barely there—of hesitation in his gaze.

“No,” she replied, straightening further, willing herself not to falter. “Should I have been?”

The words came out a little sharper than she had intended.

Rhys looked momentarily taken aback by her tone — or, maybe, the idea that his little sister would be anything but pleased to see him. But he quickly recovered, keeping his expression neutral. .

With a flick of his wrist, a box appeared in his hands, wrapped in silver paper that caught the afternoon light with a midnight blue ribbon tied neatly around it. “I wanted to give you this—before Father and Mother return and your night is taken up by rather unpleasant dinner conversation”

The edges of his mouth twitched—something close to a smile, but not quite.

Elara sighed; she had been trying not to think about the birthday dinner that awaited her. It was a damper on her otherwise perfect day.

Like every family event – it would be tense, her father biting back comments about Rhys for their mother's sake. Lyra would try to get Elara and Rhys to bond over something trivial, usually resulting in one-word answers from both of her children. Elara had stopped trying to understand her brother— almost every conversation between them had been forced, like they didn't know how to talk to one another.

Which was probably why she felt so uncomfortable now.

Carefully, she took the box, her fingers brushing against his. It was heavier than she expected.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her throat tightening around the words.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to open it now, to force even more of this awkward conversation. What she really needed to do was to get him out of there so she could sneak off and fly Conn back home. But Miss Rellian's lessons over the years must have stuck with her over the years because with a small, practiced smile, she began to pull at the ribbon.

It came loose easily, the silky texture slipping through her fingers as she peeled back the silver paper. A velvet box lay nestled inside, its deep blue fabric soft beneath her touch.

She looked at her brother with raised eyebrows, and he gave her a sheepish smile.

Opening the box revealed a circlet—delicate silver filigree, the metalwork so fine it seemed almost spun from moonlight. At its center rested a blue stone, catching the sunlight streaming through the window and scattering shimmering patterns across the walls. It was beautiful, truly.

But… it wasn't her.

Elara’s fingers brushed the leather bracelet on her wrist, Conn’s gift from years ago, worn smooth from constant use. That was her—practical, unassuming, meaningful. It was the only adornment she ever wore… not that her brother cared to notice.

"It's beautiful," Elara said softly, her voice carefully controlled. "Thank you, Rhys."

Still, she tilted her head, forcing warmth into her voice. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, the words carefully measured.

Her brother’s gaze lingered on her face, his faint smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I’m glad you like it,” he replied, though his voice held the slightest edge of uncertainty.

She closed the box gently, rising to place it on her vanity. “I’ll wear it tonight,” she said, offering another smile, this one more brittle than the last. “At dinner.”

"I'll see you at dinner," she said, turning to put the circlet on her vanity. She needed to get him out of there – and back to Conn.  

A nod from Rhys, though his eyes remained on her. Then, as he turned to leave, he hesitated, his attention snagging on her bed.

Elara froze.

His gaze narrowed, sweeping over the rumpled sheets and slightly askew pillows. She’d used magic to smooth it, but clearly not well enough.

"Was there someone in here?" Rhys asked, his tone sharp with suspicion.

Elara's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing to come up with a believable lie. She forced a casual laugh, hoping to diffuse his suspicion.

"What do you mean?" Elara's voice was tight as she feigned innocence. Her brother could be perceptive when he wanted to be, and she had a feeling this would be one of those moments.

Rhys didn’t answer immediately. His violet eyes swept the room. The tension in his posture, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, told her he was already piecing it together.

She felt the scrape of his power brush against her mind, probing, searching. Her shields snapped into place, slamming up with a force that made her head throb. She’d never been good with keeping them up — often forgoing it entirely when she was at the House. She tried, now, to keep them up.

But it was too late.

He’d seen enough.

Rhys ran a hand through his hair, his voice low and frustrated. "Elara – what are you do-"

"Nothing, Rhys," she interrupted him, her voice hard and sharp. She was attempting to mimic the finality of their father's tone but was doing a piss poor job at it. She stood with her chin raised, hoping it would be enough to squash the subject and get him out of her room.

But Rhys didn’t back down.

He paced further into her room, eyes scanning every detail. He motioned towards the door to her bathing chamber, and Elara felt her resolve waver. He knew.

He knew Conn was in there.

"I'm not sure you understand what you are doing," Rhys said, his voice low and filled with restrained anger.

Her breath hitched. She could have begged—pleaded with him not to go to their father, not to drag Conn into the mess that was her family. It would have been the safer choice, the smarter one.

But defiance flared in her chest, burning hotter than her fear.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she shot back, crossing her arms. Her stance was as unwavering as her voice, but the pounding of her heart betrayed her.

Rhys shook his head, his gaze intense and piercing. "If Father found out about this… Do you remember what happened to Mor?"

Elara shuddered involuntarily, the memory of earlier this year – the image of her cousin brutalized – had been burned into her memory. Even her father had been horrified when he learned what Keir had done. But she lifted her chin higher in defiance. "I’m not Mor."

Rhys didn’t flinch, his eyes boring into hers like he could pry apart her shields and uncover every secret she held. She tightened them further, locking him out.

"Are you taking the contraceptive tonic?" he asked, his voice tight.

Her breath hitched—not from embarrassment, but fury. A heat built in her chest, rising like a tide until it spilled over.

“How dare you?” she hissed, pulling her arm free from his grasp. Her hands shook as she balled them into fists at her sides. “How dare you come in here and think you can question me like this?”

Rhys frowned, the weight of his confusion only stoking her anger. “Elara, I’m just trying to—”

“No.” Her voice rose, trembling with years of frustration. It was like a dam had broken inside of her, and she couldn’t help it as the words spilled out of her.  “You don’t get to play the part of the concerned brother. You’ve never been here.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and grating in her own ears. “You don’t know me. You never stuck around long enough to try.”

Something flickered across his face—guilt, perhaps—but it wasn’t enough to stop her.

"You were always off somewhere else, with your – with your brothers," She spat out the words, "You wanted to be anywhere but here. You couldn’t wait to get away. So don’t stand here, in my room, and lecture me about my choices."

The silence that followed was deafening, heavy. Rhys stood frozen, his expression unreadable save for the slightest slackening of his jaw. As if he had never thought his younger sister would speak to him that way. In truth, Elara never thought that she would either.

She waited for him to argue, to snap back with the same fire she had thrown at him. But he didn’t.

There was nothing but regret in his eyes as Rhys ran a hand through his tousled black hair, "I kn- I know haven’t been around much. But I’m here now, Elara. And I’m not trying to shame you. I just don’t want you to get hurt."

Her laugh cut through the room, bitter and sharp.

“Too late.” Her voice shook, her anger trembling at the edges. “You’ve already done enough damage.”

Rhys flinched, his mouth opening as if to argue, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“You don’t get to waltz back into my life and play the protective big brother,” she snapped, every word edged with years of resentment. “You don’t know what it’s like for me here. You never did.”

For a fleeting moment, something softened in his gaze—regret, maybe. But she didn’t trust it. Couldn’t.

“Elara, I… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low, hesitant.

“Sorry?” The word tumbled from her lips,. She let out a hollow laugh, the sound echoing in the room like an accusation. “That’s supposed to make up for everything? For leaving me here to deal with him on my own? For ignoring me for years?”

“Elara, I—”

“No.” She stepped forward, her hands trembling with the force of her fury. “And now you think you can just barge in here and tell me what to do? Who I can and can’t see?”

Her movements were swift, her magic rippling faintly as she flung the door open, the hallway beyond yawning wide. She turned back to him, her eyes narrowing, every line of her body screaming defiance. “Get out.”

Rhys stood frozen, his throat bobbing as he swallowed words he likely knew she wouldn’t hear. His gaze lingered, searching her face, but she refused to meet it.

“Elara,” he murmured finally, his voice almost inaudible. “Just… be careful.”

For a moment, Elara stood frozen, her breath caught in her chest, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

Then, from the bathing chamber, Conn emerged, his steps careful, his gaze shadowed with concern. He must have heard everything.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he crossed the room in a few swift strides, his arms circling her in a firm, unyielding hold.

The strength of him, the quiet steadiness of his heartbeat against her cheek—it unraveled her. The fury, the frustration, the pain—it all bled out in hot, silent tears that soaked into his shirt.

Conn didn’t let go. One hand stroked her hair, his touch gentle, while the other traced slow, soothing circles on her back. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, his voice a soft murmur. “He won’t tell, Elara. He’s not like that.”

Her voice cracked as she pulled away slightly, just enough to look up at him, her eyes wide with unspoken fear. “What if he does? What if he tells Father?”

Conn’s gaze softened, and he cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on her cheeks. “He’s your brother. He’ll never do that to you. He can’t.”

Elara let out a shaky breath, trying to believe him. The warmth of his embrace, the calm in his voice—it helped, but the gnawing worry still lingered, heavy in her chest. Conn only held her tighter, his body shielding hers from the world.

So much for the best birthday ever.

Notes:

*** Revised: January 2025

Chapter 6

Notes:

*** Revised: January 2025

515 Years Before the Cursebreaker

The soft clink of silver against porcelain echoed through the cavernous dining room of the House of Wind. Elara stabbed at a roasted potato, pushing it across her plate until it smeared the faint trace of gravy left behind.

Her father sat at the head of the table, cutting into his steak, barely lifting his eyes from the meal to acknowledge his family. She truly hated these nights – these required family dinners that were some piss poor attempt in maintaining the façade of a family. But the truth was that they were anything but familial.

Elara dined with her mother regularly—Lyra wasn’t the problem. It was the oppressive presence of her father and the strained silence from Rhys that made these evenings unbearable.

Her gaze flicked up briefly, meeting Rhys’s across the table. He was doing the same thing she was—pushing food around without any real intent to eat. Months had passed since the disaster of her birthday, and in that time, they had spoken only in clipped phrases or curt nods when they couldn’t avoid each other.

If anything, the distance had only deepened the rift.

Not that she cared. Rhys hadn’t earned her forgiveness, and she wasn’t going to offer it freely. Let him stew in his guilt—if he even felt it.

She dropped her gaze again, stabbing the potato harder than she needed to.

Across the table, her mother, Lyra, tried to break the silence. Lifting a wine glass to her lips, she said, "Elara, Alaric tells me you have mastered both daggers and the sword now."

Elara looked up, meeting her mother's warm, encouraging gaze.

She met her mother’s gaze and offered a small smile. “And now I’m working on the bow.” Her voice carried a flicker of pride, though it was tempered. She knew her skills were far from extraordinary—most Illyrians mastered those weapons as children. But Alaric’s advice came to mind, steady and grounding: Don’t compare yourself to them. You’re not walking their path.

Her father gave no reaction, his knife slicing cleanly through his steak. She wasn’t sure why she even bothered to look.

Lyra’s smile was bright, hopeful—too hopeful. “That’s wonderful to hear. You know, your brother mastered the bow quite quickly.” She glanced at Rhys, the look as pointed as a blade. “Perhaps he could show you?”

Elara felt her chest tighten. There it was again—the endless comparisons, the subtle prods to bridge the unbridgeable. Her fingers clenched around the stem of her wineglass. Perhaps Alaric should share his advice with her mother.

Rhys lifted his gaze from his plate, his expression unreadable. He hadn't been around much since their argument, and Elara wasn't sure she wanted him to be. She didn’t want to look at him every day, knowing that she would find nothing but judgment there.

Elara’s fork scraped softly against her plate as she set it down. Her mother meant well—she always did—but Lyra’s attempts to force something that had long since fractured were suffocating. She wanted desperately for her children to get along. Did she even see how wide the chasm between her children had grown? Did she care? Or did she think another polite dinner could somehow fix what was broken?

"Or perhaps," Elara said, lifting her own glass to her lips and taking a sip of the sweet wine, "I could visit the mountains where he was trained and see for myself." She continued to campaign for a visit to Illyria, even after all these years.

Lyra’s smile faltered, the brightness dimming to something softer, sadder. Her lips parted, poised to offer the same tired excuses, but the sharp clatter of silverware silenced her.

Elara flinched as Silas slammed his fork and knife onto his plate, the sound ringing through the room. He didn’t raise his voice; he never had to. The look he shot her—a single, icy glance—was answer enough.

No.

Lyra cleared her throat, her tone hushed, almost apologetic. “It’s not the best time,” she said, her pitying gaze settling on Elara like an unwanted weight. “The generals, the Illyrians who would train you, they’re... preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied,” Elara echoed bitterly, setting her glass down with more force than necessary. There was always a reason, when it came to her finally visiting the mountains where her mother grew up. It didn’t matter what she asked—her father would never let her set foot in Illyria. Not while he still had a say.

“They are,” Silas interrupted, “The banners of war will be called soon.”

War. The word thrummed in her ears, drowning out everything else. Her fork slipped from her hand, clattering against the plate, forgotten.

"War?" Elara nearly dropped her fork, her heart pounding in her chest. She had only heard stories of war – she never thought it would happen in her lifetime.

"The humans have decided to rise up," Silas sighed, as if inconvenienced by having to explain. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his sharp gaze pinned on nothing in particular. “They’ve united under some human called Jurian. Allied themselves with a handful of the Seraphim. In due time, we will lend our support.”

Elara's thoughts immediately went to Conn—to his love of the humans and their world. She could already see the light in his eyes, the fire in his voice when he found out.

 The corner of her mouth twitched upward, softening in spite of the room’s oppressive air. Conn would be elated

“I want to help.” The words left her mouth before she had a chance to second-guess them. She straightened her shoulders, her voice firm. “I’ve trained for this.”

The words barely had time to hang in the air before Silas’s hand came crashing down onto the table. The force made the silverware jump, a harsh metallic clatter filling the silence.

"You will not be doing anything, girl," Silas declared. The force of it sent a tremor through Elara, but she refused to flinch, staring back at him with defiance. "No daughter of mine will go into battle."

"But—" she started, her voice rising in protest.

"No," Silas bit out, his voice a low snarl "It is too dangerous. You will not set foot out of Velaris while there is a threat in these lands."

His words were a decree, as immovable as the mountains that surrounded them.

Her gaze flicked to her mother. Lyra sat still and silent, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Elara’s heart thudded with hope. Lyra had fought for her before, had used her softer voice to temper Silas’s harsh rules for her. Surely now, with so much at stake—

But her mother’s eyes wouldn’t meet hers. They stayed fixed on her glass, her lips pressed into a thin line of resigned silence.

Something cold twisted in Elara’s stomach. The plea she’d been forming died in her throat, replaced by something darker—something bitter.

“So that’s it, then?” she said, her voice low but edged with steel. “You’ll lock me away while others fight for the future of these lands? For what is right?”

Silas’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Your future is here, Elara. Safe. Protected. This is not a discussion.”

Desperation drove her gaze to Rhys. Maybe he’d say something. Maybe, for once, he’d push back—not for himself but for her. She clung to the memory of his defiance, the way he’d stood toe-to-toe with their father. But as her eyes searched his face, she found no rebellion there.

His jaw was set, the muscles along the line of it twitching as though he were biting down on whatever words pressed against his teeth. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere beyond the table, a refusal to look at her or their father.

Was he holding his tongue to avoid an argument, or—her stomach clenched—did he agree with Silas?

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Not after everything that had passed between them. But the sting of it still burned, sharp and fresh. He wasn’t a stranger to challenging Silas, so why now? Why this?

Her throat tightened, the betrayal coiling low in her stomach. She fought to keep her expression neutral, to not let the emotion show, but the weight of it was crushing.

She shouldn't have been shocked by her brother's lack of support, but it stung, nevertheless.

---

510 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara stood on the balcony’s edge, the wind tugging at her hair, cool and flushed against her skin. The day was stunning, the sky a crisp, clear expanse of blue that seemed to stretch on forever. From her vantage point at the edge of the balcony, she could fee for miles, every detail of the landscape etched sharply under the bright sun.

If it were any other day – any other time in her life – she'd be out somewhere on the streets of Velaris, wandering arm in arm with Conn as the soaked in the beauty of the day. Conn.

Her grip tightened on the dagger in her hand, the leather-wrapped hilt biting into her palm. She didn’t need to look to know the calluses there had grown thick—her training the only thing tethering her in these endless years of waiting.

It had been five years since the war had started – five years since she had last seen Conn. She’d lost count of how many letters had come and gone. Each one brought by Fiona, slipped into her hand with a conspiratorial glance. Sometimes weeks late, the ink smeared from the journey, the words faded, like they might vanish altogether if she held them too tightly.

He always told her not to worry. That he was fine. That he missed her. But how could she not worry when the scent of blood and death wafted back from every soldier returning from the front lines?

The dagger flew from her hand.

Thud. The dagger struck home, but the familiar sound brought no comfort.

She had turned the balcony attached to her rooms into her own private training ground. She had taken over her own training ever since Alaric left, determined to keep her edge for when he came back and was able to train her.

Her mother had questioned her decision to move her equipment out here. Elara had shrugged, giving some excuse about the air being fresher up high. But the truth was simpler. From this vantage point, she could spot any Illyrian messenger flying in from the army camps before they reached the city.

Every time she caught sight of a distant figure cutting across the sky, her heart leapt. And every time it sank when the figure veered toward another destination—or worse, carried no news at all.

The war had made her grown sick with worry- it was as though she was worried about everyone these days.

She was worried for Conn, who had enlisted in the military the moment the war banners were called for the Night Court. She remembered the fierce determination in his eyes, the way his jaw set with resolve, as she had told him exactly what her father had said. She knew immediately that he would answer the call for war.

She had wanted to plead with him, to beg him not to go. But she knew just how passionate he was about the humans and their fight for freedom. Asking him to stay would have been like asking him to cut out a piece of his soul. She couldn’t do that to him, even if it meant she had to stay behind, wracked with anxiety and waiting for any word of his safety.

If she could, she would be out there fighting alongside him and Alaric, standing shoulder to shoulder against Hybern and its allies. She should be out there. Females weren’t forbidden from fighting—her cousin Morrigan was proof of that. Stories of Mor’s exploits reached Velaris even before the messengers did, each tale more daring than the last. Her cousin, the war hero.

Elara stepped forward, yanking the dagger from the target with a sharp twist of her wrist.

If Mor could fight, then so could she. But Silas hadn’t cared. His decrees had wrapped around her like chains, heavy and unbreakable. No daughter of his would march to war.

Elara didn't want to be a war hero – she didn't even want people to know that she was fighting. She just wanted to be there, doing what she had trained for. The frustration of it all gnawed at her, but she couldn’t change her father’s decree. Silas had been resolute in his orders.

She hurled the dagger again, harder this time.

The blade struck the edge of the target, quivering there. Elara let out a sharp breath, her hand tightening into a fist.

Her thoughts drifted to her brother, and the worry doubled. Things had not warmed between them since their explosive argument months ago. The tension had only grown, neither willing to breach the chasm between them and apologize. Despite her anger, despite the hurtful words they had exchanged, she couldn’t stop worrying about him. He was out there, too, facing dangers she could only imagine. She heard horrific stories from the front – of the ruthless Hybern general Amarantha. It was enough to make her stomach churn – and everyone she loved was out there.

And she was stuck here.

She threw another dagger, this one with more force, her frustration and worry channeling into the motion.

Thud.

The dagger hit the target, quivering from the impact. She wished it was that easy to strike down her fears.

Elara absently turned the last dagger over in her hand, the cool weight of it grounding her as her thoughts spun elsewhere. She hurled it toward the target one more time, the blade slicing through the air with effortless precision before embedding itself dead center. A flick of her wrist summoned it back, the blade gliding smoothly into her palm.

It was muscle memory. Nothing more. Her mind wasn’t in the training, not truly. Her gaze drifted upward to the endless expanse of blue, tracing the horizon.

Then she saw it.

A flicker of shadow, dark against the brightness of the sky. It twisted, coiled, and finally solidified into the shape of a winged figure.

Her heart leaped into her throat.

The dagger slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the stone floor as she turned and bolted.

Her footsteps echoed through the corridors as she raced through the familiar halls of the House of Wind. She bypassed the grandiose chambers and spiraling staircases, heading straight for the sunlit room where she knew her mother often spent her afternoons – where the visitor would immediately go.

Her footsteps echoed through the corridors, each step a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the House. She raced past the airy chambers and intricate tapestries, her breath catching as dread coiled in her stomach. Azriel. It was Azriel.

Low-ranking messengers carried news from the front. The Shadowsinger wouldn’t waste his time unless—

No.

She shoved the thought away, forcing her legs to move faster until she reached the sunlit sitting room.

The sight inside stopped her cold.

Her mother sat hunched on one of the velvet chairs, her shoulders trembling. Lyra’s dark hair tumbled loose from its usual elegant style, obscuring her face as she clutched a crumpled piece of parchment.

And Azriel stood beside her, a hand resting lightly on Lyra’s shoulder.

It felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room.

“What happened?” Elara demanded, cutting through the suffocating quiet.

Lyra lifted her head slowly, her face streaked with tears. Elara’s breath hitched—she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her mother cry. Lyra tried to speak, her lips parting, but no sound came. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face, her body shuddering with silent sobs.

Elara’s chest tightened, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Her gaze snapped to Azriel.

“What. Happened?” she said again, the words barely more than a growl as she took a step closer.

Azriel’s gaze met hers, and for a moment, the shadowsinger’s stoic mask faltered. His hazel eyes, usually unreadable, flickered with something that made Elara’s stomach twist. Grief. Regret. The shadows around him stirred, restless and whispering secrets she couldn’t decipher—secrets she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

She focused on him, willing him to speak.

When he finally did, his voice was thick, low, as if he had to drag the words out. “It’s Rhys.”

Her pulse stilled.

Azriel’s throat worked, his jaw tightening as he looked from her to Lyra and back again. Even the shadows seemed to dim around him, retreating as though the weight of his news was too much for even them to bear. Whatever it was, this was bad. “He’s been taken,” Azriel said at last, the words heavy, deliberate. “By Amarantha.”

No.

No.

Elara felt the world tilt, her breath catching as if the air had turned to stone in her lungs. She searched Azriel’s face for some hint that he might be wrong, that this was some mistake or cruel misunderstanding. But his expression held no room for doubt.

Amarantha.

The name sent a cold wave of fear crashing through her. She had heard enough—too much—about the Hybern general over the years. And now Rhys—her brother, her invincible brother—was in her hands. How could he be captured? How could this be real?

Her throat tightened as panic clawed its way up, threatening to choke her. Would he even make it—

No.

She slammed the thought down, locking it away before it could take root. She couldn’t think like that. Wouldn’t.

“When?” she asked, her voice brittle.

Azriel’s gaze softened, and for a moment, she thought she saw something akin to pity flicker in his eyes. “A few weeks ago,” he said quietly, each word laced with an apology he didn’t voice. “Cassian and I were with different legions. We only just found out.”

A few weeks. Her chest tightened at the thought of Rhys enduring weeks in Amarantha’s clutches.

His gaze shifted briefly to Lyra, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them, as Elara took a step back. Silas wasn't even going to tell them about Rhys?

"We'll get him back, Elara," Azriel continued, moving closer and placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His touch was firm, grounding, but Elara was consumed with guilt. Her relationship with Rhys had been strained these last few months, fractured by years of distance and unresolved issues. The last real, honest conversation that the two of them had – she had screamed at him.

“The High Lord is organizing a rescue mission,” Azriel continued, his voice steady but low. “He didn’t want to worry you. But I thought...” He hesitated, the rare display of uncertainty only amplifying the weight of his words.

“You thought we should know,” she finished for him, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel nodded, his expression unreadable as ever.

And just like that, a fissure of panic cracked through Elara’s resolve. What if she never saw Rhys again? What if the last words she’d spoken to him were filled with anger — their last argument forever lodged between them? She hadn’t even said goodbye. Not properly.

“I should get back,” Azriel said, his voice cutting through the silence. It was calm, as the Spymaster usually was, but she caught the flicker of hesitation in his gaze as he glanced from her to her mother. “If there’s news, I’ll come back.”

Elara barely managed a nod, the words hollow in her ears. Azriel turned without another word, shadows curling in his wake as he moved toward the door, leaving the room heavy with silence.

Her eyes fell on her mother. Lyra sat motionless, her head bowed, shoulders trembling under the weight of grief she wasn’t even trying to hide. Elara hardly recognized her. This fragile, broken figure bore no resemblance to the female who had raised her.

Elara couldn’t stand for that.

She wasn’t going to sit here, wringing her hands and waiting for someone else to bring back her brother. Not when there was something—anything—she could do. She had trained for this, after all — for years now. She was ready.

Her gaze snapped to the door, still ajar from Azriel’s departure.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she was moving.

Her feet pounded against the marble floors, the sound echoing through the empty corridors of the House of Wind as she sprinted after Azriel. He was fast, his steps silent despite his size, and for a moment, she thought she might lose him. But she knew where he was headed.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she caught sight of him at the landing balcony, his wings partially unfurled, shadows already curling around his form. He had to know she was following—had to feel her presence. And yet, he didn’t stop.

“Azriel!” Her voice rang out, sharp with desperation.

He paused mid-step, his head tilting slightly as if he was debating whether to acknowledge her. When he finally turned, his hazel eyes locked onto hers. The shadows around him stilled, waiting.

“Take me with you,” Elara said, breathless but unwavering.

Azriel’s brows pulled together, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before his expression hardened. “What?” he said, his voice clipped, as if he hadn’t heard her—or couldn’t believe what he had.

“You heard me,” she said, her chest heaving from the effort of catching up to him. “Take me with you. To the front. To wherever they’re holding him.”

His wings shifted, rustling as his stance grew rigid. “This isn’t a game, Elara.”

She took a step closer, fists clenched at her sides. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t understand what’s at stake? He’s my brother.”

“And he’s our brother,” Azriel snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut. The sudden emotion in his voice startled her, and it took Elara all of her composure not to flinch at the designation she’d come to resent. “Do you think you care about him more than we do? More than Cassian or me — or Mor? We’re all doing everything we can—”

“Then let me help!” she interrupted, her voice rising.

Azriel only blinked at her.

"I can't sit around here and do nothing," Elara continued, her hands trembling slightly as she summoned her weapons with a flick of her wrist. Daggers materialized in a shimmer of magic, and then her wings unfurled from her back, the sinewy membrane of them catching the light streaming in through the windows. "Not when he's out there," she insisted, her voice raw with emotion.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to her wings, then back to her face. His expression didn’t change, but the slight twitch in his jaw gave him away. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his eyes momentarily lifting to the sky beyond the balcony.

“Elara, you can’t—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice sharper than she intended. She knew exactly where the Spymaster was going with this. “Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”

“Elara—”

“Fuck what my father thinks,” she snapped, stepping closer. Her heart pounded, adrenaline singing through her blood as her pulse echoed in her ears. “You can either take me with you, or I’ll fly to the Black Lands myself.”

The silence between them stretched taut, broken only by the faint rustle of her wings and the distant hum of the wind beyond the wards. Azriel’s face remained unreadable, his shadows shifting restlessly at his feet as though they, too, were deliberating.

She held her ground, refusing to waver under his steady gaze. If he didn’t understand now, if he didn’t see why she had to do this, then she would make him understand. If he thought she was just some reckless girl throwing herself into danger for attention, then he didn’t know her at all.

Finally, Azriel sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “You’re as stubborn as Rhys,” he muttered, almost to himself.

A flicker of satisfaction bloomed in her chest, though she didn’t dare let it show.

“Fine,” he said, his voice low, barely above a growl. “But don’t make me regret this.”

Elara’s breath hitched, her chest tightening with a mixture of relief and anticipation.

With a swift motion, he spread his own wings and leaped into the air, the wind catching beneath his wings as he soared toward the open balcony doors that led out of the House of Wind.

Elara followed without hesitation, her heart pounding with adrenaline and fear as she leapt into the afternoon air.

The cool air rushed past her face, the ground dropping away beneath her as she joined Azriel in the open sky, the horizon stretching endlessly before them. The wind felt wonderful beneath her wings, and she let herself enjoy the moment before reminding herself of just what she was doing as she followed Azriel past the protective wards of the House. 

Chapter 7

Notes:

*** Revised: January 2025

510 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Azriel kept his face impassive as they materialized in the war camp, though the stench of decay hit him like a wall.

 He was used to it—the fetid air, the heat that clung to every inch of skin like a second layer—but he knew Elara wasn’t. Her sharp intake of breath was almost drowned out by the ceaseless hum of the camp, but Azriel caught it.

Of course he did.

He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge the way she stiffened beside him, as though sheer force of will could keep her from gagging. She wanted to prove something—he could see it in the tight set of her jaw, the rigid lift of her chin. Pride, or stubbornness.

Likely both ­— since she was related to Rhysand.

It was foolish of her to come here.

The camp sprawled out before them, a chaotic sea of tents, mud, and movement. Soldiers barked orders, smiths hammered steel, and healers hurried between makeshift wards. Everywhere, there were signs of war—bloodied bandages discarded in the dirt, weapons stacked in grim readiness, faces hollowed by exhaustion and loss.

He should have said no. The moment she’d demanded to come, he should have refused. But Elara was nothing if not relentless, and he hadn’t had the patience—or the heart—to argue with her when she’d stared him down, her wings flexing in challenge.

It was fine — Silas could be the one to deal with her.

Azriel’s shadows curled around him, restless, as they wove through the camp. He stayed close to her, though he told himself it was only to ensure she didn’t get underfoot or draw unwanted attention. Her brother would have his head if anything happened to her. Rhys.

If Rhys ever found out that he had brought his sister to the front lines, he would kill Azriel.

“Where are the Illyrian legions?” she asked, her voice breaking through his thoughts. It carried a note of curiosity, edged with unease.

Azriel glanced at her, his brows rising. Did she really not know? He wondered how much of her heritage had been kept from her.

“They prefer to keep themselves separate,” he said shortly. He didn’t bother explaining. Let her draw her own conclusions.

He was glad for it anyway; he hated most Illyrians — the wretched people.

But when she looked away, color rising faintly to her cheeks, Azriel’s irritation softened. Just slightly. She had no idea what she was walking into. He doubted she’d even seen battle wounds more severe than a sparring accident, let alone the aftermath of a battlefield.

“Come on,” he said, steering them toward the command tent. “Let’s get you to your father.”

She froze. The sudden halt in her steps drew his attention, and he turned to see panic flicker across her face.

“My—my father?” Her voice wavered, and she swallowed hard before continuing, “You cannot take me there.”

Azriel blinked, his brows drawing together. Disbelief warred with irritation as he stared her down. Did she think she could just show up in a war camp and avoid the male who ran it?

The shadowsinger’s lips pressed into a hard line. He wasn’t used to being challenged—least of all by someone as untested as her. He couldn’t even believe himself really, how he had let the female insist on coming back with him — let alone the fact that he actually acquiesced to the idea. But beneath his growing frustration, a flicker of something else stirred.

He shouldn’t care why she was so desperate to avoid Silas. Shouldn’t let it matter. But it did.

“You’re asking a lot of me,” he said finally, his tone sharp. Yet even as he spoke, he knew he wasn’t going to refuse her.

She was Rhys’s sister. That was reason enough.

Azriel’s patience was hanging by a thread.

The chaos of the war camp faded into the background as Elara grabbed his arm, her slim fingers tightening with surprising strength. Her violet eyes burned with defiance, a mix of desperation and determination that made him look away.

“If you take me to him, he’ll just send me right back to Velaris,” she said, her voice trembling, though she clearly fought to keep it steady.

Foolish. The word hissed through his ear, one of his shadows curling close to his face as if to emphasize it. Another shadow brushed his wrist where her hand had been, a curious ripple following its path. She doesn’t understand.

“Perhaps that’s where you should be.” His reply was clipped, harsher than he intended, and the shadows around him stirred in restless agitation. He didn’t like the way her touch burned through his leathers, didn’t like how her plea scraped against the part of him that wasn’t welcome on the battlefield.

She won’t back down, one of his shadows murmured, a note of exasperation threading through its tone. She’s like him.

When he pulled free, it was harder than necessary. Elara stumbled back a step but caught herself, her wings flaring slightly in challenge.

“No.” Her voice rose, cutting through the noise of the camp.. “Despite what my father may believe, I am not some delicate flower to be kept safe in a vase. I have trained for this, Azriel. I am capable.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his patience thinning further. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. She was tall for a female, but she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

“This isn’t a training exercise, Elara. It’s war,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Real people are dying out here. What Hybern is doing to the humans, to the fae they capture…” He gestured toward the makeshift tents crammed with wounded soldiers, toward the pyres smoldering in the distance. “Your father understands that. That’s why he wants you safe.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “And what about Rhys?” she fired back, her voice cracking despite her effort to keep it strong.

Smoke from the pyres stung her eyes, but she blinked quickly, as if determined not to let him see her cry. “He’s out there, somewhere. Am I supposed to just sit back and wait for news that he’s dead?”

Azriel’s wings twitched, the membrane catching the acrid air. “This isn’t about you proving something,” he snapped, harsher than he meant. His hand ran through his hair. “It’s about keeping you alive.”

And safe, one shadow insisted, curling protectively near his shoulder. But another, sly and sharp, whispered back, Is that all?

His jaw clenched tighter. He ignored them.

“I can take care of myself,” she said, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t seem to notice—or care. Her voice was too loud, drawing glances from passing soldiers.  “I won’t sit idle while my brother is in the hands of the enemy. You can either help me, or watch me do it alone.”

Azriel’s shadows stirred uneasily. She means it, one murmured, a quiet warning in its tone.

She’ll get herself killed, another hissed, darker, harsher.

“Elara?” The voice sliced through the din of the war camp, sharp enough to pull her from their argument. Azriel watched as her head whipped toward the sound, her violet eyes searching.

A male with cropped auburn hair was weaving his way through the crowd, making straight for where Elara and Azriel stood.

“Conn!” Elara gasped, her voice alight with a joy Azriel wasn’t used to hearing from her. Before he could process it, she was moving—running.

Straight into the stranger’s arms.

Azriel stayed rooted where he was, his shadows twisting anxiously around him. One of them curled close to his ear, whispering something indecipherable, but he waved it away with a flick of his fingers.

She was laughing now—a soft, breathless sound Azriel had never heard from her before. He watched as the male steadied himself under her weight, his arms wrapping around her with ease.

Azriel’s jaw clenched.

The camp’s stench of sweat and decay grew more pungent. Or maybe it was just the sight of Conn’s hands skimming over Elara’s shoulders, down her back, checking for injuries. The gesture was careful, familiar, intimate.

“What are you doing here?” the male asked, his voice low..

Azriel shifted his stance, crossing his arms over his chest. A shadow darted toward Elara, curious and sharp, but he tugged it back.

Conn pressed a kiss to Elara’s temple—a chaste, proper thing, but it was enough to make Azriel’s teeth grind.

“Hopefully, going right back home,” Azriel muttered under his breath, the words slipping out unbidden.

If Elara heard him, she gave no indication. She was too busy looking up at Conn, her gaze soft and brimming with emotion.

“Rhys… he was taken by Hybern,” she said, her voice cracking.

Conn’s eyes widened, and Azriel could see the moment the weight of her words settled on him. “I’m so sorry, Elara,” Conn murmured, his voice warm and steady as he held her close. “We’ll get him back. Everything will be okay.”

Elara sank into his embrace, her cheek pressed against the leather of Conn’s uniform. Azriel watched her shoulders relax, watched the tension bleed out of her as she melted into the man’s familiar warmth.

Azriel’s cough sliced through the moment, sharp and deliberate.

Elara and Conn broke apart, turning toward the shadowsinger, who stood with his arms crossed.

“Let’s go,” he said briskly, his tone clipped.

Elara arched a brow, her lips pressing into a line.

“I’m not going to my father,” she said, her voice firm as steel. She stepped out of Conn’s hold, crossing her arms.

Azriel’s eyes narrowed, his shadows hissing in his ear. He raked a hand through his hair, his wings shifting slightly behind him as he cast a pointed glance skyward, silently begging the Mother for patience.

When no divine intervention came, he let out a heavy sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “You’re really not going to leave, are you?”

Elara’s lips curved into a small, triumphant smile as she shook her head.

“Fine,” he muttered, the word laced with resignation. His face smoothed back into its usual mask of indifference, but his shadows betrayed him, swirling with something sharper—agitation, perhaps. He pivoted sharply, motioning for her to follow. “Come with me, then.”

The sooner he got her away from prying eyes, the better.

Elara stepped forward, but Conn’s hand shot out, catching her wrist.

She turned to him, startled, his wide, earnest eyes locking onto hers. “I’m not leaving you,” he said firmly, his grip tightening as though he could physically anchor her to him.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his hazel eyes cutting to where Conn’s hand rested on her wrist. His shadows coiled tighter, their whispers sharper now. Too close. One of them darted toward Conn, curious and bristling, but Azriel tugged it back before it could brush against the male.

“You can’t abandon your post,” Elara protested, her tone softening. She glanced down at his hand on her wrist, then back up at his face. “Your legion needs you here, Conn. I’ll be fine—I have Azriel.”

At her words, Conn’s expression darkened with doubt. His hand moved before she could say more, his finger pressing lightly against her lips, silencing her.

Azriel turned away sharply, his wings flaring slightly before snapping back tight against his shoulders. They didn’t have time for this. His brother was out there, somewhere, in the hands of Amarantha.

“I’m not leaving you,” Conn repeated, his voice steady and resolute. His hand reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from Elara’s face.

Azriel’s scoff shattered the fragile moment. “This is a waste of time,” he muttered, his tone sharp enough to cut.

His hazel eyes darted to Elara, dark and unrelenting. “If you want to help Rhys, we need to move. Now.” His words carried an edge that wasn’t entirely professional, but he didn’t pause to examine why.

Elara hesitated, her gaze flicking between Conn’s unwavering determination and Azriel’s barely-contained frustration. Finally, she nodded.

“Both of you?” Azriel asked, his tone flat but his shadows whispered their discontent. Slows us down. Useless. Unnecessary.

Conn didn’t wait for further argument. He grabbed Elara’s wrist, pulling her close as they fell in step behind Azriel.

Azriel glanced back at them, his wings twitching in agitation. His jaw clenched as he turned away, muttering under his breath, “Let’s hope this doesn’t slow us down.”

Elara ignored him, but her silence only fanned the flame of his irritation.

---

Rhys had lost track of time.

Had he been here days? Weeks? It all blurred together in the unrelenting darkness of his cell. He'd love the dark – being heir to the Night Court, it had been all but one of the prerequisites. But this wasn't the stuff of dreams. No, this was different. This is what nightmares were made of.

Chained to the cold, filthy ground, his wings pinned beneath ash bolts, the pain had become background noise. A dull throb he could no longer separate from his own heartbeat. It didn’t matter anymore. Not compared to the anguish clawing at his soul.

His soldiers were out there, fighting without him. Dying without him

He'd failed them all.

He had come to terms with the idea of dying. He had planned to take Amarantha down with him, to end her reign of terror. He had made peace with almost everything—except for Elara. She hated him, and he couldn’t blame her. He had been harsh, overprotective, and in doing so, he had pushed her away.

He regretted the way he had made her feel, the way he had made her think she had didn't have an ally – a brother – in him.

And when she had carved out a single piece of happiness for herself, he had shamed her for it.

He'd failed her, too. 

And he hadn’t been able to follow through with his plan to end it – to do one possible thing to make it all right. He had failed at that, too. The day he intended to strike, the day he had waited and planned for, he was forced to watch as Jurian made his own desperate attempt. Rhys had watched in horror as his plans crumbled, leaving him once again powerless.

He was chained in the mud, the cold and grime long since forgotten. All he could smell was the metallic tang of blood that permeated the air.

He was weak, his magic barely a whisper beneath his skin.

Yet, his sight remained. He was forced to witness Amarantha’s cruelty, her sadistic pleasure in torturing Jurian. She had already taken one of his eyes and fashioned it into a grotesque ring as a trophy. But still, she had prolonged the human's life – playing with him in retribution for what Jurian had done to her sister.

Jurian’s shrieks, once defiant, had turned to raw, guttural moans of pain.

The man who had vowed never to give her the satisfaction had been utterly broken.

Despite himself, Rhys felt a glimmer of selfish relief. As long as Amarantha was occupied with Jurian, she wasn’t on the battlefield, wasn’t hunting down Azriel, Cassian, or Mor. And Elara and their mother – well, at least they were nowhere near the battlefield.

They were safe in Velaris.

Jurian's screams echoed through the halls, now reduced to hoarse, agonized moans after Amarantha had cut out his tongue.

Amarantha’s vicious taunts reached his ears. "Did you think you could defeat me, Jurian? Pathetic. You're nothing more than a plaything to me."

And there, beneath those guttural groans was a new sound—light footsteps, followed by the heavier thud of boots and the faint rustle of wings. His senses struggled to make sense of the noises between the shrieks and groans of the other prisoners.

If he had been at his full power – he would have been able to sense it earlier. But it was only when the sound was just upon him that he even registered it. Then, with a jarring crash, the door to his cell burst open, the lock splintering under a powerful blow that echoed through the dank, suffocating darkness.

Blinded by the sudden influx of light, Rhys blinked rapidly, his eyes slowly adjusting to the figures standing in the doorway. Azriel and Cassian, their expressions carved from stone, filled the entrance. Their eyes, though hardened by battle, softened slightly as they took in his state. Oh, it felt good to see his friends again. Beside them, another figure emerged—one that Rhys barely recognized. The merchant’s son — Conn.

But then, pushing through the two males, a sight that made Rhys’s breath catch in his throat—a figure he had never expected to see in this hellish place.

“Elara?”

---

Elara’s breath hitched as her gaze fell on Rhys.

She’d prepared herself—or so she’d thought. She’d imagined bruises, perhaps some cuts, but this… Her brother’s face was unrecognizable. A grotesque mask of purple and black, dried blood crusting along his hairline and pooling in the creases of his swollen eye. The sharp lines of his features, once so proud, were buried beneath layers of violence.

Elara’s fingers fumbled with the ash bolts pinning Rhys’s wings, her heart pounding with each agonizing second. She barely registered the grime beneath her nails or the blood seeping into her clothing.

The cries echoed from somewhere down the hall—low, guttural, and raw. They clawed at her mind, dragging her thoughts to places she dared not go. Who was it? What had Amarantha done to them? What had she done to Rhys?

Elara forced down the bile clawing at her throat and sprinted toward her brother, her boots skidding on the slick stone floor. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands shaking as they hovered over his wings. The ash bolts pinned them to the ground, blackened steel embedded deep in flesh.

Her fingers trembled.

“Rhys,” she whispered, but he didn’t react. His head lolled, lips parting to form words that never came.

“Come on,” she hissed under her breath, blinking away the tears threatening to blur her vision. “Azriel, Cassian—I need help!”

She dug her hands into the bolts, the rough metal biting into her skin as she struggled to pry them loose. Azriel appeared at her side in an instant, his face a stony mask. His shadows slithered out, probing the bolts, searching for weaknesses even as his hands worked with precision.

Cassian knelt on Rhys’s other side, his jaw clenched so tightly the veins in his neck bulged.

“The… chains…” Rhys rasped, his voice little more than a croak.

Elara froze. Her hand shot to the iron shackles binding his wrists and ankles. She yanked on them, only to recoil with a gasp as a surge of biting magic rippled through her. It latched onto her own power, digging in, tearing at her like claws.

Faebane.

They would have to do this the mortal way.

Elara didn’t have time to reply. A distant sound reached her ears—a deep, rumbling echo that sent her heart racing.

Her head snapped up, ears straining. Shouting.

It grew louder with every passing second, the sharp bark of orders cutting through the air. Then came the boots—pounding against stone, heavy and purposeful. And behind them, the unmistakable clash of steel on steel.

Her pulse spiked.

“Azriel,” she whispered, her voice tight.

“I hear it,” he replied without looking up, his shadows already stretching out like tendrils, seeking.

The voice reached her like a crack of thunder slicing cleanly through the distant clang of steel and the guttural cries echoing down the stone corridors. It shouldn’t have been possible to hear it so distinctly through the chaos, but she heard it all the same.

Her heart lurched, and not in relief.

It was him.

Her father’s voice carried a weight that was impossible to ignore. Even after all these years, it still affected her. She froze, her hand halfway to Rhys’s manacles.

The High Lord... he's planning a rescue mission but didn't want to worry you.

Azriel's words from just the other day came rushing back to her, and she let out a curse under her breath. She had managed to steer clear of her father since arriving at the war camp two days ago. She’d convinced herself she could maintain the distance long enough to rescue Rhys and slip away unnoticed.

At least, if it came down to it, they would have reinforcements.

If Silas was here, so was his army. Whatever plan he’d orchestrated would collide with theirs, but at least they wouldn’t be alone. She couldn’t afford to let her pride outweigh the reality of what they needed.

“Stick to the plan.” Conn’s voice pulled her back to the present, back to the dimly lit cell and the bloodied figure of her brother lying broken on the ground.

She glanced at Conn, noting the tightness in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders. He’d heard Silas too—how could he not? Yet his hand moved to summon the hammer, the faint shimmer of magic as he pulled it from the void.

Azriel crouched beside her, his voice low. “We don’t have time for this.”

She nodded, focusing on the chains binding Rhys. They’d anticipated the chains. They hadn’t anticipated the faebane.

Who knew what it would take to destroy them?

Azriel’s grip on the chain was unrelenting, his shadows curling around the links as if they, too, strained against the magic binding them. Cassian mirrored him on the opposite side, his jaw tight, the corded muscles in his arms taut with effort. Between them, Conn hefted the hammer, the veins in his forearms bulging as he raised it high.

Elara stepped back, her pulse thundering in her ears. She didn’t miss the faint tremor in Conn’s hands, the way his grip adjusted ever so slightly before he swung. The hammer came down with a roar of force, the sound cracking through the cell like lightning splitting a tree.

She flinched, the impact reverberating through her chest, but her gaze snapped to the chain.

It wasn’t broken.

Her heart sank at the shallow dent marring the metal, the magic within the links glowing faintly as if mocking them.

“Again,” she barked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Conn didn’t hesitate, though the strain was beginning to show in the set of his shoulders. He shifted his stance, bracing himself, and swung again.

The hammer collided with the chain, sending a shockwave rippling through the room.

And then—

A deafening crack.

The chain exploded in a spray of jagged metal shards. The hammer splintered in Conn’s hands, and the force of the blast hurled him backward.

“Conn!”

Elara was already moving, skidding to her knees beside him. He was slumped against the wall, his head tilted at an angle that sent a fresh spike of panic through her. She pressed her hands to his shoulders, her touch light but trembling.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, but alive.

“Damn,” he rasped, his breath shallow but steady.

The unmistakable cry of "Someone is in there!" echoed down the corridor.

The rhythmic clang of boots on stone was growing louder, the sound reverberating through the narrow corridor.

Conn swayed as he pushed himself upright, one arm braced against the wall.  She saw the way he favored his side, the sharp wince he tried to hide as he adjusted his stance.

“Stay behind me,” Azriel said, his tone sharp enough to cut through the rising tension. He stepped forward, shadows curling around him, alive and hungry.

Cassian shifted closer to Rhys, his bulk a living shield between the High Lord and whatever was coming. Rhys’s eyes cracked open, hazy with exhaustion, but his lips moved faintly, forming words Elara couldn’t hear. He wouldn’t be able to fight, not like this.

The first guard appeared in the doorway, a glint of steel catching the faint light. Then another, and another.

The Hybern soldiers moved as one, rushing forward in a wave of armor and weapons.

Azriel met them with brutal precision. His movements were so fluid, so effortless, it was almost beautiful—if death could be beautiful. One moment, his blade deflected a spear thrust, the next, shadows engulfed his attacker. A sharp twist, and the soldier crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

As the clang of weapons echoed off the stone walls, Conn's eyes never left Elara. Despite the pain that was so clearly stabbing through his side, he pushed forward, as if he was trying to make his way close to her. His breath came in ragged gasps, as if each step was a monumental effort.

A flicker of motion caught her eye.

The soldier came out of nowhere, his blade raised high. She saw the intent in his eyes before she could even react—the way his body coiled, ready to strike her down.

Her body froze.

A blur of motion—Conn.

He threw himself between them, his arm catching the soldier’s swing. The force of the blow knocked him off balance, and he stumbled back, his expression twisting in pain.

The air rushed from her lungs.

“Conn!”

Her voice broke, raw with fear. She surged forward, her dagger already in her hand. The soldier pivoted, his focus shifting to her now, but she didn’t hesitate. Her blade found his throat in one clean motion, the steel slicing through flesh. Hot blood sprayed across her arm as the soldier gurgled, collapsing at her feet.

Elara turned, breath heaving, her hands trembling despite the dagger still gripped tightly in her fist.

Conn was slumped against the wall, his face pale, but his eyes were still open. His lips curled into a faint, defiant smile.

“You’re welcome,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.

“Don’t—” She shook her head, crouching beside him, her free hand pressing against the wound at his side. The blood was warm and slick beneath her palm, and panic flared in her chest.

Cassian, the hulking male that he was, engaged two Hybern guards at once. His sword clashed against theirs, sparks erupting from the collision of metal. With a swift parry, he deflected a downward strike aimed at his head and countered with a brutal kick to the midsection of one guard, sending him staggering backward, gasping for air. With a roar, he brought his sword down on the other, cleaving through armor and bone with a sickening crunch.

Her focus snapped back to her own fight.

A guard lunged, his blade aimed for her throat. Elara twisted away, her boots sliding on the slick stone floor. His movements were predictable—sloppy. She slipped inside his defenses and the blade found the gap beneath his ribs, sliding between the armor’s weak points.

She felt the give of flesh beneath the steel, felt the soldier’s body stiffen as her dagger struck true.

The soldier's eyes widened in shock as pain exploded across his face. He let out a choked gasp, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, before collapsing to the ground in a heap.

Alaric had drilled this into her: always stay three moves ahead, always anticipate the next strike. But even as she moved, slicing through another guard who came too close, a voice at the back of her mind whispered the truth.

Alaric isn’t here. This is all on you now.

A sharp cry tore through the din, raw and guttural.

Her head whipped around, dread pooling in her stomach.

Conn.

He was staggering, his face pale, eyes wide in disbelief. The ash spear protruded from his side, angled cruelly upward beneath his armor. Blood poured from the wound, dark and unrelenting, staining the floor beneath him.

“No!” The scream ripped from her throat before she could stop it.

She was moving before she realized it, shoving past a fallen guard and skidding to her knees at his side. Her hands flew to the spear, trembling as they hovered over the jagged wood. Blood seeped through her fingers, warm and slick, painting her skin crimson.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her breath catching between sobs. Tears streaked her face, but she didn’t notice them. Didn’t care. The world had shrunk to this—Conn’s shallow gasps, the rhythmic drum of his pulse beneath her trembling palms.

Cassian’s roar cut through the chaos as his blade slammed into the nearest guard’s shield, sending sparks flying. He pivoted, sword flashing, and struck again. Azriel moved behind him, his blades slicing through the fray with surgical precision. The last guard fell to his knees, a hand clutching his throat as blood poured between his fingers, then toppled to the floor.

And then, silence.

The cell echoed with the heavy breaths of her companions, the distant roar of the battle outside muted by the thick stone walls. Elara barely heard it. Barely heard anything beyond the wet sound of Conn’s labored breathing, each exhale weaker than the last.

Her hands pressed harder against the wound, desperation bleeding into her every movement. “Conn, look at me,” she begged, her voice hoarse. His eyes fluttered, struggling to find hers. “You’re going to be fine. You just need to hold on.”

"Elara," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, trembling with pain.

“Don’t,” she choked, shaking her head, her tears falling faster now. “Don’t you dare say goodbye. We’ll get you out of here. You’ll be fine.” Her voice cracked, and she hated how fragile it sounded.

Outside the cell, the commotion grew louder. Silas' voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding, inching closer with every heartbeat. Rhys, half-awake and delirious, called out her name, but his voice was a distant echo, lost in the roar of her own grief.

She felt the tremor in his hand as it rose, weak and unsteady, to touch her cheek. His bloodied fingers left a streak of crimson on her skin, a mark she knew would never fade, no matter how many times she washed it away.

His lips moved again, forming words she didn’t want to hear. I love you. No sound escaped, but she read them all the same.

“No,” she whispered, the word breaking like glass. “Don’t do this.”

But his hand fell away, limp against the stone, his eyes unfocused and distant. His chest rose once, twice more—and then stilled.

The noise of the cell roared back all at once: Rhys murmuring her name in a voice cracked and broken, the faint clamor of armor in the hall, Silas’s commanding voice slicing through the din. But Elara heard none of it.

Her world had narrowed to the stillness in Conn’s body, the weight of him against her knees, the warmth of his blood on her hands that was already beginning to cool.

“No.” The word came again, softer now, as though denying it could rewrite the moment. Her fingers dug into his armor, shaking him, as though that would bring him back. “No, Conn. Please…”

Her sobs echoed in the silence, raw and unrestrained. She clung to him, her forehead pressed against his as her tears fell onto his face.

When Azriel’s hand came to her shoulder, she barely registered it, barely felt the strength in his grip as he tried to pull her away.

“Elara.” His voice was low, steady, but edged with urgency.

She didn’t move.

“Elara, we need to go. Now.”

“Leave me,” she rasped, her voice hollow, devoid of anything but the remnants of her grief.

His shadows curled tighter around them, “If we don’t leave, we all die. Conn wouldn’t want that.”

At that, her hands stilled. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t argue. Didn’t move. Azriel’s shadows coiled around Conn’s body, lifting it with a gentleness that seemed out of place in the bloodstained room.

Elara rose unsteadily, her legs trembling beneath her. Her hands hung uselessly at her sides, still stained with Conn’s blood.

Chapter 8

Notes:

****** Revised: January 2025

500 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara woke the way she always had for the last ten years—eyes open before her mind caught up, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Cracks ran through the plaster, forming shapes she’d memorized but never wanted to see. The shadows of midday sunlight crawled along the walls, taunting her. She’d slept too late again, though "sleep" felt like the wrong word for the restless void she fell into each night.

The weight was already there, pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket as if it might anchor her, but it couldn’t. Nothing could.

Conn’s face flickered in her mind, sharp and far too vivid. Not the way he’d smiled, or the way his laugh had filled the air with life. No—her mind only summoned his bloodless lips, his hand limp in hers, his eyes fixed on something she couldn’t see.

Her fault.

The thought clawed at her, as relentless as ever. If she hadn’t brought him to that gods-damned cell, if she’d been faster, stronger, smarter—

Elara blinked hard and sat up, slowly, as though her body resisted the motion. The room stretched around her, dim and oppressive, the curtains perpetually drawn. She didn’t bother opening them anymore; the light didn’t bring any warmth.

Her gaze drifted to the nightstand. A cluster of trinkets rested there—little things Conn had given her over the years. A carved wooden figure. A pressed flower, its petals faded to a brittle brown. A ribbon he’d won at at an archery contest on the outskirts of the city, insisting she take it because her smile was the real prize.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, the memory cutting deeper than she expected. She reached out, hesitated, and pulled her hand back.

Across the room, the neatly folded training gear mocked her from its corner. Alaric had left it there years ago, his tone careful but firm as he told her to come to the training ring. Said it would help. Said she needed to hit something, to feel something.

She’d tried. Once. Maybe twice. But every time her feet carried her up to the training grounds, her breath would catch at the sight of the sparring pairs,. The sound of blades clashing, boots thudding against dirt—it was too close to the way Conn used to laugh when he’d land a blow and tease her about her form.

He should have been there.

The fact that he wasn't – it was just so wrong.

She stopped going to training altogether.

Her reflection caught her eye as she rose. She moved to the mirror out of habit more than vanity, but the face staring back was hardly hers. Her eyes, once sharp and bright, were dulled to a lifeless gray. Shadows hollowed her cheeks, her skin pale from too many days hidden behind thick curtains. She looked like a ghost—maybe she was one.

She lifted a hand to the glass, her fingers brushing the cool surface. In her mind, Conn’s image filled the space beside her, his smile the kind that made everything feel lighter. Her chest tightened as she imagined his voice, teasing her for oversleeping, coaxing her outside.

She dropped her hand and turned away.

The first year after Conn’s death, Elara remembered lying in bed, unmoving for hours, as if every breath was a struggle. The world beyond her walls ceased to matter, sounds muffled as though she lived underwater. Her mother, Lyra, had tried—soft words, warm hands brushing her hair, desperate pleas to eat, to sit up, to live. But Lyra’s voice blended with the rustling of leaves outside her window, distant and meaningless.

Nothing Lyra said could change what had happened. Nothing could bring Conn back.

Rhys had come too, his presence quieter but just as persistent. He’d sit on the edge of her bed or by the window, his wings folded tight as though he feared taking up too much space. Sometimes he’d start to speak, then falter, his mouth pressing into a line. Those moments of shared silence had been easier to bear than Lyra’s constant attempts to fill the void. Rhys never forced her to talk. He just sat there, as the light shifted through her curtains.

Eventually, even Rhys had given up, retreating to Illyria with Azriel and Cassian.

Only Fiona had stayed long enough to matter. In those early, raw days, the female would climb into Elara’s bed without a word, pulling her into an embrace that didn’t need explanations. They cried together until they couldn’t anymore, their tears soaking into the pillows, leaving them both hollow and numb. But even Fiona hadn’t known the full weight of Elara’s grief—the truth Elara kept locked inside.

It was her fault.

If she’d waited, if she’d listened to Azriel instead of rushing in play the part of the hero, Conn wouldn’t have been there. He wouldn’t have taken the ash spear meant for her.

But even Fiona had stopped coming to see her. After a few years, the female had started to move on with her life.

Elara didn't think that she could ever move on.

Elara reached for a dress, the motion sluggish and mechanical. She slipped it on, feeling the fabric hang loosely on her frame. She wandered the halls of the House of Wind like a wraith, quiet and ghostly. Eventually, she found herself in one of the House’s many personal libraries – not the vast academic collection in the bowels of the house, but one of the smaller, more intimate rooms.

It was where she would come when she needed a distraction from her thoughts.

The door creaked softly as she pushed it open, the familiar scent of aged leather and wood varnish wrapping around her like a worn blanket. As she stepped inside, the hearth flared to life, casting flickering golden light across the walls.

Her gaze skimmed the shelves, unfocused. Her fingers brushed the spines of the books, her touch light, as though afraid they might crumble beneath her hands. She didn’t care what she chose—she never really read the words anyway. But then her eyes snagged on a slim volume with a cracked leather cover.

A book of folk tales.

Her throat tightened as she pulled it from the shelf, the weight of it light in her hands but heavy in her chest. Conn had loved these stories, spinning them for her under the stars for hours when she needed to get away from her family. He’d always insisted on adding his own embellishments—"What’s the point of a story," he’d said, grinning, "if you can’t make it better?"

She sank onto the nearest settee, the book resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the worn cover as her vision blurred. The ache in her chest grew sharper, threatening to crack her open, but she didn’t fight it.

The first story was about a fae warrior who outwitted a beast to save his village. Elara’s fingers tightened around the edges of the page as she read, the words pulling her back to another time. She could almost feel Conn’s arms around her as he’d recounted this tale one lazy afternoon. His laughter had rumbled in her ear, warm and unrestrained, when he mimicked the beast’s growls and exaggerated the warrior’s cunning.

The memory was so vivid it felt like reaching out might bring it back. But the sound of Conn’s voice was only an echo in her mind, and the warmth beside her was gone.

Her eyes dropped back to the page, though the words blurred as tears gathered. She blinked rapidly, forcing herself to keep reading. The next story—a human tale of love and loss—hit harder than it should have, after nearly a decade.

She set the book aside, pressing her hands into her lap to stop their trembling. The room felt smaller suddenly, the quiet oppressive. Conn would have laughed at her, gently teasing her for letting a story get to her.

Her chest tightened, and she reached for the book again, flipping through the pages more quickly now, desperate for distraction.

Time passed unnoticed as she sank deeper into the stories, her mind drifting between the tales and her own memories. The crackle of the hearth and the rustle of turning pages blended into a soothing rhythm, lulling her into a false sense of peace.

Until the door creaked open.

The soft pad of footsteps broke the spell. Elara didn’t look up, didn’t straighten as the presence of the High Lord filled the room.

"What are you doing here?" Silas’s voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and uninvited.

"Reading." Her tone was flat, and she held up the book without looking at him.

She didn’t need to see his face to know his expression—disapproving, sharp-eyed, his lips pressed thin. His disapproval was practically a second shadow, one she’d learned to ignore. They had hardly spoken for the last ten years. After the day that he had rescued her and Rhys, he had yelled and screamed at her, his face twisted with fury. She had never seen Silas that angry, but she hadn't had it in her then to be frightened. She had been too numb with grief to hear him as he admonished her for her own stupidity, her mind replaying Conn’s death over and over.

Neither Elara nor her father had ever tried to have a real conversation again.

Silas shifted, his boots scuffing lightly against the floor. "Shouldn’t you be out causing trouble with those friends of yours, or whatever it is you do?"

Elara inhaled deeply, trying to focus on the words on the page in front of her. Silas didn’t know. He’d never cared to know that one of those "friends" had been Conn. Or that she had no one left to cause trouble with anymore.

A dull ache curled in her chest, but she pushed it down. Better this way. Better that Silas had never known the truth. They’d kept their relationship from her father a secret for a reason, and even in death, that reason had held. Conn had been hers, in a way Silas could never touch, and she wouldn’t let him taint that.

She shrugged, the motion barely lifting her shoulders. "I’ve outgrown trouble, apparently."

When she finally glanced up, Silas was studying her, his brows raised in surprise—or maybe calculation.

"It’s good to see you behaving in a manner that befits a lady of your station," he said, his tone carrying a thin veneer of approval. "Now, if only your brother would—"

The sharp crack of the book slamming shut cut him off. The sound echoed through the library, reverberating in the charged silence that followed.

Elara rose, clutching the book to her chest as though it could shield her from his gaze. Her movements were calm, deliberate, but her voice trembled with suppressed anger. "If you’ll excuse me, Father," she said, meeting his gaze with a calmness she didn’t feel. "I think I need a rest."

She didn’t wait for his reply. Turning on her heel, she left the room, her steps measured and controlled until the door closed behind her.

Only then did she let herself exhale, her grip on the book loosening as she pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the door. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a furious rhythm that matched the ache in her chest.

This is what she got for daring to get out of bed.

---

499 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara sat at the grand dining table, the opulent chandelier casting a warm glow over the room. The table was set with their finest porcelain and silverware, and the aroma of roasted meat and seasoned vegetables filled the air.

Elara stared at her plate, tracing the edge of a spear of asparagus with the tines of her fork. Her appetite had been a fleeting thing these past years, never staying long enough to matter.

Her father’s voice filled the space, self-important and assured, as if he didn’t notice his daughter’s discomfort.

 "I hear Rhys has struck up a friendship with one of the High Lord of Spring’s sons," Silas said, his words slow, clipped—loaded with disdain. "I don’t care for the court, but at least he’s making more appropriate connections."

Elara let the words flow past her, sinking further into the familiar fog that dulled every sound, every breath. She barely noticed her mother responding, Lyra’s voice soft but firm as always.

 "Cassian and Azriel are good friends to him," she said, her tone quiet but firm. "They’re like family."

Elara barely registered the conversation, her mind drifting as she watched the asparagus glide along the edges of her plate.

Silas scoffed, his knife slicing into a thick cut of meat. “They will be his subjects. Loyalty is fine, but position is better. Rhys needs connections that elevate him, not ones that drag him down. Friends or not, those Illyrians—”

She poked at the food, trying to ignore how she was suffocating, that the room began to feel smaller, the air thinner. Her parents continued their argument – for how long, she wasn’t sure. But the clang of silverware on the wooden table was enough to finally make her look up.

"Did you hear me, girl?" Silas's voice cut through her reverie, sharp and impatient.

The fork in her hand stilled. She looked up slowly, blinking as her father’s gaze pinned her in place. His expression was the same mix of impatience and scrutiny she had come to expect.

“I asked you a question,” he said, his voice low but cutting.

Her lips parted, but no words came. The heat in her chest burned hotter, turning sour, and she forced herself to meet his gaze.

She swallowed hard, gripping the fork tighter until her knuckles ached.

Silas sighed, shaking his head. “What is wrong with you, girl?”

The words cut deeper than they should have. Elara’s fingers tightened around her fork, the pressure grounding her against the heat rising in her chest. She wanted to laugh bitterly at the question. What was wrong with her? Everything.

She wanted to say it, to hurl the truth at him and let it shatter this false calm: Conn is dead. He died saving me. I killed him. But the weight of that confession settled like a stone in her throat, impossible to dislodge.

"Whatever it is, snap out of it," Silas continued, his anger rising. "As I was saying, I have been in contact with one of the lords in the Day Court. The High Lord is not concerning himself with marriage – content with mistresses, I believe - but he's named a few relations who may be willing to have a negotiation."

Elara froze.

“Negotiation?” she said quietly, her voice sharper than she intended.

Silas glanced at her, a single brow lifting. “Marriage, Elara. You’re of an age now, and we can’t delay this forever. It’s time to—”

“No.”

The word left her lips before she could stop it, cutting through the room like a knife.

Silas’s gaze snapped to her, his face darkening. “Excuse me?”

Elara pushed back her chair, the sound jarring in the sudden silence. The tightness in her chest rose to her throat,. “I said no.”

Elara's hand trembled, and her fork slipped from her grasp, clattering loudly onto the plate. The sound echoed in the dining room, but she didn't register it over the sound of her heart pounding in her chest.

She couldn't do this—she couldn't even think about marriage. It was too soon, too overwhelming, too wrong.

Her grip tightened on the fork, her knuckles whitening. She couldn’t breathe.

“I do not think this is the right time,” Lyra said, breaking the stillness. She set her fork down with a deliberate clink and fixed her husband with a steady gaze. “Elara needs more time. She’s been through so much.”

“Time?” Silas’s scoff cut through the room, sharp and cold. “It’s been ten years, Lyra. She barely saw combat in the war. If anything, it should have taught her to obey her High Lord’s commands instead of chasing recklessness.” His knife sliced through the roast on his plate with unnecessary force. “This is an opportunity for our family. She needs to move on.”

Lyra leaned forward, her elbows on the table—a rare breach of her composed demeanor. Her brow furrowed, her voice quiet but unwavering. “She’s not ready. Forcing her into this won’t help her heal, Silas. It will break her.”

“She doesn’t need healing,” Silas snapped, his voice cutting like the crack of a whip. “She needs a dose of reality. Plenty of our soldiers saw the horrors of war. They don’t sit around and mope.”

The fork slipped from Elara’s hand, clattering against the plate. Both their heads turned toward her.

Her mother’s eyes softened instantly, a crease of worry forming between her brows. “Elara, darling, are you alright?”

Elara couldn’t speak. Words lodged in her throat, heavy and useless. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the room. The chandelier above seemed too bright, the walls too close, the air too warm. She wanted to scream, to run, to vanish.

She didn’t need to answer. Silas filled the silence for her. “See? She’s been coddled long enough. You do her no favors by indulging this.” He gestured toward her as if she weren’t even sitting there. “Elara—”

Her chair scraped loudly as she pushed it back and stood. The abrupt motion sent her heart racing, but she kept her voice steady, clipped, and sharp. “Excuse me.”

Elara's eyes stung with unshed tears as she listened to her mother and father continued to argue, their voices blending into a blur of sound. Her chest tightened, and she felt the walls closing in around her, the pressure unbearable.

Her mother glanced at her, eyes filled with concern. "Elara, dear, are you alright?"

“Elara.” Lyra’s voice followed her, soft and concerned, but Elara didn’t stop.

Her steps quickened as she fled the dining room, her chest heaving as she struggled to contain the storm building inside her.

When she reached a window, she stopped, pressing her palms to the chilled glass.  It was cold—blessedly cold—and she let the chill seep into her skin. She closed her eyes, letting her forehead rest against the surface.

She stared out at Velaris, its lights twinkling like distant stars. Somewhere in that vast, vibrant city, life was carrying on. People were laughing, loving, living. The thought twisted something deep inside her—a mixture of longing and fury at the unfairness of it all.

Conn should have been here. Should have been the one to pull her from this suffocating darkness. Should have been the one arguing with her father, standing beside her, saying that Elara wouldn’t need to marry any distant relative of a High Lord — because she would be marrying him.

But Conn wasn’t here.

And he never would be.

Her reflection in the glass stared back, pale and hollow, a ghost of the person she had been. The image blurred as tears spilled over, carving hot paths down her cheeks.

Marriage. The very word tasted like ash in her mouth. It felt like a betrayal, like forgetting the sound of Conn’s laughter or the way he would brush a strand of hair from her face. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.

As she reached her room and closed the door behind her, she let out a shuddering breath. The familiar surroundings brought a slight comfort, but the emptiness was still overwhelming. She sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself as the tears finally spilled over.

The memories of Conn were a constant ache, his absence a void that could never be filled.

How could she marry anyone who wasn't him?

---

Rhys,

I hope you’re well and that Illyria hasn’t worn you down too much. I’m writing because I’m worried about Elara. It’s been ten years, and she’s still lost in her grief. No matter what we’ve done to help her, she keeps pulling further away.

Your father and I think it’s time for a change. We’ve decided that I should take her to Illyria, hoping it might spark something in her. Staying here hasn’t helped, and even Silas agrees this might be what she needs.

But Rhys, she’s not the same girl you remember. She’s barely eating, hasn’t trained in years, and this trip will be hard on her. I’m asking—no, I’m pleading—will you meet us partway? I don’t think she can make the journey on her own.

More than that, I hope being with you will help mend what’s come between you both. She needs her brother. And I think, deep down, you need her too.

With love,

Mother

Chapter 9

Notes:

**** Revised: January 2025

499 Years Before the Cursebreaker

There really was no greater feeling than the wind beneath her wings.

The rush of air streaming over the thin membrane, the way that it both lifted and supported her. It made her feel momentarily free. Free from the crushing grief that threatened to consume her. Free from the possibility of marriage to some lord in the Day Court.

A faint smile ghosted across her lips, unbidden and unfamiliar.

Then it hit her—a sharp pang in her ribs, the way grief always did, sudden and unforgiving. The memory rose unbidden: Conn’s body in her arms, his blood soaking into the earth. Her wings faltered, a slight tremor breaking her rhythm. She hadn’t smiled like that in years, and the guilt of it coiled tight in her chest.

She didn’t deserve this. Not the wind, not the brief flicker of freedom. Conn was gone, and what right did she have to feel anything but sorrow?

It would seem even flying had lost its charm for her.  

"Elara, we're going to rest here for a bit," her mother called out, her voice carrying on the wind as she began to descend toward a clearing below.

Elara hovered for a moment, watching her mother’s figure grow smaller as she neared the ground. The stops had been frequent—far more than Lyra would ever need. Elara knew why. Lyra didn’t think she was strong enough to make the flight in one go.

And she wasn’t.

Her wings burned, the muscles knotted and stiff. It had been years since she’d flown like this, years since she’d left the House at all, really. She wanted to resent the stops, to push herself just to prove her mother wrong. But the fight had drained out of her long ago.

Her landing was soft, if only because the effort for a stronger one seemed unnecessary. She folded her wings tightly against her back, ignoring the way they ached, and stretched her arms.

Lyra was already perched on a log, the waterskin in her hands extended toward Elara.

She took the waterskin without a word, the silence between them stretching thin and taut. The clearing was quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“You’re holding up well,” Lyra offered after a moment, her tone careful.

Elara drank slowly, letting the cool water soothe her throat. She wanted to scoff at her mother’s words, but she couldn’t muster the energy. Holding up? She was holding up about as well as a fraying thread.

Instead of answering, she handed the waterskin back and sat on the ground, leaning against a nearby tree. The bark bit into her back, grounding her in its roughness.

The clearing was quiet, the air cool with the first hints of evening. Lyra stood at the edge, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "We're waiting for Rhys," she said softly, not turning around. "I asked him to meet us halfway."

Elara stilled, her fingers hesitating over the straps of her pack. The frequent stops had already been humiliating enough. But to ask Rhys to come to them? It felt like too much.

Her voice was low, almost inaudible. "I didn’t think he’d want to."

She pulled at a loose thread on her flying leathers, eyes cast down. The thought of her brother made her stomach churn. He’d tried, at first—sitting with her in those silent days when all she could do was stare out the window. But time had worn him down, just as it had worn her. His visits became fewer, until he all but disappeared. She couldn’t blame him.

She would’ve left herself behind too, if she could.

Lyra sighed softly, sitting down beside her daughter. "He will come, Elara. He cares about you."

The sun sank lower, casting the clearing in a golden haze. Shadows stretched long across the grass, and the air smelled of pine and damp earth. Elara wrapped her arms around her knees, her wings curling tightly against her back. Every now and then, Lyra would glance toward the tree line. Each time she looked, Elara felt a flicker of something—hope? Anxiety? Relief when there was no sign of him? She couldn’t tell anymore.

But every time they picked their head up, expecting to see her brother's black hair poking through the tree line, her shoulders fell in disappointment.

Had he gotten distracted by those he called his brothers yet again?

She probably wasn't being entirely fair to the two Illyrians — they had been the ones to help her that day in the Hybern prison. If it hadn't been for them, she might have ended up just like Conn.

Conn.

The name tightened like a noose around her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep the memories at bay, but they surged anyway—his laughter, the way he’d ruffle her hair just to annoy her, the feel of his hand squeezing hers before it all went so horribly wrong.

Her voice broke the quiet, brittle and thin. "Why didn’t we just winnow?"

Lyra didn’t answer right away. She was watching the horizon again, her expression unreadable. Finally, she glanced at Elara, her lips curving into a faint, sad smile. "Because I know how much you love flying."

Elara frowned, her wings aching from the long journey. "I haven’t flown in years."

"I know," Lyra said, settling onto the blanket Elara had spread on the grass. "But I wanted you to remember what it feels like. Even if it’s just for a little while."

Lyra watched Elara from across the small fire, her golden eyes soft with concern. "You haven’t been to the training ring in years," she said, her tone gentle but pointed. "You hardly go into the city. And I can’t even remember the last Solstice meal you joined us for."

Elara turned away, staring out into the tree line. The truth was, she hated the thought of celebrating Solstice without Conn. She'd been forced to endure years of painfully awkward Solstice dinners, but the days before spent with him had always been so perfect. She couldn't endure those awful dinners without him to keep her sane. So, she had just stopped going.

Lyra’s voice softened further, hesitant. "I know the war… what happened… I know you still grieve for Conn."

Elara froze; it had been so long since someone other than her had said Conn's name aloud. And to hear it on her mother's lips…

"You don’t know anything about—about him," Elara choked out, her voice cracking. The words barely escaped before a sob tore through her. She yanked at the bracelet on her wrist—the leather worn smooth from years of fidgeting.

Lyra moved closer, her expression shifting to something raw and pained. Her gaze flickered to the bracelet before settling back on Elara. "I know what Conn meant to you," she murmured. "And I am so sorry, Elara. No one your age should have to carry that kind of loss."

Elara looked at her mother, confusion and hurt mingling in her gaze. "What?"

Lyra sighed. She hesitated, her hand hovering before she reached out to smooth a stray strand of Elara’s dark hair. "I should’ve been there for you. In those days after… I thought I was helping by keeping your father from finding out. But I see now how wrong I was."

Elara stared at her. "I didn’t need you to protect me from him. I needed you."

"I know, and I am so sorry." Lyra's eyes shone with unshed tears. "I thought I was doing the right thing, but I see now how much I hurt you."

The clearing was too quiet—too still. Elara’s breath hitched as she wiped her face, her tears barely dry. She opened her mouth to speak, to force out the words lingering in her chest, but a sharp rustling in the underbrush froze her mid-breath.

It wasn’t the casual crunch of a branch beneath boots. It was frantic—violent.

Her eyes darted toward the noise, her muscles stiffening. "Rhys?" she called out, the name slipping past her lips before she could stop herself. But she already knew better. Her brother didn’t stumble through the woods like a drunken fool.

Lyra was already on her feet, her golden eyes narrowing as she turned toward the treeline.

Then the forest exploded.

Branches snapped like brittle bones, and something—several somethings—burst from the shadows.

They were massive, with fur that glistened in the dim light, their eyes glowing an unnatural shade of yellow. Their claws were long and sharp, digging into the earth with each step. One of the beasts had antlers, gnarled and deadly, another had a maw filled with jagged teeth, dripping with saliva.

These were no ordinary forest animals.

And then it hit her. A word, sharp and cold, whispered from years of lessons she had tried to forget.

"Spring." Her voice cracked as she shouted it to her mother, the realization twisting in her chest. The beasts weren’t here by chance. And the Spring Court—weren’t they supposed to be allies? Wasn’t Tamlin a friend of her brother’s?

Lyra’s hand went instinctively to the blade strapped at her thigh, but there wasn’t enough time to speak, to plan.

One of the beasts lunged.

It moved with terrifying speed, a blur of dark fur and claws. Elara barely had time to react before it slammed into her, the force like being hit by a battering ram. Her back hit the earth, hard, knocking the air from her lungs.

She couldn't help herself as she let out a cry of pain.

The beast’s weight crushed her, claws scraping fire across her shoulders. Elara twisted, muscles screaming, and planted her boots against its torso. With a surge of raw desperation, she shoved. It tumbled off her with a guttural snarl, and she scrambled to her feet, drawing the dagger at her side.

The blade felt heavier than it should have, its familiar weight foreign in her trembling hand. Her grip faltered as she steadied herself, knuckles pale against the worn leather hilt.

Years of neglect—of refusing to train, to fight, to be anything but a shadow of herself—had left her weaker than she cared to admit. Her legs trembled, her shoulders ached, and every movement felt like wading through quicksand.

What have I done to myself?

A flash of movement to her right caught her attention. One of the beasts lingered at the edge of the clearing. Tawny fur shimmered in the fading light, its head a grotesque blend of wolf and stag. Elk-like antlers crowned its skull, massive and sharp. Yet, it didn’t charge. It paced back and forth, ears pinned flat, its tail thrashing.

It let out a low, mournful whine—a sound so jarring amidst the chaos that Elara froze.

The creature’s glowing eyes locked onto hers, not with rage or hunger but something softer.

Her breath hitched, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. Another beast lunged, this time for Lyra.

“Mother!” Elara’s scream tore from her throat as the beast swiped at Lyra with claws like scythes.

Lyra spun, her blade flashing, but she was too slow. The creature’s claws raked across her arm, and she staggered back with a sharp cry.

Elara didn’t think. She moved. Her blade found purchase in the beast’s side, a sickening warmth spilling over her hand as it roared in pain. She yanked the dagger free and shoved it again, driving it deeper this time.

The creature reared back, its furious eyes snapping to her. Lyra shouted something—Elara couldn’t hear it over the blood pounding in her ears.

The beast swiped at her, and she stumbled, her dagger slipping from her hand as she hit the ground. Before she could rise, another slammed into her side, knocking her flat.

The beast she had wounded turned on her, its eyes blazing with fury. It lunged, and Elara barely managed to dodge, stumbling backward and falling to the ground. It pinned her, claws biting into her arms, sharp pain radiating through her body as blood seeped into her leathers. She struggled, kicking, clawing, but her strength was gone.

“Mother!” she choked, twisting beneath the beast that held her down. Its claws sank deeper, sharp pain blazing through her shoulders, and her muscles screamed with the effort to push it off. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even turn her head to see beyond the monstrous weight pinning her.

But she heard it.

The wet, visceral sound of claws ripping through flesh. Her mother’s scream—a sound so primal, so filled with agony that it reverberated in Elara’s chest, lodging there like a splinter.

“No!” she sobbed, thrashing harder. The ground beneath her was slick with blood—hers, Lyra’s, she didn’t know anymore. Her fingers clawed at the dirt, desperate for any leverage, but it was useless.

Through the haze of her struggle, Elara caught a glimpse of Lyra. Her mother was on her knees, wings half-unfurled, trying to shield herself from the onslaught. The beast tore into her again, claws raking across her torso. Blood splattered the ground in thick, crimson arcs.

It wasn’t enough to kill her quickly.

Elara’s vision blurred, tears spilling unchecked. She shouldn’t have let them leave the House. She should have fought harder when her mother insisted they take this trip. Why hadn’t she said no?

The beast lunged, its massive jaws closing around one of Lyra’s wings.

Elara’s scream died in her throat as the sound of it—that sound—ripped through the clearing. A wet, tearing noise that would haunt her forever. Lyra’s cry was a raw, piercing thing, cutting through even the beasts’ growls. Blood poured from her back in a torrent, soaking the earth in a dark, viscous pool.

Elara’s stomach churned. She wanted to look away, to shield herself from the horror unfolding before her, but she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t survive this.

“Mother, please—” Elara’s voice broke, her sobs wracking her body as she pushed against the creature pinning her. Her hands shook, her strength drained. She wasn’t strong enough.

The beast on her growled low, its rancid breath brushing her cheek. She could feel its weight pressing her deeper into the dirt, its claws curling in anticipation of the final blow.

The clearing seemed to shrink, the world closing in around Elara as the beast's growls turned guttural, hungry. Its yellow eyes fixed on her. She felt the earth beneath her tremble with its every step.

She knew what was coming. There would be no last-minute rescue, no stroke of luck to save her. These beasts would finish what they started. Her blood would join her mother’s, staining the ground, and the world would go on without her.

Her fingers curled weakly into the dirt, her body limp beneath the creature's hold. Strange, how the realization brought not fear but an odd calm. She could let go. She could let it end.

She would see them again.

The thought flared, bittersweet, like the first bloom of spring after a brutal winter. Conn, with his crooked grin and steady voice, would be waiting on the other side, teasing her for taking so long. Her mother too—whole again, without pain or regret.

Elara closed her eyes, her muscles slackening.

The beast lunged, claws raking across her ribs, carving fire into her flesh. Its claws found her wings next, and the ripping—Mother above, the ripping—wrenched a scream from her throat, raw and broken..

The world blurred, edges smudging into shadow and red. She thought of Conn’s hands catching her when they used to spar, his voice steadying her when the world felt like too much. She thought of her mother’s smile, weary but always warm.

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, catching on Lyra’s broken form. Blood soaked her dark hair, pooling beneath her motionless wings. Her eyes stared skyward, wide and unseeing, her mouth open as if still trying to form her daughter’s name.

The darkness closed in, the pain fading into a dull throb. As the world went dark, a sense of calm washed over her. She would be with them soon, in a place where there was no more pain, no more loss.

The darkness took her, and she welcomed it.

---

The Prince of Hybern moved through the forest, his twin a shadow at his side. The Illyrian mountains loomed ominously above them, their peaks hidden by a perpetual shroud of mist.

These are the famed Illyrian mountains? Brannagh’s voice slid into his thoughts, sharp with disdain. Plain, aren’t they?

Dagdan’s lip curled. His stride didn’t falter, his steps fluid over gnarled roots and fallen branches. He had never set foot in Night Court territory, but he moved as if he had.

But now, they were here for a reason.

Their uncle had received word from an old ally, the High Lord of Spring, of a hunting trip in these forsaken woods. The information had been cryptic, but any hint from their old friend was worth investigating. The High Lord of Spring was just as discontented with the outcome of the war, and the terms of that blasted treaty, as their uncle. He had to play nice with the other High Lords of Prythian, and was licking his wounds in secret.

Dagdan smirked. The King of Hybern had no such constraints.

What do you think he left for us? Brannagh’s impatience laced her words. He wedged himself into Brannagh's mind, not bothering to ease himself in — he knew his sister liked the pain — and could see exactly what his sister would rather being doing with her time.

I’m not sure, Dagdan replied, his thoughts guarded. Brannagh might let him into his mind, to see her arousal, but he would never do the same for her. The High Lord of Spring had his shield up when I tried to enter his mind. The only thing I gleaned was a strange pang of guilt from his youngest son.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth curling with derision. He hated the young Tamlin, ever since the boy's magic had started to develop. He was powerful — more so than any of his brothers. Without the right leverage, Dagdan could sense, the boy would be difficult to control when he fully came into his own.

Whatever it is, it had better be good.

Our uncle has not been happy of late. Brannagh noted, her tone almost playful.

It was an understatement if there ever was one.  The King of Hybern was livid with the new Treaty and orders keep out of the mortal lands. The High Lords had all but forced him into subjugation, forcing him to bend to term he'd never agree to.

And his uncle chaffed under their orders. Instead of freeing his slaves, as the Treaty dictated, he had slaughtered them all.

Our uncle wants retribution, he sent to his twin, the thought laced with dark certainty.. It is what this deal is about.

And what does Spring know of the deal? Brannagh asked, gliding through the woods with just as much ease as her brother.

His jaw tightened. He’d tried prying into the High Lord’s mind, but the male’s shields were impenetrable. Still, the male had known enough. Enough to secure what they needed. Enough to send them into these cursed woods.

It was why they were trudging through these Cauldron—forsaken woods in the first place.

Brannagh’s nostrils flared, her lips curling in a feral smile. I smell it, she murmured, her voice a quiet hum of anticipation.

Dagdan followed suit, inhaling deeply. The smell of blood—rich, intoxicating fae blood—filled his nostrils, sending a thrill down his spine.

The twins followed the scent, weaving through the trees silently. The forest around them was eerily still, Dagdan's boots barely disturbed the fallen leaves. Not that it mattered — the nearest Illyrian war camp was miles down the river.

No one from Night knew they were here.

They came upon the scene suddenly—a clearing painted red. Two Illyrian females lay crumpled in the dirt, their wings ripped from their backs. Blood soaked the ground, seeping into the earth like spilled wine.

Dagdan knelt beside one of the bodies, his gloved hand brushing the ragged edge of a wound. He let out a low whistle. “Spring’s got teeth after all.”

Brannagh crouched beside the body, her fingers grazing the blood-soaked earth. She lifted them to her lips, tasting the metallic tang with a detached hum. “Nothing left to play with,” she muttered, kicking the nearest corpse. It shifted limply. “Useless to our uncle like this.”

Dagdan’s eyes narrowed as he took a closer look at the body beneath his feet. He could smell the blood from here as it still poured out of her wounds. He crouched down, feeling a faint, almost imperceptible pulse of power beneath his fingers as he touched her skin. A shiver of excitement coursed through him.

Dagdan knelt beside the other female, his sharp eyes catching a faint, uneven rise of her chest. The air around her crackled with something—weak, but unmistakable. He pressed two fingers against her neck. A flicker of power shivered beneath his touch.

“This one’s alive,” he said, his tone cool, almost clinical.

Brannagh’s head snapped up, her dark eyes narrowing. “Alive?”

“Barely.” Dagdan tilted the female’s head, his face close enough to catch the fading pulse of her power. It still clung to her, even now—sharp and heady. His fingers ghosted over her mangled form, the faint threads of pulsing just beneath him. This was no ordinary Illyrian.

He pulled back her eyelid, his breath catching at the flash of violet beneath. Blood and grime marred her face, but the eyes were clear.

Dagdan’s gaze lingered on the female’s bloodied face. The violet of her half-lidded eyes caught the faint light, even through the grime. Only one family had eyes like that.

A slow smile curled his lips. This was more than he had hoped for.

Brannagh’s shock melted into a twisted grin of her own. “So, this is a member of the Night Court,” she murmured, her voice filled with admiration for the brutality inflicted upon the female. "They don't seem so mighty now."

Dagdan crouched, brushing his knuckles against her temple. Her mind was a frayed, open book— they were so easy to crack apart on the brink of death. He pushed past her fading resistance, diving into her memories.

Chains glinted in the darkness, a male shackled and defiant, his golden hair slicked with blood. Amarantha’s dungeon. Dagdan’s brow lifted as the memory shifted—the same male, the female before him, her face pale with guilt as the High Lord of Night roared his disapproval. Grief poured out, staining every corner of her mind.

He receded from her mind, having seen enough to confirm his suspicions.

This was the High Lord's daughter.

A very rare smile played on Dagdan's lips.

What is it? Brannagh asked, her voice breaking into his thoughts.

He opened his mind to her, letting the memories bleed through. Her breath caught, her grin widening. Perfect.

Dagdan crouched again, tracing a deep gash on the female’s side, watching the blood well anew. There was elegance in it—the raw, unflinching violence. A shame she wouldn’t be awake to see how much worse it could get.

“Bring me the head of a young girl,” he ordered, his eyes not leaving the dying female before him. “We will send the High Lord of the Night Court a message he will never forget.”

Brannagh’s grin turned feral as she slipped into the shadows.

Dagdan leaned closer to the female, brushing her hair away from her battered face. “Sleep well,” he murmured, his tone mockingly tender. “This is only the beginning.”

---

Rhysand knew he should have sent word that he had decided to stay behind.

He paced along the edge of the training field, his gaze sharp as it tracked the young Illyrians weaving through the sky. Their wings cut clean arcs against the pale morning light, muscles taut with effort. He should have felt pride—should have focused on Griff, the smallest of the recruits, who’d just executed a near-flawless roll mid-dive.

“Wings tighter on the ascent, Griff!” Rhys barked, his voice even, commanding. The boy nodded as he adjusted. Around him, the others pushed harder, spurred by the relentless pace Rhys set.

But the tension gnawed at him. His mother and sister should have arrived hours ago.

The gnawing worry at the back of his mind had grown into a persistent throb. He knew he had agreed to meet them, knew that his mother had feared for Elara's ability to make the journey without some help. He knew Lyra had said that Elara had weakened over time, but she still should have been able to make the journey. It was only a few hours' travel from the halfway point, and she could winnow if need be.

Besides, Elara would have shrugged off any attempt at help he gave. That was how she had always been. After Conn’s death, she had shut him out completely. He’d sat with her in silence for days, trying to bridge the chasm that grief had carved between them. But she had barely looked at him. She'd probably blamed him for Conn's death — and he couldn't quite shake that feeling himself either.

It was blame he deserved.

A shout pulled him from his thoughts. Griff had landed hard, skidding across the dirt, but the boy was grinning through the mud streaked on his face. The older Illyrians murmured, grudging respect threading through their voices.

“He’s getting the hang of it,” one said, crossing his arms.

“Didn’t think he’d manage it so soon,” another replied, glancing at Rhys. “Guess he’s not all talk after all.”

Rhys allowed himself a faint smile, though it felt hollow. It had taken months for these soldiers to stop calling him “half-breed prince,” longer still for them to say his name without venom.

But slowly, and it often felt like it was very slow indeed, he was starting to break through their barriers.

He was in the middle of giving some training tips, demonstrating a technique for maintaining balance during a complex mid—air spin, when Cassian strode into the training ground. The unit snapped to attention at the sight of the newly promoted general, their faces reflecting a mix of awe and apprehension. Cassian had that affect on people.

Rhys's gaze flicked to his brother, the knot of dread forming the instant he saw Cassian’s face. His skin was too pale, his eyes ringed red, and his jaw set like stone. Cassian strode past the trainees without so much as a glance, his focus locked on Rhys.

Rhys couldn't remember the last time he had seen Cass like this.

“Cassian?” Rhys's voice cut through the murmurs. He reached out with a tendril of power, brushing the edge of Cassian’s mind, seeking entry. The shields wavered, cracked, and Rhys slipped in.

What is it?

Cassian’s mental voice was tight, strained. You need to see this. Now.

Rhys wanted to press further into his mind, to have Cassian just show him what was wrong. It would have been simpler, and Rhys hated walking into situations without all the information. But Cassian’s shoulders were taut, his hands flexing at his sides as though he could barely contain himself. Whatever this was, Cassian needed him to see it firsthand.

Rhys inhaled slowly, steadying himself.

“Lead the way,” he said aloud, keeping his voice neutral. He turned to the trainees, his expression hardening. “Keep practicing. I’ll be back.”

He pushed the thought aside. Elara. She was supposed to have arrived by now. His sister had grown better at ignoring these bastards, but Rhys knew the comments still cut sometimes. He’d speak with her later, remind her—

When she arrived later, he would have to speak to Elara, to make sure his younger sister knew not to take anything these males said or did to heart.

By the Cauldron, where were they?

“Females by the river found them,” Cassian said abruptly, his voice gruff.

“Found what?” Rhys asked, his throat tightening.

Cassian didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until they reached a tent at the camp’s edge. Cassian pulled the flap open, motioning for Rhys to enter.

Inside, Azriel stood, his stance rigid, hands clasped behind his back. His shadows were still, unnervingly so.

Cassian’s voice was a low growl. “Everyone out.”

The guards obeyed without hesitation, filing out past Rhys. He didn’t watch them leave—his eyes were locked on Azriel’s grim expression.

"What's wrong?" Rhys said, an uncomfortable laugh erupting from his throat, "I hate to admit it, brother, but you are scaring me."

Cassian didn’t answer, didn’t so much as glance at him. Rhys’s gaze fell to the table between them—two wicker boxes, perfectly aligned.

The chill running down his spine turned to ice.

“What is this?” His voice was quieter now, unsteady.

He reached out, but the stench hit him first. Burnt flesh, clotted blood—it crashed over him, thick and suffocating. Rhys staggered back, a hand clamping over his mouth as nausea rolled through him.

With a wave of his hand, he lifted the lids. They clattered neatly onto the table.

The smell worsened, bile rising in his throat as he stepped forward, forcing himself to look.

The first box held a head—what was left of one. Charred, blistered flesh, features melted beyond recognition. Dark hair clung stubbornly to scorched skin, brittle and ash-streaked. His eyes roved over the remnants of what once had been a face, searching for something familiar. There, among the blackened features, his eyes caught on a small earring barely visible amid the wreckage.

An intricately wrought design.

His mother’s.

Rhys froze, his mind rejecting what his eyes saw. But there was no denying it. The curve of the ear, the delicate jewlery—it was hers. He fell to his knees, retching.

The world blurred, spinning and swaying as his stomach heaved. The voice in his head was screaming, roaring, but outside, he could only manage a hoarse whisper. “No. No. No.”

Cassian was beside him in an instant, a steadying hand on his shoulder. Rhys shook him off. The air burned in his lungs, each breath jagged and shallow as he gasped, trying to pull himself together.

But there was no composure left.

“What happened?” His voice cracked, raw with desperation. His mother knew these mountains better than anyone. Who could have done this to them?

No answer. Cassian and Azriel stood silent, their own grief carved into their features.

He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as his thoughts spiraled. They’d been ambushed. Had to have been. Sitting ducks, waiting for him to come.

Waiting for him.

His family had needed him, and he wasn’t there.

No. It couldn’t be. Disbelief flooded through him again, refusing to believe the sight before him. His mother would be flying in at any minute, with Elara right behind her.

Elara.

The thought jolted Rhys into action. He lurched to his feet, staggering to the second box. His hand shook as he waved the lid away. Another head, even more disfigured than the first. The features were gone, burned to blackened, twisted flesh. His heart seized, denial screaming through him as he stared down.

No.

He scrambled closer, searching, clawing for something to disprove what he already knew.

“Elara,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “No, no, no—”

Azriel’s hand settled firmly on Rhys’ shoulder, his grip steady despite the tension rippling through him. “Rhys,” he said, his voice low, roughened by an emotion he rarely let surface. “I need you to listen to me.”

Rhys barely registered the words, his breath still coming in shallow bursts. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the box. Couldn’t reconcile the charred ruin inside with the faces of his family.

“We didn’t know at first,” Azriel continued, his tone measured, there was fraying at the edges. “We weren’t sure if it was her.”

A flutter of hope stirred in Rhys' chest. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe they had made a mistake.

Azriel glanced at Cassian, the look between them brief but weighted. Cassian’s jaw was clenched so tightly it looked ready to snap.

Azriel exhaled, his voice softening. “I wish it were a mistake.”

The hope in Rhys’ chest faltered. Azriel’s tone—grief-laden and steady—was far worse than any confirmation. Rhys finally looked at him, and what he saw in Azriel’s eyes made his knees threaten to buckle. That sorrow—bottomless, impenetrable—was something he hadn’t seen since they were boys.

Azriel took a deep breath and reached into his pocket, his shadows coiling tightly around something. "There’s more, Rhys." His voice broke slightly, and he steadied himself before continuing. "We found this stuffed in her mouth."

Rhys watched in growing horror as the shadows dissipated, revealing a small, piece of leather in Azriel’s hand. He recognized it almost instantly — the intricately etched piece of leather that his sister had worn every day for the past twenty years.

Elara’s bracelet.

Chapter 10

Notes:

**** Revised: January 2025

499 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Elara drifted on the edge of consciousness, the world around her shifting like a disjointed nightmare.

The first thing she felt was pain – so pervasive that it stole her breath.

 No, it was more than pain.

It was an all-encompassing agony that clawed through her veins, seared into her bones. She tried to scream, but her throat was shredded, raw. The sound that emerged was a broken whimper, barely audible.

She attempted to move, to lift an arm or even twitch a finger, but her body refused to obey.

Somewhere in the haze, whispers cut through—low, venomous, words strung together in what she presumed to be the Old Language.

Then it hit her—a deep, invasive force that sank into her wounds and twisted. Her breath hitched as the magic worked its way through her, wrenching flesh back together in jagged, excruciating pulls. She wanted to fight it, but the pain pinned her in place.

No. She knew, even through the fog, this wasn’t right. Her mother—Conn—they were gone. She was supposed to follow them. She tried to push back against the magic, to wrench herself free from its hold. But her strength was gone, her will swallowed by the agony.

The world went dark again, mercifully quiet.

When she surfaced, the voices were clearer.

“I’ve told uncle she’s not fully healed, but now is the time,” a male voice said, clipped and precise.…

Another voice, female this time, responded,, "I'm unsure of why he'd even want to keep her in the first place. This was not a part of the bargain."

"It's not our place to question the King, sister."

Elara tried to make sense of what she was hearing, her mind still sluggish and disoriented. The voices were close, almost too close, and there was a cold detachment in their tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

She fought to open her eyes, to move even an inch, but her body remained heavy and unresponsive, locked in its own private Hel.

Elara felt it before she understood it—a faint stirring at the edges of her consciousness. A subtle wrongness, like icy fingers brushing against her mind. The chill raced down her spine as the realization dawned: her mental shields were gone. She was exposed.

Panic swelled in her chest, but it was too late.

Pain exploded behind her eyes, driving out every coherent thought. She gasped, the sound thin and broken, her body convulsing against the unseen assault.

It wasn’t just a presence—it was a force, invasive and merciless, tearing through her memories like a predator shredding its prey.

Elara thrashed weakly, her mind screaming where her voice could not. But the presence was unrelenting. It dug deeper, carving its way through her thoughts with a precision that was almost surgical. Every piece of her it touched left a raw, aching wound.

Her silent screams reverberated in the vast, empty space of her mind—a helpless agony that no one would hear.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the presence retreated.

The void it left behind was staggering. Her mind throbbed, raw and battered, as if it had been stripped bare. She could still feel the echo of its claws, the jagged edges it had left behind. Tears streamed down her face as she lay trembling in the aftermath.

Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. Every part of her felt hollowed out, violated, broken.

When the darkness came for her again, she surrendered without a fight. It wasn’t fear that drove her into its embrace—it was relief.

---

Elara awoke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. There was only a dim light, and as her eyes adjusted, she tried to make sense of what was around her.

Where was she?

She tried to sit up, but a metallic clang stopped her short—chains. The cold bite of iron shackled her wrists and ankles, pinning her to a stone slab that scraped against her back. She tugged at the restraints, and the rusted links groaned but held fast.

The room pressed in on her, small and stifling. The air tasted damp, metallic. Her body ached, every muscle heavy, foreign.

Why was it so hard to move?

Her back twinged with pain, then screamed as she shifted. Her back—something was wrong. Memories flickered like dying embers, elusive and disjointed. The attack. Beasts, claws, teeth ripping through flesh. A wet crunch as they tore at her wings. The agony of it crawled up her spine, phantom pain that made her stomach twist.

Her wings.

A sick dread curled in her gut. Slowly, she reached a trembling hand behind her, the motion sluggish, clumsy. Her fingers brushed over ruined skin, raw and ridged. Pain flared, bright and sharp, but she forced herself to keep going. She groped for the familiar arch of bone, the soft resistance of that leathery membrane—anything.

Nothing.

A sharp breath escaped her lips, the sound fragile in the oppressive silence. Illyrians didn’t survive this. Her mother hadn’t survived this.

So how did she?

The memory came like a shard of glass, too vivid and jagged to be ignored. Her mother’s lifeless body crumpled in the dirt, blood pooling beneath her. A sob clawed its way up her throat, but it died there, strangled by something colder.

Why wasn’t she dead?

A flicker of sound brushed against the edges of her mind—a voice. Male, cold, reciting words she didn’t recognize but felt in her bones. The Old Language. She couldn’t place when or where she’d heard it. Someone had healed her —had brought her back from the brink of death.

Elara’s breath came fast, shallow, her chest tightening with every inhale. Chains scraped against stone as she shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send agony lancing through her body.

Her fingers ghosted over her injuries—raw patches of flesh that screamed at her touch. She recoiled at the feel of them. The wounds were closed, barely. Jagged scars knitted together haphazardly, as if whoever had done it cared only to keep her alive. Alive, but hurting.

She sat there, motionless, her thoughts fraying at the edges. The world outside the cell felt distant, untouchable. Time blurred. Minutes, hours—she couldn’t tell. 

Elara stared at the ground, her fingers tracing the rough stone beneath her. Every time she closed her eyes, she would see her mother’s face— the light leaving her eyes. Elara hugged her knees to her chest, feeling the sobs well up inside her. Her shoulders shook, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

She shouldn't be thinking about this —she needed to figure out a way out of there.

But like the years before, Elara was too paralyzed by her grief to do anything. Her mother’s last moments replayed over and over in her mind; the scene so vivid it felt like she was living it again.

Elara’s sobs grew louder, her body wracked with grief. She clung to the stone wall, her nails scraping against the rough surface, desperate for something, anything, to anchor her.

She was completely alone.

But what about her father? Her brother? Did they know she was out there? Did they know she had been taken by Hybern? Would they be coming for her? Her father might not have noticed right away—he expected his wife and daughter to be in Illyria for the next few months.

But Rhys? Surely, he’d notice when they never showed up. But he hadn’t met them like he promised. How long would she be there before someone came for her?

Would anyone come for her?

She wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to hold herself together.

A sudden creak shattered the stillness.

Two people stood in the doorway, both with long, dark hair and vacant, detached expressions. Elara immediately thought they could be related, their similarities too striking to be coincidence.

The male’s eyes swept over her, lingering too long. His gaze wasn’t just observant—it was invasive. She squirmed, instinctively pulling her knees closer to her chest, but the chains anchored her in place. A low hum of power radiated from them, sapping what little magic she had left.

Her heart sank. She knew these chains. She had seen them on Rhys once, years ago. The sight of them on herself now felt like the closing of a noose.

The male tilted his head, watching her with a curiosity that felt clinical, detached. Beside him, the female smirked, her lips curling in a way that made Elara’s stomach churn.

Elara clenched her fists, her mind reaching for the defenses that she had been lectured time and again to keep up. But she stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. The walls were gone—shattered. Her mind was open, exposed.

She tried to rebuild the walls, scrambling to piece together her broken mind. But the fragments refused to align, slipping through her grasp like shards of glass.

“Don’t bother.” The female’s tone dripped with disdain. “My brother made sure you wouldn’t be able to put those pathetic shields back up.”

Elara's eyes flickered between the twins, confusion and fear swirling in her gaze. How did she know that? How could they even do something like that? Daemati. Just like her brother.

Rhys could enter the minds of others, could tear it into shreds should he so choose. She had never inherited that trait, much to her father's disappointment. But these twins—these monsters—must share it.

You would be correct, the voice slithered into her mind without warning, slick and oily, wrapping around her thoughts.

She flinched, her head jerking as if the action could dislodge him. It didn’t.

He was in her mind.

It was like when her brother did it, careful and always with her permission. Rhys—

You feel that? the male’s voice coiled deeper, and she could sense his amusement, his sick pleasure in her pain.

She tried to shove him out, to claw at the invasion, but it was futile.

And then, her mind betrayed her.

The room glowed with the soft golden light of Solstice candles, their flickering warmth casting gentle shadows over the long dining table.

Elara sat cross-legged on the plush rug by the hearth, the lingering scents of roasted meats and spiced wine mingling with the faint sweetness of cinnamon. She was small then—barely tall enough to reach the table’s edge—and blissfully unaware of the tension simmering between her father and brother as they argued in low, clipped tones.

It was one of those rare times that her elder brother was actually there with her. He seemed younger then—his face softer.

“Close your eyes,” he said, his voice laced with mischief.

Elara obeyed, squeezing her eyes shut tight and holding out her hands. She felt the smooth edges of a box being pressed into her palms, the faint crinkle of wrapping paper beneath her fingers.

“Alright, open them.”

Her eyes snapped open, and her breath hitched at the sight of the tiny package. The paper shimmered in the firelight, the bow perfectly tied, and she unwrapped as fast as her small hands could muster.

Inside was a figurine—a winged horse, carved from what looked like polished onyx. Its wings stretched wide, poised to take flight, and its mane seemed to ripple as if caught in an unseen breeze.

“Do you like it?” Rhys asked, leaning closer.

Her hands trembled as she held the figurine up to the light. “I love it, Rhysie! It’s perfect!”

He laughed, “I thought you might. It’s a pegasus—remember how you always said you wanted to fly on one?”

She nodded furiously, clutching the figurine to her chest. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Rhysie.”

He smiled, and then leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “This one has a special magic. If you make a wish while holding it, it just might come true.”

Her mouth fell open in awe. “Really? Any wish?”

“Any wish,” he replied, ruffling her hair, his grin widening. “And who knows? Maybe some of them will.”

Elara clutched the figurine tighter. She gazed up at her brother, wanting to ask a million questions, but the words faltered on her tongue.

Something shifted.

The warmth of the hearth faded first, replaced by an eerie, creeping chill. The laughter in Rhys’s voice dulled, hollow now, as though it came from somewhere far away. She blinked, and the vivid colors of the memory dimmed, the firelight flickering before disappearing altogether.

“Rhysie?” she called, her voice small, trembling.

He didn’t answer. His face blurred, the sharp lines of his grin smudging like ink bleeding on wet parchment.

The figurine slipped from her hands. Or had it been taken? She couldn’t tell. She reached for it, but her fingers passed through empty air.

The memory fractured—splintering into darkness, the warmth and joy ripped away, leaving only the cold and silence. Her chest tightened as she tried to hold onto it, to keep Rhys’s laughter, the weight of the figurine in her hands, anything. But it slipped further, dissolving into nothingness.

The chill crept deeper, and the last thing she remembered was the echo of her own voice, calling out to a brother who wasn’t there.

“Stop, please.” Her voice cracked, hoarse and raw, the sound barely audible over the pounding in her skull. Elara clawed at her temples, nails scraping skin, desperate to release the searing pressure building inside. “Please, just let me die.”

The male chuckled, curling around her like smoke. “Not yet,” he drawled. “Not until we’ve had our fun.”

His words slithered through her mind, tangling with her own thoughts until she could no longer tell where his voice ended and her own began. Pain flared again—sharp, unrelenting, tearing through her consciousness. Her vision blurred, her body convulsing as she succumbed to the suffocating darkness.

When the void finally released her, she awoke on cold, unforgiving stone. The chill seeped into her bones, and she lay still, staring at nothing, her breaths shallow. Her mind swam, a foggy, disjointed mess that refused to settle. She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, trying to remember—but the effort felt like chasing shadows.

Where was she?

How did she get there?

---

The sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground where Elara and Conn sat. They had found a secluded spot near the river, away from the bustle of the city. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers and the gentle hum of bees.

Elara leaned back on her hands, watching Conn as he carefully unwrapped the basket. His movements were unhurried, his fingers deft as he pulled out two honeyed cakes.

"Here," Conn said, handing her a cake. "I know how much you love these."

Elara took it, her fingers brushing against his. They ate in companionable silence for a moment, the honeyed sweetness of the cakes mingling with the warm afternoon air. Elara glanced at Conn, noticing the way the sunlight highlighted the molten strands in his dark hair, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

“Elara,” he said, his voice shifting, growing quieter.

She stilled, her heart quickening as she turned to him. He set his cake down, brushing crumbs from his hands before reaching for hers.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” he said. His expression was serious now, his dark eyes steady on hers.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “What is it?”

Conn exhaled, as though steadying himself. “I want to talk to your father. To ask for his blessing.”

Elara blinked, her heart skipping a beat. “His blessing for what?”

“To marry you.” His voice was firm but laced with something vulnerable, something that made her chest ache. “I love you, Elara. I’ve loved you for years. I want a life with you—a future. Tell me you see it too.”

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

She saw it—saw the dream he painted so vividly. A home together, laughter filling the air. Children with his eyes and her wings, running through meadows of wildflowers. It was beautiful. Impossible.

“Conn…” she began, but her voice faltered.

He leaned closer, his hand still wrapped around hers, his other brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Say yes, El. Even if it’s just for a moment. Even if we have to fight for it. Say yes.”

His lips brushed against her jaw, light as a whisper, and she closed her eyes. She let herself get lost in the fantasy, let herself believe in it for just a moment.

But then—

The warmth faded.

When she opened her eyes again, the memory was shifting. Conn’s face blurred at the edges, his features becoming indistinct. The sunlight dimmed, the colors of the scene dulling to gray.

“No,” she whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “No, no, no.”

She tried to hold onto him, to the sound of his voice, to the warmth of his touch, but it was slipping away. The blanket, the river, the wildflowers—all of it dissolved.

Elara’s chest heaved as she clawed at her mind, desperate to retrieve the pieces. But they were gone.

And for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what she had just lost.

---

Azriel stood at the edge of the cliff, the night breeze ruffling his hair as he gazed down at the two small funeral pyres below. The flames licked the night air, sending sparks up toward the rising stars of Velaris. It wasn’t much, these small fires, but he understood why Rhys had to do it this way.

Why he had to have something to send his mother and sister off into the afterworld.

Rhys had been through so much upheaval in the past week; he needed this.

The scent of burning wood and the faint, bittersweet aroma of the herbs mixed into the pyres filled the air. Azriel's shadows shifted around him. He would have tried to retrieve Silas's body from the Spring Court if he could have, but his friend—his High Lord now—had forbidden it.

Rhys's voice echoed in his mind. Let the past stay buried there.

Azriel hadn't known that Rhys had gone all the way to the Spring Court with his father to enact retribution. If Azriel had known —he should have been there. He would have gone if Rhys had asked. Would have stood by Rhys’s side, shared in the bloodshed, borne the weight of it if only to ease his friend’s burden. Maybe then—maybe—this ache in his chest wouldn’t feel so sharp, so all-consuming.

He should have known that the High Lord of Spring was plotting something. He had a whole network of spies in the Spring Court who should have sensed what was going on. If he had gathered that intelligence, he could have prevented it.

It was his fault what happened to Lyra and Elara.

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the pyres again. Lyra had been a second mother to him, her warmth and kindness something he never deserved. She had seen him—not just his shadows, not just his scars, but him. When his own family turned away, she had been there for him.

He should have been there to save her.

And Elara—

He swallowed hard at the memory of their last encounter. She had stood before him, chin high, her voice steely as she demanded to join the mission to rescue her brother. He’d dismissed her, treated her like a child playing at war.

But she hadn’t been a child. She’d been a female grown. One who had fought to carve out something of her own, despite the strict restrictions Silas placed on her life.

He hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t seen her.

Now, all he could see were the flames.

His jaw tightened, guilt curling like smoke in his lungs. He’d scoffed at her, dismissed her demands as reckless and impulsive. He’d been wrong. She’d shown more bravery than he had in that moment, more resolve. And now—

It was too late.

He glanced over at Rhysand. His brother looked like he had aged years in just five days. The weight of the High Lord's powers had clearly shifted to him, but Azriel knew Rhys hadn’t wanted this, wasn’t ready for it.

Tonight though, Rhys looked like a child, a brother and a son mourning the loss of his family. Azriel turned his gaze back to the pyres, watching as the fire crackled and danced. The light from the pyres flickered in Rhys's violet eyes, casting shadows that made him look even more gaunt and hollow.

Azriel saw the faint tremor in his hand as Rhys reached for the empty air, as though searching for something—or someone—he would never touch again.

Azriel should have known. It was his duty to know these things, to prevent them. But he had failed. Elara—so young, so full of life—was gone, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he should have done something, anything, to protect her.

But it was too late — the damage was done, and nothing could bring her back.

---

The female woke up one morning, her eyes fluttering open to the dim light filtering through the small window of her cell. The cold stone beneath her offered no comfort, but she barely registered it. She barely registered anything, Her eyes fixed on the ceiling above, unblinking. Her mind reached outward, searching, but there was nothing to find.

No name. No past. Just silence.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing louder, closer. A male appeared in the doorway, his features sharp and predatory. She looked at him, her expression blank, devoid of recognition or fear. He seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place him.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

"Munin," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. Her gaze remained fixed on him, but she showed no reaction. Munin. The name echoed in her mind, filling the empty space with a hollow resonance. Something coiled inside her mind – compelling her to accept the label.

Munin. The name felt wrong, foreign, like a garment that didn't fit. For a fleeting moment, something inside the female recoiled, a whisper of resistance rising from the depths. But before she could grasp it, the feeling was suppressed, shoved down almost involuntarily, buried beneath layers of nothingness.

She was empty, a vessel waiting to be filled.

She was Munin.

With a flick of the male’s wrist, the chains fell away. She rubbed at the raw, bruised skin around her wrists and ankles—not out of pain or relief, but out of some detached, mechanical impulse. Her flesh was marked, yet the sensation barely registered.

“Come on, Munin.” The male smiled, a cold, derisive curl of his lips. “We are going to see the king.”

She rose at his command, her body responding before her mind caught up. he moved like a marionette, strings pulled by the male beside her.  His gaze lingered on her as she passed him, sliding over her form with a proprietary air. Satisfaction simmered in his eyes, but she didn’t react.

Her stare remained fixed ahead, glassy and vacant.

There were no chains this time as they walked, but she didn’t need them. The idea of running—or resisting—felt as foreign as her own name. Whispers curled through her thoughts, oily and insistent. This is where you belong.

The voice wormed deeper, threading through the empty spaces in her mind, filling her with its quiet certainty.

This is where she belonged.

Munin.

The corridors stretched before them, dim and unyielding. Cold stone walls pressed close on either side, damp and reeking of decay. She followed the male, her steps soundless, her senses dulled. His hand grazed her back now and then, steering her forward, but the touch sparked nothing—no discomfort, no acknowledgment.

She moved because she was told to, not because she wanted to.

The heavy doors of the throne room came into view. The male pushed them open, and the groan of iron hinges reverberated through the silence. She stepped inside, her gaze sweeping across the cavernous chamber. Bone-white walls gleamed in the flickering torchlight. Tall windows framed a stormy sea, its waves crashing soundlessly against distant cliffs.

At the heart of the room, a throne of black stone and bone loomed on its dais.

She stood before the throne, waiting. The King of Hybern regarded her with a lazy, calculating gaze, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the armrest.

“Nephew,” he asked. “Have you brought me what I asked for?”

“Yes, my king,” the male replied, his tone smug.

A coil tightened in her mind, squeezing out thought, erasing the possibility of refusal. Her knees folded beneath her, the hard stone biting into them as she bowed her head. She didn’t think to resist. She wouldn’t have known how.

The King rose from his throne, circling her slowly. His gaze was sharp, dissecting, as if he were peeling away the layers to see what lay beneath. But there was nothing to see.

She was nothing.

“What are you?” the King demanded, his voice slicing through the silence

“Munin.”

The word dropped from her lips without hesitation, hollow and absolute. It was not a choice, not a revelation. It simply was. Something coiled tighter in her mind, squeezing out the air, crushing the faintest flicker of uncertainty before it could take shape.

The King’s lips curved into a cruel smile, his delight sharp enough to cut. “Excellent.” The single word was drawn out, savoring its weight. He turned to the male beside her. “Dagdan, you’ve done well.”

She noted the name, feeling a slight stir within her, like a distant echo of recognition. But it was fleeting, quickly smothered by the oppressive presence in her mind.

“Having someone in the shadows will be most useful,” the King continued, turning his attention to Dagdan. “Her eyes are too distinctive, though. We’ll have to glamour her.”

Dagdan nodded, his eyes flicking to her face. “Yes, my king. I will see to it immediately.”

The King’s fingers drummed on the armrest once more, a rhythmic, ominous sound. “She will serve us well.”  

Munin stood motionless, her body as still as the air in the throne room. Her gaze remained fixed forward, unfocused, as the King’s voice turned distant, like words drifting through water.

Dagdan moved closer, placing a black cowl in her hands. The feathers were sleek and black, gleaming like a raven’s plumage. She accepted it without thought, draping it over her head.

“Go,” the King commanded.

She turned to follow Dagdan out of the room, her steps soundless on the stone floor.

But the King’s voice halted her. “Wait.”

She stopped immediately, frozen in place. Disobedience was not an option; the very idea was foreign to her. The King stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her.

“Wasn't she supposed to have wings?” he asked, a frown creasing his brow.

Her breath caught, sharp and involuntary. Pain flared across her back, sudden and vivid—a sensation so foreign it sent a tremor through her body. For a fleeting moment, she felt the absence, a hollow ache where something once belonged.

The pressure in her mind surged, wrapping around the feeling and strangling it. The oily voice whispered its familiar refrain: It doesn’t matter. You don’t need them.

Dagdan hesitated, his gaze shifting toward her back. A flicker of unease passed over his features before he spoke. “Yes, my king. The High Lord of Spring took them.”

The King’s expression darkened, a slow, simmering displeasure that seemed to fill the room. His fingers stilled their rhythmic drumming, the silence that followed heavier than any reprimand. “A pity,” he said, his voice as sharp as a blade. “They would have been useful.”

Munin stood there, unmoving, unthinking, as the King turned away.

She moved as Dagdan gestured, her body obeying without thought, her mind silent save for the whispering coil that writhed in her consciousness. The throne room doors closed behind them with a final, resounding thud.

The voice in her mind stirred, its oily tendrils wrapping tightly around her thoughts.

This is where you belong, it repeated.

And as the sound of their footsteps faded into the corridors beyond, she believed it.

Chapter 11

Notes:

**** Revised: January 2025

480 Years Before the Cursebreaker

The air in the chamber was heavy, thick with the sharp tang of old blood and dark magic.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Uncle?” The voice sliced through the stillness. Munin didn’t turn her head to identify it. She didn’t need to. The faint lilt of Brannagh’s tone drifted to her ears, colored by something she couldn’t place.

“She’s our newest weapon,” the King replied, his tone flat, like stone scraping against stone. “If she is to help us against the High Lords, she needs to be made whole.”

The words meant nothing to her.

Munin lay motionless on the table, her skin leeching the chill of the stone beneath her. She did not move. She did not think to move. The command to remain still, given to her by Dagdan, bound her with no need for chains. The chamber’s cold licked over her bare skin, her breath shallow and even.

Munin heard a rustle of pages behind her. The King stood just out of view, his dark presence palpable as he turned the thick parchment of a spellbook.

Dagdan lingered at the edge of her periphery, his gaze heavy. She didn’t need to see it to know it was there. His presence was a constant pressure, as though waiting for her to flinch, to break. And he was always in her mind. Brannagh stayed farther back, the faint click of her boot heel betraying her location.

Munin stared at stone of the floor below her, unblinking, as the King began to speak. She recognized the cadence, the structure of the Old Language. But the meaning slipped through her fingers, dissolved by the void in her mind.

The first wave of pain came suddenly.

Her shoulders wrenched back as if pulled by unseen hands, flesh tearing in raw, jagged lines. Bone splintered and re-formed beneath her skin, the wet sound of it twisting in the air. Munin’s back arched involuntarily, a reflex she didn’t understand, her lips parting in a scream that tore through the room.

The block of wood wedged beneath her teeth cracked beneath the force of her bite, its splinters cutting her tongue. Blood filled her mouth, metallic and thick.

The King didn’t pause.

His voice droned on, as the sinews of her back stretched and snapped. Her fingers curled into the stone slab, nails splintering as they scraped against its rough surface.

Brannagh’s voice broke through the King’s litany. “If you kill her, this will all be pointless.”

The air reeked of blood and magic, thick and cloying as it pressed against her skin. Munin lay still on the cold stone table, her breaths shallow. She had no command to move, no will of her own to act beyond the weight of the King's orders.

His voice filled the chamber again, a steady rhythm of ancient syllables that curled through the air like smoke, coiling tighter around her. The words scraped at something deep inside her, tearing it open. The pain followed.

Her body jerked against the table as if dragged by invisible hooks. Flesh burned, split, and mended all at once. A scream tore from her throat, guttural and raw, before dissolving into a low, gasping whimper.

The King did not stop.

She bit down hard on the block of wood lodged in her mouth, splinters slicing into her tongue. Blood pooled on her tongue, metallic and warm. Her shoulders convulsed as something deep beneath her skin began to shift, the crunch of bone and the wet tear of muscle filling the air.

Dagdan stood at the edge of her vision, his dark eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. He didn’t flinch at her screams, didn’t look away as her body writhed beneath the magic. As if he were drawing pleasure from her pain. Brannagh lingered farther back, arms crossed, her jaw tight.

The process went on for days, each session more torturous than the last.

At the beginning of the third day, Dagdan stepped closer, his voice low, venomous. You are ours now, Munin. His words slid into her mind, cold and slick as oil. Retribution for what the High Lords took from us. And you will take it back.

The King resumed his incantation.

Another wave of magic slammed into her. Her back wrenched, the sound of bone splintering and twisting cutting through the air. The pain was unbearable—layered, endless—but there was no room for her to break. The command to obey anchored her, kept her upright when her body screamed to collapse.

Her vision blurred at the edges, dark tendrils creeping inward as she slipped closer to unconsciousness. Dagdan’s voice slithered into her again. And when you are no longer of use, he will take you. He will give us back our glory.

The magic pulled her under.

When she woke, the pain was no less vivid, but it had settled into a dull throb. She lay on the table, her skin raw and sensitive, every breath tugging at the ragged edges of her body. The stone beneath her was slick with sweat and blood.

Something was different.

There was a weight on her back that felt foriegn. Her muscles protested as she pushed herself upright, her arms trembling beneath her. The movement shifted the unfamiliar sensation, and her shoulders rolled instinctively, drawing it out.

Wings.

She had wings.

A weight settled in her chest, as if something had been returned that she had not realized had been missing.

The wings unfurled slowly, with an unsettling creak of sinew and membrane. They were heavy, a weight she hadn’t expected, their bulk shifting with her every breath. Munin’s fingers twitched at her sides, though she didn’t reach back to touch them. Not yet.

Dagdan stepped closer, his boots whispering over the cold stone. His eyes gleamed with something dark and satisfied as they swept over her. “Perfect,” he murmured.

His hand brushed the edge of her wing, the contact sparking a rush of sensation so sharp and electric that her shoulders jerked involuntarily. The nerves there were raw, too exposed, and her body shuddered under the weight of that touch.

“You’ll need to control that,” Dagdan said, his voice low, almost intimate. He didn’t move away.

Brannagh stood nearby, her expression tight.

Munin’s gaze drifted. The wings stretched outward, catching the dim torchlight, their span far larger than she had anticipated. They flexed slightly, the motion unfamiliar but instinctual, as though they belonged to someone else entirely.

They were wrong.

The knuckles of the wings jutted sharply, grotesque and unnatural. Veins pulsed beneath thin, scarred membranes that barely stretched across the structure. Scarlet threads of blood crisscrossed the surface, glowing faintly in the low light. The joints protruded at unsettling angles, the bones visible in places where the skin had failed to heal.

Her throat tightened, though she felt no true distress. Only a faint echo of what should have been.

This is how it must be, whispered the oily voice in her mind, that constant hum she could neither name nor ignore. This is what you are.

A flicker of something surfaced—something old, faint, and fragile. A memory, or perhaps just a feeling. That these wings, these mutilated things, were wrong. Not just unnatural—incorrect.

She blinked. The thought dissolved as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the voice again.

“Turn,” the King said from the shadows, his tone clipped.

Her body obeyed before the command fully registered, as she rose and pivoted on unsteady legs. The wings dragged at her back.

Dagdan’s gaze followed the motion, a sharp smile curving his lips. “You’re ready,” he said, though the words seemed meant for himself. His hand lingered at her wing, his fingers brushing the joint as though testing its resilience.

Brannagh made a sound—a soft exhale, almost inaudible. Munin caught the faintest tremor in her stance, the way her arms tightened over her chest.

“I don’t like it,” Brannagh said at last, her voice cutting through the silence.

Dagdan glanced at her, his smile widening. “You don’t have to.”

Munin didn’t speak, didn’t move except to hold her position. The voice in her mind coiled tighter, its whisper soft and cloying: This is what you are. This is what you’ve always been.

The words settled in her chest.

She shifted her shoulders again, testing the wings. They flexed, the scarred membranes catching the faint current of air in the chamber. Her chest ached, though not from the pain. Something had been returned to her—something she hadn’t realized was missing.

The King’s voice cut across her thoughts, sharp and final. “Enough. You’ll serve me well, Munin.”

She turned toward him, the weight of her new form dragging with every motion. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

She didn’t need to.

---

425 Years Before the Cursebreaker

The training ground echoed with the sharp rhythm of steel against steel, the dull thud of boots on dirt, and the occasional ragged breath of an opponent struggling to keep up. Munin moved through the sequences with ruthless precision. 

Her life for the last fifty years had been nothing but training and study with a blade, honing her skills to lethal perfection. She had mastered the use of daggers, the sword, and the bow —much to the delight of the King.

Her sword sliced through the air, the weight of it perfectly balanced in her grasp. She spun, evading an unseen strike, and followed through with a calculated kick that sent dust scattering.

Her wings—leather stretched over grotesquely twisted joints—flared briefly, stabilizing her as she shifted her weight. The deformities didn’t matter. They served their purpose, just as she did.

As she continued her exercises, Dagdan's dark eyes followed her incessantly, never missing a single step. He watched with a mixture of pride and possessiveness as she executed a series of complex maneuvers, her body moving like lightning.

Munin spun, evading the phantom strike of an imagined opponent. Her wings shifted instinctively to counterbalance her weight, their leathery membranes rustling faintly. The tips brushed the dirt as she leaped, twisting mid-air to land in a crouch, daggers already in her hands.

The first blade struck the target dead center. The second buried itself beside it a heartbeat later.

Dagdan gave a singular nod of approval . Then, with a flick of his hand, the Ravens stepped forward.

Munin didn’t pause. She adjusted her grip on her sword, her eyes narrowing as the fair-haired Raven lunged. His size should have made him slow, but he was quick, his massive frame barreling toward her with startling speed. Munin sidestepped, her movements sharp and economical, and brought her elbow down hard against his ribs.

He grunted, twisting to strike, but she was already gone, her body dipping low to avoid the swing of his fist. The air whistled as it passed over her head. She twisted, locking her arm around his and yanking hard. The ground shook slightly as his bulk hit the dirt.

The second Raven was on her before the first had finished falling. His sword came in a tight arc, the blade aimed for her neck. Munin met it with her dagger, the clash of metal ringing in her ears. She stepped into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and drove her shoulder against his chest.

He stumbled, recovering quickly, but not quickly enough. She pressed the attack, her wings snapping out behind her to propel her forward. The speed of her strikes was relentless—dagger and sword moving in tandem.

His breathing grew labored, his parries weaker with each clash. Munin disarmed him with a final, decisive move, sending his sword spinning across the ground. She stood over him, her blade poised at his throat, waiting for her next command.

The training ground fell silent except for the faint sound of the first Raven groaning as he pulled himself upright.

The air shifted as Munin straightened, the weight of the King’s presence settling over the training ground. He stood tall and imposing, his black armor gleaming under the weak sun. At his side, a female drifted closer—a striking figure draped in a gown that parted to reveal fitted trousers. Her beauty was severe, sharpened by the blood-red paint on her lips and the cascade of red hair that caught the light.

“This?” The word slipped from the female’s mouth as her gaze lingered. “This is your new toy?”

She studied Munin with a sharp, calculated gaze, searching for cracks in her form.

"Yes, Amarantha," the King said proudly. "She has proven quite capable."

Amarantha’s lip curled faintly. She stepped closer, her scrutiny intensifying. “Capable? But you’ve yet to send her anywhere?”

The King’s jaw tightened, his pride dimming under her pointed skepticism. “Not yet. We’ve been testing her against our strongest.” He glanced toward the disarmed Ravens sprawled across the dirt.

“Testing,” she echoed, as though the word itself was offensive. Her fingers brushed the hilt of the sword strapped to her hip, and the corner of her mouth tilted upward. “If she’s ready, she should be able to handle me.”

She stepped into the sparring circle without waiting for permission, drawing her blade in one fluid motion. The polished steel glinted as she moved. Her smile turned sharp and predatory. “Have her fight me. Am I not still the best, your highness? If she can best me, then perhaps she’s worth your praise.”

The King’s gaze flicked to Dagdan. One curt nod, and the command slithered through Munin’s mind like oil. Don’t you dare lose.

Munin didn’t hesitate. She dropped into a fighting stance, her body moving automatically, her mind a blank slate awaiting orders. In the corner of her vision, Brannagh stood with her arms crossed, her expression smug, her eyes gleaming with anticipation—hoping, perhaps, to see Munin falter.

The circle shrank as Munin and Amarantha began to circle one another.

“Let’s see if you’re as capable as he claims,” Amarantha murmured, her tone almost bored.

Her blade was the first to move, slicing through the air with feline precision. Munin parried, her arm snapping up to meet the strike. The metallic clash rang out, echoing across the ground. The force of the blow vibrated through her arm, but she adjusted, twisting to deflect the next strike.

Amarantha prowled, and her blade darted forward again and again, but Munin met each attack with calculated efficiency.

“Come on,” Amarantha purred, feinting left before lunging to the right. Her blade was a silver blur. “Show me what you can do.”

Munin twisted her body, barely deflecting the strike. The impact jarred her bones, but she held firm. She pivoted, her wings snapping open to propel her forward. The force of her movement gave her momentum as she lashed out with a rapid series of strikes.

Amarantha blocked each one effortlessly, her cruel smile widening. “Is that all?”

Munin didn’t respond. She wouldn’t, not unless commanded. Instead, she adjusted her grip, the leather of her sword’s hilt digging into her palm as she launched another series of blows.

Amarantha’s counterattacks came swiftly, each more vicious than the last.

The swing of Amarantha’s blade cut through the air, close enough to stir the stray strands of Munin’s hair.

“You look familiar, girl,” the female said, her voice as sharp as the edge of her sword. A flicker of something dark and amused danced in her eyes. She sidestepped Munin’s counterstrike with a feline grace, a cruel smile curling her lips. “Have we met before?”

Munin didn’t answer. Her focus stayed on the rhythm of the fight—block, pivot, strike. She ducked beneath another swing, her own blade slicing upward in a sharp arc. Amarantha spun away, laughter rippling from her throat like poisoned silk.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Amarantha continued, circling Munin. Her blade gleamed in the dim light. “You are no one now.”

"I am Munin," she replied automatically, the response conditioned into her by Dagdan.

“And how do we know, Munin,” Amarantha pressed, her tone a mockery of curiosity, “that you won’t betray us?” She surged forward, her strikes vicious, calculated, driving Munin back.

The concept twisted oddly in Munin’s mind, like a piece that didn’t fit. Betray? She couldn’t comprehend the shape of the word, let alone what it might mean to her. Her voice came unbidden again, monotone and certain. “I am loyal to the King. His cause is my own.”

Their movements became a blur of strikes and counterstrikes, Amarantha’s skill meeting Munin’s relentless precision. Munin’s wings—leather stretched taut over jagged frames—whipped against the air, their weight shifting her balance, pushing her forward. A thrust here, a lunge there.

“You fight well for a puppet,” Amarantha sneered, irritation flashing across her face as Munin pressed her back.

Amarantha blocked, but Munin's relentless assault forced her to give ground. "You fight well, for a mindless puppet," Amarantha sneered, her eyes flashing with irritation.

But Amarantha was faster than she appeared. Munin missed a parry by half a breath, and the other female seized the opening. Munin hit the ground hard, dust scattering around her as the force of impact rattled through her bones. Cold steel kissed her throat, the dagger angled so precisely that the slightest movement could end her.

“Pathetic,” Amarantha hissed, low enough for only Munin to hear. She leaned closer, the pressure of the blade against Munin’s skin sharp enough to draw blood—a thin, hot line trailing down to her collarbone. “Is this the best you can do?” Her eyes gleamed with malice. “Brought down so easily? Your King’s little creation—just another failure.”

Munin gritted her teeth, feeling the cold press of the dagger against her throat.

“Looks like all this effort was wasted,” Amarantha said, the words aimed at the King like an arrow loosed. Her voice dripped with mockery. “Your precious weapon is just a broken doll.”

Munin’s blood slipped from the blade to pool at the hollow of her throat.

“Look at you, squirming like an insect,” Amarantha leaned closer, her breath warm, her voice low and venomous. “What do you think we should do, Munin? Keep you? Or discard you like the trash you are?”

Amarantha's weight bore down on her, pinning her to the ground. Munin struggled to breathe, the sharp edge of the blade making her movements careful and controlled.

“Did you really think you could match me, girl?” Amarantha’s voice was a low, venomous whisper, her breath brushing against Munin’s ear. “You’re nothing but a puppet. A plaything for the King.”

Munin stared past her, into the dust and shadow. Her body lay motionless, waiting for the final strike. Yet, deep in her blank gaze, something flickered—a faint ember, a crack in the veneer.

Amarantha saw it. She pressed harder, the blade biting enough to draw blood. “So obedient. So eager to please.” A sneer curled her crimson lips. “Tell me, does it hurt knowing you’re just a failed experiment?”

The insult clawed at something buried, something she hadn’t been trained to acknowledge. Munin didn’t know what hurt felt like, but the word echoed all the same. A single command pulsed through her mind: don’t lose.

Her wings moved before her thoughts could catch them. They flared outward, their jagged, grotesque frame slicing through the air. She twisted her body sharply, the unexpected force wrenching Amarantha off balance.

Amarantha’s eyes widened in surprise as Munin surged upward. The shift sent them both sprawling, Munin using the moment to grab hold of her wrist..

The crack of bone echoed across the training grounds.

The red-headed female gasped, her grip on the dagger faltering as her body seized with pain. Munin didn’t hesitate. She wrenched the weapon free, her motion smooth, mechanical. In one fluid turn, she reversed their positions, pinning Amarantha beneath her weight.

Amarantha’s face contorted, rage swallowing the agony she tried to mask. “You think this changes anything?” Her words were sharp, but her voice wavered at the edges. “You’re still nothing. A mindless drone.”

Munin's grip tightened on Amarantha's wrist, the broken bone grinding beneath her fingers.  She brought the dagger to Amarantha’s throat, the point hovering just above the pale, trembling skin.

Something dark and foreign stirred in her chest—a weightless, searing sensation she couldn’t name. The urge to press forward, to end this, burned.

“Go ahead,” Amarantha spat, her voice brittle, cracking. “Kill me if you can. Prove to everyone that you’re nothing but a monster.”

The blade didn’t move. Munin stayed still, her expression void of anything. No anger. No satisfaction. Only the silent hum of waiting.

Her gaze shifted to Dagdan.

The command didn’t come.

Instead, he smirked, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. The faintest tilt of his head gave her all she needed.

Munin released her hold and stood, stepping back without a word. She didn’t spare Amarantha a second glance as the other female dragged herself upright, cradling her broken wrist.

“It would appear, Uncle,” Dagdan said, his voice rich with triumph, “that she is ready.”

Chapter 12

Notes:

*** Revised: January 2025

415 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Munin stood at the edge of the Blackwood, the dense forest pressing in on all sides. The sun was already starting to dip beneath the horizon, casting shadows along the tree line. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the faint rustling of leaves was the only sound that broke the stillness.

The sun had nearly disappeared, leaving the sky streaked with color in the fading light. Her orders were clear: the Lords of Rask had sent her to sow chaos, to weaken the humans near the border and cement their own grip on the Continent. She had not asked why, nor wondered at the purpose. She had simply obeyed.

Three days. That was how long she’d stalked this edge of the Blackwood, her raven-like wings hidden beneath a veil of magic —something she had known innately how to do— her face free of the hood that had become like second skin to her. To any who saw her now, she was merely a Fae woman.

Voices broke through the silence.

Munin stilled, her gaze cutting through the underbrush. Five of them—young, reckless, and loud—gathered near the Wall. The faint tang of alcohol drifted toward her. Their laughter rose, punctuating their slurred speech, and she moved closer.

“Look! The Wall!” one of them exclaimed, waving a hand toward nothing. His voice carried a boastful edge, his steps uneven. “Bet none of you cowards has the guts to cross it.”

Foolish. How quickly memory passed for the mortals. These men had not lived through the terrors of the War and did not know the danger that the Fae posed to them.

What Munin posed to them.

Another, taller but equally unsteady, laughed. “I did it last week, remember? Easy as breathing! No magic. No monsters. Just a stupid story for old women and children.”

“Liar,” a third one hiccupped, his words slurring together. “But I bet you won’t do it again. Come on, Darian—prove you’re not full of it!”

"You're full of it, Darian," a third voice interjected, a hiccup punctuating his sentence. "But... I bet you won't do it again tonight. Come on, show us you’re not a coward!"

“I’ll do it right now! Watch me!” His voice was slurred but loud, a declaration meant to impress. He stumbled a step closer to the Wall, turning back with a grin as the others cheered, their flushed faces bright with drink.

A quieter voice rose from the group, trembling under the weight of hesitation. “Come on, my granddad fought in the war. The Fae aren’t to be trusted.”

The laughter that followed was sharp, cutting through the boy’s fear. A stocky youth with curly brown hair clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him forward. “Oh, lighten up, Kyle. Old wives' tales, that’s all they are. No Fae is gonna snatch us up.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, his grin wide and lazy. “Besides, look around. It’s just trees and shadows. Nothing dangerous here.”

Oh, how wrong they were.

Kyle’s eyes darted to the dark woods, his unease plain in the way he shifted his weight, his hands fidgeting. “I’m serious,” he muttered, barely audible over the noise. “My granddad said the Fae are ruthless. We shouldn’t be here.”

Darian rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the Wall. “Stop being such a coward, Kyle. We’re just having fun. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

Another young man, lean and with a mischievous glint in his eye, chimed in, "They say Fae wine is stronger than any ale we've got. Maybe we’ll get a taste of it if we're lucky."

Munin moved then, stepping into the clearing. Her movements were fluid, silent—the kind that drew attention before she even spoke. The shift in the group was immediate. Laughter quieted, replaced by wide-eyed stares. Awe. Lust.

She let them look, let their gazes linger. Her posture was relaxed, her face framed by strands of dark hair that caught the fading light. She tilted her head slightly, offering the faintest of smiles.

Darian, emboldened by the drink and her sudden appearance, staggered toward her. His grin stretched, a mix of arrogance and charm. “Well, look who we’ve got here,” he drawled. “What brings you so close to the Wall, pretty lady?”

Munin kept her smile, her voice soft, measured. “I was wandering,” she said, her words almost musical. “This place... it fascinates me.”

The stocky boy stumbled forward, laughing. “Fascinates you, huh? Well, you’ve got good timing. We’re always up for a bit of excitement.”

More laughter. More drunken bravado. They crowded closer, their voices louder now, jumbled with compliments and clumsy attempts at flirtation.

Munin’s gaze swept over them, noting the rapid rise and fall of their chests, the way their hands fidgeted with their cloaks. They were trying too hard to seem unafraid. Brave. She allowed herself a slow blink.

Darian’s grin widened. “Looks like we’ve found ourselves a guide. What do you say, love? Care to show us what’s beyond the Wall?”

She let her eyes flick to the barrier behind them, then back to him. “Beyond the Wall,” she repeated, as if testing the words. She stepped closer, the folds of her cloak brushing the ground. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, the group hesitated. But Darian, ever the leader, shrugged off the unease. “We’re ready,” he said, his voice firm despite the slight tremor beneath.

With exaggerated carelessness, he crossed the Wall, his feet stepping into the faint shimmer of its magic. The others followed, their movements sloppy but confident. None of them noticed the way the barrier seemed to hum as they passed.

Darian turned back, his arms spread wide. “See? Easy.”

He didn’t see her draw closer, didn’t notice the shift in her posture, the way her smile sharpened.

“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he slurred, his hand reaching out to grip her arm. “How about a kiss, pretty Fae?”

Munin leaned in, her lips curving as if in agreement. “Of course,” she murmured, her voice a whisper against his ear.

The knife slid free without a sound, the blade catching the last light of the setting sun.

The strike was swift—precise. His throat opened beneath the blade, the warmth of his blood spraying across her hand as his body jerked. He didn’t even gasp, the sound choked off before it could form.

The others barely had time to react. Munin moved with the speed and precision of a predator, her knives flashing as she dispatched each of the young men in rapid succession. They were mortals, after all—no match for her Fae strength and skill. She felt the resistance of flesh and bone under her blades, heard the gurgling cries of her victims as they fell.

By the time the clearing fell silent, the last body hitting the ground with a dull thud, her cloak was spattered with blood. She stood in the center of the carnage, her expression unchanged, her breathing steady.

The forest remained silent, its shadows stretching long as Munin knelt among the bodies. Her hands moved quickly, unbothered by the sticky warmth of blood or the hollow thud of limbs against the forest floor.

Drag them to the village. Let fear take root.

She began with the sandy-haired youth. Darian. His lifeless body sagged in her grip, head lolling to the side, his expression frozen in wide-eyed shock. The weight was inconsequential—her strength made the task easy, though the work was slow and meticulous. She dragged him across the uneven ground, his boots catching on roots and rocks as she moved.

The village emerged through the trees, its outline sharp against the dimming sky. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the faint murmur of voices carried through the stillness.

Munin stopped at the edge of the clearing, her eyes scanning the simple wooden structures. She considered her next steps. The Lords of Rask had been clear: terrorize them. Break their spirits. Make them desperate for protection.

Her gaze dropped to Darian’s slack face, the faint remnants of arrogance still clinging to his features. She tilted her head, calculating.

The oak tree at the village’s entrance stood tall and gnarled, its twisted branches casting jagged shadows. It would suffice. Munin hauled Darian’s body upright, twisting his arms behind his back until they cracked at unnatural angles. She leaned him against the trunk, his head tilted upward, mouth forced open in a silent scream.

The stocky man came next. His body was heavier, his limbs bulkier, but they broke with the same ease. Munin positioned him beside Darian, forcing him into a kneeling pose, his hands bound behind his head. His face was blank now, but she made it worse. Her dagger flashed, gouging out his eyes. The sockets gaped, dark and hollow, staring into nothing.

Two more bodies remained. The cautious one—Kyle—and another whose name she hadn’t caught. Munin dragged them forward without ceremony, leaving a trail of blood that glistened like a crimson thread weaving back into the forest. She slit their throats, letting the cuts gape wide and the blood pool freely.

Munin stepped back, her gaze sweeping over the display. Darian’s twisted arms, the stocky man’s hollow eyes, the blood-soaked earth beneath the others. It was art, in its own way. A message carved in flesh and fear.

The faint murmur of voices from the village continued, unaware of the nightmare waiting just beyond their doorsteps. Munin stood motionless, her expression blank as she studied her work.

The task was complete.

---

The House of Wind was eerily quiet.

In truth, it had been quiet since Rhysand took the title of High Lord. The staff had been dismissed—most of them, anyway. Only a few trusted faces remained. Azriel understood the decision. Rhys, who bore the weight of the entire Night Court on his shoulders, couldn’t reconcile maintaining a bustling household for just himself.

Still, the absence echoed. No Lyra humming softly as she arranged flowers in the sitting room. No Elara laughing in the kitchen as she teased the cooks.

He sucked in a breath, steadying himself. Forty-nine years, and still, it pressed against his chest like it had been yesterday.

He tried not to think about it as he ascended the steps to the High Lord's study in the House of Wind.

He had news to deliver. News Rhys would not take well.

This was different, being summoned by Rhysand. Silas always made sure that Azriel could feel his power, a not-so-subtle threat as to what would happen if the shadowsinger disappointed him. But with Rhys…

Rhys had never wielded his power like that. He didn’t have to.

Not long after Rhys became High Lord, Azriel moved into the House of Wind. He still kept his townhome in the city, but leaving his friend alone had not been an option. Rhys had struggled in the early months following his mother's and sister's deaths; Azriel and Cassian had done everything they could to support him, including moving in. Though Rhys was still haunted by the ghosts of Lyra and Elara, he was doing much better. Some days, Azriel even saw flickers of happiness cross his brother's face.

The study door stood ajar, faint traces of aged leather and parchment seeping into the hall. The scent of Silas, still lingering after all these years. Rhys spent little time here; Azriel doubted the room would ever smell like him.

Pushing the door open, Azriel stepped inside. Sunlight poured through the grand windows, pooling over the ornate desk at the room’s center. Papers—neatly arranged, almost untouched—reflected the afternoon light off their crisp edges. Rhys sat behind the desk, his dark hair gleaming, eyes lifting as Azriel entered.

The room wasn’t empty.

Mor lounged in one of the chairs near the desk, her posture deceptively casual. The rich purple of her dress glinted faintly, and her golden hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves. She looked up as Azriel entered, her eyes catching the light, making his chest tighten for a moment too long.

Amren occupied the other chair, straight-backed, her silver eyes sharp and assessing. She tilted her head as if she already knew why Azriel was here—why his shadows churned, agitated.

Azriel forced himself to look away from Mor, to focus on Rhys instead.

“Azriel,” Rhys said, a small smile curving his lips. Warm. Welcoming. “Good to see you. Come in.”

Azriel inclined his head, stepping further into the room to stand between Mor and Amren. The former’s light perfume lingered faintly in the air; the latter’s piercing gaze felt like a weight on his shoulder.

Rhys leaned back in his chair, his hands folded casually, though his violet eyes betrayed a sharpness, a readiness. “What news do you have for us today?”

Azriel’s shadows whispered against his skin as he stepped deeper into the study, their faint murmurs almost loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He inhaled slowly, steadying himself before speaking.

“Hybern has been quiet,” he began, his voice even, measured. “Too quiet.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, his expression calm—but his fingers twitched where they rested on the desk. Across from him, Mor and Amren listened intently.

“There was movement a few months ago,” Azriel continued, his hands clasped behind his back. “A flurry of activity in the palace. My spies reported whispers, but even those close to the King couldn’t say what it was. The rumors vary—some claim it’s a weapon, others say it’s a female. Whatever it is, the King keeps it locked away. Hidden.”

And that was putting it lightly. The spies that he had in the isle across the sea from them had spluttered like amateurs when he pressed them for more information.

Mor frowned, her brow knitting. “A weapon? What could Hybern possibly forge that would matter? The Treaty is magically binding—like the Wall. To challenge us, he’d need a way to tear it down entirely.”

Azriel inclined his head, though unease coiled in his chest. He’d thought the same—until the reports had reached him. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But whatever it is, it’s significant enough to warrant this level of secrecy. The King doesn’t waste effort lightly.”

Rhys’s eyes darkened, but his voice stayed calm. “What else?”

Azriel hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. “On the Continent,” he began, “there have been… incidents. Human bodies, found in villages near the Wall.”

“Bodies?” Amren’s voice was sharp, her silver eyes narrowing. “What kind of incidents?”

“Gruesome ones,” Azriel said flatly. “Over two dozen, scattered across different fae villages. Throats slit, limbs twisted, eyes gouged. Whoever is doing it wants to send a message.”

Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, her golden hair catching the light as she shifted in her seat. “Humans crossing the Wall?” she asked, her tone skeptical. “I know their memory fades fast, but are they truly that reckless?”

“Perhaps something is drawing them across,” Amren suggested, her fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the armrest. Her gaze was piercing, calculating. “The territories on the Continent were never satisfied with the Treaty—especially the loss of their human slaves. Someone might be gathering new… stock.”

“Then why leave the bodies for others to find?” Mor countered, her voice tinged with disgust. “That’s not subtle. It’s a provocation—one that could spark another war.”

Rhys’s jaw tightened. Azriel knew his High Lord hated the idea of another war starting, not when the last one had cost him so much personally. Rhys had lost so much—his family, his freedom. Azriel could see the weight of those losses in his brother's eyes every day.

Azriel’s voice remained steady as he answered, “The villagers are terrified. They’ve started rallying around the Lords of Rask, who’ve promised them protection. They’re building power on fear—and the bodies are feeding it.”

Mor’s eyes widened—just a flicker—but Azriel caught it. “Rask?” she said, her voice soft yet edged with unease. “They fought for Hybern in the War.”

Rhys’s expression darkened, his gaze distant. “If people are turning to them—giving them power, influence…” His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Azriel’s shadows stirred. The Lords of Rask had always been brutal. The thought of them rising again, clawing their way back to strength after the War had shattered it—it left a cold dread creeping up his spine.

“Rask doesn’t forgive,” Azriel murmured. “And they don’t forget. If they’re rallying support, it’s not for peace.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, his hands dragging through his hair before falling to rest on the desk. His head lowered, the lines of tension etched into his face. “Az… I need you to go to the Continent. Find out what’s happening. Stop it before it spreads.”

Mor shifted beside him, the unease in her golden-brown eyes now palpable. “Are you certain?” she asked, her tone cautious but firm. “If this is as bad as it seems—it’s dangerous.”

Her concern didn’t surprise him. He saw it often, though she rarely voiced it.

Rhys’s gaze snapped to her, sharp yet weary. “If the border villages swear fealty to Rask—if they gain even a fraction of their old influence—it won’t just be dangerous. It’ll be war. And we can’t afford another one. Not now.”

Azriel nodded, the decision already made before Rhys had finished speaking. “I’ll leave tonight,” he said, his voice steady. “Whatever they’re planning—whatever they’re doing—I’ll find out. And I’ll stop it.”

Rhys met his gaze, gratitude softening the edge of his violet eyes. “Thank you, brother. Be careful. I mean it.”

---

Munin moved silently along the invisible Wall, the summer sun blazing down on her. The thick cowl covering her face made the heat almost unbearable, but she ignored it. Her task was clear, and discomfort was inconsequential.

The bone-white and gray leathers she wore reflected flashes of sunlight as she moved.. Ahead, the fae search party trudged on, oblivious. Too loud, too unguarded—they didn’t even notice her shadow trailing them.

She had been tracking a search party—a group of fae who were trying to find the one responsible for leaving the human bodies in the villages.

She let herself smile under the cowl—small, tight, fleeting. They were trying so hard to be brave. She could still hear the screams from the last village, the fractured wails of the fae stumbling onto her work. She’d stayed just long enough to feel the fear wash over them

That was the point. Fear was what her King wanted. Fear made them pliable, made them run to the Lords of Rask for protection.

The fae ahead slowed, pausing to drink from their flasks. Three males—brothers, by the sound of them. She crept closer, keeping her wings cloaked with magic. The monstrous stretch of them—cracked, leathery—was nothing she wanted seen. Not yet.

The middle brother laughed, tipping his head back. “You’d think he was a boy still—can’t take a step without her worrying.”

“She’s always like that,” Rian shot back. “Doesn’t matter that I’ve been on a dozen of these patrols already.”

The eldest—tall, broad-shouldered—shook his head. “And she’ll keep fussing as long as you keep making a fool of yourself.”

A pebble arced through the air, striking the eldest in the arm. “At least we’re doing something useful,” the middle brother said, grinning. “Whoever’s behind this mess—they’ll pay. I swear it.”

Munin stopped, crouching low in the brush. The laughter reached her—carefree, warm. It clawed at something in her chest, a faint, hollow ache she didn’t recognize. Her hand moved to her ribs, pressing there. No wound. No reason for it. But the ache lingered, strange and cold.

She frowned, her teeth grinding together. She wasn’t supposed to feel.

The snake-like presence in her mind stirred—hissed. Displeased.

The campfire crackled, sending lazy tendrils of smoke into the darkening sky. Munin crouched just beyond the glow. She watched them talking in low tones, their laughter breaking through the night like unwelcome birdsong. It grated at her. Not the sound itself, but the presence of it.

The eldest leaned back against a log, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. The middle brother chuckled, tossing a stick into the fire. Rian glanced over his shoulder, unease flickering across his features before he excused himself and wandered into the woods.

Munin rose, following silently.

The deeper she followed Rian, the darker it became—the branches overhead knitting tighter until the moonlight barely kissed the earth. Shadows stretched long and sharp, writhing like restless creatures.

Something prickled at the back of her neck. She ignored it.

Rian stopped by a tree, muttering to himself as he fumbled with his belt. He never saw her coming.

Her hand clamped over his mouth, the other yanking him back against her chest. He struggled, boots scraping against the dirt, but he was nothing against her strength. Without a word, she dragged him deeper into the forest, away from the firelight, away from help.

She shoved him to the ground, pinning him with one knee pressed into his chest. His wide eyes gleamed with fear as he gasped for air.

“Quiet,” she hissed, her voice low, edged in steel.

Rian stilled, though his breathing remained ragged.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone flat.

“We’re just—just looking for whoever’s killing the humans!” he stammered, his voice cracking.

Her grip tightened. “And who sent you?”

“No one!” His eyes darted, searching the darkness as if salvation might emerge. “We—we’re just villagers trying to protect our people.”

“And who do you think is responsible?” she pressed, her face inches from his.

Rian hesitated, his breath hitching. “Some say it’s the Lords of Rask. They’re the only ones who would—would gain from this.”

She shifted, her hand hovering near the blade at her hip. “What do you know about the bodies?”

His mouth opened, but no sound came. She could see the answer forming in his mind, feel it teetering on the edge of his lips—but then she felt it again. That prickling sensation, as if there were someone watching her.

Her head snapped up, her gaze raking the forest. Nothing but blackened tree trunks and the occasional wisp of shadow, darting just beyond her focus. The campfire was a distant glow now, the faint echoes of laughter muted and far away.

She forced herself to look back at Rian, her fingers curling tighter around his tunic. “Keep talking,” she demanded, though her voice had dropped even lower.

“I—I don’t know anything else, I swear!” he sputtered, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

The sensation sharpened, digging into her like claws. Her instincts screamed, her body tensing, ready to react. Her gaze darted to the edges of her vision, but the shadows remained still, the forest silent.

With swift precision, her blade kissed Rian’s throat—silent, efficient. Blood poured in a hot rush, darkening the earth beneath him. His body jerked once, twice, then stilled. Munin watched without flinching, waiting until the life drained entirely from his eyes before rising to her full height.

The search party would find him eventually—his brothers stumbling across the broken body with cries of grief or anger. By then, it wouldn’t matter. The seeds of fear had already been sown.

The knife, slick with crimson, caught the faintest glint of moonlight. She wiped it clean against his tunic, unhurried.

She paused, her breath caught in her chest. The woods were silent—unnaturally so. Her gaze flicked once more to the darkness, searching. Nothing.

Still, the feeling lingered, coiled tight at the base of her neck.

She didn’t let it stop her. Munin turned, slipping deeper into the forest, her form disappearing into the night. Whatever lingered in the periphery would have to wait.

The mission came first. It always came first.

---

Azriel winnowed back to the House of Wind immediately, his footsteps loud as he made his way through the hallways. He found his High Lord on the sparring ring, exchanging blows with Cassian. The afternoon sun bathed the ring in a warm glow, their laughter echoing in the open space.

"She said she’d never seen one so big," Cassian joked, grinning as he parried Rhys's attack. "I told her, ‘Darling, it’s not the size that matters, but how you use it.’”

Rhys laughed, dodging Cassian’s next swing. “And how did she respond?”

Cassian laughed, shaking his head. "She said, ‘Prove it.’ And well, let’s just say, I proved it.”

Rhys laughed, a deep, rolling sound that carried through the open space—until he spotted Azriel. The amusement drained from his face in an instant.

“What is it?” Rhys’s voice echoed directly in Azriel’s mind, the words sharp and deliberate.

Azriel stepped closer, his shadows retreating like a second skin. “There’s someone on the Continent,” he said aloud, his tone clipped.

Cassian raised a brow, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. “Pretty sure we knew that already.” His grin faltered when he caught the tightness in Azriel’s jaw.

Azriel ignored the jab, focusing on Rhys. “Human bodies are being found—mutilated. The attacks have slowed, but the damage is done. Villages along the Blackwood are pledging allegiance to the Lords of Rask.”

Rhys’s brow furrowed, tension creeping into his posture. “And the cause?”

Azriel’s throat felt dry as he answered. “A female. Fae. She’s the one terrorizing the villages.”

Both Rhys and Cassian stilled, surprise flickering in their gazes.

“A female?” Rhys repeated, his voice low.

“She was armored in grey and bone-white leathers,” Azriel said, the image burning fresh in his memory. “Her cowl masked her face, but it was adorned with feathers. Like a raven.” He hesitated, the faintest edge of uncertainty creeping into his words. “There was something...familiar about her.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Familiar how?”

"Have we heard of this female from Hybern before?" Rhys asked, a touch of unease in his voice.

"Aside from Amarantha, I'm unaware of any high-ranking females in the King of Hybern's court. Unless..." Azriel trailed off, thinking.

"Unless what?" Cassian leaned against the railing, arms crossed.

"That flurry of activity in Hybern," Azriel continued. " Some claimed the King had a new female. I assumed it was just someone he was taking to his bed, but if this is her..."

Rhys’s face darkened, his violet eyes narrowing. “And she’s aligning with Rask?”

“It would explain a lot,” Azriel replied. “The villagers already blame her for the attacks. If she’s working with the Lords, they’re using her as a weapon to spread fear and gather influence.”

Rhys exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “If Rask is gaining power again, we can’t afford to ignore this. But we can’t act without more information.”

“It’s already dangerous,” Azriel interrupted, his voice steady despite the unease crawling under his skin. “She’s skilled. Fast. Precise. I followed her for hours in the Blackwood, but once she decided to disappear—she vanished. No trail, no trace. Like a ghost.”

Rhys ran a hand through his hair, his frustration plain. “We need to know more. Who she is, what she wants, how she’s tied to Rask—if she is. The last thing we need is another war.”

Azriel nodded. “The trail’s cold. She’s careful—she vanished before I could track her. Even my shadows lost her in the Blackwood.”

Rhys’s gaze was steady. “Keep looking. Whatever this female is—whoever she is—we need to know before she makes another move.”

Cassian clapped Azriel on the shoulder, his usual bravado tempered. “Watch your back. If she’s as good as you say, she won’t be easy to pin down.”

Azriel inclined his head in acknowledgement. But as he turned to leave, the disquiet stirred again—stronger this time.

The image of the female lingered in his mind, as vivid as if she stood before him. Grey and bone-white armor. The raven-like mask. The unnerving familiarity.

He didn’t like to be bested. He didn’t like empty answers when his High Lord demanded truth. And he hated the feeling that this wasn’t over.

Somewhere—out there—she waited. And whether he wanted to or not, he’d see her again.

Chapter 13

Notes:

Hi everyone! If you've been with me from the beginning of this story, this chapter is going to be familiar to you. I'm sorry to say it's technically not a new chapter. Throughout November and December, I've been revising this. I've made the decision to re-write some of this, and shorten the chapters. One of the reasons I had such bad writer's block for this was because I was struggling so hard trying to make chapters reach this arbitrary word count, rather than just focusing on the story that I wanted to tell. So from here on out, I'm not worrying about that. So I've split up some of the already existing chapters - to break where I think the story makes sense. I hope this makes sense, and if you decide to stick it out with me, I appreciate that. Elara's story is definitely not done yet.

315 Years Before the Cursebreaker

The city shimmered, more vivid than anything she had seen—or could remember seeing.

Buildings stretched skyward in a chaotic harmony, their brightly painted walls forming a patchwork of color. Flowers spilled from window boxes in bursts of red and gold, their perfume mingling with the scent of baking bread. Somewhere, distant laughter echoed down the cobblestone streets.

She moved through it, the ground uneven beneath her feet, and felt—light. Free.

A hand, warm and strong, clasped her own, guiding her through the streets. She glanced down at it, surprised by how small her hand seemed, delicate in comparison.

"Come on," he urged, the voice low and familiar.

She looked up—and froze.

Violet eyes. Framed by dark hair, the face around them was kind, teasing. Her heart leapt at the sight of him, though she didn’t understand why.

He tugged her forward, weaving through the crowd. The street opened into a plaza where artists had arranged easels and paints. The colors there were dazzling, spilling across canvases in wild strokes that somehow captured the city’s spirit. She slowed as they passed, her gaze snagging on one painting of a river, its waters shimmering like liquid light.

The male followed her gaze. “Do you like that one?”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t seem to pull her attention from the scene. It wasn’t the river she found herself drawn to, but the mountains in the distance—three peaks standing sentinel, their summits crowned in snow.

“One day,” she heard herself say, her voice bold and certain, “I’m going to be a painter.”

The male laughed, a sound that filled the plaza. “Oh, you are, are you?”

She nodded firmly, as though daring him to challenge her.

He shook his head, grinning. “You haven’t painted a day in your life, El.”

El. The name stirred something deep within her, a flash of recognition she couldn’t quite place.

She turned to him, tilting her head. “Do you think Father will let me?”

His smile faltered. A shadow passed over his face, though it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.

“Forget what Father thinks,” he said quietly, his voice low and serious. “You can do whatever you want, El.”

The certainty in his words startled her. Before she could respond, her attention caught on two figures darting through the crowd—heads of brown hair glinting red in the sunlight.

“Conn! Fiona!”

 

The names left her lips before she could think, a burst of joy rising as she called out to them.

The figures didn’t stop. She took a step forward, her hand slipping from the male’s. The colors around her began to bleed, the vivid hues fading into gray.

The dream began to fade then, the vibrant colors and lively sounds dissolving into nothingness.

The room was quiet—still, except for her measured breathing. The walls pressed in, bare and cold, their gray stone unbroken by decoration. A cot beneath her, the blanket coarse and thin, provided no comfort, no warmth. It was as it always was—simple.

Yet something was wrong.

Munin’s eyes opened to the dim light spilling through the high, narrow window. Her chest felt tight, a strange pressure that didn’t belong. She lay there, unmoving, her senses searching for the source. It wasn’t a physical weight—it wasn’t anything.

It was the fading trace of something else.

A dream.

Munin didn’t dream. She couldn’t dream. Not in her two hundred years. And yet the images clung to the edges of her mind.

Colors. Bright and alive. A city bathed in sunlight. The scent of flowers and bread. And a male—his hand in hers, his face shadowed, but his violet eyes blazing through the haze of memory. He had called her—what?

“El,” she whispered, testing the word on her tongue.

The name was a splinter beneath her skin, familiar and foreign all at once. El. It meant something. It mattered. But why?

She tried to grasp the memory, to hold it still long enough to examine it. To make sense of it.

But the edges were fraying. The details began to slip, unraveling faster the more she tried to hold on.

A shadow unfurled in her mind, thick and cold, seeping into the cracks of her thoughts. She stiffened, recognizing its touch—the heavy, unrelenting presence of Dagdan.

The remnants of the dream wavered, resisting for only a moment before his grip closed around them.

Colors bled to gray. The male’s hand, his eyes, the warmth—they dissolved into nothingness.

Sadness flickered—a sharp pang in her chest. It was unfamiliar, foreign, and fleeting.

Dagdan pressed harder, smoothing away the jagged edges of emotion, erasing the last threads of memory.

And then—nothing.

Her breathing steadied. Her thoughts stilled.

Her gaze fixed on the ceiling above her, blank and unseeing. The ache was gone, replaced by the familiar, numbing calm that always followed.

Munin rose from the cot without hesitation. There was work to do—orders to follow. Whatever strange sensation had stirred her awake was already forgotten, buried in the recesses of her mind where she could never reach it again.

---

212 Years Before the Cursebreaker

The wind screamed against the stone walls of Valhallan, its icy fingers clawing at Munin’s cloak. Snow whipped through the air, blurring the fortress’s edges, but she didn’t stop. Her bone-white and gray armor melted into the wintry landscape, her silhouette indistinguishable from the battered drifts that piled against the walls.

The fortress loomed against the gray sky. Munin’s wings unfurled silently, the motion precise and mechanical. She launched herself upward, skimming over the outer walls, her movements so fluid they seemed as natural as the wind itself.

No one noticed her landing on the icy battlements, her steps as weightless as the snowflakes falling around her.

Valhallan was an ally of Hybern, but she was under orders to reveal herself only after her job was complete.

"Let this serve as a reminder," the King's words echoed in her mind as she landed softly on the battlements.

Her eyes swept the grounds below, cataloging the positions of every guard, every servant, every possible entry and exit. Nothing escaped her notice—the pattern of patrols, the sagging drawbridge ropes, the flicker of firelight from the great hall.

The glamor came next. A flick of her wrist, a ripple of power—Dagdan’s power, or perhaps her own, though she couldn’t say which. It transformed her features into something sickly, ordinary. Her skin took on the waxen hue of the Valhallans. The magic slid into place like it had always been there.

Had it always been there?

The thought brushed against her mind, unbidden, but she pushed it away. Questions were irrelevant. Munin existed to act.

The fortress was alive with movement, voices echoing off stone. Munin descended from the battlements, her steps whispering across the snow-dusted stones. A laundry line swayed in a narrow alley, garments snapping in the breeze. She stripped a gray dress and apron from the line, their coarse fabric stiff with cold. The change was quick—a wave of her hand to banish the armor, a practiced shrug to fit into the servant’s clothes.

Munin adopted the posture and gait of a servant, to blend seamlessly into the crowd. She kept her eyes and ears attuned to every detail but kept her head down, so as not to attract attention as she moved through the halls, straining to hear any piece of conversation that might be useful to completing her mission.

"I don’t know what happened to my dear granddaughter," an elderly woman fretted to a younger maid. "One day she was there, and the next—gone. No one’s seen her for weeks."

Munin didn’t pause. Useless.

“Venison for dinner again,” a cook muttered.

Irrelevant.

"We’ll need more wine for the festival," another voice grumbled. "The lord will have our heads if we run out."

Pointless.

"Bring this to the lord’s room on the third floor," a sharp voice cut through the noise, and Munin’s ears sharpened at the command. A tray, laden with steaming dishes, was thrust into the hands of a young girl who stumbled under its weight.

"He’s already complained that the castle is too cold," the speaker added, her tone clipped with irritation. "But that’s what we get for hosting an emissary from the Summer Court here."

Munin slowed, her eyes narrowing beneath her lowered lashes. The Summer Court.

The servant’s footsteps echoed faintly as she ascended the stone staircase, her back hunched under the weight of her bundle. Munin followed, her steps feather-light, each one perfectly placed to avoid detection. The drafty air in the hall brushed past her, and she melted into its silence.

Every turn, every flicker of torchlight, every creak of a door etched itself into her mind. She didn’t think of it as preparation—it simply was. Each door was noted, each window measured, each hallway committed to memory. A map built itself in her head as if she were drawing it with invisible ink.

The servant stopped before a heavy, ornate door and knocked softly. Munin stilled, keeping to the shadows of the corner, her breath so quiet it barely stirred the air.

The door was warded; even from her current distance, she could feel the faint tingle of magic in the air. It was strong, too. Whoever had cast the ward on the door knew what they were doing.

Her mind clicked through possibilities. Breaking the ward was out of the question; the magic was too refined, the consequences too immediate. No—she would need a way past it without force.

When the maid emerged moments later, her steps quicker now as though eager to escape, Munin slipped into the shadows. The girl turned down the hall, her footsteps fading into the distance. Munin waited until the silence settled, then moved.

The adjacent room’s door gave way easily under her touch. She slipped inside and closed it behind her without a sound. The room was cold, empty. A guest chamber, unused—perfect.

Her eyes scanned the space. There—on a chair near the hearth, a folded pile of blankets identical to the ones the maid had carried. Munin moved toward them, her steps noiseless, and lifted the bundle into her arms. The fabric was rough, the faint warmth of the hearth still clinging to it. She adjusted the folds, ensuring they mirrored the ones the girl had brought earlier.

Once satisfied, she stepped back into the hall, her face already shifting into the guise of a dutiful servant. Shoulders slightly hunched, steps brisk but unassuming, she approached the warded door and knocked.

A pause. Then, the door cracked open, and sharp, pale eyes met hers. The white-haired male stared at her, suspicion flickering in his gaze.

Munin curtsied, her head bowed low. She adopted the Valhallan accent she heard spoken in the halls; her tone carefully measured. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” she murmured, the faintest tremble threaded into her voice, as though she feared she had already erred. “Ayla—the girl who was just here—is new. She didn’t know you needed the second pile for your rooms.” She glanced up briefly, then down again, a nervous servant avoiding the gaze of a superior. “They said you wanted it very warm, my lord.”

His eyes narrowed, raking over her in a way that made most people fidget, falter. Munin stood perfectly still, her grip on the blankets firm but not rigid, her gaze meekly fixed on the stone floor between them.

The door creaked wider, and the male stepped aside, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction too long. Munin dipped her head, and stepped inside. The warmth hit her immediately—a stark contrast to the icy corridors outside.

The room was opulent, like the others—a space meant to impress rather than to comfort. Gold-threaded curtains framed tall windows, and a thick carpet muffled her steps as she moved. She let her gaze sweep the room, quick and subtle, noting the exits, the furnishings, the places a blade or a body might be hidden.

“I’ll just set these on the bed for you,” she said, her voice soft, deferential, as she made her way toward the four-poster bed.

“That won’t be necessary.” His tone was clipped, dismissive.

She paused, turning toward him with what she hoped was the right mix of worry and obedience. He gestured vaguely toward the blankets another servant had left by the hearth. “I’ll take what I need.”

But Munin knew how to play this game. Her face fell—just enough. She cast her eyes downward, hands tightening slightly on the bundle of blankets. “I’m sorry, my lord, but if I don’t do this properly, they’ll have my head downstairs. I’ll lose my position.” Her voice broke just a little. “I can’t go back to the streets.”

She threw him a little bit of a worried stare, gambling that the Summer Court emissary had enough kindness in his heart to fall for her ruse. She even managed to conjure a sheen of wetness in her eyes.

The emissary’s jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face—but then his posture softened, just slightly.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping back and closing the door with a soft click. “Do what you must.”

Munin inclined her head, murmuring her thanks. She moved to the bed and began arranging the blankets. Her hands worked with practiced ease, fluffing the pillows, smoothing the covers. She didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. She felt his gaze on her, weighing her.

Eventually, the weight of his attention lifted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move to the small desk near the hearth. He sat, the chair creaking faintly under his weight, and reached for a quill.

The scratch of pen on paper filled the air—masking the faint sound of her breath, the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath her feet.

Her fingers brushed the knife hidden in her sleeve, the cool metal a familiar comfort. She didn’t hesitate—there was no room for hesitation. With a smooth, silent motion, she slid the blade free.

She moved silently, her soft-soled shoes muffling her approach on the thick, ornate carpet. The air seemed to tighten around her, and the faint crackle of the fire masked her almost inaudible footsteps.

She was close—close enough to see the faint crease of concentration between his brows, the ink smudged on his fingers. Close enough to strike.

Her arm arced, the blade slicing through the air toward his throat.

But he moved.

His hand shot up, deflecting her strike with a force that jarred her arm. The knife clattered to the floor, the metallic ring cutting through the room’s quiet.

He was on his feet in an instant, the chair crashing backward. Striking blue eyes locked on hers, sharp with realization. His hand went to his belt, reaching for the dagger there, but Munin was already moving.

She lunged, her shoulder slamming into his chest. The impact drove him back, pinning him against the desk. Papers scattered, ink spilled, the chaos loud—too loud.

It was loud — loud enough that it should have attracted the attention of anyone in the hallways.

“Who sent you?” His voice snapped through the room, sharp with anger—sharper still with fear.

Munin didn’t answer. Words weren’t necessary. She had no message to deliver, no vendetta to explain. She was the King's weapon, and weapons didn’t speak.

The male fought like a seasoned soldier. His fist slammed into her side, the force sending pain lancing through her ribs. The breath hitched in her throat, sharp and sudden, but she pushed past it.

Her counterstrike was swift, her fist colliding with his jaw. The crack of bone echoed in the quiet room, his head snapping to the side. Blood beaded at the corner of his mouth, and he staggered, his footing uncertain.

Munin didn’t wait.

Her knife glinted on the floor—she lunged, snatching it up in a fluid motion. The handle was cool in her grip, the weight familiar, comforting. She moved without hesitation, the blade slicing through the air in a clean arc.

The emissary’s throat gave under the steel.

Blood sprayed, hot and vivid, painting the scattered papers on the desk and pooling at his feet. He gurgled, hands flying to the wound, but there was nothing to be done. His blue eyes locked onto hers, wide with pain, with disbelief.

“You won’t... get away with this,” he choked, the words bubbling through the blood.

Munin’s face remained blank, her grip steady as she made another cut.

Munin didn’t stop.

Her mission was clear, and she was nothing if not thorough. She drew the knife across his throat again, deepening the wound. His eyes widened in shock and pain, his struggles growing weaker. She watched as life drained from his eyes, then, with a final, decisive motion, she severed his head from his body.

The room fell still. Only the fire crackled in the hearth, its flames licking greedily at the silence. Blood dripped steadily from the desk’s edge. Munin stood over the corpse, her breath slow and even.

With a flick of magic, the glamor dissolved. Her wings unfurled—dark, leathery monstrosities that stretched and flexed. They cast jagged shadows across the walls, a grotesque mirror of the violence that had unfolded.

The armor came next, summoned in a flash of cold light. It fitted itself to her body, the heavy metal settling like a second skin. The raven-like cowl fitted firmly on her face. There was no need for disguise now — they would know who sent her.

The King wanted them to know.

She donned the armor quickly, the familiar weight settling onto her shoulders, the metal cold against her skin. With the emissary's severed head gripped tightly in her gloved hand, she moved with purpose toward the throne room.

The severed head felt light in her grasp as she lifted it, blood trailing down her arm and dripping onto the polished floor. The emissary’s face was frozen in a rictus of pain and fear, his eyes staring at nothing.

Munin turned toward the door.

The fortress felt colder now, the wind pressing against the stone walls in a low, mournful howl. Torches flickered as she passed, their flames struggling against the draft. She felt none of it—not the chill, not the weight of the task she’d just completed. There was only the next step, the next order.

The throne room doors loomed ahead, massive and unyielding. Two sentinels stood guard, their expressions shifting from disinterest to terror as she approached. Their eyes flicked to her wings, to the head dangling from her grasp.

They moved aside without a word.

The doors groaned open, revealing the hall beyond.

Voices died mid-sentence. Heads turned.

Munin strode forward, each step echoing off the marble floor. The nobles and courtiers shrank back, their faces pale.

She didn’t stop until she stood before the dais. The head hit the floor with a wet thud, rolling once before coming to rest, its unseeing eyes fixed upward. Blood pooled around it, seeping into the cracks of the stone.

The King and Queen of Valhallan sat stiff and silent on their thrones. The Queen’s fingers dug into the carved wood of her armrests, the knuckles pale against her golden skin. The King, broader and heavier, leaned forward as if bracing for impact, his jaw tight, his grip white-knuckled on the edge of his seat.

They knew who she was.

A hundred years had been long enough for Hybern’s allies to learn the name—and the purpose—of Munin. Valhallan was no exception. The King and Queen themselves had called on her before. But now, with her dark wings unfurled, her armor glinting like ice under torchlight, and the severed head gripped in her hand—they looked afraid.

The throne room quieted as she stepped inside, each click of her boots rippling outward like a stone dropped in still water. Whispers rose, thin and hushed. Nobles turned pale, some shrinking back against the cold marble pillars.

At the dais, Munin stopped.

The emissary’s head hit the floor with a wet thud. It rolled once—twice—before settling, its dead eyes fixed on the royal pair. Blood smeared the polished surface in dark, glistening streaks.

The Queen gasped, a sharp intake of breath swallowed quickly behind her trembling hand. The King flinched but didn’t look away.

“The King of Hybern,” Munin said, her voice low, steady, and hollow, “sends his regards—and a reminder.”

The silence that followed felt heavy. The Queen’s lip quivered, her piercing blue eyes darting from the head to Munin, then back again.

The King’s voice broke through, sharp and brittle. “This—this is an outrage!” He surged to his feet, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "This was only a trade agreement! Our alliance with Hybern still holds!"

The Queen’s nod was frantic, her words stumbling over one another. “Yes—loyal. We have always been loyal! This must be a misunderstanding.”

Munin tilted her head, slow, birdlike, her expression unreadable. “A misunderstanding,” she echoed, her tone cold as steel. “One your court will not survive twice.”

The Queen choked on a sob, the sound muffled by her fingers. The King stiffened, his face flushing red as anger warred with fear. His gaze flicked down to the head, his jaw working as though he might retch.

“We will rectify this,” he said, the words tumbling out too quickly. “Please. Convey to your King our sincerest apologies. There will be no more... errors.”

Munin studied him for a long moment. Her wings shifted behind her, the soft rustle of leather filling the silence. Satisfied, she turned without a word, her boots echoing against the marble as she strode toward the doors.

The Queen’s muffled sobs followed her, each sound growing fainter as the heavy doors groaned shut behind her with a thunderous finality.

Munin didn’t look back.

---

Azriel stood on the inn’s modest balcony, the sea breeze tugging at his hair, carrying the briny tang of salt and the distant cries of gulls. Below, the port bustled—sailors hauling ropes, merchants shouting deals, the steady creak of ships rocking in the tide. But none of it touched him.

His focus was elsewhere, on what he had just learned.

The whispers from Valhallan had been impossible to ignore.

At first, the news felt too surreal to believe. But the implications were too severe to dismiss; he needed to pay attention to them. He’d crossed the sea immediately, needing the truth from his own sources, not secondhand rumors.

The trade agreement between the Summer Court and Valhallan had been fragile, yes—but monumental. No Prythian court had ever dared to broker such an accord with the Continent. Rhys had seen it as a first step in making peace, maybe even an alliance against Hybern.

If it succeeded, it could shift everything in their favor.

But the assassination had shattered all of that.

Azriel’s jaw tightened as he turned from the view, the breeze brushing over his wings. His contact was already waiting inside the small room—a maid named Aeliana. She stood by the door, hands clasped in front of her, her gaze fixed firmly on the floorboards.

“Aeliana,” Azriel said, his voice a quiet command. “Tell me everything.”

She glanced up, her wide eyes reflecting a flicker of fear. Still, she nodded, the folds of her plain dress trembling as she shifted her weight. “I delivered blankets to the lord’s room, barely minutes before it happened. The rooms are heavily warded; I had to be let in personally. He was at his desk when I left, writing letters. I didn’t think…”

She shook her head, swallowing hard.

“Then what?” Azriel prompted.

Aeliana’s throat bobbed as she swallowed again. “There was screaming—from the throne room. I ran to see… to see what had happened.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth before forcing herself to continue. “She… she threw his head at their feet.”

She. His shadows stirred around him, agitated, as the memories clawed their way forward—centuries-old whispers of a raven-masked assassin who’d slipped through his grasp.

“What did she look like?” His question came cold, clipped.

“Dark hair,” Aeliana said, her voice barely audible now. “But… but her face was hidden—by a raven’s mask.”

Azriel bristled; it had been over two hundred years since he'd gotten a lead on this person. Rhys had tasked him with keeping an eye on the situation, but the raven-masked assassin had been a ghost, always slipping through his fingers.

He'd heard whispers through the centuries, but nothing concrete. This was the first substantial lead in a long time.

“Anything else?” he pressed, his shadows curling closer to his frame.

Aeliana hesitated, her fear tangible in the air between them. “She had wings,” she whispered at last.

Azriel’s wings shifted, the muscles in his back tensing as the maid’s words settled over him. Wings. His mind flickered back to that shadowy figure from a century ago. She hadn’t had wings then.

Not many could summon wings at will.

Two people, in all his long years, had managed it. Well—one now.

His heart ached briefly as he thought of Elara, the pain of her loss still a raw wound —even if he had not known Rhys' sister all that well. Azriel forced the thought away, locking it deep where it couldn’t claw at him now.

“You’re certain?” he asked, his voice lower, steadier.

Aeliana nodded, her face pale in the lamplight. “They weren’t like yours,” she murmured, as though speaking of them summoned the memory too vividly. “They were… wrong. Torn in places. Scarred and warped, like—” She hesitated, her throat bobbing. “Like something that shouldn’t fly.”

Azriel’s hands flexed, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. He thought of Illyrian wings—how easily they could be shredded by cruelty or carelessness. The agony that came with even the smallest tear. The image she described twisted something in his chest, but he shoved it down.

“And after the throne room?” he asked.

“She left,” Aeliana whispered, her voice dropping further. “Walked out like the King and Queen were hers to command. No one followed her. No one even tried. They were too scared.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. He knew the Continent feared Hybern—knew the King’s influence stretched across the sea. But to let an assassin stride away without challenge, after murdering an emissary in plain sight?

“This complicates things,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

The maid fidgeted, her hands wringing the fabric of her skirts. “The servants,” she said hesitantly, glancing toward the door as if expecting someone to barge in. “They said… the King and Queen spoke of her. After she left.”

Azriel’s gaze snapped back to her, sharp as a blade. “What did they say?”

“They called her—” Aeliana hesitated, the word catching in her throat. “Munin.”

Munin.

Two centuries. Two centuries of half-whispered rumors, dead ends, and shadows. And now, finally, a name to match the ghost that had haunted him.

Azriel’s wings shifted again, his shadows curling close as his thoughts raced. Hybern was moving—maneuvering pieces across the board like a master strategist. Just as they had before the first war. But this time, they had her. This Munin—carving a bloody path in their name.

And once again, the trail had gone cold.

Azriel sighed; Rhysand was not going to like this.

---

110 Years Before the Cursebreaker

It was the quiet that disconcerted him the most.

Not the kind of quiet he sometimes found after his brothers had finally fallen asleep, their laughter fading into snores after a night of drinking or visiting pleasure halls. That kind of quiet brought peace, a rare reprieve from the weight he carried. Azriel cherished it—those fleeting moments when he could let his guard slip, if only slightly, and breathe.

But it was the other kind of quiet that unnerved him. This particular kind of quiet.

Azriel stood on the balcony of the House of Wind, the icy wind tugging at his wings, ruffling the shadows that clung to him. Below, Velaris glittered under the starlight, the faint hum of music drifting up from the streets. It was beautiful, this city, untouched by war, by blood.

He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves groaning under the strain.

Hybern had gone still—too still. The Continent had settled into an uneasy truce, the whispers of rebellion or unrest dwindling to nothing.

And Munin.

Over two centuries, she’d become more phantom than reality. The female in the raven mask—always gone before he could reach her. The one he’d rumors of, only to find the trail cold and empty. No sightings, no rumors, no word from his spies. Not in years.

There was something about her, something that tugged at the edges of his memory — an odd familiarity he still couldn’t quite understand.

Rhys had told him to let it go. Not unkindly, but with that resolute calm that had been hard-won over centuries of grief and guilt. Azriel had seen the way his brother looked at Velaris now, with a fierce hope. Rhysand wanted peace—not just for himself, but for the city, for the family he had rebuilt from ashes.

He'd done a damn good job of it, too.

But Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only temporary. He had seen too much, lived through too much war, to believe that it would stay quiet forever.

Azriel's eyes scanned the horizon, the mountains silhouetted against the night sky. His shadows swirled around him. Normally, they'd be whispering their secrets. But they, too, were unnaturally silent. He thought of the reports he'd read, the maps he'd studied, the countless hours spent trying to anticipate the next move of their enemies.

And yet, here he was, with nothing but silence.

Chapter 14

Notes:

Ok, here is chapter fourteen! Again, this is a reworked chapter. I would love to know what you all think of the reworked stuff!

100 Years Before the Cursebreaker

The air tasted different here.

It was lush — thick with magic that clung to her skin like the heat. Munin glided above the expanse of turquoise sea, her wings slicing through the humid air. Below, the land unfurled in vibrant greens and golds, colors so vivid they felt exaggerated, unnatural. Too alive.

There was something about this place.

She felt it the moment she crossed into Prythian’s borders—a pulse beneath her ribs that didn’t belong. It wasn’t fear; she didn’t feel fear. It wasn’t curiosity; she didn’t feel that, either. It was something else, something unnameable that made her wings itch.

There was something about the place that seemed important to her; she could sense it the moment she crossed over. But whatever it was, Munin couldn't put her finger on it as she touched down at the Summer Court.

Munin descended slowly, her wings stirring the thick, flower-scented air as she landed on the edge of the Summer Court. The heat wrapped around her like a vice. She barely noticed.

Her mission was clear.

Amarantha.

Munin didn’t question the King’s orders. The why and how of her assignments weren’t her concern. She was a blade, wielded without hesitation. Still, she recalled the King’s words, cold and sharp like steal.

"She serves herself now," he’d said, his voice crackling with disdain. "Not me. Not Hybern. Watch her. Report to Dagdan. If she falters—"

He hadn’t needed to finish the sentence.

Munin adjusted the raven’s mask over her face as she landed on a secluded area of beach, its dark edges a familiar weight. She folded her wings tight against her back, stepping silently into the sweltering, sun-drenched landscape.

It was how she found herself in the Summer Court, with air that was stifling hot and clinging to her skin like a second layer.

Munin moved through the Summer Court without pause, her steps silent, her presence barely a ripple against the vibrant backdrop. The palace sprawled ahead—a masterpiece of ivory and gold, domes gleaming under the relentless sun.

The scent of salt and flowers mingled on the breeze, cloying and heavy. Beauty surrounded her in every direction, but Munin didn’t—couldn’t—acknowledge it.

She had a task to complete.

She slipped into the shadows cast by the towering arches, her raven mask blending seamlessly with the dappled shade. Dagdan had ordered her to remain hidden while she was in Prythian.

Ahead, Amarantha glided into view, her crimson hair blazing in the sun. Munin followed at a distance, her wings tucked tight so as not to draw attention to herself.

Amarantha’s voice drifted back to her, honeyed and sharp. “Nostrus, how good it is to see you.”

Munin’s lips tightened beneath her mask. That tone—saccharine and insincere—always set her teeth on edge. She shoved the irritation away, deep into the void where all her feelings were meant to go. They had no place here.

The High Lord of the Summer Court, a male with sun-kissed skin and white hair, stepped forward with an easy smile. “Lady Amarantha. It has been too long.”

Lady.

The title grated, though Munin couldn’t say why. She wasn’t supposed to care what Amarantha was called—or how Nostrus spoke to her. Her fingers twitched toward the hilt of her blade, a reflex she quickly quelled.

“Indeed,” Amarantha purred, her smile as brittle as glass. “The Summer Court remains as breathtaking as ever.”

“Thank you,” Nostrus replied, pride lighting his features. “Come—sit. We’ve much to discuss.”

Munin moved with them, keeping to the edges, her figure melding into the vivid greenery. They reached a shaded pavilion perched high above the bay, the waves below catching and scattering the sun’s light. The table was set with fine fruits and chilled wine in crystal goblets — a spread fit for a lady, not the cruel general of Hybern’s armies.

Munin settled behind a screen of flowering vines, as she continued to listen.

“The trade routes have been thriving,” Nostrus began, his tone warm as he poured a glass of wine for Amarantha. “Goods are flowing between our lands like never before.”

Amarantha accepted the glass with a graceful nod. “That’s excellent news. I’m glad we can put all that unpleasantness with Valhallan behind us.”

Munin remained motionless beneath the shade of a flowering trellis, her armor absorbing the heat, her mask concealing any hint of discomfort. She didn’t feel discomfort—at least, not in the way others might. She felt nothing.

Still, when the High Lord of Summer mentioned Valhallan, her ears pricked, the faintest flicker of memory stirring.

More than a century had passed since she’d gone before the King and Queen of Valhallan, presenting them with the severed head of the Summer Court emissary. The memory was vivid—not because it was personal, but because it had been a flawless execution of her orders. The fear in the Valhallan royals’ eyes, the way they trembled as they agreed to every term the King had laid before them—it was seared into her mind like every other mission.

Amarantha's voice was smooth like velvet, but Munin knew better. The general was a master of deception, capable of hiding her true intentions behind a facade of politeness. She'd been on the receiving end of those duplicitous words more times than she could count.

Munin stood behind where Dagdan was seated, her posture rigid and eyes forward, just as she had for any council meeting that had come before. The meeting itself was droning on, a mix of strategic discussions and political maneuvering —Munin could easily see how even the King was growing bored of the various reports.

It should have been just another meeting, like so many before.

Across the table, Amarantha lounged with a feline grace, her crimson hair catching the dim torchlight. Her fingers toyed idly with the edge of a parchment, but her gaze was sharp, predatory.

“I’ve heard whispers from the Night Court.” Her voice was smooth, deceptively sweet.

Munin didn’t move, didn’t blink, though the room seemed to tighten around her.

Amarantha’s gaze slid toward her, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “It seems their little spymaster has been asking questions about us.”

Dagdan stiffened, his hand curling into a fist on the polished table.

Munin remained a statue, her eyes forward, her breathing even. She didn’t understand the veiled reference, but she felt the sting of it nonetheless.

Amarantha’s smile widened, her tone dripping with false concern. “I suppose they’d find our Munin quite fascinating. Wouldn’t you agree, Dagdan?” Her head tilted, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Such a shame she’s tethered here. Or perhaps…” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Perhaps she likes it that way.”

Dagdan’s jaw flexed, his knuckles whitening as his fingers gripped the edge of the table.

“Enough,” the King all but barked at his famed general. “Focus, Amarantha. We have important matters to discuss.”

Amarantha didn’t flinch. Her gaze lingered on Munin, her smirk sharpening. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Amarantha always played her games with a sharp edge—her satisfaction came not just from winning but from watching others squirm under her heel. It wasn’t enough to succeed; she had to draw blood along the way, to taste it.

The only question was: what was she trying to do here?

Munin stood still, her body a shadow amidst the greenery. She watched the exchange, noting every flicker of Nostrus’s turquoise eyes, every calculated tilt of Amarantha’s head.

"Yes, it was quite unfortunate," Nostrus said, his expression darkening as he swirled the wine in his goblet. "But we are resilient, and we move forward."

"Resilience is a commendable trait," Amarantha replied, lifting her glass with a small, serpentine smile. "To the continued prosperity of our alliance."

The High Lord raised his goblet in return, his movements steady but his smile strained. They drank—Amarantha with deliberate grace, Nostrus with the faintest hesitation.

They drank, and Munin felt a chill run down her spine despite the heat. She knew Amarantha's true nature, the cruelty that lurked beneath her charming exterior. This facade of cooperation was a means to an end, and Munin was determined to uncover what that end was.

---

It took weeks of careful observation in the Summer Court and, later, the Dawn Court for Munin to finally piece together what was happening.

The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible. A faint ripple beneath the surface—too delicate for most to notice. But Munin was trained to notice. It was the only reason she saw it at all.

She watched from the shadows as Amarantha moved through the courts with her sickly sweet smile and honeyed words. Nostrus, with his golden warmth and practiced charm, had been the first to fall under her spell. Thesan, who carried himself with quiet elegance and an aura that seemed to shimmer like the dawn itself, followed not long after.

Munin observed everything—how Amarantha’s hands would linger just a moment too long on an arm, her touch as light as a whisper. How her gaze, sharp and knowing, held theirs until it tethered something unseen.

In the Dawn Court, it became undeniable.

From the alcove where she stood cloaked in shadows, Munin could see Thesan and Amarantha standing close, their conversation low and measured. The High Lord’s radiant glow—the soft golden aura that always seemed to accompany him—was dimmer today. It wasn’t gone, but it faltered.

And there she was, all false smiles and calculated poise.

“I’m so pleased we could come to an understanding,” Amarantha said, her voice smooth as velvet. Her fingers rested on Thesan’s forearm—barely a touch, yet undeniably intimate. “It’s vital for our courts to stand together. Don’t you agree?”

Munin saw it. That small pull—a thread of power drawn from Thesan’s core.

It wasn’t much, just a drop, a fragment of what the High Lord possessed. And yet, it was enough to set Munin’s mind racing. A High Lord’s power was vast, boundless compared to Amarantha’s. Even the tiniest sliver would tip the scales if gathered in sufficient quantity.

Thesan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even seem to notice. He inclined his head, his expression calm but weary. “Unity is vital in times like these,” he agreed, his tone measured. “It ensures stability.”

Amarantha’s lips curved into a smile that looked sincere—too sincere. Her grip on his arm tightened, just slightly, before she released him.

“Yes, stability,” she said softly, as though tasting the word.

Munin barely registered the rest of the conversation as her mind reeled. Why take so little? Why stretch this game across weeks, even months, when she could have stolen everything in a single strike? Amarantha had the cunning—Munin had seen it firsthand. She had the audacity, too, that reckless hunger for power that set her apart from others in the King’s ranks.

She could make herself High Queen of Prythian.

And yet, she lingered. Siphoning drops when she could have drained oceans.

Munin shadowed her through court after court, her presence a specter in the background. She watched Amarantha’s every move—the honeyed smiles, the flattering words, the deft touch that lingered just long enough to extract what she needed.

 

One drop of power here. Another there.

Biding her time.

The pattern repeated itself in court after court, and Munin reported everything back to Dagdan. Every movement, every stolen thread of power.

When she delivered her latest report to the King, his fury had been palpable.

“She dares to act without my leave?” His voice was low, venomous, his fingers gripping the arms of his throne as if he meant to crush them. “Keep an eye on that bitch. I want to know everything—everything. Do whatever you must to uncover her plans. Do not let her out of your sight.”

---

From Dawn, Amarantha, and by extension Munin, moved on to the Spring Court.

It began the moment they crossed into its borders. A hum beneath her skin, faint but insistent, like a long-forgotten melody that refused to fade. The magic here knew her—or perhaps she knew it. Munin couldn’t tell which unsettled her more. Her spine prickled, every nerve alive with a warning she could not place.

It didn’t help that the Spring Court was beautiful. Obscenely so. The fields were a riot of wildflowers, their vivid colors almost mocking in their perfection. Trees heavy with blossoms swayed in the gentle breeze, and further ahead, sprawling gardens unfolded in intricate patterns of green and gold. The air carried the faintest scent of jasmine, sweet but cloying.

She wracked her brain, trying to pinpoint why it felt so unnervingly familiar, but no reason surfaced. She suppressed the growing dread and anxiety, managing only just so.

She was Munin. She did not feel this.

She kept her wings hidden, her steps soundless as she followed Amarantha through the verdant landscape. Munin’s attention remained fixed on the figure waiting at the edge of a clearing—a male standing tall and broad-shouldered, sunlight catching on his golden hair.

And his eyes.

Recognition clawed at the edges of her mind, but it slipped through her grasp like smoke.

She knew those eyes.

How did she know those eyes?

“It’s good to see you again, Tamlin,” Amarantha said, her voice a sickly-sweet purr. “I’ve missed our... conversations.”

Tamlin. The name came with the faintest spark of familiarity, a flicker she couldn’t chase fast enough. Munin’s breath hitched, her wings twitching beneath their concealment. Something dark and sharp unfurled inside her—fury, she realized, heating her blood until it burned.

She gritted her teeth, forcing her breathing steady, forcing her trembling hands into fists. There was no reason for this—no logical explanation. Munin wasn’t supposed to feel this way, wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all.

Yet the fury was there, clawing at her ribs, demanding to be acknowledged.

Her hands trembled slightly, and she had to clench them into fists to steady herself. She let her gaze flick back to Amarantha and the High Lord of Spring. Tamlin. Why did he provoke such a reaction in her? She had no answer. No reason to feel this way about Tamlin, no memories to explain the surge of emotion. And yet, the feelings were there, raw and undeniable, threatening to overwhelm her disciplined facade.

She could ask Dagdan about it when she returned to Hybern.

Tamlin’s voice broke through the haze, deep and measured. “Amarantha. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“You wound me,” she replied, the corners of her mouth lifting in a smile as false as her tone. “Surely, you’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you.”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened, the flicker of irritation so brief that anyone else might have missed it. But Munin saw it. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach for a weapon.

Regardless of the reaction he provoked in her, the High Lord of Spring was smart.

But Tamlin held his ground, his green eyes hard. “Let’s skip the games, Amarantha. What do you want?”

Amarantha’s laugh was soft, almost musical. “Straight to business. You’ve grown so serious since we last met. I liked you better when you were more... accommodating.”

“I don’t have time for your games,” Tamlin said, his tone flat.

Munin’s gaze darted between them. She couldn’t look away from Tamlin—couldn’t shake the weight of those green eyes. How did she know him?

Amarantha’s smile didn’t waver, but something cold and sharp flickered in her eyes. “Always so serious, Tamlin,” she mused, her voice a silken purr. “It’s such a shame you never learned to have a bit of fun.”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened. “I have no interest in any kind of fun that involves you.” His voice was low, edged with the kind of restrained power that only a High Lord could wield. “State your business—or leave.”

There it was again, that presence. Munin’s stomach churned. High Lords were all the same in that way—power radiated from them, instinctual, primal. But hearing it from him, seeing it from those lips, made something in her twist. She gritted her teeth, her hands twitching at her sides. She had to fight to remain unseen, to suppress the unfamiliar urge clawing at her chest.

To step forward.

To confront him.

To avenge—

To avenge what?

The thought slid through her mind like smoke, gone before she could catch it. Munin swallowed hard, forcing the noise inside her head into silence. She stayed hidden, watching the exchange.

 

Amarantha’s smile turned brittle, a hard edge creeping into her tone. “Very well,” she said smoothly. “I’m here to discuss trade relations with Hybern. Surely, as one of our oldest allies, you understand how much it benefits a court to align with us.”

“Never,” Tamlin said, the word like steel.

Amarantha clicked her tongue, tilting her head as if scolding a child. “Never say never, Tamlin. You might find that Hybern can offer quite a lot to those who cooperate.”

“You’re wasting your time,” he bit out, the growl in his voice unmistakable. “I won’t fall for your schemes, Amarantha. State whatever lies you’ve come to spread and leave my court.”

Munin’s gaze flicked to Amarantha as her smile grew sharper, more serpentine. “Lies? Oh, dear Tamlin, I think you underestimate just how persuasive I can be.” She leaned forward, her voice lowering to something almost conspiratorial. “Dawn, Summer, and Day have already signed treaties. Even Beron didn’t take much convincing. And the Night Court...”

She trailed off deliberately, her tone lilting.

“The Night Court?” Tamlin echoed, the surprise in his voice poorly hidden.

Amarantha’s grin widened, her words practically dripping with satisfaction. “That’s right. You have... history with its High Lord, don’t you? Rhysand, was it?”

Something shifted in Tamlin then—his shoulders straightened, his fingers flexing. A low growl hummed in his throat, one that made even Munin’s carefully trained instincts bristle.

Amarantha only leaned in further, savoring the tension like wine. “He’s been very accommodating. So charming. So generous. He was practically eager to draw up terms with Hybern.”

The faintest flicker of doubt crossed Tamlin’s face, gone as quickly as it appeared, but Munin saw it. Her hands clenched at her sides, her wings itching to unfurl. Something about the name Rhysand struck a chord deep within her.

But she couldn’t even begin to comprehend why.

She didn’t understand why the sight of it made her want to step forward—to say something, do something, stop something. But she didn’t.

Because it wasn’t her place.

Because she didn’t feel.

Because she was a weapon, and weapons didn’t question. They didn’t feel.

And yet, the urge clawed at her still.

The snarl tore from her throat before she could stop it—a raw, guttural sound that shattered the quiet.

Munin froze, the weight of her mistake sinking in as Tamlin’s head snapped in her direction. His green eyes locked on her hiding spot, suspicion flaring into something darker. He moved before she could think, closing the distance between them in a few long strides.

His hand clamped around her arm, unyielding, the pressure biting into her skin. Munin stiffened, her body coiling with the instinct to fight, but she stayed still. Her task had been to spy on Amarantha, not to engage any of the High Lords. A single misstep could ruin everything.

Still, the touch of him—the magic of the Spring Court so close—made her stomach churn.

“What’s this, Amarantha?” Tamlin’s voice cut through the tense air like a blade. He dragged her out of the shadows as he turned to face the general. “You come here to talk peace, and instead, you bring a spy to skulk in my halls?”

Munin didn’t fight him, though the urge to wrench free burned in her veins. She caught Amarantha’s gaze, cool and calculating, her golden-brown eyes narrowing as she regarded the scene.

Amarantha tilted her head, lips curving into a faint, dangerous smile. “A spy? Surely you don’t think me so foolish, Tamlin.” She stepped closer, her movements slow, as if calming a cornered animal. “Do you truly believe I would bring someone so incompetent as to snarl when hiding? Honestly.”

Munin forced her expression to remain neutral, to still the fury that flickered like a dying flame in her chest. She could feel Amarantha’s eyes on her but the general didn’t betray her—yet.

Tamlin’s grip didn’t loosen, his gaze flicking between them. “Then explain what she’s doing here,” he demanded, his voice edged with venom.

Amarantha’s smile turned brittle, her amusement thinning. “Surely you don’t expect me to wander into Prythian entirely unguarded? I’ve dealt with High Lords before. I know just how brutish you all can be. It would be foolish not to bring someone to watch my back.”

The words were smooth, practiced, but Munin felt the sharp edge beneath them. She didn’t need the general’s pointed glance to understand. She wanted Munin to play along.

The oily, familiar echo of Dagdan’s voice slithered through her mind. Go along with it. Keep an eye on her.

It was a cunning lie, and one that Munin had no choice but to play along with.

Munin allowed her gaze to drop, feigning submission. “My general tasked me to remain close,” she murmured, her voice steady but low. “For her protection. Nothing more.”

Tamlin studied her, his grip tightening for a breath longer before he shoved her back, disgust etched into his features. “I don’t trust either of you,” he growled, turning his attention to Amarantha. “Whatever game you’re playing, it won’t work here.”

Amarantha’s smile didn’t falter, though something flickered in her gaze—amusement, or perhaps satisfaction. “No games, Tamlin. Only opportunity. But if you’d prefer we leave...”

His jaw tightened. “Yes, I would.”

Amarantha dipped her head in a mockery of deference. “As you wish. Though it’s a shame you’re so unwilling to consider Hybern’s offer. You’re the last to cling to such stubbornness.”

Tamlin didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes.

Munin, still standing slightly apart, felt the weight of his gaze return to her. She kept her eyes downcast, unmoving. But inside, something unfamiliar and wrong burned.

She wasn’t meant to feel. Wasn’t meant to care.

And yet, as Tamlin turned and strode away, the sensation lingered.

Chapter 15

Notes:

In reworking this chapter, I made Dagdan a creepy little fuck.

I also like how I said I was splitting up chapters to make them shorter. 14 and 15 were originally one chapter, and I ended up while reworking 15 adding about 1.5k words. So much for shortening it.

50 Years Before the Cursebreaker

Munin did not know how Amarantha did it.

The High Lords fell like dominos. One by one, they yielded to Amarantha’s subtle manipulations—her silken lies, her careful threats hidden beneath honeyed smiles.

From Amarantha’s side, Munin watched it all unfold. Fifty years of meticulous conquest. Treaties signed with blood disguised as ink, alliances forged with nothing but the general’s serpentine smile and sweet words behind them.

Amarantha made it look effortless. And yet, it left Munin... hollow.

She had expected more from these High Lords. They were said to have cunning minds — at the very least they should have been schooled in politics. But all of them had fallen in line, seduced by her promises of peace.

All except him.

Tamlin.

The thought of the High Lord of Spring was enough to send heat coursing through her veins. Anger, sharp and unrelenting, coiled in her chest like a living thing. She didn’t know where it came from or why it burned so fiercely. Only that it rose every time his name was spoken, every time she saw those green eyes.

It didn’t make sense.

She shoved it down, that festering rage. That twisted knot of… something. It was foreign, an aberration. Munin did not feel. She obeyed.

And yet it returned. Every time Amarantha spoke his name, every time Munin glimpsed him across the Spring Court’s sun-drenched meadows, the heat would rise, unbidden.

It was easier now, with Dagdan here.

The day he’d arrived, stepping into Amarantha’s web with a disarming smile, Munin had known it wasn’t for her benefit. The King’s goodwill, Dagdan called it. But Munin understood the truth: damage control. A leash to keep her in line, to keep Amarantha’s suspicions at bay.

The day Dagdan arrived, the air shifted.

Munin stood at attention as Amarantha greeted him, her voice as saccharine as ever, though her gaze betrayed her distaste. Dagdan had that effect on people.

Munin was summoned to him the first night. The room he had claimed was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of burning resin. She knelt before him, her head bowed as she had so many times before.

“Munin,” he said softly, her name slipping from his tongue like a blade unsheathing. “Come closer.”

She obeyed without hesitation, the sound of her boots against the stone floor the only break in the suffocating silence. She stopped just short of where his gloved hands rested on the edge of the table.

Look at me. The command sliced through her thoughts.

She raised her head, meeting his gaze. Dagdan’s eyes gleamed with predation, as they roved over her. Not a glance of appraisal, but of ownership.

“Let’s see what’s clogging that perfect little mind of yours,” he murmured, stepping closer.

He didn’t touch her—not yet. But the weight of his presence, the space he took up, felt more invasive than any physical grip. She remained perfectly still as his fingers hovered just above her temple, the air between them charged and buzzing.

And then his power was there, slicing into her mind like ice. A sharp gasp slipped from her lips before she could stop it.

“Good,” he said, the word drawn out, savoring.

Memories flared beneath his touch, burning bright and vivid. Tamlin’s green eyes, his iron grip. The rage, the hatred, the need that had coiled within her chest like a live wire. Munin could feel those emotions surging, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she might drown in them.

Dagdan tilted his head, watching her closely, his gloved hand curling into a fist. “What’s this?” he mused, his tone deceptively soft.

Munin remained silent, her nails digging into her palms as his power tightened, sharper now. Like claws.

“You don’t need this,” he said, his voice dipping into something almost… satisfied.

And then he tore it away.

The memories unraveled, the emotions dissolving into nothing. Munin’s breath hitched, but she kept her head bowed, her face blank as he worked, stripping away the parts of her that didn’t belong.

When he was done, his hand lingered on her temple, his thumb brushing against her hairline.

“Better,” Dagdan murmured, his voice low and almost… reverent. “You’ll thank me someday.”

He stepped back, and the absence of his touch was like the release of a too-tight chain.

“You’re dismissed,” he said, his tone light, like they’d just concluded a pleasant conversation.

Munin stood, steady despite the tremor in her legs, and left without a word.

When the door closed behind her, she felt nothing. The world was quiet, her mind still.

Dagdan had seen to that.

---

Munin moved through the sunlit corridors of the Day Court, her senses heightened.

The light here felt intrusive, unnatural—warmth pressing against her like a too-eager host. She ignored it. She always did.

Her steps were silent; they needed to be for the task at hand. Ahead, the courtyard unfolded like a jewel—lush greenery framed by sun-drenched stone. A minor lord reclined there, his head tilted back, basking in the light as if it could shield him.

Fool.

The air shifted as she approached, the faint pulse of his magic brushing against her own. His eyes snapped open, the lazy confidence in his posture vanishing in an instant. He scrambled to his feet, hand darting toward the dagger at his belt.

“Who—who are you?” His voice shook, his fear rising like the sharp tang of metal.

She didn’t answer. Words were for the living.

He took a step back, and her gaze locked onto him—a predator fixing on prey. The sunlight made her dagger glint, a flash of steel in her hand as she closed the distance between them.

“You shouldn’t have crossed her.” The words fell from her lips, flat and unfeeling. She’d been sent here to relay Amarantha’s message, nothing more.

The lord’s breath hitched. “Wait—I can explain. Whatever you think—”

His pleas faltered as her dagger pressed against his throat, the blade gleaming like fire in the sunlight. His pulse fluttered beneath the steel, fast and panicked.

“Your pleas mean nothing,” she said, her voice low, cutting.

She gave the male a single breath. A heartbeat.

Then the dagger moved.

The sunlight glinted off the fresh stain of blood as it dripped to the marble, pooling in the grooves of the intricate patterns carved into the stone. Munin watched the light catch the crimson—how it seemed to shimmer, almost alive—before she stepped back, leaving the body to crumple where it stood.

Blood still wet on her blade, Munin wiped it clean with one swift motion. The courtyard around her had fallen silent, the only trace of life left pooling crimson across the marble. She looked at the body, not feeling satisfaction, nor guilt.

Not feeling anything.

The stillness cracked, a prickle racing down her spine. Someone was watching.

Munin turned, sharp and instinctive, her grip tightening on her blade. The shadows at the edge of the courtyard shifted, folding in on themselves before they resolved into a figure. A male.

Tall, lean muscle cloaked in darkness, with dark hair framing a face that might have been sculpted from stone. His eyes, sharp even in the light, locked onto hers with a predatory gleam.

He moved slowly, circling her like a wolf testing the strength of its prey.

Her gaze flicked lower—wings. Bat-like and powerful. Perfect, unlike the mangled remnants on her own back.

The corners of his mouth curved, not in a smile but something sharper, something amused.

"Who sent you this time?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, casual but too smooth to be harmless. He stopped a few paces away, watching her like he already knew the answer.

She didn’t respond, her body shifting as she widened her stance. Centuries of training kicked in. Her sword slid free from its sheath with a soft scrape of steel against leather.

"Silent treatment, huh?" His tone was almost teasing now, though the weight of his attention never wavered. "Alright. Guess I’ll have to work for it."

The shadows around him moved unnaturally, curling at his feet like smoke, rippling like they were alive. A shadowsinger.

She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, steadying herself.

He chuckled—a low, dark sound that seemed to echo in the space between them. "You’re good at this, I’ll give you that," he said, his voice lighter now, almost conversational. "But everyone cracks. Sooner or later."

He moved fast.

Too fast.

One moment he was still, watching her, and the next, he was a blur. Steel met steel with a sharp, ringing clash that echoed through the courtyard, the sound loud and unnatural against the golden serenity of the Day Court.

Their swords met, the impact rattling up her arm. Munin held firm, matching his strength with her own, pushing back as his weight bore down on her.

They circled each other like predators, sunlight glinting off their weapons. Strike and counter. Lunge and parry. His movements were liquid, every motion calculated to exploit a weakness. She gave him none. Every muscle in her body moved on instinct, guided by the countless hours of training Dagdan had drilled into her.

"You're good," he said, his tone calm, conversational, like they weren’t trying to kill each other. There was something in his voice—amusement, maybe admiration—but it was fleeting. "But good isn’t enough."

She ignored him, her jaw tightening. Words were distractions, and distractions got you killed.

His blade flashed toward her shoulder, missing her by a hair. It was an intentional miss —testing her. She caught the next swing mid-arc, their swords locking as the force shoved them closer. His face was too near, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cedar and mist.

"Nothing to say?" he murmured, low enough that the words barely reached her. Shadows curled at the edges of his frame, restless things, as if the silence between them had stirred them awake.

She yanked her blade free with a growl, forcing him to step back. He did, though leisurely, his smirk still firmly in place.

He was enjoying this.

Her silence was met with another strike—this one harder, faster. He was testing her again, pushing her limits, and she knew it. The nagging thought that his movements felt familiar crept into her mind. But there wasn’t time to dwell on it.

He feinted left, fast enough that her guard shifted automatically, and then his blade arced toward her side. She twisted, barely catching the strike in time. Their swords locked again, and his weight pressed against her blade, forcing her back a step.

"Hybern?" he asked, the question sharp and quiet. "Or her? Did Amarantha send you?"

She pushed back with a growl, breaking the lock and forcing him to step back.

Her lips barely parted as she lied, "I serve no one."

His laugh was dark, almost cruel. “That so? Funny—you fight like someone with orders to follow.”

Munin didn’t reply. Talking was a mistake, one she wouldn’t make again. She shifted her stance, her grip tightening on the sword as she lunged, aiming for his exposed side.

He twisted, faster than her eyes could track, his blade catching hers and redirecting the strike with infuriating ease. His movements were relentless, pressing her, forcing her to yield space she couldn’t afford to lose.

“You’re getting tired,” he said casually, dodging her next strike. His sword swept low, cutting toward her legs, and she barely leapt back in time to avoid it. “How long do you think you can keep this up?”

Her chest heaved, but her expression stayed blank, unreadable. She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t.

He smiled then—a cruel, knowing thing that made the shadows curling at his feet seem alive. “I’ve got all day.”

Munin’s muscles burned, her grip faltering for a fraction of a second as the weight of his attacks bore down on her. But she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t.

His strikes came faster now, more precise, testing every weak spot in her defense. Munin felt the strain in her arms, the growing burn in her lungs. He was pushing her closer to the edge, but she couldn’t fall—not yet.

When his blade swept low again, aiming to take her legs out from under her, she saw the faintest hesitation in his strike.

She didn’t think—just moved.

Munin twisted her body, her blade arcing down in a sharp, controlled motion that knocked his sword cleanly from his grip. The weapon clattered to the ground.

In the next heartbeat, she was on him, driving him backward until his shoulders hit the stone wall. Her sword pressed against his throat, the edge biting into his skin. His breath was hot against her wrist, his chest heaving in tandem with hers.

His weapon lay forgotten on the ground. She had him.

She stared at him, her mind calculating. Every instinct, every order embedded in her, screamed to finish it. He had watched her. Questioned her. He was dangerous.

And yet—

His eyes caught hers, dark and endless, and there was no fear in them. Only the faintest hint of a challenge.

“Go on,” he rasped, his voice low and even. “Do it.”

Her grip tightened, the blade pressing harder against his throat. The faintest bead of blood welled beneath it.

But she didn’t move.

What was stopping her? He was a threat. She’d eliminated hundreds like him without hesitation. She’d been shaped for this.

Still, her hands wouldn’t obey.

His expression remained unreadable, though his gaze pinned her in place. “What are you waiting for?” he asked softly, almost mockingly. “You’re not going to hesitate your way out of this, soldier.”

Soldier.

Her breath caught, sharp and unsteady. She hated the way the word struck her, like the memory of something she couldn’t name.

Her chest rose and fell, each breath too loud in the silence. She ignored the strange pull in the back of her mind, the faint hum of something unfamiliar. Focus, she told herself. He’s just a target. He’s—

“Do you even know why you’re here?” he murmured, his voice almost gentle now, like he was speaking to a wounded animal. “Or are you just doing as you’re told?”

The question clawed at her, but Munin pushed it aside. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t afford to.

And then—

Winnow.

The word slithered into her mind, soft and commanding. Her pulse stuttered. It wasn’t Dagdan’s voice — it sounded eerily more like her own— and yet it felt like a command she had no choice but to obey.

Her fingers trembled on the hilt of her sword.

Winnow. The word came again, louder, more insistent.

But she couldn't. She had never winnowed before — that was magic for the powerful High Fae, not weapons like her. How could she even think to winnow? Her grip on the sword faltered for just a moment. His eyes bore into hers, and in that intense, charged silence, she felt an odd pull, a flicker of something unfamiliar and unwelcome. Her breath hitched slightly, and she found herself acutely aware of the warmth of his skin, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

Munin’s body moved before she made the decision, instinct overriding her hesitation. A sharp breath escaped her as the air coiled around her, dragging her from the moment, from the male, and into nothingness.

The courtyard disappeared.

And so did he.

---

49 Years Before the Cursebreaker

It was to be a masquerade ball.

Munin didn’t question why Amarantha had chosen such theatrics—she never questioned anything—but the reason hovered, unspoken, in the back of her mind. She was sure that the general turned emissary had a game she was playing Amarantha always had a reason.

The cavernous hall stretched on endlessly, the arching ceilings lost in darkness, as if the mountain itself swallowed the room whole. Crimson and black velvet cloaked the walls, snuffing out the faintest flicker of warmth from the chandeliers above. Faelight shimmered in the crystal, spilling down onto the marble floor.

Her fingers rested lightly on the hilt of her dagger—an instinct, though no one here would dare to challenge Amarantha’s enforcer, not under this roof.

Dagdan’s voice slithered into her mind, cold and sharp. What a charade.

Munin’s eyes flicked to the dais where he stood beside Amarantha, a figure of restrained elegance wrapped in dark silk. His sneer was hidden behind a porcelain mask, but she could feel his disdain. She could feel most things when it came to Dagdan — the male was always in her head.

Pointless spectacle, he went on, his mental voice laced with derision. She always did love showing off.

Munin said nothing, only inclined her head slightly in silent agreement. From where she stood, half-shrouded in the shadows cast by her raven-like cowl, she could observe without being observed.

The High Lords began to arrive, their power brushing against hers as they entered the chamber. The air shifted with each arrival, a subtle ripple of magic muted by the bindings Amarantha had placed on them all.

The High Lord of Day came first, his court draped in gold and white, their masks glittering like fragments of sunlight. The air around him seemed warmer, almost soothing, but Munin kept her distance. Next came the High Lord of Summer, his retinue dressed in deep blues and greens, like the endless depths of the sea. She caught a faint trace of salt in the air as they passed, though it felt diluted, less potent than it should have been.

Look at them, Dagdan sneered, his words curling like smoke through her mind. Fools, all of them. So willing to play her game.

Munin’s gaze followed the High Lords as they moved through the crowd. She felt the weight of their power coiled beneath their carefully crafted masks. They were beautiful, in their own way But as she watched them laugh, sip their wine, and bow before Amarantha, all she could feel was… hollow.

And these are the ones who would stand against us? Dagdan’s voice was bitter now, though tinged with dark amusement.

She didn’t respond. The words weren’t meant for her anyway.

Her eyes lingered on the High Lords. It was impossible not to see them as Dagdan did: complicit. Whether they had known it or not, they had let this happen. Let her do this.

The Never Fading Flower, they called Amarantha. Munin’s lip curled beneath her mask. She knew the truth. Amarantha was no flower. She was a serpent, her beauty nothing more than a lure.

Fools, indeed.

They watched in silence as the rest of the High Lords trickled in —Dagdan keeping the rest of his comments to himself. Munin's eyes followed each arrival, cataloging them as they entered the ballroom.

Dawn, Winter, Autumn. Each court resplendent in their finery, their leaders draped in silks and jewels that gleamed under the flickering faelight. Munin's gaze swept over them, detached, until movement at the far end of the ballroom caught her attention.

The Spring Court.

Her breath hitched, though she immediately masked it, her body betraying none of the sudden, visceral reaction.

Her eyes locked on Tamlin as he strode into the room. Power coiled around him, kept taut and carefully controlled. He was flanked by members of his court, but it was the red-haired male at his side that drew her attention next.

The scar on his face was hidden beneath the gleaming fox mask, but she didn’t need to see it to know it was there. Her scar. Munin’s fingers twitched at her sides, a faint ghost of the blade she’d held the night she’d carved that mark into him for Amarantha.

Vanserra, Dagdan’s voice hummed in her mind, cool and detached.

She didn’t need his explanation. She already knew.

Her focus sharpened, her senses narrowing on the Spring Court as they passed. But before she could dwell on them further, another figure entered the hall.

He was alone.

Black tailored fabric clung to his tall frame, the edges crisp and sharp, as if they could cut the air around him. His mask was simple, unadorned, and yet it seemed to command more presence than the gaudy creations worn by the others.

He moved like the shadows themselves parted for him, as though the room had always been his.

Munin stiffened.

The male radiated power—ancient, dark, unrelenting. It rolled off him in silent waves, a force that pressed against her skin, sharp and electric. Even without Dagdan’s voice confirming it in her mind, she knew. This was the High Lord of the Night Court.

Her gaze clung to him, unable to look away. Her chest tightened, something unfamiliar and chaotic unfurling in her. She’d never met this male, never seen him before, and yet...

A faint tug, deep within her, like an echo of something lost. Recognition flickered at the edges of her mind, followed by unwelcome longing. It was pulling her toward him even as her instincts screamed at her to look away.

The High Lord of Night strode forward, his eyes scanning the crowd with a piercing, predatory intensity. He reached the dais, and Munin barely registered Amarantha’s presence until the sound of her voice broke through the haze.

“Rhysand,” Amarantha purred, her tone sweet as poisoned wine. “I’m so glad you could join us tonight.”

Rhysand.

Something ancient shifted inside her, a memory—or the ghost of one—stirring to life. Her throat tightened, a lump forming there that she didn’t understand.

She wasn’t supposed to feel. Wasn’t supposed to be. She was a weapon, forged and trained, stripped of anything unnecessary. But as she watched him—watched Rhysand—a crack appeared in the mask she hadn’t realized she’d been wearing.

The room seemed to hold its breath as the High Lord of the Night Court inclined his head.

"Amarantha," he said smoothly. "Always a pleasure to be in such... illustrious company."

Amarantha’s lips curled, but the smile barely grazed her eyes. "Tell me, Rhysand, how fares the Night Court? I hear it's... thriving."

"It is," Rhysand replied, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Prosperous and peaceful. Unlike some places."

A flicker of irritation passed over her face, gone as quickly as it had come. "Yes, well, peace is such a fragile thing, isn't it?"

"Fragile," Rhysand agreed, his tone light, but his words edged with iron. "And yet, some of us manage to keep it intact."

The room seemed smaller somehow, as the two of them continued their conversation. Munin kept her position at the edge of the gathering. She should have been invisible, a mere fixture in the background.

Yet, when Rhysand’s gaze finally shifted, it landed on her.

A strange heat prickled along her skin as his attention pinned her in place. He studied her, not as one might glance at a passing stranger, but with curiosity more than anything else. His eyes lingered on the raven-like cowl that shadowed her face, and for a single, suffocating moment, it felt as though he could see through it.

Munin’s hands remained at her sides, still, controlled. Yet the faintest ripple of unease stirred beneath the surface. She knew this—

In the quiet depths of her mind, Dagdan stirred.

She had never been able to keep him out, didn't even think she could. His consciousness coiled around hers, striking like a serpent at the different feelings that had begun to take root. The rage, the confusion, the flickers of memory —he snatched at them, as if sinking his fangs into each one.

Slowly, the storm inside her dulled.

Munin exhaled, the faint tremor in her breath smoothing as the chaos ebbed, replaced by the familiar calm of obedience.

Her focus narrowed again, sharpened. Amarantha’s voice drifted back into her awareness. The High Lord’s gaze lingered a beat longer before returning to Amarantha.

Munin’s chest expanded on a measured inhale. Whatever she’d felt—or thought she’d felt—was gone.

After a quick nod, the High Lord excused himself from Amarantha’s presence and the atmosphere shifted. Conversation resumed, and music, combined with the clink of glasses.  Munin lingered at the edge of the ballroom, still and watchful, her raven-black cowl casting her face in shadow. From here, she could see everything—everyone.

Her gaze tracked each of the High Lords, cataloging their movements, their postures, their tells.

But her attention always returned to him.

Rhysand.

The High Lord of Night moved through the crowd with an ease that set him apart. Where others jostled for position, he prowled. The raw power that radiated from him wasn’t showy or ostentatious—it simply was.

Munin’s eyes narrowed behind her mask. He had to have a weakness. They all did. A chink in his armor, some flaw she could exploit if it came to that. If Dagdan or the King willed it. She had yet to find it, and the uncertainty gnawed at her.

From the dais, Amarantha’s voice rose, cutting through the chatter like a knife. “A toast!”

The crowd stilled, every head turning toward her. The music faltered, then faded entirely.

“To peace between Hybern and the Courts of Prythian,” Amarantha purred, raising her glass high. “A new era of cooperation and prosperity.”

A chorus of murmured agreement swept the room as glasses were lifted. Munin mirrored the motion, her eyes fixed on Amarantha.

The crowd hushed further as Amarantha stepped down from the dais, each step deliberate, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a pool of blood. Her focus zeroed in on Tamlin. Munin tensed, though her expression didn’t betray it. The High Lord of Spring stood rigid as Amarantha approached, his golden hair catching the faint light.

Amarantha’s hand landed on his shoulder, her painted nails glinting, and she leaned close. “Such a handsome face,” she said, her voice low. The words slithered through the air, meant for him but loud enough for others to hear. Her thumb brushed against his collarbone.

Tamlin stiffened, his jaw tightening.

Munin’s gaze caught on the ring adorning Amarantha’s finger, the faint glint of the brown pupil encased within. Jurian’s eye.

“Get your hands off me,” Tamlin growled.

Amarantha’s smile widened, her grip tightening. “Why so tense, Tamlin? Surely you wouldn’t deny me a little… closeness?”

His reaction was immediate. He wrenched himself free, his chest heaving. “I’d rather love a human, marry a human, than touch you.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even the High Lords stilled, their eyes darting between Tamlin and Amarantha.

Munin’s gaze flicked to the High Lord of the Night Court. He stood at the edge of the crowd, a smirk tugging at his lips. Amusement glittered in his violet eyes.

Tamlin took a step closer, his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. “Even your own sister preferred the company of humans to you.”

The crowd collectively inhaled. Munin felt the shift in the room. Her fingers twitched at her sides, though she didn’t reach for her weapon.

Munin’s gaze sharpened on Amarantha. For the briefest moment, a crack appeared in her veneer—something raw and brittle, a flicker of hurt buried beneath the polished malice. It was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by that icy, calculating smile.

“Such passionate words, Tamlin,” Amarantha murmured. She leaned in, her breath a ghost against his ear. “But let’s see how long your defiance lasts.”

Tamlin didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened further, a muscle ticking in his cheek. The rage simmering off him was a living thing, but Amarantha didn’t seem to care. If anything, she thrived on it, feeding off of it like a vulture circling carrion.

Munin stood at the edge of the chaos, detached and unfeeling as always, her role nothing more than observer. High Lords stiffened, their attention flickering from the pair to each other.

And Rhysand—

He leaned casually against a marble column, the corner of his mouth curving in a faint smirk. But his eyes… they were too sharp, too focused on Amarantha. Munin could almost feel the threads of his mind working, calculating.

The shift of power was subtle at first.

A ripple of unease that slithered through the room, sending a prickle across Munin’s skin. Amarantha’s magic flared—wild, unrestrained. It rolled over the gathered High Lords, pressing against them. Munin felt it too, the way it stole the air from her lungs, made the chandeliers above tremble in their chains.

Cries of alarm broke the silence, indignant and rising.

The High Lords—so used to their own invincibility—were realizing, some for the first time, just what they had lost. The power Amarantha now wielded had been theirs.

Amarantha turned her head, surveying them all with cold satisfaction. “I hope you’re not surprised,” she purred, her voice carrying effortlessly over the chaos. “You gave me these gifts freely, after all.”

Munin barely registered the words. She was already moving before she realized it, her body responding to the command that slid like oil through her mind.

We leave. Now. Dagdan’s voice.

It coiled tight around her thoughts, binding her will to his. She didn’t question, not when every instinct was screaming at her to leave anyway. Her feet carried her toward the exit.

Behind her, Amarantha’s voice rang out, sharp and edged with something close to triumph. “I’m feeling generous tonight, Tamlin,” she announced, her false sweetness like poison honey. “I’ll give you a chance to end the curse, to win back what I’ve taken from you—and the others.”

The indignant cries swelled. Somewhere, someone spat towards Amarantha. But Munin didn’t stop. She moved through the crowd, her focus narrowed to the exit. Dagdan’s command echoed in her mind, overriding all else.

She wove through crowd, pushing past bodies of stunned fae. None of them spared her a second look. Their attention was glued to the dais, where Amarantha loomed.

As Munin reached the threshold of the grand ballroom, she risked one last glance over her shoulder.

Amarantha’s voice rang out, cold and cutting, threading through the crowd. “Seven times seven years, Tamlin. That’s how long you have before you join me Under the Mountain—unless…”

Munin slipped through the doorway before she could hear the rest, the heavy doors closing with a dull, final thud. The noise of the ballroom dulled instantly, leaving only the echo of her footsteps in the cavernous, dimly lit halls of the palace Under the Mountain.

The labyrinthine tunnels twisted and turned, but she didn’t falter. Dagdan’s presence in her mind coiled tighter, spurring her onward like a whip at her back.

And then she felt it.

It was subtle at first—a faint pulse, like a ripple through still water. But it grew, swelling into a wave that crashed against her senses. The land itself seemed to shudder, the air thickening with something heavy and vile. It was as if Amarantha’s wrath had spilled over, seeping into the very bones of Prythian, corrupting its heart.

This was wrong.

Someone had to stop her.

Munin’s steps faltered, just for a moment. The sensation crawled over her skin, foreign and wrong. Her fingers twitched at her sides, an instinctive reaction to something she couldn’t name.

The female Munin had both served and spied on had unleashed something catastrophic — a blight on the natural order of things. Munin did not give much thought to morality when she carried out her orders. She was a tool, a weapon wielded without thought or emotion —she had always done what both Dagdan and the King commanded of her. But now... Could she allow this to happen?

Should she?

Her legs moved, stubbornly, toward the exit of the Mountain, against the pull of her thoughts. She fought it. She tried to stop, to turn back. But her body was not her own. Each step carried her forward, out of the mountain.

Munin. Come.

His voice was a whisper of oil, slipping into the cracks of her mind. Her teeth clenched. No matter how her thoughts clawed at the walls of her mind, her body continued forward.

When she reached him, Dagdan was waiting in the shadows just beyond the Mountain’s exit. The moonlight fractured over the sharp lines of his face, highlighting the glint in his serpentine eyes. He smiled—too wide, too knowing—and her stomach twisted.

“You always obey so beautifully,” he purred. His hand reached out, and brushed along her arm before curling around it. Munin didn’t flinch, didn’t even move, though the bile rising in her throat begged her to step back. She couldn’t. She never could.

“I could feel it,” Dagdan murmured, leaning in close. His breath was hot against her temple, the scent of him cloying. “That little spark of rebellion. So rare for you.”

Munin didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

“Did you think you could hide it from me?” His nails bit into her arm, sharp enough to sting. He didn’t stop moving, but his voice turned low, almost tender. “Oh, little bird, you should know better by now.”

Her stomach twisted, but her face remained impassive, her body pliant as he pulled her closer. His free hand rose, fingers brushing against her temple. The touch was almost gentle.

“You’ve been such a good girl for so long,” he mused, his thumb trailing down her cheek. “I wonder what gave you the idea you could be anything else.”

Munin’s lips parted, but no words came. The part of her that might have tried to explain, to defy, was already slipping away.

“Shh.” Dagdan pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her before she could even think to respond. His power poured into her mind. “No need to think. No need to feel. Let me help you with that.”

The resistance that had flickered in her earlier, that thought that she might do something to stop Amarantha, was snuffed out as easily as a candle’s flame. Dagdan took it from her, his presence rooting through her thoughts.

“You don’t need this,” he murmured, as if he were doing her a kindness. His power wrapped around the remnants of her defiance, coiling tight before crushing them into nothing. “What use does a weapon have for doubt? For choice?”

His lips curled into a satisfied smile as Munin’s mind went still, empty. She welcomed the hollow calm that followed —because there was nothing else.

Dagdan leaned in, his voice a whisper against her ear. “There now. That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The word slipped out automatically, her tone flat, her body obedient.

He chuckled, low and pleased, and slid his hand down to her lower back, steering her forward once more. “Good girl. You’ll remember this moment the next time you think about resisting me.”

There would be no next time. Munin knew that as surely as she knew the weight of his hand, the sound of his voice, the empty stillness that was her existence.

By the time they reached the gates of Hybern’s fortress, she was nothing but what he wanted her to be: silent, compliant, and his to wield.

Chapter 16

Notes:

Sorry for the delay in getting this out. I had to leave home due to carbon monoxide in the house - literally, the scariest thing I've ever had to deal with. We're all safe, but it was a LOT to deal with.

“The time is almost up, my King,” Munin said. Her voice was steady, devoid of inflection.

The cold stone bit into Munin’s knee, but she didn’t shift from her position. Kneeling in the shadow of the King’s throne, she felt the weight his sharp gaze on her. The throne room swallowed every sound except the faint crackle of torches lining the walls, their dim flames casting jagged shadows across the dark stone.

She kept her head bowed. That was expected.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Dagdan’s smirk—sharp and pleased, as if her every syllable fed his pride. He leaned casually against the side of the King’s throne, his fingers brushing the armrest. His snake-like eyes lingered on her, that thin, unsettling smile curling his lips. Amusement flickered in his expression, but it was twisted, laced with possession.

He always looked at her like that.

The King leaned back in his towering seat, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the armrest. The sound echoed, each tap reverberating off of the cold stone walls. “Almost,” he mused, his voice smooth as smoke. “But not yet.”

“You disappoint me, Munin,” Dagdan said, his voice soft, but the words slid under her skin like knives. “Is that all you have to say?”

Munin inhaled. Dagdan already knew what information she had — or rather didn’t have, to report,  

“I could not enter Under the Mountain.” The words were calm, each syllable carefully measured. “Amarantha has sealed the entrance I used before. I could only observe from the outside.”

The King’s fingers stilled, their drumming replaced by a heavy silence. His gaze pinned Munin where she knelt, as if searching for the faintest flicker of deceit.

There had been whispers of sending her back Under the Mountain, to keep an even closer eye on Amarantha. But those who entered her fortress were not able to leave it, and Dagdan hadn’t wanted to risk it. It was as if he relished the idea of her being trapped yet couldn’t bear the thought of losing his favorite toy.

Dagdan stepped out from beside the throne, making his way to Munin's side.

“Seven times seven years,” the King said at last, leaning back against his throne. His voice carried a faint edge of amusement, but his eyes betrayed no such levity. “And tell me, Munin, has Tamlin found his human yet?”

He spat the word human as if it left a foul taste on his tongue, dripping with disdain.

Yet there was curiosity buried there as well.

Munin’s voice came steady, neutral. “When the curse began, Tamlin sent patrols beyond the wall every day. He scoured the land, searching. But as the years passed…” Her words trailed, the implication clear.

“And now?” The King leaned forward, his lips curling in a cruel approximation of a smile.

“Now, he barely tries. The patrols have dwindled to nothing. It’s as if he’s given up.”

The King let out a low hum, a sound both contemplative and pleased. He tapped one finger against the armrest of his throne, once, twice, before letting his hand fall still again. “Interesting.”

Dagdan’s hand brushed against her arm, his fingers lingering as they slid downward—a cold touch that prickled at the edges of her consciousness. “Amarantha’s games are working,” he said, a smirk audible in every syllable. “She’s wearing him down. His hope is crumbling, just as she intended.”

The King nodded once, as though he’d already known her report would confirm his suspicions. “It is of no matter,” he said, his voice calm, deliberate. “Amarantha will have all of Prythian under her heel soon enough.”

Munin stayed still, the words reverberating in the cold expanse of the throne room. She already does.

Amarantha’s soldiers swarmed the Courts, torching villages that refused to kneel. At first, there had been small sparks of defiance. But one by one, those sparks had been snuffed out. Hope was a fragile thing, and Amarantha had crushed it beneath her boot.

And then there were the creatures. Dark things that prowled the forests and hunted in the shadows. The Bogge. The naga. Munin had faced them herself, narrowly escaped their gnashing teeth and clawing hands.

She suppressed a shiver, her gaze fixed on the stone floor. The air in the throne room was colder than it should have been. She waited, as she always did, for the next command.

Dagdan stepped closer. “My King,” he said, his voice like oil on water, smooth but slick with something rotten beneath. “You seem… pleased with these developments. Has something shifted?”

Munin felt his fingers brush against her shoulder. A faint, possessive touch. A serpent testing its prey. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Any reaction would only encourage him—or worse, invite him to slip into her mind.

The King’s gaze shifted to Dagdan, and a slow smile curved his lips. “I was hesitant at first,” he admitted, his tone almost contemplative. “Amarantha is quick-tempered. Reckless. She acts only for herself.”

Dagdan’s thumb began tracing slow, deliberate circles against her shoulder. “But,” Dagdan murmured, his words like silk draped over steel, “her ambition… surely it can be harnessed? Bent to our advantage?”

The King reclined in his throne, his expression unreadable.

“Indeed,” he said after a pause. “Her consolidation of power spares us the effort of dealing with the other High Lords. Let her tear Prythian apart piece by piece. When the time comes to breach the wall, there will be no one left to stand in our way. She’s clearing the path for us.”

Munin nodded, the motion automatic. She’s clearing the path, all right—leaving a wasteland in her wake. The image of burning villages. The terror, the destruction, the endless suffering she’d seen across Prythian. She smothered the thoughts as quickly as they rose. Obedience was simpler. Numbness was safer.

Dagdan’s grip tightened, a silent reminder of her place. The slight pressure sent a cold ripple through her, but she didn’t falter.

“Amarantha can have Prythian,” the King said at last, his voice dark with satisfaction, as if his former general was nothing more than a piece on a chessboard. “Let her play her games. We’ll take the rest of the world.”

---

Andras had been sent to die.

The snow deadened everything—his steps, the distant howl of the wind. The forest stretched endlessly, its skeletal trees clawing at a sky as lifeless as the land beneath it. He padded forward, his paws crunching softly against the frozen ground.

The High Lord had sent him here. No, he’d volunteered.

The wolf’s sharp senses caught it first—the faint scent of her, laced with salt and earth. A human. Female.

His fur bristled against the chill, the winter air biting at him even in this form. If this gamble didn’t work…

Andras froze when he saw her.

Across the clearing, a girl stood poised, eyes fixed on a doe pawing at a frozen patch of bark. She was young—pretty, in a way—but hollowed out by hunger. Her tangled hair clung to her face, cheeks gaunt, lips chapped from the cold. The bow in her grip trembled slightly, her knuckles pale from the effort to hold steady.

She hadn’t noticed him. Her focus was entirely on the doe, her gaze sharp with desperation.

He turned his attention to the doe, forcing his steps to stay slow. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. She needed to do this—needed the hate to build on its own, pure and undiluted. If she hesitated, if she saw too much in his eyes, everything would be lost.

But he could sense her every movement. Her fingers twitched, fumbling in her quiver. And then—there it was. The faint scrape of wood on leather.

An ash arrow.

Andras closed his eyes for a breath, steadying himself.

Good.

He crept closer to the doe, each step calculated, noiseless. The forest was a tomb, every sound swallowed by the snow-draped trees. The doe nibbled on, oblivious. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed once and went silent.

The weight of her gaze burned at his back as she nocked the arrow. Andras didn’t flinch, didn’t turn. He only moved closer to the doe, knowing it wouldn’t run.

It wasn’t the doe she needed to kill.

A twig beneath Andras’s paws snapped, the sound reverberating through the quiet. The doe went rigid, its large eyes wide with fear.

Andras crouched low, the cold seeping into his paws as he tracked the doe’s every twitch. Then he lunged, a blur of fur and muscle, his jaws snapping around warm flesh. Blood flooded his mouth, coppery and hot, as the doe screamed and bucked beneath him.

The pain came sharp and immediate. An arrow pierced his flank, its sting searing and unnatural.

Ash.

Andras released the doe and turned, his golden eyes locking onto hers across the clearing. She stood there, trembling, another arrow already in her hands. The bowstring quivered.

Finish it. His gaze bore into her. He didn’t move. Didn’t fight.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, her fingers fumbling as she nocked the second arrow. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the snow-laden branches sagging under the weight of stillness.

She released.

The arrow buried itself in his eye, the pain a blinding white explosion. Andras staggered, his body giving out as he crumpled into the snow. Cold seeped into him, numbing the fire in his veins.

He thought of Tamlin. Of Lucien. Of the court he’d sworn to protect. He’d known it would end like this—had offered himself for this very purpose.

His breaths came slower, fainter, until the forest swallowed even those.

The girl didn’t notice the winged-figure watching from the shadows, a mask obscuring their calculating face. They lingered only a moment longer before vanishing into the trees, leaving her alone with her kill and the silent, snow-covered woods.

---

It was in the dead of night at the Spring Court.

Cold air hung thick with the scent of roses, clinging to her skin as she moved through the village. The silence pressed against her ears, broken only by the occasional murmur of distant voices or the rustle of wind in the trees.

The Court, beautiful as it was, had lost its luster to Munin. Even the faint glow of moonlight over the manicured gardens seemed tainted. It was a place she wasn’t meant to be, a place that only reminded her of the High Lord she had come to resent.

The manor loomed in the distance, its golden light spilling through wide windows and pooling onto manicured lawns. Munin glanced at it briefly, her steps unhurried as she weaved through masked figures—villagers whose heads were bowed, their movements sluggish and unremarkable.

They didn’t notice her. No one did.

Her wings were concealed by magic, her face hidden beneath the cowl. She blended seamlessly into their world, another cursed soul in the Spring Court.

The apartment she’d chosen for herself was as unremarkable as the rest of the village: peeling paint, sagging rooflines, windows so coated in grime that the night outside seemed perpetually muted. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and dust. A child’s wooden toy lay forgotten in one corner, its paint chipped and dull. Blankets and scraps of clothing were scattered like ghosts of the family that had fled.

She dropped onto the splintering stool near the window, keeping her back straight and her head tipped slightly to the side, enough to catch the soft, distant murmurs from the manor. Her hands rested lightly on her thighs, every part of her body unnaturally still.

Weeks. It had been weeks since the King had sent her here. Weeks since she’d delivered her report: the High Lord of Spring’s charade had worked—a human had killed one of his sentinels. The King had been pleased. Too pleased. He’d called her his little crow before assigning her to remain within Spring’s borders.

Munin pushed the thought away, shoving it into the quiet, empty space where her feelings went to die. Without Dagdan, the effort was slower—she had to untangle the emotions herself, drag them out of her mind one by one.

A soft laugh floated on the breeze outside. Munin turned her head slightly, her sharp ears catching the soft rustle of voices, of footsteps against gravel.

A pair of villagers walked past her building, their masks gleaming in the moonlight. Their conversation was muffled, too quiet for her to pick apart. Not that it mattered.

Her gaze returned to the manor.

Amarantha had favored Tamlin once. Munin had seen it in the way she lingered near him, her cruel smile softening just slightly when she spoke his name. Munin wondered, sometimes, if the Spring Court’s beauty had been spared because of it. Because Amarantha couldn’t bring herself to destroy the one thing that still tied Tamlin to her.

The thought twisted in Munin’s chest, pulling at something fragile and frayed. She gritted her teeth, her hands curling into loose fists on her lap.

And yet—

The villagers no longer ventured into the woods after dark. By sundown, they locked themselves behind doors, shutters drawn tight,. Once, the forest had been a source of life for them. Now, it was nothing but a hunting ground for the naga.

And the High Lord did nothing.

Of course he didn’t. He was tucked away, hiding behind the walls of his manor with his human.

Munin hadn’t seen her since that first night, when the girl’s arrow had struck true. But the scent lingered, faint but undeniable. The smell of human, clinging to the manor’s edges, carried in the wind. And the villagers whispered, hopeful.

That she would be the one to break Amarantha's curse.

If Munin could, she would have laughed at that.

She had watched, silently, from the shadows. Days had passed, and with each one, her thoughts grew more restless. Should she have ended it then? When she had been standing in the woods, watching the girl from the trees, knife in hand, ready to finish the task? It would’ve been easy. Merciful, even. The girl’s life was nothing compared to what Tamlin would do to her. And once Amarantha found out…

There would be no end to the general's cruelty.

Munin’s jaw tightened at the thought.

But she hadn’t done it.

There was something about the girl— something that had stayed her hand. She’d watched as the human had stood tall in the clearing, arrow drawn, defiant. It was that fire in her that had stopped Munin. Not mercy. Never mercy.

Too much time away from Dagdan and her thoughts were becoming muddled.

"Maybe she'll be the one," an old woman had said earlier that day, her voice thick with an exhausted kind of hope. "Maybe she'll end this curse."

Munin had only shaken her head, a thin, wry smile tugging at her lips beneath the mask. Foolish, she had muttered, watching them, watching their endless belief that she—the human girl—would be their salvation. They were all so foolish.

That night, the scream came first. It ripped through the silence, shattering the stillness of the air and dragging Munin from the dark corner of her tiny apartment. Her heart stilled for just a moment. What now?

The scream rang out again, louder this time.

The manor stood ahead, a pristine vision of beauty despite the curse. Perfect, she thought bitterly, even as the scream reached another desperate pitch.

She moved swiftly, quiet as a shadow, weaving through the village, keeping to the darkened alleys. The villagers were hiding, as they always did after sunset. No one else ventured out, not to investigate, not to help.

The High Lord’s manor loomed before he nowr, its grand façade casting long, looming shadows in the moonlight. Munin’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the estate.

She stayed at the edge of the tree line, scanning every corner. The manor stood, dark and silent, its windows like black eyes watching her from afar. But it was the sound—the scream—growing more frantic now, that pulled at her focus.

And then she saw it.

Through the trees, a dark shape moved—a hulking, twisted thing, wings wide, leathery and slick.

The Attor.

Munin’s stomach churned. She’d only encountered the creature a handful of times during her time in Hybern, but that was more than enough.

The sight of it now, so close to the manor, sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. She hadn’t seen one in decades. And now she knew why.

It was here.

In Prythian.

The Attor hovered in the moonlight. Its talons dug into the faerie male it held aloft, his body writhing in its grip. The sound of his agony cut through the night. With a flick of its claws and a chilling laugh, the Attor released him. He plummeted to the ground, landing with a sickening crack just beyond the High Lord’s gates.

Munin’s jaw tightened as his cries pierced the silence.

She stepped forward slightly for a better look, still hidden in the shados, though her eyes remained locked on the crumpled figure in the dirt. His back arched, limbs trembling as he clawed at the ground. Her gaze dropped to the blood pooling beneath him, to the gory mess of flesh and bone at his shoulders.

 

Where wings had once been.

Munin's stomach churned, the bile rising sharp in her throat. She didn't move closer—she didn’t need to. Even from here, she could see the jagged edges of torn muscle and bone, the way his blood soaked the earth beneath him. Feathered wings, she realized, her sharp eyes catching the scattered remnants of pale down among the dirt and blood. Summer Court.

The male’s voice cracked through the night, a broken whisper now. “She… she took my wings. My wings…”

Munin froze, her breath hitching as a phantom ache twisted across her back. Her shoulder blades twitched, the skin crawling as if something long gone had been ripped from her all over again. Her mouth went dry, her knees threatening to give out.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Movement drew her attention, pulling her from the haze that threatened to consume her. Tamlin and Lucien appeared, rushing from the manor gates, their expressions sharp with urgency. Tamlin knelt beside the male, his hands trembling as he lifted the limp, bloodied body into his arms.

The male mumbled incoherently. “Wings… she took them…”

Munin’s chest tightened, her hand flexing at her side. She willed herself to stay still. But the sound of his broken voice, the sight of his mutilated form, sank deep into her chest.

Lucien’s gaze darted around the clearing, his sharp eyes scanning for danger. Munin melted further into the shadows, her body rigid, her breathing barely audible as she watched.

“Let’s get him inside,” Tamlin murmured, his voice strained but steady enough.

Lucien nodded, falling into step beside him, his head turning with every few steps. They disappeared into the manor, the doors shutting behind them with a soft thud.

Munin stayed rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the blood-stained ground.

No one survived the complete loss of their wings.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears as the night settled back into silence.

The blood glistened in the moonlight, black as ink in the shadows pooling around the earth. Munin stood over it, her boots just shy of the sticky edges, the scent sharp in her nose. She stared, unmoving, her breath steady despite the carnage before her.

But something prickled beneath her calm—an unwelcome heat crawling up her spine. It wasn’t disgust. Nor pity. Just… wrong.

The memory hit like a blade.

A white-hot explosion of agony, her wings torn from her back in a spray of blood and shredded muscle. She had screamed—she remembered that much. The sound raw and ugly, more animal than fae. And when the darkness had come, it had been a mercy.

There had been another female, too. Her face blurred at the edges, but familiar— achingly so. She had been crumpled on the ground, her own wings torn away, her body as broken as Munin’s.

Munin blinked, her vision swimming. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, grounding herself as the memory twisted and faded, leaving behind the faintest echo of that pain. She flexed her fingers, curling them into fists at her sides.

It was just blood. Nothing more. The King’s weapon didn’t flinch at blood.

A voice slid from the shadows like oil on water. “Still spying for the King, I see.”

Munin stilled, her body coiling tight as her head turned toward the sound.

The Attor hovered just beyond the tree line, its grotesque silhouette framed by the pale light of the moon. Wings stretched wide, their tattered edges catching the faint glow. It shouldn’t have surprised her—the stench of the creature, foul and rotting, had reached her moments ago—but revulsion still churned in her gut at the sight of it.

Its eyes burned yellow, sharp and cruel, set deep in a face stretched too thin over jagged bone. A mouthful of uneven teeth gleamed as it grinned. “You’ve been skulking here for weeks now, little raven. Amarantha grows impatient.”

Munin’s fingers flexed at her sides, brushing against the hilt of her blade. She didn’t draw it. Not yet. She wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of a reaction. “I answer to the King,” she said, her voice flat.

The Attor’s grin widened, as if it had been waiting for just that answer.

“And yet you’re here. Far from his court, far from his leash. Strange, isn’t it?” It tilted its head, watching her with unblinking eyes. “Perhaps he’s grown tired of you. Sent you off to die somewhere useful.”

Munin’s jaw tightened, the only crack in her veneer. “I do as I’m told. That’s more than can be said for you.”

The grin widened, showing too many teeth.

“Careful, girl. You might forget who you serve.” It leaned closer, the leathery flap of its wings stirring the blood-soaked ground at her feet. “Amarantha is High Queen now, whether your King acknowledges it or not. And her reach… oh, it extends far beyond this little forest.”

Munin held its gaze, the phantom ache in her back flaring as she stood motionless. She wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of a response.

The Attor hissed a laugh, its rancid breath wafting over her.

“You’re brave, I’ll give you that. Or stupid. It’s a fine line.” With a beat of its tattered wings, it rose into the air, its shadow stretching long and grotesque against the trees. “Go on, little bird. Scurry back to your master. Tell him what you’ve seen, if you dare.”

With a beat of its massive wings, the creature launched itself into the air. It hovered there for a moment, its glowing eyes fixed on her, before it turned and disappeared into the night sky.

Munin remained still, the air thick with the stink of the creature’s presence even after it had gone. Slowly, she turned her gaze back to the ground, to the drying pool of blood and the faint indentations in the earth where the faerie male had fallen. Her mind flickered briefly to the phantom ache that still haunted her, that sharp twinge between her shoulders she hadn’t been able to shake since—

No.

She turned sharply on her heel, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as she had come. There was nothing left here. Nothing but echoes of pain and the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. She’d seen enough.

The King would want her report. And she—his weapon—would deliver it. As she always had.

As she always would.

---

"Whore."

The word slithered through the crowd like venom.

Rhysand’s stride didn’t falter, though the insult hummed in his ears. He could have found the one who dared whisper it, could have traced the thought back to its owner and shattered their mind with little more than a flick of his power. The urge prickled at the edges of his control—a quick, brutal reminder of what he could do, of how easy it would be to silence them all. But he didn’t.

Not here.

Not now.

His chin lifted, shoulders rolling back as though he hadn’t heard it. He gave them nothing, the perfect mask he’d worn so often it felt more real than his own skin.

The dark halls of Under the Mountain pressed in around him, damp stone slick beneath his boots. The fae trapped down here whispered as he passed, voices weaving together—sneers, snickers. Any frustration they couldn’t directly say to Amarantha, they lodged at him behind his back instead.

"Look at him, Amarantha's whore," one sneered.

"Disgusting," another muttered, their voice dripping with contempt.

He didn’t slow, didn’t look their way. The weight of their loathing clung to him but he bore it the way he bore everything else in this wretched place.

What they said —what they called him… it was nothing worse than what he thought about himself every single day.

Still… the effort of maintaining that façade, of not reacting, was exhausting.

It was what they expected, wasn’t it? The High Lord of the Night Court, too proud to lower himself to their pettiness.

But beneath the mask, his stomach churned.

He should do something—should give them the performance they craved. A flicker of teeth. Or a display of power to keep them in their place. That was the role Amarantha had carved for him, the leash she’d fastened around his neck. To play the part. To make them believe.

Instead, he kept walking, his violet eyes fixed on the path ahead. He thought of home—the sprawl of Velaris under the starlight, the hum of life along the Sidra. He could almost hear the distant murmur of the river, feel the cool wind sweeping down from the mountains.

The ache in his chest was a quiet, steady thing. It wasn’t the insults that twisted the knife—it was the thought of what his people —his family— would say if they saw him now. If they knew.

Would they understand? Would they forgive him for the things he had done, for the things he still had to do?

To keep her eyes from turning towards the lands beyond the Middle?

What would his mother think, seeing him now? Her proud son reduced to this—Amarantha’s plaything, her weapon, her whore. The word felt bitter even in his mind.

And Elara…

The thought of her stopped him cold for a moment. He’d buried her memory deep, locked it away with everything else he couldn’t afford to feel. But tonight, it clawed its way back to the surface.

What would she think, seeing him like this?

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself forward, shoving her memory back into the recesses of his mind where it belonged.

Rounding a corner, his reflection caught in the polished surface of an obsidian column. He stopped, staring at the figure staring back. His face was the same, but it wasn’t. The tilt of his mouth—once sharp with humor—had hardened into something lifeless. His eyes, violet and vibrant in another life, now burned cold.

If Elara had lived, would she even recognize him now? Would he?

The thought followed him as he entered the throne room. The air shifted, thick with fear and the metallic tang of blood. The towering pillars loomed overhead, veined with red like open wounds.

At the center of it all, Amarantha lounged on her throne, her crimson gown cascading around her. Her lips curved into a possessive smile.

Rhys didn’t falter. He stepped forward, his head dipping just enough to feign respect, his voice smooth, bored. “Have I missed all the fun?”

Amarantha’s smile widened, a cat savoring its prey. “It’s only just beginning,” she purred, her eyes gleaming. “Now that you’re here.”

She rose, her movements slow. The crowd fell silent as she descended the dais. Rhys kept his face blank, though the shame curled low in his stomach, as it did nearly every time he stepped into this room.

Before her, a male knelt, trembling. His hands shook where they rested on the cold stone, and his head hung low, the sweat on his brow catching the torchlight.

“Cedric here,” Amarantha began, her tone almost sweet, “has been caught stealing from my kitchens.”

Rhys blinked, his mask slipping for the briefest moment. That was it? A theft, something so trivial, so small? But he knew better than to believe this was about stolen bread or wine. This was about her power—her hunger for control.

She glided closer to the male, tilting her head like a curious animal. “Have I not been generous?” she asked, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “Do I not give you enough?”

Cedric shook his head violently. “No, High Queen. Please—I—”

“Then why,” she interrupted, her voice sharp now, the sweetness gone, “do you take what is not yours?”

The male crumpled further, his words dissolving into incoherent pleas.

Rhys’s stomach twisted as he stood there; he knew what would follow. He swallowed it down, locking it away with the rest. The only thing that mattered here was survival—his, his people’s.

Amarantha’s smile was sharp enough to draw blood.

"The punishment for thievery," she said, her voice silken yet cold, "is death."

The crowd stirred, uneasy murmurs rippling through the air, but no one dared speak above a whisper. They knew this was only the opening act, the first drop of blood in what would undoubtedly become a torrent.

Amarantha's gaze slid to Rhysand, expectant. A queen demanding her court's most loyal pet perform.

He didn’t hesitate, couldn’t hesitate. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips, the practiced arrogance of someone who cared too little to be unnerved. But inside, his stomach twisted.

Her hand flicked in a dismissive gesture — a signal for him.

The male on his knees flinched, his breath coming in shallow, panicked bursts. Rhys slowly stepped forward. The crowd shifted to watch him now, eyes glinting with a mix of dread and dark fascination.

He kept his focus on the trembling figure in front of him. He couldn’t let himself think about what came next, what was required. His power reached out like a shadow, brushing against the edges of Cedric's mind. This won’t take long.

The male froze at the contact, his terror rippling through the bond Rhys forged. It was almost suffocating—raw, frenzied desperation mixed with something deeper. Guilt.

Rhys pushed deeper. Images bloomed in Cedric’s mind, unbidden and vivid. The kitchen, dark and silent. Shaking hands uncorking a bottle of poison. A glance over his shoulder, quick, paranoid.

Not stealing food.

Poison.

Rhys barely held back the shiver that threatened to betray him. The cooks had returned too soon, and Cedric hadn’t had time to complete his task. But the intent was there—an attempt to kill Amarantha, doomed from the start.

If she found out…

His stomach clenched. The punishment wouldn’t stop with Cedric. It never did. She would tear apart anyone even remotely connected to him, leaving carnage in her wake. Rhys knew it all too well.

The male’s thoughts crumbled under his touch, panic overtaking reason. Rhys steadied him, just enough to keep control, and spoke into his mind.

Scream.

Cedric’s body tensed. A scream ripped from his throat. It reverberated through the chamber, echoing off stone. The crowd flinched, some turning away. Even they, who thrived on cruelty, weren’t immune to the sound of a soul breaking.

Rhys held the male’s mind steady, his power working silently to dull the edges of pain so that Cedric wouldn’t feel the worst of it. He had no choice but to make it convincing. But he could still spare the male this much.

The scream tapered into ragged sobs, and Rhys let his power slip away, pulling back like a tide retreating from the shore. Cedric swayed on his knees, his body trembling but his mind mercifully numb.

Laughter rang out, sharp and delighted. Amarantha leaned forward, her hands resting lightly on the arms of her throne, watching Rhysand with a twisted satisfaction that churned his stomach. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he focused on the floor, on the flickering light playing against the black marble veined with crimson, on the way Cedric’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

He should have felt relief that it was over. Instead, all he felt was hollow.

“Well done, my darling,” Amarantha purred, her tone dripping with mock affection. “Always so efficient.”

Rhysand inclined his head, a mask of indifference firmly in place. His hands itched to wipe her from existence, but he forced them to remain at his sides, relaxed, unaffected.

“I live to serve,” he said lightly.

She didn’t miss the sardonic edge in his tone. She never missed. But instead of reprimanding him, her smile widened, dark amusement curling her lips.

“Such devotion,” she murmured, dragging her gaze down his frame. “It deserves a reward, don’t you think?”

A reward. The word sat heavy in the air, its meaning twisted and foul when it came from her. Rhys forced himself to stay still, his hands loose at his sides.

“A reward, my Queen?” His voice was steady, smooth, betraying nothing of the revulsion crawling beneath his skin.

“Yes,” she said, her smile sharpening. “A night away from these dreary halls. A visit to the Spring Court.”

His stomach clenched, though his expression didn’t falter. “The Spring Court?” he repeated, feigning mild curiosity, as if the very name didn’t send a ripple of unease through him.

Amarantha tilted her head as if she could read every thought he was desperately locking away.

“Calanmai approaches,” she said, as though the name alone were a promise of carnage. “I think it’s time Tamlin received a… reminder of where his loyalties should lie. And who owns him.”

Calanmai. The fires, the drums, the ancient power that roamed free on that night—it all flickered in his mind, unbidden. But it wasn’t the Spring Court’s traditions that lingered in his thoughts. It was the visions. Her.

He had seen her, through dreams that weren’t his own, in glimpses he couldn’t explain. A girl with shadows in her eyes and defiance in her stance— near the fires, just out of reach.

Amarantha’s gaze never left him, her smile curling into something sharper. She thought she had him cornered, trapped.

Perhaps, even after everything he did to prevent it, she did.

“As you wish, my Queen,” Rhysand said smoothly, dipping his head just low enough to appear obedient, but not groveling.

“Good,” she said, leaning back into her throne, the red of her gown pooling like blood against the stone. “You’ll leave tonight. And Rhysand…”

He met her gaze, forcing himself to hold it.

“Remind Tamlin,” she said, her voice soft, a blade hidden in velvet, “of what happens when anyone dares defy me.”

Chapter 17

The fires consumed the night.

Tall, roaring columns of flame threw their light over the gathering, painting everything in hues of gold and amber. Sparks hissed into the air, disappearing into the velvet black sky, and shadows danced across the hills.

Munin watched from the periphery, unnoticed by the throngs around her.

The music was wild, a chaotic pulse of drums and strings, threaded with laughter and the occasional burst of song. Fae of every kind swayed and spun, their faces hidden behind intricate masks, their bodies caught in the rhythm of the night. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smoke from the bonfires.

Munin had heard them talk about Calanmai for weeks. The Spring Court clung to its traditions like a drowning man to driftwood, even under Amarantha’s reign.

But hearing about it and seeing it were two very different things.

She moved through the crowd quietly, slipping between clusters of laughing revelers. No one looked at her twice. Not when she kept to the edges, kept her steps quiet, her gaze averted. Most people would have avoided her anyway.

She wasn’t adorned in the shimmering silks and flowing gowns of the other females, garments that caught the firelight and clung to their bodies like second skins. She wasn’t draped in flowers or jewels, wasn’t laughing or dancing or drinking as if the world weren’t falling apart around them.

She couldn’t even imagine it. The laughter, the ease, the joy—it was foreign to her, something she had only ever observed from the outside. Back in Hybern, there were no celebrations, no festivals. Not for her. Not for what she was.

She paused near the edge of the largest bonfire, her eyes catching on the flickering flames. They twisted and leapt as if alive, the heat brushing against her skin even from a distance. It was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic.

Couples spun and swayed around her, the firelight casting their shadows into wild shapes on the ground. Laughter rose in bursts, mingling with the hum of music and the crackle of flames. Bodies pressed close, movements fluid and careless, hands trailing over waists and arms.

The revelry swirled around her, vibrant and loud, but Munin felt none of it. She was a hollow thing, a vessel filled with orders and purpose, nothing more. There was no room for anything else.

Ahead, a couple broke apart just long enough for her to catch their fervent kiss, their bodies so tightly entwined it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Munin’s expression didn’t change, but her stomach churned—not with disgust, but something else…

A voice slurred its way into her path. “You look lost.”

She didn’t pause, but the male stepped into her line of vision—a tall figure, fair-haired, and a badger mask on his face. He reeked of faerie wine, his steps unsteady but his grin easy. “Or maybe just bored,” he added, his words tipped with drunken bravado.

“I’m neither,” Munin replied, her tone flat.

The male chuckled, clearly undeterred. “Then you’re wasting a perfectly good Fire Night. Everyone’s supposed to let loose, have a little fun. What about you? Planning to find someone to—celebrate with?”

He stepped closer, his hand lifting toward her shoulder.

Munin’s hand shot out, her fingers wrapping around his wrist in an iron grip. She squeezed just hard enough to make him flinch, her voice cutting low and cold. “Touch me again, and I will break your hand.”

The grin slid from his face, replaced by wide-eyed surprise. He tried to jerk his arm free, but her grip didn’t falter.

Munin tilted her head, her grip tightening just enough to make her point. Then she released him, stepping back as if he were beneath her notice.

He stumbled away, muttering half-hearted apologies, his eyes darting around the crowd as if to see who had witnessed his humiliation.

No one had. The revelry continued unabated, the dancers and drinkers oblivious to the exchange. Munin stood for a moment longer, her gaze trailing the male as he melted back into the throng.

The tension in her body didn’t ease immediately. Her hands curled into loose fists at her sides, the faint imprint of his pulse still lingering on her palm. She scanned the crowd again, her focus sharpening, her movements shifting into something slower.

She continued to move through the festival. The more she saw, the more she realized that no one was paying attention to her. The revelers barely noticed her, too caught up in their own celebrations to pay attention to her

Something deep inside her stirred—an ache that was faint and unfamiliar. Longing, perhaps, or maybe the echo of something like it. But she shoved it down, locked it away with the rest of the useless feelings that sometimes tried to claw their way to the surface. She wasn’t here for this. For them.

She had a purpose.

Find the human girl.

Her gaze swept over the crowd, methodical, searching. She hadn’t seen the girl since that night in the woods, before Tamlin had spirited her away to the Spring Court. But Munin knew she was here.

The village folk couldn’t stop whispering about the human girl—the High Lord’s secret, tucked away behind the manor’s impenetrable wards. Calanmai, though, offered an opportunity.

Perhaps even Tamlin to loosen his grip.

Her eyes landed on him first. Tamlin stood apart, his golden hair gleaming in the firelight, a laurel crown perched atop his head.

He looked every inch the High Lord—tall, powerful, his chest bare as whorls of blue paint curled across his torso. A priestess worked silently, her hands steady as she prepared him for the Rite.

No human girl at his side.

 

If he had any sense, he’d have kept her locked away.

Munin kept moving, her senses attuned to anything out of place. A human presence would stand out among the revelers, like a note struck wrong in a familiar melody.

The low hum of voices ahead caught her attention. Two females—forest nymphs, judging by their unbound hair and the sway of their bare hips—stood giggling, their eyes darting toward something across the clearing. Munin followed their gaze.

It wasn’t the girl.

It was a male.

He was unmasked, a rare sight in these times, with raven-dark hair cropped close to his head. He wore all black, unlike almost everyone else at the celebration. And the way he carried himself… with an air of disinterested swagger, immediately set him apart from those around him.

The nymphs whispered again, their voices too soft for her to catch, but their eyes lingered on the male.

Munin didn’t pause, didn’t falter, though her gaze followed him.

She recognized him, of course.

Rhysand.

High Lord of the Night Court, Amarantha’s prized pet, her whore. Munin’s fingers twitched at her sides, as though her body was trying to reject even the memory of that first night Under the Mountain—the way he had stood so still, so composed, as if none of it touched him.

And now, he was here.

It made no sense. High Lords didn’t walk freely. Not without Amarantha’s permission.

So why was this male out in the open?

Munin's eyes narrowed; her curiosity sparked despite the fact that this was not her mission. Her task was clear: find the human girl. But the sight of Rhysand, gliding through the crowd with an effortless confidence, unsettled her. He shouldn’t be here. High Lords didn’t wander free unless…

Had the High Lord of the Night Court really sworn loyalty to Amarantha?

The fae in his path shrank back, stepping aside instinctively. Whispers followed him, carried on the crackling air.

"Amarantha’s whore," someone murmured, low but not low enough.

Munin heard it, of course. The male did too—there was no way he hadn’t—but he gave no sign. Not a flicker of irritation or acknowledgment.

She told herself to look away. She wasn’t here for him. Her mission was clear: find the human girl. Confirm her presence. Determine how likely she was to fall for Tamlin’s charms and break the curse.

The bonfires framed him in flickering gold, shadows playing across his face like restless fingers. He didn’t belong here, yet he moved with the ease of someone who owned the ground beneath him.

And Munin couldn’t look away.

Something about him clawed at the edges of her mind, an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. He felt… familiar. The notion was absurd, impossible, yet it refused to leave her.

Her breath hitched as his head turned, his gaze cutting through the crowd—landing on her.

His eyes narrowed, as though peeling back her layers. A tilt of his head, subtle but deliberate, and his attention lingered on her cowl. The recognition in his gaze made her chest tighten. He knew. He recognized her.

Munin held his stare, her chin lifting in defiance. Let him look. Let him wonder. She wouldn’t flinch beneath his scrutiny.

For a moment, they stood locked in a silent war. His expression didn’t waver, didn’t betray any flicker of surprise or doubt. But the distrust—the faint ripple of it—was unmistakable.

Of course, he recognized her. She had been there Under the Mountain, hadn’t she? Perhaps he thought her still tethered to that place, another of Amarantha’s creatures sent to enforce her will. Or perhaps he wondered what she was doing here.

Her muscles coiled, ready for… something. But then, something else cut through her thoughts—a scent.

It came faint and fleeting, carried on the cool breeze, but unmistakable. Human.

She inhaled slowly, her senses honing in. It was female, unguarded, and coming from the hillside.

Her focus snapped toward the source, breaking the tether between her and the High Lord. But just as she shifted her gaze, he was gone. She scanned the crowd, searching for that dark hair, that predatory stillness—but he’d melted into the throng like smoke.

The human scent led Munin through the thrumming chaos of the festival, through the sweat-soaked revelry and the pungent bite of fire and damp earth. She slipped between the dancers, keeping silent as she did so.

Ahead, voices rose—male, low and cruel, punctuated by a woman’s sharp hiss. Munin’s head snapped toward the sound, her gaze narrowing as she spotted the source.

"Get your hands off me," the human girl spat, her voice trembling yet defiant.

One of the faeries laughed. He grabbed the girl’s hips, yanking her closer. She jerked back, colliding with the chest of another faerie behind her. He laughed low in her ear, his hands settling on her waist, holding her in place.

“Stop it,” the girl said, her voice breaking now.

Munin’s hand fell to the dagger at her hip, her fingers curling around the hilt. She wasn’t here to intervene. That wasn’t the mission. But something about the scene scraped at her control, made her teeth clench and her vision narrow.

She took a single step forward, still cloaked in shadow.

A voice—velvet-smooth and cutting—slid through the air like a blade.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Munin stilled.

Rhysand emerged from the shadows and the faeries froze, their laughter dying mid-breath. The males didn’t hesitate. They scattered like roaches, vanishing into the night without so much as a backward glance.

Smart males.

Munin’s fingers loosened on her dagger, her eyes narrowing as she studied the High Lord.

He turned to the girl, his expression softening—though Munin wasn’t fooled. Everything about that male was deliberate. Calculated.

“And what,” he asked, his tone almost gentle, “is a mortal doing here, of all places?”

The girl took a shaky step back, her wide eyes darting from Rhysand to the empty spaces where her tormentors had stood. She didn’t answer.

As if you didn't already know, Munin thought, her hand still hovering near her dagger. She scrutinized Rhysand, wary of his intentions.

The human girl took a cautious step back, “My friends… they brought me here.”

His brows lifted. “Friends?”

“Two ladies,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out too fast.

"Their names?" Rhysand's tone was deceptively gentle. He took a step closer, and the girl instinctively stepped back.

The girl blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she fumbled for an answer.

Munin’s gaze flicked between them. There was no mistaking the sheer power the High Lord had, even with Amarantha’s curse upon the land. And yet, as she watched him, something gnawed at the edges of her memory, something about the way he spoke.

It wasn’t just recognition. It was deeper than that.

Familiar.

The pain came first—a sharp, insistent throb behind Munin’s eyes. It spread like an ache, like a memory clawing its way to the surface. She pressed her fingers to her temple, willing it away.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the High Lord of Night. His every move scraped at the edges of her mind, pulling at something buried deep. Something she couldn’t name.

He turned, as though ready to vanish back into the crowd.

The human girl’s voice stopped him, trembling but bold. “So you’re… not part of the Spring Court?”

Rhysand paused, pivoting back with grace. A smirk curved his lips. “Do I look like part of the Spring Court?”

The arrogance in his tone was palpable, but beneath it, Munin caught the faintest edge of something else. Resentment. "No, I am not a part of the noble Spring Court. And glad of it."

The way he said "noble" made something in Munin's stomach churn. There was a bitterness there that she couldn’t quite place, and she couldn't help the rising anger in her gut as well.

“Why are you here then?” The girl’s voice trembled but held its ground.

Munin’s own curiosity flared, unwelcome and insistent. Why are you here? she thought, her gaze narrowing on the male. This wasn’t his place. It wasn’t any High Lord’s place tonight.

“Because all the monsters have been let out of their cages tonight,” he said smoothly. “No matter which court they belong to. So I may roam wherever I wish until the dawn.”

The girl’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her earlier boldness crumbling under the weight of his words. “Enjoy the Rite,” she mumbled, taking a shaky step back.

Rhysand lingered for a heartbeat longer, his eyes tracking the human girl as she disappeared into the shadows. The flickering bonfires painted shifting patterns across his face—sharp cheekbones, the faint curl of his lips, an expression that was unreadable yet undeniably dangerous.

Munin stayed rooted to her place in the treeline, her body still, her senses sharp. She should have already moved on, should have turned her focus back to the mission— to the human.

But her gaze remained fixed on him, as though tethered by some unseen force.

The pain behind her eyes pulsed again. It wasn’t new—she knew this ache, the way it clawed at the edges of her mind. A sensation she had come to associate with things she was not meant to remember.

But why? What was he to her?

The thought slipped through before she could stop it. A useless question. Irrelevant. And yet, it gnawed at her like a splinter buried too deep to pull free. She had faced horrors far greater than this male. She had stood in the presence of Amarantha, of the King of Hybern himself, and felt nothing. No hesitation, no unease.

But Rhysand? He unsettled her in a way that scraped against the hollow emptiness she was supposed to be.

His gaze swept over the crowd one last time, lazy and predatory, before he turned on his heel and walked away.

Munin stayed in the shadows, her eyes locked on the spot where he’d stood.

The ache in her head deepened. She pressed her fingertips against her temple, the pressure doing little to ease the discomfort. It wasn’t just his face or the way he carried himself—it was something deeper, something ancient and familiar that clawed at her from the edges of her fractured mind.

Her jaw tightened; she was not meant to feel this. She was a weapon, forged to carry out the King’s will without question.

Munin forced herself to breathe, to recalibrate. Focus.

But when she shifted her attention back to the human girl—her target—there was no sign of her.

---

Weeks had turned into months.

She'd been at the Spring Court for months now, and yet there had been little to do. If she had been anyone else — anyone without years of training — she would have gotten restless.

Every fortnight, when she met with Dagdan to debrief, there had been little to report. The only thing of note was that the High Lord of Night had visited only a day ago, barging into the manor as though he owned the place.

Munin hadn't seen Rhysand on this visit, and for that she was grateful. Dagdan had been intrigued when she reported her last encounter with the High Lord of Night.

But soon after her report Munin couldn't recall why she found the encounter to be intriguing at all.

And she hadn’t even so much as laid eyes on the human girl.

With nothing else to do, Munin spent her days hunting for food and keeping her ear to the ground, listening for any scrap of useful information.

The heavy carcass dragged against the ground as Munin slowed, her ears pricking at the faint voices just ahead. The weight of the deer pressed into her shoulder—a dull, familiar strain—but she adjusted without thought, her focus narrowing entirely on the pair of faeries near the edge of the village.

They didn’t notice her. Lesser faeries rarely paid attention to shadows, and Munin was good at blending into them. She shifted the deer’s weight slightly, crouching behind a gnarled tree trunk as their conversation continued.

“Did you see it?” the one in the bird mask hissed, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I almost didn’t believe it.”

The other faerie, feline-masked, leaned closer, their voice low but sharper. “Keep your voice down. If anyone hears you talking like that—”

“I don’t care,” Bird Mask shot back, though he did glance nervously over his shoulder. “You think they’ll stop it by pretending it’s not happening? You think she doesn’t know already?”

Munin’s grip tightened on the deer’s legs. She.

The faerie in the feline mask crossed their arms, tail flicking behind them in agitation. “We don’t know what it means yet. Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Bird Mask scoffed, taking a half-step closer to their companion. “You didn’t see what I saw, then. It wasn’t just some wandering beast. It had wings—great, black wings. It shouldn’t even be here.”

The deer’s weight pressed against Munin’s shoulder, its blood trailing sluggishly down her arm and pooling onto the dirt. She didn’t shift it—didn’t blink. Her focus was locked entirely on the faeries standing ahead, their voices low but carrying just enough for her to catch the words she needed.

“Why now?” The faerie in the feline mask sounded strained, her tail twitching in quick, agitated flicks. “What’s her plan? Why send her monsters over the border?”

The bird-masked faerie scoffed, pacing a tight circle. “Because it’s Amarantha. What other reason do you need?” His voice grated, sharp and trembling with old resentment. “I saw the Attor fifty years ago at that blasted masquerade. You think I’d mistake that monstrosity for anything else?”

Munin’s body stilled completely. The Attor. She fought the urge to step into the clearing, to demand more. Amarantha sending the Attor to the mortal lands? The thought was absurd. Reckless. Dangerous.

“Are you sure it was heading south?” Feline Mask pressed, crossing her arms. “The wall’s been quiet for decades—she wouldn’t risk breaking that now.”

“I know what I saw,” Bird Mask snapped, his wings shifting restlessly. “It was heading for the wall. If it’s not there yet, it will be soon. And believe me, it’s not going for a friendly visit.”

Munin nearly dropped the carcass. The Attor was a terror even among faeries. For humans, it would be far worse. If it crossed the wall, it wouldn’t just bring death; it would bring chaos.

And if Amarantha moved too soon—before the King of Hybern was ready—she would bring war crashing back into Prythian.

Munin remained crouched, hidden in the shadows as the conversation continued.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Feline Mask muttered, shaking her head. “Why would she risk exposing herself? Sending the Attor across the wall... That’s madness.”

“Madness?” Bird Mask laughed bitterly. “Have you forgotten who we’re talking about? She thrives on it.” He spat on the ground, a sharp sound in the quiet. “We should’ve stopped her years ago.”

Munin lingered only a moment longer. She didn’t need to hear more. If the Attor was truly heading south, it would change everything. Amarantha’s recklessness would force their hand—and that of the King’s.

The village stretched out behind her. Munin moved quickly, dragging the deer carcass to the peddler’s stall at the village’s edge. She kept her pace measured, so as not to draw suspicion.

The peddler—a stooped faerie with sallow, wrinkled skin and a rodent mask that looked as though it had been gnawed on—sniffed the air as she approached. His yellowed eyes gleamed when they landed on the kill, a greedy hunger flashing behind them.

Munin shoved the deer toward him without ceremony, the weight leaving her arms in a dull thud.

“It’s fresh,” she said flatly.

The peddler grunted, his long, bony fingers prodding at the carcass with the care of someone who’d spent centuries trading flesh for coin. After a moment, he pulled a small pouch from the folds of his tattered cloak. It clinked softly as he passed it over, his cracked lips twisting into a crooked smile.

“Always good work,” he rasped, his voice like gravel.

Munin didn’t bother to respond, didn’t bother to count the coins. She tucked the pouch into her belt and turned on her heel, her boots crunching over the dirt. The peddler’s eyes lingered on her as she left, but she didn’t look back.

The moment the stall faded from sight, her stride quickened. She veered off the path, slipping into the dense underbrush. Gnarled branches clawed at her cloak, thorns catching in her hair, but she pushed forward.

When she was far enough—when the muffled hum of the village gave way to silence—Munin stopped. Her chest rose and fell steadily, though her pulse thudded faster now, not with exertion but with anticipation.

She scanned the forest, her eyes cutting through the dark, and let herself feel.

With a rush that prickled over her skin, her wings began to form. Black as pitch, darker than the shadows around her, they unfurled with a slow, deliberate stretch. The faint sound of sinew and bone realigning filled the still air, and for the first time in months, Munin felt whole.

The weight of them pulled at her shoulders, grounding her and freeing her all at once. She flexed the wings experimentally, the stretch familiar yet foreign after so much time.

And then she moved.

With a single powerful stroke, Munin launched herself into the air. The forest fell away beneath her, trees shrinking into a sea of dark green as she climbed higher and higher. The wind bit at her skin, sharp and cold, but she welcomed it.

The village below became a mere speck as she flew higher, her mind already racing ahead, plotting her next move.

 

Chapter 18

Notes:

Posting this before I get sucked into the void that is Onyx Storm.

The wall loomed before her—not visible, but there. Munin didn’t need her eyes to find it; the ripple in the air hummed against her senses. The wards pulsed like a heartbeat, woven with the kind of magic that had endured centuries.

She slowed, boots crunching softly over the leaf-strewn ground. Her gaze swept the landscape, her mind dissecting the subtle fluctuations in the barrier’s strength. A faint flicker to the east caught her attention—the point where the magic stretched thin.

Munin stopped before the weak spot, her hand lifting, fingers hovering just above the ripple.

The wards pushed back, resisting her intrusion. For a moment, the magic prickled against her skin, like nettles brushing over bare flesh. She pressed harder. The resistance wavered, then broke, the barrier yielding with a faint hiss of displaced energy.

The mortal lands greeted her with a chill, the air thinner, emptier. Prythian’s magic-saturated atmosphere was gone, replaced by something dull and lifeless. Munin inhaled deeply, testing the scent on the wind. Smoke. Acrid and heavy, the kind that clung to skin and hair—wood and flesh burning together.

Her eyes narrowed, her senses sharpening as she turned toward the source. Two days on foot, perhaps, for a human. For her, it would be hours. She set off without pause, her long strides eating up the ground.

The forest thickened as she traveled. Brambles reached for her cloak, branches snagged at her hair, but she didn’t falter. She slipped through the underbrush as if it weren’t there.

The scent of burning grew stronger as she neared the village. Smoke coiled through the air, thick enough now to sting her throat and eyes. Munin slowed, her steps falling silent as she wove a glamor around herself to appear human, the magic settling over her like a second skin.

She crept closer, her sharp gaze sweeping over the scene. The village was small, barely more than a handful of thatched-roof cottages and scattered livestock pens. Flames licked hungrily at the buildings, smoke billowing skyward in thick, black plumes. Villagers darted through the chaos, buckets of water sloshing as they tried to douse the inferno.

The voices reached her ears before the faces came into view.

“The fire spread too fast.” A man’s words, trembling, frayed at the edges. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

“Not natural,” someone else muttered, their voice low and brittle. “It’s like the flames knew what they were doing.”

Munin edged closer, her steps silent. She didn’t need to hear more to confirm what she already suspected. Her sharp eyes flicked to the blaze, tracing its edges, its hunger. Fire didn’t move like this—didn’t leap so cleanly from one point to the next without hesitation, without chaos.

Magic.

Her gaze darkened as she stepped away from the burning scene, her attention shifting to the air, the faint, familiar stench beneath the smoke. Acrid, rotting, wrong.

The Attor.

Munin turned sharply, ignoring the growing crowd around the building and slipped back into the cover of the trees. She waited until the village had disappeared behind her, the smoke thinning as the forest grew denser. Then, with a thought, her wings unfurled. Black as pitch, they caught the dim light filtering through the trees.

One powerful beat, and she was airborne, the ground falling away beneath her in an instant.

The Attor was moving fast—she could feel it, sense its foul presence lingering like an oil slick. If it had crossed into the faerie lands, she would find it. It couldn’t have gone far.

She pushed harder, her wings straining, each stroke carrying her higher, faster. Below, the mortal world blurred—a patchwork of shadows and fleeting shapes. The wall would be her first stop. The creature lacked the subtlety to winnow, which meant it was still somewhere close, lingering between realms.

Time bled as the landscape whipped past. The wind stung her cheeks, biting at her skin, but she paid it no mind. Her focus sharpened with every beat of her wings. Then she heard it.

A scream. Thin and jagged, cutting through the air like shattered glass.

A human girl.

Munin angled her wings, veering toward the sound without hesitation. She didn’t need to see the creature to know what awaited her. The stench of it, the dread it left behind, was enough.

Munin slowed, her wings adjusting to glide in near silence. The scream had long since faded, but she didn’t need to hear it again to know where she was heading. The Attor’s path was erratic, a jagged trail through the night—arrogant in its recklessness. It didn’t care about being seen or heard.

She did.

As if no one would dare to challenge it.

Munin’s training kicked in, the years of honing her stealth, the countless missions where her very survival depended on not being seen or heard. She knew how to move without disturbing the air around her.  

Below, the landscape twisted into something more sinister. Forests thinned, their trees gnarled and bent. The ground turned slick and black, swamps bubbling with a stench that rose thick and heavy in the air. The further they went, the more the land itself seemed to rebel against existence, pulsing with a quiet, malignant energy.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the Attor. The way it moved—erratic, unbothered—told her it thought itself untouchable. Even with its twisted wings and hunched form, it moved with a kind of warped grace, the girl slung limp over its bony shoulder like a broken doll.

Whatever the creature was planning, it wasn’t wasting time.

Munin adjusted her course slightly, her wings tilting to shift her trajectory. She followed with an unyielding steadiness, her breath even, her movements precise. The air grew heavier, colder, as they approached the horizon, where a jagged peak loomed like a claw tearing through the earth.

The sacred mountain.

Her wings faltered, just for a heartbeat. Amarantha’s court.

The Attor was taking the girl there.

Munin descended in silence. Below, the forest thinned into jagged rock and sparse, wiry brush that clung desperately to the crumbling ground. The mountain loomed ahead, its peak sharp against the night sky.

A scream pierced the stillness,  rising from the base of the mountain. It was faint but unrelenting, the kind of sound that echoed in the bones long after it stopped. Munin’s grip on her daggers tightened.

The girl was still alive. Still fighting.

Her wings angled sharply, carrying her lower, closer. The Attor came into view, its hulking form dragging the girl across the rocky ground like a predator with a fresh kill. Her struggles were frantic, wild, but useless against the creature’s clawed grip.

The Attor didn’t flinch or falter as it lumbered toward the base of the mountain.

Munin kept her distance, circling wide to avoid detection.

She landed on a narrow ledge, her steps silent against the stone as she moved closer. From here, she could see the ancient doors carved into the mountain’s face. Massive and imposing, they seemed to hum with a power so old it felt like the mountain itself might shudder under its weight.

Runes twisted across their surface, glowing faintly.

The Attor stopped before the doors, its wings shifting restlessly as it waited. The girl’s screams had dissolved into weak sobs, her body slack in its grip, but the terror in her eyes still burned.

A low groan rumbled through the stone. The doors began to part, splitting with agonizing slowness.

Munin remained still, crouched in the shadows, watching. The Attor stepped forward, dragging the girl through the gap without hesitation.

Munin waited, her eyes locked on the Attor, until it disappeared into the darkness of the mountain. The doors began to close behind them.

She moved only then, as quickly as she could. Her wings folded tight to her back as she darted across the rocks, her movements a blur of muscle and shadow. The doors were nearly closed when she reached them, but she didn’t hesitate.

With a deftness born of years of training, she slid through the narrow gap, vanishing into the shadows of the mountain.

---

It was strange to be back.

The air beneath the mountain pressed down on her, thick with old magic and despair. Munin moved through the corridors in silence, her steps swallowed by the cold stone. The dim light of the faelight crystals etched familiar shapes onto the walls—runes, patterns, and scratches that hadn’t changed in fifty years.

But something was different.

The sense of despair that had once lingered like there had deepened into something far more insidious. Now, it festered, deeper, darker—an emptiness that went beyond mere hopelessness.

Munin felt none of it.

No one noticed her as she slipped past them. The fae who lingered in the shadows were hollow shells of what they once had been. They didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge her presence. Their eyes, sunken and lifeless, stared at nothing. Some murmured among themselves in hushed tones, their voices as brittle as dried leaves.

Her path wound through the corridors and into the main hall, where the murmur of voices grew louder. She paused just outside the entrance, her head tilting slightly as she listened.

“...Just brought her in…”

The words drifted to her on a faint current of air, low and conspiratorial.

“She went to the human lands for this one. Took her straight from her family.”

Munin stepped closer, her body pressing into the wall so as not to be seen.

“Tamlin,” another voice whispered, a hiss of barely contained disdain. “This is to punish him. For what he tried to do.”

There was a sharp laugh, brittle and humorless. “You think he’ll care? After what he did to her?”

Munin’s steps faltered slightly as she heard Tamlin’s name. Her eyes narrowed, and she pressed forward, refusing to let herself be distracted.

She slipped into the throne room; it hadn’t changed much in the fifty years since she had last been there. The crowd silent and still, their fear so tangible that Munin could feel it in her bones. Every face turned to the dais, every gaze wary to the standing there.

She stopped near the edge of the gathering, her gaze locked on the dais.

Amarantha.

The queen stood as if she owned not just the mountain, but every soul beneath it.

"Silence," Amarantha’s voice cut through the airand the low murmur of the crowd died instantly.

Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

"The High Lord of Spring," she began, her voice clear and cruel, "has dared to test my patience. To defy the terms I set so generously before him."

The crowd tensed as heavy footsteps echoed from an adjoining corridor. Chains clinked, dragging across the stone floor, and then he appeared.

Tamlin.

Munin’s gaze flicked to him, her expression impassive, though her mind registered every detail. His golden hair hung in unkempt strands over his face. The once-pristine attire of the High Lord was now tattered, revealing bruises and gashes beneath. His movements were wild, as if the beast in him was threatening to break free.

The room seemed to shrink as he was dragged forward, thrown to his knees before Amarantha.

Amarantha’s smile widened. She took a step down from the dais, her voice soft yet razor-sharp.

"Tamlin," she purred, tilting her head like a cat eyeing a broken-winged bird. "How desperate you must be to think you could escape me."

Tamlin’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "You’ve already cursed me, taken everything from me. What more could you want?"

Amarantha’s laughter echoed through the hall, light and cruel. "Taken everything? Oh no, darling, you still have something left." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried through the room. "You know what I want."

Tamlin stilled, his face betraying a flicker of raw panic before he schooled it back into anger.

"Don’t," he growled, the single word laced with both threat and plea.

"Don’t?" Amarantha echoed, feigning surprise. Her grin turned feral. "But you’ve made it so easy, Tamlin. All these years, all those little games, and still—" she tapped her chin with a painted nail—"you failed."

A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.

"You want to punish me? Fine," Tamlin spat, his voice low and trembling with fury. "But leave her out of this. She’s not part of your sick games."

Amarantha’s eyes gleamed. "Oh, but she is. The moment you thought she could save you, you made her mine."

Munin’s gaze remained steady, even as her sharp hearing caught the faint, collective intake of breath from the crowd.

Amarantha straightened, her tone bright with cruel satisfaction. "Bring her."

The throne room fell deathly silent as the massive doors groaned open. The sound dragged out, echoing off the stone walls. Munin’s eyes flicked to the entrance, her expression still as the Attor slithered into view.

It pulled a girl behind it, her body crumpled and broken, dragged across the floor by a chain wrapped tight around her wrists. The muffled sobs that Munin had followed through the mountain’s corridors for hours grew louder now, sharper.

The girl’s skin was pale and bloodstreaked, her hair matted and tangled, her clothes shredded beyond recognition. Every breath the girl took was a shallow, ragged pull, like her body was clinging to life through sheer will alone.

But this—this wasn’t the girl she had seen in the woods.

This wasn’t Tamlin’s human.

The human Munin had watched through the trees had been fierce, determined. That girl’s hands had been steady as she drew her bowstring. Her gaze had been sharp, unflinching, as she loosed the arrow that killed the wolf.

This girl was hollow, fragile.

"Please," Tamlin’s voice broke the heavy silence, raw and filled with anguish as he stepped forward, the chains around his wrists clinking. His golden hair was disheveled, his usually composed demeanor shattered. "Please, don’t hurt her."

Munin’s head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable as her eyes flicked over the girl’s trembling form. Whatever fight this girl had once possessed had been beaten out of her. What remained was a shell, fragile and broken.

“And as punishment for his failed attempts,” Amarantha’s voice rang out, gleeful and sharp, “we will take the human girl he loves so much, and break her.”

Tamlin’s sharp inhale drew Munin’s attention. The chains around his wrists rattled as he stepped forward, green eyes blazing with something that might have been desperation. He didn’t look at the fae gathered around him—his gaze was fixed on the girl.

The girl who was definitely not his human lover.

“Don’t hurt her.” His voice cracked, raw and ragged. “Amarantha, I’ll do anything. Please.”

Munin’s gaze flicked between them. Tamlin’s words rang with conviction and there was anguish etched into every line of his face. But the subtle tension in his jaw betrayed him. This wasn’t the same girl he’d brought to his court, and yet… he was pretending she was.

Amarantha’s laughter lilted through the throne room.

“Anything?” she echoed, descending the dais. “You’ve already done plenty, Tamlin. Or should I say, you’ve failed plenty.” She stepped toward the girl, crouching in front of her crumpled form.

The girl flinched at Amarantha’s nearness, her breath hitching audibly.

“You were supposed to save him, weren’t you?” Amarantha murmured, her voice soft and cruel. Her fingers reached out, tilting the girl’s chin to force her gaze upward. “But you failed, didn’t you? Just like he did.”

“Leave her alone!” Tamlin’s voice thundered through the room, his chains straining as he lunged forward.

Amarantha ignored him, her attention fixed on the girl.

“Look at you. A poor little human, in way over her head.” Her smile widened, sharp and gleaming. “Tell me, girl—are you ready to beg yet? Or do you need more encouragement?”

The girl trembled, her lips parting as if to speak, but the only sound that came out was a faint, broken whimper.

“Amarantha,” Tamlin said again, his voice quieter now, raw and hoarse. “Please. Take me. Do whatever you want to me. Just let her go.”

The queen rose slowly, turning to face him with a glint of triumph in her eyes. “Do you mean that?” she asked, her voice a low purr. “Anything, Tamlin?”

The Attor’s claws gleamed with fresh crimson as it yanked her chains, forcing her to her knees.

Munin’s gaze followed the slow arc of the creature’s claws, the way they sliced into the girl’s skin—not for necessity, not for precision, but for the grotesque satisfaction of it.

Amarantha stood just beyond them. She prowled the scene, her smile cold and sharp as she drank in the spectacle. A flick of her wrist sent another pulse of magic into the girl, and the sound that followed was a choked, desperate wail.

Munin did not flinch. She had no reason to. This kind of violence was neither foreign nor shocking to her; she had delivered it herself, more times than she could count. But something about this—about the pointlessness of it—grated faintly against the hollow stillness within her.

This was not strategy, not for a specific purpose. It was indulgence.

Her eyes shifted, tracing the edges of the room. The gathered fae were statues in the periphery, faces frozen in muted horror. No one moved. No one dared to draw Amarantha’s attention.

Except him.

Rhysand stood just off the dais, his posture loose but not languid. His usual smirk was absent, his expression unreadable. Violet eyes fixed on the girl crumpled on the floor, tracking every ragged breath, every shudder. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

Munin tilted her head slightly, watching him as much as he watched the girl. He had no reason to care. He’d sworn himself to Amarantha. He had even gone to Calanmai under her orders, a performance meant to humiliate Tamlin, not aid.

And yet...

Her gaze narrowed. He knew.

He knew this wasn’t the same girl he had spoken to at Calanmai. And yet, he said nothing to his mistress.

Amarantha’s laughter rang out again, sharp, biting, as she stepped back from the girl. The sound didn’t even reach the girl’s ears anymore—she was barely aware, her body crumpled on the cold stone floor. Blood pooled around her in a dark, thick stain, her breath shallow and trembling. She no longer screamed

The Attor lingered nearby, its claws twitching with anticipation, as though it was hungry for more.

Tamlin stood motionless. His head hung low, his shoulders slumped. The anger had drained from him, leaving nothing but a quiet, helpless acceptance.

Rhysand didn’t move.

His gaze remained fixed on the girl—those violet eyes locked onto her. The rest of the court slowly began to disperse, their bloodlust momentarily sated, but Rhysand… Rhysand didn’t shift his focus, not even as Amarantha made her final, mocking gesture toward the broken figure on the floor.

Munin’s gaze shifted to him, a slight narrowing of her eyes. Something lingered in that stillness. There was an intensity in his silence, in the way his jaw tightened, the way he didn’t look away, even as the rest of the room moved on.

He’s not done with her, Munin thought, but why? There was no reason. He knew that the Attor had brought Amarantha the wrong human.

Munin’s mind shifted, drawing on years of training, but even then, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She’d seen the same intensity in warriors about to strike. The tension, the fine-tuned focus on the target. But this wasn’t about combat. It wasn’t about killing. It was something else entirely.

The High Lord had been the one to deliver her false name. To let her fall into Amarantha’s hands. He knew who she was—of that, Munin was certain. And yet, he hadn’t intervened.

But now he watches her like this?

Munin shook her head slightly, the thoughts swirling like a storm. No. It didn’t make sense. And it didn’t matter.

Whatever his reasons, they weren’t hers to question. She had no place in whatever game he was playing. Her job—her sole purpose—was to observe Amarantha.

The High Lord of the Night Court was none of her concern.

---

Time blurred Under the Mountain, where days folded into one another without light or warmth to mark their passing.

Only a few days had passed since the girl’s broken body — a human some of the others referred to as Clare Beddor — had been hung in the throne room for all to see, her blood pooling on the cold stone, her screams long since silenced.

A human girl sacrificed as a warning, her suffering drawn out for Amarantha’s sadistic pleasure.

Not the one who killed the wolf, Munin reminded herself, not the one Tamlin had sheltered. But it didn’t matter. Amarantha had won. Tamlin had no fight left, and Spring Court—his court—lay broken. The weight of his failure hung over everything, as if a majority of the court had been secretly hoping that the High Lord of Spring would find a way to free them of this curse.

The king needed to know, and he needed to know soon.

Munin’s path was clear, though the logistics of leaving remained complicated. The exit to the Mountain had been sealed off, and she was stuck with the rest of the members of the court.

So for now, she waited. She watched, listening to the undercurrents of whispers and fear that hummed through the halls. Most fae were too preoccupied with their own survival to notice her slipping between the cracks, another masked face blending into the endless gray.

The trick was in staying small, in making no noise.

Today, though, the air carried something new. It wasn’t the usual grumbling of the hopeless. There was urgency in it. A current of something off.

Munin followed the sound, her steps silent, her figure swallowed by the shadows of the corridors. She moved instinctively, weaving through the twists and turns until the throne room’s entrance loomed ahead.

The air was heavy, pressing against Munin as she slipped into the back of the chamber. The crowd had gathered tightly and all eyes were locked on the dais, where Amarantha reclined in her black throne, a cruel smile curving her lips.

Munin stilled, her gaze drawn to the Attor as it dragged something across the polished marble—a limp, battered figure. A pause, then a sharp jerk, and the creature hurled the body forward. The girl landed in a crumpled heap at the foot of the dais, her shallow breaths audible even above the stifling silence.

A human.

Munin’s eyes flicked over the figure. Blood streaked pale skin, dirt matted hair, but beneath the grime and exhaustion was something else. Something defiant. The girl pushed herself up to her knees, trembling, but there was purpose in the way her shoulders squared, in the way her chin lifted ever so slightly. She looked up at Amarantha with eyes that refused to flinch.

This time, it was the right human.

The edges of the crowd blurred in her periphery, but Munin’s gaze remained sharp. She shifted her focus, glancing toward Tamlin. He stood apart, rigid as stone, his golden hair catching the dim light. His face gave away nothing—not relief, not recognition. Nothing.

This one, she thought, might just be worth watching.

Munin’s thoughts brushed against his silence. Was it resignation? Cowardice? Or something else entirely? It didn’t matter. Whatever storm churned behind that blank expression wasn’t for her to untangle.

The queen’s voice sliced through the room, sharp and sweet.

“What’s this?” Amarantha drawled, the mockery curling in her tone.

The Attor slithered forward, its spindly limbs bowing low. “Just a human thing I found downstairs,” it hissed, its voice grating against the air.

Munin’s gaze lingered on the girl. She’d made it this far? Alone? Through the Middle? Her mind flickered through the probabilities, each one narrowing into something improbable and reckless.

Stupid, but impressive nonetheless.

Amarantha leaned forward, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Obviously,” she murmured. Her fingers tapped idly against the armrest, each motion deliberate, measured. “But why should I bother with her?”

The Attor leaned in closer to the girl. Its voice was a rasp, “Tell Her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs—why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.”

Munin observed from the periphery, her gaze sharp and steady as she noted the girl’s hesitation. The human’s eyes darted briefly toward Tamlin, her breath hitching, before she straightened her spine.

That flash of vulnerability was gone in an instant, replaced by a forced boldness.

“I came to claim the one I love.”

The words echoed through the chamber, clear and startling in their audacity. A ripple passed through the gathered faeries, gasps breaking the silence that had overtaken the throne room.

Munin didn’t react, but her eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the way Amarantha’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. The queen leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, every movement deliberate. “Oh?”

The girl’s shoulders trembled, but her voice didn’t falter. “I’ve come to claim Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.”

Munin’s gaze shifted to Tamlin. He stood apart, his golden hair falling in disheveled strands over his downcast face. No flicker of acknowledgment, no sign that the words had even reached him.

Foolish. Munin’s fingers twitched at her side, but she remained still, her face unreadable. This wasn’t bravery, it was foolishness. The girl, brave as she was, was still a human. She would be no match for Amarantha.

The room felt suspended, every breath held as the court waited. Munin’s eyes swept over the assembly. Some looked horrified; others were barely masking their glee. All attention centered on Amarantha.

The queen tilted her head, her expression unreadable for one heavy beat. Then she laughed—an eerie, soulless sound that sliced through the air. It wasn’t joy; it was triumph. Cruel and cold, it made even the boldest faeries flinch.

Munin allowed her gaze to drift back to the girl, now trembling under the weight of that laughter. She didn’t need to feel anything to know what the human hadn’t yet realized: she’d just signed her own death warrant.

Stupid, stupid girl.

 

Chapter 19

Notes:

Yeah, we flew through the events of ACOTAR. Mostly because the majority of the plot is going to take place between books 3 and 5!

Munin couldn’t believe it.

The dagger slid into Tamlin’s chest with a sickening precision, the sound barely audible over the tense silence of the room. Blood didn’t gush—not from that cursed, stone-encased heart—but from the reaction of the people in the room, one would have thought that there was an earthquake.

Feyre Archeron had done it.

Munin stood at the edge of the crowd, her sharp eyes fixed on the scene as disbelief unfurled through the air. The girl—weak, trembling, barely upright—had actually completed the third task.

She’d driven that ash blade through the High Lord of Spring.

The collective shock was almost tangible. Gasps echoed against the vaulted ceiling, and the crowd pressed forward, murmurs swelling into a cacophony of voices.

“She did it,” someone whispered, as if afraid speaking louder might undo what had just occurred.

“She won.”

All around, the fae began to stir, a growing energy in their movements. Tamlin clutched his chest as he panted, his eyes wide and shocked, and Munin could hear the frantic gasps of the fae surrounding them.

Cries of relief and disbelief started to ripple through the throng.

“Free us!”

“She passed the trials—set us free!”

Munin’s gaze, shifted to Amarantha. Unlike the others, she hadn’t moved. Her head tilted slightly, those crimson lips curling with amusement, her gaze like ice skimming over fire. “No.”

That single word cut through the crowd and the noise faltered, a stunned hush swallowing the room whole.

“No,” Amarantha repeated, the word smoother this time, almost leisurely, as she stepped forward. Her voice carried a lazy, venomous edge, her painted nails clicking idly against the arm of her throne. “You think I’ll just... give up what I’ve won?”

Her lips curved into a smile, wide and wicked, as she gestured dismissively toward Feyre.

The human lay crumpled on the stone floor, her breaths uneven, her body too weak to even flinch as Amarantha neared.

“Because of her?” Amarantha laughed then, a sound as jagged as broken glass.

The crowd seemed to collectively shrink back, a wave of unease rippling through them.

Munin wasn’t surprised. No High Fae worth their salt would have trusted Amarantha to keep her word, least of all Munin. The terms had been vague—foolishly so. A fatal flaw for the human. Bargains, especially among the fae, were meant to be precise, ironclad in their wording.

Anything less was an invitation for treachery.

And Amarantha? She thrived on treachery.

Munin’s gaze shifted to Tamlin. The High Lord was still kneeling where he had fallen, his expression frozen in shock, one hand hovering over the wound in his chest as if unsure whether to feel pain or relief.

Pathetic.

Feyre’s fingers twitched, a weak, almost imperceptible movement as she tried—and failed—to lift herself from the floor. Munin’s sharp eyes caught the effort, though her expression remained impassive.

Munin leaned against one of the cold, shadowed pillars, her gaze steady on the human girl crumpled at the base of the dais. Feyre Archeron trembled, her thin frame wracked with quiet, uneven sobs. Her hands, slick with blood, were still frozen in the shape they’d held the ash dagger—her fingers curled, her nails caked in crimson.

And still… not a word, not a single movement from the High Lord of Spring, though the girl had sacrificed everything for him.

Then it began.

The air in the throne room seemed to crackle, a low hum building and then growing sharper. Amarantha’s lips twitched into a smile, one so slight it could almost be missed. Her fingers flexed, and from them, invisible tendrils of magic uncoiled like snakes.

The magic struck Feyre before she could even lift her head.

It hit her like a wave—no, like a battering ram—slamming her flat against the stone floor. The sound of her body hitting the marble echoed, through the muttered whispers of the court.

Then the screaming started.

Feyre’s spine arched off the ground, her limbs spasming as if some invisible force were pulling at her, twisting her from the inside out. Her cries were high-pitched, broken, the kind that clawed their way out of a throat raw with pain.

The crowd flinched, but no one moved.

Munin didn’t look away. She never did.

Feyre’s hands, slick with sweat and blood, scrabbled against the stone floor, nails dragging deep lines through the grime-covered marble. When her fingers slipped, she clawed harder, trying to find something—anything—to hold onto.

Amarantha didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. She simply watched, amused, as though Feyre’s suffering were a rare form of entertainment.

The girl convulsed again, her body writhing with such force that her head slammed back against the ground. The sound of bone meeting stone was sickening, but Feyre didn’t stop moving. Her back arched further, impossibly, until Munin thought she might snap entirely.

Blood began to seep from her fingertips, the skin splitting as her nails cracked under the pressure. She clawed harder, tearing at the stone beneath her.

The crowd had gone silent. Even the murmurs of disbelief and unease had faded into nothingness. No one dared to interrupt—not with Amarantha’s power spilling through the air.

Munin’s expression didn’t change, her mask of indifference firmly in place. But somewhere, deep in the cold, hollow part of her that still held remnants of memory, she recognized the artistry in what Amarantha was doing. This was precision. Pain dealt not in haste, but with patience.

The magic tightened around Feyre’s throat, cutting off her cries. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, her face twisting in agony as her body bucked once more. Her breathing had turned shallow now, desperate gasps that came slower and slower.

Still, she didn’t die.

Munin’s sharp gaze flicked to the queen. Amarantha was leaning back in her throne now, one hand draped over the armrest as though she were idly playing a game. Her other hand still twitched with magic. She wasn’t done.

Not yet.

Munin shifted her weight against the pillar. Feyre was shaking so violently now that it seemed impossible her body hadn’t shattered under the strain. Blood stained the marble, dark rivulets pooling around her broken, trembling frame.

And yet, she still breathed. Still moved.

Amarantha leaned forward slightly, her lips curving into a wider smile.

“You’re stronger than I thought,” she murmured, the words soft but sharp enough to cut through the suffocating silence.

Tamlin stayed on his knees, unmoving, his face carved with horror. He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t shout. Didn’t fight. He just knelt there, frozen, while the woman who had given everything for him lay shattered before him.

Munin’s lip curled.

The High Lord of the Spring Court, once so feared, had been reduced to this. She shifted against the cold pillar, her eyes scanning the room. Only Feyre’s ragged breathing and Amarantha’s soft, mocking laugh filled the air.

It was already over.

Whether the girl lived or died didn’t matter. The outcome was the same. Amarantha would never let them go.

“Feyre!”

The scream cut through the stillness, sharp and frantic. Munin’s head snapped toward the voice, her sharp eyes locking onto its source.

The High Lord of Night.

He stood rigid, his face twisted with panic. Gone was the usual mask of amused indifference he wore like armor. This was raw—unrestrained. Munin stilled at the sight of it. She had seen Rhysand a handful of times throughout Amarantha’s reign, always playing his role as her willing lapdog. Charming, composed, detached. Never a crack in the facade. But this?

This was real.

Why? Why did he care so much for the human girl writhing on the cold stone floor?

Her gaze flicked back to Feyre. The girl was writhing on the cold stone floor, her body convulsing beneath the weight of Amarantha’s magic. Blood smeared her fingers as she clawed at the ground, her screams now little more than strained gasps.

Munin’s eyes narrowed.

Munin replayed every interaction she’d observed between the two. Calanmai. The way his gaze had lingered on Feyre, sharp and calculating. Her mind whirled, piecing together fragments that hadn’t seemed important at the time.

But now…

Munin turned her gaze back to Rhysand, studying the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. The High Lord of Night was not a man who let emotions slip through the cracks.

“Do you think you’re worthy of him?” Amarantha’s voice curled through the air. Her crimson lips twisted into a cruel smile as her gaze raked over Feyre’s trembling form. “A High Lord? You think you deserve anything at all, human?”

She spat the last word.

Feyre writhed on the floor, her limbs convulsing, her body bowing under the crushing weight of Amarantha’s magic. Her muscles strained against invisible chains, her raw, broken gasps filling the room. When her mouth opened in a scream, no sound came—her voice stolen by agony, her throat too shredded to produce anything but silence.

Munin stood perfectly still, watching the scene unfold with detached focus. The girl’s suffering pressed against the edges of her awareness, but she shoved it aside, buried it deep where such things belonged.

It wasn’t hers to feel.

Amarantha’s gaze snapped away from Feyre, her face twisting with rage as she turned on Rhysand.

“Traitorous filth,” she hissed, her voice a razor-sharp whisper. “You’re no better than these human beasts. How long, hmm?” She took a slow step toward him, her dress trailing like a pool of blood in her wake. “How long have you been planning this, Rhysand? Plotting behind my back?”

Rhysand didn’t flinch, but his silence was damning.

With a flick of her wrist, Amarantha’s magic lashed out, snapping into him like a whip. Munin caught the moment his talons—always so carefully hidden—were wrenched back into his skin. The wet, sickening sound of flesh splitting filled the chamber, and Rhysand’s sharp gasp followed, his hands dripping blood as crimson rivulets painted his fingers.

The impact was brutal. He slammed into the stone wall with a force that shook the ground, the crack of bone echoing through the chamber. Munin felt the vibrations in her feet, a shiver of sound that ran up her spine. Her brow twitched, the faintest trace of a wince threatening to surface before she smoothed it away.

The High Lord of the Night Court crumpled to the ground, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, his head lolling to one side. Blood seeped from a gash on his temple, pooling beneath him.

Munin should’ve felt nothing.

And yet…

Her jaw tightened imperceptibly. Something about the way Amarantha cast him aside, like broken glass swept from a table, stirred a flicker of indignation. A spark of… something.

Why? Why did it matter?

Rhysand had chosen his path. He was no different from any of the others who had bent their knees to Amarantha, and now he was paying for it. Munin told herself that as she watched him struggle to lift his head, the sharp cut of pain twisting his features.

She told herself it didn’t matter. And yet, the spark of indignation on his behalf refused to die.

Munin crushed the faint flicker of feeling before it could take root.

It didn’t matter. None of this was her fight. Still, her gaze lingered on Rhysand as he dragged himself upright. Blood stained his temple, a thin line trailing down to his jaw. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts.

It was an unnecessary observation, Munin told herself.

But then Amarantha’s voice shattered the tension, her scream slicing through the heavy air. She loomed over Feyre, her face twisted into something unhinged. Fury burned bright in her eyes, her lips curling back as she demanded, “Say that you don’t love him!”

Feyre’s limbs jerked with each pulse of power, as though invisible claws were tearing her apart from the inside. Her skin had gone a sickly shade, her sweat-soaked hair clinging to her face.

The sound she made—somewhere between a sob and a scream—scraped raw against the silence.

“Amarantha, stop this!”

The words were a desperate snarl, cutting through Feyre’s ragged cries. Munin shifted her gaze to Tamlin, his golden hair damp and plastered to his forehead. He strained against his chains, the beast beneath his skin rippling as though clawing for freedom. But the chains held fast, leaving him powerless.

“Stop! I—” His voice faltered, his tone cracking. “I’m sorry. For what I said about Clythia. For everything. Just—just stop this.”

Amarantha’s laugh was cold and hollow.  She twisted her hand in the air, her magic responding with a dark pulse that sent Feyre into another fit of convulsions. The girl’s scream ripped through the throne room.

No one moved.

Not the High Lords, once so proud, now standing frozen and silent. Not the courtiers, their faces pale with horror. Even those who had once reveled in Amarantha’s cruelty now watched with wide eyes, their glee replaced with uneasy stillness.

“Say it!” Amarantha shrieked. She leaned closer to Feyre, her fingers clawing the air as if she could reach into the girl’s chest and rip her heart out herself. “Say you don’t love him. Admit your fragile, inconsistent heart. Admit you lied!”

“Amarantha, please!” Tamlin’s voice cracked, his desperation bleeding through every syllable. His chains rattled as he surged forward, only to be yanked back. Blood dripped from his wrists, pooling at his feet, his beast form flashing beneath his skin.

“I’ll do anything,” he begged. “Anything.”

Munin’s gaze flicked between them—Amarantha’s wild fury, Feyre’s broken form, Tamlin’s pathetic pleading. The human girl convulsed on the floor, her cries reduced to whimpers, her breath shallow and fading.

And yet, for all his begging, Tamlin remained rooted in place.

Munin’s lip curled.

“Amarantha, please.” Tamlin begged, more of his blood spilling out on the floor. Munin had been disgusted by Amarantha’s actions, her unnecessary torture of a human girl. But some small, inexplicable part of her relished seeing Tamlin laid so low as he continued to beg for her life, “I’ll do anything.”

Amarantha snarled, her tone sharp and dismissive. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Her attention snapped back to Feyre, who lay sprawled on the floor, trembling. Her breaths came in shallow, ragged bursts, each one a struggle.

And then Feyre’s lips moved.

At first, Munin wasn’t sure she’d seen it. The movement was slight, faint. But there it was again—a whisper. Barely a sound.

“Love,” Feyre breathed.

Munin felt it.

A tremor in the air. Subtle, but undeniable. Like the distant groan of stone under pressure, the first sign of a fracture.

Amarantha froze. Her magic faltered, the tendrils of it wisping and curling in hesitation. She blinked, her focus sharpening on the girl beneath her, confusion carving lines into her face.

Feyre’s lips moved again, her voice trembling, raw but steady.

“The answer to the riddle… is love.”

The words hung there, suspended, as if the entire throne room held its breath.

Munin’s gaze flicked to Amarantha. The queen’s face twisted. Confusion gave way to fury, and fury to something darker—a raw, primal malice that coiled tight in her features.

Munin felt the snap before the sound reached her ears.

A sharp crack—bone breaking under immense force. Feyre’s body seized, her spine arching unnaturally, every muscle pulled taut as if invisible strings controlled her.

Then, silence.

Munin didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She simply observed, as she always did, as Feyre’s body went limp. The girl lay still, her head lolling to the side, her eyes half-lidded, her chest unmoving.

A cold silence followed. Amarantha stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling with the exertion of her magic. Her face was flushed with victory, yet her eyes flickered with something uneasy, some trace of doubt that lingered after Feyre’s final words.

Munin saw it. That momentary unease, the ripple of uncertainty that crept across Amarantha’s expression as she stared at the girl’s lifeless body.

But it was too late.

The deed was done.

The throne room held its breath.

Then Tamlin roared.

The sound ripped through the silence, vibrating deep in Munin’s chest. It wasn’t the cry of a man—it was the fury of something primal, something untamed.

She saw his body convulse, bones shifting with grotesque cracks that echoed off the stone walls. Fur erupted across his skin, shredding his clothes, until there was nothing left of the High Lord but the massive, hulking beast that had been trapped beneath his mortal form.

Munin’s stomach twisted. She stepped back, instinct overriding reason. Her gaze flicked to Amarantha, who turned to face him with a flicker of shock in her calculating eyes.

But Tamlin didn’t give her time to act.

The beast moved with terrifying speed. One moment, he was crouched low, a predator poised to strike. The next, he was upon her, slamming Amarantha into the wall with a force that made the entire chamber tremble. Stone cracked under the impact, shards splintering to the floor as Amarantha’s breath left her in a sharp, startled gasp.

Her hands clawed at him, desperate as she tried to summon her magic. A faint shimmer gathered at her fingertips—too slow. Tamlin’s jaws closed around her throat, a savage growl reverberating through the room.

The air was thick with the scent of iron and blood.

Munin couldn’t look away.

The sound was wet—flesh tearing, sinew snapping as his teeth sank deep. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, painting the stone walls in glistening red. Amarantha’s scream was cut short as Tamlin tore her throat out in a single, brutal motion.

The self-proclaimed High Queen of Prythian crumpled to the floor, her body twitching, her hands feebly clawing at the gaping wound. Within seconds, she went still, her blood pooling beneath her.

Munin stared at the corpse, her mind empty.

It was over.

Amarantha—dead.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Every sound seemed magnified: the drip of blood onto stone, the shallow breaths of the High Lords, the scrape of someone shifting a foot.

Munin forced herself to inhale, though her body felt disconnected, heavy. Her gaze darted to Tamlin, now panting, his muzzle still dripping crimson. His green eyes, wild and unseeing, scanned the room, searching for the next threat.

And then her instincts kicked in. Move.

What the High Lords would do now that they were free was anyone’s guess, and her ties to Hybern made her a target. Munin’s hands twitched at her sides. She needed to disappear, to slip away before anyone noticed her standing there.

Across the room, she caught a flicker of movement—the Attor, its grotesque wings unfurling as it crept toward the shadows. It wasn’t staying to see how this played out.

Munin’s feet refused to move.

She should follow. Flee into the chaos, blend into the carnage. She had survived this long by knowing when to vanish.

But she stood frozen, her body locked in place, her eyes drawn back to the center of the throne room.

The throne room was silent. All eyes were drawn to the center of it all—Feyre Archeron’s lifeless body, sprawled in a slick of blood that was already beginning to congeal.

Munin stood at the edge of the gathering. She kept her breathing steady, her face still, though her chest felt tight, her muscles coiled and ready.

The High Lords moved slowly, their gazes heavy with something Munin couldn’t quite name. Reverence? Guilt? Whatever it was, it dragged their steps as they circled the girl’s body.

Munin told herself to leave. This was no place for her. She didn’t belong in their grief, their strange show of solidarity. And yet her feet refused to move.

Her eyes found Rhysand, drawn to the sharp angles of his face as he stepped forward. His usual mask of cool indifference had cracked, revealing something raw beneath—something that made Munin’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

He dropped to one knee beside Feyre’s body, his hands resting on his thighs as he looked down at her. “For what she gave,” he said, his voice quiet but cutting through the stillness, “we will bestow what our predecessors have granted to few before. This makes us even..”

The words hung in the air, each one landing like a stone in a pond.

Munin’s jaw tightened. Even. As if the High Lords could ever pay back the debt of that human’s sacrifice.

Rhysand lifted his hand, and a soft pulse of power began to gather in his palm. It glimmered faintly, like the first stars of twilight, before descending in a slow, deliberate arc. The magic settled over Feyre’s chest, then sank into her as if drawn by some unseen force.

Munin’s nails bit into her palms. She forced herself to remain still.

Then came Helion, his power a vibrant orange that burned like the last rays of sunset. Next, Thesan, his magic a soft, cool blue that shimmered like moonlight on water. Beron’s contribution was begrudging, his face twisted with disdain as he dropped a flicker of red power.

The magic pooled around Feyre. It shimmered and hummed, a vibration that Munin felt deep in her bones.

Her breath hitched despite herself.

They were resurrecting her.

The thought rippled through her mind, sharp and strange, but she didn’t let it settle. She shoved it down, down into the dark place where she kept everything she didn’t want to feel.

Kallias stepped forward, his magic cool and sharp as winter frost. Finally, Tarquin, his power a rich, deep turquoise, the scent of salt and seafoam following its descent.

The room seemed to hold its breath. The air grew heavy, pressing in from all sides. The glow surrounding Feyre reached its peak, blinding in its intensity.

Munin turned away, her movements slow, deliberate. She slipped back into the shadows, her hands brushing against the rough stone walls as she retreated.

She didn’t need to see the end of this. She already knew how it would play out.

The girl would rise, remade.

The High Lords would linger in their awe, their relief.

And Munin would disappear, as she always did.

---

“You are no longer to concern yourself with what’s happening in Prythian.” The King’s voice been as cold as the stone walls surrounding them when she had first returned from Prythian, his gruff tone leaving no room for argument.

Munin kept her gaze fixed on a point just over his shoulder, her body still, her hands clasped tightly behind her back.

His black eyes bore into her as if daring her to make the mistake of meeting them.  Munin had learned long ago not to. Especially not when his anger simmered just beneath the surface.

She said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice to hold steady under the weight of his displeasure.

“You defied me,” the King said cooly. “I gave you explicit orders to stay away from Amarantha, yet you thought yourself above them.”

Munin’s jaw tightened, but her expression remained blank. She had known this moment was coming the second she set foot back in Hybern.

“You jeopardized everything.” His voice dropped lower, like frost creeping into a room. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Behind him, Dagdan stood just within the shadow of the King’s throne, watching her with the air of a vulture circling a dying animal. His smile was lazy, predatory.

“I followed the Attor,” Munin said finally, her voice calm, even. She refused to flinch under their scrutiny. “I learned valuable information about Amarantha—about the High Lords and how the human broke her curse.”

“Spare me your justifications.” The King’s words came sharp, “Your usefulness does not outweigh your insolence.”

Dagdan stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing against the stone. His smile widened, razor-sharp and full of malice. “Allow me, Your Majesty.”

The King gave a slight nod, his eyes never leaving Munin. “Do what you must.”

Munin’s muscles tightened, though she forced her face to remain impassive. She had endured this before. She would endure it again.

Dagdan stepped closer, a hand reaching out to grip her chin. His touch was firm but not rough—not yet. His thumb pressed just beneath her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“You should’ve stayed where you were told,” he murmured. “But you’re always so eager to prove yourself, aren’t you?” His eyes flicked down, raking over her body in a way that made her skin crawl.

His magic surged into her mind, invasive and brutal, shredding through her thoughts with no regard for her barriers.

The pain was sharp, jagged. Memories tore free under his assault—Amarantha’s court, the Attor’s words, the chaos that had unfolded. Munin forced herself to stay focused, to guide him toward the truth. She had gathered information. She had returned with it.

But Dagdan didn’t make it easy. His magic lingered, probing deeper, twisting through her thoughts like a serrated blade. It’s almost a shame, he murmured. You’d be much more tolerable if you learned to behave properly. I could teach you, you know. Make you even more… pliant.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dagdan released her. He shoved her back with enough force to make her stumble, his smirk returning as he watched her steady herself.

“She’s telling the truth,” Dagdan said, his tone laced with mock disappointment. “But that doesn’t excuse her disobedience.”

The King’s gaze didn’t waver. “No, it doesn’t.”

Munin straightened, her breaths slow and controlled. “My actions were to serve you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “The information I brought back—”

 

“You are not here to decide what serves me,” the King snapped, his words like a steel trap. “You are here to obey.”

Munin inclined her head, the motion slow, deliberate. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

When Dagdan was done with her, Munin’s mind had felt flayed—trampled underfoot and left raw.

The faebane had burned as it slid down her throat, leaving her hollow and stripped. Her body had screamed for relief, but the poison had stifled her magic, leaving her broken and brittle. And then the King’s other ravens had descended.

They had been thorough.

Her bones had been shattered and left to ache, skin torn without the promise of mending. The weeks it had taken to heal had been slow, a crawl through agony and darkness, her body piecing itself back together with nothing but time.

Now she stood before the King again, her chin lowered, her shoulders squared but subdued. The cold of the chamber seeped through the thin fabric of her tunic, biting at her skin, but she didn’t shiver. She knelt motionless, head bowed, her eyes fixed on the cracked stone.

Silence pressed in from all sides, broken only by the faint creak of the bones that adorned the King’s throne.

The room was eerily silent, save for the occasional creak of the ancient bones that adorned the throne.

“Amarantha’s little experiment...” His voice sliced through the stillness, every word edged with disdain.

Munin didn’t move. The King didn’t expect a response, nor would he tolerate one.

“...unsurprisingly,” he continued, his tone thick with mockery, “ was an abject failure.”

“But,” the King continued, his voice taking on a darker edge, “we did learn something from it.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and final. Munin kept her breathing steady, even as the weight of his gaze settled on her like iron chains.

“But,” he said, his voice dropping lower, darker, “we did learn something from it.”

The scrape of movement followed, the bones of his throne groaning as he rose. Each step he took echoed across the chamber, deliberate, unhurried. Munin remained still, her body taut, her face a carefully crafted mask of indifference.

“The High Lords of Prythian,” he said, his voice sharp and smooth as honed steel, “can be overpowered. Their strength is brittle. Leverage them correctly…” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “And they’ll shatter.”

Munin kept her gaze downcast, the sharp edges of his words cutting through the air above her. Orders would come soon. They always did.

Behind the throne, Dagdan leaned casually against the jagged bones arching skyward, his large frame a picture of stillness—but his sharp eyes betrayed him. Curiosity flickered there, gleaming as he studied the King. His gaze slid to Munin for the briefest of moments, before returning to his uncle.

Brannagh stood beside him, her arms crossed, her lips curved into a sneer that seemed designed for Munin alone. She didn’t bother hiding her disdain. Munin, kneeling and unmoving, didn’t acknowledge it.

“Do we have the right power over them?” Brannagh asked. Her voice, soft and venomous, slithered through the chamber.

The King paused, tilting his head toward her as if considering the question. A smile—thin and cold—tugged at his lips. “Almost,” he replied, the word weighted with malice. His gaze swept over his niece and nephew before returning to the empty space ahead of him. “We are close.”

Dagdan shifted, a flicker of awe crossing his features before it vanished. “You’ve found it,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “How?”

The King turned, his steps carrying him back toward his throne. His smile widened, a glint of triumph lighting his dark eyes. “While the High Lords were trapped under the Mountain, I pursued certain... leads. Quietly. Patiently. Leads that have taken me centuries to unravel.”

Munin’s breath was steady, controlled, even as her mind turned over his words.

“You’ve kept it secret all this time?” Dagdan asked, his gaze darkening.

“You kept it to yourself?” Dagdan pressed, his brows knitting together in something close to disbelief. “All this time?”

“I would trust no one,” The King said coldly, “until I was certain it was within my grasp.” He descended onto his throne, the bones creaking under his weight.

“Three years ago,” he continued, his voice lowering to a near whisper, “I retrieved it. From the depths of Lapplund.”

“Three years?” Brannagh’s sharp intake of breath was audible. “And you haven’t used it yet?”

The King’s expression tightened, and when he spoke, his voice cut sharper than any reprimand. “Of course not, girl. The Cauldron’s power is not a trinket to be toyed with. It is a force that could undo us all if mishandled. There are still pieces missing.”

“Missing pieces?” Dagdan asked, his tone more restrained.

“Yes,” the King said, his tone softening—like a hunter savoring the moments before a kill. “Removed centuries ago by those too fearful to wield true power. They scattered the fragments, ensuring the Cauldron could not be restored. Wise, perhaps. But not wise enough.” His thin lips curved into a cold smile. “Now, those pieces are within our grasp. And once we reclaim them... the High Lords will kneel. Prythian will fall.”

The Cauldron.

The word echoed in Munin’s mind. It had been some time since she’d heard it mentioned, but now, as it reverberated in the cold air of the throne room, it struck a chord of familiarity. Something important, something she should remember.

But the details eluded her, slipping through her mind like water through clenched fingers.

She kept her expression neutral, her face a mask of indifference as she knelt on the cold stone floor. She did not dare to show any flicker of recognition or confusion.

Brannagh’s lips curled into something too sharp to be a smile. “So we can’t use it yet,” she said, her voice edged with frustration. “All this talk of power, and we’re still waiting. Still scavenging. Do we even know where they are?”

We know where they are,” The King leaned back into the jagged sprawl of his bone throne, his tone smooth, almost idle. “Cesare. Itica. Sangravah. Scattered and hidden. The real challenge lies in retrieving them.”

““Retrieving them?” Brannagh’s voice rang out, sharp and questioning. Her expression was a blend of disdain and intrigue, her lips pressing into a thin line when the King did not deign to answer her.

Instead, his gaze slid to Munin. “Munin.”

She rose smoothly, the cold stone beneath her knees forgotten as she straightened to her full height. Her movements were precise, unhurried, her hands clasped loosely behind her back as she met his gaze.

“You will lead the charge to retrieve the missing feet of the Cauldron,” the King ordered, his voice hardening as he spoke.

Munin inclined her head in acknowledgment, her face devoid of expression, as if the command were no different from any other.

“The pieces will be heavily warded,” the King went on, his tone colder now. “I expect resistance. You will take a legion, and you will bring them back—intact.”

Behind the King’s throne, Brannagh shifted, her sharp exhale cutting through the silence. Munin felt the weight of her  glare pressing against her back, brimming with thinly veiled resentment.

But Munin did not look back. Brannagh’s ire was as irrelevant as the chill biting through the thin fabric of her garments.

“Do not fail me, Munin,” the King added, his gaze narrowing as he studied her.

Munin inclined her head again, her voice calm, quiet, but resolute. “I won’t.”

She turned and left without hesitation, her footsteps echoing softly in the chamber. Brannagh’s seething presence followed her, but Munin didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to. None of it mattered—the fury, the envy, the expectations. She was what she had always been: a blade waiting to cut.

Chapter 20

Notes:

So... this was the chapter that was really hard for me to write. The chapter that caused months worth of writer's block, and a struggle to really come back to it. I'm still not 100% happy with the way that this was portrayed, but here we are.

Munin is at Sangravah in this chapter, which means there is allusions to sexual assault happening in this chapter. I've updated the tags, but please take care of yourself - if you need to skip it, I totally understand.

She had the second piece.

The pulse of the Cauldron fragment hummed softly, steady against her side, even through the rough-hewn wood of the unassuming chest. It was a weight Munin barely noticed, though it radiated enough power to make her bones ache faintly, as if it sought to embed itself in her.

The dim corridor leading to the King’s throne room smelled of damp stone and stale air. Torchlight flickered weakly against the dark walls, the silence broken only by the faint creak of her boots as she walked. Dust clung to the hem of her cloak, from the skirmishes at Itica — the price paid for retrieving the piece.

The double doors loomed ahead, carved bone set into their black surface. They were closed. A sign, to most, that the King was not to be disturbed. But Munin did not pause. The guards flanking the doors glanced at her, one stiffening slightly as she approached but neither dared to stop her.

Not when the King wanted what she carried.

Her gloved hands pushed the doors open without ceremony, the ancient hinges groaning as light spilled from the room beyond.

Munin’s boots struck the stone floor, her steps slow as she crossed the long stretch of space to the dais. The weight of her cowl obscured her face, though she could feel the King’s dark gaze tracking her.

The King shifted slightly on his throne, leaning forward, the brittle sound of bone brushing against bone filling the room. His thin lips curled into what passed for a smile, though it did not touch his eyes.

But it wasn’t just his eyes that met hers.

To the King’s left, seated just below the dais, was a figure she hadn’t expected—broad-shouldered, golden-haired, with hands trembling faintly in his lap. His once-pristine armor was dulled, dirtied by travel, his green eyes sunken and bloodshot.

The High Lord of Spring.

Munin didn’t falter, her steps unbroken even as her gaze swept over him, cataloging the details of his appearance. His disheveled hair, the slight slump of his shoulders, the haunted look in his eyes—he was a male unraveling. She knew his name: Tamlin. It whispered through her hollow mind, dredged from faint, broken memories that meant nothing to her now.

Not after Dagdan had gotten a hold of her after her return.

Munin could only recall flashes—of Amarantha’s laughter, cruel and cutting, as she toyed with him. Of the mortal girl who had stolen his heart. A girl who had become something other.

Pathetic.

The thought slid through her mind, unbidden and immediate, as her gaze fell to his hands—shaking hands that clenched and unclenched, the tremor betraying his nerves.

The King of Hybern rose slightly from his throne, the ancient bones creaking beneath his shifting weight. His dark eyes gleamed with curiosity and something like amusement as Munin halted at the base of the dais.

He extended a hand, a simple gesture, commanding her forward.

The King’s voice broke the silence, sharp and low. “You have returned.”

She inclined her head, a wordless confirmation.

The King’s cold gaze flicked to the chest at her feet, lingering for a moment before he gestured lazily. “Bring it to me.”

Munin obeyed, the heavy fabric of her cloak brushing against the cold stone. When she reached the first step, she knelt, keeping her posture straight in front of the King. From beneath her cowl, she withdrew the worn wooden case.

The King’s gaze fixed on it, unblinking, before he bent and lifted the lid. From just beyond the lid of the box, Munin could see his black eyes widen a fraction. The temperature in the room dropped, the air tightening as if the chamber itself recoiled from the fragment’s presence.

A smile spread across his face, slow and wolfish, as he ran a hand over the pewter piece.

“At last,” he murmured, the words spilling into the silence like oil. Then, with a snap of his wrist, the lid closed, cutting off the glow, the pulse of magic retreating back into the wooden box.

He straightened, his voice carrying with an edge of satisfaction. “And without failure. As expected.”

The closest thing to praise she had ever heard from him.

Munin’s head remained bowed, her face shrouded beneath her cowl. She felt nothing, not pride, not relief. She did not serve for approval, for acknowledgment. She served because she was.

From the corner of her vision, she caught movement—small and hesitant.

Tamlin stepped forward, his boots scuffing against the stone as the King returned to this throne. His broad shoulders hunched slightly, his golden hair disheveled and falling into his desperate green eyes.

“You have the power to help me.” The words came out strained, his voice hoarse and raw. His eyes were locked, not on Munin, but at the King before her.

The King arched a brow, leaning forward as if savoring the words. “Help you?” he repeated, drawing out the syllables. His tone was light, mocking, each word a knife slipping between ribs. “You think I care to solve your problems, High Lord of Spring?”

Tamlin flinched, but the flicker of humiliation was quickly buried beneath something more desperate. “The Night Court has her.” His voice cracked slightly. “Rhysand took Feyre. I need—your aid to bring her back.”

The name—Rhysand—bounced through Munin’s hollow mind, stirring faint recognition. The High Lord of the Night Court. The thought floated there, detached and cold, stripped of any meaning.

The King’s laughter rumbled through the throne room, low and dangerous. “You’ve come here to beg? To bargain? How far you’ve fallen, Tamlin.”

The High Lord of Spring flinched, his jaw tightening as if the words had struck flesh.

“I don’t care what you think of me,” he said, his voice tight and raw. “Feyre needs to be freed from him. He—he has her under some spell, some manipulation.”

The King leaned forward slightly, the wicked amusement in his eyes sharpening into something more focused. His attention shifted abruptly, landing on Munin. “Munin.”

She rose without hesitation, the hem of her cloak brushing the polished floor. “My king.” Her voice was steady, a cool monotone devoid of feeling.

The King’s hand flicked lazily toward Tamlin.

“Tell me,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “What do you think of the High Lord’s plea?”

Munin’s eyes moved to Tamlin briefly—barely a glance—before returning to the King. “An alliance with the Spring Court could be of strategic value,” she said, her tone calm, measured. “But any action must be taken carefully. The Night Court will not sit idle.”

Tamlin’s head snapped toward her, a flicker of desperation igniting in his green eyes. “You agree, then,” he said quickly, his voice edged with a kind of frantic hope. “You see the importance of this.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge his plea. Her focus remained solely on the King. “A misstep could provoke retaliation,” she continued, her words deliberate. “If we act, it must be with precision.”

The King leaned back into his throne, a hand stroking his chin. “Wise, as always,” he murmured, the edges of his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Even my raven understands caution. Perhaps you should take notes, Tamlin.”

The High Lord of Spring stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides. For a moment, his eyes darted back to Munin, lingering on her as if trying to pierce through the shadows of her cowl. If she had been anyone else, the weight of his scrutiny might have made her shift or falter. But she didn’t. She held his gaze.

“This isn’t about caution,” Tamlin snapped, his voice rising, fraying at the edges. “It’s about saving her before it’s too late!”

The tension in the room thickened as Dagdan’s voice broke the silence. He emerged from behind the King’s throne — had he been there the whole time?

“Too late? If she’s in Rhysand’s clutches, it likely already is.” He didn’t even bother to look at Tamlin, his attention fixed on picking at a speck of nonexistent dirt on his armor. “And tell me, Tamlin, what makes you think she’d even want to be saved by you?”

Tamlin staggered back a step, his shoulders trembling as if he’d been struck. “You don’t understand,” he rasped, shaking his head. “Feyre doesn’t belong there. She belongs—” His voice cracked, raw with desperation. “She belongs with me. She’s mine—”

“Yours?” The King of Hybern’s voice rang out. He rose slowly from his throne, his towering form casting a long shadow that stretched toward Tamlin.

“Is that what you told yourself?” The words were venomous, his tone almost pitying. “Is that what you whispered in the dark as she walked willingly into his arms?”

Tamlin flinched, but his teeth clenched against the sting of those words. He stood his ground, shoulders squared but trembling, the fire in his green eyes dimming. “You don’t know anything about her,” he said, the words faltering. “You don’t know what she’s been through, what he’s done to her—”

The King’s smile widened, cruel and mocking. “Oh, but I do,” he said softly, descending the steps of the dais. “You think I don’t know exactly what Rhysand is capable of? What he’s done to her? Perhaps, Tamlin, the better question is: what haven’t you done for her?”

Munin was well familiar with the King’s taunt —she’d been on the receiving end of them many times. But with Tamlin…

The High Lord’s fists curled at his sides, the veins in his neck straining as he struggled to contain the storm of emotions roiling beneath his skin. She was certain that his beast form was just below the surface, itching to come out.

His gaze darted toward Munin, as if she might offer some word, some scrap of support. But Munin stood motionless, her cowl concealing any hint of expression.

Her hands rested loosely at her sides, her posture calm, detached. She watched the scene unfold with the same quiet focus she gave to all things. If she felt pity for the broken High Lord before her—or for the female he begged to save—she didn’t allow it to reach her thoughts. She simply waited.

The King stopped before Tamlin, his smile gone now, replaced by a glint of something colder in his dark eyes. “If you want my help,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “you will give me something in return.”

Tamlin froze. “What… what do you want?” His voice wavered, but he forced himself to meet the King’s gaze, even as his hands trembled.

The King tilted his head, almost amused by the question.

“Oh, it’s simple,” he said, his tone light but deadly. “If this is to be a true alliance, I want access to your lands. My armies, my kin—they will need to move freely. No borders, no restrictions.”

Tamlin’s lips parted, his chest heaving as he struggled for words. His gaze flicked back to Munin, searching for something—anything—in her shrouded figure.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She simply stood there, still as a blade waiting to strike.

Tamlin’s shoulders sagged, and the fight drained from his face. He dipped his head, his voice breaking as he said, “Fine.” A pause. Then quieter, as if surrendering the last piece of himself: “Whatever it takes.”

The King’s laughter echoed in the chamber, rich and victorious. He turned his back on Tamlin, his interest in the Spring Court’s High Lord already waning. His attention fell on Munin, standing silent and steady at the base of the throne.

“You are done here,” the King said, his tone brisk, dismissive. “Prepare for Sangravah next.”

---

Sangravah was peaceful.

It wouldn’t be for long.

Munin stood on the ridge, the night air cool against her skin. Below, the temple sprawled in quiet elegance—white stone kissed by faint lantern light, its tall spires piercing the sky. Dense trees framed it on all sides, their shadows spilling across the grounds. The faint rustle of leaves and the occasional creak of wood filled the silence, sounds swallowed by the weight of what was to come.

Behind her, the legion stirred.

Restless males shifted in their armor, whispers weaving through the ranks like snakes in the grass. There anticipation was palpable — Munin could smell their excitement.

A heavy step crunched against loose stone. Munin didn’t turn, didn’t need to. The captain of the legions came to stand behind her, broad and brutal as the soldiers he commanded. Scars marred his face, catching the faint light, and his eyes flicked toward her, waiting.

She let the silence stretch, her gaze fixed on the temple below. The priestesses would be inside, she knew. Some awake, praying perhaps. Others sleeping, their trust in the sanctity of their temple as fragile as the lantern flames dotting its grounds.

Finally, she spoke, her voice calm and unyielding. “Prepare your males. The temple must fall.”

The captain’s gaze shifted to the peaceful scene below, his expression hardening. “The priestesses won’t surrender quietly,” he said, his voice low, rough. He hesitated. “There are younglings there too. We’ll hear their screams before it’s done.”

Munin turned her head slightly, the cowl casting her face in shadow, “The children are not our concern.”

“And if they resist?” he asked carefully. The captain’s jaw worked, tensions coiling in the set of his shoulders. “If the priestesses stand their ground?”

Munin stepped closer, her boots soundless against the rocky ground. She looked up at him for a moment too long, letting the weight of it settle between them. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, colder. “By any means necessary. Do you understand me?”

His lips pressed into a hard line, but he dipped his head in a curt nod, “Understood.”

Munin turned back to the ridge, dismissing him with a glance. The captain barked orders over his shoulder, his voice sharp, cutting through the night. The males roared their approval, the sound raw and bloodthirsty. It tore through the stillness like a jagged wound, setting her teeth on edge.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, her gaze locked on the temple. Lantern light flickered against pale stone, the shadows shifting as if alive.

The faintest sound reached her ears—soft, distant laughter, carried on the breeze. Not the soldiers. Higher-pitched. It was the children.

She let it pass through her like smoke. It was just noise. This was just another mission.

The captain returned to her side, his armor glinting faintly under the moonlight. “We’re ready,” he said, his tone clipped, professional.

Munin’s eyes didn’t leave the temple. “Then begin.”

The captain gave a short, sharp nod before turning, raising his hand. The legion moved as one, descending the ridge like shadows come to life.

Munin stood motionless, watching the first flickers of chaos bloom below—the glint of blades, the shouts of the priestesses, the panicked scuffle of bare feet against stone.

The temple of Sangravah had been peaceful. It wouldn’t be for long.

The Hybern soldiers descended upon the temple. Screams pierced the night—high, broken cries of the priestesses mingled with the crash of steel against stone. The white steps of Sangravah glistened red under the flicker of lantern light.

Munin didn’t look. She didn’t need to. The chaos behind her was loud enough, violent enough, to leave no question of its outcome. Her focus was sharp, fixed on the faint pulse of magic within the temple walls.

The soldiers had their task. Munin had hers.

The sharp tang of blood and smoke burned her throat, as she slipped past the melee.. A body—a priestess, throat slit—slumped against a pillar, her hand still clutching a wooden staff.

 Munin stepped over her without pause.

Inside, the air was cooler, quieter. The thick stone walls muffled the violence outside, though the faint echoes of screams still pressed against her ears. Munin slipped through the main hall, her steps silent on the polished stone. The walls gleamed with faint carvings of the Mother—arms outstretched, head tilted back. Faint prayers had been etched beneath the images, though centuries of wear rendered most of the words unreadable.

Prayers that would now go unanswered.

She moved deeper, past doors thrown open in haste, past robes discarded in fear. The air thickened with every step, the magic growing stronger.

She was getting closer.

A whisper reached her ears. She turned her head, saw a group of priestesses huddled in an alcove. Their robes were streaked with dirt and blood, their hands clasped in prayer. One of them looked up, her face pale beneath the lantern’s glow.

Wide, turquoise eyes locked on Munin’s shadowed figure. Fear spilled across the female’s features, her lips trembling with words she didn’t dare say aloud.

Munin stared back, unblinking. Then she turned and continued down the hall, the priestess’s whispered prayers trailing after her.

A faint sound drew her attention—a rustle, a sniffle. Munin slowed, turning her head toward an alcove half-hidden behind a tapestry.

A child stood there, no older than seven, clutching a small carved figure in trembling hands. A prayer whispered from her lips, almost soundless, as she stared at Munin with wide, tear-filled eyes. The figure—a simple depiction of the Mother—shook in her grip.

The child flinched as Munin stepped closer, her boots soft against the stone. For a moment, they stood in silence.

“Will you kill me?” the girl whispered, her voice so quiet Munin barely heard it.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words—the question—hung in the air between them, heavy and accusing.

The girl’s lip trembled, her grip tightening on the carving. “She will protect me,” she said, her voice wavering. “The Mother will protect me.”

Munin’s shadows flickered faintly, wrapping closer around her shoulders. She stared at the child—at her wide eyes, so like the priestess from earlier. For a single, fleeting moment, doubt flickered in the void of her mind.

“Go,” Munin said, her voice quiet.

The child only blinked.

“Now.”

The girl didn’t hesitate. She ran, her bare feet slapping against the stone as she disappeared down the hall. The sound of her retreat faded quickly, leaving only the hum of magic pressing against Munin’s senses.

Munin straightened, her hands steady as she turned away. The doubt—the flicker—vanished as quickly as it had come. She moved forward, her steps as sure as ever.

The staircase loomed before her, spiraling into the depths of the temple. The magic pulsed like a living thing now, humming in her veins, calling her closer. Above, the screams and shouts of battle continued, distant and hollow against the weight of the temple’s walls.

Munin descended, the pull of the Cauldron piece guiding her every step.

The air thickened as Munin stepped into the chamber. Magic hummed against her skin, faint vibrations traveling up her arms as if trying to burrow into her veins. Her breathing slowed and her steps shortened.

The piece of the Cauldron was close now.

Shadows crowded the room. The dim lantern above swung faintly, casting trembling light over the chamber. At its heart stood a pedestal, carved from stone.

The artifact seemed to thrum faintly in the dim light. Munin stopped, her boots scuffing lightly against the uneven floor. The piece was smaller than she expected—unremarkable at first glance.

But the power rolling off it was anything but.

Her gaze flicked over the room, her body going rigid as she caught the faint shimmer in the air around the pedestal.

Wards.

They were subtle—finely crafted, their edges near-invisible in the low light. But the quiet hum they emitted was unmistakable.

Munin drew a thin knife from her belt. She stepped forward carefully, her free hand tracing patterns in the air, testing the space ahead.

The first ward snapped to life—a twisting, golden arc that lashed toward her with startling speed. Munin shifted, and poured all of her magic into the knife in her hand before slicing through its core in one clean motion.

The ward hissed, sparks flaring briefly before it dissipated.

More light flared, the wards reacting now in rapid succession. A pulse of magic shot out at her from the right, another upward from the floor. She twisted, her knife cutting down each ward as they came.

A single thread slipped past her guard, nicking her arm. The sting was sharp and searing, the faint scent of burned leather rising from her sleeve.

But she didn’t react as the last pulse of magic charged at her – she only raised her dagger, pouring all of her magic into it once more.

The final ward unraveled in a burst of golden sparks, and the room fell still. Munin straightened, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as she sheathed her knife.

The artifact pulsed again.

She approached the pedestal. The closer she got, the heavier the air felt, each breath dragging against her ribs. Her fingers hesitated above the fragment. A faint vibration crawled up her arm, almost imperceptible, but enough to send a flicker of unease through her.

She closed her hand around the piece.

The surge hit instantly.

It wasn’t pain—it was something deeper, a raw force that clawed its way through her body, setting her nerves alight. Her knees buckled slightly, but she didn’t let go. She was used to this, after retrieving the previous two pieces of the Cauldron for her King.

Her grip tightened, her breaths coming fast and shallow. A shadow—no, a presence—pressed against the edge of her thoughts, like unseen eyes watching, waiting. The chamber felt suddenly alive, every inch of it vibrating with something she couldn’t name.

Munin forced herself to stand, her body trembling with the effort. The sense of dread curled deeper in her chest, heavy and smothering. But she shoved it aside.

Focus. Get out.

With the piece of the Cauldron cradled in her hands, she turned toward the exit, her steps quick but steady. Whatever waited in the shadows of this temple—whatever that presence was—she wouldn’t linger long enough to find out.

The chamber was silent as Munin made her way out, her boots clicking softly against the worn stone floor. The weight of the Cauldron piece pressed against her chest, tucked beneath her uniform.

Its power pulsed in time with her heartbeat, erratic and hot. Her skin prickled with the energy coiled inside it, the sensation biting at her composure. It knew what had been done to retrieve it—what it had cost.

Munin’s breathing remained even, her steps steady, though unease stirred low in her gut. She pushed it aside. Focus was all that mattered now.

Cool night air hit her as she stepped outside. The acrid scent of smoke hung heavy, mingling with the iron tang of blood. Fires crackled in jagged streaks across the temple grounds, casting fractured light against the broken stone walls. Shadows leapt and danced with the flames, twisting the carnage into something almost unreal.

Bodies littered the earth—soldiers in their dark armor, priestesses in pale robes stained crimson. Some were still, others twitching faintly in their final moments. The cries of the wounded echoed around her, jagged and raw. Somewhere deeper in the temple, children whimpered—too faint for most to hear, but the sound curled around her.

She moved through the ruins with quickly, stepping over debris and bodies alike. The hem of her uniform brushed against the blood-slick stone as she neared the chamber where the priestesses had huddled earlier. It was empty now, save for the faint, metallic tang lingering in the air.

Munin stilled, her head tilting. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision—a soldier, his bulky frame hunched over a struggling priestess. He had her pinned to the ground, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other pressing her wrists into the dirt.

Her muffled cries reached Munin, faint but jagged. The priestess’s legs kicked weakly, scraping against the blood-soaked ground.

Munin’s gaze locked on the scene, her posture rigid. The soldier’s weight shifted as he snarled something low, guttural, the words lost to the chaos around them. The priestess thrashed beneath him, her movements frantic but futile.

Munin’s lips parted. A single order sat heavy on her tongue, unspoken.

The soldier turned slightly, his face shadowed by the firelight. There was no hesitation in his movements, no flicker of pity for the priestess pinned underneath him

She closed her mouth. By any means necessary. She had said it herself—had given the command. She’d needed the distraction to get in, get the piece of the Cauldron, and get back out.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, the magic of the Cauldron piece humming against her skin. For a moment, she stood there.

And then she turned, her gaze pinned forward as she walked away.

A flicker of motion drew her eye. Munin froze, her breath catching for half a heartbeat as she turned. A shadow moved through the smoldering ruins. It didn’t belong to the flickering firelight or the shifting chaos of the temple grounds.

It was darker—more deliberate.

The shadow slowed at the edge of her vision, solidifying. Munin’s muscles tightened beneath her uniform as the figure stepped into the fractured light, the bloodied earth crunching faintly under his boots. Wings flared wide behind him, their black span framing him like some wrathful god. The faint gleam of blue siphons caught the firelight, and recognition sank its claws into her chest.

“You.” His voice cut through the air. Shadows writhed at his feet, curling like smoke in the breeze. “I’ve seen what you’ve done.”

Munin’s chin lifted slightly, her expression concealed beneath the cowl. She didn’t reach for her blade, didn’t move. The pulse of the Cauldron piece beneath her armor beat against her ribs like a second heart.

Instead, she waited.

The shadowsinger’s hazel eyes burned, locking onto hers. “You ordered this.” He gestured to the wreckage around them, the ruined temple, the scattered bodies. “All of it. This slaughter.”

Her silence seemed to stoke his fury. His lips curled, his voice rising. “You won’t even deny it, will you?”

Munin’s breathing remained steady, her fingers loose at her sides. The copper tang of blood and the acrid scent of burning wood filled the air between them. She let him speak. Let his words hang in the charged stillness.

She would not dignify the shadowsinger with a response. It was not what she was there to do.

The shadowsinger’s steps brought him closer. His shadows writhed and twisted, stretching toward her like they meant to lash out.

“Do you feel nothing?” he demanded, his voice edged with raw disbelief. “Not even for them?”

He jerked his chin toward the remnants of the temple, where faint cries still echoed—pleas, sobs. The remnants of faith being torn apart.

Munin remained unmoving, her gaze steady beneath her mask’s shadow. She didn’t glance toward the wreckage, didn’t acknowledge the soldier and the priestess in the distance. She just—stood. The weight of his fury pressed against her like a tangible thing, but her own fury lay buried too deep to surface. Her stillness was an answer in itself.

Azriel’s shadows snapped back, curling close to his body. His voice dropped lower, colder, a blade’s edge. “You let that happen.” His gaze shifted briefly to the soldier in the distance, his mouth a hard line. “You’re as much a monster as the rest of them.”

And she was. Munin didn’t deny it — the fact was that she didn’t care.

She didn’t have the capacity to care.

He moved without warning. The dagger that had been sheathed at his side only a moment ago flashed toward her throat. Munin stepped aside easily, the blade slicing through the air just inches from her skin.

Her sword came free with a whisper of steel. The first clash of their weapons rang sharp, loud enough to cut through the cries of priestesses and wails of children. Sparks lit the space between them, gone as quickly as they appeared.

She pivoted, her sword angling sharply to deflect a blow aimed at her ribs. His dagger skidded off her blade with a shriek of metal. He came again, faster this time, feinting high before slashing low. She blocked the low strike, her boots scraping against loose stone as she steadied herself.

"Who sent you?" His voice was low, cold, and edged like a blade itself.

She didn’t answer. Her focus stayed on his movements, her breathing even despite the tension coiled in her muscles.

The male’s wings flared as he stepped back, circling her, his dagger spinning once in his hand.

"Are you still with Hybern?" he asked, almost casually.

Munin shifted her weight, adjusting her stance. She didn’t flinch, didn’t rise to the bait.

"Mercenary, then?" He lunged, his blade slicing downward in a brutal arc. Munin twisted, sidestepping the strike, her sword flashing as she drove him back. But his wings snapped out again, the force of it throwing her slightly off balance.

She stumbled, catching herself just in time to meet his next attack. Their blades clashed again, the sound sharp and jarring in the ruined courtyard. He was fast—almost impossibly fast. His shadows swirled and darted in her periphery, threatening to distract, but she kept her focus locked on him.

"Who do you answer to?" he demanded, his frustration bleeding into his voice as he drove her back with a series of punishing strikes.

Again, she said nothing. She dropped low to avoid his next swing, kicking out sharply. Her boot caught his shin, and the impact made him hiss through his teeth, staggering back. But his shadows surged, snapping at her like living things, forcing her to spring away before she could press her advantage.

His gaze raked over her then, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. He paused, his head cocking to the side.

"An Illyrian, perhaps?" he said, his voice turning quieter. His eyes narrowed. "You fight like one. You look like one."

Illyrian. The word hit harder than his blade ever could. Munin’s sword faltered mid-swing, the hesitation so brief it was almost imperceptible. Almost.

He noticed.

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Ah," he said softly, shadows curling tighter around his shoulders. "That struck a nerve."

It had… but why?

Munin recovered quickly, her blade snapping back into position, her face blank beneath the cowl. But it was too late—he’d seen it.

He attacked again, harder this time, his blade slamming into hers with enough force to drive her back a step. Her boots slid against the blood-slicked stones as she fought to hold her ground.

The male didn’t relent. He was on her in a heartbeat, his dagger flashing toward her side. She twisted to avoid it, but his free hand caught her shoulder, shoving her off balance. Her back hit the ground hard, the impact jarring, her sword skittering from her grasp.

He loomed over her, shadows writhing at his feet, his dagger raised. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice low, edged with something dangerous.

Munin didn’t answer. She rolled sharply, grabbing a loose stone from the ground and hurling it at him. He deflected it easily, but the distraction gave her just enough time to retrieve her blade and surge to her feet.

A scream split the chaos, sharp and raw.

The male’s head snapped toward the sound —towards the priestess that Munin had walked by just moments before, his wings shifting as if ready to take flight. The priestess’s cries grew louder, breaking through the clamor of the dying temple.

Munin could hear the laugh of the soldiers.

The Shadowsinger froze, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked back to Munin. His eyes burned—hazel, lit with fury and something far colder.

“Damn it,” he muttered, low and rough, the words barely audible over the crackle of distant flames.

His hesitation lasted only a heartbeat. The raw fury in his gaze promised their fight wasn’t over, but he turned, wings slicing through the air as he launched himself toward the sound.

Munin didn’t move. She watched him cut through the smoke, shadows trailing him like ribbons. He struck with brutal force, wrenching the soldier off the priestess. The male didn’t even have time to cry out before shadows enveloped him, smothering the scene in a swirl of darkness.

The priestess’s sobs rose. Munin caught a glimpse of her trembling figure, huddled on the bloodstained ground, before the shadows swallowed them both.

For a moment, Munin stood there, her breath steady. The temple groaned in its death throes around her—stone walls blackened with soot, the air thick with smoke and iron. And beneath her uniform, the piece of the Cauldron pulsed steadily against her chest.

Turning away, Munin adjusted the artifact, its hum sinking into her skin, into her veins. She stepped over the rubble, her boots finding purchase on the uneven ground. The cries and chaos behind her grew softer with each step.

The destruction—smoke, fire, bodies—blurred into the background, the temple shrinking with every measured stride.

The fires burned on, but Munin didn’t look back. She had what she came for.

Nothing else mattered.

Chapter 21

Notes:

Thank you so much for the response to the last chapter. It means so much to me!

She’d been summoned, immediately upon her return to Hybern, not to the throne room —but to the dungeons.

Munin’s orders had come the moment she’d stepped through the fortress gates, her armor still streaked with blood and soot from Sangravah. A silent courier, pale and trembling, had handed her the missive without a word.

No explanation. No delay allowed.

She didn’t bother changing out of her leathers. The dried blood flaking across her vambraces and the sharp tang of iron clinging to her gloves wouldn’t matter where she was going. The King wouldn’t care about her appearance. He would only care about what she was carrying.

The path to the dungeons was one she knew well.

Etched into her memory from long ago, when she had first come to be in Hybern. In fact, it was one of her earliest memories.

Each step downward brought the familiar chill—a damp, clinging cold that seeped through her boots and set her teeth on edge. The torches lining the spiraling staircase flickered in uneven intervals, casting jagged shadows on the stone walls.

She didn’t need the light to guide her.

Even after all this time, the way was burned into her bones.

The air grew heavier as she descended. The metallic tang of blood, sweat, and decay settled on her tongue. Faint groans drifted from the cells she passed. Something scurried across the stones—a rat or worse—but she didn’t flinch.

She never had.

Munin pressed further down, deeper than she’d ever been. She couldn’t remember a time she’d been called this far below. But the King had insisted — the missive had summoned her to the lowest point of the dungeons.

Whatever waited for her, it was not her place to question it.

Her footsteps echoed as she descended, but her mind wandered, unbidden, to the mission she’d just completed.

The Cauldron piece still throbbed faintly against her chest, hidden beneath her uniform. She’d felt the pulse of magic next to her skin the entire flight back to Hybern. Even now, her skin tingled from where it had touched her bare hands, the residue of its ancient magic seeping into her veins.

But her mission had been a success.

It did not matter about the priestesses—their screams, the way they clutched their precious artifacts as if they could stop Hybern’s forces. They hadn’t. Her armies had provided the perfect distraction, looting the temple and attacking the priestesses while she had searched for the piece of the Cauldron.

It had gone exactly as planned.

Except for the shadowsinger.

Her jaw tightened at the memory of him, the way he’d moved in the fight. He’d been well-trained, but that hadn’t surprised her. In the few instances she’d fought him, his skill had matched her own. She suspected it had something to do with his position serving the High Lord of the Night Court.

And yet, it wasn’t his skill that lingered. It was the questions that he asked her. The way his eyes, shadowed and unreadable, had searched her face—probing for something she didn’t understand.

The thought made her skin crawl.

What did he see when he looked at her?

Illyrian. The word echoed in her mind, still. She had to push it from her thoughts a few times on the flight back to Hybern. She wasn’t sure why the word stirred something deep within her.

She hated that she wondered, hated the flicker of curiosity that stirred in her chest at the memory of him. Of the questions he asked her.

Her grip on the stone railing tightened, the sharp edge of her gauntlet biting into her palm. The shadowsinger was a problem, nothing more. His curiosity made him dangerous— he was a hindrance to her mission.

The scream of the priestess echoed again in her mind, the shadowsinger’s hesitation as he’d turned toward the sound, torn between duty and instinct. That hesitation, too, had piqued her interest—until it hadn’t.

She shoved the thoughts aside, burying them beneath layers of steel and discipline.

Perhaps she should tell Dagdan.

But even that thought turned sour in her mouth. She could already imagine the glint of his pale eyes, the cruel twist of his lips as he leaned too close. The pain that he would gleefully inflict as he probed into her memories. Dagdan didn’t need more reasons to meddle in her mind.

And yet…

She descended another step, the cold of the dungeons creeping into her bones. She told herself she was only being practical, that the shadowsinger was a potential threat to her mission.

Nothing more.

She didn’t allow herself to wonder why her mind kept drifting back to him.

The faint murmur of voices filtered through the winding stone corridor, breaking the spell of her wandering mind. She straightened, her movements automatic, her body sliding back into its role as weapon.

When she finally entered the chamber, the sight before her caused her to halt in her tracks.

The Cauldron.

It dominated the room, perched on a stone ledge that elevated it above the ground. It pulsed faintly, alive in a way that set her teeth on edge. Munin faltered, just slightly, before forcing herself forward. It wasn’t fear. She refused to call it fear.

Perhaps awe—if she could feel such a thing anymore.

“Munin,” came the King’s voice, filling the cavernous room. He stood beside the Cauldron, the brazier’s flickering light casting sharp lines across his features. His expression was one of satisfaction, his eyes glinting with something darker. “Our most loyal hound.”

Munin automatically dropped into a low bow, her voice flat. “It was done as you commanded, my King.”

The King’s smile curved, more knife than warmth. “And so obedient. Always.”

He gestured for her to step forward, and she obeyed without hesitation, her boots silent on the cold stone floor. Reaching beneath her armor, she withdrew the fragment of the Cauldron and held it up to the King. The artifact’s faint thrumming still pulsed against her fingertips.

Before she could hand it to him, Dagdan stepped forward.

“Well, well,” Dagdan’s pale eyes flicked over her, lingering just a little too long. “You never fail, do you?”

Of course, she didn’t. Dagdan had seen to that, personally.

He took the fragment from her hand, his fingers brushing hers deliberately, the touch lingering. Munin kept her face blank, though the urge to recoil prickled beneath her skin.

Dagdan turned toward the King, holding the fragment aloft like a trophy. “The King’s hound, bringing us the world on a leash.”

His words earned a faint chuckle from the King, but Dagdan’s attention returned to Munin, his sharp smile spreading as he stepped closer. Slowly, deliberately, he placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm.

“You’ve done well,” he murmured, his voice low.

Munin didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She stood like stone, her eyes fixed on the Cauldron, though its power pressed against her like an invisible weight.

Dagdan’s hand slid down her arm, his fingers tracing the length of her armor as though testing it’s edge. “So silent, so obedient,” he mused, his voice thick as his thumb grazed her wrist, deliberate and slow. “Tell me, Munin, did they beg? Did they scream for mercy when you tore it from them?”

When she didn’t respond, his grip shifted, fingers pressing just a little harder against the pulse at her wrist. He leaned in, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.

“You can tell me,” he whispered, his tone honeyed and cruel. “Did it thrill you, knowing they couldn’t stop you? Knowing you had all that power in your hands?” His gaze dipped, crawling over her face, her throat, as though trying to peel her apart layer by layer. “Perhaps you enjoyed it. Did you, my perfect weapon?”

Munin’s stomach churned, but her expression didn’t waver. She didn’t need to give Dagdan a reason to enter into her mind. She kept her eyes on the Cauldron.

His hand lingered a moment longer before he finally stepped back with a smirk. His eyes swept over her one last time before he turned to the King, raising the fragment high once more.

“The Cauldron is whole, my King,” Dagdan declared, his voice ringing with triumph.

Dagdan shifted to the side with a smirk, revealing a figure that had been hidden in the shadows—a slender female, golden-haired and wrapped in pristine blue robes.

Munin bristled, her mind immediately thinking of the priestesses at Sangravah. But this female was different. Her head was held high, a polished golden circlet catching the faint light.

She wore the kind of smile Munin had seen often in Hybern’s court: practiced, self-assured, and dripping with something too slick to trust.

High Priestess Ianthe,” The King said, gesturing to her as if presenting a prized trophy. “She has been most... cooperative in ensuring our alliance with the Spring Court.”

Ianthe stepped forward, the long train of her robes whispering against the stone floor. Her pale eyes swept over Munin with a kind of clinical interest, assessing her as though she were inspecting a blade for its sharpness.

“So this is the one who delivered the final piece,” Ianthe said smoothly. Her voice was warm, melodic even, but there was an undercurrent of condescension.

“You don’t look like much,” Ianthe continued, her lips curving into a sharper smile. “And yet here you are.”

Munin met her gaze, unflinching, her voice as cold and even as the stone beneath their feet. “Here I am.”

Ianthe’s smile faltered, just slightly, before she regained her composure. She tilted her head, her tone turning almost playful. “Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“Perhaps.” Munin’s response was clipped, final. She wasn’t used to conversation, and the idea that Ianthe thought there might be more to her was enough to make her shift on her feet. She let the silence stretch, refusing to rise to whatever game Ianthe was trying to play.

The tension between them hung in the air like the lingering hum of a blade, but Dagdan’s voice broke it. “Let’s not waste any more time,” he said, stepping toward the altar.

Munin turned her attention to him, watching as he held the fragment aloft. The artifact glowed faintly in his hand, its dark surface catching the flickering torchlight.

The shift in the air was immediate.

It started as a faint buzz that brushed against her skin. But it grew rapidly, surging outward like a wave. The chamber seemed to darken, the light flickering wildly as the Cauldron’s power stirred.

Munin’s pulse quickened. The magic pressed against her chest, her mind, like probing fingers testing her resolve. She gritted her teeth, steeling herself against the invasive force.

Dagdan approached the altar, the fragment still in his hand. He paused at the Cauldron’s edge, glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes met Munin’s, and a sly smile spread across his face.

“Watch closely, Munin,” he said, his voice low and intimate, as though this moment was meant for her alone. “You wouldn’t want to miss history being made.”

Her jaw tightened, but she gave no response.

With care, Dagdan placed the fragment into the Cauldron. The sound it made—a low, resonant hum—rippled through the chamber. It wasn’t just audible; it was physical, vibrating through her bones, through the very stone beneath her feet.

The moment the fragment settled, the Cauldron surged to life. Its black surface rippled violently, light erupting from its depths in blinding, searing waves. The air in the room turned electric, crackling with raw, ancient power. The ground beneath them trembled, cracks spiderwebbing across the stone floor.

Munin staggered, her knees threatening to give out as the Cauldron’s power surged through her. It was overwhelming—terrible and beautiful in equal measure. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, nails digging into her palms, a sharp, grounding pain that kept her from succumbing to the sensation.

The King’s laughter broke through the chaos, echoing off the stone walls.

“It is complete,” he said, his voice tinged with something reverent. He stood near the Cauldron, his sharp features alight with satisfaction.

Munin barely dared to look at it—the Cauldron, whole and thrumming with life. Its black surface rippled faintly, the torchlight warping as it reflected off its gleaming, liquid-like exterior. It seemed to watch her, to know her, and the weight of its attention was unbearable.

A scoff cut through the King’s moment of triumph. Dagdan. Of course.

“So, it’s complete,” Dagdan drawled, away from the Cauldron and towards the King. His smirk stretched wide, his dark eyes gleaming with something too sharp to be curiosity. “But how do we know it actually works? The legends spoke of unimaginable power—do we just take its word for it?”

Munin turned her head slightly, her gaze flicking to Dagdan.

Brannagh, silent as ever, moved to his side. She gave a small nod, her cold eyes shifting briefly to the King before returning to the Cauldron. The King didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on the Cauldron, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at Dagdan.

“We test it, of course,” he said, his tone calm, almost amused.

Dagdan arched a brow, but whatever reply he might have given was swallowed by the sudden chill that swept through the room. Magic seemed to coil around the King’s fingers. He raised one hand, and from the void, a book appeared n the other.

The spell book hovered in front of the King, its cover bound in leather, its surface worn and weathered by time. The faint scent of dust and something darker—something metallic—filled the room as the book settled into his waiting hands.

Munin’s eyes narrowed, her attention fixed on the artifact. How much of the King’s power was tied to that thing? From somewhere in the depths of her mind, a memory threatened to resurface. The same book, these same dungeons…

A sharp, phantom pain radiated along her back, just where her wings would be if she had summoned them.

Munin watched as the King opened the book with care, his fingers gliding over the yellowed edges of the pages.

“Ah,” the King murmured, stopping on a page. His smile sharpened, his eyes glinting with a terrible kind of glee. “This will do.”

Munin stood rigid, the edges of her vision narrowing slightly as the Cauldron’s presence spiked, filling every crevice of the room.

The King’s smile widened, sharp and cold. “Let us see what it is truly capable of.”

From the folds of his robe, the King pulled a small, ornate ring. Its delicate etchings caught the flickering torchlight,. But it wasn’t the intricate patterns that made Munin’s stomach twist.

Set into the band, unblinking, unnervingly vivid, was a human eye.

She knew that ring. Everyone had known it. Amarantha had flaunted it—a reminder of what she was capable of. That unblinking eye, always on her finger, always watching.

And now, here it was, resting in the King’s hand as though it had always belonged there.

Dagdan’s brow arched, a slow grin curving his mouth.

“Jurian,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue with something close to disbelief. Awe tinged the edges, but faint, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “You’re going to bring Jurian back?”

 “Precisely.” The King’s gaze turned to the Cauldron, its dark, liquid-like surface still rippling faintly. “A perfect test of its power. If it can weave a soul back into a body, then there is truly nothing it cannot do.”

The mad human general, whose body had been used, twisted, and broken into something grotesque—why would the King want him alive again? Her breathing slowed, measured. She kept her face blank, her eyes locked on the King. She didn’t allow herself to fidget, to react. To do so would mean weakness.

The King moved slowly, as if he were in no rush to complete the task — as if he were relishing it. He opened the spell book, its worn leather creaking faintly. His voice was low as it filled the chamber. From somewhere in the depths of her memory, she recognized the ancient language of the Fae. She couldn’t recall the meaning, but it was enough to set Munin on edge.

The air thickened. Munin found herself leaning back, her shoulder blades pressed against the cold stone wall.

Dagdan stood close to the altar, his head slightly cocked, his expression one of fascination. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. Brannagh stood at his side, her icy mask unshaken, though her fingers twitched at her sides. The priestess, however, was less composed. She watched the Cauldron with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open. But even in her, there was still hungry fascination.

Munin didn’t dare blink. She didn’t dare move.

The King held the ring aloft, his chanting reaching a crescendo. The eye seemed to pulse in his grip, its gaze more alive, more aware. Then, with a decisive motion, he placed it into the Cauldron.

No sound followed. No splash of metal meeting liquid. It disappeared into the darkness, the surface swallowing it whole, like it had never existed.

The room held its breath.

And then, the Cauldron surged.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the leather of her gloves creaking under the pressure. The Cauldron churned like a living thing, rippling and boiling. Munin's jaw tightened as she forced her breath to remain steady, a dull ache settling in her chest.

What would come out of that thing? She kept her expression neutral, though a flicker of unease nagged at the back of her mind. And once it was done, what would they unleash next?

The ripples grew violent, light spilling from the Cauldron’s depths in blinding flashes. Dust and shards of stone rained from the ceiling as the chamber trembled.

It pressed into her—against her skin, her bones, her mind. Her breath caught in her throat, and for one suffocating moment, she thought the room itself might collapse.

And then it stopped.

The light dimmed. The Cauldron stilled, its surface eerily smooth, the silence that followed more deafening than the chaos.

Munin exhaled slowly, suppressing any response as steam rose from the Cauldron, thick tendrils curling and dissipating into the air.

A figure rose from its depths.

Her eyes narrowed at the figure. Steam and shadows clung to his body, obscuring his form until they drifted away like smoke. Pale skin gleamed in the faint light, whole and unmarked. His features were sharp, familiar, but his eyes—

She knew those eyes.

Jurian.

The human general had been remade.

Munin didn’t move. She couldn’t. Every muscle in her body locked tight, as if to flinch might draw those burning eyes to her.

The King stepped forward, his expression carved from triumph. “Welcome back,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Jurian stood still, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign he was alive. His gaze dropped to his hands, pale fingers curling and uncurling as though testing their strength. Then, his head snapped up, his eyes fixing on the King.

“Where am I?” His voice was rough, low, as if dragged from the depths of the Cauldron itself.

The King chuckled, a sound too light, too mocking. “Where you belong.”

Munin’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to remain still. Her pulse hammered in her ears as the implications clawed their way through her mind.

The Cauldron had done it. It had taken a soul, shattered and long dead, and returned it. Whole and alive.

A flicker of discontent tugged at the corners of her mind, but she shoved it away. The King’s power was absolute, and her role was clear.

She stood as a weapon, unfeeling and resolute, a silent witness to the dark potential now unleashed. There would be no stopping the King—not with that kind of power in his hands.

---

The human queens had requested an audience with the King.

It was to be their second audience, in reality. Though Munin had not been present for the first of them. She’d been hunting the pieces of the Cauldron, and her presence had not been required.

The King, however, orered her to attend this one.

Munin stood at the edge of the throne room, behind Brannagh and Dagdan, who stood flanking the King’s throne. Her dark armor melded seamlessly with the walls; it was how the King preferred her — in the shadows until she was needed.

There was a subtle shift in the air, a faint disturbance behind her, and she tensed for a split second. She didn’t flinch—never flinched—but her gaze flickered to the side.

Standing there, as though he had always been there, was Jurian.

She didn’t acknowledge him at first, her expression as unreadable as always. She hadn’t heard him approach. But the presence of the human—no longer broken, no longer shattered—was unmistakable. He was standing far too close, the faint hum of his magic barely perceptible against her senses.

Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing. What did he want? Why was he here?

Had the King instructed him to wait here as well?

Jurian stood next to her, his gaze directed toward the grand entrance where the queens would soon appear.

He met her eyes for a brief moment, his lips curling slightly. "Not what I expected," he muttered under his breath, his voice low but clear. "But I suppose you never really get to choose what’s given, do you?"

Munin didn’t respond, only shifting her weight slightly. She focused on the door.

The queens entered shortly after, their gowns sweeping across the cold marble, each step measured and deliberate. Their eyes darted across the room, scanning for danger. They were nervous, and they were right to be.  Humans never did learn.

They should have never ventured beyond their wall.

Her gaze swept over them—the eldest, sharp-eyed and calculating; the younger one, full of fire and defiance. Munin noted their posture, their pride, and most of all, their wariness. It was only a matter of time before they tried to play a hand in the greater game. She had no doubt they believed their demands would be met with compliance.

As if they would be the ones to benefit from this alliance.

Her attention drifted to the King then, seated on his throne. He looked bored, but Munin knew better. That languid disinterest was the calm before the storm.

The eldest queen stepped forward first.

"It seems you were correct, Your Majesty," she said, her gaze sweeping over the room. "The lords of Prythian are already plotting against us. Their offers of unity reek of desperation."

The younger queen added, her voice sharp and full of fire, "They pretend at friendship, but they have offered us nothing other than vague promises of a better world. And yet they expected us to give our only leverage."

Munin’s lips barely quirked. How easily they overlooked the King’s own power.

Dagdan, standing just behind the King, made no effort to hide his amusement. His gaze lingered on Munin for a moment, his eyes glittering with something dangerous.

The King didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, drawing out the tension. Munin recognized these games; the King loved to play them.

The eldest queen’s hands curled into tight fists at her sides, her knuckles white against the deep blue of her gown. Her eyes were sharp as they flicked toward the King.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice tight with anger. “Without that half of the Book, we have lost our leverage. Our power!”

The King’s smile widened, slow and knowing, though his eyes remained cold, almost indifferent.

"Your power lies in this alliance with me," he replied, his voice smooth. "The Book is irrelevant."

Munin’s gaze drifted over the scene unfolding before her, not out of any interest, but from habit. She knew better than to be caught up in the fragile ego of the human queens. They were losing, and they didn't even realize it.

Jurian took a step closer, his boots barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. His posture was casual, like he wasn’t as much a part of this world as the rest of them. And yet, his eyes—they were sharp, cutting across her in a way that made her stomach tighten, ever so slightly.

His gaze lingered on her.

“They’ve got you on a leash, don’t they?” he said, his voice low, rough with bitterness. His words were quiet, almost a growl. “Not much different from me.”

Munin didn’t react, not even the slightest shift of her expression. Her eyes remained forward, locked on the King.

Jurian was silent for a moment, perhaps waiting for something more, some flicker of response from her. When none came, he tried again, leaning slightly closer, his voice still just above a whisper. "You’re like me, aren’t you? Bound by these magical ties, by chains..."

His words were thick with resentment, but his eyes stayed cold, devoid of real emotion.

Still, she didn’t answer. She couldn’t, not without breaking the careful distance she maintained. She was a weapon. That was all she was, all she ever had been. But Jurian? He had been remade.

Munin could feel his gaze burning into her, trying to peel back the layers she had spent years constructing, but she remained as unyielding as stone.

He clicked his tongue in frustration, stepping closer still. His voice dropped, almost too low to hear, but she caught it—barely. “What did they do to you?”

His tone was different this time. Almost… pitying. The words were meant to cut, but there was a weariness in them that suggested something more—something familiar.

The question was rhetorical, one he likely hadn’t expected an answer to. But even so, it caught her off guard, just enough to make her breath hitch for a split second. She kept her gaze forward, though. Cold and detached. And when she didn’t answer, Jurian let out a bitter laugh, a soft sound filled with disdain.

He took a step back, the moment broken, but something lingered between them. A tension, raw and unspoken. Munin didn’t look at him, but she could feel him watching, even as she turned her attention back to the King and the queens.

The eldest queen’s eyes flickered with contempt as she turned back to the King, her voice dripping with disdain. “We demand proof,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “Show us that you can deliver on your promises of beauty and youth.”

The King’s smile widened, as though the words had amused him more than anything else. His sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light, and there was an unsettling edge to his expression.

"Proof?" he repeated, a soft chuckle slipping from his lips. “Very well. I shall provide proof.”

His fingers curled slightly, and with a languid, almost careless gesture, he motioned toward Jurian, whose posture that told Munin he was fully aware of the scrutiny he was under.

The King’s gaze never left the queens, his voice almost dismissive as he spoke again. "I brought him back from the void." His words were thick with satisfaction. "Is that not proof enough of my power?"

The youngest queen hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly, considering the King’s offer.

“Jurian is impressive,” she admitted finally, her voice reluctant but honest. "But he was already dead." Her eyes narrowed slightly, a challenge hidden behind her words. “We need to see what your magic can do for the living.”

The King's smile didn’t falter. There was something cold in his expression—something dark. As if he was rethinking the entire alliance with the human queens for the insolence.

But it was Ianthe who spoke next, stepping forward from her position, her smile serene as ever. Her eyes flicked toward Munin, but there was no recognition in them, just the same polished mask of politeness.

“That should not be a problem, my King,” Ianthe said, her voice smooth, almost sweet. Munin’s gaze narrowed, not missing the slight emphasis on the words. “I have an idea.”

The King’s attention shifted toward her immediately. His eyes darkened with interest, but his lips stayed curved into that thin smile. "It will not be a problem," he said smoothly, his voice practically humming with command. "Ianthe will ensure the process is seamless."

Ianthe dipped her head in acknowledgment, her smile never wavering. Munin’s eyes stayed on her, but there was nothing to read in the priestess’s serene expression.

But before she could think further on it, the eldest queen spoke again, her voice carrying an unexpected note of triumph. “There is something else,” she said, her eyes flicking toward the King as if she had just struck the final blow. “A city. Velaris.”

Munin couldn’t help it— she went rigid, her muscles locking in place as if someone had turned her to stone. Her breath faltered, but she caught it quickly, forcing the air back into her lungs.

She tried to shove the thought away, to bury it beneath the surface where it couldn’t hurt her. It was ridiculous.

Her gaze snapped forward, her eyes hardening into an expressionless mask. The sudden tension in her limbs began to ease, but it didn’t vanish. Not fully.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jurian move slightly closer, his posture still casual, but his eyes sharp. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The weight of his gaze on her side was enough to make her stomach twist—he had noticed her reaction.

But still, nothing. He said nothing, and Munin was thankful for it. The last thing she needed right now was his curiosity.

“Velaris?” he repeated, as though testing the word on his tongue.

The middle queen nodded, her expression cool but insistent. “A secret city. Hidden from the rest of the world. The High Lord of Night showed it to us, thinking it would sway our allegiance. Convince us that he had something worth fighting for.”

Her eyes flicked toward the King, watching him carefully, noting the way his body stilled, his posture sharpening as if preparing for something. But there was no sign of fear. Just calculation. As if he were already turning over possibilities in his mind.

And then, the silence that followed was suffocating. Munin remained in her place, a shadow among shadows, waiting. She had no loyalty to any of them—neither the queens, nor the King, nor the priestess.

The King’s expression darkened, his smile vanishing. “A sanctuary,” he murmured, his tone flat and cold. “How quaint.”

He leaned back in his throne, eyes cutting to Dagdan.

“Destroy it,” he said, voice low but brimming with command. “Burn it to the ground. Let them see their sanctuary reduced to ash.”

Dagdan smirked, a lazy, predatory curve of his lips as his gaze slid to Munin.

“Why not send her?” he asked, his tone light but laced with malice. “She has a knack for destruction, doesn’t she?”

Munin remained still, her expression a mask of indifference. But beneath it, her stomach twisted. There was something in Dagdan’s eyes—mocking, taunting. As though he were daring her to react.

The King said nothing, his attention drifting back to the faint glow of the Cauldron, fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his throne. Munin’s chest tightened as the silence stretched, waiting for his verdict.

But it wasn’t the King who spoke.

“No,” Ianthe said firmly, her voice cutting through the room.

The priestess stepped forward, her pristine blue robes sweeping the floor. All eyes turned to her, curious—silent. Who dared speak in place of the King?

Ianthe met the King’s gaze, unflinching, serene.

“Munin has a separate mission,” she said, her tone even but weighted. “One that requires her full attention.”

Chapter 22

Notes:

So this chapter was another difficult one to write. It ended up being so long because I incorporated dialogue from the books that I needed to break it up into two chapters. Otherwise, it was going to be 9k words. But there was really no great midpoint to end it. So this is what we're left with.

Please let me know what you think!

It was dark when Munin entered the Archeron Manor.

The grand house loomed quiet, its sprawling halls draped in silence. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, their bare branches scraping against the stone like skeletal fingers. Inside, the warmth of the dying hearths left the air thick, laced with the scent of aged wood, candle wax, and faint traces of ash.

She slipped through the servants’ entrance, pressing the door closed behind her without a sound. Three nights of watching, waiting, had led to this. She had memorized the rotations of the staff, the hours at which the house breathed, when the footsteps ceased and silence took hold. The last maid had left hours ago. The Archeron sisters had long since retired.

She moved through the dim corridor, the polished wood cool beneath her gloved fingers as she brushed against the paneling. Her boots made no sound, her steps precise. She had mapped every hallway, every potential exit, every blind spot. The house had been built with elegance in mind, not security—too many wide windows, too many open archways.

Munin had noted them all.

Three nights of studying their habits, their routines. Three nights wasted on caution. She could have come sooner, could have forced her way in on the first night. But the priestess’s orders were clear: take them alive. That changed everything.

Killing was easy.

Extraction required a plan.

Munin exhaled slowly, pushing aside the thought. The elder sister—she would be the problem. Munin had seen it in the way she carried herself, the rigid line of her spine, the sharp awareness in her gaze. That one would fight. But if Munin took her first, the younger would break before she even had to lay a hand on her.

She reached the base of the staircase and paused, listening. The hush of the sleeping manor pressed in around her, thick and undisturbed. Down the hall, a fire burned low in the hearth, its ember glow casting restless shadows against the walls.

Munin closed her eyes, inhaling. The steady rise and fall of breaths behind the doors above reached her ears. Deep and even. Asleep.

She exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger. The leather-wrapped grip was cool beneath her touch, familiar, grounding. If she needed to use it, she had already failed. The priestess had been clear—take them alive.

Soundlessly, she ascended the stairs.

The door to the eldest’s room eased open without protest, just as she’d expected. The hinges had been well-maintained. Munin slipped inside, darkness folding around her.

The room smelled of old books and something faintly floral—lavender, perhaps. A dried bundle hung near the window, its scent barely lingering beneath the heavier notes of wax and parchment. Nesta Archeron lay on her side, breath slow, steady.

Moonlight streamed through the curtains, cutting across her face, catching on the sharp line of her cheekbone. Even in sleep, her brow remained faintly furrowed, as if her mind never allowed her body to fully rest.

Munin moved swiftly. A hand over the mouth, an arm locking around the shoulders—quick, efficient. She wasn’t here to toy with her prey. Get in, subdue, extract. That was what she was there to do.

Nesta woke the instant she touched her.

She bucked, a muffled shriek escaping against Munin’s palm, her body twisting with a desperation Munin had seen before. Not trained combat, but sheer will—the wild, flailing fight of someone who refused to go easily. Nesta clawed at her wrist, nails biting through the thin leather of her gloves. It stung, but pain was a distant thing, irrelevant. Munin held firm.

A sharp twist of Nesta’s hips sent her rolling, one arm wrenching free. Munin barely had a breath’s warning before a hand shot toward her face, fingers curved into claws. She turned her head just in time, the strike grazing past her cheek instead of gouging her eyes.

Munin shifted her grip, shoving Nesta back down. A knee flew toward her ribs, desperate and predictable. Munin caught the movement before it could land, her own leg pinning Nesta’s down.

Nesta thrashed again, but her strength was nothing against Munin’s. Munin leaned in, pressing her forearm against Nesta’s throat—just enough to force stillness, to remind her that she had already lost.

“Stop,” Munin said, voice low.

Nesta gasped beneath her, still struggling, but weaker now. Her body trembled from exertion, from the uselessness of her fight. A body could only sustain panic for so long before instinct caught up—before it realized it was fighting a losing battle.

Munin waited. Let her feel the weight pressing her down, the calculated restraint in Munin’s grip. Let her understand. And then, finally, she did. The resistance bled from her limbs. Her breath still heaved, but she no longer fought.

Munin gave her a single moment before reaching for the rope at her belt. The first knot would be quick—wrists first, then ankles. Simple, clean.

But then a scream tore through the room.

Munin’s head snapped toward the doorway, muscles locking, mind instantly recalculating.

The other Archeron sister stood there, bathed in moonlight, her nightdress pooling around her feet. Pale fingers trembled at her sides, hands curling slightly, as if they wanted to grasp onto something—anything. Wide, terrified eyes darted between them, her breath coming too fast, too shallow.

She wasn’t looking at Munin. She was looking at the ropes, the fight, at Nesta pinned beneath her weight.

The woman screamed again.

Nesta moved. A fist—hard and untrained but fueled by pure rage—collided with Munin’s jaw. Pain burst through her skull, her head snapping to the side.

Sloppy, but effective. She hadn’t expected that.

Pain flared, her senses sharpening in response, but she didn’t have time to recover. Nesta struck again, a wilder, messier punch that slammed into Munin’s ribs. Not enough to do real damage, but enough to shift their balance.

Then she was kicking, clawing, shoving—every ounce of her strength thrown into one desperate attempt to throw Munin off completely.

Munin gritted her teeth, adjusting her weight, but Nesta’s wild thrashing made it harder to pin her down again without risking injury—without having to knock her unconscious.

“Run!” Nesta bellowed. “Elain, run!”

But the girl didn’t move.

Munin saw it in her wide, glassy eyes—saw the way her breath stuttered, how her feet remained rooted to the floor. Frozen. The body’s natural response to terror, to helplessness. The mind’s last-ditch attempt to delay reality.

Nesta landed another hit, this one striking just beneath Munin’s eye. The impact sent a sharp burst of pain through her cheekbone, heat spreading beneath her skin. Not enough to stagger her, but enough to sting.

Irritation flickered through her.

She had allowed this much—given the sisters time to struggle, to flail, to land their desperate blows. It changed nothing. Fighting was useless when you had already lost.

Nesta lunged again, all sharp edges and fury, but Munin was already moving. She sidestepped with a controlled pivot, her body shifting just out of reach, letting Nesta’s own momentum work against her. It was an easy calculation—too much force, too little precision.

And the moment Nesta overextended, Munin struck.

One hand shot up, fingers locking around Nesta’s jaw. The other closed around her throat, pressing just hard enough to force stillness.

A strangled sound caught in Nesta’s throat, her body jolting against the sudden restriction. Her hands flew up, nails biting into Munin’s wrist, seeking any leverage, any angle to break free.

There was none.

Munin forced her back, using the weight of her own body to pin her fully against the bed. The mattress gave beneath them, absorbing some of the struggle, but Munin didn’t waver. She could feel Nesta’s pulse hammering beneath her palm, frantic and unsteady.

Too fast. Fear was taking hold.

Nesta thrashed harder. Her feet kicked against the mattress, her fingers clawed at Munin’s grip—erratic, desperate. Not a trained response, just sheer survival instinct. Wild and uncoordinated.

Munin held firm. Not too hard. Not enough to crush.

She had her orders. The priestess had been clear—bring both of the females back alive.

Just enough to steal the fight from her.

Nesta’s struggles slowed. The strength in her limbs drained away, her hands slipping from Munin’s wrist, fingers twitching before falling limp against the sheets. Her head lolled slightly, breath thinning to a shallow, uneven rasp.

Munin didn’t let go.

She waited. Counted heartbeats. One. Two. Three. She eased her grip, fingers sliding away, the tension in her hands slowly unwinding. Nesta’s chest rose in a faint, uneven breath—a soft, unconscious sigh slipping past her lips.

Munin exhaled sharply through her nose, rolling her shoulders as she straightened. Orders were orders. There was no satisfaction in completing them, no victory in subduing an untrained opponent.

And now, there was only one left.

Elain Archeron stood in the doorway, trembling, her hands clenched into the fabric of her nightdress. Tears carved silent paths down her pale cheeks. Her lips parted, a breathless, choked sound escaping—half a sob, half a plea.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt us.”

Munin didn’t pause. The woman’s meant nothing. She crossed the room in measured, unhurried steps, her boots near soundless against the wooden floor. Elain flinched, her whole body tensing as Munin approached, but she didn’t run. She didn’t fight.

Nesta had screamed at her to flee, and yet she had stayed. Fear should have sent her bolting down the hall, should have had her scrambling for a weapon, should have driven her to do something. Instead, she stood frozen—watching.

Munin reached for her, fingers closing around a delicate wrist. Elain gasped at the roughness of it, the jarring contrast to whatever gentleness she was accustomed to. Her free hand flew to Munin’s wrist, grasping at it—but her hold was weak.

But there was no resistance from the younger Archeron, not even an attempt.

Munin pulled her forward, dragging her across the floor in a controlled, unyielding grip. Elain stumbled, her nightdress tangling around her legs, but Munin held her upright, forcing her down beside her sister.

A quiet whimper left Elain’s lips as she reached out, her shaking fingers brushing against Nesta’s arm. Munin gave her no time to linger, no time to check on her elder sister.

Darkness curled at the edges of her vision, swallowing the room, pulling tight around them. The air folded in, collapsed around them.

And then they were gone.

---

He should have known.

He was the Cauldron-damned spymaster—of course, he should have known.

But he had been preoccupied.

First with Sangravah—the blood, the screams, the scent of burning flesh thick in the air. He could still hear the priestesses’ cries, still see the bodies strewn across the temple steps. He had moved without hesitation, cutting down Hybern’s soldiers, shielding those too weak to fight.

Gwyneth. He had learned her name later, after the dust had settled, after he had carried her shaking form to safety. Saving her had never been a question. He’d known as soon as he got word of the attack that he’d help those priestesses, if it was the last thing that he did.

But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of that moment. The moment that he had turned his back on the winged female, letting the assassin get away.

It still clawed at him. Still twisted like a blade lodged between his ribs.

Still kept him awake in the sleepless hours of the night.

Rhys had given him a task. A promise made years ago, when rumors of this female had first surfaced. He had spent years following rumors, piecing together fragments of information, tracing the ghost of her through shadows. Then, Velaris had been sealed off from the rest of the world, and his brother was trapped Under the Mountain with that red-headed bitch.

And now, when he had finally been close—so close—he had let her vanish.

The second thing that had preoccupied him was… well, Feyre.

The thought of her had lingered in his mind more than he cared to admit. Not for himself, but for what she had become to Rhys.

It made him happy—truly, it did—to see his brother have this. A mate. A future. A light after everything he had been through.

Rhys had yet to speak of what had happened Under the Mountain, but Azriel didn’t need the words. He had seen it in the way Rhys carried himself when he returned. The subtle tension in his shoulders, the shadows that clung to him, the way his laughter never quite reached his eyes the way it once had.

Rhys had come back different.

Amarantha’s rule had changed him.

It had changed them all.

Azriel had been helpless then, trapped behind Velaris’s wards while their High Lord suffered alone. That failure still festered, buried deep, but Feyre—Feyre had changed something in Rhys. Had given him a reason to move forward.

And after the loss of his mother, and of Elara…. After centuries of shouldering the weight of their court, of their people—Rhys had found someone who saw him.

Azriel was grateful for that. Even if it reminded him of things he would never have.

But now he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

The city burned around him. Smoke curled through the streets, thick and acrid, mingling with the scent of blood. Velaris had known peace for so long—but now, vile creatures crawled through its alleys.

Azriel moved through the chaos, his blades flashed in the dim light as he cut down the scaled creatures that swarmed the city. They shrieked as they died, their broken bodies littering the cobblestones, dark blood pooling in the cracks.

Wings beat above him—too many wings. The creatures dove from the sky, talons outstretched, their skeletal frames eerily thin, as if something had stretched them too far, twisted them into existence. He met the first midair, his siphons igniting in a deadly arc of power. The beast let out a high, keening wail before it was thrown back, crashing into the side of a building. The stone shattered on impact.

He landed lightly, scanning the street.

Cassian was a brutal force to his right, siphons glowing as he tore through the enemy, his sword an extension of himself. Rhys was above, wings slicing through the smoke as he wielded power that made the very air shudder. And Feyre—she fought bravely, her fledging magic burning through the invaders.

Velaris would not fall tonight.

A screech cut through the din—too close. Azriel twisted just in time, Truth-Teller rising. Claws raked toward him, a maw gaping wide, breath rancid with decay. He dodged, wings snapping out for balance, and drove his blade home in a single, swift strike to the throat.

The creature choked on its own blood before slumping, lifeless, to the ground.

Another wave descended. There were too many of them. His siphons pulsed—one breath, then another—before he released a devastating blast of power. The shockwave cracked stone, sent bodies flying. Silence swallowed the battlefield in its wake.

But it wasn’t enough.

They just kept coming.

The city burned around him, thick with the stench of blood and ash, screams ripping through the night as Hybern’s winged beasts tore through soldiers and civilians alike. He didn’t let himself think about the bodies piling in the streets, about the smoke choking the sky. He cut down another creature, its blackened blood splattering his leathers, and looked up—tracking the movement in the air above.

A dark figure soared against the stars, wings spread wide, gliding effortlessly through the chaos.

His stomach tightened.

It was her. It had to be.

His pulse hammered as he tracked the figure’s descent, the way it maneuvered through the fighting, a cowl—was it a cowl?—rippling in the wind. His fingers twitched around Truth-Teller’s hilt. A part of him braced for it. For the moment she’d land, blades gleaming, and turn her head toward him.

But then the figure veered sharply, banking left, and moonlight revealed the grotesque form beneath the wings—a leering, twisted thing, its shriveled features contorted in rage.

Not her. Just another one of Hybern’s beasts.

Something in his chest deflated.

He didn’t know why.

The thought flickered, unwanted, as he shot forward, slicing through the creature midair with a well-aimed strike of his blade. It crumpled, shrieking as it tumbled into the streets below.

Azriel exhaled sharply, shaking the moment from his head. Later. He’d question it later. Now, there was still a battle to win.

---

“They have breached the castle walls, my King.”

Dagdan’s voice was smooth, unhurried. Amused, even. He stood near the great iron doors of the throne room, head tilted slightly, as if savoring the moment. Munin had seen him like this before—listening, sensing, tasting the shift in the air as magic pulsed beyond the stone walls.

The King did not so much as straighten on his throne. He remained sprawled in his seat, one hand resting against the carved armrest, fingers drumming lazily.

“They are persistent, I’ll give them that,” he mused, his tone laced with mock admiration.

Dagdan smirked. “Predictable, more like.”

A beat of silence, then the King let out a soft chuckle. “They walked right into it.” A slow, satisfied smile. “Like flies to honey.”

Munin kept her expression unreadable, but she could not deny the truth of it. It had been an elegant trap—one she might have respected had she not already known exactly how this would end.

Laughter curled through the air, low and rich, and Munin flicked her eyes toward Dagdan, who was grinning as if this were nothing more than a well-played game of cards.

The King turned his gaze to Jurian. “You should go down to greet our guests.”

Jurian’s answering nod was sharp, silent. He strode from the room without a word, his steps echoing down the stone corridor.

The King’s attention shifted to Munin. “And you—keep an eye on our human friend.”

He paused, just long enough to make it clear he did not fully trust the man he had resurrected. “But stay in the shadows. I will call for you when it is time.”

Munin dipped her chin in acknowledgment before turning on her heel. As she stepped toward the hall, the King’s voice drifted to Dagdan.

“Alert those upstairs that it is time.”

Munin did not slow, though her mind flickered to the High Lord of the Spring Court and his emissary, waiting above.

She kept to the shadows as she descended the corridor, soundless, following the path Jurian had taken. As she reached the top of the stairwell, she stilled.

“Stupid fool.”

Jurian’s voice echoed from below.

Then—

“Jurian.”

Munin knew that voice —the Cursebreaker.

It had not been long, not in the grand scheme of things, since she had last heard it. But something about her voice now—there was a weight to it, something tempered by steel. She was far more powerful than she had been almost a year ago.

“Worked your way up the ranks, did you? Congratulations.”

Jurian’s voice was edged with petty derision.

A quiet moment. Then—

“You look good, Jurian.”

Munin’s breath stilled.

That voice—

She had known he would be here. That had always been the plan. The entire point. But it didn’t matter. The sound of his voice did something sharp, something twisting. It gnawed at the edges of her mind.

“For a corpse.”

A sharp, bitter laugh from Jurian, but Munin barely heard it.

“Last time I saw you,” Jurian said, his voice low and cutting, “you were warming Amarantha’s sheets.”

Munin felt the impact of them as if they had been directed at her, as if the accusation had been aimed at her ribs instead of Rhysand’s. A slow, ugly feeling uncurled in her chest, thick and restless.

She should not care. Should not feel anything about this exchange. It was a battle of words between two males who despised one another. Yet something coiled in her gut, hot and unwanted.

Something about it gnawed at her, like an itch beneath her skin.

Her fingers flexed at her sides, then curled into fists. She forced her body still, inhaling slowly through her nose. It was nothing. Nothing. And yet—

A growl slipped from her throat before she could stop it. Soft, barely a sound, but her own ears caught it, felt the raw edge of it scrape against her vocal cords.

She swallowed hard, forcing her body to obey, forcing the unwanted surge of heat back down into nothing.

No one looked her way. No one acknowledged it.

And yet—

She felt a flicker of cold against the back of her neck.

Munin stiffened.

It wasn’t a breeze – wasn’t a draft from the cavernous hallways or the stone corridors leading deeper into the castle. This was something else. A shadow. It ghosted along her spine, curling at the edges of her shoulders, featherlight but perceptible.

Watching.

She did not turn. Did not move.

But she felt it.

“So you remember. Interesting,” Rhysand said, voice smooth, unreadable.

Jurian didn’t rise to the bait. He only took a slow step forward, eyes cold and sharp. “Where is Miryam?”

Munin suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Of course. Leave it to a human to get lost in petty squabbles in the middle of something far greater than himself. What did it matter, after all this time? After all the blood spilled and his resurrection?

Jurian clung to the past like it might undo the centuries he’d spent trapped in that ring.

“She’s dead,” a female voice said.

Munin didn’t recognize it at first. But something about the way it carried—smooth as silk, laced with the faintest thread of steel—pricked at her senses.

“Liar.” Jurian’s voice was sharp, brittle. “You were always such a liar, Morrigan.”

Morrigan. The name curled in her mind like smoke, something just out of reach. Why does that sound so familiar? Munin’s brows knitted slightly, but before she could grasp the thought, another sound cut through the space.

A growl, low and rough. But it wasn’t Jurian’s.

She knew that sound.

The shadowsinger was here.

Munin straightened, her body shifting before her mind had even fully caught up to the realization.

She didn’t glance toward the sound. Didn’t give herself away. But she felt him there, a presence as much as a person.

Still, she forced herself to tune them out—the squabbling between Jurian and the fae standing before them. It was meaningless. The past would not change, no matter how much Jurian obsessed over it.

But then—

“He made sure that particular book was returned to him,” Jurian said, voice quieter now, edged with something darker. “She didn’t know how to use half of the nastier spells.”

Munin barely reacted—until he said the next words.

“Do you know what it’s like to be unable to sleep, to drink, or eat or breathe or feel for five hundred years?”

Five hundred years. Munin blinked. Something stirred, too fast, too sudden. Like a phantom sensation curling beneath her skin. It was nothing. It should have been nothing. But the words struck something deep inside her, something buried so carefully, so ruthlessly, that she almost didn’t recognize the sharp, involuntary pull of it.

She swallowed, shifting her stance. Batted the feeling away before it could take root.

She shouldn’t feel anything about it.

And yet—she did.

“It couldn’t have been so bad,” the High Lord of the Night Court mused, his voice laced with that effortless arrogance. “If you’re now working for her master.”

Munin bristled.

The reaction was instant, visceral—anger curling in her gut. Why? The words shouldn’t have meant anything. Jurian was working for the King now, had pledged himself to this cause. And yet, something about the High Lord’s tone, about the casual dismissal of what had been done to him, struck a chord deep within her.

It was foolish—pointless—to care.

And she didn’t care. Munin was never meant to care about anything. And yet—

Munin pushed the feeling aside with practiced ease, forcing herself to focus. The atmosphere had shifted. A weight settled over the stairwell, the telltale press of something ancient, something powerful. The King had arrived.

Jurian, oblivious, was still speaking, his voice dripping with promised vengeance. “Your suffering will be long and thorough.”

Rhysand only let out a soft, amused breath. “Sounds delightful.”

There was a challenge in his voice—one Munin had no doubt he would back with steel if given the chance. But there would be no chance.

“The trap was so easy,” the King said, finally making his presence known. His voice carried through the chamber, calm, laced with something like amusement. “I’m honestly a bit disappointed you didn’t see it coming.”

Munin moved just behind him, a shadow at his back.

And then—

A pair of hazel eyes locked onto her.

The gaze landed on the edge of her cowl, and she saw the way they widened—recognition, disbelief—

And then he was hit.

The ash bolt struck true, and the spymaster of the Night Court staggered.

Chapter 23

Notes:

Ah! The response to the last chapter was AMAZING, and so nice. I'm so sorry I left you guys on a cliffhanger (even though the scene is pretty much pulled directly from the books). So is this scene, just being told from Munin's point of view. Please let me know what you think!

“I would make sure you do what I command.” The King smiled, slow and sharp. “The bloodbane on that bolt can course through his system at my command.”

The shadowsinger was on his knees, his breathing ragged. Blood—his blood—soaked the black leathers stretched over his ribs, the fabric torn where the ash bolt had struck. His siphons flickered weakly, their glow dim, his power—lethal, Munin had heard—now dulled to nothing.

He said nothing, only glared up at the King, jaw tight.

The High Lord of the Night Court—his High Lord—was less silent. His lips pressed into a thin line, violet eyes like tempered steel as he looked from the King, to Jurian, then to her.

Munin felt her spine stiffen.

She didn’t flinch beneath that assessing stare, didn’t so much as shift her weight. But something in his expression made her uneasy. There was pure hatred, yes—but also something sharper, something calculating.

But the High Lord nodded. A near-invisible dip of his chin, as if to say we’ll play along—for now.

The hulking Illyrian beside him moved first, crouching to grip the shadowsinger beneath his arms. He hauled him upright as they were forced forward.

Munin trailed behind them, her steps light, silent, her gaze on the prisoners—watching for the slightest twitch, the barest attempt at resistance.

She should have been paying attention to that. But instead, her eyes caught on the crimson drops smearing the stone beneath the shadowsinger’s boots, his blood marking the path ahead, a steady, unbroken trail.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

It didn’t mean anything.

She forced her thoughts away, fixing her attention ahead as they stepped into the throne room.

It was more crowded than Munin had ever seen it. Courtiers and nobles packed the space, their silks and armor gleaming beneath the torchlight. A court summoned to witness. To watch their King’s triumph.

Munin took her place at the dais, her posture rigid. From this position, she couldn’t see the Cursebreaker’s face when her gaze fell upon the High Lord of Spring—when she finally realized.

But she heard it.

“What have you done?” The words lashed through the air, laced with unfiltered rage.

The room seemed to still, the weight of that rage pressing against every gilded corner, against every breathless courtier who bore witness.

Tamlin did not respond.

Not at first.

Munin did not need to see his face to know what was there. Knew that kind of silence—the charged, helpless sort. The silence of someone who had chosen this, only to realize too late that the weight of his choice was heavier than he had ever imagined.

Munin forced her lungs to fill, slow and steady. Her focus stayed trained on the prisoners—on the High Lord and his warriors, on the shadowsinger swaying in the other Illyrian’s grip, blood darkening the floor in a steady, damning trail.

But a feeling. slid down her spine like a breath of cold air, coiling at the nape of her neck.

Eyes.

She looked up. And froze.

The shadowsinger was staring at her.

Not just staring—studying.

His body sagged in his friend’s arms, the ash bolt still lodged deep in his side, the poison no doubt curling through his veins. He was dying by inches, and yet—his eyes tracked her. As if he had all the time in the world. As if she was the only thing in the room worth noting.

Munin’s fingers twitched at her sides.

She was used to being unseen. The one who lurked in the dark, who struck without warning, who vanished without a trace. A Raven to the King of Hyben. The one who watched, who read others like open books and ensured that she was never readable in turn.

But now—now she felt watched.

As if the shadowsinger saw something beneath her skin that shouldn’t be there. Something she hadn’t realized was exposed. And she didn’t know why.

“We made a bargain,” the King explained simply, his voice carrying through the grand chamber as if he were merely discussing a trade agreement, as if he had not just shattered the fragile balance of power in Prythian. “I give you over, and he agrees to let my forces enter Prythian through his territory. And then use it as a base as we remove that ridiculous wall.”

Munin’s fingers curled slightly at her sides.

A fool’s bargain. Surely the High Lord of Spring saw that. Surely, he understood the price of what he had handed over.

And yet—Tamlin stood there, broad-shouldered and tense, as if he were the one who had been wronged.

“You’re insane,” the hulking Illyrian—Cassian, she remembered—snapped, his voice edged with fury, barely contained violence. He still bore the Shadowsinger’s weight, his posture rigid despite the heavy drag of his fallen brother. Munin knew he wanted to lunge, to rip Tamlin apart with his bare hands, but the shadowsinger slumped against him was keeping him tethered, barely.

Tamlin ignored him.

Instead, his eyes locked on her. The Cursebreaker.

“Feyre,” he murmured, stepping forward, reaching a hand toward her. His face was carved in pain, something like hope—something that looked like a male trying to grasp at what had long since slipped through his fingers.

If Munin had the capacity for it, perhaps she would have pitied the High Lord of Spring.

But she didn’t.

Feyre did not move toward him, did not take his outstretched hand.

Instead, she stepped back, subtly, her body shifting toward the High Lord of Night, who still stood bracing the shadowsinger. Not touching Rhysand, not looking at him—but aligning herself nonetheless.

And Munin saw it then. The instinctive retreat, the silent no in every part of her.

 

The King, of course, did not let the moment linger.

“You are a very difficult female to get a hold of,” he said, voice amused, stoking the anger of nearly every member of the Night Court in the room. He leaned back on his throne, watching them all with sharp interest, as if waiting for one of them to snap. “Of course, we also agreed that you would work for me once you’ve been returned home to your husband, but… Is it husband-to-be, or husband? I can’t remember.”

A muscle in Feyre’s jaw twitched.

Munin swore she heard it then—a low, almost imperceptible growl. Not from Cassian, though his rage was plain enough. Not from the shadowsinger, whose breathing was shallow, who was barely upright.

From him.

The High Lord of the Night Court.

Munin’s gaze flicked to him.

Rhysand did not move, but there was something new in his expression. It coiled there, in the slight thinning of his lips, in the careful tension in his shoulders, in the way his violet eyes burned with something primal, something lethal.

“I’m taking you home,” Tamlin said, and there was something almost desperate in his voice, something that frayed at the edges.

Feyre’s throat bobbed. She was still backing away from him.

“No,” she said softly.

It was not a question.

“That’s the other bit, too,” the King continued, his tone light, idle, mocking. “The other thing I wanted.” He gestured to Jurian with a careless wave of his hand. “Well, Jurian wanted. Two birds with one stone, really. The High Lord of the Night Court dead—and to learn where his friends were.”

Munin stiffened.

The words passed over her, meaningless at first. A thread of conversation she might have ignored if not for the way her body reacted before her mind could catch up. She had known about Tamlin’s request. Had seen when the Spring Court had petitioned the King to reclaim his bride.

But she had not been present for the bargain itself.

She had not heard the full terms. And now, for the first time, she was hearing it in its entirety. The knowledge curled in her gut like something rotten. Munin did not move. Did not react. But inside, something pulled tight.

She did not know why.

The King’s words dragged Munin from her thoughts.

“Break that bond between the two of you,” he said, as if it were a simple thing, as if severing a thread tied to the very marrow of a person’s soul was no more difficult than snapping a twig beneath his boot. His tone was almost bored, though amusement flickered in his cold eyes. “How else is Tamlin to have his bride? He can’t very well have a wife who runs off to another male once a month.”

Munin inhaled slowly, steadying herself, though she wasn’t sure why she needed to.

Feyre had gone rigid, her shoulders squared despite the wariness in her expression. “Don’t let him,” she pleaded, turning to the High Lord of Spring. “I told you I was fine. That I left—”

“You weren’t well,” Tamlin snarled, the words cracking through the room.

Munin didn’t move. Didn’t so much as blink, though she watched. Watched the famed temper of the High Lord of Spring finally make itself known.

He took a step toward the Cursebreaker, his hands curled at his sides. “He used that bond to manipulate you. Why do you think I was gone so often? I was looking for a way to get you free! And you—” His voice cut off for half a second, his jaw tightening, as if the words physically hurt him. “And you left.”

Feyre did not cower before him. She did not shrink away from Tamlin’s anger, “I left because I was going to die in that house.”

Munin saw the way Tamlin stilled. The way his hands curled tighter at his sides, his chest rising and falling. His green eyes burned—not with rage alone, but something deeper. The High Lord was hurt.

The King, meanwhile, was enjoying this.

Munin knew his moods well enough to recognize when he was pleased. It was there, in the subtle way he leaned back into his throne, the faintest tilt of his head, as if he were savoring the scebe before him like a well-aged wine. Was this his plan all along? To chip away at the already fractured courts, to let them splinter further until there was nothing left to unite against him?

If it was, it was working.

Tamlin took another step toward Feyre, his expression mixture of hurt and fury. But before he could get any closer, Feyre vanished—mist and shadow curling around. The Cursebreaker had winnowed.

She reappeared beside the High Lord of Night, her back straight, her chin lifted.

Tamlin barely had time to register the movement before Rhysand’s fist connected with his face, the crack of it echoing through the throne room.

For a single breath, no one moved.

But then, low and rich — and filled with delighted cruelty, laughter erupted.

The King shook his head, his grin widening as he surveyed the scene before him. “I don’t believe it,” he mused, his tone almost mocking. “Your bride left you only to find her mate.”

A slow, simmering rage coiled in the air.

Tamlin’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving, his hands trembling at his sides. But Feyre—she only looked at him with something like sorrow, something almost gentle.

 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

But Tamlin wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes found Rhysand, and whatever grief had been in them turned to something cold.

“You,” he seethed. His voice was low, rough with barely restrained fury. “What did you do to her?”

Munin barely registered the words.

Because out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. A slight shift, the flicker of an injured body struggling to stand. Her gaze darted to the shadowsinger.

He was still slumped over, the Morrigan’s arm steady around him with the hulking Illyrian bracing his other side. But the shadowsinger was trying to rise.

Blood still seeped through his leathers, staining the floor beneath him, but his chin was lifted. His lips pressed into a thin line.

Munin’s breath hitched. In truth, she hadn’t even realized she had been watching him. Hadn’t realized her attention had kept shifting between the King, the High Lord of Night, and him.

A quiet, unsettling feeling curled in her chest.

It made no sense. She had seen countless warriors fall, seen bodies broken and discarded. And yet—there was something about this one, about the sight of him like this, that made something in her twinge.

"Look at you," the King mused, his voice a purring thing, edged with quiet delight. His dark eyes flickered as they roamed over Feyre, taking in the set of her shoulders, the way she braced herself before him. "A child of all seven courts—like and unlike all."

Munin watched the Cursebreaker closely. She did not flinch at his words, though Munin could sense the way her body held its tension, the way she forced herself to remain still.

"How the Cauldron purrs in your presence," he continued. "Do you plan to use it? Destroy it? With that book, you could do anything you wished."

Feyre said nothing.

Munin saw how her fingers clenched at her sides, how she resisted the urge to glance at her so-called master—the High Lord of Night, still standing tall, still holding the wounded shadowsinger upright.

The King only shrugged, as if her defiance were nothing more than a passing amusement. "You’ll tell me soon enough."

Feyre’s lip curled. "I made no bargain with you."

There it was—that sharp, defiant edge.

The King only smiled. "No," he agreed. "But your master did."

Something flickered across her face—an emotion too quick to name, something raw and vulnerable, before she bared her teeth, refusing to let it show. "If you bring me from here," she snarled, "if you take me from my mate, I will destroy you. I will destroy your court and everything you hold dear."

It was in that moment that Munin realized Tamlin was wrong. Rhysand had not ensnared her with his power, had not manipulated her with that bond. No, the truth was far worse for the High Lord of Spring. The mating bond between them was real.

And Tamlin had made a bargain with Hybern for nothing.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," Tamlin said, his lips pressing into a thin line, though the words lacked conviction.

The King only jerked his head slightly. "No, she doesn’t. There will be no destroying."

A low groan of heavy doors echoed through the throne room. Every head turned toward the entrance, Munin’s included, as the four human queens entered. They were adorned in their finest silks and jewels, their faces impassive, their eyes cold and unreadable as they strode forward.

Whatever game they were playing, it was clear they believed themselves on the winning side.

Munin barely had time to consider their arrival before another movement drew her eye. Soldiers, armored in Hybern’s colors, entered behind them, dragging two figures into the room. Two mortal women, bound and stumbling, their arms wrenched behind their backs as they were hauled into the center of the throne room.

Feyre went still. Munin saw the blood drain from her face as she took them in, as realization set in. The King smiled as he watched her, his expression filled with satisfaction. "Because you will find, Feyre Archeron, that it is in your best interest to behave."

"You made a very big mistake," the King said, his voice thick with amusement.

"The day you went after the book." He shifted in his throne, settling back as though the matter was already won. "I had no need of it. I was content to let it lie hidden. But the moment your forces started sniffing…" He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "I found it best to ally myself with the queens of the Continent."

Silence followed his words, thick and cloying. Even Munin found herself listening, her interest piqued despite herself. She hadn’t known this part of the plan.

"I do not wish to invade the Continent," the King went on, his tone patient, almost indulgent. "But to work with them." His sharp gaze slid toward the mortal queens, their veiled faces unreadable.

"My powers ensconced their court from prying eyes just to show them the benefits. Such impressive attempts to infiltrate their sacred palace, Shadowsinger," he drawled, looking past Feyre toward the Illyrian held upright between his friends. "And utter proof, of course, to their majesties that your court is not as benevolent as you seem."

Azriel didn’t move, but Munin caught the faintest tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched where they hung limply at his sides. Blood still dripped steadily from his wound, pooling dark on the stone floor beneath him.

"Liar!" Feyre’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade, raw with fury. "If you do not let my sisters go, I will slaughter you—"

The King sighed, a lazy, put-upon sound.

"Do you hear the threats, the language, they use at the Night Court?" He gestured idly, as if all of this was beneath him, barely worth his time. His eyes flicked back to the mortal queens, the barest trace of amusement playing at his lips. "Slaughter, ultimatums… They wish to end life. I desire to give it."

Munin watched as one of the queens, her golden hair braided in an elaborate crown, tilted her chin. "Then show us," she said, her voice smooth, imperious. "Prove this gift you mentioned."

Rhysand’s power pulsed, subtle but unmistakable. "You're a fool," he murmured, and though his tone was mild, the words held a cutting edge.

Munin had to agree with him on that.

The King and the Night Court continued exchanged words across the throne room. Munin kept her posture rigid, her attention fixed on the unfolding conversation, but her mind… Her mind drifted.

Her gaze slid to the shadowsinger.

He was still standing—barely. His broad frame sagged between the two holding him up, his face pale beneath the blood smeared across his skin. His head was tilted slightly, as if listening, though his body betrayed the extent of his wounds. He could do nothing but watch, those hazel eyes dark with pain.

And then—

His gaze found hers.

For a moment, neither of them moved. It was not the first time Munin had stared into the eyes of a man she helped bring to his knees, but this was different. The weight of his stare was not a plea, nor was it a challenge. It was sharp—searching.

A chill slid down her spine.

Before she could even think to look away, a pulse of power detonated through the hall.

She barely had time to react before the world became a blur of movement. A set of dark wings snapped open between her and the shadowsinger, severing his gaze from hers, shielding him from the worst of the blast.

A strangled cry of pain rang out—a sound swallowed almost instantly by the chaos that followed.

Munin ducked, muscles tensing as the force of the King’s power threatened to crush her to the ground. She barely held her footing. Across the hall, the Morrigan was already moving, her golden hair flashing in the dim torchlight. She dodged a second pulse of the King’s magic, weaving between the bodies that had begun to scatter in the throne room.

A knife gleamed in her grip, poised for the kill—

Munin moved before she could think. It was not duty that drove her. Not obligation — not even the King. It was instinct.

Her fingers wrapped around the Morrigan’s wrist just as the blade arced downward, stopping the strike before it could land. With one sharp twist, the knife clattered to the stone floor. The female hissed in pain, her free hand grasping at Munin’s arm, nails digging deep.

"What a prize," the King mused from somewhere behind her, his voice thick with amusement.

Munin felt the shadowsinger’s gaze on her again, even before she heard his voice.

"Don’t you touch her," he snarled, raw and full of venom.

Something ugly twisted in Munin’s gut. She tightened her grip, just to hear the Morrigan’s breath hitch. The King took a step closer, his pale eyes gleaming, and inclined his head slightly towards Munin — an order.

Munin released her hold instantly.

The Morrigan staggered back, but before she could make another move, the King’s power curled around her like unseen strings, guiding her toward the shadowsinger. She saw the Morrigan’s hands before she saw his pain.

Fingers pressing into the gaping wound at his side.

A sharp, ragged breath left him, his entire body shuddering from the fresh agony of it, but he did not pull away. Instead, he clamped his own bloodied hand over hers – comforting her.

Munin watched the exchange, watched the way his hand steadied the Morrigan’s, and forced herself to feel nothing at all.

The King’s voice cut through the chaos, smooth and cold. “Put the prettier one in first.”

Munin felt the room shift in an instant. A different kind of stillness took hold—something she didn’t recognize.

She wasn’t the only one who reacted. The shadowsinger—still half-slumped between his companions—went rigid, his entire body seizing as if he’d been struck. Even through the pain that had kept him motionless, he moved now, writhing, fighting against his injuries as though sheer willpower alone might be enough to stop what was coming.

Munin hadn’t known.

She had brought the females here. She had delivered them to the King’s feet without hesitation, without question, and yet—she had not known this was the plan. No one had bothered to tell her.

Why would they? She was only the King’s weapon.

And now, she could only watch as the soldiers wrenched the shorter female forward. The High Lord of Spring begged the King to stop, saying that it was enough. But the King did no such thing.

Across the dais, Lucien Vanserra moved. A red blur as he lunged, reaching for the female. His female. But the guards shoved him back, and his snarl of frustration was drowned out by the girl’s scream as she thrashed against the hands dragging her forward.

Munin did not hear the words being exchanged between Feyre and the Queens. She did not care about their arguments. Her focus was on the female—the stark horror twisting her features.

A strange tightness coiled in Munin’s chest.

She had seen many things in this throne room. She had seen men and fae alike broken on the King’s whim, had heard their pleas, had ignored their suffering. This—this should not have been different.

 

But the horror twisted inside her anyway, clawing at something she had long since buried.

She was Munin. She did not care about anything. She was not meant to care about anything.

So why did she feel like she couldn’t breathe?

Elain Archeron was shoved into the Cauldron in a single, brutal movement.

Munin had seen this before. She had watched as Jurian was remade, had witnessed the way he had thrashed and gasped when he was wrenched back into existence, had heard the raw, guttural sounds torn from his throat. She had not flinched then.

But Elain did not thrash. She did not immediately emerge, gasping for air.

Munin felt it then—that cold, sinking sensation curling low in her stomach, a weight pressing against her ribs. The surface of the water remained undisturbed, as if the girl had been swallowed whole.

And then, soundlessly, the Cauldron tipped.

Dark, ancient water slid over the rim and onto the marble floor, pooling in thick, inky rivulets. And with it—Elain Archeron.

She lay sprawled, damp and trembling, the remnants of whatever magic had remade her still clinging to her skin like mist.

She was Fae.

A slow, delighted laugh echoed through the chamber. “So we can survive,” one of the queens murmured, satisfaction curling through her voice.

Munin barely heard her. She was still watching Elain—watching the delicate, shuddering rise and fall of her chest, the wide, unfocused stare as she struggled to comprehend the body she now inhabited.

The King only smirked, the movement as lazy as it was cruel. He gestured toward the guards, his voice smooth and sharp as a blade. “The hellcat now, if you would be so kind.”

Nesta Archeron did not go quietly.

She fought them, heels skidding against the marble, twisting and clawing at the hands that held her. She did not sob, did not beg, did not scream. But when the Cauldron loomed before her, she dug in—throwing her weight back, snarling through her teeth as if sheer fury alone might be enough to stop them.

It wasn’t.

They forced her forward, arms locking around her thrashing frame, and when that wasn’t enough, they shoved her.

Nesta’s head snapped toward the King as her body tilted, her spine arching with the force of her resistance. Water lapped at her knees, then her waist, and still, she fought them.

Then—just before she was shoved fully under—she raised a single, dripping hand and pointed one finger at the King.

A silent promise.

Munin shivered. The reaction was involuntary, a quiet, instinctive thing, but it did not go unnoticed.

Then Nesta was gone, her body dragged beneath the water’s surface.

The air in the chamber changed. Munin felt it before she saw it—something vast, something consuming, a force that made the hairs along her arms stand on end.

And when Nesta Archeron rose from the Cauldron, she was not the same.

Her body trembled, but not with fear. Her hands flexed, curling, testing. Her breath was ragged, uneven. Power seeped from her, thick and choking, something ancient and wrong.

Munin could not look away.

The newly made female trembled where she stood, her body still wracked with the remnants of whatever dark force had reshaped her. But it was not weakness that radiated from Nesta Archeron. It was rage. A rage so thick and potent that Munin could feel it, could sense it curling through the air like a living thing.

Then she moved.

Nesta slammed into the red-haired emissary from the Spring Court, shoving him back with a force that made him stumble. “Get off of her,” she snarled.

Elain barely reacted, only blinking up at the elder sister who now stood between her and Lucien. Nesta crouched over her, one arm curling tightly around Elain’s shoulders.

Munin should not have cared. It was not her concern. And yet—something about the way Nesta gripped her sister, as if she might break apart without that hold, made Munin’s throat feel tight.

Lucien had steadied himself, staring at the two of them as though something had cracked open inside him, something raw and unfamiliar. His voice was hoarse when he said, “You’re my mate.”

Munin saw the moment the words registered. Saw the flicker of shock that crossed Elain’s already stricken face, the confusion, the dawning horror.

But it was not Elain who answered.

“She is no such thing,” Nesta snapped, her voice like cold iron.

Munin’s attention flickered to the King just in time to see his smirk sharpen, his eyes alight with ruthless amusement. “How interesting.”

There was something in the way he looked between them, something calculating. But then, with the same offhand cruelty he always wielded, he turned back toward the Queens.

“See?” he said smoothly. “I have shown you not once, but twice that it is safe. Who would like to be made first?”

Munin barely had time to process the words before the youngest of the queens stepped forward.

There was no hesitation in her movements, no wariness in the way she approached the Cauldron. It was as if she had been waiting, had been eager for this moment.

Munin felt a sharp, unexpected surge of disgust.

How? How could the queen walk so willingly toward the same fate that had been forced upon those two trembling females? How could she look upon Elain and Nesta—still shivering, still struggling to grasp the enormity of what had happened to them—and smile?

Munin had seen horrors before. She had watched executions, had delivered those executions. She had never been squeamish. And yet—something about this, about the callousness of it, about the sheer indifference to the horror they had just witnessed—made her sick.

She stopped short.

Where had that thought come from?

She did not feel disgust. She did not feel sympathy. That was not who she was, what she had been made to be.

And yet—

“If you’re so willing to hand out bargains,” Rhysand’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, “perhaps I’ll make one with you.”

Something inside Munin recoiled.

No. The reaction was instant, instinctive. A cold, twisting fury coiled in her gut, sharp and foreign, but undeniable. She did not know where it came from. Did not understand why it was there, why it mattered what bargains the High Lord of Night made with her King.

But the anger remained, seething beneath her skin.

And for the first time, Munin wondered if she was wrong—if there was something wrong with her.

Feyre fell to her knees.

A flash of white light erupted from her, blinding, raw. Munin tensed as the force of it surged outward, pressing against her skin. The room seemed to vibrate with it, and then, just as quickly as it came, the magic receded. Silence settled in its wake.

And then—

“Tamlin?” Feyre’s voice was small, disoriented.

She lifted her head, blinking as if seeing the High Lord of Spring for the first time. Slowly, she turned, her gaze finding Rhysand. Confusion flickered across her face, then shifted into something darker, something furious.

“Where—? What did you do to me? What did you do?” Her voice was raw, shaking.

Munin stiffened. What had just happened?

Rhysand tilted his head, expression unreadable, but there was something familiar in the way he moved, the way his power curled around him. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, a purr that sent a ripple through the gathered court.

“How did you get free?”

The sound of it unsettled Munin. It was the same voice he had used Under the Mountain, the same careful, deadly mask.

But why?

Feyre turned back to Tamlin, crawling toward him, her hands clutching at the fabric of his tunic. “Don’t let him take me again,” she whispered, voice breaking. Then, stronger, desperate: “Don’t let him—”

Munin’s brow furrowed. What are you doing, Cursebreaker?

Rhysand’s voice cut through the thick air, low and steady. “How did you do it, Feyre?”

She didn’t look at him. Instead, she turned to the King, her breathing shallow, uneven. “Break the bond,” she pleaded. “The bargain—the mating bond. He made me do it. Made me swear it.”

A sharp inhale from Rhysand.

“No.”

The word was barely more than a breath, but Munin heard the pain laced within it. She watched him carefully, her focus drawn to the way his expression shuttered, the way something fractured in his eyes before he locked it down.

And Munin—who was supposed to be unfeeling, who had never been taught to care—felt something shift inside her. A flicker of something she didn’t understand.

Something she didn’t want to understand.

“Let them go,” Tamlin said, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. “Break her bond and let’s be done with it. Her sisters come with us. You’ve already crossed too many lines.”

Munin had not been expecting that. She flicked her gaze to the High Lord of Spring, but he was staring straight at the King, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. His golden hair was disheveled, his breathing heavy, as if it had taken everything in him to utter those words.

Silence stretched between them. A silence filled only with the shallow, uneven breaths of the two newly Made females still collapsed on the stone floor, and the distant hum of the Cauldron, as if it, too, was waiting.

Then the King inclined his head. “Very well.”

The High Lord of Night tensed. “No—”

His protest was immediate, sharp-edged—but ignored.

Tamlin took a step forward, shadows pooling beneath his feet, the raw scent of his rage thick in the room. His green eyes locked onto Rhysand, onto Feyre.

“I don’t give a shit if she’s your mate. I don’t give a shit if you think you’re entitled to her.” His voice was low, deadly. “She’s mine. And one day, I am going to repay every bit of pain she felt, every bit of suffering and despair.”

The words should have meant nothing to her. Just another exchange of power, another desperate bid for control. She had witnessed worse. Had been the instrument of worse.

And yet.

“Don’t.”

Rhysand’s voice was quiet, but not weak. A plea, not a command.

Something deep inside her—something long since severed—quivered. It was an unfamiliar sensation, foreign and unwelcome. She pushed it down. She had no use for it.

The King lifted a hand. A pulse of power rolled outward and Feyre screamed.

The sound tore through Munin, scraping against the emptiness inside her, finding purchase where there should have been none. It did not belong to her—it was not her pain, not her concern. And still, her breath caught.

Feyre collapsed. Writhing, gasping, clutching at something unseen. Then she went limp.

Tamlin lunged forward, dropping to his knees beside her. His hands shook as they curled around her shoulders, as he pulled her upright, as he pushed the hair from her face with an almost frantic gentleness. As if she were something fragile, something breakable.

As if she weren’t the Cursebreaker.

The King only smiled. “You are free to go, Rhysand,” he said, sounding almost bored. “Your friend’s poison is gone. The wings of the other… a bit of a mess.”

Munin barely heard him. The weight in her chest pressed heavier, like something shifting, settling, expanding in the space she had long thought empty.

She smothered it before it could grow.

The Morrigan winnowed in a flash of golden light, appearing behind Lucien and the two newly Made females. She grabbed the females, and was gone in an instant. Rhysand lunged after the two Illyrians, shadows curling around his friends, and in an instant, they were gone.

But just before he vanished—before the dark swallowed him whole—the Shadowsinger’s gaze locked onto hers.

Her fingers twitched. Small, imperceptible—but she felt it, that slip of control, that reaction. Then he was gone, and Munin stood there, forcing her breathing to remain steady as something coiled tight in her chest, pressing hard against the walls she had never thought could crack.

Chapter 24

Notes:

Wow! Everyone, thank you so so much! I think there are some of you who are going to be disappointed in this chapter, but I'm so grateful for your comments and your feedback!

The Spring Court looked different than the last time that she was there.

The air was thick with the scent of budding roses and damp earth, the gardens stretching vast and green beneath the pale sky. Yet even in the golden light, there was something hollow about it. As if the place had been scrubbed clean, the damage repaired, but the scars still lurked beneath.

Munin stood a few paces behind Dagdan and Brannagh as they arrived, the world around them stilling in the wake of their winnowing. The displacement of air stirred the petals of the flowers lining the gravel path, and the manor loomed before them, its marble façade gleaming as though nothing had ever touched it.

She had not expected the Cursebreaker to be there to greet them.

Not after the words she had spat at Jurian in the throne room, that vicious, simmering fury in her voice after the High Lord of Night had vanished. And yet—there she stood, poised in pastels, an unreadable expression settling over her features.

Not the fire Munin had seen before, but something cool and controlled.

Jurian, standing to the side with his arms folded, turned toward them. “May I present their highnesses, Prince Dagdan and Princess Brannagh, nephew and niece to the King of Hybern.”

The words echoed faintly against the towering columns, but Munin was not watching Jurian. She was watching the Cursebreaker’s eyes as they swept over Brannagh and Dagdan before landing on her. A flicker of something passed over Feyre’s face.

“And who is this?” The words were careful, but the weight of the High Lord’s gaze—and his emissary’s—settled on Munin as well.

Dagdan didn’t bother turning. “Munin,” he said simply. “She is our protection.”

Beside Feyre, the High Lord’s jaw tightened. “You will need no protection from us.” Tamlin’s voice was gruff, edged with something just short of irritation. “We had a bargain.”

Dagdan smiled. Not the kind that softened, but the kind that cut. “That may be the case,” he said smoothly as he took a step towards Munin, “but Munin is something of a pet to me, and I cannot be parted from her long.”

His hand ghosted over her lower back—too low. A brush of fingers, light as silk, meant to look careless. But Munin knew better. Knew the weight of that touch, the way he reveled in pressing the boundary between ownership and something else.

Feyre stiffened. The movement was slight, the tension flickering over her features in the way her lips pressed together, the way her gaze flicked from Dagdan’s hand to Munin’s face. Waiting for a reaction.

There was none.

Munin did not shift, did not flinch, did not even acknowledge it. She had been returned to that perfect, blissful stillness—the nothingness that had been restored after the day in the throne room.

After Dagdan had reached inside her mind again.

Memories that should have been solid now wavered; their edges blurred. Things she had thought she remembered, thought she knew—drifting just beyond reach. It didn’t matter. She was weightless now. Untouched by fear, by revulsion, by anything at all.

The only thing that mattered were her orders.

But Feyre’s stare lingered, sharp with something uneasy, as if she could see it—the blankness where something should have been.

“Welcome to our home,” Tamlin said, the weight of his stare shifting from Dagdan to Brannagh, his voice stiff with forced politeness. “We have rooms prepared for all of you.”

Dagdan left Munin’s side, returning to his twin.

Munin stood a few paces behind, hands clasped behind her back, silent as ever. The sprawling manor grounds stretched out beyond them, bathed in golden light from warm sun above.

Brannagh tilted her head as she assessed the High Lord before her. Then, with a saccharine smile, she glanced back at Munin. “My brother and I shall reside in one together,” she said smoothly, her voice lilting and pleasant.

There was no need for her to look at Munin when she said it. No need to lace the words with meaning. But she did.

Munin didn’t react. Not to the words, not to the pointed flick of Brannagh’s gaze over her, not to the way Dagdan’s fingers curled ever so slightly at his sides, like he found amusement in the declaration.

Feyre, however, noticed.

The Cursebreaker’s hazel eyes lingered on Munin—just a flicker, a beat too long—before she turned back to the two standing before her.

“We can easily make adjustments,” she said, her voice light, composed, though something in it felt… measured.

---

Azriel moved through the halls of the House of Wind, his steps soundless despite the lingering stiffness in his side. Faelight flickered along the stone walls, shadows stretching in his wake. He barely noticed. His focus was ahead—on the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall, on the scent of healing salves and dried blood thickening the air as he neared.

Cassian’s room.

The guilt pressed harder, coiling around his ribs like a vice. He had healed. Cassian had not.

At least, not yet. Madja had assumed them that his wings would be saved, that Cassian would fly again in time. But the damage was so extensive that it would take time for him to heal, even with his quick Illyrian blood.

Azriel pushed open the door without knocking, slipping inside. The air was heavy with the sharp bite of ointments, the faintest metallic tang of old wounds still closing.

Cassian was where he’d left him—reclined in bed, broad frame half-propped against the pillows, wings bound tight in fresh wrappings. The shredded membranes had barely begun to mend, dark veins of injury running through what should have been smooth, unbroken skin. The tightness in Cassian’s jaw betrayed the easy sprawl of his body, the tension in his fingers as they curled into the sheets a quiet defiance against his stillness.

Cassian’s gaze flicked to him, and despite everything—the pain, the frustration—he smirked. “Look who’s finally up and about.” His voice was rough, edged with exhaustion. “Thought you’d decided to sleep through my misery.”

Azriel only huffed, settling into the chair beside the bed, careful to avoid jostling it. The feeling of his guilt pressed heavier now, thick as the scent of herbs in the air.

Cassian saw it. Of course, he did. He always did.

“Don’t,” Cassian said, the smirk fading, his voice turning gruff. “I’d do it again.” A pause, then a sharper grin. “Not that I’d mind if you’d taken a few more of those blows instead.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have taken any.”

Cassian shrugged—or tried to. The motion was stilted, his bound wings preventing the full movement.

Azriel clenched his fists. The memory of his own helplessness, as poison worked through his veins. He hadn’t been able to do anything, and Cassian— Cassian had been the one to shield him from the full force of the King’s power.

“I should have—”

“Stop.” The single word cut sharp through the space between them.

Cassian’s eyes pinned him in place, the hazel darkening.

“I knew what I was doing,” he said, and though the usual fire remained in his voice, there was something else beneath it.

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t let the words sink past the surface of his mind. But Cassian’s gaze was steady.

“I’m not the only one still healing,” Cassian said, quieter this time.

Azriel knew who he meant. The females in the other wing. The ones who had been dragged from their homes, violated, broken. He had checked in on them—slipping into their rooms unnoticed, ensuring the healers provided everything they needed.

But it had never felt like enough.

Cassian studied him, his hazel eyes sharp despite the exhaustion lining his face. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Azriel didn’t answer. He knew the words were meant to ease the weight in his chest. But guilt was not so easily shed. He had been too slow. Too late.

He was the Spymaster — he should have known.

Cassian shifted, a grimace flickering over his face as he adjusted against the pillows. Then, casually—too casually—he said, “Did you see the winged bitch with the King?”

Azriel’s spine locked.

Cassian watched him, his expression unreadable. “If I didn’t know any better,” he mused, “I’d say she was Illyrian.”

His shadows curled tighter, whispering in his ear, wrapping around his fingers as if they, too, recoiled at the thought.

He had wondered the same thing when he first saw her. The shape of her wings—wrong, somehow. Scarred. Twisted. But still, unmistakably similar.

Azriel exhaled slowly, forcing his grip to loosen, forcing the tension in his muscles to ease.

"She’s been with Hybern for a long time," he said at last, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “If she was Illyrian, we would have known.”

"Would we?" Cassian scoffed, the sound edged with something bitter.  He leaned forward as much as his battered body allowed. “How many bastards slip through the cracks? How many of our own were tossed aside before they even learned to fly?”

Azriel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was, Cassian was right.

The war camps were filled with children no one wanted. Illegitimate brats beaten down until they either broke or learned to be stronger. And then there were the ones who never made it to the war camps at all—the ones abandoned in the snow, or stolen, or sold. The ones deemed too unworthy to even be given a chance to fight for a place.

Perhaps, that was why this Munin had felt so familiar.

He thought of her again. Of the way she had moved at Sangravah — she was efficient, he would give her that.  She had not reveled in the bloodshed, not the way some of the Illyrians did. There had been no cruelty in her, no pleasure. Just pure, brutal intent.

Like a hammer striking metal, over and over, because that was the only thing it had ever been taught to do.

Azriel knew what that kind of training looked like. Knew what it did to a person.

His shadows whispered around him, winding tight at the memory of her, at the image he couldn’t shake. The way she had met his gaze in the midst of battle—not with hatred, not with satisfaction. With calculation. Measuring him, reading him.

And then, for a single breath, she had hesitated. A fraction of a second where her focus had faltered, where something unreadable flickered in her dark eyes before vanishing entirely.

It had been so brief he might have imagined it.

But he hadn’t.

The door swung open before Cassian could press further. Rhysand strode in, violet gaze sweeping over the both of them. His brows lifted slightly, lips curving into something amused, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re both looking disgustingly broody,” he remarked, voice dry. “Should I come back later?”

“Absolutely not,” Cassian said, grinning as he pushed himself into a sitting position with a wince. “By all means, come and brood with us. After all, your mate is in the hands of the Spring Court.”

Azriel studied Rhys closely as he stepped further into the room. He knew his brother well enough to see past the easy, indifferent mask. Knew that, beneath it, Rhys was barely holding himself together. To have his mate ripped away so soon after she had accepted the bond—to know she was back in the grasp of the male who had let her waste away… Azriel couldn’t imagine the depth of it.

Rhys sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Sometimes, we can talk through the bond. But it’s… strained over the distance.” His fingers curled into a loose fist before he forced them to relax again. “I can feel her. Faintly. She’s there.”

Cassian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “We’ll get her out.”

“When she’s ready,” Rhys corrected. He paced to the window, staring out at the city below, though Azriel knew he wasn’t really seeing it. “She’s playing a dangerous game, but she’s holding her own. Emissaries from Hybern are there right now. At the Spring Court.”

Azriel watched the way Rhys’s shoulders tightened, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. His casual mask was cracking, the strain evident in the tense set of his jaw.

Cassian’s expression darkened. “Who did they send?”

Rhys hesitated. “Jurian. Dagdan. Brannagh.” A pause. “And someone else.”

Azriel didn’t need him to say her name. He already knew.

Cassian shifted against the pillows, his wings twitching despite the bindings. A grimace flickered across his face, though he tried to smother it. “The winged female who was with the King?”

Rhysand glanced at him, then at Azriel. His expression darkened slightly, the casual indifference from earlier gone. “She is the one you were following before… right?”

Azriel nodded once. He didn’t bother masking the tension that coiled through his body, the way his fingers curled against the arms of the chair.

Rhys exhaled, his jaw tightening. “I saw her with Amarantha before the curse.”

Cassian stilled. “Before the curse?”

“Not often,” Rhys admitted. He ran a hand through his dark hair, as if the memory itself unsettled him. “She wasn’t paraded around like the others, but I remember her. Standing in the shadows, always watching. She never did anything she wasn’t commanded to do… It was eerie.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—disgust, certainly, but something else, too. Recognition.

Silence stretched between them. Then, almost to himself, Rhys muttered, “I tried to get into her mind.”

Azriel’s spine went rigid. Cassian’s brows lifted slightly as he sat up straighter, despite the effort it cost him. Neither of them spoke, waiting for Rhys to continue.

He rolled his jaw, something unreadable flashing through his expression. “It’s not her own shield,” he said at last. “Someone else is blocking me. Another daemati, I’d wager. Strong.”

Cassian’s expression darkened. “The King?”

Rhys shook his head. “He doesn’t have that kind of power. But I bet someone in his court does.”

Azriel barely breathed. His mind churned, turning over every encounter he’d had with her, every calculated movement, the way that she barely spoke or reacted to anything.

“She never reacts,” he found himself saying, the words slow, measured. “Not the way a person should. No rage, no pleasure, not even fear.” He looked up at Rhys, searching his brother’s face for confirmation. “When you saw her with Amarantha… did she ever seem afraid?”

Rhys was quiet for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “She just… existed. Like she was waiting to be told what to do.”

Cassian frowned. “Like a soldier?”

Azriel wasn’t sure that was right. A soldier could still make choices. He had seen soldiers hesitate, even in the heat of battle. He had seen them break rank, defy orders, act on instinct. But her—Munin—she was something else.

“She doesn’t fight like a soldier,” Azriel said, the pieces clicking into place, slow and dreadful. “She fights like a weapon.”

Rhys’ gaze sharpened.

Azriel ran a hand over his jaw, recalling the way she had moved in Sangravah. Perfectly precise, perfectly lethal. And yet—there had been that moment. That hesitation, small enough to be missed by anyone who hadn’t spent his life watching for such things.

She was at Sangravah,” Azriel said, his voice even, revealing nothing. “Leading the attack.”

Cassian stilled. The easy tension in his body vanished, his hand—midway to adjusting his bandages—going rigid.

Rhys' expression darkened further, his violet eyes flashing. “Of course she was.”

The disgust in his voice was unmistakable.

Silence followed, stretching thick between them. Outside, the wind howled through the mountains, rattling against the stones of the House of Wind.

Cassian shook his head, fingers curling into the ruined sheets. His voice was quieter when he spoke, but no less edged. “She fights like Illyrian. If she were, and she did that—” He stopped himself.

Azriel said nothing. His shadows curled tighter, the dark tendrils shifting like they, too, felt the unease creeping into his bones.

But Cassian was right. He had thought the same thing, having watched the way she moved—not with rage, not with the arrogance of a warrior who enjoyed the fight. There had been no pleasure in her violence. Only cold, precise efficiency.

She was a soldier executing orders. A blade wielded in someone else’s hand.

He had seen countless warriors in battle, had fought beside and against those who killed out of fury, out of loyalty, out of duty. She had not been any of those things.

She had been something else entirely.

“She’s been in Hybern for a long time,” Azriel finally said, though the words felt empty the moment they left his lips. Did it matter how long? Did it change what she had become?

Rhys’ gaze lingered on him. There was something calculating in it, something wary. But all he said was, “She won’t be our problem for much longer. Once we take out Hybern, she’ll be nothing more than a dog without a master.”

Azriel should have agreed. Should have let the words settle whatever this feeling was gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. But instead, they only made it worse.

Nothing more than a dog without a master.

He had seen it—felt it—on that battlefield. The way she had looked at him, not with hatred, not even cruelty, but with nothing. A hollow, empty gaze that had assessed him as if he were just another piece on the board, another threat to be neutralized.

Not a person. Not an enemy. Just an obstacle.

And he wondered, just for a moment, if she had ever been anything else. If there had ever been a time when she had not belonged to someone.

The thought unsettled him.

The smallest sliver of pity edged its way in. And Azriel, who had spent his life recognizing the difference between weapons and the hands that wielded them, did not know what to make of it.

---

“The gap in the wall is right up here.”

The words barely registered. Munin followed the group in silence, her steps light, barely stirring the dust along the path. It was her first full day in the Spring Court, though she might as well have been a ghost for all the interaction she’d had.

Not that she minded. When Dagdan and Brannagh had dined with the High Lord and his court the previous evening, a simple supper had been sent upstairs for her. She had eaten without comment, without thought.

Others may have eaten for pleasure, but, for Munin, food was simply fuel. She had no need for finery.

“Who cleaved the wall here?” Brannagh asked, coming to a stop.

“We don’t know.” Lucien’s voice was calm, even, though his gold eye gleamed as he studied the jagged opening. “Some of the holes just appeared over the centuries. This one is barely enough for one person to climb through.”

Munin stepped forward, gaze sweeping the crack in the wall. Her gloved fingers ghosted over the rough stone, not truly touching, but close enough to feel the hum beneath her skin. It was weak. A ripple of something old, as if it had been stretched thin over time.

Nothing like the holes she had encountered on the continent.

“How many holes are in the wall?” Brannagh asked, her voice smooth.

Lucien didn’t look at her when he answered. “We’ve counted three along our entire border. Plus one off the coast, about a mile away.”

“The sea entrances are useless,” Brannagh said, dismissive. “We need to break it on the land.”

Lucien tilted his head. “The continent surely has spots, too.”

Munin flicked her gaze to him.

“It does,” she said, her voice even. The others turned to her at once, and suddenly there were four pairs of eyes on her, but she remained still. Unbothered. “I’ve encountered humans along the wall, trying to pass into faerie lands.”

Dagdan smiled, slow and satisfied. Brannagh, however, merely scowled, as if Munin had overstepped by reminding anyone she was still there. But it was the truth. It had been her task to lure humans through the border. Something that the Lords of Rask had ordered her to do after the King had lent her to them.

It was Feyre who finally broke the silence. “And what did you do with those humans?”

Her voice was steady, but Munin didn’t miss the slight widening of her eyes, the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides. The Cursebreaker was waiting for an answer, already bracing for it.

Munin met her stare, unwavering. “What I was ordered to do.”

Feyre’s expression darkened. “You mean you killed them.”

Munin didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Munin watched as horror flickered across Feyre’s face, quick and unguarded. But it didn’t last. Horror bled into something else—something sharper. Her lips parted, a breath drawn as if she were about to speak, to demand more. But before she could, Lucien nudged her, a subtle, silent warning.

Feyre inhaled through her nose, her lips pressing together before she exhaled.

“We’ll leave you to explore it, then,” she said evenly, though her voice was not as light as she had likely intended. “When you’re done, we’ll ride to the next.”

Lucien was the one to respond this time, his tone measured. “It’s two days from here.” There was something careful in the way he said it, as if weighing whether he wanted to prolong this moment or move them along.

“Then we’ll plan a trip for that excursion,” Feyre decided, her expression unreadable. Her gaze flickered toward Munin once more before returning to Lucien. “And the third hole?”

“Two days past that,” Lucien answered, but his stance had shifted slightly, his golden eye keen, as if already eager to move past this conversation entirely.

Feyre considered for a moment before turning her attention to the twins. “Can you winnow?”

Brannagh remained silent, her face unreadable, but Dagdan took a step forward, his tone smooth, practiced. “I can. Only a few miles if I bear others.”

Feyre nodded once, then looked to Munin expectantly. No one had ever bothered to ask Munin things before — they just told her to do them.

Munin met her gaze, expression unchanging. “I can.”

She had grown used to that flicker of surprise, to the way others hesitated when they realized she was not as limited as they had assumed. Feyre’s brows lifted slightly before she smoothed out her features again.

It was common knowledge that most fae couldn’t winnow. The ability was rare, limited to those with significant power. And no one expected Munin to be among them.

No one expected much of anything from her, beyond violence.

For a while, Munin was left alone.  Feyre stood off to the side, speaking in hushed tones with Lucien, her expression composed but tight. Munin could not make out the words, only the cadence of their conversation—sharp in places, softer in others.

But the tension in Feyre’s shoulders gave her away. The presence of Hybern’s emissaries unsettled her.

Munin did not blame her. The female was right not to trust them.

She turned back to the wall, pressing her fingertips lightly against the invisible barrier. A faint pulse of magic lingered beneath her touch. It was weaker than the rifts she had encountered on the continent—frayed at the edges, but still holding. Her fingers traced along its uneven seams, sensing where it had been reinforced, where time and power had worn it thin.

Footsteps crunched softly behind her. She did not turn, did not acknowledge the presence at her back. She already knew who it was.

“You’re from Hybern, then?”

Feyre’s voice was light, casual, but Munin recognized the probing beneath it.

She only shrugged, offering neither confirmation nor denial. People did not ask about her. Not unless she was actively trying to kill them, or if they planned on using her. She was not accustomed to conversation—certainly not like this.

A pause. Then hesitantly Feyre asked, “You don’t—know?”

Munin’s fingers continued their path along the unseen wall, tracing slow, methodical circles. “No.”

She felt Feyre’s gaze on her, studying her.

“You don’t have the coloring of someone from Hybern,” the female mused. “Not that I can tell with the mask.”

Munin did not look at her.

Another silence stretched between them. Then Feyre’s brow furrowed slightly, and she tilted her head. “So why wear it? You’re among friends here, after all.”

Munin’s hand stilled against the wall, and she blinked slowly A quiet beat before she finally turned her head slightly—just enough for Feyre to see the faint gleam of her cowl in the dim light, “It’s what I was given.”

A flicker of something crossed the Cursebreaker’s face then—curiosity, perhaps, but laced with something softer. Pity.

Munin’s shoulders tensed. Her fingers pressed harder into the invisible barrier, grounding herself in the familiar pulse of magic beneath her hand. She did not want pity, did not need it. She was a weapon, and people did not pity weapon. The moment stretched, and then she turned away, dismissing whatever look Feyre had given her as she focused on the wall.

Then Feyre’s voice cooled, quiet but precise. “Were you there?”

Munin stilled, her breath slow and even. She did not immediately turn, but she knew Feyre was watching her, waiting. The Cursebreaker’s stance was rigid, her fingers curled slightly, as if she expected an answer she would not like.

“When they took my sisters?”

Munin turned her head just enough to see the way Feyre squared her shoulders, the way her expression held steady despite the fury that Munin knew she had to be feeling.  

“Yes.”

The Cursebreaker inhaled sharply. Her lips pressed together; her eyes dark with something unreadable. She did not flinch, did not waver, “Why did you do it?”

Munin did not hesitate. The Cursebreaker was asking her a question, and Munin would give her an honest answer, “I did as I was ordered.”

Feyre let out a soft breath—one of disbelief and frustration. “You didn’t think, even for a moment, that it was wrong?”

The words felt like an accusation. Munin let them settle, let them sink in.

“I don’t think,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I act.”

Feyre’s expression flickered, something shifting behind her eyes. And just like that, the pity was gone, swallowed by something colder.

Good. Munin had no use for her sympathy.

Feyre’s mouth parted, her body tensing as if she were ready to argue or press harder. But Munin spoke first, her voice cool and detached, the same way she might report on a battle strategy.

“There’s a fracture here.” She ran her fingers along the weak seam in the barrier, feeling the way the magic dipped and thinned beneath her touch. “Weak, but growing.”

Feyre exhaled through her nose, the shift in conversation barely masking the frustration that lingered in her stiff posture. For a moment, she looked as if she might push further, demand more answers. But instead, she only nodded, her expression unreadable.

For now, at least, she let it go.

Chapter 25

The humans were incredibly stupid.

Children of the Blessed—the Cursebreaker had called them. They gazed at the High Fae with wide, shining eyes, as if they were gods wrapped in flesh. Munin knew better. The Fae were no gods, and these fools would soon learn that.

They had been traveling for hours now, making their way toward the second breach in the wall. Munin walked ahead with Dagdan and Brannagh, the two of them murmuring between themselves in low, conspiratorial voices. Behind them, the Cursebreaker and the emissary lagged, their hushed conversation just out of Munin’s hearing.

Not that she cared to listen.

“Masters and mistresses,” a reedy voice had called, cracking with something between desperation and reverence. “You have found us on our journey.”

Now, their party had stopped at the wall to see the humans that dare to approach them.

Munin turned her head, gaze flicking over the figures who had stepped onto the path. Three clothed in simple traveling garb, their hands clasped before them in supplication. Idiots. They should have known better than to approach strangers in the woods, let alone ones from Hybern.

She risked a glance at Dagdan. He was smiling, sharp and predatory, the kind of grin she had been on the receiving end of too many times before. But his attention was locked on the humans, as if they were a fine meal laid out before him.

 “What are you doing here?” Jurian stepped forward, eyes hard. His voice was sharp with an edge Munin recognized—protectiveness. Munin supposed it had something to do with his own humanity, the way he had once despised the Fae.

Did he still?

One of the humans, a man barely past his youth, lifted his chin. “We have come to dwell in the immortal lands. We have come as tribute.”

A sneer curled at Munin’s lips before she could stop it. Fools. If they knew what the Fae truly were, what the Fae did, they would not be so eager to throw themselves into their grasp.

Jurian’s head whipped toward Lucien, his expression tight. “Is this true?”

Lucien’s face darkened, his russet eye flashing. “We accept no tribute from the humans, least of all children.”

“But we want to,” a woman among them insisted, taking a step forward. “We wish to serve.”

Brannagh’s smile was honeyed, her voice soft with invitation. “Why don’t you come through?” she crooned, stepping closer to the wall. “We can enjoy ourselves.”

The young man’s breath hitched. The woman beside him swayed slightly, as if enchanted by the sound of Brannagh’s voice.

 “Get out,” Feyre’s snarl cut through the air. “Go back to your villages, back to your families. You cross that wall, and you will die.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a warning.

"We have come to live in peace," one of the humans said. The words trembled in the air, barely holding form. There was fear in her eyes, but not enough—not nearly enough.

Feyre’s expression did not soften. Her words cut sharp and cool. “There is no such thing here, only death for your kind.”

The warning should have sent them running. But instead, the humans' eyes flicked to Dagdan and his sister, catching on their unearthly beauty. Munin could see the possibility forming in their gazes—if they crossed the wall, they could have the pleasure that Brannagh had promised them.

Idiots.

Dagdan only smiled, slow and sharp. Brannagh let out a soft, silken hum, as if pleased by their attention.

Munin never understood their desire to see humans suffer. There was no purpose in it, no necessity. She did not revel in others’ pain. She did not revel in anything at all. She was a blade, meant to cut, nothing more. But she heard the urgency in Feyre’s voice, saw the hard, tense line of Jurian’s mouth, and something in her gut twisted.

Jurian’s mouth pressed into a hard line. Lucien shifted, his hand twitching toward the hilt of the sword at his hip. Even the Cursebreaker’s posture had changed, her shoulders locking into something tense, poised. The air between them grew heavy.

Something about this was wrong.

Wasn’t that what the Cursebreaker had said to her the other day?

The thought was barely formed before she moved. Before instinct—something deeper than orders, deeper than duty—seized control.

Power rippled through her, sharp and cold, as she unfurled her wings.

The leathery membranes snapped open with a sickening crack, stiff and unused after so long. Pain lanced down her spine as the tension in her back released, but she ignored it. She barely noticed it.

 Her wings stretched wide behind her, monstrous things. They were wrong—too long in some places, too thin in others, jagged where they should have been smooth. Clawed tips curled inward, unnatural, twisted. The flesh bore old scars, patches where the membrane had torn and healed poorly.

She knew what she looked like. With the cowl shadowing her face and those grotesque wings framing her, she looked like something summoned from the pits of the world.

The humans finally turned their eyes on her.

One of them stumbled back, shaking, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Another clutched at the sleeve of the woman beside him, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. The girl in front took a half-step forward—then stopped, her trembling fingers gripping the fabric of her cloak. Terror flickered across her features.

Good.

Let them be afraid. Let them understand that whatever fantasies they held about the fae were nothing more than childish delusions.

Behind her, she could feel a shift in movement.

Dagdan let out a low, guttural snarl, his fury rippling through the air like a wave. Brannagh’s hiss was sharp as a blade, but Munin did not turn to face them.

Feyre, though—Feyre only stared. Not in horror, not in disgust. Just…staring.

The humans bolted. Scrambling back into the trees, retreating beyond the wall, away from the twisted fae before them. Away from Brannagh and Dagdan.

Munin did not look at the others as she slowly folded her wings, forcing the aching things back into place. But she could feel Dagdan’s rage radiating from where he stood, his fingers twitching as if barely restraining himself.

She braced herself.

Dagdan launched himself toward her.

Munin did not move. Did not raise a hand as he collided with her, the impact driving her back into the dirt. His weight pinned her down, the scent of steel and magic thick around them. The world tilted, the cold earth biting into her palms, but she remained still.

She had known this would come.

Dagdan pushed himself up slightly, only enough to hover over her, his breath warm against her cheek.

He did not strike, not yet. His fingers dug into the fabric of her cloak at her shoulder, twisting the material as if to remind her that he could. That he would, if he wished. His voice was a low snarl, sharp with possession. “You forget yourself, Raven.”

Munin did not answer. Did not look at him. Did not move, even as his presence curled around her mind like a leash, tightening.

Then, there was nothing but pain.

It came swift, searing, stabbing deep behind her eyes. A twisting, invasive pressure that did not just push, but dug through her mind. Searching. Always searching—for something, for whatever fragment of herself he had not yet claimed.

She clenched her jaw. Did not make a sound. Her fingers curled into the dirt beneath her, gripping at the frozen ground as if anchoring herself.

Dagdan crouched lower, shifting his weight, his fingers brushing lightly under her chin.

“You do not think, Munin.” His magic slithered deeper, coiling around the edges of her mind like a snake poised to strike. “You do not act unless I tell you to.”

The pain worsened. Fire and ice stormed through her skull, a battle waged between forces she could not fight. Her breath hitched—just barely—but he caught it. Of course he caught it.

A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Ah. There you are.”

The pressure tightened, squeezed. Her vision blurred, black creeping at the edges. She was sinking, slipping into the depths of something she did not want to name, something that yawned wide and endless beneath her.

And then—

“Get out of her head.”

Dagdan went still.

For a moment, the pressure in her skull lessened, like a predator momentarily distracted from its prey. But then he pushed. Hard.

Munin’s breath stilled.

Dagdan did not merely dig through her mind—he tore through it, pulling at the seams, unraveling every fragile thread that bound her to something beyond his grasp. He reached deeper, deeper, past memory, past thought, past instinct. Past whatever remained of who she had once been.

You are nothing.

The words were not spoken aloud. They did not need to be. They were inside her, coiling through the very fabric of her mind, wrapping around the last fragile remnants of something warm, something real, something—

Gone.

The dirt beneath her palms felt distant, foreign. The taste of blood on her tongue meaningless. The hands pressing her into the earth inconsequential.

Dagdan’s magic twisted tighter, pulling and pulling, stripping away everything.

Pain ceased to be pain. It was only sensation. Horror ceased to be horror. It was only an understanding of what came next.

She was slipping—no, being dragged—into a cold, hollow abyss. A place where nothing mattered. Where she would not need to question, or feel, or think. A place where she would exist as she was meant to. A blade, honed and sharpened, wielded at her master’s whim.

And yet—

Somewhere, distant, muffled, like sound through water, she heard it again, “Get out of her head.”

Dagdan did not so much as glance at her. “I am merely reminding her of her purpose.”

His voice was smoot and unhurried. A gentle thing, despite the raw dominance still thrumming between them. His grip in her mind had lessened, but only just. The echoes of his presence lingered, curling through the empty spaces he had carved out, a phantom pressure that made her head swim.

Munin did not move. Did not react.

She did not need to. There was nothing to react to.

“She knows her purpose.”

Feyre’s voice cut through the air, and the power in it flickered, humming against Munin’s skin, “Now get out of her head.”

Dagdan only smiled. Slow, indulgent, as if he found the entire ordeal amusing. His gloved fingers trailed along Munin’s cheek. “She doesn’t seem to mind.”

Munin did not flinch. Did not pull away. She was still. Silent. A blade, as she had been made to be.

Already, the moment of resistance, of hesitation, was slipping away, fading into irrelevance. She had merely faltered. Had let herself be distracted by something fleeting and unnecessary. But that was over now. That weakness was over now.

And yet—

The pain remained.

Not the pain he had given her, but something else. It did not coil in her mind like his power, did not twist and tighten and claim. It pushed.

The sensation was foreign. It was not the insidious slithering of Dagdan’s influence, not the suffocating weight that had pressed into her thoughts, digging through her until she had been stripped of everything but obedience. This was different—clean and bright, laced with fury.

Not Dagdan.

Feyre.

Munin gasped as air flooded her lungs, burning and sharp. Her body lurched forward on instinct, her hands splaying against the dirt as she struggled to breathe. The pressure in her mind had vanished—ripped away so suddenly that the absence of it left her hollow, unmoored.

A ragged snarl broke through the ringing in her ears. Dagdan had staggered back, his posture tense with fury, his teeth bared.

Feyre did not so much as blink. “Don’t touch her again.”

Brannagh’s laughter was a slow, curling thing, “My, my. How bold.”

Munin could still feel Dagdan’s presence, not in her mind, but in the way his gaze settled on her. His rage simmered just beneath the surface, coiling tight, searching for a place to strike. Her body was still trembling, but she forced herself upright, shifting to a sitting position even as her muscles screamed in protest.

Feyre stepped between them before he could act, her body angled just enough to shield Munin from his view.

“If you ever do that again,” she said, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath, “I will tear you apart.”

Brannagh’s smile remained, lazy and unbothered. “Careful, Cursebreaker,” she purred, as if Feyre were something delicate. As if she had not just shattered Dagdan’s control with a single strike of her power.

Dagdan did not speak. He only watched Munin, his silence more dangerous than any threat.

He was not done with her yet.

---

Dagdan and Brannagh had not looked at her for the rest of the day.

Neither did the Cursebreaker.

Even in his fury, Dagdan had slipped back into her mind, curling his power around her like a leash. Ensuring her obedience. Stripping away whatever remained of her thoughts, her hesitation.

Now, as night settled over the camp and the twins retired to their tent, Munin remained by the fire, seated across from Jurian and Feyre. The flames flickered, casting long shadows over the forest floor, their glow illuminating the hard lines of the human’s face.

Jurian leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “What happens to the ones who make it through the wall?”

Munin had sensed the question weighing on him all day. A slow, festering thing, its roots buried deep. He was not asking for curiosity’s sake. It was personal to him — the treatment of these humans.

“I don’t know. They never came back once they crossed.” Feyre ground her boot into the dirt, her face unreadable. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “But while Amarantha ruled, creatures prowled these woods.”

Feyre paused, and then her gaze flicked to Munin. “So I don’t think it ended well.”

So, the Cursebreaker had not forgotten what Munin had admitted to her the other day.

It was of no matter. She was well aware of what the Spring Court thought of her, but it had little to do with the task that she had set out here to do.

Jurian scoffed, the sound full of old bitterness. “Five hundred years ago, they’d have been flogged for that nonsense.” His voice darkened, his knuckles whitening where they curled around his knee. “We were their slaves and whores and laborers for millennia—men and women fought and died so we’d never have to serve them again.”

Munin felt their gazes shift toward her, but she did not acknowledge them. She only watched the fire, the way the flames licked at the air, twisting, writhing—alive, but tethered to the wood that sustained them.

“Careful,” Feyre murmured, though there was something almost mocking in her tone. “Or you might not sound like Hybern’s faithful pet.”

“That’s what you think I am, isn’t it?” Jurian’s voice was steady, but there was something sharp beneath it, something edged and knowing. His eyes slid to Munin, watching her the way a predator might watch another of its kind. “His dog.”

Munin did not react. Did not blink.

Feyre’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her gaze as she turned back to Jurian. “What’s the end goal, then?”

Jurian exhaled slowly, shifting where he sat. “I have unfinished business.”

Feyre sighed, weary, unimpressed. “Miryam is dead.”

Jurian’s jaw tightened. “Everything I did during the War—it was for Miryam and me. For our people to survive and one day be free.”

To be free. Munin’s body tensed.

The words echoed through her, rattling loose something brittle, something buried. The fire before her blurred, the edges of the world shifting, cracking, unraveling.

And the people… they’re not all dull. Some fight back. Some rise above their stations. They have this… grit. I’d like to see it for myself.

The voice slid through her mind, quiet and reverent. Not her own. A memory—no, a whisper of something more, something clawing its way free from the dark.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. No.

Her breathing quickened. Her hands clenched into fists. She did not know these words, did not know why her throat felt tight, why her vision swam with something that was not quite fear, not quite pain.

Who had said that to her?

Why did it feel like something had been torn from her? Like there was a wound she could not name, festering beneath her skin?

She forced herself to stay still, to not let the tremor reach her limbs, to not let them see. But Feyre’s head had tilted slightly, those sharp, knowing eyes narrowing just enough.

Jurian, too, was watching her now. “Something wrong?”

Munin pushed to her feet. It was too sudden, too unnatural, and she knew it as soon as she did it. Both of them tracked her movements, confusion flickering across their features. But Munin did not meet their gazes, did not give them a chance to pry any further.

Sleep. That was what she needed. She would wake up rested and reset, and there would be no confusing words in her head.  Her boots barely made a sound as she walked away from the fire, but she felt their gazes on her back.

The walk to her tent felt longer than it should have. She ducked inside, bracing herself against the wooden cot as soon as she was alone.

Her pulse was still racing. She willed it to slow. Willed herself back into stillness, into the cold clarity she had always known.

But her mind was not empty.

The words would not leave her.

She lay down, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim her. But as she drifted, something pulled at the edges of her mind, a thread unraveling in the dark.

And the people… they’re not all dull. Some fight back. Some rise above their stations.

A phantom ache curled in her chest, deeper than thought, deeper than memory.

She clenched her jaw.

She did not know this voice.

She did not want to.

---

Brannagh and Dagdan were gloating over their kill.

The scent of blood still clung to the air, thick and metallic, despite the hours that had passed. They’d relished the way the Cursebreaker had stiffened, nostrils flaring as the copper tang hit her. When she realized what they had done.  They’d laughed when she stalked off, the red-headed emissary trailing behind her in a huff, his face drawn tight with restrained fury.

And now they sat before the fire, their voices low and eager, recounting each terrified scream, each useless plea from the Children of the Blessed. They spoke of how the humans had broken apart so easily—how their blood had pooled, hot and slick, staining the earth beneath them.

Munin just sat there.

The flames crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across the clearing. She did not react to their words. Did not flinch at the way Brannagh grinned, her teeth gleaming as she leaned forward to describe the way one of the humans had tried to crawl away, dragging themselves over the dirt, reaching for salvation that would never come.

Munin did not feel anything. Not revulsion. Not approval.

She was only a blade, that was all.

But then—

A whisper broke their conversation.

It slithered through the trees, a sound that did not belong to this world—too soft and too stretched. A voice, but not a voice. Something that skittered along the edge of hearing, brushing against the mind rather than the ears.

Brannagh and Dagdan went still.

Another whisper followed, twisted and guttural. The cadence of it was wrong, layered, as if multiple voices spoke at once but not in unison. Words should have formed, but all Munin heard was the sound of something wet, something broken, dragging itself closer.

The firelight flickered, the warmth of it suddenly fragile.

Dagdan’s head snapped up, his sharp gaze raking through the shadows. Brannagh’s hand curled over the hilt of her dagger, but even she hesitated before drawing it.

The whisper came again, closer this time.

Munin did not move, did not speak, but she felt it too. A shift in the air, thick and cloying, pressing against her skin like unseen hands. The mist curled low around the trees, swallowing the sounds of the forest. Even the wind had died.

A shape flickered between the trees. Then another. Shadows bleeding together, shifting in and out of the mist, too fast, too fluid to be anything natural.

The stench of rot curled in her nostrils.

Then—

A rasping breath, drawn slow and deep, right at the edge of the firelight. Mine.

The word slithered through the mist, wrapping around her mind like a cold hand gripping her skull.

Brannagh shot to her feet, her movements quick, but not quick enough to mask the way her fingers trembled. Dagdan followed, his body taut, magic pooling at his fingertips. His head snapped toward the trees, sharp eyes scanning the shifting dark.

Then Feyre and Lucien appeared, their eyes wide, their postures tense. But there was something else there, something unspoken in the glance they exchanged.

Munin caught it.

The mist thickened, curling like a living thing, reaching toward them, twisting in slow tendrils. Another whisper slithered through the clearing, wrapping around her ribs, clawing at something deep inside her.

Mine. And this time, she felt it smile.

Brannagh inhaled sharply, but not in irritation or disdain. It was something closer to unease. Her fingers twitched at her sides, magic simmering there, yet she did not strike.

It was the Bogge that stood before them, shifting between corporeal and incorporeal with each breath of wind. Its form was unraveling and twisting as if it had never been whole to begin with. Darkness and bone melded together, its gaping maw stretching wider than should have been possible.

Dagdan inhaled sharply, his usual sneer faltering. He did not retreat outright, but his weight rocked back, his boots shifting ever so slightly over the dirt. When the Bogge took another step forward, the mist curling around its limbs, Dagdan moved again—this time behind Munin.

“Kill it.” His voice was tight, devoid of its usual mocking lilt.

Munin did not move.

The only sound was the fire snapping behind them. Even the wind had died, the trees standing still and silent as though the land itself dared not breathe. Across from her, Feyre watched, her expression unreadable, but there was something in her eyes, something sharp and knowing. A silent challenge.

She wanted Munin to defy Dagdan.

The pressure in Munin’s mind clamped down hard, thick and suffocating, dragging her under before she could think, before she could hesitate. A vice tightening around her consciousness, digging deep into the marrow of her thoughts until she could no longer tell where she ended and Dagdan’s will began.

Fight.

Her body obeyed before her mind could resist.

Her wings snapped open, those ruined, gnarled things stretching wide. A forced, unnatural stillness overtook her limbs, her body no longer hers. Power crackled beneath her skin, static snapping at her fingertips as her hands moved, unsheathing the twin daggers at her sides.

The Bogge moved.

It rippled through the mist, its form dissolving into the night before solidifying again, closer now. Too close.

Munin reacted on instinct. Her muscles tensed, her body twisting as she brought her daggers up, a downward slice aimed for whatever passed as its throat. Steel slashed through empty air, meeting no resistance. The Bogge was already gone, shifting before she could land the blow, a curl of darkness slipping through her reach. Her feet barely had time to adjust, her balance shifting as she pivoted, searching—

A rasping voice curled around her, the whisper barely more than a breath of sound. "Flesh. I will feast on your flesh."

And then, there was nothing but pain.

Claws tore across her ribs, the impact sending her staggering. A sharp, white-hot pain flared beneath her leathers, and warmth followed—blood, seeping fast, slicking her skin. The scent of it curled in the air, thick and metallic, but Munin did not falter.

Dagdan did not move. He did not lift a blade, did not so much as tense. But his mind was still there, still wrapped around hers. His command pulsed like a drumbeat through her skull, rattling through every thought, forcing her body to act even as the rest of her screamed to stop. Keep fighting.

The Bogge circled, its form flickering between states—one moment solid and hulking, the next a writhing mass of mist and shadow.

Munin adjusted her stance, bracing her feet against the damp earth. Her knees bent, and her weight shifted to account for the next strike. Her wings flared just slightly, spreading wide for balance. The ruined bones ached as they caught the wind.

The world narrowed, and sounds sharpened, her breath steadying. She listened to the subtle shift in the air, the shift of shadow against the forest floor, and the near-silent scrape of claws against the ground.

She struck.

The dagger sliced through the Bogge’s form. Not mist, not empty space, but something just solid enough to feel the resistance.

The shriek that followed was not one of pain. No, she had not hurt it, not truly. The sound was one of frustration and anger. The Bogge twisted, its hollow sockets fixed on her before its head turned—not toward her.

Toward Dagdan.

For the first time, Munin saw it. The flicker of something raw in his gaze. Fear. Just the barest glimmer of it, just enough to send a tremor through his carefully crafted mask. His hand twitched as if to reach for a sword that was not there.

Brannagh’s breathing turned sharp, but her expression—snarling, coiled with anger—was not what held Munin’s attention. It was Dagdan. Cold, cruel Dagdan. Looking unsure.

The Bogge lunged.

Munin moved.

Because she had no choice. Because Dagdan’s grip on her mind still held. She was going to fight the creature, to protect the male that commanded her.

Her blade met the Bogge’s claws, metal shrieking as it deflected the strike just enough to divert its path. But it was not enough.

The second swipe hit.

Searing pain tore through her thigh, the force of it nearly sending her to her knees. Her vision blurred, breath stalling in her chest, but her grip on her weapons did not loosen. The scent of her own blood thickened in the air, mingling with the damp rot of the Bogge’s breath.

She held her ground, daggers slick with her own blood, muscles coiled against the searing pain in her ribs, her thigh. But something behind her shifted—a scrape of boots against dirt, the sharp hitch of breath.

Dagdan moved.

Not toward her. Not toward the fight.

He turned, grabbed Brannagh’s arm, and ran.

Munin’s breath caught, her stomach twisting so sharply it made her vision waver. He ran. He—who had forced his way into her mind, who had commanded her to fight without hesitation—fled without a second thought. Her gaze locked on the retreating figures, on Brannagh’s fleeting glance over her shoulder, the way her lips curled in something like disdain before she too disappeared into the night.

A sharp crack split the air behind her. Munin turned just in time to see Feyre reach for Lucien, their forms already distorting, the telltale shimmer of winnowing engulfing them.

The Bogge roared.

She moved—too slow. Pain lanced through her injured leg as she staggered back, the world tilting for one disorienting moment before she found her footing. But the Bogge was relentless.

The next swipe struck true.

Claws raked deep across her side, slicing through leather, cutting into flesh. Her breath left her in a sharp gasp, the pain so blinding, so immediate that her knees nearly buckled. Blood soaked into her leathers, warm and thick, but she did not drop.

Her orders were to fight.

She twisted sharply, ignoring the screaming protest of her body, forcing herself into a roll that sent her skidding across damp earth. The Bogge’s next strike missed by a hair’s breadth, the force of it splitting bark from a nearby tree in a vicious spray.

Munin’s breath came in ragged gasps, her strength slipping with each passing moment. Her body screamed, pain radiating from the deep gashes along her ribs, her thigh, her side. Blood soaked through her leathers, warm and sticky, making every movement sluggish.

She couldn’t win this fight. Couldn’t kill the Bogge.

But she could distract it.

With what little strength she had left, she flared her wings, stretching them to their full, ruined expanse. The motion sent fresh agony lancing through her spine, but she ignored it, focused only on making herself look bigger, stronger—anything to keep the Bogge’s attention locked on her and not in the direction the others ran off in.

She dragged her blade along the ground, the steel striking against rock, sending a spray of sparks into the darkness. It was a weak, feeble thing, but it was enough.

The Bogge snarled.

It shifted, circling, mist curling hungrily around its limbs, flickering between substance and shadow as it hunted.

Munin held her ground, her chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths. The ache in her limbs, the sharp sting of open wounds—none of it mattered. All that mattered was keeping the Bogge’s focus on her, holding it there long enough to find an opening, to figure out something, anything, before it struck again.

It stopped.

Its hollow sockets locked onto her, its grotesque, lipless mouth curling into something that might have been a smile if it belonged to anything remotely of this world.

Then, it spoke.

“You will taste divine, little thing.” Its voice was not a whisper, nor a growl, but something worse. “Your flesh, your bones—I will savor them.”

The Bogge lunged.

Munin moved—dropped low, twisting her body just enough to slip beneath its swipe. Her blade lashed out, slicing through the wraith-like tendrils that made up its limbs. Steel met resistance for only a heartbeat before the metal passed through nothing at all.

She had no time to recover. Claws struck again, raking across her ribs. Agony exploded through her side, white-hot and all-consuming. Something cracked—a sharp, sickening snap beneath the force of the blow.

She staggered. Breath hitched, pain threatening to drag her down, to pin her there, defenseless.

No.

She choked back the sharp gasp that rose in her throat, refusing to give the creature the satisfaction. Her body screamed at her to yield, to drop her blade, to surrender.

She would not.

She had been broken before—ripped apart, carved down, reshaped into something less than Fae, something more than a weapon. She had endured agony beyond reckoning, had been remade in the image of another’s will, had learned what it was to serve. But she would not die here.

Not for Dagdan. Not for Brannagh. Not for anyone.

Her grip tightened around the hilt of her blade, her fingers slick with blood. The Bogge reared back, its gaping maw stretching wide, as if it could already taste her. Gritting her teeth, she shoved forward, throwing all her weight into the strike, driving her blade deep into its side.

The creature shrieked, its form rippling, oil over water, shadows twisting and writhing around the steel buried within it. But it would not die. It was never meant to.

Munin had no time left.

Her chest rose and fell in a single, shuddering breath. Then she willed herself to winnow.

The world collapsed in an instant.

Then—light. A floor beneath her boots. The scent of stone and polished wood.

She stumbled back into the Spring Court Manor.

Her knees buckled, her ribs screamed, but she did not fall. Not yet. Blood dripped in slow, rhythmic beats onto the marble, bright against the pale stone.

And she was alone. Again.

Chapter 26

Notes:

Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos or comments. I love responding to all of them. And based on your comments, I know some of you were looking forward to this chapter! So here we are!

It was like the attack by the Bogge had never happened.

Except it had. And though Brannagh and Dagdan never spoke of it, the tension in their posture, the sharpness in their words whenever the Cursebreaker so much as breathed in their direction, betrayed their lingering humiliation. They had run. They had used Munin as a shield and had abandoned her to defend herself while they used the time to escape.

And Feyre Archeron had noticed.

She did not let them forget. Every comment, every measured glance, every flicker of amusement in her sharp eyes was a knife between their ribs, twisting. After each one, she looked to Munin—watching, waiting. Daring her to deny it.

Munin did not. It was not her place. She was a weapon. Nothing more. She had been given an order: fight the Bogge. And she had obeyed, until her body could no longer endure it, until the instinct for survival—the only thing she could claim as her own—had forced her to winnow away.

Now, the night stretched wide and cold around their camp, the fire crackling in the center of their circle. Munin sat at its edge, the flames casting her in shifting light, licking against the worn leather of her armor. The heat was a steady presence against her skin, grounding her. She watched the way the embers danced, their slow rise before they vanished into the dark.

A log split in the fire, sending a sharp crack through the stillness. Brannagh flinched.

Feyre glanced at her, amusement flickering across her face before she took another bite of her food. “Jumpy, aren’t you?” Her tone was pleasant, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

Brannagh’s grip tightened around the cup in her hands. “Careful, Cursebreaker,” she murmured, her voice smooth but laced with warning. “You wouldn’t want us to think you were making threats.”

Feyre only smiled. “Not at all. It’s no matter, anyway. I’m sure Munin will protect you.” She turned her gaze to Munin then, as if assessing her. “She seems quite loyal.”

Dagdan let out a low chuckle, rolling the goblet of wine between his fingers before lifting it in a mock toast. “That she is.” His voice was slow, indulgent. “She knows she would be nothing without us.”

Munin did not look at him, but she felt it—the way his eyes traced over her, dragging down her body. He leaned back against the log he was seated on.

“Don’t you, Munin?” His voice dipped lower, softer, an almost intimate murmur meant only for her.

The fire crackled, casting long, flickering shadows over the camp. Munin kept her focus on the flames, watching the way they shifted, devouring everything in their path.

Dagdan exhaled a quiet laugh. “You’ve always been such a good Raven for me.”

A hand brushed over the back of her neck, a featherlight caress that sent something cold curling in her stomach. He had done this before, many times. An absent touch, a thumb tracing the line of her jaw, a hand gripping her waist just a little too firmly when adjusting her stance in training. It had never been anything outright, nothing that could be named, but it had always been there—that possessiveness, that reminder of what she was to him.

Feyre’s eyes lingered on Munin, waiting as if she thought that Munin would interject, would deny what Dagdan was saying. But Munin only stared into the fire, keeping her face as unreadable as possible. She was a blade, after all. And blades did not have feelings.

They were only meant to be wielded.

The Cursebreaker hummed, shifting her attention back to Dagdan, a slow, assessing glance. “Something tells me that is not the case.”

Dagdan smiled, his teeth gleaming in the firelight. He took a slow sip of his wine, savoring it. His gaze, though, slid back to Munin—lingering too long, like a hand trailing where it shouldn’t.

“She knows her place,” he said smoothly, his voice a lazy drawl. His fingers tapped against the goblet. “Don’t you, Munin?”

Feyre’s brows twitched the slightest bit, the barest flicker of distaste crossing her face. A quiet disgust that most wouldn’t have noticed. But Munin saw.

Munin remained still. She did not answer, did not move. But then it came—that sickly, cloying pressure curling through her mind, winding tight around her thoughts. The weight of his will, creeping through the cracks and leaving no space for defiance. The words settled on her tongue before she could think otherwise, before her own will could even rise to meet them.

“Yes.” The word left her in a breath, flat and cold.

Feyre’s gaze flicked back to her, something unreadable in her face, something considering. Then, the slightest tilt of her head. “How reassuring.” But there was something else in her tone now. Something sharp. A note of disdain, well-hidden beneath her usual ease.

“I could prove it to you, if you like.” Dagdan chuckled, the sound deep, indulgent. His tone was smooth, edged with amusement, with challenge. He leaned back, sprawling against the log, a picture of ease. His gaze slid to Munin, and she felt it before he even spoke.

“Munin, fetch me another log for the fire.”

She rose without hesitation, moving across the clearing to the woodpile. The chill of the night bit through her leathers as she crouched, fingers wrapping around a heavy log. She turned, stepping back toward the fire, and tossed it into the flames. The wood cracked as it hit, sparks flaring up in a brief, violent burst of light before settling into embers.

Dagdan’s eyes gleamed. “Pour me some wine.”

Munin took the bottle from the center of the camp, filled his cup with steady, precise movements, and handed it to him. Her face remained blank, her mind quiet beneath the weight of his control.

Brannagh smirked, a pleased little thing, but Feyre only watched, unimpressed. She leaned forward, resting her elbow against her knee, and gave Dagdan a look of cool boredom.

“That’s hardly convincing,” she remarked. “You might as well be ordering a servant around.”

Dagdan exhaled a soft laugh, swirling the wine in his cup. “Very well.” His voice dipped, something smug curling at the edges. His attention shifted back to Munin, his mind pressing against hers again, thick as oil. “Munin, put your hand over the fire.”

Brannagh stilled, her smirk fading into something more thoughtful. Feyre’s expression did not change, but Munin caught the way her fingers curled slightly, tightening around her utensils. Caught the quick glance, sharp and knowing, that flicked between Dagdan and Munin.

Not disgusted at Munin’s compliance—but at him. She knew exactly what he was doing. And she hated it.

Munin did not hesitate at Dagdan’s order. She couldn’t.

The pressure in her mind held her fast, a sickly, cloying thing that slithered through her thoughts, twisting around her will until there was none left. The command had been given. Her body obeyed before her mind could catch up.

She lifted her hand. Extended it toward the fire.

At first, it was only heat, licking at her skin like a warning. Then pain—sharp, merciless. The flames curled over her fingers, devouring, burning deep. The scent of singed flesh curled into the air, acrid and unmistakable. It clung to her, sank into her clothes, into her hair. Her body screamed, but she remained still. She did not flinch.

Brannagh shifted, eyes flicking to Dagdan, but she did not speak. As the moments dragged on, Munin could see her lips twist into an amused smirk.

Feyre’s voice cut through the silence, calm but edged with steel. “That’s enough.”

Dagdan did not react immediately. He only tilted his head, slow, as if the words amused him, as if he were considering whether they even warranted acknowledgment. The flickering firelight carved his features into sharp relief, casting long shadows over his smirk. Then, after a beat of silence, he arched a brow, lazy, indifferent.

Feyre set her plate aside with deliberate ease, the faint scrape of metal against stone breaking the hush. She did not look at Munin—not yet. Her attention remained fixed on Dagdan.

“You’ve proved your point,” she said, voice smooth as glass. “She’s a loyal dog.”

Brannagh’s fingers twitched against the folds of her dress, but she did not speak. The only sound was the fire, crackling and spitting, the scent of charred flesh curling thick in the night air.

Disgust curled at the edges of Feyre’s tone, but there was something else beneath it, something quieter. A flicker of disappointment, almost too faint to catch.

Still, Dagdan did not react. He lifted his cup, took a slow sip.

Munin’s skin cracked, splitting along the burned flesh, but she did not pull away. She couldn’t. Not while his grip remained coiled around her mind like a fist.

Feyre exhaled sharply, but before she could speak again, Dagdan finally turned his attention back to Munin.

The pressure in her mind eased. Just slightly, just enough.

Munin lowered her hand.

The ruined skin throbbed, red and raw, but she did not look at it. Did not cradle the wound. She only curled her fingers into a fist and placed it in her lap, expression blank, gaze fixed on the fire.

Dagdan smirked, tilting his head at Feyre. “Satisfied?”

Feyre did not answer right away. Her eyes flicked, quick and assessing, to Munin’s hand—then back to him. Her lips pressed into something unreadable before she picked up her plate again and took another measured bite of food.

“Utterly,” she said, voice mild. But there was nothing mild in the look she gave him over the rim of her cup.

---

The High Lord of the Spring Court had shown them where the final hole in the wall lay.

Munin stood at its jagged edge, the force of it pressing against her skin. It was smaller than she expected, just a thin sliver in the fabric of the world, barely noticeable unless one knew where to look. But the damage it could bring, the armies that could pour through…

Her gaze swept the landscape beyond, memorizing every slope and ridge, every potential vantage point. The land was uneven, not ideal for an army to move swiftly, especially if the opposing force knew they were coming.

She flexed her fingers absently, feeling the tug of bandages wrapped around her palm. A remnant of the night before. The burn on her palm had already begun to heal—by tomorrow, it would be nothing more than a memory.

Her mind continued to calculate, mapping out routes, estimating movements. If she were leading the forces—if she were making the decision—this would not be the location she chose. The second rift had been far more advantageous. Strategically, logistically.

"The first one was better."

Dagdan’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned slightly, realizing only then that he was not speaking to her, had not slipped into her mind, but was arguing with Brannagh.

“Closer to the western coast, too,” he added, arms crossed, his tone edged with impatience.

Brannagh lifted her chin, unbothered. “This is closer to the Continent,” she countered. “To the Strait.”

Munin took a slow step closer, listening.

“Yes, but we’d have more access to the High Lord’s supplies,” Dagdan pointed out, gaze flicking over the land.

Munin said nothing.

Even as the answer sat on the tip of her tongue, even as she knew they were both wrong. The second tear in the wall had been the best option. The terrain had favored an invasion, the placement had allowed for greater control. It was the choice the King should make.

But it was not her place to say.

Dagdan had made that clear in those long, punishing nights after she had interfered with the humans. After she had dared to think beyond the commands she had been given. After she had returned from the Bogge attack, broken and bleeding, and still thought she could question.

Her job was to obey. To be wielded like the blade she was meant to be.

So she said nothing. And if the answer burned in her mind, she let it turn to ash.

Munin noticed the way Feyre Cursebreaker was watching the twins. Not directly—no, that would have been too obvious—but her attention lingered on them as she watched from a rock. In one hand, she held an apple, the deep red skin gleaming in the morning light. In the other, a knife, the edge flashing as she cut into the fruit slowly.

She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “I say go for this one.”

Dagdan and Brannagh both turned to her, irritation flickering over their faces. Munin only remained still, letting the words settle.

She had to wonder if Feyre knew. If she understood that this was not the best location. That the second tear in the wall was the one that would serve the King best. And if she did—if she had been listening, thinking—then perhaps she was not the ally Tamlin had sworn her to be.

Brannagh bristled, her lips curling. “What do you know of any of it?”

Feyre shrugged, slicing off another piece of apple with a lazy flick of her wrist. “You two talk louder than you realize.”

A lie. Dagdan and Brannagh could be silent when they wanted to. Munin had seen them whisper in rooms where not even she could hear them, had felt them speak in the ways that did not require sound at all. Feyre Archeron had been listening, had been paying attention.

Perhaps they had underestimated the Cursebreaker.

Feyre took another slow bite, letting the moment stretch before continuing. “Unless you want to risk the other courts having time to rally and intercepting you before you can cross the Strait, I’d choose this one. But what do I know? You two have squatted on that little island for five hundred years. Clearly, you know more about Prythian and moving armies than me.”

“This is not about armies,” Brannagh spat, eyes alight with disdain. “So I will trust you to keep that mouth shut until we have use for you.”

Feyre only snorted, unfazed. “I’m not your loyal dog, Brannagh. I will not speak only when ordered to.”

She turned then, looking at Munin for the first time since the night by the fire. A deliberate glance, one meant to provoke, to test. As if daring her to speak—to contradict her, to confirm the insult. Munin held still, silent. There was nothing to say. Nothing she was allowed to say.

Feyre’s attention flicked back to Brannagh. “You mean to tell me that all this nonsense hasn’t been to find a place to break through the wall and use the Cauldron to transport all of your armies here?”

Brannagh’s lips curled. “The Cauldron is not for transporting grunt armies. It is for remaking worlds. For bringing down this hideous wall and reclaiming what we once were.”

Too much. She was saying too much now.

Feyre, of course, looked utterly unfazed. She tilted her head, as if considering. “I’d think with an army of ten thousand, you wouldn’t need any magical objects to do your dirty work.”

Brannagh sneered, her tone dripping with condescension. “Our army is ten times that, girl. And twice that number if you count our allies in Valhallan, Montserre, and Rask.”

Munin’s fingers twitched at her sides. Brannagh was playing right into Feyre’s trap, revealing information she shouldn’t, letting the Cursebreaker peel apart Hybern’s forces layer by layer. It was too easy, too reckless.

But it was not Munin’s place to stop her. She was not a mind, not a strategist. She was only a blade.

“You’ve certainly been busy all these years,” Feyre remarked, her voice almost idle. She idly turned the knife in her hand, letting the light catch on the blade. “Why not strike when Amarantha had the island?”

Brannagh scoffed. “The King had not yet found the Cauldron. Despite years of searching. It served his purpose to let her be an experiment for how we might break these people.”

Munin kept her gaze fixed on the hole in the wall, but she was listening. She had been there, in those years under Amarantha’s rule—watching, reporting back to the King, gathering information as his unseen eyes. It had not been her place to question, to wonder what purpose those reports would serve.

Feyre tilted her head, tossing the core of her apple over her shoulder. “So they’re all going to converge here? I’m supposed to play hostess to so many soldiers?”

Brannagh’s smile was sharp. “Our own force will take care of Prythian before uniting with the others. Our commanders are preparing for it as we speak.”

Munin should not have been surprised. But the casual way Brannagh spoke of it, the confidence in her tone—something twisted deep inside her.

Feyre only hummed. “You must think you stand a shot at losing if you’re bothering to use the Cauldron to help you win.”

Dagdan’s voice was like a blade in the dark. “The Cauldron is victory. It will wipe this world clean again.”

Munin suppressed a shudder, keeping her expression smooth. She did not react, did not betray anything as she stood among them, silent and listening. But the words settled in her like lead, the gnawing sensation creeping into her gut, into her bones.

And then—she felt it. The slick, cloying presence of Dagdan’s mind pressing into hers.

The gnawing pit inside her vanished. The unease, the flickering thoughts—gone, replaced with emptiness.

The Cursebreaker’s brows lifted, the faintest trace of a smirk on her lips. “And you need this exact spot to unleash it?”

“This exact spot,” Dagdan confirmed, his tone even, unbothered. His presence, however, remained tangled in Munin’s mind, smoothing over every lingering doubt, pressing down until all concerns about this conversation slipped away like mist in the sun. “Exists because a person or object of great power passed through it. The Cauldron will study the work they have already done and magnify it until the wall collapses entirely.”

Munin felt his words as much as she heard them, the sheer authority behind them shaping her thoughts even as they left his mouth.

Dagdan tilted his head. “It is a careful, complex process—one I doubt your mortal mind can grasp.”

Feyre only hummed, turning her knife between her fingers. “Probably,” she mused. “Though this mortal mind did manage to solve Amarantha’s riddle. And destroy her.”

Brannagh’s laugh was soft, knowing. She turned back to the wall, but not before casting Munin a sidelong glance, amusement flickering in her violet eyes. “Why do you think Hybern let her live for so long in these lands?”

Munin felt the slow drag of Dagdan’s mind against hers, the words reshaped as soon as they registered, twisted into something logical, something unquestionable.

Brannagh smiled. “Better to have someone else do his dirty work.”

---

Dagdan had instructed her to keep watch.

The High Lord was out hunting, his sentries stationed along the perimeter, their watchful eyes scanning the trees. But Dagdan did not trust them. He wanted his own set of eyes in the woods, his own ears attuned to anything of interest. He had not told Munin why, nor had he needed to. It was not her place to know. She would do as commanded.

She lingered just at the edge of the camp, her body still as stone. The scent of damp earth and pine clung to the cool night air, masking her presence as she observed the camp. Most of it lay quiet, save for the occasional murmur of voices, the rustle of a sentry shifting his weight.

It was halfway through her watch when she noticed the Cursebreaker speaking to one of them.

Feyre’s voice was soft, measured. "A mix of comfrey and arnica should help with the bruising," she was saying. “I saw some just beyond the glade there, I won’t be long.”

The sentry’s mouth pressed into a hard line. A flicker of hesitation—then a curt nod.

Munin's focus sharpened. The sentry’s posture remained rigid, but Feyre tilted her head just so, feigning a wince as she shifted her weight. The movement was calculated—too well-timed, too intentional. She was lying.

Munin did not move. Did not reveal herself as she tracked the Cursebreaker’s every breath, every muscle twitch. Feyre turned, retreating back into one of the tents. Munin adjusted her position, her boots silent on the forest floor as she crept closer, keeping to the shadows.

A minute passed. Then another. When Feyre emerged again, it was with a pack slung over her shoulder, Tamlin’s bandolier strapped across her chest.

Not gathering herbs, then.

Munin’s fingers flexed at her sides, her pulse steady, her mind cataloging every detail. The controlled urgency in Feyre’s steps. The way she moved—quick, but not reckless. She was running. To where? Back to her Night Court master? Her mate?

Munin followed. Silent as death, she melted into the trees. The Cursebreaker weaved through the undergrowth, glancing over her shoulder, her breathing steady but measured. She knew she was being watched. Or at least, she suspected it.

A sharp voice shattered the quiet of the woods.

“Back off, Ianthe.”

Munin stopped, muscles coiling, as Lucien Vanserra’s command rang through the trees. Ahead, barely visible through the thick foliage, Feyre Cursebreaker went rigid. The shadows hid her expression, but Munin saw the tension in the line of her shoulders, the shift of her stance as she hesitated.

Run, her body seemed to tell her. Keep going. But she didn’t.

Munin could almost hear the moment Feyre made her choice. The slight inhale. The tightening of her fingers on the strap of her pack. And then she was moving—not away, but toward the confrontation.

Fool. Munin followed, careful to keep to the darkness, to remain unseen as she weaved between trees and brush. The scent of damp earth clung to her, masking her presence as she crept along the edges of the clearing.

Feyre had closed the distance now. She moved without hesitation, her steps deliberate, her face unreadable as she neared Lucien and Ianthe.

The priestess had her hands on him, fingers curled over his wrist in a grip that was too firm, too possessive. His jaw was tight, golden skin pulled taut over sharp bones, his russet eye dark with barely restrained anger.

“I said,” he growled, “back off.”

Ianthe only smiled, tilting her head as if he were amusing her.

The Cursebreaker lunged, her hands closing over Ianthe’s wrist and wrenching her away with more force than Munin had expected. The priestess stumbled, eyes flashing with fury, but whatever words she meant to spit died before they could leave her lips.

Munin saw it—the exact moment it happened. The flicker of power in Feyre’s stare. The silent command that lashed through the air like a whip.

Ianthe went rigid. Her breathing turned sharp and panicked, her hands twitching at her sides. Then, with a jerky, unnatural movement, she reached down, fingers closing around a jagged rock. Munin flinched, involuntarily, as Ianthe’s own hand lifted, trembling, toward her other palm. The rock pressed into flesh. Then dragged.

A strangled sob tore from the priestess’s throat as blood welled, spilling over pale skin, seeping into the fabric of her pristine robes.

Munin’s stomach twisted. She had seen cruelty. Had been a part of it, had done things at Dagdan’s command that would make lesser warriors weep. But this—this was not the Cursebreaker they had been watching, not the girl who played meek at the High Lord’s side.

Lucien stood frozen, his single eye locked onto the scene before him. Horror carved into his features, his body taut with disbelief.

Ianthe whimpered, voice ragged. “P—please—”

The rock dropped from her bloodied fingers. Feyre said nothing. She only stepped back, watching as the priestess crumpled to the ground, clutching her mangled hand.

Lucien’s face was a mirror of Munin’s own—horror carved into every sharp line, disbelief pulling his mouth tight as he looked at what remained of Ianthe. The priestess was nothing more than a sniveling heap on the forest floor, clutching her bleeding hand to her chest, her breath ragged between pitiful whimpers.

But the horror in Lucien’s gaze shifted the moment he heard the voice emerge from the shadows, “The word you’re looking for, Lucien, is Daemati.”

Brannagh stepped into the clearing, her black eyes gleamed with amusement as she took in the scene before her, the corners of her mouth curling slightly.

Munin took a step back, retreating into the shadows. Instinct. It had kept her alive before, had warned her when a situation was turning precarious, when silence was the safest course of action. But Dagdan had always been attuned to her, always knew when she was slipping into the background.

“Come now, Munin,” his voice purred from beside Brannagh. He had been there, waiting, watching. “It is not right that we should have all of the fun.”

The weight of his command settled over her like iron shackles. She stepped forward, ignoring the way Feyre’s gaze snapped to her, that sharp glare cutting through the air like a blade.

Brannagh did not look at Munin as she spoke again, her focus solely on the Cursebreaker. “Going somewhere, Feyre?”

Feyre’s shoulders squared, her chin lifting just slightly. That defiance was there, unwavering in her stare as she answered, “I have places to be.”

Brannagh hummed, a thoughtful, taunting sound. “What could be more important than assisting us? You, after all, are sworn to serve our king.”

Munin said nothing, only observed, only let the pieces of the past weeks slip into place. The sneaking around. The calculated arguments within the Spring Court. The subtle shifts, the carefully placed words that stoked Tamlin’s rage, that widened the cracks between him and his court. Feyre had a plan. And it had never been to serve Hybern.

“I have no allegiance to you,” Feyre said, her voice colder than before. “I am a free person, allowed to go where and when I will it.”

The first truth she had spoken.

“Are you? Such careful plotting these weeks,” Brannagh mused, tilting her head slightly. “You didn’t seem to be worried that we would be doing the same.”

Munin kept her expression blank, but the weight of Brannagh’s words settled deep in her mind. She had never been privy to strategy, never included in the discussions that shaped Hybern’s path. She was a blade, meant to cut where commanded, not to think beyond the hand that wielded her. Yet Brannagh and Dagdan had known. They had suspected the Cursebreaker’s schemes all along. They had planned for this.

 “Take the Spring Court,” Feyre’s half-shrug was almost careless. “It’s going to fall one way or another.”

Munin studied her, searching for any trace of deception in the way she held herself. There was none. Only that cool indifference. It unsettled her more than it should have. The destruction the Cursebreaker had wrought here—did she care nothing for the people who would be caught in its wake? For the innocent lives that would be swallowed in the chaos?

Brannagh only smiled. “Oh, we intend to.”

Then her gaze sharpened, something cruel glinting behind her dark eyes. “But then there is the matter of you. Haven’t you wondered at the headaches? How things seem a little muffled on certain mental bonds?”

Dagdan gave a quiet snort. “I give her about ten minutes before the apple sets in.”

Feyre went rigid. “What apple?” she hissed.

“The one you shoved down your throat about an hour ago,” Dagdan said, his tone amused. “Grown and tended in the King’s personal orchard, fed with a steady diet of water laced with faebane. Enough to knock your powers out for a few days straight. No shackles required.”

Munin watched as realization dawned, as fury carved its way into the Cursebreaker’s face. Her lips curled back in a snarl, her hands twitching at her sides like she meant to summon something, anything—but there was nothing. Not anymore.

Munin knew that look. Knew the rage of a predator who had just realized its claws had been dulled, its teeth broken. It did not move her.

She shifted her stance, subtly blocking any clear escape routes, though she doubted Feyre would run now. She would fight. That much was certain. But Munin had fought creatures more monstrous than her. Feyre’s rage might have unsettled her before, might have made something stir where there should be nothing at all. But now—now she had orders.

Dagdan chuckled, stepping forward as Feyre seethed. "Munin, tell me—how does it feel to know the Cursebreaker thought herself so clever, only to be outplayed?"

“Predictable.” Her voice was as flat and cold as ever. She had seen it before—rebels who thought themselves untouchable, who played their games only to find the rules had never been in their favor. She’d seen it plenty of times Under the Mountain.

Feyre’s glare snapped to her, and there it was—that disgust. As if Munin were no better than a rabid hound leashed to its master.

Dagdan hummed. “Predictable, indeed.” He turned back to Feyre, tilting his head. “Did you really think you were the only one capable of playing a long game?”

Feyre said nothing.

“She still doesn’t believe it.” Munin tilted her head, studying her as one might an animal caught in a snare. “The faebane is in your blood now, Cursebreaker. Soon, you will have no fire, no claws, no wings.” Her voice remained even, impassive. “You will have nothing.”

Feyre’s chest heaved, her breath sharp and quick. She was calculating, Munin could see it—testing her body, testing for anything she might use to fight back.

Brannagh smirked. “Poor thing. You must be terrified.”

Feyre only bared her teeth. “You should be, too.”

Dagdan laughed at that, low and mocking. He turned back to Munin, his presence pressing against her mind, his will tightening its grip. “Hold her if she moves. Kill her if she resists.”

Munin nodded, her body already shifting into position. “Understood.”

Now, his head turned slightly toward her, a slow, assessing look. “And what about you?” His voice was edged in quiet, simmering fury. “Is this all you are? A dog waiting for a bone?”

Munin met his gaze, unblinking. “You assume I need one.”

Munin only registered what Feyre was doing a breath before it happened. One moment, the Cursebreaker stood rigid, her body taut with fury, and the next—she exploded into shadow and smoke, winnowing straight in front of Dagdan.

“Munin—” Dagdan’s voice cut off into a grunt as Feyre’s dagger plunged into his side. Not fatal, but deep enough to make him stagger. His hand clamped over the wound, blood seeping dark through his tunic. His lip curled, a mixture of pain and rage as he spat, “Restrain her.”

Munin was already moving.

She crashed into Feyre before she could strike again, grabbing for the Cursebreaker’s wrist to rip the dagger from her grasp. But Feyre twisted, nimble as a shadow, using the momentum to pivot away. A sharp elbow shot toward Munin’s ribs, and Munin barely managed to block it before Feyre struck again, slicing upward with the dagger.

“Do you even know what he’s done to you?” Feyre snarled, dodging Munin’s counterattack.

Munin didn’t answer. She lunged, aiming to force Feyre back, to drive her away from Dagdan. Munin had always been a weapon, a tool meant for combat, but Feyre fought with the desperation of someone with nothing to lose.

“Hold her,” Dagdan gritted out, his breath uneven. “Do not let her escape.”

Feyre’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Munin. A sharp, knowing gleam. “Are you really going to defend him?” Feyre asked through gritted teeth, her words cutting as deeply as her blade. “After everything he’s done to your mind?”

Munin ignored the words, the question, the way something deep inside her twisted at them. She kept fighting.

Feyre let out a bitter laugh, stepping back just enough to give herself room to maneuver. “Of course you won’t answer. I suppose you don’t even know the difference between your thoughts and his anymore.”

Munin pressed forward, her movements relentless, but Feyre was already shifting her weight, already preparing—

A blast of cold erupted between them.

Munin barely had time to react before the ice encased her arms, her legs, locking her to the forest floor. A sharp chill bit through her leathers, seeping into her skin. She thrashed, yanking against the restraints, but the ice held fast, thick and solid.

She could only watch as Feyre turned back to Dagdan. Munin wrenched against the ice again, harder, her body screaming to break free. But she couldn’t. She was forced to watch as the Cursebreaker advanced on Dagdan, her dagger still dripping with his blood.

The clash of steel rang through the trees, filling the air with a metallic stench of blood and sweat. Munin stood at the periphery of the chaos, her eyes scanning the scene before her. For a moment, the frenzy of the fight seemed distant, a murmur beneath the surface of her mind.

But then, her gaze locked on Lucien Vanserra.

She saw it—how his sharp eyes fixed on Brannagh. It was all too deliberate, too cold, and the warning bloomed in her throat before she could stop it. "Bra—"

The sound of her voice barely broke the air before it was too late. Lucien winnowed behind Brannagh with a speed that left the forest still for a heartbeat. Munin’s stomach twisted. The sword he carried flashed. One swift pull—and Brannagh’s head fell, rolling with a dull thud against the earth.

Munin’s eyes widened. The world seemed to freeze in that moment, a surreal silence washing over her.

But then, a scream tore through the air—a mixture of both fury and agony. It was Dagdan. He hurled himself at Lucien, a beast unleashed.

The emissary stumbled back, barely avoiding Dagdan’s feral strike. His gaze flickered to Feyre, but it was too late. She was already on him, her movements a blur of controlled violence.

“Munin!”

Munin fought against the icy restraints that held her wrists, her body thrumming with the force of unspent power. The first bond cracked with a sharp, brittle sound, splintering under her insistent pull. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she yanked at the second, struggling to free herself before it was too late.

But the moment her wrist was freed, Feyre’s dagger found its mark with brutal precision. Dagdan’s roar of pain echoed in the clearing as the blade sank deep into his eye. His body faltered, crumpling forward with a sickening thud.

Munin froze.

For a second, her heart stopped. There was no order to follow, no command to obey. She stood on the edge of it all, her thoughts a swirl of loyalty, duty, and something else, something darker that had begun to crack beneath the surface.

The shift was so sudden, so violent, that it felt as though the very air around Munin had cracked open.

It was like a dam breaking—a rush of cold darkness flooding her mind, the oily presence that had seeped through every thought, every action, for as long as she could remember, suddenly spilling out of her. Her body shuddered, the weight that had once been a constant, pressing down on her chest, now released in a surge of raw emptiness.

For a long, disorienting moment, she simply knelt there, gasping for air, her head spinning, her heart pounding like the heavy beat of a drum.

She had never known what it felt like to be fully herself—the thought both terrifying and unfamiliar. The restraints that had held her prisoner for so long were gone, but it was the emptiness they left behind that overwhelmed her.

There was no voice commanding her, no purpose guiding her.

She heard the Cursebreaker’s voice, harsh and commanding, barking orders at Ianthe, but Munin didn’t respond to that. Her gaze was fixed solely on the body of Dagdan, sprawled atop his sister’s lifeless form, his blood mixing with the earth beneath them.

Her pulse hammered in her ears, and her fingers twitched, as though unsure of what to do next. She could feel the weight of Lucien Vanserra’s gaze, but it was a fleeting awareness. Her thoughts were drawn back to Dagdan. The man who had shaped her, who had molded her into what she was, now nothing more than a corpse.

What are you now, without him? Her eyes lingered on the body, distant and cold, a heaviness in her chest that she didn’t know how to name.

“Feyre,” she heard Lucien say, but his voice was distant, as if her head was being held under water. “What are we going to do with this one?”

She didn’t move, her body frozen in place, staring at the wreckage of the male who had once been her anchor— her master.

Her gaze snapped to Feyre then, her chest heaving with something unrecognizable, something volatile that made her entire body tremble. There was no mask of control in her eyes, only a raw, simmering disdain, and perhaps—beneath that—a flicker of pity.

A strange, misplaced pity.

"Leave her," Feyre muttered, her voice low, laced with the remnants of contempt.

Emotions tangled in Munin’s chest as her gaze lingered on Dagdan’s lifeless body, her heart caught between sharp threads of something she couldn’t name. A strange, hollow emptiness gnawed at her insides, but beneath it, she couldn’t ignore the flicker of something else—something dark, unsettling.

The male who had been both a cage and a puppet master for centuries.

He had always been there, the voice in her mind, a constant, suffocating presence. He had told her what to do, what to think, how to feel—or rather, how to not feel.

But now... now that he was gone, she was left adrift.

Feyre and Lucien had long since left. How long she stayed there, staring at their bodies, she couldn’t say.

The wind had grown colder, the chill creeping into her skin, but the coldness in her mind was far worse. She hadn’t realized how much of her had been wrapped up in Dagdan’s commands until they were gone. Now there was nothing but the noise of her thoughts, chaotic, scattered, and wild.

What was she supposed to do now?

She tried to think, tried to grasp for something that made sense, but the thoughts slipped through her like water through her fingers. There were no orders. No structure. No purpose. The blank space in her mind, where his voice had once been, had been filled with nothing but the sharp sting of confusion.

Instinct rose in her, cutting through the storm of her mind as she summoned her wings. The familiar weight of them, unfurled slowly.

Hybern. The thought was clear, cold, unwavering. It was the only place she could think of, the only place she had ever known. There was nothing left here for her, nothing to hold her attention but the weight of her own scattered thoughts.

But In Hybern — if Dagdan were not there to give her orders, then the King surely would.

 

Chapter 27

They were back together again.

Azriel stood near the roaring fireplace, arms crossed, wings tucked in tight. The dim light of the study cast long shadows across the polished wood floors, pooling in the corners of the room. His shadows slithered close, restless, as Feyre recounted her time in the Spring Court.

She was home. Finally.

The thought had been settling in him ever since they’d pulled her and Lucien from the frozen expanse of the Winter Court, just as the Autumn Court bastards had been surrounding them. That moment—Feyre and Lucien scrambling onto the ice, the feel of Feyre’s magic in the air, the searing cold beneath his feet—had played in his mind more times than he cared to admit.

It hadn’t been a battle. It had been a hunt. And they had made sure it ended in their favor.

Now, Feyre sat beside Rhysand, the firelight catching in her gold-brown hair, her eyes dark with the weight of what she had seen in the Spring Court. What she had endured. But she was here. And Rhysand, even with all they had yet to face, was lighter for it.

Rhysand’s mate was finally home.

Azriel listened as she spoke, his focus sharpening at the first mention of them.

"Dagdan and Brannagh," she said, rubbing a hand over her temple, "they’re both Daemati.”

Azriel felt the shift in the room, subtle but immediate.

"I don’t think anyone knew," Feyre continued, her voice tight. "I tried to shield Lucien and Tamlin’s minds as much as I could. But who knows what they gleaned in the time they were there."

Rhysand stiffened beside her, though his expression remained unreadable. Cassian exhaled through his nose, arms crossing over his broad chest as he leaned back in his chair.

Rhysand’s voice was soft, deadly. "Did they ever try to break into yours?"

Feyre hesitated, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her tunic. "No," she admitted. “They certainly tried. But my shields remained up the entire tme"

Azriel’s jaw tightened. It didn’t mean they hadn’t tried. And if they had, it meant they had been skilled enough to do it undetected.

Cassian let out a low scoff. "So Tamlin let two Daemati waltz into his court, into his inner circle, without even realizing it?"

Feyre let out a breath that was half a laugh, half pure exhaustion. "He let a great many things happen."

Azriel didn’t miss the flicker of something dark in her expression.

Azriel had never encountered either twin, but Daemati trained in Hybern’s court was a dangerous thing. His mind already flicked through the possibilities, measuring their abilities against Rhys’s. His brother knew what it was to manipulate minds. But his brother had his own standards; his own rules about using the power.  This? Well, this was something else entirely.

Then Feyre said a name that made him still, "Munin was there, too."

Cassian exhaled sharply, his head turning toward Azriel in confirmation. Not surprise—they had spoken of her before, considered the implications. Now they had their answer.

"And what about her?" Cassian asked, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. Not irritation—calculation.

Feyre hesitated. Azriel caught the slight crease in her brow, the way her fingers tightened on the chair’s arm.

"She… she wasn’t like the others. It was different with her."

"Different how?" Rhys’s voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it, his violet eyes narrowing slightly.

Feyre let out a slow breath, choosing her words carefully. "It was like she wasn’t really there. Like her body moved, but she wasn’t the one moving it."

The silence that followed was heavy. Azriel’s stomach tightened. He knew control—had lived it, had inflicted it in his own way. He’d been shackled, had his choices stolen from him. But full possession of someone’s mind—someone’s self—was not easily done. Only one person in this room had the power for that.

Rhys glanced at him, his expression unreadable. Azriel shook his head once. Rhys would never do something like what Dagdan had done. He had too much of a conscience to be capable of such cruelty. What Feyre described was something cruder — far more insidious.

"You think she had no choice?" Mor asked, eyes flicking to Feyre. There was no sympathy in her voice, only careful consideration.

Feyre nodded. "Dagdan controlled her. I saw it. There were moments—flickers—where I thought I saw something break through. But then it was gone again. Wiped clean."

Azriel turned the thought over, silent. If Dagdan had held complete control over her, then what remained of the person she had once been? And now that he was dead?

“How?” Cassian asked, running a hand over his face. His wings shifted slightly, the dim light catching on the leathery wings just above his shoulders. Across the room, a log in the fire cracked, sending embers drifting into the air. No one moved to poke at the fire.

Rhys leaned back against the desk, fingers idly tapping against its polished surface. His expression was unreadable, but there was something steely in his voice as he said, “A Daemati with enough power—enough practice—can control a mind completely. Not just influence thoughts or emotions. Not just force someone’s hand for a moment. True control. They can override every instinct, every ounce of self-preservation, and make their victim a puppet.”

His violet eyes darkened. “Dagdan wouldn’t have needed to persuade Munin to obey. He could have overridden every memory, every instinct to make her.”

Cassian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That kind of control—it’s unheard of.”

“It’s possible,” Rhys said from by the desk, his voice quiet but sure. He looked over to the rare single malt in the decanter by the fire, as if debating pouring himself a drink. “It’s rare, but it can be done.”

Feyre swallowed, her fingers gripping the armrest of her chair. “In the forest … Dagdan and Brannagh. They hurt some humans and I—” She hesitated, a flicker of something passing over her face. Not regret. Not entirely. “I set the Bogge on them.”

Cassian let out a low whistle. “Bold.”

Amren’s brows lifted slightly, though her focus remained on the piece of paper she’d been idly turning over in her hands. “Reckless.”

Feyre ignored them both. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the chair. “It should’ve been a death sentence. No one kills a Bogge. Not without the power of a High Lord. But before they ran… They ordered her to protect them.”

Rhys’s voice was soft, but lethal. “Munin.”

Feyre nodded. “Dagdan ordered her to fight the Bogge. And she obeyed.”

Cassian scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned forward, bracing his forearms against his knees. “No one fights the Bogge and wins.”

“She didn’t hesitate,” Feyre murmured. “It was like she wasn’t even afraid. Just… a machine. A weapon that moved exactly as he willed it to. And when she came back to the Spring Court, she was a bloody mess.”

Mor’s expression twisted. She pushed herself up from where she’d been leaning against a bookshelf, pacing slowly. “You’re saying Dagdan and Brannagh were controlling her?”

Feyre swallowed again. “I think she’s been controlled for a long time.”

Cassian crossed his arms, his wings rustling slightly, irritation flickering over his features. “You’re telling us that Munin—who fought for Amarantha, who butchered Sangravah—is not doing it of her own will?”

Feyre exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face. “That wasn’t the worst of it. I think she doesn’t have a choice.”

Cassian let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “There’s something worse than making her fight the Bogge?”

Feyre’s gaze darkened, her fingers pressing into the polished wood of the table. “There was a fire. A simple campfire, just outside the tents.” She hesitated, her throat bobbing. As if she were still there, standing in that camp, watching. “Dagdan ordered her to put her hand over it.”

Azriel went still.

Mor’s eyes widened. “You mean—he told her to warm herself, or—”

“No.” Feyre’s voice was like stone. “I mean he told her to hold it there. To keep her hand in the flames.”

Cassian swore under his breath, his wings rustling with a barely restrained urge to do something—to hit something.

“She did it?” Azriel asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Feyre nodded. “Without hesitation. Without flinching. The smell of burning flesh filled the camp, and she still kept it there.”

Mor’s hands curled into fists against her lap, her knuckles going white. “That’s not possible. Instinct would take over—her body would move on its own to get away.”

Feyre’s face remained unreadable. “Not if you have no instincts left.”

Azriel kept his expression blank, his posture easy. But beneath the table, his hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. The scars had long since faded to faint, silvery lines. But he could still feel them sometimes. The way the flames had licked at his flesh, the unbearable, searing pain. The scent of it. The laughter.

He had fought —had thrashed and screamed and begged as his brothers held him down, pouring oil over his hands, lighting the flame just to see how long he could endure it, how long it took him to heal. He had fought because no part of him had wanted to obey. No part of him had ever belonged to them.

But Munin… Munin had just stood there.

Something cold twisted in his gut, something that made him feel sick in a way he couldn’t name. Because he knew, without question, that a body did not simply ignore pain like that. Not unless the mind was no longer its own.

Cassian shifted, the wood of his chair creaking beneath him. His voice was quieter now, rougher. “Did she scream?”

Feyre met his gaze, her own unreadable. “No.”

No. Azriel’s stomach twisted once more. No screams. No resistance. Just flesh burning while she stood there like it was nothing.

Rhys spoke then, his voice low, dangerous. “How long?”

Feyre’s fingers dug into the arm of her chair. “Long enough for the skin to blister. He only let her go when he was satisfied.”

Rhys exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. He ran a hand over his jaw, his expression unreadable, but there was something final in the way he said, “Hopefully, we have seen the last of her.”

Cassian crossed his arms, shaking his head. “But if Dagdan had that much control over her… what happens to her now that he’s gone?”

The question gnawed at Azriel, even as he forced himself to keep his face neutral, his body still.

Mor scoffed, swirling the wine in her glass before taking a slow sip. “It doesn’t matter. If she was ever going to fight back, she would have done it already. Whatever Hybern did to her—she let them.”

Feyre frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, she pressed, “And if she does turn up again?”

Rhys didn’t hesitate. “Then we deal with her.”

Azriel nodded once, but something in his chest felt unsettled.

Cassian clapped his hands on the table, signaling the conversation’s end. “We have bigger problems. Hybern’s forces are still gathering.”

Rhys inclined his head, shifting the discussion to their next moves, the strategies they needed to implement before the war reached them again. Azriel listened, absorbing every word, every plan. But in the quiet part of his mind, the question lingered. If she had fought back, if she had resisted, would they even be having this conversation?

---

The war room was dimly lit, heavy with the scent of old parchment and burning oils.

Shadows flickered along the stone walls, cast by the torches lining the chamber, their flames guttering against the draft that crept in through the high, narrow windows.

A massive map of Prythian sprawled across the table, its surface littered with carved markers denoting key cities and strongholds. The city of Velaris  sat among them, represented by an obsidian piece shaped like a mountain range. Munin stood at attention beside Jurian and another guard, silent as the King of Hybern studied the map, his expression unreadable.

His finger hovered over Velaris, tracing its outline in slow, idle circles. He exhaled, the sound thoughtful, almost absent. “Not a full-scale assault,” he murmured, tilting his head. “We need to be precise.”

He tapped the marker for the city once, twice. “Get the female, and get back out. So she can return what she stole from the Cauldron.”

Then, without looking up, he spoke again. “Tell me, little raven. If you were to strike the heart of the Night Court, how would you do it?”

Munin stilled.

In the centuries she’d been in Hybern, the King had never asked for her opinion before. Never treated her as anything more than a weapon to be wielded. But in the two months since her return to Hybern —since Dagdan’s death, he had been calling on her more and more.

Not just to fight, but to strategize.

She hesitated, the pause brief, but his eyes lifted to her then, sharp and expectant.

She stepped forward, the movement smooth, measured. “Send me.”

Jurian let out a quiet chuckle from across the room, tilting his head as he considered her. His fingers tapped against the pommel of his sword in a lazy manner. “Now that’s an idea.”

The King remained still, unreadable. “You think yourself suited for such a task?”

Munin met his eyes without flinching. “I’ve subdued Nesta Archeron before. Even if she is fae now, I am confident I can do it again.” A slight pause, calculated. “Feyre Archeron will not be expecting me.”

The King’s mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.

Across the room, the guard shifted, his grip tightening on his spear. The torches sputtered, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant crash of the tide beyond the castle walls.

Jurian hummed in agreement, pushing off the stone wall with a lazy grace. His fingers toyed with the hilt of his sword, tapping against the leather-wrapped pommel.

“That’s true. If we send one of the Ravens, they’ll be on alert. But you?” He tilted his head, considering. “If anyone can slip into their city, it’s you.”

Munin inclined her head in a single, measured nod.  She had spoken more in the last few minutes than she had in the last decade.

“I’ve been in Prythian the better part of a century. I know how they fight, how they think. They won’t be looking for me.” She let the words settle. “You need someone who can get inside before they ever realize the threat. I can do that.”

The King of Hybern said nothing at first, only drumming his fingers idly against the armrest of his throne. The rhythm was slow, methodical, as his pale eyes flicked over her. He had studied her like this often in the past months. As if he were testing her.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but sharp. “And what would you do, once inside?”

Munin did not hesitate. “Whatever you command.”

The King exhaled, leaning back, clearly pleased with her answer. The worn leather of his chair creaked with the motion, the sound barely audible over the low crackle of the torches lining the walls. “Perhaps,” he murmured. His gaze darkened, something flickering in it—something distant, calculating. “But without Dagdan…”

His fingers stilled against the wood. A pause, no more than a breath. Then he waved a hand, dismissing the thought entirely.

“No,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “I am not inclined to send you to the Night Court.”

Something in her twisted. It should not have. It was not her place to feel anything about it.

Jurian’s brows lifted slightly, his amusement now edged with something sharper. “You don’t trust her?”

The King did not so much as glance at him. His gaze remained on Munin, unwavering. “I trust what Dagdan made her to be. But the Night Court…” His fingers tapped against the table once more. “No. I will not risk sending you there.”

Munin did not shift. Did not flinch. A weapon did not argue, did not protest when its wielder chose to leave it sheathed. And yet—

The King’s gaze dropped back to the map, trailing over Prythian’s painted coasts. His fingertip glided over the shimmering blue of the sea, tracing the curve of another Court, another opportunity.

“Tell me, Munin,” he murmured, his voice a thread of silk and steel. “How familiar are you with the Summer Court?”

---

Munin sat on the cold stone floor, legs folded beneath her. The rough texture pressed against her skin, but she did not shift. She had sat like this for centuries, in this very space—this cell, because it had never been anything else. Not a chamber, not a room. Just stone walls, a threadbare bedroll, and the faint stench of mildew clinging to the damp air.

The bucket of soiled water sat forgotten in the corner, the rag she had used to clean herself earlier discarded beside it. The damp scent of it mixed with the iron tang of rust and blood, the same smell that had lingered here for as long as she could remember.

The same scent that clung to her own skin, no matter how many times she washed it away.

The door creaked open, the hinges groaning with age. Torchlight flickered against the threshold, casting long, jagged shadows along the floor as Jurian stepped inside.

He paused just over the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, his weight shifting lazily onto one foot. A smirk curled at his lips, just shy of amusement.

“Still here,” he mused, his gaze sweeping over the bare cell with a slow, deliberate kind of interest. His eyes flicked to the bucket, the rag lying crumpled beside it, before returning to her. “You’d think, after so many centuries of service, they’d give you at least a mattress. Maybe even a real bed.”

Munin did not answer. What did comfort matter to a weapon?

Jurian took another step forward, just inside the threshold now, though he did not venture further. He was careful, even if he pretended otherwise. Even if his stance was loose, his posture relaxed.

“Hybern really doesn’t give a damn about its loyal servants, does it?” His tone was almost conversational, but she could hear the mockery beneath it.

She remained motionless. The torchlight caught in his brown eyes as he watched her, sharp and perceptive. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening.

“Tell me, Munin,” he continued, feigning idle curiosity. “What do you think of all this? The grand plan? The King’s glorious mission?”

Munin did not move. She did not shift, did not blink. The damp stone pressed into her legs, cold and rough.

“I think,” she said at last, her voice as flat as the walls around them, “that it is not my place to think.”

Jurian hummed, low and thoughtful. “Of course not. Dagdan made sure of that, didn’t he?”

He crouched then, balancing his elbows on his knees, bringing himself down to her level. He was far too close. His gaze was far too knowing. The flickering torchlight carved shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of it, the glint in his dark eyes as he studied her.

“But let’s say, for a moment, that you did think,” he mused, tilting his head, as if the thought amused him. “What would you think of the fact that the fae are the villains in every human story?”

The words landed. Lodged themselves somewhere deep, in some untouched, empty space in her mind.

And then—

You really love those human stories.

Not Jurian’s voice. Someone else’s. Hers? No, it couldn’t be. It was too soft to belong to her. But it was familiar — achingly so.

A voice that curled at the edges of her mind, slipping through the cracks before she could fortify them. A voice that felt like warmth and ink-stained fingers, like candlelight flickering over old parchment.

A voice that did not belong in this place.

Her lungs felt tight, as if she had inhaled something too sharp, something that scraped against the inside of her ribs. A memory—no, an echo—pressed too close, its edges blurred and indistinct. She could not grasp it, could not drag it into the light. But it was there.

Jurian saw it. The shift in her breath, the faintest tightening of her fingers against her knee. The way her body reacted before her mind could smother it. His smirk was slow, triumphant.

“Ah,” he murmured, watching her too closely. “That struck something, didn’t it?”

Munin did not move. Did not blink. She forced her body into stillness, forced her expression into perfect, empty calm. It was not meant to mean anything. It was nothing.

“No.”

Jurian’s grin widened as he pushed to his feet. He did not argue. Didn’t need to.

“If you say so.” He turned, strolling back toward the door, the torchlight casting long, wavering shadows in his wake.

Just before he stepped out, he glanced over his shoulder, his smirk deepening.

“Sweet dreams, Munin.”

The door shut behind him with a heavy, echoing thud.

The room was silent once more, but the voice remained.

---

Feyre knew that look—her mate was punishing himself.

Rhysand stood on the balcony, staring out over Velaris, his expression unreadable. The city was quiet now, but the scent of blood still clung to him. The faint hum of wards being reinforced crackled in the distance, but none of it seemed to reach him.

She stepped closer, her feet silent against the marble. The storm in his mind was almost tangible, pressing against her own through the bond. His shoulders were tense, his wings, although out on display, held stiff and unmoving, as if he were bracing for another attack.

“Brooding never solved anything, you know,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

She pressed her cheek against the firm planes of his back, feeling the rigid tightness beneath his leathers, the way his muscles remained coiled, ready for a fight that had already ended.

“Velaris has been breached.” His voice was quiet, too controlled. The kind of restraint that masked the depth of his anger, his guilt. “Again.”

He didn’t lean into her touch, didn’t relax. Just kept staring over the darkened city, his hands braced against the railing.

“We saved the city,” she reminded him, tightening her hold around his waist. She pressed closer, hoping he would feel the warmth of her. “They came to destroy us, and they failed. And Amren is out hunting, if there are any spies left in the city.”

 “Like that other one? Munin?” Rhys let out a sharp scoff, the sound bitter. He finally turned, his violet eyes shadowed, his jaw tight. “It doesn’t change the fact that they got in.”

His wings flared slightly before tucking back in, a restless movement, one he likely didn’t even notice. His fingers curled against the railing, white-knuckled.

“This place was meant to be untouchable,” he said, his voice rough. “Protected from every court on the outside. Now, Hybern has carved their way through twice. If I was stronger—if I had been better—”

“You are strong enough,” Feyre interrupted, lifting a hand to his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, steady but tense, as if it, too, was braced for war. “You can’t prevent every battle, but you fought for this city. That is what matters.”

Rhys let out a slow, uneven breath, closing his eyes briefly before shaking his head.

“I’m not, Feyre,” he said quietly. “It’s not just about the city.”

“I lost them because I wasn’t strong enough,” he admitted. “Because I wasn’t there.”

Feyre didn’t need to ask who he meant. The grief in his voice, the pain buried deep beneath the layers of guilt, told her everything.

Feyre reached for him, her fingers ghosting over his wrist before settling against his forearm. “Rhys—”

He let out a hollow laugh, the sound devoid of humor, his eyes fixed on the city below. “I used to think about what my sister would say if she saw me now. If she’d hate what I became. Or if she’d hate that I was the only one who got to live.”

The wind stirred around them, catching the strands of his dark hair, ruffling the edge of his wings. Still, he didn’t look at her, as if he couldn’t bear to meet her gaze.

Then, slowly, his head turned, and when his violet eyes met hers, they were filled with something dark.

“Would she have forgiven me for not saving her?” His voice was quiet, but each word was laced with a grief so deep it made her chest ache. “For letting her down like I’ve let down the people of Velaris?”

Feyre’s heart tightened at the rawness in his voice. Without thinking, she reached up, pressing her palm against his chest, feeling the steady, weary beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. The warmth of him, the quiet proof that he was here, alive, despite everything.

“She would have loved you, Rhys.” Her voice was soft but certain, carrying through the night air between them. “Just as you are. No matter what happened.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—doubt, maybe. The self-loathing that had followed him for centuries.

His voice was barely above a whisper. “You don’t know that.”

Feyre’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him as if she could force him to believe her. “I know you. And I know the kind of brother you would have been.”

His breath hitched slightly, a near-invisible crack in his armor.

“If she were here, if she saw everything you have done, she would be proud,” she said.

A shuddering breath left him. He closed his eyes, as if trying to picture it, trying to conjure the face of the sister he had lost, the girl who had never gotten the chance to see what he had built. His shoulders curled inward slightly, and Feyre knew—he was picturing it.

“I would have given anything for one more moment with her,” he admitted.

Feyre squeezed his hand, grounding him in the present. “She would have given anything for you to keep living. To keep fighting for the home that she loved so much.”

A flicker of something passed over his face—pain, grief, something deeper. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, staring back over the city, his hands still braced against the railing.

"Then why does it feel like I am?"

Chapter 28

It was the eve of battle—and there was a restlessness to the King’s forces.

The air in the war camp was thick with it, humming through the maze of tents and restless soldiers, and their warships just beyond the camp. The scent of churned earth and damp stone clung to the evening breeze, mingling with the smoke from the torches that lined the pathways between tents. Somewhere, steel met steel in practice; elsewhere, a horse huffed, shifting restlessly under the weight of approaching war.

But here, at the heart of the camp, there was only silence.

Munin stood near the King’s side as he watched his army. Even without looking at him, she felt the weight of his gaze. The ever-present warmth of the Summer Court wrapped around her, but it was a distant thing, unimportant compared to the task at hand.

His power pulsed faintly in the air around them, stretching over the valley like a great invisible net. Cloaking his forces from prying eyes. A feat of magic so precise, so absolute, that no scout, no winnower, no Cauldron-cursed spymaster would sense the army’s presence before it was too late.

They would slip into the Spring Court’s borders undetected. They would slaughter them before they even knew they were at war.

Munin exhaled slowly, keeping her breathing measured, controlled. Her wings remained folded at her back, her stance at ease but ready. She had done this a thousand times before. But something about tonight felt different. She stood alone.

Dagdan was gone.

She had not considered—had not allowed herself to consider—what that absence would feel like. No presence in her mind, whispering commands that drowned out the noise of everything else. No voice pressing her forward, steering her hand, wiping away anything that might slow her down.

Her mind was her own.

And yet, wasn’t it still his?

She forced the thought away as the King finally spoke.

"I am grateful," he mused, his tone almost idle, his gaze still trained on the moving forces before them. "That Dagdan shaped you into what you are now. You have become a loyal weapon—a force to be reckoned with."

Shaped.

The word echoed through her, settling deep and curling beneath her ribs with a weight she could not name, though she did not allow it to show. Her shoulders remained squared, her wings tucked neatly against her back, her chin lifted in a way that betrayed nothing.

No flicker of thought, no sign of hesitation. It was instinct now—had been instinct for as long as she could remember. Do not react. Do not question. Accept what is given, obey what is ordered.

 

"Thank you, Your Majesty." The words came easily, smooth and steady, as if she had spoken them a hundred times before. Perhaps she had. She had known no other response.

And yet, something coiled beneath her thoughts, pressing against the edges of her mind like a shadow creeping through the cracks. A question. A quiet, insidious thing that had no place here. What was I before him?

The thought was as foreign as it was unwelcome. Before him? Before Dagdan? She did not think in before. There was only now. Only duty to the King, only the weight of a blade in her hand and the certainty of the orders that had shaped her existence.

And yet, she had asked.

Had she ever done so before? Had she ever thought to wonder?

Munin kept her face unreadable, and the King must not have picked up on her thoughts. Because he moved closer. Even without touching her, without so much as a whisper of power reaching for her mind, he filled the space between them with something inescapable.

"You will take part in the attack on the Summer Court, of course," he said, his voice smooth, expectant. Not a question. A command. “I expect you to show no mercy.”

The words settled in her, as familiar as steel in her grip, as the weight of armor on her skin. And yet—something about them did not feel the same.

The Summer Court.

A flicker of something stirred in her mind, too faint to name. Not hesitation. Not disobedience. Just… a pause. An unbidden thought, like a crack appearing in stone. Why the Summer Court? It was not her place to ask. It had never been her place to ask. Yet, the question took root, unwanted, unwelcome.

She had never questioned before. Why now?

Munin’s fingers curled slightly at her sides, nails pressing against the leather of her gloves. It was foolish, unnecessary, dangerous. The King’s plans were absolute. His will was law. She was not meant to analyze, to wonder. She was meant to carry out orders without hesitation.

And yet, the thought did not vanish.

The King’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, watching her with that same unnerving stillness. He had seen something. Not enough to question her, not enough to assume anything but complete obedience, but he had noticed her silence. He did not press, did not pry. Instead, he simply said, “You will take your place in the attack.”

There was no room for hesitation in those words.

Munin straightened, locking her unease behind a mask of cold indifference. “I will take my place in the attack.”

Her voice was steady. Her expression, unreadable.

But her thoughts remained.

---

He should have seen it coming.

The weight of failure that settled in Azriel’s chest was heavier than the armor strapped to his body. He was failing. Failing as a spymaster, as a warrior, as a protector of his court. He should have known. Should have anticipated Hybern’s movements before they struck, before Summer’s shores were drowned in fire and blood.

But he hadn’t.

And now, the Summer Court was under attack.

The scent of salt and blood thickened the air, clashing with the acrid bite of burning wood. Azriel’s sword was a seamless extension of his arm as he moved through the clamor. His siphons flared, unleashing blasts of raw power that left ruin in their wake.

A scream rang out—one of Hybern’s soldiers, clutching at his blackened chest before crumpling into the sand. Another enemy lunged, a wickedly curved blade arcing toward Azriel’s throat.

He met the attack without hesitation. Metal clashed, sparks spitting between them. With a sharp twist, he slammed his elbow into the male’s face, the sickening crunch of breaking bone barely registering before he drove his sword between the soldier’s ribs. The male choked, shuddered, then sagged against Azriel’s blade before he wrenched it free.

First the attack on Velaris. Then the ravens, sent to hunt down Feyre’s sister. And now this.

A flick of his wrist and his siphons sang with power, sending a concentrated blast into another soldier’s chest. The male barely had time to scream before he was nothing but charred ruin, smoke curling from where he had stood.

Azriel barely stopped to breathe. His body moved as it always had in battle—out of instinct, out of training, out of rage. And by the Cauldron, he felt it now. He was going to make Hybern pay for this. For Velaris. For Nesta and Elain. For every innocent that they slaughtered.

Another enemy rushed him—a towering male, wielding an axe as wide as Azriel’s shoulders. Azriel ducked beneath the heavy swing, shadows twisting around him as he surged up, his blade slicing through tendon, through flesh. The male gurgled, blood spilling down his chest as he fell.

The battle raged across both land and sea.

The docks were slick with blood, bodies strewn across the wooden planks in broken heaps. Boats rocked violently against the tide, and smoke curled from burning ships. Illyrian warriors swarmed the enemy vessels, their blades flashing in the moonlight as they carved through Hybern’s forces.

Azriel shot into the air, wings cutting through the thick plumes of smoke, before diving onto one of the many docks in the harbor. His landing sent a shockwave through the rotting wood, his siphons igniting in a deadly burst of blue light. The nearest Hybern soldier barely had time to turn before Azriel’s sword slid between his ribs. He wrenched the blade free, already pivoting to parry another strike, his siphons flaring as he blasted an attacker clean off the deck.

He barely thought as he fought, his body a machine of muscle and instinct. Block, strike, kill. Again and again, until his armor was slick with blood, until his muscles burned from the effort. A Hybern archer loosed an arrow from the mast. Azriel dodged, shadows swallowing him as he vanished into his shadows, only to reappear behind the male.

His blade met flesh, cutting through him as if he were nothing more than parchment. And then—

His eyes landed on a familiar figure. At first, he barely registered her, his mind cataloging her as just another Illyrian warrior in the fray. But then his vision doubled back, instincts screaming before his thoughts could catch up.

Not an Illyrian. Not one of his own. His grip on Truth-Teller tightened, rage coiling in his chest like a living thing. Munin.

Of course she would be here. Of course she would be skulking through the battlefield like a specter of death, as if she were still taking orders from Dagdan.

It would appear that his death hadn’t done shit. She was still loyal to Hybern. His blood roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of battle. He had wanted—gods, he had hoped—that when Dagdan fell, she would fade into nothing. That without him, she would wither. But she stood here, whole, untouched. Still serving the same tyrant.

His rage sharpened, poised to strike—until he saw her. Really saw her. She stood amidst the chaos, her cowl covering her face. And she—

What was she doing?

She wasn’t fighting. Not truly.

His anger fractured into something else, something wary and cold. She stood as if separate from the battle itself, her head shifting slightly, tracking movements. Her gaze flicked between bodies as they fell, as if cataloging them. But her hands remained empty—no weapon drawn, no blood staining her armor.

And there, between her brows—lines of tension, faint but present.

Azriel’s breath came slow and measured, but the storm within him raged.

What the fuck was she doing?

He didn’t know this fae well, but he knew enough.

This hesitation—it wasn’t like her. The Munin he had met before, the assassin who had cut through his ranks without pause, had been nothing but precise, lethal, certain. Even if she had once been under Dagdan’s control, she wasn’t now. And yet she still stood here, unarmed, watching the battle unfold as if she were apart from it. As if she hadn’t made her choice.

He didn’t trust it. Not for a second. Munin was not a bystander. If she was here, she was a threat. A weapon waiting to be wielded.

His instincts screamed at him to strike first—to eliminate the danger before she had the chance to move, before she could slip away into the shadows like she had before. His wings flared, siphons pulsing with lethal intent, and then—

He charged.

Munin reacted just as fast. As soon as he entered her line of sight, she moved. She twisted to meet him in a blur of motion, twin daggers flashing as she blocked his first strike. The force of it sent a shockwave through them both, boots skidding across the blood-slick dock.

Azriel pressed the attack. A downward slash aimed for her shoulder, a feint—he twisted his wrist at the last moment, angling for her ribs instead. She dodged, just barely, her dagger darting up to deflect.  She was fast. Too fast.

She wasn’t fighting to win. She was fighting to stall.

His teeth bared, “Why aren’t you fighting?”

She tilted her head, the movement slow. Her hood slipped back slightly, revealing the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the curve of her lips—curled in something that almost resembled amusement. But Azriel had spent centuries reading people, and he knew this was nothing but a façade.

Still… there was something different about her.

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” she murmured.

It wasn’t what he meant. And she knew it. Azriel’s jaw tightened. His blade angled slightly, ready to strike again. He had wanted to know why she had hesitated before he attacked, why she had been just standing there among the wreckage, watching instead of fighting. Instead of killing.

She was trying to piss him off. It worked.

He lunged, his sword slicing toward her ribs. She moved faster, her dagger snapping up to deflect—no, not deflect. She caught his wrist, fingers like a vice as she twisted, using his own momentum to force him to pivot with her.

Their bodies collided.

Every muscle in him went taut at the sudden closeness, the press of armor against armor, the warmth of her breath against his throat. A rush of something electric crackled in his veins, unfamiliar and unwelcome, his pulse hammering out of rhythm. What in the hell?

He wrenched free, shoving her back with more force than necessary. His pulse was too fast. Too erratic.

She barely stumbled before launching back at him, a blade angled toward his side. He caught it at the last second, twisting his sword to send the blow skidding away. Her movements were fast and fluid, and the way she anticipated his attacks—blocked them, countered them—sent something sharp through his chest.

He knew how she fought. He had battled her before. But there was something about this moment, about the way their bodies moved in tandem, blades clashing in the haze of blood and smoke, that sent irritation licking through his skin.

Azriel growled, slamming his siphon-clad fist toward her. She ducked, barely missing the impact, her breath fanning against his jaw as she twisted beneath his arm. She was too close again, the scent of steel and wind and something her filling his senses.

His teeth clenched. Azriel’s wings flared wide, siphons pulsing with restrained power, ready to send her flying across the docks. His patience was gone. His confusion, his frustration—it all funneled into a single, lethal intent.

But then—

She smirked.

And then she vanished.

A flicker of movement in the smoke, and she was gone.

Why had she run? Why hadn’t she fought?

The questions gnawed at him, worming their way into his mind even as he tried to cast them aside. He needed to focus. He could not afford to be distracted—not now, not with the battle raging around him, with blood thick in the air and screams cutting through the night.

Azriel turned, forcing himself back into the fray.

The harbor was chaos. Ships burned, their sails turned to ash, their masts splintering like bone. Bodies littered the water, some floating, some sinking, staining the sea with ribbons of red. The cries of the dying mingled with the roar of flames, with the clash of steel on steel, with the endless, pounding beat of war.

A Hybern soldier lunged for him, heavy axe arcing through the air. Azriel twisted, sidestepping at the last second, his siphons flaring. The Illyrian blade in his hand moved faster than thought, slicing through the warrior’s defenses, cutting deep into the space between his shoulder and neck.

The soldier crumpled, and Azriel turned away before the body hit the ground.

Then—he saw it.

A warship, larger than the others, gliding through the smoke-cloaked harbor. Its hull was reinforced with dark, glimmering runes—magic-forged, undoubtedly. Something ancient, something unnatural.

And it was heading straight for one of Tarquin’s ships.

The Summer Court vessel was struggling to retreat, its sails in tatters, its deck slick with blood. If that warship reached them—

Azriel didn’t hesitate. He shot into the sky, wings snapping open, the wind slicing against him as he raced toward the warship.

He had to disable it. Sink it, if he could.

His siphons pulsed, building raw power, gathering enough force to take out the rudder or cripple the main deck. He adjusted his aim, locking onto the rudder—if he could blast it apart, the ship would be dead in the water, vulnerable to attack.

But then—the air shifted.

And there was a pulse of magic. Deep. Ancient. Wrong.

The runes on the warship flared.

A deep, guttural hum rippled through the air, vibrating through the sea itself. The deck shuddered, the wood  along the hull groaning as if the ship were alive.

Then, an explosion.

A blast of raw magic erupted from the ship’s core. The shockwave hit Azriel before he could brace, too fast, too strong. His siphons flared instinctively, but it wasn’t enough. The force slammed into him, driving the breath from his lungs, tearing his balance from him.

His body seized—pain lanced through his bones, his nerves screaming as if they’d been set aflame.

And then—he was falling.

The sky lurched, spinning into a smear of black water and fire-lit smoke. The ruined remains of burning ships loomed below, the broken masts and shattered decks drawing closer, closer—too close. His wings wouldn’t respond, his muscles locked from the blast. Move. Move, damn it.

But nothing happened.

Azriel barely heard the battle anymore. The ringing in his skull was too loud, a shrill, piercing whine that drowned out the distant shouts, the clash of steel. He twisted in the air, forcing his limbs to obey. Slowly—too slowly—his wings caught against the wind, the stiffness in them finally easing as he righted himself, breath dragging back into his lungs.

And then he saw them. The Summer Court sailors.

Trapped.

The ship ahead was burning. Its masts crumbled, sails eaten away by the flames. The fire spread fast, swallowing the deck in greedy licks of gold and orange. He could see them—frantic figures moving, silhouetted against the inferno, scrambling for a way out.

No one was coming for them.

The rest of his court—his brothers, the Illyrian legions, Feyre and Mor—they were locked in their own battles, pushing back Hybern’s forces. Below, the sea churned with bodies, wreckage bobbing between the waves. The Summer Court’s warriors fought to hold what little ground they had left, but they were too scattered, too overwhelmed to do anything but survive.

No one was coming for those sailors.

Azriel forced his wings to steady, ignoring the burning ache in his limbs. His siphons pulsed, raw power coiling at his fingertips. He had to reach them before the flames devoured the ship entirely, before the hull split apart and dragged them under. A surge of magic built in his siphons, ready to blast a path through the wreckage if he needed to—

Something shifted.

A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, barely there, but unmistakable. Not debris. Not a soldier locked in battle. His gut tightened, instincts roaring to attention.

Azriel pivoted, his instincts screaming to attack first, to end the threat before it could strike. But Munin only stood there, her gaze fixed on the burning ship beyond them. The firelight cast an eerie glow across her exposed cheekbones, highlighting the streaks of blood and soot marring her skin. Her cowl, singed at the edges, still clung to her, still obscuring most of her face.

She looked different like this—less like the perfect, untouchable weapon Hybern had forged, more like something… almost Illyrian. But he knew better than to trust illusions. Knew better than to trust her.

“Move.” His voice was rough, the edge of his blade still slick with blood as he angled it toward her.

She didn’t. Her eyes, dark and unfathomable, flicked to his before returning to the ship. “You can’t save them all.”

The words struck deeper than he wanted to admit. He knew that. Had always known it. But it didn’t stop the clawing need in his chest, the unrelenting demand that he try. His wings ached, his body was stretched to its limit, but he still bared his teeth and growled, “I’ll die trying.”

Munin’s expression didn’t shift, but something flickered in her gaze—something he couldn’t name. Her attention slid back to the inferno before them, to the sailors still fighting to escape the consuming fire. Then, softly, she said, “Not if I help you.”

Azriel stilled.

His siphons pulsed in warning, his shadows curling around his hands. A trap. A trick. It had to be.

“Why?” His voice was a blade, sharp and cold. “Why would you help me?”

For the first time since he’d met her, she hesitated. Just a flicker, there and gone, so quickly he might’ve missed it had he not been watching. But he had been watching.

Then she said, simply, changing the subject, “We’re running out of time.”

No. He couldn’t trust her. Not now, not ever. Munin was an assassin, a weapon honed by Hybern’s hand. She had been loyal—to the King, to Dagdan, to whatever twisted cause they had forced into her bones. She had killed for them. She had fought against him, against his court. She had butchered people at Sangravah. And yet—

Feyre’s words whispered in the back of his mind, unwelcome.

She wasn’t in control. Dagdan warped her mind.

Azriel’s jaw tightened. That didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous. That didn’t mean she wasn’t still the enemy. But the flames had reached the lower deck of the ship, and the screams of the sailors—raw, panicked—cut through him like a blade. He could see them through the smoke, some scrambling for lifeboats already consumed by fire, others clutching the railing as if the ocean itself might save them.

His gut twisted.

He turned back to Munin. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t tensed or braced for attack. She only watched him, that same unreadable expression on her face. Like she already knew what he would decide. Like she knew he had to decide.

He didn’t have time to argue.

“A bargain,” he ground out, his voice rough, raw with the weight of it. “Make a bargain with me. Help me save them, and I’ll give you what you want.”

---

Making a bargain with the Shadowsinger would be a mistake. A monumental mistake.

And yet, she had already made one mistake tonight—refusing to engage in a fight. She shouldn’t have.

If the King got wind of what she had done, she would be punished. Whipped. Starved. Left to kneel on cold stone until her body collapsed under the weight of its own failure. Fighting to the death — killing the male— would have been simpler. Logical.

But logic had failed her.

It had failed her the moment she moved. The moment her body disobeyed the orders etched into her very bones—obey the King. She had been made to follow, to execute commands without hesitation. And yet, she had hesitated. She had chosen. How?

Munin stared at the burning wreckage of the ship, at the silhouettes scrambling against the flames. The heat licked at her exposed skin, but she barely felt it. That feeling in her gut—the one that had settled there the night the Archeron sisters were forced into the Cauldron—had only grown since Dagdan’s death. And without him to suppress it, to reach inside her mind and strip away the parts of her that wavered, she could no longer ignore it.

Even if it went against everything she had ever known.

The Shadowsinger’s voice still rang in her head, rough with desperation. “A bargain. Help me save them, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

What could she possibly want? She was Munin. She had no wants. No needs beyond what she was told to want, told to need. That was the way it had always been. And yet—

She turned to the Shadowsinger. His siphons flared, his body taut with tension, as if he expected her to strike at any moment. The shadows curled around his fingers, slithering over his gauntlets like living things. He was waiting for her answer.

Munin tilted her head.

But something inside her had shifted. She could feel an unfamiliar pressure lodged between her ribs, a crack running through the cold, unfeeling surface of her mind. It was wrong. The logic of this battle—the logic that had always been clear, always been unquestionable—no longer aligned as it should.

She had been created to obey. To fight. To execute orders without thought, without hesitation. Not to question what she was told.

And yet she did.

The flames roared, swallowing the ship plank by plank, the heat a living thing against her skin. The sailors still fought to escape, their movements frantic, desperate. What was the point of this attack? To send a message? To cripple the Summer Court? Had there ever been a purpose beyond destruction? Was there a strategy hidden beneath all of the blood and fire, or was it simply chaos?

She had never cared before. It had never mattered before. But now the questions pressed against the edges of her mind, foreign, unwelcome. What did she want?

The answer should have been easy. She should walk away. Let the sea claim them all. That would be easier. Smarter. The rational choice. And yet—she had already intervened once tonight. The moment she had moved, had winnowed away from the Shadowsinger instead of killing him, she had chosen a side.

Munin turned to him now. He was still bleeding, still watching her with those sharp, endless eyes, waiting. There was wariness in his stance, in the tension of his siphon-wreathed fingers, but he had asked her what she wanted.

She should leave him to this. Should not entangle herself further. But… it was… it was wrong.

The thought dug deeper, a jagged wound in the fabric of her being.

Her lips parted before she had even made the choice. “I want your silence.” The words tasted foreign, unfamiliar, but she did not stop. “You are to speak to no one about me, and what I have done from here on out.”

The shadows around him shifted, dark and knowing, as if they could taste the weight behind her demand. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady.

“Is that your price?”

The heat of the burning ship clawed at her back, the smoke curling between them like a living thing. In the distance, the Summer Court sailors still screamed, their voices thin against the crackling fire and crashing waves. She could feel the war still raging beyond the harbor, the clash of steel, the pulse of magic rupturing the sky.

And still, the Shadowsinger waited, his stare steady. The dark slashes of blood across his skin did nothing to soften the sharpness of his expression or the scrutiny in his gaze. He was waiting for her to falter, to back out of their deal.

Munin met his stare, unflinching. If she was really going to do this, then she could not risk him speaking of this. Could not risk anyone knowing.

“Yes,” she said at last. “That is my price.”

His jaw tightened, shadows curling subtly at his back. A flicker of something crossed his face—not quite hesitation, not quite anger. And then, with the same lethal grace she had seen him wield in battle, he lifted his bloodied hand. “Then we have a bargain.”

She did not hesitate. Her own hand rose, fingers still gloved, brushing against the rough, scarred expanse of his palm.

A sharp, searing heat ignited at the base of her neck.

Munin stiffened, but did not pull away, even as the burn sank deeper, like ink being pressed into her skin. She did not need to reach up to know what was happening. She could feel it.

The magic curled around her, an invisible tether latching deep, binding her to this moment, to him.

Across from her, the Shadowsinger’s wings shifted slightly, a subtle movement that betrayed nothing. But his eyes… they were watching her too closely, as if trying to read whatever flicker of reaction she might have given.

She offered him nothing.

The burning subsided, leaving behind only the faint, lingering weight of the mark now etched into her skin. She had made her choice. And there was no undoing it now.

Munin flexed her fingers, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off the lingering heat still burning at the base of her neck.

“Now what?” she asked, her voice cool, detached.

The Shadowsinger barely looked at her, already scanning the battlefield, looking every bit the male who had done this too many times before. Beyond them, the Summer Court ship still listed dangerously in the waves, its sails torn, its hull half-consumed by fire.

A fresh trail of blood ran from his temple, cutting a path through the soot and grime on his skin. He wiped it away absently, still focused on the ship. “We need to cut the rigging, break it from the dock. If the fire reaches the lower levels, we’ll lose everyone on board.”

Munin watched the way the ship moved, the way the tide pulled against its half-burned frame. She could see it clearly—the tension in the lines, the subtle angle of the mast, the way the water foamed against the hull. “The ship’s already listing,” she said. “If you break the wrong ropes, you’ll capsize it.”

“Then make sure I don’t.”

The Shadowsinger was already moving, his focus shifting from her back to the chaos ahead. He had no reason to trust her. And yet, he had just bound himself to her with magic.

Munin followed as he leapt into the air, his wings snapping open as he dove toward the burning vessel. His siphons flared as he landed hard on the deck, his blade flashing in the firelight as he cut down the nearest Hybern soldier. A pulse of power exploded from him, sending another two stumbling back, their bodies crashing against the rail before they tumbled into the sea.

The sailors were still scrambling, throwing buckets of seawater at the growing flames, but it would not be enough. The fire was spreading too fast, eating through the deck, crawling toward the gunpowder stores with ruthless determination.

Munin’s gaze flicked to the rigging. The right ropes had to be severed in order to free the ship without throwing it further into the current’s mercy. The wrong ones would tip it, send the entire vessel pitching violently into the sea before the sailors had a chance to escape.

Her mind calculated the angles, the weight distribution, the shifting tide.

Then, before she could think better of it, before she could remind herself that this was not her war, she was in the air.

Munin landed on the deck in a blur of movement, her blade already slicing through the throat of the Hybern soldier who had barely turned to face her. His body crumpled at her feet, blood spilling across the scorched wood. She couldn’t leave any survivors from Hybern on this ship, lest word get to the King about what she was doing here.

The Shadowsinger landed beside her with a force that rattled the deck, his own blade flashing in the firelight as he cut down another enemy without hesitation. His siphons pulsed, dark power coiling around him like a living thing.

“Don’t slow me down,” he snapped, barely sparing her a glance as he turned toward the rigging.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He didn’t respond. His focus had already shifted to the failing ship, the tangled web of rigging. Munin followed his gaze, eyes sweeping the lines, assessing the structure of the mast, the way the fire had eaten through the beams and ropes.

“We need to take out the starboard lines first,” he said. “If the mast collapses the wrong way, we’ll trap the crew.”

She narrowed her gaze, watching the way the flames danced across the wood. “The fire’s already compromised the main mast. Cut the wrong line, and it will snap before the ship clears the dock.”

The Shadowsinger’s jaw tightened. The crew was still aboard, their panicked voices carrying over the roar of the fire, their hands clawing at tangled ropes in a futile attempt to free the vessel.

“Then you take the stern, I’ll handle the bow,” he ordered, already moving. “Move.”

Smoke curled around them, thick and choking, burning her throat as she sprinted toward the stern. The fire had devoured most of the aft deck, the flames climbing hungrily toward the rigging. Above, sailors clung to the mast, their escape routes blocked by the inferno. Others struggled with ropes that had fused together from the heat, their hands raw and bleeding as they fought to free the ship before it was too late.

Another explosion rocked the harbor. Munin barely had time to brace before the shockwave hit—a smaller vessel nearby had been struck, its remains scattering in a fiery blast. The force sent the burning ship lurching violently against the dock. The groan of splintering wood tore through the night as the hull strained, the entire vessel shuddering under the impact.

Munin dug her heels into the deck, steadying herself. They were running out of time.

The Shadowsinger’s voice cut through the chaos. “Cover me.”

He didn’t wait for her response—his wings unfurled, the massive span catching the updraft as he shot into the sky. His siphons flared, their light burning against the smoke-cloaked night as he arced over the ship.

Munin didn’t bother responding. She was already moving, her blade slicing through the nearest soldier who dared step onto the ship. The Hybern forces were still trying to board from the docks, scrambling over the railing, clawing for any foothold they could find. One managed to pull himself halfway up, boots scraping against the slick wood.

A flick of her wrist, a glint of steel—her dagger buried itself in his throat before he could fully gain his balance. He gurgled, hands flying to the hilt, but the damage was done. He toppled backward into the water, lost to the dark waves below.

Above, the archers along the outer harbor loosed another volley of arrows. The twang of bowstrings cut through the sky, the deadly rain hurtling toward the Illyrian mid-dive.

The Shadowsinger twisted midair, his siphons glowing like embers about to burst into flame. A wave of power pulsed outward, rippling through the smoke and turning solid as shadows erupted, twisting and curling like living things. They caught the arrows mid-flight, devouring them before they could strike. Then—before the archers could even react—those same shadows shot forward, slithering into the watchtowers and along the parapets, sinking into flesh and bone, silencing the threat in an instant.

Munin did not waste time watching. She turned, sprinting toward the stern. The fire was spreading too fast, the structure groaning under the strain. A warning cry rang out as part of the mainmast cracked, wood splitting from the heat.

The Shadowsinger dove back toward the ship, the wind screaming through his wings. “The mainmast won’t hold much longer!” he shouted over the roar of the flames. “You need to cut the stern lines before it collapses!”

Munin’s gaze flicked to the burning mast, assessing the damage. The Shadowsinger was right—the wood had blackened, massive cracks splintering through the base, the heat warping its structure. It wouldn’t hold much longer.

If it collapsed while the ship was still tethered to the dock, the entire vessel would tip, trapping those still below deck in a tomb of fire and water.

Her sword was already in her hands as she sprinted toward the stern. The thick mooring ropes stretched taut, the fire having weakened some but not enough to break them completely. She slashed once, then again, the blade slicing through the first line. It snapped apart with a violent recoil, the ship shifting slightly with the sudden release.

A deep groan reverberated through the deck. The mast swayed dangerously, the weakened base threatening to splinter further. A miscalculation—cutting the ropes too soon or too late—would send it crashing into the ship instead of the sea.

“Now!” The Shadowsinger’s voice rang from above, sharp and commanding.

She didn’t hesitate. Her blade cut through the final rope.

The ship lurched violently, weight suddenly freed, and the impact sent a surge of seawater rushing over the deck, dousing part of the flames. The mast groaned one last time, the structure shuddering—and then, with a deafening crack, it gave way. Wood splintered, the burning pillar collapsing toward the waves, vanishing into the sea instead of crashing through the hull.

The sailors braced against the railings, some gripping onto the rigging as the vessel rocked, but the worst had been avoided. The ship steadied, drifting further from the dock, away from the thick of the battle.

The Shadowsinger landed beside her in a controlled drop, chest rising and falling sharply, his leathers smeared with blood and soot. His siphons still pulsed, the lingering energy casting a dull red glow across his hands. He didn’t look at her right away, his focus still on the drifting ship, on the surviving crew. Only when he was certain the vessel had cleared the danger did he turn, shadows shifting at his back.

His lips parted, hesitation flickering across his features before he ground out, “Thank you.” The words were stiff, begrudging, as if they had been dragged from him unwillingly.

Munin went still. Those words—no one had ever spoken them to her before. Not Dagdan. Not the king. Not anyone.

She turned away before she could process why they settled so uncomfortably in her chest.

Notes:

So I know absolutely nothing about ships or naval battles or anything. I googled a bunch of terms, hodge podged it together and tried to make it make sense. So if you're nautically inclined and this reads terribly, I am so sorry.

Chapter 29

Notes:

Wow! Thank you so much for all of the amazing feedback. We're really starting to pick things up here as we enter the last part of ACOWAR. There seems to be some question at the end of the last chapter as to why Munin would go back. It's because at this point, Hybern is all she knows. Even without Dagdan, and even with her thinking on her own, there is still 500 years of conditioning for her to overcome. And that isn't going to happen overnight.

Anyway, thank you so much for every comment and kudo!

“You insolent wretch!”

The King’s voice lashed through the chamber, echoing off the damp stone walls. The force of it settled in the cold, stagnant air, thick as the scent of mildew and blood.

Munin did not lift her head. The chains at her wrists kept her upright, iron biting deep into skin rubbed raw. Her shoulders ached, every muscle stiff from how long she had been left like this—suspended, waiting. She could hear the slow, steady drip of water from the ceiling, pooling in the cracks of the stone beneath her boots. The torchlight flickered against the damp walls, casting shifting shadows that seemed to move on their own.

The iron door groaned open. Echoes of footsteps filled the space. The King stepped inside, his presence suffocating, his rage a tangible thing. Two of his ravens followed, their masked faces unreadable, but the glint in their eyes—expectant, eager—told her enough. They lived for this.

It was more than just orders for them.

The King crouched before her, his gloved fingers seizing her chin, forcing her head up. His grip was ice, sharp against the heat of her bruised skin.

The King crouched before her, his gloved fingers seizing her chin, forcing her head up. His grip was ice, sharp against the heat of her bruised skin.

"You saved him," he murmured, voice deceptively soft, the edge of it cutting deeper than any blade. "You ruined my plans. And for what?"

His fingers tightened, pressing into bone, nails biting into her flesh. "Tell me, Munin. Tell me why."She met his stare, unflinching. The answer sat heavy on her tongue, a truth too simple to satisfy him. It was wrong. But that would never be enough. She could never say that, admit to thinking beyond the strategy needed to carry out her orders. She was Munin, she wasn’t made to think on right and wrong.

The King studied her, searching her face as if peeling back the layers of her thoughts. His lips curled, something between amusement and disgust flickering across his features. Then he smiled, slow and knowing, as if she had given him exactly what he wanted.

"Ah." He released her roughly, her head snapping forward as he straightened. "You do not even know, do you? Pathetic."

A sharp command left his lips, and the first blow landed.

A gauntleted fist slammed into her ribs, driving the breath from her lungs. Pain flared, sharp at first, then deep, sinking into her bones like rot. The chains rattled as she staggered, breath hitching from the force of it. Another strike—higher, just beneath her collarbone. The impact jarred her shoulders, her body straining against the restraints.

She did not fight. She couldn’t — not with the way the chains locked her in place.

The raven behind her yanked her upright before she could slump forward, fingers digging into her arms like iron talons. A silent order to stay on her feet.

The King sighed, shaking his head, as if disappointed. "You have been mine for centuries, Munin. You have killed for me, bled for me, obeyed without question. And now, because of a moment of weakness, you forget your purpose?"

He leaned closer, the warmth of his breath against her cheek making her stomach twist.

"Do you think they would have done the same for you? Do you think they care?" His voice dropped lower, each word slicing through the fog in her mind. "You are nothing to them. A weapon they would discard the moment you ceased to be useful. And yet, you betrayed me for them."

The words should not have struck so deep. She had always known what she was—a tool, a thing wielded at his will. But something inside her had cracked when she saw the Summer Court ship burn, when she had watched the shadowsinger frantic to help those people, when she had felt the weight of his bloodied hand in hers as their bargain had been struck.

"Again."

The next blow snapped her head to the side, blood flooding her mouth, hot and metallic. It dripped from the corner of her lips, trailing down her chin. The torchlight blurred, her vision swimming for half a breath.

Still, she did not speak.

The King exhaled through his nose, the sound one of boredom, of disappointment. His polished boots barely made a sound as he paced, the measured steps echoing through the chamber, filling the silence she refused to break.

"You do not fight back. You do not beg." His voice was almost thoughtful, though she knew better than to think there was any real curiosity behind it. "Have you lost your will entirely, or have you finally realized what you are?"

Munin did not answer. The chains kept her upright, the weight of them pulling at raw, bruised wrists. She had long since stopped trying to shift them. Even if she had wanted to—what good would it do? The King would only watch, amused, perhaps even pleased that she still had the strength to struggle.

Another blow. This one lower, striking the side of her ribs with enough force to send agony lancing through her. Then a boot to her gut, sharp and efficient, knocking the air from her lungs. Her body folded inward, instinctive, but the raven behind her wrenched her upright before she could slump forward.

"You are a thing, Munin." The King’s voice remained mild, patient. His hands were now clasped behind his back as he continued his pacing, like a tutor instructing a slow-learning pupil. "You do not think. You do not choose. You obey."

The raven to her right shifted, and then she felt it—the cold kiss of steel against her cheek. The blade dragged slowly, just deep enough for blood to well. The sting barely registered before a chuckle followed, low and dark, amusement curling through the air.

The raven holding the blade had always enjoyed this part.

The King knelt before her again, gloved fingers reaching out, smearing the blood across her jaw with almost gentle precision.

"I should unmake you," he mused, tilting his head. "Break you into so many pieces you will never stray again."

She did not react. Even when his fingers slid into her hair, gripping, yanking her head back until the chain at her throat went taut, her neck bared. The skin there was exposed now, vulnerable—so close to where the bargain mark lay at the base of her skull. But the King did not seem to notice, too caught in his own pleasure, in the display of his power.

Heat blossomed near her shoulder, searing, unbearable, and then the iron pressed against her flesh. The hiss of burning skin filled the chamber, a sickening sound. The scent curled into the damp air, thick and cloying.

Munin clenched her jaw as agony ignited, every nerve in her body screaming, but she did not make a sound.

The King hummed in approval, fingers relaxing in her hair as he studied her face. "Still so quiet," he murmured, his tone almost fond. "But tell me, my little raven—was it worth it?"

Was it?

The question curled in her mind, lodged deep in the place where certainty should have been. She had not thought, had not planned—had only moved, had only acted. She had helped the Shadowsinger. She had defied the King.

She did not know why.

The King let go, and her head snapped forward, the chains rattling as she sagged against them. He rose, brushing at his robes as if this entire exchange had left him inconvenienced, dirtied.

"Leave her," he ordered the ravens, turning toward the door. "Let her sit in her shame."

The iron groaned as he pulled it open, but he paused just before stepping through.

"You belong to me, Munin," he said softly, without gloating, without mockery. Just certainty. "You always will."

Then the door slammed shut, and the chamber was silent once more.

---

Munin did not know how much time had passed. The days—if they were days—blurred together in a cycle of agony.  She had not fought back. Had not screamed. She had taken everything the King had given, everything his ravens had inflicted upon her. And still, it did not end.

The chamber stank of her own blood, of sweat and iron and damp stone. The air hung heavy, pressing down on her like another weight to bear. Her wrists burned where the shackles bit into them, the skin long rubbed raw, the metal slick with blood. The weight of them dragged at her shoulders, pulling her forward, deeper into herself.

No food. Just enough water to keep her from slipping too far. Just enough to make sure she could still feel the pain when the next blow came.

The silence was the worst of it. She had never been alone for so long. There had always been orders. Commands to obey. A voice to follow. Now, there was only her own mind, twisting and fraying at the edges. She tried not to think. Tried not to listen to the whisper of doubt that curled through her thoughts.

The iron door groaned open.

She did not lift her head.

Boots echoed against the stone, unhurried and measured. The sound filled the chamber, filled the hollow space inside her chest where something had begun to splinter.

"Still silent?" The King’s voice was calm, almost amused. "Perhaps I should be impressed. But we both know how this ends."

She stared at the floor, at the dark smear of blood beneath her knees, crusted over from the last time she had collapsed. Her fingers twitched where they hung limp at her sides, the movement so small it barely registered.

She knew what he wanted. Knew that the moment she met his gaze, the moment she showed any sign of defiance, it would only get worse.

The first blow sent her sprawling. Her head cracked against the stone, stars bursting behind her eyes before fading into darkness. The taste of blood filled her mouth, thick and metallic, and she barely registered the way her body curled in on itself, a useless attempt at defense.

A boot pressed against her spine, pinning her down. Not enough to crush, but enough to remind her of her place. The weight of it was nothing compared to the one pressing inside of her—that strange, foreign thing that had driven her to defy him. It coiled low in her gut, a whisper of something unnamed, something she had no right to feel.

"You are nothing without me," the King murmured. "Say it."

She did not.

Another strike. A sharp, searing drag of a blade along her ribs, not deep enough to kill, but enough to hurt. Enough to remind her that her body was not her own.

"You belong to me," he whispered against her ear, his breath hot against her chilled skin. "You always have."

The words were nothing new. She had heard them a thousand times before, had lived by them for as long as she could remember. And yet—yet they did not settle as they once had.

She was exhausted. The pain no longer mattered, but her body could not keep enduring it. She had no strength left to resist, no walls left to hold firm.

The brand on her shoulder throbbed as he pressed his fingers into it.  He crouched beside her now, fingers tangling in her hair, stroking in mock affection. "Say it," he coaxed, his voice soft. "Say that you are mine, and it will stop."

Her lips parted, breath hitching in her throat, but the words would not come.

The King sighed, as if disappointed. As if he had expected better from her, "Ah. Still a little fight left."

He rose, gesturing to the ravens standing at the edge of the chamber, their masked faces watching, waiting. "Take your time. She will break soon enough."

The door groaned shut behind him, the heavy lock sliding into place.

Munin barely had time to inhale before the next blow landed.

She did not know why she had helped the shadowsinger. She did not know if she would regret it. But as the pain flared, sharp and endless, the words were already forming on her tongue.

---

She did not know how much time had passed. There were no days, no nights—only the rhythm of pain and silence. The cell had become her entire world, the damp stone pressing in from all sides, the scent of blood thick in the air. Her own. Theirs. It no longer mattered. The torches burned low in their sconces, casting restless shadows that slithered along the walls.

She had endured. Longer than they had expected. Longer than they had patience for. But it did not matter in the end. The King always won.

The iron door groaned open. She did not lift her head. Could not. The weight of exhaustion had settled deep into her bones, heavier than the shackles that chafed her wrists raw. His boots clicked against the floor, slow, assured. The air shifted with his presence, thickening, suffocating.

"Are we finished?" His voice was smooth, indulgent. "Or must I continue wasting my time?"

She had no answer for him. No thoughts left, no reasoning, no fight. Just the truth that had always been there. She had no choice, not really. She had to give him what he wanted from her.

"I am yours." The words rasped from her lips, raw and hollow.

But they were followed by only silence. Then, a gloved hand gripped her chin, tilting her face up. The touch was firm, possessive. She let it happen, let him force her to meet his gaze. A slow, cruel smile tugged at his lips, the dark gleam in his eyes colder than any pain he had inflicted.

"Ah, at last." His voice was almost affectionate. "I had begun to wonder how much of you was truly mine."

He studied her, fingers pressing just enough to bruise, as if testing for something that was no longer there. Searching for defiance, for resistance, for anything that might remain. He found none. She had nothing left to give.

"I do not enjoy punishing you, Munin," he murmured, stroking a thumb along the curve of her jaw, the touch mockingly gentle. "But you understand now, don’t you? You were made for obedience. You were made for me."

She did not answer. She did not need to.

His thumb brushed lower, pressing lightly against the fresh wound along her cheek, smearing the blood. A test. She did not flinch. He hummed in approval.

"You were a stubborn thing once," he mused, almost wistful. "But even the strongest will bends eventually. I wonder—was it pain that broke you? Or was it the silence?"

His fingers trailed down her throat, pausing just above her collarbone. Another test. Another reminder of who she belonged to.

"It does not matter," he said after a moment, withdrawing his hand. "What matters is that you understand now. And that you will not forget."

She did not forget.

Not what he had done to her, not what he had taken. But more than that—she did not forget the moment she had chosen, truly chosen, for the first time in her existence.

She had nothing left to give, but she would not forget that. Not ever.

The King rose, brushing invisible dust from his tunic, as if the hours—days—of her suffering had been nothing more than an inconvenience. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, smoothed a hand over the embroidery at his collar. Munin did not move. Could not. The iron shackles weighed down her wrists, the stone beneath her slick with blood and sweat.

A rustle of parchment. One of the ravens stepped forward, the iron door groaning as he entered. He held a scroll, unrolling it with careful precision, his gloved fingers barely grazing the edges. The parchment was thick, expensive, lined with inked notes and careful markings. A map—of the Wall.

Munin’s gaze flicked toward it. The fractures in the barrier between human and Fae lands had been marked in delicate strokes of black and red, weak points circled and annotated in the King’s hand.

“It is time to prove your loyalty,” the King announced, his voice smooth, indulgent. The words settled in her gut like lead, but she did not react. He moved to the map, tapping a single point along the wall.

“The Cauldron is nearly ready. We will strike at the weakest point—the Spring Court.” His finger dragged along the border, tracing the fractures already spreading through the wards. “Their defenses are failing. Their lands are crumbling. It is a matter of when, not if.”

Munin’s gaze remained fixed on the map. The lines between the two worlds would soon mean nothing.

The King’s eyes gleamed as he tapped a final mark on the parchment, the thinnest point in the barrier. “You will lead the first strike,” he said, his tone as light as if he were discussing the weather. “You will ensure there are no loose ends. No witnesses.”

A test. That was what this was. He had chosen her because he knew—knew—what had begun to fester inside her. The stray thoughts. The hesitation. And yet, she had already come to the same conclusion. That spot was the best place to strike, the weakest point in the wall.

The weight of the order settled over her She did not like it. Did not like the idea of the Wall falling, of what the humans would experience on the other side. But why? Where had this doubt come from? She was not meant to think. She was not meant to care. And yet—she did.

But her body was too bruised, too weak, to do anything about it. If she said anything, if she hesitated even a second too long, she would only invite more pain.

So she said the only thing she could.

“Yes, my King.”

---

The meeting of the High Lords had been an absolute shit show.

Azriel had known it would be, even before Tamlin arrived with that smug expression, his every word a calculated jab towards Feyre.  He’d been trying to breach the fragile truce among the High Lords, making them doubt Rhys’ every intention. Even Beron, insufferable as always, had not managed to be as much of a disruption as Tamlin, who seemed determined to throw the entire meeting into chaos.

Rhys had endured it all with a patience that Azriel would never understand. He had let Tamlin sit there, spewing thinly veiled insults, speaking to Feyre as if he still had some claim to her. Azriel had watched, waiting for the moment Rhys would snap, for the moment his power would bleed into the room, swallowing the air whole.

But it never came.

Rhys had let him speak. Had let him exist in the same space, as if his very presence was not an insult to all of them.

Azriel had never understood that restraint. Not when Tamlin had stood by and let Hybern into his lands. Not when Lyra and Elara had died because of he had given the location to his father. Not when he had caged Feyre, used her love against her, treated her like something owned.

He had watched Rhys sit there, unwavering, watching the bigger picture.

Azriel was not Rhysand.

He had barely kept his own temper in check, his shadows coiling at his feet as if they, too, had sought blood. The urge to act had been steady, digging deeper beneath his skin.

But it was not just the meeting that had him on edge. It had not been for weeks.

The battle at the Summer Court still lingered in his mind, replaying in sharp fragments—steel clashing, screams carried by the waves, blood darkening the white sand. And then her. The assassin who had helped him to save the Summer Court sailors. The one who had agreed to a bargain.

Azriel could still feel the mark of it, buried deep between his shoulder blades. True to his word, he had not spoken of it. Not to Rhys, not to Cassian, not to anyone. And so the knowledge had festered, twisting through his thoughts like a slow-spreading poison.

Why had she agreed? Why had she let him go?

The question had lodged itself in his mind, a puzzle with no answer. And it bothered him.

Azriel was not the sort of male to dwell on things. He did not hesitate. He did not let uncertainty weigh him down. And yet—he had been left with nothing but his thoughts, replaying that moment again and again until he could no longer make sense of it.

So yes, he was on fucking edge.

Feyre and Rhys had been watching him since they left the meeting, their glances sharp as they no doubt spoke about him through their minds. They weren’t the only ones. Mor had barely looked away at him, her expression unreadable, Cassian a steady presence at her side—as if Azriel himself was a threat. As if they were waiting for him to lash out again.

He didn’t have it in him to care.

He had barely lasted through that Cauldron-damned meeting. It had taken everything to sit there, to listen to Tamlin’s bullshit, to stomach Eris’s thinly veiled arrogance.

So he did what he always did when he wanted to be left alone. He moved to the window, putting distance between himself and the others, staring out over the Dawn Court below. The city stretched into the horizon, its domed rooftops glinting under the evening sun, the sky still tinged with the remnants of light.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. His mind would not stop.

That battle at the Summer Court, the assassin who had helped him—Munin. He had made a bargain with her. A bargain. And for what? For silence. For her help in saving lives. The mark between his shoulder blades pulsed, as if reminding him of what he had done, what he had allowed. Tethering himself, however briefly, to that thing. That weapon.

And yet—

He could still see her, even now. The way she had moved through the blood-soaked battlefield, the way she had barely even hesitated to offer her help. That cowl obscuring her face, the faint glint of a mouth beneath it. The way she had looked at him, as if she was considering him in a way no one else ever had.

He had hated that moment. Hated the way her presence had unsettled him, the way her silence had coiled tight around his ribs, pressing into something raw.

And worse, he had not been able to stop thinking about it since.

It had been a mistake. There was nothing more to it than that. He should have killed her — should have let his blade finish what it had started.

But they had saved so many people that day. If he hadn’t struck that bargain, how many more would have died? Had it been worth it? The question burned, festering in his mind, turning over again and again until he barely heard the knock on the door.

It didn’t stop until he heard Helion’s voice directed at him, “You handing Eris’s ass to him will be my new fantasy at night, by the way.”

Azriel didn’t turn from the window. Didn’t even acknowledge Helion’s presence.

But even through the haze of his frustration, he had to admit—putting the Autumn Court prick in his place had been the one satisfying moment of the day.

He didn’t need to watch Helion to track his movements. He felt the shift in the air, the subtle change as the High Lord of Day strode lazily into the room, sinking onto a couch across from Cassian and Mor, draping himself over it as if he belonged there.

“It’s been what—four centuries now?” Helion mused, stretching an arm along the back of the couch, his eyes gleaming. “And you three still haven’t accepted my offer?”

It took everything in Azriel not to scoff.

Mor was the one who answered, her tone light, but firm. “I don’t like to share, unfortunately.”

Azriel steadied his breath, his face betraying nothing. It didn’t matter. What Mor did, what she chose, had never been his concern. She didn’t belong to him. She never would.

And yet, as Mor smiled, as she tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and leaned back beside Cassian, the shadowsinger found himself staring out that window again, seeing something else entirely. A hooded figure, standing in the carnage of the Summer Court, blood glistening on a blade she had not hesitated to wield.

He should have killed her. But he hadn’t.

Azriel tried to tune out the rest of the conversation, uninterested in hearing Mor’s flirting or Helion’s insufferable drawl. Instead, he focused on the city below. Dawn stretched beneath him, bathed in gold and soft pink hues, its domed rooftops glinting in the morning light.

The mark on his back still ached, a phantom ache. That brief moment in the Summer Court—when she had turned toward him, when her gloved hand had closed around his. He could still feel the warmth of it, the impossible press of her fingers. He had never thought of her as warm before. Had never thought of her as anything but a weapon, an adversary.

And yet, for one heartbeat, he had seen something else in her, something almost—No. He refused to entertain the thought. She had saved those people, but she had done it for herself.

For some reason he couldn’t even fathom.

The door opening again finally drew his attention, pulling him from his thoughts. Nesta entered, her back straight, her expression carved from stone. Azriel didn’t move from his spot by the window, only shifted enough to glance at her. She had been quiet since arriving, but now, her silence heavier than usual, edged with something unreadable.

Helion, ever the charmer, gave a low, appreciative hum and inclined his head in greeting. “I don’t think we were introduced properly earlier,” he said smoothly, bowing at the waist. “I’m—”

“I don’t care.” Nesta’s voice was clipped as she interrupted the High Lord of Day.

Azriel kept his face impassive, but the corner of his mouth nearly twitched. He liked her bluntness. She didn’t waste words or time.

Helion only chuckled, unfazed as he settled back in his chair. Nesta turned to Feyre, her expression sharp with something close to urgency. “I’d like a word. Now.”

It wasn’t the demand itself that had Azriel standing a little straighter. It was the way she said it. Underneath it, there was something unsettled. Rhys’s brows knitted slightly, but he inclined his head. If Nesta wanted privacy, she would have it. Feyre hesitated for only a moment before nodding, exchanging a quick glance with Rhys before following her sister out the door.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. The conversation shifted, but Azriel only half-listened. Helion let out a low whistle, stretching out in his seat, all lazy amusement. “Charming, that one.”

Cassian didn’t even glance at him. “She doesn’t need to be.”

Mor arched a brow, her attention still on the door. “What do you think that was about?”

Rhys shook his head, his expression unreadable. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Azriel said nothing. He had spent enough time watching people to know when something was off. Nesta had been on edge since they arrived in Dawn. This wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t just wariness about being around so many fae. This was something else. And whatever it was, it put his instincts on edge.

Not even a few minutes later, Cassian stalked after them. Azriel had known him long enough to recognize the tension in his movements—the way his shoulders locked, the way his wings remained just slightly flared, as if he were fighting the urge to follow faster.

Azriel hadn’t missed the way his brother’s eyes had been locked onto Nesta from the moment she entered, his entire focus drawn to her. He had been trying not to react, but Cassian had never been good at hiding his emotions.

No one spoke as Cassian disappeared beyond the doors. Rhys leaned back in his chair, feigning ease, but Azriel didn’t miss the way his violet eyes flicked toward the hallway. Even Mor had stopped twirling the goblet between her fingers, her usual air of nonchalance giving way to something sharper.

Helion chuckled under his breath, lounging deeper into his chair, golden eyes glinting with amusement. “I take it your General has a bit of a soft spot for the lady.”

Rhys didn’t so much as smile. He shot Helion a warning look, but the High Lord of Day only grinned wider, entirely unrepentant.

Azriel ignored them, still watching the doors.

Cassian returned sooner than expected. His steps were heavier now, his jaw tight, his wings shifting with restrained energy. Azriel recognized that look instantly. Whatever Nesta had told him, it wasn’t good.

“She thinks something’s wrong,” Cassian announced, his voice gruff.

Rhys straightened, all casualness gone, his sharp focus settling entirely on his brother. “What do you mean?”

Cassian crossed his arms, glancing toward the hall as if debating how much to share. His hesitation alone was enough to confirm that whatever Nesta had said had unsettled him more than he was willing to admit. “She doesn’t know. Just—she has a feeling. Something’s off.”

A muscle ticked in Rhys’s jaw, but he didn’t dismiss it outright. Not when Nesta had emerged from the Cauldron as something different.

Mor frowned, finally setting down her goblet. “A feeling? Or something more?”

Cassian didn’t answer right away, his hazel eyes dark with thought. Whatever Nesta had told him, it had been enough to put him on edge. Enough to put all of them on edge. And then, he shook his head, his expression still lined with frustration. “She couldn’t explain it. Just that—she thinks we should be looking.”

Rhys didn’t hesitate. “We’ll check it out,” he said, already standing, his violet eyes flicking between Azriel and Cassian. “The three of us.”

Azriel gave a single nod, already moving toward the open balcony. He didn’t question it. If Nesta had a feeling, it was worth investigating. He had learned long ago to trust instincts—even when there was no logic behind them.

Cassian launched into the sky first, his wings cutting through the night, and Azriel followed, Rhys close behind. The wind was cold at this height, sharp against his face, his siphons glinting as they reflected the glow of the city below. Dawn spread beneath them in a haze of gold and soft pink light, its streets winding and endless.

Azriel’s eyes moved immediately to the alleys, the hidden places between the buildings where the city breathed in secrets. His shadows slithered ahead, darting through the markets, the rooftops, searching through the darkened streets. Looking for any disturbance. Looking for her.

Munin.

If there was something wrong, she would no doubt be at the center of it. He had no idea where she crawled off to after the Summer Court, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw her with Hybern once again. When it was all she had known.

His jaw tightened, his instincts prickling as his shadows fanned through the city, sifting through the hum of merchants closing their shops, the flicker of lanterns on the main roads. The usual noise of the city remained unchanged. There was no panic. No fear.

Cassian flew ahead, scanning the city with sharp eyes, his frame rigid as he called back, “See anything?”

Azriel shook his head, his siphons dim. Nothing was out of place. No lingering presence of Hybern’s spies. No sign of Munin slipping through the streets like a phantom in the dark. But the unease in his gut only deepened. Nesta had been adamant.

Rhys’s voice was tight, edged with the same apprehension Azriel felt. “We’ll do another pass.”

They banked together, sweeping lower. Azriel let his focus narrow further, taking in every flickering lantern, every figure disappearing into their homes for the night. He reached for any shift in the city’s natural rhythm—anything that felt wrong.

But the streets below were normal.

And that, more than anything, set his nerves on edge. If there was something to find, he should have found it by now.

---

The King was actually doing it.

Munin stood still, the cold night air pressing against her bruised skin, her body stiff with pain. The wounds from the King’s punishment still ached, but she did not flinch, did not let it show. She kept her chin level, her hands loose at her sides.

Though the Cauldron’s presence made her fingers twitch with the urge to reach for her weapons.

Before her, the Cauldron seemed to pulse with magic. The air around it twisted and warped, as if reality itself recoiled from its presence.

The Spring Court stretched around them; its woods eerily silent.

No wind stirred the leaves, no night creatures dared to call out. The absence of sound was worse than noise. It made the space feel hollow, like the land itself had shrunk away from what was about to happen.

Munin did not have to look to know that this was the same place she had scouted with Dagdan and Brannagh weeks before. She remembered the golden light through the trees, the scent of earth and moss. She remembered Dagdan’s hand pressing against her back as he murmured instructions, his presence in her mind.

Her stomach turned.

The King lifted his arms over the Cauldron, fingers moving in precise, ancient patterns, his magic bleeding into the air. His voice, low and guttural, sent a ripple through the space around them as it recited the incantations in his spell book. The sound of it scraped along her bones, the weight of those words pressing deep, twisting, pulling.

The language was old—older than anything she had ever heard. Each syllable felt wrong. The weight of it was immense, pressing into the ground, seeping into the trees.

A tremor rolled beneath her boots.

Jurian, standing just a few feet away, stiffened. His fingers flexed at his sides. It was barely perceptible, but Munin saw it—the tightness in his shoulders, the way his eyes flicked toward the unseen force of the Wall. He kept his expression neutral, but she caught the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Then, barely more than a breath, just loud enough for her to catch—

“Mother above…” He had not meant to say it aloud. Had not meant for her to hear.

But she had. And despite everything—the pain, the punishment, the bruises that still throbbed—she agreed.

The Cauldron gave a violent lurch. A deep groan shuddered through the earth as the tendrils of magic coiled tighter around the relic. A heartbeat—deep, terrible—sounded in the air, but it did not belong to the King, nor to the Cauldron itself.

It came from the land, from the very bones of this world, from something vast and ancient awakening beneath them.

The spell reached its peak. A pulse of magic surged outward—a silent explosion, invisible but devastating. It struck Munin first, rattling through her ribs, hollowing her out. Her vision blurred, her ears rang. Jurian cursed, shifting his stance to keep from stumbling, his fingers flexing at his sides, as if reaching for a weapon that would be useless against this kind of power.

Then—

A crack. Deep. Resounding.

The kind of sound that did not belong in nature. A shattering, not of glass or stone, but of something more intrinsic.

In the distance, fractures of magic bloomed like veins of lightning, slicing through the air where the unseen Wall had stood for centuries. The magic unraveled; ancient protections dissolved as though they had never been. There was no explosion, no burst of fire or ruin. Only absence. Only nothingness.

One moment, the barrier between realms had been there. The next, it was simply gone.

The force of it sucked the air from her lungs. The silence it left behind was so vast, so unnatural, that even the trees seemed to hold their breath.

The King exhaled, lowering his hands, his movements slow, deliberate. Satisfaction curled the edges of his mouth as he surveyed his work. “It is done.”

Munin barely heard him. Her eyes remained fixed on that empty space, on the invisible wound where something immovable had once stood.

The King turned his gaze to her, dark amusement in his stare. “Rest well tonight, my dear raven. For tomorrow, we move on the human lands.”

He winnowed away, leaving only the scent of cold steel and decay in his wake.

She should have felt nothing. She had been made to obey, to follow, to accept the King’s will without hesitation. His order should have been another command, no different than the hundreds before it.

But her hand trembled as she lifted it, pressing her fingers against the inked bond at the base of her neck.

Shadowsinger.

She did not know if he would feel it, if the bond worked like that, if it could carry the weight of what she could not say. But she pressed harder, as if she could send some sliver of warning, some desperate flicker of thought, as if the act alone would be enough to change what had already been set in motion.

She did not know why.

But she knew—more than she had ever known anything—that she had to do something. 

Chapter 30

He didn’t know why, but the spot just in between his shoulder blades—the spot where his bargain tattoo was—had begun to ache.

Azriel had ignored it at first. It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing.

He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the way his siphons sat atop his hands, trying to push past the discomfort. Perhaps it was exhaustion, a side effect of spending too many long hours bent over war maps, sifting through intelligence reports, listening to the slow, growing horror in his brothers’ voices as they deliberated what to do now that the Wall had fallen.

But as the night stretched on, the ache deepened, turning sharp.

Even as Feyre and Rhys whispered in the corner, even as Cassian exhaled heavily, pushing back from the table and rubbing his hands down his face before calling it a night, even as the others began to drift away, the feeling lingered. The slow, pulsing burn at his spine.

He shouldn’t have done anything about it. He didn’t owe her anything—not his concern, not his attention.

It didn’t matter that Munin had agreed to help him at the Summer Court. She had played her part in the Wall coming down, had stood at the King’s side as the world shifted into chaos. Whatever she was suffering, if she was suffering, it was of her own making.

And yet, something in him—instinct, rage, or something else entirely—decided for him. By the time he realized what he was doing, his shadows had swallowed him whole.

The moment he stepped into the Middle, the damp, stagnant air settled over his skin like a second layer.

Azriel exhaled slowly, his shadows curling around him, restless, uneasy.  The Middle always felt wrong—an in-between place. It was supposed to be sacred land, but it had never sat right with him. It had become a dumping ground for Prythian’s more sinister creatures.

He hated this place.

Ever since Rhys had been trapped here by Amarantha, forced into that Cauldron-forsaken court Under the Mountain. Azriel had come to hate what this place represented.

And yet, Munin had called him here.

Azriel’s eyes swept the desolate land, tracking the fog that settled land and moss-laden stones that peppered the ground. The scent of rot clung to the air, thick and cloying, mixing with something ancient, something powerful.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of movement. A shadow shifting in the darkness—not his own. His hand found Truth-Teller’s hilt as his gaze fixed on the cloaked figure lingering at the edge of clearing.  She stood too still. Not like a predator, but like something bracing for the inevitable.

He moved without sound, closing the distance between them in a handful of long, silent strides.

The clearing was silent, save for the whisper of dead branches shifting against one another in the cold wind. The sliver of moonlight that managed to slip through the trees was faint, just enough to illuminate the lone figure standing in the center of the ruined glade.

Munin stood there, her cowl drawn low, her posture rigid but not tense. As if she had been waiting. As if she had nowhere else to go.

Azriel didn’t think—didn’t hesitate. He was usually so controlled, but now he let his anger drive him. Shadows burst from him, siphons flaring with cold fire as he lunged. The world narrowed to the space between them, to the single swing of his blade as it cut through the air, the strike meant to carve through flesh and bone alike.

She was gone before his steel could find her. Not a step back, not even a breath to prepare—just movement, a twisting, inhuman grace that carried her out of reach. He barely had time to register the space she had vacated before his feet shifted, before his wings snapped wide to catch the night air, already pivoting, already striking again.

This time, she caught him.

Her hand locked around his wrist mid-swing, the impact of it jarring through his arm. He’d fought her before, but he was always surprised by her sheer strength.

Azriel bared his teeth, chest heaving with steady, controlled breaths. He pushed against her grip, testing, but her fingers were like iron. His free hand flexed at his side, his mind already calculating how to break her hold, how to drive Truth-Teller up beneath her ribs and end whatever game she was playing before it could begin.

But she didn’t move.

She just stood there, fingers curled tight around his wrist, the moonlight catching the edges of her cowl, the fabric of it shifting slightly with her breath. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t read whatever lay beneath the hood, but there was something still in the air between them.

His voice cut through the silence, quiet, sharp. “What could you possibly want?”

Munin didn’t flinch, did not hesitate as she said, “It’s not right—what the King is doing.”

A cold, humorless laugh left him, jagged with something bitter and dark. “You’re coming to this conclusion now?”

Her fingers twitched against his skin, but she didn’t let go. “I didn’t—” A hesitation, brief but telling. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t know.”

Lies. It had to be lies. The King had been upfront about his plans since the beginning. How could she claim not to know?  Azriel ripped his arm free from her grasp, stepping back as his wings flared, his siphons burning brighter. His rage was a sharp, living thing, coiled tight in his chest, unraveling into something lethal.

But she was not attacking.  Not trying to kill him.

It only fed his rage.

Azriel’s lips curled in something bitter, sharp as a blade against his teeth. “Didn’t know?”

His voice was low, edged with disbelief. He yanked his wrist from her grasp, stepping back as if the very touch of her was a poison he couldn’t risk. “You helped him bring down the Wall. You stood at his side while he destroyed the one thing keeping him from slaughtering innocents. And now you didn’t know?”

His words rang through the stillness, each one another strike, another cut meant to land deep. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

The rage in him flared hotter for it.

The Wall had come down. He had felt it shatter. The day had been chaos— he had been working on strategy to help save the humans. And she had been there. Standing beside the King, watching as his forces flooded in through the ruins of what had once been an unbreakable barrier.

And yet now she said she didn’t know?

Munin’s hand closed at her side, fingers pressing into a fist before releasing, but her posture remained still, “No. I didn’t.”

Azriel studied her, the way she stood so utterly at ease, as if this conversation was nothing. As if the weight of what had been done—what she had done—meant nothing at all. The way the air around them remained hushed, as if even the shadows were waiting, listening.

How dare she? How dare she stand there and act as if she had no part in this? As if the blood spilled because of that choice did not stain her hands? As if she had not handed over the human lands to Hybern on a silver platter?

His fingers curled around the hilt of Truth-Teller, the leather-wrapped grip grounding him against the fury rising in his chest. He wanted to lash out, to make her feel the weight of it.

“You expect me to believe that?” His voice was a blade’s edge, honed with months of rage.

Munin didn’t shift, didn’t fidget, didn’t so much as tense beneath the force of his words. That alone was enough to stoke the fire in him. Say something, damn you. Show some remorse. Show anything at all.

But when she did speak, her voice was different. Strained in a way he had never heard before. “The King. His Daemati.” A pause, then, quieter—almost hesitant, as if she were feeling the words as she spoke them. “They did something to my mind.”

Azriel’s fingers curled into fists, the leather of his gloves straining under the force. The anger twisting through him had no clear shape—was it rage at her, at himself, at the bargain that bound them? At the fact that Feyre had already suspected this, and yet it still felt like a revelation?  To hear her speak about it so plainly?

“They made you this way?” His voice was steady, but the edge in it remained. A mixture of surprise and fury, though he wouldn’t let her hear too much of the former.

Silence stretched between them. The air felt different here—too still, too charged, as if the very shadows had paused to listen. The wind barely stirred the dead leaves at their feet, a quiet hush falling over the clearing.

It didn’t matter, Azriel told himself. Dagdan had been killed — his hold on her mind should have disappeared as the final breath left his body. And yet she still had returned to the King of Hybern.

Azriel’s question remained unanswered. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “And who were you—before?”

The words had left him before he could stop them, before he could swallow them back down. He didn’t even know why he’d asked. Didn’t know why he cared. It didn’t matter that Dagdan had controlled her mind, ripped her choices from her— she had chosen to back Hybern when she was finally free.

Munin didn’t answer right away.

She stood unmoving, unreadable, but her fingers twitched at her sides—small, almost imperceptible, as if she were resisting the urge to reach for something. A weapon, maybe. He understood that instinct.

The wind pulled at the edges of her cowl, shifting the material of it slightly, but not enough for him to see her face. “I don’t know.”

The words were quiet. Flat. Not the careful neutrality she usually wielded, but something hollower

Azriel held still. She wasn’t lying. He knew what a lie sounded like, felt like. And yet, something about the stark honesty unsettled him more than a deception would have.

Another pause. Another flicker of movement—too quick to name.

“Whoever that person was…” She hesitated. A breath catching. Not enough for most to notice, but he did. Then she straightened, her body language shifting. As if forcing herself back into something solid, something immovable. “They erased her.”

He hated that his stomach twisted at the words. Hated that he recognized that hollow certainty in her voice. To be unmade, reshaped into something else by someone else’s hands. Silas had done the same thing to him, in a way. But his discomfort only sharpened his anger.

His jaw tightened, his siphons flickering dimly before darkening completely. The rage hadn’t left him—it had merely changed, turning inward, sinking into something colder. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to understand it.

“And what do you expect me to do with that?” His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. No less unforgiving.

Munin didn’t look away from him, “I don’t know.”

The cold stillness of the clearing stretched between them, the wind stirring the dead leaves, whispering between the trees. When it became clear that Azriel was not going to give her a response, Munin pulled a rolled map from the folds of her cloak.

She knelt, flattening the parchment onto a moss-covered rock, her fingers trailing along the edges to smooth it. Azriel didn’t look at the map at first. He watched her hands. They were steady, with no nervous tremor. As if she had done this a thousand times before.

His shadows curled at his shoulders, shifting restlessly, but he remained motionless. Waiting.

Munin pressed a gloved finger to a point near the Spring Court, tapping lightly. “Tomorrow,” she said, voice low. “The King will move through here.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked to the marked area. A small, nondescript section of land—but he knew exactly what lay there.

His stomach twisted. Knew the quiet, fragile lives that had once filled that space. It was Feyre’s village, where Nesta and Elain had lived. He did not let it show.

His voice was controlled, flat, betraying none of the tension winding through his body. “And how many?”

“Twenty thousand troops at his command.” Munin met his stare without flinching. “More will follow.”

His fingers tightened around the edges of the map, knuckles paling. A muscle in his jaw ticked. He could already see it—thousands of soldiers spilling across the land, iron and flame and blood. A force too large to be ignored. Azriel stepped back, arms crossing over his chest. His siphons pulsed, a brief flicker of light against the darkness. His next words were cold, “And why should I believe you?”

Munin did not hesitate. “Because I have nothing to gain from lying.”

He let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You have everything to gain from manipulating us.”

“If I wanted to manipulate you,” she said evenly, “I wouldn’t be standing here giving you the information you need.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy between them. The rustling of the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, the steady inhale and exhale of his own breath—all of it felt muted, swallowed by the weight of what stood between them. Munin had told him the truth—at least, a truth.

But that didn’t mean he trusted her.

Azriel’s gaze roved over her, taking in the way she held herself—still, composed, not shifting beneath his scrutiny. Lies had a shape, a rhythm. A hesitation too long, a pulse of movement that betrayed the words leaving a person’s lips. He had spent centuries listening for them, watching for the flickers of unease in a person’s stance, the faintest shift of their heartbeat when they veered from the truth.

But Munin… she had been trained to deceive. Had been built for it.

Even now, there was no nervous energy in her stance, no desperate attempt to make him believe her. That should have made him trust her less. Should have been proof enough that she was a weapon, honed and sharp.

And yet—

The moonlight shifted, slipping through the canopy above, catching the edge of her cowl. The faintest sliver of her face was visible beneath it—just enough for him to see the dark, mottled smudges across her cheekbones.

His body tensed. Even through the layers of fabric, even in the dim light, the bruises were unmistakable.

He had seen injuries like that before. Knew the deep, aching kind of pain that came with them. Knew the way the body felt tender to the touch for days, the way it throbbed with every movement, the way it became a quiet, ever-present ache beneath the skin.

They were healing, but not fresh. Days old, maybe. Faint yellowing at the edges. But they had been deep when they were made.

His stomach tightened, his mind already filling in the possibilities.

“What happened to you?” His voice was quiet.

Munin did not answer immediately.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, just once. A barely-there movement, so small he might have missed it had he not been watching her so closely. But then her shoulders squared again, and she exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, “Punishment for helping you at the Summer Court.”

Azriel’s jaw locked. His shadows shifted, curling tighter around him, responding to the slow, simmering anger creeping into his veins. Punishment. It was the lack of emotion in her voice that unsettled him more than the words themselves. As if she had accepted it, as if it had never occurred to her to resist.

His fingers flexed at his sides, itching for a blade, for something to sink steel into. He had known, known, that she had been under Hybern’s leash. But knowing was different than seeing.

And seeing was different than standing before her now, looking at the bruises, listening to the empty way she spoke of them.

He didn’t realize how tight his hands had curled until the leather of his gloves groaned in protest.

Azriel’s siphons pulsed once, a brief flare of cold light before dimming again. He had known the King to be cruel. Had seen the remnants of his brutality again and again. But something about the way she said it, the quiet, resigned way she spoke of her own punishment, made something curdle deep in Azriel’s chest.

She had expected it. Had accepted it.

Munin did not look away, did not shift beneath his gaze. She only stood there, steady as ever, waiting for him to move past it. To move on.

Azriel didn’t know why the silence stretched as long as it did. Didn’t know why he had yet to turn away, yet to vanish into the night like he should have. He exhaled once, slow and measured, then asked, “When this is over, what will you do?”

The question left him before he had fully decided to ask it.

Munin blinked slowly, as if the thought had never even crossed her mind. Then, to his surprise, a low laugh slipped from her lips, quiet and dry, “Desperate to be rid of me, Shadowsinger? And so certain that you will win?”

Azriel did not rise to the bait. Did not let his expression shift. He only waited.

Munin studied him for a moment, unreadable in the darkness, the moonlight casting uneven shadows across her cowl. Then, her voice quieted, as steady and matter-of-fact as ever, “I promise, when this is all over, I will go far away from here and never return. Your doorstep will not be sullied by me again.”

Her words hung in the cold night air, the space between them stretching too thin. Azriel should have felt relief. Should have welcomed the certainty in them. This was what he wanted. This was what needed to happen. When this war ended, she would be gone. She would disappear, just as quickly as she had entered his life.

Did she even mean it? Did she believe she would make it out of this war? Or was this just another thing she had accepted as inevitable?

Azriel studied her for another moment before murmuring, “You sound certain.”

Munin inclined her head slightly, though the movement was slow, measured, devoid of real amusement when she asked, “Isn’t that what you want?”

Azriel did not answer. He didn’t know why.

"It doesn’t matter." Munin’s voice was quiet, steady. "None of it does."

She turned, her movement fluid and unhurried, as if this conversation, this moment, had already ended in her mind. But something about it—about her, about this—felt unfinished.

Azriel’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The bruises along her cheekbone, the bargain, the Wall—he wanted to demand more. Why now? She had stood at the King’s side for too long, had watched as he tore through lands, shattered lives, and burned away the fragile peace that had existed before. She had been a weapon in his arsenal. And now, what? She expected understanding? Expected mercy?

His jaw tightened, the rage still simmering beneath his skin. "Wait."

Munin stilled, but she did not turn back to him.

The torchlight from the ruined fortress flickered, its glow casting long, jagged shadows over the ground between them. She stood motionless, waiting.

"If the King falls, there’s nothing left for me after this." Her words carried no sorrow, no hesitation. It was simply fact. A truth she had already accepted. Perhaps one she had always known.

And yet—she had still come here to warn him.

Azriel let out a slow breath. "There’s always something left." The words slipped from him before he had fully decided to say them.

Munin tilted her head slightly, as if considering them. But she did not argue.

A single, slow nod. That was all she gave before turning away.

Azriel did not stop her this time.

But long after she had disappeared into the dark, he remained standing there, the ache between his shoulder blades still lingering.

---

The air in the war tent was thick with damp earth and steel, the mingling scents clinging to the heavy fabric walls. Candlelight flickered across the sprawling map spread over the long wooden table, its wax pooling onto the worn edges of parchment. The space was quiet save for the faint rustle of banners shifting in the night wind, for the steady, unhurried movements of the male seated before her.

Munin stood motionless, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared, every inch of her posture the perfect soldier’s stance. Beneath the cowl, her mind raced.

She knew what was coming before the King spoke. Had seen it in the way his fingers idly traced the map, in the way his dark eyes gleamed in the low light. Still, the words sent a slow, crawling dread down her spine, "You will take an army of ten thousand men."

His voice was smooth, absent of the weight such an order should carry. As if he were discussing the movement of cattle, not soldiers. A single bony finger dragged across the map. It halted over a patch of woodland nestled between Spring and Summer, a swath of land with no real consequence—except for the timing.

Munin’s stomach twisted. This isn’t right.

She kept her voice level. "You told me we would be marching on the human lands."

The King hummed, a quiet, amused sound. "I have changed my mind." The words slithered through the air like an unseen threat.

Or was it a test?

She had been privy to his war councils countless times, had heard him make and break plans on a whim, shifting entire battle lines as easily as he moved his own fingers. But tonight—tonight was different. There was something calculated in his gaze, something knowing. Did he suspect? Did he already know?

Her fingers twitched beneath her gloves before she stilled them.

Munin forced her shoulders to remain still, forced the tension coiling in her gut not to show. Her every instinct screamed that this was not a simple shift in plans. It was not strategy—it was a maneuver. A trap. The war tent held its silence. Candlelight flickered over the gathered generals, casting jagged shadows across their hardened faces. None dared look at her directly. They knew better.

She met the King’s gaze, unflinching, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her cowl. “May I ask why?”

A beat of silence followed. The air itself seemed to tighten. At the map table, one of the generals stiffened, his fingers twitching where they rested atop the parchment. No one spoke.

Munin did not ask questions.

The King tilted his head, slow, considering, his sharp features catching in the dim light. Then his lips curled, amusement and warning twining into a single, quiet threat, “Is this a problem, my dear raven?”

The words coiled around her, pressing in, squeezing tight. So, it was a test. The King had said she would prove her loyalty, and now he was making sure that she did just that.  Munin inclined her head, a seamless act of obedience. “No, my King.”

The response was practiced, precise, as it had been for centuries. But inside, her thoughts reeled. Ten thousand men. Not enough to take a court. Not enough to seize real ground. But enough to be noticed. Enough to pull attention. Enough to be a distraction.

The weight of her mistake settled like lead in her stomach. She had told the Shadowsinger something else entirely.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, curling into the fabric of her tunic. If the Shadowsinger acted on the information she had given him, he would be hunting shadows. Preparing for an attack that wasn’t coming. Would he realize it? Would he know?

The silence in the tent stretched, taut as wire, before the King exhaled, long and satisfied, “Good girl.”

And Munin knew she was dismissed, she ducked her head out of the tent.  The cold night air sliced against her skin. She did not shiver.. Around her, the war camp stirred with the restless sounds of preparation—the rhythmic clang of steel against steel, the murmur of orders passed between soldiers, the distant creak of siege weapons being readied. Boots tramped over the frozen earth in steady strides. An army preparing for war.

Munin kept walking. To anyone watching, she was merely moving from one task to another, another piece of the King’s will in motion. But inside, her thoughts raced. If the Shadowsinger realized this was a distraction, he wouldn’t waste resources chasing ghosts. If he didn’t…

She exhaled slowly through her nose, forcing herself to push the thought aside. He was not a fool. But the King—the King was counting on them believing the lie.

Her fingers drifted, almost unconsciously, to the hidden edge of the bargain tattoo beneath her armor. As if she could reach through it. As if she could warn him. Would he even listen? Her hands curled into fists.

The King had not been convinced of her loyalty. That much was clear. He was still watching. Still waiting for her to slip. And if she so much as hesitated—

The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and burning wood. In the distance, a soldier laughed. Munin forced her hands to relax, flexing her fingers once before tucking them behind her back.

There was nothing she could do now. No way to fix the lie she had unknowingly fed to the Night Court’s spymaster. No way to stop what was already in motion.

All she could do was hope he saw the truth in time.

---

Azriel couldn’t believe it—the bastard had been undermining the King of Hybern the whole time?

He stood at the edge of Lord Nolan’s manor, wings tucked in tight, shadows shifting restlessly at his feet. The bitter  air carried the scent of damp stone and the faintest trace of smoke, remnants of whatever fire still burned in the manor’s great hearth. He barely noticed. His gaze remained fixed on Jurian, taking in the man’s ease, the way he stood with his weight evenly distributed, the slight upturn of his mouth as if this revelation were no more than a casual confession.

Jurian looked far too at ease for a man who had just revealed himself as a traitor to his so-called allies.

"You played the villain convincingly enough, Jurian." Rhysand’s tone was smooth, easy, but Azriel caught the flicker of tension in his brother’s jaw, the sharp set of his shoulders. A tell. Rhys was more affected than he let on.

Jurian, however, only smiled, slow and knowing. "You should have looked. I expected you to look in my mind, to see the truth. Why didn’t you?"

Rhysand’s face remained unreadable, but his voice was quiet when he said, "Because I didn’t want to see her."

Azriel knew exactly who her meant. A cold silence settled between them.

Mor, standing just off to the side, arms crossed over her chest, watched Jurian with open distrust. "You mean to imply that you’ve been working to help us during all this?"

Jurian shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. "Where better to plot your enemy’s demise, to learn their weakness, than at their side?"

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter around him, whispering their unease. The logic made sense—too much sense. And yet, there was something about Jurian’s calmness, his certainty, that set his teeth on edge.

The conversation faded into the background, Rhysand’s measured tone, Mor’s wary skepticism, the crackling of the distant manor torches. His focus was elsewhere, his gut twisting with something sharp and unwanted. He should have ignored it. Should have let the thought pass, buried it before it had the chance to take root.

But before he could stop himself, the question slipped free.

“What about the other one?” His voice was cold, cutting.

 “Ah. Her.” Jurian arched a brow, something wicked curling at the corner of his lips. A glint of amusement danced in his gaze. “Did she get under your skin, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel did not react, did not so much as blink. He refused to give Jurian the satisfaction. But the bastard knew that he was talking about Munin.

Why do you care? Rhysand’s voice slid into his mind, quiet, smooth as silk.

Azriel didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not with the bargain tattoo etched into his skin, he couldn’t tell the others what she had done, that he had worked with her to save the Summer Court. Even now, he could feel the words locking in his throat.

But it did not stop him from asking questions.

Rhysand’s voice curled into his mind, quieter now, more insistent. What aren’t you saying?

Jurian was watching too closely, his smirk deepening. “She’s an enigma, isn’t she?” The words dripped with amusement. “The King punished her, you know, for her failure at the Summer Court. Quite thoroughly.”

Azriel’s siphons glowed faintly, betraying his temper.

“You don’t know her intentions,” he said, his voice low.

Jurian chuckled, tipping his head back slightly. “And neither do you.”

Azriel’s fingers twitched at his sides. He forced them to still. “Then tell me. What is she?”

“You think I know?” Jurian exhaled sharply, almost laughing. His eyes gleamed with something close to delight. “I’ve watched her, studied her, seen the way she follows orders like a good little soldier—seen the way she hesitates when she shouldn’t.”

He shook his head, almost thoughtful. “She’s walking a knife’s edge, but the question is: does she even know which side she wants to fall on?”

Damn it, Az, Rhys’s voice pushed through the tightness in his skull. Do you think she’s a threat?

Azriel clenched his jaw. He did not answer. Could not.

Jurian kept pushing. “You don’t trust her. That’s why you’re asking. That’s why you’re standing here, pretending like you don’t give a damn. But we both know better, don’t we?”

Azriel. Rhysand’s voice again, a thread of warning this time. What aren’t you telling me?

Azriel forced himself to breathe, to keep his voice measured. “If she’s truly hesitating, then she’s dangerous to both sides.”

Jurian’s smirk faded slightly, his expression darkening. “That’s what I can’t figure out.” He glanced at Azriel, then at Rhys, as if weighing how much to reveal. “Maybe she doesn’t even know what she wants. Or maybe she was never given the choice.”

Azriel stiffened. His shadows coiled tighter around his shoulders, restless, agitated. Jurian didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

Rhysand cut through the thickening tension, his voice smooth, commanding. “Why here, why now?”

He was bringing the conversation back to safe ground — back to the most pressing matter at hand: the humans, the Wall.

Jurian rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness. “Because the Wall came down, and now I can move freely to warn the humans here.”

His gaze flicked to Rhys. “Because Tamlin ran right back to Hybern after your meeting ended. Right to their camp in the Spring Court, where Hybern now plans to launch a land assault on Summer—tomorrow.”

Azriel’s mind sharpened, turning the information over, calculating. His gut twisted, shadows curling tighter around him as the realization settled. Munin had told him where the King would be. She had pointed to it on a map with precise certainty. In the Spring Court, yes—but heading for the human lands. Nowhere near Summer.

He forced himself to keep his voice steady, to let none of his unease show. “You’re certain about this attack?”

Jurian crossed his arms, watching him too closely. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“And the King?” Azriel pressed, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum against his ribs. “Where will he be?”

Jurian shrugged, but something in his posture shifted. “You think he’d waste his time marching with foot soldiers? No. He’s sending the forces to Summer, but he won’t be leading them himself.” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with something sharp. “Why? Looking for someone?”

Azriel said nothing. His jaw locked, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. If Jurian was right, then Munin had either lied—or she had been misled. And if it was the latter, then the King knew she had warned them. The thought sent a slow, crawling dread through his veins.

Rhys’s voice came again, quieter this time, but no less firm. You need to tell me what’s going on.

Azriel clenched his teeth. The bargain held. He could not.

So instead, he only asked, “Where is she now?”

Jurian let out a sharp breath, almost laughing. “You really don’t trust her, do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Last I saw, she was still in Hybern’s war camp. Getting her orders from the King.”

Azriel’s jaw locked, his breath slow and measured, but the rage coiled tight beneath his ribs. She had lied.

He turned the thought over, forced himself to consider the alternative. That she had been misled. That she had not fed him false information with intent, but had simply been another piece in whatever game the King was playing. But it was unlikely. She was the King’s loyal dog, after all.

His wings tensed, muscles coiling as if to strike. Had let himself believe, for one foolish moment, that she could be useful—that she was walking the line between two sides, unsure of where she belonged. But no. She had lied.

A quiet hum of consideration, and then Jurian tilted his head, his sharp gaze glinting with something close to amusement. “Something wrong, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel did not answer. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, shadows shifting restlessly around his boots. His siphons glowed faintly, betraying the temper he had not yet leashed.

Rhysand’s voice brushed against his mind again, steady and calm, though Azriel could feel the keen edge of warning beneath it. What is it?

Azriel forced his voice to be just as steady. “Nothing.”

Jurian’s smirk deepened, as if he knew it was a lie.

Chapter 31

Notes:

Once again, thank you so much for all of your wonderful feedback! I am so appreciative of it. We're getting so close, guys!

It was nighttime when she heard it.

Not that it mattered—the time of day had lost all meaning. Sleep had become somewhat of a rarity, slipping further from reach with each passing night since she had been torn from her home, since she had been taken by that winged monster. Especially since that day at Graysen’s manor.

The thought of him still made something in her chest curl in on itself, made her throat tighten as if her own body could no longer contain the weight of it. What he had said to her. The way he had looked at her, as if she were something vile, something ruined beyond recognition.

She hadn’t wanted any of this.

She had been waiting for this to end. Whatever this was. The days blurred together, marked only by the murmured conversations of those around her, by the grim looks they gave when they thought she wasn’t watching. But she saw. She felt it. She didn’t understand what was happening to her—why she had changed.

Her sister and her mate — she shuddered at the word— had realized something about Hybern’s plan, that they had been trapped. A decoy army, led by that winged female that haunted Elain’s nightmares, meant to delay the consolidations of Prythian’s forces.

And when she heard the call—the sweet hum of something summoning her—she knew.

This could be it. It could be over.

The sound was not a voice, not in the way that words were spoken. It was a pull, something that curled around her. It called to her, weaving itself through the exhaustion, the fear, the numbness.

Come.

Elain’s breath hitched, her hands gripping the fabric of the thin blanket draped over her. The tent was quiet, the camp outside barely stirring. No one else had heard it. No one else felt it. Her heart pounded, the echo of that silent command vibrating through her skull. She had been waiting for an answer—for something. And now, at last, it had come.

She rose to her feet, moving carefully,. The night air was cold as she stepped beyond the tent, her nightgown too thin to shield her from the chill. But she did not feel it. Not really. The pull was stronger now, leading her forward, guiding her steps.

She did not resist.

---

“You get them in and out again, Shadowsinger.” Rhys ordered him, his face all hard lines. “I don’t care how many of them you have to kill to do it. They both come out.”

Rhys rarely used that voice with him. It was not the voice of his brother, of the male who had fought beside him for centuries, but of his High Lord. And he used the same power behind that voice that would make it impossible for any member of his court to disobey. And Azriel knew why. His mate was going with him into enemy territory. Of course Rhys would demand her safety from him.

It was the least Azriel could do, really—going after Elain. It had been his fault for not seeing through Hybern’s plans, for missing what had been in front of him. Munin had been telling the truth, in a roundabout way. And yet he had been so certain, after Jurian had told them about the army on the Summer Court’s border, that she had been lying to him.

He had not been able to see past his own notions about her.

And yet, Munin had not been truly forthcoming either. If she had known Hybern’s true plans, she had not revealed them. Perhaps she had not known the full picture, or perhaps she had played a game of her own. Regardless, Elain had been taken.

And now, he had to do whatever it took to bring her back.

“I swear it, High Lord.”

Rhys held his gaze a beat longer before stepping back. Feyre moved toward him, her features sharp. Azriel took her hand without another word, and the world vanished in a whirl of darkness.

When they landed, a thick forest stretched around them, the trees looming in the dim moonlight. The damp scent of earth and moss filled the air, mingling with the distant, acrid tang of burning wood. A Hybern campfire, perhaps. They had landed on a hilltop, the land sloping downward into the valley below where the enemy lay waiting.

Without hesitation, Azriel faded into the shadows. His siphons dimmed, his presence slipping into nothingness.

Feyre adjusted the circlet atop her head, straightened the pristine robes that now draped her form. The illusion was perfect—Ianthe. Every detail, every movement, a careful mimicry of the priestess.

Azriel followed her silently as she strode down the hill, her pace steady, unhurried.

The war camp stretched endlessly before them, a maze of tents and flickering torchlight, filled with the low murmur of voices and the occasional sharp clang of metal. Azriel moved unseen through the chaos, his body melded into the shadows as he followed Feyre.

No one looked twice at her. The glamour held strong, masking her as Ianthe, her circlet adorned with his siphon glinting in the firelight. Feyre carried herself well, her expression molded into one of serene arrogance. She did not fidget, did not hesitate. She walked as if she belonged here, as if she owned this place.

Azriel kept his gaze moving, his body tense. His focus should have been solely on Elain—on getting in and out before anyone noticed. And yet, his eyes swept the camp, searching for another figure draped in black, another presence that should not have mattered to him at all.

The moment he realized what he was doing, anger flared hot and sharp through his veins. He forced himself to stop, forced his shadows to pull tighter around him. What was he even looking for? She was Hybern’s creature. She had commanded their forces, had stood at the front lines just earlier that day.

And yet his gaze flicked between the shifting figures in the camp, seeking the familiar shape of her. Why? He had no reason to care where she was. No reason to wonder where she had disappeared to after the battle.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

She was the enemy. That should have been the end of it.

A wail of terror split through the night.

Feyre froze, her body going rigid. Azriel felt her fear as if it were his own, her mind racing ahead, already leaping to the worst possibility. That it was Elain who was screaming.

If she ran, if she let that fear control her—Hybern would know. They would all know. Azriel reached out, his hand still cloaked in shadow, and gripped her shoulder. A silent warning for her to remain steady. They wouldn’t be able to get Elain out if Feyre drew too much attention to herself.

She did not move, did not betray herself. But he could feel the tension coiling in her like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap.

And he understood. His own rage churned in his chest, curling beneath his skin like a living thing. This was what Hybern did. This was what they chose when they swore loyalty to their King.

And still, his fury did not fade when he realized it was not Elain.

A human was bound to a rack in the center of the camp, their limbs stretched too tight, their body gaunt from hunger and suffering. Blood dripped in sluggish trails onto the dirt. Another wail tore from their throat, ragged and broken.

The King of Hybern stood nearby, smiling faintly as if the scene were nothing more than a dull spectacle, something to pass the time.

Azriel’s eyes flicked to the dais. His shadows curled tighter around him, already expecting to find her there.

Munin had always been at the King’s side. She had left the battlefield without a scratch, and it had infuriated him—how she had slipped away like a ghost while their forces had been slaughtered. He had been livid at her, livid at himself for making that bargain.

And yet—he could not stop himself from wondering where she was now.

The campfire nearest them crackled, casting flickering shadows against the swaying tents. Azriel remained cloaked in darkness, as he watched Jurian approach. His shadows had warned him, curling and twisting around his ear, but still, he tensed as the human warrior strode toward Feyre with his usual smirk.

Jurian stopped just before Feyre, tilting his head as he took her in. "He's been looking for you," he murmured, his head inclining slightly towards the King.

Feyre did not flinch, did not let the words show on her face. Instead, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin with Ianthe’s usual haughty grace. "I have been busy with my sisters," she said, her voice a perfect match for the priestess’s sickly-sweet condescension.

Jurian did not buy it. His smirk widened as he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You’ve been lusting after me for weeks now. Act like it."

Azriel’s stomach turned at the words, at the way Jurian let them roll from his tongue like a taunt. He knew what this was—knew Jurian was taunting Feyre. His fingers twitched at his sides, his siphons pulsing softly with restrained rage.

Feyre adapted quickly, angling her body toward Jurian, tilting her head just so—as if she were Ianthe, as if she wanted him to think she wanted him. She even let a coy little smile touch her lips. But her eyes burned as she hissed, "Where is she?"

Jurian chuckled under his breath, as if he delighted in the fire she barely restrained. "Safe. Untouched."

Azriel exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain still. But a flicker of relief curled through him, though it did nothing to quiet the self-loathing in his chest. He had not seen the trap, had not realized how Hybern had played them until it was too late. And Elain had been the one to suffer for it.

But Jurian wasn’t finished.

"Not for long," he added, his voice quieter now, a warning hidden beneath the words.

Azriel’s breath turned sharp.

"It gave him a shock when she appeared before the Cauldron," Jurian continued, watching Feyre’s reaction carefully. "He had her contained. Came over here to brood over what to do with her. And how to make you pay for it."

Azriel’s shadows writhed at the edges of his vision, curling against the ground like smoke. It took every ounce of control not to lash out, not to let his rage slip free.

Feyre’s fingers curled against Jurian’s chest, keeping up the act as she pressed just a little closer. Playing the part of Ianthe far too well. "Where. Is. She."

Jurian’s lips brushed against her ear as he whispered, "She’s in his tent." His smile deepened as he let his nose skim against the side of her face. "Chained with steel and guarded by his most loyal dog."

Azriel went rigid.

Munin.

The thought of her standing over Elain—of her watching, waiting, ensuring she did not escape—sent a slow, simmering rage through him. Would Munin obey the King’s orders? Would she do what she was told, as she always had? Or would she falter again, as she had in that tent?

Jurian had said that Elain had remained untouched. But for how long? Especially when Munin was involved.

Azriel didn’t know. And that uncertainty—that doubt—made his fury burn all the hotter.

Azriel kept to the shadows, his form nothing more than a whisper of movement as he watched his High Lady square her shoulders, her voice cool, measured.

"What of the girl on the rack?" Feyre asked.

Azriel’s eyes flicked to the human stretched across the wooden beams, her wrists and ankles bound so tightly the ropes had bitten into her skin. Her head lolled forward, her matted hair falling in tangles around her bruised face. The soft sound of her breathing was labored.

Jurian barely spared the girl a glance. "There have been many before her, and many will come after."

Feyre’s magic rippled through the air, just the smallest crack in the glamor she wore. Azriel didn’t need to see the anger on her face to know it burned through her.

"I can’t leave her here," she bit out.

And once more, Azriel was struck by just how good his High Lady was. Even here, in the belly of the beast, she would not turn her back on the helpless. She would fight for them, fight for all of them, not just her own.

Jurian exhaled sharply. "Your sister or her. You won’t be able to take two out."

Feyre’s jaw tightened, but she bit back without hesitation, "Get her to me, and I will make it happen."

Azriel's admiration deepened. If she demanded it, if she willed it—then he would make it so. Even if it meant Rhysand’s direct orders would become that much more difficult for her. Even if it meant the risk of their entire mission crumbling apart. His High Lady had made her choice. And Azriel would follow.

Jurian muttered something low, something only Feyre could hear. But Azriel caught it.

"Say you would like to pray before the Cauldron before we retire."

Feyre played along seamlessly, turning to the guards with that same cloying, condescending smile Ianthe had so often worn. "Before I retire, I would like to pray before the Cauldron."

One of the guards grinned, his gaze raking over Feyre’s glamored form. Azriel’s fingers twitched toward Truth-Teller, a quiet, simmering rage curling inside him. He could slip through the shadows, drive the blade beneath the guard’s ribs, and be gone before anyone saw the body fall.

But Feyre said nothing. Kept her head high, her expression unchanged as she walked into the tent.

The air inside the tent was thick, damp with the scent of unwashed fabric and fear. The muffled cries were faint at first—barely audible over the rustling of the camp outside—but Azriel heard them. Followed by another sharp, insistent voice.

His shadows recoiled, writhing in agitation. His body went rigid, instincts sharpening. He knew that voice.

The ice in his veins solidified, a lethal stillness overtaking him as he pushed through the tent’s entrance behind Feyre, siphons flickering with restrained power. He was cloaked in his shadows, no one would see him, but he was still lethal to anyone who dared hurt his High Lady and her sister.

Inside the tent, Elain lay bound.

Her wrists were tied cruelly, rope biting into skin rubbed raw from struggling. A strip of cloth was stuffed between her lips, stifling her frantic whimpers. Her red-rimmed eyes locked onto his, wide, glassy with panic. She thrashed as much as she could, desperate, but her movements were hindered—by the one holding her down.

Munin.

Azriel’s stomach twisted.

Azriel’s stomach twisted at the sight of her kneeling beside Elain. The cowl hid most of her face, casting deep shadows over her features, but her posture—head inclined slightly, listening, hands carefully placed—was not what he had expected. One gloved hand pressed lightly against Elain’s shoulder, firm enough to keep her still but not enough to bruise. In her other hand, Munin held a waterskin, tilting it slightly toward Elain’s lips—offering, not forcing. Azriel didn’t understand it.

His mind struggled to reconcile what he was seeing. Munin’s fingers did not clutch Elain with violence, only steadied. Her head barely shifted with each of Elain’s erratic breaths.

"Drink," Munin murmured, her voice flat but not cruel, devoid of the usual sharpness he had come to expect from her.

Elain jerked her head away, pressing her lips together, whimpering despite it. Her fear poured from her in waves, her whole body trembling with it. Munin didn’t react at first. Then—her fingers twitched, just barely. The smallest flicker of impatience crossed her shadowed face.

Munin had no idea how to handle the trembling girl before her. She did not know how to comfort, did not know how to ease Elain’s terror. And yet, she was trying.

That realization clawed through Azriel’s confusion, through the carefully built walls of his understanding of her. A monster would have simply let Elain waste away. Would have relished in her fear. Munin was doing neither.

"Step away from her!" Feyre’s voice cracked through the space like a whip.

Munin stilled. Her head snapped up, fingers tightening around the waterskin until her knuckles went white. The fabric of her cowl cast half her face in shadow, but Azriel saw the way her gaze locked onto Feyre—onto Ianthe.

A heartbeat of silence stretched between them.

Azriel remained hidden, watching. Munin had faced hm in battle without hesitation. But now, here, her body had gone rigid.

Slowly, Munin rose to her full height. Her movements were measured. She had always been a creature of control, but something in the set of her shoulders had changed. Tension coiled beneath the layers of armor and cloth, creeping in like the first breath before a storm. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and then she dipped her head ever so slightly. As if in deference to Ianthe.

"I was giving her water," Munin said at last, her voice flat, emotionless.

Feyre’s eyes darkened, but she did not drop the act. She stepped forward, the air around her crackling with restrained power, with the arrogance of the female she now wore. "And why," she drawled, voice thick with Ianthe’s usual condescension, "would you feel the need to do that?"

Elain whimpered, her bound hands twitching as if she wanted to pull away, to disappear into the cot beneath her. Fear still pulsed from her in waves, thick and unfiltered, but she had stopped struggling now, her body curled inward, as small as she could make herself.

Munin did not move. Did not even flinch at the sharpness of Feyre’s tone. She simply stood there, watching, weighing. "Because she needs it," she said finally.

A flicker of something cold and hollow slid down Azriel’s spine.

Feyre let out a sharp, humorless laugh, tipping her chin up so that the light caught on the circlet atop her glamored hair. "How merciful of you," she sneered. "Tell me, Munin, why are you here?"

Azriel barely breathed, his shadows tightening around him as he studied her. He saw it now—the way her fingers flexed slightly at her sides, the way her breaths were slow, measured, as if keeping something at bay.

She thought she was speaking to Ianthe.

Munin’s fingers flexed once more before she clasped them behind her back, her posture going rigid. “The King ordered me to guard her.” The words were clipped, edged with something unreadable.

Feyre let out a quiet breath, tilting her head as she regarded Munin.

“He must have a reason for keeping her alive.” She let the words settle, the weight of Ianthe’s usual smug certainty coating them like honey. “I would think her fate had already been decided.”

Munin remained still, her shoulders squared, hands still clasped behind her back. “The King has not yet made a final decision.”

“Strange, isn’t it? That he would keep her here, in a tent, with only you for protection.” Feyre hummed, letting her fingers drift along the edge of the cot. She tapped a nail against the wood. “He must trust you a great deal.”

The shadows curled tighter around Azriel as he studied Munin’s reaction. He had seen her on the battlefield, had watched her fight with that eerie, unflinching calm. Now, she only stood there, unreadable beneath the cowl. If she had been any other of Hybern’s commanders, she would have bowed her head in deference or perhaps smirked in satisfaction.

Munin did neither.

She simply said, “He has no reason not to.”

It was a careful answer. Azriel did not miss the way her fingers twitched slightly, how she flexed them before stilling again.

Feyre’s lips curved into something cold. “And yet you were giving her water.”

Munin did not react, though a long silence stretched before she answered. “She is weak. It would not do to have her collapse before the King makes use of her.”

Get Elain out. Feyre’s voice was steel in Azriel’s mind, the mental connection between them thrumming with urgency. No matter what happens, get her out.

Azriel’s fingers twitched at his sides, but he did not respond. He didn’t need to. Feyre already knew what he would do.

The silence stretched thick between them all. Munin did not fidget, did not demand to know why Ianthe was still standing there, watching her. She only waited for what presumably would be her next set of orders. Azriel could almost hear the calculations turning in her mind, the way she measured each second, each breath.

Then, smoothly, Feyre let the glamour drop.

The air shimmered, bending as if caught in a heatwave, before peeling away. Golden hair darkened, that loathsome circlet vanishing into nothing. Feyre’s true form stood in its place, her eyes alight with raw power.

Munin tensed.

Azriel saw it—the minute shift in her stance, the sharp inhale beneath the cowl. He saw the flicker of something, a thought barely formed before she forced it away. But then it was gone.

Elain whimpered again, small and panicked. She shrank into herself, her bound hands twisting against the ropes, pressing as far back as the tent’s canvas walls would allow.

Feyre did not hesitate.

The force of Feyre’s strike sent a gust of wind whipping through the tent. But Munin had already shifted, her body moving with that eerie, preternatural grace. Her cloak billowed with the force of her dodge, the cowl slipping slightly, revealing the sharp cut of her jaw, the pale line of her throat.

She did not attack, did not lunge or strike. Instead, her weight shifted to the balls of her feet, a dagger gleaming in her hand—not raised, not threatening, merely held in a loose grip, ready but not yet aimed.

Feyre wasted no time. Shadows curled at her fingertips, dark veins of power surging as she stepped forward, pressing the attack. Another whip of force lashed toward Munin’s center, aiming to knock her back. But again, Munin moved, pivoting sharply, her body twisting midair.

She landed in a crouch, one knee bent, the other foot planted, perfectly balanced. Her breath came steady, measured, though her free hand flexed at her side, fingers twitching as though fighting the instinct to counter.

Azriel moved. The moment Feyre’s magic lashed out, he slipped through the shadows, materializing beside Elain. Her breath hitched at the sight of him, her wide, glassy eyes locking onto his as if she barely believed he was real. He crouched low, siphons dimming their glow as he reached for the bindings at her wrists. His jaw clenched as he slid a dagger beneath the knots, sawing through them with swift, precise movements.

The fight raged behind him, magic crackling through the air. He heard the rush of wind as Munin dodged again, her cloak whipping around her, the sharp clang of metal against magic as her dagger met Feyre’s power. But she never countered, never turned the blade against Feyre.

Elain whimpered as he freed her wrists, shaking as she tried to push herself upright. Azriel moved fast, his shadows curling around them, muffling their movements as he reached for her legs, for the iron shackles binding her ankles to the wooden post behind her.

A hiss cut through the air—low, sharp, warning.

Azriel's head snapped up, his knife already in hand before he even registered the source. Munin stood a few feet away, her body angled toward Feyre, but her gaze locked onto him.

His grip on his blade tightened, his body going rigid as he prepared for her to strike, to lunge at him, to stop him from taking Elain. But she didn’t move.

Another blast of power sent her stumbling back, her boots sliding over the dirt as Feyre pressed forward. Munin twisted, barely regaining her footing before the next blow came, forcing her to raise her dagger once more.

Azriel didn't waste another second. He gripped Elain’s arm, steadying her, guiding her to her feet. She was weak, barely able to hold her own weight, but he held her close, keeping her upright.

“We’re leaving,” he murmured, his voice low, firm. “Stay with me.”

Elain’s fingers clutched at his leathers, her breath ragged, but she nodded.

Munin moved, her dagger flashing as she turned toward him and Elain. Azriel braced himself, shifting Elain behind him, his blade rising to meet hers—but then Feyre’s power surged, pressing down on the tent like a storm ready to break.

"Stand down!" Feyre’s command lashed through the space.

And Munin—Munin froze.

It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t a choice. One second, she had been in motion, her body poised to strike, and the next, it was as if something had wrenched her to a stop. The dagger remained clutched in her gloved hand, her chest heaving with exertion, but she did not move.

Azriel’s stomach twisted.

He had seen a High Lord’s power at work before, had felt Silas’ wrap around him, trying to break him, bend him, force him to obey. Feyre’s magic was raw, untested in moments like this, but it commanded. And Munin—Munin had obeyed.

That was impossible.

His grip tightened on Elain, keeping her behind him, as his mind turned over itself, searching for an explanation. Munin was Hybern’s. The King’s creation. Not someone Feyre should have been able to command like that. His High Lady’s magic should have only applied to those who belonged to the Night Court.

And yet, Munin stood there, her entire body wound tight, her breath coming hard and fast as though she was fighting it, as though she felt the weight of that power but—had not resisted.

Feyre stepped forward. “Drop the knife.”

Munin’s fingers twitched. For the first time, she hesitated, her grip flexing around the hilt as if testing whether she could hold onto it. Azriel watched, his shadows coiling, waiting for her to snap—waiting for the explosion of movement, the shift in weight that would send her lunging once more. But she didn’t.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she opened her hand. The dagger slipped from her grasp, hitting the dirt with a dull thud.

Azriel clenched his jaw, forcing his face into ice, even as his thoughts roiled. Munin didn’t realize what had just happened. But he had.

His breath remained slow, measured, his siphons dimmed, but every instinct screamed at him to keep moving, to get Elain out before Munin broke free of whatever invisible tether had bound her. And yet, for a single, terrible moment, he couldn’t look away.

Feyre stepped closer, closing the space between them until only a breath remained. And Munin still had not moved. She stood rooted in place, her fingers slack at her sides, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. That unnatural stillness sent Azriel’s mind reeling. He had no time to linger on it, no time to unravel what it meant, not when Elain he still needed to get Elain and Feyre back out to safety.

Feyre’s voice cut through the silence, “We are going to walk out of this tent. And you are going to let that happen.”

Munin did not answer. Did not so much as twitch. But beneath the cowl, Azriel swore he saw her throat bob, the barest flicker of movement, as if she were swallowing back a response she did not dare to voice. Her body remained unnaturally rigid, her hands loose at her sides, though tension radiated from her in slow, pulsing waves.

Feyre did not hesitate. She turned swiftly, stepping past Munin as if she were nothing more than an obstacle in the path, her attention now fully on Azriel and Elain.

He rose smoothly, adjusting his hold, his mind honing in on the task at hand. Get Elain out. Ensure Feyre’s safety. That was all that mattered now. But even as he turned, even as he stepped past Munin’s unmoving form, a shadow in his periphery, his thoughts would not let go.

Munin had not fought the command.

She should have. She should have been able to.

Azriel kept his wings tucked in tight as he stepped into the cool night air, the shift in temperature shocking against the heat and stench of the tent. His senses stretched wide, searching for threats, but beneath it all, the question gnawed at him, insistent and unrelenting, like a blade slowly carving into bone.

Who was she?

---

The King’s war tent loomed around her, the candlelight flickering against the heavy canvas walls,. The air was thick—damp fabric and steel mingling with the underlying, cloying scent of Hybern’s magic, a sickly-sweet rot that clung to the back of her throat.

Munin knelt at the center of it all, her body motionless except for the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath. The thick silence pressed down, broken only by the faint tapping of the King’s fingers against the wood.

Jurian stood to the side, arms crossed, his weight shifting just slightly as his gaze flicked between Munin and the King. His face remained unreadable.

"Elain Archeron. Gone." The words were quiet, soft even, as if the King were merely musing aloud. But Munin knew better.

She did not move, did not lift her head. She remained still, the cowl casting shadows over her face, though it did nothing to shield her from the weight of his attention.

The tapping stopped.

"And you, my dear raven," the King murmured, voice taking on a sharp edge, "were the last one seen with her." He leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath him. "Tell me, how does that happen?"

The tent seemed smaller now, the air thinner.

Munin’s fingers curled into the fabric of her tunic, unseen beneath the folds of her cloak. The words sat heavy in her mouth, but none came. She could still hear Feyre’s voice, clear as if it still rang through the tent—Stand down.

And she had.

She had obeyed.

Not by choice. The command had struck something deep within her, something she had never questioned before. Orders were given. Orders were followed. That was all she had ever known. But never from Feyre Archeron. Never from anyone but the King and Dagdan.

It unsettled her more than she could explain, more than she could even understand. Was she only ever destined to obey orders that others has given her? But explanations would not save her now.

The King watched her in silence, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight. Munin remained still,. Then—almost wearily—he sighed, the sound soft, nearly disappointed. The chair scraped against the wooden floor as he pushed it back and rose, his movements unhurried, as if this conversation had already bored him.

“Nothing to say?”

The shift in the air was the only warning.

Pain—sharp, blistering, all-consuming—slammed into her. A force sent her flying backward. Her body hit the ground hard, her skull cracking against the dirt-packed floor, light bursting behind her eyes in a white-hot flash. The world tilted, swayed, and for a moment, all she could hear was the ringing in her ears.

Bootsteps. Slow and measured. The scrape of leather against dirt.

“How convenient.” The King’s voice was calm, almost amused.

“She’s loyal,” Jurian interjected, his tone carefully casual, though there was something sharp beneath it. “She wouldn’t have let the girl go willingly.”

The King barely spared him a glance. “Loyalty without competence is useless.” His attention settled back on her, his magic still pressing down. “And you, my dear, have cost me something very valuable.”

He moved before she could react. Another pulse of power struck her, harder this time, sending her sprawling once more. Her body twisted with the impact, her breath stolen from her lungs. The world darkened at the edges, black spots swarming her vision.

 Her fingers curled against the packed dirt, the taste of blood thick on her tongue.

Above her, the King sighed again, a flicker of impatience bleeding into his tone. “Do you know what happens to those who disappoint me, little raven?”

Munin braced herself on her hands, her breath slow and measured despite the fire licking through her skull. The pain was nothing. She had known worse. Still, her body.

A hand wrenched at the back of her cowl. Fingers tangled in the fabric, yanking her up just to shove her down again, this time onto her stomach. The impact sent another jolt through her, dust rising in thin clouds beneath her face. She barely had time to brace herself before the weight came.

The King’s boot pressed into the joint of her wing, pinning it to the ground.

The pain was immediate. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to wrench herself free, but she remained still, fingers curling into the dirt, her body taut with the effort to remain silent.

“I should clip you like the pathetic pet you are,” the King mused, pressing down harder.

The agony lanced through her, a white-hot pulse spreading from the joint and radiating outward, setting every nerve alight. Still, Munin gritted her teeth, forcing her breath to stay steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

“What use is a raven that cannot even speak when commanded?”

She said nothing. Would say nothing. But her fingers dug deeper into the dirt, nails biting into the packed earth.

A slow, deliberate grind of his boot. The King leaned in, all of his weight driving into the delicate hinge of her wing. Bone gave. A sickening crack split through the air.

Munin tasted blood and barely registered the sharp sting in her mouth, only distantly aware that she had bitten clean through the inside of her cheek. Her body convulsed against the pain, against the break, but she did not scream.

The King finally stepped back.

Munin remained where she had fallen, her limbs trembling, her breathing ragged and uneven. Darkness curled at the edges of her vision, her nerves still screaming. Somewhere above her, the King exhaled, slow and pleased. “Perhaps next time you will remember what happens when you fail me.”

Jurian had been silent through it all. But after a long pause, almost too quietly, he said, “She didn’t scream.”

The King snorted. “Not yet.”

Munin barely heard them. Barely registered anything beyond the raw, molten fire radiating through her wing, through her spine.

“Clean yourself up.” The King’s voice was calm, almost disinterested now. “And pray you have a chance to prove yourself useful again. Otherwise, I won’t be so merciful next time.”

Munin did not move. She could not move.

The King flicked his fingers, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience. “Get out of my sight.”

Notes:

Honestly, I have no idea if the High Lord can command members of their court, and they magically have to obey the way portrayed here. Maybe I’ve just read too many Omegaverse fics.

Chapter 32

There were not enough of them.

The war tent was quiet. Not silent—never silent—but the murmurs of the Inner Circle had taken on weight, thick and heavy as the air pressing against the canvas walls.

Feyre stood at the map, her fingers braced against the wood, knuckles pale. Rhys was beside her, speaking low, firm. Mor paced in the flickering candlelight, arms crossed, jaw tight. Cassian flexed his hands, rolling his shoulders like he could barely keep himself still.

They were running out of time.

“We winnow out as many as we can.” Rhysand’s voice was steady, Azriel could easily sense the tension beneath his words. They were all tense. “We split up, cover the camps, take them as far as possible from Hybern’s reach.”

Feyre exhaled, her fingers pressing harder. “Adriata. If we can get them there, they’ll be safe.”

“There are too many.” Mor stopped pacing. Her golden hair gleamed in the dim light as she turned toward them. “We don’t have enough people winnowing. If we want a real chance of getting them all out before Hybern reaches them, we need more.”

“Then we do what we can.” Cassian let out a rough breath. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every line of his body. “Unless someone knows of a group of fae just waiting around to help?”

No one answered.

Azriel stared at the map, at the smudged ink bleeding into the parchment’s worn fibers. His thoughts churned, the edges of his vision blurring slightly with the weight of them. The villages were too far apart, too many people to move with too few of them.

And he was injured.

His wings remained tucked in tight, pain still lingering from the wounds Madja had barely finished tending. He was under strict orders—not to fly. Not to strain himself.

He clenched his jaw. He could use his shadows to move the humans, but it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

Another silence stretched, thick as the tension curling in his gut. The number of humans they could save—the number they couldn’t. The ones left behind. The ones who would not be alive when dawn broke.

A slow, unwelcome thought crept into his mind. There was someone else, someone with the power to winnow. The realization settled like poison in his blood.

He needed her.

His fingers twitched at his sides. She could winnow. He’d seen her do it before, effortlessly. She had the power. He knew what she was capable of. And that was the problem.

Azriel stepped back from the table without a word. The discussion continued without him, the murmured voices blending into the flickering candlelight, into the tension that coiled around the war tent like a vice.

He turned, slipping past the heavy canvas flap and into the night. The air was sharp, cool, thick with the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. He breathed it in, let it settle in his lungs as he moved, his steps near silent against the packed dirt.

The war camp stretched behind him, fires burning low, figures shifting in the shadows. He ignored them, kept walking, further and further until the distant hum of voices faded into the night. Past the edge of camp, where no one could see.

His shoulders remained tight, his muscles wound with something he refused to name.

He did not want to do this. The thought gnawed at him, bitter as bile.

And yet, he reached up, fingers pressing against the mark between his shoulder blades.

The bargain flared to life.

Azriel had not wanted to do this. The thought burned through him as he stood at the edge of the war camp, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The night stretched wide and empty before him, the distant sounds of the camp muffled.

He had refused to think about Munin since their escape. He did not want to think about the way she had tried to give Elain water. Had not allowed himself to dwell on the way she had knelt before Feyre’s command, her body obeying before her mind had even caught up. He did not want to think about what it meant—if it meant anything at all.

And he certainly did not want to think about what it could mean—if she had once been a subject of the Night Court, if there had ever been a time she had belonged to them instead of Hybern.

They were fighting a war. That needed to be his priority. The bargain flared to life beneath his fingertips, burning cold against his skin. And then—

Darkness stirred. A ripple of power, silent and seamless, as the night itself seemed to fold inward. The night air gathered, before Munin stepped through it as if she had always been there.

Her cowl was drawn, her face lost to shadow, but the air between them tightened, charged with something neither of them had the patience to name.

She let the silence stretch before finally grumbling, “What do you want?”

Azriel clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together. “We need help.”

A breath, barely audible. Then, her voice—flat, disinterested. “You made a bargain, not a contract.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I would call on you for anything less than necessity?”

Munin let out a soft, humorless sound, not quite a laugh. “Yes.”

He had expected her refusal. He could almost feel the words forming on her tongue, that same hollow indifference, the sharp-edged cruelty she wielded. But she didn’t speak. Instead, she remained unnervingly still, her head tilted ever so slightly. As if she were weighing the cost of something.

Azriel frowned. His gaze swept over her, sharp, searching—then caught. Something was wrong.

She had angled her body just slightly, shifting her weight unevenly. It was so subtle most wouldn’t have noticed, but he had spent his life cataloging weakness, memorizing the smallest tells of pain, of exhaustion, of injury.

His gaze dropped lower, to her right wing.

It hung differently from the left, its position unnatural, stiff. Even in the dim light, he could see the bruising already forming along the joint, dark and spreading. His stomach tightened, his instincts sharpening with a sudden, lethal focus. He had seen injuries like this before. He knew the force it took to break a wing like that.

Azriel’s voice was quieter than before, rough-edged. And he wouldn’t deny that there was anger lurking beneath it. "He did that to you?"

Munin did not react immediately. For a long moment, she remained still, the night pressing close around them. Then, with an unreadable tilt of her head, she said, “You sound surprised.”

He wasn’t. Not really. But something about it still settled wrong in his chest.

His gaze flicked back to her wings. The shape of them—not just broken, but wrong. He had noticed before, the unnatural curve, the slight unevenness, the way she always held them close, never fully stretching them. He had never asked. Never cared enough to. But now, standing here with that bruising stark against her skin, the words were out before he could stop them. "Is that why your wings are the way they are? His violence?"

Munin shifted, weight tilting slightly onto her good side. Then, at last, she glanced back. Not at him—at her wings. The movement was slow, almost reluctant, as if she had never truly looked at them before.

“I lost my wings once.” Her voice was even, almost indifferent, but when she shrugged, she winced. “The King gave them back.”

Something inside him twisted, sharp and violent. He had heard of wings being clipped before. He’d seen the brutal practice with his own eyes — a means for the Illyrians to control their females,  a barbarous mutilation. Rhys had put a stop to it in most of the camps, though there were some that still resisted. It was the worst thing that could be done to an Illyrian.

But no one he had ever known—no Illyrian, no fae—had ever lost their wings and lived.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. Slowly, carefully, he exhaled, forcing his voice to remain neutral. "I can bandage them."

"You think that’s wise?" Munin let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Her tone was unreadable, though something about it—something in the way she looked at him, as if she already knew the answer—set his teeth on edge.

He didn’t. Not really. But the offer lingered in the space between them, pressing against the silence like a question neither of them was willing to answer. She shook her head, the movement small, decisive. "He might suspect something."

Azriel said nothing, but the thought gnawed at him, settled under his skin in a way he could not place. He did not trust her. He did not like her. And yet, standing here, watching the way she held herself so carefully, so deliberately, as if every movement had to be considered before it was made, he knew that some part of him cared. And he hated that most of all.

Munin rolled her shoulders, the movement careful, no doubt due to her injury. Whatever brief, uneasy truce had settled between them shattered the moment she looked away from her wings, as if acknowledging them for too long would give them weight. The tension between them thickened, stretched, but she did not speak on them again.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, restless. Then, after a long moment, she exhaled, her voice dry and sharp as flint. “Why am I here, Shadowsinger? Really.”

Azriel had expected the question, but still, he balked for half a breath. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, the words he had to force himself to say. He didn’t want to ask her for help. Didn’t want to need it. But the truth was undeniable, and it burned.

His wings shifted slightly, his siphons gleaming faintly in the dim light as he glanced back toward the camp, toward the others. The calculations had been running through his mind from the moment they settled on their plan—how far they could get them, how fast, how few of them could winnow such large numbers in so little time. The odds were against them.

He turned back to her, steeling himself. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral.

"I told you; we need your help. We’re winnowing out as many humans as we can before Hybern reaches their village." His eyes flickered over her, searching for any reaction, any shift in her expression. "We don’t have enough people to do it fast enough. We need more."

Munin tilted her head slightly, as if weighing his words. The cowl still obscured most of her face, but he didn’t need to see it to hear the sharp amusement in her voice. "And you think that means you need me?"

His jaw tightened.

"You can winnow," he said flatly, as if it should be painfully obvious what he wanted from her. As if this conversation was not an insult to them both.

“Yes, I can. And?" A short, bitter laugh escaped her. There was something cutting in the way she said it, something laced with a challenge, as if she already knew how much it cost him to ask. As if she wanted to hear him say it.

Was she really going to make him say it out loud?

The anger simmering beneath his skin sharpened, rising with each second of silence. She was toying with him, making a mockery of the situation. Of the humans that were surely going to die without her help.

Azriel kept his expression cold, his voice even, though he felt the tension pulling tight through his shoulders, through the fingers curled slightly at his sides. "And you can help."

Munin stared at him, her face unreadable beneath the cowl. A long, deliberate pause stretched between them, thick as a blade’s edge. Then, she simply said, "No."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. He had expected resistance—had expected her to push back, to make this as difficult as possible. But something about how easily she dismissed it, how little thought she gave before denying him, grated against something raw inside him.

"You’d rather let them die?" His voice remained level, but the words were sharp, clipped.

"I’d rather not waste my energy on something that doesn’t concern me." Her voice was flat, detached. Not cruel. Not indifferent, exactly. Just a simple statement of fact.

His fingers curled into fists, the slow burn of his anger threatening to spill over. He was the one who kept his temper in check, the one who balanced steel and ice while Cassian burned like wildfire, while Rhys wove his words with power. He did not let his emotions get the best of him.

He did not allow himself the luxury of anger, not in this way.

So why now? What was it about this female that made him want to rip away that damned cowl, to see if there was even the barest flicker of something real beneath it?

Munin’s expression did not change. If anything, she looked bored, as if this conversation—this entire war—were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

“You think you’re saving them?” Her voice was quiet, but there was an edge beneath it, sharp as glass. “You think winnowing a few hundred humans out of a war zone will make a difference? There will always be more. The King isn’t going to stop at just one village.”

Azriel’s wings flared slightly, the only outward sign of his irritation. “So you’d just let them die?”

Munin shrugged—or started to, before she winced, catching herself. “I’d rather not waste my energy fighting against inevitabilities.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. This was the female who had stood by as Sangravah burned, who had allowed the butchering of the priestesses, who had watched Hybern’s troops carve through the innocent to steal a piece of the Cauldron. She had been there, seen the carnage, the slaughter. And she had not lifted a hand to stop it.

Why did he expect her to have a conscience now?

Azriel stepped forward, shadows curling at his feet, drawn by the slow, simmering anger threading through his veins. “You sound just like them.”

That got a reaction. Not much, but enough. A subtle stiffening of her shoulders. A slight shift in the way she carried herself, as if she had to force herself to remain still. He didn’t know what he had expected—anger, maybe, or irritation—but when she finally spoke, her voice was as steady as ever. “I don’t care what I sound like, Shadowsinger.”

Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she had spent so long taking orders from Hybern that it no longer mattered, that nothing could touch whatever was left beneath that cold exterior.

“I don’t care what happens to them.” Munin’s voice was flat, detached, but something flickered in the way her fingers flexed at her sides, a restless, betraying movement. “And neither should you. This war was decided before it began.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. “That’s the difference between us, then.” Shadows pooled at his feet, restless, dark. “I don’t stand by and watch.”

Munin gave a short, humorless laugh. “No, you just prolong the inevitable. Drag it out. Give them hope so it hurts more when it’s ripped away.”

His wings shifted slightly, his siphons gleaming faintly in the moonlight. “Better to fight for something than surrender to nothing.”

“You think you’re fighting for something?” Her head tilted, the cowl shrouding her expression in darkness. “You’re moving pawns around a board you don’t control. You’ll save a few hundred humans—maybe a thousand if you’re lucky. And Hybern will burn ten times that in retaliation. Do you really think it makes a difference?”

Azriel’s fingers curled at his sides, his patience thinning with each word. “It makes a difference to the ones who live.”

Munin scoffed.

“For how long?” She gestured toward the distant camp, toward the faint glow of lanterns where the humans still huddled in fear. “You think they’ll be safe in Adriata? You think Hybern won’t find them there eventually? You’re delaying their deaths, nothing more.”

Azriel watched her closely, his mind catching on something he hadn’t noticed until now. This was the most he had ever heard her speak. Every other exchange had been clipped, brief, as if she had no interest in wasting words.

And her voice—there was something about it. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t quite grasp what set his instincts on edge, but if it hadn’t been so devoid of emotion, so coldly detached, perhaps it would have sounded almost familiar.

His shadows stirred uneasily, whispering against his skin.

“Maybe,” he admitted, after far too many seconds had passed where he was lost in his own thoughts. “But at least they’ll have a chance. At least I won’t stand there and let it happen.” He didn’t want to think about what had made her see the world like this, what had broken her down into a creature who saw only endings.

Something flickered in her eyes at that. She looked away for the first time, staring off into the dark, her posture shifting slightly. A muscle tightened in her jaw, her shoulders drawing taut, as if she were weighing something.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she exhaled. “Fine.”

Azriel didn’t allow himself to relax. He just waited.

Munin turned back to him, her cowl still hiding half her face in shadow. “But remember our bargain, shadowsinger.” Her voice was quiet but firm, the weight behind it undeniable. “You don’t speak of this to anyone.”

His brows pulled together slightly, but he nodded. “I remember.”

A pause stretched between them, brittle as glass. He should have left it at that—should have walked away, should have ignored the restless churn of thoughts tightening in his chest. But the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

“Why do you want to hide the best of yourself?”

The shift in her was immediate, subtle but unmistakable. A faint stiffening of her spine, a barely perceptible tilt of her chin. When she spoke, her voice was quieter than before, but somehow harder, “There is no best of me.”

The absolute certainty in her voice, the sheer conviction behind those words, made something twist violently inside him. His jaw clenched as he studied her. This was the same female who had let the priestesses of Sangravah be slaughtered, who had stood by while Hybern waged war. And yet she had offered a captive Elain something to drink. She had bowed before Feyre’s command. And now, despite all her protests, she had agreed to help.

But none of it changed what she was. What she had done. And still—

Azriel took a slow breath, let it out. “You sure you don’t want me to bandage your wing?”

Munin didn’t answer right away. She stood motionless for a moment, as if weighing the offer. Then, as if it were nothing, she shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. “I’ve had worse.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. His siphons flickered, a pulse of faint red against the darkness. He didn’t argue. Not now.

---

She shouldn’t have agreed to this.

The humans stood in a huddled mass, shifting and murmuring like frightened animals, the scent of their panic thick in the night air. Some held each other so tightly their knuckles turned white, while others stood rigid, as if bracing for the next blow to fall.

“She’s one of them,” a woman whispered, voice raw from screaming. “One of the faeries.”

A man, holding a bloodied rag to his forehead, shook his head. “Then why is she helping us?”

“Helping us?” someone spat. “Just look at her! I bet she—”

Munin’s patience frayed as the whispers rose, edged with hysteria. A child wailed, clutching at his mother’s skirts, and she shuddered at the sound, forcing the sensation away before it could settle. This was what she had agreed to—this chaos, this terror. It was not her problem.

A man with a gash down his arm staggered forward, gripping another’s tunic. “What if this is a trick?” he rasped. “What if they just want to round us up? Finish the job?”

A woman sobbed, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth. “Maybe we should run—”

“Run where?” another snapped. “They’ll find us.”

Munin exhaled sharply, her patience hanging by a thread. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, her voice cutting through their panic. “You want to live, or not?”

She was met with silence. The humans were all staring at her. Wide, tear-streaked eyes, flicking between her and the their village. She could feel it in the air—their hesitation, their mistrust. The way their hands tightened around each other, their muscles tensed as if preparing to bolt.

Some flinched as she stepped forward, so much so that Munin could feel their terror.

She resisted the urge to sigh. They were wasting precious time, and if they wanted to die here, she would not stop them. She agreed to help the Shadowsinger, but said nothing about coddling the humans while she did it.

She reached out and seized the first three. A woman gasped as Munin’s fingers closed around her wrist, but there was no time to reassure her. Cold swallowed them whole.

Munin felt the humans shudder as she wrenched them through the freezing dark, the space between worlds pressing in before they landed just beyond Adriata’s outskirts. She didn’t dare risk going directly into the coastal city. The Shadowsinger had told her others from his court would be winnowing humans here as well, but she had no intention of running into them. It was bad enough that she had him in her hair. She didn’t need the rest of his court knowing what she was up to.

The damp, salt-tinged air was a stark contrast to the smoke and blood they had left behind, but the moment their feet touched solid ground, they stumbled back from her.

There was a sharp inhale. A muffled sob. The woman she had grabbed clutched at the pendant around her neck, her lips moving in hurried prayer. Munin did not strain to listen, but she caught the shape of the words—a plea for mercy, a ward against evil. As if she were some dark creature sent to test them.

She crossed her arms, her gaze flicking toward the distant glow of firelight. “There,” she said, nodding toward it. “The others are waiting for you.”

Neither of them moved. They remained huddled together, their gazes darting between her and the city. The silence stretched too long, and something inside her soured. If they did not leave soon, they would only draw attention to themselves—to her.

The burly man to her right shifted his weight, his wary eyes never leaving her. “You’re not coming?”

“No.” Her voice was clipped, final. The last thing she needed was to be seen here. “Go.”

Still, they lingered, their fear-widened eyes scanning her face—what little of it they could see beneath the cowl.

It was foolish. She had given them their chance. They should take it and run. And yet, a strange discomfort curled in her chest as she watched them hesitate, their bodies rigid with a wariness that had nothing to do with the battle they had been warned was coming.

They are afraid of me.

The thought should have meant nothing. She had seen countless others flinch away, had stood in the blood-soaked ruins of temples and heard the same desperate prayers whispered to the Mother. She was Munin — people had begged her for their lives. The fear of a few humans shouldn’t have disconcerted her so.

Why do you want to hide the best of yourself? The Shadowsinger’s words coiled through her mind, a slow-burning ember that refused to die.

Her fists curled at her sides. She wasn’t made to have a best self.

The humans started moving at last, shuffling toward the distant city, huddling close as they disappeared into the night. Munin stayed rooted where she was, watching them go, her pulse steady, her breathing even.

Munin stepped from the dark, the cold of winnowing still clinging to her as she materialized where the next group of humans waited.

She had known fear. Had seen it, had felt it directed at her a hundred times over. Yet there was something different about this—about the way these humans flinched at the mere sight of her, as if she were just another monster lurking in the night, no different from the ones they fled.

She didn’t speak at first, only raised a hand in a sharp, commanding gesture. “Step forward.”

No one moved.

The hesitation rippled through the group, their eyes darting to one another. A woman—older, her face streaked with soot and sweat—leaned in close to the man beside her, her whisper barely audible. “What is she?”

Munin’s patience thinned. The shadows shifted slightly at her feet, restless. “Do you want to leave or not?”

That got them moving. Slowly, one by one, they edged forward, reluctance battling against desperation. They had no other choice. Whatever she was, she was offering them a way out.

Munin grabbed the first two, their bodies stiff as she touched them, and winnowed.

Cold air, a rush of darkness, the pressure of nothingness collapsing in on itself—then solid ground.

She let them go the moment they landed beyond Adriata’s outskirts, watching as they staggered away toward safety. Then she returned.

She had barely materialized when she saw them.

A boy, no older than ten, stood near the edge of the group, his arms wrapped around the smaller girl pressed into his side. He was thin, his too-big tunic hanging loosely off his shoulders, his small hands gripping his sister protectively. His wide, fearful eyes darted between Munin and the others, but he didn’t move, didn’t step back the way so many of the adults had.

The girl barely reached his waist. She clung to him, her curls tangled, her face smudged with dirt. She didn’t lift her head, didn’t look at Munin at all.

A woman—perhaps their mother—placed a trembling hand on the boy’s shoulder, her fingers tightening as she turned to Munin.

“You’re sure we’ll be safe?” Her voice shook, but there was something steely beneath it, something that refused to break.

Munin did not soften. “If you keep moving, yes.”

Munin reached for the boy first.

He flinched. His breath hitched, his fingers flexing against his sister’s tunic as if he meant to push her behind him. But his feet betrayed him, carrying him a step back before he caught himself. The little girl clung to his side, her tiny hands twisted in the fabric of his clothes, her curls matted and tangled from dirt and sweat.

"You don’t have to be afraid," the woman murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She rested a trembling hand on the boy’s shoulder, but there was no steadiness to her grip. Fear had hollowed out her voice, just as it had hollowed out the faces of everyone in the village.

The boy swallowed, his throat working around whatever response he might have given. His fingers curled tighter into his sister’s tunic, his thin shoulders stiff beneath the too-large fabric. But after a long pause, he gave the smallest nod, reluctant and slow. Yet his gaze wavered from Munin’s face to the shadows behind her, to the great expanse of blackened sky and the shifting shape of her wings.

Munin knew the moment he realized what she was. His entire body locked up again, his stance changing in that small, barely perceptible way she had seen so many times before. His sister whimpered, pressing her face into his ribs, trying to make herself smaller.

The woman’s grip on his shoulder tightened, not in comfort, but in hesitation.

Munin exhaled through her nose, forcing the irritation down. It clawed at her throat, that creeping impatience, but she didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have the patience to reassure them, to coddle them. Without a word, she shifted her wings, folding them in tightly against her back before willing them away entirely.

"Better?" Her voice was flat, edged with something colder than frustration.

The boy didn’t answer, but after a moment, he gave a short nod.

Good enough.

She reached for him again, wrapping her arm around his small frame as he stiffened beneath her touch. The little girl barely had time to let out a frightened whimper before the world twisted, plunging them into cold, empty darkness.

Then light. The rush of wind and the scent of brine.

They landed hard on the damp sands outside Adriata, the waves crashing against the shore, their white foam illuminated by the faint moonlight. The little girl stirred, her small hands uncurling from her brother’s tunic as she lifted her head. Her wide, round eyes darted from the dark ocean to the vast stretch of sand, her expression shifting from terror to pure wonder at the impossible shift in space.

The boy stumbled but held firm, his grip adjusting as he helped his sister regain her footing. His head snapped up toward Munin, wary and uncertain, but he said nothing. He only waited, breathing heavily, his small chest rising and falling with the force of it.

Munin lifted a hand, pointing toward the distant outline of the city. "Go. Stay nearby until I come back with your mother."

The boy’s lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing in hesitation. He didn’t look convinced, but whatever doubts lingered, he swallowed them down. He only gave a stiff nod before turning, guiding his sister toward safety.

Munin watched them walk away. Watched the way the boy leaned down, whispering something to his sister as he brushed a gentle hand over her tangled curls. Even exhausted, even terrified, he slowed his steps to match her tiny ones, never letting her fall behind.

That clawing, foreign feeling pressed against her ribs, digging in like a dull, persistent ache. She clenched her jaw, forcing her mouth into a hard line. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered.

Without another glance, she winnowed back into the human lands.

Chapter 33

Notes:

Woo! We've made it to the final battle of ACOWAR. It's going to take place over two chapters. Thank you to everyone who has left feedback or a comment - your patience with this fic is going to pay off really soon!

The King had ordered Munin to lead one of the legions—an ancillary force, stationed behind the front lines.

It was a calculated decision on the King’s part. It was not a reward, not a sign that she was far too valuable to lose in battle, but a reminder that, even now, he did not trust her completely.

She had bowed her head when the order was given, as she always did, and spoken the obedient words that he expected of her. She had turned on her heel, left to see it done, her face betraying nothing. Not of the treachery she had committed only hours before, nor of the thoughts that were running through her mind even now.

And once the orders were given, the King had not even spared her a second glance. Had not looked beyond her polished armor and the blade strapped to her hip, had not questioned the faint exhaustion that weighed her bones, the slight stiffness in her shoulders from hours of winnowing.

He had not seen the lives she had carried in her arms through the dark. The humans, terrified and shivering, their small hands clutching at her as she moved between the cracks of the world. The way they had looked at her—both with fear, and later with hope. They did not know what she was, what she had done. They only knew she had taken them far, far from this battle, delivered them to safety within Adriata’s walls.

It did not matter.

It changed nothing.

Munin had told herself that again and again, but the thought rattled in her mind like a loose hinge on an iron gate, something broken, something not quite right.

Now, standing atop the rise, her hands clasped behind her back, she forced herself to silence it. Forced herself to focus on the battlefield below, on the armies waiting, their lines stretching across the valley.

The air itself felt stretched thin.

Her soldiers stood at the ready behind her, shifting in their armor, their gauntlets clinking as hands tightened around swords and spears. The scent of steel and sweat filled her lungs, thick and acrid beneath the sharp bite of the wind. In the distance, drums pounded—Hybern’s war drums, a steady, unrelenting rhythm that thudded through the earth beneath her boots. To the east, a commander barked orders, his voice sharp as a lash, rallying the archers to their stations.

The metallic tang of magic clung to the air, as their shields were reinforced.

And beyond all of it, the approaching forces of Prythian.

Their banners rippled through the wind—the insignias of their High Lords gleamed in the cold, pale light. And above them, the Illyrians darkened the sky, sweeping over the valley in disciplined ranks, wings outstretched as they moved as one.

She knew what was coming. Even if she had never fought them before, she heard stories of the sheer, merciless force of their warriors. She heard stories of the General, why he had been referred to as the Lord of Bloodshed. She had felt the Shadowsinger’s blade at her throat, had barely managed to slip from his grasp before his shadows devoured her whole.

There was no surviving this. Not for her.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the worn leather of her gloves groaning under the pressure. It was not fear that gripped her, not quite. Just… inevitability. The slow, quiet realization that the question of what she would do, where she would go, had never truly mattered.

She had never known freedom. Had never known what it was to choose.

She would die as she lived, serving Hybern.

And so she would not think of it now. Would not waste her last moments grasping for something that had never belonged to her.

The sea air stung as Munin inhaled, sharp with salt and the promise of rain. A mile inland, and still, the scent reached them, carried on the briny wind that swept over Hybern’s gathered forces.

Hybern had spent the night marching. Munin had spent the night winnowing— ferrying the weak and the helpless from the human lands to Adriata, over and over again. The effort had drained her, exhaustion a dull ache in her bones, but she had masked it well when she winnowed one last time, landing precisely within Hybern’s ranks, on the very hill the King had chosen for his vantage point.

The sound of approaching armor was the only warning before a captain stepped to her side.

He was a hard-edged male, his dark hair slicked back beneath his helm, his scaled armor dull in the weak morning light. He did not look at her as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the waiting armies below. “We have the high ground. The King chose well.”

Munin nodded once, keeping her own gaze forward. “That he did.”

Hybern had the numbers too. Even from here, she could see the way their forces stretched across the land. The lords of Prythian had pooled their resources, but… there were gaps. Courts missing from their ranks, their banners absent among the gathered legions. Had they refused to fight? Realized the futility of it?

Perhaps.

And yet—if it were truly hopeless, if the outcome had been set in stone, then why had Munin spent her last night winnowing villagers to safety?

A shift in the air made her tense, the telltale hum of power crawling over her skin. The first real stirrings of magic, raw and potent, clashing between the two sides. Prythian’s armies sent wave after wave of it toward Hybern’s shields, testing them, searching for weaknesses.

Their own forces countered, striking at the enemy’s defenses in turn. The ground trembled beneath their feet, charged with the invisible battle waging above.

She did not flinch when the first pulse of magic slammed against their shields, a deafening crack splitting the air as it was absorbed. The shield rippled, glowing faintly before settling once more, unbroken. But the next strike was already coming. And the next.

“How long do you think the shields will hold?” the captain asked, his voice almost bored as he studied the shimmering line of protection that separated them from the chaos below.

Munin rolled her shoulders, flexing her fingers at her sides. “Long enough.”

She was not one to engage in conversation; Dagdan had often sequestered her alone, and she rarely interacted with the infantry unless it was to give her commands. But Dagdan was no longer her.

“Let’s hope so,” he muttered. His lips curled in distaste as another blast of magic struck, sizzling uselessly against the barrier. A pause, then, “I hate this part. The waiting. It’s like we’re all circling each other, pretending this isn’t inevitable.”

His fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword. “Give me battle any day over this. The anticipation is worse than the blood.”

Once, Munin might have agreed.

It was what she had been created for, after all. The simplicity of orders given and carried out, of war waged without hesitation, without doubt. A perfect, unquestioning weapon.

But now, as she stood there, watching the battlefield, she said nothing.

Instead, her eyes caught on something in the distance—a flicker of movement, a glow of blue amidst the shifting ranks of Prythian’s forces. Illyrian siphons.

Her throat tightened, her thoughts turning unbidden to the Shadowsinger. Whether he was down there, whether his blades had already been drawn, whether he was waiting for the moment to strike. She did not know why she was thinking of him now. She did not like it.

Munin felt it before she saw it.

A crack in the world itself, the raw pulse of magic splintering through her senses.

It was not a sound but a feeling— the very air rippling as if glass had shattered with no noise. The battlefield seemed to exhale, a great, shuddering breath as Hybern’s forces recoiled, soldiers flinching, looking wildly about as though they could see the unseen.

Prythian’s armies wasted no time, pushing forward in the wake of that faltering defense.

The wards were down. The battle had truly begun.

Chaos erupted around her—shouts of alarm, the sudden, frantic repositioning of Hybern’s ranks. The first wave of Prythian’s soldiers surged forward.

Munin did not move. Not yet.

She turned, sweeping her gaze over the soldiers under her command. They were watching her, waiting for their orders. Fear lurked beneath their hardened expressions, the grim realization settling in. This was no longer a game of tactics and waiting, no longer a battle they could fight from behind a shield of magic. This was blood and steel and death.

“Hold the line,” she ordered, her voice cutting through the noise. “You do not falter, you do not run. You fight. We will crush them here, on this hill, and you will not let them take an inch of ground.” She met their eyes, one by one, as she stalked past them. “Do you understand me?”

A chorus of affirmations rang out, some shouted with force, others barely more than a breath. It should have been enough. But as the words left her lips, they rang hollow in her own ears. Hold the line. Stand firm. Survive. She was lying to them.

She knew the likelihood of her surviving this battle was low. The things she had done—winnowing the humans to safety, her bargain with the Shadowsinger—none of it mattered now. War did not care about debts or guilt or the fractured, wavering lines of her allegiance.

War took, and took, and took. And it would take her. She was certain of it.

Munin exhaled sharply, shoving the thought aside as she tightened her grip on her weapons. The weight of them was steady, familiar, as she scanned the battlefield.

“Reform the eastern flank,” she snapped to one of her lieutenants, gesturing with her blade. “They’ll break through there if we don’t hold it.”

The male hesitated, then nodded, turning to bark orders to the soldiers at his side.

She turned to the captain at her side. “Take two units down the ridge—hit their left side while they’re still reorganizing. Hard and fast.”

Before the captain could move, though, there was a ripple in the fabric of the battlefield itself. As if the world had inhaled and was now holding its breath.

Then, at the very center of the carnage, black smoke bloomed, twisting and writhing in the windless air. It did not vanish but thickened, coiling and shifting like something alive. A cold unease settled deep in her gut. There was something unnatural about the way it moved, something wrong in the way it devoured the light around it.

It had no form. No face. No limbs or eyes. Just darkness within darkness, shifting as though searching, sensing, waiting.

And then, beside it, another figure stepped forward. He was not like the creature, but appeared as an Illyrian warrior. Tall and broad-shouldered, clad in black leathers and plated armor that gleamed beneath the fractured sunlight. Vast and powerful wings stretched behind him, the dark membrane reflecting the pale glow of the midday sky.

 Munin did not know many Illyrians. The only one she had ever truly encountered was the Shadowsinger. But even she could tell this one was different.

As if he weren’t Illyrian at all.

The feeling that swept over her was not fear, not exactly. It was wariness. An ancient, primal instinct warning her to tread carefully. The magic that clung to him was thick, unnatural in a way that made her skin crawl. It did not simply radiate from him. It bled into the battlefield, seeping into the air, into the very ground beneath her feet.

A ripple of unease passed through Hybern’s ranks. The soldiers at her sides stiffened, their hands tightening around their weapons. Some froze entirely, rooted to the ground as if trapped beneath the weight of that power. Others shifted back, barely a step, but Munin saw the fear in their eyes. The murmurs began soon after, hushed voices carrying on the wind, a quiet panic spreading through their lines.

She could not fault them for it.

The sky trembled. It was subtle at first, a sensation more than a sight, but she felt it—the pressure, the gathering storm of power pressing down on them. A force so vast, so overwhelming, it made her breath catch in her throat.

And then, without warning, the creatures attacked.

The Illyrian warrior was the first to move. He was fast, impossibly so, a flash of motion barely visible before his sword struck. One, two, three soldiers fell, their bodies crumpling before they even registered the strike. Blood sprayed in sharp arcs, glinting in the sunlight before vanishing into the churned mud.

His wings spread wide, lifting him into the air, and then he dove, cutting through Hybern’s forces with a ruthless, almost methodical precision.

The second one—the shadow—did not move. It spread.

Munin barely had time to process the shift before the first scream cut through the air. Raw, wretched, scraping against her bones like claws. A soldier near her dropped his weapon, hands flying to his face, fingers digging into his skin as if he could claw out whatever horror he was seeing.

His body convulsed, a raw, animalistic sound tearing from his throat before he collapsed, unmoving. Then another fell. And another.

She had seen horror before. She had inflicted it before. But this—this was something else entirely. This was terror, swallowing everything in its wake.

The line was breaking.

Munin watched as Hybern’s soldiers faltered, the fear spreading through their ranks. Some dropped their weapons, staring at the advancing shadows with wide, glassy eyes. Others turned, abandoning their posts, their training—everything drilled into them—for a desperate chance to flee.

And some…some barely even fought before the darkness swallowed them whole.

The soldier beside her took a step back. Then another. His breath came too fast, too shallow. His fingers trembled around the hilt of his sword. He wasn’t the only one. A lieutenant—one she knew, one she had given command to in Sangravah—stared at the oncoming nightmare with pure, unguarded terror. Munin watched his throat bob as he swallowed, his grip on his weapon slack.

Then, slowly, his foot shifted—he was turning.

She moved before she had even decided to, her body acting on instinct. One sharp step, and she seized his armor, yanking him back into place. "Hold."

The lieutenant's eyes snapped to hers. Wide. Panicked. "We—we can't—"

"Run, and you die anyway." She shoved him back into the line.

He hesitated, panting, his hands shaking. His eyes darted toward the battlefield—toward the horrors crawling from the abyss. Munin exhaled sharply. She let the smallest sliver of understanding slip into her voice, a quiet edge beneath the steel. "At least with a blade in your hand, you have a chance."

His throat bobbed again. He nodded. He held.

But more were trying to run.

The ripple of fear turned into a wave, soldiers breaking formation, stepping back, turning—Munin moved through them, yanking them back, snarling orders through clenched teeth.

"Hold the line. If you run, the King will have your heads before Prythian does." Her hands found another soldier's shoulder, shoving him back into position. "We fight. We fight, or we are already dead."

She understood. By the Cauldron, she understood the urge to flee, to run from the wrongness seeping into the air, from the shadows that did not move like shadows should. But fleeing was not an option.

A soldier let out a raw, broken sob, his grip white-knuckled on his sword. Another muttered a prayer she had never heard before. The battlefield was chaos—roaring steel, shrieking magic, the scent of blood thick in the air.

Munin forced herself to breathe, to focus. She turned her head, her eyes sweeping across the battlefield. She didn’t know what she was looking for. Her gaze lifted beyond the carnage, beyond the screaming, beyond the endless flood of bodies clashing steel against steel. And there, through the chaos, through the storm of blood and shadows, she saw it—a pulse of blue.

Her stomach tightened. The Shadowsinger.

She did not know why she had searched for him. She did not know why that flicker of color in the sea of death made something inside her pause. But she stood there, her chest rising and falling with each breath, the sound of war crashing around her, and for a single heartbeat—just one—she did not move.

---

Azriel stood at the edge of the rocky outcrop, his gaze fixed on the battlefield below.

Chaos churned beneath him, steel flashing, bodies colliding, the air thick with the clash of magic. He clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He shouldn’t be up here, watching from afar like some distant spectator.

He should be down there—where the blood ran thick, where his blades could carve through Hybern’s ranks, where he could fight for Prythian as he was meant to.

But the order had been clear.

"You are not going down there," Rhys had said, the command absolute. "Not with that wing."

And Azriel knew that tone. Knew better than to challenge it.

It hadn’t helped that Feyre had given him the same order, her sharp-eyed stare leaving no room for argument. Or that Mor had pleaded with him, her hands gripping his arms, her voice softer than he had ever heard it when she had said, “Please, Az. Just this once.”

And so, he had relented. Because it was Mor. Because Feyre had fought enough battles for all of them. Because Rhys had looked at him with something close to worry before he had turned away.

Azriel shifted his stance, adjusting his weight to account for the ache thrumming at the base of his wing. The wound didn’t matter. He had fought through worse. Would have fought through this, if they had let him. But if he couldn’t be in the thick of it, then he would do what he could from here.

His boots dug into the uneven rock, his scarred hand lifting.

The siphons along his armor flared, their glow searing against the gray sky.

He reached for that power, for the lethal, burning force coiled in his blood, and shaped it with precision. Focused it to a singular, devastating point. The battlefield sharpened in his vision. Hybern’s front lines, packed too tight. Shields straining, cracks forming where Prythian’s magic beat against them.

He let the power gather—let it swell, build, and seethe from the siphons on his armor. And then, with a single exhale, he unleashed it.

A pulse of pure destruction ripped through the battlefield. Where it struck, bodies crumpled, armor shattered, the very earth buckling beneath the force of it.

Azriel did not stop. He did not hesitate.

Again, he let his power rise, the siphons answering his call. Again, he unleashed it, precise, unerring. Again, Hybern’s soldiers fell, their formations breaking apart, panic threading through their lines.

And still, he kept going. Because if he could not be down there, if he could not fight with steel in his hands, then he would rain death from above.

Each time he unleashed that raw, killing power, the battlefield seemed to lurch—tilting in and out of focus as though the ground itself had been rattled by the force of it.

His breath turned shallow, a tightness creeping into his ribs. The ache in his wings spread, pulsing in time with the siphons that flared along his armor. But still, he did not stop. He couldn’t. Not when the tide had to be turned. Not when every second meant the difference between life and death for the soldiers still standing.

The air reeked of iron, smoke, and magic. Below, steel clashed, screams rang out, shields broke apart beneath the weight of Prythian’s assault. But even as he sent another deadly pulse ripping through Hybern’s forces, his eyes kept moving, scanning the carnage.

At first, he didn’t quite know what he was searching for, what he expected to find. There was only war, only the endless sea of bodies.

Then the thought came, unbidden, sharp enough to cut through the fog in his mind. Is she down there? Is she fighting?

His gaze swept across the battlefield again, faster now, more focused. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—wasn’t sure what he expected to see. A flash of dark steel? The curve of a hood barely visible through the chaos? He didn’t know why he cared, why it mattered. It shouldn’t.

And yet—he did not see her. Only war. Only death.

The realization settled like a weight in his chest. It shouldn’t have bothered him. He should have pushed the thought away, buried it beneath thoughts of the battle. But instead, he reminded himself that she had fought for them. She had helped him save the ship in the Summer Court, had agreed to winnow the humans out of harm’s way, over and over.

That was why he cared. That was the only reason.

But still, his stomach twisted at the thought of her down there, swallowed by the chaos, lost somewhere in the crush of bodies. His hands trembled, just slightly, before he forced them into fists, tightening until his gauntlets bit into his skin.

Their bargain.

Would he know? If she fell—if she bled out on the battlefield below—would something inside him break? Would he feel it, like a cord snapping, like a hollow place carved out of his very bones? He did not know how it worked, did not know what would happen if the bargain shattered. Would it sear through him, a warning too late?

The thought was a knife, sinking in, lodging in a place he did not dare examine.

He hated himself for it. Hated that the question had even formed. She was nothing to him. She was a weapon of Hybern, the one who had stood before his court and orchestrated the burning of Sangravah without flinching. He had seen the flames reflected in her gaze, had watched them consume the temple where innocent priestesses were.

And yet—and yet—his hands still trembled.

With a breath, he forced the thought from his mind, forced himself to look at the battle and only the battle. His shadows pressed against his skin. He lifted his hands again, let his siphons blaze, blue fire pulsing at his knuckles. And then he let it loose.

For Velaris. For Prythian. Not for her.

And if his eyes still searched the battlefield between every blast, scanning the bodies for a shape clad in dark armor, for a figure that did not belong among Hybern’s ranks—if his heart refused to settle until he knew—no one needed to know.

---

They were being overwhelmed.

The battlefield stretched before her in a writhing mass of bodies and steel, the scent of blood and burnt flesh thick enough to coat her tongue. Screams tangled with the clash of swords, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground, the wet, visceral sound of flesh being cleaved from bone.

Munin moved through, her sword singing with every strike. Another soldier fell. And another. She did not stop. She did not hesitate. She had never been allowed to.

And then it hit her.

A pulse of power, slithering through the battlefield like a thing alive. It did not strike—it seeped, curling into her lungs, nestling deep in the marrow of her bones, touching something brittle and fragile inside her. Something she could not name. Her grip tightened around her sword, her breath hitching, her lungs snagging on air as the battlefield—death-ridden, blood-soaked—lurched around her.

Then she saw it.

A mist, curling and dark, unfurling across the field in a slow, deliberate wave. But it was not smoke. It was red. A deep, thick crimson that spread like a tide rolling in, consuming everything in its wake. A force of Hybern soldiers had stood there only heartbeats ago. Now, there was nothing. No bodies. No blood-soaked earth. No steel left clattering to the ground. Only that mist of blood, hanging in the air like breath against the cold.

Munin froze, sword still raised. Gone. All of them. An entire section of the battlefield wiped away. She had seen death in all its forms, had wielded it with the same ease as breathing, but this—this was something else.

Something familiar. She knew this power.

Her breath rattled between her teeth, sharp and shallow. A feeling clawed at the back of her mind, the kind of feeling that should have come with a memory. But there was nothing. Only the dull scrape of something just out of reach, a blade blunted at the edges. Her pulse pounded, a thunderous beat against her ribs.

She knew this. She knew it.

But the answer slipped through her fingers like mist, dissolving before she could grasp it.

That power. That—

A second blast tore through the battlefield. This time, blue.

The shockwave shattered the ground, rupturing the earth with a force that sent bodies flying, steel shrieking as it was wrenched from desperate hands. Munin had half a breath’s warning before it hit. She had barely begun to shift her stance, to brace against the coming impact, before it slammed into her like a tidal wave.

The force ripped her from her feet.

Her back hit the ground and the air fled her lungs in a ragged, gasping choke as she skidded through the battlefield, her armor scraping over blood-soaked mud and jagged debris. A sharp crack shot through her ribs as she rolled, her vision breaking apart in bursts of color and shadow.

She coughed, choking on the iron-thick stench in the air. Her ears rang, her pulse a frantic, pounding thing against her skull. The world tilted around her, the battle dimming to a distant roar as her ribs ached from the sudden, merciless impact. But she did not stay down. She never stayed down.

This magic had not been aimed at her, but still, it had hit her, had thrown her like she was nothing.

She knew this power. That realization coiled deep in her gut. Her teeth ground together as she forced herself upright, ignoring the lingering ache that radiated through her bones. Her eyes lifted toward the sky, seeking him, searching before she could think better of it. It did not matter. She had no time to wonder if he was looking for her, too. The battle was not over.

She was not just fighting. She was leading.

Shoving past the last of her disorientation, Munin pushed to her feet, boots steady even as the battlefield trembled beneath her. The nearest Hybern soldiers faltered, their eyes darting between the crimson mist, the destruction, and her. Some stepped back. Some turned outright, fear leeching into their expressions.

Cowards.

Her voice sliced through the din of war, sharp as her blade. "Hold your ground!"

Some flinched, others hesitated. Her soldiers—her legion—did neither. They knew better. They had no choice. Munin strode forward, unyielding, shoving a deserter back into line with a brutal grip on his armor. His breath came in ragged, panicked bursts, his hands trembling as they hovered near his weapon.

"You run, and you will not make it far," she warned.

The soldier’s eyes darted between her and the battlefield, his breath ragged, his fear a tangible thing. "They—they’re—" His words broke off, strangled by terror.

Munin grabbed him by the collar of his armor, yanking him forward until the sharp edge of her sword hovered just beneath his ribs. His pulse hammered against the blade’s steel, his breath shallow. She held his gaze, unwavering, unmerciful. "You want to survive?" she asked, voice quiet, sharp as the steel in her hand. "Then fight. Or die now."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his whole body rigid with fear. A shuddering breath, then a tight nod. She released him without another word, turning back toward the battlefield.

"Reform the line!" she barked, voice cutting across the chaos. "We are not finished."

For a moment, hesitation lingered in the air, but it didn’t last. They obeyed. She moved through the ranks, snapping orders, forcing structure back into what should have been a scattered, broken force. They listened because they had to. Because she gave them no other choice.

She never looked back. She never did.

The Illyrians arrived like a dark tide.

Not him. Not the General. But the legions.

They descended from the sky, wings slicing through the smoke-thick air. Their blades did not waver when they saw her. Neither did hers. The force of their arrival shattered the fragile formation she had rebuilt. Munin was thrust away from her soldiers, the press of bodies and chaos separating her from the legion she had commanded only moments before.

The first Illyrian lunged.

Munin sidestepped, her blade meeting his in a clash of steel. He was fast, stronger than she had expected. A heartbeat, a fraction of an opening, and then her dagger slid between the plates of his armor. A sharp breath left him, his body jolting as steel found flesh.

The second Illyrian was already moving.

His blade arced high. She ducked, the tip of his sword singing past her ear. She twisted, striking low, but he caught her wrist before her blade could reach its mark. A sharp yank, then the world tilted—her back slammed into the ground. A curse slipped from her lips, but she was already moving, rolling just as his blade struck the earth where her throat had been.

She was up in a breath. And then—the third.

The way he moved, the way his gaze locked onto her—it was different. He knew. He knew she wasn’t like them. That she wasn’t just another soldier on this battlefield.

Munin raised her blade.

He charged.

A horn shattered the air.

Not Hybern’s. Prythian’s.

She pivoted sharply, scanning the battlefield as the sound rippled across the field. More Fae forces. Spring and Autumn by the looks of them. And—were those humans?

For the first time, the battle shifted. The weight of it changed, the tides turning in a way she had not anticipated. Munin’s eyes darted across the chaos, seeking—

A mistake. Steel glinted in the dim light, a blur of motion at the edge of her vision. The Illyrian came at her fast. Not recklessly—no, this one was trained. His wings flared wide, not to take off, but to cut off her escape. It was a precise maneuver.

One she might have admired if he wasn’t aiming to sever her throat.

Munin shifted, blade raised. She tracked his every movement, the sharp flicker of his eyes, the subtle shift of his grip. He feinted left—then struck right. She met his blade with her own, steel shrieking as the impact rattled through her bones.

His muscles coiled, his wings adjusting to press forward, bearing down on her guard with sheer force. She let him. Allowed him to push her back one step—two. Then she twisted, using his own momentum against him, slipping just out of his reach as he stumbled forward.

He caught himself quickly, pivoting on instinct, wings snapping to counterbalance.

But she was already moving. A downward strike, which he blocked. A second one, this time faster—he dodged. His counter came swift and clean, aimed for the gap in her armor at her ribs. She twisted just in time, angling her body so his blade skated across steel instead of sinking into flesh.

His face was set in grim determination, sweat and blood streaking across the sharp planes of his features. Their swords clashed again, sparks spitting between them. Then, low enough that she almost didn’t hear him over the battle’s roar, he muttered, “You fight like a ghost. But you bleed like the rest of us.”

Munin didn’t answer. Didn’t waste breath.

She let the weight of her silence be her only response.

He lunged again. This time, she let him. Let him get close—close enough that when she sidestepped, her dagger was already there, pressing against the vulnerable spot beneath his ribs. His breath hitched, his body going rigid as he registered the steel through the thin gap in his armor. But before she could press forward, before she could end it—

The air around her stilled, sound warping, muffled and distant, as if the battlefield had been swallowed whole by something vast, something unknowable. A pressure built, humming through her bones.

And then a whirlwind of darkness crashed into the earth.

It wasn’t a warrior. It was that creature; the one she had seen at the very beginning of this battle. It was a mass of shifting, writhing shadows, tendrils of black mist curling and twisting, alive in a way that sent every instinct in her body screaming.

The Illyrian she had been fighting staggered back. His sword, which had clashed only moments ago against hers, now trembled in his grip.

Munin didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The creature—if it could be called that—rose higher, expanding, shifting, watching. It had no face, but she felt its eyes. Felt something deep within its core fix on her.

And then, it moved.

A force of magic hit, slamming into her with such crushing weight that the breath was stolen from her lungs. The world spun, sky and earth twisting into a blur as she was flung back, rolling across the blood-soaked ground.

She tried to rise, hands digging into the mud, but the shadows were already there, curling around her arms, her legs. They weren’t solid, weren’t anything she could cut or break. They writhed, tightening, pulling. And for the first time in a long, long while, she felt something close to fear.

A snarl tore from her throat. She slashed anyway, her dagger cutting through nothing, her strikes finding only empty air.

The thing was everywhere and nowhere, slipping between her attacks. Munin had fought beasts before, had faced all manner of faeries. But this…this was something else entirely.

It came at her again, fast and unrelenting. She threw herself sideways, barely escaping as the ground where she had stood cracked open, the earth itself seeming to unmake beneath the force of it. If she had been even a heartbeat slower—

There was no winning this fight.

Her breathing was sharp, ragged. Her arms ached, her muscles screamed, but she pushed past it, forced herself to stand and move. The creature gave no sign of tiring. It didn’t need to.

It was playing with her. Like a predator toying with its prey before the final strike.

Munin tightened her grip on her dagger, adjusting her stance. She would not fall to her knees. Would not beg. If she was going to die, she would do it standing, steel in hand.

The shadows coiled again, and this time, the weight of them pressed down hard, suffocating. A force so vast, so overwhelming, that her body locked in place beneath it.

This was it. She braced herself for the final blow, for the pain, for the end—

But it never came.

The darkness around her shifted, curling inward, as if considering. Watching. The air itself seemed to tighten, holding her within something that was not quite fear, not quite recognition.

“You reek of the Night Court.” The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, woven into the storm of shadows itself. The weight of them pressed closer. Another pause, before,  “We were not to harm the Night Court’s own.”

Munin went still.

The words slammed into her harder than the creature’s attack, something cold and sharp twisting deep beneath her ribs. She had no time to question it, no time to process the sickening churn of her thoughts—

Because the creature was gone.

One blink, and the shadows melted into the battlefield, slipping into the carnage as if they had never been there at all.

No trace of them lingered, no proof that the thing had existed beyond the ragged breath still burning in her lungs. The blood-streaked earth remained unmarked by its presence. Only her own body, still braced for a killing blow that had never come, felt the echo of it.

The Night Court’s own. The words rattled through her mind. They did not belong to her. She was not one of them. She was not of the Night Court. So why—

A flash of movement caught her eye.

Instinct screamed through her, tearing her from thought. A blade, arcing fast toward her throat. She jerked back, just barely dodging as steel carved through the space her head had been a breath before. An Illyrian fighter, armor stained with sweat and dirt and blood, eyes wild with rage.

No time for questions. No time for confusion. Only the fight.

She shoved everything else aside, buried it deep where nothing could touch it, and threw herself back into the battle.

Chapter 34

Notes:

Thank you so much for all your kind words! I didn't get a whole lot of writing done last week, but I think I more than made up for it this weekend. Something about proctoring SATS and sitting there for hours while kids take a test just basically forces me to write. Hope you enjoy!

His brother had made the decision to go with Nesta—to find the King and end this war once and for all. Azriel had not argued. He had only nodded, gripping the hilt of Truth-Teller as he turned away, because at last, after days of waiting, after being grounded, he was doing something.

He did not fly. Madja’s orders had bound his wings to the earth, the pain still lingering in the ruined tendons. But he did not need them. His shadows wove through the chaos, slipping between writhing bodies and broken blades, whispering paths through the battlefield as he cut his way forward.

Hybern soldiers fell before him. A blade driven through a throat, a dagger slipping between ribs. His siphons flared with each strike, energy snapping at his fingertips as he let his instincts take over. He moved like the wind, never lingering long enough to be struck, never hesitating.

A scream tore through the din. Not of pain, but of rage.

Through the haze of blood and steel, he saw her.

A flash of dark armor, a glint of silver slicing through the mist. Munin.

She fought like something forged for war. Her movements were precise and efficient. Not a single ounce of wasted effort. Just fluid, calculated strikes—slaughter in its purest form.

But she was outnumbered.

And worse—one of the Illyrian warriors had turned his blade on her.

Azriel did not think. His shadows curled, urging him forward.

He hesitated only a breath. Then he drove his sword through the Hybern soldier he had been fighting, the blade sinking deep, finding flesh and bone. A sharp gasp, a shuddering breath—and then silence. Azriel wrenched his sword free, not bothering to watch the body fall.

His focus was already on her.

Darkness swallowed him as he willed himself forward, shadows curling around him. The battlefield warped in his vision, twisting, shifting—and then he was there, between them. Munin and the Illyrian warrior.

Azriel’s siphons burned as he steadied himself, his boots sinking slightly into the blood-soaked earth. He took in the scene, the warrior’s stance, the way Munin stood like a blade poised to strike. There was no hesitation in her, no fear, only that same ruthless precision he had come to recognize.

"Stand down," Azriel ordered the Illyrian, his voice flat, cold. He was still catching his breath, but his grip on his blade was unwavering.

The Illyrian hesitated—a fraction of a second, barely a blink—before scoffing, shifting his grip on his sword, contempt curling his lip. "You expect me to listen to a bastard?"

Azriel stilled. The battlefield noise dulled, like distant thunder swallowed by the weight of something heavier. He had been called worse. But still, that word settled somewhere deep, an echo in the hollowed-out place inside him. He told himself it did not matter. There were more important things.

He would have ignored it, would have let the insult roll off him like water over stone, but the warrior moved. A shift in his stance, the slight tensing of his arms—a sign of incoming violence. Azriel did not wait.

Steel met steel, the clash ringing loud, drowning out the chaos around them. The Illyrian was strong—too arrogant for his own good, but fast. Azriel matched him, countered each strike. Sparks hissed as their blades scraped, the force behind each blow jarring through his bones. The warrior pushed, swung wide—Azriel dodged, twisting, searching for an opening—

A flash of silver cut through the space between them.

The Illyrian stiffened, a choked breath escaping his lips. Munin had been watching, waiting, and she had struck the moment the opportunity presented itself. Her dagger was buried between his ribs, deep, precise, as unfeeling as the expression on her face.

The Illyrian gasped, his expression twisting in shock as Munin wrenched the blade free. A sickening gurgle left him as he staggered, his body crumpling into the dirt.

Azriel exhaled slowly, stepping back, his gaze still fixed on her. He should have felt relief. Instead, as he met Munin’s cold, unyielding stare, something far more complicated settled in his chest.

Munin wiped her blade clean with precise, practiced movements, as if the blood staining its edge was nothing more than an inconvenience. Her eyes flicked toward him, unreadable in the dim battlefield haze. “Why are you here?”

Azriel flexed his fingers around his sword hilt, the leather warm beneath his grip. “Saving your life.”

A bitter, humorless laugh left her, rough as steel scraping stone. “I didn’t need saving.”

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the battlefield around them. They stood in the eye of the storm, the chaos pressing in on all sides—clashing blades, the guttural cries of the dying, the relentless weight of war.

“He would have killed you,” Azriel said, voice steady, final.

“And yet I was the one who killed him.”

His jaw tightened. Stubborn, infuriating female.

Shadows curled at his feet, restless with the frustration he would not allow himself to show. He could still hear the wet gasp of the Illyrian warrior’s last breath, could still see the way Munin had driven her blade into his ribs without hesitation, without remorse.  As if taking a life meant nothing.

And she was still his enemy.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his voice to remain even. “Next time, don’t get yourself in a position where I have to make that choice.”

Munin only scoffed before turning back to the battle.

The world blurred into motion once more—steel and blood, screams and shadows. Azriel barely registered the ache in his arms, the weight of exhaustion pressing against his limbs, because the fight had long since become instinct. Strike, parry, kill. He moved through the battlefield as if guided by some unseen force, his sword finding Hybern soldiers’ flesh with brutal efficiency.

Through it all, he was aware of her. Munin moved like a wraith, her daggers flashing in the low light, cutting down soldiers with the same ruthless grace. Illyrian bodies fell at her feet as well, their wings torn, their throats slit. He told himself he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter who she fought for, as long as she stayed out of his way.

Then, as if the very air had shifted, something in front of him changed.

It was more than the lull of battle, more than the brief pause between one kill and the next. The world itself seemed to hold its breath. A wrongness settled in his bones, something cold and ancient, as if a presence had just slipped from the world—something powerful unraveling in the distance.

His blade was still slick with Hybern’s blood when he turned—and found her staring up at him.

For so long, he had known her by that mask—raven-like, concealing, hiding whatever lay beneath. It had become a part of her, as much as the coldness in her voice or the unflinching precision of her kills. But now—

His breath caught. His grip on his sword faltered.

Her eyes.

It was like the magic of a glamor had been stripped away. And her eyes were not the dark, bottomless void he had come to expect. Not the soulless pits that had met his gaze before. No—these were a blue so deep they bordered on violet, a shade striking enough to feel like they burned through him.

For the first time, they were hers.

He didn’t know why he thought of it then, why the sudden shift in her appearance felt linked to something vast and unseen, a tether cut with no blade in sight.

Something deep in his mind clawed forward, a memory half-formed, something distant and yet too close all at once. He had seen those eyes before.

Azriel barely had time to name it, barely had time to process the way her eyes—those eyes—seemed to burn into him. The world had narrowed to the impossible violet of them, to the way they shouldn’t have been hers and yet somehow were. Something had snapped, something had shifted, something had—

And then it hit.

A force unlike anything he had ever felt, unlike anything he had ever prepared himself for. It slammed into him, wrapped around his ribs, wove itself through his very marrow. His breath caught, his chest constricted—not from pain, but from something worse. From the sudden, absolute knowing.

The world tilting as it took hold, as if it had always been there, waiting.

The mating bond.

Azriel swayed where he stood, his heartbeat thundering against his ribs, rattling through his skull. The battlefield dulled around him, the screams, the clashing of steel—all of it swallowed by the roaring in his ears. His grip tightened on his sword as if that might tether him to reality, as if that might change what had already been sealed into his very bones.

No.

Not her.

Not—

The sky exploded. A wall of fire and light burst through the battlefield, searing into his vision, consuming everything in its path. The air itself seemed to buckle beneath the weight of that raw power, waves of heat curling outward, swallowing Hybern’s soldiers in unrelenting flame. Their screams vanished into nothing.

Azriel knew that power. That force of nature.

Amren.

The heat slammed into him first. A wall of blistering fire, of raw, ancient power tearing through the battlefield with merciless precision. Even from this distance, it burned, pressing against his skin, the force of it settling over the carnage.

There was no mistaking the sheer fury in her destruction, the way Hybern soldiers were incinerated before they could even scream. The sky itself seemed to bend to her will, flame and light twisting around her as she tore through their forces.

And Munin was directly in her path.

Instinct overtook thought. Shadows curled tight around him, carrying him forward in an instant. He slammed into Munin just as the fire surged overhead, knocking her to the blood-soaked ground beneath him. Heat roared above them, searing through the air so violently that even the earth trembled from its force.

Her body tensed beneath him, her breath sharp against her mask. But she didn’t freeze. And when she finally spoke, her voice was like ice. “What are you doing?”

Azriel stiffened. He felt it then, truly felt it—because even with their bodies pressed together, even with his scent filling her lungs, she was unchanged. That thing inside him, that tether that had wrapped around his ribs and clenched, still pulled, still burned with the undeniable weight of knowing—and yet she felt nothing.

The mating bond had not snapped for her.

His breath caught, the battlefield blurring as something far more dangerous crashed through him. It was still new, still raw, still sinking its claws into every part of him, but the truth was already there.

He supposed it was a curse, given who she was. But some part of him, deep and unbidden, felt something close to gratitude. Not because it was her, not because of who she was, but because it existed. Because he had feared he would never have this, never know this, never—

A snarl ripped through his thoughts. Not now. Not here. The battlefield was no place for this war inside him, no place for the confusion clawing through his chest. Not when she was looking up at him with those unreadable eyes, as if none of it mattered, as if he hadn’t just saved her life.

His jaw locked. He shoved himself off of her, shoving down everything else with it. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, strained, and nothing like himself, “Keeping you alive.”

The flames still burned, licking across the wreckage of Hybern’s fleet, the water churning as the last of their forces were swallowed by Amren’s wrath. He forced himself to focus on that.

Not the bond. Not the weight of it pressing into his ribs. Not the lingering heat of her body beneath his or the scent of steel and blood curling through his lungs, tangled now with something he would never be able to forget. His mate.

And still, she was staring at him like he was nothing. Like he was an obstacle, an enemy.

He swallowed down the storm inside him and pushed to his feet. “Get up.”

Munin did not hesitate. She barely spared him a glance before shifting her weight, rising in one fluid movement. No wasted motion, no acknowledgment, already back in battle mode.

Azriel forced himself to do the same. He barely registered the Illyrians still cutting through the Hybern ranks, the distant boom of magic carving through the sky. His focus had narrowed to a single point—her.

Azriel moved with her, his own pace shifting, adjusting—matching. Not fighting together, not truly. He was carving through Hybern’s forces, while she took down his own kind.

And still, their bodies fell into an unspoken rhythm, their movements aligning as though they had trained side by side for years. As though some part of him had always known how she would move, how she would strike. As though some part of him had been waiting.

“I need to get to the King.”

The words barely carried over the clash of steel and the distant roar of Amren’s destruction, but they struck him harder than any blade. A blow to the ribs, a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from his chest.

Azriel severed an enemy’s spine with a brutal slice, pivoting sharply toward her. “What?”

Munin didn’t look at him. Her dagger flashed, parrying a blade aimed for her ribs before she drove it into the attacker’s gut, wrenching it free in the same breath. Blood sprayed, painting her already-dark armor, and she was already moving, already focused on the next kill. “I need to get to him—now.”

She said it with the same cold detachment she used when assessing a battle, as if it were a simple fact rather than a choice. His shadows twisted, curling tighter around him, feeding off the sudden shift in his focus.

His mind recoiled. He thought of her, only last night, wincing when she had tried to move her ruined wing. That wing—the one the King had broken. And she wanted to go back to him?

His sword caught an incoming strike without him needing to look, his body reacting while his attention remained locked on her.

“Are you insane?” The words were sharper than he intended, cutting through the chaos between them. “You’re trying to go back to him?”

“It’s not your concern.” She didn’t hesitate, didn’t even spare him a glance. Her blade slashed through flesh, a clean, precise strike, already forgotten as she moved onto the next opponent.

Not his concern?

“You can’t go back to him.” His voice was lower now, rough, something dark creeping into the edges of it.

She exhaled sharply, an impatient sound. “I don’t have time for this.”

Azriel stepped toward her, but she was already moving, already slipping from his grasp. She met his eyes for only a fraction of a second, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her mask. “If you’re not going to help me, stay out of my way.”

Another enemy lunged. Azriel twisted, siphons igniting in a flash of blue light as he shattered the Hybern soldier’s ribs. Bone crunched beneath his fist, the impact reverberating up his arm, but the scream barely registered. His attention was still locked on her.

“Tell me why.” His voice was low, cold.

Munin spun, severing a warrior’s throat in one precise motion before her gaze snapped to his. The black hollows of her mask revealed nothing, only the sharp, controlled breath she took as the body crumpled at her feet. “No.”

"No?" Azriel’s jaw tightened. His voice came out sharper than he intended, anger and something else curling beneath his skin.

She didn’t look at him again, already moving, already cutting through the next enemy. "It’s none of your concern."

He blocked an incoming strike without looking, his body moving on instinct while his focus remained honed on her. "You’re wrong. If you throw yourself to him, it will be my concern. You think he’ll welcome you back?" His voice darkened, something dangerous lacing through it. "He put you on the front lines, while he is safe with the Cauldron. He doesn’t trust you."

Munin didn’t falter. "It doesn’t matter."

That certainty—it set his teeth on edge.

"You sound like a fool," he bit out, stepping closer even as he drove Truth-Teller into another enemy’s heart. "Or worse—someone who wants to die."

She turned to him then, just for a breath. "If you’re trying to stop me, don’t waste your time."

Azriel’s hands curled into fists, his blood pounding in his ears. He had spent his life reading people, pulling secrets from their shadows, unraveling the truths they sought to hide. And yet—her.

"You think I’ll just let you go?" His voice was quieter now, but no less lethal. She was still his mate and she was heading straight into danger.

"You don’t have a choice," she said simply, already pivoting to strike down another soldier.

She wasn’t going to stop. She would run straight to the King, straight into whatever trap lay waiting. Alone. With no one to protect her. Protect her from the King. Protect her from whatever conditioning made her thing she needed to go back to him.

He couldn’t let her go alone. She was his mate.

His blood pounded in his ears. Another soldier came at him, and he cut them down without sparing them a thought, the decision solidifying in the same breath.

He didn’t trust her. Didn’t trust her motives, her past, the unreadable expression behind that mask.

But the thought of her throwing herself into whatever waited beyond the battlefield—

He moved before he could think better of it. His shadows erupted, twisting through the blood-soaked battlefield like living things. They coiled around Munin in an instant, latching onto her arms, her waist, wrapping tight as she stiffened.

Her voice was ice. "Shadowsinger, what—"

He didn’t let her finish.

With a snap of power, the world blurred into darkness, swallowing them whole. The screams, the blood, the wreckage—gone. The battlefield fell away into nothingness. Only shadows remained.

And then—

They were there.

---

Shadows peeled away from them, and the world snapped into place with a brutal clarity.

Cold, jagged stone bit into her boots, the ground uneven beneath her as the scent of steel and blood was wrenched from her senses, replaced by the sharp tang of salt and brine. Wind howled between the rocks, tearing at her cloak, threading its icy fingers beneath her armor as the battlefield faded into nothing.

The sea stretched vast and dark beyond the cliff’s edge, waves crashing against the craggy shore far below. But it was not the abyss that held her gaze. Not the Cauldron, sitting fractured and pulsing like a broken heart.

Azriel moved first. She barely noticed him stepping forward, his focus snapping to the figures near the Cauldron—the rest of his court. The High Lord and his mate stood near the ruined vessel, their hands outstretched as they worked, as if the magic might listen to them. His shoulders were rigid, every muscle drawn tight, but his movements did not falter as he made his way towards them.

But Munin… She stayed at the edge, hidden behind the rocks. She did not dare to move. Did not dare to breathe.

Because the first thing she saw was blood.  Dark and pooling across the rock, thick as ink. It glistened beneath the gray sky, seeping into the cracks, staining the stone in slow, sluggish waves.

And at its center, the King of Hybern.

His body lay sprawled on the jagged earth, dark red blood pooling from a wound somewhere in his chest. The scent of death clung to the air, metallic and thick, but the body—it was empty. Hollow.

He’s dead. The words formed, but they did not settle. Did not sink in.

She took a step back. Then another. The world tilted, her breath catching in her throat as something sharp twisted in her chest. He’s dead.

She did not know if the sensation clawing through her ribs was relief or dread or something else entirely.

Her feet moved before she could stop them, retreating into the cover of the trees, into the shadows curling between the trunks. Away from that corpse, from that gaping wound in the world where he had once stood.

The bark was rough against her back, pressing through the layers of her armor, grounding her even as the world threatened to spin apart. Munin’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as she pressed herself into the ancient tree, as if she could force herself to become part of it.

Beyond the veil of twisted branches, the King’s body lay motionless upon the stone, his lifeblood still spilling, thick and sluggish, across the pale rock. She thought she had imagined the body, had conjured up the thought when she first arrived. But no, even on the second look— this was real.

But what did that mean?

Silence crowded her mind. There were no orders. And there wouldn’t be from there on out. No anchor to dictate what came next. The absence of it pressed against her ribs like a phantom wound, an ache she had no name for.

For so long, his will had been her own. Even when her body moved on instinct, even when her hands carved through flesh and steel, it had never truly been her choice. She had been shaped by his commands, by the leash Dagdan had wrapped around her mind so tightly she had not thought to fight it.

She had not needed to think at all.

It should have been a relief. It should have felt like release. Like freedom. But the silence, the emptiness, stretched too wide. Freedom was not the gift she had been taught to fear. It was worse. Because there was nothing beneath it. There was no purpose, no direction. There was nothing at all.

Her breath was slow, measured, as she forced herself to stay still, as if movement might shatter her entirely. The battle was ending. She had nowhere to go. No orders to follow. For the first time in centuries, she was adrift.

Power cracked through the air, yanking her from the abyss of her own mind. Munin’s head snapped up, her breath still tight in her chest as she took in the sight before her.

The Cauldron’s pulse sent another tremor through the earth as raw, ancient power surged between Feyre and Rhysand. Munin barely breathed, her fingers curling against the bark of the tree at her back. Something was wrong. The air itself seemed to recoil, twisting and writhing, a force too great, too volatile.

Then—

A crack, like the world itself had split open.

Magic lashed outward, a tidal wave of force slamming into her chest, nearly sending her to her knees. The earth splintered beneath her boots. She caught herself, forcing her head up just in time to see it.

Rhysand’s body locking up, magic vanishing from him as if it had been torn away. His face twisted, not in pain, but in something close to surprise. And then, he crumbled.

The moment his body hit the rock, the world seemed to pause.

The battle still raged in the distance, the sea still roared against the cliffs, but here—here, there was only silence.

The Morrigan was the first to move.

“Rhys?” Her voice was quiet, uncertain. As if saying his name would be enough to shake him from whatever this was. But the High Lord of the Night Court did not stir.

The Lord of Bloodshed took a step forward, armor clanking as he looked to his High Lord and called out his name once more. But there was no answer, no movement.. Just the unnatural stillness of a body that should not be still.

And the Shadowsinger was already there, already kneeling beside him. He reached out, pressed two fingers to Rhysand’s throat. His face gave nothing away, but Munin saw the way his wings flared, the way his shoulders went rigid.

The Morrigan’s hands trembled as she knelt on Rhysand’s other side. “He’s fine,” she murmured, as if she could will it into existence. “He’s fine. He just—”

Her voice broke.

The Shadowsinger didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept his fingers pressed against Rhysand’s throat, waiting, waiting… And then his hand dropped.

The General let out a sharp breath, a sound like disbelief. “Az.”

But the shadowsigner only shook his head.

Then Feyre moved. She had been kneeling, panting, her hands still braced against the Cauldron. Now, slowly, she turned. Her gaze found Rhysand.

Her scream tore through the air, raw and unrelenting. Not the sound of grief as Munin had known it, quiet and contained, but something deeper, something that split open as it left her throat. It was the sound of a soul breaking.

And Munin—she did not move. Could not move. She had seen death. Had delivered death. She had watched bodies collapse, had stepped over them without pause. And yet— the King was dead. Rhysand was dead. And for some reason, both of those things made something inside her crack.

Feyre lurched forward, catching Rhysand’s limp body in her shaking hands. Her fingers clutched desperately at his chest, pressing down as if she could force the life back into him. “No, no—please—no.” Her voice cracked, raw and shattered, her tears streaking down her dirt-stained face.

Munin barely breathed. The gathered High Lords stood frozen, their expressions unreadable, their mouths pressed into thin, tense lines. No one moved.

Feyre’s head snapped up, her wild, grief-stricken eyes locking onto them. “Help him!” Her voice rang across the cliffs, filled with something more than desperation. “Bring him back!”

Munin had seen countless deaths. Had been the cause of countless deaths. But she had never seen someone demand life back like this.

Feyre’s voice broke further, but she did not waver. “You did it for me. Now do it for him.”

Munin could not believe what the Cursebreaker was asking. Feyre’s life had been returned to her by the very same High Lords. It was a once in several lifetime occurrence, and had only worked on her because she had been human when she died. But in her disbelief, in the sheer impossibility of it, Munin found herself hoping.

She wanted them to do it.

Helion took a step forward, his golden armor reflecting the fading light with the movement, but he hesitated. “You were human,” he said carefully, as if trying to ease a blade into a wound without breaking the skin. “It’s not the same—”

“I don’t care,” Feyre snarled, her grief sharp as steel. “Do it.”

Silence stretched between them, the wind howling through the craggy cliffs. The sea roared below, the sky darkening overhead, as if mourning the death of the Night itself.

But then, one of the High Lords took a step forward. Tarquin. The High Lord of Summer. His sea-blue eyes flickered to Rhysand’s lifeless body. His voice was steady, quiet. “For what he gave. Today and for many years before.”

From his palm, a single speck of light fell on to Rhysand’s body. A moment later, the High Lord of Day followed, then the High Lords of Winter and Dawn. Munin watched in quiet awe as one by one, they answered Feyre’s call. Power thrummed in the air, ancient and deep, as they each gave a speck of their own light to High Lord of Night.

But one did not move.

The High Lord of Autumn remained still, watching with cold detachment. Munin’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at her hip, rage curling beneath her ribs, dark and sharp. It made no sense, this anger. What did it matter to her if Rhysand’s life was returned? He was nothing to her. Nothing at all. And yet—

“I do not mind making one more kill today.”

The words cut through the air, calm and lethal. Munin’s hand froze.

Morrigan stepped forward, her ruby lips curled into something close to a smile, though there was no warmth in it. Her blade was already in her hand, gleaming in the dim light. Beron exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound of irritation more than fear.

Beron finally moved.

Munin exhaled, her shoulders loosening as his fingers brushed against Rhysand’s unmoving chest. It was the barest offering of power, a flicker of unwilling light, but it was enough. It had to be enough.

The tension in the air did not break, thick and suffocating as Feyre pressed her hands harder against Rhysand, tilting her head back in a desperate attempt to summon whatever remained of her own magic. Strain carved deep lines into her face, sweat glistening along her brow, but her power—whatever it was—flickered weakly, barely forming before it faded away.

“Come on,” Feyre whispered, voice breaking, pushing harder as if she could force her strength into him. “Come on.”

Munin’s eyes drifted beyond the circle of High Lords, to the male standing apart from the others. Tamlin. The High Lord of Spring looked as if he had been through war twice over, his golden hair matted with blood and sweat, his leathers torn, his face shadowed with something heavy. His mouth was a hard line, unreadable, as he watched the scene unfold before him.

Feyre turned to him, her expression raw, her hands still pressed against Rhysand.

“Please.” The word wavered, her voice hoarse from grief. “I will give you anything… anything.”

His face remained unreadable, his green eyes dull with something that almost looked like regret.

“Be happy, Feyre.” His voice was quiet, rough, and without another word, he stepped forward. His fingers hovered over Rhysand’s chest for the briefest moment before he let the last kernel of power sink into him.

The world stilled. The wind, the sea, the very earth seemed to hold its breath as the final spark of light vanished into Rhysand’s unmoving form. Munin felt it too—that unbearable, crushing moment of waiting. It pressed in on her ribs, her lungs, as silence stretched unbearably thin.

The silence shattered as Rhysand gasped, his body arching violently, hands clenching at the stone as his eyes flew open—dark, wild, disoriented. His chest heaved with ragged breath, power settling around him like a second skin.

Alive.

A sharp exhale forced its way past Munin’s lips before she could stop it, something cold and tight loosening in her chest. She frowned, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. Why? Why did she care? He was nothing to her, a High Lord of an enemy court, a male she should not feel anything for. She should have been indifferent, should have felt nothing at all.

The battle was over. Hybern had fallen. The King was dead. The tide had turned, and she was still standing. Alive. But that meant she had nowhere left to stand. No orders to follow, no side to claim her.

The wind cut through the cliffs, carrying the distant sounds of the wounded and the dying. Somewhere behind her, the High Lord of Night took his first breaths again. Somewhere beyond, the Night Court gathered their dead, tending to the ruins left in Hybern’s wake. But Munin remained in the shadows, standing at the edge of a world that was no longer hers.

If they saw her—if they recognized what she had been, what she had done—there would be no explanations. No justifications. She would simply meet the wrong end of steel. And Munin did not know if she had the words to explain, even if she wanted to.

She curled her fingers into fists, ignoring the tightness in her chest, the hollowness clawing at the edges of her mind. The chaos had kept her hidden this long, but not forever. She needed to move.  Turning sharply, she prepared to slip back into the trees, to disappear into whatever lay beyond this battlefield.

But her eyes caught on him instead.

Azriel stood among his court, silent as ever, his attention fixed on the High Lord. There was no relief on his face, no sign of the weight lifting from his shoulders. The wind tugged at his dark hair, his siphons catching in the fading light. His shadows curled at his feet, restless, as if they sensed something beyond what he let show.

Something twisted deep in her ribs. She had no reason to linger. No reason to look at him, to let that quiet pull gnaw at the edges of her resolve. And yet, her feet did not move.

Why did it feel like she should say something?

The thought unsettled her, made her breath come too thin. She ignored it, ignored the weight pressing down on her bones, and turned away.

She did not winnow. She walked.

The movement grounded her, step after step, as if she could outrun the war still ringing in her bones. Her body thrummed with the echoes of battle, her thoughts spiraling in tandem. The King is dead. The words rang hollow. The truth of them had not fully settled. I am free.

The weight of it was suffocating.

A dull ache pulsed at her side, sharp enough to make her exhale through her teeth. She had not noticed it before—had not noticed the stiffness creeping into her limbs, the exhaustion pressing down like lead. Blood, dried and flaking, crusted along her leathers.

The battlefield stretched before her, a ruin of bodies and steel, of lives lost and history rewritten in a single day. The air reeked of blood and magic, thick with the lingering cries of those left behind. Munin moved through it without a sound.

The shift in the air was her only warning. A faint rustle, the whisper of movement too precise to be the wind. Munin turned sharply, instincts honed from centuries of battle forcing her to move even before her mind could catch up.

Steel met steel. The clash sent a sharp tremor up her arms, her grip tightening around the hilt of her blade as she absorbed the impact.

A Peregryn warrior stood before her, blood streaked across his face, his armor dented and splattered with the remnants of the slaughter. His wings flared behind him.

He struck again, fast, relentless. She barely dodged in time, twisting to avoid the gleam of his blade as it arced through the air.

Pain tore through her side, white-hot and blinding. The sharp bite of steel piercing flesh, cutting deep. Her breath hitched, her vision narrowing for a fraction of a second.

The Peregryn did not pause. He did not hesitate. He was already moving again, his wings kicking up dust and debris as he lunged for another strike, intent on finishing what he had started.

Chapter 35

Notes:

Y'all are going to hate me for this one. So, preemptively, I'm sorry.

Azriel had spent the moments after the Cauldron was secured ensuring the battlefield was truly theirs. The King was dead. Hybern’s forces had fallen. The High Lord had returned. His family—his court—was safe. He should have felt relief, the kind that settled deep in his chest, that let him finally breathe. But something felt wrong.

A whisper curled through his shadows, restless, insistent. A tug low in his gut that would not ease, gnawing at the edges of his mind. His eyes swept across the alcove where the Cauldron had been hidden, past the High Lords gathered, and the rest of his family. To where he knew Munin had remained hidden.

He had wanted to tug at her when they arrived, to bring her to his side the moment he realized that the King of Hybern was dead and she was truly free. But the moment the thought had formed in his head, the bargain tattoo on his back seemed to pulse angrily, as if warning him against it.

And that’s when it had dawned on him. He was bound to keep news of his mate from his family. He couldn’t speak about her.

Now, at the end of all this, he turned to where he knew she had been hiding. Where his shadows had kept whispering that she was safe, unharmed.

But now?

She was leaving. Step after step, slipping through the wreckage, her movements quiet, purposeful. His shadows twined tighter around him, urging him forward, a silent, invisible pull that tightened with every pace she put between them.

A part of him wondered if he should let her go.

She was his mate. The truth of it sat in his chest. But she had also been his enemy. A weapon forged in Hybern’s hands, one who had cut down countless lives without hesitation. And even now, standing in the remnants of the war they had fought on opposite sides, he did not know where she stood.

She was leaving – but where would she go?

As much as he wanted that bond—as much as he wanted something like what Rhys and Feyre had, something steady, something whole—could he ever have that with Munin?

He did not have the chance to think on it any longer. The shadows suddenly screamed at him in a warning, and Azriel moved.

Those same shadows carried him before he could think, before he could process anything beyond the sight of her locked in battle. One moment, he stood on the blood-soaked rock near the Cauldron; the next, darkness peeled away, depositing him into the fray. The world sharpened in an instant—Munin, already injured, steel clashing against steel, her stance just a fraction too slow.

The Peregryn warrior struck again, brutal and unrelenting. Munin barely deflected the blow, but her blade wavered, her breathing labored. She had fought too long, bled too much.

Azriel did not hesitate. Shadows lashed out like living things, surging toward the Peregryn, winding around his arms, his throat, constricting. A choked sound escaped the warrior as his strike faltered. That was all the opening Azriel needed.

“Stand down,” Azriel ordered, his voice low, edged with steel. His siphons pulsed, shadows curling at his back like a living warning.

The Peregryn warrior hesitated, eyes darting between them, his bloodied blade still raised. He lingered, wings twitching, his grip still tight on his sword. "You would defend her?" he spat, his face twisted with fury and disbelief. "After everything she's done?"

Azriel did not look at him, his focus locked on Munin. His fingers flexed at his sides, restraint tightening his muscles as his shadows coiled around him. "Go," he said, voice cold, final. "Before I change my mind."

The warrior’s nostrils flared. For a moment, Azriel thought he might strike again, might be foolish enough to challenge him. But then the Peregryn bared his teeth in a snarl, his wings snapping as he turned sharply and took off into the sky, disappearing into the darkening clouds.

Munin let out a slow breath, barely more than a whisper of sound. Then she turned her glare on him. "You shouldn’t have done that."

Azriel held her gaze, unyielding. "You think I’d stand by and watch you bleed out in the dirt?"

Her expression didn’t shift. If anything, it hardened. "I think you should have let him finish what he started."

Something dark unfurled in his chest, sharp and sudden. "You think I want you dead?"

Her jaw clenched. "You don’t need to waste your energy pretending to care."

She shifted on her feet, and the movement made her stumble. Her hand shot to her ribs, pressing against the wound she had tried to ignore.

Azriel caught her arm before she could pull away, his grip firm but careful. “I don’t pretend,” he said, voice low, steady. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

She looked down at where his gloved fingers wrapped around her arm, then back at his face. For the briefest moment, something flickered in her eyes—something unreadable, something he didn’t think she even recognized in herself.

Then it was gone.

She wrenched her arm from his grasp. "I don’t need your help, Shadowsinger."

His stomach twisted at the way she said it. As if she meant it. As if she believed it. He should have let her go, should have stepped back and let her walk away, but the words left him before he could stop them.

"You’ll die out here."

She scoffed, taking a shaky step backward. "Then let me."

His shadows curled tighter around him, restless, seething, wanting to reach for her, to hold her still. He swallowed down the instinct, forcing his voice to remain even. "That’s not an option."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You don’t get to decide that."

Something about the way she said it—like she had spent too long being controlled, too long being given no choice—made his chest ache. He hated it. Hated that it mattered. Hated that, even now, when he should have walked away, he couldn’t.

Azriel stared at her for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, his voice dropping even lower. “You don’t have to go back to them. To Hybern. You don’t have to keep running.”

She laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter thing. "And what? Stay here? Let your court put me in chains? They won’t forgive what I’ve done. You know that."

His jaw tightened. He did know that. And yet, still, he said, "I won’t let them kill you."

A flicker of something passed through her eyes—doubt, disbelief, something wary and fragile. But it was gone in an instant.

"You can’t save me, Shadowsinger," she murmured.

He clenched his fists. "Maybe not." His voice was rough, strained. "But I won’t let you bleed out on this battlefield either."

Her eyes flashed, all earlier softness gone.

"Leave me be, Shadowsinger." Her voice was a warning, each word edged punctuated with sharpness. She turned away, her movements careful, "You do not need me anymore. You’ll never have to see me again."

Azriel moved without thinking. Again. His hand shot out, fingers closing around her wrist, already calculating how to get her to Madja before she collapsed from her injuries.

Searing pain tore through his back. His body locked, breath shuddering as his muscles seized. The bargain tattoo between his shoulder blades burned. The promise he had made—the one that forbade him from revealing her—turned to fire beneath his skin.

Munin saw his moment of weakness and struck. She twisted sharply, trying to break free, her body coiling for escape.

"Munin—" Her name left him as a snarl, rough with command, tangled with that fierce protectiveness that he was only just beginning to understand. But she didn’t listen. She moved again, wrenched against his hold.

Azriel tightened his grip. She bared her teeth, her free hand flashing for a blade, but before either of them could act—someone else did.

A soldier lunged from the side, blade arcing straight for her ribs. Autumn Court colors. Another warrior who did not care that the battle had ended, only that Munin had fought on the wrong side of it. She pivoted, barely managing to block the strike, but the force of it sent her staggering back.

The mask—the hood—tore loose.

Azriel saw it fall. A glimpse of dark fabric fluttering to the ground before his gaze snapped back to her face.

His breath stopped. His blood turned to ice.

She turned, and violet-blue eyes met his.

Something in him shattered.

"Elara?" The name was torn from him before he could stop it, barely more than a breath, but it might as well have been a roar. She went rigid. A flicker in her gaze—too brief to read—before her face hardened.

Azriel’s pulse thundered, his thoughts unraveling and reforming in the same instant. No. This couldn’t be real. Elara was dead. Had been dead for five centuries. This—this had to be something else. A trick. A cruel illusion.

His gaze snapped past her, scanning the battlefield. Searching for Rhys. He had to see this. He had to know.

His High Lord stood in the distance, with his mate, with the Cauldron, tending to the wounded, unaware of what stood only a few feet from Azriel.

Azriel turned back. To face Elara.

But she was gone.

No sound. No shift in air. No sign of movement. One moment, she had been there—close enough to touch. The next, nothing but empty space.

Azriel’s stomach twisted violently, his hands curling into fists. His shadows swarmed, restless and frantic, but they found nothing. No trace of her.

Like she had never been there at all.

---

She was bleeding a lot more than she thought she would be.

Munin pressed a hand to her side, feeling the slick warmth of blood seeping between her fingers.

The Peregryn warrior had aimed to kill. Every strike had been precise , meant to carve her down like all the others he had slain on that battlefield.

And she had underestimated him.

Her breath shuddered as she pulled her hand away, glancing down at the dark stain coating her fingers. The wound was deep. Not fatal, but dangerous if left untreated. She had survived worse, but exhaustion clung to her limbs, her body sluggish from too many hours of battle, too many hours of bloodshed. She had never felt slow before, never felt like her body might betray her—but now, each movement sent sharp, lancing pain through her ribs.

She needed to stop the bleeding.

But first, she needed to figure out where she was.

She looked around, trying to work out where she had winnowed to.

The air here was different—thicker, cooler. The scent of blood and steel had lessened, but it still clung to her skin, and damp earth beneath her boots. Shadows stretched long and sharp around her, cast by the dense canopy overhead, blocking most of the moonlight. She was in a forest. A deep one.

She hadn’t planned this. Hadn’t thought about where she would go, only that she needed to go. Needed to move. Needed to get away from him.

Her breath came unsteady, too fast, too shallow. She swallowed hard, forcing it to even out. Her body still trembled, but not from pain.

The way the Shadowsinger had looked at her—like he had seen a ghost, like she was something impossible—unsettled her. Unsettled her still.

She had spent centuries perfecting the art of being unreadable, of being nothing more than a weapon wielded at Hybern’s command. But in that moment, when the mask had fallen away, when he had spoken that name—Elara—she had felt exposed in a way she had not known was possible.

He had tried to keep her there.

Had reached for her, had spoken of healers as if she was some broken thing to be fixed. He would have taken her to them—to his High Lord and Lady. He would have led her into their grasp, where she would be judged for what she had done, where she would be imprisoned once more.

She could not let that happen.

So she had fought him. Had meant to strike him for it, to wrench herself free, to put enough distance between them that he would never try again. But then the Autumn soldier had come. Then the blade had swung for her ribs, and she had moved to block it— but her injury had made her too slow, too unsteady.

And her cowl had come off.

Munin did not know the last time someone other than the King or Dagdan had seen her face.

The realization sent a ripple of something sharp and foreign through her—something she could not name, did not want to name. Not fear, not exactly. She did not fear the Shadowsinger himself. But she feared the way he had looked at her.

As if she was something impossible.

The moment had cracked something in her, just for an instant. And in that fleeting, unthinking second, she had winnowed.

But not before she had heard him call her a name.

Not Munin. Elara. The word had carried over the battlefield, hoarse and raw, like it had been torn from his very soul. Like it hurt him to say it.

Elara. The name settled into her bones, lingering there, ghosting through her mind. It meant nothing to her. It should have meant nothing to her. But it did not feel wrong.

She pushed the thought away, forced it into the part of her mind where unwanted things went to be buried. She did not need to waste time thinking about the Shadowsinger. Or the way he had looked at her. Or what he had called her in those last moments.

She was away from him now. Away from Hybern.

She was free.

And now, she had to survive.

Each step sent a fresh bolt of pain lancing through her side. The Peregryn’s blade had struck deep—too deep. Blood seeped sluggishly from the wound, soaking through her torn leathers, the slow, wet pull of torn flesh making her breath come in shallow, uneven gasps. The bleeding had slowed, but it had not stopped. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, every throb a brutal reminder of how close she had come to dying on that battlefield.

The ground beneath her was uneven, the jagged terrain unfamiliar. Roots twisted through the dirt, catching at her boots, forcing her to tread carefully despite the haze of exhaustion dulling her limbs. She did not know where she had winnowed to. Had not thought to choose a location. She had only reacted—only moved.

But the air here was different. It was heavier, thicker, laced with the sharp scent of salt and brine. A cold wind gusted through the trees, carrying the tang of the sea. It filled her lungs, burned through the fading remnants of steel and blood that clung to her skin.

The steady crash of waves echoed in the distance, a rhythmic pulse against stone. She followed the sound, pushing forward through the dense wood, her body trembling with the effort. Every step was agony. Every breath, a struggle. But she kept moving.

When she broke through the treeline, the world opened before her—an endless stretch of dark water. The sea churned below, waves rolling against the cliffs in a constant, relentless assault. And beyond that, far across the waters, stood another distant shore. Even through the haze of pain and exhaustion, she knew what land that was.

Prythian.

She was on the Continent. Somehow, in the desperate, mindless need to escape, she had winnowed this far. Past the bloodied fields of Prythian. She had not meant to come here. She had not meant to go anywhere at all.

But here she stood, at the edge of the world, with nowhere left to go.

The wind howled around her, lifting strands of dark hair across her face, tugging at the edges of her torn, bloodied clothing. She was a mess. Her body battered. Her mind worse. But she had survived. For what, she did not know.

She exhaled, slow and steady, forcing her hands to still, forcing the thoughts to quiet. The questions could come later. The guilt, the doubt, the confusion—later.

Right now, she needed to stop the bleeding.

Her fingers dug through the damp undergrowth, brushing past slick leaves and tangled roots as she searched. The scent of wet earth clung to her, thick and loamy, mingling with the coppery tang of her own blood. The ground was cool beneath her hands, the soil loose from the recent rainfall. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against stone, a steady, ceaseless rhythm that she barely registered.

She knew these lands.

Not this exact patch of forest, not this precise stretch of coastline—but the Continent. She had traveled these lands before, moved like a shadow through its forests, its villages, its ruined battlefields. She had walked these paths under Hybern’s banner, had learned them by necessity, had committed them to memory. And she had studied the plants that grew here, had learned which ones could heal and which could kill.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, forcing her hands to steady as she continued searching. She did not have much time. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound still gaped beneath the crude press of her palm, the edges raw and pulsing with every uneven breath.

Then—there.

Her fingers closed around a small cluster of broad, waxy leaves, their bitter scent unmistakable. She tore them free, bringing them to her mouth without hesitation, ignoring the way her stomach twisted at the acrid taste. The leaves were tough, their juices thick and astringent, but she chewed, working them into a wet, pulpy mass.

The moment the paste was slick enough, she pressed it against the wound. A sharp, burning sting lanced through her side, and she sucked in a breath, her jaw locking against the urge to recoil. The herb did its work quickly, its properties seeping into her torn flesh, numbing the worst of the pain, slowing the sluggish seep of blood.

It would not heal her. Not entirely. But it would keep her alive.

She shifted, careful not to jostle the poultice, and reached for the hem of her already-ruined shirt. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, torn in more places than she could count, but it would do. She tore a strip free, the sound sharp in the silence, her fingers fumbling as she wrapped it around her midriff, binding the wound as tightly as she dared.

It would hold. For now.

The wind carried the scent of salt and brine, curling through the trees in cold, biting gusts. She barely felt it. Her body was too numb, too wracked with exhaustion to care. The rhythmic crash of waves against the jagged cliffs below filled the silence, steady and ceaseless, like a distant heartbeat.

Munin sat with her back pressed against the rough bark of a tree, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. The night had settled into her bones, seeping through the tattered remains of her clothing. Her muscles ached, the crude binding at her side doing little to dull the deep, pulsing throb of her wound.

She should have been resting, letting the herbs do their work, letting her body stitch itself back together.

But her mind would not quiet. The name that the Shadowsinger had called her still echoed through her. A whisper against her skull, an itch beneath her skin that she could not shake.

She exhaled sharply, curling her fingers into the damp fabric of her sleeves as if she could squeeze the word fro her bones, force it from her thoughts. It did not belong to her. She had no memory of ever being called that, no reason to think it was hers. And yet—

Yet, the way the Shadowsinger had said it. Raw. Gutted. Like the sight of her had cracked something inside him. Like he had seen a ghost.

She swallowed, closing her eyes against the flickering images in her head, the questions that coiled in the dark spaces between them. It was nothing. A mistake. Whatever he thought he saw, whatever name he thought belonged to her—it did not matter.

She knew better than to go back. She knew what she had done.

She let her head rest back against the tree, fingers tightening against her ribs, pressing against the ache there. It did not matter what the Shadowsinger believed, what he thought he had lost. Whoever this Elara had been—whoever she had meant to him—Munin was not her.

She was a weapon. A killer. A ghost in the wreckage of a war she had helped to wage.

And he did not deserve to carry the weight of whatever lie her face told him.

The horizon was nothing but a jagged line where sky met sea, the last traces of night bleeding into the shifting gray of dawn. Munin stared at it, at the distant land that lay beyond the churning waves, at the home that had never been hers.

Salt clung to the wind, sharp and stinging, tangling in her hair. Below, the ocean raged. She did not know why she was still looking. Perhaps some part of her had wanted to go back.

Or perhaps she only needed to remind herself that she could not.

Her grip tightened where her arms were folded against her ribs, fingers pressing into her torn sleeves, into the skin beneath. The night had stripped away the last of her strength, left her hollow and aching.

She was not the kind of female who got happy endings.

Her life had been written in blood and silence, shaped by orders she had never questioned, by a purpose that had never been her own. Even now, standing at the edge of the world, she did not know what she was supposed to be without it.

And yet—

The way the Shadowsinger had looked at her. The way his voice had broken over that name. A name she did not know. A name that did not belong to her. Something had stirred, deep and unfathomable, a feeling she could not name.

She smothered it before it could take root.

---

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Azriel went rigid at the thought. His head swam with it—the contradiction, the impossibility, the sheer wrongness of it. In the midst of battle, the bond had settled, had snapped into place with a force that had nearly brought him to his knees.

He had fought against it, recoiled at the idea that it could be her, the cold, unfeeling weapon Hybern had loosed upon them. That the Mother had somehow cursed him to be tethered to someone like her, someone who had stood on the wrong side of the war.

But it had never been Munin.

It had been Elara.

The name rang in his mind, over and over, unraveling everything he thought he knew. His mate—Munin—was Elara. His Elara. Rhys’s Elara. And she had looked at him as though she had never seen him before in her life. As if he was the stranger.

He sucked in a slow, measured breath, but it did nothing to steady him. How?

The question repeated, clawing at the edges of his sanity, demanding an answer where none existed. He had seen her body. Had seen the broken, charred remains they had been left to mourn. He had carried that loss, had helped Rhys carry it, had buried that grief so deeply inside himself that it had become part of him.

She had been dead. For five centuries, she had been dead.

And yet… she had stood before him, very much alive, her body battered but strong, her scent the same yet wrong, twisted by something dark. She had not known him. Not recognized him. She had run from him.

The logical part of his mind worked through it, piecing together the fractured truth. If she had been alive all this time, if she had been made into Munin, into that thing, then someone had done it to her. Someone had taken her, had erased her, had stripped her of everything she had been and left only the weapon behind.

A sharp, seething rage coiled low in his gut, rising steadily. He knew who. Knew without question.

Dagdan.

The mere thought of the prince’s name, of what he had done to Elara, was enough to make his shadows curl tighter, restless and seething, as if they could sense his fury, as if they shared it. Azriel forced himself to move, though his legs felt unsteady beneath him.

He had spent five hundred years mourning Elara.

He had spent five hundred years mourning someone who had never been dead at all.

Azriel moved before his mind could fully process the decision. His steps were sure, his body acting on instinct, carrying him across the wreckage of the battlefield, past the wounded, past the bodies still left unclaimed. Blood soaked the earth, the acrid scent of steel and death thick in the air, but he barely noticed it.

His focus was singular, his thoughts racing ahead to what needed to be done.

He needed to tell Rhys.

The Inner Circle had gathered in a clearing near the ruins, tending to the worst of their injuries. The battle had been won, but at a cost.

Rhys stood among them, his armor splattered with blood—some his, most not. His wings were stiff, one of them torn, and though he was upright, Azriel could see the exhaustion weighing down his movements. His High Lord was running on sheer will, holding himself together for those around him, for the people who still needed him to be unshaken, to be a leader even in the aftermath of war.

Feyre stood beside him, her face weary but determined, her fingers pressed lightly to his chest, the bond between them humming with quiet strength. She murmured something too low for Azriel to hear, and Rhys exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing, if only slightly.

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “Rhys.”

The name barely left his lips before a searing, burning pain lanced through his back. His jaw locked, the breath catching in his throat as magic flared to life, a silent, brutal warning. Agony ripped through him, tearing deep into his bones, as if fire had been branded beneath his skin. His hands clenched at his sides, breath coming short, sharp.

He had forgotten.

The bargain. The one he had made without thinking, without knowing what he was truly promising her. The one that now kept his own High Lord in the dark. That kept the truth from Elara’s own brother.

Rhys turned, brow furrowing, his gaze sharp despite the exhaustion lining his face. “Azriel?”

The pain faded as swiftly as it had come, but its echo lingered. His body ached with the effort of holding still, of keeping his expression neutral, of masking the fact that something unseen had just sunk its claws into him and held him in place.

His stomach twisted. He had promised her. Sworn, without realizing the weight of it, without knowing what he was truly binding himself to.

And now he could not speak of her.

He could not tell Rhys. Could not tell him that his sister was alive, that the one they had mourned for centuries had stood before him, breathing and bleeding and real. That she had looked at him and run.

His mouth parted, but no words came. The bargain tightened like a vice around his throat, an invisible force dragging him back into silence.

Rhys’s violet eyes flickered with something unreadable. Concern, suspicion. “What is it?”

Azriel swallowed hard, pushing past the lingering pain, forcing his hands to unclench. He had to say something. Anything.

Rhys turned to him, his brows pulling together, his voice edged with concern. “Are you all right, brother?”

Azriel forced himself to nod. The pain from the bargain still lingered beneath his skin, a slow-burning ache, but he swallowed it down. “Fine.”

The word came out clipped, tight, barely more than a breath. He could feel Feyre’s eyes on him, sharp and assessing, but he didn’t meet her gaze.

“You don’t look fine.” Her voice was quiet but pointed. She glanced at Rhys before shifting her attention back to him, her brow furrowing. “You’re pale. And you keep wincing.”

Cassian, sitting on a fallen log with his wings stretched behind him, let out a rough chuckle.

“You think he’s bad? You should have seen me before Nesta got her hands on me.” He flexed his arm, grimacing at the deep gash along his bicep. “Damn Hybern bastards know how to fight.”

Mor scoffed, raking a hand through her tangled golden hair, her leathers still streaked with dried blood. “Tell me about it. I swear one of them was actually trying to take my head off.”

Rhys gave them all a tired, amused look, exhaustion evident in the way he stood, though his voice remained light. “Considering how many of their soldiers we slaughtered, I’m not entirely surprised.” His gaze flicked back to Azriel, sharper now, knowing. “But we won. It’s over.”

Cassian sighed, rolling his shoulders, his wings rustling as he shifted. “For now. I don’t trust Beron not to make some sort of play once we start dividing up the spoils.”

Mor’s smile was sharp, a glint of something dangerous in her eyes. “Let him try.”

Feyre exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over her face. “I just want to sleep for a week. Maybe longer.”

Rhys smirked, sliding an arm around her waist, drawing her close despite the weariness in his stance. “I think that can be arranged, darling.”

Azriel barely heard them. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the impossible truth of what had just happened. He had to find her. He had to see her again, had to know—not just that his mate was real, but that she remembered.

That there was something left of Elara beneath that mask, beneath whatever had been done to her.

She had known. She had to have known.

Not fully, not consciously. But when he had said that name—Elara—something in her had recognized it. The way she had stiffened, the way her breath had caught—she had known. And then she had run.

His mate.

The bond lay between them, the one he had resented only a few hours ago, coiled tight in his chest like a second heartbeat. Even now, even after she had disappeared into the night, he could feel it. That unbearable pull, that whisper of something his, just out of reach.

His mate. And Rhys’s sister. And Munin.

His mind reeled, unraveling beneath the weight of that truth. It didn’t make sense. Couldn’t. She had been dead. For five hundred years, she had been dead, and he had grieved her, mourned her, let her go. He had honored that loss, had buried it so deep inside himself that it had become part of him.

But she was here. Alive. Breathing. And his.

He had to find her.

Not just to prove it, not just to convince himself that this wasn’t some cruel trick of war, but because he had to. Because there was no other choice, no other path forward except the one that led to her. Because whatever had been done to her, whatever mask she had been forced to wear, she was Elara.

And no matter how deeply buried she was, no matter what walls had been built between them, she was still there.

The vow settled in his chest, solid and unshakable.

No matter what, he would bring her home. Because Rhys’s sister was alive. Because his mate was out there, and she did not even know it.

And because he could not tell a soul.

Chapter 36

Notes:

Woah! The feedback for the last chapter was... insane (but in a good way). Thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to comment, I always try to respond to each and every one of you.

She had arrived in Valhallan three days ago.

The city was different than she remembered. Or perhaps she was different.

The last time she had been here, she had walked through the marble halls of the palace, presenting the decapitated head of a Summer Court emissary to the King and Queen. The memory felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else. But she could still recall the weight of it in her hands, the sick warmth of fresh blood seeping between her fingers.

She could still hear the slow, satisfied murmur of the King of Hybern after she had told him what she had done.

The slums were a far cry from those lavish halls. Here, the streets reeked of sewage and sweat, of desperation and rot. But she preferred it. No one looked at her too closely. No one asked questions.

The room she had rented was little more than a hole in the wall, tucked above a tannery that stank of spoiled leather and death. The walls wept moisture, and the bed was nothing but a sack of straw with a moth-eaten blanket. But the door had a lock.

That was all that mattered.

The landlord had not cared who she was, only that she paid. She had slid the stolen coin across the counter in silence, and he had not asked for a name. She had not given one.

Munin did not belong to her anymore.

It had never belonged to her, not really. It had been a collar, a title forced upon her, spoken by the mouths of kings and commanders. It was Hybern’s name, Dagdan’s name. It had been carved into her like a brand, burned into her mind with every order she obeyed, every life she took.

Now, it felt wrong. Like wearing someone else’s skin.

She had been avoiding her reflection.

Not that there was a mirror in the apartment. But sometimes, she caught glimpses of herself in the warped glass of shop windows, in the slick, oil-slicked puddles that gathered in the streets. And each time, she looked away before she could study the hollows of her own face, before she could meet her own violet eyes.

She had never needed to know herself before.

There had always been orders. A mission. A master. And now, there was nothing.

She was free. The thought curled around her, unfamiliar and suffocating all at once. She had never understood why people fought for it, killed for it, died for it. She had seen so many scream and bleed and beg for it. And now that it was hers—

She did not know what to do with it.

Freedom, as it turned out, was not enough. A room meant nothing if she could not afford to keep it. A lock on the door offered no security if, by the end of the week, she found herself thrown into the street, or worse, at the mercy of the kind of men who preyed on the desperate.

The landlord had made that clear from the beginning. He was a thin, rat-like male with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. His clothes were fine enough to suggest he skimmed more than his fair share off his tenants, but not fine enough to suggest any real wealth.

He had weighed the pouch of stolen coin she had placed on the counter, his rings scraping together as he rolled the money in his palm. A slow, satisfied nod, then a lingering look she had learned to recognize. The kind that spoke of a male who thought he saw something he could take.

He had leaned against the doorframe of the decrepit apartment, his mouth pulling into a smirk that showed yellowed teeth.

“Rent’s due at the end of the week,” he had said, voice thick with disinterest but laced with something else, something expectant. “If you don’t got the money, I’ve got other ways you can earn your keep.”

She had met his gaze without flinching, her fingers twitching at her side. She had seen his kind before. Males who mistook silence for submission, stillness for hesitation. She knew the game he was playing, the pressure he was testing.

“I’ll have it,” she had replied, her tone flat, even.

A lie, at the time. But she would find a way.

Stealing from common folk would only make her a target. She had no interest in drawing the attention of the city guard, no desire to end up shackled in some Valhallan dungeon. Even if they did not recognize her face, there were too many who would know her name. If the wrong person got a good enough look at her, if word reached the wrong ears, it would not be long before someone put together who and what she was.

That left her with one option—work.

The slums of Valhallan had no shortage of criminals willing to pay for a pair of quick hands and a sharp mind.

She had spent her first day listening, slipping between the crowds, following the scent of blood and desperation. There were names spoken with equal parts fear and respect, names that held weight in the underbelly of the city. She had committed them to memory, tracking their movements, watching the way others reacted to their presence.

By nightfall, she had found her way into a gambling den, the air thick with smoke and sweat, the flickering light of sconces barely cutting through the dim haze. Coins clinked against tables as players muttered curses into their cups, the scent of spilled ale and old blood lingering in the cracks of the worn floorboards. At the farthest table, a male with a thick scar running from his temple to his jaw sat with a knife spinning between his fingers, the blade catching the low light with each practiced turn.

She took the seat across from him without a word, resting her arms on the table as she studied him.

He looked up, his dark eyes sweeping over her, his brow lifting in mild amusement. “You lost?”

She kept her expression neutral. “I’m looking for work.”

His fingers stilled around the hilt of the knife. A slow, considering hum passed through his lips before he leaned back in his chair, the weight of his gaze shifting from idle curiosity to something sharper. “That so? And what exactly do you do?”

Munin leaned forward just enough to close the space between them, her voice dropping to something quiet. “Whatever needs to be done.”

He studied her for a long moment. Then, with a slow, almost reluctant nod, he gestured for a runner—a boy no older than twelve, all sharp eyes and quick hands, his movements wary. “Take her to Larek. See if he’s got use for her.”

The boy did not ask questions. He only glanced at her, silent, before slipping through the crowd with the ease of someone who knew how to move unnoticed.

Munin followed.

She would have the coin by the end of the week.

The first few jobs were simple. Too simple. Take a parcel from one end of the city to the other. No questions. No delays. Coins exchanged in dark alleys, in the back rooms of taverns, through cracks in doorways where only hands and coin purses ever met.

And Munin—who was no longer sure if that was even her name—knew how to be silent.

She kept her head low, her steps quick, her presence forgettable. The criminals of Valhallan’s underbelly didn’t trust outsiders, didn’t like working with people they didn’t know. But she delivered every package on time, never peeked inside, never left a trail. That was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

She had just passed off a small parcel, its contents shifting with an almost metallic clink, when a voice cut through the night air. "You got a name?"

The male stood just beyond the alley’s mouth, his body half-lit by the flickering glow of a street lantern. He wasn’t large, but there was something about the way he stood—casual, loose-limbed, but ready. A thin scar ran from his jaw down his throat, the skin puckered as if something had once tried to rip it open. The rasp in his voice suggested it had nearly succeeded.

Munin hesitated. The answer should have been easy. Munin. But the name felt foreign, like something dead, something left to rot in a battlefield long abandoned. It wasn’t hers—not anymore.

A slow, creeping heat coiled at the base of her neck. It had been faint, barely noticeable at first, but now it burned. A pulse, a presence. A call she refused to answer. She forced herself to keep still, to resist the instinct to reach for it, to press her fingers to the place where unseen ink tethered her to a male she barely knew.

The sensation sent another thought slithering into her mind—Elara. The way the Shadowsinger had said it, like it meant something. It had felt foreign too, but not in the same way. Not wrong. Just… out of reach.

She shook the thought away. That wasn’t her.

"No name," she said instead.

The scarred male huffed out a short laugh, the sound thick with amusement. "Everyone’s got a name."

She didn’t answer. Just held his gaze, waiting.

After a moment, he shrugged. "No name, then. Fine. You keep this up, you’ll earn one soon enough."

It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, and it wouldn’t be the last. Every time, the hesitation stretched a little longer. Munin was what Hybern had given her, carved into her like the brand on her shoulder.

But without it, who was she?

---

“You’re brooding.”

The door creaked open softly. Feyre stepped inside, barefoot, the hem of her nightgown whispering against the floor. Moonlight streamed through the balcony doors, casting long shadows across the desk where Rhys sat, his head bent over a stack of parchment.

He didn’t look up, just exhaled through his nose, fingers still braced against the paper before him. “I don’t brood.”

Feyre hummed in quiet amusement, pushing off the doorframe and making her way toward him. “You’ve been in here for hours. I thought you were coming to bed.”

Rhys finally lifted his head, the silver of the wedding band Feyre had made for him catching the dim light as he pinched the bridge of his nose. His shoulders were stiff, the usual easy grace of his movements gone. He gestured toward the mess of parchment spread across the desk. “Azriel’s reports.”

Feyre frowned, her brows knitting together. “More?”

Rhys nodded, tapping a finger against the latest sheet. He motioned for her to come closer, sliding the report toward her.

“Spring. Autumn. Winter. Summer. He’s been through nearly every court in the past few weeks.” His violet eyes met hers, sharp with something bordering on suspicion. “And I never sent him.”

Feyre picked up one of the reports, her gaze scanning the neat, precise handwriting. Azriel’s words were as direct as ever.

Beron was moving cautiously, his court still reeling from Hybern being so close to their borders. Thesan was solidifying alliances, his court stable but watchful. Kallias was focused on rebuilding, repairing the damage from Hybern’s brief occupation. Helion had opened his borders more freely than before, eager to expand trade. Even Tarquin, despite his history with them, was making careful overtures of diplomacy.

Feyre flipped through another page, scanning the sharp, meticulous script. The reports were thorough—exhaustively so. All useful information, but nothing that should have required Azriel’s constant presence. Nothing that explained why he had lingered in these courts for so long, moving from one to the next without pause.

Her frown deepened as she set the parchment down. “Why is he doing this?”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. The candlelight cast shadows along the sharp planes of his face. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Feyre picked up another report, flipping through the neatly arranged pages. The details were clinical, devoid of anything personal, but they were different from Azriel’s usual work. Less coded. Less precise in a way that felt deliberate. “These aren’t his usual reports.”

Rhys watched her closely. “No.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Is he avoiding us?”

A muscle ticked in Rhys’s jaw. He didn’t answer at first, but the silence spoke enough. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s starting to feel that way.”

The last time Azriel had returned to Velaris had been brief—too brief. He had appeared long enough to deliver his report, standing in the shadows of the war room as he detailed the unrest still lingering across the sea in Hybern. There had been no mention of how long he planned to stay. No indication that he intended to.

Rhys had asked him, casually, when he would be back. Azriel had only offered a vague, “Soon.”

Then he was gone again.

There had been something in his eyes that night. Something unreadable, buried beneath layers of careful control. It was unlike him—more distant, more restless. As if his own thoughts unsettled him, though he would never admit it aloud.

Rhys murmured, more to himself than to Feyre, “He’s never been this distant before.”

Feyre’s gaze lingered on him, her expression thoughtful. “Do you think it’s about the battle?”

Rhys considered that. Azriel had been different since the war. More withdrawn, more inclined to disappear for weeks at a time. There had been losses, some heavier than others. They had all carried scars from that final fight, but Azriel’s wounds had always run deeper than most.

Still, this felt like something else. Not just grief, not just lingering ghosts of war. Something was pulling him away. Something Azriel wasn’t telling them.

Rhys shook his head slowly, “No.”

The word was quiet, but firm. He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw as if to dispel the tension coiling in his muscles. Whatever this was, whatever had Azriel running, it wasn’t the battle. It was something else. Something he wasn’t saying.

Feyre’s fingers drummed against the edge of the desk, her brows drawn in thought. “What do we do?”

Rhys’s gaze drifted back to the reports, his violet eyes scanning the pages as if they might suddenly reveal the answer he sought. But there was nothing there—only carefully collected details, precise but impersonal. Azriel’s reports had always been cold, objective, but this was different.

His fingers curled slightly over the parchment. “We wait.”

Feyre scoffed, her chair creaking as she leaned back. “You’re just going to let him keep running?”

Rhys’s jaw tightened. The sharp angles of his face hardened, his expression unreadable. “For now.” His fingers tapped once against the parchment before sliding it aside. “But sooner or later, he’s going to have to come back.”

Feyre exhaled through her nose, considering him. He could feel her frustration, the impatience brewing beneath her composed exterior. She had always been direct, always unwilling to sit idle while the people she cared for suffered in silence. It was something he loved about his mate. But this—this required patience.

She set the parchment down, watching him carefully. “And when he does?”

Rhys lifted his gaze to hers, shadows flickering behind his eyes, a storm gathering in their depths. His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it.

“We find out what the hell he’s been hiding.”

---

The streets of Valhallan were quiet at this hour, but not empty. Shadows shifted in the alleys, figures moving in the periphery, watching, waiting. She walked swiftly, her boots near silent against the damp cobblestone. In her gloved hands, she clutched a small, unmarked package. She did not know what was inside. It wasn’t her job to ask questions.

Blind obedience — it was what she did best.

The slums here reeked of rot and magic, the latter a bitter taste in the back of her throat. The cold night air did little to dispel the stench. Rain had slicked the streets earlier, and the damp clung to everything—the crumbling stone walls, the filth caked into the streets, the threadbare cloaks of those who huddled in the doorways. Lanterns burned weakly overhead, casting sickly yellow light that barely touched the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a drunken brawl echoed, a crash of glass, a shouted curse.

Munin kept her hood low. The people here knew better than to ask questions. No one met her eyes. That suited her just fine.

The package in her hands hummed faintly, a slow, pulsing rhythm against her palms. Not enough to be alarming, but enough to make her grip tighten. Whatever it was, it was powerful. Dangerous, maybe. But that wasn’t her concern. She only needed to deliver it.

Then, a different pulse. This one not from the package.

Her body went rigid. A sharp, insistent tug at the back of her neck—not painful, but felt. The bargain mark. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to ignore it. The Shadowsinger.

She was far from him. Far from all of them. He shouldn’t be able to reach her.

She focused on her steps, the rhythm of her breathing, the task at hand. The distance between them should have dulled the bond, should have severed whatever strange connection tethered them together. But there it was again, steady and rhythmic, like the echo of a distant heartbeat.

A call. A search.

Munin forced it down, shoving the sensation into the cold, empty place inside her mind. Whatever it was—whatever he was doing—she wanted no part of it.

The voices reached her first. Sharp, guttural sounds, the kind that made the hair on the back of her neck rise. A harsh laugh, followed by the murmur of low, taunting words she couldn’t yet make out. Then another voice—frantic, high-pitched, pleading.

“No—please—”

Munin’s steps slowed.

“Shut up,” a male sneered. Another laugh, mean and slurred. “Ain’t no one coming for you. Just let us have our fun, and we’ll bring you to him all that quicker.”

She rounded the corner, staying in the shadows. Three males—filthy, broad-shouldered, reeking of sweat and stale ale—had a young female pressed against the crumbling brick wall of a narrow alley. Her dress was torn, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Her wide, terrified eyes darted frantically, searching for something, someone.

One of the males had his hand fisted in her skirts. Another pinned her in place with an arm pressed hard against her throat. The third stood back slightly, watching, grinning.

Munin went still.

The alley blurred.

The scent of wet stone and filth twisted into something else. A different place, a different time. The coppery stench of blood thick in the air. A temple, its sacred walls defiled. The sounds of screams and breaking bones. The cries of the red-haired priestess as a Hybern soldier wrenched her down, as more of them followed.

Her soldiers.

A sick, twisting sensation coiled in Munin’s stomach. She could still hear the priestess’s cries, as clearly as she heard the girl in front of her now.

Munin blinked. The temple was gone. The blood. The laughter. The screams.

Cold night air pressed against her skin, damp and thick with the stench of rot. She was in the alley. The shadows stretched long, lantern light flickering weakly against the cracked stone.

The bargain mark on the back of her neck pulsed, a sharp, insistent beat beneath her skin, as if something deep inside her was stirring, waiting. She flexed her fingers and exhaled, the cold air burning as it filled her lungs. Three against one. It would be easy. And yet, she knew how simple it would be to turn away, to disappear into the night as if she had never been here at all.

But the girl’s choked sob cut through the dark, raw and desperate, and something lodged itself in Munin’s chest. She had told herself she didn’t care. That she couldn’t afford to care. But she could still hear those screams—still see red hair slick with sweat and blood beneath the flickering torchlight. She had stood by then, had watched without feeling, without thought. That was who she had been. Who Hybern had made her.

And yet, she was still standing here. She had not left.

The bargain tattoo burned, a searing pull that dragged against her skin like the edge of a blade. Not painful—no, not quite. But insistent, an undeniable pressure that coiled beneath her flesh. The Shadowsinger’s magic pressed against hers, reaching. Seeking. Munin gritted her teeth, shoving it down, forcing herself to ignore the way it made her stomach twist. She had more immediate concerns.

She stepped forward, her voice quiet but carrying through the narrow alley. “Let her go.”

The largest of the males turned, squinting at her through the dim lantern light. He took her in slowly, gaze dragging over her hooded figure before his mouth curled into a lazy grin. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

She did not answer. Did not move. The damp night air settled thick between them, laced with the acrid scent of sweat and filth. The girl whimpered, pressing further into the wall as if she might disappear into the crumbling stone.

Munin’s voice remained flat, steady. “Last warning.”

The first male scoffed and took a step toward her. “And what are you going to do about it, little thing?”

She moved before he finished speaking.

A flick of her wrist, and a dagger appeared, the steel gleaming as it caught the faint lantern glow. The first male lunged—sloppy, predictable. She sidestepped with ease, bringing her elbow up in the same breath and slamming it into his throat. He choked, gasping as he collapsed to the ground, wheezing for air.

The second one swung for her. A mistake. She caught his wrist before he could land the hit, twisting hard until she felt the bone snap beneath her fingers. His scream ripped through the night, sharp and shrill, before he crumpled next to his friend, clutching his mangled arm to his chest.

The third male did not move. He stood frozen, staring at her, his hands shaking at his sides. His throat bobbed, eyes flicking to his companions groaning at his feet. Munin tilted her head, watching as he took a staggering step back. A dark stain spread down the front of his pants.

Her voice was a whisper of steel. “Still feeling brave?”

The male stumbled back, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. His hands shook as he held them up in a useless defense, his eyes darting between his whimpering companion and the blade still gleaming in Munin’s grip. He shook his head violently, voice breaking. “Fuck—fuck this. It ain’t worth the coin he’s paying us.”

Without another word, he turned, grabbing the friend whose wrist hung at an unnatural angle, and bolted down the alley, their footsteps pounding against the slick cobblestones. The one still on the ground groaned, curling in on himself as he clutched his bruised throat.

Munin crouched beside him, pressing the tip of her dagger beneath his chin. His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid as she tilted the blade just enough to let him feel the bite of cold steel against his skin.

“Run.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. A breath of ice in the dark. “And if I ever see you again, I won’t be so merciful.”

The male did not hesitate. He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over himself, his boots skidding on the wet stone as he tore off into the night, following the path of his fleeing companions.

Silence settled over the alley once more, broken only by the rasping breaths of the girl still pressed against the wall. She sagged in relief, hands trembling where they gripped the torn fabric of her dress. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, met Munin’s.

“You—you saved me,” the girl whispered, voice raw from choking back sobs.

Munin said nothing at first. Just wiped her blade against her cloak before sliding it back into its sheath. She did not want thanks. Did not want questions. She only inclined her head toward the mouth of the alley. “Go home.”

The girl blinked, as if struggling to process the words. Awe and gratitude flickered across her face, warring with the fear still clinging to her. “I don’t know how to thank—”

A sharp whistle cut through the night air, slicing through the alley like a blade. Heavy boots struck against the cobblestones, the rhythmic march of an approaching patrol.

The Royal Guard.

Munin’s blood ran cold.

She had been to Valhallan’s court before. Had stood in the Queen’s gilded hall, armor polished, her blade dripping red. A decapitated head had lain at her feet, eyes glassy, mouth frozen in a scream. She had been Hybern’s assassin, their weapon, the executioner who had made nobles tremble and beg before her.

If the guards recognized her—if they so much as suspected—she would not leave this city alive.

The girl’s breath hitched. “The guard—”

Munin was already backing away, her hood dipping lower to shroud her face in shadow. “You never saw me.”

Then she turned, slipping into the darkness of the alley, vanishing between the buildings like a ghost.

The bargain tattoo pulsed, harder this time. A sharp, unrelenting pull, dragging at her like a tether being yanked from the other end.

And still—she ignored it.

Chapter 37

Notes:

Who is in the mood for some feral Azriel?

The cold air carried the scent of the sea, salt and rot mixing with the lingering stench of coal smoke and damp stone. It clung to the streets, seeping into the cracks between the uneven cobblestones, curling through the alleys like a living thing.

Azriel moved through it, his hood drawn low, wings tucked tightly to his back. His footsteps made no sound as he passed shuttered windows and sagging doorways, past figures hunched against the cold, clutching whatever meager warmth they could find.

His shadows whispered of activity here—something, someone. It was all he had to go on, but it was enough.

The building loomed ahead, leaning slightly, as if the years had worn at its spine. Cracks ran through the stone, dark with damp, and the wooden slats of the roof were warped and rotting. The door to the landlord’s quarters was warped as well, its brass handle rusted from the salt-heavy air. Azriel rapped his knuckles against it once. The answer came in the form of shuffling steps, slow and irritated, before the door swung open.

A squat male stood in the threshold, his beady eyes narrowing as he took in the stranger before him. He reeked of sweat and spoiled ale, his tunic stained, his gut straining against the fabric.

“We’re full,” the landlord grumbled, already moving to shut the door.

Azriel’s hand shot out, catching the edge before it could slam. A whisper of shadows curled around his fingers. “I’m not here for a room.”

The male stiffened. His gaze flicked to the darkness slithering along Azriel’s knuckles, then back up to the hood shrouding his face. He swallowed thickly, shifting on his feet.

 “A female rented a room from you. Dark hair, about this tall. Kept to herself.” Azriel leaned in slightly, his voice low, steady. He watched the landlord carefully. “Tell me what you know.”

 “Lots of women come through here.” The landlord’s tongue darted out, wetting his cracked lips. His gaze flicked toward the street, his stance shifting slightly, as if he were debating whether to run. “Don’t keep track of ‘em.”

Azriel’s patience thinned, stretched taut as a wire. His shadows thickened, curling at his feet, reaching for the male in slow, sinuous tendrils. “Try again.”

A nervous chuckle. The landlord scratched at his greasy beard, his fingers shaking slightly as they combed through the filth clinging to his jaw. “Look, I don’t ask questions. If they got coin, they get a room. That’s all I care about.”

Azriel let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle like a storm rolling in over the sea. The landlord shifted again, wiped his palms on the front of his stained tunic.

“She—she paid her rent on time.” The words came rushed, eager to fill the quiet. “Didn’t say much, but kept odd hours. Thought maybe she was hiding something.”

 A pause, an uneasy glance toward the shadows still curling at Azriel’s feet. “Didn’t think it was my business.”

Liar.

Azriel had met males like him before. Males who lurked in places like this, watching, waiting. A silent predator who fed off powerlessness.

Had she felt him watching? Had she gone to sleep every night knowing those eyes were on her? Had she tightened the locks on the door, set a knife beside her bed just in case?

A slow, simmering rage unfurled in his chest, unexpected in its depth.

She had stayed here. She had lived in this filth, surrounded by gutter rats and cutthroats. His mate. She could handle herself, Azriel was well aware of that fact. But still, the fact that she thought she had to when her home was waiting for her—

His fingers twitched at his sides. A movement so slight, but the landlord flinched anyway, as if he could feel the shift in the air, the pressure curling tight around him like unseen hands.

“Her room,” Azriel said, voice colder now. “Show me.”

The landlord hesitated. His eyes darted to the shifting shadows curling around Azriel’s boots, as if sensing that whatever patience remained was already thinning. Another flicker of darkness and the male swallowed hard, nodding quickly before stepping out of his quarters and leading Azriel into the narrow, uneven hall.

The wood beneath their boots groaned with each step. The walls, stained from years of damp and neglect, closed in too tightly, the air thick with the stench of old sweat, spoiled ale, and something sour that settled in the back of the throat.

This was where she had lived.

Azriel exhaled through his nose, forcing his steps to remain steady, even. If he let himself dwell on that fact, let himself imagine her walking through these halls—tucking herself into some damp, crumbling corner of this place—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from burning it to the ground.

They reached the door at the end of the hall. The landlord fumbled with a key, his fingers trembling as he turned it in the lock.

“Didn’t see her leave,” he muttered. “Just up and vanished. ”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. Of course she had.

He had known it wouldn’t be simple. Had known, deep down from the moment she had winnowed away from him, that finding Elara would be a hunt—one step forward, two steps back, her scent always fading just as he got close. But still, some part of him had hoped. Hoped she had at least stayed long enough to leave something behind. Hoped he would open this door and find an answer instead of another empty room.

The lock clicked. The door creaked as he pushed it open, stale air and damp wood mingling with something far more distinct—her.

It was faint beneath the layers of dust and rot, barely more than an echo, but it was there.

His fingers curled at his sides.

She was becoming a ghost.

Azriel stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the cramped space. A cot sat abandoned in the corner, the sheets stripped away. A small pantry door hung slightly ajar, revealing the last remnants of food—dried meat, hardened bread, the kind of rations a soldier would keep on hand. A woven basket on the counter held apples, their skins wrinkling, their scent souring.

He reached for one, rolling it between his fingers. The skin gave beneath the pressure, the fruit softening with time. She had been here long enough to settle. Long enough to think she could stay. Had she considered this place her home now?

His grip tightened. The apple crushed in his palm, juice seeping through his fingers before he tossed it aside.

Did she remember? Did she remember anything about who she was—who she had been? Or had she made herself forget? If she had known—if she had truly remembered—why was she still running?

The landlord lingered in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. Azriel could feel the male’s gaze sweeping over the space, taking in the remnants of her life here—the stripped cot, the empty pantry, the woven basket of rotting apples. He didn’t turn to look, didn’t acknowledge the landlord beyond the simmering tension in his spine. But his fingers flexed at his sides.

She had lived in this filth. Slept under this roof. Walked these halls, inhaled this rancid air. His mate.

The landlord sucked on his teeth, then let out a low chuckle. He’d grown bolder.

“Shame, really,” he muttered, voice slithering into the quiet like something rotten. “She was a pretty little thing. All covered up, but you can always tell, you know?”

Azriel went still.

The shadows in the room thickened, curling toward him, drawn by the slow, measured breath he took. He didn’t look at the landlord, didn’t react beyond the way his shoulders stiffened, a barely perceptible shift.

The landlord smirked, rubbing a grimy hand over the curve of his gut. “Bet she looked real nice under all that. Would’ve given her a discount if she’d been a little friendlier.”

The words landed like a drop of oil on fire.

Something cold and sharp unfurled in Azriel’s chest, spreading through his limbs. He could hear the smirk in the landlord’s voice, the lecherous satisfaction in his tone, and it sent a slow, simmering rage curling through his gut.

Elara had been here. Alone. And this male—this filth—had looked at her like that. Had thought of her like that.

His fingers twitched. His shadows curled, winding tighter, writhing against his skin like they could taste the violence coiling beneath it.

The landlord was still smirking, shaking his head as if he found the whole thing amusing. “Silent type, though. The quiet ones are always the most fun once you get ‘em to loosen up.”

Azriel moved before the male could say another word. One step. That was all it took to close the space between them. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the landlord’s throat. A sharp, choked sound escaped the male’s lips as Azriel slammed him back against the splintering doorframe.

The building groaned with the impact.

His grip tightened, cutting off the pathetic whimper bubbling up from the landlord’s throat. The male’s feet barely touched the floor, his hands clawing uselessly at Azriel’s wrist.

“Say that again,” Azriel murmured, voice like silk over steel.

The landlord’s mouth opened and closed, gasping like a fish pulled from water. His face flushed a deep red, his eyes bulging in panic. “I—I didn’t mean—”

Azriel squeezed. Not enough to kill him. Not yet. Just enough to make the male feel it. To make him understand, in the deepest part of himself, that he had made a mistake.

He wanted to break something. Not out of anger—no, this was colder than anger. More precise. This was the quiet, lethal rage that Azriel needed to constantly keep buried.

His shadows slithered forward, curling around the landlord’s limbs, winding tighter with each breath the male managed to suck in. They wreathed his wrists, his ankles, a creeping, living thing dragging him into the abyss inch by inch. With a flick of his wrist, Azriel could shatter every bone in his body. Could pull until tendons snapped and joints twisted the wrong way. Could carve the filth from his flesh before the male had the chance to beg.

But it would be too quick.

Azriel leaned in slightly, his voice nothing more than a breath of steel. “You watched her.”

The landlord let out a strangled sound, his eyes bulging as the shadows tightened. Azriel ignored it, his grip flexing against the male’s throat, letting his claws press just slightly into clammy skin.

“You thought about putting your hands on her.”

The male’s face darkened, veins straining against his temples. He wheezed, a garbled attempt at speech, but Azriel only bared his teeth.

“If you had tried,” he murmured, soft as silk, “I would be peeling your skin off, piece by piece.”

The words settled in the stale air, sinking into the landlord’s marrow. Azriel could see the understanding dawn in the male’s expression—the pure, abject terror that came from realizing there was nothing he could do, no way to crawl back from the precipice he had been dragged to.

Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, Azriel released him.

The landlord crumpled like a discarded rag, hitting the warped floorboards with a sickening thud. He gasped for air, coughing violently, his entire body trembling as he clutched at his bruised throat. His wide, watering eyes lifted to Azriel, sheer terror carved into every feature.

Azriel stared down at hi, shadows still twisting like living things around his frame, still hungry for an outlet for the frustration that had been mounting for weeks now.

“If she ever comes back,” Azriel said, voice flat, void of anything human, “you will not speak to her. You will not look at her. You will not breathe in her direction.”

The landlord shuddered violently, nodding so fast it looked painful.

Azriel crouched slightly, his wings shifting behind him, slow and menacing, the movement enough to make the male flinch.

“Or I will come back,” he murmured, his voice a quiet, lethal thing. “And this time, I won’t be merciful.”

The landlord nodded frantically, too terrified to speak. Azriel held his gaze for a breath longer, letting the silence stretch until the male could feel the weight of it settle deep into his bones.

Then he straightened, stepping past the crumpled heap of a male on the floor. The door groaned in protest as he pushed it open, the cool night air spilling into the room, sharp with the scent of the sea and rotting stone. He didn’t spare a glance back. The landlord wouldn’t dare disobey him.

Not if he valued his life.

The stale air hit him as he emerged into the night, thick with the stench of rot and coal smoke, damp stone and filth. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles aching from the force of it.

The scent of her still lingered—faint beneath the reek of unwashed bodies and spoiled food, beneath the stink of desperation clinging to these streets like a second skin. His mate. Living among vermin like that male, forced to endure his leering stares. Forced to survive in this place at all.

His teeth clenched, a slow, simmering fury winding through his veins, as much a part of him as the shadows curling hungrily in the damp corners of the crumbling buildings. They slithered along the alley walls, twisting around rusted gutters and shattered glass, searching for any information that might help him find Elara.

Azriel moved without a sound, his wings tucked tight, his stride measured despite the anger burning through his blood. He should have been better than this—should not have let himself lose control like that. But the image of that landlord’s smirk lingered. The knowing glint in his beady eyes, the way he had thought about her. About his mate. About what she might have looked like beneath her clothes, about what she might have been willing to endure for a bit of coin.

His fingers twitched. He had been too merciful.

Then—voices.

Azriel barely had to listen. His shadows curled back to whisper in his ear. Criminals. Filth. They attacked a female.

His steps faltered. His breath came sharp, cold. His heart gave a single, brutal beat as something dark and visceral clawed up his throat. Had it been Elara? His shadows had traced her steps here—had led him straight to the filth she had lived among. Had she crossed paths with them? Had they—

“—fucking monster,” one of them was saying, his voice still trembling.

“She wasn’t normal,” another muttered. “She wasn’t anything.”

“If I see her again, I’ll—”

Azriel stepped into the dim light. The words died in the male’s throat. The stink of their fear thickened the air, instant and suffocating. They went rigid, their instincts kicking in before their minds could catch up. Two males, battered and bruised, their clothes still torn from whatever struggle they had been in. Their skin was mottled with fresh wounds—jagged slashes, like something clawed at them. One of them had a wet spot running down his legs.

Azriel’s wings shifted slightly, just enough to block the alley’s only exit.

His wings shifted slightly, blocking the alley’s only exit. One of them let out a shaky breath, his pulse stuttering.

“You seem upset.” Azriel tilted his head. His voice was quiet, steady. Almost mocking.

The males didn’t answer, their breaths quick and shallow, but the one with the swollen jaw squared his shoulders slightly, as if remembering he had a spine. He spat onto the ground, blood mixing with filth.

“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” His voice was rough, hoarse from whatever Elara had done to him. He shifted his weight, his hands twitching at his sides. “You looking for trouble?”

Azriel only stared, unimpressed. The slums bred this kind of bravado—the kind that cracked the moment real danger stepped into the room. His shadows curled around him, feeding on the stink of their fear, drinking in the sweat that beaded along their brows despite the cold night air. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The thinner one let out a huff, trying for bravado, but the way he kept darting glances toward the alley’s exit gave him away.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He snorted, swiping at the blood on his lip. “Just some prick with a—”

Azriel took a single step forward, and both of them flinched.

The taller one was the first to react, reaching for the dagger at his belt. Fast, but not fast enough. Azriel’s own blade was already pressed beneath his chin, tilting his head back in one smooth, effortless motion. The male went still, his entire body locking up as his pulse thundered against the edge. His breath hitched, but Azriel didn’t let him speak.

“Tell me,” Azriel murmured, voice quiet, calm. “Was it the humiliation? Or the pain?”

The male swallowed hard, his throat bobbing against the dagger’s sharp edge. “I don’t—”

Azriel’s fingers twitched, the slightest press of steel into skin. Not enough to draw blood, but definitely enough to intimidate, “Try again.”

A sharp inhale, then words tumbled from the male’s mouth, spilling in a frantic rush. “She—she just appeared. One second we had the girl, next second she was there—cloak, voice like death.” His voice cracked, his fear turning acrid, thickening the air. “Didn’t say a word, just—”

The other one scoffed, straightening slightly. “We would’ve handled her if she hadn’t gotten the jump on us.” He sniffed, trying for casual. “She caught us off guard, that’s all.”

Azriel turned his head slightly, pinning him with a look. His shadows slithered toward the male’s feet, dragging his attention downward.

The male stiffened, going rigid.

Azriel’s voice was silk-soft. “Bold words for someone who pissed himself.”

The swollen-jawed male’s face went red, but he didn’t deny it.

The second male let out a rasping, humorless laugh, but it was hollow, empty of any real fight. “She just destroyed us.” His lip curled, something bitter and almost admiring in his eyes, but the fear still held him by the throat. “I swear she was playing with us. She could’ve killed us all.”

But she didn’t.

The dagger pressed deeper, a breath away from breaking skin. The male whimpered, his body locking up, his pulse thundering beneath the steel.

“She,” he said, voice quiet, steady. Azriel didn’t blink, didn’t shift his grip. He already knew. He had known from the moment the pieces slid together. But he needed to hear it. He needed the confirmation. “Who is she?”

The male trembled against the dagger, breath hitching. “I don’t—I don’t know her name—”

The blade tilted, the pressure infinitesimal, a whisper of death against his throat. “Describe her.”

The male’s lips parted, pulse hammering beneath the steel. “Tall—slender—fast. Stronger than she should’ve been—like something out of a nightmare.”

Like a ghost. Like a weapon. The words cut through him, deeper than he expected. It was what Elara had been the majority of her life. Hybern’s weapon. Azriel’s grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt. She had been here. She had found them, had stopped them. And she had let them live. Bruised, broken—but alive.

His gaze flicked over them, taking in the evidence of her work. The swollen knuckles, the ragged breaths, the way their hands still shook, the way they wouldn’t—couldn’t—meet his eyes for too long. His shadows slithered between them, whispering along their trembling limbs, curling in the damp air. He let the silence stretch, let them feel the weight of it, let them wonder if he would finish what she had started.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulled the dagger away. The male stumbled back, a shaking hand flying to his throat, his chest rising and falling too fast. Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t step aside. “If I hear you’ve tried something like that again,” he said, voice soft, final, “I won’t be so merciful.”

They flinched, but didn’t argue. Didn’t move until he turned away, until the darkness seemed to release them.

Azriel stepped into the night, the filth of this city clinging to him like oil, sinking into his skin. His heartbeat remained steady, his breathing even—but beneath it, beneath the cold control, something simmered, something dark and sharp and unfamiliar.

She had been here. And she had let them live.

His jaw tightened, his wings shifting slightly.

Maybe, just maybe, the Elara they all knew wasn’t fully gone.

---

The forest pressed in around her, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. Munin moved without sound, her steps light and measured. The underbrush snagged at the hem of her cloak, but she hardly noticed. Her focus was on the terrain, on the places where the ground sloped unevenly, on the gaps between trees where the wind cut sharper. She needed a place to rest. Just for the night.

She had slept in worse conditions.

Her fingers twitched at the thought.

That apartment in Valhallan’s slums had barely been a place to rest, let alone live. The walls had been thin, the air damp, the stench of mold and unwashed bodies seeping into everything. The mattress had sagged in the middle, stuffed with straw so old it had gone brittle.

Noise had bled through the rotting wood—arguments, drunken shouts, the muffled sobs of someone who had long since accepted that no one would come to help. She had kept her pack close, her weapons closer. Sleep had come in fits, light and restless. It had been a place to disappear. Nothing more.

Her cell in Hybern had been nearly just as bad.

Munin found a hollow beneath the roots of a fallen tree, the earth beneath it dry, the shadows deep enough to obscure her from sight. She crouched, drawing her cloak tighter, bracing her back against the gnarled bark. The ground was cold, the ache in her legs dull but persistent.

She had walked for hours. Let herself feel every step, every stretch of muscle. Maybe she deserved that ache.

Her hands moved without thought, reaching into her pack for what little she had—dried meat, a waterskin, a worn flint stone. The motions were practiced, mechanical. She gathered kindling, striking the flint until the first ember caught, coaxing a flame to life. It was small, barely enough to warm her hands, but she didn’t need more than that.

She had lived on less. Had gone nights without food, without shelter. But still—still—she had never felt this hollow.

The girl’s face rose in her mind. Wide, terrified eyes, bloodless lips parted in a silent plea. She had pressed herself against that crumbling brick wall, fingers trembling as if waiting for the inevitable. Munin could still see the way her shoulders had curled inward, the way her breath had hitched, too sharp, too shallow.

Munin had seen fear before. Had caused fear before. But she had never stopped it.

Her blade had moved before she could think. One moment, those males had been laughing, jeering, hands reaching for that girl—and the next, they had been on their knees, gasping, begging.

She could have killed them. Would have, once. But she hadn’t. And why?

Munin stared into the fire that she had made, watching the way the flames curled and flickered, devouring the brittle twigs she had gathered. The warmth barely reached her fingers, but she didn’t move closer. She only sat there, legs folded beneath her, the ache in her muscles settling into something heavier.

She could have killed them. She should have. That was what she had been made for. For so long, she had never hesitated. Dagdan had shaped her mind, twisted it until obedience was the only thing left. She had moved at his command, and snuffed out life without feeling anything at all.

Even after his death, she had still obeyed. Still carried out orders, because it was all she had known. The King of Hybern had not needed to carve his way into her mind the way Dagdan had. She had done it willingly, because she had believed there was no other choice. No other option.

But tonight, she had chosen.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak. She had let those males live. She had watched them cower, had seen the terror in their eyes, had known—known—how easy it would have been to end them.

And yet she hadn’t.

Not because she lacked the strength. Not because she had suddenly grown merciful.

She had simply been tired. Tired of killing. Tired of blood and violence and the weight of it all pressing down on her like a second skin.

Her hands had been steady when she walked away from them, but now, sitting in the quiet of the forest, they trembled. She clenched them into fists, willing the feeling away. It didn’t matter. The girl had lived. That was enough.

Munin exhaled slowly and leaned back against the tree, the rough bark digging into her shoulders. The fire crackled softly, the night pressing in, thick and endless. She should rest while she could. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But at least, for tonight, she had made her own choice.

The firelight flickered, shadows shifting across her hands, her arms, the dark span of her battered wings. They curled along the ridges of her knuckles, twisting like the ghosts of something long gone. Once, she had been Hybern’s terror, the blade Dagdan wielded without hesitation. A weapon that did not think, did not feel—only struck where commanded, only killed when ordered. But now, as she sat in the dirt with the scent of smoke curling through the damp night air, she wondered—what was she now?

She chewed a strip of dried meat, barely tasting the salt and sinew, the act nothing more than motion. She had no answers. Only the open road. Only the miles still ahead.

---

Three nights passed in the same steady rhythm—walking, hunting, flying when the darkness allowed. The forest had been kind so far. There were no cities or towns, no patrols to avoid. Just open land and the quiet of the trees. It gave her space to breathe, to move without the weight of everything she had done.

She crouched beside the embers of her fire, the scent of roasted meat clinging to the cold air. The hare had been lean, little more than scraps of meat clinging to fragile bones, but enough to keep her going. She ate in silence, listening to the world around her—the distant hoot of an owl, the shifting branches as the wind wove through them. The sounds of life that had nothing to do with war.

The sky had become hers again.

She had almost forgotten what that felt like.

When the last bone had been stripped clean, she rose, shaking out her cloak before leaping into the night. The wind caught beneath her wings immediately, lifting her into the cold stretch of open sky. The trees blurred below her as she climbed higher, the air sharp and crisp against her skin. It had been years since she had flown without restriction. Not on a mission. Not on anyone’s orders. And now—now she savored it.

Her flight carried her in wide arcs, scanning the forest below for any sign of movement. Her makeshift camp remained untouched, the traps she had set still undisturbed. The night stretched quiet and still, save for the whisper of her wings.

Then, beyond the trees, something flickered.

The wind curled through her wings as Munin angled toward the light, her wings slicing through the cold night air. The trees fell away beneath her, giving way to a vast, silver expanse stretching toward the horizon. A lake, still and unbroken, its surface smooth as glass beneath the moonlight. The reflection shimmered like polished steel, undisturbed except for the occasional ripple where the wind skimmed across the water.

She hovered, wings beating slow and steady, her body held aloft with barely any effort. But something in her stilled.

Moonlight on water.

A thread pulled taut in her chest. The lake glowed beneath her, a mirror to the sky above. There was something about the reflection of the lake that hovered at the edges of her memory.

A city beside a body of water. A bay? No. A river?

The thought was not Munin’s own, and yet it curled through her mind as if it had always been there. Golden light spilling over cobbled streets. Laughter carried on a warm breeze. Music, voices raised in song. The scent of jasmine thick in the air, mixing with sun-warmed stone, with the faintest trace of something sweet, something she could not name.

She knew that place.

And yet—she didn’t.

It flickered through her like a dying ember, there and then gone before she could grasp it, before she could pull it closer. The moment it vanished, an ache settled beneath her ribs, sharp and deep, a hollowness that should not have been there. It made no sense.

It was not hers to mourn.

Her fingers clenched at her sides. She did not understand. She had no memories of a city by a river. No recollection of golden streets or jasmine-scented air. The past was a void, carved clean by those who had shaped her into something else. Dagdan had made sure of that.

And yet—her chest still ached.

Munin exhaled through her nose, shutting her eyes against it, forcing the feeling down. She forced herself to forget the phantom city, the lingering scent of something lost. It didn’t matter. It was nothing but a trick of the mind, some meaningless echo buried in the darkness of her past. A life that had never belonged to her.

She had no use for memories.

She turned sharply, wings folding in as she descended, the treetops rising up to swallow her once more. The ground rushed to meet her, the damp scent of earth and pine filling her lungs as she landed with barely a whisper of sound. She had a perimeter to check. A long flight ahead.

And she had no time for the past—especially one that did not belong to her.

Chapter 38

The city that Munin found herself in was smaller than Valhallan, quieter too.

After days in the wilderness of the Continent, Munin stumbled upon the remote city. It appeared to spring up from the forest itself, with nothing else around it for days. A few miles away, up on a hill, sat the lord’s manor, overlooking the rundown city. Munin had flown around it for a few days, watching and waiting to see anything suspect.

But the lord was a minor one, compared to the others she had seen throughout her lifetime. It did not seem like this small city — if it could truly be called that, drew any attention from the likes of Valhallan or any other major power on the Continent. When she could not find any reason to be wary, Munin allowed herself to settle there.

It was quiet there, too. No watchful eyes in the alleyways, no criminals lurking in the shadows, no desperate underbelly she could slip into if she needed coin.

It was better that way—safer.

But it also meant she had to work.

She hunched over the washtub, hands red and raw from the lye soap, fingers aching as she wrung out another sodden tunic. The midday sun pressed down on her, the air thick and humid, making the damp linen stick to her arms as she tossed it onto the pile beside her.

On her first day, she had found work as a laundress. It was monotonous and paid a pittance. But it was honest work, and Munin couldn’t help but like that fact. She had spent too long working for others, in the shadows, and causing harm. For once, she was doing something on her own terms.

Even if it paid like shit.

The other laundresses worked alongside her, their voices low, weary.

“Old man Hadric’s been charging more for flour again,” one muttered, shaking out a sheet with sharp, jerking movements. “Says the roads are bad, but I don’t believe a word of it.”

“I don’t know how you even afford bread at this point,” another huffed. “Everything’s gone up. And with the taxes—”

“Oh, don’t start on the taxes,” someone groaned. “We’ll be here all day.”

Munin barely held back a sigh, rolling her eyes as she reached for the next shirt. She understood their problems, she experienced them first hand now. The price of flour. The cost of rent. The petty greed of a merchant hiking his prices.

But at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel grateful that those were her problems. That she was no longer forced to bow down to commands from a tyrant or wait helplessly as a Daemati violated her mind.

She scrubbed harder, gritting her teeth as the soap burned the open cracks on her knuckles.

At least nobody asked her any questions.

For that, she was grateful, even as the work left her body aching, even as the monotony of it pressed against her skull like a dull, endless throb. She let it distract her from the sharp hunger gnawing at her stomach. The pit in her gut had become a familiar thing these past weeks, something she had learned to ignore. Her wages barely covered the cost of her rent, leaving little for food.

Her fingers slipped, sending a splash of soapy water up her arms. She sat back on her heels, shaking off the dampness, and let her gaze drift toward the sun’s position in the sky. It was almost time to leave for the day, at least.

“Have you heard about the missing girls?” A thin, sharp-nosed female wrung out a tunic with bony fingers, her voice edged with a kind of curiosity that bordered on amusement.

One of the younger girls, a soft-faced thing with freckles, frowned. “You mean they’re running away?”

“Not according to their families,” the sharp-nosed female sniffed, as if she didn’t quite car what their families had to say. “Serves some of them right, if you ask me. Disappearing at night —probably ladies from the pleasure houses. At least this way there’s less filth on the streets.”

Munin stilled, her grip tightening on the wet cloth in her hands. In her circling of the city, she hadn’t heard this before. But no one else seemed particularly shocked. A few grumbled, some shook their heads, but no one seemed to care beyond the usual complaints about hardship.

She forced herself to keep scrubbing, forcing the tension from her fingers. It wasn’t her problem. At least not yet, she was making just enough to keep the ramshackle roof over her head. But an uneasy feeling settled in her gut anyway.

The last of the linens had been wrung dry, folded into neat stacks to be collected by their owners. The other laundresses lingered, chatting in low voices as they wiped their hands on their skirts, but she kept her head down. It wasn’t strategic to draw attention to herself. She dd not want to have to leave this city so suddenly, like she dd Valhallan.

The forewoman—an older female with a voice like a rusted hinge—counted out her pay, dropping the coins into her open palm. The weight of them was pitiful, barely enough to keep a roof over her head. She closed her fingers over the coin and turned away, ignoring the ache in her back and the raw sting in her hands. This was what she had chosen. Better than the life she’d had in Valhallan, running messages, handling pickups for males whose names she never asked for.

Better than serving Hybern, than being nothing more than a blade, a tool. It was better.

The streets had begun to quiet as the sun dipped lower, but the market still bustled, voices rising over the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat. It curled around her like smoke, worming its way beneath her ribs, into her hollowed-out stomach. She did her best to ignore it.

Munin forced herself to walk past the baker’s stall, past the steaming trays of meat pies, past the fruit vendor hawking bruised apples. She would not waste coin she did not have on prepared foods. Instead, she made her way to the butcher’s stall, where skinned rabbits hung in a neat row, their pink flesh glistening in the dimming light.

The butcher—a thick-set male with a ruddy complexion—grunted as she approached, his sharp gaze flicking over her. She pointed to the smallest rabbit. “How much?”

“Four silvers.”

She frowned, her fingers tightening around the coins in her palm. “That’s twice what it’s worth.”

The butcher leaned against his stall, unbothered. “Supply’s been low. If you don’t like it, you can try your luck hunting.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I could fetch better game than this and sell it for half the price.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Then why don’t you?”

Because she couldn’t afford a bow. Because she couldn’t risk wandering too far from the city, not when she had no allies, no safety net. Because she wasn’t supposed to draw attention. Instead of answering, she stuffed her meager coins back into the pocket of her skirts.

Her fingers brushed over the last of her coins, their edges worn smooth from too much handling. She did not have enough. Not if she wanted to afford anything else before the week’s end. She forced herself to step back, curling her hand into a fist. “Forget it.”

It looked like she would be going to bed hungry. Again.

The butcher only grunted, already turning his attention to the next customer, his disinterest as sharp as a dismissal. She didn’t wait for another glance before slipping back into the crowd. The scent of roasting meat trailed after her, clinging to the cool evening air, but she ignored the way her stomach clenched, the way hunger gnawed at her ribs.

She had survived worse.

Still, her body had begun to betray her. The way her tunic hung looser, the way her limbs felt sluggish when she worked, the constant ache in her bones. Even now, she could feel it, the deep, unsettling weakness beneath her skin. She had known hunger before, when Hybern felt like withholding her meals. She had fought through it, trained through it, let it drive her forward when she had no choice but to obey.

But this was different. This was slower, creeping. It drained her instead of sharpening her.

Jaw tight, she shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her threadbare cloak, curling her fingers against the cold.

The scent of fresh bread still lingered in the air as she moved away from the food stalls, the cruel reminder of what she could not have settling deep into her bones. The hunger had dulled to something constant now—a weight that dragged at her limbs, that made her every step feel just a little heavier.

She ignored it, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, letting the steady flow of the market crowd swallow her whole. If she kept her head down, if she kept moving, she could almost forget the ache hollowing out her stomach.

Then—movement. A flicker in the corner of her vision.

A young male, thin and wiry, his clothes threadbare, his face sharper than it should have been. He moved quickly, slipping his fingers into an older female’s satchel and tugging something free. A glint of metal. A pendant, from the brief glimpse she caught before his fingers curled around it. The female—frail, not High Fae, her hands trembling slightly as she inspected a bundle of vegetables—didn’t even notice.

Her feet were moving before she had time to think.

The thief was already slipping through the throng, his shoulders low, his steps light. He was good. Quick, darting through gaps in the crowd, weaving past carts and barrels without so much as a stumble. But she had been trained for much worse.

Her boots struck hard against the cobblestones as she cut around a stall, taking a sharper route, her cloak billowing behind her. She didn’t call out—there was no point in warning him. Instead, she focused on closing the distance, her movements precise, slipping between bodies as if she were nothing more than a shadow among them.

The male glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening as he caught sight of her gaining ground. His pace quickened. But so did hers.

The market blurred past, voices rising in protest as they wove through clusters of people. He veered left, darting between two vendor stalls, but she knew the streets better than he did—knew exactly where he would emerge.

Her breath was steady, her body moving with a sharp efficiency as she rounded the next corner, cutting off his escape.

The boy slipped into an alley, his pace slowing as he cast a glance over his shoulder. He thought he’d lost her. Thought he was safe. That moment of confidence cost him.

Munin struck before he could move again, her grip fastening around his shoulder, tight as she yanked him back. His yelp echoed off the narrow stone walls as she spun him, shoving him hard enough that his back hit the cold, damp surface behind him.

He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going wide as he stared up at her. Fear, defiance, and something sharper—calculation—flickered across his gaunt face, his body tensing as if weighing the odds of escape. But she had spent too many years hunting, too many years reading the tells of those just like him. He wouldn’t get the chance.

"Drop it," she said, voice calm, cold. She had no patience for theatrics.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His words tumbled out too fast, the lie clumsy. His fingers twitched, just slightly, against his coat, where he had stashed whatever he had taken. His shoulders were rigid, like he expected a beating, but still, he held his ground.

Munin’s eyes flicked to his hands, then back to his face. He couldn’t be more than fifteen summers, his frame all bone and sinew, his cheeks hollow with hunger. She might have pitied him, once. If she had been someone else, if she had been raised differently, maybe she would have even let him go.

But he had stolen from a female who had nothing. No matter how desperate he was, it didn’t excuse that.

"You want to try that again?" she said, brow arching.

His lips pressed into a tight line, his fingers curling deeper into the bundle hidden within his coat. For a moment, she thought he might bolt. But she didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just waited, her stance relaxed but ready, making sure he understood there was no outrunning her.

His shoulders sagged first, then the rest of him seemed to cave inward as he let out a sharp exhale. With a begrudging scowl, he pulled the stolen item from his coat and shoved it into her hands. It was only then, as she felt the slight weight of it, that she noticed the trembling in his fingers.

The boy was so thin he barely filled the space of the coat he wore.

Now that the fight had drained from him, he looked even smaller, a child who had thought himself more capable than he truly was. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, eyes darting to the alley’s exit. He expected some kind of punishment—expected her to lash out, maybe take the stolen pendant for herself.

She could have. Could have grabbed him by the scruff, could have pinned him against the wall and reminded him what happened to those who took from others. Could have pocketed the jewelry and sold it for coin that would get her the food that she so desperately needed.

Once, she wouldn’t have hesitated. But that was before.

Munin slipped the pendant into her palm, the metal cool against her skin, and barely spared him another glance before turning on her heel and striding back toward the market. His footsteps lingered a moment behind her, hesitant, but then they scuffed against the stones, fading as he bolted into the dark.

The press of bodies swallowed her back into the square. The old female was still at the vegetable stall, her back slightly bowed beneath the weight of years. She was handing over a few copper coins to the vendor, her knuckles thin and gnarled.

Munin approached without hesitation.

"This is yours." She held out the small bundle, its chain pooling over her fingers.

The female blinked, confused. Her gaze drifted to the pendant, and for a heartbeat, she only stared. Then her breath hitched. A hand rose to her lips, fingers trembling.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, my stars—”

Munin didn’t move as the female took it, as her aged fingers curled around the pendant like it was the most precious thing in the world. The raw emotion in her eyes was something Munin didn’t know what to do with. She kept still, kept her expression smooth, though the intensity of it made something shift uneasily inside her.

“My husband gave me this,” the female murmured, her voice thick, as if pulled from somewhere far away. “On our wedding night. Two hundred years ago.” She lifted her gaze, shining with tears she did not shed. “Thank you, dear. Thank you.”

Munin’s throat felt tight. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to react to such gratitude. She only nodded once and made to step back, already planning on slipping back into the crowd before the old female could get a good enough look at her.

Munin shifted her weight, fingers twitching at her sides, unused to the way the female still looked at her—like she was something more than a shadow. The pendant remained clutched between the female’s aged fingers, her grip reverent, as if she feared it might vanish if she let go.

“What’s your name?” the female asked softly, still cradling the piece of jewelry as if it were her heart.

Munin hesitated. The name that had been forced upon her, the one Hybern had given, sat bitter in the back of her throat. Even with her mind twisted and erased and reshaped, she still remembered the moment the King had christened her Munin. It wasn’t hers. It never had been.

But the name the Shadowsinger had used—it hadn’t fit then, either.

In Valhallan, she had given no name at all. Names meant attachment, left trails to follow. Here, she should have done the same.

Her lips parted before she could think twice. “El.”

The word felt foreign, ill-fitting, and the moment it left her tongue, regret flared in her chest. That was stupid on her part, careless. She should have said nothing, should have given something false, something that could never have been traced back to her. The woman was still watching her expectantly, as if waiting for more, as if she knew that wasn’t all of it.

Munin kept her mouth set in a firm line, the name sealing off before the rest of it could slip free.

“Just El,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

The woman smiled, the kind of smile Munin had never been given before—warm, full of something like quiet understanding. “Thank you, El.”

Munin only gave a stiff nod before turning away, the name still pressing against her ribs like an ill-fitted garment, too tight and too strange.

The old female’s gnarled fingers curled tightly around the pendant, her thumb running over the delicate metal as though memorizing every ridge, every groove. She was still clutching it to her chest when she looked up, eyes sharp despite the lingering glimmer of unshed tears.

“I should pay you for your trouble,” she said, voice steady even as her hands trembled around the chain. “It’s only right.”

Munin stiffened, shifting her weight. The female’s gratitude was already pressing against her like an ill-fitted garment, unfamiliar and unwanted. She shook her head. “That isn’t necessary.”

The female frowned, drawing herself up slightly. “You chased him down, stopped him from running off with something precious to me. I insist.”

“I don’t need payment.” The words came out too stiff, too careful. She hadn’t meant for them to, but they did. When she had completed tasks given to her by the King or by Dagdan, she had never received any sort of gratitude. She did not know how to react to it.

The female’s frown deepened. She studied her for a long moment, gaze sweeping over the frayed edges of Munin’s cloak, the hollowness beginning to settle into her cheeks. Munin resisted the urge to pull the fabric tighter around herself, to turn and slip back into the crowd before the woman could look at her any longer.

Instead of arguing, the female only said, “Then let me give you a meal.”

Munin opened her mouth, another refusal already forming—right as her stomach twisted, the hunger deep and relentless. The sound of it was quiet, but not quiet enough. The female’s brows lifted, a knowing look settling into her features. “No need to be proud, girl. Let an old lady show her gratitude properly.”

Munin clenched her jaw, searching for an excuse, some way to step back from this, to create the distance she always relied on. But the female was already turning, moving toward a nearby bakery, walking as if she expected Munin to follow without question.

The scent of fresh bread curled into the air, warm and rich, wrapping around her like a cruel temptation. She swallowed hard, body betraying her even as her mind warred against the offer. A meal. Nothing more.

With a sharp breath, she gave a single, reluctant nod and followed.

---

The female’s name was Clotilda.

She lived in a small, crooked house at the edge of the village, its wooden shutters warped from age, the stone foundation cracked but sturdy. The place had obviously stood through storms and long winters, and it would stand long after she was gone. The scent of something rich and simmering seeped from the doorway, curling into the cold night air, thick with the promise of warmth and food.

Munin nearly turned around before Clotilda could beckon her inside. She shouldn’t have followed the old female.

Shouldn’t step into a home that wasn’t hers. Shouldn’t let herself grow accustomed to warmth, to kindness she hadn’t earned. But Clotilda’s weathered hand had already found her arm, ushering her forward with surprising strength, her grip firm but not forceful.

Munin tensed, but she didn’t pull away.

Inside, the air was thick with heat from the hearth, the scent of roasted vegetables and broth nearly making her lightheaded. The space was small, the ceiling low, the wooden beams darkened with age and smoke. A small table stood in the center of the cramped room, uneven from years of use, its surface polished smooth by countless hands.

Seated around it was a family—three pairs of eyes lifting to her as she stepped over the threshold.

Clotilda wasted no time. "That’s my son, Cedric," she said, nodding toward the broad-shouldered male with a graying beard and tired eyes, his cane leaning against his chair. He inclined his head in greeting, his gaze sharp but not unkind.

“And that’s Arnulf,” she went on, gesturing to the boy barely past his first decade, his chin lifting as he studied her, as if sizing her up. His hands were calloused despite his youth, the fingers curled tightly around a wooden spoon.

The last introduction was for the girl beside him, younger still, her bright eyes wide, curious, ink staining her small fingers. “And this is Dorothye,” Clotilda said, her voice softening.

Dorothye blinked at her, then tilted her head slightly. “You don’t look like you’re from here.”

Munin stared at the child, at the ink stains smudged along her knuckles, at the slight gap between her front teeth as she spoke. She felt out of place, standing there beneath their quiet scrutiny, her cloak still damp from the night air, her body wound tight with the impulse to flee.

"Don't be rude, Dorothye." Arnulf rolled his eyes. He leaned forward, setting his spoon down with a dull clink against the wooden bowl. "You can't just say things like that."

Dorothye scowled at him, unfazed. "It's not rude. It's true." She turned back to Munin, studying her with a scrutiny far too sharp for a child her age. "She doesn’t dress like us, and she doesn’t talk like us either."

“You haven’t even heard her talk yet!” came Arnulf’s indignant reply.

Clotilda clucked her tongue as she guided Munin toward an empty chair. “Cedric, move over—give her space.”

The bearded man sighed but obeyed, shifting with a quiet grunt and moving his cane to make room. His gaze lingered on her, wary but not unkind, his sharp eyes taking her in. “Who’s this, then?”

“El,” Clotilda answered before she could, setting the necklace gently atop a nearby shelf, as if it belonged there. “She was kind enough to return what was stolen from me.”

It took her a moment to realize that Clotilda was talking about her.

Cedric grunted, his gaze flicking briefly to his mother’s neck, where the pendant should have been. His fingers curled into a fist before he exhaled sharply. “City’s getting worse,” he muttered. “Thieves getting bolder.”

Arnulf, the boy, perked up, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Did you fight him?” he asked, eyes gleaming with something close to admiration.

Munin merely blinked at him.

Dorothye smacked her brother’s arm without hesitation. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course she didn’t fight him. She’s too small.”

She huffed a quiet breath through her nose, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. Too small. That was a first. She had been called many things—silent, cold, unnatural—but never small.

Arnulf scowled at his sister, undeterred. “She caught him, didn’t she?” He turned back to Munin, still waiting for an answer, his face expectant, hungry for the details.

She met the boy’s eager stare, weighing whether or not to bother humoring him. After a beat, she finally murmured, “I ran him down.”

Arnulf grinned, delighted. “So you are fast.”

Dorothye only rolled her eyes before returning to whatever she had been scribbling on a torn piece of parchment. Her fingers were already stained with ink, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as if the world around her no longer existed.

Clotilda bustled around them, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years feeding others, ladling steaming portions of stew into mismatched bowls. “Enough questions,” she chided, setting one in front of Munin. “Eat.”

She hadn’t realized how tightly she had wound herself until she had to move, had to take the spoon in hand and do something as simple as bring food to her mouth. The first bite nearly made her groan.

It was hot and thick, the broth rich and savory, clinging to her tongue in a way that made her stomach twist in both relief and longing. The flavors—roasted root vegetables, a hint of something earthy, the deep warmth of meat simmered long enough to fall apart—settled into the hollow ache of her hunger like a balm. She swallowed, then took another bite. And another.

Even if she hadn’t been half-starved, it was still the best thing she had ever tasted.

Arnulf snorted. “She eats like she fought someone.”

Clotilda smacked him lightly on the back of the head without looking up. “Don’t be rude.”

But the boy only grinned again, entirely unapologetic.

She forced herself to slow down, to ease the tension in her shoulders, though her body resisted the effort. It was just a meal, nothing more. She had faced a lot worse. So why was she so tense?

The stew had cooled by the time Clotilda spoke again, her voice gentle. “Do you have any family in the area, dear?”

The spoon in Munin’s hand stilled, hovering just above the bowl. She knew — she knew — that the old female was only make conversation, that this was a normal thing to ask when people got to know one another. And yet, the idea of someone asking her something so personal…

She hadn’t thought of a lie that would explain her presence in the area; she had only planned to keep her head down enough that no one would think to bother with her.

Across the table, Cedric had his head bowed over his meal, the lines of his face betraying quiet exhaustion. No doubt from his mother taking home a stray off the streets. Arnulf had long since abandoned his food, idly carving something into the wood of the bench with the tip of his knife. Dorothye glanced up from her parchment, her interest barely veiled, her ink-stained fingers tightening around the quill.

Munin forced herself to take another bite, chewing slowly, weighing the question as if there was an answer she could give. She knew better than to hesitate too long. Hesitation bred suspicion. Clotilda didn’t press, just waited, patient and expectant, as if she had all the time in the world.

“I don’t have one.” The words came out flat, practiced.

Clotilda tsked, shaking her head. “Everyone has someone.”

A flicker of something sharp twisted through her chest. Everyone had someone. But it wasn’t true. Some people, like Munin, belonged to no one. Some people were carved hollow, with no history that mattered, no ties that held. She had been shaped into one of those people.

The girl scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re so lucky you don’t have a brother. Arnulf only torments me.”

Arnulf shot her a glare. “I don’t torment you. I just think you should grow thicker—”

Something sharp struck her, right beneath the ribs. It wasn’t real—couldn’t be real—but the sensation was sudden, undeniable, an invisible blade slipping between bone. The spoon clattered against the bowl, the sound distant, muffled, as the room flickered—shifted—vanished.

The wind carried the scent of the river, thick and damp, curling against her skin. Crickets hummed in the grass beyond the stone path, their endless chorus blending into the steady rush of water.

A door slammed.

The sound rang through the dimly lit corridor, sharp enough to make her flinch where she stood pressed into the shadows. She was not supposed to be here. Had not meant to linger when she heard the voices rise from the room beyond. If they saw her, she knew she would be in trouble. Again.

But something in their tone—something in the way the words struck the stone walls and shuddered back—kept her rooted in place.

"You’re her brother. She needs you." The female’s voice was firm, each syllable clipped with barely restrained anger.

She pressed herself tighter into the alcove, bare feet silent against the cool floor. She had caught far too many of these conversations before. Had learned how to go unnoticed, how to make her small body even smaller when the weight of words grew too heavy for those who spoke them.

"She’s too young to understand, too young to—"

The male’s voice was familiar, achingly so. She knew its cadence, the way it curled slightly at the edges, but she could not place it.

"She’s too young to be alone," the female interrupted, voice softer now, but no less unyielding.

Silence.

Then—fingers curling around a doorframe, knuckles white. A shadow just beyond the threshold, taller than the female, broader. His shoulders were stiff, tense with something that could have been anger. Or guilt.

"You are her brother."

Her breath hitched. Something twisted deep in her chest, something old and aching, something that had no name but felt sharp as a blade pressed to her ribs. She tried to move closer, tried to see his face. The flickering candlelight stretched long shadows across the stone, but she could not make out his features. Could not push past the haze that thickened at the edges of the memory.

The moment wavered. The walls flickered.

And then the scent of the river was gone. The candlelight vanished.

The walls of the small house pressed in too tightly as the memory faded, as the scent of the river, the flicker of candlelight, the weight of those words still echoed in her skull. You are her brother.

Munin’s breath caught, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. The warmth of the fire, of the stew thick on her tongue, turned suffocating. The crackle of the flames blurred into something distant, drowned beneath the sharp pounding in her ears. She shoved back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the uneven floorboards.

“Are you all right?” Clotilda’s voice was soft, distant, warped at the edges.

Was she alright? She had never — in all her 500 years —

She had never once had such a vivid memory like that. Not without Dagdan pulling them from her mind before she could think twice, and manipulating her thoughts into not even caring about what he had stolen from her.

Cedric had already set his spoon down, his frown deepening. “You’re pale—”

She couldn’t breathe.

Dorothye’s words, the memory—the voice, so familiar, so known—a brother. She had a brother.

Something constricted in her chest, pressing, squeezing, like a hand wrapping tight around her ribs. The air in her lungs turned to stone, thick and unmoving. She staggered toward the door, not fully aware of her legs carrying her forward.

She couldn’t think about this right now. She needed air. She needed to calm down. She needed Dagdan to pull these confusing thoughts from her head.

“Wait—”

A hand brushed her arm, but she flinched at the touch, wrenching herself away as her heart slammed against her ribs. The door rattled as she shoved through it, pushing into the cold, the night air biting sharp against the sweat on her skin.

She barely made it past the crooked fence before she was moving, wings appearing magically from her back and snapping open, muscles screaming as she threw herself into the sky. The wind tore at her cloak, whipping hair into her eyes, but she didn’t stop. Had to get higher. Had to move, had to outrun—

The cold bit into her lungs, but her breath still wouldn’t come. It was too shallow, too fast, a frantic stutter that did nothing to break the vice clamping tight around her chest. Her hands trembled. Her pulse roared. The world blurred.

She climbed higher. Faster.

The wind howled past her, the ground falling away below, dark and endless. Panic clawed at her throat, raw and unrelenting. She flew harder, as if she could tear herself from her own skin, as if she could leave the memory behind, strip it from her bones like a shed layer of flesh.

But it clung to her. She wished it hadn’t.

The words still echoed, rattling through her skull, weaving into the pieces of herself she didn’t understand. The flicker of candlelight, the clenched fist in the doorframe, the shape of a male in the dark.

You are her brother.

The thought sent a fresh bolt of panic through her, her wings stuttering mid-flight.

She didn’t know who he was.

She didn’t know his face.

But the part of her that had been wiped clean, stripped bare and reshaped, was screaming—screaming that she should.

Notes:

Memory. Boom. Then panic attack.

Our girl cannot catch a break.

Chapter 39

"El!"

The name barely registered, slipping past her ears like a sound meant for someone else.

Munin moved through the market, her steps light, deliberate. The crowd shifted around her, bodies brushing too close, the mingling scents of unwashed wool, roasting meat, and damp stone thick in the winter air. Beneath it all was the metallic bite of fresh blood—livestock strung up on wooden racks, their carcasses steaming in the cold.

She barely heard the merchants shouting over one another, barely noticed the flicker of movement as hands exchanged coin for goods. She was focused on the butcher’s stall ahead, the one she had not returned to since that night at Clotilda’s. Since the too-warm fire, the too-soft voices, the way their eyes had lingered on her, waiting for something she did not understand.

Since the memory had ripped through her like a jagged blade, leaving her reeling, breathless.

She would not think about it. Would not let her mind tread that path again. Whatever it was, whatever it meant, it was buried in the past, and she would leave it there.

"El!"

Again, closer this time. There was a shift in the crowd, a flicker of movement at her side—then the faintest tug on her sleeve.

Munin turned sharply, already tensing, prepared for—

A child.

She exhaled through her nose, shoulders easing only slightly as she took in the small, grinning figure before her. Arnulf. The bearded man’s son. Clotilda’s grandson. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, dark eyes bright with recognition as he rocked back on his heels.

"You really didn’t hear me?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he squinted up at her. "I called you twice."

She had heard something, a voice in the distance, but it had barely registered. She was not used to answering to that name. Not used to anyone calling for her at all. She did not explain that, only glanced past him, scanning the crowd.

Where was Clotilda? Or Cedric? Someone should have been with him. He was too young to be wandering alone, even in a city as quiet as this one. The thought gave her pause.

Why did it matter to her? Why did the sight of him, small and alone in the shifting market, make something tighten in her chest?

"Where is your father?" she asked instead, voice flat.

Arnulf huffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his too-thin coat. "Home. His leg’s acting up again."

A reasonable excuse, but still not enough. "And your grandmother?"

"Her joints hurt when it gets cold. She said if I wanted meat for dinner, I had to get it myself." He puffed up his chest slightly, chin tilting upward as if expecting her to be impressed. "She trusts me with the money."

Munin’s gaze flicked to the small pouch tied to his belt, barely concealed beneath the folds of his coat. Thin drawstrings, loosely knotted. Easy pickings.

"That is unwise," she said coolly.

Arnulf scowled, his small frame going rigid. "It is not."

Munin lifted a brow. "You are practically advertising to pickpockets."

He crossed his arms, glancing around the market with exaggerated wariness, as if daring someone to try. "I’d notice if someone got close."

No, he wouldn’t.

She could have taken it from him a dozen times over by now—without him even realizing.

She let the silence stretch between them for a moment, then said, simply, "No. You wouldn’t."

Arnulf’s face darkened, his skin flushing a deep red. He straightened, puffing out his chest as if sheer indignation could make him taller. "I’m not stupid."

Munin barely spared him a glance. "I didn’t say you were," she murmured, already losing patience.

"You meant it, though." His glare was sharp for a child’s, brows furrowed, mouth twisting in a scowl.

She sighed, adjusting her cloak, letting the worn fabric settle over her shoulders. "Do what you want."

He muttered something under his breath—too low for her to catch—but with a huff, he tugged his coat more firmly over the pouch at his belt. "There. Happy?"

She was not. His stance was still too careless, his focus already shifting elsewhere. He would make an easy target for someone with quicker hands, sharper instincts. But the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly. A mistake corrected, however small.

And somewhere beneath that—flickering at the edges of her indifference—was something else. Amusement? She wasn’t sure if she had ever felt that before.

"So, where do you live?" Arnulf asked, tilting his head as they continued down the market road. "I bet it’s not here. You don’t talk like us."

She ignored him, keeping her pace steady, her focus on the stalls ahead. He would take the hint.

He did not.

"Do you have a job?" He squinted up at her. "You don’t look like you have a job."

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

She was not sure why his prying grated on her so much. She had faced worse—endured interrogation, cruelty, cold scrutiny—but there was something about his casual persistence, his utter lack of fear, that unsettled her.

Arnulf did not notice. Or if he did, he did not care. "Are you a thief?"

She stopped walking.

Slowly, she turned her head, meeting his gaze with a flat stare.

Arnulf only grinned. "It’d be cool if you were."

Cool? She had killed males for less. Had torn them apart before they could so much as breathe the word thief. Had cut them down before they could raise a hand in defense, before they could beg for their miserable lives. And yet, this child grinned up at her, so sure of his words, so unafraid.

“I am not a thief,” she said quietly.

Arnulf merely shrugged. “Then what do you do?”

Her eyes flicked toward the butcher’s stall just ahead. “I work at the laundry.” The words left her flatly, matter-of-fact, giving no invitation for further explanation.

He scoffed. “That’s boring.”

She did not respond.

The market had thinned slightly as the morning rush faded, though voices still carried across the crisp winter air, merchants calling out their prices, the scent of roasting chestnuts thick beneath the sharper tang of raw meat. She stepped up to the butcher’s stall, already knowing how the conversation would go, already expecting the disapproving glance the broad-chested male cast her way.

“You again?” He wiped his hands on the apron stretched over his belly. “What’ll it be?”

Munin reached into her cloak, fingers brushing over the few coins she had left. She had hunted yesterday—most of it had gone to Clotilda. And yet, despite that, she was here, weighing what little she had against what little she could get.

“Half a pound of venison,” she said.

The butcher clicked his tongue, already shaking his head. “Prices went up since last week.”

Liar.

She held his gaze, unmoving, waiting to see if he would waver, if he would correct himself, if some small flicker of decency might show itself in the hardened lines of his face. He merely folded his arms over his chest, waiting, already knowing she would not argue.

Without a word, she turned and walked away, ignoring the heat of the butcher’s gaze on her back, ignoring Arnulf’s confused expression as he hurried to catch up with her.

“You’re just leaving?” he asked, nearly tripping over his own feet to keep up with her pace. “You didn’t get anything.”

She did not answer, her eyes scanning the market stalls until she found what she was looking for. The baker’s stand was smaller than the others, the scent of fresh bread and honey warm despite the cold air. The female behind the counter was old, her hands dusted with flour, deep lines carved into her face. Munin stepped forward, letting her gaze drift over the loaves of dark rye and oat bread before settling on the small honey cakes arranged on a wooden tray.

She placed her remaining coins on the counter, watching as the baker’s sharp eyes flicked to the money, her mouth pressing into a thin line. There was no judgment there, no sympathy either, only quiet calculation before she reached for two cakes and passed them over without a word.

Munin turned, pressing one into Arnulf’s small, gloved hand.

His fingers curled around it, his brows furrowing. “I thought you didn’t have enough money.”

“I didn’t,” she said simply, already biting into hers, letting the honey coat her tongue, the soft cake breaking apart in her mouth. The butcher had raised his prices so astronomically, but at least she could afford the honey cake. She’d be hungry in two hours time, but Munin was used to that.

Arnulf blinked at her, his expression puzzled as if he could not make sense of the choice she had made. Slowly, hesitantly, he bit into the cake, chewing thoughtfully, honey sticking to his fingers as they walked. The market shifted around them, the hum of voices, the rustling of carts being moved, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. He was quiet for a time, but Munin knew better than to think it would last.

“Why don’t you talk much?” he asked, voice slightly muffled as he chewed.

Munin did not bother looking at him, focusing instead on the press of the ground beneath her feet, on the distant sound of market chatter.

“Why did you look sick the other night?” His voice was sharper now, more insistent.

She clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around the remnants of her cake, the honey seeping between her gloves.

“Why won’t you tell me anything?”

The questions came too fast, each one a stone chipping away at something fragile and fraying inside her. She should not be here. Should not be wasting time entertaining the endless curiosity of a child. She had better things to do.

Did she?

"You ask too many questions," she muttered, barely resisting the urge to sigh.

"That’s what my father says.” Arnulf grinned, entirely unbothered.

Munin let out a slow breath, adjusting her cloak as she glanced at the boy beside her. Arnulf was watching her with sharp, curious eyes, waiting for answers she would not give, his small frame practically buzzing with restless energy. There was something relentless about him—he pressed and pushed, unafraid of the barriers she set, undeterred by her silence. It should have irritated her more than it did.

“You should be careful in the market,” she said instead, shifting the conversation away from whatever questions still lingered on his tongue. “You are too easy a target.”

Arnulf scoffed, his expression twisting with immediate offense. “I am not.”

“You are.” She did not bother softening the words. “You carry your coin like someone who has never been robbed.”

His frown deepened, his hand twitching toward the small pouch at his waist, suddenly reevaluating how exposed it was.

Good.

She turned back toward the main road, but he was still trailing beside her, absently adjusting the way his coat fell over the pouch, as if that alone would be enough to make him less of a mark. It wouldn’t. If she had been the type to take from others, she could have stripped him of his coins before he had even noticed.

“Stay close to the stalls,” she added, glancing around, watching the ebb and flow of the market, the shifting of figures in the thinning afternoon crowd. “And do not let anyone see how much you have.”

Arnulf blinked, then straightened as understanding settled into his features. “Are you helping me?”

She gave him a look. “No.”

His grin returned in full force, smug and knowing. “You are.”

She ignored the flicker of warmth in her chest, the unfamiliar tug of something dangerously close to amusement. He was impossible. He was a pest. But—she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching the way he still subtly adjusted his pouch, still listening to what she had said—he was learning.

She would not be here long. Whatever this was, whatever small tether had formed between her and these people, it did not matter. It could not.

And yet, she did not tell him to leave.

Arnulf was still talking—some endless string of questions, his voice bright and relentless—when the shift came. All throughout the market square, conversation quieted, the usual clamor of bartering and laughter fading into murmurs. Even the sharp calls of the merchants dulled, their voices dropping, uncertain.

Munin’s muscles went taut before she even knew why. Instinct, something buried deep in her bones, something older than her own memories. Her gaze swept over the gathered crowd, tracking the disturbance, hunting for the source. Then she saw her.

Near the well, a female stood trembling. Her clothes were wrinkled, as if she had slept in them—if she had slept at all. Her hair was tangled, escaping the knot at her nape, her face blotchy, her eyes swollen from weeping.

"My daughter—she’s gone—" The words broke on a sob, her fingers clutching at the front of her dress, knuckles going white.

The whispers started immediately.

"Another one."

"Disappeared in the night."

"Just like the others."

Munin felt it like a prickling down her spine. The weight of something too close, too familiar. A story she had heard before, in different voices, in different cities. She clenched her jaw. Not your problem. She turned away.

Arnulf had gone silent beside her. The boy who never stopped talking, who filled every space with questions and observations, stood still, his usual chatter smothered. His face was unreadable, too thoughtful, too old for someone his age.

"Come," Munin said, already walking. "I am taking you home."

Arnulf blinked, startled from whatever thought had trapped him. "What? Why?"

"Because you are a child wandering alone in a market," she said simply, but she kept her head down.

"I do it all the time," he muttered, but there was little heat to it. His gaze flicked back toward the female, toward the thickening crowd gathering around her, the murmurs swelling as the news spread.

Munin didn’t wait for him to argue further. She walked, and after a moment, she heard his hurried steps following.

The murmurs rose behind them, pressing in like cold fingers at her back. She did not look back.

The walk back was quiet, save for the occasional huff from Arnulf as he trudged alongside her. His boots scuffed against the packed dirt road, hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. The honey cake she had given him had long since disappeared, the last of the crumbs brushed from his chin, but the smug satisfaction on his face remained. He had won something, in his mind. She wasn’t sure what.

Munin kept her stride brisk, eyes sweeping the road ahead, wary of anything out of place. The village was peaceful in the way only small places could be, but that did not mean she trusted it. The houses here were uneven things, built from stone and timber, their roofs sloped with age. Smoke curled from chimneys, thick and fragrant, the scent of roasting meat clinging to the cold.

When they reached the crooked little house at the village’s edge, the door swung open before she could knock.

"Where have you—oh!" Clotilda’s scolding expression melted into something soft, delighted, when her gaze landed on Munin. "You walked him home?"

Munin barely had time to step back before the woman descended on Arnulf, fussing over his chapped cheeks, his mussed-up hair, fingers pulling at the collar of his coat as she muttered about the cold.

"The market was crowded," Munin muttered, resisting the urge to step away from Clotilda’s warm gaze. "It was—easier."

Clotilda beamed, a full, open thing, the kind of expression that made Munin’s skin itch with the urge to move, to flee. No one had ever looked at her like that. Like she was something good.

"Well, thank you, dear," Clotilda said, her voice thick with warmth.

Arnulf groaned, crossing his arms. "She didn’t do anything."

"Didn’t she?" Clotilda shot him a look, one filled with exasperation, before turning back to Munin with that same disarming smile. "Come, you must be freezing."

Munin hesitated. The last time she had stepped inside this house, she had left with the taste of something bitter in her throat, something raw and unfamiliar clawing at the edges of her mind. She had sworn she would not come back.

And yet—

The air was warm, thick with the scent of burning wood and something faintly spiced. Clotilda had already stepped aside, waiting, expectant. Arnulf had kicked off his boots, rolling his eyes as if the entire thing were unnecessary.

Munin clenched her jaw and stepped inside.

The fire crackled in the hearth, the scent of simmering broth curling through the warm air. Munin kept to the edges of the room, the heat pressing against her back as she scanned the space—old wooden beams, a lopsided table, chairs worn from years of use. It was familiar now, though she wasn’t sure when that had happened.

At the table, Cedric rubbed his bad leg, his fingers working over the stiff muscle. His sharp gaze flicked up when she stepped further inside, taking her in with the same scrutiny as always. “Brought the boy back, did you?”

Munin nodded once.

“Hmph.” He leaned back, rolling his shoulder with a slow, practiced motion. “Good.”

She didn’t know why that word made something tighten in her chest. It shouldn’t have mattered. Not her problem. Not her concern. But she stood there, tense, as if something had caught and snagged in her ribs.

Clotilda, unfazed, busied herself at the hearth, shaking her head. “You didn’t have to, dear, but I’m glad you did.” She turned, giving Munin that same warm, open expression. “Now, what were you doing in town?”

Munin exhaled through her nose, shifting her weight. “The butcher,” she said, her tone flat. “His prices are too high.”

Cedric snorted. “They always are.”

“I could get better elsewhere.”

He arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. “Could you?”

Munin didn’t answer, only stared at him, her expression unreadable.

Arnulf perked up, straightening in his chair. “Do you hunt?”

She hesitated. The feel of a bow in her hands was not unfamiliar—she had used one countless times before. Whenever Dagdan had ordered her to. Whenever she needed to strike from a distance, precise and unseen. She had been trained to be proficient with it, to make her shots lethal. But she had never preferred it. The weight of a dagger in her palm had always felt more natural, more personal.

And she had hunted before, when necessity dictated it. When there was no other option but to kill to survive.

So, Munin nodded.

Cedric studied her for a long moment, the firelight casting deep lines across his face. Then he exhaled through his nose, a quiet sigh as he braced a hand against the table and pushed himself to stand. “Come on, then.”

She followed as he limped toward an old chest against the far wall. The wood was rough, the lid groaning as he lifted it. He reached inside, shifting through whatever was stored there before pulling out a bow. It was well-used, the wood worn smooth from years of handling. The string looked frayed in places, but still strong. Still functional.

He held it out to her. “It’s yours if you want it.”

She should not have hesitated. It was just a weapon. Another tool, nothing more. A means to an end. And yet, for some reason, she stared at it for too long before finally reaching out, her fingers curling around the grip.

The wood was cool beneath her touch, lighter than she expected.

Cedric only nodded before returning to his chair without another word, as if the exchange had meant nothing at all.

Clotilda, however, smiled. That quiet, knowing kind of smile that made Munin feel as if she had done something good. As if she had done something worthy of that warmth.

Munin looked down at the bow in her hands, her throat tight. She did not say thank you.

But she did not leave, either.

--

The knock came just as Azriel finished wrapping his hands, the leather straps tight against his knuckles. He flexed his fingers, testing the give of the bindings, before exhaling sharply through his nose. His muscles ached, sore from a morning spent in the sparring ring, but the strain had done little to ease the unease that had settled in his chest like a stone.

The unease that had been there since the day of the final battle with Hybern.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, but the familiar burn of frustration coiled tighter. It had been weeks—weeks of scouring the Continent, slipping in and out of shadows, searching every lead, every whisper that might bring him closer to her. To Elara.

And yet, every trail he followed led to nothing. An empty apartment that had smelled of her, the faintest trace of her scent lingering in the air like a ghost of what he had lost. He had been close.

He had been so close.

And then the summons had come. Rhys’s voice in his mind had pulled him from his search, an order issued in that careful, measured tone. Come home. Stay put for a while.

Azriel clenched his jaw, rolling his wrists as he stood. If Rhys had known what he was doing, if he had known why Azriel had been slipping away at odd hours, chasing ghosts through foreign courts, he would have let him go. He would have given the order himself—Find her. Don’t come back until you do.

But Rhys didn’t know. He wouldn’t know. The bargain mark seared across Azriel’s shoulder blades at the mere thought of it, the magic binding his silence as cruelly and effectively as a blade at his throat.

Another knock, sharper this time. Azriel flexed his hands again, shaking off the lingering sting of the mark before crossing the room and flinging the door open.

Cassian leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his expression edged with something wry and knowing. "Rhys wants you."

Azriel exhaled sharply through his nose, stripping off the leather wraps from his hands. The tightness in his knuckles barely eased. "Now?"

Cassian arched a brow, pushing off the doorframe. "Unless you want to piss him off, yeah. He’s in his study."

The unease that had been coiling in Azriel’s gut twisted deeper. Rhys hadn’t summoned him for anything urgent in weeks, not since ordering him to stay put. There had been nothing to report. The Courts were still licking their wounds from the war, too preoccupied with rebuilding and reforging alliances to stir up trouble.

And if this was about his own recent disappearances, the ones Rhys wasn’t supposed to know about… No. That wasn’t possible.

Azriel only nodded, rolling his stiff shoulders as he set the wraps aside and strode past Cassian, heading for the stairs.

The house was quiet as he ascended, the familiar hush settling over the halls of the River House. The warmth of the study’s firelight flickered beneath the door, casting long shadows that stretched across the polished floor. He knocked once before stepping inside.

Rhys stood by the window, arms crossed, his wings draped lazily behind him. He didn’t turn at the sound of Azriel entering, only spoke, his voice steady. “There’s been talk of females disappearing on the Continent. It’s been sporadic, but unusual enough that I think it’s worth looking into.”

Azriel shut the door behind him. “Talk from who?”

There was only one person that Rhys should be getting his news from, and that was Azriel.

Rhys finally faced him, violet eyes sharp. “Various sources.” He didn’t elaborate, but there was a weight to his words, a certainty that had Azriel straightening.

“Too many to ignore,” Rhys added, and the look he gave Azriel then was the kind that meant this wasn’t just a casual request. This was an order.

"And you want me to look into it." Azriel kept his voice flat, his expression unreadable. It wasn’t a question.

“You’re the best at what you do,” he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal. Rhys held his gaze, the weight of his High Lord’s authority settling between them. “I need to know if this is isolated or something more. If someone is taking them, we need to put an end to it before it gets worse.”

Azriel exhaled slowly, measured. He could not refuse. Not without reason. And the only reason he had—the only thing that mattered—was something he could not explain. The inked lines of the bargain mark burned, a sharp, searing reminder of the vow that bound his silence. A reminder of what was more important than anything Rhys could ask of him.

Rhys studied him, his posture easy, but his eyes knowing.

“I know something’s been occupying your time.” His voice had softened, more careful now, probing in a way that made Azriel want to turn and leave. “You’ve barely been around. You missed dinner at the House of Wind, skipped training sessions. Even Cassian is starting to notice, and you know how unobservant he can be.”

Azriel forced his shoulders to stay loose, forced his voice to remain even. “I’ve had headaches.”

A lie. And not a very good one.

Rhys’s frown was instant, his violet gaze flicking to the shadows curling faintly around Azriel’s wings, restless despite his control. “You don’t get headaches.”

The bargain mark burned again, like a dagger twisting beneath his skin. Azriel curled his fingers into a fist at his side, the only outward sign of the pain. “I do now.”

A muscle ticked in Rhys’s jaw. Azriel could see the calculation in his eyes, the way he was weighing his options—how far he could push before Azriel shut him out entirely. Whatever he found there made him sigh, a quiet, resigned sound. “Fine. I won’t push.”

He hesitated, but only for a breath before adding, “But if you need something—”

“I don’t,” Azriel cut in. The words came too sharp, too fast, but he did not correct them. “When do I leave?”

--

The bag of small game was slung over her shoulder, heavier than usual. The musk ox had been a challenge—massive, stubborn, its thick hide an effort to pierce even with her skill—but she had managed. It had taken patience, careful tracking, and a well-placed arrow between the ribs to bring it down. The weight of the meat against her back was proof of the effort, of the hours spent carving through thick muscle and bone beneath a sky so pale it looked white.

The butcher could rot with his sky-high prices.

Munin adjusted the strap, shifting the load. Some of it, she would sell. But not all of it. She would give some to Clotilda and her family. A payment for the bow. And a thanks—for the warmth that had settled around her in their little home, whether she wanted it or not.

The scent of roasting bread reached her before she even knocked, filling the crisp evening air with something warm, something grounding. She hesitated. She did not knock on doors. Did not bring things unless she was ordered to. The act of standing there, unbidden, made her feel exposed, uncertain.

But before she could decide, the door swung open, and Clotilda’s face brightened. “El, dear! I was just about to start supper—”

Munin stepped past her before she could think better of it, the movement brisk, efficient. She shrugged the bag from her shoulder and let it drop onto the wooden table with a soft thud. “You won’t need to.”

Clotilda’s mouth parted slightly, surprise flickering across her features before she looked down at the bag, eyes widening. “Oh,” she breathed, stepping forward, fingers brushing against the rough fabric as if she wasn’t quite sure it was real. “You—” She lifted her gaze, something too warm in her expression. “You didn’t have to, dear.”

Munin adjusted her cloak, shrugging once. “I know.”

Munin crouched by the table, pulling a rabbit from the bag, its body still warm from the kill. Its soft fur was speckled with dried blood, its limbs limp in her hands. She pressed it flat against the worn wooden surface and slid a knife from her belt, the gleaming blade catching the firelight in a sharp, golden glint.

Clotilda had already started sorting through the rest of the game, murmuring to herself as she set aside what could be dried, what would go into stew, what should be saved for later. Her movements were practiced, efficient. But it was the children who lingered closest, hovering just within reach, their eyes locked onto Munin’s hands. Dorothye’s fingers twitched, half-curled as if she wanted to touch but didn’t dare. Arnulf had no such restraint, shifting from foot to foot, practically vibrating with curiosity.

The words left Munin before she could stop them. “Do you want to learn?”

Arnulf’s head bobbed so quickly it was a wonder it didn’t snap off. “Yes!” he nearly shouted.

Dorothye hesitated, her gaze flicking between the mess of fur and lifeless limbs, her nose scrunching as if uncertain. But then she caught sight of Arnulf, who stood a little taller, a little prouder, as if he had already learned something she hadn’t. She squared her shoulders, determination hardening the soft edges of her face. “Me too,” she said, as if she wouldn’t be outdone.

Munin suppressed a sigh, adjusting her grip on the rabbit’s hind legs. She had not planned on this. Had not expected it. But she found herself gesturing anyway. “Here,” she said, nodding for Dorothye to come closer.

The girl hesitated only a moment before stepping up beside her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ink-stained ear. Munin placed the knife in her hand. “Hold it like this.”

Dorothye’s fingers curled around the hilt, but stiffly, uncertain. Munin guided them with a light touch, adjusting her grip. “Looser,” she instructed. “Or you’ll cut too deep.”

Dorothye swallowed, but did as she was told. The tip of the blade pressed just beneath the rabbit’s fur. She glanced up, searching for reassurance.

Munin gave the barest nod.

The first cut was too shallow, barely parting the rabbit’s fur. The second went a little deeper, but Dorothye’s hand was clumsy, uncertain. By the third, she had found the right pressure, the blade sliding more easily through the skin.

“There,” Munin murmured. “Good.”

A small, pleased smile flickered over the girl’s face before she ducked her head again, refocusing.

Arnulf, of course, had no such patience.

“My turn!” he blurted, already reaching for the knife.

Munin bit back a sigh and handed him another rabbit. He grinned, gripping the knife like a sword, his fingers wrapped tight around the hilt.

She caught his wrist before he could butcher the poor thing. “Not like that.”

He scowled. “But it’s faster.”

“It’s sloppy,” she countered. “And you’ll ruin the best parts of the meat.”

His mouth pressed into a sulky line, but he relented, letting her adjust his grip the same way she had with Dorothye. He was not as careful as his sister, his movements quick, eager, reckless. Munin had to reach out once or twice to steady his hand, to stop him from slicing too deep or too wide. But still—he listened. He learned.

The minutes passed in silence, save for the occasional murmur of instruction, the soft rasp of blade against flesh. The scent of fresh blood curled through the air, mixing with the warmth of the hearth.

When Dorothye finally finished her last careful cut, she sat back and wiped the back of her hand across her brow. “I did it.”

Munin only nodded.

Clotilda reached over, pressing a kiss to the top of Dorothye’s head. “You did.”

The girl flushed, ducking her head with a pleased sort of pride.

Arnulf, never one to be outdone, wiped his bloody hands on his tunic with an exaggerated motion.

“I did too,” he declared, despite the mess he had made of his rabbit. His stitches had been uneven, his cuts rushed, but he had tried. That alone made his chest puff out. He turned back to Munin, practically bouncing on his heels. “Will you take me hunting one day? I want to learn for real.”

Munin went rigid.

She had taught others before. After she had proved herself in the first hundred years, the King had made her train the newest of his legions when she wasn’t being sent on missions. She had barked orders at recruits, watched them flinch under her stare, pushed them until they either learned or broke. She had drawn blood from them, had broken bones when they failed, had taught them how to fight, how to kill, how to survive.

But this—this was different.

Arnulf was a child. He wasn’t some soldier to be hardened, another weapon to sharpen and send into the fray. And she—she didn’t know how to teach him. Not like this.

He tilted his head, waiting. “Well?”

She forced herself to breathe, to push past whatever had tangled in her chest. “Maybe,” she said at last.

It was enough to make the boy grin, wide and full of triumph, to make Clotilda beam, warmth radiating from her like the hearth’s fire, to make Dorothye roll her eyes but smile anyway.

And for some reason, it made that twist in Munin’s chest tighten, sharp and unfamiliar. But not altogether unpleasant.

Notes:

... And now the terrifying, fear inducing weapon of Hybern had become.... a glorified babysitter.

Chapter 40

She was coated in blood.

It clung to her leathers, soaked into her gloves, splattered across her face in warm, sticky rivulets. The copper tang of it filled her nose, thick and suffocating, curling down her throat with every breath.

None of it was hers. That much, she knew.

Her enemies hardly made her bleed. And the enemy here had been unsuspecting—incapable of even attempting to fight back.

The temple of Sangravah burned around her, smoke curling into the sky in thick plumes, swallowing the stars overhead. Its great stone walls crumbled under the weight of fire and war. Bodies littered the ground—some in pools of crimson, some still twitching, their robes dark with soot and blood.

The wailing of the wounded and the dying mingled with the shouts of the soldiers carrying out her orders.

Her soldiers.

Munin did not falter as she stepped over the dead, the hilt of her blade slick in her grip. “Take no prisoners,” she commanded, voice as cold and unshaken as ever. “Burn what remains.”

The soldiers obeyed, scattering like crows to finish the work, their boots crunching over broken stone and charred bodies.

A sound broke through the carnage—a sob, raw and choked. Then another.

She did not react.

More cries followed, their high-pitched wails cutting through the roar of the flames. Munin turned her head slightly, just enough to see movement from the corner of her vision. Soldiers had gathered near the bodies of the still-living priestesses, their hands gripping torn robes, pressing struggling bodies into the dirt. The priestesses thrashed, their desperate pleas drowned beneath the cruel laughter of the males above them.

Something deep inside her screamed, but her body remained still.

Her fingers curled tighter around her dagger.

Stop. The word rattled through her mind, distant, weak. Stop this.

But her feet moved forward instead.

A presence slithered into her skull, familiar and suffocating, curling tight around her thoughts like vines strangling the last breath from a tree. Dagdan’s familiar voice seeped into her mind, thick as oil, dark as the smoke writhing into the sky.

Pet, he murmured, the word soaked in amusement. You always hesitate at the worst times.

She swallowed against the weight pressing down on her mind, forcing her head to remain upright, forcing herself to walk as if she did not hear him. As if his presence wasn’t wrapping itself around her ribs, twisting into the marrow of her bones.

She hadn’t heard his voice in months.

This is what you are. His voice dripped into her thoughts, filling every space, every doubt. This is all you will ever be.

The cries of the priestesses swelled, and above them came a sound that made her gut twist—a child’s wail, sharp and unrelenting.

Munin clenched her jaw, willing herself to stop, to turn away. But her feet carried her forward, deeper into the ruins of the temple. Through the smoke, through the wreckage, towards the sound of the crying.

The fire raged behind her, consuming stone and flesh alike. Another section of the temple’s roof collapsed, embers scattering like dying stars, sending another plume of dust and smoke into the air. The soldiers carried on, their laughter grating against her ears, their leering voices blending with the sharp keens of the priestesses beneath them.

She knew where she was going before she even realized she was moving.

Not out. Not away.

Towards the broken floorboards at the far end of the temple, where the cries were loudest. Where small, shivering figures cowered beneath the wooden slats, their thin bodies pressed into the dirt.

The wood groaned beneath her grip, splintering beneath her fingers as she tore up the floorboards. The broken edges bit into her skin, sharp and jagged, but she barely felt it. The dagger in her other hand felt heavier with each breath, its weight pressing into her palm like it had become part of her—an extension of the will that was no longer her own.

The moment the floorboard was lifted, the stench of sweat and fear hit her, thick and cloying. A pair of wide, terrified eyes stared up at her from the dark hollow beneath the ruined temple. Then another.

Arnulf. Dorothye.

Terror twisted their faces, their small hands clutching each other, shaking, shielding. Their lips moved, forming frantic words, but the voice in her head drowned them out.

Finish it. Dagdan’s laughter coiled through her mind, seeping into every thought, every instinct.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The dagger trembled in her hand.

Tears burned hot against her cheeks before she even realized she was crying. She never cried. She never could cry. But they wouldn’t stop, slipping past the iron wall of her control, falling freely onto the dirt beneath her boots.

Munin clenched her teeth, gripping the dagger tighter as her body betrayed her, as her arm lifted despite every desperate plea she tried to force through her mind.

Dagdan’s voice purred in her mind, sickeningly pleased. You will never escape me.

 

She fought against the weight pressing into her skull, fought to force her limbs to stop, to drop the blade. But her body did not listen.

I made you.

She couldn’t stop it.

The dagger came down.

Munin woke with a start, her breath sharp and ragged in the stale air of her apartment. Sweat clung to her skin, her clothes damp with it, her hands still curled into fists as if she had been fighting something—fighting him. The nightmare clung to her like oil, thick and suffocating, making it impossible to tell if she had truly escaped it.

But the walls surrounding her were familiar, cracked and dull, the single window letting in the murky light of morning. She had never been so grateful to see this miserable place.

She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, her pulse a frantic rhythm in her throat. It was just a dream. Just another fucking dream. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feel of it, the weight of that dagger in her hand, the helplessness of knowing her body was not her own.

With a shuddering breath, she curled in on herself, tucking her knees to her chest, gripping the fabric of her tunic so hard her fingers ached. Reality settled in—this was her apartment, this was her life now. But it didn’t matter. It would never matter.

The dream had only reminded her of what she was. What she would always be.

She pressed her forehead to her knees, shutting her eyes against the images still flashing behind them. The burning temple. The screams. The scent of blood so thick it had clogged her throat. The priestesses begging for mercy, the children sobbing beneath the floorboards. She had done that. It had been her voice giving the orders, her soldiers carrying them out.

Her stomach twisted. Her breath caught in her throat.

Arnulf and Dorothye. Huddled together, their eyes wide with fear, staring up at her as she tore away their only protection. She had almost—

Her stomach lurched, and she barely made it to the chamber pot before she was heaving, her body emptying itself as if it could purge what she had done. But nothing would ever cleanse her of it.

She gripped the edge of the small table beside her, trying to steady her breathing, but it only made it worse. The walls felt smaller, pressing in around her, the weight of centuries collapsing upon her all at once. No matter how far she ran, no matter how many different names she went by, it would never be enough. She could pretend the last five hundred years had never happened, she could convince herself she was someone else entirely, but it was a lie.

She would always be Munin.

And she would always be a danger.

---

The world was still heavy with mist when Munin led Arnulf into the woods.

The air was crisp, thick with the damp scent of earth and pine. A pale sliver of dawn stretched along the horizon, but the forest remained steeped in shadow, quiet and waiting for them.

She had almost said gone back on her promise to him. Had almost turned away when she had woken, drenched in sweat, the ghost of a dagger still clutched in her phantom grip. The dream—no, it was part memory—had clung to her skin like oil. The cries of the priestesses. The children’s screams.

Her hand tearing up the floorboards. Her dagger poised to strike.

Even now, as she moved through the trees, she couldn’t shake the weight of it. She had thought herself free of it, had pretended that the blood on her hands could be washed away, but the dream had shattered that illusion. She had done those things. She had been that monster.

And now she walked beside Arnulf, who was entirely too trusting, too eager to learn from her. He did not know what she had been, what she had almost done in the name of the King of Hybern. If she had been able to hurt others so soullessly, what stopped her from doing it now?

What stopped her from becoming that monster again?

Arnulf groaned dramatically, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he trailed behind her. “You know, most people don’t start the day by dragging children into the cold, miserable woods. They let them sleep.”

Munin adjusted the satchel on her shoulder, the weight of the bow and dagger inside heavier than it should have been. The last of her coin had gone to the laundress for these weapons—one necessary, the other…

“You’re the one who begged me to take you hunting,” Munin reminded him.

“I didn’t know you were going to drag me out here in the middle of the night,” Arnulf grumbled, kicking a loose rock down the trail.

Munin snorted. “This is dawn, not the middle of the night. Hunting is best done when the world is still asleep.”

Arnulf gave her a long, dubious look but didn’t argue further. He was excited despite his complaints—she could tell by the way he bounced slightly as he walked, his exhaustion already forgotten now that they were deep in the trees. He wanted to learn. He wanted to be like her.

That thought sat uneasily in her gut.

They moved in silence for a while, the damp earth soft beneath their boots, the whisper of morning birds beginning to stir in the branches above. When Munin spotted the faint indentation of a hoofprint in the soil, she knelt, pressing her fingers lightly against the imprint.

“Deer,” she murmured. “Young. Probably separated from the herd.”

Arnulf crouched beside her, mimicking her movements with exaggerated care. He squinted at the print, his nose scrunching. “How can you tell?”

She gestured to the shape, the shallow depth of the marking. “Too small to be full-grown. Too light to be a stag. If you know how to read the ground, you’ll know what’s ahead before you even see it.”

Arnulf stared at the print as if it might suddenly reveal all its secrets. After a long moment, he muttered, “So hunting is… reading?”

A reluctant smirk tugged at her lips. "In a way."

They tracked the deer for hours, moving through the undergrowth as the forest stretched awake around them. Munin corrected him when he made mistakes, snapped at him when he was too loud, flicked his ear when he muttered under his breath. He complained—endlessly—but he listened, too. And when the moment came, when he raised the too large bow that Cedric had gifted her and released the arrow with the control she had drilled into him, he struck true.

The arrow flew through the morning stillness, striking true. A dull thunk sounded as it sank into the deer’s side, just behind its shoulder. The young doe jerked, stumbling forward a few more steps before its legs gave out. It crumpled into the underbrush, breath shuddering from its lungs.

Arnulf stood frozen, bow still raised, eyes wide.

Munin let the silence stretch, watching the boy as he stared at his first kill. He had made a clean shot—better than she had expected for his first time. He had listened. He had learned.

She stepped forward and clapped him on the back, a firm thump between his shoulder blades. He jolted at the contact. “Well?” she drawled. “Go finish it.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. The bow trembled slightly in his grip. “I thought… I mean, it’s already—”

“It’s suffering,” she cut in, voice flat. “That shot wasn’t enough. You end it, or you let it die slowly. If you do the latter, you’re a coward.”

Arnulf stiffened at that. For a long moment, he said nothing, only glanced between her and the deer, as if gauging whether she was serious. Then, jaw tight, he set down the bow and reached for the dagger at his belt—the one she had forced him to bring.

The hesitation returned as he knelt beside the deer. It blinked up at him, glassy-eyed, its breath ragged.

She sighed. “Behind the jaw, aim for the heart.”

His fingers clenched. But to his credit, he didn’t argue, didn’t whimper or whine. He only tightened his grip on the dagger and did as she instructed.

The deer stilled. The forest remained quiet.

Arnulf exhaled, a long, uneven breath.

Munin let him have his moment. First kills always felt heavy—at least, they should have been. Though she had been far younger, far less reluctant. She’d been following her orders.

After a few beats, she shrugged off her satchel, unfastening the buckle to retrieve what was inside. The weight of the bow and dagger was heavier than it should have been as she unwrapped them, revealing the smooth wood and polished steel beneath.

Arnulf wiped his knife clean before turning to her. His brows pulled together as he noticed what she held.

She extended them toward him.

His eyes widened. “Are these—”

“Yours.”

He stared, not reaching for them at first, as if uncertain she meant it. But then he grabbed the bow, fingers running along the grain of the wood, testing the string’s tension. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting every inch like a boy who had just been handed his first real sword.

“Where did you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

Arnulf grinned, already pretending to notch an arrow. “It matters if you stole it.”

Munin scoffed. “I didn’t.”

It was the truth. She had spent the last of her coin on them—her hunting had kept her from needing to pay the market’s high prices for food, leaving her with just enough to spare. She hadn’t even thought about it, not really. She had just… bought them.

Her arms crossed as she watched him, the way his fingers lingered on the dagger’s hilt, tracing the simple design. That feeling in her chest tightened.

"If I ever have to go," she said, voice quieter than she meant it to be, "it will be up to you to take care of your family."

Arnulf’s hands stilled. His gaze flicked up from the blade to her face, sharp despite the hesitation behind it.

She closed her eyes, tried not to think about it. The inevitability of leaving. But it pressed down anyway, sinking into her bones, a quiet, creeping thing.

Arnulf shifted, the leather of his boots scuffing against the dirt. “Are you?”

Her brow furrowed. “Am I what?”

“Going somewhere.”

A shudder worked its way down her spine before she could stop it.

When she really, truly thought about it, she didn’t want to leave. The past few nights had been nice. Unsettlingly so. Clotilda had all but ordered her to stay for dinner, pressing a plate into her hands, fussing over her as if she were another one of her boys. The tiny cottage was too cramped, too loud, but it was warm.

She didn’t belong there. She had no right to that warmth, to that kindness. It was borrowed time, and she knew it.

She had spent five hundred years serving Hybern. Five hundred years spilling blood, tearing families apart, being nothing more than what she had been made to be. A weapon. A monster.

That dream—no, memory—had proved it.

She had dreamed of Sangravah before, but never like that. Never so vividly, never with every wretched detail burned into her mind. The weight of the blood on her hands. The sound of the priestesses crying, the children wailing. The way her body had moved on its own, as if controlled by something else—someone else. But it hadn’t been someone else, had it? It had been her.

Dagdan had controlled her mind, but it was still her orders that killed those priestesses.

The thought turned her stomach, sent a wave of nausea crawling up her throat. She gritted her teeth against it, exhaled through her nose.

Arnulf was still watching her, waiting.

She turned away, pulled at the bowstring, tested the tension even though there was nothing wrong with it. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie.

But the truth was, there was no escaping what she was. She could go by a different name, pretend she had never lived that life, but it wouldn’t change anything. She was Hybern’s weapon, through and through. And if she stayed, if she let herself have this, what happened when she lost control?

What happened when the past came knocking?

Arnulf tilted his head, studying her like she was some puzzle he was determined to solve. “Don’t you get to choose?”

A short, humorless laugh left her lips before she could stop it. “Not usually.”

He frowned, mulling that over, then said with absolute certainty, “Well, you should.”

Munin rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she shoved the bow back into the satchel. “Thanks for the wisdom.”

Arnulf only shrugged, completely unfazed. “You’re welcome.”

She snorted, standing to brush the dirt from her hands. “Enough for today.”

Arnulf grinned as he strapped the dagger to his belt, adjusting it like it was some kind of badge of honor. He puffed out his chest a little as he walked beside her, still practically glowing from his first successful hunt. The cocky grin he threw her was inevitable. “I’ll be better than you one day.”

Munin snorted, shifting the satchel’s strap on her shoulder. “I’d like to see you try.”

Arnulf only grinned wider.

And, despite herself, she let him.

---

Azriel barely noticed the rain, the icy drizzle that seeped through his leathers and numbed his skin.

The town reeked of damp wood and rot, the scent of unwashed bodies lingering beneath it all. He moved like a shadow through the winding streets, unnoticed, unseen, though the tension in his shoulders never eased. He hadn’t slept in days.

His mission was clear—find out what happened to the missing females. He had tracked whispers across the Continent, followed the trail of vanished girls. Towns where people kept their heads down, their doors bolted shut after dark.

Where no one would speak of the figures seen lingering in alleyways or the ones who never came home.

But it wasn’t only them he was looking for.

Elara.

His shadows stirred at the thought of her name, curling tighter around his wrists, brushing against his pulse as if they, too, felt the unease clawing at his chest. She was somewhere on the Continent, too.  And if she was...

His jaw clenched. He did not want to finish that thought.

But the possibility clawed at him nonetheless. She had been a weapon for so long, shaped by Hybern’s cruelty. He had seen firsthand how easily her will could be twisted, how her mind was not always her own. If someone else had taken up the reins... if she had fallen into the hands of those responsible for these disappearances...

He pressed a gloved hand against his temple, exhaling through his nose. He could not let himself panic. He had not slept in days, and his exhaustion was starting to turn his thoughts against him.

Still, the memory of her lingered. He had no doubt that if she had wanted to, she could have been responsible for the missing females. She was more than capable.

And yet.

Something in him recoiled at the thought. Elara. Not Munin. Elara. He forced himself to think of her as such, forced himself to remember that she was more than what had been done to her. The Munin he had met—the one who had helped him, at risk to herself, despite her orders—he could not see her taking part in this.

But he had been wrong before.

His hands curled into fists as he pressed himself deeper into the shadows, scanning the streets for his contact. He would get his answers soon enough. And if Elara was involved... if she had been turned into a blade for someone else’s hand...

His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He would find her. He would stop this.

No matter what it took.

---

Munin stepped into the dimly lit tavern, the air thick with the scent of old ale and sweat.

Smoke curled from a hearth at the center of the room, its flames low, as if struggling for breath beneath the weight of the damp, wood-paneled walls. The floorboards groaned underfoot, the rush of voices—some raised in laughter, others in drunken arguments—melding into a constant, grating hum.

She had been in worse places.

The scent of food hit her next, heavy with grease and charred meat.

It was nothing like the meals that greeted her when Clotilda ushered her inside, the air in that little cottage warm with the scent of roasted herbs and fresh bread. There, the meals were simple but rich, the warmth of the hearth seeping into her bones in a way that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Here, the food smelled thick and oily, enough to turn her stomach.

But she had little choice. She had spent the last few nights eating with Clotilda and her family, and imposing on them further would be rude. The thought startled her, the realization curling uncomfortably in her chest.

When had she ever cared about being rude?

It would have been easier to cook for herself, but she had given all of the day’s game to Arnulf. A decision made before she had thought too hard about it, before she could remind herself that he was not hers to care for. That she did not care.

Munin pushed the thought aside, her fingers brushing over the few coins in her pocket. The wages from the past week at the laundry were meager, barely enough for a meal, but they would suffice.

She moved toward an empty table near the corner, her back to the wall, her eyes scanning the crowded space without appearing to do so. The press of bodies, the too-loud voices, the occasional clash of a tankard against wood—it should have set her on edge. Once, it would have. But she ignored the din, ignored the unsteady footsteps of a patron stumbling too close. She had learned to let the noise become a part of the background, to distinguish threat from mere drunken stupidity.

Still, her fingers twitched at her side, itching for the weight of a blade.

Munin had just lifted a hand to wave down the barmaid when a male slid into the seat across from her, uninvited. The wood groaned beneath his weight, his movements slow—the sort that reeked of overconfidence, of someone who had spent too many nights in taverns like this, thinking himself untouchable.

She had seen his type before.

"Didn’t take you for the shy type," he drawled, his breath sour with ale, the stench of sweat rolling off him in waves.

Munin did not even glance at him. "Leave."

"Now, now, no need to be rude," he said, grinning, revealing yellowed teeth. His eyes dragged over her, the way males like him always looked at females who sat alone, as if their solitude was an invitation. "You look like you could use some coin. How about we make a deal?"

Her fingers curled around the dagger at her hip.

"I don’t take coin for that," she said flatly.

The male leaned in, bracing an elbow on the table, his grin widening as if he had found something amusing. "Shame. I like a female with a bit of fight."

Munin finally looked at him. Not a glance. A full, assessing stare. Cold and unblinking, the kind that had once made even trained warriors hesitate. Let him see it. Let him feel what it meant to be prey.

"If you don’t leave," she murmured, voice soft enough that he had to lean in to hear her, "I’ll cut off your hand and feed it to you."

His grin faltered.

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, barely noticeable, but enough. Munin shifted her cloak just enough for him to see the glint of steel beneath it, the hilt of the dagger she had already begun to draw.

The male lifted his hands in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath as he eased back from the table. "Gods-damned feisty," he muttered before slinking away, disappearing into the crowd.

Munin exhaled through her nose and turned back toward the barmaid, signaling her once again, as if nothing had happened.

The barmaid returned, her eyes flicking toward the retreating male before setting down a steaming plate of stew and a hunk of bread. She hesitated for only a moment, as if considering whether to say something, but at whatever she saw in Munin’s face, she wisely thought better of it and turned away.

Munin ignored the way her stomach clenched with hunger, reaching for the spoon. She had spent years eating only when she was told, rationing food that was never truly hers. Now, she could eat when she wanted, when she chose. The thought still unsettled her, the foreignness of it. But she forced herself to take a bite, let the warmth spread through her despite the thinness of the broth.

She had barely swallowed when a voice cut through the low din of the tavern.

"We need more names. He wants powerful females."

Munin did not react. Did not stiffen. Did not lift her gaze. But her senses sharpened, stretching outward, tracking the sound to the largest table in the corner. Five males, well-fed, well-armed. The sort that mistook their bulk and their weapons for true strength. Their cups were full, their speech too careless for their own good. Drunk. Loud. Stupid.

"We’ve already brought him three," one of them grumbled. "How many does he expect us to find?"

"Enough," the leader said. "He needs their power."

Munin forced herself to chew. To keep her posture loose, unconcerned. She did not like what she was hearing. And she did not know if she cared to know more. If these males were in league with Hybern, if they were looking for females with power, then she could not let them see her.

Casually, she reached for her hood, pulling it forward until shadows swallowed her face.

---

The night was thick with mist, the damp air clinging to Munin’s skin as she trailed the males from the tavern. Their laughter had faded as they moved deeper into the alleyways, their steps no longer careless. They knew what they were doing.

And so did she.

She should turn back. Let sleeping dogs lie. She was finally free of Hybern, to do what she wanted. This wasn’t her fight. Did she even want it to be?

Munin had spent centuries as the King’s shadow, slipping through courts, killing who she was told to. She had torn apart lives with only a few carefully placed words, had carried out his will without question. She had gained the Cauldron for him. Because of her, his armies had nearly crushed Prythian.

How much of that war—the deaths, the suffering—had been her fault?

If she walked away now, no one would stop her. No one would expect more of her. The war was over, and the world had no need for a creature like her anymore. She could disappear forever, slip into the quiet life she had stumbled upon in the woods. She could eat dinner with Clotilda and Cedric, let Arnulf pester her with questions, teach him and Dorothye how to move through the trees without a sound.

But was that true? Could she really do that?

The males moved swiftly, purposeful. Too purposeful. They weren’t stumbling drunks looking for trouble; they had a destination, a plan.

Munin kept to the rooftops now, her steps silent on the weather-worn shingles, watching the way they glanced over their shoulders. Not just for foot traffic or city guards. They were checking for something else. For someone else.

And she could feel it. The weight of something foul, something dangerous curling in the air around them.

A world away from her, Clotilda’s hearth was warm. Arnulf was likely pestering Cedric for more hunting stories, his voice full of that reckless enthusiasm that made Munin roll her eyes. Dorothye would be bent over one of her books, frowning in that serious way she always did, lips pursed in thought as if the weight of the world rested on her next sentence.

They were safe—for now. But how many others weren’t? How many young females walked the streets tonight, unaware of that the males here posed a danger to them? Could she leave them to a world where males like this still prowled the night? Could she call herself anything other than a weapon if she turned away?

A muffled cry snapped her from her thoughts.

Down below, one of the males had grabbed a young female—barely more than a girl—yanking her into the alley. Her arms flailed, her mouth opened in a scream that never left her lips before a hand clamped over it.

“Shh,” one of them crooned. “Don’t fight. It’ll be worse if you fight.”

The girl thrashed, her terror a living thing in the cold air. Another male grabbed her by the hair, twisting until she gasped.

Munin was moving before she had fully decided to.

The dagger was already in her hand by the time her boots hit the cobblestones. The mist clung to the alley walls, thick and curling, swallowing the distant sounds of the city beyond. The girl’s breath hitched—a broken, terrified sound muffled by the filthy hand still clamped over her mouth.

Munin took a step forward, her voice quiet, sharp as a blade. “Let her go.”

The males turned. Amusement flickered in their eyes before twisting into something meaner, sharper.

“You lost, sweetheart?” one sneered, his grip on the girl tightening. “Mind your own business.”

Munin tilted her head, measuring them. Five of them. Well-fed, well-armed, overconfident. She had taken down worse. She took another step, the flickering torchlight catching the glint of her blade.

“I said,” she murmured, “let her go.”

The male gripping the girl’s hair yanked her back, making her whimper. “And if we don’t?”

Munin smiled. Cold. Empty. A remnant of what she had been, of what she had spent a lifetime becoming.

“Then I’ll kill you.”

---

The alley reeked of blood and fear. The mist slithered low along the ground, curling over the corpses sprawled where they had fallen. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. Eyes wide, vacant, still frozen in expressions of shock. They had not expected to die tonight.

Munin exhaled through her nose, slow and steady, though her pulse was anything but. She should walk away. Move on, clean her blade, let the memories fade as she always had. But her hands trembled as she wiped the dagger on the tunic of the nearest corpse.

It wasn’t the kill itself. It never was.

It was the feeling—the dark pull of something coiling tight in her chest, familiar and insidious. It had been easy for her to slip back into it. To the killing. She was good at it.

She had enjoyed it.

Her stomach twisted. The weight of old sins pressed against her ribs, suffocating. This was exactly how it had been before—working under Hybern’s banner, cutting down those in his way. Killing quickly, efficiently, without mercy.

What did it matter that these males deserved it? That they had been the kind of monsters she had once served?

The part of her that had been sculpted in war whispered that it was no different. That she was still the same.

Munin forced herself to move. Forced herself to slip back into the shadows, into the cold, empty streets beyond. She walked until her legs ached, until the blood on her hands dried and cracked. By the time she reached the small room above the laundress’s shop, the city had fallen into a restless hush.

The sheets were scratchy, the bed stiff and unwelcoming, but she dropped onto it anyway, exhaustion curling around her like a second skin. She stared at the ceiling, the ghost of old habits whispering that she should clean her blade, change her clothes, wash the blood from beneath her nails.

Instead, she closed her eyes. And listened to the silence.

Sleep dragged her under too fast, too deep.

The nightmares followed. It held her, sinking its claws into her mind and wrenching her backward into something darker.

A stone room, dimly lit, the damp scent of old mortar clinging to the air. It was unfamiliar, but something in her bones recognized it. The heavy door loomed behind her, shut tight. The torches burned too low to be of much use, casting flickering shadows that curled along the uneven walls. Silence pressed in thick as fog, settling heavy in her lungs, and then—him.

Silas.

The name lodged itself in her throat. He stood before her, broad shoulders squared, every bit as imposing at the King of Hybern. The sheer force of him filled the space, filled every inch of air between them, filled her lungs until she was drowning in it.

Her wings curled tight around herself. Her body felt too small. She felt too small.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She obeyed before she could stop herself, her chin lifting, her body responding without thought. A command burned into her like old scars. Silver streaked the dark of his hair, though the rest of him was untouched by age. His face was sharp, striking, cold. But his eyes—they were what she recognized.

She had seen those eyes before.

"Again and again, you disobey me," he said, voice smooth as polished steel, slicing through the heavy air like a blade. "Do you think you are clever?"

She did not answer. Her jaw ached with how tightly she clenched it.

He took a step closer, "Do you think your defiance makes you strong?"

Something flickered in her chest. A desperate, splintering thing, barely more than an ember, but there. Silas saw it. And smiled.

"I am your father, and you will obey me.” he murmured, voice like iron, unshakable and final. You will not go off gallivanting around Velars on your own, and you certainly won’t be going to the mountains with your brother."

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The walls seemed to press in. The torchlight wavered, flickered—then shifted.

The room darkened. The edges bled away, dissolving into something else, something worse.

Silas was gone. Dagdan stood in his place.

Her body would not move.

Dagdan smiled. The kind of smile that had always set her nerves on edge, not because it threatened pain—but because it promised possession. A quiet, patient thing, as if he were indulging a child who had not yet learned her place. Because he had known—known—that she was his. Mind, body, soul.

"You had such potential," he murmured, his voice curling around her.

Munin tried to step back, to wrench herself free, but her body seized, unable to fight back against him. His magic. His claim.

Dagdan crouched before her,  his dark eyes drinking her in. He tilted his head, as if considering something, before reaching out and smoothing back a strand of her hair. His fingers lingered at her temple, trailing lower, down the side of her neck.

The touch was light, careful—possessive.

"You were mine, little one," he said, tracing the line of her collarbone, his thumb pressing over the pulse hammering in her throat. "You are mine."

Revulsion coiled through her.

"No." The word barely escaped her lips, a whisper swallowed by the dark.

His smile sharpened, but he did not release her. If anything, his grip tightened. He leaned in, his breath brushing over her ear. "You don’t get to say no."

She thrashed, but it only made him laugh. Made him press closer, his fingers sliding lower, skimming the edge of her tunic as if he had every right to touch her. As if she belonged to him, as if he could drag her back to the past and remake her back into the weapon he had designed.

"I shaped you," he murmured, his lips almost at her temple. "I taught you everything. You think you can walk away? That you can be anything else?

The shadows surged. They wrapped around her ribs, squeezing, pressing, drowning—

Light. Soft, warm, cutting through the darkness like a blade. It swept over her, breaking apart the shadows like mist before the sun. A new touch—gentle fingers threading through her hair. She gasped, flinching—

"Shh." A voice, steady, lulling. A female’s voice. Familiar.

A hand cupped her face, warm and firm. "You don’t have to be afraid."

Munin’s breath caught. She forced herself to look up—at the wings shielding her, black and vast, curling around her like a barrier. Not a cage. Not a claim.

A face, blurred by memory. But the voice—

"I won’t let him hurt you," the female whispered. "I won’t let them take you."

Something inside Munin cracked, splintering apart as the female—her mother, her instincts told her—pressed a kiss to her brow. The touch was warm, lingering, her breath trembling as it ghosted over Munin’s skin. And then, as if the words had always been waiting, as if they had been stitched into her very being and only now unraveled—

"Elara."

She sucked in a breath, something between a gasp and a sob, reaching—grasping—for the female, for that warmth, for the shelter of those wings curled around her. But the dream was already fading, the edges of it unraveling like mist in the morning light. The darkness surged back in, swallowing her whole, dragging her under.

She woke with a start.

Her lungs burned, her throat raw as if she had been screaming. Sweat clung to her skin, soaking the clothes that she had fallen asleep in, the sheets twisted around her body like restraints. She forced in a breath, then another, pressing a shaking hand to her chest as if she could steady the frantic pounding of her heart.

Elara. The name still echoed in her mind, in her bones, in the marrow of her very blood.

She clutched the coarse fabric of the blankets, willing her fingers to stop trembling. Her mouth was dry, her head light, as if she had been drowning and only now surfaced. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But the weight of it, the sheer force of knowing—it had felt more solid, more true than anything else she could remember.

And the female… She knew in her heart that it had been her mother. Not a stranger conjured by her dreams. Not some trick of her mind.

Which meant the Shadowsinger had been right.

Munin—Elara—stared at the ceiling, her breath still uneven, her body too restless, too alive with the aftershock of it all.

Elara. The name did not feel foreign. It did not feel like something stolen from another life.

It felt like it had been hers all along.

Notes:

one step forward, three steps back...? our girl has gone killing again.

Chapter 41

Azriel had been tracking leads for days, chasing shadows across the Continent.

His own shadows had guided him here—a small, unimpressive town pressed against the wilds, where the buildings leaned with age and the streets bore the deep grooves of wagon wheels and hoofprints. The kind of place where people lived and died unnoticed.

He couldn’t imagine that he would find much here.

He didn’t exactly know why he was here. Rhys had sent him to investigate the disappearances, the growing list of females who had vanished from Rask and Valhallan without a trace. Those were the places where he expected to find answers, where coin and power dictated everything. If anyone would have answers to the disappearances, it would be there.

But this town? This place, with its sagging rooftops and mud-caked alleys, held no significance. Yet his shadows whispered to him, curling around his shoulders, tugging at the edges of his mind. Here. Here. You will find what you seek here.

They had never been wrong before.

Azriel moved through the streets, cataloging every detail. The stationed guards, their armor dulled with use. The shifting alleyways that twisted out of sight. The exits and weak points, the windows left unlatched. There were eyes on him, but not many. The people here were wary, heads bent as he passed, as if instinct told them to avoid drawing the attention of a male like him.

He wondered if this was just another dead end.

His shadows did not seem to think so.

They guided him further, down the uneven main road, past the worn-out shops and flickering lanterns, leading him toward a tavern that sat hunched between two buildings, its wooden sign creaking in the wind.

The scent hit him first—spilled ale, unwashed bodies, roasting meat. Warmth and filth mixed together, thick in the air. Inside, the place was alive with noise. Males drank and gambled, their voices slurred, hands slapping the tables in drunken amusement. A few females wove between them, balancing trays, dodging reaching hands with practiced ease. No one paid him much attention as he stepped inside, save for a quick glance from the barkeep before he turned back to polishing a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass itself.

Azriel moved deeper into the room. The whispers in his mind coiled tighter. Here.

His jaw tightened as he surveyed the space. He still didn’t know what he was looking for. But his shadows had led him here for a reason. And they had never been wrong before.

Azriel allowed himself to be enveloped in his shadows, letting them coil around him until he was nothing more than a wisp of darkness in the corner of the tavern. The perfect vantage point—a table against the wall, where no one could approach from behind.

His gaze swept the room, assessing, cataloging, searching. He had spent his life listening for information, waiting for the right slip of information, the wrong word muttered at the wrong time. He knew how to pick apart a room like this. Especially in a town like this where no one seemed to be too guarded.

His patience was rewarded when his eyes landed on a battered-looking male slumped at a table near the bar. Blood crusted along his temple, bruises darkened his jaw, and the stiffness in his movements spoke of deeper wounds. It was the kind of damage that came from a fight. A brutal one.

Azriel straightened slightly. The scene was familiar. Too familiar.

The last time he had happened upon a male looking like this, Elara had been the cause.

The thought made something twist in his chest.

He had tried—tried—to push her from his thoughts, to shove her into the depths of his mind where he kept everything else that clawed at him. But after Valhallan, after knowing she had been there, had been so close…he hadn’t fully given up his hope.

Perhaps she was still somewhere on the continent.

Every city he’d passed through while doing what Rhys had asked—while investigating these disappearances—he had searched. He had looked at every face in every alleyway, in every crowded market and dimly lit tavern, hoping to catch even the smallest glimpse of those violet eyes.

But he never had.

The male hunched over the bar looked like he had crawled out of a grave and somehow kept walking. His face was a ruin of bruises and dried blood, his lip split, his eye swollen shut. He clutched a cup of something dark, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the handle that his knuckles had gone white, as if letting go might send him tumbling into whatever hell he had barely crawled out of.

He wasn’t just drinking to dull the pain—he was rattled, his entire body still caught in the grip of whatever horror had found him.

The tavern keeper leaned in, his voice a low murmur. It was too quiet for anyone else to catch, but Azriel’s shadows slipped through the air, winding around the pair, listening.

"What happened to you?" The keeper’s voice was edged with something close to wariness, as if he had seen his fair share of trouble and didn’t want more of it in his establishment.

"They're all dead." The male exhaled sharply, his breath uneven. His voice was hoarse, roughened from what Azriel could only assume had been a long night of pain and fear, and whatever had happened to him, it had shattered something inside him.

Good, Azriel’s shadows whispered to him.

The tavern keeper frowned, his thick arms braced against the bar. "Who?"

“The others. She—she killed them all.” The male swallowed, his fingers flexing slightly around his drink, as if the memory alone was enough to make his hands shake His words were hushed, but the way he spat them, the way his whole body tensed, told Azriel enough.

His body went still. His grip on the table, on his own restraint, tightened. His shadows coiled, restless, feeding on the sharp spike of awareness flooding through him. Elara. It had to be. The thought slammed through him like a blade to the ribs. He had spent too long chasing false leads, too long following trails that led to nothing, but this—this was real.

The way his shadows whispered, the way his pulse kicked, the way his instincts sharpened, told him everything he needed to know.

The injured male scoffed, taking a slow sip from his drink, his split lip reopening as he sneered. “Next time, I’ll gut her.”

Azriel’s grip shifted on the pommel of his dagger, his thumb brushing over the worn leather. A slow, creeping heat spread through his veins. His breathing remained even, his posture unchanged, but something deep within him curled and twisted, hunger and fury entwined.

The male exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as if still struggling to comprehend what had happened.

“Winged bitch tore through them like it was nothing. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t really speak. Just—” He lifted his free hand and slashed it through the air, mimicking a blade cutting through flesh, his fingers still stiff, as if he could still feel the ghost of her attack.

Azriel forced himself to remain still, to keep his shadows from betraying the storm building beneath his skin. She was alive. He hadn’t let himself believe it before—not fully. But now, as the truth settled into his chest, his thoughts turned sharp. She had been here. And she was still killing.

The tavern keeper shifted his weight, glancing over his shoulder, his wariness now edged with something colder. His voice was cautious when he asked, “And you? How are you still breathing?”

The battered male exhaled sharply, fingers brushing the bruises along his jaw.

“She thought I was dead,” he muttered, rubbing at a swollen patch of skin. “I played dead, waited ‘til she was gone. Then I crawled my ass here.”

Azriel watched the male’s movements, every tic, every flicker of his expression cataloged and stored away. He was not a good liar. His voice trembled at the edges, his fingers curled just slightly too tight around his cup. But he was telling the truth.

Azriel’s heartbeat slowed, cold and steady. She was killing. It wasn’t a surprise. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. He had seen her fight before. He had seen her drenched in blood, moving through the battlefield with that detached, unfeeling grace. She had been Hybern’s creature for five hundred years.

Killing was what she knew, what had been forced into her bones, refined into something perfect and lethal.

But hearing it spoken aloud, in the voice of a male who had barely survived her, was different. And the way he spoke of her—it made something in Azriel bristle. As if she were some mindless beast, some winged thing that tore through the dark without reason. As if she had not been made that way, shaped and honed, a blade that had never been given the choice to be anything else.

Had he been wrong in Valhallan? When he thought that maybe she had been making choices not to kill? Or was she now choosing to revert back into Munin? Into Hybern’s creature?

 “What did she look like?” The tavern keeper grumbled, not even hiding his displeasure at the development. Whatever this male was up to, the tavern keeper was in on it.

The male snorted, bitter and hoarse. “Like a godsdamned nightmare.” He took another drink, wincing as he swallowed. “Didn’t get a good look at her face. Hood was up most of the time.” He paused, rubbing his jaw. “But the eyes… They—” He shuddered, shaking his head. “Didn’t even look real.”

Azriel was moving before the thought had even fully formed. One moment, he was nothing, a shadow among shadows, unseen and unnoticed. The next, he was at the bar, standing just behind the male.

The male stiffened, some instinct pricking at him, but it was too late.

“Tell me what you know.” Azriel’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the din of the tavern.

The male barely had time to turn before Azriel’s scarred fingers had twisted into the front of his tunic, wrenching him away from the bar. His cup clattered to the floor, ale spilling across the wood in a spreading pool. Someone cursed, chair legs scraping as others edged back, eyes darting between the male and the hooded figure who held him.

The male gasped, hands flying up in surrender. “Who the fuck—”

“Tell me what you know.” Azriel didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. It was the kind of quiet that made even the drunkest patrons stop and listen.

The male’s good eye darted around the room, searching for help. He found none. Even the tavern keeper, who had been so keen on his whispers before, now looked away, pretending to scrub down the counter. The male swallowed, throat bobbing beneath Azriel’s grip. “I don’t—I don’t know—”

Azriel pressed his thumb against the hollow of his throat, just enough to cut off the excuse before it could fully form.

“Oh, I think you do.” His voice was still soft, still calm, but he knew the male could hear the edge beneath it, the promise of what would come next if he chose to lie again.

The male stammered, his pulse hammering against Azriel’s hand. “I don’t. She just—she just appeared out of nowhere. She wasn’t even our target.”

Azriel didn’t loosen his grip. His mind worked through the words, dissecting them, sifting through the layers of truth and fear. His shadows curled tighter around him, hungry, listening. She wasn’t even our target. Then who was? And why had she killed them all anyway?

The task Rhys had given him vanished him from his mind. There was only one focus that he had now. This male had seen Elara, and Azriel was going to find her.

“Then why was she there?” he asked, voice low, steady.

The male flinched, as if the sound alone was enough to unnerve him. His fingers twitched at his sides. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, the words shaky. “She just… showed up. We didn’t even see her until it was too late.”

Azriel studied him, the tremble in his fingers, the way his eye kept flicking toward the door. He was looking for an escape. Azriel would give him none. He leaned in slightly, his grip unyielding. “And what were you doing there?”

“We were just supposed to take the girl, alright? Someone paid good coin for her.” His voice wavered, but there was something else beneath the fear. Resentment. The male swallowed hard, his throat bobbing beneath the press of Azriel’s hand.

Azriel’s grip did not loosen. His stomach twisted. “Who?”

The male let out a shaky breath. “Didn’t get a name. Doesn’t work like that.”

Azriel’s fingers twitched against the male’s throat, resisting the urge to press just a little harder. “And the female?” His voice was quiet, a whisper of steel.

The male flinched, hands trembling at his sides. “I don’t know!” he choked out. “She just—she killed everyone. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even wait for an explanation.”

Azriel stared at him, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he let go, stepping back with careful control. The male sagged against the bar, gasping in air like a drowning man who had barely broken the surface.

There was a roaring in Azriel’s ears. He had found her. Elara.

He had spent weeks chasing whispers, following trails that had long since gone cold, searching through the filth of every city and village he passed through. And now, just like that, he knew. She was here.

The male rubbed at his bruised throat, his good eye flicking up warily. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered.

Azriel’s gaze darkened, fingers twitching toward his blade. But he did not strike. Not yet. Not now. There was only one thing that mattered.

He had found her.

Now, the only question was how to get to her.

---

Elara was being followed.

The feeling settled over her early that morning, before the sun had even risen, as she walked the familiar path to the laundry. The streets had been empty, the city still wrapped in the hush of pre-dawn, but something had pricked at the back of her neck, a whisper of wrongness curling in her gut.

Her senses had been honed from years of serving the King.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t break stride or give any kind of indication that she suspected something amiss. Only listened. Nothing but the wind stirring the dust, the distant bark of a mongrel. Yet she knew.

Even when she reached the laundry, even as she spent the day bent over a tub of murky water, scrubbing until her hands were raw, the feeling didn’t fade. Someone was watching.

The forewoman pressed the meager coin into her damp palm at the end of the day, her fingers aching, her back stiff. The streets were crowded now, the city alive with noise and movement, but that sensation remained, threading through her senses like a warning.

She was to go Clotilda’s that day, to help with the butchering of meat.

If someone wanted to rob her, they certainly were patient. And for very little reward. She had nothing of value beyond the blade at her hip and the coppers clutched in her fist. But she knew better than to believe this was a common thief. There was no rush, no haphazard desperation in the way they followed.

She didn’t let on that she knew. Instead, she walked as if nothing was wrong, as if she weren’t listening to the shift of footsteps behind her.

She wove through the market, letting the press of bodies swallow her whole. The scent of spiced meat and overripe fruit mingled with the acrid smoke curling from a blacksmith’s forge. She moved without urgency, pausing at stalls, pretending to study bolts of cheap fabric, bruised apples, tarnished jewelry.

It was not the wares that interested her, but the space around her, the air shifting at her back.

She waited for hesitation. For a misstep. A shadow too slow to vanish. But there was nothing. No dark figure lurking behind crates of citrus, no glint of steel catching the light. And yet, the weight of it—of them—remained. Soldier. Spy. Assassin. Or something else entirely?

She bought nothing, slipping away from the market with the same easy pace, turning down a quieter street, then another. The city’s heartbeat faded behind her, the distant murmur of bartering voices and clattering hooves giving way to stillness. The buildings here leaned toward each other.

Let them think they had her cornered.

The alley was narrow, the air damp, thick with the scent of rain-soaked stone and rot. A single flickering lantern hung overhead, its light casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.

She turned in one swift motion, unsheathing her dagger in a whisper of steel.

Silence stretched, the only sound the distant hum of the city. The cool weight of the blade in her grip was familiar, steady, as she planted her feet against the slick cobblestones. Her own shadow stretched long against the wall, shifting with the lantern’s wavering glow. But it was the movement in the darkness ahead that held her attention. A shape barely distinguishable from the gloom.

"You’ve been following me all day." Her voice was quiet, edged with steel. "Come out."

For a moment, nothing. Then a slow shuffle of boots against stone. A figure stepped into the dim light.

Elara stilled. The male’s face was sharp, gaunt, eyes hollow with something that was neither hunger nor fear. His skin had the pallor of something long sickened, stretched too thin over sharp bones, and his clothes—stiff with dried blood—hung from his frame in ragged tatters.

She knew him. She had killed him before.

The scent of damp earth and old blood curled in her lungs, thick and cloying, the same as that night. Her blade had sunk deep into his gut—clean, efficient, final. Just like all the others. And yet, here he was.

His lips pulled back in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, his teeth bared in something that was neither amusement nor malice but a grotesque imitation of both.

"You should be dead." The words left her lips before she could stop them.

The male chuckled, a raw, grating sound, brittle as snapped bone. “He says he’s been waitin’ fer you.”

Something cold coiled in her chest, tightening around her ribs like a vice.

“Who?” she demanded, her grip on the dagger steady, her teeth clenched against the unease slithering beneath her skin.

The grin widened, splitting his face like a fresh wound. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

He lunged.

She twisted, her body moving before thought could take hold. The dagger flashed in the dim light as she sidestepped, forcing him to overextend. His movements were wrong—sluggish, as if his limbs fought against some unseen weight, but he was fast. Faster than a male in his condition should have been.

Her blade bit into flesh, once, twice—clean, precise strikes meant to cripple. But he did not react as he should have. No stagger, no hiss of pain. Only the flicker of something dark in his eyes, something hollow and bottomless, something that did not belong to him.

The tide shifted.

The blade struck before she saw it coming. A flash of steel, a feint to the right—then pain. A sharp, searing bite across her ribs as the dagger sliced through her tunic, through flesh. Not deep, but enough. Enough for the burn to follow.

The sting registered first—a sharp, glancing pain along her ribs. Then came the burn, slow and insidious, a creeping heat beneath her skin. Elara barely had time to glance down before the truth sank in. Faebane. The thin line of blood seeping through her tunic meant nothing compared to the sickness that followed, the sluggish weight settling into her limbs.

She knew this feeling, had suffered through it too many times under Hybern’s command. Hybern had used it more times than she could count. It dulled everything, made her body feel thick, disconnected, as though her very blood had turned to sludge.

Her breath hitched as she shifted her stance, adjusting for the weakness spreading through her limbs. The male saw it. His grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light, his bloodied fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. He struck again. She barely twisted away, the blade missing her throat by a hair, but her balance faltered. The world tilted as her vision blurred at the edges.

His hand slammed into her chest, driving her back.

The impact stole what little breath she had left as she crashed against the rough stone wall, her skull ringing from the force of it. Her dagger clattered to the ground, the metallic clang drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears. Before she could reach for it, his body caged her in.

His grip was unyielding as he seized her by the throat, pressing her further into the cold, damp stone. He smelled of sweat and blood, of something rotting beneath the surface. His breath was thick with it as he leaned in, his blade gliding over her cheek—not cutting, not yet. Just enough for her to feel the kiss of steel, the promise it carried.

“He’ll be happy with you,” he murmured.

Elara didn’t ask who. She couldn’t bring herself to.

Her muscles screamed as she fought against the weight dragging her down, but the Faebane had done its work well. She could feel the poison slowing her pulse, sapping her strength, leaving her body sluggish, her limbs unresponsive.

She was going to lose.

For the first time in centuries, she could feel the certainty of it sinking into her bones.

A shadow passed overhead, swallowing the dim light. Then—a gust of wind, strong and sudden, rattling the lantern above. The scent of night and steel cut through the damp alleyway. The weight crushing her against the wall vanished. One moment, the male’s breath was hot against her skin, his blade tracing cold lines down her cheek.

The next, he was gone. Ripped away.

The force of it sent a shockwave through the alley, the sound of bones snapping like dry twigs. A ragged, wet gasp—then silence.

Elara forced herself up. Her limbs were slow, her muscles sluggish, but she moved. She had to. Every breath felt thick in her lungs, the faebane winding through her veins like poison. Her side throbbed, her ribs ached where the male had crushed her against the stone, but she ignored the pain, ignored the way the world spun as she pushed forward.

Her dagger was already in her grip. She barely remembered reaching for it. The hilt felt distant, like she was holding it through thick fog, her fingers numb from the faebane dulling her senses. She gritted her teeth, pushing past the weakness, forcing her feet to stay beneath her as she turned.

A male stood at the mouth of the alley.

Not her attacker. Not another soldier.

The Shadowsinger.

The Shadowsinger did not move. Not as the lantern’s dim light flickered over him. Not as the shadows curled tighter around his frame, shifting, restless, alive. His wings were only half-furled, but there was nothing relaxed in his stance. He was a blade, poised to strike, leashed only by his own unreadable restraint.

Elara tightened her grip on her own dagger, but he made no sign that he had even noticed.

And yet—he was watching her.

The weight of it pressed against her skin, a quiet, unwavering intensity that sent something sharp curling in her gut. There was no anger in his stare, no clear intent she could decipher, only something steady. Something dark. Something that made the hairs at the nape of her neck rise, though she could not name why.

The silence thickened, stretching long between them. The air was tight, charged, winding around her ribs, pressing into the space between each breath. Her pulse hammered in her throat, too loud in the quiet, her limbs still sluggish from the faebane.

The Shadowsinger didn’t even turn.

With a single, precise strike, he knocked the male out cold. No hesitation. No wasted movement. His fist connected, and the male crumpled, his body collapsing onto the cobblestones with a dull, lifeless thud.

Elara’s breath caught.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Is he—” The words snagged before she could finish them, and she hated herself for even asking. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care. But there had been too much death, too much blood already staining her hands.

The Shadowsinger’s gaze flicked to her, assessing. “Just knocked out.”

His voice was quiet, calm. Deceptively so. “We need him alive to question him.”

We. The word coiled tight in her chest. She didn’t belong to a we. Didn’t answer to anyone, didn’t stand beside anyone. And yet he had said it as if it were a fact. As if it had already been decided.

She stiffened, the words telling him to piss off already forming in her throat. But the sharp pull of pain in her abdomen wrenched her mind elsewhere.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her side. Warmth slicked her fingers. Blood. The wound was shallow, but the sting ran deeper, a slow, creeping burn beneath her skin. She hissed through her teeth. Faebane. The realization settled like a weight in her gut. It wasn’t the first time she had felt its poison in her veins, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The Shadowsinger’s attention snapped downward, his gaze locking onto the wound with a sharpness she didn’t like. His voice, though still careful, held an edge she couldn’t quite name. “Are you alright?”

Elara didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her tunic, fingers deft despite the lingering sluggishness in her limbs. She worked quickly, tying the fabric around her waist, pulling it tight to stem the slow seep of blood. The pressure bit into the cut, sending a fresh bolt of pain lancing through her side, but she ignored it.

Pain was nothing new.

Only when the knot was secured did she glance up, meeting his stare with a steady look.

“The blade was laced with faebane.” Her voice was even, unaffected, as if she were commenting on the weather. She tested the tension of the makeshift bandage, tightening it further. “It’ll take a while to heal, but I’ve had worse.”

He didn’t challenge her. He didn’t press. He only stood there, watching her in a way that made something in her coil tight. Like he saw too much, understood too much.

Elara hated it.

The alley was quiet now, save for the distant hum of the city beyond, but the weight of his gaze made it feel smaller, the air too thick between them. He hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but as if he were gauging how close he could get without startling her. His steps were slow, measured.

The way one might approach a wounded animal, wary of teeth snapping at fingers reaching too close.

A part of her resented it. She wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t something to be handled with careful hands, with caution softening every movement.

But another, stronger part of her—one she didn’t want to acknowledge—was too confused to get angry about it.

He stopped a few paces away, just beyond arm’s reach. Shadows curled at his feet, drifting lazily, as if unaffected by the tension between them. But she noticed how they moved toward her, stretching closer before withdrawing, as though they too were curious about her.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft.

“And are you—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening for half a breath before he reconsidered. His gaze swept over her, taking in every detail—the tension in her shoulders, the way she still gripped the hilt of her dagger with a readiness honed from years of training, of fighting for Hybern.

Elara didn’t need him to finish. She knew what he was asking about. Her memories.

She could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her, suffocating. She wouldn’t talk about this. Not with him. Not when she was still trying to piece it together herself.

Her reply came sharp, breathless, cutting the question off before he could give it voice. “It’s hazy.”

She made sure her voice was steady, made sure it sounded dismissive, uninterested. She didn’t want to give him a reason to ask more.

Was that what he wanted? To drag answers from her, to uncover what she couldn’t even explain to herself? He was from the Night Court. She had fought against them, had helped Hybern tear through their lands, had stood on the wrong side of a war that had nearly destroyed Prythian.

Had he come to bring her to face retribution?

But then… how had he known her name?

Not the one she had worn in Hybern, not the one Dagdan had given her.

Her true name. The one she hadn’t even known was hers until recently.

She watched him closely, waiting for the answer. Waiting to see if he would admit to knowing more about her than even she did.

Her eyes flicked to the unconscious male sprawled on the cobblestones, his limbs bent awkwardly, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

There was also that.

The male—the one who should have been dead days ago. And the others, the ones she had cut down the other night. They had been up to something.

Did the Shadowsinger think that she was somehow involved?

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. Elara crouched, wiping her blade against the dirt, the finality of the action sharp as steel. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the question he hadn’t spoken aloud.

But it was clear—she wasn’t going to entertain it. Not now.

Not ever.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze pressed against her skin, too careful, too knowing. He wasn’t just watching her—he was studyingher, tracing the lines of her posture, the sharpness of her movements, the faint tremor that still lingered in her fingers. Noticing things she didn’t want noticed.

Something about it made her bristle.

And the moment that tension snapped through her, the Shadowsinger looked away.

She exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to ignore the strange feeling twisting low in her gut. She hated feeling seen, hated the way he looked at her as if she were something to be understood.

Not from him. Not from anyone.

And especially not now.

The fight had left her drained, the faebane still curling through her veins and weakening her. She didn’t have the energy for this—whatever this was.

The way he watched her, like he was waiting for something.

Her jaw tightened. What did he want from her?

He was Night Court. He was one of them. And she knew what that meant.

Chains around her wrists, iron binding her magic, dragging her back to the lands she had once fought to destroy. It hadn’t mattered that she made the bargain, it hadn’t mattered that she helped him.

He would drag her in front of his High Lord, forcing her to her knees.

Was that why he had come? Was that why he had saved her?

Her fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger, grip steady despite the dull ache in her side. She would not be easy prey. If he thought to take her, if he thought she would simply go—

She shut down the thought before it could go further.

She wouldn’t let it come to that.

So she shifted the focus, steeling herself as she sheathed her blade and turned the conversation elsewhere. “Where are you going to take him?”

He regarded her for a beat, his expression unreadable, but she didn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing his words before he finally said, “I’ll figure it out.”

His answer was simple. Noncommittal. Yet there was something beneath it, something careful, a deliberate choice in what he didn’t say.

His tone was steady, but she caught the flicker of recognition in his gaze—the understanding that she wasn’t open to this. That she had no intention of making this easy for him.

Good. She wanted to turn around and leave the Shadowsinger to his own devices.

But if he knew when to push and when to hold back, so did she.

Elara wasn’t a fool. She had spent too many years being used, controlled, bound by someone else’s will. And she knew that look—the one he gave her now. The slight tilt of his head, the way his focus lingered just a little too long, as if he was trying to unravel something.

He wanted something.

The realization sent a sharp, unwelcome pang through her chest.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to lash out, to end this now before he could entangle her in whatever he was planning. But the faebane still dragged at her limbs, dulling her strength, and she knew better than to act on frustration alone.

So she forced her expression into something cold, something unreadable, even as something burned inside her, as sharp and searing as the wound at her side.

She didn’t want to work with him. She didn’t want to owe him anything.

She just wanted to be free.

The wind curled through the alley, thick with the scent of damp stone and blood. Elara barely noticed. The weight of her own thoughts pressed heavier than the faebane in her veins, heavier than the gaze of the Shadowsinger lingering on her like a silent demand.

Her hands had been stained with too much blood.

The lives she had taken, the ruin she had left in her wake—it could not be undone. But atonement was something else entirely. She didn’t know what it looked like, what shape it could take, only that it would never come from running, from pretending none of it mattered.

She forced herself to breathe.

The Shadowsinger took a step back, and she watched the way his expression shifted, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Disappointment? Calculation? She couldn’t tell. But he was trying to figure her out, trying to gauge how far he could push her.

And yet, he still hadn’t quite grasped it.

She didn’t need help. She didn’t want it.

His jaw tightened. A flicker of restraint. Then, without another word, he turned. Relief curled through her, sharp and sudden. But the moment his back was to her, something inside her twisted.

It made no sense. She should have let him go. Should have vanished into the night like she always did, slipped into the darkness and left this encounter behind her.

And yet—he knew her. Not the version of herself that Hybern had crafted from blood and steel, not the thing she had been made into, but something else. Something before. Her throat felt tight. She didn’t know why she spoke, didn’t know why the words left her lips before she could stop them.

“I know a place.”

The words lingered in the air, more uncertain than she’d intended. Elara felt their weight settle between them, her own reluctance and the reality pressing in on her from all sides.

The Shadowsinger stilled. His head tilted slightly as he turned back to her, the darkness shifting with him. His expression was unreadable, but she caught the flicker of surprise in his hazel eyes—just for a second. He hadn’t expected her to offer.

But there was something else, too.

He hadn’t been planning to walk away. Not really.

Even if she hadn’t spoken, even if she had let him turn that final time, he would have stayed. She saw it now, the determination beneath that careful exterior. He wanted to work with her. He had always wanted to work with her.

His voice was even, but there was a carefulness to it. “You sure?”

It wasn’t just a question. He was watching her, gauging her, trying not to push too hard. Trying to be gentle.

She hated that.

Her lips pressed into a tight line, but she didn’t let herself hesitate. “I’m sure.”

This wasn’t a bargain, Elara told hrself. It wasn’t trust. It wasn’t anything but necessity. She was keeping herself one step ahead, ensuring she had the upper hand. That was all.

The Shadowsinger studied her a moment longer. Then, finally, he nodded. Just once. A simple, silent acknowledgment of her choice. But something in his posture eased, so slight she almost missed it. As if the weight on his shoulders had shifted, lessened.

Elara didn’t want to think about what that meant.

His eyes, sharp and knowing, met hers again. “Lead the way.”

Notes:

So... how we doing?

Chapter 42

“This is where you have been staying?”

Azriel tried to keep his voice even, to mask the sharp edge of shock as he dropped the unconscious male onto the floor in the farthest corner of the room. The thud echoed in the too-small space, but the male didn’t stir, his head lolling limply to the side.

Elara said nothing. She only unlatched the cloak from her shoulders, tossing it over the rickety chair near the table. Her movements were smooth, controlled—but he didn’t miss the stiffness in her spine, the way her fingers curled slightly, as if bracing for an argument.

Azriel let his gaze sweep across the room, and his stomach twisted. It was far too small, and far too cold.

The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and stale air. The walls were cracked, paint peeling in jagged strips near the corners, exposing the aged plaster beneath. Against the farthest wall, a narrow cot sat in disarray, the blankets threadbare and tangled. The tiny window above it let in only the last remnants of light from the street, casting weak, uneven light over the mismatched furniture. Wooden chairs—one missing a leg, hastily propped up with a folded piece of cloth. A battered table, scarred from years of use.

It wasn’t a far cry from the apartment in Valhallan. The one with the leering landlord, the one that still made his blood boil when he thought about it.

A bitter taste coated Azriel’s tongue. This was where she had been living. Alone. In this damp, crumbling place.

It shouldn’t have shocked him, given what he had seen in Valhallan. But his instincts surged. It took effort to keep his hands from curling into fists. This wasn’t a home. This wasn’t where she belonged. She deserved more than this—more than the cold walls and the isolation.

She deserved warmth. Light. Safety.

She deserved Velaris.

Her home. Her family.

She still hadn’t looked at him.

Azriel exhaled slowly, forcing himself to rein it in. He had no right—no right to think of her in terms of belonging, of taking her somewhere she hadn’t asked to go. But it didn’t stop him.

Elara only shrugged, her voice flat. “It’s what I can afford.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened.

She did not meet his gaze, but he watched the way her fingers curled into her palms, how her shoulders locked, as if bracing herself. As if she expected him to argue. He wanted to. He wanted to tell her that this wasn’t enough, that she deserved warmth and safety, a place that was hers—not a damp, hollowed-out shell of a home.

But he could see it, the warning in her posture.

She didn’t want pity. She wouldn’t accept his help.

His instincts roared against it. She was his mate. And whether she acknowledged it or not, whether she would ever accept it, she was meant for more than this. His hands twitched at his sides, his shadows restless as he forced himself to keep quiet.

The silence stretched between them. Then, as if breaking whatever fragile thread had held them still, Elara moved toward the male slumped on the ground.

Azriel followed, kneeling beside her. His fingers were steady as he tightened the bindings around the male’s wrists, securing him against the chair’s frail wooden frame. He worked methodically, ensuring the knots would hold. His hands should have been impassive, clinical, but his jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it. The anger had not left him.

Not after what he had seen.

The male had been on top of her.

Azriel’s throat burned. He had never lost control before—not like that. He had never been the one to let rage dictate his actions. Out of his brothers, he had always been the careful one, the measured one, the one who wielded his anger like a blade rather than a storm.

But when he had followed that male, when he had seen that bastard’s hand raised against her—

The blood had rushed to his head. He had not thought, had not planned. He had simply moved.

The sound of the male’s body hitting the wall still echoed in his mind. The way Elara had looked beneath him—her muscles tensed, her hands curled into claws, but still vulnerable—

It gnawed at him.

He tightened the rope until his knuckles went white. The violent need to protect her had not faded.

He turned his head, stealing a glance at Elara, and his chest constricted. She had shifted against the edge of the cot, her hand pressed to her side, her breaths shallow. The makeshift bandage she’d tied around her abdomen was already soaked through, dark crimson blooming against the fabric.

His stomach twisted. She was hurt—badly. And she hadn’t said a word. Of course, she hadn’t.

There was something about the sight of her like this, struggling and too proud to admit it, that sent his instincts into a frenzy. He wanted to fix her, to take away the pain, to pull her from this wretched place and bring her somewhere safe.

His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something, to act, but a quiet voice in the back of his mind stopped him. She didn’t know him, not really. She didn’t understand the tether between them, the unyielding bond that sang in his bones, whispering that she was his. And he—he did not understand her either. Not why she was here. Not why she had distanced herself from the city, from safety.

He couldn’t push her. Wouldn’t scare her away.

So Azriel inhaled sharply, forcing his hands to steady as he stepped toward her. She stiffened but didn’t move as he knelt beside her, his shadows curling around them like a barrier against the rest of the world. He reached for the bandage, his fingers grazing the exposed skin of her stomach.

His breath caught.

It was ridiculous. He had tended to injuries countless times before, had stitched wounds and pressed his hands to bleeding flesh without a second thought. He’d touched countless other females throughout the centuries. But this—touching her—it was different.

Azriel kept his touch light, though every instinct in him demanded otherwise. His fingers ghosted over her skin as he unwound the bloodied bandage, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The wound was angry, the edges darkened from the lingering effects of faebane, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stay focused.

"Let me," he murmured, his voice lower, rougher than he intended.

He felt her eyes on him. She could have refused. She could have told him she didn’t need his help, as she had before. But she didn’t. She let him tend to her, let him be this close. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

So he took his time.

He dipped a cloth into the water basin beside her, wrung it out, and brought it to her skin. When the damp fabric met her flesh, she hissed through her teeth. He should have been paying attention to the injury, to the way the poison had slowed her healing, but all he could think about was the way she felt beneath his hands—warm, soft, fragile in a way he knew she would despise if he ever dared say it aloud.

His hands worked with precision, dabbing gently at the raw edges of the wound, wiping away the blood that had coated her skn.

Azriel tied the fresh bandage with a slow pull, his fingers grazing her bare skin. He felt it then—the way her breath hitched, the way her body went still beneath his touch. The silence between them thickened, heavy enough to press against his ribs. The air in the cramped room, already stifling, turned suffocating.

His hands remained on her a moment too long, his fingertips still resting against her side. He should have stepped back. Should have put distance between them. But he couldn’t. Not when he could feel the faint tremor in her muscles, the tension coiled beneath her skin. Not when he could hear the sharp intake of her breath, the quiet sound almost lost beneath the slow drip of water from the cloth he had left in the basin.

Elara didn’t move. Neither did he.

His breath fanned over her shoulder, and she shivered—so slight, so fleeting that he might have imagined it. But he hadn’t.

His pulse thrummed beneath his skin, each slow, deliberate inhale laced with the scent of her—steel and frost and the faintest trace of something warmer, something richer. It coiled low in his stomach, sent heat creeping up his spine. The restraint it took not to grip her waist, not to pull her closer, burned through him like a brand.

She turned her head slightly, just enough that he could see the sharp angle of her jaw, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

Azriel let the moment stretch, let the silence settle like a fragile thread between them. Elara hadn’t moved, still beneath his touch, her wound now bound with clean bandages. He should have stepped away, should have forced himself to put distance between them, but some part of him—some deep, primal part—refused. His hands hovered near her, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to linger.

She didn’t look at him. Not fully. Her gaze stayed low, fixed on the rough fabric wrapped around her abdomen, as if she could pretend his hands hadn’t been on her, as if she could erase the press of his fingers against her skin. But he saw the tension in her shoulders, the faint catch of her breath.

Slowly, too slowly, he took a step back.

The space between them felt hollow. His instincts screamed at him to stay close, to keep her within reach. She was already ingrained in him—woven into something deeper, something he couldn’t unravel. The feeling had only strengthened since the first time he really, truly saw her.

It coiled around him, unshakable, unrelenting. His mate.

She hadn’t chosen him. She didn’t know. But he did. And whatever she’d been through, whatever wall she had built around herself, he would break it down eventually.

Something shifted. A disturbance, so faint it might have been missed by anyone else. A whisper of movement in the air, the slightest ripple in the weave of shadows.

Azriel reacted before thought could catch up, every muscle tightening, his body already attuned to the silent warning. His shadows slithered outward, slipping into the unseen spaces of the apartment, gathering what little information they could. Someone was approaching.

His fingers curled around Truthteller’s hilt, the cool weight of the dagger familiar, grounding.

He turned slightly, just enough to keep Elara in his periphery. A soft knock broke the quiet, the sound barely more than a breath against the door. His grip on the blade flexed, his focus sharpening.

Elara was already moving.

Not startled. Not hesitant. Just quiet, controlled.

He felt the absence of her warmth the moment she rose, a shift in the air that left the space between them colder. She passed him, soundless but for the faint drag of fabric, and he remained still, letting her go, watching instead.

The hinges barely whispered as she cracked the door open. Her body angled just enough to block whatever lay beyond from his view.

She hesitated. A breath, then another.

Then, with no more than a flicker of tension in her shoulders, she stepped outside, closing the door behind her with a soft, final click.

Azriel remained still, his grip on Truthteller firm but unnecessary now. The sharp edge of silence filled the room, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside.

He had no idea who had come to her door, no clue if she had been expecting them. Part of him tensed at the possibility that she had fallen into trouble, that someone had come looking for her with ill intent. Another part—darker, much more unwelcome—curled with jealousy. Had she taken a lover while she had been running? Had someone else known her in the time he had spent scouring the world for answers?

The thought burned. He pushed it aside.

His shadows shifted, stretching toward the door. He leaned in slightly, his senses straining to hear what was happening just beyond the wall. The air in the room seemed too thin as if the very space around him had grown smaller.

Then, a voice. Softer and high-pitched.

It was the voice of a child.

Azriel went still, his instincts sharpening in an entirely different way. A child. Here, with Elara.

His mind raced through the possibilities. Who was she? Why had she come? Was it safe—for her, for Elara? He knew what Elara had been, what had been carved into her over centuries. The Munin he had fought, the weapon Hybern had wielded with such cruelty—was she still in there? Had that cold, efficient killer been fully unraveled, or was she merely lying dormant beneath Elara’s skin?

He tried to make out the words, but the girl’s voice was soft, muffled by the door. Then—

"Arnulf says I can’t go with you and him. He says I’m not grown up enough. He doesn’t want me with him anymore..."

Azriel exhaled slowly, his grip on the dagger loosening. The words were small, fragile, cracking with the weight of a child’s hurt.

He listened intently as Elara responded, her voice lower, steadier. She was quiet for a moment, as if struggling to find the right thing to say, “You know Arnulf. He says a lot of things he doesn’t mean.”

A sniffle. “But he—he said it like he meant it.”

There was a pause. Then, softer, almost hesitant, Elara said, “That doesn’t mean he stopped caring about you.”

The girl gave a small, watery sound of doubt. Elara sighed, and Azriel could almost picture the way she rubbed at her temple, or shifted on her feet, as if she would rather face a battlefield than a child’s broken heart. But she didn’t back away.

"Arnulf is—" Elara hesitated, then exhaled. "He's a fool sometimes. He thinks he knows what’s best, even when he doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care."

The girl sniffed again. “Then why does he want to leave me behind?”

Elara didn’t answer right away. Then, after a beat, she said, "Because he’s scared. Scared of what it means to have you with him. Scared of failing you.”

A sharp inhale. Azriel almost stopped breathing himself. She wasn’t just talking about Arnulf anymore. Over the centuries, Rhys had shared enough of his own guilt about Elara’s childhood with them. To know that he believed he had failed her. But did she know what —who— she was talking about?

The girl said something too quiet for him to hear, but Elara’s voice remained the same—low, careful. “It’s not about whether you’re grown up enough. It’s about him, not you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A quiet moment stretched between them, and something in Azriel’s chest cracked.

Elara sounded... uncertain, like she wasn’t used to offering comfort, like she didn’t quite know how to hold something as delicate as this child’s heart in her hands. And yet, she was trying. It was a side of her he hadn’t seen before, one she likely never would have wanted him to.

Azriel remained where he was, his shadows barely shifting as he listened. Elara’s voice, still unsure but steady, carried through the door, weaving between the girl’s broken sniffles.

“It won’t always feel like this,” Elara murmured.

The girl sniffed again, voice small. “How do you know?”

A beat of silence followed. Weighted with something Azriel could almost feel Elara considering the question, choosing her words with care—or perhaps deciding what not to say. The air between them thickened, the space beyond the door pressing closer. What would she say to this child? What would she say to herself?

Azriel’s chest tightened, the curiosity gnawing at him. He wanted to know—needed to know—what she carried beneath that guarded exterior. What years of silence had kept locked away. Then, finally, Elara spoke again, her tone quieter now but no less firm. “Because it has to.”

The girl made a small, uncertain noise. Elara sighed, and Azriel could picture the way she shifted her weight, uncomfortable but refusing to let that discomfort keep her from speaking. “It won’t always feel like this,” she said again. “You’ll have good days. And then… one day, the good days will start outnumbering the bad ones.”

The girl was quiet for a long moment. “But what if they don’t?”

“They will.”

Elara said it like a promise, not a possibility. And Azriel knew—knew—she wasn’t speaking from certainty. She had no proof that it would get better. Not with the kind of life she had. But she wanted to believe it, needed to. He had no doubt that those words were just as much for herself as they were for the girl standing outside.

A final sniffle. “You promise?”

Elara hesitated. Then, softer, she murmured, “I promise.”

Another stretch of silence. Then a rustling, a shift of feet against the ground. Elara exhaled and said, “Why don’t you go home? I’ll come by later and show you how to prepare the game.”

Azriel’s fingers flexed at his sides as he listened. His heart clenched at the sound of her voice, at the way she had spoken—not with warmth, not quite, but with a kind of reluctant care. He hadn’t known what to expect when he found her again. But it hadn’t been this.

The only response was a faint sniffle. Then a voice, barely more than a whisper. “Thank you, El.”

El. Azriel stilled at the girl’s use of the name. He had called her Elara once, the day that he realized it was her. Had watched the emptiness in her gaze when he said it, the lack of recognition. But now… now she was using it. Or at least, some variation of it.

Something tightened in his chest, sharp and insistent. Was it a slip of the tongue? A habit resurfacing without her realizing? Or was it more—were her memories starting to come back to her?  He had asked before, had tried to press gently, but she had shut him out. Not ready. Maybe not willing. He hadn’t pushed. He wouldn’t.

But hearing that name on her lips… it gave him hope.

Elara slipped back into the room, the air shifting with her return. The quiet presence of the child had vanished, leaving behind only a hollow sort of stillness, as if the warmth she had briefly allowed to slip through had been snuffed out.

“I have to go for a bit.” Her voice was softer than usual, but there was something unreadable in it. Her gaze flickered to his before skirting away, avoiding lingering too long. “Will you be okay here?”

Azriel studied her, brow rising slightly. She was leaving him alone—here, in her space? He hadn’t expected that. Had assumed she would be more guarded. But as he glanced around the small, dimly lit room, he understood why. There was nothing personal here. No belongings, no keepsakes. No sign that she had truly lived in this place.

If she wanted to, she could disappear with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Something dark and uneasy twisted in his chest at the thought, but he kept his expression unreadable, forcing himself to nod. He didn’t trust his voice, not when he wasn’t sure how he felt—if he should be relieved that she trusted him enough to leave or frustrated that she kept him at arm’s length, careful with every inch of space between them.

“I should be back before he wakes up.” Amusement laced her words, subtle but unmistakable. She tilted her head toward the male, arms crossed loosely. “You certainly hit him hard enough.”

Azriel let his shadows coil at his feet, the memory of the fight still burning beneath his skin. He didn’t regret it. Not for a second. A flicker of satisfaction curled in his chest as he followed her gaze to the male, still unconscious, still vulnerable.

He wished he had hit him harder.

Elara moved toward the door, her steps light but unhurried, and yet Azriel felt something coil tight in his chest. It wasn’t quite worry—not the sharp, urgent kind he was used to—but something slower, something that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. A pull, as if some part of him recognized the risk of letting her go.

What if she didn’t come back? She had run from him before.

The door groaned softly as she pulled it open. The hallway beyond was empty, no trace of the girl lingering in the dim light.

“Thanks for the help.” Her voice had changed, cooled. The warmth from earlier—the hesitant, stilted comfort she had offered the child—was gone. And then she added, “Shadowsinger.”

The word landed like a blade. Impersonal. A title. One she had never used before, not even in the fractured pieces of memory she had left of him.

His jaw tightened. He should have let it slide, should have let her go without pushing. But the correction slipped out before he could stop it.

“Azriel.” His voice was quiet, clipped. “My name is Azriel.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t even acknowledge the shift in his tone. Her lips pressed together, the smallest nod given before she turned away. No hesitation. No second glance

The door clicked shut behind her, and Azriel felt the sting of her absence more than he wanted to admit.

---

Elara wished that she could just relax.

The thought felt foreign, distant—something that had never belonged to her. Relaxation had never been an option in Hybern.

She had never been permitted to rest, never given that luxury. A weapon had no need for comfort, for peace. If she had a moment without purpose, it had been spent sharpening blades, honing her body into something lethal, preparing for the next command. Even sleep had not been hers to take freely, but something granted when it served their needs.

When he deemed it necessary.

Even now, when she had the illusion of choice, there was little time for herself. Between working endlessly for meager pay and forcing herself into Clotilda’s family, she kept herself occupied. Kept herself useful. She supposed that was a good thing. The last thing she needed was time alone, time for her thoughts to creep in.

Because when they did, she could feel them waiting—those flickering memories, small flashes of things she could not place. A whisper of a name spoken in a voice she didn’t recognize. A hand reaching for hers. A city cloaked in starlight.

And with them, even more confusion.

She had spent far longer than she intended with Clotilda and her grandchildren. Dorothye, with her endless chatter and bright, expectant eyes, had kept inventing excuses for her to stay, always finding one more task, one more reason for her not to leave. Arnulf, too, had peppered her with questions, testing his growing knowledge against her patience.

And Elara, to her own surprise, hadn’t been able to say no.

She told herself it was because it was practical. Staying meant avoiding the solitude of her apartment, meant avoiding the long, empty stretches where her mind could wander into places she wasn’t ready to confront.

Avoiding him. The Shadowsinger. Azriel.

She still didn’t know what had possessed her to let him step foot inside her home. What moment of weakness had led her to that.

Another reason she couldn’t quite relax.

When she finally returned, the air inside felt different. As if the space had shifted in her absence, as if something fundamental had changed the moment she let him in.

Azriel looked up from where he sat, his golden-brown gaze locking onto hers. His brows lifted slightly—surprised. As if he hadn’t been certain she would return at all. Perhaps she shouldn’t have. Perhaps she should have run. Should have disappeared into the night and let him wonder where she had gone, let him search and never find her.

 

But she hadn’t.

She was here. And so was he.

She forced herself to look away from him, fixing her gaze on the male tied to the chair. His wrists strained against the rope, raw from his attempts to break free. A gag was stuffed between his teeth, muting his noises, but his breath rasped sharply through his nose. He was awake now, his gaze darting between them—rimmed with unease.

He knew what was coming. Good.

Elara stepped further into the room, hoping Azriel would take the hint, that he would understand she had no patience for small talk. There was no point in wasting time with pleasantries, not when this male sat before them, knowing what awaited him.

Azriel didn’t say anything, but she felt his eyes follow her as she moved closer.

The male flinched, his body jerking against the bindings. The ropes held firm. Elara tilted her head slightly, watching the fear bloom in his expression.

Azriel stepped forward. The dim light caught on the blade as he unsheathed it, the hilt dark against his scarred fingers. He twirled it once, an idle gesture, before pressing the honed edge to the male’s throat.

“What has been happening to the missing females?” His voice was quiet, almost conversational.

The male swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the steel. “Nothing of consequence,” he finally said, his voice strained but steady.

Elara exhaled slowly through her nose.

Moving behind him, she ignored the way he flinched as she reached for his bound hands. The movement pulled at the wound on her side, a sharp, familiar pain, but she pushed through it. Her grip was steady as she took his right hand in hers, fingers brushing over calloused skin. He jerked, trying to wrench away, but the ropes held him firm.

She adjusted her grip, curling her fingers around his pointer finger.

“That’s not a good enough answer,” she murmured. Then she wrenched it back.

The crunch of breaking bone split the air, followed by a muffled, guttural scream. Shadows slithered around his mouth, swallowing the sound before it could escape.

Good. She had no intention of waking the neighbors.

The male panted through his nose, his breath ragged, forehead beaded with sweat. His body jerked uselessly against the restraints, wrists straining, shoulders shaking from the force of his efforts. It was pointless. The ropes held firm.

Elara had no sympathy for him. If anything, she wondered how many times females had screamed the same way—bound, helpless in his grasp, their pleas falling on deaf ears.

Azriel tilted his head, watching the male with cold, detached interest. His knife remained poised at his throat, the honed edge barely pressing into the skin. Then, almost conversationally, he said, “Let’s try again, shall we? Or should we lose those fingers instead of just breaking them?”

Elara glanced at him, something shifting in the air between them. The shadows curled at his feet, flickering like they were waiting for his command, hungry for it. His expression was unreadable, not a flicker of hesitation in the sharp lines of his face. His grip on the knife was steady—effortless.

She didn’t know why she noticed. The sharp focus in his hazel eyes, the quiet menace in the way he stood. It should remind her of Hybern, should make her stomach churn—but it didn’t. There was something else instead, something unsettled in her, a feeling she didn’t have the time to name.

The male coughed, his breath rattling through clenched teeth. Sweat slicked his skin, dripping from his temples, but still, he managed a laugh—hoarse, bitter. His gaze lifted to Elara, something cruel glinting in the depths of his eyes.

“When he gets you,” he rasped, his voice thick with malice, “he will break you like he’s broken all the others.”

The words slithered down her spine. But Elara did not flinch. He wanted her to—wanted to see fear flicker in her expression, to catch the slightest crack in her composure. That much was painfully obvious. But she refused to give him that.

His mouth twisted into something like a sneer before he spat, the wet glob landing near her boot in some pathetic, final act of defiance.

Elara barely blinked at the insult.

But beside her, Azriel moved —so fast the male had no time to brace, no time to anticipate the strike before the knife drove into his thigh with a wet, sickening sound.

The male screamed into the gag made of shadows, his entire body seizing against the chair, his bound hands jerking against the ropes. The scent of blood filled the air, sharp and metallic. It pooled beneath him, seeping into the wood grain, a stain that she’d never be able to explain to the landlord.

Not that it mattered.

She’d have to move anyway. Now that the Shadowsinger knew where she lived.

The male jerked against his bindings, a strangled cry caught in his throat. Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter, swallowing the sound before it could escape. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling in sharp, shuddering motions. But even through the pain, through the blood and the ropes cutting into his wrists, he forced out a rasping breath.

“He wants the bitch,” he wheezed, voice frayed with agony, “to add to his collection.”

She felt Azriel’s gaze flicker to where she was standing.

A pained, wheezing laugh scraped from his throat, choked and ugly. “He needs their power.”

Elara’s stomach tightened, something cold and jagged slicing through her. The words slithered into her mind, dragging her backward—back to the King of Hybern, to the iron-clad will that had forced her to kneel, to obey. Back to Dagdan’s control, to the way he had wielded her like a weapon forged for his hand alone.

They’re dead, she reminded herself. But the words did little to stop the cold dread curling beneath her ribs.

She forced her voice to remain steady, to keep her face blank even as something in her blood roared in warning. “Who?”

Her fingers twitched at her sides, resisting the urge to reach for her own blade, to bury it in the male’s other leg and twist. She stepped forward instead, gaze fixed on the battered male before her.

Beside her, Azriel didn’t move.

His expression remained unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line, but she could feel the tension rolling off of him. The shadows at his feet stirred, restless, shifting in silent agitation. As if they mirrored the thoughts running through his mind.

But he didn’t look at her. His hazel eyes never left the male in the chair, dark and sharp, his fingers still curled around the knife’s hilt as blood seeped into the wood beneath them.

The male paled, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, which tore her gaze away from the Shadowsinger. The color drained rapidly from his face, his body slumping against the ropes as if even the bindings could no longer hold him upright. Blood pooled beneath his chair from where he had been stabbed.

A thin trickle escaped the corner of his lips, stark against the ashen tone of his skin.

Elara muttered a curse under her breath. The Shadowsinger should have known better than to deal a fatal blow in the middle of an interrogation.

And yet, Azriel remained silent, his expression unreadable as he watched the life seep from the male’s body. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. Just the same cool, detached stillness, the sharp planes of his features carved in shadow.

Elara stepped closer to the dying male, voice edged with urgency. “Who?”

But it was too late.

The male’s body twitched once, then stilled. His eyes went vacant, lips parting around a final, gurgling breath. It rasped out of him, a wet, pathetic sound that made her stomach twist.

The walls of the room seemed to press in around her in a way that had become all too familiar for her.

Why? Why now? She had killed men the previous night. Had watched their bodies crumple, had seen the light drain from their eyes. It had not unsettled her. Had not made her stomach lurch the way it did now.

Her body betrayed her. Her breath hitched, coming too shallow, too fast. The scent of blood, thick and coppery, mixed with the damp wood of the apartment, filling her lungs. Dragging her under. Flashes of the past struck her—other bodies, other deaths, the weight of them pressing down like invisible hands.

She stumbled back. Didn’t realize she was shaking until a steady, scarred hand wrapped around her arm. It was solid, grounding and surprisingly warm, despite the leathers. Then his scent engulfed her, mist and cedar.

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t ask if she was alright. He just kept his arm around her, the grip steady, unwavering.

Elara hated how much she wanted to lean into it, how her body reacted without thought, how for a moment—just one fleeting, fragile moment—she wasn’t drowning.

She had no right to this.

The weight of the dead pressed against her ribs, the knowledge of what she had done, of what she was. How many had fallen by her hand? How many lives had she snuffed out without hesitation, without remorse? She didn’t deserve this.

Guilt crashed over her. Not just for the male bleeding out at her feet, but for this. For the wanting. For the unbearable, foolish craving for warmth when she had no right to it. For letting herself feel, when she should be steel.

Her breath evened, and then she wrenched herself away. A sharp, purposeful movement, as if severing something she could not name. “We need to get rid of the body.”

Azriel said nothing. Just watched her. His hazel eyes lingered on her, as if he had seen too much in that brief, unguarded second. But he only gave a short nod, silent agreement.

And then they moved forward.

Chapter 43

The body was heavier than it should have been.

Dead weight always was.

Azriel barely felt it, the limp corpse slung over his shoulder, blood still leaking from the jagged wound in its thigh. The scent clung to him, thick and coppery, even as his shadows carried him into the forest, vanishing from the dim glow of Elara’s ruined apartment into the stark silence of the trees.

Moonlight filtered through the bare branches, pale and cold, casting long shadows over the damp earth. The bog was close—he could smell the stagnant water. He let the body drop, the lifeless heap landing with a dull, wet thud against the mossy ground. He should have set it down carefully, should have accounted for the way it might sink, the way the evidence might be disturbed.

But he had already made his biggest mistake.

The male should not have died. Not yet. They had needed more from him—needed answers that could have led them to whoever was taking the missing females. But the moment the male had spat those vile words at her, it had not mattered.

The moment he had smiled in that cruel, knowing way, when he had taunted her, it had all unraveled.

Azriel flexed his hands, watching as his shadows slithered around them, restless, sensing the discontent simmering beneath his skin. Elara had been frustrated with his actions. He had seen it in the sharp, clipped movements as she wiped the blood from her floor, the tension in her shoulders as she refused to meet his gaze. She had wanted more time. More information. And he had robbed her of it.

He had let his instincts take over, let his anger dictate his actions instead of his control. Because the male had not just been another informant. He had threatened her.

His mate.

The realization struck him like a blade to the ribs. Again and again, sharp and inescapable.

She was his mate.

He had tried to keep his mind from unraveling beneath that particular thought. If he hadn’t, it would have consumed him. Instead, he had thrown himself into the work, into tracking her, into finding answers. But the moment he was still, the moment his mind was left to its own devices, the thoughts crept in.

What if the bond had snapped five hundred years ago? Before she had been attacked in the Illyrian mountains? When she was still mourning the male she had loved then? Would it have changed anything? Would it have been enough to stop what came after? To keep her from the hands of Hybern, to keep her from centuries of being stripped of her will, her thoughts, her very self?

He should not have been able to think about it like this, should not have let the idea of it dig so deeply into his mind, but he couldn’t stop himself. The what-ifs haunted him.

But it was complicated. It would always be complicated. Because she was Rhysand’s sister—the sister they had all believed to be dead. And now? Now she was here, standing before him, very much alive, very much fighting.

She had no idea about the bond. That much was certain.

But did she suspect anything? Did she think about him when she was alone, when she stared at nothing and let herself drift into whatever memories still clung to the edges of her mind?

These were the thoughts that kept him up at night.

His heart soared at the idea of it—at the truth of what they were. But he wouldn’t bring it up. Not yet. Not until she was ready.

And Elara was clearly not ready.

Azriel didn’t ask about her memories. The first and only time he had dared, she had shut him down almost immediately. And her body had coiled, as f she had been ready for a fight. He hadn’t pushed for those memories. He wouldn’t push for those memories.

But he had seen it—that moment when the past had nearly swallowed her whole.

It had been after the male had died. After his blade had sunk deep, after the body had collapsed to the floor, blood pooling in thick, sluggish rivers. Elara had gone still. Too still. Her breath had turned shallow, her limbs stiff as if her body had forgotten how to move. The only indication that she was even still there had been the faint tremor in her fingers, a near-imperceptible quiver.

When he had reached for her, his hand steadying her shoulder, he had felt it—the way she had been shaking.

She had snapped out of it quickly, but not quickly enough.

Azriel had seen it. The ghosts clawing at her, the past dragging her beneath its current.

And still, she had shoved it down. Had straightened her spine, wiped the blood from her hands, and moved on as if nothing had happened.

He had let her. Had watched as she buried it beneath that cold, impassive mask.

He wasn’t going to push. Not yet. Not when everything between them was still so incredibly fragile.

Now, he stepped through the dense underbrush, the dead weight of the male slung over his shoulder. The corpse had grown colder, heavier, as if death itself had settled deep into the bones. He adjusted the grip, his shadows slithering over the body, whispering, watching.

Ahead, the bog stretched out in the moonlight—a deep, untouched part of the forest where the earth swallowed anything it was given.

The air was thick with decay, stagnant water curling into his lungs as he stepped onto the damp, sinking ground. It would do. No one would ever find the body. And if they did—centuries from now—there would be nothing left but bone and rot.

The body slipped beneath the bog’s surface without a sound, swallowed whole by the dark, stagnant water. Azriel watched as the ripples spread outward, slow and languid, before fading entirely. No trace. No sign that a male had been standing here, breathing, bleeding, only an hour ago. Good.

He dusted himself off, flicking away the damp earth clinging to his leathers, adjusting the weight of his blades at his sides. He had barely straightened when a voice pressed into his mind, smooth but edged with tension.

I need you back here.

Azriel stilled, his blood cooling. His jaw tightened. Now?

Yes.

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He knew that tone. Knew that whatever it was, Rhys wouldn’t be calling him back unless it was important. But he was not ready to leave.

I’m in the middle of investigating the disappearances of the females. His response was clipped, his shadows curling tighter around him. At your request.

Rhys didn’t respond right away. Azriel could feel the hesitation, the careful way his brother was choosing his words.

Azriel took a slow breath through his nose, trying to steady the irritation simmering beneath his skin. He wanted to say more—to tell Rhys what he had found. Who he had found. But the moment the thought even brushed his mind, a searing pain licked up his spine, burning deep into the ink scrawled between his shoulders. His breath hitched, muscles locking against the sudden, unrelenting fire of the bargain’s grip.

He swore under his breath, grounding himself, waiting for the pain to pass.

Consider this a new order, Rhys finally said, his voice firm. There is some discontent in the war camps, and I need you to find out more.

Azriel exhaled sharply, flexing his fingers. Your general cannot rein them in? The words were low, sharp, edged with something he normally kept buried beneath layers of restraint.

I want to handle this with more subtlety than Cassian would provide.

Azriel’s nostrils flared as he turned from the bog, his shadows stretching, restless, around him. I don’t have time for this.

Make time.

His hands curled into fists, his wings tensing at his back. Of course it had to be now. Of course, the moment he found Elara, the moment he confirmed that she was alive and breathing and fighting, something had to pull him away.

Azriel muttered a quiet curse, raking a hand through his hair. His fingers snagged in the tangles, stiff with dried blood—not his own. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to push past the frustration curling through his veins. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His brother—his High Lord—needed him.

Fine, he finally responded, the word clipped, sharp.

A pause. Then, as if sensing his irritation, Rhys added, Besides, Solstice is in a few weeks, and Feyre would like the whole family together.

Azriel stilled, his fingers tightening at his sides. The whole family. Rhys had no idea. No idea just how close they were to being whole. No idea that Azriel had already found her, had stood before her, had watched the flicker of recognition cross her face when he had spoken the name Velaris.

And yet, Rhys was calling him back. Pulling him away. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his shoulders locking as he resisted the urge to lash out. The bargain mark burned against his spine. His hands curled into fists, shadows slithering over his knuckles like black ink, responding to the simmering fury beneath his skin.

Rhys was waiting.

Azriel forced a breath through his nose, willing himself to let go of the frustration that threatened to strangle him. I’ll be there soon. He severed the thread between them before his brother could respond, before the weight of his own anger could boil over into something dangerous.

The bog stretched around him, vast and silent, its still waters swallowing every trace of the body he had just cast into its depths. Within moments, the surface had smoothed over, undisturbed, as if no one had ever stood here. As if he had never been here at all. He should have been relieved. Should have felt the satisfaction of a loose end tied, of a threat eliminated. But there was no relief, no sense of finality. Only the growing unease that clawed at his ribs.

How long had it been since that day in the Summer Court? Months. Months since he had stood in that sunlit field, blood soaking into the dirt, and seen her. Since he had watched her slip through his fingers like smoke. Since he had torn apart the continent searching for her, tracking whispers and shadows and the faintest traces of her presence. And now he had to leave.

He flexed his hands, shaking them loose, though the tension coiled in his gut did not abate. He didn’t want to push her. Didn’t want to make demands for things she wasn’t ready for. But he also couldn’t leave her. Not now. Not when he had just found her again.

His wings flared, catching the crisp night air, and shadows unfurled around him, a restless, writhing mass. Azriel clenched his jaw, casting one last look at the undisturbed waters. The bog would do its work. The body would never be found. But it wasn’t the corpse that weighed on him as he turned away.

Azriel thought of the place she had been living in—if it could even be called that. A sagging, dilapidated apartment, its walls stained with damp, the floorboards warped and brittle beneath his boots. Unfit for her. Unfit for anyone. The thought of her here, night after night, made his stomach twist, an unfamiliar sort of rage simmering beneath his ribs.

Shadows curled around him, wrapping him in their cold embrace as he let them pull him back to her. The familiar tug of darkness gripped his chest, and when the world settled again, he was standing in the center of that ruined space, the air thick with the scent of damp rot and old blood.

Something was wrong.

The realization came swiftly, a gut-deep certainty. The apartment was too quiet.

His gaze snapped to where Elara had been when he left her. Crouched over the bloodied floor, scrubbing at the stain with slow, methodical strokes, muttering about her landlord. She should still be there, still grumbling under her breath about the mess he had made, about how difficult it would be to explain the blood away. But she wasn’t.

The space was empty.

The wrongness pressed against his ribs, shadows curling tighter around him as if to shield him from it. His throat was tight, breath a little too shallow as the dread clawed up his spine. She was gone.

For a few agonizing moments, the fear was the same as it had been that day in the Summer Court. That terrible, helpless feeling of watching her slip away, of chasing a ghost through blood-soaked fields. Of knowing, with sickening certainty, that she had vanished into the night, leaving nothing behind but the fading scent of steel and cold air.

His jaw clenched, the desperation settling deep, thick and suffocating. He had just found her. After months of chasing shadows, of sifting through rumors and whispers and following the faintest traces of her existence, he had finally found her. He couldn’t lose her again.

Not now. Not ever.

His shadows darted through the apartment, frantic and searching, slipping through cracks in the walls, through the broken window where the cold wind rattled against the glass. But they found nothing. No trace of her, no sign of where she had gone.

His fists curled at his sides, breath coming a little too fast. Where the Hel was she?

The sound was soft but unmistakable—the groan of old hinges, the faint scuff of boots against the threshold. His head snapped toward it, shadows pooling at his feet, coiled tight with the tension that had seized his body the moment he stepped into the empty apartment.

There she was. Stepping inside as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t spent the last several minutes drowning in the dread that she had vanished again.

“You’re back.” The words left him before he could stop them, rough with shock and… relief. A part of him hated that it had come to this, that her absence—no matter how brief—had the power to unmake him.

Elara paused, brow furrowing slightly as she looked at him. There was no guilt in her expression, no wariness, just mild confusion at the sharp edge in his tone.

“I just went to throw out the towels,” she said, brushing past him without another glance. “Didn’t want to risk the landlord noticing anything.”

He exhaled sharply, tension uncoiling in his chest like a bowstring finally loosened. He almost wanted to laugh, but the sound wouldn’t come. Of course. Of course, she hadn’t left. He had let his mind spiral, let the past color the present, as if she were still the ghost he had chased all these months.

But she was here. Here, standing close enough that he could reach out, grasp her wrist, anchor himself to the solid reality of her.

The moment passed. He let it. He had more pressing concerns—concerns that twisted his insides with something far worse than panic.

He had to leave.

The thought alone was unbearable. He had searched for her for months, had spent every waking moment trying to track her down, and now, after finally finding her, after learning she was alive, he was supposed to abandon her again? For what? Managing a few rebellious Illyrians in the war camps? If Rhys knew—if he truly understood what Azriel had uncovered here—he wouldn’t be calling him back.

But the bargain held his tongue. The ink burned against his skin, a silent commandment, a leash wrapped tight around his throat.

“I have to go,” he said at last, forcing the words out, watching her carefully. “Rhys needs me.”

He waited. Watched. Listened. Searching for any sign of recognition in her expression, anything that might betray familiarity at the mention of his brother’s name. But there was nothing. No flicker of emotion, no hesitation, not even the barest shift in her posture. Just calm indifference, as if the name meant nothing to her at all.

"Alright," she said simply, nodding once. "Hope you got the information you needed."

That was it. No frustration, no sharp remarks about how he had ended the interrogation too soon, how they could have used more time before he drove his blade too deep. She wasn’t even angry about it. Just... indifferent.

She was already moving, already stepping past him, as if this night had been nothing more than another task to check off a list. No, he refused to let that happen.

The words slipped out before he could stop them, before he could truly think better of them. "Come with me."

It wasn’t planned. He hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t considered the weight of it or what it would mean, what she would say. He’d said he wasn’t going to push her, not before she was ready. And he had meant it. But the moment he leaned he was going to have to leave —the moment the words were in the air — something inside him latched onto them. A lifeline, a sliver of something dangerously close to hope.

Elara stopped. Blinked. He saw the moment she registered what he had said, saw the way her eyes widened, the way her body went rigid with disbelief. "What?" A pause, too brief, then—"What? No."

The words came fast, sharp, like they had been instinctual. No hesitation, no consideration. Just a rejection, swift and absolute.

"Elara—" He took a step closer, voice quieter this time, but more insistent, more raw. "Come with me."

She stiffened, shoulders locking up, a shadow passing over her face. The wariness in her eyes shifted, twisted into something colder, sharper. A flicker of anger—real anger—bled into her expression, dark and seething beneath the surface.

"You think I don’t see what this is?" Her voice was low, edged with quiet fury. "You’re trying to take me back to Prythian. To face judgment for what I did in Hybern."

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, but she wasn’t finished.

Azriel watched her, reading the fire in her eyes, the way her body coiled, taut as a drawn bowstring, ready to lash out. He had expected resistance—but not this. Not the raw, unfiltered certainty in her voice when she spat, “Your High Lord will kill me.”

His brows knit together, his wings tensing slightly at the force of her words. “That’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” The words snapped from her like a whip, her voice shaking with something that was not quite fear, not quite anger, but something deeper. “I fought against him. I fought for Hybern. You think he would just let me walk free?”

Azriel’s fingers flexed at his sides.

He should have told her the truth—that Rhysand would never harm her, that he would do anything to have her back, to undo the centuries of loss. But her fury burned too hot, her rage twisting too tight, and he didn’t know how she would react to that kind of truth.

He clenched his jaw, forcing his voice steady. “I’m not bringing you back to be punished. Just come back to Velaris with me. It will all make—"

She was close now, nearly toe to toe with him, her breath uneven, sharp with fury. He held his ground, but she saw the way his jaw locked, the way his wings flared slightly behind him as if bracing for a blow. He had no argument, no way to refute what they both knew to be true.

“I am not going back to Prythian.” Her voice was low, lethal, each word sharpened to a blade’s edge. “I am not going to stand before your High Lord and beg for a mercy I don’t deserve.”

Azriel remained silent.

Her lips curled in disgust, rage pressing against her ribs like a vice, a fury so thick it felt like she might choke on it.

“I know what I’ve done,” she said, voice tight, unyielding. “I know what I deserve. But I am not going to let you take me back to rot in a dungeon, in chains. I’ve done enough of that.”

Her breathing was ragged now, a tremor in her fingers that she clenched into fists. A tremor he saw, she knew he saw. It only made her angrier.

Azriel barely breathed as her words finally registered. I know what I’ve done. I know what I deserve.

She was angry—furious—but beneath it, woven so deeply into her voice that he might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening, was something else. Something raw. She meant it. She believed it.

Elara wasn’t just afraid of what Rhysand might do—she had already sentenced herself. Already decided that she was beyond redemption.

His heart twisted, the weight of it pressing into his ribs. He had known guilt before, had let it carve through him until there was nothing left but quiet suffering. But what she carried… it was drowning her.

His throat worked as he tried to find the right words, but nothing came. What could he say to someone who had already condemned herself?

Elara took a step back, lifting her chin, her expression hardening like stone, closing off whatever storm had threatened to crack through.

"If you're leaving, then go." Her voice was quiet now, stripped bare, and somehow that was worse than the shouting. She turned away, not looking at him as she added, "But don’t come back here again."

---

Elara stood frozen, staring at the door long after it had shut behind him. Her breath came too fast, shallow and uneven, the remnants of their argument still thrumming in her veins. She could still see the Shadowsinger in her mind—how he had looked at her, how his gaze had cut through every layer of armor she had carefully built over the centuries.

Her fingers curled into fists before she forced them open, pressing them against her temples as she exhaled sharply. He knew where she lived now. The thought coiled tight in her gut, a sick weight settling in her stomach. He could come back at any moment. He would come back. She had no doubt about that. And when he did, would he drag her to Prythian—to Velaris?

Velaris.

The name lingered in her mind, foreign and yet… familiar. It slipped from her lips in a whisper, barely audible, as if saying it aloud might make it clearer. Velaris.

She knew that name. She had heard it before. But when? A flicker of something stirred at the edges of her mind, faint, half-formed. Not a memory from waking life, but from the dream—the one that had wrenched her from sleep, leaving her drenched in sweat.

Silas had said it.

Her father.

The realization sent a shudder through her, a deep unease curling in her chest. Could she trust that memory? Or was it just another trick of her broken mind?

Her feet carried her in restless circles around the cramped space, thoughts tangling with every step. She should leave. She had to leave. It was the only thing that had kept her alive all these months—never staying in one place for long, never allowing anyone to get close enough to find her again.

And now? Now that Azriel had found her?

It was only a matter of time.

Elara’s gaze swept over the apartment, taking in the sparse belongings scattered across the cramped space. There was not much—there never was. She had never allowed herself to settle anywhere long enough to accumulate things. A few changes of clothes, a battered satchel, a knife tucked beneath the thin mattress. It would take minutes to pack. She could be gone before dawn.

She had done it before.

And yet, she hesitated.

Her fingers curled at her sides as she stared at the peeling walls, at the threadbare rug worn soft with time. There was nothing special about this place, nothing that should have made it difficult to leave. But leaving meant more than just stepping out that door and never looking back. It meant starting over. Again. Another town, another name, another life built on borrowed time.

It meant losing the small slivers of familiarity she had found here. It meant saying goodbye to Clotilda and Arnulf and Dorothye.

It meant admitting she was running—not just from the Night Court, but from the things clawing at the edges of her mind, the memories she had locked away for so long that now threatened to force themselves to the surface.

A sharp breath hissed between her teeth, frustration pressing hard against her ribs. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms as she ground her jaw. Damn him. Damn the Shadowsinger for finding her, for dragging her into this—whatever this was.

For looking at her like she was someone worth saving, when she knew she wasn’t.

The decision settled in her chest, cold and immovable. She would leave. She had to. The Shadowsinger knew where she was. It was only a matter of time before he returned, before he tried again to pull her into something she had no part in. If she stayed, she risked everything—risked them.

She would not let that happen.

In less than an hour, Elara’s bag sat by the door, packed and waiting. It should have been easy. Just sling it over her shoulder and walk out, disappear into the night like she had done before.

But not yet.

Just long enough to say goodbye—to see them one last time. She wouldn’t tell them the truth. Wouldn’t tell them anything at all.

The path to Clotilda’s home was familiar beneath her feet, the worn cobblestones uneven but known. The gasp lamps at the night market stretched long shadows across the street, casting the city in shadows. The scent of baking bread drifted from the windows lining the square, mingling with the sharp tang of the river beyond the city’s edge.

It felt normal. And it wouldn’t be hers for much longer.

Clotilda stood at the threshold of her home when Elara arrived, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes sharp with knowing. She didn’t ask why Elara was here again, why she had come two nights in a row when she was usually so careful about overstaying. But the weight of that knowing look settled in Elara’s stomach anyway.

"Back again tonight?" Clotilda’s voice was warm, edged with something softer, something close to concern.

Elara shrugged, unwinding her scarf, acting as if the simple motion could brush off the weight pressing against her chest.

“Had the time.” She had long stopped worrying about imposing on Clotilda and her family. At least, she told herself that.

Clotilda hummed, unconvinced, but said nothing, dusting flour from her fingers as she stepped aside to let Elara in.

She barely had time to close the door before the children descended. A blur of small bodies, shrieking and laughing, hands tugging at her cloak, at her belt. The warmth of them, the sheer unguarded delight in their giggles, caught something in her throat.

“El, come see what I’ve been drawing!” Dorothye’s voice was a breathless plea, her eyes wide with excitement as she grasped Elara’s wrist, already pulling her toward the table.

“She just got here,” Arnulf muttered, standing back, arms crossed, gaze careful and knowing in a way that made her uneasy. Like he had already figured out why she had come.

Dorothye clung to her arm, fingers small but unyielding. “Stay for supper. Please?”

Elara hesitated, the words lodging somewhere deep in her chest. She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. She was supposed to be in and out, slipping away before the Shadowsinger had the chance to return and drag her to the Night Court—kicking and screaming, if it came to that.

Arnulf’s voice cut through her thoughts, flat, unimpressed. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

She met his stare, his dark eyes steady, unreadable. He was only ten, but in moments like this, he looked older—too serious, too knowing.

“You already knew I would,” she said.

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he only nodded once.

“You told me I’d have to take care of them when you left.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. But beneath it—beneath the cool acceptance—something was wound too tight.

Dorothye’s grip on her arm tightened. “But you can’t,” she insisted, her voice small but fierce. “Who’s going to help Arnulf with the hunting? Who’s going to teach me?”

Elara forced a smirk, though it felt wrong. “You don’t need me for that.”

“Yes, we do,” Dorothye said, shaking her head so hard her braids whipped across her face.

Arnulf huffed. “You’re being stupid.”

Elara glared at him, irritation flaring too fast, too sharp. “You always think I’m being stupid.”

His expression didn’t change, gaze flat and unwavering. “That’s because you usually are.”

A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed it down.

Dorothye’s fingers curled tighter into Elara’s sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to go. You could just stay.”

As if it were that simple. As if staying were even an option. Something sharp twisted in Elara’s chest, an ache she had no name for.

Arnulf looked away first, his small shoulders rolling back in a shrug. “If you leave, you leave,” he muttered, kicking idly at the floor. His tone was carefully indifferent, but his fingers clenched at his sides. “But you don’t have to.”

Dorothye curled against her, small and warm, her weight a quiet plea. Elara should stand. Should go.

Clotilda’s voice cut through the quiet, steady but edged with something firmer than concern.

“It’s dangerous out there.” She didn’t look up from the dough she was kneading, but Elara felt the weight of her words settle over the room. “With the females disappearing.”

Elara stiffened. She knew. She had known for weeks. But she didn’t react, didn’t let it show.

“I can handle myself,” she said, keeping her tone light, casual.

Clotilda’s hands stilled, pressing deep into the flour-dusted table before she turned, wiping her palms against her apron. “I know you think that.” Her gaze was unwavering. “But no one’s been able to stop it. No one’s come back.”

Arnulf’s jaw tightened. He said nothing, but his fingers twitched at his sides. He was worried too.

Dorothye clutched at Elara’s cloak again. “You won’t get taken,” she said with certainty, as if saying it made it true.

A part of Elara wanted to say the same. To reassure them. To tell them that whatever force was taking these females would never be able to take her.

But she had no proof of that.

Elara glanced between them, her stomach twisting. How long until the disappearances reached them? How long until someone else decided Clotilda and her daughter were easy prey? The thought settled in her ribs like a stone.

She should leave. That was the plan. But suddenly, leaving didn’t feel as simple as it had an hour ago. She clenched her jaw, forcing the thought away. It didn’t change anything. Couldn’t change anything.

Clotilda studied her, gaze sharp beneath the gentle set of her features. “At least wait a few days,” she said, casual but firm. “See if it gets safer.”

Arnulf crossed his arms. “Told you you were being stupid.”

Elara shot him a glare, but his words dug in, stubborn and unshakable. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Fine. A few days.”

Dorothye beamed, the sheer joy on her face almost enough to make Elara regret saying it. Almost. Arnulf smirked, smug and knowing, like he had expected her to fold all along. Annoying little brat.

Clotilda didn’t say anything. Just nodded, like she had known too.

Notes:

I promise, they won't be separated as long this time.

Chapter 44

Notes:

This chapter basically encompasses all of Frost and Starlight...

Azriel could see why Rhys wanted someone with a little more finesse to deal with the Illyrians.

Cassian would have burned half the camps to the ground by now.

Devlan had already begun pushing back against the training of females, and Ironcrest—along with the other remote warbands—was proving no better. Their resistance was the same as it had been for centuries, worn into them like an old, unshakable instinct. But instinct could be broken. It was just a matter of pressure—of knowing where to apply it, how much to use.

Azriel had spent the past few days maintaining a careful balance, keeping the peace while ensuring that some progress was made. It was a delicate thing, pressing just hard enough to make them fall in line without provoking outright rebellion. Especially given exactly what Rhys had sent him here to do.

A wrong move could send them grasping for their old ways like drowning men reaching for a lifeline.

The conversation with Stellan still lingered in his mind. The sneer on the male’s face, the way his lip curled at the mere suggestion of training females.

"Where are the females?" Azriel had asked, already knowing the answer.

Stellan had barely masked his amusement. "Where they belong."

The words had been spoken with such casual cruelty, as if it were obvious, as if it had always been that way and always would be.

Something in Azriel had gone cold. He had seen it too many times before—in war, in courtrooms, in whispered conversations behind closed doors. Males who built their entire sense of power on the backs of those they kept beneath them. The kind of power that could be shattered in an instant, if only the right pressure was applied.

His shadows had coiled at his back, responding to the sharpness of his fury, but he had forced his voice to remain steady, measured. "If they’re as weak as you believe them to be, then you have nothing to fear."

He had let the words settle, let them cut, and when he had walked away, he knew Stellan had felt it—that power shift, that quiet, lingering threat.

And the next morning, he had noticed the change. Small, but there.

A few females loitering near the sparring rings, pretending not to watch, their hands busy with chores that did not need doing. Their gazes flicked toward the training males, toward the weight of the blades in their hands, the shift of their stances. And the day after that, some had picked up weapons themselves. Hesitant, clumsy grips. Testing the weight of the steel, glancing over their shoulders as if expecting someone to snatch it from them.

It wasn’t a victory. But it was something.

The second fight had been more personal.

Azriel had noticed her the moment he stepped into the camp—the way she kept her wings tucked tight behind her. The way she shrank into herself, barely lifting her head as she moved about the camp.

He had seen it before. Had recognized the way some females made themselves small, kept their gazes lowered, their movements careful. The kind of caution that was learned through pain.

Gavik had been standing beside her, his posture relaxed, easy. Like he had nothing to hide. Like he knew no one would question what belonged to him.

Azriel had.

He had spoken to her, and Gavik had answered for her. “She doesn’t speak to strangers.”

That had been the moment Azriel had decided that he hated him. Not when he had noticed the female’s wings seemed a little stiff, as if not bearing her weight correctly. Not when he had seen the way she flinched at sudden movement. Not when he had caught the sharp, acrid scent of fear curling beneath the scent of their bond.

No—it had been when Gavik had spoken for her, as if she had no voice of her own. As if it had never occurred to him that she might want to use it.

Azriel hadn’t drawn his weapons. Hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t needed to.

His words had been soft, measured. “If I find out you had any part in what happened to her wings, I will make sure you never fly again.”

Gavik had paled, shifting on his feet, the barest hint of fear flickering in his scent.  But it wasn’t enough.

Because Gavik had not argued. Had not tried to defend himself. Had not snarled or blustered or claimed innocence. He had only lowered his eyes, his fingers twitching at his sides.

And Azriel had walked away, knowing the female would still wake up beside him that night. Knowing she would still have to bow her head to him.

Rhys was waiting in his office when Azriel arrived.

The door had barely shut before his brother looked up from where he sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, violet eyes sharp with expectation. A glass of wine rested near his elbow, the deep red gleaming in the light of the chandeliers above.

Azriel didn’t bother sitting. He unbuckled Truth-Teller from his belt, setting it on the desk with a quiet thunk. The Illyrian leathers he still wore were stiff with cold, the scent of pine and frost clinging to him from the flight back.

Rhys studied him, the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth—irritation or amusement, it was hard to tell. “How bad?”

Azriel rolled his shoulders, pushing the stiffness from them. “The usual. Devlan is hesitant but isn’t outright defiant. Some of the smaller warbands are starting to shift.” He paused, considering. “Ironcrest is still resisting. Stellan, Gavik, and the other hardliners will take longer.”

Rhys hummed, fingers tapping against the desk. “Did they need convincing?”

Azriel knew what he was really asking. If it had come to threats. If it had come to something worse.

He only inclined his head. “They understand where things stand.”

Rhys’s expression remained neutral, but the air between them shifted. He did not ask for details, not yet. Instead, he let the conversation move forward, dissecting the state of the warbands, the grudging acceptance of some Illyrians, the simmering tension of others. Azriel delivered his report with his usual efficiency, never betraying the weight of what he had seen—the way Gavik’s mate had kept her wings so tightly pressed behind her back that he almost hadn’t noticed that they were clipped. The way Stellan had spoken of the females, as if they were less than nothing.

Rhys watched him a moment longer before nodding. He didn’t push. Instead, the conversation moved on—to the human queens, to Lucien, to the lingering tensions beyond the borders of Prythian. At some point, they spoke briefly of Rosehall, of when Azriel would next visit his mother.

When they had gone over everything, Rhys leaned back in his chair. He studied Azriel, his gaze too sharp, too knowing, before he asked, “And your time on the continent?”

Azriel stilled. Just for a heartbeat. “What about it?”

“You were hesitant to return.” Rhys’s tone was casual, but the weight behind it was not. “Cassian noticed. Mor noticed. Even Nesta noticed.”

Azriel exhaled slowly. “I had unfinished business.”

It was not a lie. But it was not the whole truth, either.

Rhys didn’t look convinced. He sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers lightly against the desk. “You’ve been distracted, Az.”

Azriel didn’t answer immediately. The familiar burn of the bargain tattoo seared against his skin in warning. He wanted nothing more than to tell Rhys, wanted to explain why he had stayed, what he had found. Who he had found. The truth pressed against his teeth, clawing to be spoken, but the magic held firm. Mother knew what would happen to him if he even tried.

So he settled for, “I was following a lead.”

Rhys’s violet gaze sharpened. “On the missing females?” His suspicion was clear now, threading through his voice, darkening his expression. “Because the last report you sent barely mentioned them.”

Azriel’s jaw tensed.

“I would have found more,” he said, quiet but edged, “if I hadn’t been pulled away so soon.” It wasn’t a lie, when he had found Elara, he had also found some information on the females. Who knows what else he would have found if he had stayed?

A muscle feathered in Rhys’s jaw, but he said nothing, only watching Azriel with that unrelenting scrutiny. Azriel forced his expression into something unreadable, his shoulders loose, his stance calm.

But his thoughts drifted—unbidden—to her. To the way Elara had gone momentarily still at the name Velaris. The flicker of something in her face, too brief to name, but there. Recognition, however faint.

He had spent so long searching for anything that tied her back to Prythian, anything that might shake loose the hold Hybern had left in her bones. And there, in that moment, he had seen it—proof that something remained. That some part of her still remembered, even if she refused to admit it.

Maybe, if I had stayed longer… The thought twisted through him, sharp and merciless. He might have convinced her to come back. To see Velaris for herself. To see Rhys.

And the thought of that—of her in the city, beneath the open sky, walking its streets, standing before her brother, before her family—sent a strange ache through his chest. She should be here. She should have always been here.

Instead, she was still out there, alone, thinking she had no place in Prythian. Thinking that if she was brought home, it would not be to open arms, but to judgment. To retribution.

And he hated that she was wrong.

Hated that she would never believe it.

Rhys tilted his head, studying him in that quiet, calculating way that had unsettled so many over the centuries. “You’re being unusually tight-lipped.”

Azriel didn’t answer immediately, forcing himself to adjust his stance as if shifting his weight could rid him of the tension coiling through his body. Rhys knew him too well. Knew when something was being withheld, even when Azriel kept his voice calm and his expression neutral. He had always been perceptive, but now, in the silence of his office, that scrutiny was razor-sharp.

“I’ve told you what I found,” Azriel said, making sure his tone was even, impassive.

Rhys didn’t look convinced. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest, his gaze never wavering. “

No, you told me what you want me to hear,” he countered, the sharpness in his voice unmistakable. “And I think there’s more.”

Azriel clenched his jaw, forcing himself to hold Rhys’ stare without betraying anything. The bargain tattoo burned faintly against his skin, a silent warning, as if reminding him that there was nothing he could say.

He wanted to tell him. More than anything, he wanted to look Rhys in the eye and say that his sister was alive. That she had been there, just within reach. That she was close—so close—to coming home, even if she didn’t know it yet. The words ached to be spoken, but the moment the thought even formed, a sharp, invisible pain lanced through the space between his shoulders.

Azriel exhaled through his nose, tempering the flare of frustration. Rhys had lived centuries believing Elara was dead. And she still might as well be, as far as Prythian was concerned. No one knew what she had become. What had been done to her. The only thing worse than Rhys believing his sister was dead was the possibility that, if she did return, it wouldn’t be as the female he had lost, but as something else entirely.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to meet Rhys’ stare again. “I was following a lead,” he said at last.

Rhys’ gaze flicked downward, his expression sharpening as he took in Azriel’s hands—where they had curled into fists at his sides. Azriel forced himself to ease his grip, to loosen fingers he hadn’t realized had clenched so tightly.

But it was too late. Rhys had seen.

“What aren’t you telling me?” His voice was softer this time. No longer the High Lord questioning his spymaster, but a brother pressing for the truth. There was something in the way he said it, the quiet insistence, the edge of concern barely concealed beneath his usual calm.

Azriel exhaled slowly, measured. “If it was something you needed to know, I would have told you.”

The lie settled between them like a blade. He knew Rhys could hear the falsehood in it, could see the cracks in the composure Azriel had spent centuries perfecting. But Rhys didn’t call him on it. At least, not yet.

For a long moment, Rhys only watched him, his violet eyes unreadable, his mind working through a thousand different possibilities. Then, at last, he leaned back in his chair and said simply, “Fine.”

But there was a weight to the word, something deliberate in the way he let it settle. A warning. A promise. This wasn’t over.

Azriel knew that. Knew that Rhysand would not stop digging, not when the shadows of his suspicions had already been stirred. Knew that sooner or later—whether through his spies, his power, or his sheer damn persistence—his brother would find out the truth.

---

Dawn had barely begun to lighten the sky when Rhysand awoke. The violet haze of early morning filtered through the curtains, casting faint, shifting shadows along the ceiling. For once, his mind was not tangled with worries of Illyria, of missing females, of Azriel’s strange evasions and the things his brother was not telling him.

The war had left its scars, some visible, some hidden beneath the surface of rebuilding. But today—today, he refused to think about any of it.

Today, he had Feyre.

He turned, pressing closer beneath the heavy warmth of their blankets, his fingers tracing a slow, reverent path down her bare back. Her skin was soft beneath his calloused touch, the heat of her sinking into him, grounding him in the moment, in her. She made a small noise in her sleep, shifting slightly, but did not wake.

A smirk curved his lips.

“Still asleep, Feyre darling?” he murmured against the shell of her ear, his voice rough, thick with sleep.

She huffed, burrowing deeper into the pillows. “I was. Then you started talking.”

His quiet chuckle vibrated against her skin. He slipped an arm around her waist, tugging her closer, his mouth finding the curve of her shoulder. “A cruel accusation,” he said, his lips brushing against her skin with each word. “I would never disturb my High Lady’s sleep.”

Feyre let out a soft, breathy laugh, but the sound cut off with a sharp inhale as he dragged his lips lower, tasting her, breathing her in—the scent of her, the scent of them together. It wrapped around him, drowned him, filled his lungs with something intoxicatingly warm and familiar.

Her fingers twisted in the sheets, and she exhaled a quiet, shuddering breath. He only smiled against her skin, taking his time, savoring her, memorizing the way her body responded to his every touch.

She turned in his arms, the movement slow, unhurried, as if savoring the quiet, golden haze of morning. Her blue-gray eyes met his, and Rhys took the moment to memorize it—the way the light caught in them, the soft flush creeping over her skin, the faint smile curving her lips. His mate. His equal. Everything in him softened at the sight of her, at the warmth in her gaze, at the way she looked at him as if he was something worth loving.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered, his breath brushing against her mouth just before he claimed it, swallowing her response. Her fingers curled into his hair, her body pressing against his, warm and willing. He let himself sink into her, let himself forget everything but the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she fit so perfectly against him.

By the time they finally emerged from the sheets, tangled and sated, the sun had fully risen over Velaris, painting the room in rich golds and deep blues. Feyre stretched beside him, her bare skin catching the light, then slipped from the bed, utterly unbothered by her nakedness as she crossed the room.

Rhys propped himself on an elbow, dragging his gaze down the smooth line of her spine, his appreciation open, unabashed.

“Going somewhere, High Lady?” His voice was still rough with sleep, with the remnants of the night they had spent wrapped around each other.

She shot him a wry glance over her shoulder. “I have something for you.”

Rhys arched a brow, lazily running a hand through his hair. “I’m fairly certain today is your birthday, which means I should be the one giving you presents.”

Feyre ignored him, bending to retrieve something from where it had been tucked away beneath the dresser. The movement sent her hair spilling over her shoulder, loose and unbound, the waves a dark river down her back. He let himself enjoy the sight, his smirk deepening—until she turned, revealing a wrapped canvas in her hands.

Rhys sat up, his teasing remark dying on his lips. He could only blink, stunned, as she held it out to him. “Feyre—”

“Just open it,” she said, her voice soft, her smile even softer.

Rhys obeyed, unwrapping the cloth with careful fingers, peeling it back as though whatever lay beneath it was something fragile, something sacred. And then—he stilled. The world, the golden light filtering through the curtains, the lingering scent of Feyre on his skin—it all narrowed to the painting before him.

His mother’s face was the first thing he saw. Strong, elegant features rendered in delicate brushstrokes, each one infused with the warmth he had thought he would never see again. The dark glow of her eyes, filled with quiet wisdom, the softness of her expression that had never once dulled the unyielding strength beneath it. She was exactly as he remembered her—exactly as she had been before time and the Spring Court had stolen her away.

But beside her—his breath caught.

Elara.

His throat tightened, his grip shifting on the edges of the canvas as if to steady himself. The young female she had once been, standing beside their mother, her face turned slightly toward her, a light in her violet eyes that he had long since convinced himself had never truly existed. Feyre had painted her as she should have been. As she had been, before everything was taken.

Rhys barely breathed, his heart pounding with something raw and unfamiliar, something sharp and aching and hollow all at once. He had shared that memory with Feyre once—a fleeting thing, spoken into the night when the past had felt too heavy to keep buried. She must have pulled from it, from the pieces he had given her, weaving them together into this.

Feyre said nothing, only watched him with quiet understanding, giving him the space to react, to feel. Slowly, Rhys lifted his gaze to hers.

“Feyre.” His voice came hoarse, the word barely more than breath. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but the weight of the moment settled deep in his chest. “How did you…” He couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

Feyre shifted closer, the warmth of her bare skin brushing against his as she reached out, her fingers trailing up to cup his cheek. Her thumb moved in a slow, gentle stroke, a grounding touch, as if she knew he was barely holding himself together. “You shared that memory with me once,” she murmured, her voice soft, careful. A small, sad smile curved her lips. “I thought… maybe you’d like to see them together again.”

Rhys exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes before looking at the portrait once more. His mother. His sister. Painted in such perfect, aching detail that, for a moment, it felt as if he could reach out and touch them. As if they were still here, still within his reach. The weight in his chest was unbearable, a pressure that threatened to crush him, but he forced himself to breathe through it, to absorb every inch of what Feyre had given him.

“I know how much you love your mother and sister,” she continued, her voice quieter now, but there was a small twinkle in her eyes, something warm and unwavering beneath the sorrow. “And if we are blessed with children someday, I want them to grow up knowing them too.”

He went still, his gaze snapping to hers. That quiet declaration—so simple, so full of promise—sent something splintering through him. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many tangled emotions to unravel, so much guilt to unpack, but the words did not come.

---

Was she lonely?

Azriel shifted in his chair, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of his wine glass. The fire crackled, the scent of roasting meat and mulled cider thick in the air. The table was alive with conversation—Cassian gesturing wildly, sloshing his wine as he goaded Mor into another drink; Amren watching with a smirk, with her legs hanging over Varian’s knee. Feyre and Rhys sat close, their fingers brushing between bites of food, their smiles soft, filled with some silent conversation only the two of them understood.

The warmth should have settled him. The easy laughter, the clinking of silverware, the rare absence of war and duty pressing down on his shoulders.

This was his family. His home. A night where they could simply be. No threats, no battle lines drawn in the sand. Just this.

And yet, the weight pressing against his ribs did not ease.

His hundred and ninety-ninth victory should have been satisfying. He’d taken down Cassian first—sent his brother sprawling into the snow with a well-aimed shot. Rhys had lasted longer, but his arrogance had been his undoing, leaving him open for a final, decisive strike.

Azriel had won, as he always did. But the victory had felt hollow. His strikes had been slower. His focus had slipped. His mind elsewhere.

No one had commented on it. Not Rhys, who caught onto every flicker of emotion as if it were a shouted confession. Not Cassian, who could read him better than anyone. If they’d noticed, they had let it pass.

He brought the wine to his lips, taking a slow sip, but it did nothing to rid him of the thought burrowing deep into his chest.

Elara was alone tonight.

The memory of her voice, quiet but firm, surfaced unbidden. If you're leaving, then go. But don’t come back here again.

That drafty, crumbling apartment—he could picture it too easily. The chill that crept in through the cracks in the stone, the barebones furniture, the way she had stood by that narrow window, arms folded, gaze shuttered. Did she have food? Had she found warmth in that space, or had she spent the night like so many others—watchful, closed-off, preparing for the worst?

Azriel clenched his jaw, forcing himself to take another sip of wine. The taste was rich, spiced, warming. It settled in his stomach, but did nothing to quiet the restless energy coiling within him. His grip tightened around the glass, fingers pressing hard enough that he had to remind himself to ease up, to breathe.

She had chosen this.

Elara had made it clear—she wanted nothing to do with Velaris. With them. With him.

was trying—trying—to respect that. It was taking everything in him to keep his shadows from slipping through the dark, from crossing the sea, from finding her. From standing outside that crumbling apartment and dragging her back.

He thought about it more than he should.

It was the only thing that let him sleep these days, the only thing that soothed the gnawing ache in his chest—fantasies of finding her, of tearing her from whatever lonely existence she had condemned herself to. She wouldn’t even have to know. He could slip inside the room unseen, carry her away in the dead of night, bring her back to where she belonged.

But she would never forgive him for that.

Elara had to come back on her own terms. If he took that choice from her—if he forced her hand—he risked losing something even more than what had already been lost. And worse, he risked shattering whatever chance she had at forming a bond with Rhys.

His throat tightened.

He had spent centuries standing in the shadows, knowing everything, seeing everything. He’d fought for hs High Lord countless times. But this—this unspoken wall between them, this thing he couldn’t fix, couldn’t change—it was worse than any battlefield.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light against the walls. Cassian and Mor had moved on to arm wrestling, their laughter echoing through the room as Mor cursed when Cassian inevitably pinned her wrist to the table. Rhys leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, murmuring something to Feyre that made her roll her eyes even as a smile tugged at her lips.

Azriel swallowed.

Did she remember nights like this?

Rhys had always said he hated the Solstice dinners with his family, that he had avoided them as soon as he was old enough to slip away unnoticed. But still—still—Azriel clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, Elara had found something different. That her Solstices had not been cold and silent. That she had sat around a hearth like this, had felt safe, had felt wanted.

Even as he knew it was a foolish hope. Even as he knew the truth was likely far darker.

He took another sip of his wine, focusing on the warmth, on the voices around him. But the thought of her lingered. It always did.

---

The city was quieter than usual, but warm despite the winter chill. The scent of burning wood curled through the streets, mingling with the faint trace of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine. Snow had not yet fallen, but frost coated the cobblestones in a thin, glistening sheet, crunching softly beneath Elara’s boots as she walked.

The evening was crisp, the sky clear and pale.

She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, her breath curling in the air as she passed shuttered shops, their signs swaying gently in the breeze. Most were closed for the holiday, their windows glowing with candlelight, flickering against the glass. Doors left slightly ajar allowed the scent of rich food and spiced cider to spill into the streets, along with the sounds of quiet laughter, of voices calling to one another, of families gathering. She kept her gaze forward, but the temptation to look—to watch—was almost unbearable. That warmth, that ease of belonging, was not meant for her.

The small bundle of gifts in her arms felt heavier than it should have. She had been uncomfortable standing in the market earlier, lingering at stalls far longer than necessary, debating what to buy. The act itself had felt foreign, strange. She didn’t know if she had ever celebrated the winter solstice before. She knew others did—had heard of it in Hybern, of the traditions, the feasts, the exchanging of gifts.

But knowing about it and participating in it were two very different things.

Yet Dorothye had once mentioned wanting something to draw with. So Elara had bought a sketchpad, carefully wrapped in cloth to keep any snow from wetting the pages. And Arnulf—she had found a slingshot for him, sturdy and well-crafted, one she was sure he would like. He had a habit of collecting small stones while out hunting, rolling them between his fingers as he listened to Elara talk. He would put it to use.

Clotilda… Clotilda deserved more than a simple gift. More than what Elara could afford. But a warm scarf—soft, woven thick to withstand the bitter cold—would have to do. And Cedric, gruff as he was, would at least appreciate the bottle of fine liquor she had managed to find.

It was odd, picking out gifts for people. She had learned, in Hybern, how to read others, how to study them, how to understand the way they thought, what motivated them, what would unravel them. But she had never imagined she would use that skill for something as mundane as purchasing gifts.

And certainly not for people who, in a way she was still struggling to understand, had begun to matter.

Clotilda’s house was small, but the golden light spilling through the windows made it seem warm, inviting. Shadows shifted inside, blurred figures moving past the glow, and from the chimney, the scent of cooked meat and burning wood curled into the cold night air. Elara hesitated at the door, fingers tightening around the bundle in her arms.

It would be easy to turn away, to slip back into the night before anyone noticed her lingering. She had never belonged to places like this—homes filled with warmth, with laughter, with something as simple as a meal shared between people who wanted to be together.

But before she could make a decision, the door swung open.

Arnulf stood there, squinting up at her. His expression flickered from suspicion to something more expectant. “You’re late,” he announced, his tone caught between accusation and greeting.

Before Elara could respond, Dorothye’s small face appeared beside him, her wide eyes going straight to the bundle in Elara’s arms. “Did you bring me a present?”

Elara sighed, stepping inside before the cold seeped too deeply into her bones. The warmth hit her instantly, stealing the air from her lungs.

“You think I’d come all this way just to see you lot?” The words came out dry, edged in feigned indifference, but she was too aware of the way her lips wanted to curl upward.

Arnulf only snorted, stepping back to let her inside. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Dorothye didn’t seem to care either way, already pulling her forward.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows along the stone walls. The space was small but filled with the scent of roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread, the air thick with the quiet clatter of plates being set down. Clotilda stood at the table, arranging bowls of food, her movements steady and practiced, while Cedric sat at the far end, scowling at something as he nursed a cup of steaming cider.

“You’re finally here,” Cedric muttered, barely looking up. “Thought you’d decided we weren’t worth the effort.”

“I almost did,” Elara said, setting down the bundle with an awkward shrug. “But I figured I’d at least drop these off before you all froze to death.”

She unraveled the cloth, revealing the gifts, and suddenly felt unbearably foolish. It wasn’t much. Hardly anything at all.

Dorothye gasped, reaching immediately for the sketchpad. She flipped through the blank pages, her fingers trailing over them like they were something precious.

Arnulf lifted the slingshot, testing its weight in his palm before rolling his wrist, as if already envisioning how it would shoot. A pleased smirk tugged at his mouth. “Not bad,” he admitted.

Clotilda said nothing at first. She only watched Elara, something quiet and knowing in her eyes. Then she ran her fingers over the scarf, the fabric soft beneath her touch.

After a long moment, she murmured, “It’s perfect.”

Cedric scoffed, turning the bottle over in his rough hands, squinting at the label as if expecting some hidden trick. “What’s this, then?”

Elara leaned back against her chair, stretching her legs out beneath the table. “Something to keep you from being so damn unbearable,” she said flatly.

A sharp laugh burst from Cedric’s throat, his lips curling into a smirk as he shook his head. “Cheeky.” But he didn’t set the bottle down, rolling it once more in his palm before tucking it beside his plate. When he looked back at her, there was something like approval in his gaze, grudging but real.

Clotilda, however, barely spared them a glance as she rounded the table, a frown tugging at her lips. “You’re too thin.”

Elara let out a sharp exhale, shifting in her chair. “I’m fine.”

Clotilda ignored her entirely. “Sit. Eat.”

Elara huffed but obeyed, settling into the worn wooden chair nearest the hearth. Heat radiated against her back, sinking deep into her bones, chasing away the last bite of winter clinging to her skin. The scent of roasted meat, herbs, and spiced cider filled the small space, thick and rich. It had been a long time since she’d sat at a table like this, with food set before her that hadn’t been stolen or rationed, with people who weren’t merely passing faces in the shadows of her life.

Clotilda didn’t give her a chance to refuse. A plate was piled high and shoved into her hands before she could offer another protest. Elara eyed the ridiculous amount of food. “I can feed myself, you know.”

Clotilda waved a dismissive hand, already reaching for the next dish. “Let me take care of you for once.”

The words were quieter this time, firm but warm, threaded with something Elara didn’t want to name.

She didn’t argue again.

Arnulf was already outside, boots crunching against the frost-laced ground as he took aim with the slingshot. He squinted down the length of the worn leather strap, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth in concentration. A snap of tension, a sharp thwip through the cold morning air—and then the soft thunk of stone striking wood.

“Did you see that?” He whooped, spinning on his heel, already sprinting toward the door. “I hit it dead on—come look, El!”

Elara barely glanced up from where she sat near the hearth, warmth sinking into her limbs. “Do you want applause?”

“A little, yeah.” He grinned, all sharp mischief and boyish pride, breath clouding the air as he lingered in the doorway.

She exhaled through her nose, unimpressed, but a corner of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Good shot, Arnulf,” Clotilda called, and the boy beamed before turning back outside, already lining up his next target.

Dorothye, seated cross-legged on the floor, barely acknowledged him. Her sketchpad lay open in her lap, her small fingers smudged with charcoal. Her tongue peeked out in focus as she dragged careful strokes across the page.

Clotilda settled beside Elara with a soft sigh, hands folded in her lap as she watched the children. A faint smile tugged at her lips before she turned her head slightly, speaking low enough that only Elara could hear. “You didn’t have to get them anything.”

Elara hesitated, shifting her plate, though she didn’t meet Clotilda’s gaze. “I know.” A pause. “I wanted to.”

Something flickered in Clotilda’s expression. Thoughtful. Knowing. “It means a lot to them.”

Elara had no response to that.

Dorothye suddenly looked up from her drawing, eyes bright with quiet excitement. “Do you want to see my picture?”

Elara nodded, setting her plate aside as Dorothye tore the page free and held it out. The lines were simple but precise—Clotilda’s gentle smile, Arnulf mid-laugh, Cedric in the background with his usual grumpy scowl.

Elara studied it, fingers tracing the edges of the paper. “It’s good,” she murmured.

Dorothye beamed, tucking the sketchpad close to her chest, her happiness as simple and unguarded as the drawing itself.

Laughter drifted through the small house, wrapping around her like a thick, unseen warmth. The scent of spiced cider and roasting meat clung to the air, mingling with the faint, ever-present bite of winter seeping through the cracks in the walls. The fire crackled steadily in the hearth, the glow casting flickering shadows along the worn wooden floor.

Clotilda leaned against Elara’s chair, her presence familiar now, something unspoken in the way she rested her weight there. Cedric sat in his usual spot, muttering about something or another, though there was no real bite to his words. Arnulf’s laughter rang out from outside, triumphant as he undoubtedly landed another perfect shot. Dorothye sat cross-legged on the floor, smudged fingertips moving quickly over another page, utterly focused.

It was nice.

And yet—

Something tugged at the edges of her mind, a faint echo of something else. A memory just out of reach. Solstice had not always felt like this. Not always filled with warmth, with laughter that came without hesitation. There had been another kind of Solstice, once. One she couldn’t fully remember.

Flashes of it stirred like dust in a dimly lit room—stilted conversations, careful posturing. A tension beneath the surface, quiet and cold. A hollow sort of observance, something that was expected rather than shared. She flexed her fingers against her knee. This was different. This was real.

For the first time in a long while, she let herself sink into it. Allowed the warmth of the fire to settle in her bones, allowed herself to laugh when Arnulf stormed in, breathless and pink-cheeked, demanding she come see the perfect shot he’d just made. She let Clotilda pile more food onto her plate, let Dorothye lean against her leg as she sketched, humming to herself.

She let herself be here.

When Clotilda pressed something into her hands, Elara blinked, startled from her quiet reverie. The object was small, wrapped in a soft, faded cloth, warm from where it had been tucked away.

“Here,” Clotilda said gently. “For you.”

Elara stiffened, glancing down at the bundle in her hands. She hadn’t expected anything. Solstice gifts were for them, for the others—not for her.

“You didn’t have to—” she started, but Clotilda only waved her off, something knowing in her gaze.

“Just open it.”

Elara hesitated before carefully peeling back the cloth. Beneath it lay a pair of finely made gloves, the leather supple, the lining thick with wool. Sturdy, practical, built to last through bitter winters.

Her fingers brushed over the material, the texture both familiar and foreign. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d owned something like this—something meant to keep rather than to borrow, to discard. The warmth of the wool against her skin felt almost too much. Almost unbearable in its quiet kindness.

She swallowed hard, glancing up, but Clotilda only smiled, as if she understood.

The gloves were warm against her palms, the wool soft, the leather smooth beneath her fingers. She curled them slightly, tracing the seams, the careful stitching—so simple, yet meant for her.

Then—something shifted. A flicker of memory, buried deep, stirred in the back of her mind. A different Solstice. A different gift.

The image surfaced slowly, unbidden, like ink bleeding into water. A small box, pressed into her hands. The feel of its weight, the slight tremor in her fingers as she lifted the lid. And inside of it, a bracelet.

Soft leather, smooth beneath her touch. Patterns carved into its surface, elegant whorls and symbols she could not name but had traced with quiet reverence. It had gleamed faintly in the lamplight, catching the warmth of the fire’s glow. Simple, yet impossibly careful.

She remembered the feel of it beneath her thumb, the way her breath had caught as she turned it over, studied the precision in every detail. Whoever had made it had done so with intent, with thought. With care.

And then—

A voice. Deep, warm, edged with quiet amusement.

"You know, this has been one of the best Solstices I can remember—and it isn’t even Solstice yet."

Something inside her twisted. That voice—familiar, important—slipped through her grasp like sand. She reached for it, for the face that should have come with it, for the moment that should have followed. But the memory fractured, scattering like shattered glass before she could piece it together.

“El… are you crying?” The small voice pulled her back.

Elara blinked, startled. She hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t felt it. But when she lifted a hand to her cheek, her fingers came away damp.

She stilled.

It had been—how long? How many years? How many centuries? She could not remember the last time tears had touched her skin, the last time her body had yielded to something as fragile as sorrow.

Her jaw tightened. Quickly, she wiped them away, the motion brisk, dismissive.

“It’s nothing,” she murmured, tucking the gloves into her pocket.

Dorothye’s dark eyes lingered on her, searching, unconvinced. But she said nothing.

Elara forced herself to turn back to the fire, to the warmth that filled the small home. She let the sound of laughter and distant voices pull her back, let the weight in her chest settle beneath the surface once more.

It didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

Chapter 45

There was an unease about the streets of town.

It was crowded, as it always was on market day, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread, roasting meats, and the sharp tang of woodsmoke. Vendors called out their wares, voices rising above the din—some cheerful, others edged with impatience as they bartered over prices. Boots scuffed against the cobblestones, muffled slightly by the thin layer of snow that clung stubbornly despite the midday sun. Children weaved between carts and legs, laughter mixing with the occasional reprimand from a watchful parent.

The whole place should have felt alive, bustling, warm with the press of bodies. And yet, something beneath it all was off.

Elara couldn’t place what.

It wasn’t in anything obvious. The stalls were stocked, the townsfolk still haggled and gossiped, the same as they always did. But the tension was there, lurking beneath it all. Conversations were quieter, held in hushed tones over baskets of produce. More than once, she caught the wary glance of a merchant, eyes flicking toward the alleyways, the rooftops, before quickly returning to their work.

Even the laughter that should have made the town feel lively seemed thinner, more forced.

A man near the butcher’s stall counted his coins too many times, shoulders stiff as he handed them over. A woman clutching a bundle of herbs flinched when someone passed too close. A cluster of dock workers stood further up the road, speaking low, their expressions tight, wary.

Elara’s hand twitched toward the knife at her belt, fingers brushing over the hilt before she forced them to relax.

She had hoped for a quiet day. She had planned on one—drop off the day’s hunt, get back to her usual routine. But the children had insisted she come with them to the market, their hopeful eyes too much for her to deny. She had grumbled about it, reminding them that she had better things to do than play escort through the crowded streets, but Clotilda’s aching bones had kept her in bed, and Cedric, with his bad leg, wouldn’t have been able to keep up with them anyway.

So she had come.

Elara kept her pace steady, weaving through the thick press of market-goers as the children darted ahead, quick as shadows. The cold bit at her exposed fingers, but she kept them within reach, her hand brushing against Dorothye’s shoulder, then Arnulf’s, making sure neither strayed too far. She had no love for places like this—too crowded, too loud, too many people moving in unpredictable ways. She only went when she absolutely had to…but the children had insisted. So here she was, watching them chase each other through the throng, their laughter light and easy.

Arnulf, ever the troublemaker, glanced back with a wicked grin, dark curls bouncing as he twisted to face her without breaking stride. “You’re slow, El,” he taunted, skipping ahead just out of reach. “Too much time in the woods. You forgot how to walk in town.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she nudged Dorothye forward, urging her to keep up. “I’d like to see you outrun me when you’re not hiding behind a crowd, brat.”

Arnulf only laughed, darting around a merchant balancing a crate of apples. He had always been quick on his feet, nimble in a way that reminded her of a fox pup testing the limits of its own speed. Dorothye, by contrast, clung closer to Elara’s side, her small fingers gripping the edge of Elara’s cloak whenever the crowd pressed too tightly around them.

“It’s loud,” Dorothye muttered, barely loud enough to be heard over the clamor. Her other hand curled protectively around the little purse she carried, knuckles white from the cold.

Elara rested a hand on the girl’s back, feeling the slight tremor beneath her palm.

“It’s just the market,” she said, keeping her voice calm, steady. “You’ll get used to it.”

Dorothye didn’t look convinced, but she nodded, gaze flicking up at her before dropping back to the uneven cobblestones beneath their feet.

They pushed forward, moving past a cart selling spiced nuts, past a table stacked with thick woolen scarves, past the baker’s stall where a group of women stood gathered, their heads bent close together. Elara might have ignored them if not for the way their hushed voices carried just enough to reach her ears, if not for the way they kept glancing toward the street as if expecting something—someone—to appear.

She hadn’t meant to listen. But the words cut through the noise of the market, sharp and undeniable.

“...missing females…”

A jolt went through her, sharp and sudden, and her breath caught. She shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have slowed her steps, but her body moved before her mind could tell it not to. Her head turned, her focus sharpening on the women as their conversation continued, hushed but laced with unease.

“It’s been weeks now, hasn’t it?” one of them whispered, a woman with graying hair and a thick wool shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. “At least three have disappeared without a trace.”

Elara’s stomach clenched, an old, familiar dread settling in her bones. Three? How many had it been before that? How many before anyone had noticed? Were there more from any other cities?

The second woman—younger, with worry etched deep into the lines of her face—shook her head, her arms crossed as if warding off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. “No one’s safe anymore. Who’s behind it? What’s happening to them?”

Elara turned sharply, guiding Dorothye forward, her pulse drumming against her ribs. She didn’t want to hear the answer.

It wasn’t her concern. It had nothing to do with her. She told herself that, over and over, as she gripped Dorothye’s shoulder a little too tightly, as the market’s sounds dulled beneath the words still ringing in her ears.

She didn’t care. She couldn’t afford to care. But her hands had curled into fists at her sides, and that uneasy pull in her chest refused to let her go.

Dorothye’s steps slowed, her small fingers tightening their grip on Elara’s cloak as the women’s hushed words sank in. A crease formed between her brows, her lips parting slightly as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask the question forming on her tongue. Still, after a hesitant moment, she looked up, her voice barely more than a whisper, “Do… do you think… could it be someone from the bigger kingdoms? Are we… are we in danger?”

Elara nearly stopped walking. She hadn’t expected Dorothye to be listening so closely, to be thinking through what the women had said with such careful, quiet fear. The girl’s eyes were wide now, the blue of them darkened with worry.

Before Elara could answer, Arnulf snorted, the sound sharp and unimpressed. He waved a dismissive hand through the air.

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “If some big, scary king wanted to take over, why would he start by kidnapping a bunch of people? Doesn’t make any sense. It’s probably just—” He hesitated, as if scrambling for a more reasonable explanation, then settled on, “—some creep who’s got nothing better to do.”

Elara pinched his arm before she could stop herself, sharp enough to make him yelp and yank away.

“Ow!” he protested, rubbing the spot as he shot her a glare.

She ignored it, crouching down to Dorothye’s level instead, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. The girl looked so small, so much younger than she liked to act. Elara wished she hadn’t heard a word of that conversation.

“No need to worry, Dorothye,” she murmured, keeping her tone even, steady. “We’ll be fine. People like to talk, sometimes. They don’t know anything for sure.” She tried to smile, tried to make it reassuring, but she felt the hollowness of it, the way it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Dorothye studied her, quiet for a moment, then nodded. Not entirely convinced, but willing to let it go—for now.

Arnulf, watching from the side, scuffed his boot against the cobblestones.

“They’re all just scared, right?” His voice lacked the usual edge of teasing bravado, even though it was there only moments ago. He met Elara’s gaze, his small shoulders a little hunched now, as if waiting for her to confirm it, to tell him that nothing was wrong, that there was nothing to be afraid of.

Elara hesitated, torn between the instinct to shield them from the world’s cruelty and the harsh practicality that told her they should know. The world would not be kind to them as they grew. It never had been. It was better, perhaps, to understand that now rather than be blindsided later. But as she looked down at Dorothye, at the way the girl’s small hands twisted around the fabric of her coat, the fear lingering in her wide eyes, Elara felt something inside her waver.

It was too much. They were still so young.

But they couldn’t go on living in fear, either. Elara had seen what fear could do, how it hollowed people out, made them smaller, more cautious, more willing to accept a world that took and took until nothing remained. She would not let that happen to them.

Forcing a soft chuckle, she ruffled Dorothye’s hair, nudging her forward as if the conversation had already passed.

“The talk of the town is always more dramatic than the truth, I’m sure,” she said, keeping her tone light, playful, as if none of this had unsettled her. As if the same unease that gripped Dorothye hadn’t already taken root in her own chest. “Now, let’s get those pencils you wanted.”

Dorothye didn’t respond right away. She walked, but the stiffness in her posture remained, the purse in her hands clutched a little too tightly. Her small fingers curled around the fabric, knuckles paling as her gaze flickered across the crowd.

Elara noticed the way she scanned the faces around them, the way her breathing had quickened just slightly. She was still thinking about it. Still worrying.

Elara almost said something, almost tried again to push away whatever was eating at her, but then Dorothye spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“But… what if the stories are true?” Her fingers clenched tighter. “What if someone is taking them?”

The thought hit like a fist to her chest, but she forced it down, locking it away before it could take hold. Fear was a luxury she could not afford. Not now, not when the children were looking at her like that.

“Stories like that come and go,” Elara said, keeping her voice even, her expression unreadable. “It doesn’t mean anything.” She made sure to sound bored, dismissive, like the gossip of frightened townsfolk was nothing more than wind in the trees.

But even as the words left her lips, they felt hollow.

Dorothye didn’t look convinced. Her fingers curled tighter around her coin purse, the leather creaking under her grip. Another quick glance over her shoulder, her small shoulders bunching up like she expected something to reach out from the crowd and take her. Her usual brightness was gone, replaced by something far too wary for a child her age.

The fear was everywhere. Not just in Dorothye, not just in Arnulf, who had gone quiet beside her, but in the very air itself. It clung to the streets, threaded through the whispered conversations of passing townsfolk. Vendors kept a closer eye on their wares, their usual calls for customers muted, their gazes sharp and searching. Some people walked faster, their heads down, their shoulders hunched as if expecting something to lunge at them from the alleyways.

Elara felt it, too. That creeping unease, curling low in her stomach, settling there like a weight she could not shake. It followed her, pressing in from all sides, a shadow just out of reach. The urge to slip away, to disappear before the feeling solidified into something real, gnawed at the edges of her mind.

She told herself it was not her problem. That she should let it go. Someone else would deal with it. Someone else always did.

But the thought rang as empty as the words she had fed to the children.

Then she looked at Dorothye. At the way the girl tucked herself closer to Elara’s side, at the way her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her grip on the purse. Her eyes scanned every unfamiliar face, her small frame stiff with tension, as if she were preparing herself for something she did not have the strength to fight.

Something settled in Elara’s chest, colder than fear, heavier than hesitation.

If Dorothye was going to feel safe, then Elara needed to do something.

---

Elara didn’t know why she was doing this.

That wasn’t entirely true. She was doing it for Dorothye. For the fear she had seen in her eyes, for the way the girl had clung too tightly to her sleeve that day in the market. The way her small fingers had twisted into the fabric, knuckles white, like she thought if she let go, she might disappear, too.

She had told herself she would stay out of it. It wasn’t her concern. It wasn’t her business. The world was cruel, and she had learned long ago that she couldn’t change it. That people went missing every day, that the strong preyed on the weak, and no one stopped them. She had lived by that rule. She had been on both sides of it.

And yet, the more she tried to push it away, the more the thought festered. The more she hated the idea of Dorothye growing up in a world where she wouldn’t be safe. Where she might one day be the one whispered about in fearful tones, just another name on the lips of gossiping merchants, just another ghost swallowed by the night.

Elara’s stomach twisted. She didn’t want to examine why that thought cut deeper than it should, why it sat in her chest like a stone. She didn’t want to ask herself why she cared when she had spent so long refusing to care about anything.

She didn’t know when it had happened. When she had started making choices that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with something else—something unnameable.

Something dangerous.

Elara had tracked them here.

To the same tavern where she had once come for meals, the same dimly lit space where the scent of cheap ale clung to the air and the floor stuck to the soles of her boots. But it was familiar, and she knew the way the warped floorboards groaned beneath careless steps, which corners offered the best vantage points.

Keeping to the edges of the room, she let the dim lantern light cast its shadows over her. The cloak’s hood was drawn low over her face, the fabric dull enough to fade into the dark corners. She moved with quiet ease, slipping between patrons unnoticed and unseen.

She had done this a thousand times before. Moving like a ghost was as natural as breathing.

It was too easy, she realized. Too easy to slip back into the shape of Munin. The thought sent a curl of unease through her chest. She wasn’t that person anymore. She wasn’t Dagdan’s blade, or Hybern’s wraith. And yet, here she was, moving through the tavern with the same careful precision, measuring threats, noting exits, letting herself blend into the filth of the room.

For Dorothye, she reminded herself.

She pushed forward, slipping between two drunken males without so much as a glance cast her way. But something shifted at the edge of her vision. A weight at her back, a presence that shouldn’t have been there. A shadow that flickered where no shadow should be.

Elara’s spine stiffened, but she kept her pace even, her breath steady. It stayed just out of reach, shifting as she moved, but never touching her. A cold prickle danced along her skin. No one in the tavern looked her way. Not the bartender, not the group of males loitering near the hearth, not the serving girl weaving between tables with a tray balanced on one hand. It was as if their gazes simply slid over her, as if they didn’t see her at all.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think the shadow had a hand in that.

She swallowed hard and made her way toward the far end of the room, where the group she had been tracking sat hunched over a table, their voices low, postures tense.

She had been coming here at the same time every night, waiting, listening, hoping for something—anything—that might lead her to the truth. Tonight, she got lucky.

“It’s taking too damn long,” one of the males muttered, his fingers drumming against the wooden table. “He wants results.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” another snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. “You think I’m plucking highborn females out of thin air? Ain’t many females with power left in this town.”

Elara shifted slightly, angling herself closer, heart pounding steadily in her chest.

“We need to be careful,” the third male murmured, his voice hushed, cautious. He leaned forward, elbows braced on the rough wood of the table, fingers curling around the rim of his tankard. His eyes flickered to the shadows, scanning the room as though he expected something—or someone—to be listening. “If we get caught before we deliver, we’re as good as dead.”

“We’ll get caught if we wait too long,” the first male snapped. He sat rigid, fingers drumming against the scarred tabletop. The tension coiled in his shoulders made Elara wonder just how much pressure they were under, how close they were to unraveling. “He won’t keep being patient.”

The second male scoffed. “It’s not like we’re the only ones looking. If we don’t find one soon, someone else will.” He slouched in his chair, his confidence sharper than the others’.

Then the third spoke again, lower this time, as if speaking the words too loudly would make them real. “We wait for the signal. Until then, we don’t move.”

“No one’s been powerful enough yet,” the first grumbled.

Elara stiffened. Her fingers curled at her sides, the sharp press of her nails grounding her as her pulse roared in her ears. They were waiting. Watching. Looking for someone strong enough. But strong enough for what? And for who?

She barely breathed as she listened, her body coiled tight, every muscle wound as if expecting a blow.

"Once he siphons enough to get free, he will pay us what is owed."

She didn’t recognize the voice, but it was thick with certainty, with the kind of belief that made fools out of desperate males. Whoever they were serving, whatever power they were feeding, they thought it would reward them in the end.

A scoff—rough, rasping. “He wants the bitch with the wings. Says she’s a High Lord’s sister—a prize indeed.”

Elara’s stomach dropped.

A memory slammed into her, unbidden, unwanted.

A male crouched before her, his features blurred through tear-flooded eyes, the edges of him softened by grief and exhaustion. She could not make out his face, only the sheer power that rolled off him in waves, controlled but endless. His hands had been firm on her shoulders, careful, as if he knew how easily she could shatter.

A quiet voice, murmuring words she could not grasp.

She didn’t remember what he had said. Only the way it had soothed something raw inside her, something that had been screaming for as long as she could remember.

No.

Elara shoved the memory down, forced it back into the abyss of her mind so hard that her chest ached with it. She had spent five hundred years without a past, without anything but the present and the orders that shaped it. The fragments that tried to surface had no place in her life now. Whatever that moment had been, whoever that High Lord was to her—it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Her hands were shaking. She curled them into fists, driving her nails into her palms until she felt the sharp bite of pain. She needed to focus, needed answers. Not memories.

A pause, then another voice—skeptical, uncertain. “If he’s a death god, why does he need power?”

"He was stripped of his power," the first male muttered. "He needs to drain others of theirs to get back to full strength."

Stripped of his power.

The words sent a chill through her, colder than the wind howling outside. This wasn’t a rogue warlord or some vengeful noble clawing his way back to power. This was something worse, something older. The kind of monster that didn’t die, only waited.

“Why females?”

The male who had spoken first shrugged, his tone indifferent, as if the question barely mattered. “Retribution on the bitch that did this to him millennia ago—I don’t know. I don’t question him.”

Elara barely heard the rest. Their voices faded, blurring into a distant hum as the world around her stopped and then started again, tilting, unsteady beneath her feet.

She needed a moment. Needed to breathe, to think.

The memories hit like a storm, relentless and unbidden. Fragments of a life she did not remember living. A male’s hand brushing over her hair, a warm voice murmuring in her ear, You’re safe. Ice-cold water swallowing her whole, the crushing weight of it closing in—then hands, rough but careful, dragging her out. A figure kneeling beside her. Her own hands, smaller, trembling, grasping at nothing.

Elara staggered back, breath coming too fast, too shallow. She clutched at her ribs, trying to force air into her lungs, trying to keep her balance as the walls of the tavern seemed to close in. The noise pressed against her skull, voices warping, overlapping, twisting into a low, thrumming roar.

She needed to get out.

She turned too fast, too desperate, her shoulder knocking into a chair. The scrape of wood against the floor cut through the murmur of voices like a blade, sharp and jarring. Heads turned.

A curse, then the shuffle of movement behind her.

"Hey—"

She bolted.

The icy air burned her throat as she stumbled into the street, boots skidding over the thin layer of packed snow. She didn’t slow. She didn’t look back.

“Get her!”

Heavy footfalls pounded behind her.

Elara pushed forward, her legs screaming in protest. The streets blurred around her—dark alleys, shuttered windows, the glow of lanterns casting long, shifting shadows against the frost-covered stone.

A hand snatched at her cloak. She twisted, the fabric yanking tight at her throat before she tore free. Another grab, fingers grazing her back—

She spun, wings flaring wide as they materialized through her magic, catching the air just enough to lift herself a few feet. It wasn’t flight, wasn’t true, but it was enough. She twisted midair, dagger unsheathed in a single fluid motion. The male barely had time to react before her blade carved through his throat.

A gurgled gasp. Blood sprayed hot against the snow. His body crumpled before his scream could even leave his lips.

The other two lunged.

Elara dropped low, her muscles coiled tight as she swept her leg beneath one of the males. His balance faltered, his body crashing onto the frozen cobblestones with a grunt of pain. She didn’t hesitate. Before he could recover, she drove her blade into his gut, the steel sinking past muscle and bone. His breath hitched, his body jerking once beneath her before the fight bled from his limbs. S

he twisted the blade, ensuring he wouldn’t rise again, before yanking it free.

The last one came at her fast, a sword flashing in the dim light. She barely had time to move, ducking his first wild swing as steel whistled past her head. Her wings snapped shut against her back as she rolled, the frozen stones scraping against her palms. He was too slow. By the time he adjusted, she was already on her feet.

She slammed an elbow into his throat, cutting off his snarl with a strangled gasp. His stance wavered, and she caught his wrist before he could recover, twisting sharply until his fingers spasmed. The sword clattered to the ground. His free hand lashed out, desperate, but she was quicker. She stepped in close, using his own momentum against him as she buried her dagger beneath his ribs.

His breath shuddered out, warm against her cheek. Then he crumpled.

Silence settled, thick and absolute.

Elara exhaled hard, wiping her blade against her cloak, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her hands were steady, but her mind still reeled, the remnants of memory clinging like frost on her skin.

Then—voices. Doors creaking open. Footsteps, hesitant at first, then more assured.

She turned sharply. People from the tavern were spilling into the street, drawn by the noise, by the bodies cooling in the snow. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted her.

Cursing under her breath, Elara retreated into the shadows, slipping between the alleyways before their eyes could adjust to the darkness.

It had been messy, this work that she had done. She was used to being in and out before anyone knew she had been there, used to leaving no trace behind. And yet—tonight, she had let herself slip. She had let herself get sloppy. The memories had locked her in her own head, had dulled her focus.

She couldn’t afford to let that happen again.

By the time she reached the apartment, her breath had steadied, her heartbeat no longer thrumming like a war drum in her chest. She closed the door behind her, locking it with careful precision before pressing her back against the wood. The night’s events unraveled in her mind—every word, every movement, every drop of blood spilled onto the frozen streets.

And then, the moment her mind had settled enough to sift through the chaos, it hit her.

Death god.

That was whoever was behind this. Not just god, not just some powerful male gathering strength. They had called him a death god.

A shiver crept down her spine, slower and colder than the night air.

Elara moved to the small washbasin in the corner, splashing water onto her face, forcing herself to breathe through the unease coiling in her stomach. The words shouldn’t have meant anything to her. She had spent centuries knowing nothing of the gods, of old magic, of anything beyond the world she had been thrust into. And yet—something about it clawed at her.

She gripped the edge of the basin, knuckles going white.

She needed to know what it meant.

But where could she go?

If she started asking questions in town, people would notice. They would wonder who she was, why she cared. The last thing she needed was attention—on herself, on Clotilda and her family. They had given her a place to disappear, a quiet corner of the world where no one asked about her past. She wouldn’t repay them by leading danger straight to their door.

Elara frowned, slowing her steps. She hadn’t wanted to leave. She had thought—hoped—that she might be able to stay, at least for a little while longer. But the answers she needed weren’t here.

No, if she wanted the truth, there was only one place to find it.

The Day Court was rumored to have the greatest libraries in the world.

---

Elara stood at the edge of the small cottage, the weight of her pack pressing against her shoulders. The morning air was crisp, sharp with the scent of woodsmoke curling from the chimney, of damp earth where frost had melted into the soil.

But beneath it all, something heavier clung to the air.

Clotilda stood just outside the doorway, her lined face unreadable, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she watched Elara tighten the last strap of her bag.

Arnulf was the first to break the silence. He stood with his arms crossed, trying to appear indifferent, as if her leaving meant nothing. But the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers dug into his sleeves, betrayed him.

“You don’t have to go,” he muttered.

Elara huffed a quiet laugh, reaching out to ruffle his unruly hair. He jerked away with a scowl, smoothing it back into place, but she caught the way his shoulders relaxed under her touch.

“Remember what I taught you about hunting,” she told him. “Your family is going to need you.”

Arnulf straightened, chin lifting as if the weight of responsibility had suddenly settled onto his narrow frame.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep the bowstring dry, don’t waste arrows, always watch the wind.” The words came easily, but the usual confidence in them wavered. He hesitated, glancing at Dorothye before adding, quieter this time, “You will come back, right?”

Dorothye stood stiffly beside him, hands clenched into fists at her sides, her small face twisted in something that was too sharp for her young age.

“You’re not coming back.” Her voice trembled. “People who leave don’t come back.”

Elara swallowed hard.

Elara exhaled slowly, crouching so she was eye level with the girl. Dorothye’s chin wobbled, her blue eyes glassy with unshed tears, but she held Elara’s gaze with all the defiance a child could muster.

“I will.” The words left Elara’s mouth without hesitation, firm and certain, anchoring something in her chest that had been shifting ever since she’d made this decision. “I’ll stop whoever is doing this. I’ll make it right. And when I do, I’ll come back.”

Dorothye didn’t move at first, her small hands clenched so tightly at her sides that her knuckles had gone white. Then, all at once, she broke—lunging forward and throwing her arms around Elara’s neck. The force of it nearly sent Elara stumbling back, but she caught the girl easily, wrapping her arms around her in return. Dorothye buried her face against her shoulder, her breath warm and uneven, her thin frame trembling.

Elara squeezed her eyes shut against the sting in her throat.

For so long, she had convinced herself that she wasn’t capable of this—of caring, of holding something close, of feeling the weight of a promise that mattered to someone other than herself.

She swallowed past the ache in her chest, pulling away enough to smooth a hand over Dorothye’s tangled hair before gently untangling the girl’s fingers from her tunic.

When they finally parted, Clotilda stepped forward, pressing a small satchel into Elara’s hands. She didn’t say anything at first, but Elara knew what was inside before she even glanced inside the worn fabric. Herbs, salves, dried provisions—the sort of things Clotilda had always kept on hand for when one of the children came home scraped and bruised from their games in the forest.

Things the old woman would never admit were for Elara’s well-being.

“Be careful, girl,” Clotilda muttered, her sharp gaze unwavering even as something softened beneath it.

Elara gave a small nod, unable to find the right words, not trusting her voice even if she had.

She turned, gripping the satchel tightly, forcing herself to walk away without looking back.

She had a promise to keep.

Notes:

So after this chapter, I'll only really be able to update 2x a week (I'm thinking of switching it up to Tuesdays and Thursdays). I'm quickly depleting the cache of chapters I already have written for this, and need to build up some more of it. Life has just been quickly catching up with me. I'm so sorry!

Chapter 46

The scent of salt and fish clung to the humid air.

It wove through the damp wood of the worn piers, the tarred ropes coiled along the docks, the briny spray carried in by the wind. Elara pulled her hood lower, the coarse wool rough against her forehead, and adjusted the thick cloak around her shoulders. It smelled faintly of the cottage she’d taken it from that morning—Clotilda’s home, where the fire always smoldered and the scent of drying herbs lingered in the rafters.

She shoved that thought aside. She had no time for sentiment.

She wasn’t looking for trouble. She only needed a ship.

The harbor swarmed with activity. Sailors hauled crates from deck to dock, muscles straining beneath sun-darkened skin. Merchants bartered over fish laid out on wooden slabs, their voices sharp with haggling. Dockhands shouted orders as they maneuvered barrels onto carts, the wheels groaning under the weight. The rhythmic clang of a hammer striking metal rang from the far end of the pier, where a blacksmith worked at repairing an anchor.

Elara moved through it all, scanning the ships moored along the water. She needed something unremarkable, a vessel that would not draw attention. A crew that asked no questions.

A gruff voice cut through the noise. “Lookin’ for passage?”

She stilled. Her gaze flicked to the source—a burly fae securing a length of rope around a wooden piling. His hands were calloused, his coat worn from years of sea spray and sun. Beneath a heavy brow, his dark eyes studied her, sharp despite the casual way he leaned against the post.

Elara didn’t hesitate. “Depends on where you’re headed.”

The male huffed, shaking out his hands before wiping them on his coat. “South,” he said. “Might stop in a few ports along the way if the coin’s right.” His gaze flicked over her, assessing. “You got coin?”

Her fingers brushed the small pouch at her waist—the one Clotilda had pressed into her hands before she left, her expression unreadable. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

She tossed it to him.

He caught it easily, pulling the strings loose and peering inside. A brief pause, then a satisfied nod. “Fine. We leave at dawn. You don’t cause trouble, you stay outta the way.”

That worked just fine for her. She inclined her head, stepping back into the shadows of the docks. The less anyone noticed her, the better.

---

The boat rocked beneath her, the slow, lulling motion setting her teeth on edge.

It was a steady, ceaseless rhythm, the push and pull of the waves like something alive beneath them. She could feel it in her bones, in the way her balance subtly adjusted to each rise and fall of the deck. She hated it. The waiting. The stillness.

The way the sea stretched out on all sides, endless and open, leaving her nowhere to go but deeper into her own thoughts.

She should have flown. Or winnowed. It would have been cleaner, quicker. But a lone Illyrian female materializing from thin air near the Day Court border was the sort of thing people noticed. And she couldn't afford to be noticed.

So she had taken the long way. And now she was paying for it.

The briny air burned against her skin, the scent of salt thick as the ship cut through the water. It clung to everything—the ropes, the wood, the dampened cloth of her cloak. The wind had not relented since they set sail, clawing at her with sharp fingers, catching the edges of her hood like it wanted to rip it from her head.

She tightened the cloak around her shoulders, blocking out as much of it as she could. Her gloved fingers gripped the railing harder than necessary, the worn wood damp beneath them.

Footsteps, slow and heavy, sounded behind her.

She didn’t move as the captain ambled over, his boots scuffing against the wet deck. He was a broad, sun-darkened male, his skin lined from years of wind and salt, his shoulders carrying the easy arrogance of someone who had spent his whole life on the water.

"You don’t look like someone who enjoys sea travel," he mused, leaning his forearms against the railing beside her. His voice was rough from years of shouting over wind and waves, but there was something else beneath it, something keen and curious.

Elara kept her head down, her grip tightening. If she ignored him, maybe he’d get bored.

A beat of silence. Then, a quiet chuckle. "Not much for conversation, then?"

He exhaled through his nose, and the scent of stale rum curled toward her, mixing with the salt and wind.

"Fine by me," he muttered, pushing off the railing.

She heard his boots retreat, his presence fading into the sounds of the ship—creaking wood, snapping ropes, the distant crash of waves. Good. Let him keep his distance. Let them all keep their distance. She had gotten close to far too many people, and it had gotten her nothing but trouble.

Elara had never meant to grow attached. It had been easier, once—keeping her distance, ensuring that no one saw more than the surface of her. But Arnulf, with his sharp tongue and endless questions, had chipped away at her walls before she even realized it. Ten years old and already as stubborn as a seasoned warrior, he had refused to take no for an answer when she first showed him how to hold a bow properly.

She could still hear his voice, that dry, unimpressed tone when she corrected his stance for the third time. "I know how to shoot, you know."

And she had smirked, adjusting his grip anyway. "Then prove it."

Dorothye had been different. Quiet, delicate in a way that made Elara wary. Not because the girl was weak, but because Elara had seen too many fragile things crushed beneath the weight of the world. Dorothye had looked at her like she was something solid, something that wouldn’t disappear with the next strong wind.

And Elara—against all reason, against all sense—had let herself be that for her.

She exhaled through her nose, glancing out at the vast expanse of the sea. It stretched endlessly before her, deep and unknowable. The silence was almost welcome. Almost.

But silence was dangerous. It crept in like a tide, filling the spaces she had worked so hard to keep empty. It forced her to listen to the things she spent every waking moment trying to drown out.

Her grip tightened on the railing, the rough wood pressing into her palms. The memories didn’t come as often now, but when they did, they left her raw. Pieces of something—something she should know, should understand—but there was no context. No meaning.

It was like standing before a shattered mirror, unable to recognize the reflection staring back at her.

The steady push and pull of the waves set her teeth on edge, the rhythmic motion unsettling in a way she couldn’t quite name. Elara clenched her jaw, exhaling sharply, forcing herself to focus on the present—the shifting weight of the ship beneath her, the damp wood beneath her fingertips, the distant voices of the crew.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not the past, not the memories clawing at the edges of her mind.

Five hundred years. Five hundred years without a past, without a need for one. She had let go of whatever she had been before, forced herself to. So why now? Why was it all unraveling? Why was her mind betraying her, slipping into cracks she had sealed long ago?

She had a purpose. That was all she needed. The promise she had made to Dorothye—the quiet, fragile girl who had watched her with those wide, earnest eyes. Figure this out. Come back.

Elara’s fingers dug into the wooden railing. That was what mattered. Not these fragments of a life she didn’t remember living. Not the echoes of a voice she couldn’t place. Not the fleeting sensation of a hand ruffling her hair, of warmth where there had only ever been cold.

Death god.

The words from the tavern echoed in her mind, a whisper that refused to fade. Something about it unsettled her, even now. She needed answers. That was what mattered. That was the only thing that should matter.

A sudden wave crashed against the hull, the impact shuddering through the ship and jolting her back to the present.

Elara kept her head low, hands braced against the railing as the boat rocked in a steady rhythm beneath her. The salt-laden wind stung her damp skin, but she barely noticed. Her mind was slipping, unraveling, dragging her toward something she couldn’t control, a place she didn’t want to go.

The lull of the waves, the quiet between the murmuring crew members—it left too much space for her thoughts. Too much space for the memories pressing at the edges of her mind, waiting for a moment of weakness to claw their way through.

She squeezed her eyes shut. It was useless.

The past was coming for her, whether she wanted it or not.

The courtyard was cool in the evening air, the scent of jasmine drifting from the trellises that wound up the stone walls. Shadows stretched long across the worn flagstones, creeping toward her like ink bleeding through paper. Elara stood at the center, arms crossed over her chest, her wings — whole and unscarred— twitching with barely contained frustration. The palace loomed behind her, its spires silhouetted against the fading light, its windows glowing like watchful eyes.

Her brother was ignoring her. Again.

She saw him before he saw her, his shoulders stiff, his gaze fixed ahead as he made his way across the courtyard. His power coiled tightly around him, restrained but thrumming beneath his skin. She stepped directly into his path.

“Rhys,” she snapped, her patience splintering like brittle glass. “You promised.”

He came to an abrupt stop, his expression carefully blank, but she didn’t miss the way his jaw tensed, the flicker of something in his violet eyes before he buried it.

“I never promised,” he said, his voice calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made her want to shove him.

She clenched her teeth. “You said you’d think about it.”

“And I did.” He folded his arms, the movement slow. He was taller than her, tilting his chin ever so slightly to look down at her. “The answer is no.”

Her nails bit into her palms. “Why?”

For a heartbeat, something passed over his face—hesitation, guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by that cold, unshakable composure he always wore. “You know what Father wants for you.”

She almost laughed. Father. As if that male had ever been anything but a warden, a force that shaped their lives like a blade hammering steel. Her throat tightened.

“You could convince him if you really wanted to,” she shot back. “He lets you go.”

His expression darkened, his wings shifting slightly before stilling. “That’s different.”

She took a step closer, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Why?”

He exhaled sharply, looking away, his fingers twitching where they rested against his arms. “Because I don’t want you there.”

A bitter laugh broke from her lips. “You don’t want me anywhere.”

His gaze snapped back to hers, something raw flashing in those violet depths before it vanished. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” she demanded, stepping even closer. “Because every time I ask for something—every time I ask for you—you push me away.”

His wings flared, just slightly, irritation slipping through the cracks of his restraint. “This isn’t about you.”

Her breath came sharp and uneven. She could see it now, the way his fingers curled into his arms, the way his power tightened, like a rope pulled too taut. He was lying. Maybe not about everything, but about this. About why he wouldn’t let her go.

She took another step, closing the space between them until there was barely room for the wind to slip through. “Then what is it about?”

His throat bobbed. A muscle flickered in his jaw. He didn’t answer.

Elara’s eyes flew open, the present slamming into her. Her breath came too fast, too shallow. She gripped the railing, fingers curling tight around the damp wood, knuckles white with the force of it. The scent of salt and brine churned in her stomach, the crash of the sea against the hull a dull roar in her ears.

Rhysand. Rhys. The name clawed through her mind, sharp and relentless. The High Lord of the Night Court.

Her brother.

The knowledge hit her so hard she nearly doubled over. A broken sound tore from her throat, half a sob, half a gasp, barely muffled by the wind. The weight of it—of everything—came surging up at once, a tidal force too strong to contain. Five hundred years of emptiness. Five hundred years of silence. She had lived without a past, without a name that truly belonged to her, without him.

And all this time—he had been out there.

Had he known? Had he searched for her? Did he even care?

Or had he left her, abandoned her to that endless nothingness?

No. She squeezed her eyes shut, bile rising in her throat. No. The King of Hybern had seen to that. He had stripped her memories away, woven a glamour so strong it had buried her past beneath layers of nothingness. No one had even suspected who she was.

But it didn’t change what she had lost.

Her stomach twisted violently. She lurched forward, barely making it over the railing before she retched into the rolling sea below. The force of it left her trembling, her entire body wracked with the weight of her unsteady breath.

“Shit,” someone muttered behind her.

A hand settled on her back. She jerked away instantly, shaking her head. “Don’t—” The word was raw, hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

“She seasick?” a gruff voice asked—likely the captain.

“Dunno,” another said. “Or maybe she’s just one of those weak-stomached ones.”

She let them talk. Let them believe whatever they wanted. She couldn’t afford to care. She had bigger things to unravel, a past clawing its way back to her in jagged, merciless pieces.

And a brother waiting for her across the sea.

All this time. The High Lord of the Night Court was her brother.

Elara stared at the churning waves, the truth settling over her like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. She had family. Not just ghosts of a past she couldn’t piece together—not just fragments of memories slipping through her fingers. A brother. Blood of her blood. Someone who had existed beyond the emptiness of the last five centuries, who had been out there while she had been—nothing.

Her grip on the railing tightened. It wasn’t just the realization that shook her. It was the understanding that he had known. The Shadowsinger.

Azriel. He had known. He had to have.

The thought sent a shiver through her, something bitter and sharp curling in her chest. Had that been why he had pushed for her to return with him? She had spat at him, accused him of dragging her back for retribution. And all the while, had he only been trying to bring her home? To him?

Her throat went dry.

Home. The word felt foreign, distant. Velaris, he had called it. And the name of it had wrung familiar even then. A place she had no claim to, not anymore.

The memories in her head were still a tangled, jumbled mess—flashes of faces, voices, fleeting sensations that never added up to something whole. But this one—her brother—it had made sense. It had felt real. And yet…

The thought of going back—of stepping into that court, of standing before the High Lord and watching him realize what she had become—what she had done—

He was her brother, but what would he see when he looked at her now? A stranger. A weapon. The blood on her hands could never be washed away, not even by time. She had done too much, crossed lines that could never be uncrossed.

There was no forgiveness for what she had become.

Her jaw clenched. Another sob threatened to claw its way up her throat, but she swallowed it down. She would not break. She would not winnow to him, collapse at his feet and beg for something that was not hers to have.

She inhaled sharply, wiped at her face, and straightened.

She would find her answers. But she would do it alone.

The boat gave a final lurch as it docked, and Elara forced herself to move with the shifting tide of passengers, her fingers gripping the strap of her satchel too tightly. The golden light of the Day Court spilled over everything—warm, soft, too much. The air was thick with salt and the scent of sun-baked stone, and already, the brightness of it gnawed at her nerves. Everything here felt exposed, raw.

She barely noticed. Could barely see the sandstone buildings, the glint of domed rooftops rising in the distance. Her mind was still caught in the same snare, the weight of it dragging her down like an anchor.

Her breath came too fast, too shallow. The thought slammed into her again, sharp and jagged, as if she were hearing it for the first time. The High Lord of the Night Court. Her brother.

How many times had she crossed paths with him? How many times had she heard his name spoken by Amarantha and the King—and never once known? Never once felt it?

She swallowed hard, slipping deeper into the flow of travelers. Her shoulders hunched instinctively, her glamour shifting to remain just another unremarkable face. Brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin—nothing to linger on, nothing to remember. But she was not just another traveler. No, she was something far worse.

Her brother. Five hundred years. Five hundred years of silence, of emptiness. And all this time, he had been out there. Had he known? Had he searched? Or had he simply—left her? Had he decided she was too far gone, too broken to be worth saving?

No. She had been glamored. The King of Hybern had seen to that. He had made sure she would never be found, that no one would even think to look. And yet—something inside her ached with the possibility that Rhysand had not even tried. That he had moved on, that he had lived his life, ruled his court while she had been—what? A weapon?

She gritted her teeth, stepping onto the sun-warmed stone of the docks, willing the thoughts away. They would do her no good here. She had a job to do. A promise to keep.

But still, her mind twisted, unwilling to let go.

Her feet carried her forward, deeper into the city, where the streets wound toward the capital in ribbons of sunlit stone. She did not let herself look back.

The scent of ripe fruit hung thick in the warm air, the tang of citrus and honeyed figs mixing with the salt of the sea. Elara stopped beside a small vendor’s cart, running a thumb along the smooth skin of a pomegranate, letting the weight of it settle in her palm. A simple act—something any traveler might do. The vendor, a stocky male with sun-worn skin and shrewd, assessing eyes, barely glanced at her before turning back to his task of arranging plums in neat, glistening rows.

Elara tilted her head, letting her voice slip into something casual, something unassuming. “Where’s the Grand Library?”

The fruit vendor’s hands stilled for the barest moment before he looked up at her. Wary—not suspicious, but guarded in a way that made her pulse tick faster. “Up in the capital,” he said, nodding toward the distant hills, where domed rooftops gleamed like captured sunlight. “But good luck getting in, traveler. The Day Court may welcome scholars, but they don’t open their doors to just anyone. You’ll need a noble’s writ or a proper sponsor, at the very least.”

Elara hummed as if the answer didn’t bother her. She flipped a coin onto the vendor’s cart, the sound of metal striking wood crisp and final, before moving on.

Of course they wouldn’t make it easy. The Day Court prided itself on its knowledge, but that didn’t mean they handed it out freely.

Which meant she needed another way in.

A servant? No—too many restrictions, too many eyes. A scholar? She didn’t have the credentials, didn’t know enough about the Day Court’s particular customs to forge them convincingly. A noble? She’d spent centuries watching them, imitating them when necessary, but without a title, without a name, she wouldn’t last long under scrutiny.

But she had to try.

The sandstone streets of the Day Court shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, the air thick with the scent of citrus and spiced tea. The capital stretched before her in elegant golden arches and domed rooftops, the wealth and knowledge of this court evident in every polished stone, every carefully maintained garden spilling over with vibrant flowers.

It was beautiful, unbearably so, and it set Elara’s teeth on edge.

She moved through the streets at an unhurried pace, her steps measured and her posture relaxed. To anyone watching, she was just another traveler. But beneath the glamour, beneath the carefully crafted image of an unremarkable face and a tanned cloak to blend with the golden hues of this court, her mind was anything but calm.

All this time…

She had a brother. A family.

For five hundred years, she had believed herself utterly alone. For five hundred years, she had moved through the world as a weapon, without history, without ties, without belonging. And all that time, he had been out there.

Had he known? Had he looked for her? Had he thought her dead? Or worse—had he known and left her anyway?

Elara clenched her teeth, forcing down the sickening curl of emotion rising in her chest. It didn’t matter. Not now.

She still had a promise to keep. Dorothye’s thin, trembling fingers wrapping around hers, making Elara swear that she would come back.

The Grand Library held the answers she needed. Answers about the being those males had spoken of in the tavern – the Death God. It was the key to finding out what was happening with the missing females. It was the key to stopping it, and fulfilling her promise to the young girl.

And she would do it alone. Elara adjusted the strap of her satchel, forcing her thoughts back to the plan.

The Grand Library was guarded, its knowledge hoarded by the Day Court’s elite. No one simply walked in. The vendor at the docks had made that clear. Without a noble’s writ or a scholar’s credentials, she would be turned away at the gates.

So she would have to take another path.

Stealing documents was too risky—the seals and enchantments on such things were complex, layered with protections that would take time to bypass. But slipping inside, moving through the shadows, finding the knowledge she needed without a trace? That she could do.

She kept her steps even, her hands loose at her sides as she approached the towering entrance of the library. The gilded gates gleamed in the sunlight, flanked by two stone-faced guards.

She did not slow.

The towering gates of the Grand Library loomed ahead, golden and imposing beneath the afternoon sun. The heat clung to her skin, sinking into the fine dust coating the sandstone streets. Elara kept her steps measured, controlled, though every instinct in her body screamed at her to turn around.

This was a mistake.

She didn’t know the customs here, didn’t know the noble houses or the scholars who had spent years securing their place within these halls. There were too many unknowns, too many ways for this to unravel. She should have found another way—a servant’s entrance, a delivery passage. She should have—

The heavy groan of metal cut through her thoughts. The gates creaked open.

Elara tensed, shifting subtly to the side as a figure in deep blue robes stepped into the courtyard, their head tilted toward a noblewoman draped in silks of sunburst gold. The noble barely spared her a glance before sweeping past, her perfume thick with jasmine and something sharper beneath it.

The librarian turned then, their gaze sharp beneath the shadow of their hood.

“You’re here for research?”

The question landed like a blade at her throat.

Elara hesitated for only a breath, then nodded. “Yes.”

The librarian’s eyes lingered, assessing but not yet suspicious. “You’re not on the list of noble scholars.”

Despite being told by the male at the docks that she would need to be, it felt like a test. She knew better than to falter.

She let her shoulders ease into the perfect posture of a court-trained noble, tilting her chin just slightly—enough to mimic the quiet arrogance of those born to wealth and power. “I didn’t realize one was required.” Her voice was smooth, neutral, a scholar mildly inconvenienced but not yet offended. She held the librarian’s gaze, let the pause stretch just long enough before adding, “Should I leave, then?”

The librarian’s lips twitched, just barely. There was a moment—a breath of hesitation—where Elara felt the weight of the decision hanging in the air, the moment where it could all fall apart.

Then the tension eased.

“No.” The librarian’s expression softened, though their eyes remained shrewd. “Knowledge should never be kept exclusively for the wealthy.” They turned toward the entrance, gesturing for her to follow. “Come. I’ll show you where to begin.”

Elara exhaled slowly, forcing herself to keep her steps steady as she moved past the gates.

She was in.

Elara hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping forward. That was too easy. No demand for identification, no suspicious glances—just a simple nod from the hooded librarian before they turned and beckoned her to follow.

The cool air of the library washed over her as she crossed the threshold. It smelled of ink and parchment, of dust settled over centuries, of knowledge hoarded and guarded. Shelves upon shelves stretched into the dim corridors, their towering forms illuminated only by the soft glow of floating orbs of faelight. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant.

She followed the librarian deeper into the labyrinth of books, their robes whispering against the polished marble floor. The further they walked, the dimmer the light became, until the towering shelves swallowed the world whole.

“What is it you’re searching for?” they asked, their voice softer now, as if the books themselves listened.

Elara’s throat tightened. The words tasted strange in her mouth, like something forbidden. “Old records,” she said, her voice steady despite the unease curling in her stomach. “Specifically ones concerning… lost deities.”

The librarian let out a slow hum of consideration. Their fingers traced the edge of a shelf, eyes flickering toward her before settling on a towering bookcase. Perhaps, she had said too much.

“Start here,” they murmured, stepping back. Their gaze lingered for a beat too long, unreadable in the low light. Then they turned, disappearing between the shelves. “If you need anything, ask.”

Elara barely heard them. Her fingers were already skimming over the spines, her breath shallow as she reached for the first book.

Time to find answers.

---

The candlelight flickered over the worn pages of the open tome, casting shifting shadows across the heavy wooden table. The scent of old parchment and melted wax thickened the air, mingling with the faint bite of dust unsettled by her restless movements.

Elara’s fingers ached from hours of turning brittle pages, the rough parchment scraping against her skin. Her vision blurred, the inked words bleeding together, forming nothing but a mess of letters that refused to give her what she needed.

The Grand Library was vast, its archives stretching back centuries. She had combed through endless records—myths of lost deities, tales of fallen gods, remnants of power long since buried. But it was all useless. Either too vague or deliberately obscured, meant to keep secrets hidden rather than reveal them. There was nothing about the being that was stealing magic. Nothing about what he wanted.

She exhaled sharply, the sound too loud in the stillness. Frustration curled in her gut, a slow, simmering heat. But she turned another page, her movements careful despite the restless urge to tear through the entire library.

And then she stilled.

The parchment beneath her hands was different—rougher, its edges uneven from wear. A scholar’s journal. Not an official record, not a carefully transcribed history, but something personal, something untouched by censors. The ink had faded, the script small and cramped, as if written in haste.

Elara’s pulse quickened. She ran her fingers over the aged page, feeling the slight indentations where the writer had pressed too hard with their quill.

Elara read, the candlelight casting golden hues over the inked words, making them seem freshly written, as if the long-dead scholar had only just set down their quill. The air in the library seemed to still, thickening around her, pressing in as she traced each careful, deliberate letter.

"We do not speak their names lightly, for to name them is to invite their gaze. They are not High Fae, nor wholly divine, but something beyond—something that does not bow, does not bend, does not belong to us."

A shiver traced down her spine, a slow, creeping thing. This was different from the myths she had read before. The old legends spoke of gods with their warring tempers, their hunger for worship, their fickle mercies. This passage—this was something else. These beings had no temples, no sacred rites, only a quiet, lingering dread.

"One walks where no living thing should tread. She does not ask, does not demand, only takes. Some claim she is a ghost, a wraith, a whisper in the dark—but I have seen her, and I know this: she is real. Her touch unravels, her presence lingers long after she has gone."

Elara’s fingers curled against the brittle parchment, the words striking something too close to familiarity. A thing that only took. That unraveled.

"The priests leave offerings of ivory and silver, hoping to sate her. I do not think she notices."

She exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the next line.

"The weak one—though he is not truly weak at all—he holds the things that should not be known, guards them jealously. It is said he can tell you the hour of your death, the truths hidden in your own blood."

Her breath caught, unease settling deep in her ribs. The truths hidden in your own blood. Magic—stolen, twisted, taken from bodies that no longer drew breath. Her mind whispered of threads unspooled, of something waiting just beyond her reach.

"I do not wish to know what he would see in mine."

Neither did she.

She swallowed, forcing herself to continue.

"The eldest one is the most dangerous of them all. He does not move, does not reach, does not fight. And yet, he always wins. He is the quiet current beneath still waters, the weight of a promise you cannot break. They call him patient. I think he does not need patience at all. He simply is. Those who have gone to bargain with him have not returned. I do not think they ever will."

A cold weight settled in her stomach, heavier than before. This was not a warning wrapped in folklore. This was knowledge. Unveiled. Unfiltered. Someone had seen these beings, had tried to name them, tried to explain them—and yet, there was no plea for action, no call for understanding. Only a final, chilling truth.

"We call them gods, but they are not. Gods listen. Gods can be swayed. These beings are something else entirely. Something older. Something that does not care whether we worship or curse them. And still, we kneel. Still, we pray."

Elara forced her fingers to relax, realizing only then how tightly she had been gripping the fragile parchment. The library’s silence pressed in again, but now it felt different. Heavier.

She forced herself to read the passage again, her fingers tightening around the brittle edges of the page, as if anchoring herself to the words. It was the first thing she had found that even remotely resembled what she was looking for. Not just another legend, not a myth distorted by time and retellings, but a contemporary account. Someone had written this while these beings still walked freely in Prythian—while they had been feared and worshipped in equal measure.

Her pulse thrummed in her ears, the rhythmic pound matching the slow, deliberate drag of her fingertip along the inked lines. If this scholar had known of them then, what else had he recorded? Had he written of how they were bound? Of what it had taken to trap them?

She needed more.

Her gaze swept the margins, scanning for notes, annotations—anything the writer might have scrawled in some frantic attempt to preserve what others had tried to erase. The script was cramped, fading in places, the ink bleeding into the parchment with age. She flipped to the next page, careful despite her urgency.

Most of the older texts in the library had long lost their original bindings, their titles reduced to nothing but memory, their authors forgotten. But after several moments of searching, her eyes landed on something at the bottom of the page—a name.

Osian, Scholar of the Sunlit Archives.

Elara exhaled sharply, her breath unsteady. It wasn’t much, but it was a place to start.

She pushed away from the desk, rolling her shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness creeping into her spine. She had been here too long already, poring over texts that had yielded nothing but slivers of information that led to nowhere. But this—this was different.

Osian. If he had written this, he had likely written more.

She turned back toward the towering shelves, her mind already calculating her next move. If the Sunlit Archives still existed, if any remnants of Osian’s work remained, she would find them. And if they had been buried, erased—then she would dig deeper.

One way or another, she would have answers.

Elara turned back toward the shelves, her mind already calculating. If the Sunlit Archives still existed—if Osian’s works had been preserved—she needed to find them. But searching blindly would take too long, and asking outright was dangerous. The librarians had allowed her inside without question, but that did not mean she was beyond suspicion.

Her glamour still held, woven carefully over her features. But glamour was never perfect. A wrong glance, a misstep, and someone might notice the way the light bent too smoothly around her, the way her presence felt just slightly… off. How long before someone looked too closely?

She exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to move, to think. The towering rows of books stretched deep into the library’s vast halls, their spines lined in gold leaf, worn leather, fragile parchment. She could spend weeks searching, combing through dust-covered tomes and decaying pages, sifting through knowledge that may not even exist anymore.

Her fingers curled at her sides. She had been here for hours already, the candlelight shifting as time slipped away unnoticed. If she left now, no one would question it. If she came back tomorrow, no one would think twice.

Elara forced her shoulders to relax, forced herself to turn, to let the hunger for answers settle—for now. Another day. Another search. That was the only way.

Notes:

Thank you so much for all the feedback. I'm hopefully only going to be on the twice a week schedule while I build up my chapter cache back to what it was. My job's spring break is coming up, so I'm hoping to do most of that then.

Also, I was thinking of making a tumblr for my writing, but I don't know if there is any interest in that whatsoever. Thoughts?

Chapter 47

Notes:

Hi guys! So after some of your comments, I decided to make a Tumblr. If you have one, come follow me there. I haven't used Tumblr since 2012 though, so I'm still trying to relearn it. But I'm there, and you can also interact with me there!

Elara spent days combing through the library.

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the shifting light through the high glass windows and the slow, creeping ache in her neck. Candles melted to their stubs beside her, wax pooling over the edges of brass holders as night after night passed without answers.

Every book, every record she found that even mentioned the Sunlit Archives led only to vague, frustratingly empty references. A footnote here, a passing remark there—nothing concrete. No mention of whether it still existed, no trace of Osian beyond that singular entry. It was as if he had been erased.

Her patience thinned. She had never been one for research, for sitting idle while answers dangled just out of reach. Her strength had always been in action—in torturing the truth out of people, in extracting information through force and fear. Words spilled more easily from broken bodies than from brittle parchment.

And every day spent chasing shadows was another day wasted. Another day that kept her from keeping her promise to Arnulf and Dorothye.

She exhaled sharply, forcing her shoulders to remain loose, forcing her fingers to turn another page instead of slamming the book shut. She kept her head down, spoke only when necessary, moved through the library like another nameless scholar buried in endless research. But she was running out of options. If the archives were truly lost, then she needed to find someone who had read Osian’s work. Someone who still carried that knowledge, who might unknowingly hold the answers she needed.

Elara reached for another book, fingers trailing over the cracked leather spine—

And then she heard it.

The quiet shuffle of boots against marble. They were slow, purposeful, and far too close.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t react. Let her fingers continue their lazy movement over the shelves, as if still absorbed in her research. But her senses honed in—listened. The boots were heavy – the kind that guards often wore as a part of their uniforms.

Her stomach twisted.

Shit.

Had they recognized her as Munin? She had been careful—had kept her cowl on every time she had stepped foot in the Day Court before. And her glamour had remained intact since she had arrived here days ago..  But that could mean nothing. Glamours could be seen through. And there were always those who did not need to see her face to know who she was.

The footsteps drew nearer.

Elara let out a slow breath and, without a sound, turned the page, trying to remain as casual as possible.

A voice, smooth but firm, echoed through the vaulted chamber. “You there.”

Elara looked up, her pulse quickening as she took them in. Eight guards. Sunlight gleamed off their golden armor, the polished metal catching in the hazy afternoon light filtering through the high glass windows. They moved in precise formation, every step measured.

There were too many of them.

The leader, a broad-shouldered male with a hard face, stopped just a few paces away, his dark eyes scanning her with cold calculation. “You’ve been here for quite some time.”

Elara let her fingers skim the open pages of the book before her, forcing her shoulders to remain loose. She gave an easy, almost lazy smile. “Libraries tend to have that effect.”

He did not return it. “What exactly are you researching?”

She lifted a brow. “That’s an awfully forward question for a place meant to house knowledge.”

A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he didn’t take the bait. “Most scholars don’t stay for days without speaking to a single librarian. Nor do they avoid our scribes’ offers for assistance.”

Elara gave a thoughtful hum, tilting her head as if considering his words. “I wasn’t aware reading in silence was a crime in the Day Court. Should I be expecting a public execution?”

A few of the guards exchanged glances, but the leader remained unmoved. “The High Lord has some questions for you.”

Questions. That meant they weren’t sure who she was—yet. If they had known, they wouldn’t have come with words. There would have been a blade at her throat before she even had time to look up.

Her fingers curled against the edge of the parchment, her mind already calculating. The doors were too far, and the open space of the library meant she had no cover—nowhere to vanish before they could close in. Eight guards. She had fought worse odds.

Her lips parted on another quip, but she only exhaled softly, shifting as if to stand. A movement slow enough to appear nonthreatening, smooth enough to keep them at ease.

One of the guards took a step closer. Elara’s muscles coiled, waiting.

"Of course," Elara said smoothly, stepping forward as if she intended to follow.

Then, in the same breath, she moved.

The book in her hand became a weapon—she hurled it into the leader’s face, the hard cover slamming into his skull. The distraction was enough to give her a half-second advantage. She spun, her elbow striking out with precision, driving it into the stomach of the closest guard.

A grunt. The guard staggered back, gasping, but it wasn’t enough to bring him down.

Her body was already in motion, turning, ducking beneath a hand that swiped for her throat. She shot out a leg, landing a sharp kick to the knee of another guard. There was a sickening crunch, followed by a cry of pain.

But then came the retaliation.

A hand gripped the back of her tunic, yanking her backward. Elara twisted, her knee coming up hard to catch someone in the ribs. She felt the guard’s breath leave him in a whoosh. But before she could react, another grabbed her wrist—her body wrenched free with a forceful twist. The dagger that had once belonged to another guard slammed into their jaw, the hilt striking with a sickening thud.

But it still wasn’t enough.

A flash of golden light cut through the air—magic.

Elara dove, her body slamming against the floor as she barely avoided the blast. She rolled across the polished stone, knocking over a chair, the sound of its legs scraping the floor barely audible above the pounding in her ears. She sprang back to her feet, a hiss escaping as she fought the burning ache in her side.

Two guards lunged at her in unison. Her palm slammed against one’s chest, a sharp push sending him stumbling backward, disoriented. Her other hand was already on the hilt of another dagger, burying it into the side of the other guard. The warmth of blood soaked her fingers—

And then, pain. Explosive pain along her back.

A well-placed strike—a gauntleted fist—slammed into her spine. For a half-second, her vision blurred, a white-hot flash of agony shooting up from her tailbone to the base of her skull. She grit her teeth, refusing to give in to it, twisting her body with a fluid motion and catching the offending guard across the face with her elbow.

But then something wrapped around her neck—

A guard had slipped behind her, his arm locking around her throat, crushing her windpipe. Panic surged in her chest as she tried to wrench free, her hands clawing at his arm, but it only tightened, suffocating. The world narrowed, edges darkening as her breath became shallow, each desperate gasp pulling against her constricted throat.

She fought, her movements turning wild, but his hold didn’t falter. Her vision started to dim. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on.

She bucked, fought, desperate. Her elbow slammed into his ribs, once, twice—not enough. Her vision swam, the darkness at the edges pulling her under. A sharp pain ripped through her side, her lungs seizing as a knee drove into her ribs, followed by another strike.

The arm around her throat tightened.

Her body began to shut down, the pressure too much. The world blurred, edges fraying, until she was no longer sure if she was still moving.

Then—she went limp.

The guard holding her hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. That was his mistake.

Elara exploded into movement. Her body wrenched forward with every ounce of strength she had left, throwing all her weight into the shift. The guard’s balance faltered, and in that split second, she broke free. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air, the suffocating tightness in her throat dissipating just enough for her to breathe again.

But she barely had time to steady herself before a fist collided with her stomach. Stars exploded in her vision, the force of the blow making everything spin. Her body folded inward, a wave of pain crashing through her. Before she could recover, they were on her.

Too many hands, too many bodies closing in.

An armored knee slammed into the back of her legs, and she crumpled to the floor, her arms yanked painfully behind her. Shackles snapped around her wrists, their cold metal biting into her skin, a harsh reminder of her defeat.

There was no time for her to struggle, no time for her to think. She could only breathe in short, ragged gasps as the weight of the guards’ hold settled over her.

A voice, calm despite the chaos, spoke above her. “Well fought.”

Elara lifted her head, blood dripping from her lip, the taste of iron sharp in her mouth. The leader of the guards stood over her, his gaze unreadable. He was the last thing she wanted to see right now, but his presence was undeniable.

Her chest heaved with every breath, every muscle screaming with exhaustion. But she met his gaze, defiance still alive in her eyes, even as her body lay immobilized beneath his.

"Now," the leader said smoothly, his voice cutting through the heavy silence, "Are you going to tell us who you really are, or are we going to have to beat it out of you?"

Elara's arms ached from the iron grip of the guards as they hauled her through the winding halls of the grand library. Each step was a reminder of how tightly her wrists were shackled, how much they throbbed from the violent struggle. Her skin was raw beneath the cold metal.

The scent of parchment, ink, and something older, something ancient, lingered in the air. But beneath it was something else—an undercurrent of quiet, simmering power. It hummed along her spine, like static on the back of her neck.

Helion was here.

She hadn’t met him in person before, but she had heard the stories. She had seen him once from afar, when she had still been with Amarantha. His presence, even then, had left an impression. He radiated something dangerous, something that made her skin crawl despite her distance.

But she wasn’t going to cower.

Elara straightened her spine, forcing herself to stand tall despite the dull pulse of pain that bloomed in her ribs. If she was going to face him, it would not be hunched over like some criminal caught in the act. She might have been captured, but that didn’t mean she would give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

The guards shoved open a heavy door, the wood groaning under the pressure. The sunlight poured in from the windows, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor, dancing like flames in the flickering light.

The room they entered was vast, the tall bookshelves lining the walls filled with ancient tomes, their spines faded with age. At the far end of the room, standing beside a wide, polished desk, was Helion.

He stood tall, his posture regal, though he looked utterly unimpressed. His eyes skimmed over her, cool and calculating, as if she were nothing more than a mild inconvenience to him. The golden light from the windows glinted off his golden armor, but it didn’t soften the edges of his gaze.

For a moment, the silence stretched, heavy and thick. The tension between them was palpable, and yet, there was no rush. Helion didn’t seem to care enough to even acknowledge her properly, his attention flicking only briefly toward her as the guards shoved her further into the room.

“Let her stand,” he finally said, his voice smooth, like velvet, but with an edge that sliced through the air.

The guards released their hold on her arms, but they didn’t step away. Elara stayed on her feet, her eyes not leaving Helion as she tried to push through the ache in her body. She couldn’t afford to show weakness, not in front of him, not now.

"Now," Helion said again, his voice cutting into the quiet, "Why don't you tell me what you're really doing here?"

His gaze was unwavering, but Elara only lifted her chin, refusing to bend to his presence. She was already anticipating his next move, his next question, but for the moment, she said nothing.

Helion’s gaze lingered on her for a moment too long, his eyes tracing the contours of her face, his expression unreadable. There was something in the way his gaze swept over her that sent a chill down Elara’s spine. His eyes darkened ever so slightly, and it hit her, sharp and sudden—he knew exactly what she was. Damn it.

His voice broke through the stillness, smooth as velvet but carrying an edge that made her muscles tighten in anticipation. “Drop the glamour,” he said, his tone unwavering, commanding. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

For half a second, Elara considered the idea of defiance. She could fight. She could push back. After all, she was skilled at fighting, and her magic was powerful enough, but Helion was a High Lord. The weight of his power pressed against her. Whatever magic he wielded, it would tear through her illusions without effort.

She exhaled sharply, the breath slipping from her lungs in a soft hiss as she weighed her options. There was no point in resisting. She knew the risks, the consequences.

Reluctantly, she let the glamour unravel. The faint shimmer of magic slipped away like the last breath of a fading dream. The air itself hummed with the release of her false features. Her sharp, angular features melted away, the disguise crumbling with a subtle ripple of power.

As the glamour faded, she met Helion’s gaze again. The flicker of recognition, of something deeper, passed across his face. His lips curled slightly, almost like a smile, but it wasn’t one born of humor. It was something more dangerous, something calculating.

“There we are,” he mused, his voice quiet, as if to himself. His gaze never left her, now that the illusion had dissolved, leaving her exposed in all her true, unshielded vulnerability.

Helion stepped forward. She could feel it—the subtle power that rippled through the air with each step he took. The ground beneath her feet seemed to tremble with it, the silence growing thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves held their breath.

He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could almost feel the heat of his presence, yet his hands were clasped loosely behind his back.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice low but laced with a hint of amusement. “What is a Night Court spy doing in my library?”

---

Azriel’s footsteps echoed through the narrow halls of the River House, the familiar weight of his wings dragging against the air as he moved swiftly, shadows flickering at his heels. The sharp scent of polished wood mixed with the faintest trace of lilac. His focus was elsewhere, though, his mind far from the task ahead.

Back across the sea.

Back to the trail he had been tracking for months. Elara.

Weeks ago, when he had been summoned back to Velaris by Rhys, he had left a shadow to follow her. To make sure, even if she had not wanted him to return, that she was safe. But nearly a week ago, it returned empty-handed, telling him that she had only left that small village.

She had disappeared—again. That gnawing feeling, that quiet unease, had settled in his gut every day since.

He should have been focused on finding her, not whatever this meeting was. She was his priority. But that was the nature of his life: duty always came first, no matter how much the personal things threatened to slip through his fingers. And Rhys… well, Rhys could never know. Not with the way he was bound by the bargain.

The trail on the continent had gone cold, and that meant he had to rethink his approach. He should be strategizing, finding another lead, not walking into a room full of tension that he wasn’t prepared for.

The door to the office creaked open with barely a sound, and Azriel stepped through, his gaze immediately locking onto the figures inside. The atmosphere in the room was thick—strained, crackling with the weight of something unspoken.

Rhys stood near the desk, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his jaw set with a tension Azriel could feel even from where he stood. Feyre sat on the edge of the desk, her fingers rubbing her temples as if she were trying to stave off a headache, her face drawn in a frown.

They were in the middle of something, an argument—rare, but not unheard of. Azriel remained silent, eyes flicking between the two, trying to make sense of the tension.

“She’s out of control, Feyre.” Rhys’ voice was low, tight with frustration. “The bar tab last night would have been enough to feed your old village for a year.”

Feyre sighed deeply, as if the weight of whatever was going on had worn her thin. “I know. And you’re right. We need to make a change now… before—”

Azriel cleared his throat. The sound was soft, but it cut through the thick tension in the room, severing the conversation between Rhys and Feyre as if he had physically stepped between them.

Feyre stopped mid-sentence, her lips pressing together as she turned toward him. Rhys, standing stiffly beside her, exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before straightening. Their frustration lingered. But for now, it shifted—redirected toward him.

Azriel stepped further into Rhysand’s office, the heavy wooden doors clicking shut behind him. The scent of parchment and ink filled the space, mixing with the lingering traces of magic. It was always present in Rhys’s study, that quiet hum of power woven into the very walls. But today, Azriel had to admit, something about it felt charged.

The High Lord leaned against his desk, watching him too closely, his violet gaze unreadable. Feyre, perched on the edge of that same desk, let out a breath and offered a tight smile—though the concern in her blue-gray eyes softened the sharpness of the moment.

“Sorry to pull you from whatever you were doing,” she said, her tone light but edged with something heavier. “I know you’ve been busy with… everything.”

Azriel inclined his head, not bothering to correct her. The everything she spoke of was something neither of them had dared to ask him about. Not directly. But they knew. They knew that something was up. Rhys had tried to ask him about it several times, but Azriel never gave him anything.

His bargain wouldn’t llow it.

“What is it?” His voice was even, revealing nothing.

Rhys’s gaze flicked to Feyre before settling back on him. There was only a heartbeat of hesitation there, as if he were second guessing how the approach he was taking with his spymaster. Then, smoothly, too smoothly, Rhys asked, “Do you have any updates from your network?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. So this was how they were starting. Not with the reason they had called him here, but with a test—to see how much he knew.

Azriel didn’t shift under the scrutiny. He gave his usual report—concise and methodical. Updates from his network across the courts, minor movements in the human lands, a brief note about an Illyrian commander stirring unrest in the northern war camps. His voice remained steady, controlled, but he noted the way Rhys barely reacted, his focus elsewhere.

Whatever this was, this meeting wasn’t actually about reports.

"Is that all?" Rhys asked, too casually.

Azriel held his brother’s gaze and gave a single nod. "Yes."

Rhys didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached for a folded note on his desk, his fingers tapping against the parchment slowly. It would have been a small, meaningless gesture to anyone else. To Azriel, who might have known his brother better than anyone, it was a warning.

Something was wrong.

His instincts flared, sharpening as he watched Rhys unfold the letter with an ease that felt too controlled, too careful. Whatever was in that report, Azriel knew that he wasn’t going to like it.

"I’ve just received word from Helion," Rhys said, scanning the lines. His tone remained neutral, but Azriel knew him well enough to catch the edge beneath it, the slight shift in his power curling around the words. Rhys rarely read reports out loud unless he wanted to gauge a reaction.

Azriel didn’t let himself tense, didn’t let his shadows stir, though every muscle in his body was suddenly coiled.

"It appears that an Illyrian female, with…" Rhys’s violet eyes flicked down, searching for the exact wording. His lips pressed into a thin line before he read, "strange wings… has infiltrated his library."

Azriel’s blood ran cold.

Elara. There was no doubt in his mind. No need to ask for clarification. His gut twisted, the weight of those words settling like iron in his chest. Fool. He had spent months tracking her, only to find her and have her say that she never wanted him to come back to the village she was staying in. And now, after weeks of not knowing what she was doing, or if she was safe—she had resurfaced not in some distant village or forgotten ruin, but here. In Prythian.

His mind raced, calculating, searching for the next move. But he couldn’t act too quickly.

Rhys’s gaze was still on him, assessing, waiting. Azriel forced his expression to remain unreadable, his voice just as even as before. "And?"

Rhys leaned back, crossing his arms. "Helion isn’t sure what she was looking for. But he caught her. And now he’s very interested in learning why an Illyrian with wings like hers would be digging through his archives."

Rhys set the paper down with slow precision, the weight of his stare pressing against Azriel. He didn’t speak at first, merely watching, assessing, as if peeling back layers of silence to find whatever truth lay beneath. Azriel supposed that Rhysand could enter his mind, and just take the information that he wanted from Azriel. But that wasn’t Rhys — he wouldn’t do that to his friends.

Not unless he absolutely had to.

"I know I haven’t asked too much about your network… your assets." There was no accusation in his voice. Not yet. "You’ve had a lot of leeway to do what you need to do to protect this court, because Feyre and I trust you to do what is best. But Helion is our ally."

Azriel forced his expression to remain blank, his breathing even. His shadows stirred at his back, sensing the tension thrumming beneath his skin, but he kept them still. Kept himself still. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how much he could say.

"She is not one of my spies." His voice remained even, curt. It was not untrue. And it was vague enough that it didn’t trigger the bargain’s hold on him.

Rhys didn’t blink, but Feyre frowned from where she sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. "Then why would an Illyrian female be at the Day Court?"

Silence filled the space between them. It was a good question – why was Elara at the Day Court? She had seemed to never want to return to Prythian. But what was she looking for in the libraries there? Was she remembering more about her past? Trying to make sense of memories that she herself said were hazy? Azriel could feel Rhy’s gaze sharpening as Azriel processed the information.

Then Feyre inhaled sharply, the realization settling over her features like a sudden shift in the wind.

"Munin," she whispered.

Azriel didn’t move, didn’t react, but his heart slammed once against his ribs. He hadn’t thought of Elara as that in so long. Munin. That was what they called her. What they thought she was.

Something twisted in his gut at the way Feyre had said that name, the quiet disgust in it, the certainty. Because to her, to all of them, Munin was nothing more than a ghost of the war. A creature without a soul. Loyal to nothing and no one but Hybern.

And they had no idea.

"What would she be doing in the Day Court?" Rhys’s voice was calm, but his gaze had sharpened, his expression shifting into something wholly assessing.

Azriel kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to lie to Rhys. Not about this. But the moment the thought even crossed his mind—to say the words aloud, to let the truth slip free—the bargain mark on his arm burned like a sharp, searing pain, like iron pressed to flesh.

He forced his expression into stone. He said nothing.

Rhys watched him carefully, his face unreadable. He didn’t speak right away, only drummed his fingers against the desk in a slow, unhurried rhythm.

"There’s something you’re not telling me," Rhys finally said, his voice quiet but not gentle.

Azriel wanted to tell him. By the Cauldron, he wanted to tell him. The truth burned inside him, clawed against the walls of his ribs like a trapped animal. Elara was alive. She had been alive all this time.

And worse—she had been right there. At their feet. Under their noses. The assassin that Rhys had him looking into centuries ago. Hybern’s perfect weapon. Munin had been Elara all along.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking. He wanted to tell Rhys. He wanted him to know that his sister had not been lost to them that day in the Illyrian mountains. That she had not died screaming beneath the High Lord of the Spring Court, that she had not faded into the endless list of deaths that they would never be able to set right.

But he couldn’t.

"I can’t say."

The words felt like iron chains, each syllable locking his voice in a cage. The bargain mark on his arm tingled—not a burn, not yet, but a whisper of warning, a reminder of what she had demanded of him that night in the Summer Court. You are to speak to no one about me, and what I have done from here on out.

Speak. That had been her condition. Not lie, not deflect—speak.

Rhys’s expression didn’t shift, but his scrutiny deepened. "Can’t?" His voice was calm, deliberate. Listening, not just to what Azriel had said, but to what he hadn’t. "Or won’t?"

Azriel met his brother’s gaze. His pulse hammered against the inside of his throat, but his face betrayed nothing. He forced the words out again, carefully, evenly. "I can’t say." This time, he let the weight of the last word settle between them. Say.

Rhys’s fingers stilled against the desk.

Silence.

But Azriel knew that silence—had spent centuries learning its language. Rhys was thinking, turning over the words, fitting them into the cracks of what he already knew. Piecing it together.

The moment stretched long and weighted, thick as the storm clouds that gathered over the Sidra before a downpour. And then Azriel felt it—the familiar claw of a talon at the edges of his mind. Rhys was reaching for him, testing the waters. Asking without words what Azriel could not say aloud.

Azriel didn’t push back. Didn’t fight it. His silence was answer enough.

Azriel barely resisted as Rhys pressed into his mind. He could have fought it—could have thrown up those same impenetrable walls, the ones that had kept his secrets buried for centuries. But he didn’t.

He let Rhys see. He wanted Rhys to see.

The memory of the bargain surfaced first. That night in the Summer Court. The moonlit terrace, the scent of salt and citrus lingering in the air. The way Elara—Munin—had stood before him, dark hood drawn low, silver light catching on the edges of her strange, night-dark wings. She had been cold, unreadable, a blade poised at his throat without ever lifting a weapon. You are to speak to no one about me, and what I have done from here on out.

The magic of the bargain had coiled tight around him, branding those words into his bones. The compulsion had settled like an iron weight on his tongue, ensuring that no matter how badly he wanted to tell the truth—he couldn’t.

Then he showed him everything.

The moments when she had risked herself, again and again, defying Hybern’s orders to help him. The way that she had helped winnow the humans out of danger and into the relative safety of Adriata. The way that she had been trying to help Elain, giving her water and then bowing to Feyre’s command as High Lady. The knowledge of Hybern’s movements that she had slipped to him—at great cost, if only Azriel had been smart enough to listen.

The times she had let him walk away when she could have ended his life with a flick of her wrist.

And then—that moment.

In the aftermath of battle, where she had been ready to use the chaos to disappear forever. The moment her cowl had been ripped away, revealing the face beneath the mask. The moment his world had shifted beneath him like the ground had been pulled from beneath his feet.

Because it wasn’t Munin staring back at him. Not the faceless wraith he had hunted for centuries, the assassin who had haunted his shadows. It was her. The sister who had been lost, the girl whose death had been a wound in Rhys’s soul for five hundred years.

But he didn’t show Rhys the one thing that mattered most. Didn’t let him see the exact moment the bond had snapped into place. That was his. His alone. He wasn’t ready for Rhys to know—to understand what that meant.

A sharp inhale shattered the silence. Feyre.

Azriel turned his head just as she lifted a hand to her mouth, her fingers trembling slightly. She had been looking into Rhys’s mind, seeing everything he had just seen.

And Rhys—

Rhys didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.

The silence stretched. A single heartbeat, then another. Then he lunged.

Azriel barely had time to shift before Rhys slammed into him, shoulder first, sending him stumbling backward into the desk, the edge jarring up through his spine, the impact snapping through ribs and muscle. He barely had time to suck in a breath before Rhys’s fist connected with his ribs, knocking the breath right back out of him. Another came for his jaw, hard enough to send his head snapping to the side.

He didn’t fight back. Didn’t so much as lift a hand to defend himself as Rhys struck him again.

Not when the papers scattered beneath him, not when the corner of the desk split skin at his hip, not when Rhys’s hand fisted his tunic and shoved him forward again—only to slam him back. His ribs ached. Blood bloomed in his mouth. Still, Azriel didn’t lift a hand. He let the fury burn itself out on his skin. One hit landed beneath his arm, near the bruise from earlier, and Azriel bit down against the hiss that wanted to rise. Another landed near his temple, sharp and clean. His vision blurred.

His brother’s voice was shaking now. But it was lower, darker—drenched in fury. “How long?” he hissed. “How long did you lie to me? To all of us?”

Rhys’s fists slammed into him again and again, but Azriel barely moved. He let him, let his brother give into the storm of rage and grief he had unknowingly kept caged for centuries. The force of each hit sent fresh pain through his ribs, his jaw—his body already bruising from the blows. But Azriel didn’t fight back. He only braced himself against the desk, fingers digging into the wood as the weight of Rhys’s fury crashed into him.

He had known this would come, eventually. Had expected it. And still, when Rhys finally stopped, when his chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths, Azriel couldn’t look away from the raw, untamed fury in his eyes.

Azriel blinked through the blood in his eye, steadying his breath. “I didn’t lie.”

Rhys was shaking, fists still clenched at his sides. But it was the betrayal in his gaze that cut deeper than any blow.

"You kept this from me." His voice was low, guttural. Not the voice of the High Lord of Night, but of a brother betrayed.

Azriel exhaled, slow and steady. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth. He lifted a hand, wiped at the cut on his lip, and stared at the crimson streak staining his fingers. Then he looked back at Rhys, his expression unreadable, his voice devoid of emotion.

"I had no choice," he said simply. "I made a bargain."

Rhys’s chest heaved as he looked at him. Not with grief now, but something more dangerous. “How long?” he repeated, quieter. “How long have you known?”

Azriel’s jaw ticked as he met his brother’s gaze. “A few months.”

The silence that followed that answer was heavier than the fists had been. Rhys didn’t speak. He didn’t move. His eyes were unreadable. Except for the betrayal—Azriel saw that. Saw it as clearly as the blood drying on his mouth.

Feyre was the first to move, the first to breathe in the wake of his words. She took a sharp, shuddering inhale, her hands pressing against the desk like she needed something solid beneath them.

"This is what you’ve been doing." Her voice was quiet, but the accusation cut through the air like a blade. "All this time. You’ve been looking for her."

Azriel didn’t deny it. He only nodded once.

Feyre’s gaze searched his face, her brows furrowing as she tried to piece it together—tried to understand. There was anger in her eyes, but something else, too. A flicker of relief, perhaps, or something even more fragile.

"You’ve been tracking her," she pressed, her voice tight, careful.

Again, Azriel nodded. The fight had drained from him, the weight of it all pressing against his shoulders like stone. There was no point in lying now. No point in pretending. He didn’t know how much he could say, not with the bargain mark still curled into his skin like a brand, but he could give them this.

Feyre sucked in a breath, her lips parting as the questions spilled from her, one after another, relentless. "How is she? Does she know? Did she remember? What has she been doing? Where is she now?" She barely paused, barely seemed to register the silence that followed, her eyes darting over Azriel’s face as if the answers were hidden somewhere in his expression. As if she could see the truth just by looking at him.

Azriel opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Rhys finally spoke.

"It must be a glamour of some kind." His voice was soft, hesitant. Disbelieving. "Whoever this is… they must have deceived you."

Azriel’s gut twisted. He understood. Of course he understood. Rhys had burned his sister’s remains. He had grieved her, mourned her, spent five hundred years believing she was lost—gone—that there was nothing left of her but memories and ashes.

To accept this, to believe it… it would undo everything.

And yet, even as Rhys said it, there was doubt in his voice. A waver, so small it was barely perceptible.

Azriel didn’t look away, didn’t let his own doubt creep in. He had seen her. Had spoken to her. He had spent years chasing a shadow that had always stayed just beyond his grasp, only to have the truth thrown in his face on that battlefield, in the moment her cowl had been ripped away. He had seen the mark. He had seen her.

He shook his head once. "It’s her," he said, voice firm. "I’ve seen her on the Continent. I’ve spoken to her."

The bargain mark did not burn.

His breath hitched—just slightly. Was it because Rhys and Feyre knew now? Was he… free of the bargain’s hold?

Rhys didn’t respond. His jaw tightened as he stared into the flames crackling in the hearth, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Silence stretched, thick and heavy, wrapping around them like a vise.

Azriel knew what was happening. He didn’t need to be a Daemati to know that Rhys’s mind was already unraveling, already reaching back, digging through memories long buried. Remembering a sister with violet eyes, a sister who had once flown at his side, a sister he had lost in the cold, unforgiving mountains of Illyria.

And now, after five hundred years of grief, of certainty—

Elara was alive.

Feyre’s voice was quiet, tentative. “How does she seem?”

“She seems…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. Like she’s slipping through my fingers. Like she’s running from something she doesn’t understand. Like she’s trying to survive in a world that never gave her a choice. He swallowed. “Like she’s building a life for herself.”

He shifted his weight, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “She was living in a small village the last I saw her. Keeping her head down, but she had some people in her corner.” He kept his voice even, but the memory of it still dug into him. How that little girl had come to Elara bleary eyed, how she had looked at her—not as Munin, not as a weapon, but as someone who belonged.

Feyre’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. She cast a brief, worried glance at her mate before asking, “Then why didn’t you bring her back?”

Azriel held her stare for a beat before shifting his gaze—to Rhys, then to the fire. He weighed his words carefully, searching for the right answer, the right truth. He didn’t say that he had tried. Didn’t say that when he had reached for her, she had looked at him like she was the last person she would trust.

“She doesn’t remember everything.” The words felt heavier than he expected.

Feyre’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Azriel forced himself to meet her gaze.

“Whatever Hybern did to her mind… it hasn’t…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head once. “I think she’s just figuring out who she is. She doesn’t seem to remember much. She doesn’t recognize me as anyone but the Night Court’s spymaster. She doesn’t trust me.” The words were bitter, the taste of them foul even now.

His throat tightened as he forced himself to say the rest. “She thought if she came back to Prythian, she’d be thrown into a dungeon for what she had done.”

Rhys moved then. A slight jerk of his head, his shoulders tensing as if he had been physically pulled from the depths of his thoughts. His violet eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on Azriel’s face.

Rhys reached for Helion’s letter, his fingers tightening around the parchment. The firelight flickered across his knuckles, casting long shadows over the stark lines of tension in his hands. His eyes scanned the words, once, then again, as if reading them a second time would change their meaning.

A slow, measured breath left him. He closed his eyes, pressing his lips together. His jaw tensed, but he said nothing. Not at first.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, steady. But Azriel had known him too long to be fooled by that careful control. There was something beneath it—something raw, something unraveling.

“I need you to retrieve El—” Rhys stopped himself, inhaled sharply, then corrected, “this person.”

Azriel didn’t miss the way his voice caught on the word. How he had to force himself to swallow down a name that, for centuries, had belonged to the dead.

Azriel studied him carefully. “You don’t want to be the one to go?”

Every instinct in him was already screaming that he should be the one to retrieve Elara. That he should be the one to protect her. After all, Elara was his mate. But he understood—more than anything—why her brother would want to be the one to do it. He wouldn’t stand in the way of that. Wouldn’t stop Rhys from seeing his sister again after five hundred years of grief.

Rhys’s gaze flickered toward Feyre. It was brief—barely a fraction of a second—but Azriel caught it. Feyre did, too. She stiffened beside him, as if she knew exactly what Rhys was thinking.

Rhys shook his head. The movement was slow, reluctant. Pained.

“I can’t—I won’t leave right now.” The words came quieter, as if saying them aloud made them heavier, harder to bear. He hesitated, took a breath, let it out slowly before adding, “I—I need you to bring her here.”

Azriel understood what he was really saying.

Bring her home.

Notes:

... Well, it FINALLY happened. Rhys FINALLY knows.

Come yell at me on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/sburnheart

Chapter 48

Notes:

Sorry for the delay. Spring Break means teachers forget what day of the week it is.

She’d refused to talk, or submit to Helion’s questioning.

Elara sat in the dim cell, her back pressed against the cool stone wall, arms draped over her bent knees. The air was thick with the scent of dust and old magic, though the Day Court’s dungeons were not the dark, rotting pits she had once known in Hybern. The room was clean, the stonework unmarred, the faint glow of spelled light keeping it from falling into complete darkness.

She had seen worse. Lived through worse.

And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to be grateful.

She had not spoken a word to Helion or his court. What would be the point? He already assumed to know who—and what—she was. A Night Court spy. He had questioned her, waiting for her to slip, to give him something useful. She had stared back, silent, as if he did not deserve her words.

Just as she had been taught for the last five centuries.

He hadn’t mentioned anything about her time as Munin. That had surprised her. So much so that she had to wonder if the High Lord of the Day Court had recognized her at all. If he had known, surely he would have called her by that name. Surely, he would have seen what she was, what she had done.

Perhaps, he thought her a common spy.

She tried not to dwell on it. It wouldn’t do her any good. It never did, when her thoughts started to spiral. The past came in flashes—some sharp, some blurred and half-formed. She could never grasp them fully. And the more she tried, the worse it became. A barrage of memories without context, without clarity.

Elara tipped her head back against the stone, exhaling through her nose. She should be planning. She should be finding a way out, deciding what she would do if—when—Helion grew tired of keeping her locked away.

The cell was more of a holding chamber than a true prison. The walls were smooth sandstone, the floor polished but cool beneath her feet. Unlike the dungeons of Hybern, where dampness seeped into the bones and the stench of rot clung to the air, the Day Court’s cells were—kind.

Almost too kind.

A small, barred window high on the wall let in golden light, dust motes dancing in its beams. Fresh air slipped through the cracks, carrying the crisp scent of citrus and sea salt.

A bed, not a cot, rested against the far wall, its mattress firm but whole. The blankets smelled of sun-warmed linen. The food they brought was warm, seasoned, not the half-rotted scraps or stale bread she had once been accustomed to. If she closed her eyes, she might almost believe she was somewhere else—somewhere that didn’t feel like another waiting game, another place she needed to escape from before the walls closed in.

But she had lived in too many cages to be fooled.

She knew Helion had written to the Night Court. She had seen it in the slight shift of his expression when he had stepped into the room for the last time. He had asked his questions. She had refused to answer. Again and again. And so, he had made his choice.

It was only a matter of time now.

They would come for her. Her brother. His court. Perhaps he would send the Shadowsinger after her again.

The thought curled in her gut, cold and unbearable. What would they do to her? What would he do to her? Would Rhysand even be able to look at her? Or would he see only Munin—the weapon of Hybern, the one who had been ordered to kill his people?

She knew what she deserved. She had no illusions about that. But there was a part of her—small and frail, buried beneath centuries of blood—that couldn’t help but wonder.

A part of her already knew what Rhysand would decide.

She only had the hazy memories, but Elara had heard the stories about him. He was not merciful, not truly. He did not forgive easily, not when it came to his court. If he had known she was alive all these years, if he had even suspected it, he would have burned the world apart to find her. But now that he knew the truth—now that he knew what she had been, what she had done—she doubted he would waste the effort. What was left of the sister he had lost? A killer, a traitor who had fought for their enemy, a ghost who had no claim to the life she had once had.

No, there was no reason for him to want her back.

And if he didn’t, then what was left?

She had spent lifetimes not knowing of the past. Of what had been stolen from her. It had been easier that way. There had been no guilt, no questions, no uncertainty, only orders and obedience and silence. She never had to ask herself if she had wanted any of it. Never had to wonder if the flickers of hesitation, the phantom emotions that had sometimes crept in before they had been stripped away, had meant something.

She never had to confront who she was. What she had become.

But now, the past was clawing its way back, refusing to be ignored. If she saw Rhysand again—if she saw any of them—what could she possibly say? There were no words for this. No apology that would be enough, no explanation that would erase the centuries of blood on her hands. She would see it in his face, and it would gut her in a way that nothing else had.

It was better if she stayed gone.

Let them think she was too far lost. Let them see her as Munin, the assassin, the traitor, the monster.

If they thought her beyond saving, maybe they wouldn’t try. Maybe they would let her disappear again. Maybe she wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in his eyes. Wouldn’t have to face the horror of what she had been, what she still was.

She wasn’t sure which possibility was worse—that Rhysand would look at her and still see his sister… or that he wouldn’t see her at all.

Elara exhaled slowly, forcing her mind to sharpen, to clear. She couldn’t sit here, waiting like some helpless thing, waiting for Helion to decide what to do with her. She had to focus on something, anything, that wasn’t the twisting unease in her stomach.

Her hands curled into fists as she scanned the cell, eyes dragging over every detail with the precision of someone who had been on the other side of a prison door far too many times. The walls were thick, the stone reinforced with layers of magic. The door was steel-bound, solid enough to keep any ordinary prisoner inside.

But she wasn’t ordinary.

She could break the lock. Given enough time, enough patience, she could slip past the guards, move through the corridors unnoticed. It wasn’t impossible. Difficult, but not impossible. She could wait for the right moment, listen for the shift of footsteps outside her cell, for the lapse in their vigilance.

A small part of her even welcomed the challenge, the opportunity to move, to act, to do something other than sit and wait.

But even if she did—where would she go?

Her breath hitched as the thought settled, unwelcome and cold. People would be looking for her, and she had they would keep their eyes on the docks, on the skies. She had no allies here in Prythian. No court to claim her. No safe haven waiting beyond these walls. She had spent centuries serving a master who was now nothing more than rotting flesh, had spent the time since his death running from the ghosts of her past that she had left behind.

Where did that leave her?

The Continent. She could winnow if she pushed herself hard enough, could find a way to disappear again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But then, her mind conjured the image of Clotilda, of her family, of the quiet home where she had been taken in when she truly did not deserve it. She could still see Dorothye’s small hands gripping her. She had promised the little girl that she would be back, once she had found out information to help with the missing females. If she fled, if she led the Day Court’s wrath back to their doorstep—

Elara pressed her fingers to her temples, forcing out the thought before it could settle too deeply. She couldn’t do that to them. She couldn’t bring that kind of chaos to the only people who had ever looked at her and seen something other than a weapon.

Her jaw clenched as frustration burned beneath her skin. She hated this. Hated the feeling of being trapped, of having no path forward that didn’t lead to something worse. She had been in chains before, but this felt different.

The metallic clang of the cell door unlocking shattered the quiet.

Elara didn’t move from where she sat, legs stretched in front of her, wrists resting loosely on her lap. She had heard the footsteps approaching, the familiar measured stride of someone with years of training.

A guard, then.

A shadow darkened the threshold, and a male stepped into the doorway, tall and broad, gold-plated armor gleaming even in the dim torchlight. His face was hard, expression blank, the golden glow of his skin doing little to soften the rigidity of his features.

“The High Lord requests your presence,” he announced, voice flat, uninterested.

She tilted her head, studying him as if he were some insect that had crawled into her space, something to be examined with vague amusement. “Requests? How polite. And here I thought I was a prisoner, not a guest.”

The guard’s jaw ticked, the barest sign of irritation. “Get up.”

“Such impeccable manners,” she mused, finally rising to her feet with languid ease. “I see the Day Court holds itself to the highest standards of hospitality.”

The guard didn’t bother responding. Instead, he stepped forward, grabbed her arm in a firm grip, and snapped the cuffs around her wrists. The chains were cold against her skin, heavy but not unbreakable. She flexed her fingers against the bite of metal, testing the fit, the weight.

Two more guards flanked her as they led her through the winding corridors. The air changed as they climbed the stone staircases, the thick dampness of the dungeons fading beneath the warmth of golden light pouring through open archways. The scent of warm sand and citrus groves drifted through the halls, replacing the stale air of her cell, filling her lungs with something bright, something almost too clean.

Elara ignored the curious stares from passing courtiers, their whispered words and quick glances. She ignored the weight of the chains, the way the metal clinked with each step. Instead, she let her mind slip into the cold precision of detachment.

This was just another mission, just another room she would enter and leave without a second thought.

Not her life unraveling at the seams.

If she told herself that enough times, she just might actually start to believe it.

The door at the end of the hall swung open, and before Elara could brace herself, she was shoved forward. She staggered slightly but caught herself before she could fall.

The door slammed shut behind her, sealing her inside the sun-drenched office. Light flooded the space, a stark contrast to the dim corridors below. The room was massive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the endless golden dunes of the Day Court.

Everything here gleamed—marble, gold, silks draped in careful folds across the chairs, even the scent of citrus and warm air held a kind of richness that felt almost suffocating in its decadence.

At the center of it all sat Helion, reclining behind a massive marble desk, fingers idly tapping against its surface. He studied her with an unreadable expression. He did not greet her. Did not offer her a seat. Instead, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and asked, “Have you been treated well?”

Elara met his stare, refusing to let the sheer presence of him unnerve her.

She had spent centuries standing before powerful lords, kings and queens on the Continent. None of them dared to ask about the treatment of their prisoners. She did not like it, did not trust it. A single nod was all she gave in response, nothing more. She would not waste words on him, not when he already believed he knew the answers.

If he wanted to play these games, he would have to play them alone.

Helion’s mouth twitched slightly, though whether it was amusement or irritation, she couldn’t tell. His voice remained smooth, patient, as if he were speaking to a child rather than a prisoner. “Are you ready to answer my questions?”

She remained still, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. She let the silence stretch, let it fill the space between them. It was an answer in itself.

Just as she had been trained to do.

Helion exhaled, the sound slow and measured, as if he had expected as much. “What were you doing in my library?” He spoke the words carefully, his golden eyes never leaving hers.

Elara did not so much as blink.

His gaze sharpened slightly, though his tone did not change. “What were you looking for?”

Still, nothing.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

The air in the room shifted, the temperature spiking as power curled at the edges of the space. It pressed against her, golden and bright, crackling with restrained strength. A reminder of who sat before her. A reminder of what he could do if he wanted. The weight of it was suffocating, like standing beneath the unrelenting glare of the sun with no shade in sight.

She only lifted her chin slightly, her face betraying nothing. She had endured worse than a display of power. Had lived through far crueler hands attempting to break her. Helion would have to try harder.

"Why did your High Lord send you to my library?" Helion’s voice was smooth. If Elara had not known better—had not been trained better—she might have thought he already knew the answer.

He leaned back in his chair, studying her with the ease of a male who had all the time in the world. No impatience, no frustration, just the quiet, relentless patience of someone waiting for an inevitable confession.

Elara kept her expression blank, but inside, her mind raced. Silence would only make him push harder, force him to strip away her defenses layer by layer until he found what he was looking for. And that could blow back on Rhysand—

If she could deflect, make him realize that the Night Court had nothing to do with this—

“He’s not my High Lord.” The words left her lips before she could stop them, sharp and bitter, sinking into the space between them like stones dropped into still water.

Helion’s gaze flickered, a shadow of something unreadable passing over his face. But then his golden eyes narrowed slightly, and she knew in an instant that he did not believe her.

His brow arched, his expression one of detached amusement, as if she were nothing more than an unusual puzzle he had yet to solve. “Pardon?”

She should have kept quiet. Should have swallowed the words down, locked them away where they could not be used against her. But she had already spoken, and now there was no taking them back.

Elara met his gaze, shoulders squaring, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of his scrutiny. “He’s not my High Lord,” she repeated, voice steady this time.

Helion did not blink, did not so much as shift in his seat. She wondered if he was waiting for her to elaborate, to crack beneath his gaze and offer up some desperate explanation.

She gave him nothing.

Helion leaned back in his chair, fingers laced beneath his chin, the faintest flicker of amusement curling at the edges of his mouth. “The last time I checked, Illyria was well within the boundaries of the Night Court.”

Her jaw tightened, and she forced herself to exhale slowly through her nose, to keep her voice even when she answered, “And I am not from Illyria.”

She did not elaborate. Would not. Her past was not something she was willing to offer him, not something she would place on the altar of his curiosity for him to pick apart and examine. Not when she was just starting to figure it out on her own.

Helion’s fingers tapped idly against the marble desk, the soft, rhythmic sound filling the space between them. “Then, pray tell, where are you from?”

She stared at him, her face betraying nothing. She would not answer that. Could not. It did not matter, anyway. No matter where she had been born, where she had bled, where she had died and been remade into something else, the truth remained—she belonged to no court. Not anymore.

Her hands curled into fists in her lap, nails biting into her palms, the slight pain anchoring her.

A knowing hum left his lips, his fingers still thrumming lazily along the desk. “Well, even if you don’t recognize the High Lord as yours, he has taken an interest in you.”

Something low in her stomach twisted, turned to lead. She kept her face still, her breath measured, but deep within, something clenched tight. What did that mean? Did he know? Had the Shadowsinger broken the silence he had been bound to?

No. No, she knew better than that. He couldn’t speak of her.

As if on cue, the door to Helion’s office swung open.

The scent of cedar and mist curled into the room, crisp and cool against the sun-warmed air.

The Shadowsinger was there.

Elara did not move. Did not turn to look. She had known this moment was coming, had felt it the moment she realized that Helion would write to the Night Court and demand answers. But now that it was here, it did not feel real.

Or perhaps it felt too real, like the walls were closing in, like the air had been sucked from the room.

She forced her expression to remain neutral, forced herself to breathe evenly as Azriel’s presence settled over her. She refused to let her heart rise, refused to let herself feel anything at all. If she let herself feel, even for a moment, she did not know if she would be able to stop.

It did not matter that the scent of him was familiar. It did not matter that, for a brief, foolish moment, her body had tensed not in fear, but in recognition. She did not know him. Not really. And he did not know her. Not the way she had been. Not the way she was now.

She did not let her body betray her, did not let herself glance at him as he stepped forward. But deep within, something clenched. She did not know if his shadows could sense it—if they could read what simmered beneath her skin, what coiled tight in her chest. She had spent so long keeping herself contained, locking away every stray thought, every feeling. She did not know if they could undo her now.

Azriel moved without sound, circling to the front of the desk with that same lethal grace, his wings tucked tightly behind him. His siphons gleamed in the golden light filtering through the window, but his face was carved from shadow.

Completely unreadable.

His face gave nothing away. Not that they had already met. Not that they had fought side by side, shoulder to shoulder, their blades cutting through the same enemies. Not that she was the High Lord of the Night Court’s sister.

She wondered if that was for her sake, or Helion’s.

The High Lord of Day did not miss the way they stood before each other, did not miss the weight in the air between them. Helion’s golden eyes flicked between them before a slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

“I believe she is one of yours,” he mused, his voice light, but layered with something more. “Should I be offended, or flattered, Shadowsinger, that you see fit to keep watch on me?”

Elara did not let herself flinch at the implication. Did not let herself react at all. If Azriel had come for her, then the rest of the Night Court knew.

Azriel did not hesitate. Did not even look at her. His voice was even, detached, when he finally spoke. “She is not one of ours.”

The words landed with a force Elara had not been expecting. Not one of ours.

Something sharp twisted in her chest, a cold and unwelcome thing, but she did not so much as blink. She forced herself to remain still, to keep her shoulders squared, her breathing steady. It did not matter what he said. It did not matter that the Shadowsinger—the male who had fought beside her, who had saved her life more times than she cared to admit—had just cast her aside without hesitation.

It was what she wanted.

She had been nothing to them for centuries. She had survived without them. She did not need their protection. She did not need him.

Elara kept her face blank, her hands resting loosely in her lap, though she curled her fingers into the fabric of her tunic, pressing her nails into her palms. The metal cuffs around her wrists were cool against her skin, their weight a steady reminder that she had no power here. Not in Helion’s court. Not with Azriel standing in the room, choosing his words carefully, ensuring there would be no ties binding her to the Night Court.

She lifted her chin slightly, fixing her gaze on the intricate carvings along the far wall, refusing to look at either of them. If she did, she wasn’t certain what she might see.

Helion leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest. His golden robes shimmered in the afternoon light, catching the warm glow of the sun filtering through the massive windows behind him. He regarded her with something like curiosity, his lips curving faintly. “And yet, she is an Illyrian.”

Azriel’s wings twitched slightly, his stance shifting just enough for her to notice. A flicker of something crossed his face—annoyance, maybe—but it was gone before she could place it. He didn’t acknowledge Helion’s words, didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, shadows curling at his feet, and asked, “What was she found doing in your library?”

Elara kept her spine straight, her hands steady in her lap, though her pulse had picked up its pace. He still did not look at her. Did not let a single flicker of recognition pass between them.

It was for the best.

She had not wanted him in her life before, had not wanted his concern or his questions. She certainly did not need them now. Not when she knew exactly what his presence here meant.

Helion gestured toward the stack of books on his desk with a lazy flick of his wrist, a glint of amusement in his golden eyes.

"Reading," he said, his voice light, but carrying something sharper beneath its casual tone. The corner of his lips twitched, but he did not smile.

Elara forced herself to remain still. She kept her hands loose in her lap, her shoulders relaxed, even as her pulse pounded against her ribs.

Azriel’s gaze flickered toward the stack, and though his expression did not change, though he did not move, she knew he had taken in the spines, the titles. The shadows at his side did not stir, but she had spent enough time watching the way he worked, the way his mind absorbed everything with ruthless precision. He had already memorized them.

A cold prickle ran down her spine.

Did he recognize what she had been searching for? Did he know what she had been trying to find?

The thought sent unease curling in her stomach. She had not been looking for a way back to Prythian. She had been trying to fulfill a promise. To find out who was taking the missing girls. And now her search had led her here, bound and sitting before two High Lords who both, in their own ways, held her fate in their hands.

Azriel’s voice, when it came, was steady. "She was not sent by us to spy on you, Helion."

A pause. A breath of silence thick enough to press against her skin.

Then, quietly, as if the words carried no weight at all, he said, "But Rhysand would like to bring the female in—for questioning."

The words landed like a stone in her chest. She had known. From the moment Helion had pegged her as a Night Court spy, she had known what would come next. She had known the moment she saw Azriel standing in the doorway, his shadows coiled at his feet like waiting hounds.

She had known. And yet, hearing the words aloud made something inside her lock up tight.

The Night Court.

Rhysand.

Her brother.

Her breath turned shallow. Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her tunic, her nails pressing against her palms.

She did not want to see him. Did not want to stand before the brother she barely remembered and witness whatever expression would cross his face. Disgust, hatred… or worse, pity.

Elara kept her expression neutral, her face carefully arranged into something unreadable. She knew better than to let them see the cracks, the weaknesses, the places where she could be pried open. But her body betrayed her in ways she could not fully control—the slightest widening of her eyes, the faint tensing of her shoulders, the way her breath caught, just for a fraction of a second.

Fear.

It slithered into her veins, slow and insidious, curling around her ribs and squeezing tight. Not fear of pain, or punishment, or even death. No, she had long since learned to accept those things as inevitable. This fear was different.

It was the reckoning that terrified her.

Not what Rhysand would do—she remembered enough of her brother to know he would not kill her, even if she deserved it. But facing him, standing before him and seeing what lay in his eyes, whatever lurked beneath his carefully crafted mask… That was the thing that made her stomach twist.

The air in the room felt thinner.

Helion was watching her carefully, his golden eyes sharp with interest. Then, he flicked his gaze to Azriel, studying him with a deliberation that made the space between them feel even heavier.

“If she was not sent by you," Helion mused, tilting his head slightly, "then why should I hand her over at all?"

The words were spoken lightly, but something darker lurked beneath them.

A slow smile curled his lips, though it did not touch his eyes. "Isn’t she my prisoner to do with as I see fit?"

Elara went rigid.

She didn’t trust Helion. In the time that she had seen him Under the Mountain, the High Lord of Day was too charming, too clever, too unpredictable. None of it sat well with her.  But even knowing all of that, even with the unspoken threat hanging in the air between them, she did not move.

Because given the choice between his dungeons and facing Rhysand, she would stay here.

She would remain locked away in this sunlit cage, wrapped in golden light and empty promises, if it meant delaying the moment she would have to stand before her brother and see what had become of him. Of them.

Even if it meant delaying her return to Dorothye.

A sound broke through Elara’s thoughts. Low, quiet, but unmistakable—a growl.

Azriel.

Azriel’s voice was like steel striking flint, each word hard, unyielding. “As an Illyrian, and a member of the Night Court, the female—”

Helion cut him off before he could finish. The High Lord of Day reclined in his chair, the golden light slanting across his face making him look almost lazy, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, in the way his fingers idly drummed against the marble desk.

“She claims she is not a member of the Night Court.” His lips curved in amusement, though the weight of his words suggested something more than casual interest. “And that Rhysand is not her High Lord.”

Elara held his gaze, unmoving, unblinking. The urge to react, to show anything, burned like a hot coal beneath her ribs, but she smothered it.

The silence stretched.

Elara caught sight of some movement out of the corner of her eye. A shift so slight she barely noticed, but it was there. Azriel’s shadows curled tighter, restless, their inky tendrils slithering just beyond his wings.

She flicked her eyes to him, and for the briefest moment, he was looking at her.

Her fingers curled against the fabric of her tunic, nails pressing into her palms. Not hard enough to break skin—just enough to feel something. Azriel didn’t speak, didn’t challenge her, though she swore she saw something flicker in his hazel eyes. A question, perhaps, or maybe something darker.

But then he looked away.

Her pulse thundered, the weight in her chest pressing down, pressing in.

She wasn’t one of them. Hadn’t been for a long time.

Rhysand may have been her brother once, but that was a lifetime ago. Another world, another life. Before she had been twisted into Munin. Before her memories had been wiped clean and replaced with obedience, with orders, with the cold certainty of a weapon without a past.

She knew what awaited her in the Night Court. Knew what it would mean to return.

How could she do this? How could she look Rhysand in the eye, knowing what she had done? Knowing the things she had been a part of, the lives she had stolen, the blood that would never wash from her hands?

How could she be Elara again, after all these years of being Munin? And worse—what if she couldn’t be either?

“Regardless of what she believes, she is Illyrian.” Azriel’s voice was steady, as if there were no room for argument. He still didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on Helion, his stance unwavering, his wings tucked in tight. “And she should be tried according to Night Court customs.”

Elara clenched her jaw, a quiet fury sparking in her chest. Tried?

Of course. She should have expected this. She had expected it, the first time she saw the Shadowsinger on the Continent. Should have known that he—of all people—would say something like that. It made sense. She had done horrible, unforgivable things.

Helion leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming idly against the polished surface of his desk, the golden light catching on the fine embroidery of his robes. His expression remained carefully neutral, but there was something sharp in his gaze. “And if word gets out that Day has just handed over one of its prisoners to Night?”

The amusement in his voice was light, but layered, “How would that make Day appear?”

Elara felt the weight of the words before Azriel even responded. The way Helion posed the question—she already knew the answer.

Weak.

Subservient.

She had spent enough time listening to Dagdan and the King maneuver through court politics to recognize the strategy. To see the game Helion was playing. If the High Lord of Day simply bowed to Rhysand’s will, if he allowed Azriel to walk away with a prisoner Helion had every right to keep, it would be a humiliation. A display of submission, a sign that Day Court bent to Night’s command.

It would make Helion appear as something less than her brother.

And she—

Her stomach twisted.

She would appear as if she were something of value.

Something worth trading for.

Elara tightened her hands into fists in her lap, nails pressing into her skin. She hated the thought. Hated what it implied. She had spent too long as a possession, a thing to be controlled, moved, used. Had spent too many years as Munin, as a weapon with no will of her own. And now, even with Dagdan rotting in the ground, she was still just another piece on someone else’s board.

Her pulse beat heavily in her throat. If Helion refused, if he kept her, then what?

Would she remain a prisoner here, locked away in a gilded cage until he decided what to do with her?

Or worse—would he decide she was valuable? Would he begin asking questions she couldn’t answer, pressing for truths she had no intention of sharing?

She could feel Azriel beside her, could feel the weight of his presence even if he still refused to look at her. She didn’t know what she hated more—his avoidance, or the fact that his presence, in some twisted way, still felt safe. As if, despite all of this, a part of her still believed he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

But he wasn’t here for her.

He was here for Rhysand.

Finally, as if he could sense the storm beneath her skin, Azriel’s eyes flickered toward her.

Elara forced herself to meet his gaze, squaring her shoulders, keeping her face blank. She did not know what he was looking for. She did not want to know. If there was pity there, she would not stomach it. If there was resentment, she would not care.

At least, that was what she told herself.

But he did not hold her stare for long. His throat bobbed slightly, as if he were about to say something—but then he coughed once, quiet and clipped, before turning back to Helion. When he spoke, his voice was steady, unreadable.

“Rhysand is prepared to negotiate,” he said. “Let us discuss.”

A pause. Then, Helion leaned back, considering.

Golden eyes swept over Elara. As if he were only now truly seeing her. Not just an intruder in his court, not just a curiosity sitting before him—but something more. Something worth bargaining for.

The scrutiny sent something crawling down her spine, but she did not look away. She would not let him see anything but the still mask she had worn for so long.

Helion’s fingers tapped idly against the desk, the only sound in the long silence. He was drawing it out, taking his time. Perhaps to make Azriel wait, perhaps to make her squirm.

Then, finally, he nodded.

A sharp snap of his fingers rang through the room.

The door groaned open, and two guards stepped inside, their armor glinting in the afternoon light.

Elara did not move at first. She only looked at Azriel, at the way his expression did not shift, at the way he remained still as stone even as she was about to be dragged away so that he and Helion could discuss her fate as if she were nothing more than a contract to be settled.

A guard clasped a hand on her arm, urging her to stand. She did so without protest, keeping her chin high as she turned toward the open doorway.

She did not look back.

Not when she heard the door groan shut behind her.

Not when the muffled sounds of conversation resumed on the other side.

Not even when something inside her twisted, deep and sharp, at the thought of the male she once might have trusted deciding her future with a High Lord who had no reason to show her mercy.

Chapter 49

Elara couldn’t sit still.

The cell—the one that had seemed luxurious and expansive just hours ago—was small. Too small. The furnishings, the  sheets, the view of golden fields beyond the barred window—none of it mattered now. The walls were closing in, pressing tighter with every step she took.

She had paced the length of it a hundred times over. Maybe more. She had stopped counting after the first dozen rounds, but the restless energy in her limbs refused to settle.

Hours. It had been hours since the guards had left her here. Since the Shadowsinger and Helion had locked themselves in the High Lord’s office, negotiating her release. And in those hours, her mind would not stop.

Questions formed, one after another, refusing to quiet. Each thought sharpened, slicing through her attempt at calm. What was happening? What were they discussing up in those gilded halls? Helion had agreed to negotiate, but what did that mean? A bargain? A trade?

A cold thought curled deep in her gut. What was she worth to them?

She swallowed hard, staring at the stone floor as if it held answers. And then—another thought. A far worse one.

Rhysand.

Her breath hitched. The walls pressed closer. She could handle Helion’s questioning, could withstand chains, cells, locked doors. But Rhysand? Facing him?

No. Her chest tightened, air turning thin. No, no, no. He wouldn’t be able to look at her. He shouldn’t.

He had spent five hundred years without her. The sister that he knew was someone who no longer existed. A ghost. A memory. A sister he had once had, before Munin had taken her place.

Elara forced herself to breathe, pressing her palms against the cool stone wall as if grounding herself to it.

She could not let him see her like this. Could not let him see her at all. She knew it was a possibility — the moment that Helion had written to the Night Court demanding answers — that she would come face to face with her brother. But now that it seemed not only possible, but imminent, Elara couldn’t help the barrage of questions in her mind.

What would he see when he looked at her now? Would he see his sister, or would he see a traitor?

It didn’t matter. Not really. Not when it had still been her hands that had done everything. Not when it had been her blade that had cut down his allies, her voice that had carried out orders, her body that had followed the King’s will.

Her mind may not have been her own when she was Munin—but did that change anything? Dagdan had pulled the strings, had twisted and controlled her thoughts, had made her a vessel of his power. But she had still been the weapon.

Her breathing became shallow. Too fast. Too sharp.

The walls pressed in, the air thinning in her lungs. There wasn’t enough of it—never enough. Her hands braced against the cool stone wall, nails digging into the rough surface. Her fingers curled, as if she could claw her way out, as if she could force the space around her to widen. Too tight. Too small. Her chest ached, ribs straining with each desperate inhale.

Breathe. She had to breathe.

The walls felt closer. The ceiling lower. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to focus, to anchor herself against the rising tide of panic. The stone beneath her fingers was cool, solid, real.

She counted, grounding herself in the numbers, in the rhythm of her breath.

One inhale. One exhale. Two inhales. Two exhales.

Three. Her pulse was still too fast. Her limbs still trembled. But she focused on the numbers. Not the walls. Not the chains. Not Rhysand. Four. Five. Her lungs burned. Her throat ached. But—Six. Seven. The shaking slowed. The air came easier.

She opened her eyes, staring at the stone beneath her hands, grounding herself in its rough texture, the scent of earth, the distant sound of footsteps somewhere beyond her cell. Her heartbeat was still uneven, but she had stopped gasping. Stopped falling apart.

And then, the shadows were there. They curled around her wrists, coiled over her shoulders, cool tendrils slipping over her skin like wisps of mist. Like she was being wrapped in something protective, something safe. The sensation was almost… soothing.

She flinched. The comfort of it—of them—sent a violent jolt through her chest. She knew these shadows. Knew them before she even turned, before she even saw him standing there.

Her breath was still uneven, panic still lingering in the back of her throat as she forced herself to face him.

Azriel.

He was just standing there, silent, watching. His face unreadable, carved from stone, but his shadows… they stayed close. Still wrapped around her, shifting like sentries at her back. As if he had felt the panic clawing at her, had known before even stepping into the room that she was unraveling.

She hated that he had seen. Hated that he was here, now, when she was weak.

Azriel took a slow step forward, his voice low, steady. “You’re alright.” A pause. “Breathe.”

The moment his hand even neared her, she knocked it aside. Her fingers striking against his wrist as she stepped back, putting space between them. The shadows recoiled from her just as fast, slipping away as if burned.

“I don’t need your help.” The words were like steel between her teeth, sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. She refused to break in front of him. Not in front of the Spymaster of the Night Court. Not when she didn’t know what he wanted.

Not when she wasn’t sure if she could trust him.

“So,” she said, voice rough from the panic attack she refused to acknowledge. She wasn’t going to let him see her weak, wasn’t going to let him think, even for a second, that she was fragile. “What’s the verdict, shadowsinger? Am I being sent to the Night Court to be paraded around as a traitor, or is Helion just going to kill me outright?”

Azriel didn’t answer. He didn’t shift, didn’t so much as blink. His face was as unreadable as it always was, that perfect, impassive mask. But there was something in the way he looked at her. Something weighty. Something she hated.

Her fingers curled into fists.

“Nothing to say?” she prodded, stepping away from the wall. Her legs still felt shaky, but she ignored it, forced herself to stand tall. “Or are you just here to glare at me until I break down and beg for mercy?”

A sharp, humorless laugh left her lips. “You’d be wasting your time.”

Azriel’s wings shifted slightly behind him, the only tell that he’d even heard her. When he spoke, his voice was steady, “Your release has been negotiated.”

Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected that. She truly hadn’t expected Helion to cave on her release. The High Lords may have worked together during the war against Hybern, but they were always competing for power, for influence.

Unless there was something about the Night Court and the Day Court that she was unaware of.

“…What?”

Azriel’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re coming back to the Night Court.”

The nausea hit instantly, rolling over her like a wave.

She shoved it down, the nausea, the panic, the sharp, biting terror. Instead, she smirked and leaned back against the wall, the cold stone pressing into her spine. “That’s disappointing,” she said, her voice airy with false bravado. “I was just starting to enjoy myself here.”

Azriel didn’t react. Not even a flicker of amusement, no cutting remark in return. Just silence. Watching. Weighing.

Elara lifted her hands, rattling the cuffs around her wrists. “I assume you’ll be keeping these on?”

Azriel stepped forward, his wings shifting slightly behind him. His face, that cold, impassive mask, betrayed nothing. “No.”

She went still. She hadn’t expected that.

“Letting me walk around unchained?” she mused, forcing herself to sound amused rather than unsettled. “That’s bold, even for you.”

Azriel didn’t respond. He reached for the shackles, his fingers brushing against the metal. His shadows stirred, curling around her wrists, cool and steady.

She tensed. The sensation—it was too familiar. Too steadying. Too soft.

She jerked her arms back before he could undo the lock, the chains rattling. “I don’t need your pity,” she snapped, the words cutting sharper than she meant them to.

Azriel didn’t even blink. “I wasn’t offering it.”

A muscle feathered in her jaw. Her hands curled into fists, wrists still heavy with iron. “Then get this over with.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, watching her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Shadows coiled and uncoiled at his back, their movements slow. If he had anything else to say, he kept it to himself. Then, without another word, he reached for her wrists.

The metal was cold, even after all this time, the edges digging into her skin as he worked the locks. Elara exhaled slowly, flexing her fingers as the weight fell away. She rolled her wrists, shaking off the stiffness, trying not to acknowledge the lingering sensation beneath her skin. But his fingers tightened slightly around the cuffs before pulling them away, the touch barely there—yet she felt it all the same. He had noticed the way she shuddered.

She kept her gaze forward, refusing to meet his eyes. There was nothing left to say, nothing she wanted to hear.

She stepped forward, moving past him without hesitation. His shadows stirred, shifting in her wake, and she forced herself to ignore the way they brushed against her, as if they were reluctant to let her go.

---

It couldn’t be true.

Rhysand paced the length of the Moonstone Palace’s private chambers, his steps soundless on the polished floors. The morning light cast elongated shadow across the walls, stretching and distorting with every movement. He had not stopped moving since Helion’s letter had arrived, since Azriel had confirmed what he still wasn’t sure he could believe.

Every turn of his heel, every measured inhale, did nothing to settle the storm in his chest.

Feyre had once asked him if he ever thought about the kind of father he would be. It had been an offhand remark, a quiet conversation shared in the dead of night, long before they had made the decision to try for a child. He hadn’t answered her then. Not fully. Because the truth of it—the fear of it—had been too much to voice.

Now, that fear coiled tight in his ribs, a cold, unrelenting thing.

He was going to be a father. He didn’t know if he deserved to be one. And how could he keep this child safe? How could he ensure that the cycle of violence, of loss, of being forced to suffer for the power running through their blood, did not touch them?

Because being the child of a High Lord was dangerous.

Elara was proof of that.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, fingers pressing into his palms. He had spent five hundred years mourning her. He had burned what remained of her body, had stood over that fire and sworn to the Mother, to the Cauldron, that he would never forget her. That he would carry her memory with him until the end of his days.

And yet—

She hadn’t been dead at all, had she?

His hands curled into fists at his sides. He should have been furious. Should have been convinced that this was some cruel trick, some calculated ploy meant to weaken him, to make him vulnerable. It was the exact kind of thing his enemies would exploit, the kind of deception that had been used against him before.

That was why he never spoke of Elara to anyone who had not already known her. Why he had buried that grief deep, tucked it away where no one could touch it. The moment he let himself feel it, let himself acknowledge that lingering wound, was the moment someone would use it against him.

His rational mind told him to be suspicious, to demand proof, to assume the worst.

But—what if?

The wards flared, a sharp pulse at the back of his mind, the magic woven into the palace alerting him to a presence. Someone had winnowed in.

Rhysand reached out instinctively, brushing against the familiar presence of his brother-in-arms. A heartbeat later, Azriel’s voice slid into his mind.

We’re here.

We. He’d been able to bring El— this person back with him. Relief and apprehension curled through Rhys as he exhaled slowly. He had been waiting for this moment, had prepared himself for it. But now that it was here, now that he knew Azriel had her, that she was only steps away from him—

He wished Feyre was here.

His mate’s presence had a way of steadying him, of keeping him grounded even when his emotions threatened to consume him. But Feyre… it was too much of a risk, in her condition. He didn’t know what to expect from El—this person.

His sister. His enemy.

Both.

Rhysand stood motionless in the center of the Moonstone Palace’s receiving chamber, his breath shallow despite the stillness around him. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers digging into his palms as he tried—tried—not to reach for her mind.

He told himself not to pry. To wait. To hear Azriel’s full report, to meet her face to face, to assess without invasion. It was a line he avoided when it wasn’t necessary—one he demanded others respect. But curiosity—no, duty—pushed him past that line, his power unfurling through the air.

For the good of his court, for the safety of Velaris, he extended a quiet sliver of himself outward, a brush of mental claws dragging lightly along the edges of her mind.

The resistance was instant.

A shield snapped up, solid and fast—but not perfect.

There was something off about it.

His power skimmed just along the outermost edges, and what he felt there made something coil tightly in his gut. The structure was wrong. It felt as though the mind behind it had once been shredded—violently torn apart and hollowed out—and then rebuilt, not into what it once was, but into something entirely new.

Patchwork. That was the only word he could think of for it. Each thread sewn in with careful precision, stitched into a mind that functioned, that could think and protect and fight—but it wasn’t natural. Wasn’t whole.

He could have shredded this protection… his power could have blown through those mental shiels in an instant. But Feyre’s explanation of what she had seen in the Spring Court played in his mind. If this truly was Elara, she had been through enough. He wouldn’t do that to her again.

Rhys recoiled instinctively, a chill scraping down the length of his spine. The sensation that lingered in his mind, even after he pulled away, was wrong in a way that made his stomach turn. Whoever had done that to her—whoever had carved out a mind and filled it back in—had known exactly what they were doing.

And yet—he had felt something else. Beneath all that stitching and steel, buried under the layers of command and control… something soft had flinched at his touch.

He swallowed hard, forcing his breath to even out as he brought his power back to heel.

He needed to see her. Needed to look her in the eyes and decide for himself if what Azriel had brought back was a sister—his sister—or something far more dangerous.

He turned on his heel and made for the door, each step a measured beat against polished stone. The hall stretched ahead, silent and cold. Not a soul stirred. No guards. No servants — he’d sent them all away. Just him, and the questions clawing at his throat. Whatever waited beyond that door, it would not be simple. Of that, he was sure.

He hadn’t known what to expect. Not since the day Azriel had stepped into his office and shattered five centuries of certainty. Rhys had replayed that moment again and again. The quiet words. The look in Azriel’s eyes. The memories that Azriel had shared with him. There was no doubting what his brother had seen, Azriel wouldn’t lie to him like that. And still—he hadn’t believed it. Not truly.

Now, with each step toward her, his thoughts shifted like sand. Would he wear the mask he’d spent centuries perfecting? The cold and untouchable mask of the High Lord of Night? The one that he saved for his enemies? Would he look her in the eye and feel nothing? Say nothing?

Or would he break?

Would he drop to his knees, hands trembling, whispering apologies for every year she’d been lost, for every fire he’d lit in her name, for every prayer he’d sent into silence?

There was a part of him—one he hated—that had imagined dragging her into a cell, demanding answers until her voice gave out. Because how could it be her? How could someone walk into his court with her face, her scent, and still not be the sister he had burned all those years ago?

And still. Another part, the part he buried deepest, had imagined something else entirely. Her arms around him. Her face pressed into his chest. Saying that she forgave him —forgave him for failing her. Forgave him for leaving her in Hybern’s grasp for centuries.

Would she be grateful that she was finally —finally— home?

But every thought, every carefully rehearsed possibility shattered the moment he turned the corner and saw her.

Azriel stood just beyond the threshold of the hall, his scarred hand clamped around her upper arm, still holding her from when he used his shadows to bring her here.  His body was taut, wings angled slightly as if ready to shield or strike, but Rhys hardly saw him.

He couldn’t look away from her.

The breath left his lungs, sharp and silent. The corridor, the walls, even the polished moonstone floor under his boots—none of it mattered. The world narrowed to a point. A single moment, stretched too tight. His heartbeat thundered, thick in his ears, drowning out the hum of magic, of reason.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch or soften when she saw him. Her chin was lifted, mouth set, gaze unreadable. But he knew. Every part of him knew.

It was Elara.

Not some imposter.

The scent hit him next. Faint, faint enough he might’ve missed it had he not spent centuries trying to forget. Something pure—uncorrupted, even when everything else around her had not been. But now it was buried, warped beneath foreign earth and the wrong kind of magic. Rougher. Sharper. And yet, beneath it all—beneath the wrongness—she was still there.

Rhysand didn’t move. Couldn’t. His fingers curled in slow increments at his sides, nails biting into flesh as his throat tightened, as if his body wasn’t quite convinced he hadn’t gone mad.

She looked older. Harder. Her frame held tension that hadn’t been there before, like it had been trained into her, beaten in bone-deep. Her eyes, once quick to smile, now carried weight—too much of it. A gaze that no longer searched for his approval, or anyone’s. She didn’t look like someone begging to be recognized. She looked like someone who didn’t care if she was.

But it was her.

He hadn’t seen her die. But he’d stood over her pyre and sworn vengeance against those who had let it happen. Sworn that nothing—no one—would ever take her place. And yet here she was. Breathing. Staring him down like she could rip his soul out if she wanted to.

And the worst part—the part that made his magic roil, his chest twist—was that she didn’t look relieved. Didn’t look like a sister who had finally come home.

She looked wary.

For the first time in centuries, Rhysand had no idea what to say.

He had prepared himself for this. Had spent the previous night building walls in his mind, rehearsing every possible reaction, every possible lie she might tell. He had trained for war, had survived Amarantha, had rebuilt a court from ash. And still—none of it had readied him for this.

Physically, she looked exactly as he remembered. The same sharp angles, the same violet eyes. But there was something missing. Something vital. Her gaze was flat, hollow in a way that made his chest tighten, his lungs seize. Her face was a mirror, but the light behind it—the warmth that had once made her unbearable and bright—was gone.

And her wings.

His breath caught, low and vicious in his throat. The sight of them—ruined, shredded beyond recognition, twisted into something that should have been impossible—set his magic clawing beneath his skin. Cold rage licked up his spine, bitter and relentless. He wanted to burn the world down. Wanted to tear apart the sky and scream until the Cauldron gave him a name. Someone to punish. Someone to kill for this.

Because he had failed her.

The hall, the moonstone floor,  even Azriel’s grip on her arm—they all vanished. There was only her. Standing there like a specter pulled from some half-formed dream. Not dead. Not gone. Not the sister he’d buried and mourned for five hundred years.

“Rhys.” Azriel’s voice was quiet. Just his name—spoken like a command, like a warning.

It snapped something loose in him. He blinked, the world slotting back into place. His fists were clenched, fingers curled so tightly he felt his nails biting into flesh. He forced them to loosen, the motion slow, deliberate, as he stepped forward.

She didn’t move.

He watched her, waiting for some flicker of emotion, for a flinch, for anything. But she only stared at him—chin high, eyes sharp, mouth unmoved.

She did not bow. She did not speak.

And he wondered—had she blamed him? All this time, had she cursed his name the way he had cursed himself?

Because Rhysand had never stopped blaming the one person who should have protected her. Himself.

His voice was quiet—strained, like it hurt to say her name. “Elara.”

It barely rose above a breath, more confession than greeting.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. The silence that followed stretched long and sharp, digging into his chest. For a heartbeat, he wondered if she would ignore him entirely—if the years, the pain, the miles between them had eroded what little might remain. If the person standing in front of him was only a shadow wearing her skin.

Last night, since Azriel had confessed what he’s known for months, he had dreamed of this moment. Had prepared himself for it. But in his dreams, she had spoken first. Sometimes she wept, screamed, cursed him for letting her go. Sometimes she laughed, bitter and broken, telling him it was too late. But in every version, she had been alive. Burning with something—grief, fury, hope.

But this silence, this nothingness—it was worse.

The weight of it sat low in his chest, pressing down until he could barely breathe. She didn’t even flinch. Just watched him, chin tilted up, spine straight, her body still and unreadable. Her face was unchanged—looking just like the painting that Feyre had made him for the Solstice—but it was as if someone had hollowed her out and left the casing behind. He couldn’t sense her. Couldn’t feel that spark that had always lived just beneath her skin.

And the part of him that still believed in second chances began to fracture.

How much of her was left?

What had they taken from her?

He had been too late. He was always too late.

Rhysand didn’t move, though his entire body was locked tight, jaw clenched and shoulders drawn. Azriel stood a step beside her. Rhys didn’t need to ask to know his brother’s magic was ready. That if she turned, bolted, fought, Azriel would stop her. That Azriel didn’t want to. The tension in his posture said enough.

Rhys forced himself to study her more closely, searching for something he could hold onto. Her wings were ruined—mutilated in a way that made his stomach turn. The sight of them shattered something in him. The way they’d been bent and butchered...

And he hadn’t been there to stop it, like he should have been. Like he promised his mother that he would be. Hadn’t even known she’d survived. The Cauldron knew what she’d endured that day in the woods. And for five centuries with Hybern. And still, she stood.

Still, she didn’t speak.

Rhys blinked, as if waking from a dream, and saw that his hands had curled into fists again. Blood beaded at his palm where his nails had dug in too deep. He stepped forward.

She didn’t move.

Not a step back. Not a twitch of fear. Her gaze stayed locked on his, cool and guarded, her chin still held high. There was no softness in her. No recognition, even. Or perhaps there was—but she had no intention of showing it.

Did she blame him?

Azriel shifted. Not much—barely enough to register. But Rhys caught the glance, the flick of his eyes toward Elara as he said, low and even, “Elara.”

She looked at him, that sharp twist of attention like a knife unsheathed. Rhys felt it—felt the weight of her mind assessing, measuring. Not out of fear, but instinct. She was reading the battlefield. Gauging the threat.

“You know who he is,” Azriel said, the words quiet, careful.

Not a question.

The tone wasn’t soothing, but it was meant to be. A voice meant to calm something dangerous. Not because she was fragile—by the Cauldron, Rhys knew she wasn’t. He had seen her fight. Had seen the carnage she’d left in Hybern’s name. Had seen the cold precision with which she killed. She was not a broken bird. She was a blade, and someone had honed her to a weapon’s edge.

Rhysand took another step closer. He didn’t speak again. Couldn’t.

Rhys knew better than to mistake her stillness for calm. Her face might have been carved from stone, but beneath it—he could feel the pressure building. Not from her magic, but from her restraint. Her posture was too precise, her arms loose at her sides but not relaxed.

Her breathing, steady but not at ease. That wasn’t calm. That was tension, refined and buried until it looked like poise.

He didn’t need to sift through her mind to feel it. The weight pressing against her thoughts. The calculation coiled in her muscles. She was waiting—watching. And not in the way someone did when they were uncertain. No, this was wariness sharpened over time, layered like armor.

He recognized it because he had once worn it himself.

It made something twist inside him. Something old and fragile and furious. He had forced it down from the moment she stepped through the doors of the House—when Azriel had brought her in, blood dried on her jaw, her wings torn beyond recognition. That flicker of instinct, of recognition, had been immediate. And the pain that followed had never really stopped. But she hadn’t truly looked at him. Not since. Not even now.

She stood there like a stranger. A ghost.

Azriel said nothing. The silence had stretched too far, gone taut between them like a bowstring drawn too tight. And Elara—she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Not even a flicker of emotion passed through her expression. Rhys shifted his weight, the sound of his boots on the polished floor too loud in the quiet, and sighed through his nose. His fingers lifted to his temples, pressing there for a breath.

He knew how to deal with enemies. Knew how to speak to allies, how to sway a court, how to bend a room with a single look. But this—this was something else. This was his sister. And the space between them felt impossible to cross.

He hesitated. Let the silence stretch one heartbeat too long. Then he asked the only question that came to him. The only one that didn’t feel like stepping into open flame.

“…Are you alright?”

The words left his mouth and fell flat. Empty. Stupid. So fucking stupid. His face didn’t change, but something in his eyes darkened the moment they were spoken. Because what the Hel kind of question was that? After everything. After the centuries. After the scars on her wings and the way she wouldn’t look at him, like he didn’t deserve it.

Of course she wasn’t alright.

Elara’s gaze snapped to his with a sharpness that struck harder than any blade. Not startled—but precise. Her violet eyes met his, steady and unblinking, and for a heartbeat she said nothing. Just watched him. Studied him. As if trying to decide what he was to her now.

Her face remained unreadable. She was weighing him, weighing the moment, and he hated that he couldn’t tell what she found.

Then, slowly, she let out a quiet breath. It wasn’t quite a laugh—too hollow, too sharp. There was no softness in it. Just a breath wrapped in something like amusement, or maybe scorn.

“I don’t see how that’s your concern.”

Her voice was flat, even, almost bored. Not a refusal. Not an answer. Just something tossed into the space between them like it meant nothing at all.

Rhys didn’t glance at Azriel, but he didn’t need to. He could feel him standing there, motionless as stone, his shadows curling and still. Trying, in some silent way, to hold the frayed threads between them all from snapping.

This… he could do this. He could respond to Elara’s tone in kind, wearing the mask of the High Lord that so many people knew him for. It wasn’t what he wanted. By the Cauldron, he didn’t want Elara to view him like that. But her response to his question, her posture…. It was what Elara wanted, and at least he could give her that.

Rhys tilted his head slightly, just enough to draw Elara’s eyes back to his face. His tone was measured, his voice quieter than before. “You’re standing in my court. That makes it my concern.”

It wasn’t the truth. Or at least not the whole of it. What he wanted—what pressed against his ribs like a blade—was to go to her. To reach across the years and the damage and pull her back. To Velaris. To the House. To somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. But the steel in her expression, the wary line of her shoulders, told him plainly that she would not welcome it.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him again, more measured this time. And then she said, barely more than a whisper, “I didn’t ask to be here.”

The words weren’t sharp, weren’t spit like a weapon. There was no edge to them, only a plain, simple weight. Not quite defiant. Just a fact, dropped like a stone into water. But he saw it. The brief flicker in her composure. The way her shoulders pulled taut before she forced them loose again. The faint movement of her fingers, curling just slightly at her sides before she stilled them.

She was holding something back. Guarding herself. And for a moment, he wondered if this was what she had become after all that time—something untouchable. Not fragile, but distant. Closed off in ways he hadn’t prepared himself for.

And he hadn’t prepared. Not for this.

Rhys studied her, not with the gaze of a ruler but of a brother who had spent five hundred years trying to forget the way she used to laugh. The way she used to follow him through the halls barefoot, begging for attention that he was never fully able to give her.

But that girl was long gone. There was no trace of her in the figure standing before him now.

Elara stood like a blade unsheathed—still, sharp, dangerous. Her spine held straight, chin lifted just enough to be a warning. It was the kind of stillness Rhys recognized all too well. He’d worn it himself once. In the days after the war, after Under the Mountain. When every glance had been a threat, every breath measured for weakness.

She wasn’t just guarded—she was coiled. As if expecting him to strike first.

And he couldn’t.

Because all he wanted—all he truly wanted—was to close the distance between them and wrap his arms around her. To feel if she was real. If her body would fold against his like it used to, small and stubborn and full of fire. But this female was not the sister he remembered. Not entirely.

And he was not the male she’d last known.

He was a High Lord now. Bound to duty. To the fragile balance that kept Prythian from tearing itself apart again. And Elara—she had fought for Hybern. Had stood on the opposite side of the throne room in Hybern, blade in hand, no mercy in her eyes. He couldn’t ignore that. Would not risk the lives of his people, his court.

Not when Feyre was home, carrying their child. Not when every protective instinct in him was a scream behind his ribs.

So he said nothing of the memories, of the ache in his chest, of the overwhelming urge to reach for her. He just asked, his voice quiet, “Can I trust you?”

A beat passed. She didn’t blink. Her expression remained fixed, unreadable, sculpted into something far too calm.

Then, after a pause too long to be comfortable, she said, “I suppose that depends on what you expect from me.”

Not a yes. Not a no. Just another line drawn between them, another door left closed.

Behind her, Azriel remained silent. He hadn’t shifted once, but Rhys caught the slow curl of shadows winding near his boots, as if sensing the tension building, thickening.

Rhys let out a slow, measured breath. The sound barely broke the silence between them. The weight of it settled in his chest—tight and cold.

Even if he wanted to bring her home, back to Velaris, he couldn’t.

 

Not yet.

Notes:

I'm sure most of you wanted more dialogue, more interaction. But Elara can be a very guarded person and she puts up walls when confronted with emotions, and Rhys too, a bit. And given the way these two left things off pre-war, it was always going to be a little tense and awkward. But I hope you liked it, and there will plenty more Rhys/Elara interaction to come.

Chapter 50

Notes:

And now that I'm back to working again, we are back to our regularly scheduled update times. I'm still thinking Tuesdays and Thursdays for now, until I finish building up my chapter cache. But at least the times won't be random anymore!

In terms of prisons, this was the nicest one Elara had ever been in.

The Moonstone Palace, Azriel had called it—quietly, like the name itself might soften the edges of the place. She hadn’t asked what it was called, hadn’t asked for anything at all, but he’d offered the words anyway, as if that small truth might comfort her. It hadn’t.

She didn’t miss Rhysand. Not really. His abrupt departure had come as a mercy more than anything else. That conversation—if it could even be called that—had felt like a sword with no edge, all weight and no purpose. Each word passed between them like smoke, dissipating before either of them could hold it.

In one breath, he had looked at her like he was fearful she might disappear again. In another, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to stay.

And that, she supposed, was fair.

It was easier when people stayed away. She made sure of it. Had spent centuries learning how to keep them at a distance, how to twist her words like barbs and dig them in deep enough that no one would try again. It was instinct, now—muscle memory. The King had taught her well. A weapon that frightened others would never be pitied. A weapon that lashed first would never be caught trembling.

She didn’t know how to be anything else.

No, that wasn’t quite true… was it? She had Clotilda… and Cedric, Arnulf and Dorothye. But they had never known her as Munin, were blissfully unaware of everything that she was capable of. They’d known her simply as El.

The room was too still. Too quiet. She drifted through it without direction, dragging her fingers along the edge of the velvet bedding, tracing the fine seams of the curtains where the light from beyond the windows pooled and clung. Every surface was soft, polished, beautiful in that sickly way that made her stomach turn.

There was no mold creeping in the corners. No iron bars cutting through the windows. No chains scraping across the floor when she moved.

Her hands curled into the sheets. They were thick, and clean, and above all, expensive. The kind of fabric meant to soothe. Meant to reassure. Was that the goal? To convince her this wasn’t a cage because it had silk and marble instead of rot and rust?

They thought she should be grateful for it.

Perhaps she should have been.

But her skin itched with the quiet of it. The softness was a lie. One she could feel tightening around her like a noose each time she thought of Azriel and her brother, no doubt making plans for what to with her. No one had told her she couldn’t leave, but no one had said she could, either. And she was not foolish enough to try.

She paused at the open-aired window, a breath held in her chest. The stone was cool beneath her palms, grounding, though her skin had long since grown numb to touch. Beyond, the mountains cut into the sky like giants. They didn’t waver beneath the sun’s warmth, didn’t soften with distance. They just were.

And so was she.

The rivers in the distance shimmered through the valley like veins—bright, sun-kissed lines that pulsed in the heart of a land she should have forgotten. But the sight of it lodged in her throat, a pressure she couldn’t quite swallow. There was something in the shape of the peaks, the way the light touched the trees below, that pulled at her insides.

She couldn’t recall having ever seen these mountains from this height. But her body knew them. Her blood knew them. The recognition slithered under her skin, slow and cruel.

This place—this court, this sky, this view—it had raised her.

She let her fingers curl against the window frame, nails biting into the marble. The sensation grounded her. Stopped her from flinching at the truth she hadn’t spoken aloud. She didn’t need memories to know it. The landscape told her. She belonged here.

The thought left her hollow.

She’d seen Rhysand before—across the battlefield, flanked by those who would have died for him. There’d been nothing soft about him then. No trace of familiarity in his eyes when she’d seen him then, or when he had been Under the Mountain with Amarantha. He had been her enemy then, someone that she had to keep an eye on, and plot against.

But today—he had looked like none of that. He had looked lost. And worse—like he knew her.

She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to the cool marble.

But that male, the one who had stood across from her earlier, the one who had looked at her like he didn’t know whether to run or reach for her—that was not an enemy. That was a brother. Her brother.

And she didn’t know what to do with him.

He had spoken to her far too gently at first. As if she might shatter from the weight of his voice. As if he didn’t trust her not to disappear.

Still, it had felt like speaking to a stranger.

The silence between them had stretched, awkward and brittle. And Elara… She had made it worse. She always did. Lashing out with her voice, with the only weapons she had left. It was what she knew—what Dagdan had carved into her. Be feared. Be sharp. Be untouchable. Even now, even here—she didn’t know how to be anything else.

Her fingers curled tighter against the stone, until the edge bit into her skin. She held it there a moment longer, as if pain might stir something awake inside her. As if the pressure against bone might dislodge the hollow that lived behind her ribs.

It didn’t.

Elara inhaled deeply, her breath slow and silent as it burned through her lungs. There was something missing. Not a memory—she knew now that her memories would come barreling back to her without any warning—but something else. A feeling. A knowing. Some tether she should have had, but had either lost or never been given.

She waited for it to rise. It didn’t come.

With excruciating care, she let her fingers slip from the curtain that hung draped near the stone. The fabric whispered against her skin, then fell still, unmoved by her absence.

She stood in the quiet that followed, her body rigid, her thoughts louder than they had any right to be. She didn’t know what she wanted—not really—but she was tired of this. This emptiness. This quiet ache that stretched through her chest like an old wound that refused to scar. She wanted something real, something that would cut through the numbness and make her feel again. Something that wasn’t just the weight of silence or the shallow echo of names spoken with too much caution.

But the wanting did nothing. It didn’t fill the void. Didn’t change the fact that when Rhysand had looked at her, it had been with eyes she didn’t recognize.

He had said her name like it still belonged to him. Like he still believed there was something of her left to save. She didn’t know whether to resent him for that or envy him.

There should have been a thread. Some strand of blood or memory, stretched between them and straining under the weight of time. She had looked for it—desperately, silently—in his eyes, in the careful way he had said her name. But there had been nothing. Not really.

Just a stranger standing across from her, wrapped in the illusion of familiarity.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

Because the distance between them hadn’t been born the day the King took her. It had always been there.. She remembered fragments—brief encounters, his absence more constant than his presence. A brother too busy, too far above to reach.

Whatever might have existed between them, it had crumbled long before she had been dragged into darkness and reshaped into something that didn’t remember how to be soft.

So what was left now?

She turned from the window, slow and steady, as if movement might somehow solidify the numbness in her chest. She didn’t look back. Didn’t give the mountains one last glance.

Let them keep their gold-touched rivers and endless sky. Let them whisper of a home she didn’t remember, of blood she didn’t understand.

She had no use for ghosts.

---

“…Only you, Feyre, and I will have access to the palace.”

Rhysand’s voice didn’t falter. Not exactly. But something beneath it shifted—thin and brittle, the way a blade might bend just before it broke. “And no one else is to know.”

Azriel didn’t respond right away. He understood why Rhys wanted that — for this secret to be kept only between the three of them. Telling the others… they’d have questions. Cassian and Mor would want to see Elara, to speak to her for the first time in centuries.

It would be overwhelming for her. Would make her want to run more than she already did.

That was another thing for them to worry about.

The wards were solid. He’d tested them himself after Rhys laid them down—threaded shadows through every seam. They wouldn’t be sensed. Not by anyone, even those who were part of Rhys’s Court. No one would winnow into the Moonstone Palace, not unless they were keyed in. And no one inside would be getting out. Not without one of them.

That, more than anything, was the point.

He exhaled, slow and sharp through his nose. “Good.”

His arms remained crossed, wings tucked close as he leaned into the wall behind him. The stone was cold through the fabric of his shirt. He barely felt it.

“I wouldn’t put it past her to run,” he added. “Given the chance.”

Rhysand’s jaw tightened, just enough for Azriel to catch it. He was doing his best to keep calm, not to let his emotions show. But his eyes—those eyes that had seen her for the first time in five centuries and still barely recognized her—gave him away.

“Do you really think she’d run?” Rhys asked.

Azriel didn’t answer immediately. He studied his brother instead—the rigid line of his spine, the tension that hadn’t eased since Elara arrived. Since she looked at him like he was nothing more than a stranger. At the core of it all, Rhys had just gotten his sister back. And she looked as though she wanted nothing to do with him.

“It wouldn’t be personal,” Azriel said at last. “Not to her.”

That was the truth. And they both knew it.

But Azriel had seen Rhys’s face when she entered that chamber. Had watched the moment realization struck, like a knife to the ribs. That wasn’t something easily hidden—not even for a High Lord.

Rhys’s eyes flicked to the archway at the end of the hall, the one leading toward the wing where Elara had been given her rooms. As if he might glimpse her again. As if he hadn’t been haunted enough by the sight already.

Azriel thought of the places she had already fled from. Run-down apartments with peeling paint and no names on the doors. Cities where she could blend into the throng. Places where no one asked questions, and she answered even fewer.

When he’d found her, had pleaded with her to come back with him—his voice low, almost gentle—she hadn’t hesitated.

No. That single word, sharp and clean and final. She’d stared at him like an animal trapped in a corner, one eye still on the door.

She’d said she wouldn’t go back. Not to be tried. Not to be locked up for everything she had done under Hybern’s banner. She hadn’t understood what he wanted for her. What he was offering.

Even on the run—scarred, hunted, hollow—she had been free.

The image rose again—Elara in the Day Court throne room, standing before Helion like a blade kept barely sheathed. Her chin had been high. Her hands steady. But he’d seen the tension in her shoulders, the way her body was coiled tight enough to snap.

Azriel exhaled, slow and tight. “I think she feels like she has no other choice.”

Rhys didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the far wall, unfocused. Azriel watched the muscle shift in his jaw, saw the way his throat worked as if he couldn’t quite swallow the taste of it.

He knew that look.

It was guilt.  Centuries of it. Not just the kind that settled in your gut, but the kind that lived in your bones. That made you believe you’d failed before you’d even been given the chance to try.

“I found her too late,” Rhys said at last, the words brittle.

Azriel didn’t correct him. Didn’t say we. There was no point. It wouldn’t make a difference.

He studied the carved moonstone wall behind them, the slight shimmer of wards dancing beneath the surface. His voice was low when he spoke again. “Helion wasn’t exactly eager to let her go.”

Rhys looked back sharply. “He questioned it?”

“I think he suspected,” Azriel said. “Who she was.”

Rhys’s brows knit together. The air between them tightened. And then—quietly, bitterly—he said the name, “Munin.”

It hung there, sharp and cold. Azriel didn’t speak for a moment. He felt the shift in Rhys’s magic—the ripple of something repressed.

“It’s possible,” he said at last. “Helion’s no fool. If he put the pieces together, then others might, too.”

Rhys’s silence stretched thin.

Azriel didn’t fill it. Not yet.

“She’s not just vulnerable because of what she’s done,” he said finally. “If the wrong court realizes who she really is… she won’t be safe anywhere.”

Rhys nodded once, a stiff, jerking motion. The kind that came from knowing you were losing control of something that had never belonged to you in the first place.

Azriel looked away, toward the sealed hall that led to her chambers. The wards pulsed faintly with shadow and moonlight. The air felt heavier there.

“This isn’t just about keeping her from running,” Azriel said. “It’s about keeping her alive.”

Rhys let out a breath, low and unhurried, dragging a hand through his hair as though it might steady something unruly beneath his skin.

“The least I can do is protect her,” he said softly.

Azriel didn’t look away. He watched the way Rhys’s hand fell back to his side, how his shoulders didn’t relax, not even a little. He knew what was beneath that sentence. It wasn’t just guilt, not just grief. It was failure, old and fresh, the kind that took root deep enough to rot.

“Does she know that?” Azriel asked, voice flat.

Rhys’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp. But Azriel didn’t waver. He didn’t have to. He’d seen how Elara reacted to most people, how she flinched at touch and stepped around silence as if it were a trap. She hadn’t believed a word he or Rhys had said—not really. Not with her whole self.

And she wouldn’t—not until something changed.

“She doesn’t trust this place,” Azriel continued, his tone devoid of accusation. “She doesn’t trust us.”

Rhys looked away, jaw tight. “She doesn’t trust anyone,” he said, the words hollowed out by something more painful than doubt.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Azriel pushed off the wall. “She should come to Velaris.”

Azriel had weighed it already, turned the thought over a hundred times since the day he saw her again. The Elara he remembered had never belonged in the Moonstone Palace, no matter how beautiful the stone or how high the ceilings stretched. He remembered Rhys saying how much she had hated this place, and it’s proximity to the Hewn City, even as a child.

And now? Now she sat cloistered in rooms that locked from the outside, behind veils of magic she couldn’t feel but likely sensed. A cage was a cage, no matter how finely cut the bars.

“Velaris is safe,” Azriel said, the words careful now, deliberate. “And she knew it. Once.”

The corner of Rhys’s mouth twisted—not into a smile. Into something that might’ve once tried to be one. “That was a long time ago.”

Even so, Azriel didn’t look away. “She hated this palace. She’ll feel like a prisoner.”

“She isn’t,” Rhys replied, the denial fast, clipped at the edges.

Azriel didn’t bother correcting him.

The silence stretched again, heavier this time. Rhys didn’t blink. Didn’t move. When he finally spoke, the decision was already sealed into the shape of his mouth. “No.”

The sharp refusal wasn’t a surprise, but it still settled wrong in Azriel’s chest. His wings twitched—just once—before he forced them still. He didn’t let the irritation show, not on his face, not in his voice. “She can’t stay locked away here forever.”

Rhys didn’t snap. He didn’t raise his voice. But when he spoke, it was taut, the words clipped with strain. “And what would you have me do? Bring her into a city where half the people would sooner slit her throat than look at her?”

Azriel didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.

“That’s not what Velaris is.” His tone didn’t soften, didn’t make room for argument. Velaris was the safest place they had, and he knew damn well most of its citizens didn’t know Munin from myth.

“No,” Rhys said at last, dragging a hand across his jaw, “but Feyre is there.”

That gave Azriel pause. Not because he doubted Elara’s restraint. But because of the way Rhys said it—quiet, guarded, like the words were carved from something older than fear. Azriel didn’t ask. Didn’t press. He just met his brother’s stare and said, flatly, “She would never hurt her. Feyre said they were at the Spring Court together. Nothing happened.”

Rhys didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. Just tapped his fingers once against the edge of the desk and shifted the subject with a muttered, “I also have Feyre’s sisters to consider.”

Azriel blinked, his mouth still in a hard line. Feyre had told him it was Munin —Elara— who had been responsible for bringing Nesta and Elain to Hybern. But her mind had been controlled by that piece of shit Dagdan. It wasn’t truly her fault. Would they really be punishing her for something she had no control over?

“And you think keeping Elara here, alone and isolated, is better?” His voice cut sharper now, low and hard. “She’s your sister.”

He saw the words hit their mark. It was in the way Rhys’s jaw went still—tight with some quiet tension—and in how his violet eyes didn’t quite meet Azriel’s. A flicker of something old and unsettled passed through them before it vanished again, buried beneath that High Lord calm.

“You think I don’t know that?” Rhys’s voice had dropped, quieter now, but laced with something raw beneath the surface. Not anger. Something worse. Something Azriel couldn’t quite name.

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “Then act like it.”

Rhys exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as if the motion might shake the weight of it all off his shoulders. “And what would that look like to you, Az? Bringing her to Velaris? Pretending everything is fine? That she didn’t help Hybern tear through my court?”

“She doesn’t remember.” The words left Azriel hard and fast, all steel and no softness. “Not the way we do. Rhys, she barely even remembers you.”

There it was again—that flicker. Guilt, this time. A deeper sort of pain that Rhys tried to hide behind silence, but Azriel saw it.

He didn’t give him the chance to retreat into it. “You’re keeping her locked away in a foreign court, surrounded by people she doesn’t know, in a palace she always hated growing up.” His voice stayed low, but the words had teeth now. “And you expect her to heal here? Just wait for the memories to come back, wait for her to forgive herself for something she can’t even fully recall?”

Rhys said nothing. Azriel didn’t wait.

“Velaris is her home,” he said, slower now, but no less certain. “She deserves to be there. Not here. Maybe if she saw it—walked those streets again, breathed that air—maybe it would help.”

He didn’t mention the rest. The part Rhys wouldn’t want to hear. That he knew what it was like, to be shoved into a world that didn’t want him, to be left in the hands of strangers and told to survive. He knew what it was to be dangerous and broken and young, and to be met with fear, with silence.

He saw it in Elara—the defensiveness, the suspicion, the way she coiled when anyone got too close, as if kindness was just another sort of trap. He had seen it in the camps when he was just a child. In himself.

Rhys still said nothing.

Azriel looked at him, at the High Lord who had once dragged him out of that blood-soaked dirt and given him a place to stand. “She’s not Munin anymore,” he said, quieter now. “But if you keep treating her like she is, then maybe she’ll start to believe it. And we’ll be right back to where we started.”

“You don’t think I want to bring her home?” Rhys’s voice was rougher now, each word edged like it scraped its way out of him. “You think I enjoy this?”

Azriel didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. Just met his brother’s gaze and held it. “Then why won’t you?”

“I can’t, Az.” Rhys’s eyes shuttered, his jaw working around the weight of the truth he didn’t want to say. “I want to. But I… I can’t right now.”

Azriel heard the finality in his voice. Felt it settle in the space like a wall. One that wasn’t going to come down, no matter how much either of them pushed. There was conflict in Rhys’s eyes, too much of it. Guilt, sharp and gnawing, clinging to him like it had never left.

But none of it changed the fact that he wasn’t budging.

Azriel inhaled through his nose, slow, steady. His wings shifted slightly before he forced them still. He didn’t know what Elara was to him—not really. The mate bond thrummed beneath his ribs, as if happy that he was so close to her. But Elara didn’t know of that, and he wasn’t going to push it. Not when she had so much healing to do.

But he did know what she was to Rhys. And what Rhys was doing now—keeping her locked behind layers of silence and wards and foreign walls—it felt too familiar. It felt like another kind of cage.

He didn’t say that. Didn’t need to.

Instead, his jaw tightened as he looked away, the words bitter on his tongue. “I hope you figure out what you can do, then.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned and walked out, each step echoing heavier than the last.

---

Elara counted the cracks in the ceiling.

She didn’t know when it had begun—only that it kept her from noticing the rest. The silence. The ache in her chest. The way her fingers twitched every time she thought she heard footsteps in the hallway. She lay still, gaze tracing the faint lines etched into the stone above her, following the splintering patterns like they meant something.

Forty-seven. That one near the far corner barely caught the light, visible only when the moon angled just right. She waited to see if it would vanish again. It didn’t.

Her legs had gone stiff. She shifted, slowly. The blanket pooled around her hips, the weight of it too warm, too heavy, but she didn’t push it off. Moving meant deciding something.

The door had never been locked. She had checked—first thing, once the room had stopped spinning, once the instinct to survive had bled enough from her limbs to let her think. The knob had turned with an easy click. No wards. No iron. No chains. And yet, when the door gave beneath her fingers, she had pulled back like it burned her.

She hadn’t touched the handle since.

After that, the impulse to leave had withered. Not out of trust. Not entirely out of fear. But she had seen Rhysand’s face earlier in the day—the disbelief hollowing his features, the rigid uncertainty behind his composure. He hadn’t known what to say to her. She hadn’t given him much of a chance.

She’d deflected, dodged every question, answered only what she had to. She’d told herself it was the smart thing to do. The necessary thing. But she’d been trained to read people, to listen to the subtle shifts in their breathing, the way their posture betrayed their words. And Rhysand—he had looked like she’d struck him every time she pulled away. Like some part of him was splintering, and she’d just kept pressing down.

Could she really walk out again, now that she had seen him?

A knock broke the stillness. Not loud. Not soft, either.

She didn’t need to ask who it was.

The shadows moved before the sound did. She watched the line of darkness shift at the base of the door.

Elara didn’t move at first. Her fingers curled against the blanket draped over her lap, the fabric worn soft with age. She considered leaving him out there, letting the silence stretch. How long would he wait? Would he knock again? Or would he simply walk in, shadows sliding under the threshold, slipping through the walls until the door became a formality?

Better not to test that.

She stood, slow and soundless, and padded across the room. Her hand rested briefly on the handle before she turned it, opening the door just enough to see the broad frame standing in the corridor.

Azriel. As she expected.

The shadows curled at his heels like smoke, as if even they were waiting for her to speak.

She opened the door wider without speaking. The shadowsinger didn’t move at first, only lifted his chin in acknowledgment before stepping inside with the silent confidence of someone who knew he could’ve entered with or without her permission.

Elara didn’t bother pretending it made a difference. If he wanted in, he would get in. She was only saving both of them the energy.

She didn’t turn her back on him, not entirely—just moved enough to let him pass, then leaned against the edge of the narrow writing desk, hands braced on either side. The moment she sat, she suspected, she might not get up again.

He didn’t stray far. Azriel stood just past the threshold, one shoulder resting against the doorframe, wings tucked close. Even the shadows curling at his feet moved with that same forced ease—casual on the surface, but the tension gathered beneath his eyes gave him away. He was trying to look harmless.

As if anything about the Shadowsinger could be harmless.

 “Come to interrogate me, Shadowsinger?” Her gaze narrowed slightly but her voice lacked any real venom—just dry exhaustion, like the edge had been dulled and left too long to rust.

He tilted his head, the shadows curling a little tighter as if listening before his voice cut through the stillness. “Come have dinner with me.”

Well, that wasn’t what she’d expected.

Elara didn’t answer immediately. Her arms remained folded across her chest, her weight shifting just slightly, chin tilting as she considered him. She didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust him, not really—not the quiet tone or the absence of pressure in his words. The refusal of his offer was already forming on her mouth, but her stomach betrayed her before she could give voice to her suspicion. The soft, traitorous growl was just loud enough to be heard.

Azriel’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile. Not fully. But it was closer than anything she’d ever seen from him.

She should have refused. Should’ve closed the door in his face and retreated back into the numb comfort of solitude. But she hadn’t eaten all day. Not since before her rescue from the Day Court and that conversation with Rhysand had left her hollowed out, scraped thin from the inside out.

So she pushed off the desk, her steps quiet on the polished stone as she followed him out of the room.

He didn’t speak as he led her through the halls. He didn’t need to. She recognized the path—before they reached each turn, her feet already knew where they were going. Left, then a wide curve. A door just past the black marble column. Her hand brushed against the cool stone as they passed, and for a moment, she was small again. Running too fast down this hallway, breathless and laughing, turning a corner just before—

She swallowed hard. The memory, or whatever it was, vanished as quickly as it came. Her steps slowed for half a breath.

He glanced back at her, but didn’t ask.

And she didn’t say anything.

The scent hit her the moment the door opened. Rich, earthy, laced with spice—her stomach clenched, mouth watering before she could help it.

She hovered near the doorway, gaze narrowing on the flatbreads stacked neatly in a woven basket, the meat swimming in thick sauce at the center of the long table. Her brows drew together. “What is this?” Her voice came quieter than she meant, uncertain, like speaking it aloud might make the memory snap into place.

“Illyrian fare,” Azriel replied. He didn’t meet her eyes as he stepped past her, wings shifting behind him, and took the chair opposite where she stood. He gestured to the one across from him, the motion careful, unhurried. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to make much else.”

She blinked. Her gaze flicked between the food and the male watching her beneath that curtain of shadows. “You made this?”

“It’s just us here,” he said with a shrug, though his eyes didn’t stray from her face. There was something expectant in his expression, something braced. “And I don’t suppose you would cook?”

Elara let out a breath, one that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. Clotilda’s voice echoed in her head— telling her for the hundredth time to stop cutting vegetables like she was gutting a stag. Elara hadn’t had the patience for it. Her hands were steadier with a blade meant for something else. But Clotilda had insisted on teaching her anyway, always muttering about how she might not always be around to feed Elara.

Something constricted in her chest.

She sat down slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the table. The wood felt too familiar. She focused on the texture of it, the grain under her skin.

“Clotilda tried,” she murmured, unsure why she was saying it, or if he would even care. “I am better with a bow than a pan.”

Azriel didn’t answer, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth told her he’d caught the hint of humor in it.

At least he didn’t ask her who Clotilda was.

But the memory soured almost as soon as it surfaced. Clotilda. Arnulf. The long treks through the woods, the quiet hum of insects at dusk, the weight of game slung over her shoulders. Dorothye waiting by the fire, half-asleep, still pretending to read. Elara swallowed hard. The wards around this palace prickled against her skin now that she thought about them.

Her brother didn’t want her leaving. That much was clear.

And what would happen to them—Clotilda, Arnulf, Dorothye—if she didn’t return? If she never did? The promise she had made to Dorothye was not something she had spoken lightly.

And she did not want to break her word to Dorothye, now that her word was her own to give.

She must have been wearing her emotions on her face, because Azriel’s eyes narrowed just slightly, his brow drawing with the smallest crease. “What—”

“It’s just us here?” Elara interrupted, repeating his earlier words with a sharper edge than she’d meant. She didn’t want to answer the question he’d been about to ask. “The High—Rhys left?”

The nickname sat strange in her mouth. She hadn’t said it out loud until now. It didn’t belong to her, not in the way it clearly belonged to everyone else. Her brother. The thought tasted like ash.

Azriel blinked, once, then again. Something passed through his expression—surprise, maybe—but it vanished as quickly as it came, swallowed up beneath the smooth detachment she’d come to know from him. “He… well, he had to return home.”

“To Velaris?”

He nodded, shifting in his chair, the shadows at his feet moving with him like smoke clinging to his heels. “It would run smoothly enough without him, but he doesn’t like to be apart from Feyre for long.”

Feyre.

The Cursebreaker. The one whose name was spoken like a prayer by those who had suffered under Amarantha. The one who had seen Elara—the real Elara buried beneath Munin’s cold exterior—and still recoiled. That moment pressed against her thoughts like a bruise, sharp and aching. The memory of Feyre’s face, not angry, not afraid—just… disappointed.

As if Elara had chosen any of it.

She didn’t realize she had looked at her hand until her gaze had already dropped. Her right palm, pale in the low light, looked unmarked now. But she remembered the fire. Dagdan had made her hold it there, unmoving, silent, as proof to Feyre of what he could command. She could still feel the sting, still smell the burned skin. He hadn’t even flinched as she’d obeyed.

Neither had she.

Her fingers curled tight into a fist before she could stop herself, before she could remember that Azriel was still watching.

But the shadowsinger said nothing. He didn’t look at her fist, didn’t press her with more questions or ask what she was thinking. He simply sat there, wings tucked behind him, eyes steady. Almost patient.

The silence between them stretched long enough to become noticeable, heavy in the dim room. The candles flickered low in their holders, casting shadows across the polished wood of the table and the stone walls beyond. Elara kept her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her, her fingers resting loosely on either side. She hadn’t touched it.

“It’s not poisoned, you know.”

The dry humor in Azriel’s voice tugged at something in her. Elara blinked and looked down at her untouched plate, startled by the fact that she hadn’t even noticed her own stillness. Her appetite, which had been sharp enough to make her follow him down the hall, had vanished with their conversation.

And yet… the smell rising from the spiced meats and soft breads still made her mouth water.

She sighed—soft, more out of habit than real frustration—and picked up the fork. The first bite was warm, rich, layered with something sweet and smoky and just the right amount of heat. She hadn’t expected it to taste like anything. Certainly not like this.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, savoring it, and before she could stop herself, a soft, wholly involuntary sound escaped her throat.

Across from her, she heard the slight hitch of breath. When she opened her eyes, Azriel had gone still, his hand frozen halfway to his own plate. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze locked on her with unsettling intensity.

Elara felt her cheeks warm. She cleared her throat, lifting the glass of water beside her as if that might somehow cover it. “This is… delicious,” she said, trying for something light, something normal.

Azriel blinked once, then the corner of his mouth curved upward, faint but unmistakable. “Thank you.”

She chewed another bite before speaking again, voice quieter this time. “Do you know if I’ve had this before?’

The question came without thinking. As soon as the words were out, she hated how uncertain they sounded. She rushed to explain, stabbing at another piece of meat with her fork. “It doesn’t feel familiar at all. I just… wondered.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her, the candlelight catching in his hazel eyes, shadows moving slowly across the floor like they were listening, too. The silence pressed in again, but this time it wasn’t empty.

When he finally did answer, it was with a slow breath and a shake of his head. “I don’t know.”

That should have been enough. It was enough. She hadn’t asked the question for any real reason, hadn’t even wanted the answer. But the disappointment curled through her anyway—soft and strange and sour at the edges.

She stared down at her plate. The food had lost some of its flavor.

Azriel must have seen it. Must have read something in her expression that she hadn’t meant to show, because his voice came again, quiet but quick. “Before… you and I weren’t exactly close. I’m sure Lyra would have made it if Silas had allowed her to. She was the one who taught me.”

Azriel’s words settled into the quiet between them, soft and harmless on the surface—but something beneath them twisted. Lyra. A name wrapped in warmth. Her mother. And… she had taught him how to cook. Elara didn't know why that should matter. But it did.

The name stirred something low in her, a sharp, quick flicker of—what?

Jealousy. The realization came sudden and unwelcome, blooming hot in her chest before she could stop it. And then just as quickly, confusion followed. Why had she felt that? Why did it sting to imagine this Lyria standing in a kitchen beside someone else, someone who was not her, and teaching them how to cook?

She couldn’t remember.

Her temples began to throb, a slow and rhythmic pounding that made the edges of her vision blur slightly. It was then that the answers came to her. Lyra. Her mother. Silas. Her father. The names spiraled, echoing through a part of her that was closed off, locked behind something she didn’t have the key to.

Her breath caught—just once—but it was enough to draw Azriel’s attention.

He didn’t speak again. Didn’t press. And for that, she was grateful. They lapsed into silence, the only sound the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain. The food remained delicious, but she ate more slowly now, each bite more for a distraction than for actual hunger.

She wasn’t sure how long they sat like that—minutes, hours—but the tension had dulled by the time Azriel finally broke the silence, his voice carefully casual. “What were you doing in the Day Court?”

The words hit like a slap.

Her fork clattered to the plate, louder than it should have been. Elara stared at it, heart already racing, and then slowly lifted her gaze to his. She shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d known it was coming—the moment when the walls she’d let fall would be used against her. She should’ve seen it in his too-soft voice, in the way he had watched her so closely as she ate.

Her lips pressed into a thin, cold line. She leaned back, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “Do you always share a meal with your prisoners when you interrogate them?”

Azriel flinched. Not visibly. Not in any way a normal person would notice. But she was trained to read people. Even now, she caught the shift in his shoulders, the faint drop of his gaze.

“You’re not—” he began, then stopped himself, sighing through his nose. He ran a hand down his face, shadows curling briefly at his wrist before retreating. “You’re not a prisoner, Elara.”

Her jaw clenched. He meant it. She could tell that he meant it.

But that didn’t stop her from thinking it anyway. From feeling the weight of the wards outside the stone walls. From remembering the locked look in Rhysand’s eyes that afternoon.

Elara bit down on the bitter edge of a laugh. Not a prisoner? The words echoed in her mind, hollow and absurd. She tilted her head, studying him as though trying to discern if he actually believed it.

“Am I allowed to leave?” The question slipped out softly, too calm to be casual, too still to be innocent.

Azriel didn’t answer. Not right away.

His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. Steady. As if he thought the force of his silence might soften the shape of the truth. But the seconds ticked past and still—nothing.

The silence settled thickly between them, too loud in the candle-lit dining room. He didn’t need to say the words. She already knew. Had known since she first tasted the magic in the air outside her door. Since she'd felt the hum of the wards clinging to the stones, to the air surrounding this beautifully gilded cage.

But still, something inside her sagged. Quietly, like the collapse of something long held upright by sheer force of will. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails pressing into the wood until her knuckles paled.

She said nothing more.

There was no point in pressing him. His silence had told her everything.

She turned her gaze back to her plate, the shadows of the room pressing in more heavily than before. Her fork scraped against porcelain as she picked it up again, movements slower now. More careful.

She brought another bite to her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. The food was still good, still warm, but it tasted different now.

Neither of them spoke again.

Chapter 51

Notes:

Thank you so much for all the kind words the last chapter! Things have been hitting the fan at work since I got back (like, damn, it's only been two days) and having comments and stuff to respond to has been the best kind of distraction. So thank you all so much!

“Do you want to talk about it?” Feyre’s voice broke through the silence.

Rhys lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting over his stomach. The fire in the hearth was little more than embers now, crackling softly in the distance, its glow painting low orange light across the ceiling. Moonlight spilled through the balcony windows, cold and pale against the velvet dark. Silver clung to the edges of the sheets, to the line of Feyre’s bare shoulder where she rested beside him, curled slightly to face him.

She’d been quiet since he returned from the Moonstone Palace. Since he’d said her name—Elara—and all the breath had gone out of the room.

The world had narrowed to the quiet drag of her fingertips along his chest. The scent of her skin still clung to his. But the stillness pressing against his sternum wasn’t peace. It was too heavy, too tight. The bond between them thrummed with her concern—steady and quiet and unbearably gentle—but it only made the ache sharper.

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the ceiling. The carved whorls in the stone above had always brought him a strange comfort. Now they felt too perfect. Too still for the way that his mind was racing.

He exhaled slowly. “What is there to say?”

Feyre didn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch. Letting him sit with it. Her hand remained on his chest, still and warm. Not pushing. Never pushing.

So he said it, finally—low and rough, like the words had rusted in his throat. “She didn’t recognize me.” He blinked, once. “Or maybe she did. She just didn’t care.”

Her fingers paused. Just for a beat. Her brow furrowed, barely. “She said that?”

“No.” His lips twisted, a grim shadow of a smile. “She didn’t have to.”

“No. That’s the thing. She said almost nothing. Just stood there. Like she was waiting for something. For me to haul her to a dungeon… or worse.”

Feyre shifted beside him, propping herself on one elbow, and the blanket slid slightly down her spine. She didn’t notice, didn’t care. Her eyes never left his face. “Was it really her?”

There was no trace of hesitation in him. No flicker of doubt. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask how he knew. She didn’t need to. The bond between them spoke louder than proof.

Rhys looked away—not from her, but from the ceiling above, from the way the windows had gone black with night, from the knowledge that nothing he said would ever come close to being enough. The ache behind his ribs hadn’t eased since she walked away from him, stiff and watchful and—Cauldron—it had been her, and not her, all at once.

“She looked at me like I was dangerous,” he said, and it was no longer just grief in his voice—it was something hoarse and straining and ashamed. “Like she expected me to strike her down.”

Feyre said nothing. Her hand slid to his chest again, settled over his heart. The dim faelight in the room cast her face in soft gold, catching in the strands of hair that spilled across her shoulders. She didn't look at him, but she didn’t need to. Her stillness was its own kind of listening.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger,” Rhys said, the words brittle as glass. “Or worse—like I was a threat. There wasn’t fear in it. Just… coldness.”

The admission scraped its way up his throat. Even now, hours after Elara had turned and walked away, her face lingered in his mind—not the girl he remembered but the female she had become.

“And you think she blames you,” Feyre murmured. She wasn’t guessing. She knew.

Rhys didn’t speak. His mate’s hand was warm where it rested over his heart, steady in a way he hadn’t felt all day. And still, it couldn’t touch the hollow in his chest.

“She has a right to,” he said at last. The words felt too large for his mouth. “I was the reason she got attacked. I told Tamlin what was happening. I didn’t come for her and my mother like I was supposed to. I didn’t even know she was still alive.” His throat worked around the next sentence. “She spent five centuries fighting for the enemy. What else could she have become, Feyre?”

“You don’t know what she became,” Feyre said. Her voice remained soft, but it lost none of its clarity. “You saw her. That’s not the same thing.”

Rhys dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching in the stubble along his jaw. “She said she didn’t ask to be here.”

“Did you expect her to fall into your arms?” Feyre turned to him then, shifting so her elbow pressed into the mattress and her face hovered above his. “To forgive you on sight?”

“No. But I didn’t expect… nothing.” The word came out quiet. Flat. His mouth twisted. “I would’ve taken anger. Rage. Anything.”

Feyre’s fingers moved against his chest, like she was drawing something invisible there. “Sometimes nothing is the rage.”

He shut his eyes. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d hoped—against all reason—for something more. For recognition. For any piece of the sister he’d barely known, but still loved.

“She asked what I expected from her,” he said, quieter now. “And I didn’t know how to answer.”

Feyre didn’t speak right away. Her hand remained steady over his chest, her thumb moving in a slow arc. She leaned in, her lips brushing the space just beneath his jaw. Not quite a kiss—just a touch. Warm, grounding, and barely there. “Then don’t expect anything,” she said, her voice low. “Let her show you who she is now.”

Rhys didn’t answer. The faelight flickered across the hollows of his face, his eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the dark ceiling. But his hand slid up her spine, slow and steady, until his fingers curled into her hair, holding—anchoring. As if she were the only thing tethering him to the present.

“I thought I buried her,” he whispered. The words cracked along the edges, nearly swallowed by the quiet. “But I never let her go.”

Feyre exhaled against his skin. A sound too soft to be heard outside that bed. “Then don’t bury her again.”

He went still. The way he did when he was fighting something he didn’t want to name. She felt the tension in his jaw beneath her cheek, the ache he wouldn’t voice. When he didn’t respond, she pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes searching his.

Close enough that he couldn’t look away.

“You owe her more than keeping distant from her,” she said.

“I don’t know if she wants anything from me.” The answer came out low, rough. Defensive. But there wasn’t anger in it—only something more hollow, something like doubt.

“Then find out.” Feyre’s voice sharpened—not with cruelty, but with clarity. With truth. “Don’t stand there hoping she’ll fall apart in front of you so you can make sense of her. Don’t wait for her to scream or cry or beg forgiveness just to prove she still has a soul.”

His breath shuddered in his chest. A small, involuntary sound—one that almost didn’t escape.

She didn’t flinch.

“She’s alive, Rhys. Whatever else she is—she’s alive. And that means you still have a chance.” Feyre reached for his hand, laced their fingers together, grounding him again with that simple, deliberate touch. “Go to her. See her. Try. Or stop mourning the girl you lost, and let someone else see what’s left of her.”

---

The sun had crept high by the time Elara bothered to open the curtains.

Thin bands of light pierced the gauzy fabric, catching in the folds of sheer silk like thread spun from flame. It gilded the marble floor in long ribbons—soft, deceptive warmth—but the stone beneath her feet held the chill from the night before. She didn’t mind.

The cold settled into her bones with a familiarity that the plush sheets behind her never could.

The bed remained as she’d left it. One corner wrinkled where her body had lain on top of the coverlet, limbs stiff and unmoving, gaze fixed on the ceiling until the black bled into grey. Sleep had never come. It rarely did in a place like this—too quiet, too clean, too gentle.

She stood now at the window, arms crossed over her chest, wings magically hidden away— she had no use for them here, was unable to fly due to the wards. The skin of her forearms prickled from the breeze that drifted in through the open balcony doors, but she made no move to close them. The wind caught the curtains, lifting them in soft arcs before they fluttered down again like breath, like sighs.

Beyond the railings, the wild sprawl of the Night Court unfolded in brushstrokes of green and gold and mountain blue. The sea glittered in the distance, too bright. The cliffs climbed sharply, crowned with flowering trees and tumbling ivy that clung like it had always belonged there.

It should have moved something in her. That view. That kind of freedom.

But she only felt tired.

Azriel had told her after that first, disastrous dinner—quietly, without looking at her for too long—that she had free reign of the palace. The halls, the terraces, the cliffside gardens. Anything she wanted within these walls was hers.

He hadn’t said she was forbidden from leaving. He hadn’t had to.

There were no guards, no chains, not even a locked door to press her against it—but she wasn’t a fool. She knew that the wards were there. This wasn’t freedom. This was confinement, painted pretty enough to pass for peace.

And Azriel—Azriel especially—seemed to want to believe it wasn’t a prison.

Like if he said it enough, she might believe it too.

She didn’t know why he cared so much. Why he’d said her name like it was something sacred, or dangerous, or both. Why he’d stared at her as though trying to see through whatever mask she’d forgotten she was still wearing.

She hadn’t replied then. Just nodded once and walked into the room that had once belonged to her.

In the few days she had been here, the memories had begun returning. Not in full. Not with clarity. But in fragments—edges. A scent, a sound. A hallway she didn’t recognize until she did. The bed was the same size. The dresser bore the same carved design along the front, ornate and soft with age. The paintings on the walls had been changed—different subjects, brighter colors—but not the frames. The outlines were familiar. She had touched one the day before. Just once.

Her satchel still sat in the corner, laces tied, the same way Azriel had left it after returning from the Day Court. Her cloak had been folded on top, hood tucked beneath it. She hadn’t unpacked. She was living out of it instead, half expecting to be able to make it for the continent at any given moment.

She reached for it each morning, more out of habit than need. The wardrobe loomed only a few feet away, but its doors had remained closed.

She knew the drawers were empty. She had checked. All of them.

The first night, she’d opened them one by one, slow and silent, as if something might leap out. As if memory might sit folded among the linens. Nothing had. Just lavender, faint and lingering. Not fresh, but not gone. A ghost of a scent. She hadn’t touched them since.

The stone of the balcony railing was warm beneath her palm where the sun had touched it. She pressed her fingers flat against it anyway, splayed them wide. A dull ache crept through her joints. She didn’t pull away.

She should have gone. Walked the halls, as Azriel had told her she was free to do. She should have let her feet carry her through the old corridors, down staircases that pulled at something just beneath her ribs. The stairwell by the garden—it had called to her last night when she passed it, a strange heaviness dropping into her stomach at the sight of it. As if something waited at the bottom. As if it remembered her better than she remembered herself.

It was already happening here. In this very room. Flickers that came when she wasn’t trying—when she caught herself standing too still, staring too long. A tray beside the fireplace that made her hands twitch with the echo of tea cups. The soft click of the latch on the window when she opened it, and the sense that she had once done it without thinking.

Not often. But enough.

She moved away from the window. The hem of her tunic brushed the backs of her knees as she crossed the room, the sound too loud in the hush. At the vanity, she paused. Stared.

The mirror stared back.

She didn’t look like the girl who had lived here. That one had smiled, once. She could tell, vaguely, from the faint curve still tucked into the corners of her mouth, the one that never quite faded no matter how tightly she pressed her lips together. But the expression now—blank, closed—fit better.

Behind her, the breeze stirred again. The curtains lifted, spilled sunlight in gold-laced ribbons across the floor. Warmth crept toward her, reached her bare feet, brushed the chilled bones of her toes where they gripped the stone.

Somewhere deeper in the House, a door clicked. Or a floorboard creaked—too subtle to be accidental. She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, listening. Azriel. It had to be. They were the only two left in the palace, and he moved like someone trained never to be heard. Except now, when he let her hear him. When he wanted her to know he was nearby.

She didn’t know why.

The air had gone stale. She felt it in the tightness blooming behind her eyes, the weight that pooled at the base of her neck, the twitch in her fingers that wouldn’t settle. She had tried. Paced the length of the room twice. Opened a book she didn’t remember choosing. The words blurred, slid off the page the moment she looked away.

Time folded strangely here. There was no sound of other footsteps. No laughter. No routine. No voice calling her name.

She didn’t mean to leave the room. She hadn’t made the decision, hadn’t thought now. But when she looked down, her feet were moving. Quiet steps across chilled stone, past the threshold and into the hallway beyond. The door whispered closed behind her.

The Moonstone Palace opened up around her, sunlit and echoing. She followed the edge of the corridor, one hand trailing lightly along the wall—just to feel something. The halls were lined with tall, arched windows and high balconies that framed the mountains in the distance. Every corner she turned brought a pulse of familiarity, something just beneath the surface, gnawing.

A staircase she had once run down.

A corridor she’d walked through holding someone’s hand. She didn’t know who.

The weight of a memory pulled at her as she turned a corner, but when she reached for it—whatever it had been—slipped. Like water through her hands.

She kept walking.

She wandered.

The halls stretched long and hushed around her, sunlight cutting sharp angles across the polished floors. She moved without thinking. Past the hanging silks of a narrow gallery, their colors dulled with age and dust. Down a hallway that smelled faintly of cedar. Her tunic hung loose over her frame, creased from sleep, unchanged since she’d pulled it on the night before.

She only stopped when the sunlight ended.

The stone archway gave way to open air, and she blinked once, slow. A courtyard spread before her—bare, wide, ringed in white stone and encased by high walls. No roof to trap the sky. Sunlight poured in unfiltered, lighting the floor in warm streaks and shifting gold.

The far wall was lined with dummies, their straw-stuffed bellies slashed open and cinched with cloth, hollow where they’d been struck too many times.

She knew this place.

She stepped through the threshold without thinking. Her feet found the warm stone like they’d done it a hundred times before. She could feel it in her bones, the thrum of memory humming under her skin.

But the racks were bare. No weapons—no blades, no staffs, no dulled wooden swords waiting to be taken up. Just gleaming, empty arms. Her eyes flicked across them once, slow. The corner of her mouth curled, something cold and amused catching at the edge of it. Not even training blades.

They didn’t trust her. Not even here.

She let out a breath, low and sharp, more scoff than sigh. She didn’t know if it offended her or amused her. The way it had taken them all of two days to decide even a sword dulled to uselessness wasn’t worth the risk.

But then—her fingers curled slightly at her sides, twitching with the echo of an old rhythm—she realized something else.

No one was here.

No watching shadows. No Azriel standing stiff in the corner, arms crossed like he didn’t want to be looking at her. Just silence. And sun. And the space to breathe.

The stone underfoot held the sun’s warmth. The air moved differently in here, no longer heavy with lavender and dust, but light. Dry. Her chest lifted once, slow and full. She didn’t need blades. Not to remember who she was. Not here.

Her body remembered for her.

A side stance. Ankles aligned, weight evenly split. Her elbows drew in. She struck forward—straight, clean, her wrist angling just before impact. Pivot. Block. Another hit. Her feet found their path easily, gliding across the stone like it was polished sand, like it had always been hers.

Her breath came quiet and steady as she fell into the rhythm, the way her shoulder pulled when she twisted, the soft scrape of heel over stone. She could feel it—muscle memory from five centuries worth of training.

And somewhere deep beneath her skin, her blood stirred.

The silence was good. The movement—better. Her muscles pulled tighter, cleaner, her body smoothing into the familiar shapes of violence. She pivoted into a side stance, fists curled, knees bent low. A jab, then two, her left elbow slashing up as her right foot slid back, grounding her. Her breath timed the rhythm, exhale with each strike, inhale on the turn.

The thoughts dulled and then quieted. There was no room for memory with the pattern of movement. The courtyard stretched wider in her mind with each pass of her shadow. All she knew was the stone beneath her feet and the hum in her blood, old instincts surfacing like they’d never left.

She turned into a high knee, twisted at the hips, let her fist slice forward— And met resistance.

It didn’t land. Her arm locked mid-air, not by pain, not by force, but by the wall of a hand that caught hers in a grip like iron.

Azriel.

His gloved palm wrapped around her knuckles, firm. Shadows ghosted behind him—long and dark and quiet—pooling like spilled ink in the archway where he stood. She hadn’t heard him arrive. Not the scrape of boots. Not the rustle of wings.

He’d come in silent as breath.

Her chest heaved once, too sharp, too sudden. She could still feel the tempo in her legs, the urge to move again, strike again—burn it all out until there was nothing left but breath and bone.

“I—” The word caught halfway out. Not quite a question, not quite an apology. She didn’t know what it was meant to be. Her breath came fast. She hadn’t stopped to wonder if she was allowed to be here. If this place was his. If the training ring was meant only for him.

Even if he’d told her the Palace was hers to roam.

Azriel said nothing.

His grip didn’t tighten. Didn’t lessen either. Just held her there—pinned not by strength, but by stillness.

Then, slowly, his gaze moved. Scanned her face. Down the line of her arm, still tense in his hold. His expression didn’t change, didn’t flicker. But something shifted.

He let go.

Her hand dropped to her side as he stepped back—measured, smooth, not a sound in his movements. Then his feet slid into place. One back, one forward. Shoulders squared. Knees bent.

The Shadowsinger dropped into a stance of his own.

She hesitated. Just long enough for her skin to register the absence of his hand. It still burned, that place on her wrist where he’d touched her—gloved, cool, brief. But it lingered now like heat coiled too deep beneath the skin to shake off.

Azriel didn’t speak. The way he moved—shoulders loose, eyes steady—was invitation enough.

They began to circle one another.

She kept her arms up, spine straight, chin lifted. A fighting stance, nothing more. But her body was already too aware of his. Of the slow, measured way he tracked her—eyes not just watching but cataloging, memorizing.

Her heart kicked once. Then again, faster. Not from fear. She told herself it was the sparring. The rush of adrenaline after days of stillness. The feeling of muscles waking beneath her skin.

He struck—fast, sudden, the way he always did. She dodged on instinct, twisting just out of reach, the whisper of his body brushing past hers. She countered with a snap of her elbow. He caught it—fingers closing around her forearm, the force of it sending a jolt up her spine. His grip was solid and her breath faltered. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t.

He let go. They reset.

She exhaled through her nose, reset her stance. But her body remained coiled, pulse fluttering high in her throat. Her tunic clung to the small of her back, sweat prickling along her collarbone. Azriel’s shirt moved with him as he stepped in again—light fabric stretched across his chest, dark with heat.

They fell into rhythm.

Each strike, each dodge, tightened the space between them. Her limbs moved before thought could catch up. She blocked a hook with both arms, shoved off his chest, turned into a kick that skimmed past his ribs. He spun behind her, a breath too close, his body ghosting hers for a heartbeat before slipping away again.

The silence between them changed. The sound of their breathing rose into the stillness. Her body ached—but not from the fight. Her thighs burned from the pivot, her chest tight with the strain. But it wasn’t pain. It was pressure. Heat curling low in her stomach, winding itself tighter with every collision. She moved faster. He matched her pace.

She ducked a punch, came up beneath his arm. Her hip brushed his thigh. His hand grazed her waist as he pulled back.

His eyes locked on hers—steady, unreadable, but his gaze dropped for half a breath to her mouth. She felt it like a touch. Her lips parted.

She struck again. He blocked it, but his fingers closed around her wrist. They didn’t let go.

The air between them buzzed—charged, too loud in her ears. Her pulse surged, her breath ragged. The silence was no longer empty. It was full. Of everything unspoken. Of everything she shouldn’t want. Her body leaned forward without meaning to. His didn’t pull back.

She couldn’t hear the birds. Couldn’t hear the wind. Just her blood, thundering under her skin.

She didn’t hear him move. One breath he was in front of her, the next—her wrist was caught, his grip unyielding, and her back struck his chest. Not rough. Not aggressive.

But the jolt of it still tore through her like a snapped wire. His body was solid behind her, unmoving, and the breath he released near her ear was too close.

Her skin tightened in response, and her body had gone still. She didn’t know what to do with it—this weight, this heat—so she did nothing at all.

He released her. Just like that. She turned too fast, pivoting hard, momentum snapping her body around to face him, like something in her needed the distance closed again. Her hand flew before she thought, a strike aimed at his side. He blocked it, stepping in close, and their bodies collided with force enough to stagger her back. His hand came up to steady her and didn’t land.

They stood there, locked too close, breath mingling, the flush of exertion hot on her cheeks, hotter still where his chest had just been pressed to her spine.

Her breath caught as she met his eyes. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. His gaze tracked hers with unnerving stillness, like he was trying to read something on her face. The air between them buzzed with heat that had nothing to do with sparring.

Her skin still burned where he’d touched her. Her fingers curled at her sides, knuckles aching with restraint. She didn’t know when it had shifted—when the lines had blurred between sparring and whatever this was—but she felt it now, thick as smoke, curling through her bloodstream, too hot, too much. Her chest rose and fell in tight, shallow pulls. She wanted to step back. She didn’t.

Then she moved again. Not to retreat. To strike.

Her body twisted, arms cutting through the air, and he matched her with fluid precision. The sparring resumed with renewed intensity, each motion harder, tighter, faster. She pivoted on the balls of her feet, brought her elbow toward his ribs. He ducked, hand grazing her side as he twisted around her.

She didn’t flinch. She wanted the contact. Craved it in a way that made no sense, that made her furious with herself. Her jaw clenched, her muscles trembling with more than strain. Her blood pounded in her ears. Her thighs ached with every pivot, not from fatigue but from the way her body had begun to notice him—how close he was, how solid, how silent.

They didn’t speak, but the silence stretched too far, pulling tight like a bowstring. The friction of his glove against her bare forearm sent a flicker of heat spiraling through her chest. Her breath hitched again. She hated that he could hear it.

Then his voice, low and steady, cut into the silence like a knife. “What were you looking for in the Day Court Library?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him, didn’t break rhythm. Her legs moved on instinct, the pattern of her steps falling back into sharp, practiced lines, as if she could drive the question out with motion alone. Her hands lashed out again, more forcefully this time, but he blocked them easily, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t push again right away. Just circled with her, kept his steps light, hands steady, questions folding in between strikes like feints. “Why did you leave the Continent?”

Still nothing. She shifted her weight, then struck low, aiming for his knee. He moved before her foot could connect, dodging in one clean motion, but his gaze didn’t leave hers. It hadn’t since he stepped into the courtyard. The pace between them ratcheted higher, the air stretching tighter with each exchange, and she kept moving.

She saw it now—in the measured way he shifted his weight, in the steadiness of his breath when hers had already gone uneven. He was using the fight, using her. Not to hurt her. To unravel her. Strip her down in pieces she hadn’t meant to give.

He was a spymaster, and this was an interrogation.

She didn’t slow. Not even when the sweat began to sting at her temple, not when her arms grew heavy with the repetition. Her bare feet slid against warm stone, her balance flickering at the edges. Still, she kept moving. Kept hitting.

“Why didn’t you want to come back with me that night?”

The question landed like a hook—quick, unexpected. Close enough to her face that she caught the warmth of his breath. She twisted away, too late, the question already lodged somewhere between her lungs. Her strike came a beat late.

He blocked it easily.

He waited a breath. Then, quieter, “You knew he wouldn’t hurt you.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. But her shoulder dropped half an inch. Not enough for most to notice. He noticed. Of course he did.

She pivoted again, faster, the next blow a little too wide.

“I would have brought you home that very night.” No accusation. Just truth—flat and heavy and full of something she didn’t want to name.

Her fist came up fast and reckless. It missed. She knew it would before her arm fully extended. He caught her again—wrist, then elbow, then momentum. Her heel slipped and the courtyard tilted.

She hit the stone flat on her back, the impact sharp enough to jar her teeth. Her gasp tore the silence in two. And then he was there—his shadow over hers, one hand locked around her wrist, the other braced above her head. His knees bracketed her hips. Not crushing. Not cruel. Just there.

The breath caught in her throat and refused to move. He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His gaze held hers, unreadable. There was nothing between them now but heat, and the soft drag of his breath against her cheek, and the hum in her blood that wouldn’t stop rising.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“I know,” she ground out, voice thin as wire.

Her arm tensed beneath his grip. She pushed—once—but her body had already betrayed her. The pressure of his chest above hers, the anchor of his thighs caging her in. Her legs curled slightly, reacting before thought. The cold of the floor at her spine. The heat of him everywhere else.

And then—

The memory came without warning.

The stone of the palace vanished beneath her. In its place—dirt, packed and warm from the sun, its scent rising into her nose with the tang of crushed grass and dust. Her spine hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs.

For a breathless second, all she could see was the blur of sky above the ring’s walls, pale leaves rustling in the breeze beyond them, the golden hush of afternoon pressing close.

And then—he landed.

His weight thudded against her with the last of the momentum, a grunt caught in his throat as he caught himself on his elbows above her. The heat of him bled into her ribs, her stomach, her thighs, even as he held his weight from crushing her completely.

His chest heaved. Sweat clung to his skin, turned the line of his jaw slick where the sun had caught it, kissed it. Copper hair fell wild across his brow, strands damp and curling, sticking to the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

She stared. Breath still dragging in slow, useless pulls. Her hands were pinned somewhere between their bodies. She didn’t try to move them.

“You cheated,” she said, but her voice came out hoarse. Half-breathless. She tried to shove at his shoulder, but her grip curled into the fabric of his shirt instead, fingers fisting around the collar without meaning to. She pulled him closer.

His smile tilted. He didn’t budge.

“I let you win the first three rounds,” he said, too innocently. His eyes were already watching her mouth. “Had to put you back in your place sometime.”

Her skin burned. Not from the sun. Not from the fight. Her chest pushed against his with each breath, too aware of the heat between them, of the tension low in her belly that wouldn’t go away. He wasn’t holding her down, not really—but he didn’t need to. The press of his body alone was enough to trap her there. She didn’t want to move.

A strand of hair had come loose and stuck to her lips. She pushed it aside with a breath, turning her head just enough to dislodge the leaf tangled in her braid. It dragged against her jaw as she moved, soft as a brush of fingers. Still, she didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

“Liar,” she whispered. Her hand was still curled at his collar. She tugged again, not for balance this time.

His eyes softened. That look always wrecked her. Like she was something precious—fragile and known. It made her mouth go dry.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice low, not teasing now. His breath grazed her jaw. She could feel the tremble still in his arms from the match. Her own heartbeat was no better—pounding beneath the cage of her ribs, heat climbing in places that had nothing to do with the fight.

She looked up at him—at the cut of his mouth, the rise and fall of his chest. She didn’t smile. Not really. Just enough to give herself away. “Liar.”

He leaned in like the moment might break if he moved too fast.

“Elara.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, found the nape of his neck, damp and warm.

“Conn.”

His mouth brushed hers.

The name hit like a blow. Conn. The sound of it—sharp, and simultaneously so wrong and so right—splintered through her ribs and left her lungs hollow.

Elara choked. Her body jerked beneath Azriel’s like it had been shocked, her back arching against the floor as her breath seized. Her limbs moved before thought caught up. She thrashed—fingers curling into fists, slamming into his chest. Once. Then again.

Wild, useless strikes, no strength behind them, just the raw panic clawing up her throat.

“Get off me—get off!”

Her voice cracked on the second word, and then there was no voice at all. Just the sound of her gasping, ragged, air rasping through her teeth like she couldn’t get enough of it. Her legs bucked against his hips, kicked at the ground.

Her braid tangled beneath her neck, caught beneath her shoulder as she twisted to try and dislodge him, blind to everything but the need to move. To get out. To get away.

Azriel didn’t react at first. His hands stayed where they were—one braced beside her head, the other still locked around her wrist, fingers frozen around bone and tendon. Confused and staring.

Then, slowly, his grip eased. He shifted back without a word, his movements careful, the kind that betrayed control he wasn’t used to needing. He raised both hands as he pushed away from her, palms open. His shadows curled like smoke behind him—edged and restless now, brushing the floor in long, thin coils.

“Elara,” he said, quiet. Too quiet. That same careful, deliberate tone he’d used when he first encountered her on the Continent.

“You’re safe. You’re not—”

“Don’t.” She pushed herself upright too fast, her breath still shuddering in and out. Her palm slapped the floor for balance, hair falling over her eyes as she doubled over, chest heaving. Her stomach turned. Her pulse was everywhere—her wrists, her throat, behind her eyes. She didn’t raise her head. “Don’t say my name like that.”

Silence answered her. Heavy. It pulsed between them.

She didn’t look, but she could feel him. The tension that snapped taut in the air. The tick of his jaw. His wings shifting behind him, just slightly, as if preparing to block her exit. His shadows coiled around his feet but didn’t move toward her.

He didn’t say a word.

She didn’t wait for him to.

Her boots scraped hard against the stone as she pushed herself to her feet. Her muscles didn’t want to obey. Her spine refused to straighten. She moved stiffly, fast, like her body might turn against her if she slowed. Her arm brushed against the wall as she turned down the corridor, catching herself before she could stumble.

She didn’t look back.

---

She didn’t look back when she ran.

Azriel remained in the center of the sparring ring, still breathing hard. The cool air of the surrounding mountains did little to clear his lungs. The scent of her lingered—salt and sun-warmed skin, the faint trace of steel and smoke and whatever soap she used. There was blood, too. Sweat. The tang of a fight fought too close. But beneath all of it—threaded low, sharp—was the thing he tried not to name.

Arousal.

Hers.

His mate’s.

He’d caught it the moment their bodies collided—when her wrist had twisted beneath his hand, and her breath had snagged. A hitch that didn’t come from pain. He’d seen her pupils expand. Watched her blink too fast. That tremor that moved through her ribs when his chest pressed flush to hers. She’d tried to cover it, but poorly.

She’d moved like someone trying to outpace her own instincts, like if she didn’t stop sparring, she wouldn’t have to feel it.

And Cauldron, there’d been heat in every strike she threw. Not fury—desire. Muted and confused, yes, but real. Palpable. The kind that left her skin flushed, her body pressed too close, her mouth parting on a breathless curse when he blocked her with more force than necessary. The kind that stirred something low and vicious in him.

Some part of him that wanted to keep her there. Pinned. Gasping beneath him.

His own reaction had been immediate. His body had answered before thought could intervene. Not just to the fight—to her. The way she moved. The way her fingers curled like she knew the shape of his arms. Like she'd done this with him before. As if it meant something.

He hadn’t meant to ruin it.

He’d felt the shift coming. That low, hungry tension between them—feral and rising fast. He’d known what would happen if he let it go further, if he gave in to that part of him that only ever came alive around her. So he'd done what he always did when the ground slipped beneath his feet—he reached for control. Cold logic. Tactics.

The Day Court. The Continent. Her hesitation the night he'd begged to take her home.

He’d asked like he didn’t care, like he hadn’t memorized every second of that moment in her apartment. He’d expected her to bite back. Maybe give him more silence. That was familiar.

But she hadn’t done either.

She’d gone still. Quiet in a way that unsettled him more than any scream might have. Her hits had turned sloppy, wide. Unfocused. Her form faltered. Not because she was tired—but because she was gone. Slipping out of the moment in front of him.

And when he had moved—when he had caught her, thrown her down, held her there—her eyes weren’t on him anymore.

She’d gone somewhere else.

Not physically—but he’d seen the shift. In the way her breath caught and stuttered, in the wild flick of her eyes like they weren’t tracking him anymore. Like they weren’t seeing him at all. One heartbeat she was moving with purpose and the next, she was... gone.

Something had cracked open in her. A memory, maybe. Something buried that had split its way to the surface and pulled her under.

Her pupils had blown wide. Her breathing turned ragged, shallow, too fast. And then she’d fought him—not sparred, not struck with practiced rhythm—but fought. Desperate and panicked and full of fear. Like she thought he meant to hurt her.

He braced his forearms against the stone railing now, head bowed as he dragged in a slow breath. It didn’t help. The scent she left behind still clung to the courtyard. Sweat. Dust. Skin. That specific, maddening scent that only ever belonged to her—sharp and sweet and sun-warmed. His lungs rejected it. Took it in anyway.

Had he pushed too far?

His hand raked through his hair, catching in the sweat at his temple. He shouldn’t have cornered her. Shouldn’t have said her name like that. Shouldn’t have pressed her with questions when she clearly didn’t trust him with the answers.

But Mother above, had he triggered something?

The image of her beneath him—the way she’d flinched, not from the pin but from something deeper, something old—tightened like wire across his chest. He didn’t know what kind of memories lived in her past. He didn’t know what it meant, the way she’d gone still, then wild, like something inside her had torn loose and started screaming.

He only knew it had hurt her.

Azriel’s jaw locked. The courtyard was too quiet now. The shadows curling around his boots said nothing.

He looked back toward the archway she’d fled through. Stone and shadow. Empty.

He hadn’t meant to cause it. But he had.

He should follow her. Say something. Fix it. By the Cauldron, he wanted to. His legs still itched to move. His mouth burned with words he hadn’t spoken.

But he didn’t know if she’d want him near her right now.

Chapter 52

Notes:

You know what's really great about fanfic? Things can going crazy and wild at work, but I can be in my head ignoring it all and planning chapters just to get away from the craziness.

Thank you so much for all your support and comments and kudos! They mean the world.

The light had faded from the windows, leaving the dining hall steeped in gold and shadow. Evening clung to the high arches, the candle flames cast long shapes across the stone floor. Outside, the world had quieted.

Inside, it was quieter still.

The meal had been set without ceremony—roast meat, warm vegetables, spiced rice that still held the scent of cardamom. It filled the room, mild and unassuming, yet it only made the silence heavier.

Elara sat near one end of the table, posture too straight, fork moving idly through the rice without lifting it to her mouth. She took a bite when she remembered to. Chewed. Swallowed. Forced her jaw to work even when the taste turned dry in her mouth. Hunger had left her somewhere between the training courtyard and here.

Still, she ate.

Across from her, Azriel moved in silence. His head bowed slightly as he cut a slice of meat, hand steady. He hadn’t spoken since they sat down. Just the scrape of his knife, the muted clink of metal against stoneware. But his eyes, when they rose—she could feel them. Tracking her posture. The twitch of her fingers against her water glass. The flick of her eyes toward the window. Every breath.

Her hand tightened on her fork. The metal pressed hard against her fingers, but she didn’t loosen her grip.

She was getting used to this—this quiet. The Shadowsinger wouldn’t speak unless she did first. Never moved toward her unless necessary. But his silence didn’t mean disinterest. It was the opposite. He watched her like she was some volatile thing. Like the wrong breath might send her running—or breaking.

And after what had happened in the ring, maybe he was right.

She blinked down at her plate. Steam still rose from the rice. She couldn’t remember if she’d eaten the carrots.

Conn’s face came to her again. Not the features—those were blurry. But the feeling. That wild, crooked grin. The weight of his body braced above hers, sun-warmed skin damp with sweat. The sound of his laugh. The way it had spilled from him like a secret only they shared. Mother above, the way he’d looked at her. Like she was real. Like she was his.

Her throat closed. She swallowed hard, then took another bite of meat—too fast. It caught in her throat. She had to reach for the water, take a sip. Still, it lodged there, stubborn.

That memory didn’t belong to her. It belonged to whoever she was before.

It was a ghost. A splinter. A lie tucked somewhere deep and wrong. And yet it lived in her, clean and sharp, as if carved in bone. She didn’t remember the details of that day five hundred years ago. But she remembered the way his voice had shaped her name. The way her hand had curled into the back of his neck.

She had loved him.

And then—she hadn’t. Forgotten him so completely she hadn’t even known there was something missing. Centuries had passed. Empty. Blank.

She didn’t remember all of it—there were pieces still missing, still blurred—but her body did. Her chest. Her bones. Whatever had been carved into her in another life had remained. Waiting. And now it had surfaced, slick with grief and something worse. Knowing. Because whatever that moment had been, it was gone. Conn was gone.

She felt Azriel’s gaze before she met it. That same quiet steadiness he always carried, the stillness of a male who saw more than he said, who let silence do most of the talking.

She glanced toward him, caught the sharp gleam of candlelight in his eyes.

Her hand drifted from the fork. Her eyes dropped again to the plate she could no longer stomach.

When she finally spoke, her voice came quiet. “I'm sorry you're stuck with me.”

She didn’t look up. Didn’t want to see whatever flickered across his face—if anything did at all. Her fingers curled against the linen napkin, and she tried to breathe through the heaviness settling in her ribs. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted.”

The pause that followed didn’t crack or stretch or hum. It just deepened, like water filling a well, slow and quiet. She heard him shift. The soft scrape of his chair against stone. Not toward her—just enough for him to readjust. She didn’t need to look to know he was still watching.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. There was no hesitation, nor sharpness. Just a low, firm thread of sound that cut through the space between them. “Don’t be sorry.”

He didn’t say anything else. There was nothing more offered, no correction or comfort or explanation. But it landed in her chest like something solid.  She stared at her plate a little longer, the words still ringing faintly behind her ribs. He hadn’t said she was wrong. Hadn’t told her it was what he wanted.

But he hadn’t let her apologize for existing either.

He paused, his fork still halfway to his plate, and for a moment Elara thought he might let the silence stretch again. But then his voice came with a quiet she couldn’t quite place. “Are you… alright? After this afternoon?”

The question wasn’t sudden, not really, and yet her body reacted like it was. The flinch was small enough to miss, no more than a brief tightness at the corners of her mouth, a flicker down her spine. Her fingers curled around the napkin in her lap, gripping it tighter than she meant to.

It was a habit she hadn’t realized she remembered until recently—threading cloth between her knuckles, anchoring herself with something tangible. The memory of it didn’t come with context, only the feel of it, the vague sense that she had done this once to keep her hands from shaking.

She wanted to lie. By the Cauldron she wanted to. Wanted to tilt her head and offer one of those cold, practiced smiles that she’d used for centuries as armor—the kind that left no room for questions. She wanted to look him in the eye and say she was fine. That there was nothing worth remembering.

She could feel the shape of that lie waiting behind her teeth, ready to slip free if she let it. But the memory was still inside her, still cutting at the edges of her chest like glass that wouldn’t dislodge.

And she wasn’t fine. Not really.

Elara swallowed, the motion thick, rough. She forced herself to nod, even if her head felt far too heavy.

“It was just…” She paused, her voice quieter than before, controlled but not cold, “a memory.”

The words landed soft between them, but she felt the weight of them settle into the air like smoke. Her shoulders didn’t drop. Her hands stayed curled into fists beneath the table, the linen napkin twisted and pulled so tightly it might rip. Slowly, she let out a breath through her nose, willing her pulse to even, to slow. “They don’t always come at the best times.”

Across from her, Azriel didn’t respond right away. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked away. But his eyes—dark and too observant—widened slightly. Barely. A flicker so faint it might have been nothing. Concern, maybe. Alarm. Or something else entirely. Hope?

If it had been there, it was gone as quickly as it came. He schooled his features again, slipping back into that demeanor she was coming to know all too well. Like he knew she was close to saying more and didn’t want to ruin it.

“What was the memory?”

Elara’s spine stiffened before she could stop it.

That old coil of tension —that nagging voice that told her she shouldn’t trust him— unfurled through her limbs. She shouldn’t say anything. She knew that. Knew how easily the truth could be twisted, how quickly it could become something that the High Lord of the Night Court used to shackle her. Or something Azriel used to pry her open again and again under the illusion of patience. Her memories were hers.

They belonged to her and to no one else. Not even the parts that came in pieces, broken and bitter and half-formed.

And yet…

“I was at a training ring,” she said quietly. “Somewhere else.”

She hadn’t meant to give even that much, but the image had lingered all day, relentless, folding over itself like mist. The ring. The red stone. The way her muscles remembered movements her mind had forgotten. She’d spent the whole afternoon trying to place the sky, the buildings beyond the wall, the scent of the air. Velaris, maybe.

Her hand had stilled beside her plate. She didn’t lift her gaze.

“There was a male there,” she said after a moment, slower now, each word drawn like a blade. “Conn.”

The name sounded foreign coming out of her mouth. But it was still heavy, after all these centuries. Sacred. It didn’t belong in this candlelit room, not here with her back straight and her voice so still. But saying it dragged something through her chest—tight and raw, like a torn muscle straining to hold. She didn’t know why it felt like that. Why the sound of his name made her ribs lock and her stomach pitch. Only that it did.

Her throat worked around the memory, swallowing hard.

“We used to spar. He…” She drew a breath, held it. Let it burn. “He always beat me. Thought it was funny.”

The words came flat. Not bitter. Not even angry. Just true. She forced them past the sharp edge in her throat, past the way her body now remembered the feel of his on top of it. “The way you tackled me earlier—it felt the same.”

She didn’t mean it as an accusation. She hadn’t even realized what she’d said until it was already out. But as the silence stretched, she finally looked up.

Azriel wasn’t moving. Not exactly. But something had gone still in him in a different way now.  His shoulders were squared, his jaw rigid, and though his face gave away nothing, his eyes had changed. Frozen—not cold, but sharpened in that still, brutal way that told her something had shifted.

And that—Mother above—that was the moment she realized she’d said too much.

Her lungs stopped working properly. The quiet around them thickened, the flicker of the candles suddenly too loud, too bright. She wished she could take it back, gather the words and bury them deep again where they couldn’t be picked apart. But it was already hanging there, suspended between them like something living.

Like something fragile and terrible and far too late to unsay.

The words kept tumbling out of her. As if something had been unlatched—some slow, rusted hinge inside her chest—and now they couldn’t be stopped.

Elara stared down at the scarred edge of the table, the place where the wood splintered in a pale, raised line. She followed it with her eyes, let her voice slip smaller, softer. “He’s dead. I think. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

Her hand drifted up, pressing flat over her sternum like she could keep something inside from cracking open. The breath she drew in didn’t settle. She had no memory of it, no flash of blood or grief or even Conn’s voice saying goodbye—but something deep in her bones had known it the moment his name passed her lips. Conn was gone.

And her heart, traitorous thing that it was, had recognized the ache before her mind could form the shape of it.

Azriel didn’t say anything.

She didn’t dare look at him—not with how he was watching her. But she could feel it, the steadiness of his gaze, like it saw too much. She hated it. Hated the way it made her feel seen when she didn’t want to be. Not like this.

She cut another piece of food, just to give her unsteady hands something to do. Just to stay anchored. Maybe he was waiting for her to unravel completely. Maybe he was filing it all away, behind those cool eyes. Or maybe—by the Cauldron, maybe—he was trying to understand. If he was wondering whether Conn had mattered, he wouldn’t have to ask.

He had. She didn’t know how she knew it. The memories were still too fractured, the images too soft and worn. But the ache in her chest spoke louder than any truth she could put to words. Conn had mattered. He had been important.

“He was one of the only ones who didn’t treat me like I was the High Lord’s daughter.” Her voice came again, low, nearly flat. She didn’t look at Azriel when she said it. Her eyes tracked the flickering shadows on the table, watched the candlelight distort across the cut glass. “One of my only friends.”

The phrase didn’t even feel real. It didn’t sound like something she should remember—but there it was. Lodged behind her ribs, dragging itself free without her permission. She lifted her gaze just for a moment, caught Azriel’s expression—but whatever was in his face was unreadable.

Her mouth tugged, just barely. “He made me laugh,” she said, quieter now. “Cauldron, he was terrible at it.”

Azriel said nothing for a moment. The stillness that settled between them was not the same as before. It felt heavier now, denser somehow, though nothing had shifted. The candlelight flickered. A faint breeze stirred at the far end of the hall. Somewhere beyond the walls, night birds called to one another in low, broken notes.

Then, finally, he said, “I’m sorry.”

The words weren’t forced. They weren’t soft, either. Like they came from somewhere steadier than sympathy.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t want to see whatever he might be thinking behind that voice—if he was thinking anything at all. His tone had revealed nothing, and yet she felt the weight of it all the same, like a change in pressure across her skin. The kind of shift you noticed without knowing why.

Elara shrugged, but the movement was too rigid to pass as careless. It barely reached her shoulders before falling away.

“It was a long time ago,” she said, though the words felt brittle even in her own mouth. Her brow furrowed a moment later, as if the details of it all moved just out of reach. “I think.”

It had to be. She’d been with Hybern for centuries. Five hundred years buried beneath that quiet, smothering fog of Dagdan’s presence. There was no room in that place for memories like Conn. It had been stolen from her, the laughter, the bruised shins and crooked grins and the ache of someone she might’ve loved. The grief pressed into her lungs anyway, old and sudden at once.

She pushed a strip of meat across her plate, then dragged it back again. The food had gone cold—had been cold for some time now—but she didn’t know whether she was finished or if she’d simply forgotten how to eat. That grief lodged itself behind her ribs, and though Azriel hadn’t spoken again, she felt the weight of his attention pressing in from across the table.

It wasn’t the gaze itself that unsettled her. It was what it did to her in return. Made her want to speak again. Made her wonder things. Made her want to ask. About Conn. About her past. About the pieces of herself she had no right to mourn. She didn’t know how to come back from any of that.

Her fork scraped against the plate, sharp and jarring in the thick quiet. She winced, barely, and spoke before she could think better of it. “You asked what I was doing in the Day Court library.”

Across the table, Azriel didn’t move.

“I’d been in the village earlier,” she said, setting the fork down at last. “More females had gone missing. I was following two males.”

She let the words hang there, testing the way his expression shifted. It didn’t. But she felt the subtle thread of tension winding tighter between them.

“I didn’t think much of them until they said something strange.”

There was a beat as she traced the scarred edge of the table with her finger, gaze distant. “They were drunk. Said something about working for a death god.”

She didn’t notice the way Azriel’s eyes sharpened. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t shift. But his stillness changed, and his body tensed.

“They said he was stripped of his powers,” she went on, unaware. “That he needed powerful females to get them back.”

There was something different in his face now. A subtle shift—barely there. The lines of his jaw didn’t move, his mouth didn’t tighten, but something had gone still beneath the surface.

But his eyes hadn’t left her.

Elara leaned back a fraction, not far, just enough to put a breath of space between her spine and the carved back of the chair. She hadn’t realized how closely he’d been watching her.

She cleared her throat once, soft and brief. “That’s why I was there. The library. I wasn’t spying on Helion.” Her fingers twitched along the seam of the napkin in her lap. “I wasn’t trying to find a way back here.”

She tried to make the last part sound dry, wry even. Like it didn’t matter. It didn’t quite land. Too much in her voice. Too thin around the edges.

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. When his voice came, it was quiet enough that she almost missed it. “Did you find anything?”

Elara blinked, startled for a moment by the simplicity of it. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug that felt more like a retreat. “A few myths. Mentions of old gods, powerful beings.” Her eyes found his again, and this time she didn’t look away. Even as something inside her coiled, sharp and tense. “I thought I might have found something, but Helion found me before I could read more.”

His jaw shifted, barely. No other reaction.

She looked down, let her fingers find the rim of her plate and press into the cool ceramic. Her voice, when it came again, had flattened. Muted.

“I made a promise to… to a friend back on the Continent.” She could hear the dull scrape of her fork as it shifted beside the plate. “That I would make it safe. So she wouldn’t have to worry anymore. That I’d fix it. Then go back.”

The silence that followed stretched long and taut.

Her throat worked once, and she didn’t raise her head. “I guess I’ve broken that promise.”

The Shadowsinger gave no reply. There was only the quiet, and the weight of his attention.

But she felt it—that same strange pull, a kind of tension that didn’t come from him moving or breathing or even looking. It was just there, in the way the air seemed to hold its breath around them. Like he was still trying to see something in her that she hadn’t decided she was ready to show.

So she said nothing more.

---

Elara had half a mind to spend the next morning in her room.

After last night—after that tight-lipped dinner where her voice had betrayed her, memory bleeding into words before she could stop it—it would’ve been easier to stay in. No one would come knocking. No one would question why. The walls wouldn’t look at her like that.

Wouldn’t hold silence the way that the Shadowsinger had, like it meant something.

Her skin still remembered the way his eyes had held her. Not sharp, not soft—just there. Watching. Like he was reading her through layers she hadn’t meant to open. And she’d let him. Let her mouth run ahead of reason, the truth pooling out like it didn’t matter who it touched. She didn’t know what was worse—the way she hadn’t meant to speak, or the part of her that hadn’t wanted to stop.

But hiding… hiding felt too easy. Too close to surrender. If she curled inward now, she wasn’t sure she’d ever crawl back out.

So she bathed.

The water had long gone lukewarm, but she stayed sunk to her chin, hands resting on the porcelain rim. The enchantments in the palace had scented the bathwater again—jasmine, maybe, or something meant to soothe. The petals drifted near her collarbone, delicate and wasteful. She pushed one aside with the edge of a knuckle and watched it spin.

She shouldn’t have said his name.

Conn. Her mouth remembered the shape of it. Her body remembered how it had felt to say it aloud. But by saying that name, she’d opened up the floodgates.

It wasn’t grief. Not exactly. That would have required something solid to mourn. What she felt instead was raw and shapeless, like a wound she’d been pressing on too long—numb, until it wasn’t. Until she was caught in it again, breath shallow, throat tight, the ache blooming in silence.

She tilted her head back against the tub, eyelids fluttering shut. The warmth was supposed to help. It didn’t.

He had made her laugh. That part lingered sharpest. Not because it had been frequent—Mother above, apparently he’d been awful at it—but because it had mattered. Because something in her had kept that memory even when everything else was ash. He had seen her, maybe, not just as the High Lord’s daughter. Not as a weapon. Just her.

Whatever her had meant.

Her fingers found the edge of the tub again, gripping it loosely, knuckles pale beneath the water. She thought of the village. Of Dorothye’s voice, begging Elara to promise that she would come back. And she had.

She had meant it when she made that promise. That she would go back. That she would make the village safe, would dig out the root of the threat herself if she had to. That she would return.

The bathwater rippled as she exhaled, long and slow.

Now she was here. Draped in warmth, surrounded by luxury, surrounded by people who didn’t trust her—shouldn’t trust her—and still she sat, idle.

She let herself soak until the water cooled, until the warmth seeped from the porcelain and left her skin faintly chilled. It took effort to rise, to leave the silence behind. Her body felt heavier than it should have—limbs sluggish, mind wool-wrapped and distant. She moved slowly, letting the chill bite her as she reached for the towel.

Her clothes waited at the foot of her bed. Folded neatly. Precisely. The same worn tunic and thick trousers she’d arrived in, too threadbare to belong here, but somehow always clean. She dressed slowly, piece by piece. Fingers catching on frayed seams, dragging over familiar cloth like it might anchor her.

By the time she made it to the door, her stomach had wound itself into a knot—tight and throbbing just beneath her ribs. She pressed her palm flat against the wood, let herself breathe once. Then squared her shoulders.

It didn’t help.

She opened the door expecting shadows. Expecting the scent of cedar and chill, that quiet gravity that always came before the shadowsinger spoke.

Instead—it was Rhysand who stood on the other side, unnaturally still. As if he’d been standing there for so long that he had turned to stone.

The hallway seemed to narrow around them, stone pressing in from all sides. Light spilling too cleanly across his shoulders, his face.

Elara’s spine snapped straight. Her throat dried instantly.

Rhysand said nothing, just watched her. There was something in his stance that felt too casual to be real. Like he’d stood outside this door not because he had to, but because he chose to.

Her hand stayed on the handle longer than it should have, the wood beneath her palm cool and steady. Her voice didn’t waver, but it came out low. “Rhysand.”

His name tasted strange in her mouth. Not bitter. Not sweet. Just foreign.

Those violet eyes—her eyes—tracked over her face like he was looking for something that should have been there. His mouth remained unsmiling. His posture hadn’t shifted.

He only said, “Will you walk with me?”

It wasn’t a command. Not exactly. Not even a request, really. The words sat somewhere in between. Smooth as silk, but unmistakably sharpened at the edges. Wrapped in all that effortless calm he wore like armor.

Elara didn’t answer at first. Let the silence spool between them. Just long enough to make it clear she wasn’t doing this because he asked.

“Fine,” she said at last, low and flat. Not because she wanted to. Because refusing would give him more power than accepting.

She stepped into the hall. Let the door click shut behind her. Rhysand said nothing more, only turned and led the way. She followed him. Not beside him. Just a half step back—enough to keep him in view. Enough to reach for a blade, if she had been allowed to have one.

They passed beneath archways of carved stone, the corridors spilling into moonlit terraces. Beyond them, the gardens opened up. Moonstone paths wound through banks of lavender and climbing dusk roses, their scent thick in the damp air. Pale fountains burbled in the distance, too symmetrical to be real, the water never spilling, never out of place.

Elara walked with him in silence, her boots barely whispering against the stone. She kept her gaze moving, flicking to each path that veered off, every turn, every place someone could vanish.

Somewhere deep in her chest, something coiled tighter. This wasn’t danger. But it felt too exposed. What did Rhysand want from her?

She found herself watching the corners. Listening for the cold hush of shadows that never came.

She didn’t want Azriel to appear. Not exactly. The Shadowsinger had been a thorn in her side from the moment that she had met him. No, she’d never deliberately hoped that he would appear from the shadows like he had a habit of doing.

But Mother above—she was starting to wish he would.

They walked until the gardens opened fully, the path widening beneath their feet. Even the wind moved softly through the dusk roses and nightbloom, like it too had been warned to keep silent.

He didn’t turn to face her fully, only angled his body slightly toward hers. His voice, when it came, was low and measured. “Do you know who I am?”

Her steps didn’t stop, but something in her chest did.

That question—there was no good way to answer it. Yes, she remembered. Not everything, but enough. His face in the corners of her mind. She could say it. Could shatter whatever polite veil sat between them and speak the word aloud. That she remembered her brother. But she didn’t know what he would want from her then—what he thought she owed him. Those memories hadn’t returned with warmth. He hadn’t been a present figure in her past, that much was certain.

She lifted her chin, “You’re the High Lord.”

That was the safest answer, and she knew it. The answer that held him at a distance.

His expression didn’t shift much, but it didn’t need to. Something pulled tight in his eyes—barely a flicker—but enough to make her wonder if she’d misstepped. Or if she’d struck exactly where she meant to. Whatever it was—grief, disappointment, guilt—it vanished just as quickly.

He gave a small nod, slow and quiet, like that one sentence had told him something he hadn’t wanted confirmed.

Her pulse thundered too loudly in her ears. She told herself the unease crawling beneath her skin was just from being near him, from the shadows of memory trying to claw their way forward.

The silence stretched again, thick enough to weigh on her shoulders, and Elara found herself glancing sidelong at him. Rhysand hadn’t looked at her once since she gave her answer. His gaze remained fixed on the stone path beneath their feet. She waited for the interrogation to begin, expected some carefully couched question to follow, the same way Azriel had done. But none came.

Only his voice, quiet and oddly unsure, “Do you… have everything you need?”

The question pulled her up short. Not enough to stop walking, but her brows lifted slightly, her spine stiffening as she turned toward him just a fraction. That wasn’t what she’d expected. She made herself answer with a nod, even as something uneasy curled beneath her ribs. “Yes.”

Rhysand’s hands remained clasped behind his back, the only tension in him visible in the way his knuckles strained slightly white.

“I’ve asked for some clothes to be brought in,” he said after a moment, still not looking at her. “Something more appropriate than what you’ve had.”

Elara blinked once. The words took a beat too long to settle, to register properly. And when they did, they left her with the unpleasant sensation of being observed, scrutinized. She hated the feeling—it felt too close to the old days, too close to Hybern. Her reply came out sharper than she intended. “You didn’t have to.”

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice was softer this time. “I know. I wanted to.”

That made it worse somehow. Not the words themselves, but the calm way he said them. Like he meant them. Like he was doing the brotherly thing and taking care of her. And she didn’t know what to do with that—didn’t know how to file it away neatly without some suspicion clinging to it.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides as her shoulders locked into place. It would’ve been easier to stop talking. To slip back into that familiar stillness, let the quiet swallow whatever fragile thread had begun here.

But when she looked at him again, just briefly, she saw the way his jaw moved, how tightly he held himself. He was trying. She didn’t know why. Didn’t know what he hoped to build between them, or what broken thing he thought could be stitched back together. But it was there, plainly—an effort.

And for some reason, that made her skin itch worse than any veiled threat would have.

She decided to say something, anything, before the silence became unbearable. Or before she lost her nerve entirely. The words came without thought, tumbling out quieter than she’d meant. “This place… it’s familiar.”

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. The admission was careless, too revealing, and far too vulnerable for what this was—what they were. She hadn’t planned to give him that.

Rhysand stopped walking. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his posture—a subtle, almost imperceptible shift—that gave him away. “You remember it?” he asked, carefully.

Elara kept her gaze ahead, brushing her fingers lightly over the edge of a curved stone railing as they passed. The moonstone was cool beneath her skin, smooth and finely wrought, and some part of her remembered the shape of it.

“Pieces,” she said at last. “They come and go. And nothing about them makes any sense. I have no context for them.”

They kept walking—past a half-circle of nightblooming hydrangea, their petals pale as ghosts in the light. She felt him beside her, too still, too quiet, and the pressure of his presence scraped against her frayed nerves. It felt too much like waiting for something she didn’t know how to give. So she broke it.

“This doesn’t have to be so awkward,” she said, not unkindly. Her voice came more evenly this time, steady with effort. She cast him a glance, her expression difficult to read even to herself. “You don’t have to hover like you think I might disappear.”

She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a jab, though she supposed it could have been taken as one. And she couldn’t disappear, not really. The wards that wrapped this palace were nothing like she remembered from her brief, fractured sense of this place.

He let out a breath—low, quiet, nearly a laugh. “It’s not that.”

She looked at him more fully now. Watched the way he kept his shoulders straight, the small flicker in his expression that hinted at something else. “Then what is it?”

Rhys dragged a hand down his face, fingers raking through the stubble that shadowed his jaw, like the motion might clear something from his mind. He stopped walking, stood still beneath the arch of a flowering tree where dusk-roses spilled their pale blooms across the path.

When his eyes finally met hers, they didn’t burn. They didn’t soften. They just looked—tired. A long pause passed between them before he spoke. “I’m trying.”

Elara blinked once, slowly. She didn’t know what to do with that—what to say, or how to feel. So she didn’t do anything. She just kept walking, her arms folded tight across her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.

The wind was mild, but she pretended that was the reason for the tightness in her sternum. “To do what?”

His footsteps followed hers, soft against the moonstone. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, “I don’t know how much you remember, but you and I were never exactly close.”

She didn’t answer. That much she already knew—knew it from the shape of her memories, from how few of them he occupied. From the way he stood near her now like he wasn’t sure he had the right. She gave a small nod, barely more than a tilt of her head.

It was all the confirmation he seemed to need.

“You were young,” he said, slower now, as if the words had to be translated before they left his mouth. “And I—I stayed away. I thought I was doing the right thing. I could never stand up to Silas… our father.” His mouth curled faintly around the word, like it tasted worse each time. “He was always so critical of me, and I was worried what that would mean for you. I thought if I kept my distance, maybe it would be better for you.”

She frowned before she meant to, the expression flickering across her face as his words sank in. Her lips parted slightly, the corner twitching like she might say something. But nothing came. So she kept walking again, and Rhysand fell into step beside her.

Rhysand kept speaking, his voice low and even, as if the rhythm of it might carry him through the things he hadn’t meant to say. “I was supposed to meet you that night.”

Elara glanced at him. He didn’t look back. His eyes were on the path ahead, but something in them was distant—fixed on a memory that had nothing to do with the carved stone beneath his boots or the quiet hush of the garden blooming around them.

“You and Mother were flying to Illyria,” he said, not quite monotone, but close. “You’d been begging for years to go. Kept pestering her and father. She always said no, but after—” He stopped himself. A muscle in his jaw flickered. “She thought it was time. Thought it would be good for you, that you needed it. I agreed to meet you halfway, but I didn’t.”

His voice frayed at the edges, just slightly. “I stayed behind. I was training a new legion. I told myself it was important. More important than leaving for a day. She knew the route—had flown it alone so many times. I thought you’d be safe.”

The air shifted around them—thicker, heavier—and Elara felt it in her chest, how her lungs forgot how to move.

He paused then, just long enough for the weight of his words to press in. “The attack wasn’t random.” The words were quieter now, but they landed sharper. “It was Spring Court. They knew exactly who they were targeting.”

Her body went still, as if her spine had locked up without warning. She blinked once, but the light changed. Wind screamed in her ears. Pain, white-hot, tore through her side, and her mother’s hand—smaller than she remembered—slipped from hers, vanishing into nothing. She inhaled sharply. The memory wasn’t clear, but the edges were cutting. Her stomach twisted.

Rhys had slowed to a stop beside her. His next words came soft enough to be missed if she hadn’t been listening. “If I’d gone like I said I would…”

She turned her head, just barely, catching the flicker of movement as he shook it. He looked like he wanted to claw the words back even as he said them. “I let you down.”

The breath left him in a hiss between clenched teeth. “And then… when Hybern took you, I didn’t even know. I thought you were dead. I’d thought I’d burned you.” His voice cracked. “I had no idea. If I had—”

He broke off, the words catching in his throat. His shoulders were rigid now, tension curling through every line of his body. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, as if he couldn’t.

She turned, startled by the sound more than the words—the tremble in his voice that hadn’t been there before. And then she saw him.

Not the High Lord. Not the male with all the power and control carved into every motion. Just Rhysand. Her brother. Standing in the middle of a garden path, with tears streaking down his face and his chest rising too fast beneath the fine fabric of his clothes, like he was trying very hard not to fall apart where she could see it.

It was wrong, somehow, to see him like this. Not because she’d thought him incapable of feeling—but because he looked like someone unraveling at the seams, too proud to ask for help as the thread gave way.

Her weight shifted where she stood. One step forward. Then none.

The wind stirred the trees above them, and she used the movement to glance away, to give him a moment of privacy he hadn’t asked for. But she didn’t leave. She crossed her arms instead, fingers digging into her sleeves to keep them still.

“I don’t remember any of that,” she said, finally. Her voice didn’t waver.

He nodded once. He made no sharp movement, just that slow incline of his head, like the truth didn’t surprise him. Like maybe he’d already expected it and had come anyway.

“I’m still sorry,” he said, quieter now, like speaking louder might shatter something between them. “Even if you never remember… I needed you to hear it.”

Elara’s throat worked, but she gave no reply. Just a nod—barely a tilt of her chin.

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It pressed in around them, thick with words neither of them had found the courage to say. She looked at him again, the way he wiped his cheek with the heel of his hand and took a breath that sounded steadier than it had any right to be.

She didn’t offer him comfort. But she didn’t walk away either. She just stayed—silent, unmoving, beside the brother she still didn’t know.

Chapter 53

Notes:

Once again, thank you so much for all of the comments! They mean the world to me.

Elara didn’t go far after Rhys left.

Just enough to be alone with the air and the quiet and the strange, raw feeling in her chest that hadn’t faded even as his footsteps disappeared down the path. She lingered beneath a cluster of white-barked trees that grew like ribs along the cliffside, arms crossed tight against the breeze that had begun to stir.

The sky stretched open above her, soft with the bruising of dusk, and for a long minute she just… stood there.

Not thinking. Not hiding. Just breathing.

When she finally turned back, the walk through the palace wasn’t rushed. She took it slowly, letting her feet take her where they knew to go, even if her mind still didn’t quite recognize the place as her own. The carved halls stretched quiet and gold-lit around her, the sconces already flickering to life, gilding the stone with that familiar late-afternoon warmth.

Her eyes didn’t skim past the details this time.

She looked—really looked—at the mosaic walls and the sinuous inlays of lapis and silver that curled along the baseboards. She let her fingertips drift along a vine of silver, barely brushing it, surprised by the way her pulse didn’t spike, by the way her body didn’t brace for impact.

For the first time in years, she didn’t feel hunted.

But she didn’t feel safe, either.

Her jaw clenched. She hadn’t liked that look on Rhys’s face, hadn’t known what to do with the guilt in his voice or the careful reverence in his eyes when he looked at her. Like she was some impossible answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask in centuries. Like he didn’t know if she would stay. Like he didn’t know how to stop mourning her.

It was unbearable, being looked at like that.

The door to her chambers closed behind her with a soft snick, the sound too sharp in the stillness. She paused in the center of the room, letting her eyes adjust to the shadows, though there was no need. The windows were wide open, the pale blue curtains lifting gently on the mountain air. Sunlight still painted long gold streaks across the marble floor, catching on the dustless surfaces and the quiet, untouched things.

She didn’t light the lamps.

She moved to the tall mirror tucked between the moonstone columns and stopped in front of it, arms folding loosely as her gaze caught on the reflection cast back at her. The female in the glass didn’t look like a prisoner. Her clothes—still tattered at the seams and travel-worn around the collar—were clean now.

The fabric, rough but serviceable, draped plainly over her frame, and somehow the simple lines of the tunic made her seem... sharper. Her back was straight. Her chin didn’t dip when she met her own eyes. There was color in her face again, a faint flush from the morning sun and the walk through the palace. And her breathing—calm. Steady.

She wasn’t Munin. Hadn’t been for a long time, if the mirror could be believed. She looked fine. Whole, even. Like a person. Like Elara. But the name felt like something she was borrowing rather than owning, a name that didn't belong to the female staring back at her.

But that didn’t mean she was safe.

Her hand rose, unthinking, and touched the glass. It was cool beneath her fingertips. The face on the other side watched her, as still as she was.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, voice barely more than breath. Her thumb traced the edge of her own cheek in the reflection, “This isn’t going to end well for anyone.”

The words weren’t meant to be dramatic. Just a fact she couldn’t shake loose.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly, that curled inside her ribs. It was something quieter. A knowledge that none of this—this palace, this second chance—had ever been meant for her. The food and clothes left in her room. The silent stares from a male with shadows wound around his knuckles. The brother who brought his guilt into her room and didn’t try to hide it. These things weren’t hers to have.

She wasn’t built for this kind of life — being surrounded by people who claimed to care about her. Not anymore. She had done things. Terrible things. Most of them she didn’t even remember in full, after Dagdan had violated her mind, but the fragments that she did remember were enough.

And Rhys—he had seen what she allowed him to see. Just the edges of it. Just the small, fragile parts of her that hadn’t been erased. The moments with Arnulf. Dorothye’s little fingers wrapped around her wrist. The flicker of light across Clotilda’s face as she stirred something over the fire. And still he had looked at her like she was worth something.

Still he’d said her name like it wasn’t ash in his mouth.

Her fingers dropped from the mirror. Her spine stayed straight, but the expression in her eyes shifted—tighter. She drew in a slow breath and let it burn through her lungs, willing her thoughts to still, even as the quiet pressed in around her.

Rhysand had come to her door that morning looking uncertain. Not angry. Not regal or cold or wary—just uncertain. His shoulders had slouched with a weight she knew wasn’t new, not something stirred up recently but something ancient and worn into the bone.

And all she could think about now, standing alone in the stillness of her chambers, was how many years he had carried that weight. How easily she could drop it back on him if she wasn’t careful.

“You’re going to hurt him,” she whispered, the words escaping before she’d meant them to. Her voice caught halfway through.

But it was true. It would happen slowly. In steps she wouldn’t recognize until it was too late. She would say the wrong thing. Leave at the wrong time. Press too hard, or not enough. And he would carry it—her brother, who had already carried too much.

Her reflection waited. Blank-faced. Familiar.

And Azriel—

The name alone unraveled her. She opened her eyes and let out a breath. Not steady. Not sharp. Just enough to pull her gaze away. “Don’t.”

One word. Not a plea. A command. A warning to herself.

She turned her back on the mirror.

The scent reached her a second before she noticed it. Rich, warm, soft-edged. Something buttery and spiced. She looked to the table—there it was. A silver tray, steam curling lazily above polished dishes. Still hot. The food arranged just so, as if someone had taken care not to overwhelm.

A home that took care of its own.

She hadn’t felt the magic this time. The way the palace shifted and moved and left things when no one was looking. She crossed to the table without hurry, slid into the chair. Her fingers were steady as she reached for the spoon.

The first bite tasted like nothing. Then everything. Her mouth remembered how to chew, how to swallow, but it took a moment before her body stopped bracing for pain. Each swallow landed like a stone. Not because she was full. Because it felt like she didn’t deserve it.

She’d gotten used to the dinners with Azriel—quiet, awkward, full of tension. But he’d been there. Before that, Clotilda, who made too much food and insisted leftovers were lucky. Before that, Dorothye, who refused to eat unless Elara ate with her. Before that—nothing. Cold floors. Dagdan’s orders. Hunger passed off as discipline.

She hadn’t eaten alone in a long time.

She told herself she preferred it. That the quiet gave her space to think. To breathe. But her eyes drifted to the door anyway. Not in expectation. Just a glance. Just to check. And again. Then once more, longer this time.

And her fingers, curled loosely around the spoon, tightened ever so slightly as her gaze lingered on the shadow beneath the frame—hoping, without understanding why, that it might move.

---

Azriel knew that, sooner or later, Rhys would need him back in Velaris.

He was content to stay with Elara—would have preferred it, really. She was his mate, after all, and the proximity to her settled something primal in him. But he was eventually going to be missed, and Cassian had already begun asking questions.

The bond between the three brothers had never made room for secrets, not for long, and Azriel had no doubt that his brother would grow suspicious if Rhys kept dodging answers. And his own absence, deliberate as it had been, had allowed Rhys to visit the Moonstone Palace without interference—to spend time with the sister he thought he'd lost.

Azriel couldn’t take that from him. Not when he wanted more than anything for Elara to have a family again. Even if she didn’t believe she deserved one.

“Things are tense, still,” Rhys said, stirring his tea with a slow, circular motion. They were alone in his office. The desk between them was an old slab of polished oak, bare but for a stack of untouched documents, a chipped inkpot, and the quiet steam rising from Rhys’s cup. Azriel sat across from him, one hand resting loosely on the arm of the chair.

The other chair beside him remained empty.

“But she heard me yesterday,” Rhys went on, not meeting Azriel’s gaze. “She didn’t shut me out.”

“That’s good, then,” Azriel said, giving a slow nod. “That’s something.”

He let the words settle, not crowding the moment with praise or optimism. Progress with Elara would never be a clean, swift thing. She was the kind of female who built up walls to protect herself. And breaking those walls down… It would come in inches. And most of them would ache.

Rhys didn’t smile. “I didn’t expect her to listen. I thought maybe I’d lost that chance.”

Azriel studied him a moment. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“No,” Rhys said softly. “But she should.”

The words lingered longer than they should’ve. Azriel let them sit, let Rhys work through whatever guilt still followed him. Then, when it had passed: “Have you thought about bringing her here?”

Rhys’s hand stilled around the cup. His eyes flicked up, sharp with the answer even before he said it. “Not right now.”

“Why?”

“Because I have the city to think about.”

Azriel arched a brow, but didn’t speak. Rhys set the cup down and leaned back, fingers pressed lightly against his lower lip as he studied the fireplace across the room.

“And this business with Nesta…” he said, almost absently. “I’m not going to destabilize what Feyre has worked to rebuild. Not now.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed faintly. “So you’re keeping Elara away for Feyre’s sake.”

“I’m keeping her away because everything here is teetering,” Rhys said, quietly. “Things with the human queens are uncertain, Nesta is volatile on a good day. I won’t risk it—not until I’m sure.”

Azriel’s voice was low. “Sure of what?”

Rhys didn’t answer. He ran a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose, the weight behind it heavier than anything he’d admitted. Then, more quietly: “If things get better with Nesta, I’ll consider it.”

He said the name with no heat, no fondness—just a fact. A name Rhys used not because he cared for the female herself, but because of what her presence did to Feyre.

Azriel leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m thinking,” Rhys said. “I have the right to think, don’t I?”

It was the shadows that warned him first.

Then, the low thud of boots approaching—Cassian, taking the steps two at a time. Azriel didn’t look toward the door, only adjusted in his seat and let the quiet settle across his face. Rhys didn’t react either, save for the slow swirl of his spoon through the pale tea in his cup. The scent of cracking embers and mountain air drifted faintly through the room as Cassian entered, clapped a hand on the back of the empty chair beside him, and dropped into it with a sigh loud enough to echo off the bookshelves.

Rhys set his spoon down and glanced up. “You’re ready?”

Cassian gave a half shrug, the kind Azriel had seen him use a thousand times before—when trying too hard to appear unbothered. “I’ve gotten young warriors in line before.”

The corner of Azriel’s mouth curved, a rare sort of smirk that passed too quickly to be caught. He said nothing at first, only studied Cassian’s posture—broad arms crossed too tightly, jaw set despite the casual tone. Rhys, seated behind the desk, didn’t bother to hide his amusement.

Azriel spoke at last, voice low and even. “Nesta isn’t one of the new recruits.”

Rhys’s smile sharpened slightly as he echoed, “Exactly. She’s not some young buck pushing the boundaries.”

Azriel didn’t need to look at Rhys to know what flickered behind his eyes just then.

He’d only known Nesta Archeron for a short while, but the impression she’d left hadn’t faded. There was something in the way she held herself, something coiled and cold—like someone who’d learned the cost of survival, and had paid it willingly. It reminded him—

No. He wouldn’t finish that thought.

“I can handle her,” Cassian said simply, not rising to the bait.

Azriel inclined his head. “You’ll need more than just muscle. She’s… different.”

You put it more diplomatically than I ever could, Rhys said in his mind, the brush of his voice light and dry.

Azriel didn’t respond—not aloud or in his head. He only kept his gaze on Cassian, watching the way his brother sat just a little too still.

Rhys leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You did good work getting the Illyrians back in order this spring, you know.”

Cassian made a noise that was neither agreement nor thanks.

“I think it’s time for you to take on bigger responsibilities.”

Azriel watched the way Cassian grimaced. It wasn’t surprise—just reluctant acknowledgment. They all knew Rhys rarely offered praise without purpose.

“You can’t honestly mean to tell me you didn’t know the Illyrian situation was a test,” Rhys added, amusement threading through the words.

Cassian muttered, “I’d hoped not.”

Azriel didn’t fight the quiet chuckle that escaped him. He kept his arms crossed, gaze steady, shadows whispering faintly at his shoulders. Cassian, for all his strength, had never learned to hide his emotions—and Azriel had long since stopped pretending not to read them.

But Rhys’s smile faded. He leaned forward, arms braced on the desk, the steam curling from his tea rising between them.

“Nesta’s not a test though,” he said, quieter now. “She’s different.”

He’d used Azriel’s own words, but they were sharpened by something Rhys hadn’t said yet. A reservation that laced through his tone, tightening it. Azriel didn’t need to pry into his brother’s mind to understand. He knew what—or rather who—lay at the center of it.

Azriel’s voice came rougher than he intended. “Her power isn’t something to provoke.”

“I know,” Cassian said. “But we haven’t seen a hint of it since the war. For all we know, it vanished with the Cauldron breaking.”

There was no real conviction behind the words—only hope, thin and defensive. A soldier’s kind of hope. Azriel didn’t bother responding. Rhys did.

“Or maybe it’s dormant,” he said, straightening a little, “as the Cauldron is now asleep and safely hidden in Cretea with Drakon and Miryam.” His fingers tapped once against the wood, then stilled. “Her power could rise at any moment.”

Azriel didn’t miss the shift in Cassian’s face. He leaned back slightly, less brash now.

“You sound like you’re afraid of her,” Cassian said, with a half-laugh that didn’t quite land.

“I am,” Rhys said simply. “Why do you think I sent you to get her this morning?”

That silenced him.

And Azriel—Azriel found himself nodding once. He remembered the moment Nesta had come out of the Cauldron. Remembered the air splintering around her like shattered glass, the way his shadows had recoiled in instinctive fear.

Even then, before she had learned to wield it, there had been a wrongness to that power.

“You need to get out in the practice ring more, brother,” Cassian said, stretching one arm lazily behind his head. “You don’t want your mate finding any soft bits.”

Rhys’s mouth curved—too slow, too smug. “She never finds any soft bits when I’m around her.”

Azriel didn’t look up, only dragged a hand through his hair as he exhaled, long and silent. Of all the things he had no desire to hear—especially from Rhys.

Not when his own mating bond went unfulfilled.

He wondered if Rhys knew. If his brother had guessed it, sensed it. That Elara, silent and watchful and always one breath away from slipping through his fingers, was his mate. That every part of him had known it for longer than he’d dared to admit. He’d said nothing. She didn’t know.

And Azriel had no intention of breaking whatever strange, delicate rhythm they’d fallen into—not yet.

“Is Feyre going to kick your ass for what you said earlier?” Cassian asked, glancing at Rhys over the rim of his teacup.

“I already told the servants to clear out for the rest of the day. As soon as you take Nesta up to the House.” Rhys’s tone was casual, but his eyes cut briefly toward Azriel—just a flicker. The message was clear. Feyre wouldn’t be confronting him. Not today. Not while he intended to vanish again, back to the Moonstone Palace.

Back to Elara.

It grated more than Azriel liked to admit. Not Rhys’s decision to return, but the silence they kept between the three of them. That Cassian—who had stood beside Rhys through centuries—still knew nothing of the sister hidden away in the mountains. That Azriel himself had become part of that deception.

“I think the servants hear you two fighting plenty,” Cassian said with a grin, clearly pleased with himself.

“It’s not the fighting I don’t want them hearing,” Rhys muttered, still smirking.

Cassian snorted and rose to his feet, flexing his wings as if already preparing for the uphill flight. “Enjoy your non-fighting.”

“Cassian,” Rhys said, and his voice changed. No longer relaxed, no longer teasing. Cassian froze halfway to the door. He didn’t turn, but the shift in his spine was unmistakable. “You didn’t ask what bigger responsibilities I have for you.”

“I assume Nesta was big enough.”

Rhys gave a soft, breathless huff. Not quite amusement. Not quite disagreement. “You could be more.”

“I’m your general,” Cassian said. He did turn then, brows lifted, face schooled to nonchalance. “Isn’t that enough?”

Rhys looked at him for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then, softly, “Is it enough for you?”

Cassian didn’t answer. His expression didn’t shift, but the pause dragged too long. Azriel watched it happen—the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of uncertainty that crossed his features even as he tried to mask it. He still revealed everything in that face of his. Always had.

Rhys sat back in his chair. “You’re hesitating.”

Cassian said nothing.

“There are whispers again,” Rhys went on. “Az and I have reason to believe the human queens are scheming. Quietly. Carefully. But something is moving. I need you to look into it.”

Azriel lifted a brow at that—just the one, barely visible, but enough. He had assumed he would be the one handling it. If the human queens were stirring again, he should have been the one sent into the dark. That was his role as spymaster. His terrain.

You sure you want Cassian to do this? he asked silently, his eyes still on the closed door Cassian hadn’t yet walked through.

Rhys didn’t look at him, only sipped once more from his tea.

“What, are we doing some role reversal now?” Cassian drawled, his tone too casual as he slouched against the doorway. “Az gets to lead the Illyrians and I get to play spy?”

Rhys didn’t so much as blink. Azriel didn’t, either.

I need you here. With Elara. The words were sharp in his mind, clipped and unflinching. Right now, you're the one who's had the most interaction with her. She's more comfortable around you than me.

Azriel nearly snorted.

I wouldn’t say she’s comfortable. His voice was dry, resigned. Pretty sure she only tolerates me.

Rhys’s gaze finally flicked over to him, unreadable. “Don’t play stupid,” he said aloud, coolly, before his tone shifted—just slightly. “Azriel is juggling another issue that requires his full attention. I’m not dumping something else on him. This task will help you both.”

It’s more than she does with me. Rhys again, silent now—quieter, softer. The words carried something that made Azriel pause. Please. I can’t lose her again.

Azriel said nothing. He didn’t need to. The thought alone curled low in his chest—unwelcome, unwieldy. He didn’t want that, either. Not again.

“You want me to play spy?” Cassian asked, still standing at the threshold like it might spare him the weight of what Rhys was asking.

“There are other ways to glean information,” Rhys said. “Beyond peeking through keyholes and sneaking over rooftops. Az isn’t a courtier—he works in shadows. I need someone else standing in the open.”

Azriel didn’t argue. It was true. Cassian’s presence could be disarming when he wanted it to be. Blunt, honest, sometimes too brash for diplomacy—but no one could ever accuse him of being deceptive.

“Mor can fill you in,” Rhys continued, voice dipping into a low murmur as he leaned back in his chair. “She’ll be back from Valhallan sometime today.”

“I’m no courtier, either. You know that,” Cassian muttered.

“Scared?” Rhys asked, lips twitching.

Azriel didn’t miss the faint twitch of Cassian’s jaw.

“So I’m to deal with these queens,” Cassian said, “and train Nesta?”

Rhys didn’t answer right away. He only leaned back, the weight of the High Lord settling over him like a second skin. The room felt stiller for it.

“We’re in for a long few months, then.”

Rhys gave a faint nod. “We certainly are.”

He doesn’t know the half of it. Rhys’s voice in Azriel’s mind again, threaded with something heavier. Older.

Azriel only inclined his head. He doubted any of them did.

---

“Where is your Shadowsinger?”

The question slipped out between bites of rosemary bread, low and offhanded—casual. Or so she hoped it sounded.

Rhysand didn’t answer at first. His eyes flicked up from his plate, but not sharply. He was stirring something into his tea, honey or lemon, or perhaps just using the motion to give himself a moment before responding.

She shouldn’t have asked. She told herself that even as she shifted in her seat, leaning back slightly in the velvet chair that overlooked the quiet sprawl of the garden through tall glass. She didn’t care where Azriel had gone. Not really.

But she hadn’t seen him in days.

And somehow, after Rhysand left each day, it felt… different. The emptiness of the Moonstone Palace had always been there. But it had sharpened lately—echoed louder without either Rhysand’s or Azriel’s quiet presence nearby, without the occasional glance through the doorway, or the wordless tension that filled the space between them like smoke.

Especially now that Rhys came more often. Nearly every day since that first strained, halting conversation. Their lunches were no less awkward, but the silence had softened. The anger had dulled—at least on her end. It was strange to sit across from him and think brother and not feel the usual jolt of disgust. Stranger still to let that word begin to settle in her chest like something real.

“He was needed in Velaris,” Rhys said finally, not unkindly. “He’s helping me out. But he should be back in a few days.”

She nodded. Said nothing.

The wind outside shifted the high branches of a cypress tree, casting its long shadow across the floor. Her fork scraped faintly against porcelain as she pushed a roasted fig across her plate, not looking at him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, broken only by the delicate clink of silver and glass.

Then—Rhysand’s voice, lighter now. A smirk in the words before she even looked up. “Don’t tell me you might actually miss my spymaster.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. Her fingers stilled on the stem of her glass. She held his gaze for a breath longer than necessary—cool, quiet, unreadable.

But her pulse had stuttered. Just once. Enough for her to hate herself for it.

No, she absolutely did not miss him.

The thought settled like ash in the back of her mind, light and bitter. She hadn’t meant anything by it, the question, just… curiosity. That was all. A passing interest in the routines of the male who always seemed to be lingering at the edge of her awareness. The one who vanished like smoke the moment she thought she might grow used to his presence.

It wasn’t missing, not truly. She had more important things to think about than Azriel’s whereabouts. More urgent matters than the shadows that occasionally brushed along her peripheral vision. She needed time alone. Needed space to think. That was the truth of it—wasn’t it?

Because every quiet hour stretched long enough for her to think about Dorothye. About the way the young girl’s voice had broken when she made her promise. About the females—girls, some of them—who had vanished before they ever had a chance.

She hadn’t forgotten them. She just had to find a way to help—whatever that looked like now.

Still, when Rhysand smirked and asked if she missed his spymaster, the lie came too easily.

“Hardly,” she said, scoffing softly as she reached for her water. “Just surprised you let my jailer have the nights off.”

She meant it to be light. A joke, or something close to it. It was the sort of thing she might’ve said to Arnulf—dry and cutting, but with enough edge to draw a huff of amusement.

But the words hung strangely in the air between them. Off-kilter. Tilted wrong.

The scrape of her chair cut through the open air like a blade dragged slow over stone.

She didn’t glance back as she rose. Didn’t soften the movement or smooth the harsh edge of her departure. Let him sit there with his folded hands and unreadable silence. Let the warmth drain from the table between them like the untouched tea cooling in its cup.

Whatever fragile thing they’d been building—over breakfast, over forced conversation, over those brief flickers of shared blood and almost-recognition—fractured in the space of a single misstep. One offhand comment, poorly timed, and it was gone.

She made it three steps before something in her stalled. It wasn’t guilt. She knew guilt, had lived with it pressed under her skin like rot for too long. This was quieter. Heavier.

She turned.

He hadn’t moved.

Rhysand still sat at the table, his long fingers steepled before his mouth, elbows planted as if bracing himself. His gaze held fast to the empty doorway—as if he’d known she wouldn’t leave. As if he’d counted on it.

“Am I your prisoner?” she asked.

The words came out soft. Not accusatory. Not sharp-edged like they had been minutes ago. Just… tired.

His mouth opened, then closed. But he gave no answer.

And that was answer enough.

Her arms folded tight across her chest. She could feel her heartbeat between her ribs.

“I get it,” she said. “You don’t trust me.”

His eyes dipped slightly, lashes catching the light. She saw the faint shift in his jaw. A flicker of something—regret? Doubt? It was impossible to tell. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t hatred. And somehow, that made it worse.

She could have walked away. She almost did. Could have turned, left him there with his silence and his watchful eyes and all the unspoken things thick between them.

But she didn’t want to wear that coldness again. Not right now. Not with him.

She exhaled, steadying herself on the breath. Shallow, but enough.

“Then look,” she said. “In my mind. If you want answers—if that’s what this is about—look.”

She knew what he’d find. Knew it wasn’t clean, wasn’t easy. But she was too tired to keep circling this same pit. Too tired to pretend she didn’t care.

His head snapped up. His stare caught hers, sharp and searching.

“I’m serious,” she added, when he didn’t move. “I thought you would’ve done it already. You’ve had plenty of chances.”

And maybe that was what had surprised her most. That he hadn’t. That he’d walked beside her in this very garden for days, tolerating the most painful awkward silences and stilted conversations—and never once tried to get past her walls.

Rhys stood at last, slowly, as if measuring the weight of every inch. He looked at her like someone trying to piece together a language long forgotten.

“I noticed you had a shield up,” he said, his voice unreadable. “That very first day. Even then, you were guarded. I didn’t try to get past it. I wouldn’t do that without permission.”

Her hands curled slightly at her sides. She hadn’t known he’d noticed. That he’d seen the shields. That he’d respected them.

“Then do it now,” she said.

He studied her like he didn’t quite believe her.

Not just her words—but the offer itself. As if waiting for the catch she hadn’t yet spoken, the snare hiding behind her teeth. His violet gaze didn’t soften, but it steadied, held hers in a silence that stretched long enough to make her pulse tick faster beneath her skin.

Then, finally, Rhysand nodded. A single, slow incline of his head.

“Just surface thoughts,” he said, his voice low, as if afraid to jolt the moment. “I won’t go into your memories. I won’t take anything.”

Elara gave the smallest of nods in return. Her body had gone rigid. She felt it down to the marrow—like every bone was bracing itself, coiled and waiting. Her hands clenched at her. Just to hold steady. Just to keep from folding under the instinct to run.

When it came—his touch, his power—it wasn’t what she expected.

Not like Dagdan. Not that cold, clawing grip that had scraped through her memories like rot peeling paint from a wall. Not that slow poison she’d been taught to call guidance. This was different. It was powerful, but it was light. A single talon dragging faintly across the surface of her mind.

She felt it brush up against her open shield.

Not slicing. Not forcing.

The instinct to slam the door shut nearly overwhelmed her. Her heart kicked hard once, then again, and her vision sharpened—colors too vivid, the air too loud. She kept breathing. Jaw tight, her spine locked straight, her knees half-bent without realizing. She did not flinch.

She let him in.

The release was deliberate. If he’d pushed even a little harder, she would’ve snapped the door closed in his face. But he didn’t. And so, carefully, she peeled it back—only enough to show him what she chose.

The snow came first.

A blanket of it, thick and unbroken, crusted along the boughs of ancient trees. Cold sunlight streaming between pine needles. The faint crunch of boots where silence had once ruled. She let him feel the rhythm of it—the stillness of her mornings in the woods, the long quiet hours spent tracking through the snow, her voice low as she explained how to tell which direction the deer had gone, how to step without a sound.

And then, Arnulf.

His grumbling. His laugh. That rough, infrequent bark that always surprised her. The way he complained about the cold, the long walks, the food—but always listened. She remembered how he’d stood too close when she showed him how to nock an arrow, how he’d sworn under his breath every time he missed, then grinned when he finally got it right. She let Rhysand feel that, too.

Then the kitchen.

Clotilda’s sharp voice, the warm crack of it as she directed them both around her narrow space. The scent of venison slow-cooking with thyme and roots. Steam clouding the windows. The old wood stove groaning in the wind. She gave him the shape of Dorothye at the hearth, sketchbook open across her lap, ink staining her fingers. The soft clink of wooden bowls. Her own awkward stirring at the pot while Clotilda barked corrections without ever looking up.

And underneath it all—that ache.

She hadn’t known what to call it at the time. Still didn’t. Just a quiet, burning thing in her chest that settled there each evening. That place had no silk, no ceremony, no magic wards—but for the first time in centuries, she had almost felt… whole.

She offered him that, too. Just a sliver of it.

She didn’t hesitate this time.

The memory unfolded clearly in her mind as she guided him through it—her focus tight, her hands clenched so hard at her sides that her nails bit into her skin. The alley had been narrow. Damp. She had kept to the shadows behind the tavern, pressed into the stone, her body still as the males laughed over their mugs and spoke too loudly about their plans for a place so quiet.

Then the shift, the next day—her knees on the wooden floor of Clotilda’s cottage. The way Dorothye’s pale fingers had clutched her sleeve, the tremble in her voice as she asked if Elara was ever coming back. Elara had looked the girl in the eye, rested both hands on her shoulders, and made the promise.

And when Rhys finally pulled back, the contact slipped away as softly as it had come. The pressure lifted—no pain, no wrenching force—just the absence of it. Like warm breath vanishing into cold air.

Elara didn’t move at first. She exhaled, slow and ragged, only then realizing her hands were shaking badly enough to sting. She resisted the urge to cradle them against her ribs.

She didn’t look at him. Not right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the table’s edge, on the place her cup had sat just minutes before. The silence stretched, but not the way it had before—not angry or cold. She needed a breath or two more. Just to pull herself back together.

Then Rhys spoke, his voice low, quieter than it had been since the moment he arrived. “You cared for them. A great deal.”

She nodded once, not trusting her voice to speak just yet. When she finally lifted her eyes to his, he wasn’t staring the way he had before—wasn’t dissecting her like a puzzle to solve. His brow had eased. The edges of his mouth had softened. The kind of expression someone wore when something inside them shifted.

“I didn’t expect what you showed me,” he said, and he wasn’t lying. “You were… happy there. At least for a while.”

She shrugged. The motion was slow, almost cautious. “It was the first time I felt like I wasn’t a weapon to be used by the King.”

Rhys’s face shifted—something subtle, but unmistakably softer than before.

“You’re not a weapon now either,” he said. His voice wasn’t polished or smooth, wasn’t trying to win her over. Just rough, low, and certain.

Elara’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile. Not even close. But her lips curved, slightly—tightly. “A prisoner, then.”

He stepped forward—not far, just a few careful paces into the space between them. His shoulders didn’t square in defense, and he didn’t puff his chest like others did when they wanted to appear less vulnerable. His power didn’t flare, though she could feel the might of it humming beneath his skin, restrained. Held back not because he was afraid she would run, but because he didn’t want to corner her.

“You’re my sister,” Rhys said, voice roughened with something that caught at the edge of his throat. “That’s what you are.”

She didn’t answer. Just stood there, arms still crossed, chin slightly raised as if that defiance might hold the pieces of her together.

He didn’t push. Just gestured with a slight tilt of his head toward the chairs behind him, murmuring, “Sit with me for a bit longer?”

The question hung there, suspended in the silence between them. She watched him for a moment longer, as if expecting some shift in his stance, some command hidden behind the softness of the request.

But he only waited.

Elara let out a shallow breath, and nodded.

The chair creaked beneath her as she sat again, the wood cool beneath her palms. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.  Rhys only poured another cup of tea, steam curling softly in the air as he set it in front of her. His movements were unhurried, easy in a way that made her feel like he wasn’t trying to choreograph the moment into something meaningful. He wasn’t watching her from the corner of his eye, waiting to see what she’d say or do.

And for the first time since she’d arrived in the Moonstone Palace, she didn’t feel like she was being assessed or evaluated, like every silence was a test and every movement was being measured.

She didn’t feel like she was under surveillance.

She just felt... seen.

Chapter 54

Just surprised you let my jailer have the nights off.

The words echoed in his skull—softly spoken, almost like a joke, but it hadn’t felt like one. Not to him.

Rhysand let out a breath and rubbed a hand along his jaw, the movement slow, distracted. His gaze fixed on the middle distance, on nothing in particular. He knew she hadn’t meant it cruelly. Knew it by the way her voice had dipped at the end, the way she hadn’t looked at him when she said it. But still—Mother above, it had hit him harder than it should have.

The whiskey glass in his other hand remained untouched on the rim. He wasn’t even sure why he’d poured it.

He sat on the couch in one of the River House's countless rooms, a fire snapping softly in the hearth. Feyre was tucked at his side, bare feet curled beneath her and a sketchbook resting across her thighs. She hadn’t touched it in a while, though. Not since he came home and sank into the cushions with that look on his face, the one she never commented on but always noticed.

His time with Elara that day had been—he didn’t know what word to use. Nice felt too simple, too fragile a word for what it was. It had been tense, at first. As most things with her were. But she’d let him in.

She had let him in.

That fact alone still pressed against his ribs, sharp as bone. He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t even truly wanted to—not at first. He’d been hesitant, wary of what it would mean to step into her mind. Wary of what had been done to her over the centuries. The idea of breaking past her defenses felt... wrong. So when she’d said it—Then do it now—he hadn’t believed she meant it.

But she had.

Rhys’s fingers tightened around the glass, the cut crystal biting into his palm. His thumb dragged slowly over the rim. He hadn’t needed to delve deep to know how many times her mind had been breached. He’d felt it in the way her power had reacted to his touch—tight, trembling, like something half-wild pressed into a corner. Her body had stayed still, but every line in her was coiled, every breath too careful.

And yet—she let him in anyway.

Feyre shifted slightly beside him, a gentle nudge of warmth.

What he saw in Elara’s mind… it hadn’t left him. Not even hours later, with the fire burning low and the River House quiet around him.

He’d expected resistance. For her to lash out again, like she always seemed to do the moment anyone got too close. He’d expected teeth. But there had been none. There had been fear—yes. A quiet, bone-deep fear that clung to her magic like mist. There had been exhaustion. Guilt. A weariness that lived in every memory she’d shown him, even the warm ones.

But not fear of him.

Rhys shifted his glass from one hand to the other, staring into the amber liquid without drinking. He’d seen her kneel in front of that girl—Dorothye—as she’d made an unshaking promise to return. He’d seen her stalk those males behind the tavern, not out of vengeance, but desperation. She’d wanted to stop what was happening. She’d been trying to stop it.

He’d seen the way she’d taught Arnulf to hunt, steady and unhurried, her voice quieter there than it ever was with him. He’d seen the kitchen light in Clotilda’s home, seen her hands chopping herbs she didn’t know the names for, her face caught somewhere between irritation and contentment as she stirred something she clearly didn’t want to admit she liked doing.

There had been no malice. No violence.

Only a female who had been running for far too long—and didn’t know how to stop.

And for all that—after the firelit memories she’d laid bare, after the weight of her trust as she’d opened her mind to him—she’d still called herself his prisoner.

Rhysand leaned his head back against the couch cushions and stared at the ceiling as if it might offer him some clarity. The glass in his hand was nearly empty, the warmth of the whiskey dulled now, more a comfort than a vice.

A small nudge to his thigh pulled him back from his thoughts. Feyre’s foot. Bare, pointed gently into his side with that soft insistence only she could manage.

“You’re brooding again,” she said, voice low but laced with knowing.

A dry huff of laughter escaped him. He dragged a hand down his face, letting his fingers stall at his jaw before dropping them to his knee. “She asked me if she was my prisoner.”

Feyre’s brow knit, her fingers still resting idly on her empty sketchpad. “And what did you say?”

“I didn’t.” The words slipped out too quietly. He glanced at the fire, its light flickering along the shelves. “I didn’t know what to say.”

That silence pressed in again. He welcomed it—deserved it. He’d never had the right answer for Elara. Not when they were young. Not now. Because the truth of it was shameful. He couldn’t let her leave. Not just because of the obvious—because of the history wrapped around her name, because if the other Courts learned who she truly was, what she had done for centuries, they would demand justice in blood. And they would not see shades of grey in her story.

But more than that, he didn’t want her to leave.

He’d told himself it was about safety. Politics. The larger war at play. The human queens were up to something, and a disunited Prythian was the last thing that anybody needed.

But deep down, in that quiet place he rarely let speak, Rhys knew he was being selfish.

He didn’t want her to run off again. Not back to that snowy forest. Not to that home she’d found without him. Not when he hadn’t been the one to help build it. He wanted her to stay. To belong, somehow. To want to belong. Here—with him. With her family.

She was his sister. He wanted to be her brother. And he’d never been one before.

Not to her.

Feyre watched him carefully, saying nothing. She waited, as she always did, until he was ready.

He stared down at the golden dregs in his glass. “She shared her mind with me,” he said finally. “Wanted me to see I could trust her.”

He tilted the glass, letting the liquid catch the firelight. “I saw where she lived. What she built for herself.”

Feyre’s gaze lifted.

“A boy named Arnulf,” Rhys went on. His voice had softened, something quieter threading into it now. “Fierce little thing. She taught him how to hunt. I could hear her—calm, patient, even when he kept doing it wrong.” He paused. “And a girl. Dorothye.”

He tapped the edge of Feyre’s untouched sketchpad with one knuckle. “She liked to draw.”

Feyre’s eyes widened slightly, her lips parting just a little.

Rhys let out a slow breath. “They were just strangers. But she protected them. Ate with them. Made jokes.”

He looked back at the fire, jaw shifting as the memory stirred something strange in his chest. Not quite grief. Not quite longing. A deep, unfamiliar ache.

“I hadn’t thought she’d be able to do that.” His voice was nearly a whisper. “Not after everything.”

He didn’t say what else he’d seen. The steady flicker of joy in those brief, ordinary moments. The laughter she hadn’t even realized she was giving them. The way her hand had lingered on the back of the boy’s shoulder, protective, instinctive. The way her eyes had softened at the sound of Dorothye’s voice.

And he didn’t say how much it hurt, knowing that kind of life had never existed for her here. Not with him. Not with any of them.

“There was no hatred in her,” Rhysand murmured, the words slow, like they were still forming as he spoke them aloud for the first time. “She was afraid. Guarded. But not cruel. Just… tired.” His voice thinned, not with uncertainty, but with something older—worn-down certainty. “Tired of hurting people. Tired of running.”

The fire in front of them had started to settle into embers, casting the River House living room in low, flickering gold. He leaned back into the cushions, the hand not holding his empty glass draped loosely over his knee. His gaze stayed far off, as if still looking at her—at the fractured edges of her mind she’d so carefully held open for him.

“And she let me in,” he said after a long moment, his voice lower now. “No fight. No pushing. Just… opened her mind and let me see.” His jaw shifted, throat working around a thought he hadn’t quite managed to say aloud. “I don’t think I deserved that.”

Feyre leaned in gently, resting her shoulder against his. She didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. Her voice was soft but steady. “Maybe she should come here. To Velaris. Being in a city she loved so much... it could be good for her.”

He didn’t respond right away. He wanted that. Stars, he wanted it more than he could admit. But the thought of bringing Elara into the heart of his Court—into this house, now, when everything felt like it might shift at any moment—he hesitated. His gaze drifted downward.

His hand moved to Feyre’s stomach, barely brushing the fabric there. A gesture without thought, deeply instinctual. Protective in a way that bypassed logic.

“But—”

Feyre’s other hand found his. Slipped over it, firm and grounding. She squeezed, fingers cool against the back of his knuckles. “Bring her to the House of Wind.”

His head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing as they met hers. Not questioning her—just surprised.

Feyre’s expression softened, but there was a sadness there too, something lingering behind the brave front. “I’m not going up there anyway,” she said quietly, her thumb still brushing against his hand. “Not with…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Not with Nesta there.

Feyre’s voice steadied again. “But Elara should be there. That was her home once.”

It struck him harder than it should have—was. Not is. As if Elara had belonged there once, and now... now he wasn’t quite sure. He nodded slightly, just once. But the question he needed to ask came out anyway, rougher than he intended. “What about Nesta?”

Feyre’s lips pressed together, her jaw tightening just enough that he noticed. He knew she had tried—with Nesta, with all of them. And he knew how much it cost her to keep trying. To keep pretending that what Nesta did—what she said about Feyre had become—didn’t affect her.

Not that he cared particularly what Nesta thought. But he cared what it did to Feyre. And if Elara’s presence upset that balance, he would not risk it.

Feyre let out a breath, the sound soft against the hush of the dying firelight. Her head tipped gently onto his shoulder, fitting there like it had a thousand times before. “Probably not well. At first.”

Rhys didn’t answer. They both knew it was true. Elara and Nesta—neither of them had softened their edges, not really. There would be blood in the water the moment they crossed paths.

Feyre’s fingers slid over his hand before she shifted, pulling back just enough to study him. Her hair had fallen forward, brushing his chest as her gaze lifted to his. “But maybe it could be good for her too. Letting go of some of that anger. Facing the past.”

Rhys stared into the fire.

A deep ache spread in his chest. Guilt, still too fresh to carry easily. But laced through it, threading like silver through ash, was hope. Something hesitant and quiet—but there.

He let out a breath, the motion barely audible. “She’ll have to choose it,” he said at last, voice low. “I’m not forcing her. Not again.”

Feyre’s mouth curved—soft, but not without its edge. There was a kind of understanding in her eyes that only came from having lived through it herself. “Ask her, then.”

Rhys nodded once, eyes fixed on the flames—but his mind was already far away.

---

The fire had burned low in the grate, little more than a dull glow casting flickering shadows across the war room floor.

Azriel stood at the far window, arms crossed, shoulder braced against the carved frame. His wings were folded tight, the flicker of candlelight catching along the curve of his siphons. He didn’t look away from the storm forming over the Sidra.

Behind him, papers rustled. The long table was strewn with maps and correspondence, some of them curled at the corners, marked with hasty notes in Rhys’s familiar hand.

Cassian’s boots scraped faintly over stone as he dropped into the chair nearest the hearth, the lines of his armor dulled by ash and wind. His shoulder looked stiff—he hadn’t removed the pauldron since returning, and by the angle of his jaw, his journey to the human lands had not been an easy one.

Across from him, Rhys sat in silence, fingertips pressed together, unreadable.

Cassian blew out a slow breath, then got to it. “Briallyn’s moving again.”

His voice was clipped, unamused. The kind of tone he rarely used unless something had gone truly wrong.

“Jurian thinks she’s been reaching out—working with someone other than the other human queens. Vassa thinks she’s working with someone stronger now. Someone who’s been helping her behind the scenes.”

Rhys didn’t move, but Azriel saw the minute shift in his eyes.

Cassian hesitated. “Some of Eris’s soldiers have gone missing too. On patrol near the border.”

That got Azriel to turn. “No bodies?”

Cassian shook his head. “Nothing. It was like they just vanished. Eris said that they had returned to the Autumn Court strange and… different than before.”

Azriel tilted his head, “Returned from where?”

“Meeting with Briallyn,” Cassian said, his gaze flicking from Azriel to Rhys. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the wooden armrest, “Eris sent them to accompany Beron.”

“Beron is working with Briallyn?” Azriel asked, turning from his spot at the window and moving closer to Rhys’ desk. He took a seat next to Cassian, “Fuck.”

Rhys, for his part, rubbed at his temples, “You probably should have led with that bit of information.”

Cassian raked a hand over his jaw, “Shit. Sorry, I’m a general, not one of your spies. It all seems important. And Vassa… she think’s it’s all connected. That Briallyn’s not acting alone anymore. That she’s working with Koschei.”

The name landed like a dropped blade. Azriel’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look at Rhysand, didn’t need to.

Cassian kept going. “Vassa didn’t say much more. But the way she said his name—she’s scared.”

The room went quiet. Azriel shifted his weight, moving toward the table. The shadows at his back curled low, drawn to the shift in his mood. His eyes passed over the map—lines drawn from the Autumn border, another sweeping east toward the continent. To where Koschei was imprisoned.

Azriel exhaled, low and steady. “We knew something wasn’t right with the queens. The way they vanished after the war. The silence since.”

Cassian frowned. “You think Koschei’s been working with them all this time?”

Rhys shifted in his seat, breaking the silence with a voice that was too calm. Too measured. “Koschei is still confined to his lake.”

Cassian let out a breath that was more of a grunt, shifting in his seat. His eyes moved between the two of them. “How the hell does a death god speak across a continent?”

Neither of them answered right away.

Azriel’s jaw flexed.

He didn’t hear Rhys speak aloud. The voice slipped straight into him, past his mental shields. Do you think he’s the one Elara heard about? The Death God responsible for the missing females on the Continent?

Azriel stilled. Not at the question—but at how neatly it fit.

He could still see her face in the flickering candlelight that night. The set of her jaw. The quiet, careful way she’d told him what she had heard at that tavern.  That flicker of fear she’d tried to hide, so subtle most wouldn’t have noticed.

She hadn’t known his name. Had only heard him called the death god.

And that had been the reason she went to the Day Court. She’d been looking for information, had sought out Helion’s libraries on her own.

Azriel’s throat tightened. It could be him.

It made sense. There weren’t many death gods left. The ones that Azriel knew about had been trapped, magic bound in the prison.

Cassian shifted again, muttering something under his breath. His gauntlet dragged across the edge of the table as he leaned forward. “We need to figure out who Briallyn’s been talking to. And how. If Koschei’s been communicating from his lake, he’s a bigger threat than we thought.”

His eyes flicked to Rhysand, jaw hard. “We can’t leave this unchecked.”

The High Lord didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was quiet—but absolute. “Look into Briallyn. Quietly. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

Azriel met his gaze, just once. Then nodded. “I’ll start tonight.”

---

The light slanted low across the floor—thin, pale, and cold, catching on the ridges of old wood and the seams between stone. The wind beyond the mountains had shifted. She could smell it, faint and sharp, threading beneath the door, pressing at the windows. Rain coming. Maybe snow.

Elara sat near the glass, spine pressed to the hard back of the chair, one leg hooked over the other. Her arms hung loosely over her lap, fingers unmoving. She wasn’t reading. Wasn’t thinking, not really. Just watching the way the clouds passed, slow and flat, stretching over the peaks.

There was a soft knock at her door, breaking her from her thoughts.

She didn’t answer.

The door opened anyway.

She didn’t move as he stepped in. Rhysand closed the door behind him with the kind of care that felt deliberate—too quiet. Like he didn’t want to disturb something already fraying.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, taking in the room.

Her travel pack still sat untouched by the vanity, sealed tight. She was still living out of it, putting her clothes back in the pack at night, when they appeared clean and neatly folded on her bed. Nothing on the table. No fire in the hearth.

“Still not unpacking, I see,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him. “Didn’t seem necessary.”

It was true, in a way. She had so little to her name, she was wearing the same clothes that she had on the Continent. She had so little, compared to the space in this room. She wouldn’t take up space in the wardrobe, not with her meager things.

Rhys didn’t argue.

He stayed near the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. She could feel the weight of his attention without having to see it. That familiar stillness—calm on the surface, but too focused to be relaxed. Her fingers drifted down, curling over the blanket folded across her lap. She hadn’t meant to grip it, but the fabric bunched beneath her palm as if drawn there by instinct. She only noticed when her knuckles turned pale.

The silence between them settled again. She let it.

“How’s the view?” he asked after a while. His voice was quieter this time, nearly lost in the hush of the wind beyond the glass. His eyes remained fixed on the window, as if he were too nervous to look at her.

Elara didn’t turn her head. Her gaze stayed pinned to the mountains beyond the glass—pale sunlight dragged across the ridgelines, fractured by passing clouds. She had counted every summit. Memorized the angles of every distant cliff face, the way light curved across them at different hours. It hadn’t been beautiful in days.

She shifted slightly in the chair, crossing her arms again.

“Starting to get sick of it, if I’m honest,” she said, her tone flat. She exhaled through her nose, slow. Her fingers tapped once against the armrest, then went still.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and steady, eyes tracing the slope of the westernmost peak as it began to darken.

“Same view, every damn hour. For Cauldron knows how long.”

The door clicked shut behind her. She heard the shift of weight—a body leaning against wood.

“That’s fair,” Rhys said eventually. “You don’t have to like it. Or stay.”

That made her turn. Eyes meeting his across the small, dim room. He stood at an angle against the narrow table, hands still tucked into his pockets like he didn’t trust what they might do if they were left free.

You don’t have to stay. The words hit harder than she wanted them to. Her heart gave a traitorous beat—sharp and fast, like it hadn’t known it was waiting to hear something like that. She straightened slightly in the chair.

“You changing your mind about the wards?” she asked, keeping her tone clipped. But her pulse was still rising. Fast, foolish hope crawling its way up her throat.

For a breath, she thought he might say yes.

“No,” he said, voice even. “Just offering options.”

The chill settled back into her ribs.  She looked away again, fingers curling into the fabric draped over her legs.

Rhys’s voice softened, careful now. “I need Azriel to look into something abroad. And I don’t want you alone here.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned her face toward the window again. The sun had nearly dipped below the peaks. Gold flickered faintly along the glass edge, fractured.

“You could come to Velaris,” he said. “For a while.”

Her eyes stayed on the mountains, but her thoughts stilled.

“You want to put me in the city?”

He went on, quieter. “Not the city. The House of Wind. It’s… empty right now. For the most part.”

The House of Wind. Her breath caught—not sharply, just enough to make her ribs draw tight.

She hadn’t thought of it in centuries. Not since the night her world split clean down the middle. It had been taken from her, like every other memory that Dagdan ripped away. But, now, she remembered it. Not the rooms or the staircases, not the stone or the breeze off the mountain ledges. Just the fact of it. That once, long ago, she had lived there.

Elara didn’t turn her head. Just lifted a brow. “And Feyre?”

The question tasted strange. Too personal. But she hadn’t been able to keep it down. That world her brother had built—the mate, the court, the fact that he was now High Lord—it still didn’t feel like something she was meant to witness, let alone step into. She wasn’t angry. But there was a quiet unease curled beneath her ribs. A vague, sour awareness that she didn’t quite fit into that version of him.

Rhysand’s mouth tightened, but only just. “She offered. Said the House is still yours as much as it is ours.”

Her face didn’t change, but her posture shifted. A barely-there tightening of her spine, a small curl of fingers against the blanket draped across her knees. “I haven’t set foot in it since…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Which is why I thought you might want to.”

Elara didn’t answer. Her eyes slid back to the window, to the way the clouds caught the last light. Her reflection stared back faintly in the glass. Not the girl who had once walked those halls. Not the female who had laughed on those stairs, or curled up in that little reading room near the second landing with a stolen peach and scraped knees.

Whoever that had been, she had vanished centuries.

“I’m not pressuring you,” Rhys said after a stretch of silence. His voice was low, but steady. “I just wanted you to know you have the choice.”

The choice. The word clung to her like dust. How many choices had she been given over the years? Not many. And even now, stuck in this palace with the wards preventing her from leaving… what choice did she truly have here?

She studied the hazy outlines of the hills. “And what happens if I say no?”

He lifted a shoulder in that casual, deliberate way of his. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow and pretend we didn’t have this conversation.”

A soft breath escaped her. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. She didn’t smile. But something loosened in her chest. A small knot that had sat curled in the center of her like a stone. Then, quietly, she said, “All right. I’ll come. I’ll… try.”

Rhys stood slowly, careful not to disturb whatever fragile thread now hung between them. “I’ll let the House know to start getting ready for you.”

She watched him move toward the door. His footsteps were a little bit lighter, as if he had been nervous to pose the offer, and now was relieved that she had agreed.  Just before he reached it, she said, barely above a whisper, “You’re different than I remember.”

He turned, just enough to meet her eyes. “So are you.”

And then he left, the door closing behind him with a soft click. Elara stared at the place where he’d been. Then, slowly, turned back to the window.

The mountains hadn’t moved. The sun kept sliding behind the peaks. But the air in the room felt different now. Heavier. Or lighter. She couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she’d said yes. That tomorrow, something would change.

And she wasn’t entirely sure if that terrified her or not.

---

Azriel arrived first, like he always did, taking up his usual post against the far wall.

The shadows curled faintly at his boots—quiet, restless things that moved as if listening for the shift of sound beneath the stone. He didn’t speak. His arms were crossed, his eyes fixed on the door. There was no tension in his body, but the alertness was there in the set of his shoulders, the way his head tilted just slightly at each creak of floorboard beyond the threshold.

He already knew what was coming. Rhysand had asked him to be here. Not to speak, not yet. Just to be present—steady. That alone had told him enough. Rhys didn’t want to do this alone.

Feyre sat near the hearth, posture neat, composed in that way she got when her mind was already racing ahead of the room. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her thumb kept brushing against her other fingers in a rhythm Azriel had learned to notice. She glanced at him once, briefly, as if checking to see if he felt it too—the pressure in the air, from what hadn’t been said yet.

Cassian slouched into a chair opposite her, all easy limbs and half-smirked charm. But Azriel noted the flicker of his eyes—the way they moved across the room, slow and careful. He’d been on alert since that first day with Nesta, and Azriel was certain that things hadn’t gotten easier yet.

Mor entered a breath later, arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn’t sit. Just leaned her shoulder against the far bookcase and stared at the floor with a look too carefully blank to be anything but intentional. Azriel couldn’t say that he was surprised to see that she made the journey back from Valhallan to be here. Rhys wanted his cousin here for this, did not want her to be the last to know.

Then Amren. Quiet, gliding. She didn’t say anything, didn’t blink. Just took in the room with a glance that seemed to catalog everything at once—the stiffness in Feyre’s spine, the way Cassian’s hand tightened once around the arm of his chair, how Azriel hadn’t moved from his place in the shadows.

Cassian cleared his throat and sat forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “All right, Rhys. You’ve gathered us all here like some brooding bastard with a secret—so what is it? You finally get that haircut we’ve all been praying for?”

His grin was broad, easy—but Azriel saw the way he flicked a glance toward their High Lord.

Rhysand didn’t smile. He remained standing, feet planted shoulder-width apart, his hands loose at his sides. He didn’t pace, didn’t ease into it.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, voice low. “And I’m asking you to listen before you react.”

Azriel’s eyes stayed on Cassian. He saw the slight shift—his brother straightening, even as the humor lingered in his expression. Mor lifted her chin, brows narrowing slightly. Amren blinked once. Feyre’s gaze snapped to Rhysand, and she gave them the slightest supportive nod.

Rhys didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe, it seemed, for a beat.

“Elara is alive.”

The words dropped like a stone into the silence.

Even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackling dimmed beneath the weight that settled in the room. Feyre didn’t move, though her eyes had locked on Rhys’s face. Mor just stared, unmoving, the color draining from her face by slow degrees. Cassian sat like a statue in his chair, the line of his jaw clenched so tightly Azriel could see it twitch from across the room. Amren’s head tilted by a fraction, lips parting.

“That’s not possible,” Mor said, the words thin and reedy, stripped of her usual confidence.

Rhys didn’t waver. His face was like stone—expression carved, unflinching. “It is,” he said, and the words carried a gravity that left no space for argument. “I’ve seen her. She’s at the Moonstone Palace.”

Mor shook her head, but it was slow, dazed, like she hadn’t quite heard him right. “You burned her body.”

Azriel spoke before the silence could stretch again. His voice was quiet, steady. “No. We didn’t.”

Three heads turned toward him. Sharp, immediate. Shock flickered across Mor’s face—fury trailing behind it, rising in her eyes like a storm cloud gathering. Amren’s stare narrowed, and Cassian leaned forward, every muscle in his body tense and coiled.

Azriel didn’t look at them. His gaze stayed fixed on a point just over Cassian’s shoulder, somewhere beyond the firelight. “Whoever’s head was burned that day… it wasn’t hers. She was taken. By Hybern. Given to Dagdan.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “He used his daemati powers to wipe her mind. Piece by piece. He made her into something else. Someone else.”

Mor took a step back, one hand bracing against the bookshelf behind her as if she needed something to hold on to. The blood had completely drained from her face now, her mouth slightly open.

Rhys’s voice came next, lower this time. Quieter, but no less brutal. “He renamed her. Trained her. Controlled her.”

He looked directly at Cassian. Then at Mor. “You knew her by another name. Munin.”

The silence that followed was worse than the first.

Cassian’s chair scraped violently across the floor as he surged to his feet. The sound cut through the stillness like a blade. “That’s not—” His voice cracked, and he didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t seem to know how.

His hands opened and closed at his sides. He looked at Rhysand as if he didn’t recognize him.

Mor’s hand trembled on the bookshelf. She shook her head once, hard. “Munin,” she whispered. Her voice sounded broken. “That was Elara?”

Rhys only nodded. His face hadn’t softened.

Azriel met Mor’s gaze across the firelight. Her eyes, normally so sharp, so full of that familiar glinting mischief or contempt—were flat now. Hollowed. As if something in her had been scooped out.

“She didn’t know who she was when she was doing those things,” he said quietly. “Dagdan made sure of it.”

The words tasted wrong in his mouth. Too small to hold the weight they carried. But they were all he had.

Amren didn’t blink. “For how long?”

Rhys didn’t flinch. “Since the day she vanished,” he said. “For centuries.”

Cassian exhaled roughly, the sound catching in his throat. “We thought she was dead.” His voice broke on the last word, and he didn’t try to cover it. “We left her with Hybern for five hundred years.”

Azriel said nothing. He didn’t move. Just watched the subtle collapse of the people he had spent five hundred watching mourn Elara. Watched them unravel at the seams, one by one.

Rhys pressed forward, but even his voice had gentled. “She did terrible things,” he said. “But she was made to. Broken down. Rebuilt. She didn’t have a choice.”

“She’s trying now,” Feyre said quietly. Her hand still rested on Rhys’s knee, fingers curled loosely. “She’s not that weapon anymore.”

“And how long have you known?” Mor’s voice cracked like flint. It wasn’t sharp, not exactly—but there was something in it that scorched.

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “A few months. Since the last battle with Hybern.”

Mor blinked once, slow. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.” He didn’t mention the bargain, the one that bound him from speaking about her. Rhys had been the one to tell them, not him. It was as if the magic had recognized that, and allowed him to speak. But Azriel’s answer didn’t soothe her. If anything, her mouth tightened further, color blooming high on her cheekbones. She turned away before she could say anything else.

Cassian let out a slow breath and ran a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes like he could force back the headache building there. Mor began pacing, arms crossed so tightly across her chest it looked like she was holding herself together by force alone.

Amren stood.

She didn’t speak, didn’t glance at anyone, didn’t let the door slam. She just left—quiet as smoke. Vanishing like she’d never been there at all.

Mor walked to the window. Her shoulders were stiff, her back rigid. She didn’t look out—didn’t look at anyone. Just stood there, the dying light painting her gold and red.

Cassian stayed in his chair, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames. His knuckles were white.

Rhys cleared his throat. The sound cut through the room like a blade scraping across stone. He remained composed—posture straight, voice even—but there was something flat in it now, something dulled at the edges.

“She’s agreed to come to Velaris.”

Cassian straightened. The shift in his body was quiet, but unmistakable. Like a soldier bracing for orders he didn’t want to follow.

“When?” His voice held no anger. Just a low, wary kind of surprise.

Rhys didn’t hesitate. “Tomorrow.”

Another silence followed—thicker than the last. Mor’s head turned sharply toward him, the curve of her jaw taut. Her face gave nothing away, but her gaze tracked every movement Rhys made, like she might be able to read the unspoken words between his teeth.

“She’ll be staying at the House of Wind,” Rhys said, his gaze flicking to Feyre for half a second, almost instinctively.

Cassian inhaled sharply, the breath catching. He didn’t speak right away. Just stared at the floor for a beat, then lifted his eyes.

“The House? But we…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Rhys’s tone didn’t shift. “She grew up there. It’s the only place she remembers, she wouldn’t know the townhouse or the river house. Feyre and I agreed it made sense.”

Feyre nodded beside him. She hadn’t spoken since before the storm broke, but her silence hadn’t been passive. Her hand was still on Rhys’s knee, a small, steadying touch. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes were glassy. Not weak—just too full of knowing.

The fire cracked softly in the hearth. The sound barely registered. Cassian stared into the flames, like they might burn through the knot in his chest if he just looked long enough. Shadows flickered across his face. Lines that hadn’t been there yesterday seemed etched deeper now.

“And what about Nesta?” he asked finally, his voice low, rough around the edges. “She’s not going to take this well.”

Rhys didn’t blink. “She doesn’t have to,” he said. “She just has to deal with it. Elara isn’t a threat. Not anymore. She’s not going to fight Nesta, she’s not looking for war.” He paused. “But I won’t have Nesta push her back into a corner she just barely crawled out of.”

Cassian’s fingers curled around the arm of his chair. Slow, tight. He didn’t look at anyone as he spoke again.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“You’ll do more than that,” Rhys said, his voice still level, but colder now. “You’ll make sure the House is safe for Elara. You’ll make sure Nesta knows it too.”

Cassian didn’t argue. He only nodded again, slower this time. His jaw shifted, like he was holding something back.

Mor finally turned from the window. She didn’t cross the room, didn’t lean into the fight like she usually might. Her arms were still crossed, but the tightness in them had eased—replaced with something quieter. Conflicted. Her voice, when it came, was cool but not sharp.

“And what about the rest of us, Rhys?” Her eyes didn’t leave his. “Are we expected to pretend she didn’t—?”

“No.” The word cut cleanly through the space. Rhys didn’t raise his voice, but the command in it silenced the room again. “You don’t have to pretend. You just have to remember what was done to her.”

He looked at Cassian as he said it—watched him wrestle with it, the memories twisting behind his eyes. The years of mourning. The face of a girl they’d all thought had died in the Illyrian mountains. They hadn’t known her well back then, not truly. She’d had her own life, one that even Rhys was barely a part of.

But her loss had still gutted each of them.

Mor’s expression shifted—just slightly. Not anger. Not yet. Just a tight disbelief curling at the edge of her words. “They still tell stories about Munin in Valhallan. She killed people,” she said, stepping away from the window, her gaze bouncing between Rhys and Azriel. “She hunted them.”

Azriel spoke before he could stop himself. “She didn’t know who she was.”

The moment the words left him, Mor’s eyes snapped to his. Her mouth parted—surprise flickering across her face before the disbelief hardened again. “And you believe that excuses it?”

“No,” Azriel said, his tone sharper now. “But I believe it explains it.”

Rhys didn’t intervene. He didn’t step between them, didn’t soothe the edge of it. He only watched—eyes steady, shoulders squared—as his court cracked and shifted.

“She’s my sister,” he said quietly. “She’s broken. But she’s trying.”

That silenced everything. No one answered him. Not Mor, not Cassian, not Feyre or Azriel. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting soft orange light across the floor. It was only after the silence had stretched too long, too thin, that Cassian finally rose.

He nodded once, not quite looking at anyone.

“I’ll handle Nesta,” he said. Then turned toward the door.

Chapter 55

Notes:

Oh wow! We have now hit 300k words, which, I'm not going to lie, is a pretty big deal for me. This is the longest thing I've ever written, so HUGE thank you to everyone who has kept reading up until this point. And especially to those who leave comments. Honestly, I appreciate all of you, and you guys convinced me to keep going when I thought I might have abandoned this story. And now look at it! 300k+ words!

Also, part of this chapter took some dialogue from ACOSF - I used the dialogue but am telling the scene from Az' POV.

Azriel and Cassian were in the middle of a conversation when Nesta entered the dining room.

She moved with a stiffness he hadn’t seen in a long while—arms loose at her sides but shoulders pulled taut, chin lifted in that familiar, untouchable way. Still, she limped just slightly as she crossed to the table, as if her body hadn’t yet caught up with her pride.

“How long will you be gone?” Cassian asked, already halfway through a plate of roasted potatoes and what looked like thick slabs of ham, his mouth full enough to muffle the words.

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His hands were braced against the back of a chair, eyes still tracking Nesta as she sat. Slowly. Carefully. She didn’t so much as glance in their direction.

“I’m not sure,” he said at last, dragging his gaze back to Cassian. “Vassa was right to suspect something deadly amiss. Things are dangerous enough over there that it would be wiser for me to keep my base here at the House and winnow back and forth.”

He didn’t mention how every instinct in him curled tight at the thought of leaving. How his shadows stirred uneasily at the idea of putting distance between himself and the female at the Moonstone Palace. The one who would soon be here. At the House of Wind. He would be needed across the sea. But Elara was here. And she was—

He wanted to be here for her.

“What did Rhys say about it?” Cassian asked, stabbing at another mouthful of food with the indifference of someone who already knew the answer.

Azriel exhaled through his nose. “Who do you think insisted I not risk a base over there?”

Cassian snorted. “Protective bastard.”

There was amusement in the words, but the edge beneath them said he understood. That he hadn’t missed the reason Rhysand wanted Azriel close. Rhys would be checking in every time he could, certainly—but if Elara began to unravel again, if she slipped further from the quiet progress she’d made—Rhys wouldn’t be the one to find her first.

It would be Azriel.

A beat passed in silence. Azriel reached for the glass of water that had magically replaced the wine at his place setting, lifting it to his mouth before the weight of movement drew his attention again. Nesta shifted in her seat. Her fork scraped against the plate, slow and deliberate.

That’s when he really looked at her.

The bruising bloomed across the edge of her jaw, an ugly shadow curling down her throat. Her eye was still faintly swollen, the skin beneath it tinged with yellow and violet. Her lip had nearly healed, but he could still see the cut that had split it.

“What happened to you?”

Nesta didn’t look up from her meal. Her voice was flat. “Nothing.”

Cassian didn’t flinch. “She fell down the stairs.”

Azriel’s gaze drifted from Nesta to Cassian, slow and assessing. He saw it then—how Cassian was deliberately looking at the hearth. At the window. At anything except her. As if he couldn’t bear to look at her hurt.

Azriel’s voice came low. “Did someone push you?”

“Asshole,” Cassian muttered under his breath, sitting back in his chair with a huff before pointing his fork across the table at Nesta. “I told her earlier today, if she bothered to train, she’d at least have bragging rights for the bruises.”

Nesta didn’t rise to it. She cut another bite of her food, gaze focused on the task like it required her full attention.

Neither of them said anything more, and Cassian didn’t seem eager to elaborate. But something had happened. Not just the bruises, but the way she held herself—guarded, strained.

Azriel lifted the glass of water to his lips, the rim cool against his mouth. The shadows curled low around his shoulders, more curious than tense, watching as Nesta’s fork paused midair. Her jaw was set, her eyes sharp despite the bruising. She hadn’t spoken since sitting down.

“Why aren’t you training, Nesta?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t look at him. “I don’t want to.”

He set the glass back down, slowly. “Why not?”

Her shrug was slight—barely there. But Cassian noticed it too. He made a sound low in his throat and muttered, “Don’t waste your breath, Az.”

Azriel didn’t flinch. His gaze remained on Nesta, the angles of her face stonelike, tired. The bruises along her jaw had darkened since this morning.

Nesta turned to Cassian then, lips curling. “I am not training in that miserable village.”

There it was. That tone—cut glass and vinegar. The same one she used whenever someone touched a nerve. Azriel had seen it enough times to know that it wasn’t indifference she wore—it was armor. It reminded him so much of someone else he knew.

Cassian leaned forward, shoulders tight, jaw flexing once before he bit out, “You’ve been given an order. You know the consequences. If you don’t get off that fucking rock by the end of this week, what happens next is out of my hands.”

Azriel watched Nesta’s spine stiffen. Her fingers twitched around the handle of her knife.

“So you’ll tattle to your precious High Lord?” she sneered, her voice like steel dragging across stone. “Big tough warrior needs oh-so-powerful Rhysand to fight his battles?”

Azriel’s teeth clicked together. He said nothing, didn’t even blink, but something flared hot in his chest. His shadows coiled tighter. She didn’t know. She had no idea what Rhys had endured. What it cost him to bear the weight he carried—what it still cost him now, just to walk into this house and face what was left of Elara. Rhys was not perfect, but Nesta wielded her loathing like a blade. She didn’t understand the damage it could do when flung carelessly.

“Don’t you fucking talk about Rhys with that tone,” Cassian snapped, rising half out of his chair.

“Rhys is an asshole,” she spat, unbothered by the heat in Cassian’s voice. “An arrogant, preening asshole.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He could feel it brewing—something colder and sharper than anger. Because it wasn’t just Rhys she’d be hurling this at when Elara arrived. She’d find a way to lash out at her too.

Elara, who would be walking into a house already full of ghosts. Who had spent centuries hollowed out by control, and who barely spoke some days. She would come here, trying—and this is what she’d find waiting.

“That’s bullshit,” Cassian growled, and Azriel saw it—the flare of red siphons sparking like embers over his hands. “You know that is bullshit, Nesta.”

She leaned across the table then, eyes blazing. “I hate him,” she hissed.

Azriel’s pulse didn’t quicken, but something in him twisted—cold and bitter.

“Good,” Cassian barked, fully on his feet now. “He hates you too. Everyone fucking hates you. Is that what you want? Because congratulations, it has happened.”

The words slammed into the room like a dropped blade. Azriel stilled.

Even the fire went quiet.

Nesta blinked. Once.

Azriel’s jaw locked. Cassian’s chest rose and fell, too quick, like he was trying to wrestle something back under control. The red of his siphons dimmed, flickered out. It was too much. And he knew it.

Azriel didn’t speak. But the silence he kept was not neutral. Because Cassian hadn’t lied. Not exactly. But it was cruel, and unnecessary. And for all Nesta’s faults—Azriel had seen what cruelty did to someone when they already believed they deserved it. She wasn’t just being difficult. She was spiraling.

And Elara would be walking into this house tomorrow.

Azriel closed his eyes for half a second. The shadows stilled with him.

The chair creaked faintly beneath Azriel as he leaned back, the wood complaining under the shift of weight, though the tension in the room had nothing to do with him. The shadows pooled close, alert but silent, as if they too understood the brittleness of the air—how one wrong breath might set it all off again.

Across the table, Nesta had gone still. Her knuckles were white around the edge of her untouched plate. Her mouth opened slowly, her voice soft, scathing. “And I suppose now you’ll tell me that you are the only person who doesn’t hate me, and I’m supposed to feel something like gratitude and agree to train with you.”

Cassian didn’t flinch. His voice was low, hoarse. “No. Now I tell you that I am done.”

Azriel’s gaze snapped to him. His fork hovered just above the plate. He hadn’t expected it—not from Cassian, not from the male who he had sworn cared for Nesta more than anyone dared to admit. But Cassian wasn’t posturing now. He looked like someone who had been clawing at a wall for weeks, only to realize the stone wasn’t ever going to give.

Nesta’s laugh was a jagged thing, and there was no humor in it. “Does that mean you’re done panting at me as well?” she hissed. “Because what a relief that will be—to know you’ve finally taken the hint.”

Cassian rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, as if anything quicker might tear the room apart at the seams. His hands fisted at his sides, chest rising with every breath like he was fighting not to explode.

“You want to rip yourself apart?” His voice was quiet, but the edge in it was harder than steel. “Go right ahead. Implode all you like.”

Azriel didn’t look at Nesta. He didn’t have to. He could feel the way her spine straightened, could feel the venom coiling beneath her skin like a reflex. But he was watching Cassian now—how the rage in him wasn’t loud. It was weary. Not the kind that needed to shout to be heard, but the kind that had run out of things to break.

Cassian’s voice dropped, rough around the edges. “The training was supposed to help you. Not punish you. I don’t know why you don’t fucking get that.”

Azriel set his fork down. Quietly. Too quietly. He didn’t look at either of them for a moment, only stared down at the half-eaten food on his plate, the way the light flickered over the smooth rim of the glass beside it. He thought of Elara. Of her silent presence in the House tomorrow. Of the way she sometimes flinched from the sound of her own name.

He thought of her, and he thought of this—Nesta and Cassian tearing each other apart like it was the only language they knew.

 “I told you,” she said again, biting off the words. “I’m not training in that miserable village.”

“Fine.” Cassian’s chair scraped back hard against the stone floor, rattling silverware in its wake. He didn’t bother to push it in, just stalked toward the threshold with enough force that the floorboards groaned under each step. His face was red, jaw locked tight—more muscle than flesh, like something barely leashed beneath the skin.

Azriel thought that might’ve been the end of it. That maybe Cassian would leave the rest unsaid, let the silence have the final blow. But just before he reached the doorway, Cassian paused. Turned.

He raised a finger, pointing it back at her. “We’ll be having someone new at the House, Nesta.”

Azriel didn’t move. He barely breathed.

Cassian’s tone was clipped. Unforgiving. “And even if you can’t help being a miserable wretch, you’ll do nothing—nothing—to make her feel uncomfortable.”

Nesta’s arms folded across her chest, chin lifting in challenge, though her voice stayed calm. “If I’m so miserable, tell Rhysand to just release me from this awful ultimatum.”

Cassian didn’t so much as blink. “I mean it, Nesta.”

Cassian’s lips peeled back, more snarl than smile. “I mean it, Nesta,” he said, stepping forward again, voice rising in warning. “You’re not the only one in this godsdamned House trying to climb out of something. If you so much as look at her the wrong way, if you say even one of your twisted little barbs to make her feel like she doesn’t belong here, I swear to the Mother—”

He broke off, then let the words fall. “You’ve already ruined everything else you touch. Don’t ruin this.”

Nesta didn’t respond. Not aloud. But Azriel saw the shift. Saw the way her shoulders dropped a fraction, how her mouth tightened at the edges. How she didn’t roll her eyes or spit back some cutting remark. She just stood there, arms crossed, body still as a statue—except for the way her spine seemed to curl inward, as if she’d taken the blow straight to the ribs.

Cassian didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed behind him in the next breath, echoing through the dining room like a final sentence.

Azriel glanced toward her. She was staring at the table now. Her fingers clenched tight beneath her arms, nails biting into her sleeves. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try and offer her comfort. Nesta would tear it apart anyway.

But he saw it.

The way she tucked in on herself. Just a little.

So much for handling Nesta.

---

The air was colder at this altitude—thinner, more biting than she remembered.

Elara’s wings moved in steady rhythm beside Rhysand’s, the wind needling through the tears in them. Her muscles burned with the effort of holding herself aloft, the strain familiar now—almost comforting. Pain was easier to manage than thought. Still, every few lengths, a gust would catch the tattered edge of her right wing, tugging it just off balance. She corrected automatically, the small adjustment as practiced as breathing.

Rhys flew in silence just ahead of her. The dark line of his wings cut a clean arc against the pale blue sky, his movements effortless. Smooth and elegant.

Not like hers.

She glanced at him once, briefly, studying the crisp silhouette he cast against the light. The rise and fall of his wings, steady as a heartbeat.

She looked away before her gaze could linger too long. Her own wings had never been things of beauty—scarred and uneven where the King had used magic to pull them through, the membranes warped by that very same magic. They worked, they allowed her to fly —thank the Cauldron for that—but they never looked like anyone else’s wings.

Another reminder of what she was not.

Still, she did not falter.

Rhysand didn’t speak for most of the journey, his attention pinned somewhere distant—down toward the hills they were crossing or perhaps even deeper inward. His profile was unreadable, that same mask he always wore with the Court. But when he glanced over, just once, something behind his eyes shifted. Not soft, but not cold either. A flicker of hesitation. As if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.

“You’re quiet,” he said at last, carefully.

Elara almost stumbled midair. It wasn’t that the words surprised her—it was the way he said them. Gentle. As if she might shatter from something as simple as conversation.

She considered answering. Considered peeling back the layers of her thoughts, offering something real. The ache in her wings, the strange tug of being near him, the question that had been growing like rot in her chest: why had he never looked for her?

But the words lodged in her throat.

So she looked ahead, eyes narrowed. “You fly too slowly.”

Rhys let out a huff of laughter. It sounded like it had been knocked loose. “I always knew you had a competitive edge.”

She rolled her eyes, but something about the moment eased. Not quite warmth—but a shift. A thaw.

The wind howled around them as Rhys angled downward, gaining speed. “Want to prove it?” he called over his shoulder.

Elara arched a brow. “You want to lose a race against your little sister?”

“Race me to the ridgeline.”

Then he surged forward without warning.

She cursed, wings flaring. Her body pitched after him, the air slamming into her face as she chased his wake. The ache in her shoulders screamed, but she welcomed it, pushed into it.

They flew like that—wild and breathless. She dove low over a stream and pulled sharply upward, wind tearing at her hair. Rhys veered wide to avoid her and she laughed, truly laughed, the sound unguarded and unfamiliar in her own throat.

He grinned back at her as they climbed higher, spiraling around each other in tight, reckless turns. The sky spread wide around them—limitless, untouchable.

And for a moment, it felt like they were only brother and sister. Not High Lord and weapon. Not guilt and grief and time lost.

Finally, they touched down on the balcony. Elara landed harder than she meant to, boots scraping against stone as her right wing dipped with the windshift, dragging her off-balance at the last moment. She caught herself with a foot braced forward, barely a stumble, but the jolt lanced through her shoulder anyway. The strain had been building since they left—she clenched her jaw and rolled her shoulder back, willing the discomfort into silence.

Rhys landed lightly beside her, his feet making barely a sound. She felt his eyes on her but didn’t turn to meet them. He didn’t comment.

Instead, he stepped toward the carved archway and the set of weathered doors that led into the House. “You remember this place?” he asked, his voice quiet—low enough that the wind might’ve taken it if she weren’t listening for it.

Elara stared at the doors, their familiar patterns worn smooth with time. The smell of wind and cedar clung to the stone walls. Beneath that—beneath the cool, biting air—she could still feel it. The hum of the House. Magic, old and quiet, pressed into every seam of the stone.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment.

It surprised her a little, how easily the word came. But it was true. The place called to her. The memories weren’t sharp—just flickers—but they were there. A pair of muddy boots abandoned in a sunlit corridor. The shriek of Conn’s laugh as he ducked behind a curtain. Fiona’s hand grabbing hers as they tried not to giggle, hiding in a shadowed alcove as footsteps passed too close. She’d hidden under this very balcony, once, when she’d exhausted all of her good hiding spots and needed somewhere new.

The memory scraped against something raw.

She didn’t let herself dwell on it. There would be time to think about it later—when she wasn’t being watched. When her brother wasn’t trying to decipher her every expression.

She stepped past him without a word, the brush of her fingers skimming the cool stone wall as she entered the corridor. It was familiar in shape, if not in scale. Smaller than she remembered. Or maybe she had just grown too much in the wrong ways—sharper at the edges, heavier where she used to be light.

Rhys opened the door without a word and stepped aside to let her through first. Elara hesitated, one foot planted on the threshold. Beyond the doorway stretched a corridor wrapped in stillness, washed in the pale glow of filtered morning light. It looked the same. Older, maybe.

She stepped inside, slow and wary. Her fingers brushed the edge of the doorframe as she passed beneath it. The House responded—soft and immediate, a pulse of gentle magic that skimmed her skin like a breath.

She flinched before she could stop herself.

“It remembers you,” Rhys said behind her, voice quiet, unreadable.

She didn’t answer, not aloud. But she thought he might be right.

Every corner they passed felt like it had stored some old version of her within its stone. Not memories—nothing that sharp. Just... impressions. Shadows of laughter, footsteps, arguments, the slide of her boots against the tile as she ran too fast down the hall. They clung to the edges of the space like ghosts.

And she hated it. Hated how familiar it all still was. Hated how safe it felt, like a place she could settle back into. Like a place that might still want her.

The corridor bent at the end, opening into the wide, columned gallery above the main stairs. Light streamed in from high windows. On the far side, a voice echoed—low, irritated, and not all that familiar.

The High Lord’s general.

He stood at the balcony railing, grumbling under his breath as he fiddled with a strap on his leathers. A streak of soot ran along his temple like he'd just come back from sparring and hadn't bothered to clean up. He didn’t notice them at first, too busy cursing whatever buckle had come loose at his shoulder.

Rhys only sighed. “Cassian,” he called across the gallery.

The general’s head snapped up.

Cassian’s eyes found her at once—narrowing, widening. His hands stilled. A beat of stunned silence passed before he let out a short, breathless huff, half laughter, half disbelief.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, voice rough with something too big for surprise alone. “You weren’t joking.”

Rhys chuckled, but Elara didn’t look at him. She couldn’t look away from Cassian, from the way he took a step forward, as if to confirm she was real. He looked older than the few memories she had of him—worn in new ways—but his grin was the same. Brash, wide, too genuine. She remembered it, suddenly, from long ago.

She hadn’t expected this—him—to be glad to see her. Her memories of the general were few and far between — he’d been Rhys’ friend, not hers.

“Your wings look a bit different now,” he said with a twinge of wonder, as though that were the strangest part of all this. “And scars. But it’s still you.”

She nodded once. It was all she could manage. After all, how could she tell him that she wasn’t the Elara he knew?

Cassian gave her a long look—something like pride in his eyes, something that made her want to step back out into the wind and disappear again—then clapped Rhys on the shoulder and said, “I’ll be in the ring later if either of you want to get your asses handed to you.”

And with a wink, he strode off.

Rhys lingered, watching her a moment. “He missed you.”

He didn’t know me enough to miss me, Elara wanted to say. But somehow, she knew that reaction would hurt her brother. So she bit her tongue.

They walked through the hallways after that. She followed at a measured pace, trying not to look at the walls too closely, at the way the light caught on old scuff marks and the odd scratch she was almost certain she’d made. The House hummed faintly beneath her feet, warm through the soles of her boots. Like it had been waiting.

Rhys didn’t say much as he led her through the hallways. She followed at a measured pace, trying not to look at the walls too closely, at the way the light caught on old scuff marks and the odd scratch she was almost certain she’d made. The House hummed faintly beneath her feet, warm through the soles of her boots. Like it had been waiting.

He stopped outside a door on the right. No fanfare. Just stepped aside again and gestured.

Her old bedroom.

She didn’t cross the threshold. Just stood there, staring inside. The bed was neatly made, the sheets a deep blue that echoed the Sidra down below. The curtains hung just as she remembered them. In the far corner, her training blades still rested against the wall—old, worn, untouched over the centuries. Her boots hadn’t creased the rugs in years, but the floor remembered her weight.

Rhys stepped up beside her. His gaze slid to a faint line carved into the floorboards near the wardrobe. A shallow arc of splintered wood.

“You were always dramatic,” he said lightly.

“I was angry,” Elara replied, not bothering to mask the edge in her voice as the memory came back to her.

He nodded once. “You had reasons.”

She glanced at him then. That answer—it didn’t sit right. Too easy. Too gentle. Like he wanted to forgive her on her behalf, even when she hadn’t earned it. Even when she hadn’t asked. She didn’t think she deserved kindness. Not from him.

Rhys didn’t push. He turned and kept walking, down the wide corridor where the ceiling arched high above and the windows bled pale gold into the stone. She followed behind, her steps careful, deliberate. One after the other, like she was retracing someone else’s path.

The House shifted with them. Lamps along the wall sparked to life without command, casting soft light along polished floors. The air warmed by degrees, and she could feel it in the stone beneath her—like the House had been waiting, holding its breath.

At the far end of the hall, Rhys paused beside a tall archway and angled his head toward her.

“The dining room.”

She stepped into the dining room, and the scent hit her like a strike to the ribs—aged wood, cool stone, and the distant trace of warmth clinging to memory. Her boots slowed on the polished floor. Light slanted through the tall windows, catching along the length of the long table that stretched down the center of the room—still dark, still gleaming, still intact. Twelve chairs remained in place. Twelve. As though no one had ever left.

Her gaze found the second seat from the end.

It had always been hers. Close enough to hear the heart of the table, far enough not to be drawn into it. Conn had sat beside her—always on her left. Sometimes their knees would bump beneath the table and he’d whisper something irreverent just loud enough for her to hear. That silence pressed in now, made the room too large, too still.

She stepped forward, fingers grazing the edge of the chair. The wood was smooth, worn from years of hands—hers, maybe. She didn’t turn when she spoke.

“The last time we all sat here… Mother. Father. You.” Her hand hovered over the chair back, then closed around it. “I didn’t say a word to you the whole meal.”

Rhys stood at the threshold. He didn’t move, but she felt his presence shift—tense, quiet. His silence wasn’t permission, but it wasn’t resistance either.

“I couldn’t have,” she said, voice low, steady. “Even if I wanted to. I was in such deep grief over Conn I could barely eat.”

A pause. The dust in the room felt louder than their breathing.

“I remember,” Rhys said, his hands folding neatly in front of him. His thumbs pressed together once before going still.

“I hated you.” The words surfaced before she could second-guess them. “For what you said about me and him. That we were being reckless.”

A flicker passed over Rhys’s face—something like recognition layered with regret. He shut his eyes, just for a breath. Then opened them again.

“I was cruel,” he said softly. “I thought I was protecting you.”

She didn’t answer. Not with words. Only let her hand fall from the back of the chair, let her eyes remain on that place at the table where Conn had once rested his arm, where she used to steal slices of pear from his plate and pretend she hadn’t.

“I didn’t know how else to be with you back then,” Rhys said behind her, after a long moment. “I thought you needed clarity. And I wasn’t brave enough to admit I didn’t know what you needed.”

Her hand tightened around the chair’s back, knuckles blanching against the polished wood. Her voice was quiet, but the words cut clean through it. “And then he died. And you never took it back.”

Rhys didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. He just stood there, spine too straight, shoulders too still. “I know.”

Elara turned, slowly. The table loomed between them, long and polished and unchanged. Her fingers slipped from the chair. Rhys’s gaze had dropped to the floor. His hands were clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked easy, relaxed—but it wasn’t. He looked like he was waiting for something heavy to fall. Like he expected it.

“I loved him,” she said.

Her words didn’t crack. They didn’t beg or tremble. They were whole—roughened only by the truth of them. By the memories that were getting stronger and stronger each day.

“Not because I wanted to escape my life, or be reckless. I loved him because he saw me. Not as a High Lord’s daughter, but as me.” She hadn’t meant to say that much. But once it began, she couldn’t stop the truth from pouring out. Not now. Not here.

Rhys nodded once, the smallest tilt of his head. “I know that now.”

He looked up then. And when he met her eyes, she didn’t see the male who’d called her reckless. She didn’t see the High Lord, the figure so many feared or worshipped. What she saw in him was messier. Older. There was sorrow in his eyes—sorrow and something deeper. A complicated tenderness that didn’t reach for her but didn’t turn away either.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys said. The words came quietly, but they landed with weight, “For how I treated you. For what I said about him. For how long it took me to say any of this.”

She stood there, arms crossing over her chest—not defensive, not closed off. Just holding herself, like she didn’t quite know where else to place her hands. The quiet between them didn’t feel cold anymore. Just still. Just full.

“I forgive you,” she said. And, truly, how could she not? So much had happened in five hundred years, since that birthday he had stormed into her bedroom and questioned her judgement about Conn. She was a different person now, and so was he.

Rhys let out a breath like it had been trapped in his chest for centuries. It slipped through his lips, faint and unsteady. He crossed the space between them in two long strides, but he didn’t reach for her. His shoulders had loosened, the tension around his mouth softening. The mask he wore with such practiced ease had cracked—just enough to show her what he’d buried underneath.

He stopped just short of touching her. And for the first time in five hundred years, Elara let herself look at her brother—and didn’t feel like a stranger in her own skin.

“You’re still an arrogant ass.” The words left her mouth too easily.

Rhys snorted under his breath, the sound low and unexpected. For a moment, she didn’t know what to do with it—the sound, or the small shift it caused in her chest. Not quite laughter. But close.

Like she remembered what it used to feel like, even if she couldn’t quite reach it anymore.

“You’ve always had a way with words,” Rhys muttered, his voice trailing off as he turned toward the next doorway. But she caught the way his mouth curved, barely. That small smile he didn’t mean to show.

She didn’t smile back. But her voice lost its edge when she replied, “I mean it.”

“I know,” he said, pausing at the threshold, one hand resting against the frame. He glanced back at her, the weight of his gaze softened by something gentler now. “And you’re still impossible.”

Her breath had barely drawn when the sound of boots cut across the quiet—clipped steps echoing off the stone. Elara didn’t need to turn. She knew. She had known before the first footfall on the stairwell. Knew from the shift in the air, from the way something cold lanced through the hallway without warning.

Nesta Archeron.

Elara stood straighter without meaning to. Her fingers grazed the edge of her sleeve, brushing the rough seam as if it might anchor her.

“You.”

The word landed with precision. Not shouted. Not snarled. But the venom in it was unmistakable. That voice—low, coiled with fury—carried more weight than screaming ever could.

Elara turned slowly, her expression unreadable. She met Nesta’s eyes. Steel met stone.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

Nesta’s stare burned through her, pale and bitter and bright with loathing.

The air had changed. The warmth of the corridor leached away, the ancient stones holding their breath as Nesta stepped fully into view at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were colder than the wind off the Sidra. Her presence carved through the space like ice through marrow.

“You were the one coming to the House?” Nesta asked. But there was no real question in her voice. No curiosity. Only loathing.

A breath, brittle and thin. Then—

Nesta descended one step. Her voice lowered, sharpened. “Cassian told me to be polite. To keep my temper. Said I wasn’t to be vile to you. Do they know what you did?”

Another step. A slow tilt of her head. Her mouth curled, not quite a smile. “Tell me— that night, did you start with me because you’d knew I’d fight back, or was I just the one they told you to drag first?”

Elara stood motionless, the hallway spinning slower, quieter around her. She did not look to Rhys. She did not move.

Elara’s hands stayed at her sides. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Her throat felt tight, but she made no move to clear it. Her body remembered—how to stand still, how to survive the sharpest blow without letting it show.

“You dragged me from my bed,” Nesta hissed. Her voice shook with fury, each word dragged from somewhere deep and still bleeding. “You took my sister.”

Elara said nothing. Nesta stepped forward.

“You handed us to monsters.”

Her eyes were glittering now. Rage, yes—but tears too. Elara saw it, the strain in her voice, the way her chin lifted to stop it from cracking. She didn’t look away.

“You stood there,” Nesta went on, lower now, quieter, “and let them throw us into that thing.”

“You didn’t stop them. You didn’t even blink.” Her voice cracked, raw and brittle. “Do you even remember it? My screaming? Elain’s crying?”

“Yes,” Elara said, and the word left her mouth soft and deliberate—barely louder than the wind at the windows.

Nesta blinked, once. Not surprise—just a pause. As if she hadn’t expected an answer at all. But the anger found her again.

“You should remember,” she spat. “You should live with it every godsdamned day.”

“I do,” Elara said, voice even. She didn’t let the words tremble. Didn’t let her shoulders shift or her eyes fall. But the weight of them settled somewhere deep, like stone sinking in a frozen lake. She had lived with it every day. That was the curse of remembering.

Rhys moved at last. Not quickly. Not forcefully. He stepped between them with careful weight, his hands loose at his sides. Not blocking—but present. A warning that didn’t need words.

“That’s enough, Nesta.”

“No,” she snapped, her voice like cracked glass. “You don’t get to say that. You didn’t drown in that thing. You didn’t feel your body tearing itself apart because she delivered us like a gift to Hybern.”

Elara didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Her jaw ached from how tightly it was set, her muscles pulled taut beneath her calm exterior. She had delivered them. And she had done it without hesitation.

Rhys’s voice came low, but each syllable was carved from stone. “She wasn’t herself.”

The silence that followed felt brittle, dangerous.

“What does that even mean?” Nesta’s voice cut through it, sharp as a blade drawn too fast. “I’m looking at the exact person who is responsible for this.”

Elara didn’t even try to explain herself. There was nothing to refute. She had taken them from their manor. Had carried Elain’s thrashing body in her arms. Had watched as Nesta was forced, screaming, into the Cauldron’s waiting maw. She had not stopped it. Her orders had been clear, her mind... dulled, blank, obedient. And still—her body had followed through.

There was no defense for that.

“Nesta,” Rhys said again, and this time his voice didn’t just carry—it rang. Steel beneath velvet. “I said, that is enough.”

Nesta turned, slow and deliberate, as if daring him to say more. Her mouth curled, her eyes glittering with fury, “Don’t you fucking defend her.”

“I will,” Rhys said, soft but deadly, “if you speak to her like that again.”

It wasn’t a threat—it was a promise. The room darkened. Not a flicker, not a flash, but a slow, creeping shadow that dulled the color of the stone walls and made the sconces sputter in protest. A breeze coiled through the glass panes, a current laced with cold and power, quiet as breath but colder than steel.

Nesta didn’t flinch. Her eyes narrowed, a slow burn behind them. “Of course you’d protect her.”

“I protect what’s mine,” Rhys said. “And she is under my roof.”

Her nostrils flared. “She’s the one who handed us over.”

“She’s my sister.” His voice cracked slightly—not with weakness, but force, like something breaking through stone. “And you will leave her alone.”

Elara did not lift her eyes. Her hands remained still at her sides, fingers curled lightly, as if she might still be holding a blade. She could feel Nesta’s loathing like heat on her skin—but she had no armor for it. No reply that wouldn’t sound like an excuse. She had been the one to bring them. That truth—no matter who she had been, no matter what had controlled her—was a wound that did not stop bleeding.

Nesta’s hands were shaking. Elara noticed it—barely, but she noticed.

“So that’s how this works?” Nesta’s voice cracked, but not from weakness. From the weight of the fury behind it. “I’m just supposed to stay quiet while your little sister finds her redemption? After everything she fucking did?”

“Yes, Nesta.” Rhys’s voice stayed calm, too calm, each word precise. “I expect you to stay civil, even if it is nearly impossible for you to be such.”

He stepped forward. Not much, but just enough to shift the air in the room. The pressure deepened, dense and cold. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t lift a hand. He didn’t need to. The High Lord of the Night Court stood there—unhidden, unmasked—and power slicked through the space like oil.

Elara saw it. And from the way Nesta’s lip curled, she felt it too—and loathed it.

“Get out of my way,” she growled.

Rhys did. The High Lord had made his point clear. Nesta stalked past him, boots echoing against the polished stone. She didn’t glance at Elara. She didn’t need to. Her shoulder collided with Elara’s—too firm to be a mistake, not violent but sharp enough to leave a mark. Elara didn’t move. Didn’t let her head turn or her body sway. She just let it pass through her.

When the last step faded down the hall, Elara exhaled. The breath rattled out of her before she realized she’d been holding it. Her hands trembled at her sides, traitorous things, the only part of her that hadn’t yet remembered what five centuries of silence had taught her: control.

No matter the cost.

“She didn’t have the right,” Rhys said. He was still watching the corridor Nesta had vanished into, his jaw tight. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Elara’s throat worked around the words before they came.

“Yes.” Her voice scraped against itself. “I did.”

Rhys looked at her then, really looked. No anger in his face now, only something quieter. Wearier. There were shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that came from more than sleepless nights.

The silence that followed stretched too long. She stayed where she was, just outside the threshold, unsure if her legs would hold if she moved again. The walls felt too close. The air too thin. She could feel the outline of Nesta’s loathing like a brand still pressed to her skin.

Finally, Rhys spoke—quietly, but with certainty. “I don’t blame you. Not for what you did back then. Not for what they forced you to do.”

Elara didn’t meet his gaze. She couldn’t. Her fingers curled slowly, nails digging into her palms to keep her spine straight. “You should.”

“I don’t.” Rhys’s voice didn’t shift. There was no urgency to it. No edge. Just quiet conviction, spoken like fact.

Elara laughed, if it could be called that. A low sound, bitter and brittle. It caught in her throat before it even cleared her lips.

“I took her,” she said. “I took Elain. I handed them over to Hybern like they were nothing.”

She swallowed, but the tightness in her throat didn’t ease. Her voice frayed on the edges, unraveling one thread at a time. “I knew what would happen. Or—I suspected. And I still did it. I still followed orders. I stood there while she cried, while Nesta screamed, and I didn’t move.”

The words pressed out of her like blood from a wound, steady and sharp.

“I brought pain to your court. To your family.” Her shoulders drew in, slow and quiet, like she thought maybe the walls wouldn’t notice her if she made herself small enough. “You’re all better off without me.”

Rhys didn’t speak. The silence lengthened—not the cold kind, not tense or punishing, but still. Deep. It wrapped around them like snowfall.

She took one step back. Almost turned.

But then—

“Feyre’s pregnant.”

Elara’s head snapped up, the words cutting through her like a sudden wind. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

He was watching her now. Not guarded, not cautious—just open. The High Lord, yes. But also her brother. The only piece of the past that had survived. “You’re the first to know,” he said.

Elara blinked. Her mouth parted, but no sound came. Her thoughts stumbled, disoriented. “What? Why me?”

His reply came without hesitation. “Because I want my child to know their aunt.”

He let the words settle.

“I want them to know you,” he said, and there was no edge to it. “Not through stories. Not through what I remember or what others say. I want them to grow up knowing who you are. Because they’re not—” he paused, his voice thickening, “we’re not better off without you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It wrapped around her, heavy and warm, like something she hadn’t earned but hadn’t been cast from, either.

Elara stared at him, and for the first time in a very long time, her heart ached not out of regret—but out of love. Centuries had passed since she’d seen her brother’s face look so incredibly hopeful. Centuries, and here he stood, telling her she would be part of something new. Something she hadn’t destroyed.

Her voice wavered when she finally said, “You’re going to be a father.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

She laughed—quiet, almost stunned by the sound of it. Then her hand came up, pressing gently to her chest, as if the ache there might slip free otherwise. “I’m happy for you,” she whispered.

His voice, when it came, was quiet—barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Elara. Or to anyone else. Just stay. That’s all I’m asking. Let us try to know you again.”

Her lips parted—no sound came. But then she gave the smallest nod. Not because she believed she deserved it, but because some part of her wanted to.

Rhys didn’t speak again. His shoulders shifted, breath shallow. And then—tentatively, like he wasn’t sure if it would break her or him—he stepped forward and opened his arms.

Elara stiffened. Her body didn’t know how to do this anymore. She stood there, frozen, staring at the space he offered. A hundred reasons not to move rang through her mind. A hundred memories of what she’d done. What she was.

But something deeper moved her. Some old, half-buried instinct that had nothing to do with who she had been under Dagdan's hand. Slowly, haltingly, she stepped in.

Their arms wrapped around each other—awkward, unsure, not tight but not distant. Her cheek brushed his shoulder. His hand hovered on her back. And for one breath, then two, they stayed that way.

Then Rhys pulled back. His hand slipped from her shoulder like he didn’t want to spook her.

He didn’t say anything else. Just turned, and walked away, boots silent on the stone.

Chapter 56

Notes:

Wow! Thank you so much to the response to the other chapter! I get giddy every time someone leaves a comment so I was BLOWN away. Thank you so much!

The door clicked shut behind her, and silence gathered thickly in its wake, curling against the stone walls, pressing down on her skin. Elara stood in the center of the room, her arms heavy at her sides, her breath shallow. She did not move. Her eyes, slow and cold, drifted across the space, cataloging every piece of it.

The bed was still there. The window seat still cradled the curve of the wall, the cushions newer, but the view unchanged: Velaris stretched out in endless lights and soft shadows beyond the glass. A carved wooden desk stood under the painting of the Sidra, its surface clear but bearing faint scars from years of clumsy writing and sharp tempers.

Someone had shifted things, dusted away the years, but the bones of the room remained.

Even the same deep scratch marred the floorboards by the hearth—Rhys had pointed it out earlier with a half-smile, as if it mattered.

It was her old bedroom.

And she had no damn right to stand in it.

The House, in its silent mercy, placed a tray on the low table near the window, as if sensing her reluctance to move, to face whatever waited beyond the door. She was not going to risk going back down to the dining room, where she might once again run into Nesta Archeron.

She caught the faint sound of ceramic settling against wood before she even turned her head. Warm bread, freshly torn. Steamed vegetables, seasoned with care. Roasted chicken, its scent rich and buttery. A goblet of wine, catching the low firelight.

Her gut twisted, but not with hunger.

The smell reached her, soft and enticing, but she stayed where she was, jaw locking tight enough to ache. She had no appetite. Not after Nesta’s words, sharp as iron, still echoing in the hollow space inside her chest. Words she could not refute. Words she deserved.

The others might play at forgiveness. Might tell her that she was family — that she belonged here. But Nesta had stripped away that fragile lie, left it bleeding on the floor between them.

Five hundred years of obedience to the King of Hybern—five hundred years of standing by while others screamed—and she thought a tray of warm food would make her part of this again?

The mattress dipped under her as she sat, harder than she meant to, hands locking together so tightly in her lap the bones strained against her skin. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, on the ragged threads of the old indigo rug she had once begged her mother for. Spoiled, foolish girl that she had been.

The House had offered her kindness, a quiet, wordless gesture.

And she resented it.

It should have left her to starve. Let the rot inside her finish its work.

Her hands shook once—barely—and she tightened them until the tremor faded. She could not touch the food. Could not pretend. Could not sit here like a guest in a home that had every right to lock her out.

The walls of her old bedroom were suffocating.

Every breath dragged stale air into her lungs, the faelights casting a dull, useless glow. The tray on the low table sat untouched, the steam long gone. It stared at her, as if waiting for her to admit what she already knew—that she didn’t deserve it.

Elara stood too fast, the motion jerking through her spine. The blankets on the bed tangled at her ankles, catching like hands trying to drag her back down. She kicked them off. She needed to move. Sitting in that room—sitting with herself—was a punishment she hadn’t earned the right to escape, but she couldn’t bear it another minute.

The door opened quietly. She forced it to.

The corridor outside was dim, the faelights turned down to a gentle flicker. She slipped into the darkness like it belonged to her, bare feet silent on the cold stone. She didn’t bother thinking about where she was going—only that she couldn’t stay in one place.

Her fingers brushed the wall as she walked, nails scraping the stone with the faintest hiss. Each step away from that room felt like peeling a layer of skin off.

She took the back staircases without hesitation, cutting through narrow halls. She ducked into alcoves at the first sign of footsteps, holding her breath until the distant echoes faded. She had no intention of running into anyone, least of all Nesta. The female’s voice still rang in her ears.

Elara didn’t blame her for it. She would have said worse.

She wanted to say worse.

Her tongue knew how to draw blood. How many centuries had she spent learning the right words to twist a knife? How many times had she cut people down? But when Nesta had thrown it all in her face Elara hadn’t said anything. She had stood there and taken it, swallowing every word because there was no defense for everything that she’d done.

The hall narrowed into a long stretch lined with windows. She stopped in front of one without thinking, her reflection ghosted over the black river below.

Her eyes lifted to the sky beyond the glass. The wards brushed against her mind, a familiar, quiet hum. They wouldn’t let her winnow. They never had. But they wouldn’t stop her from flying. She could step out onto the balcony and just—go. Leave. The thought slid into her mind before she could stop it.

She could be gone before anyone noticed. Before anyone had the chance to look at her with pity again.

The Continent called to her. Clotilda’s cottage. Arnulf’s easy silence. Dorothye’s laughter that didn’t come with a side of mistrust. She could disappear into the forests, into the nameless towns where no one cared about the things she’d done. She had done it before. It wasn’t hard to become a ghost.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Running would be easy. She was good at it. She was good at hiding. It would be so simple to vanish again, to leave them all behind before they realized she didn’t belong here.

Maybe they already knew. Maybe they were just waiting for her to figure it out.

She exhaled, breath fogging the glass. It blurred her reflection, made her look even more like a stranger. She didn’t move. The sky stretched wide above her, promising freedom. Her legs remained locked, rooted to the stone beneath her feet.

She had always been so good at running. But for some reason, tonight, she couldn’t even make herself take a single step.

The memory struck without warning—Rhys’s voice in the dining room, cutting through the heavy quiet that had followed Nesta’s words. I want my child to know you.

Elara squeezed her eyes shut, the cold glass pressing hard against her forehead. She could still see his face when he said it—wary, uncertain, as if he was waiting for her to laugh or refuse or vanish altogether. But there had been no lie in his eyes.

Just Rhys, who should have known better than to trust her.

Her hands curled against the window ledge. She had done so many horrible, unforgiveable things in her life. But if he could still stand there and offer her a place—offer her a future—then maybe she wasn’t entirely lost yet.

The thought tasted bitter. She hated how much it hurt, hated the small, desperate flicker it stoked in her chest. She rested her forehead harder against the glass until the ache there drowned it out.

She didn’t go back to her room.

Instead, her steps carried her deeper into the hallways, one after another, the silence pressing closer the farther she wandered. The door to the terrace had been left slightly ajar, the wind clawing at its edge. She slipped through without thinking, stone steps cool beneath her feet.

The air was colder out here, sharp enough to bite through her thin sleeves. The wind off the Sidra cut clean against her skin, tangling her hair across her face. She wrapped her arms around herself but didn’t turn back. The steps sloped downward, worn smooth by centuries of use.

She hadn’t meant to come this way. Her body had simply remembered it before her mind could catch up.

The House of Wind loomed behind her, dark and sprawling. Before her, the training rings stretched out—empty, she thought at first. Silent under the moonlight.

Then a flicker of light caught the corner of her eye—blue and cold as a glacier. She stilled, breath catching sharp in her throat.

There, in the center of the largest ring, a blue siphon turned lazily over a scarred hand, casting shards of light across the stone. Azriel moved beneath it, shirtless and barefoot, his body slick with sweat, the slow, methodical strikes of his forms slicing through the quiet.

Elara pressed herself into the shadows, the stone wall cool against her back. She knew she should leave, should turn away and let him have his solitude. Instead, she watched, unable to pull herself free.

Every movement he made was slow, ruthless in its precision. The moonlight traced the long lines of his body: the broad plane of his chest, the taut muscles along his abdomen, the lean strength in his legs. His wings spread slightly with each pivot, steadying him, the ruined edges shifting with a grace that should not have been possible.

His shadows curled low around his ankles, moving with him, half-asleep but alert enough to catch the stray shifts of the wind. They brushed against his calves, tugging at him, tethering him to the ground even as he moved like he might rip free of it altogether.

Her throat dried.

He pivoted sharply, wings snapping out for balance. The siphons flared, a flash of blue across his knuckles, before dimming once more. Sweat tracked a slow line down his spine.

Elara's fingers dug into the stone wall behind her. She told herself it was the cold that kept her frozen in place. Not the low hum of her heart picking up. Not the ache that settled in her chest, worse than the bite of the wind.

She told herself it was curiosity that rooted her to that spot. The same detached study she had once applied to soldiers back on the Continent, reading their movements, learning their weaknesses. But her eyes betrayed her.

They lingered—too long—on the veins that flexed along his forearms, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The slow parting of his lips with every exhale through his nose.  The twist low in her gut made her grit her teeth. The heat that curled along her spine was worse—vile, unwanted.

She made herself shift her weight, made herself breathe through it.

The soft scrape of his foot against stone broke the rhythm of his movements. He turned—casual, unhurried—toward the dark.

“Enjoying the show?” His voice was low, even, almost lazy with the confidence of someone who had known she was there all along.

Elara didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, letting the moonlight spill over her. No point in hiding when the damage was already done.

“You’re not nearly as stealthy as you think you are,” he added, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

The siphons on his knuckles still glowed faintly. His shadows stirred around him, slow and contented. He didn’t look surprised to see her standing there, and she supposed he wasn’t. He was her brother’s spymaster, after all. He had probably known the moment she slipped onto the terrace.

The thought made her cheeks burn hotter. Mother above, how long had he let her stare?

She forced her voice to stay even.

“I wasn’t trying to be stealthy.” Her chin lifted a fraction higher. “I was trying to get the lay of the land. Not my fault the great shadowsinger was breathing heavy enough for the whole House to hear.”

The words cracked sharper than she intended, but she didn’t regret them. She wasn’t about to let her guard down with him, no matter the circumstances.

Azriel paused, just enough to be noticeable. A faint glint—almost a smile—ghosted across his mouth, but he smoothed it away before it could fully form.

“What,” he said, voice rougher now, “Rhys didn’t give you the tour?”

He tilted his head slightly, dragging a hand across his jaw, wiping away the sweat that still glistened along his skin.

Elara made a dry sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. It scraped raw in her throat.

“We made it as far as the dining room,” she said, mouth tightening as she spoke. “Then your lovely friend showed up.”

The words hung heavier than she meant. She locked her spine straight, refusing to let it show. If she stood tall enough, proud enough, maybe the spymaster wouldn’t see how deep Nesta’s words still dug under her skin. Maybe he wouldn’t see how badly she wanted—needed—to not care.

Something shifted in his stance. The kind of change only a trained eye would catch—the kind she had been taught to notice over five centuries. A flicker of movement along his shoulder, the barest ripple of tension, as if a breeze had passed through muscle and bone.

The shadows slid in tighter, slipping toward his ear. Whatever they whispered, it was enough. His brow creased ever so slightly. But it was there, a fine line etched into the space between his eyes.

Elara didn’t need the shadows to guess what they told him. She had worn that same look more times than she could count. The grim set of the mouth, the tightening at the corners of the eyes—someone realizing two and two made something ugly.

She didn’t offer him an explanation. Let him stew in it. Let him sit with the truth of what kind of creature was now pacing the halls of the House of Wind.

Of what kind of creature she really was.

Elara shifted her weight, her wings rustling behind her with the dry scrape of old parchment. She didn’t bother smoothing the movement. Let him hear it. Let him see what had been done to her, what she had done to others.

“So unless you’re planning on kicking me out of the ring,” she said, her voice sharper now, rough-edged and curling tight around each word, “I’ll be minding my own business. Feel free to get back to your... heavy breathing.”

She didn’t meet his eyes this time. Azriel didn’t say anything. He just turned and crossed to the rack of weapons near the edge of the ring. His fingers brushed over the polished handles, selecting two training daggers with the ease of long practice. Without ceremony, he tossed one toward her in a clean, underhanded arc.

Elara caught it without thinking. The hilt settled against her palm, the worn leather biting into her skin, cold and familiar.

He stepped into the center of the ring, barefoot and shirtless, the moonlight catching the fine sheen of sweat along his chest and shoulders, turning him into a figure half-sculpted from molten silver. His wings shifted half-open in the night air, steady, anchoring him to the earth even as his shadows stirred in lazy eddies at his feet.

“You've got too much in your head,” he said, voice low enough that the breeze almost stole it away. His siphons glinted dully as he nodded once toward the center of the ring. “This helps.”

For a long moment, she stood rooted where she was, the dagger heavy in her hand, heavier in her mind. Every instinct screamed to turn away, to hide the sharp, ugly things clawing at her insides. But she stepped forward anyway, the battered soles of her boots rasping against the worn stone.

The blade was light in her hand. Her body remembered, even if her mind recoiled at the thought of fighting, even if guilt hollowed out her chest with every breath. Azriel didn’t move to attack. He just watched her, steady and still, shadows curling at his shoulders like sentries.

She drew in a slow breath, feeling the weight of his gaze.

“You planning to stand there all night?” she said, voice sharper than she meant it to be. “Or are you just waiting to see if I’ll embarrass myself first?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not—and he shifted his stance, inviting.

They began to circle, slow at first. Testing, reading each other. Her muscles found the rhythm without permission, long-ingrained instinct pulling her into motion. Strike. Parry. Step back. Move again.

The blade jarred against hers with each clash, each breath scraping out of her lungs too fast. Her mind tried to dig in—analyze, predict, hesitate—but her body was already moving. Tension bled out of her with every pass, every deliberate shift of weight.

She caught him once—barely—a shallow slice across his ribs that would have done damage had they not been using the dull training daggers. Azriel gave a breath of a laugh, low and rough, the kind that scraped against the thin walls she kept around herself. It made something twist hard inside her chest, something too knotted to unravel.

Then the words tore loose from her, “I beheaded a Summer dignitary in Valhallan.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just moved again, blade flashing toward his side. Her heart thudded, loud enough she thought he might hear it, loud enough to drown out the crashing of the sea against the cliffs.

“He thought I was a servant in the palace,” she said, the words scraping her throat raw. “He took pity on me when I said I could lose my job. And I used that pity to kill him.”

She hated the way her voice caught at the end, hated the memory of his wide eyes, his hand fumbling for a blade he never reached. Hated the way it had been easy. How she hadn’t given the orders much thought in the moment, had followed them blindly.

Azriel said nothing. There was no sharp intake of breath. No shift of judgment in his eyes. Just the slow pivot of his body, the steady guard of his blade, listening.

She landed another hit, glancing along his forearm, and stepped back hard, chest heaving with the effort she hadn’t meant to show. The dagger hung low at her side, trembling faintly in her grip as she forced her voice down, made it small enough to slip past the tightness in her throat.

“I killed humans too. On the border,” she said, the words brittle as old bone. Her wings shifted restlessly behind her, the sound of them brushing the night like dry parchment.

“They were afraid. They should’ve been.” A muscle ticked sharply in her jaw, the only crack in the stillness she wore like armor. “All because the Lords of Rask wanted to drum up fear. Garner support.”

Still, Azriel gave no reaction. And he did not retreat. Just that steady gaze, that unflinching stance. It made her chest hollow out, made her throat cinch tighter until breathing was work. Her hands ached with it, with the shame that blistered beneath her skin. She threw the next strike harder, too hard, the blade singing sharply against the air as her control slipped.

Azriel caught her wrist easily, his hand closing firm but careful around her. A silent steadiness, grounding her before she could fall into the violence clawing at her ribs. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She wrenched her arm back with a muttered breath, burning. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, the words coming faster, more bitter. “I know what you all want. You want me to act like it didn’t happen. Like I can just be here, play at being one of you.”

Azriel stepped back, loosening the space between them. His blade dipped slightly, not in surrender—never in surrender—but in a kind of patience that scraped at her pride.

“That’s not what I want,” he said, low and even.

“No?” she scoffed, but it didn’t hit the way she meant it to. The sound tasted sour in her mouth, heavy with something too raw to name. “You’re all so eager to forgive me, it’s disgusting.”

She shifted her weight again, lunged, her blade ringing too sharply against his. Azriel parried without effort, without mockery, just that damned steadiness that made her want to break something.

They circled once more, the world beyond the ring thinning to nothing but breath and steel and the frantic, ugly rhythm of her heartbeat. Her muscles burned with it, her wings strained against the tightness in her back—but still she moved, because standing still would mean drowning in it all.

He caught her wrist again, but this time he didn't release her right away. His hand stayed, firm but not cruel, anchoring her in place as the last echoes of the strike faded into the night.

“I've done things too,” Azriel said, voice low enough that the shadows themselves seemed to hush around them. His thumb shifted slightly against her wrist—nothing inappropriate, just a small reminder that he was real, that he was standing there and not some judgment she’d conjured in her own mind.

“I've killed without question. Spied on people who trusted me. All because my Court needed me to.” His mouth twisted slightly, like he hated the taste of the words. “There are things I’ll never be proud of.”

Elara froze for a fraction of a heartbeat, her dagger raised between them. The night wind stirred her hair against her cheek, the distant sounds of the city far beyond the training grounds a faded hum. She searched his face for mockery, for judgment—but there was only that terrible steadiness. That quiet understanding she hadn’t asked for.

“I know what it does to you,” Azriel said, eyes steady, voice even. “How it stays. How it eats.”

Her throat closed up. She tightened her grip on the dagger just to have something to feel.

Azriel just watched her, shadows curling lazy around his shoulders as he said, quiet and calm, "I’m not asking you to pretend that it never happened. I just think you need a place to put that rage. Somewhere it can’t rot you from the inside."

The dagger in her hand felt heavier now. She studied him warily across the ring, not quite trusting, not quite ready to believe anything that didn’t match the ugliness she carried. But there was something in his face—steadfast, unreadable—that made her hesitate.

Azriel shifted, flicking his blade up into a loose defensive stance, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"So go ahead. Take a swing," he said, voice rough with challenge. "Just try not to stab me."

Something in her chest almost cracked. Almost. Her mouth twitched—almost a smile—but she smothered it before it could take hold. Instead, she shifted her stance, the worn leather of her boots scuffing the stone, and lunged again, the clash of their blades ringing a little too loud in the cold night air.

---

The rain had eased, but the windows still wept quietly, the glass streaked with fine, trembling rivulets.

Azriel stood in front of the hearth, wings tucked tight to his back, shadows coiling slow and restless around his shoulders. His leathers were damp from the flight down from the House, the chill still clinging to him, and he hadn’t bothered to change.

Behind the desk, Rhys didn’t speak. Just leaned back in his chair with that calm, unreadable stare that had scraped Azriel raw since they were boys.

"You heard anything more about Briallyn?" Rhys said finally, his voice low, careful. His fingers drummed once against the polished wood before stilling again.

Azriel’s shadows stirred, murmuring low against the stone floor. "A few whispers," he said. "Nothing solid yet. She's moving in circles—never stays anywhere long. Seems to know we’re tracking her."

The clink of glass on wood was sharper than necessary when Rhys set the decanter down. It didn’t escape Azriel’s notice—the tension in the High Lord's shoulders, the set of his mouth, too tight to be casual. A muscle ticked along Rhys’s jaw, "Keep at it. If she’s still breathing, I want her found before she— well, just get it done."

Azriel dipped his chin once in acknowledgment, though there was something his brother was not saying. Something he didn’t want to share.  He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, fingers brushing damp leather.

"She’s being cautious. But she’s arrogant." His mouth curved faintly, without humor. "It’ll be her downfall."

Rhys’s answering hum was low and distracted. He took a slow sip from the glass, the sound of it muffled by the storm’s fading pulse outside.

The fire popped between them, a single ember spitting into the stone. Azriel shifted his weight, feeling the dampness seeping colder into his skin.He waited until the lull stretched, until the heaviness between them began to settle, before he spoke again.

“She told me what happened.”

Rhys’s hand stilled on the glass. His voice was rougher than before. “Nesta?”

“Elara.” Azriel didn’t bother to sit. He crossed his arms loosely instead, the blade still strapped at his side catching the firelight. "Said you were there."

Rhys’s hand tightened briefly around the glass.

"I was," he said after a beat, reaching for the bottle on the desk and poured another measure, setting it down harder than necessary. The thunk of glass against wood was a small, violent sound.

"It wasn’t one of Nesta’s better moments," Rhys added, voice thin.

Azriel didn’t need to ask for details. He had seen enough of Nesta these past weeks to piece it together. The hollow look she carried like a wound. The brittle edge to her words. He didn’t care to defend her, and from the sharp set of Rhys’s shoulders, he knew it wouldn’t be welcomed even if he tried.

So he let the silence stretch instead, let it crawl thick between them until Rhys finally looked up, brow arched in silent prompting.

“She couldn’t sleep,” Azriel said, voice quieter now. “Showed up at the training ring. Looked... listless.”

The flames crackled in the grate, soft and low, the firelight gilding the edge of Rhys’s profile. He nodded once—brief, almost curt—but said nothing. Knowing Rhys, he probably expected it from Elara. They were siblings after all, and Azriel could picture Rhys reacting the exact same way.

The rain at the windows softened to a whisper.

“She told me about Valhallan,” he said, voice low. “Said she was ordered to kill the Summer Court envoy. That it was meant to send a message to their royals.”

Across the desk, Rhys didn’t move. The only sign he had heard was the way his glass stilled halfway to his mouth.

Azriel waited a beat before adding, “She killed humans too. At the Raskian border. Because the Lords demanded it.”

Rhys’s jaw shifted, the muscle in it ticking once. “And now?”

“She thinks we want to forget it,” Azriel said, sharper than before. “Thinks we’re pretending she didn’t do those things.”

Rhys lowered the glass to the desk. The fire threw deep lines over his face as he stared down at the dark surface. “She didn’t do those things. Hybern did those things. What they made her to be—it wasn’t Elara. It wasn’t her fault.”

Azriel didn’t argue. The words weren’t worth it. They both knew the truth sat somewhere between what she had done and what she had been forced to become. His boots scraped against the rug as he shifted, uneasy.

“She told me everything like she needed someone to hate her for it,” he said, the words raw in his mouth.

Across the desk, Rhys didn’t move, only said, voice low, “Do you?”

Azriel’s wings twitched, a small, sharp movement he didn’t bother to hide. He held Rhys’s stare and answered, “No.”

She was his mate—whether she knew it or not—and he would tear the world apart before he let anything happen to her. He raked a hand through his wet hair, dragging water down the side of his face before adding, “I think she hates who she was. And she doesn’t know who she is now. She doesn’t think she belongs anywhere.”

Rhys looked down into his drink, watching the liquor slosh against the sides, before he said, “She doesn’t need to earn her place here.”

Azriel didn’t answer. He agreed, more than Rhys could know—Elara was family. She had always been family. And if anyone dared to make her question that, they would find out just how quickly Azriel could end a threat.

Rhys glanced up, studying him over the rim of the glass. “But I think she needs to feel useful.”

Azriel met his gaze, something sharp settling in his chest. Where was his brother going with this?

“I’ve been thinking,” Rhys went on, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “Briallyn’s movements are still unclear. You’re tracking her, but you’ve hit a wall.”

Azriel nodded once, slow. He wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was heading, the crackle of unease in his spine only sharpening.

“Elara was in the thick of it on the Continent. With Hybern. She knew the Queens. She might be able to help.”

And there it was. He wasn’t surprised. It made too much sense—Elara had acquired a set of skills eerily similar to his own over the centuries. She could be an asset in finding Briallyn. But that didn’t mean he wanted her dragged back into it. Not when things between them were still so fragile.

Not after hearing the things she confessed last night, the cracks she tried to hide.

Azriel crossed his arms, the movement slow, controlled. His voice stayed low. “I’ll ask her. But if she says no, I’m not pushing.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Rhys leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his voice softening. “But if she says yes—maybe it gives her something to hold on to.”

The faintest thread of hope crept into Rhys’s tone, and it carved something open in Azriel’s chest before he could stop it. He didn’t want hope. Not when things were still this fragile, this uncertain. He stared into the fire for a long moment, the flames blurring at the edges of his vision, before he turned sharply toward the door.

“Az.”

He paused in the doorway, wings shifting at his back. Rhys didn’t rise from his chair, only watched him with that steady, knowing look that Azriel hated and needed in equal measure.

“You’re good with her.”

Azriel said nothing for a long beat. His hand curled once at his side, flexing as he fought for the words. Finally, without looking back, he muttered, “I think she’d laugh if she heard that.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Rhys’s face. “Then tell her I said it. I feel like she could laugh a little bit more.”

Chapter 57

Pale morning light slipped through the high, arched windows, tracing long golden fingers across the spines of ancient books and the floor’s smooth stone. Dust floated in the beams, undisturbed.

The House of Wind was silent at this hour, the stillness too precise to be peaceful.

Elara sat in one of the alcoves tucked between the shelves, perched on a velvet-cushioned bench beneath a window. Her knees were drawn up, bare feet curled beneath the hem of her long tunic. A tray sat to her right—tea gone cold in its porcelain cup, eggs untouched and congealing with every passing minute. The cinnamon rolls loosing their enticing scent.

The plate had not shifted since the House had quietly deposited it beside her. She hadn’t moved.

A book rested on her lap. Something historical, something heavy and dry—chosen for the fact that it might quiet her mind, not its substance. Her eyes had frozen on the same paragraph ten minutes ago. She hadn’t turned the page since.

Instead, she listened.

The hush of the library was complete, save for the occasional creak of the House adjusting its weight. But she strained past that, ears tuned for the sound of footsteps. Not Azriel’s. Not Cassian’s. She waited—braced—for the clipped, slow drag of Nesta Archeron’s stride on stone.

It hadn’t come. Not yet.

Still, Elara remained poised. Not like a warrior. Like prey.

She swallowed, the sound loud in her ears, and forced her eyes back to the page. The words blurred. Her thumb twitched against the brittle edge of the paper, but she didn’t flip it.

The air felt too tight in here—too brittle, like the House itself hadn’t breathed since that confrontation two nights ago. Elara hadn’t seen Nesta since. Had barely left either her room or this corner. Hadn’t tried. She told herself it was practicality—avoidance to maintain peace, to prevent another argument that might upset the fragile balance her brother had found with his ever-growing family.

But she knew the truth. Hiding was hiding.

Her spine pressed against the wood behind her, the book finally closed with a soft thud against her thighs. Shame burned hot and quiet beneath her skin.

She had stared down kings. She had slit throats in silence, whispered death into the ears of monsters. She had never cowered. Not once.

And yet one female—one cutting, grief-stricken glare from Nesta—had unraveled her.

Her fingers flexed around the book’s spine.  It wasn’t Nesta’s fury that haunted her. It was how much sense it made. If she had ever seen Dagdan again—if she could stand before the male who had ripped her mind apart, forced her to forget her own name—she wouldn’t stop at fury. She would destroy him. Burn his bones to ash. She would not blink. Would not hesitate.

Nesta had every right to do the same to her.

Elara blinked down at the closed book, then glanced out the window. The sun had climbed higher, just touching the tips of the Sidra far below. The House didn’t whisper today. Didn’t offer distraction. No flicker of firelight or fresh scent of bread. No coaxing warmth.

It understood.

She hadn’t fought back.

Nesta had said those words with venom and Elara had let them sink in. Let them brand her. Because every one of them had been true.

Elara shifted on the bench, arms wrapped around her knees, the chill in the room biting at her exposed skin.

She could have said something. Could have defended herself. But what defense was there, when you agreed with your executioner? So she sat. Listened.

And waited for the footsteps that had not yet come.

The scent of cinnamon drifted from the tray beside her. Warm, spiced, meant to comfort. It turned her stomach.

Elara stared at the slice of bread cooling on the plate, the sugar gloss dulled with time. The tea had long since gone tepid in its cup. She hadn’t touched either since the House offered them. Couldn’t bring herself to.

She hadn’t eaten all day. Not since that morning in the library, not since the brittle silence that had followed her like a second skin. Her stomach curled at the thought of food now—too sweet, too warm, too kind.

She didn’t move when the air shifted.

There had been no footsteps. No creak of wood or brush of wind. Just the sudden tug at the edges of the room—cool, coiling, soft as a whisper. Shadows, slow and creeping, curled around the floor and darkened the corner of the hall where the lamplight didn’t reach.

Of course he found her.

She lifted her eyes, spine stiffening where she sat cross-legged on the bench at the edge of the gallery, the book still open on her lap. 

When she finally let her gaze land on him, Azriel stood just inside the room, arms crossed loosely. He didn’t speak. Just looked at her with that quiet, unreadable expression that always made her feel as though he were cataloguing the worst parts of her and finding them... unsurprising.

He always seemed to know where she was.

As if some part of him had been forged for it—sharpened to track down the worst parts of her, carved to find her only when she most wanted to be left alone.

She didn’t greet him.

The moment he stepped into her orbit, the softness she’d allowed herself—however faint, however unintentional—coiled tight and vanished. Her spine straightened. Her expression cooled.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to the tray beside her. “You’re not eating.”

She closed the book with a muted thud and laid it on the cushion beside her. “Maybe I don’t like being watched while I chew, Shadowsinger.”

A flicker—barely there—touched his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not enough to soften anything. “I’d accept that excuse, but you weren’t eating when I wasn’t in the room either.”

He wasn’t wrong. But the words landed too close. Too familiar. She could feel the beginning of something—concern, maybe—and her stomach twisted harder.

Her jaw ticked. She didn’t smile.

It was easier when he hated her. When his silence had meant disdain, not—this. Whatever careful civility he had adopted now. It scraped against everything raw and rotting inside her.

Why was he looking at her like that?

Azriel moved without asking, plucking a piece of the cinnamon bread from the tray. He tore into it with the casual ease of someone who had never known hunger, who hadn’t spent weeks rationing crusts to survive.

Elara raised a brow. “Bold of you.”

“You weren’t going to eat it,” he said around a mouthful.

“I was thinking about it.”

He shrugged. “Think faster next time.”

Smug bastard. She didn’t answer him. She just looked back toward the window, forcing herself not to acknowledge the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That smile was more dangerous than any blade he carried.

Her skin itched beneath his presence, not from fear, but from the way he unmoored her. Every part of her was a locked gate, and still, he slipped through. She didn’t know what he wanted from her—if he even knew. He didn’t push. He never asked questions she couldn’t answer. And that restraint made it worse, somehow.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she said, still staring at the light on the stone floor. “I’m sure you have better things to do than check in on the monster of the House.”

There was a pause. Not long, but just enough for her to regret the sharpness of the words. Still, she didn’t take them back.

“I know where monsters belong,” he said quietly. “And it’s not here.”

She pulled the book back into her lap, even though she had no intention of reading. She needed something to hold, something to look at besides him.

“If you’re trying to make me feel better,” she said after a moment, “you’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not,” Azriel said.

Azriel hadn’t moved since he’d stolen the cinnamon bread from her tray. He stood like he was carved from stone, weight balanced evenly, hands at his sides—not threatening, not entirely relaxed either. His eyes hadn’t left her, though he made a show of glancing toward the window, as if the morning light held more interest than her silence. She didn’t buy it. He wasn’t the type to linger without a reason.

Eventually, he leaned forward slightly. His voice, when it came, was pitched lower than before. “Rhys asked if I’d speak with you. About Briallyn. About the missing females.”

Her fingers stilled on the book’s cover. Elara didn’t look up at him. She didn’t need to. Her spine had already straightened, her voice sharpening to match the shift in her shoulders. “And this is not something he could talk to me about himself?”

She hadn’t meant for it to sound as brittle as it did. Or maybe she had. The irritation crept in too quickly, too instinctively. Rhysand hadn’t once come to see her here, not since that morning in the dining room. Before that, he had visited her more than once at the Moonstone Palace. Always brief, usually a bit restrained, but he’d come. And now, in Velaris, with no borders between them—nothing. Silence.

Elara didn’t know what that said about him. Or about her. She didn’t like the thoughts it stirred.

She must not have hidden the bitterness in her expression well enough. Azriel’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her. “I’m the one who has been trying to find out information about her,” he said, his voice still calm, still quiet. “Not Rhys. This is my task. My investigation.”

Her gaze remained on the rim of her mug. She didn’t answer, didn’t nod. But she didn’t stop him either. That seemed to be enough.

“We think they might be connected,” Azriel went on, his tone shifting again—measured now, more precise. He took a seat at the table, bringing it closer to where she sat near the window. “The missing females and Briallyn.”

Elara blinked. Her brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t understand.”

Azriel exhaled, a slow breath through his nose. He sat back in his chair but didn’t relax. “We believe Briallyn is working with a death-god. One who’s been trapped on the Continent for centuries. Bound to a lake—no known way out.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t lying. She could tell from the tension in his jaw, the fatigue behind his focus. He hadn’t come here to speculate. He had come because something had shifted, something urgent.

Still, she said nothing. Her fingers curled more tightly around her mug, though she didn’t lift it. Didn’t drink. Just held on to it like it was anchoring her there.

“And you want my help?” Her voice was even, but quieter now.

Azriel’s shadows stirred faintly along his shoulders.

“We think there might be a connection,” he said again. “We think you might recognize something we’re missing. You’ve seen what the queens are capable of. You were there. You worked with them when you were with Hybern.”

The silence after that was different. Not tense—but brittle. Like a hairline fracture waiting to split open.

She bristled without meaning to, her grip on the cup shifting, knuckles tightening. “I’m…not.” The words felt foreign, unfinished in her mouth. She swallowed hard and forced the rest of it out. “I’m not trying to be that person anymore.”

Azriel didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. He just studied her, as if he could read the distance she’d built between each syllable. As if he knew she hadn’t meant it to sound like an apology.

She hated that he had to be the one to ask. Hated the weight of history curling behind the question, behind the way he said with Hybern—not for, not under. With.

She set the mug down and turned her eyes back to the window. The light had moved. The shadows of the frame now sliced across the floor in sharp angles. She wished the day would just end.

“You’re not,” Azriel said, and something in his voice shifted—not defensive, not apologetic, but… aware. As if he’d only just realized how it sounded. He leaned forward again, and the movement was small, barely noticeable, but it pulled him closer than he had any right to be.

Elara’s breath caught in her throat. He wasn’t touching her. Not even close. But his presence was like pressure against her skin—night mist and cedar. It sank into her lungs, made the air feel thinner. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not with him so near. Not with his voice that low, and quiet, and steady as he said, “You’re not that person. You never were.”

Her fingers curled slightly around the hem of her sleeve. She wanted to look away, but his eyes held her there. Not with force—just that same stillness. That same patience.

“I—I can’t,” she said, and her voice sounded too raw, like it had cracked somewhere behind her teeth. She turned her head, trying to breathe around him, around that scent, that weight. “I can’t go back to doing those things.”

The tray between them sat untouched, the eggs long gone cold, the fruit softening beneath the slow march of sunlight. She could see the faint sheen of sweat forming on the grapes, as if the warmth of the morning was enough to spoil anything left waiting too long.

He didn’t move.

And that—that—was what made her hate him a little in that moment. Not because he pushed, not because he threatened or demanded or begged. But because he sat there, quiet and steady and unshaken, and simply waited.

“There are still females disappearing,” he said finally, and his voice was soft, like he was afraid anything louder might fracture her again.

Elara didn’t answer. Her throat worked once, but no sound came. She stared at the edge of the windowpane, at the dust caught in the morning light. She felt brittle. Hollowed out.

“They’re vanishing the same way they did on the Continent,” he continued, and now the shadows curled tighter along his shoulders, a faint twitch of emotion at the edge of his control. “They took people from that village you loved. The one with the family. The girl.”

Her stomach turned. She felt it twist like rope pulled too tight. Dorothye. Arnulf. Tiny hands tangled in her braid. Laughing children with flour on their cheeks. She still saw the outline of that cottage in her dreams—Clotilda’s old rocking chair by the fire. The smell of rosemary and smoke. A lullaby hummed off-key.

“You promised that little girl,” Azriel said, and though his voice didn’t rise, it cut cleaner than any blade. “You said you’d put a stop to it.”

Elara didn’t move. Her grip had gone white around the edge of the bench, but her face remained blank. She refused to look at him. If she looked at him, she would break. And she couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not ever again.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just watched. Waited.

Then, softly—too softly—he asked, “Don’t you want to finish what you started?”

She didn’t realize how tightly her jaw had clenched until it started to ache. The silence pressed inward, a breath too long. Her fingers curled beneath the edge of the bench.

She was angry.

Not at herself—though that part never left her—but at him. At the smug bastard sitting so still across from her, his words still coiled in the air between them like they had every right to be there. Don’t you want to finish what you started? As if it were that easy.

Her mouth tasted bitter. She thought of Dorothye then—small hands in hers, that wide-eyed wonder that had no place in a world like theirs. The child’s voice had been soft when she asked if Elara would come back. She could still feel the braid she’d plaited into her hair that morning, still hear the screeching kettle and the door that had been left open to let in the spring breeze. Did Dorothye even remember that promise?

She thought of Arnulf, too—his quiet steadiness, the way he’d taken to Elara’s teaching in the woods. He would be the one providing for his family now, even as that unseen threat crept closer, stealing daughters and sisters in the dark. That responsibility would never have been his, but he’d shoulder it anyway. Because she hadn’t.

The anger curled sharper.

“No.”

The word came flatter than she meant it. Not cold. Not defensive. Just…empty. Like she’d pulled it from somewhere too deep to soften.

Azriel didn’t flinch. He only nodded once, as if he’d been waiting for it. As if he already knew.

“I’m not ready to tie myself to this court,” she said, and the words were careful now—measured, controlled. Her voice was cool, too even. But her eyes had gone hard again, that familiar gleam of frost settling back over the cracks. “Every time I do, I bring blood with me. People get killed. I’m not going to pretend that helping now makes it any better.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to unwind the meaning behind it. She hated that restraint most of all—hated that he didn’t tell her she was wrong. That he didn’t try to offer a salve. He only watched her in that same unreadable way he always did, gaze steady and unreadable.

“All right,” he said after a pause, voice low again. “I’ll let Rhys know of your decision.”

He didn’t move yet. Still gave her the chance to change her mind.

But Elara was already closing the book too hard, the sharp snap echoing against the stone. She stood too fast, the bench scraping against the tile behind her, and stalked out before he could say another word. She didn’t care if he watched her go. Her legs carried her on instinct—through the long columned hallway, around corners her body remembered even when her mind felt blank.

The House was too quiet. Not eerie. Just hollow. It was early afternoon, when the winds outside shifted and the sun began to stretch across the western walls. Cassian and the female—Nesta—had gone to Windhaven. Rhys had said as much when she arrived.

She walked faster.

She didn’t want to be seen. Not like this. Not when the air felt too tight in her lungs, every inch of her skin prickling like it was preparing for a blow. Not when saying no had felt like slicing a thread already stretched too thin inside her chest. She’d barely held it together in the library—had felt the shift inside her the moment Azriel dragged Dorothye into this.

Sparring had helped the other night. The ache in her arms, the slow burn of movement—it had grounded her. Maybe she just needed that again. Something to strike. Something to bleed off the pressure building behind her ribs.

She turned toward the training ring without hesitation.

Her pace sharpened, steady and fast, as if moving could outrun the noise in her head. Wind barreled toward her as she passed beneath the archway, the full force of the cold mountain air slamming into her. It didn’t stop her. The climb was nothing. She’d walked harder paths barefoot through sleet, with no food and too many broken ribs to count. The incline barely registered.

But her steps slowed when she reached the last turn—when she heard voices echoing off stone and snow.

“The second hour was on the house.”

Elara froze. Her pulse stuttered. Her eyes snapped toward the far edge of the courtyard, to the bench half-shaded by one of the thick stone columns. She hadn’t seen her at first. But now—sitting like she’d been there the whole time—Nesta Archeron leaned back against the pillar, sweat drying in patches across her brow. Her hair was pulled away from her face, damp and slightly tangled. Her expression unreadable from this distance, but the set of her posture was unmistakable.

What was she doing here?

“Generous of you,” Cassian’s voice replied, hoarse from exertion. And frustration.

Elara didn’t need to look at Nesta to know exactly what expression she wore. That stare—flat, cutting, the kind that made people squirm even when she didn’t speak.

They weren’t supposed to be here. Rhys had told her they trained in Windhaven during the mornings. That was the entire reason she’d chosen this time. The one place she could move, breathe—escape—without feeling the weight of Nesta Archeron’s stare digging between her shoulder blades.

Her stomach twisted, tight and low.

She stepped back, already half-turned. Her shoulder brushed the stone arch behind her, and she stilled—heart hammering harder than it should have. The instinct to vanish was muscle-deep. It wasn’t fear— not of Nesta. Just a tiredness that lived in her bones. A bone-deep ache to not be seen. Not like this. Not when her skin already itched with the need to strike, to move, to do something.

But then came the scrape of a boot against stone. A flicker of silver-brown in the corner of her vision.

“I wondered when you'd show your face again.”

Elara froze. Her breath caught, shallow and sharp, in her chest. Nesta’s voice held no volume, no edge. But it struck with more force than a blade.

She turned, slowly. Her head felt light. The wind had picked up, but her skin burned.

“I wasn’t—” she tried, jaw tight.

“—Trying to slink off unnoticed?” Nesta didn’t raise her voice, didn’t move from the bench. That sharp brow arched with theatrical cruelty. “Like you’ve done thousands of times before, Munin? Less like a raven, more like a vulture.”

Cassian shifted, but didn’t speak.

Elara inhaled through her nose, sharp and unsteady. “I came to train,” she said. The words came out too fast. She hated that. Hated the tremor she could feel building under her ribs.

“Train,” Nesta repeated, the word cold on her tongue. Then, that smile—vicious in how slight it was. “Funny. I would’ve thought you’d had enough practice already—dragging terrified girls out of their beds.”

Her throat closed. Just a little. Her heartbeat stuttered. Not from surprise, not even from pain. From the weight of memory pressing down too fast, too suddenly. Her hands curled at her sides.

“You don’t get to pretend that none of this happened,” Nesta went on, calm as ever, each word placed like a nail. “You might try to forget what you did. But I won’t let you. You are the reason I have these ears. These powers. This body. You’re the reason Elain woke up screaming for months.”

“Nes—” Cassian said, a quiet warning now.

But Elara could hardly hear him. Her skin was too tight. Her mouth too dry. Her mind kept circling back to that night in the human lands—the way Nesta had fought against her grip, teeth bared like a feral thing. How Elain hadn’t even screamed until it was too late.

“I didn’t throw you into the Cauldron.” Her voice came out smaller than she intended. She cleared her throat, tried to make it stronger. Failed. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t—” She didn’t finish.

Because she had. She had held the chains. She had looked away.

She felt it unraveling—her composure, her spine. Like a thread pulled too tight across raw skin. Rhys’s voice, weeks ago, trying to convince her she hadn’t chosen it. But she had walked them forward. She hadn’t fought the order. She’d bowed her head, sealed her mouth, and obeyed.

“No.” Nesta’s tone was quieter now. Crueler, for it. “You just handed us to the people who did.”

Elara stared at her. The sky was bright, cloudless, but everything in her vision blurred, too much light in all the wrong places. Her hands felt numb. She didn’t know if it was rage or shame that was choking her. Maybe both.

“Do you even feel anything about it?” Nesta’s voice sliced through the space between them. “Or are you just here because Rhysand wants to play little happy family?”

The question didn’t land like a slap. It sank. Slow and cruel. A quiet weight settling in Elara’s chest—dragging down every breath she hadn’t managed to steady.

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. No words formed. No defense came. There was nothing she could offer that wouldn’t curdle as it left her tongue. Nothing she could say that Nesta wouldn’t rip apart. No denial that wouldn't sound like a carefully rehearsed lie.

The silence pressed in. She could feel Cassian watching—waiting to step in. But he didn’t.

Elara’s throat felt scraped raw when she finally forced the words out.

“I remember,” she said. Her voice barely carried. “Every scream. Every time I wanted to stop. And every time I didn’t.”

The truth hung there. Unvarnished. A blade she handed over freely, because Nesta would take it either way.

Nesta’s mouth curled, not into a smile—something colder. “Good,” she said, the word brittle. “And do not expect me to let you forget it.”

Cassian’s voice came low. A warning. “Nesta—”

But Nesta had already turned, the set of her shoulders rigid, hands clenched at her sides. The crunch of her boots against the gravel bit into the silence as she stalked away. She reached the edge of the courtyard, then pivoted back, eyes sharp as flint.

“Don’t,” she snapped, cutting off whatever quiet reprimand Cassian had been about to give. “I get it. Rhysand and his blood will always matter more than the rest of us.”

Cassian flinched. Barely—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But he didn’t stop her. Didn’t say another word as she shoved past him and disappeared into the stairwell.

Elara stared at the empty spot Nesta had left behind. Her limbs had gone too still. Her heartbeat refused to slow. The cold mountain wind raked over her face, but she barely felt it. She kept her jaw locked. She didn’t move.

Cassian shifted beside her, but said nothing.

Silence pressed down between them, thick as the low clouds crowding the peaks overhead. Cassian hadn’t moved, his shoulders still tight, posture stiff with tension that had nowhere left to go. A breath huffed from his nose. Then he dragged a hand down his face—slow, rough—like he could scrape the confrontation off his skin.

“She didn’t mean any of that,” he said at last, voice worn.

Elara didn’t answer right away. The words had landed, but they didn’t shift anything inside her. If anything, they rang dull and distant.

“Yes, she did,” she said. Her voice came quiet, flat. No weight behind it, because none was needed.

Cassian looked at her then. Not startled—just measured. As if only now realizing that she hadn’t flinched. That the bitterness hadn’t cracked her. That maybe it never would.

She hadn’t expected him to speak. They were hardly acquaintances. Even before everything, she’d never been part of that inner circle—never caught in the pull of Rhys’s friends. The general had pulled her from the ice once, years before the war, when she’d been too reckless and too proud to admit she was drowning. But even then, he hadn’t spoken much. Just a nod. A firm hand around her wrist. Then silence.

“I don’t blame her,” Elara murmured. The truth sat hollow in her throat. “I would hate me too.”

Cassian didn’t move. His wings shifted slightly, bracing against the wind.

“Everything I did…” She stared at the training ring. Gravel, steel, scuffed stone. Her fists itched. Her arms ached with the need to move, to fight, to bleed something out. “I deserve it. At least Nesta doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not.”

That earned a flicker in his expression. Not pity—something harder. Wearier.

But he didn’t speak.

Elara let the quiet stretch again. The wind scraped past them, lifting strands of her hair. She could feel his gaze still lingering, trying to decide what this conversation was meant to be. Trying to figure out if she expected comfort. She didn’t.

“It’s like they all want to pretend it wasn’t me,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked back at him. “That they can look past it. Rhys. Feyre. Even Azriel, in his own way.”

Her voice stayed calm, but it took effort.

“But Nesta?” She swallowed, jaw tightening. “She sees it. She remembers. And maybe I deserve to look into that face every time I think I can stay here.”

Cassian exhaled, long and slow, before folding his arms across his chest. The gesture was solid, but his voice when he spoke had softened, “You know what I think?”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I think you need to learn how to forgive yourself. Not for them. For you.”

The words landed like a blow she hadn’t braced for. Elara looked away, toward the tree line where the wind shifted the branches in uneasy circles. The ache behind her ribs returned—sharp and familiar, like a bruise being pressed too hard. Not enough to break anything. Just enough to remind her it was still there.

“I don’t know how to do that,” she said. Her voice barely made it past her throat. “I don’t even know how to make it right.”

“You don’t have to make it right, El.” His shoulder bumped hers. Light—careful. Like he didn’t expect her to stay rooted. Like he knew she was already halfway to flight. “Start doing things for yourself. What makes you happy?”

The question hit harder than Nesta’s words ever could have. Not because it was cruel. Because it wasn’t.

What makes you happy?

It clawed through her—relentless, sudden. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her mind was too loud, too blank. Nothing surfaced but empty halls and screaming echoes. She had forgotten how to want things. How to recognize wanting.

The truth crept out in pieces. “I don’t know,” she said. It hurt more than it should have. “I don’t know who I am.”

But her mind wasn’t empty. Not entirely.

There were names she hadn’t said aloud in weeks. People who had taken her in when she had no name to give them. When Munin had burned to ash and Elara hadn’t been born yet. They hadn’t asked who she used to be. They’d asked who she wanted to be. And she hadn’t known then either—but they’d let her try.

“I do know,” she said after a moment. Her eyes stayed fixed on the training ring, but her voice steadied. “I owe someone a promise. And I can’t run from that.”

Cassian didn’t press. Just tilted his head, studying her with a quiet kind of patience.

“Then start there.”

Elara let out a slow, quiet breath. Her arms hung loose at her sides now, fingers no longer curled into fists, no longer coiled and tight with defense. It wasn’t peace—she doubted she would ever feel that again. But her thoughts didn’t scrape against bone anymore.

“Thanks,” she said at last, her voice thin. “For… the talk.”

Cassian glanced down at her, and the half-smile that pulled at his mouth was rough-edged but real. He bumped his shoulder against hers again, light enough not to press. “No problem, sis.”

The word barely landed before her body locked up.

She knew he hadn’t meant anything by it—knew it was probably just a habit, the way he spoke to people once he’d decided they weren’t enemies. But her breath caught anyway. Her limbs stiffened again, subtle and sudden, like a door shutting before she’d even realized it had been open.

He’d never called her that before. Not back then. Not now.

And there was a back then, even if it was threadbare. That day in the snow, when his arm had hauled her from the ice, when her lungs had nearly frozen shut with fear that the water surrounding her wings would only weigh her down. But there had been so few interactions with him after that.

They weren’t family. They weren’t even acquaintances. Just two people who seemed to orbit Rhysand.

Still—her throat tightened, sharp and quiet, and something deep in her chest gave a small, exhausted twist. It wasn’t his fault. She knew that. But the word lodged deep anyway. Sis.

She’d heard the way they named each other brother—Cassian and Azriel and Rhysand, their voices full of dry affection and biting loyalty. She’d watched them as she was growing up, from doorways and corners and the edge of too many rooms.

Rhysand and his chosen brothers, laughing like the world belonged to them and they knew it.

And her? His sister by blood, tucked away in the dark.

She had envied it once, long ago. Whatever it was they had—that thing, that bond stitched from blood and battle and whatever else made people look at each other like that. They had claimed each other, fully and without hesitation.

No one had ever claimed her. Not until Clotilda had all but forced her into her family.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice low, roughened as if noticing his reaction. “I just—”

“No.”

The word cut through his apology, not sharp, not cold. Just final. Tired.

She looked at him then, and her mouth curved into a small smile. Careful. Controlled. The kind of smile meant to end a conversation rather than start one. It didn’t reach her eyes, not even close. There was a tightness at the corners of her mouth, a faint line that hadn’t been there before.

“It’s fine,” she said.

And maybe it was meant to sound easy. Maybe it was meant to let him off the hook. But it landed like stone anyway.

Cassian studied her for another beat, something unreadable in his expression. His wings shifted behind him, a slight rustle of leather. Like he wanted to say more. Like he knew better than to try.

He didn’t press. Just gave a slow nod and stepped back, the distance opening between them again. Like they both understood it had never really closed.

---

The dining room was quiet.

Just the soft rustle of napkins, the faint clink of silver against porcelain, and beyond the stone walls, the wind moaned low across the Sidra. Azriel sat at the long table, back straight, untouched tea cooling beside his plate. His shadows curled near his boots, twitchy and unanchored.

Like they, too, had grown restless from the silence.

He didn’t turn when she entered. Didn’t need to.

There was no indication that she had come to see him. No purposeful footsteps, no clearing of her throat. One blink and she was there—just inside the archway, framed by the afternoon light and the pale stone beyond.

His shadows went still.

Elara didn’t sit. She stood with her hands shoved into the deep pockets of her coat, shoulders squared like she’d made some quiet decision not to flinch first. Her face was pale, still drawn at the edges, but something in her eyes had sharpened. Not ease—he wouldn’t mistake it for that—but purpose.

Or maybe something like it.

She held his gaze for a breath, then let it out slow. “I’ll do it.”

His fingers curled around the edge of the table.

“You’re sure,” he said.

Her shoulders moved in a shrug, one that didn’t reach her neck.

“No. Not really. But I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Her voice didn’t shake, but her jaw flexed once before she forced it still. “So if there’s a way I can help—then fine.”

He nodded, slow. “You won’t be alone in it.”

She didn’t answer.

Only looked past him, toward the tall window behind his chair. The wind caught the end of her braid, tugging a few strands loose. Her eyes followed the sway of it for a beat—distant, but not vacant.

She looked tired.

But not broken. Not like she had when he’d first found her in that snow-covered village, all sharp angles and silence and eyes that wouldn’t meet his. This version of her stood straighter. Thinner, maybe. Worn thinner by grief and memory. But there was steel in her posture.

He turned back to his tea. Lifted the cup with both hands, let the warmth settle into his palms before taking a sip.

It masked the slow, quiet loosening of his chest.

She said yes.

And it mattered—more than he could say.

Notes:

I'm thinking of publishing my playlist for this fic. But, honestly.... it's going to be most songs from the 2010s because that's just who I am as a person. Thoughts on the idea?

Chapter 58

Notes:

Thank you so much for all the comments/feedback. I'm woking on a playlist for this fic, and I'm not going to lie, it's getting me pumped for writing. And now that today is our school board elections, I'll be released from union social media duties for a while and I'll have even more time to write!

“Are you ready?”

Elara lifted her chin in answer. A small, measured motion. But inside, the answer was less certain. Her stomach had been coiled since the night before, and not even the chill of morning air seeping through the stone walls had managed to quiet it.

She hadn’t been sure yesterday when she’d agreed to help him.

She wasn’t sure now, not with her boots already laced and the wind rising outside and the Shadowsinger watching her like he could see beneath the leather and bone.

She didn’t know whether it was the mission—the fact that she’d done this before, hunted and stalked and reported back, served darker masters without asking why—or if it was the fact that she was doing it with him.

She didn’t know what unsettled her more.

The flight leathers he’d left for her had fit too well. Illyrian, he’d said with a faint smirk when she pulled them on by the fire. Like it was a small joke, some kind of shared history between them. One that she didn’t quite understand. But they had molded to her frame with unnerving ease. Worn, broken in, soft at the joints, cinched perfectly at her waist. They felt like something she'd worn before, even though she hadn’t. And that—that was the problem.

Because it felt familiar. Felt like she was right back to where she was before the war.

And that scared her.

Not in the way that Dagdan or the King’s punishments had once scared her. But in a quieter way. A way that whispered she might slip into old habits without realizing. That she might become Munin again without ceremony. Just a tilt of the head, a shift of her voice. A pair of black, butchered wings cutting through a night sky.

So she buried it. All of it.

She let her mouth curve into a crooked smirk, the same one she’d worn for centuries when pretending not to care. The kind of smile that dared others to look too closely and dismissed them before they could.

“As I will ever be, Shadowsinger,” she said lightly, making the title sound more like a taunt than a courtesy. She nodded toward the open sky through the windows, though she hadn’t stopped thinking about the maps all night. “Where are we off to? Montserre? Valhallan?”

His expression didn’t shift. Not much ever did. But she saw it in the line of his mouth, in the pause between his breath and his answer. A slight tightening.

“Not Valhallan,” he said. His voice was even, but there was an edge to it. “Mor’s already there, on a diplomatic trip. She’s working on the treaty. If she learns anything about Briallyn, she knows how to contact me.”

She nodded. It should have ended there. But her chest loosened—just slightly. She hadn’t realized it was tight until the relief crept in. She didn’t even know what she’d been bracing for.

“Oh,” she said softly, and cursed the way her voice sounded almost… grateful. She focused instead on the seams of her sleeves, the feel of the stitching beneath her fingers. It gave her something to anchor to.

Azriel watched her still, his shadows curling and retreating, their edges softening.

“Besides,” he added after a beat, slower now, “I figured that with your history there, it’s a place we best avoid.”

Her breath caught—but she didn’t let it show. She didn’t thank him. She couldn’t. The words felt too fragile in her throat, as if they would break if they passed her lips. But she met his eyes for a moment longer, and didn’t look away.

The horizon was barely lit, a pale wash of color brushing the tops of Velaris’s rooftops. The sky, stretched and waiting. Elara stood with her arms crossed against the chill, wings twitching once—just slightly, enough to feel the pull of morning wind. She willed them a way, letting them dissolve through her magic. She didn’t want to attract attention with the horrifying way that her wings looked.

She adjusted the gloves at her wrists, tugging each one tight until the metal clasps clicked into place. The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet.

“Montserre, then?” she asked, her voice low, even. The question was mostly for something to fill the space between them.

“Not Montserre,” His gaze lingered—not just a glance, but something else. Longer than it needed to be. She didn’t flinch under it, but a quiet tension settled behind her ribs all the same.

“I was thinking…” he began, then paused again, his tone softer this time, like the words had to be coaxed out. “Maybe we go back to where you had some luck. The town I found you in.”

The cold didn’t touch her with the Illyrian leathers that had been gifted to her, not really, but something still went still beneath her skin.

She knew it had been a possibility. Knew that their search might lead them there. But she hadn’t let herself think of it. Elara swallowed once, too tightly. Her thoughts blurred, unfocused, flashing with memory. The kitchen’s warmth, the smell of simmering broth. Clotilda’s wide mouth and heavier laugh, the way she’d handed over a wooden spoon like it was a weapon, like it meant something. Dorothye’s arms around her the night Elara left—tight, silent, tearful. Arnulf’s endless questions and impossibly loud footsteps.

They hadn’t known what she was. What she’d done. And they’d loved her anyway.

Now she was expected to return with the spymaster of the Night Court. Mother above.

Elara’s mouth felt too dry. Her jaw tight. She didn’t move.

She could already imagine the questions. Could see Clotilda’s brow lifting in that knowing way, could hear the sharp breath Dorothye would take if she saw the male at Elara’s side. Arnulf would talk—gods, he would not stop talking.

The wind shifted. She forced herself to breathe.

“We know that there were people working for the death-god there,” Azriel said at last. His voice was level again, back to mission-speak. But gentler than usual. “We can start by questioning the villagers. See if they’ve heard anything. If they can point us toward Briallyn.”

He was right. And they both knew it. Still, her fingers curled slightly in her gloves. Despite everything that stirred under her skin—the unease, the reluctance, the fear that the life she’d tried to build there might shatter at her return—she couldn’t deny that his plan made sense.

It was a smart place to start.

“All right,” Elara said, giving one curt nod. “We’ll go back there.”

The words sat strangely in her mouth—too even, too sure for what she felt. But she didn’t take them back.

Azriel extended a gloved hand toward her, the gesture silent and steady. She stared at it. Raised an eyebrow, slow and pointed.

“I can winnow on my own, Shadowsinger,” she said, voice dry with challenge.

But even as the words left her mouth, her fingers were already reaching for his. Traitorous things. She told herself it was only because it would be faster. Cleaner. And yet, when her palm pressed against his, she noted—absurdly, acutely—that his hand was warm beneath the leather. Warmer than it should’ve been. Like the heat had seeped in from somewhere else and lingered.

A flush crept up her neck before she could stop it. She didn’t meet his eyes.

Azriel, mercifully, said nothing. Just let a small, knowing smirk tug at his mouth. Then shadows curled around them—cool and formless and featherlight—and the world folded in on itself.

When it unfolded again, it was with the sudden bite of wind on her cheeks and the sharp scent of early morning air. Cracked cobblestones shifted beneath her boots.

Elara didn’t move right away. Her lungs expanded, slow, careful. The air tasted the same—ash and lichen and something faintly sweet. Someone had already stoked their hearth. Someone else was baking bread, the yeasty scent curling through the village.

The village hadn’t changed.

Same sun-bleached rooftops. Same narrow streets, carved stubbornly into the hillside. Stone walls patched with moss. A few tired chickens pecking under a low fence. A dog barking far off, sharp and quick, then quiet again. Elara looked around without really meaning to. The corners of the buildings. The dirt packed between bricks. All of it the same.

It felt strange—being back. Strange in a way that didn’t quite have a name. Not painful. Not comforting either. Just off, like she was wearing clothes that no longer fit. But she didn’t say anything. Azriel was already starting down the main path, his shoulders straight, wings tucked close to his spine. The shadows drifted lazily around him, slipping low to the ground like smoke.

No one looked at them.

The town wasn’t empty, but the few people out—early risers, shopkeepers, farmers dragging sacks—passed by without even glancing their way.

Only when she glanced down did she realize his shadows were coiling around her, too.

She kept walking, but her brow furrowed slightly. They curled around her boots, her waist, one brushing the braid at her shoulder like a curious thing. She didn’t feel watched, but she didn’t feel entirely like herself either. Was he cloaking them?

Of course he was. It made sense. A way to pass unnoticed. A way to blend, to listen. The famed Shadowsinger hadn’t earned his reputation by letting people see him coming. Still, she couldn’t help the low thrum in her blood. She’d been veiled by someone else’s power before, and she wasn’t sure she cared for it again.

Azriel didn’t explain. Just walked ahead like he already knew where he was going.

They walked side by side, boots striking the uneven cobblestones in a rhythm that didn’t quite align. The market opened before them—narrow and familiar, with stalls pressed up against buildings and tables crowded with produce and dry goods. Elara adjusted the angle of her hood, but didn’t lower it.

The glances came slowly as Azriel loosened the reins on his shadows. Some subtle, some sharper than they needed to be. No one stared long, but no one looked away quickly either. She could feel the watchfulness beneath their quiet, the measured tension in every turned head.

It wasn’t recognition—thank the Mother for that. She had spent too long learning how to vanish in plain sight, how to shift herself into something forgettable, benign.

Still, the villagers were wary.

Not of her, maybe. But of two strangers with no business here.

Azriel’s shadows had thinned by now, unwound from her boots and shoulders like mist retreating from sunlight. Without them, the space around them felt suddenly louder. Every footstep echoed longer. Every eye lingered a breath more than it had to.

Elara caught the scent of fire-roasted meat curling down the alley, rich and heavy, laced with rosemary and something sharper. Her stomach tightened on instinct. But no one offered a sample from their stalls. No cheerful merchant waving over the foreigners, no calls about spiced almonds or honeyed figs.

That wasn’t how it had been before.

Now, no one even nodded.

Azriel peeled away from her then, stepping toward a narrow stall tucked against the bakery wall. Loaves of bread lay cooling on cloth-wrapped boards, their crusts dusted in flour, steam still rising. He pointed to a rounded one studded with dried fruit.

“Morning,” he said, easy as anything, voice smooth and casual as water. “Looks quieter than I remember for this time of year.”

The baker’s eyes flicked over him, then to Elara behind. Her mouth pressed into a line. “Takes more than one morning to know what’s usual,” she said, slicing the loaf with firm, practiced movements.

Azriel’s tone didn’t shift. “Heard it used to be busier, though. I figured harvest season meant more traffic, not less.”

She wrapped the bread in a thin strip of linen, not offering him a smile. “People come and go,” she said. “Market changes every year. Depends on the weather.” Her hand already moved to the next loaf, her body angled away from them.

Azriel laid down the coins without comment.

No thanks. No questions. Not even a where are you from?

Elara didn’t move until he turned back toward the street. The wrapped bread swung in his hand, forgotten. The baker was already speaking to someone else, already done with them.

Elara kept her voice low. “That went well.”

Azriel didn’t answer at first, his expression unreadable. Shadows curled again near his shoulders, light enough to be mistaken for smoke.

“They’re afraid,” he said eventually, as they slipped back into the flow of the street.

The scent of sage and lavender pulled her toward the next stall before she consciously turned her feet. Elara knew this one—remembered kneeling in the back room once, fingers raw from scrubbing linens, while Marta handed her a salve that smelled like rosemary and relief. The stall hadn’t changed. Bundles of dried herbs hung in lazy bunches, labeled with faded ink. Tin jars stacked behind a screen. Everything tidy. Familiar.

She brushed her gloved fingers along a sheaf of thyme. “Strange not to see Marta here. I thought she always worked Tuesdays.”

The apothecary didn’t look up from her mortar. A younger female, dark hair pulled back too tightly, lips pressed into a firm line. “She moved south.” The words snapped out like they’d been rehearsed.

Elara’s hand stilled on the thyme.

Behind her, she felt Azriel go still too, the weight of his attention shifting—focused now, pointed.

Pushing would be the wrong move. One question too many and the careful edge they walked would crack. The female had already returned to her grinding, refusing to look at either of them.

Azriel’s hand brushed her lower back, subtle, but firm. He guided her away, out of the crowd and toward the shadowed edge of the square where a crooked water trough leaned against a cracked stone wall. The sun hadn’t touched this spot yet. It was cool, quiet, half-forgotten.

Elara didn’t look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on the market. The flicker of hands exchanging coin. The quiet chatter that didn’t carry. The stalls that felt more like fences. “They’re hiding something,” she said, voice flat, but not empty.

Azriel nodded once. His shadows coiled at the edges of his shoulders, but made no move to spread. “They’re afraid,” he said, not quite agreeing wither observation.

She waited a breath, then said, “We’ll get more done if we divide the square. I’ll take west.”

She didn’t wait for approval. Just turned, already taking the first step. But his hand wrapped around her forearm—not rough, not forcing. But solid.

Her brows lifted, surprised more by the contact than the restraint. She turned back, and found him watching her now—not the square, not the movement beyond. Her. His expression was unreadable at first. But there was something beneath the careful mask. A flicker of uncertainty.

Her voice dropped, barely more than breath. “You don’t trust me.”

His jaw tensed. He didn’t agree with her statement, but he didn’t say anything in outright denial either.  She didn’t pull away. The space between them felt smaller than it had a moment ago. Shadows slid over her wrist, cool where his glove was warm. She waited—for him to speak, for him to release her, for whatever came next.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Not really. She hadn’t known the Shadowsinger long—truly known him—and the stretch of time they had spent together, she’d worn someone else’s face. Munin’s skin. Munin’s sharp silence, her bloodied reputation.

Even now, there were moments when Elara wasn’t entirely sure where one ended and the other began.

So of course he didn’t trust her. He would’ve been a fool to. She knew that. Knew it like she knew the weight of a blade in her palm, the stillness before a strike. Logic etched it into her bones. But logic didn’t brace her against the quiet sting that rose when his hand stayed firm on her arm—when his eyes didn’t soften.

She held his gaze anyway.

“That’s not what this is,” he said at last. And there was no edge, no heat in his words. But she heard the way he reined himself in—like calm was something clenched between his teeth.

“Then what is it?” Her voice dropped, low and bitter, matching the taste in her mouth. She stepped closer, enough to feel the heat radiating off of him. “You brought me here to help. So let me help.”

Azriel didn’t look away. His shadows curled along his shoulders, slow and restless. The hesitation in his eyes was carefully hidden, but she had spent centuries watching males lie with their bodies. She could see the way his weight shifted slightly back, the way his jaw tensed not from anger, but something else.

“I don’t like the idea of you being on your own. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” she shot back, another step closer. Her chin tilted up, not in defiance—but because it was the only thing that kept her from looking away. “Unless you forgot, things like this were all I did for the past five hundred years. I am fine on my own.”

His mouth parted, just slightly. “I know that.”

A silence spread between them, thick and unwelcome. Elara felt it in her chest—in the old, bruised part of her that still craved something like belief.

“You don’t trust me,” she breathed again, quieter this time. The admission tasted worse the second time around, but she couldn’t stop herself from saying it. As if repetition alone might make it feel less like a wound.

“I do trust you,” he growled, low and rough, like the words had been dragged out from somewhere he hadn’t meant to show her. “That’s the problem.”

The world stilled. Or maybe it just felt like it.

Elara blinked, caught off guard by the heat in his voice—by the honesty. He wasn’t looking at her like a threat, not now. There was something raw in the way he held her gaze, something that reached beneath the careful masks they both wore.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping. It was darker now, weighted. “You scare me, Elara. Because I don’t know what could happen out there, and even though I trust you, I’ll spend every damn minute worrying if you’re not next to me.”

For a heartbeat, she forgot the cold wind tugging at her braid. Forgot the market behind them, the villagers, the reason that they had come back to this spot in the first place.

“What?” Her voice came out quieter than she expected—half disbelief, half breath. What could he possibly mean by any of that?

Azriel blinked. The shift was subtle, but she saw it—the narrowing of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips as if he’d only just registered what he’d said. His shoulders straightened, spine stiffening under the weight of retreat.

“I—Rhys just got you back,” he said, the words pulled taut. “He asked me to look after you.”

And just like that, the spell broke. Elara pulled back. Not with force, just enough to put a breath of space between them. Enough to feel the cool air slide in where the heat had been.

“I can take care of myself.”

The way she said it—tight, clipped—left no room for argument. Still, she didn’t look away, didn’t soften the blow.

“If you don’t let me do what I came here to do,” she added, voice low, “then you shouldn’t have brought me.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, with a breath that sounded more like surrender than agreement, Azriel gave a small nod—curt, reluctant. “One hour. Then meet me by the fountain.”

She didn’t answer. Elara turned, her leathers brushing against him as she slipped past. And then she was gone—into the alley, into the crowd—vanishing like a shadow in daylight.

---

The side street was narrow, hemmed in by buildings whose stone faces had been weathered soft by years of salt wind and heat.

The square just beyond still murmured with voices, distant enough to dull the edges. Sunlight gilded the rooftops, sharp and bright, a stark contrast to the cooler shadows clinging to the spaces between.

Azriel stood half-shrouded in the broken silhouette of a collapsed smithy, the charred frame a convenient blind. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, wings angled in a way that let him vanish into the deeper shade.

It wasn’t hiding, not exactly. Just… staying out of sight.

The heat of the sun had warmed his leathers, and with it came the clinging scent of smoke and baked bread.  His eyes scanned the street again, a slow drag of his gaze from one edge to the other. Still no sign of her.

He shifted his weight, exhaled through his nose. “Where the hell are you?”

The words came low, barely more than breath, but they tasted sharp. It had only been three minutes past the hour. Not late. Not really. Just… later than she should be.

A child darted down the alley across from him, barefoot and shrieking with laughter, followed by another clutching what looked like a stolen pear. They blurred past him, uncaring, and the shadows curled closer in their wake.

He should have sent one of them after her. But he hadn’t. Couldn’t. Not after the way her face had drawn tight when she’d said he didn’t trust her. Not after the way she had stepped back, spine straight, chin lifted—not out of defiance, but pride.

He scrubbed a hand along his jaw, the leather glove rasping faintly. He should’ve explained. Should’ve told her the truth. That it wasn’t a question of trust. He knew that she wouldn’t do anything to hurt him or the Night Court. T was the fear he couldn’t name, couldn’t shake, the thought that she might vanish again if he looked away for too long.

His mate. The word still felt strange in his mind. Especially because the instincts roaring through his blood couldn’t be acted upon. Elara didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if she could feel it the way he did. Wasn’t sure if she would care, if she did.

He’d spent months knowing she was alive but unreachable. The kind of absence that didn’t feel real until it settled in his bones like rot. And now she was here, walking back into danger with the same ease she always had.

And he was standing in an alley like a fool, arms crossed and throat tight, because he couldn’t stop himself from imagining her not coming back.

He tried not to worry.

He tried to throw himself into the work. He checked every shuttered shop and back alley twice, listening for sounds that didn’t belong. His shadows slipped ahead of him, quiet as breath, vanishing beneath warped doorframes and under floorboards, their whispers threading back to him in sharp, clipped murmurs.

A kitchen behind a grocer’s shop. Empty, save for a cooling pie and a ledger with too many clean pages. A storeroom behind a tavern where the walls smelled of lye, scrubbed to the stone. The inn above it was silent.

He’d broken into three buildings since Elara left—two butchers, one dress shop with a gleaming blue gown in the window. He found no locked cells. No frightened females tucked into basements or bound in closets. No names etched in ledgers that didn’t match the rest of the ink.

Nothing but a mounting sense of unease.

He told himself she was fine. That Elara was more than capable. That she’d survived far worse than a sleepy border town and a silent marketplace. He told himself he wouldn’t be pacing like this if it were Mor or Feyre out here, walking alone. But that wasn’t true. Not entirely.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and he made a point not to ball them into fists.

This was about the mission. That’s what he told himself. Finding Briallyn. But the lie tasted too thin. Too worn. It wasn’t just about the mission. And it hadn’t been, not since the moment she stepped into his tent at the Moonstone Palace and looked at him like he was a stranger she wanted to hate a little less.

He’d been relieved—no, glad—to get her back. To know she was alive, real, here. He had thought maybe, maybe he’d get time to know her again. Or for the first time. He hadn’t let himself hope for more than that.

But since they’d returned, since Velaris… he’d kept his distance. She’d stayed in the city. He’d found things to do elsewhere. Reports to track. Borders to check.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want to be there. That was the problem. He did. Fiercely. And the feeling unsettled him more than he’d admit.

But Rhys had asked him for space. Not in so many words, but Azriel had understood. Rhysand needed time. To bridge whatever had broken between him and Elara long before Hybern had taken her.  And so Azriel had stepped back. He didn’t want to get in the way.

But now, with his shadows too quiet, with the streets too clean, and Elara late—

He pressed his hand to the edge of the stone wall beside him, grounding himself. She was fine. She had to be. He didn’t let himself think about what he’d do if she wasn’t.

He spotted her first—leaning against a half-collapsed stone fence, arms crossed, boot scuffing at the dirt in a slow, restless rhythm. She hadn’t seen him yet. The sun caught the edges of her hair. For a moment, he just watched her. The way her head tilted as if listening for something he couldn’t hear.

Azriel stepped from the shadows, quiet as the breeze. “Find anything?”

She didn’t flinch. Just shifted her weight and glanced over, mouth curving into something brittle. “Depends. You count cold stares and locked doors as useful?”

“They’re wary,” he said. “Too wary.”

“You noticed that too.” Her voice lowered, more to herself than to him. “I thought maybe they just didn’t like my face.”

They stood like that for a beat—close, but not touching. The sounds of the market had faded behind them, muffled by narrow walls and high fences. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A cart rattled past the main road, wheels grinding over uneven stones.

He kept his body angled slightly toward hers, voice barely above a whisper, “We keep circling like outsiders, they’ll shut down even harder. We need someone to talk. One person who’s desperate enough to break.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, then back to the street, narrowing. Suspicious. Not of him, but of the silence. Of the calm that felt too deliberate.

Azriel nodded toward a sign crookedly hanging off rusted chains near the edge of the next street. The paint had long since peeled away, but the faint outline of a fox remained above the door. The windows were shuttered, even though it was broad daylight.

“That place. The barkeep’s name is Darek. He’s been paid to stay quiet before. I dealt with him during the First War.”

Elara’s gaze slid over the building with clear distaste. “So a friendly face, then.”

“No.” Azriel’s mouth twisted. “But a greedy one.”

Her lips pressed into a line. Her eyes didn’t leave the tavern. “It’s empty now. If someone’s hiding things, it won’t be during daylight.”

“We go back,” Azriel said, eyes already skimming the market square beyond her shoulder. The swell of midday traffic had thickened, but a few too many glances were sticking. Too many heads turning—then looking away too quickly. “Not tonight. They’ve seen us around too much already. We wait. Let the dust settle.”

Elara didn’t look back at the people trailing their attention across the square. She kept her gaze on him. “And then?”

“We slip in. Blend. Stay late. Watch who comes and goes. We don’t speak unless someone speaks first. And we don’t drink anything we didn’t pour ourselves.”

She hummed low in her throat, the sound noncommittal. Her posture hadn’t changed, but her eyes had gone a little distant, like her thoughts were elsewhere entirely. He didn’t like that look. Not on her.

“We return at nightfall tomorrow. Quietly.” His gaze shifted toward the tavern’s side entrance—a narrow door tucked beneath an overhang of cracked stone. Hidden from the street, if you knew where to look.

“Fallback?” She asked, already looking somewhere beyond him.

“The blacksmith’s forge,” he said. “Riverbank. No eyes on it from the street.”

A faint smirk curved her mouth, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well then,” she murmured, “should be fun.”

She turned before he could say anything more, stepping into the flow of foot traffic with ease. Her braid swung down her back, catching sunlight. The movement was casual, unbothered. She weaved between a farmer hauling a sack of grain and a merchant unloading barrels, slipping back into the town’s rhythm like she’d never left it.

Azriel didn’t move right away. Just watched her disappear into the press of bodies. Watched the way people looked at her—then away. That instinct tightened, low in his gut. He pushed off the wall and followed.

“Elara,” he called, catching up in three strides. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t turn, didn’t slow. “It’s none of your business.”

His fingers closed around her arm before reason caught up to instinct—not hard, just enough that she stopped. She turned fast, shoulders braced, lips parting as if she meant to spit some shap words at him. But he got there first.

“It is my business.” His voice didn’t rise. “Rhys asked me to keep you safe.”

The lie tasted worse every time he said it. He didn’t know if she heard it for what it was—he suspected she might have—but she only stared up at him, expression carved in something still and unreadable.

“Of course he did,” she said, flat. The corner of her mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “You can tell him I stayed on the path. Didn’t run. Didn’t kill anyone.”

Azriel didn’t let go.

“What’s at the end of the path?”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Something that’s not your concern.” A beat passed, then she added more lightly, like she meant to smooth it over, “But if we’ve got time to kill… there’s somewhere I want to visit.”

He studied her. The set of her jaw, the angle of her chin. The way she looked at him like she already expected a fight—like she was waiting for him to say no just so she could pull away harder.

“I’m coming with you.”

She sighed. Not annoyed. Not even surprised. Just resigned. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” He stepped closer, matching her pace when she turned again, his steps aligning with hers too easily. “If something happens to you while we’re here, it won’t be you Rhys kills. It’ll be me. And I’d like to know the reason my life is on the line.”

A breath of laughter escaped her. This one was quieter. Less bitter. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Azriel didn’t answer. Just walked beside her, shadows curling in tighter, clinging to the folds of his wings, the creases of his leathers. He said nothing of what really kept him close—nothing of the pressure twisting sharp beneath his ribs each time she drifted from view.

And he didn’t say that it had nothing to do with Rhys.

Chapter 59

Notes:

A little bit of fluff for you all who have been so patient with me.

Azriel walked beside her in silence, a single step behind.

The rhythm of her boots over uneven stone echoed beneath the low buildings, softened only by the hush of his shadows flickering ahead of them. They darted long and lean across the cobblestones, crawling toward doorframes and alleyways like they meant to learn her path before he could.

She hadn’t said a word since they'd left the square. Not a glance. Not a hint of where they were headed, only the sure, measured gait of someone who didn’t second-guess her direction. There was purpose in her stride, and Azriel followed it with the same care he gave a mark on the run.

The path narrowed. Houses thinned. The sky shifted overhead—lighter now, less choked by chimney smoke—and the stone gave way to dirt. Then a low fence appeared, warped and soft with rot, curling around a squat, crooked cottage that leaned to one side like a drunk caught mid-fall.

Elara stopped. Rested her hand against the latch.

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t what he’d expected. Not a crumbling old house tucked into the far edge of the village, half-swallowed by thorned hedges and quiet.

His brows lifted as he studied the small gate, then the sloping roof. No movement behind the windows. He didn’t move forward—not yet. Two shadows slipped from beneath his leathers and scattered, one crawling up the siding to press under the eaves, the other slithering low around the back.

He waited.

His shadows reported no weapons beyond anything a family might have. There were no wards. No strange scents or anything to trigger his suspicion. Just a family inside. One older female, seated in a patched armchair. A male with a cane resting against his knee. Two children—one drawing, one asleep on a rug.

Elara said nothing. She offered no explanation, hadn’t the entire walk to the outskirts of town. Just opened the gate with one hand and stepped through, boots crunching on the gravel. Azriel followed this time, though he stayed a few paces back, the same way he might trail a contact in a foreign city—close enough to act, distant enough to disappear.

She reached the front door. She paused, her brow furrowing as if she were second guessing her decision, but eventually knocked once.

At first, they were met with silence. But after a few moments, there was a shifting sound behind the wood of the door. And then it swung open. A female stepped out—gray-haired, hard-eyed, with laugh lines. She blinked once. Then again. Her hand stayed on the doorframe as her gaze caught on Elara.

“Well,” the female said, voice rough with disbelief. “You’re alive.”

Elara didn’t move. Not at first. Her spine went straight as a drawn bow, arms loose at her sides, jaw tight. She hadn’t expected warmth—that much was obvious. Hadn’t planned for welcome, or eyes soft with disbelief. The stillness that settled over her was the kind that came before a strike. But she didn’t reach for a blade.

Azriel didn’t step forward. He didn’t need to. The silence was brittle enough to shatter on its own.

Then came the sound—sharp, bright, a delighted shriek from somewhere inside.

“El! You came back!”

The blur launched out the open door. Small feet hit the path. A girl—no older than six—flew across the yard and crashed into Elara’s legs, arms circling her thighs in a graceless, ferocious hug. Her voice muffled against the coat.

Azriel stiffened, every sense narrowing to the small body clinging to Elara’s side. That voice. He knew it. He’d heard it before, through a crack in the floor of her apartment. That night he’d stood just inside her door, listening as Elara took the girl out in the hall. That voice, sharp with sobs. That same child, knocking and knocking while Elara fumbled to comfort her through locked wood.

Elara didn’t pull away.

She crouched, arms folding around the girl in a careful, protective arc. Her hands didn’t tremble, but her eyes—Azriel saw something shift in them. The armor she wore like skin softened. Her shoulders curled inward. And when she bent her head to rest her cheek lightly against the child’s hair, something fragile passed through her expression—gone as quick as it came.

Azriel couldn’t look away. He had never seen her like that. Never seen her hold anyone. Not with gentleness. Not with anything resembling affection. Whatever this was—this moment, this child—it reached beneath her walls like water through stone.

The door creaked again. A boy leaned against the frame—gangly, all elbows and too-short sleeves, maybe ten or eleven. His eyes, darker than the girl’s, flicked from Elara to Azriel. There was no fear in him. Just wariness. A question forming before it left his mouth.

“Who is he?”

Not directed at Azriel. At her.

Elara didn’t answer at first. Azriel caught the movement—subtle, practiced. The way her hand slid just slightly along the child’s back

The older female in the doorway had remained silent all this time, watching. Her gaze shifted at last—up, sharp and cool, landing on Azriel as if only now aware he wasn’t just another shadow on the fence line.

“When you said you’d be back,” she said dryly, “I didn’t think you meant you’d be bringing company.”

Elara’s mouth twitched. The barest grimace. “Trust me,” she muttered, not quite under her breath, “neither did I.”

It caught him off guard—her tone. Flat. Exasperated. And undeniably familiar.

Azriel’s lips twitched before he could stop them, the smile brief but real. Mother above. That voice. That dry disdain wrapped around something sharp, like she hated that he existed and hated more that he understood her.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” the older female muttered, already turning on her heel and disappearing into the house with a limp that spoke of long-faded injuries and years of ignoring them. Her voice trailed back like smoke. “Come in, both of you. If you’re here to cause trouble, at least have the decency to do it with tea.”

The boy didn’t move. One hand still gripped the doorframe like he meant to hold the house upright himself, like Azriel’s presence alone tilted the ground beneath him. His eyes had not left Azriel’s face—hadn’t so much as flicked away.

Azriel inclined his head, the gesture slow and neutral. Not warm. Not threatening. Just acknowledgment. He stepped inside.

The door swung wider behind him, catching the breeze.

Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of woodsmoke and thyme. The air was warm, but not stuffy, the kind of warmth that clung to stone walls in winter. A basket of mending sat half-forgotten beside a worn chair, a kettle hissed softly from another room. Nothing dangerous. Nothing enchanted. His shadows had already confirmed that. Still, his eyes roamed every corner.

The little girl tugged at Elara’s hand with the confidence of someone who believed she’d earned the right to it.

“Here, El!” she chirped, bouncing on her toes. “You can sit next to me like before.”

Elara hesitated.

It was brief—so quick most would have missed it. But Azriel saw the way her body pulled taut, like she’d reached the edge of some invisible line. Just a half-second of stillness, a flicker behind her eyes that cracked the blank mask she wore.

She followed the girl without speaking. Not defiant. Not hesitant. Just… careful. As if she didn’t know what the rules were anymore, or whether she was allowed to exist inside them.

Azriel stayed back, near the threshold. His gaze swept the room again—simple furniture, a battered rug, a shelf of chipped crockery lined in uneven rows. Two empty teacups on the table, one of them still damp. A stack of drawings in the corner, half-colored and crumpled with use. Lived-in. Unthreatening.

Safe.

The boy moved at last. He stepped forward—slowly, like approaching a tethered beast—and peered up at Azriel with that same blunt-eyed curiosity.

“What’s with the shadows?” he asked, squinting. “They’re moving. That normal?”

A shadow peeled itself from Azriel’s shoulder, slithering down his arm like smoke drawn to heat. He didn’t bother hiding it.

“I’m a Shadowsinger.”

The boy blinked. “A what?”

“A Shadowsinger.”

He tilted his head, mouth twisting thoughtfully. “That like a bard?”

Azriel looked down at him, one brow lifting. “No.”

“That sounds like a bard,” the boy said again, arms folding as if that somehow made him older.

Azriel didn’t look away. “It’s not.”

“So what do you do?”

Azriel shifted his weight and leaned back against the closed door. The wood gave slightly under his shoulder blades. “Do you always ask this many questions?”

The boy shrugged. “Only when people show up out of nowhere with shadows that move and follow my—”

He caught himself. The word hung in the air, unsaid, but the way his gaze flicked to Elara made it clear enough what he meant. Did the young boy consider Elara a friend?

Azriel didn’t comment. He just watched the boy for a moment, noting the angle of his chin, the way he stood half in front of Elara like he might defend her if needed. Brave. Or stupid. Likely both.

He picked up the cup of tea the older woman had handed him—strong, hot, bitter—and set it back down untouched, “You don’t seem very frightened.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not.”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he added, “You don’t seem that scary.”

Azriel said nothing. He let the quiet settle like dust between them. Let his shadows pull tighter, darker, rising up like smoke along his shoulders and spine. One coiled around the boy’s ankle—not touching, but close enough that the child glanced down.

The candle nearest to them dimmed. Just slightly.

The boy’s throat bobbed. “Okay,” he said, voice thinner now, “maybe a little scary.”

Azriel didn’t smile. “Good.”

That earned a grin. Wide and gap-toothed. “I’m Arnulf, by the way.”

Azriel gave a slow nod. “Azriel.”

“Right. Azriel the Not-a-Bard Shadowsinger.”

A choking sound came from across the room—Elara, mid-sip of tea, coughing hard into her sleeve. The older woman looked entirely unbothered as she sat across from her, pouring more hot water into a chipped kettle.

Azriel turned his head toward Elara, brow arching in slow, unhurried inquiry.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move much either—just leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, half-shadowed, and watched.

It was Elara he watched.

The way she crouched beside the hearth, her head tilted slightly as the boy recited something she clearly didn’t understand but pretended to anyway. The way her hand reached for the girl without thought, fingers curling gently around the little one’s arm. She moved differently here—looser, without the edge that she usually clung to. Her voice had softened, low and amused, and it startled something in him.

That she could sound like that. That she did sound like that.

She scooped the girl—Dorothye, he remembered—onto her hip as though it were instinct. Like her body remembered how to hold that small weight against her side.

It didn’t make sense.

Not the way she smiled down at the girl. Not the teasing lilt in her voice. Not the ease with which she slipped into the rhythm of this household. He’d seen her kill without hesitation. Had watched her bare her teeth at strangers— had bared her teeth at him.

And yet here she was—gentle.

The longer he watched, the harder it became to reconcile it. This version of her. With the quiet, lethal creature who had once stalked through war camps under a banner that had meant nothing and everything. With the cold, unreadable mask she wore while she was in Prythian.

He knew she had been capable of it, knew that this version Elara existed, buried deep down. But how could he coax this version of her out in Velaris?

Dorothye leaned her head back against Elara’s collarbone and looked up with eyes too large for her face. “Are you back for good?”

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water. The room stilled around it.

Elara froze. Her hand, which had been combing through the girl’s curls, went still. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. Azriel’s shadows drew in closer, tense and alert, but there was no threat here.

He heard it—the sharp breath she took, just a little too tight. Saw it—the flicker in her eyes, not fear, not shame. Grief. And something quieter. Regret.

Then she smiled. Not the smirk he was used to, not the blank one she offered strangers. This was something smaller. Sadder. “No, Dorothye. Not yet.”

The girl’s brow furrowed, the kind of expression only a child could wear so earnestly. “Why not?”

Elara didn’t answer right away. Just gathered the girl against her chest and leaned in close, whispering something into her ear. Azriel strained to hear it, tilted his head slightly—but caught nothing. Not even a fragment. It was deliberate, that hush. The kind of whisper meant for only one pair of ears.

Dorothye nodded.

As if she understood.

Arnulf had disappeared into the far corner, digging through a splintering chest with the urgency of someone who had just remembered something vitally important. From the way his shoulders shifted with excitement, Azriel suspected he was about to be subjected to a demonstration—or worse, a story.

Dorothye, meanwhile, had molded herself against Elara’s side. One small hand gripped Elara’s sleeve, the other tucked beneath her chin as she leaned in. Elara didn’t seem to mind. Her free hand drifted absently along the girl’s back, slow circles drawn without thought, like it was a pattern her fingers remembered without being told.

Across the room, the older female leaned against the table with the kind of practiced ease that only came from someone used to waiting out storms. Clotilda—his shadows had murmured her name, tracing it in the soft lilt of local voices before falling still again. She didn’t say anything at first. Just folded her arms, her eyes sharp and unreadable as they rested on Elara.

“Didn’t expect to see you again this soon,” Clotilda said at last.

Elara’s gaze rose, slow and tired. “It wasn’t the plan.”

Azriel didn’t move. Just stood inside the doorway, his back to the wall, shadows flicking around his boots like bored cats. One tendril drifted toward the hearth before curling away again when Dorothye turned her head, eyes wide, catching the movement. Azriel let them move.

Clotilda’s mouth tugged into something dry, not quite a smile. “Something tells me nothing about your life ever goes according to plan, does it?”

Elara huffed, just barely. Not a laugh. Not a denial either. “No. It doesn’t.”

That silence again. He watched it pass between them like a conversation all its own. And then Clotilda’s eyes turned to him.

She didn’t tense. Didn’t frown or scowl or demand to know who the stranger was in her house. She simply looked. As if weighing what kind of trouble he brought, and whether it was the useful kind. There was no fear in her, no false welcome. Just the same quiet readiness he saw in Elara.

“So,” she said, wiping her hands on a threadbare apron, her voice flat as she gestured with her chin. “Are you going to stand there all night, or are you coming in?”

Azriel stepped farther into the room, boots silent on the scuffed wooden floor. He said nothing. The door clicked shut behind him with a muted finality, and his shadows folded inward, quieter now—like even they understood the strange rules of this house.

Elara didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him again beyond a single glance over her shoulder. She settled on the edge of a worn bench without fanfare, her shoulders angled inward as Dorothye immediately crawled into her lap. The little girl leaned into her like she’d never left.

Clotilda’s brows lifted, faintly amused. “And what’s your name, stranger?”

Azriel let the question hang for a beat longer than was polite. “Azriel.”

“Hmm.” Her gaze flicked to Elara, then back to him. “You local?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” The words carried the same weight as commenting on the rain. Her eyes rested on Elara again. On the way Dorothye had curled into her side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then back to him. “Friend of El’s, then?”

There was something in the way she said friend—a small, ironic lilt. Not cruel. Just honest. Azriel’s mouth twitched. Not enough to be a smile, not quite. But close. He had the distinct impression Clotilda knew exactly how few people Elara allowed near her.

He hesitated. That pause stretched just long enough for Elara to cut in, her voice dry as aged paper. “Something like that.”

Azriel didn’t miss the faint flicker that passed over Elara’s face as she adjusted Dorothye’s weight—something wary, something unresolved—but whatever it was, it vanished before he could name it.

Clotilda gave a small hum at Elara’s dry answer—as if that vague reply told her far more than words ever could. She didn’t pry. Didn’t ask who he was really, or why he stood like a blade half-drawn beside her hearth. She just stirred the pot on the stove, wrist steady, posture easy in the way only older fae could master. “You hungry, Azriel?”

He didn’t blink. “No.”

“Well, we’ve stew if you change your mind,” she said, ladling some into a chipped bowl without waiting. “Not poisoned.”

From the bench, Elara let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. Not a full one—just the ghost of it, tucked beneath her breath. It caught his attention more than it should have. Her head bowed slightly, face half-turned toward the child in her lap, but he saw the edge of her smile. Not the sharp, practiced smirk she wore like armor. This one was smaller.

Azriel had spent months at her side and never once seen her like this. Not like someone trying to blend into the shadows. Not like someone braced for war.

From his seat by the hearth, Arnulf sprawled like he owned the floorboards, one leg tossed over the arm of the chair, pointed his wooden sword at Azriel with theatrical flair. “You’re quiet,” he announced.

Azriel didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Dorothye—still burrowed into Elara’s side—jabbed her brother’s ribs with a sharp little elbow. “Stop being rude.”

“I’m not being rude,” Arnulf grumbled, adjusting his sword with wounded dignity. “I’m being observant.”

Clotilda didn’t even look up from the hearth. “Pay him no mind, Azriel,” she said, setting another bowl on the table and brushing flour off her apron. “Arnulf thinks he’s a clever one.”

“I am a clever one,” Arnulf said, chin lifted in a parody of pride, even as his sword slipped off his lap and clattered to the floor.

Azriel’s lips nearly twitched. Just barely. He caught Elara’s glance at the movement, caught the quiet flicker of something in her eyes—surprise, maybe. He didn’t let it settle. Didn’t let it grow. But he held it. For a moment.

Arnulf couldn’t stop staring. His eyes kept flicking from Azriel’s face to the dark tendrils that moved around his boots, as if deciding whether to ask or just keep watching. The boy’s elbow slipped off the arm of the chair as he leaned forward again, chin in hand, entirely unbothered by caution or silence.

“Can you control them?” he finally asked, nodding at the shadows writhing lazily around Azriel’s heels.

Azriel didn’t look away from where Elara was before him. He shifted only enough to let the shadows curl toward the boy, snaking out in slow coils across the floor—near but not touching.

Arnulf grinned.

“They listen,” Azriel said at last, voice even.

“Do they talk to you?”

Another pause. “Sometimes.”

The boy blinked, then leaned further forward, elbows now on both knees. “Can they fight?”

Azriel’s head tilted slightly as he regarded him. Then he answered, calm as ever, “They can help when needed.”

Arnulf beamed. He didn’t seem to notice the flicker of unease in Clotilda’s eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron again. Didn’t notice the way Dorothye pressed closer into Elara’s side. But Azriel noticed. He always noticed.

The shadows didn’t move again. They lingered near the hearth now, flickering with the same idle patience he felt threading through his chest.

He caught the smirk before Elara could tuck it away. From her place on the bench, she watched him with unmistakable amusement dancing at the edges of her mouth. Her hand rested on Dorothye’s back, but her gaze was fixed on him, eyes alight in a way he hadn’t seen before.

She was trying not to laugh.

He wished she wouldn’t try. She’d laughed earlier—really laughed—and he hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear it again until it was gone. Until he saw her now, holding it back for his sake.

His own mouth pulled ever so slightly.

Arnulf, oblivious to it all, suddenly shot to his feet. His wooden sword clattered to the ground as he spun toward Elara. “El! Come outside. I want to show you the new snares I learned when you were gone!”

The boy was already halfway across the room before he finished the sentence, bounding with the twitchy energy only ten-year-olds possessed. Elara didn’t move immediately. Her fingers paused on Dorothye’s braid, her other hand curling briefly into the worn fabric of her tunic as she looked toward Azriel.

He saw the hesitation before she masked it. Saw the small crease in her brow, the subtle stiffness that wasn’t there before. She didn’t want to leave him alone with Clotilda—not because she didn’t trust him, but because something about this place still made her protective.

He didn’t give her time to second-guess it.

Azriel rose to his feet, smooth and unhurried. “I’ll come too.”

Arnulf let out a whoop, already grabbing Elara’s hand and dragging her toward the door before she could respond. She cast Azriel a glance over her shoulder and then let herself be pulled out into the fading light, boots scuffing the threshold.

The late afternoon air was cooling with the sinking sun, but Azriel barely felt it. He stood a few paces back from the edge of the clearing, half-shadowed beneath the low branches of a bare-limbed tree. His wings shifted once before folding still again, his gaze locked on the two figures crouched in the grass.

Elara knelt beside Arnulf, one hand steadying herself while the other reached for a crooked little snare made of twine and bent sticks. Arnulf chattered the entire time, his voice high and quick with excitement, pointing at the trap and explaining its mechanism—what it was supposed to do, and what it had accidentally caught last time. Azriel caught something about a squirrel, and Elara made a soft, amused sound in response.

But she didn’t dismiss him. Didn’t brush it off or tease. She examined the trap with care, then gently nudged the twine into a tighter loop, adjusting the anchor point where it had been tangled in the underbrush.

“If you knot it here,” she murmured, “it’ll hold tighter. That way it won’t come undone when something struggles.”

Arnulf leaned in, watching closely, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Like this?”

She nodded. “Better. You’ll catch something real next time.”

Azriel swallowed hard. His arms remained folded across his chest, more for grounding than comfort, as that dull, persistent ache started to press at the center of his sternum. He’d seen Elara bloodied—had watched her take down three fae soldiers without blinking, had seen her unmoved as their bodies hit the floor. He’d heard her voice cold and sharp, had seen what she became when pushed too far.

But this—this version of her, patient and still and full of quiet pride for a child who wasn’t hers—this he had not expected.

He let out a slow breath. It didn’t help.

His mind betrayed him.

He saw her again, kneeling just like this—but with a winged child wrapped around her shoulders, small hands gripping her braid as she laughed, real and open. A dark-haired boy with hazel eyes sprinting through the grass. Or a little girl with his shadows curling playfully around her fingers. Elara with her arms full of them.

Elara, content.

His jaw tightened. He looked away, forcing his lungs to expand, to pull in the clean mountain air. Too much. Too soon.

She was still healing. Still crawling back from the silence she'd lived in. And she didn’t even know about the bond. And when she found out…

He exhaled again. Maybe she wouldn’t want it. Maybe she’d hear the truth and walk away. Maybe even after all this—after Velaris, after trust and blood and shared nights in silence—that future would remain just that. Imagined.

He let the thought settle, heavy and unwelcome.

And still, when she turned—when she looked over her shoulder at him, the faintest tilt to her head and the wind stirring loose strands of dark hair—she smiled.

Not the cautious curve of lips she offered others. Not the smirk or the half-grin meant to deflect when she was getting uncomfortable. This one was quiet. Real. It reached her eyes, softened her mouth.

And for a moment, he couldn’t breathe at all.

Chapter 60

Notes:

I know it's not a regular update day, but I'm off work until Wednesday, and I got a lot more writing done than expected.

The tea had long gone cold between her hands.

Elara sat at the scarred wooden table, palms wrapped loosely around the chipped cup, as Arnulf spun a tale so winding and embellished that even Dorothye—curled up on the hearth rug with her nose in a book—occasionally looked up to roll her eyes. He spoke with his whole body, gesturing wildly as he described a run-in with a fox that had definitely tried to steal his cloak, and might have talked.

She smiled, even laughed once, but the sound didn’t reach her eyes. Beneath her ribs, warmth curled like a slow-growing vine—twisting, bittersweet. She hadn’t expected it. This feeling. The quiet comfort of being surrounded by something soft and normal. The smell of stew still lingered in the air. The fire cracked, the logs settling. Someone coughed. Someone shifted.

It was… peace.

Not a full thing. Not something she trusted. But enough to feel the edges of it, pressed faintly against her skin.

Her gaze drifted to Azriel.

He stood near the door, shadows idling around his boots like lazy smoke. He hadn’t spoken in some time, and yet he didn’t seem ill at ease. He hadn’t retreated into himself as she might’ve expected. Instead, he watched the room the way he always did—quiet, unreadable—but there was no edge to it tonight. No tension humming beneath his skin.

She hadn’t known he could look like that, either.

Her hands tightened slightly on the cup. Stop it, she told herself, the way one might pull reins tight before a horse bolted. She didn’t deserve this peace. Not really. And certainly not wanting it. Not when she had blood on her hands. Not when she had dragged Azriel into this town, into her mess, again.

The smile she offered came from nowhere. Paper-thin.

She set the cup down and pushed back her chair, the legs scraping gently against the floor. “We should be going,” she said, polite and too calm. “We’ve taken enough of your evening.”

Clotilda, seated nearby and knitting something shapeless in her lap, didn’t even glance up. Just waved a hand, the yarn bobbing with the motion. “Nonsense. It’s hardly late. Stay a little longer.”

Elara hesitated. She wanted to.

By the Cauldron, she wanted to.

The moment they returned to the village, it would start again. Questions. Tension. The search for threads of information about the human queen. And she would go back to guarding every breath, every glance.

This house—this family—wasn’t hers. This moment wasn’t hers.

“I—” She caught herself. Stood slowly, brushing her hands down her thighs to rid them of crumbs, though there were none. The weight of a farewell pressed around her shoulders like wet cloth.

“We need to get back to the village. See if the tavern still has rooms.”

Arnulf’s voice dipped in disappointment, but Dorothye stayed quiet, her book held tight to her chest now.

From across the room, where he’d sat silently for the last half-hour, Cedric grunted. “Tavern’s ale tastes like piss.”

Elara stilled.

She hadn’t expected him to speak. Not once all night. She glanced toward him, then toward Azriel—who looked over just as slowly, his expression unreadable, but not unfeeling.

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why the old male’s gruff, begrudging remark made her throat feel tight. Maybe it was the way he hadn’t looked at her when he said it. Or maybe it was that he had said anything at all. As if, in his own way, he was asking them not to go.

Clotilda stood with a soft groan, setting her knitting aside and brushing off her apron. The warmth of her laugh filled the kitchen like rising bread. “Don’t be foolish. You’ll stay here. We have an extra room. Sheets are fresh.”

Elara didn’t answer at first. Her throat had gone tight again. Her eyes slid toward Azriel, wondering what he made of the offer. He stood behind her, unmoving, his shadows coiling faintly in the low light. He didn’t speak, but one dark brow lifted—barely there. A question. Maybe a nudge.

But in what direction?

She swallowed, hands curling unconsciously at her sides. “We don’t want to impose—”

Clotilda gave a snort that sounded entirely unimpressed. “If you were imposing, I wouldn’t have fed you.”

From the chair by the hearth, Arnulf added with a grin, “Wouldn’t have let you in the door, more like.”

Elara blinked. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It ached, the way it always did when she let it show. She looked down at the worn grain of the table again, chest cinched tight.

“We’re not exactly light guests.”

It came out quieter than she meant. She hadn’t meant to say it at all. Not in front of them. But it was true, wasn’t it? They weren’t just travelers, or old friends come to visit. They carried too much with them.

Azriel’s voice, low and steady, came from behind her. “We’ll take the room. Thank you.”

A jolt of something hot and complicated burned beneath her ribs. Relief. That he’d accepted, so she didn’t have to. So she didn’t have to choose between keeping her distance and the ache of wanting to stay.  Because part of her had wanted it.

To prolong this visit, even by a few hours.

Dorothye looked up from her book, her voice a whisper. “You’ll like the room. It smells like old books and soap.”

Clotilda gave a satisfied nod and was already turning toward the hallway, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll fetch you some extra blankets. Gets cold on that side of the house.”

The spell broke around them—quietly, easily. Cedric muttered something indistinct and grabbed his coat from the peg by the door, shoving his arms into it without looking back. Fetching more water probably. Or firewood. Or maybe he was just making an excuse to step away before the emotion in the room solidified.

The children scattered. Arnulf went thundering toward the stairs, hollering something about needing to sharpen a knife, while Dorothye slipped after him more quietly, book still in hand.

And then it was just her and Azriel, alone in the slow hush that followed.

Elara lingered near the hearth, watching the children vanish around the corner. The sound of their footsteps faded into the creak of stairs and the muffled clatter of Dorothye’s book hitting the floor. Clotilda’s voice called gently for someone to put on the kettle again, but even that softened into the quiet.

She stepped closer to Azriel, each movement cautious, like she was afraid of jarring the moment loose. That maybe he would change his mind, remembering that this was not what they were here for. That this was not a good idea. Her voice barely breached the space between them. “Are you sure?”

He didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the far wall, though his attention was entirely here. “Yes.”

Just that—simple. Like it hadn’t been a decision at all.

She rubbed her fingers together absently, feeling the ghosts of other times here. Times when she’d stayed only as long as she could stand before retreating. To her old apartment. To the silence of her own company. She’d never slept in the guest room before. Hadn’t let herself. It had felt too close, too intimate. Like asking for more than she deserved.

His shadows curled faintly around his boots, gathering themselves like a cat adjusting its paws. They didn’t reach for her, but they didn’t shy away either.

She tried not to show the relief that curled up inside her chest, soft and shameful. She didn’t want to leave yet—not really. There was still a faint warmth clinging to her skin from the fire, from Clotilda’s teasing, from the sound of Arnulf’s voice as he’d explained—at great length—how he’d rigged a snare using only fishing line and stubbornness.

And there was Azriel. Standing beside her in the darkened kitchen, quiet and solid, like a shadow carved into the woodgrain of the room.

Her throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t guilt.

She didn’t know when it had started—this sense of tethering, this slow ache beneath her ribs whenever he stood too close and didn’t touch her. It was foolish. She didn’t’ need anything. Not from him.

Clotilda reappeared with a briskness that belied the lateness of the hour, her apron dusted with faint creases from where she’d wiped her hands.

“All set,” she said, giving Elara a quick smile. “Didn’t take much—just needed to shake out the sheets and warm the coals.”

She didn’t wait for a response, already turning on her heel toward the hallway. “Come on, then. Before the warmth escapes it.”

Elara exchanged a glance with Azriel but followed without comment, her limbs reluctant and heavy. Not from weariness—though it tugged at the edges—but from the strange tension pooling in her chest.  Azriel fell into step beside her, his wings tucked tightly to avoid brushing the low-beamed walls. The hallway felt narrower than before.

Clotilda stopped at the far end, her hand already turning the brass handle. The door opened with a soft click.

“Here you are,” she said, her voice warm but subdued, as if mindful of the hour. “Should still be warm.”

She stepped inside without waiting, already placing a folded blanket on the chair just past the threshold. The smell of lavender hit her first—sharp and soft all at once. Elara’s eyes swept the room.

The ceiling sloped gently, its beams dark with age. A faded rug softened the floorboards. A small table stood near the far wall, holding a chipped bowl filled with dried orange peel and curled sprigs of lavender. In the corner, a squat hearth cradled a bed of coals, still glowing faintly. A kettle, blackened from use, rested beside it. And—

Her gaze caught.

One bed.

Just one.

Clotilda didn’t remark on it. She moved efficiently, checking the water pitcher, folding down the blanket at the foot of the mattress with quick, practiced hands. Elara’s stomach clenched, the motion invisible to anyone watching. She stood still, her fingers curled around themselves behind her back.

Azriel hadn’t moved. He stood just inside the doorway, unreadable.

Elara swallowed once, shallow. She hadn’t expected comfort. This wasn’t the sort of life she was supposed to have, the sort of peace she was allowed to want. She hadn’t expected a palace, or silk sheets, or even a separate room. But still—this? It had caught her off guard. It shouldn’t matter. She’d slept on stone floors and frozen earth, in tents with soldiers who didn’t know her name. She’d gone weeks in Hybern’s service without bedding at all.

But the room felt smaller than it was. The warmth of the hearth pressed too close. Even Clotilda’s quiet movements were too loud, each rustle of fabric against fabric ringing against the silence that had fallen between her and Azriel.

“There’s a kettle by the fire if you want tea,” Clotilda said lightly, tugging the door open with her free hand. She gave them both a glance—absent, mothering, utterly unaware of the strain that now pulled taut between Elara’s ribs. “I’ll leave you be. Holler if you need anything.”

Then, just before stepping out, she added over her shoulder, “And no funny business, mind you. You’re under my roof now.”

A soft, knowing laugh followed her out, the door clicking shut behind her.

The quiet that followed landed like a weight.

The fire in the hearth cracked faintly. Somewhere in the walls, old wood settled with a sigh. But Clotilda’s absence made the room feel colder, more exposed. As if her cheer had been the only thing keeping it from tipping into something else entirely.

Elara didn’t move. Neither did Azriel.

Then, after a long beat—

“I’ll take the floor,” he said. Flat. Not unkind, but without hesitation. He was already moving before she could respond, turning toward the chair to shed his leathers with practiced efficiency. He didn’t say anything else, offered no commentary on the awkward situation.

Elara watched him, her hands curling into the folds of her sleeves. “Are you sure?” she asked, softly.

She meant it. She wasn’t just being polite. She would sleep on the floor if he wanted. Caludron knew that she had slept in worse conditions in the past. But when he nodded once, not meeting her eyes, she didn’t argue. Didn’t suggest otherwise. She could have. A part of her knew she could have said something more, offered a compromise. But the words didn’t come, and the silence between them filled that space instead.

She turned away, crossing to the washbasin with slow, careful steps.

The water in the pitcher was cool, just above cold. Her fingers trembled slightly as she poured some into the basin, the splash louder than she expected. She dipped the cloth in and brought it to her face, letting the cold bite in. It didn’t help.

Her reflection wavered in the glass pane beside the basin—smudged and faint in the firelight. Her eyes looked darker than usual. She didn’t let herself linger on her reflection.

The soft rustle of leather broke the quiet first—then the creak of boots being tugged off, one after the other. Elara didn’t look, but she felt it, the shape of his movements behind her. The way he moved, careful not to let anything clatter. The muted sound of his belt being folded, not tossed, draped neatly over the arm of the chair. Efficient, unobtrusive—Azriel’s way of giving her space without ever announcing it.

A silent boundary drawn with the same quiet grace that marked everything he did.

But she glanced over anyway, just once, when he crossed the small space to spread the blanket in a corner further from the hearth.

He wore a plain tunic that must have been under his leathers—deep grey, worn soft with use. No knives at his sides, no buckles, no armor to catch the firelight. It should have made him look less dangerous. It didn’t. If anything, it made something in her chest pull tight. The darkness of him was still there—beneath the quiet movements, beneath the silence—but there was something unguarded about him like this. Something raw. As if she'd caught a glimpse of the male beneath the blade.

She looked away before he turned.

She didn’t move at first.

Just stood still, eyes on the wall, hand curled beneath her chin. But the weight of her leathers pressed in now, too warm, too stiff. Her shoulders ached beneath the layers, her belt cutting into her hip from where she’d curled. She hadn’t taken them off earlier—hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t thought she’d be able to rest. But now, with the fire soft and low, the blanket too warm, and Azriel’s quiet breathing filling the room, the weight of her gear became unbearable.

Behind her, Azriel didn’t move. Not a shift, not a breath out of rhythm. But she could feel him awake. Could feel that quiet, waiting stillness that always meant he was listening. Awake and aware. She didn’t have to turn her head to know his shadows were likely flickering, subdued, careful not to overstep.

Her fingers fumbled slightly at the buckles. The leather had stiffened from the rain earlier, and the straps snagged at her collarbone. She didn’t curse—just swallowed the sound and tugged harder.

“I’ll look away,” Azriel said softly, voice low enough not to startle.

She froze for half a breath. Then nodded, even if he couldn’t see it.

“Thank you,” she murmured, barely audible.

A rustle of movement, then stillness again. She didn’t look to confirm. Just moved faster, pulling the jerkin free, letting the worn leather slide off her shoulders and into a heap at the foot of the bed. Her shirt beneath was long-sleeved, thin but whole, clinging to her skin with the damp. She sat back down, facing the hearth, arms tight around her middle. She hadn’t realized how warm it was until the leathers were off.

Azriel said nothing more.

Behind her, the rustle of fabric again—Azriel settling the blanket over the floor. A soft shift of weight. Then quiet. No groan of complaint, no sigh. Just stillness. The flicker of his shadows drew faint shapes against the far wall. He lay down without a word, arms folded behind his head. She didn’t need to look to know his gaze was fixed upward, unmoving.

The room felt uneven, the silence pressed too close. She stared at the dark curve of the ceiling, counting knots in the wood. The mattress was too soft. Her body didn’t know what to do with comfort anymore. Her limbs stayed stiff beneath the blanket, heart drumming a little too fast for how still everything was.

She tried not to think of the last time they’d been alone like this. The things she’d told him then, in a voice that hadn’t sounded like hers. The truth she’d unspooled from her ribs like thread pulled raw. She hadn’t seen much of him since. Work, they said. Things that needed doing in Velaris. But part of her had wondered—was it the work? Or was it her?

Had he looked at her after that night and seen only what she used to be?

She pressed her fingers against the blanket’s edge, trying to will her thoughts away. But the silence only stretched wider, thick with everything neither of them was saying.

Her throat tightened, dried with nerves she hadn’t meant to hold onto.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she said, voice low.

It slipped into the dark between them. Quiet, like everything else in this house—but not small. Her voice cracked slightly on the end, rough from disuse, from everything she hadn’t been saying for days. It wasn’t a complaint. Not really. It felt more like a warning. Or an apology—for the restlessness that she was certain would follow, for the tossing, the sounds she couldn’t always smother when the dreams came.

A beat passed. Then another. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, coals shifting in their cradle of ash. The warmth of it touched her back, but did nothing to quiet the hum in her veins. Behind her, the blankets rustled—subtle, but enough.

Her body stilled. She turned her head, just enough to glance over her shoulder.

Azriel had pushed himself upright. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped loosely. Shadows drifted along his shoulders like slow, deliberate smoke, clinging close as though the darkness itself recognized the mood in the room. The firelight carved out the harsh cut of his jaw, cast gold along the bridge of his nose, but his expression held nothing warm.

“Nightmares?” His voice was quiet.

Her throat worked before the answer found shape. “Sometimes. It’s… worse after I remember something.”

His brow creased, barely visible in the dim light. “You shouldn’t have to carry that alone.”

But she did. The memories weren’t some burden someone could help shoulder. They were consequences of what she had done in the past. They were hers. She swallowed.

“They come when I’m not ready.” She turned her face back toward the edge of the bed, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to stay awake worrying.”

She hadn’t meant it as a prompt. Certainly hadn’t expected his answer.

“I don’t sleep much either.”

She blinked. Pushed herself up slightly, leaning on her elbow. The outline of him was shadowed, indistinct—but steady.

“You don’t?”

“Not for long.” He leaned back against the wall, settling into it like he’d done this before. His shadows curled and slithered in lazy patterns behind him. “Not well.”

“Is it nightmares?” she asked, the words barely audible in the quiet, spoken before she could fully think them through.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she almost took it back. Almost said something to smooth it over—to tell him he didn’t have to answer. Elara couldn’t believe that she was asking these personal questions to the Shadowsinger, couldn’t believe she was even offering up her own thoughts to him.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away or deflect the question like she half-expected him to.

“Sometimes,” he said after a moment, voice low and calm. “But it’s more than that.”

The fire cracked softly in the hearth, casting a dim, amber glow over the ceiling. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loudly.

“There are things I’ve done,” he continued, his tone level but distant. “For this Court. Things I don’t talk about. Things I would never want anyone to see. I know why I did them. I know they were necessary.” His hands flexed slightly where they rested against the blanket, the tension subtle but unmistakable. “But it doesn’t make them easier to live with.”

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to soothe or console him, as if either of them would believe the words. She only watched the dark lines of him across the room and listened.

“It keeps me up,” he said softly. “Even when the nightmares don’t.”

Elara felt her mouth go dry. She knew what that was like, had lost sleep herself thinking of all the things she had done as Munin. The silence after that felt different. Not hollow. Not stifled. Just… quiet. Like an understanding had settled between them without words, soft and slow.

She lay still beneath the blanket, the edge curled loosely in her hand. She could feel him there, not far from her, only a few feet of floorboards and unspoken history between them. The bed was warm, but her thoughts were restless. They always were, at night.

Her voice came out quieter than she meant. Careful, but not uncertain. “You can come up, if you want.”

He didn’t answer immediately. She turned her head slightly, just enough to glimpse him in the dark. From the faint glow of the fire, she could just make out the wideness of his eyes, “What?”

Her lips curved, faint. Wry. Tired. “Neither of us are sleeping. And it doesn’t make sense for you to have a bad back in the morning from spending the night on the floor.” She tried to huff a laugh, to show him that this wasn’t a big deal.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his voice even but tight at the edges. He shifted slightly, as if preparing to decline.

Elara hesitated, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—wry, tired, not unkind.

“You wouldn’t be,” she said, and she meant it. “You shouldn’t have to spend the night on the floor out of some misplaced sense of honor.”

There was a pause. Then the soft rasp of linen shifting. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low enough that she almost missed it beneath the faint crackle of the fire.

Elara didn’t turn her head. She kept her gaze on the wooden ceiling above her. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

She didn’t know why her voice sounded the way it did—tired, perhaps, but not weak. Just quiet. And most surprisingly, honest. It wasn’t an invitation for something more. It wasn’t anything like that. Only… practical. That’s what she told herself.

Azriel didn’t move right away. The silence stretched, and for a moment she thought he might refuse. That he would murmur something polite and distant, that he’d stay where he was—close enough to watch over her, far enough to feel like a stranger.

But then she heard it—the faint creak of old wood, the soft scuff of his feet against the floor. He rose slowly, as if still unsure.

She didn’t look as he crossed the room. Her breathing stayed even, but her senses shifted—every inch of her now aware of him. Not afraid. Not expectant. Just... aware. The way the air changed around him. The weight of his steps. The quiet.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, careful, controlled. He didn’t come close. Didn’t touch her. His body stayed on the far side, spine stiff, limbs arranged with military precision, as if he might be called to move at any moment. He kept his wings tucked in tight, angled away from her as though afraid they’d brush her by accident.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. The faint pop of coals in the hearth. The sigh of wind pressing against the old shutters.

She turned her head slightly, enough to catch the curve of his profile in the dark. His jaw was tense. His brow drawn. Even now, even here, he made himself as small as possible. A near impossible task for the Illyrian.

“You don’t have to be on the edge like that,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going to throw you out.”

There was a pause. Then a soft, dry sound—a chuckle, faint enough that it barely stirred the air.

“Force of habit,” he said under his breath. “It’s not as if this bed is made for Illyrian wings.”

She smiled—just a little, pressed into the dark, into the blanket she hadn’t realized she’d drawn up to her chin. The warmth of it didn’t reach her face. But she didn’t say anything else.

She didn’t have to.

---

Azriel lay on the far edge of the bed, wings tucked in so tightly they ached. The ceiling above him flickered with shadows cast by the dying fire—long, thin streaks of light that shifted with every gust of wind against the walls. His arms remained crossed over his chest, still as stone. Sleep hadn’t come, not truly. It never did.

Elara was close—less than an arm’s length away. He could hear her breathing. Even, but not deep. Not the kind of breathing that meant peace.

He hadn’t expected her to invite him into the bed. Had expected, in fact, the opposite. A clipped thank you, a cold shoulder. Maybe silence. Not this.

He didn’t know what it meant. Not really. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she’d just been tired. Practical. Or maybe it was her way of offering something that wasn’t quite trust, but not distrust either. She was always careful. Always had her armor up, even when her hands trembled. But she’d asked. Quietly, yes. Cautiously. But she’d still asked.

He hadn’t known what to do with that. He still didn’t.

So he listened. To the slow crackle of coals in the hearth. To the occasional groan of old floorboards expanding with the cold. To the rhythm of Elara’s breath, steady but not settled. Like she was waiting. Or like her mind hadn’t stopped running.

At some point, his eyes had closed. Only half. Only enough for his body to sink slightly into the mattress, muscles loosening without permission. Sleep came in slivers.

He felt Elara shift before he heard her. A sudden jerk of the mattress. Then another.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open.

Elara’s breathing had changed. It was not even now. Not steady. She pulled in a breath through her nose—too sharp, too fast—and then it caught. A low sound tore from her throat, muffled, as if she were trying to fight it back even in sleep.

He sat up immediately, shadows curling at his shoulders, restless.

“Elara,” he said, voice low, pitched not to startle but to anchor. “You’re dreaming.”

She didn’t wake. Her body twisted under the blanket, legs kicking lightly, her brow drawn tight in pain. Her fingers clawed at the bed, as if trying to push something away, and her mouth parted—but whatever words she meant to say never came out. Just a strangled whimper.

It cut through him.

He reached for her without thinking, a hand resting just above her shoulder, not touching. Not yet. He’d learned what sudden contact could do. His voice dropped further, rough now, frayed at the edges.

“Elara. You’re safe. It’s not real.” Still nothing. Just the ragged catch of her breath, her chest rising too fast, her body locked in some remembered terror he couldn’t see. Couldn’t fight.

And gods, he wanted to fight it. Whatever it was—whatever she saw—he wanted to rip it from her mind and crush it.

His instincts overrode caution. Before his mind caught up, he reached for her—one hand brushing lightly over her shoulder, fingers grazing the bare edge of her collarbone before sliding beneath her back. She flinched at the touch, a tiny jolt of tension, but didn’t wake. Her limbs jerked again, and that sound escaped her throat a second time—raw, helpless.

He pulled her in without thinking. Drew her body gently toward his chest, one arm curling around her waist while the other steadied her shoulder. She didn’t resist. Just shuddered once, hard, then sagged against him with a ragged exhale. Her breathing was shallow and uneven against his neck, but the worst of it passed. Slowly, slowly, she stilled. Her head tucked under his jaw, her hand caught against his chest. Her skin was cold.

His heart stuttered. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with himself. She fit against him—too well. So well that the ache in his chest sharpened — the one that had been there since the mating bond snapped— pressing in on him from all sides.

He continued to hold her close, matching her breath with his own, keeping it steady even when something in his chest was anything but. His palm slid up her back, fingers splayed wide between her shoulder blades. Slow strokes. Reassuring. Constant.

This was his mate. His. The one person who, despite everything, had was his. Despite everything he had done. Despite everything he still hated about himself. She was his. He had never imagined that would happen. Never thought the Mother would bless someone like him with a mate.

His wings stayed tight to his back. He barely breathed. The shadows gathered without being asked. They curled low over the bed, shielding them from the firelight, from the wind that pressed faintly against the glass. Not to hide her. Just to give her space to rest.

Azriel closed his eyes, his breath still slow. The scent of her filled his lungs. He could feel her heartbeat, slowed now, pressing steady against his ribs.

He should move. Give her space. Let her sleep without waking to this—to him.

But his arms didn’t loosen. His grip stayed firm, protective. For her.

This was the closest he’d ever been to his mate. And even now, with all the self-loathing coiling deep inside him, with every part of him wishing he could be more—more than the bloodied spymaster for his High Lord—this was the closest he could come to something he thought he could only dare to want.

“It’s okay,” Azriel murmured, voice hoarse. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And so, as the minutes bled into hours, and the fire crackled low, Azriel remained there. His arms wrapped around her, his breath steady, his body still as the shadows that curled gently around them.

She would rest. And he would stay.

Chapter 61

Morning light slipped in through the narrow window, casting a washed-out glow over the stone floor. Pale and sharp, it caught on the edge of a discarded cloak and glinted against the buckle of a sheath left on the chair. The air had gone cold—biting, even—but the blanket wrapped around her shoulders was still warm.

Too warm.

Elara stirred slowly, her fingers bunching in the quilt. The fire had burned low, only a faint shimmer of embers curling in the hearth. But her side of the bed wasn’t the only one holding heat.

She blinked fully awake, dragging in a breath. The space beside her was empty, the pillow only slightly disturbed, but… she remembered something. Not clearly. Just the sense of it—broad warmth pressed close, a weight behind her spine. Maybe an arm. Or maybe that had been a dream, pulled from half-formed memory.

She didn’t linger on it.

Across the room, Azriel was already dressed. He stood near the window, strapping a blade into place along his thigh with quiet, deliberate movements. His shoulders were squared, his posture composed, but something in the set of his jaw made her pause. Shadows moved along the edge of his cloak, slow and curling like smoke.

Elara watched him for a moment, her mouth dry.

She cleared her throat. “How long have you been up?”

Azriel glanced back. His expression didn’t shift. “Not long.”

It might’ve been true. Or not. She knew the look of someone who hadn’t slept through the night, had worn it a number of times herself. But she wasn’t going to press when it came to the Shadowsinger.  She offered a faint nod, tucking the blanket more firmly around her shoulders. He didn’t ask if she’d slept. Didn’t say anything else.

Elara lingered beneath the blanket a moment longer, letting the residual warmth curl around her spine. The hearth had gone cold, its embers reduced to a faint orange glow buried beneath ash. She breathed in the chilled air and exhaled slowly, trying not to resent the day for beginning. Then she shifted upright, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was like ice beneath her feet.

She dressed slowly. Shirt, trousers, the worn leather vest she hadn’t bothered to mend. Her fingers paused briefly over the laces, her mind still caught in that hazy middle place between sleep and waking. The bed behind her had already lost its warmth. No sign that anyone else had ever been in it. No proof of the memory she couldn’t quite let herself confirm.

By the time she emerged from the room, the house was already stirring with sound—soft footfalls, the scrape of pans, Clotilda’s low humming punctuated by the occasional clatter. The air smelled of woodsmoke and rising bread.

Cedric sat hunched at the table with a mug of ale balanced on his knee, his scowl deep and habitual, like it had settled into his bones sometime years ago and never fully left. The children were clustered nearby, one of the boys yawning so hard his jaw popped. Elara almost smiled at that. Almost.

Dorothye spotted her first. The girl’s steps were still slow, her eyes sticky with sleep, but she darted across the room without hesitation and flung her arms around Elara’s leg. Her little fingers bunched in Elara’s trousers, her cheek pressing against her hip.

“You’re leaving again?” Dorothye mumbled.

Elara crouched down slowly, the floor biting into her knees as she brushed the girl’s curls back from her face. “Just for a little while,” she said, her voice low enough not to disturb the quiet rhythm of the house. “We have to help some people.”

Dorothye pulled back just enough to look up at her. “People more important than me?”

The question was so blunt, so sincerely spoken, that Elara stilled. Her hand remained tangled in Dorothye’s hair. She blinked, then shook her head. “Not possible,” she murmured.

She bent forward and pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead. It happened without thought, instinctive and soft. But as soon as she pulled back, a frown creased her brow. Her fingers slipped away from Dorothye’s hair. She couldn’t remember ever doing that before. Not with any child. Not like that.

Affection had never been something she trusted in herself. Certainly not as Munin. She wasn’t sure where the impulse had come from—what part of her had allowed it. She kept her face steady, but her chest was tight.

Something shifted in the corner of her vision.

Azriel stood just inside the archway, silent as ever, a fresh wind tugging at the hem of his cloak. His eyes met hers. There was the barest curve to his lips—a half-smile, almost. But beneath it, something more complex flickered across his features.

Elara looked away first, her hand still resting lightly on Dorothye’s shoulder. She cleared her throat, stood slowly, and gently guided the girl back toward her chair.

Clotilda glanced over from the stove, one brow raised in that way that said she saw far more than she let on. Elara ignored it. Her gaze returned to Azriel, just once, to confirm he hadn’t looked away.

He hadn’t.

Arnulf stayed at the table, his arms folded across his chest like a barrier he wasn’t ready to lower. He didn’t rise when Dorothye let go. Didn’t call out. Just watched, brow drawn, his mouth set in a hard line that made him look older than he was.

Elara caught his gaze as she straightened, brushing a curl of Dorothye’s hair off her tunic. “You’re not going to say goodbye?” she asked, her voice gentler than she intended. A tentative thing.

He shrugged. “Didn’t know if you were actually going to say when you’d be back this time.”

The words didn’t sting. Not exactly. But they settled in her chest with a quiet weight. She blinked. Right. She hadn’t said. She’d just left.

“I wasn’t sure,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t keep.”

Arnulf kicked at a loose splinter on the floor with the toe of his boot. “You could’ve said something.”

She stepped toward him, halting just shy of his space. “I’ll be back,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “I promise this time.”

“You better be.” He didn’t unfold his arms, didn’t drop his chin. But his voice cracked, just barely, right at the end.

Her mouth curved despite herself. Not fully a smile—just the ghost of one. She reached up and brushed her hand against his shoulder. “Try not to burn the cottage down while I’m gone.”

He scoffed, but the edge had softened. “If anyone burns it down, it’ll be Dorothye.”

Elara gave him a last glance, then stepped back. Cedric hadn’t moved. Still at the edge of the table, still nursing the same mug of ale that had probably been poured before sunrise. He didn’t look up as he muttered, “Didn’t even stay long enough for the good ale to settle.”

Across the room, Clotilda didn’t miss a beat. “You finished the good ale last night, you old goat.”

Cedric grunted but didn’t argue.

Elara crossed the room slowly. Clotilda stood by the hearth, her hands dusted with flour, the soft scent of baking clinging to her clothes. She must’ve been kneading something for the children—something warm, something familiar. She didn’t say anything right away, just turned toward Elara and looked at her.

It wasn’t a sharp look, or even a particularly expectant one. Just long. Measured. Full of things she wasn’t going to say aloud.

Elara hesitated. Then stepped forward.

Clotilda wrapped her in a hug that was all strength and steadiness. One hand pressed flat between Elara’s shoulder blades, firm as an anchor, like she might keep her there for a few more heartbeats if she just held on tight enough.

“You’re too thin,” she muttered into her shoulder. “And you didn’t take a second helping of dinner last night.”

“I’m fine,” Elara said, but the words caught in her throat, rougher than she meant them to be.

Clotilda pulled back slowly, one hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Elara’s ear with that maddeningly gentle touch. The kind that made something tighten in her throat, sharp and sudden. That tenderness she didn’t know how to receive, not without flinching.

She knew. Somehow, the old female always knew. That she wasn’t fine. That something sat just beneath the surface—thin-iced and waiting to crack. But Clotilda didn’t press.  She simply gave Elara’s hand a squeeze, thumb brushing once across her knuckles like she could rub warmth back into them. “And next time,” she said, voice quiet but steady, “you stay for longer than half a day.”

“I will,” Elara said. The words scraped past her teeth. Too raw.

“You’d better.”

Elara stepped aside then, cleared her throat and wiped her palms against the coarse lining of her coat. Her fingers had gone cold, the chill slipping bone-deep again now that Clotilda had let go. She didn’t look back.

When she turned, Azriel was still by the door. Shadows curled at his heels in lazy arcs, their movement barely visible unless you were looking for it. He hadn’t moved—not when she hugged Clotilda, not when she crossed the room. Still as a statue. But his eyes were ever sharp, ever watchful.

Elara barely had time to process the sight of him before Clotilda was moving again—past her, toward him.

He didn’t flinch when the older, hunched over female stopped in front of him.

“You’re quiet,” Clotilda said, leveling a steady gaze at him. “But you watch her.”

Azriel didn’t say anything. He didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge Clotilda’s assertion in any way. But Clotilda studied him for another breath—long enough to make Elara’s skin itch—then nodded as if the Shadowsinger had confirmed her assertion anyway.

“Good,” she said. “She needs someone who sees things clearly.”

Elara’s heart gave one dull, clipped beat. She swallowed hard.

She wasn’t sure what Clotilda meant—if that was praise, or a warning. Whether it was about Azriel or for him. Or if it was meant for her.

She didn’t need someone to see things clearly. She saw just fine. Had spent her entire life learning to look out for herself when no one else did. When it mattered most.

Azriel’s mouth twitched—barely—but she caught it. Not quite a smile, but something near it. A flicker of warmth where there was usually only steel. “I try,” he said, voice low, even.

Clotilda leaned in by a fraction, her voice gentling without losing any of its weight. “She’s stubborn,” she said, her eyes lingering on Elara. “Keeps things locked down tighter than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Elara looked away, her gaze catching on the edge of the rug curling up by the doorframe. The words landed heavier than she expected, and she hated that they had. She didn’t like the way Clotilda said it aloud—especially not in front of him. It made her feel too seen, too exposed.

“I’ve noticed,” Azriel replied, calm as ever.

That pulled her attention back to him. Slowly, she glanced up, expecting mockery, or at least amusement. But there was none. Just a quiet sort of honesty in the way he said it—like he wasn’t interested in calling her out, just… recognizing it.

Clotilda studied him for another moment, her expression unreadable. Then she gave a small, satisfied nod. “Don’t let her pretend she doesn’t need anyone,” she said. “She does. And if she tells you otherwise, she’s lying.”

A flush crept up Elara’s neck. Her jaw tightened, but she stayed silent. The words rang too true for her to argue. She wanted to be annoyed, to brush it off with a sharp retort—but she couldn’t. Not without making it worse. And Azriel didn’t move, not visibly, but his stance shifted just enough for her to notice. His shoulders squared slightly. The shadows around his boots gathered in closer.

She wasn’t sure if it was protection or understanding. She didn’t know which unnerved her more.

Then Clotilda reached out and laid a hand on Azriel’s arm. Just above the elbow, light but deliberate. “Keep her warm,” she murmured. “And keep her safe.”

Elara felt something twist in her chest. Not sharply—just a slow, aching turn she couldn’t quite name.

Azriel inclined his head. “Always,” he said, steady as stone.

Elara turned before that word could sink in too deep. Before it could settle somewhere inside her she didn’t want it to reach.

---

A few hours had passed since they’d left the cottage. Long enough for the day’s gray light to fade into nothing, for the streets to grow damp with mist. The tavern they’d agreed to visit the day before was tucked between two collapsed building, its roof sagging low like it was ashamed to be seen.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and old sweat, and the fire at the hearth burned low, casting long fingers of orange light along the floorboards.

It was crowded, but quiet—too quiet for a place meant for drink. Locals hunched over tankards, their words murmured low over the rims. No singing. No laughter. Just the scrape of mugs against wood and the shuffle of boots over straw.

Elara sat with her back to the wall, across from Azriel in the farthest corner table. The shadows at his shoulders curled like smoke, restless but contained. He hadn’t taken off his leathers. She hadn’t either.

No one here looked twice at them for it.

Unthinkingly, her eyes tracked the room in slow sweeps. It was a habit from the days that she was Munin, one that had not broken so easily. There was one barkeep behind the bar, his elbows planted on the counter, face slack with disinterest. Two exits. One to the front, narrow and crooked. The other behind the kitchen, barely visible except for the figure she caught slipping through it, unnoticed by most—unpaid drink left behind. A group of off-duty guards clustered at a corner table, playing cards with dull expressions and quicker hands. She noted which ones were losing on purpose.

No one stayed long. No one looked happy to be here.

Old instincts surfaced, sharp and sure. She watched who nursed their drinks too slowly. Who didn’t drink at all. The female at the bar in the blue shawl—sober. Waiting for someone.

It should’ve unsettled her, how easily it came back. That edge of awareness. That readiness for a fight at a moment’s notice.

Azriel didn’t speak for a while. He didn’t have to. His presence took up space without pressing on it. She felt it in the shift of his shoulders, the way his hand curled loosely around his mug but never quite relaxed. His shadows didn’t stray far, just hovered behind his chair like dogs trained too well to beg.

When he did speak, it was so low only she could hear.

“You’re good with them,” he said.

Her eyes were still tracking movement—who sat too close to the door, who shifted when someone laughed too loud—but the words pulled her focus back. She blinked once, slow. “With who?”

“The family. Clotilda. The boy. The girl.”

“She found me,” Elara said after a moment, fingers brushing the rim of her mug. “I caught a thief who thought an old female would be an easy mark.”

Azriel gave a slight nod, shadows curling tighter at his feet.

“She tried to pay me. I wouldn’t take it. Just wanted to be on my way, but—” She stopped herself, shook her head like it might dislodge the words. “She wouldn’t let me. She refused to let me go back to being alone.”

Azriel didn’t speak. Just waited, like he knew pressing would end it.

“I don’t know why she cared. But she did.” Elara exhaled slowly. “And when someone like Clotilda cares about you, you don’t get to walk away so easily.”

She let her eyes drift back to the room, watched as the blue-shawled female finally rose and left—alone. One of the guards scratched his neck and muttered something under his breath, throwing down a losing hand too easily. A new patron came in, barkeep barely glancing up as the door creaked open.

Azriel shifted. A flick of his fingers. “He’s late.”

Her gaze flicked toward him, then to the room. “You trust him?”

“Not even slightly,” Azriel said, dry. “But I trust that he’ll give us what we need for the right amount of coin.”

Elara didn’t push. If Azriel had any doubts about what would happen next, they didn’t show. His face remained unreadable, shadows coiled tighter now, sensing movement before it even reached them.

She leaned back against the wall, her fingers resting lightly on the hilt at her hip. Outside, the wind picked up—rattling the tavern sign hard enough to make the wood groan.

The door creaked open on a gust of cold air. A wiry male stepped in—plain clothes, scuffed boots, and the faded scent of smoke and sweat trailing behind him. Scars cut down the left side of his jaw like claw marks, but it was the sharp angle of his ears—narrow, almost insect-like—that gave away what he was. Lesser Fae, no Court scent. The kind that could go overlooked in a place like this.

Elara didn’t miss the way his eyes swept the room, quick and calculating. She didn’t move.

Across from her, Azriel shifted. One glance from him—brief, a flicker from beneath his lashes—was all it took. A silent message. Stay alert.

She inclined her head just once. Azriel rose without a sound, his shadows slipping after him, barely a murmur against the old floorboards. He moved toward the farthest booth, the one sunk deepest into shadow. The male—Darek, presumably—slid in across from him, not looking back. They didn’t shake hands.

Elara waited three heartbeats, then rose.

She didn’t follow him. That hadn’t been the plan. Instead, she drifted toward the bar with a practiced ease, pulling the hood of her coat lower as she leaned an elbow on the counter. The barkeep barely glanced at her.

“Wine,” she said, flatly.

He slid a chipped glass toward her without ceremony. She didn’t touch it.

The wine sat in front of her, untouched, as she listened. Her eyes stayed ahead, fixed on the fire or the scratches on the bar’s surface, but her ears moved with every shift in the room. Her posture stayed casual, but her senses stretched. She tracked footsteps, voices, tension.

Two males sat a few stools down. Not close enough to touch her, but not far enough to ignore. One had a faint shake to his hands as he lifted his mug.

The goblet hit the counter. Elara wrapped her fingers around the warm glass, let it rest near her mouth without sipping. She let her eyes wander without turning her head. The hearth crackled lazily behind her. Shadows clung to the beams overhead.

To her left, two males leaned in close at a corner table, voices too quiet for comfort. One scratched at his neck, restless. The other glanced over his shoulder twice in as many minutes.

“…same as the others,” one murmured. “Disappeared after the shift. Left her boots by the door.”

“Same way my cousin went,” the other replied. “Fucking same.”

Elara didn’t react. Just let her gaze settle absently on the grooves carved into the countertop, her ears straining.

A scraping of a stool behind her caught her attention. Another male—broader, tense—leaned across the bar.

“She come in again?” he asked. His voice was tight, like he was trying to sound casual and failing.

The barkeep shook his head.

“Damn it,” the male muttered, downing a shot in one throw. Elara let the glass of wine slip from her hand to the counter. Took a step down, slow, casual. Let herself drift closer to the male, pretending to study a long scratch in the wood beside him. Her body stayed loose, her mouth neutral, but her ears sharpened on every breath and word.

She noted the lines under his eyes, the way his hands trembled as he poured another shot. A fisherman, maybe, or a dockhand. The faint trace of brine still clung to him. She memorized his face, then the scent of the males behind her still whispering in the corner. Tucked it all away.

Only when she was sure that nothing out of the ordinary was happening—no tails, no sudden movement—did she let herself glance back toward the booth.

Azriel was still seated in the shadows with Darek. His posture hadn’t shifted, but his hand now rested on the edge of the table, fingers curled like he was bracing himself. Elara didn’t look too long.

She turned back to her glass of wine, untouched. Her reflection in the dark red surface looked faintly distorted, tired.

Briefly, she risked a glance back to where the Shadowsinger was. The shadows in the booth hardly shifted, but Azriel did. Not with noise—never that—but with the kind of stillness that felt aware. Even from where she leaned at the bar, Elara could see how his body blocked the light, the way he leaned in slightly toward the male across from him.

Elara didn’t try to listen. Not really. She could have if she wanted to—could have reached through the air and pulled apart the layers of sound, focused on Azriel’s voice like she sometimes did with marks she stalked through cities far less forgiving than this one. But she didn’t.

Still, she watched.

Darek’s gaze slid toward her once. It lingered. Just a second longer than it should have. Curious. Not quite leering, but close enough to send a ripple down her spine.

Azriel moved before she could shift her stance. No sound. Just a single pivot into the male’s line of sight, shadows sliding across his. His face didn’t change, but the message was sharp as steel.

Darek looked away.

Elara’s fingers loosened around the base of the wine glass.

A few minutes later, Azriel rose from the booth. His movements were smooth, like nothing had been said at all. He didn’t glance back at Darek, and Darek didn’t look up.

By the time Azriel reached her, she was already off the barstool. He didn’t speak until they stepped outside into the fog-laced street, the door creaking shut behind them.

“He pointed us to the Shaded Mare,” he murmured, voice low enough to vanish into the mist.

Elara stopped walking. Her boots scuffed against the damp stone, just a fraction of a pause—but it caught Azriel’s attention.

He looked at her, steady. “What?”

“I know that place,” she said, quieter than she meant to. Her breath ghosted in the chill air. “I’ve been there before.”

The last time she’d set foot inside the Shaded Mare, the air had smelled of rotting oranges and burnt pine. It had been the tavern, she’d been stalked out of by males who would take her. She remembered the way they had spoke about a death god from the north. She should have known to start their search there.

They’d wasted time chasing shadows elsewhere. But a selfish part of her wasn’t sorry. She’d had those hours with Clotilda. With the children. She wouldn’t have traded them.

Azriel said nothing at first. His gaze didn’t press, didn’t prod, just studied her face with that quiet, disarming patience he carried like armor.

After a moment, he nodded. “We’ll take a look.”

Elara exhaled slowly. The cold burned her lungs. She squared her shoulders and pulled her coat tighter, fingers brushing the hilt beneath the fabric.

The Shaded Mare hadn’t changed.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges, spilling them into a tavern wrapped in stale smoke and flickering lamplight. The hearth held more ash than flame, and the few drinkers hunched at the tables didn’t bother to glance up. Voices were low, muffled beneath the hum of clinking mugs and the groan of the warped floorboards.

Elara stepped inside first.

The barkeep stood behind the counter, thick-shouldered and beady-eyed. His hands stilled when he looked up. Not in shock. Not even in recognition, exactly. Just—stillness. Intent.

Her breath caught, shallow in her chest.

She remembered him. Not a name. Not a voice. Just the way he’d stood there that night, drying a mug while two males had closed in around her, their voices too smooth, their smiles too sharp. He hadn’t laid a hand on her. But he hadn’t stopped them either.

He hadn’t looked away.

Her stomach turned cold. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at him.

Azriel’s voice brushed the air between them. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she said too quickly. She forced her shoulders to stay loose. “It’s nothing.”

That earned her a look. A flick of hazel, unreadable in the dim light, before he nodded once and moved ahead.

They took a booth tucked along the far wall, its back pressed to stone, half-swallowed in shadow. Azriel didn’t sit across from her. He never did. Instead, he settled beside her, shoulder angled just slightly outward—between her and the room.

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t need to.

The space was tight. His thigh brushed hers when he shifted, his warmth seeping through the fabric of her coat, and Elara tried not to notice. It was always like this. A mission. A job. That was all this was.

Azriel lifted a hand.

His shadows obeyed like breath drawn slow and deliberate. They curled beneath the table, winding around the bench legs, whispering over the floorboards. A few rose like smoke and drifted upward, forming a curtain that caught the light and swallowed it whole.

Across the room, the barkeep looked up again. His eyes passed over their table, unfocused. Then he turned back to polishing the same mug he hadn’t stopped touching since they entered.

Elara let out a breath, quiet as the dark. “He’s the one from before.”

Azriel didn’t turn his head. “Noted.”

She watched him as the silence stretched between them. His gaze moved constantly, a slow, methodical sweep of the room—doors, exits, corners, shadows. Every so often, his shadows slipped up toward his ear, coiling like mist in water, then slinking away again.

It was fascinating.

Elara didn’t shift. She’d barely moved since they sat. Her eyes tracked every twitch in the barkeep’s shoulders, every tremor in the hand that poured too much into a chipped glass. When the male leaned toward one of the patrons, his voice a low scrape, Elara’s fingers twitched where they lay in her lap.

Azriel noticed too. She felt it in the way his posture changed—just enough to ready for movement. He didn’t speak, didn’t give a signal. Just exhaled through his nose, and the shadows obeyed. They peeled from the booth like smoke catching wind, sliding silent and unnoticed across the tavern floor. No one looked their way. No one could.

Elara kept her gaze trained forward. Still, watchful. Listening to nothing—but waiting for everything.

When the shadows returned, curling like mist around Azriel’s ear, she let herself glance at him. Not for long. Just long enough to see the flicker of something tighten in his jaw.

“He’s nervous,” Azriel said at last, voice a whisper even the air seemed hesitant to carry. “But not stupid. Knows better than to talk.” He paused. “Knows enough not to lie either.”

She nodded once and said nothing. The barkeep didn’t meet her gaze.

Midnight bled into morning. Slowly, quietly. The lamps flickered lower. The last drunk slumped toward the door and vanished into mist. The fire had gone to ash.

Only then did Azriel move. His shadows slipped away like breath exhaled. Light touched their booth again. The spell broke.

The barkeep jolted, eyes cutting sharply toward their corner as if realizing—too late—that they’d still been there all along.

“Well,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Look who’s still lurking. Thought you’d slithered out already.”

He looked them over now. Properly. His gaze skipped over Azriel’s dark leathers, the silent composure, then settled—too long—on Elara. She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

“Didn’t expect you to crawl back in, though,” the barkeep said, baring yellowed teeth in something that might’ve been a grin. “Thought you were smarter than that.”

Azriel didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He watched the male as one might watch a target being measured, slow and exact. The barkeep misread it. Most people did.

He jerked his chin toward Azriel. “What’s this then? Your new bodyguard?” His grin widened. “Or do you just like ’em filthy?”

Elara didn’t answer. She could feel the way Azriel’s presence changed beside her—quiet, coiled. Not angry. Something colder than that.

“You can lock the door,” Azriel said. The words were quiet. Calm. They vibrated through the room like a blade unsheathed.

The barkeep barked a short laugh. “What, so we can play?” He leaned forward, resting both hands on the counter. “You gonna show me what you can do, shadow-man?”

Azriel didn’t blink.

“Now,” he said.

The barkeep’s grin faltered. Just a little.

The bolt scraped home with a dull clunk—slow, unhurried. The barkeep turned, his mouth curled in something thin and unpleasant. “There. Locked and sealed. Cozy enough for you?”

Azriel didn’t answer. He was already there, crossing the space in silence, appearing as if from the dark itself. The barkeep didn’t have time to step back. Azriel’s low voice cut through the stillness, “Where are the missing females?”

The shadows stirred. Rolled in from the corners like rising mist. They slithered across the floorboards and licked up the walls. The fire dimmed. The temperature dropped.

The barkeep hesitated, then barked a humorless laugh. “You think I keep a ledger?” His voice was rough, too loud. “Girls come through. Always looking for work in the pleasure halls. You know how it is. Some stay, some don’t. Not my problem.”

The words barely left his mouth before Azriel’s hand shot forward. Fingers curled in the male’s stained shirt and slammed him into the wall behind the bar with enough force to rattle the shelves. Bottles crashed—glass shattering, liquid splashing. The barkeep gasped, wind knocked out of him, head cracking hard against the wood.

Elara didn’t move. She leaned against the far wall, arms folded. Her face was calm. Eyes unreadable.

Azriel leaned in close. His voice never rose. “Try again.”

“Fuck—” the barkeep wheezed, squirming. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just pass the word sometimes, that’s it. A girl comes in, looks like she won’t be missed—” He struggled in Azriel’s grip. “That’s all.”

Elara stepped forward.

“Pass the word?” she asked, voice cool. “To who?”

The barkeep’s jaw clamped shut. His nostrils flared. She saw the flicker of calculation in his eyes—saw him decide to hold the name. Azriel’s shadows responded before he spoke.

They surged up, smooth as smoke and twice as fast, winding around the male’s throat. Just enough to lift him half off his feet. Just enough to make him claw at the air, panic rising in his eyes.

Elara’s voice cut through the strangled gasping like a blade through fog, “Where do they go after?”

The barkeep’s eyes bulged. He clawed at the shadows biting his throat, spit bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t—don’t know,” he rasped. “Honest. The boys grab them. I just tell the crone—she takes them.”

Azriel didn’t blink. Didn’t even seem to breathe. “You’re involved,” he said, voice dead-flat. “That’s enough.”

The shadows obeyed the unspoken command. They constricted—tightened like a noose drawn by something ancient and eager. The barkeep screamed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t long. But it was raw—panic and pain layered into the sound. Azriel held it for a moment too long, eyes on the male’s face as if memorizing every twitch.

Then he let go.

The barkeep hit the floor hard, knees cracking against warped wood. He stayed there, wheezing, blood dripping from his nose, mouth open in a slack gasp. Elara didn’t flinch while Azriel crouched in front of him, still as stone. “What crone?”

The male gave a violent shake of his head, still gulping for air.

Elara stepped forward again. Her voice gentled—but it did not soften. “Briallyn?”

The flinch was slight. But it was there.

Azriel’s eyes flicked up to Elara before going back down to the male collapsed on the floor, “You’ve heard that name.”

“What does she want with them?” Elara asked, stepping over the heap of a male. Her hand fisted in his greasy hair. She dragged his head back, baring his throat, forcing him to look up at her.

He winced. “I don’t—” He coughed, hard enough to spray blood onto his chin. “She says... she needs power. Magic. Says that he can siphon it. From girls no one will miss.”

Azriel’s shadows surged again, sharp as blades. One of them slid down the barkeep’s arm—just the suggestion of a cut, a whisper of cold pressure over skin.

“Who,” Azriel said, each word more dangerous for how calm it was, “is he?”

The barkeep's lips moved. A sound came out—barely louder than breath.

“…the death god.”

“You’re a coward.” Azriel’s voice was quiet, bitter, as he rose. “And not even a loyal one.”

He lifted his hand again. The shadows stirred—then surged, curling toward the barkeep’s face with that slow, dreadful certainty that said there would be no escape this time. The male screamed, thrashing against the floorboards, scrambling backward even as the shadows closed in.

Elara stepped forward, “Azriel.”

She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t need to. It was the stillness in her tone that caught him—that made the shadows freeze midair. Her gaze didn’t leave the barkeep. Blood smeared the side of his face where he’d fallen. His eyes were wide with terror, but there was nothing else behind them. Just the raw, empty fear of a man who had run out of use.

“He doesn’t know anything else,” she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “He’s not worth it.”

Azriel didn’t look at her right away. His gaze stayed on the barkeep, who whimpered now, trembling so badly his boots scraped against the floor. Then Azriel scoffed—soft, disgusted.

“You see that?” His words were cold and precise, cut from ice. “You sent your men to corner her. You fed girls to whatever filth she’s working with. And now you get to beg while she fights for your life.”

He turned to her then. The lines of his face were calm, but there was something burning in his eyes—some old fury she knew too well, mirrored in her own bones.

“If we let him go,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, “he’ll run straight to Briallyn. Tell her we’re close. He’ll ruin this. It will make it harder for us to find her, and put a stop to this for good.”

The barkeep’s head shook violently, the words spilling in frantic sobs. “I won’t—I swear it, please, please—I didn’t want to—just doing what I was told—just trying to live—”

Elara looked down at him. There was a time she would’ve ended him without blinking. Would’ve drawn a blade across his throat with the same care she gave to brushing snow from her sleeves. Back then, she wouldn’t have felt this ache in her chest. Wouldn’t have tasted iron behind her teeth. She wouldn’t have felt anything.

But she wasn’t that person anymore. She wasn’t Munin. She didn’t want to be. And still—she knew Azriel was right.

Letting him live meant risking more lives. Risking the entire trail they’d followed here. Risking every girl who might still be waiting for someone to come for her. This one male’s life wasn’t worth that.

She hated that truth.

She nodded.

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows moved.

The barkeep screamed—loud, desperate. Not like before. There was panic in it now, true understanding, too late. Elara didn’t watch. Couldn’t. The sound hooked under her ribs, made her jaw clench tight.

So she turned her back.

Chapter 62

The woods are quiet. Too quiet.

Trees hung bare this far south, their branches twisted like claws against the pale sky. Wind moved through them without sound, brushing past bark and bramble, but even the birds had gone still. Not a single wing beat overhead, not a single rustle in the dead leaves.

Just the soft crunch of earth beneath Azriel’s boots, his steps nearly silent as he moved along what had once been the border between worlds.

Remnants of where the Wall used to be loomed to his right—no longer humming with magic, no longer crackling with that old, terrible power that had once made the skin on his arms prickle. But the weight of it lingered. The memory. Even now, stripped of power, the Wall felt like a scar. A reminder of the Fae’s past treatment of humans, of the life that Hybern tried to restore.

Azriel paused, letting the cold bite into his lungs as he stared at it. For a flicker of a moment, he wondered—if they rebuilt it. If somehow they restored what the Cauldron had broken, would it stop Briallyn from crossing? Would it give the humans a sense of safety again?

But the thought barely formed before he forced it away. The Cauldron was hidden, guarded by Miryam and Drakon on Creata. To use the Cauldron would be to signal to everyone that it could, in fact, be used agin. The last thing any of them needed was someone looking for it. Let the world think it was lost.

His gaze shifted.

Elara walked several paces ahead, boots cutting swift, sure paths through the uneven ground. Her movements were efficient—but not cold. Not anymore. She didn’t speak. Hadn’t, really, since the barkeep’s blood had spilled across those tavern floorboards. Since she’d turned from it like it hadn’t mattered. But Azriel had seen the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes had stayed fixed on the wall as the male screamed behind her. It wasn’t indifference that had caused her to turn away at that moment, it was something much deeper than that.

His shadows trailed after her like smoke. Some part of him, deeper than logic, kept reaching for her—kept cataloguing the rigid set of her shoulders, the shortness of her breath, the way her silence had shifted from edged to hollow.

That instinct had sharpened with her mood. A low, steady thrum in his chest that refused to be ignored.

Her hood had slipped down sometime after they left the road. Wind tugged at her hair, dark strands catching in the hollows of her collarbone, clinging to the worn black fabric of her coat. She hadn’t summoned her wings, like Rhys sometimes did, folding that part of herself back beneath skin. Azriel hadn’t asked why.

He didn’t need to.

The silence between them wasn’t sharp anymore. Not brittle with anger or weighted by mistrust. It was something softer now. Sadder, maybe. Like she’d drawn inward again, retreating from something only she could name.

He watched the way her hand brushed the moss of a half-collapsed boulder as she passed it. Just a fingertip trailing along stone. The touch wasn’t conscious, but it wasn’t careless either. Like her body still needed to feel, even if her mind had gone quiet.

Azriel stepped beside her, his boots catching lightly on the uneven slope, but Elara didn’t flinch. She hadn’t in hours. She just kept walking, straight-backed and steady, as if the broken magic of the Wall beside them meant nothing at all.

He kept his voice low, just loud enough for her to hear over the hiss of wind and distant branches creaking overhead. “You didn’t want to kill him.”

It hadn’t left his thoughts since that night in the village—since the barkeep gasped his last breath and she’d turned her head, not in disgust, but with something heavier. That was after she’d tried to stop him. After she’d stepped between him and the door, eyes unreadable, body angled just enough to challenge. She hadn’t raised her voice. But she hadn’t wanted that male to die.

She said nothing now. Just stepped over a fallen log, her gait unbroken, chin tilted down as if the ground were more important than whatever lay behind them. The shadows at his feet curled tighter, drawn to the wrongness still clinging to her skin.

“No,” she said at last.

Just the word. Nothing more.

He studied her profile. The rigid line of her jaw, the fingers half-curled at her sides like she wasn’t sure whether to keep moving or curl them into fists. “Why?”

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t glance at him.

“Because I didn’t want to,” she said, her tone flat. And it wasn’t cold, or bitter. It was only quiet, drained.

He waited. Let the silence stretch out again as they moved through the dead woods, the Wall casting long shadows beside them like a ghost trailing at their heels.

Then she stopped.

Not with any dramatics, or a sudden halt. Just a slow coming-to-stillness, her boots sinking a little into the damp soil as she turned slightly, her body angled toward him now. Her brow was furrowed, but her voice remained even, steady.

“I spent years doing what I was told,” she said. “I didn’t get to ask why. I didn’t get to decide who deserved it. I just—obeyed.”

There was something in her voice that made his throat tighten.

He tried—tried to summon the image of her then. Of Munin, of the cold, ruthless shadow he’d trailed for centuries. She’d done with Dagdan ordered, without question. She’d stood behind the King of Hybern, motionless, eyes like frost, body still as a held breath. He had watched her fight and kill his own men without a single thought. Without any hesitation. Without any mess. There was just cold obedience.

His hands clenched at his sides.

If Dagdan were still breathing, Azriel would have flayed the skin from his bones, peeled it back in strips to see how long the male could survive without a face. If the King of Hybern had not already been reduced to ash and splintered bone, Azriel would have broken every joint in his fingers, slowly, carefully, and then shattered his knees just to hear him scream. He would have carved into their minds before he ended them. He would have made them feel it. Every moment of it. The helplessness. The pain. The way it felt to be trapped in your own body, unable to stop what was happening to you.

They had done that to her. To his mate. Had taken Elara—the female standing before him now, all spine and silence—and turned her into a thing.

The instinct inside him twisted, sharp and ancient. Not rage. Not vengeance. Possession. Protection. That deep, primal urge to destroy anything that had ever touched her with cruelty. His mate. His. And there had been nothing he could do. Not then.

Her gaze shifted toward him. She didn’t look away from his face. Not when the shadows curled higher around him, not when something feral slid behind his eyes.

She didn’t flinch.

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t trust what would come out if he did.

After a moment, Elara exhaled slowly and added, “So when I do have a choice... I want to choose something different.”

Her voice wasn’t defensive. No challenge in it, no bite.

Azriel didn’t answer. If he said anything now—if he broke the silence with what he wanted to say—he would lose her. It would be enough to send her sliding back into herself, all those hard walls slamming down. He’d seen it happen before. One misstep and she folded like she’d never trusted him at all.

So he kept still. Kept watching her profile, the slight furrow between her brows, the careful stillness in her shoulders. His shadows curled closer to her boots, brushing over the toe of one like they could catch the thread of her thoughts if they tried hard enough.

She didn’t look at him when she said, quieter now, “I told myself I’d stop killing when I got away. That I’d be better than the thing they made me into.”

The breeze stirred again—soft, but cold. It rustled the leaves overhead and caught in her hair, lifting it slightly off her shoulders before letting it fall again. She didn’t push it back.

He wanted to tell her that she was better. That she had always been better. That Munin had been a mask, a weapon, a shape carved by someone else’s hands. That every time she chose to stay her blade, it was proof that they hadn’t succeeded in breaking her completely. That she was still fighting. Even now.

But he didn’t speak.

Elara’s gaze dropped to the ground, her jaw tightening as if she were holding something in.

“I know you were right,” she said, voice so low he nearly missed it over the wind. “It had to be done.”

A pause, just long enough for the tension to shift.

“But I didn’t want to hear him scream,” she added. “Not because I pitied him. But because I didn’t want to go back to that place in my head.”

Azriel’s throat went tight. He understood that better than most. He knew the sound she meant—the echo it left, the way it hollowed you out. He knew how easy it was to slip into old instincts, to become the blade again and like it. To listen to someone beg and feel nothing. That numbness was what terrified him most, when it came creeping back in.

Elara looked up at him now, her face pale in the thin, gray light filtering through the branches. “I’m worried that if I let myself kill again, I’ll go back to being her.”

He didn’t need to ask who her was. That name—Munin—lurked like a shadow between them, no matter how far she’d come. He’d fought her as Munin once. Had seen the stillness of her blade, the detached way she moved. It was so different from the female he’d come to know. The one who was slowly opening up to him.

“I’ve killed since… well, the King,” Elara said, shakily. Her eyes darted toward him, as if she expected to see any judgement on his face, “People who would hurt me. Or were trying to hurt others. You were right that he would have told someone about us. But since he wasn’t actively trying to kill us, it didn’t feel the same.”

Azriel let a breath out through his nose. “You didn’t do it,” he said. “I did. You chose not to be the one to draw the blade.”

He took a step closer—not touching her, not reaching. But near enough that the cold retreated between them, replaced by the steady warmth of his body. He watched her chest rise, slow and careful. Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers twitching once before going still again.

“That’s not failure, Elara,” he said, voice low. “That’s control.”

Her eyes searched his—sharp, shadowed, a glint of something fragile just beneath the surface. “And you?”

He didn’t flinch. “I made a choice too,” he said. “I’ll carry it. Not you.”

She didn’t look away. Whatever shield she usually kept between them—whatever instinct told her to retreat into silence—she didn’t reach for it now. Her expression didn’t shift much, but something behind her eyes flickered. A small, quiet flicker of pain. And recognition.

“I know you didn’t enjoy it either,” she said at last.

She wasn’t trying to wound him. He could tell. Her voice held no accusation, only a grim kind of understanding. The kind that came from lived experience. From having done worse and survived it.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

“No,” he said.

She didn’t recoil. Didn’t flinch from the admission, or cast some judgmental glance his way. She just looked at him. Nodded—slow and quiet, like she knew exactly what that kind of skill cost a person over time—and turned, beginning to walk again.

He watched her for a moment. The way her shoulders didn’t tense. The way her head stayed high, but her pace measured, steady. She still trusted him. Even if she didn’t know how to say it.

Azriel moved to follow, falling into step beside her. This time, there was no space between them.

They were still speaking as they walked, words low and careful, but easier now—something lighter threading between them. Elara’s voice had softened. Not much, but enough that Azriel noticed. Enough that his shadows, restless and whispering against his shoulders, stirred with unease—but too late.

Snap. A twig, brittle and sharp to the left. A second later: rustling brush. Breath drawn wrong, too loud. Azriel’s head jerked toward the sound just as he caught the gleam of steel flickering between the trees.

Fuck.

He should have felt them coming. Should have noticed the shift in the wind, the scent of blood and oil. But he’d been watching Elara. Listening to her. Too focused on his mate to track what crept through the trees.

“Get down,” he growled.

Elara didn’t hesitate at his orders. She dove into the underbrush just as the first arrow whistled past, slicing clean through the space her neck had occupied moments before. Azriel turned sharply, his hand already at the hilt of the sword sheathed between his wings. It slid free with a metallic rasp as he released a snarl that was nearly feral. The sound of it sent birds shrieking from the branches above.

Someone had aimed for his mate.

From the cover of the trees, five armed figures fanned out in a loose crescent. They moved like soldiers—disciplined, quick—but their armor was human-forged, lacking the elegance of fae craftsmanship. Strange sigils marked their cloaks, unfamiliar crests stitched in black and gold. These weren’t free agents. Briallyn had sent them. Or someone working under her command.

Azriel didn’t wait.

He vanished into shadow and reappeared behind the archer—slit his throat clean and silent before the male could even pivot toward him. One down. His body slumped without a sound.

A blur of movement to the right—Elara surged from the underbrush, twin blades already drawn. Short, brutal things, curved for close-quarters killing. She launched into two guards at once. One slashed at her too high—she ducked low, rolled beneath the arc, and swept her blade across his thigh. The scream was brief. She was already driving her second blade upward into his ribcage before he dropped.

Another charged Azriel, roaring like a fool. Azriel let his siphon flare, a shield rising just in time to deflect the sword. He countered with a brutal kick, crushing the male’s knee with a sharp crack, and plunged his sword up through the man's jaw, steel ripping out through the roof of his mouth. The body crumpled to the forest floor, twitching once before going still.

That’s when Azriel saw it—under the blood, under the breathless cries. The scent. These weren’t fae at all. All five of them were human.

Another rushed Elara from the flank. She didn’t see him. Azriel didn’t think—just moved. His dagger left his hand, arcing fast across the clearing. It buried itself in the man’s chest, dead center. He stumbled once, then collapsed.

Elara didn’t turn. “Thanks.”

Azriel shifted closer, eyes sweeping for more. “Watch your left.”

She pivoted just in time to block the strike of the last one—her blade locking with his. Her feet slid in the dirt, and then she twisted, slammed her elbow into his throat, and drove her knee into his gut. He fell to his knees, wheezing—and she slit his throat.

Azriel’s pulse still thundered. Not from the danger—he’d faced worse—but from the way his instincts had frayed the moment the first arrow flew. The moment she had been the one in its path. His shadows coiled tighter around him, responding to the animal edge that hadn’t yet ebbed.

She could have died. One second slower and they would have taken her from him. His mate.

The last soldier lunged, blade clashing hard against Elara’s. He was broader, stronger, metal grinding as he shoved her back, boots gouging deep into the soft forest floor. But brute strength meant little if it wasn’t controlled. She gave him two steps—let him think he’d overwhelmed her—before dropping to her knees in the dirt. Her blade sliced clean and fast behind his ankle. The man screamed as his weight gave out, collapsing forward, and she rose behind him, expression flat as she slit his throat. The body hit the ground twitching.

She didn’t watch it fall.

Only one remained now. A younger male—barely past twenty, if that. There was a long, shallow cut running from his jaw to his cheekbone, already leaking blood. He was breathing too fast, sword shaking in his grip. He took one step back, then another, and nearly tripped over the corpse behind him.

Azriel’s voice came low, cold. “We need one alive.”

Elara’s gaze flicked to him, breath steady. “You take him,” she said, dry. “Or should I?”

Azriel moved without answering, each step slow and deliberate. Shadows slithered over his shoulders, curling down his arms, caressing the steel still slick in his hand. He didn’t raise the sword. He didn’t need to.

“Put the sword down,” Azriel said, quiet but deadly.

The male hesitated, eyes darting between them. His knuckles were white around the hilt. Then, stupidly, he turned and bolted.

Wrong choice.

Azriel vanished into shadow. Reappeared behind him. The soldier barely had time to scream before Azriel slammed him to the ground, driving a knee into his spine, hand clamping around the back of his neck. The male writhed once, but Azriel shifted his weight forward, pinning him hard into the dirt.

Elara emerged from the trees a moment later, crouching low beside them. Her face was unreadable—no cruelty, no amusement. Just that cold calm she wore in fights, like a mask that didn’t quite fit right anymore.

The young male gasped, squirming under Azriel’s weight. Azriel straddled his chest, knees locked against the narrow slope of his shoulders. The soldier’s fingers scrabbled at the moss, but his sword had already been kicked aside.

Azriel’s siphons glowed dimly at his hands, enough to make the boy freeze. He didn’t cry out again. Just trembled beneath him.

The clearing stank of blood. The bodies—Elara’s kills and Azriel’s—lay crumpled in the shadows, nothing left of them but torn meat and fading warmth.

Azriel leaned in, voice low. “Don’t scream.”

The words barely left his mouth before the male sucked in a breath and choked it back, lips trembling around it. Azriel could feel his pulse fluttering through the fingers pressed to the back of his neck, far too fast and thin. The boy was right on the edge of panic.

He heard the crunch of Elara’s boots behind him, quiet over the damp carpet of dried leaves. She didn’t rush; there was no hesitation in her pace. Just measured steps as she circled to his side, the way a hawk might circle a pinned rabbit.

Azriel didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. Her presence tugged at him like a thread woven through his chest, drawn tighter with each breath she took.

Elara crouched beside them, knees folding with fluid precision. There was calculation in every line of her body—weight balanced, eyes sharp, tone steady, “What’s a human doing north of the wall boundary?”

The soldier glared at her. Then spat.

It hit her cheek, a thick glob of blood and saliva. She didn’t flinch, or wipe it away. Just stared at him, her face still, like ice beginning to crack.

Azriel’s teeth, meanwhile, bared in a flash of white at the boy.

But she didn’t react. Not in anger. Not even in disgust. That steadiness—that control—landed in Azriel’s chest like a punch. She hadn’t recoiled. She hadn’t drawn a blade. For a moment, all he saw was someone who had trained centuries for moments like this.

Someone like him.

He adjusted his weight, shifting just enough to press harder on the boy’s shoulders. The bones beneath him groaned. Not broken—yet. But close.

“You’re not Hybern. You’re not Fae.” Azriel’s voice stayed soft, almost curious. “So what are you doing this far north?”

The boy whimpered. Then stammered, “We were told to patrol—keep anyone from crossing—”

Elara wiped the spit from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her voice remained flat. “The Wall has lost its magic. The borders mean nothing now.”

Azriel looked at her then, briefly. The boy did too, watching her as if wondering if she'd been the real threat all along. She wasn’t passive—was never passive. She just didn’t need to raise her voice to make someone afraid.

Azriel turned back to the soldier. “What were you really looking for?”

“I—I don’t know,” the boy stammered, voice breaking. “Just told to keep the area clear—”

“By who?” Azriel’s tone didn’t change, but the shadows behind him rippled—uncoiling like smoke from a fire.

Azriel rose from his crouch and stepped forward. He didn’t need to raise a blade. The stillness alone did enough. The mortal male blinked up at him, chest hitching under Azriel’s knees, the breath trapped high and shallow. He saw the boy’s eyes flick—not toward the siphons, not toward the blade at Azriel’s hip—but to Elara.

That was a mistake.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. She only angled her head slightly, eyes cool, unreadable.

“You think I’m the scary one?” she asked, and though her tone was dry, there was no humor in it.

Azriel didn’t look at her, though the edge of his mouth tightened. His voice stayed flat. “How many patrols like yours are there?”

The male coughed, eyes darting between them. “Two… maybe three more. We don’t ask questions. Just follow orders.”

Of course they didn’t.

Elara didn’t let him stumble further. “Whose orders?” she asked, cutting across the pause like a blade.

The male nodded too fast, too eager to speak. “Old crone. Doesn’t come around often. Just sends instructions.”

Azriel felt the subtle glance from Elara, her body angled just slightly toward him. He gave a faint nod in return. Enough.

She moved then, crouching in front of the male. Her face remained unreadable, calm—not passive. Azriel watched her posture, her presence. She didn't project anger or intimidation. She didn’t need to. Her stillness was sharper than most warriors’ fury. She knew how to make someone break with silence alone.

Azriel shifted beside her, his shadows rising faintly with his breath. “And the missing females?” he asked, quiet but not gentle. “Where are they being taken?”

“I—I didn’t touch them. Didn’t do anything, I swear—”

Azriel saw the slight shift in Elara’s jaw, the twitch of muscle there. But her voice remained cool as ever. “Then where did they go?”

The male hesitated, trembling. “There’s an old ruin. A castle. South of the Wall. Just past the marshes. That’s where they’re brought.”

Azriel’s chest tightened, the words landing heavy. He didn’t speak immediately. The air around them felt colder. He forced his voice to stay even. “What’s in the castle?”

“I don’t know,” the guard said, too fast again. “I don’t go inside. Nobody does. Just drop them off and leave.”

“You ever see the old woman?” Elara asked. Her voice didn’t shift. Not a single note of emotion.

“Once,” the male murmured. “Covered head to toe. Hooded. Voice like—like cracked stone.”

Azriel didn’t need to hear more. The breath caught low in his lungs. His answer came low, almost to himself. “Briallyn…”

The male recoiled slightly beneath him, but it wasn’t Azriel’s voice that scared him—it was the name. Azriel’s gaze sharpened. He saw it then, clear as steel under sunlight. There was something deeper behind the human’s eyes now. Not just fear. Recognition. And something closer to dread.

He stepped forward. His shadow fell across both the human and Elara. He didn’t bother cloaking the cold in his voice now. “Why the females?”

The boy’s mouth opened and closed. No excuse came. Just the truth.

“Power,” he whispered. “That’s what she said. They’re taken somewhere. Someone who needs the power…”

Azriel’s body went rigid. He didn’t move. But something in him locked tight. He didn’t have to speak. Elara’s head turned, her eyes lifting to his. She had seen it, too—that flicker of recognition, the cold twist of understanding. They both knew.

The human’s voice cracked with panic. “I don’t know what she’s doing with them! I’m not part of it—I just follow orders—”

There was no change in his expression. No flicker of rage or pleasure. Just the smooth slide of steel as he drew his blade—quiet, unhurried. The metal caught a dull gleam from the trees above. A clean, precise motion. He didn’t look at Elara, didn’t need to. He felt her stillness beside him, the way she didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away — not like she had the last time. Like she were forcing herself to watch, to get over her

He ended it quickly. A single motion. The body stilled beneath him.

Chapter 63

They stood near the bodies of the soldiers—what remained of them. The smell was thicker now, clotting in the back of her throat. Iron and sweat and something faintly sour. The clearing was quiet again. The forest had gone still, as if even the trees were holding their breath.

She tried not to look at the corpses. Not at the one she’d gutted or the one Azriel had left twitching in the moss. Just hours ago, she’d said she hadn’t wanted to kill. That she was done with it. But the humans had come after them—had drawn swords first. She’d only reacted, and defended herself. It was different than killing an unarmed male. That’s what she told herself.

But the thoughts pressed at the edge of her mind nonetheless. So she focused on the ache in her thighs, the dried blood on her palm, the faint pulse of her magic still humming low in her spine. She let it fill the space instead.

Azriel shifted beside her, leather and shadows catching her attention. “We’ll winnow across,” he said quietly. “It’s faster.”

She didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on the dirt, on the blotches where blood had seeped down between the roots. She wondered if it ever washed away fully. If the earth would remember what she had done here.

His voice came again, softer now. “May I?”

She looked up. His hand was already raised, hovering a few inches off the side of his body—halfway between gesture and invitation. He didn’t assume. Never did. That alone set something strange moving in her chest.

Her throat tightened. She should have put up a fight, said that she could winnow herself just fine. But she had no fight left within her; she nodded once.

He stepped forward, the warmth of him brushing hers like a breath against cold skin. His gloved hand grazed her forearm—light, almost apologetic. It didn’t make her flinch. But it made her aware of herself again. The way her pulse beat beneath her skin.

And then the shadows pulled around them. The world folded in, compressed to a single point.

She hated that feeling. Hated the way it flattened her thoughts, crushed air from her lungs. It always felt like being squeezed through a slit in reality. Her own magic when winnowingleft her disoriented, but his… his at least knew how to catch her when they landed.

Her boots hit the ground first. Cold mud slicked the hilltop, a patch of dead grass brushing her ankle as the shadows receded. She exhaled slowly, testing her balance. Azriel’s presence remained steady beside her.

Below, the land dipped into a basin choked with fog. A lake spread out like oil, black and slow-moving. At its edge, half sunken into the rock and reeking of damp stone, stood a fortress. The towers were lopsided—weather-worn and leaning—but the walls still held.

And around it—surrounding it like a crude crown—was a camp. A hundred tents or more, crude canvas domes pinned into the marshy ground. Fires smoldered in shallow pits. Shadows moved between them, too distant to make out clearly.

Elara’s breath fogged as she spoke. “She’s gathered an army.”

Azriel didn’t move. His voice was low, flat. “She’s claimed a fortress.”

They crouched beneath the lip of a broken wall, stone crumbling beneath their boots as they pressed into the shadowed alcove. The ruin must’ve been a watch post once—long since split by frost and time. Now, it gave them cover, just high enough to overlook the camp’s southern edge.

Azriel didn’t speak as his shadows unfurled, cloaking them in cool, weightless dark.

Elara didn’t need words either. She watched. Trained her gaze on the camp, noting the rhythm of it—the efficiency. Food rations were sorted in triplicate rows, sacks tied with the same red twine. Horses were tethered in organized rings, brushed, fed, their tack freshly oiled. And soldier after soldier bore the same crest stitched over leather and mail—an emblem she didn’t recognize, but all too uniform to be random.

How long had they been here, waiting for orders from their queen?

“She’s in there,” she murmured, jaw tight. Azriel nodded once.

The cold had settled deep in her boots. But they didn’t move. She wasn’t sure how long they had waited there, watching for any sign of movement. Before them, the camp began to stir again—torches shifting, soldiers turning their heads, adjusting their lines. Then a single shout rang out across the grounds, sharp and commanding. Armor groaned as troops turned as one.

“They’re forming ranks,” Elara said, low but alert.

Azriel’s tone remained steady. “No alarm. There is no immediate threat. This is a meeting.”

Then came silence. A hush spread like frost across the host. Even the horses stilled, their reins gone slack.

The castle gates creaked open a breath later—massive, iron-bound—and torchlight licked at the courtyard as a figure emerged. Cloaked in silver-gray, Briallyn moved with the smooth, gliding gait of something that had long since forgotten how to walk like a human. Her robes shimmered faintly, catching the firelight in the way oil catches water—slick, wrong. She paused beneath the archway, head high, and for a moment Elara could have sworn the flames dimmed around her.

Elara’s breath caught. Her throat constricted with it. She hadn’t seen Briallyn in person since the War. Not like this. And yet—there was no mistaking her. She might have been human once, but not anymore.

A tall male stepped from the crowd, armored in dark steel etched with curling symbols Elara didn’t recognize. He was broad-shouldered, helmet tucked under one arm. His face caught the firelight—beautiful in a harsh, cruel way. He dropped to one knee before the Queen.

Elara’s voice came out flat. “He’s not human.”

Azriel’s reply was just as grim. “No. But the others are.”

She studied the line of soldiers behind him. Human, mostly. Some fae, but lesser. None looked like they’d volunteered. All of them watched the male general like he was something more than flesh.

Briallyn began to speak. Her lips moved slowly, precisely, but her voice didn’t carry across the field. Whatever orders she gave, they remained locked behind her wall of silence. Elara leaned forward slightly, narrowing her eyes.

Beside her, Azriel shifted. “I’m sending the shadows.”

She watched them go—watched the way they slipped from his shoulders and spine like liquid smoke, pale tendrils gliding over the stone and grass without a sound. They melted into the darkness, faceless and fast, streaking toward the keep.

“Why human soldiers?” she asked, frowning as she watched them shift in loose formation. “They won’t survive against Fae.”

Azriel didn’t look at her. “She’s either reckless,” he said, voice low, “or she has a plan we are not aware of.”

“Then what?” Elara pressed, scanning the far edges of the camp. The soldiers looked hardened, but tired. Poorly equipped, save for the few nearest the keep. Whatever they were building toward—it wasn’t defense. It was something else.

Azriel didn’t answer. His gaze went distant, pupils narrowing as one of the shadows returned—curling along his wrist, whispering in a language Elara didn’t understand but recognized in the tension that tightened his mouth.

“She asked if the general had found it,” he said quietly.

Elara turned sharply. “What?”

“She called it the Crown.”

The words hung there, brittle. Elara’s pulse stumbled, a sharp knot pulling tight in her gut. “The Crown?” she repeated, the words sharper than she intended.

Azriel glanced at her, eyes unreadable. He shook his head once, “She didn’t explain. Just said it’s close.”

Elara’s throat felt dry. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the stone wall. “Is it a title?” she asked. “A weapon?”

Another shake of the head. Slower this time. He didn’t know either. His jaw flexed—just a small tic, but enough to tell her he didn’t like not knowing. Then he added, “She asked about the rest of the Dread Trove.”

The name rang through her like a thread pulled too tight.

“That one—he said—they had no inkling where to find it.”

Silence stretched again. Below, Briallyn had begun to turn back toward the gates, her robes dragging behind her like smoke. The general remained where he’d knelt, head bowed.

Elara spoke quietly now. “You know what that means?”

Azriel’s head shifted, but not quite a nod. “No idea,” he murmured. He didn’t look at her. His eyes remained fixed on the castle, on the shape of Briallyn vanishing into the shadows beyond the gate. “But she wants it badly. She says it will help her—and help to free the Death God Koschei from his lake.”

Elara didn’t breathe for a long moment. Her eyes lingered on the now-empty courtyard, the soldiers still kneeling as if Briallyn hadn’t left at all.

Elara didn’t respond at first. She let the wind drag over the marsh water below, let the stench of rot and sweat fill her lungs. It was the kind of cold, stagnant place that bred monsters, where the dirt clung to your boots like it had a mind of its own. Below, the lake rippled with a thick, oily sheen. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the crumbling wall.

“If she gets there first—” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the distant shimmer of torchlight at the edge of the camp.

“She won’t.” Azriel’s voice was flat. “She can’t.”

She almost believed him. Almost.

They began retreating through the reeds, careful with each step. Mud sucked at their soles, and the wind carried nothing but the hum of insects and the occasional metallic rattle of armor from the camp. Her pulse was steady—but high. The kind of tension that made her bones ache.

Then came the sound. Small. Inconsequential, if they hadn’t been trained to hear it.

A twig, snapping under a boot.

Azriel shifted instantly, one arm moving subtly between them. “Don’t move,” he said, voice low. His shadows surged outward in a silent wave, curling around her like mist, blurring them into the landscape. Elara held her breath, every muscle wired. Her eyes scanned the trees just beyond the clearing, straining through the murk of the marsh.

“They saw us,” she said under her breath, already calculating the odds, the angles.

“I know,” came his reply—grim, already preparing.

Two figures stepped from the brush, cloaked and hooded, glinting with steel. Elara caught the movement of six more behind them, fanned out in a loose arc. A trap closing.

One of the soldiers raised a whistle to his mouth.

“I’ll take the right—” she began, blades already half-drawn, but Azriel cut her off.

“No. We winnow. Now.”

He reached for her hand without hesitation, the contact quick, practiced. His shadows surged again, preparing to fold the world. She felt the shift—the telltale lurch of air bending inward. But then a sharp, hissing whistle tore through the air.

The impact landed hard. Azriel grunted—deep and guttural—as the arrow struck. He staggered, one hand braced against the ruined wall. His shadows flickered. Then vanished entirely.

“Azriel—” Her voice barely rose before heat burst across her left shoulder, slicing through muscle with a bite of steel. She twisted, catching the glint of another blade as it withdrew. It wasn’t ordinary steel. The edge was slick with something thicker than blood—black and glistening like tar.

Her heart slammed once, hard, against her ribs. She knew that substance. Had smelled it before.

Poison. The kind not made by mortals.

Shit.

“Faebane,” Azriel snarled, the word scraping out from between his teeth. His siphons—normally gleaming with lethal, focused power—dimmed to a dull glow. She barely had time to pivot as a dagger flew past her cheek, close enough to graze skin. It thudded into the mud beside her.

Elara dropped low, instincts cutting through the drag of shock. One leg swept out in a clean arc, knocking her attacker’s knees out. Her dagger flashed once—then again—and warm blood spattered across her sleeve as the blade sank deep into his throat.

She didn’t hesitate. There wasn’t time.

Azriel was already on the next soldier, shadows rising and falling like something alive around him, but his movements were off, much slower than they would be normally. His right shoulder dipped too low as he struck. The blade found its mark, but the follow-through faltered. The faebane was working through his system already.

“You’re hurt—” she shouted, her voice too loud in the trees.

“I’ve fought through worse,” he growled, but his steps betrayed him.

He overcorrected. Slipped. A broad-shouldered male collided with him hard, driving them both backward. Azriel grunted as he hit the ground, breath heaving. His blade sank into the soil at his side. Elara didn’t think—she lunged, her momentum carrying her through the narrow gap between two trees. She slammed her dagger beneath the male’s ribs, twisting. He buckled, already dead by the time he hit the earth.

Azriel was on one knee, shadows flickering and collapsing around him. She reached for him, her hand gripping the back of his arm. Blood coated her fingers. His leathers were soaked—his side and thigh both torn open. Deep wounds, already darkening with the Faebane’s spread. It would only get worse. It would be in his bloodstream now.

“We run,” she said, no room for argument in her tone.

His eyes met hers, glassy but still defiant. “They’ll follow.”

“Let them.” She didn’t give him a chance to reply. She hauled him up, arm tight around his waist, anchoring him to her. He didn’t fight her.

They tore through the trees, branches clawing at their leathers, thorns dragging across skin. Mud sucked at their boots. Behind them—shouts. Barking orders. The metallic clatter of weapons. Footfalls. Too many. And too close.

They couldn’t winnow. They couldn’t fly.

Her wings were hidden, and Faebane already pulsed in her veins. She could not summon with her magic to get them out of there. And the poison coursing through her veins was making her sluggish and useless. Azriel was worse. He could barely keep upright, let alone carry them both through the air.

They were trapped on foot.

She chanced a glance at him. His jaw clenched, but his face was wrong—pale beneath the blood, the sheen of sweat on his brow catching in the moonlight.

“You’re not dying, Azriel,” she said between gasps, the words coming out hoarse. It wasn’t a command. More like a plea. Something she could anchor herself to.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he rasped, teeth bloodstained.

She didn’t smile. Couldn’t. There was no space left for that—not when the sounds behind them grew louder, not when every step he took slowed them down. She tightened her grip around his waist, dragging him faster. Her shirt was soaked with his blood. The stinging in her shoulder flared again. Still, she didn’t stop.

Azriel stumbled—caught himself on a tree trunk. “Find high ground,” he muttered. “Thinner forest. If we can outpace them—”

“Don’t talk,” she snapped, dragging his arm back over her shoulders. “Save it for Rhys.”

She didn’t know why she said it like that. Maybe because it hurt less than saying save it for me. But she felt it, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth at the use of her brother’s nickname from her lips. Almost a smile.

She didn’t let herself look again. Just kept running—into the trees, into the dark—and hoped to the Mother that something ahead would break their odds. Because if it didn’t, they wouldn’t make it out.

They kept moving until her lungs burned and the ground blurred beneath them. Until the shouts behind them faded into the trees. No more footfalls. No more clatter of steel. Only the hiss of wind dragging through the branches.

She paused—just for a breath—and then tried.

The magic sputtered. Nothing tore. There was no familiar rush of air, no sensation of being pulled sideways through the world. Just a dull ache—like reaching for something half-remembered in a dream. She grit her teeth. Tried again, clutching Azriel tighter, willing the world to split.

It didn’t.

The Faebane still pulsed through her. Burning, slow and cruel. The tether to her power was there, but unreachable—like something buried under ice. Beside her, Azriel swayed. His shadows stirred once—then fell limp, lifeless as smoke on water.

“Shit,” she muttered, grabbing his arm before he could drop again.

“We’re going to have to wait this out,” she said tightly. “We need to find shelter.”

“I can carry you—” Azriel’s voice was hoarse, thin with effort, but his hand twitched like he meant it.

“You can barely stand.” It came out sharper than she meant, but it was true. Her shoulder throbbed, her vision swam, but she could still move. Unlike the shadowsinger at her side.

He looked like death. He opened his mouth again. She didn’t let him finish—just leveled a glare at him and slung his arm over her uninjured shoulder. He didn’t argue this time. That scared her more than anything else.

They walked—half-stumbled—until she spotted it. A gnarled tree, roots twisted into the earth like bony fingers. Beneath them: a hollow, just large enough to crawl into. Low and shallow, but dry. And more importantly, concealed.

It would have to do.

She dragged him inside, easing him down onto the packed dirt. Her knees cracked as she sat back, chest heaving. Azriel’s face was pale—too pale—his breath shallow and quick.

She turned to her pack. Dug through it, fast and frantic.

But there was nothing in it. No field kit. No balm. No clean cloth. Just iron and steel and smoke-slick knives. She cursed softly. Of course. Munin hadn’t relied on salves or tidy bandages. You took what the land gave, or you died.

She pushed to her feet.

Azriel stirred. Lifted his head, blinking blearily. “Elara… where are you going—?”

“To fix you,” she said, already moving. Her voice left no room for argument. “Stay awake.”

Elara moved through the dark as quietly as her own injured state would allow, careful not to draw attention to herself.

The trees loomed overhead, branches clawing at her hair, but she ignored them. She dropped to her knees in the underbrush, eyes scanning for the familiar shapes she remembered from darker times.

Broadleaf plantain. Wild yarrow. The thick, sticky sap of acmella vine curling up a slick rock.

Her fingers found them by touch more than sight. She chewed the leaves into a coarse paste, not caring for the bitterness that spread through her mouth, nor the dry ache in her jaw. She spat out the fibers and worked quickly, the old instincts returning with grim ease. There were no pre-made poultices and sweet smelling salves. This was how she had survived the wilds—no healer but her own hands, her own teeth.

When she returned, Azriel hadn’t moved. He still lay where she’d left him, one arm crooked beneath his chest, his breathing shallow and uneven.

But his eyes were open, dull with pain but watching her. She didn’t waste time on reassurance. Just knelt beside him, pushed back the torn edge of his leathers again. The wounds had worsened in her absence, the flesh red and swollen, black veins threading out from the cuts like cracks in stone.

The Faebane was working deeper now, spreading under the skin in slow, poisonous veins. She steadied her hand despite the tightness in her throat and pressed the paste against the worst of the wounds.

Azriel flinched—just barely—but didn’t stop her. His skin was cold and clammy beneath her fingers, his muscles twitching when she cleaned the blood away. She ground her teeth and kept going.

Azriel rasped, “That doesn’t look sterile.”

Elara didn’t look up.

“You’ll live,” she said flatly, spitting the bitter mix into her palm. She could feel his gaze as she smeared it carefully across the deepest wound. The paste clung like wet ash. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move.

There was no clean cloth to dress it. Nothing to bind the injury properly.

Her fingers hovered a moment too long before she made the decision, slipping a hand beneath the strap of her leathers. The buckles came loose, her armor falling away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the thin tunic clinging to her skin.

She dug the tip of her knife into the seam. The fabric hissed as it tore, the blade slicing clean through to the curve of her ribs.

She felt Azriel look. Just a flicker—but it was there. The slight shift of his eyes, the flick of them down, then away. She saw it, even in the near-dark. The quiet catch in his breath. The way his throat bobbed. She ignored it. Ignored the thoughts that tried to surface.

He was in pain. He was holding on. That was all.

With hands steadier than she felt, she tore two long strips from the ruined tunic and pressed them hard against the worst of the wounds. Her fingers stayed longer than they should’ve—whether to stop the bleeding or because she didn’t want to stop touching him, she didn’t let herself ask.

When she finally leaned back, her hands were slick with drying blood, her mouth still coated in the bitter tang of yarrow and iron. The dirt under her nails itched. Azriel hadn’t moved. He lay half-propped on one elbow, eyes locked on her, dark and alert.

Too alert for someone bleeding out in a cave.

She shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of his stare. Something about it wasn’t just assessment—it was too still, too focused. Like he was trying to puzzle her out. She didn’t know what thoughts flickered behind those eyes, but she was certain she didn’t want to hear them.

“You didn’t have to do all that.” Azriel’s voice was low, strained—barely above a whisper.

She didn’t answer. Just tore the last strip of cloth from what remained of her tunic, letting his words hang between them. She ignored the way his gaze followed the cut of her stomach, the bruises forming just beneath her ribs. Instead, she wound the fabric tight around the final gash, pulled the knot a little harder than necessary. He didn’t flinch.

“Thank you,” he said after a pause, quieter this time. Like it wasn’t something he was used to offering. She knew what that felt like, always having to rely on oneself. The ache of always doing everything alone. Even now, she hadn’t quite adjusted to someone always being near—the shadowsinger or her brother. 

Her hands remained on his abdomen, fingers pressing lightly against his skin. She could feel the heat of him—too hot. No doubt a fever was already building. But he was steady. Still breathing.

“Someone had to do it,” she muttered, not meeting his eyes.

His hand lifted, found hers where it had stilled. Rough fingers brushed over her knuckles, curled gently around them. “I mean it, Elara.”

That was what made her look up. The sound of her name in his voice—quiet, sure. His mouth was bruised, his jaw set against the pain, but his eyes… they were soft. Still as intense as ever, but touched with something else. Something warmer.

She pulled her hand back, and sat up straighter.

“I’ll keep watch,” she said, the words sharper than she intended.

“You shouldn’t—” His tone had shifted again.

“Sleep, Shadowsinger.” Her glare made it clear: she wasn’t asking.

He watched her a moment longer. Then gave the faintest nod and eased down against the dirt-packed roots. His eyes closed slowly. Not fully at peace—but enough. His breathing evened out.

He didn’t relax. Not completely. But he slept.

Elara stared out into the dying light, eyes fixed on the trees beyond the twisted roots. The shadows lengthened slowly, stretching over the clearing like fingers. She’d never done this before—watched over someone like this.

She didn’t know what to make of the weight it settled in her chest, only that when Azriel had gone down, when she’d seen the blood, heard that sound—she’d moved. There had been no hesitation. She couldn’t let him die.

She didn’t deserve his kindness. Not after everything she’d done. Not after the shape her life had taken, bent and broken and reforged by hands that hadn’t been her own.

But still, she found herself crouched beside him. Watching. Listening. Feeding the fire just enough to keep it breathing without drawing attention. Every few minutes, she checked his chest. The steady rise and fall. The way his mouth occasionally twitched with dreams or pain. Her hand hovered once over his brow before she pulled it back.

She lost track of time—minutes bleeding into hours, the forest wrapping its silence around her. There was the occasional caw of a bird, or the shift of an animal. But there had been nothing out of the ordinary. She and the shadowsinger were safe.

And then it changed. The air shifted. A prickling at the nape of her neck. The trees no longer still. The wind had quieted. Animals, too. The rhythm of it was too steady, too cautious. Someone was moving through the underbrush.

Her body responded before her thoughts did. She rose without a sound, years of training snapping into place as she moved. Silent steps, no wasted motion. She didn’t wake Azriel. Just reached for the fire and smeared a handful of dirt across the embers, muting the faint glow in an instant. The clearing darkened. Cold settled in.

She didn’t look back at him. She couldn’t afford to.

The sound moved east—paced like someone was trying to be careful, trying not to be heard. But not well enough.

Elara slipped through the bramble in silence. Her boots kissed the earth without a whisper. Every shift of muscle, every turn of her wrist, followed a rhythm learned long ago. The branches clawed at her arms, catching in her hair, but she didn’t flinch. Her pulse slowed instead of rising. Her breath came shallow. She followed the sound with a predator’s patience, weaving through twisted roots and thorn-heavy underbrush that thickened the deeper she went.

Then she saw him.

A lone scout. Lean and human, maybe twenty years old—his armor was worn, mismatched, dusted with travel and sweat.

A bow slung over his shoulder. Sword resting at his hip. He didn’t look like much. He turned at the last second, head jerking up at the faint crunch of bark beneath her heel.

Their eyes met.

His mouth opened—whether to shout or to beg, she didn’t know. Didn’t care. Her blade was already out by the time he reached for his hilt.

She lunged, boots skidding across the moss. Their weapons met in a violent clang. Sparks danced in the dark. He stumbled back, wide-eyed, and swung—too fast, too high. And much to sloppy for going up against a fae.

She dropped low. Her blade arced up, slicing a deep line across his thigh. He screamed—a ragged, panicked sound that cut through the quiet.

Before it could carry, she slammed into him. Her hand clapped hard over his mouth. They tumbled together, his back cracking against a tree trunk thick with ivy. Thorns scraped her knuckles as she wrestled the blade from his grip. He grunted, snarled into her hand. Fought like a wild animal. His elbow caught her ribs—hard. A bolt of pain snapped through her side, so sharp it made her vision tilt. Her body sagged against him before she forced herself upright again.

He swung again—this time with the hilt. It caught her across the same bruised spot. She staggered. Her heel slipped on wet leaves. But she didn’t go down.

He kept striking, hard and desperate. She let him. Dodged when she could, stepped aside when she couldn’t. The pain from her previous injury burned, her movements still sluggish. But the human was still nothing compared to her. His arm was flagging already. His shoulders tight with exhaustion. Each breath came louder than the last.

She waited until he dropped his guard—just for a second.

Then she drove her blade in, just beneath his ribs. Right up into the soft place above his hipbone.

He gasped and choked.  His body jerked, then sagged. She held on as he slid down the trunk, the breath rattling out of him in a final, stunned exhale. He stared at her like he didn’t understand what had happened. Like his body had already left but his mind hadn’t caught up.

And then he stopped moving.

Elara stood over him, her own chest rising and falling like she’d just run miles. Blood seeped from the deep gash in his side, pooling around his waist and soaking into the soil. Her blade dripped with it. The remnants of her torn tunic were slick. She could feel it clinging to her side where his elbow had landed, the bruise already darkening.

The world narrowed.

It was quiet. As if the forest itself recoiled.

She had killed before. Many times. Earlier that day, even. But those had been enemies. Armed, dangerous, fae bred for war. This was different. This had been a scout. Human and alone.

He hadn’t even landed a killing blow.

Her hand trembled at her side.

She stared at his body. At the angle of his limbs, the way the blood soaked through the grass beneath him, the way his mouth hung open like he still meant to say something. Her throat closed up. The weight in her chest expanded, pressing against her lungs, her ribs. Her breaths shortened. Shallower. It felt like the forest was collapsing inward. Like the trees were leaning in to judge her.

She could have spared him. Could have knocked him out. Could have taken the risk. And she hadn’t.

She didn’t move.

Her heart thundered, too fast. Her head spun. Her skin prickled with sweat, and the air felt too thin—like she couldn’t get enough of it, no matter how hard she breathed. The edge of her vision shimmered. Tightened.

A monster. That’s what they had called her. What she’d been made to be. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. Still, she didn’t look away.

She stayed like that for too long, frozen in a place between regret and instinct. Then something cut through the fog—quiet, but clear. A snap of thought.

Azriel.

Still injured. Still vulnerable. Lying beneath the roots of that ancient tree, in the dark, trusting her to keep him safe. If the scout had screamed loud enough—if he had been followed—

She turned. Her body jolted into motion like something had broken loose. She didn’t spare the body another glance. Just ran, slipping through the trees, blood still wet on her hands.

Azriel had apparently woken before she reached the clearing.

She slowed her steps. Her boots moved silent through the brush, the edges of her cloak damp from dew. There was still no sign of his shadows—no soft curl of warning, no whisper of magic reaching for her. The faebane hadn’t burned off yet. He hadn’t sensed her coming.

By the time she knelt beside the fire pit, he was already half upright, bracing his weight on one elbow. His face was pale beneath the dirt and blood, but his eyes tracked her movement with sluggish precision. Still aware. Still fighting.

“Elara?” he rasped.

She didn’t answer at first. Just dug her fingers into the loose earth beside the fire ring, cold grit pressing into her palms. Her mouth still tasted like blood. Her ears still rang. She didn’t think her hands had stopped shaking.

“There was a scout,” she said. The words left her too evenly. “He’s dead.”

Azriel pushed himself higher. Too fast. His breath caught on a grunt as his torso locked up, and he nearly collapsed again. She didn’t flinch. Just turned her head, sharp and slow, and sent him a look that should have pinned him back in place.

He ignored it. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

Only then did she glance down. A line of red streaked her bicep. Shallow.

Probably from the first blow, or the bramble before she struck. She hadn’t noticed it. It didn’t matter.

“It’s nothing,” she said.

He reached for her anyway, quietly and carefully. Like approaching something wild and wary. His fingers grazed her wrist, then steadied higher on her arm.

“Elara.” His voice was softer now, barely audible. “Are you all right?”

A laugh clawed up her throat. Sharp and bitter. She pressed her tongue against her teeth and forced it back down. “Yes,” she said.

He didn’t move. Just watched her. Not like a male who was injured and half-drugged, but like a spy. Trained. Focused. She hated that. His eyes tracked too much. The slight tremble in her hand when she reached to adjust the bandages at his ribs. The way her breathing kept missing its rhythm. The tension in her jaw. Her shoulders.

Azriel’s grip tightened just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep her here. To keep her from slipping back into that moment in the dark—the scout’s scream, the way he’d gasped after the blade went in, the way she’d stood there, frozen, counting the seconds it took him to die.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

He didn’t release her. His thumb traced a slow arc along her arm. She hated how warm he was. How steady. As if he could sense the knot in her chest and meant to keep it from pulling tighter.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she muttered, looking away. Her voice barely carried.

Azriel’s mouth twitched, something caught between a frown and the faintest edge of remorse. “Didn’t mean to let you handle it alone.”

The words rasped out low, rough from pain or guilt—she couldn’t tell which.

Elara scoffed under her breath and tried to pull away. She didn’t want his sympathy. Didn’t want that softness in his voice, not when her own hands still smelled like blood. But he didn’t let go. His fingers shifted, trailing upward until his palm settled over her uninjured shoulder. He wasn’t restraining her. Wasn’t guiding her. Just… steadying.

His thumb pressed lightly into the leather just above her collarbone, a quiet insistence that he saw her—really saw her—and didn’t plan to look away.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Something inside her spine locked tight, the sharp clench of breath she couldn’t quite get past. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, shallow and fast. Her skin went too warm beneath his hand, heat prickling across her neck.

And still, she could see him. The scout. The human boy. His face pale in the shadows, his mouth parted as if to speak. She hadn’t closed his eyes. Hadn’t stayed long enough to try. And now, even with Azriel so close, all she could see was the body cooling in the leaves.

That final gasp. That look.

She dragged her gaze to Azriel and then away, unable to hold it. Past him, into the trees. Toward the darkness curling at the edges of the clearing.

“You did what you had to,” he said after a long silence. There was no weight behind the words. No pity either. Just that stillness he carried.

She pulled back before her own face gave anything away. Not quite a retreat, but it felt like one. His hand dropped without protest. She didn’t look at him when she said, “I’ll keep watch.”

Azriel pushed himself upright, one arm braced against the ground as his body protested the movement. His brow furrowed, that familiar shadow of command behind his eyes even without the magic that usually came with it. “You shouldn’t—”

“Sleep, Shadowsinger.”

The words snapped out before she could soften them, cold and controlled. She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but there it was.

His jaw worked once, a faint grind of teeth behind that unreadable look, but he didn’t argue again. He didn’t listen to her, either. Just watched her. His normally hazel eyes were dark, steady in the moonlight, and gave away nothing she could name.

She turned from him before he could see what was clawing its way up her throat. Her blade settled across her knees, the weight of it familiar, grounding—but not enough. She kept her gaze on the trees, eyes tracing every line of bark, every shifting branch. Her hands still smelled of blood. The raw iron taste still coated her tongue, stubborn as guilt.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the trees wavered at the edges, blurred not by fatigue but by the tight pull in her chest. Something sharp lodged beneath her ribs, a knot that wouldn’t unravel no matter how deeply she breathed.

Behind her, there was a sound. Fabric brushing skin. She didn’t look at the shadowsinger as she said, “I told you—”

“I heard you,” came Azriel’s voice, low and calm, but not dismissive. He hadn’t laid back down. She could hear it in the angle of his breathing—closer now, more upright. A pause stretched between them, full of unsaid things. She kept her eyes forward, locked on the silvered edge of the forest.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” she muttered, the words brittle, clipped. “You might as well.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

She curled her fingers tighter around the hilt of her blade. Her knuckles whitened with the force of it, her arms locked and too still. The forest was quiet—too quiet. But there was no movement in it, no threat. Elara had taken care of that. But her thoughts didn’t stop. They came faster now, jagged and relentless.

The scout’s eyes when he realized she wouldn’t show mercy. That ragged gasp as his lungs failed. The wet crack when her blade found bone. She’d felt his ribs collapse under the weight of her strike.

Then—soft. A brush of warmth, feather-light against the outside of her arm. His hand rested there, a whisper of pressure. Not enough to demand anything from her. But enough to say he hadn’t turned away.

“I killed him,” she said at last, the words rough as gravel. They scraped out of her like something dragged loose. Her eyes stayed locked on the trees, watching the slow sway of branches she wasn’t really seeing. “He was afraid.”

Her throat constricted. Her eyes stayed on the trees, but her shoulders tensed against the urge to flinch—or lean in. She hated how warm his touch was. Hated that it didn’t scare her, that it didn’t make her recoil. Her heartbeat drummed too loud in her ears, a steady, traitorous rhythm.

Azriel didn’t flinch. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Even. “You saved us. He would’ve told them where to find us.”

Her muscles were trembling now, barely enough to see, but she felt every tremor. Locked her jaw against it. Fought to keep her breathing even. She didn’t dare blink again. Didn’t trust what might happen if she did.

She drew in a slow breath, but it didn’t settle anything in her chest. The knot remained, sharper now. She wet her lips, tasting iron again. “I didn’t feel anything,” she added, barely above a whisper. “I should have.”

Then he shifted, just slightly, and the edge of his knee bumped hers. Intentional. Not forceful—just contact. A reminder. A line of heat arced up her thigh, small and infuriatingly steady. He still didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full—like breath held too long. She could sense him beside her, the weight of his presence steady and watchful. Then, finally, his voice came, softer than before. “You felt something.” Certain. Not a question. “You feel it now.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Her shoulders locked as the knot in her chest coiled tighter. Her jaw clenched, her pulse a cold, rhythmic drum beneath her skin. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Not like this. Not with her hands shaking and blood still on her palms. She closed her eyes instead. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel how loud her thoughts were.

And then—his fingers slid lower. From the curve of her elbow, down her forearm, until they found her wrist. A brush of contact. Barely there. But it was enough. There was no pressure, no pull. Just the weight of him—light, grounding. Anchoring her to something she didn’t trust, but needed.

Her throat worked. She didn’t speak. Didn’t thank him. Couldn’t.

He didn’t let go.

And Mother help her, she didn’t move away.

Notes:

Elara one moment: "I don't want to kill."

Elara, after it puts Azriel in danger: "I guess if I have to."

Chapter 64

Elara woke slowly.

The forest was hushed, cloaked in that eerie soft stillness that came just before dawn. Thin streaks of pale grey light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows over the underbrush. Mist curled low to the ground, coiling around fallen leaves and moss-slicked roots. The fire had long since burned down to ash, its glow nothing more than a faint smudge of heat beneath a scatter of blackened stone. Smoke no longer rose. The air was cool, heavy with dew. She didn’t move at first. Her limbs ached, stiff with sleep and the lingering effects of the faebane still burning its way out of her system. Her thoughts were slow to catch up, dulled and thick, like her mind had been dipped in wax.

Then she registered it—warmth. Not one just from the firepit. Something else was pressed against her side, solid and steady.

Her breath caught.

A heartbeat thrummed beneath her ear. One that was not her own.

Her body went rigid.

Her cheek was resting on Azriel’s chest.

The realization hit her all at once, like a slap to the face. One of his arms had been slung around her in sleep, elbow bent, hand curled at her hip. Not possessive—just there, as though it had ended up that way by accident, with no conscious thought behind it. Their legs had tangled in the night, her boot half-brushed against his calf, his thigh pressed lightly to hers. His leathers were warm beneath her, molded to the shape of him. And his heart—Mother above, his heart beat slow and even, just under her skin. Just beneath her mouth.

She closed her eyes again. Not in peace, not in savoring the moment. Just long enough to curse herself.

She’d meant to stay awake. To keep watch like she’d said she would, like they had needed her to. Her memories from the hours before were sharp and vivid—the way she’d sat cross-legged by the fire, her blade across her lap, her eyes on the trees. She remembered every beat of tension still coiled in her body, the taste of blood on her tongue, the scent of pine and ash. But somewhere between one breath and the next, exhaustion had pulled her under. And it wasn’t just physical. The remnants of the faebane still clung to her bones, muddying her senses, weighing her down like iron shackles. And this was the result. Curled beside him like a child seeking warmth. No—worse. Like she’d needed him.

Her jaw clenched.

She shifted slightly, willing her body to move before he noticed. Maybe—maybe he was still asleep. Maybe she could untangle herself before—

There was a subtle shift beneath her. The faintest movement of muscle under leather. She froze.

Then, softly, hoarsely, his voice rumbled beneath her cheek. “You’re awake.”

Elara felt her cheeks heat but didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t bring herself to look in his eyes, “I was supposed to be watching the perimeter.”

Her voice came out low, stiff with shame. The words clung to her tongue like smoke. She hated how small they sounded.

“You were poisoned,” Azriel said simply. “And exhausted. I didn’t expect you to stay awake.”

She exhaled through her nose and slowly pushed herself upright. Her muscles groaned in protest, tight from the cold and the awkward position she’d slept in—if it even counted as sleep. Her joints cracked as she shifted her weight off the hard ground. She winced. No wonder her shoulder ached. No wonder her neck was a knot of pain. Her hand went to brush the damp leaves and pine needles from her leathers, fingers picking them off one by one as a poor excuse to keep her eyes elsewhere.

“You were injured, too,” she muttered. The words landed heavier than she meant them to—blunter, almost sulking. Like a child trying to prove a point. Her mouth tightened.

If only Dagdan could see his weapon now. His Munin. Grumbling like she cared.

But Azriel didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he simply didn’t care. He hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. Still sitting, still braced on one hand, the other resting near the print she’d left in the dirt. He looked rough. Pale beneath the faint morning light, his jaw locked and expression unreadable. The faint shadows under his eyes hadn’t gone. His wings were half-draped behind him, pulled in close. Defensive and protective. Had they been curled around the both of them all night?

His shadows curled across the pine-strewn earth in slow, restless spirals, moving even now as if they hadn’t stopped once during the night. She watched them shift and coil. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Azriel gave the faintest shrug, only one shoulder rising. “Didn’t need to.”

She glanced at him then. Finally let her eyes drift across the lines of his body—the way he sat, the subtle tremor beneath the way his chest rose a touch too fast. His hand still rested near the spot where she’d been curled against him, fingers splayed in the dirt like he hadn’t quite noticed she’d moved. His breathing was steadier now, but the pallor of his skin and the sluggish way his shadows moved told her everything she needed to know.

The faebane was still in his system.

It hadn’t cleared. Not fully. She could see it in the way he held himself—a little too still, a little too careful. Not like a male who didn’t need sleep, but like one who had refused to take it.

Elara cleared her throat, the sound loud in the quiet morning. She flexed her fingers, drawing on that familiar hum beneath her skin. Sluggish, but steady. Her magic answered, slow to wake but there.

“I can winnow us back,” she said.

Azriel didn’t react—not immediately—but his gaze flicked toward her hands. She stretched them in her lap, testing her grip, the current of power still muted in her blood. The worst of the poison had loosened its hold during the night. Her magic was slow to move as she called to it—but it would be enough.

She wasn’t the one who’d taken the brunt of it.

Azriel gave a faint nod. “Good.”

He rose slowly, as if every movement was weighed first. His balance shifted with care, no sound escaping him—not even a hiss. But she saw it. The tightening at the corners of his mouth, the hard clench of his jaw when his weight settled on the injured leg. His wings shifted behind him, one dragging slightly before tucking in.

She moved before she could think better of it, stepping in to steady him with a hand braced on his arm. The tension under her fingers was immediate, the kind that ran deep—muscle knotted, spine straight, jaw set too tightly to be casual. He didn’t pull away, didn’t comment, though his silence had a texture to it.

“You should let me carry you,” she said, low enough that the wind might’ve stolen the words if it hadn’t been so still.

He didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t bother pretending outrage. Just gave her a look—dry and cool, his mouth barely twitching. “Absolutely not.”

The corner of her own mouth tugged upward—barely. At the thought of her actually trying to carry the Illyrian to safety. But it was gone before it could become anything real. “Then don’t fight me when I hold on.”

Still, he didn’t argue. His pride might’ve made a show of it with someone else. With her, he simply nodded once, and let her step in. Her arms slid carefully around his waist, mindful of the bruising she couldn’t see beneath the leathers. He was warm beneath the layers—too warm—and solid in the way only someone made of quiet violence could be.

For a breath, his body stayed stiff. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned. Not fully, but enough that she felt the weight shift into her. One of his hands came to rest on her shoulder, light but grounding. The other hovered at her side, steady but not intrusive. She could feel the heat of his palm through her leathers, could sense how careful he was being. As if she were the one about to shatter.

She didn’t speak. The moment felt too heavy, too close. Her throat had gone dry anyway. With a sharp inhale, she closed her eyes and reached for that thin seam between worlds.

The cold snapped around them the second they emerged on the mountain.

Stone and sky stretched out before them, the House of Wind carved into the cliffside like a fortress grown from the bones of the world. The wind rolled in sharp from the peaks, brushing over her face with a clean bite, and she felt it ground her more firmly than the forest ever had. Azriel was still close, one arm looped over her shoulders—not heavy, but present, as if the act of standing had taken more from him than he wanted her to see.

She stepped back without a word, letting go of his waist the moment his boots hit solid ground. He swayed—just for a second. Just enough that she almost reached for him again. But then his spine straightened, shoulders pulled back. A soft grunt escaped him, forced through gritted teeth like the sound alone betrayed more than he wanted it to.

That brief unsteadiness was gone as quickly as it had appeared, masked beneath armor she now knew ran deeper than what he wore.

Rhys was already waiting at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest, the long line of his body tense with quiet expectation. His expression betrayed nothing—not anger, not concern, just that unreadable calm he wore when things were not, in fact, calm at all. Cassian stood just behind him in the archway, shoulder braced against the stone, wings folded close. The moment they appeared in the mountain’s cool air, both males shifted, as if some invisible current had jolted them alert.

Cassian’s eyes landed on Azriel first, then flicked to her. His gaze traveled down the length of Elara’s frame—her battered leathers, the bruise blooming along her jaw, the blood dried along the cuff of her sleeve. It stopped at her fingers, which she couldn’t quite still, no matter how tightly she curled them. His tone was light, but it didn’t quite cover the change in his stance.

“Well,” he said, pushing off the wall with an easy motion that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a day late.”

He tried for levity, but the effort fell flat. His voice softened, gaze sharpening as it lingered on her face. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Elara said, the words clipped, her spine drawn straight.

Rhys’s attention cut to Azriel, but it returned to her just as fast, his expression hardening. “What happened.” There was no rise in his tone, no edge, but it left no room for interpretation. He wasn’t asking.

Azriel answered before she could. “We were spotted. Five of them.”

Elara stepped forward before Rhys could respond, forcing her voice into steadiness. “And they had faebane. I wasn’t hit badly. Your shadowsinger took most of it.”

Rhys’s jaw ticked once. His gaze remained on Azriel. “How long were you exposed?”

Azriel didn’t look away.

“Long enough,” he muttered, though the exhaustion threading beneath the words gave more than he intended. “But it’s out of her system now. We made camp for the night.”

Elara wanted to point out to Azriel that her brother most likely meant how long he was exposed to the poison, but she bit her tongue.

Cassian stepped forward, a deep line forming between his brows. “You’re still pale,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Az, you—”

“I’m fine.” The response came too quickly, too sharp. It was meant to end the conversation, but it didn’t.

“You’re not,” Rhys said, and his voice no longer held that High Lord veneer. It was cold. Direct. “You’re favoring your side. How bad is it?”

Azriel’s mouth pulled tight. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Took a blade under the ribs. Nothing deep.”

 “Madja’s coming up,” Rhys said.

“I don’t need—” Azriel started, the protest low.

“You’ll let her look at it,” Rhys interrupted. His voice didn’t rise, but the finality in it rang louder than a shout. “That’s not a request.”

Azriel said nothing else, but his silence felt heavier than the words had. Elara kept her face blank, though her stomach had gone tight again. She glanced at Azriel, catching the stiffness in his stance, the way his fingers had curled slightly at his side. He wasn’t arguing. But he wasn’t agreeing either.

Elara remained where she was, watching the exchange with a kind of quiet, unexpected fascination. She had seen Rhys speak as a High Lord before—heard the steel in his voice when he gave command. But this was the first time she had truly seen him like this since returning to Velaris, the first time watching him slip so easily into the role that it was hard to tell where the male ended and the mantle began.

There was nothing soft in his posture now. No brotherly warmth or awkward attempts at bridging the years between them. Just the thin line of his mouth, the barely veiled temper banked beneath his tone, and the quiet authority that made Azriel, shadows and all, fall silent.

He wasn’t asking. He wasn’t pleading. Rhys had given an order, and Azriel had obeyed it.

High Lord.

But even as she thought it, she caught something else beneath the surface. The tension wasn’t born of irritation alone. It was thinner than that—more brittle. Rhys’s words may have been sharp, but the worry was still there. He had been worried sick. She saw it now, too clearly to ignore.

The realization jarred her more than it should have.

For the briefest moment, before she could stop herself, she’d imagined what it might feel like to belong in that worry. To be one of the people Rhysand watched over.

The thought startled her. And it stayed.

Her pulse stuttered, just once. She blinked, trying to shake it, but the weight of it lingered in her chest. For a heartbeat, she had counted herself as part of his court. She was fairly certain, technically, she still was. The magic that thrummed in her bones—the same magic that tethered her to these mountains and skies—had never truly broken. She had never renounced the Night Court. Had never spoken the words aloud. But could she really call this place home? Could she ever?

She didn’t have the answer.

Azriel, who had been standing silently beneath Rhys’s stare, exhaled once through his nose. The sound was faint, more a shift in the air than anything else. Then, flat and reluctant: “Fine.”

Rhys gave no satisfaction, no softening of his stance. “I’ll expect a full report tomorrow,” he said, still all steel. “After you’ve rested. Both of you.”

Elara gave a faint nod, muscles protesting the motion. Her legs ached from standing still, from battle, from the stiffness of half-sleep on forest ground. Her skin still hummed with the last shreds of adrenaline, but she forced herself not to lean. Not to show it. Cassian’s gaze flicked to her again—another quick sweep, checking for injuries she hadn’t mentioned. She didn’t meet his eyes.

Cassian stepped in beside Azriel, one hand already gesturing toward the hall behind them. “Come on,” he said, voice gentler than before. “Let’s get you cleaned up before Madja gets here and starts lecturing us all.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He turned without a word and began walking, each step deliberate. There was no outward sign of pain, but Elara could see the cost in the tight set of his shoulders, the slight drag of one wing. Cassian didn’t crowd him, but he kept close—half-turned, ready to intervene if Azriel so much as stumbled. Elara hadn’t expected the movement. She certainly hadn’t expected what came next.

At the threshold, Azriel paused. He looked back at her, scanning her face like he wasn’t sure he trusted what he saw. “Are you good?”

The words were quiet—nothing like the orders that had passed between him and Rhys—but they landed differently. Elara met his gaze, trying not to think too much about the concern in his voice.

She gave a small, steady nod, hoping it would be enough.

Azriel hesitated. Then he turned away and disappeared down the hall, Cassian falling into step beside him.

Rhys didn’t speak at first. The wind that coiled through the balcony arch was sharp with altitude and pine, cool against the bruises Elara had yet to acknowledge.  The door behind them clicked softly as it shut, muffling the echo of Cassian and Azriel’s retreating steps. Then—nothing.

Elara didn’t shift. Her arms hung loose at her sides, her spine held straight by will alone. She wasn’t sure what to brace for. But Rhys didn’t look at her like he was going to reprimand hr. He just watched her from across the balcony, his face unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes held something quieter than she remembered.

A breath passed before he spoke, voice even and almost offhand. “Would it be weird if I said I was worried about you?”

The words didn’t match the expression she’d prepared for. Elara blinked once, caught off guard. Her lips curved slightly, “Yes. Very.”

A flicker of a smile pulled at his mouth, brief and worn at the edges, as if he hadn’t meant to let it surface. It vanished quickly. His gaze drifted, just for a moment, to the mark at her temple—the faint scrape that still crusted at the edges, ugly against her skin—and then back to her eyes.

“Thought so,” he said. There was no apology in his voice, no pretense.

“And you still want to say it anyway,” she murmured.

Rhys didn’t argue. He only shifted his weight, leaning back against the stone table behind him, arms folding across his chest in that practiced, casual way that never quite masked the sharpness beneath. “I know what you’re capable of,” he said. “You’ve survived worse than this. I know that.” His gaze didn’t waver, but there was a subtle change in his voice—something that pulled quieter, rougher, just beneath the surface. “But when I realized you hadn’t returned… it felt too much like before. Like losing you all over again.”

The words caught somewhere behind her ribs. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. That it wasn’t some grand speech. That it wasn’t meant to be heavy. It was just meant to be honest.

Her fingers curled slightly, brushing against the worn leathers. She didn’t look away. Didn’t make a joke to cut the moment apart.

“It wasn’t supposed to go wrong,” she said, and her voice came out lower than she meant, steadier than she felt.

Rhys pushed off the table with the ease of someone who didn’t need to speak again—but chose to anyway. He crossed the space between them, each step measured. When he stopped, he didn’t reach for her. Just stood there. Close enough for her to catch the faint scent of citrus and jasmine that clung to his jacket.

“I’m not going to hover,” he said after a beat, his voice low but steady. “I just needed you to know... I’m glad you’re back.”

The words hung in the air between them, soft but certain. Elara didn’t answer at first. She only exhaled, slow and steady, letting the weight of the moment settle into her chest. It didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like space being made.

She stayed still, arms crossed again, the bruises along her forearm beginning to ache with the stiffness of exertion. But she didn’t shift. Rhys lingered for a breath more, then moved past her, his footsteps soft against the stone.

He paused again.

“I have something for you,” he said.

The words caught her off guard. She glanced over her shoulder, brow tightening slightly. He hadn’t moved far—only enough to give her space—and now he was holding out his hand. A flicker of power moved through the air, so faint it barely stirred the space between them. Then, from his palm, a small object shimmered into existence.

A bracelet.

Leather, darkened with age, its edges worn smooth. The band was etched in the style that was somehow familiar to her—simple, delicate markings carved by a careful hand. Elara didn’t have to touch it to know what it was.

She reached out slowly, fingers brushing against the familiar leather. The texture was the same. That particular, soft resistance of something well-used, well-loved. The moment her hand closed around it, memory surged—unbidden and unrelenting.

Solstice. Conn had given it to her on Solstice.

She’d laughed when she’d unwrapped it—not mocking, but surprised. She had gotten him leather cuffs that same year, nearly identical in their simplicity. She’d thought it was a coincidence. Smiled at the timing. Teased him for having similar taste.

She hadn’t known then. Hadn’t understood that it hadn’t been coincidence at all.

It was only later—after too many nights lying awake, after the quiet shift in how she’d started looking at him—that she realized what it had meant. What he had meant. The gift had not been a gesture. It had been a beginning. And she hadn’t seen it.

That if she had recognized it sooner, she would have had more time with him.

Her hand tightened around the bracelet now, pressing it into her palm like it could anchor her to this moment. The air around her felt thinner.

“I was thinking about what you said,” Rhys said softly, the edge of formality stripped from his voice. “About Conn. How much you cared for him.”

She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Her fingers curled tighter around the leather, as if by holding it she could fold time back on itself and stop that last goodbye from ever coming.

“I remembered we had this,” Rhys said, and the pause between his words was heavier than before. “It was with the… with the body we thought was yours.”

The air shifted, as if the weight of that memory still lingered between them. He didn’t look at her when he spoke next.

“That’s why we thought you were dead. We didn’t know.”

Elara didn’t lift her gaze. The bracelet rested in her hands. The leather was warm now from her skin, soft at the edges where the carvings had faded. Conn’s work. Conn’s hands. The thought struck her low, hit somewhere beneath the bone, sharp and quiet.

“I forgot about him,” she said. The words slipped out before she’d thought them through, quiet and unguarded. “There were whole centuries when I didn’t even know he’d existed. And when I do remember now, it’s in pieces.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying just to breathe through the feelings that were rising in her. “It feels disloyal. Like I let go of him.”

Rhys didn’t speak right away. The silence didn’t bite, didn’t press—just settled. And when he did answer, his voice was steady but softer than she remembered it ever being. “You didn’t let go. Someone took it from you.”

Her fingers twitched. The bracelet shifted in her palm.

She still didn’t look at him. Couldn’t, not yet. The pressure behind her ribs hadn’t eased, but something in it cracked—not from pain, but release. She didn’t know what to call that feeling. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“If Conn knew,” Rhys said after a moment, his tone careful, but sure, “he’d never blame you. For any of it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

Elara slid the bracelet onto her wrist. Her fingers moved slowly, as if afraid the leather might vanish before she could finish. It fit the way it always had, snug just above the narrowest point of her wrist. Her pulse beat steady beneath it—racing, yes, but not from fear. It was like something had settled into place that had been missing for far too long.

Elara didn’t speak. Her fingers brushed over the etched lines of the bracelet, feeling the grooves worn by time and touch, the soft weathering of leather that had once been wrapped in Conn’s hands. The firelight spilled over it in gentle flickers, catching the marks just so—glinting along the delicate swirls that mimicked the shapes of trees in winter, the curling vines of the Southern woods.

She hadn’t planned to say anything more. But the words slipped out before she could stop them, quiet and low. “Is Fiona still in Velaris?”

Rhys looked up. It was small—the shift in his expression—but not lost on her. A soft flicker beneath the surface, something almost like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“She is.”

Elara gave a single nod, her gaze fixed on the bracelet though her chest had grown too tight to draw a full breath. The feeling had nothing to do with the lingering traces of faebane. “I know I can’t go anywhere alone,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “But… would it be alright, eventually, if I visited her?”

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to. Not until the answer had been said aloud, not when she might read it in his face before he spoke it.

He hesitated. Only for a heartbeat. But it was enough to hollow her chest, enough to slow her breath. She could feel the old cold again, seeping down her spine, that quiet tightening that always came before retreat. She began to nod, already preparing to take the words back.

“It’s fine,” she murmured. “I just thought—”

“I’ll make the arrangements.”

She blinked. Her eyes lifted slowly.

“I’ll speak with her. We’ll figure out a time. Soon,” Rhys said, and this time there was no falter, no pause. Just quiet certainty. “You won’t go alone, obviously, but… you should see her.”

Elara didn’t answer right away. Her hand settled lightly against her wrist, over the leather. The weight of the bracelet grounded her. Not a tether—but something like it. Her shoulders eased, just a breath, not quite enough to be called peace. But the edge had dulled. And that was something.

“Thank you,” she said, the words small but not empty.

Across from her, Rhys drew back a step. His posture, still lined with the remnants of command, loosened. His eyes drifted again to her wrist. To the bracelet. To the ghost of a male neither of them could speak about too long without risking the fragile hold they each had on their composure.

He didn’t say anything else. And neither did she.

Chapter 65

Notes:

Hi guys! I'm sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I got sick last weekend, and I just didn't write and it just got to a point where I couldn't bring myself to lift my head and look at my computer. But I'm back! And thank you to everyone who reached out!

The cobbled courtyard was still when they landed, save for the whisper of wings folding behind them and the faint rustle of garden leaves stirred by the breeze. No guards at the ready. No onlookers. Just quiet, curated stillness—likely arranged by design.

Azriel landed first, his boots striking the stones with familiar control. Elara touched down beside him a beat later, breath steady, limbs aching. The flight from the House of Wind had been uneventful, but long enough to make her sore. Still, it wasn’t fatigue that made her slow to move.

She turned slightly, catching one last glimpse of the view behind them—the rooftops of Velaris descending toward the Sidra in a cascade of color and stone. Pale sunlight stretched over the river like gold leaf, casting gentle warmth across the painted buildings, the winding streets. From above, the city had looked like a dream. Alive. Undisturbed.

Something inside her had tightened when she’d seen it. A soft, unwelcome pull.

She faced the house now. Or rather, the place her brother had chosen to build his life.

The River House sat at the edge of the rise, elegant and sprawling, but not ostentatious. Wide steps led up to carved wooden doors flanked by blooming gardens. Early spring had painted everything in color—violets and wild roses tumbling over low hedges, herbs and early citrus perfuming the breeze. The stone archways overhead were carved with delicate swirls, set with small sigils that glimmered faintly in the morning light.

But it wasn’t the beauty that held her still on the stairs. It was the feel of it.

Warm. Settled. Lived in.

The kind of place that saw muddy boots and soft laughter. The kind that had been filled, carefully and intentionally, with love.

Her arms crossed loosely, the tips of her fingers brushing the worn leather of her vambraces. She wasn’t ready for how much it looked like a home. A real one. She should have expected it—after everything that Rhys had told her about his family. But the quiet conviction of it startled her more than the rest.

Silas would have hated it. Too open, too full of light. Elara hadn’t realized how certain she was of that until this moment. Another memory, small and sharp, tucked itself back into place.

Azriel didn’t speak. He stood beside her without stepping forward, his wings shifting slightly behind him. He waited.

Then, after a while, he asked, his voice low, edged in gravel, “You alright?”

She glanced at him. The slope of his shoulders, the easy stillness of his stance. His shadows barely stirred—watchful, but calm. She wondered if he’d noticed the change in her. The way something in her had gone quiet the moment they touched down.

A slow breath filled her lungs. She turned away, gave him the barest smirk, crooked and dry. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that, Shadowsinger?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, the expression small but real. “Faebane’s out of my system.”

She arched a brow, letting the expression settle on her face like armor. “That wasn’t an answer.”

Azriel’s eyes flicked toward her—blue and brown and green catching the light, unreadable as ever. But his shadows didn’t move. No warning, no alarm. Just that subtle weight beside her, steadying.

“I heal fast,” he said, voice even as he gave a loose shrug. “Once it was fully out of my system, even Madja was impressed.” He hesitated, his eyes still on hers, then added, quieter, with the small lilt of his lips that betrayed a quiet smile, “Didn’t know you were worried.”

Elara let out a dry snort and turned her gaze away toward the sprawling house. “I wasn’t.”

Her came a little too quickly, a little too flat. Her hand drifted down without her noticing, fingers brushing against the leather bracelet at her wrist. She twisted it once, then again, the movement absent and restless. Azriel’s eyes caught the motion—just for a heartbeat—but he said nothing. If he recognized it from her past, the shadowsinger didn’t let on.

Whatever had passed between them settled again into silence, weightless and dense all at once.

The sound of the front door interrupted them, the hinges gliding open on a whisper of magic. Rhysand stepped out onto the threshold, already smiling in that effortless way he had when he was trying not to look too relieved. “You’re early,” he said, voice light but full of intent.

They were early. Elara had known that from the moment they landed.

It hadn’t been an accident, and she suspected it hadn’t been his decision alone. Arriving before Nesta meant fewer glances, fewer words to sidestep. Rhys’s smile gave him away anyway—he was glad she was early, glad she had come at all. He gestured behind him with a tilt of his head. “Come on. The others won’t be here for a while. Thought I’d show you around.”

Elara turned back toward the house, her eyes skimming the archways, the wide-planked doors, the soft trail of ivy coiling down one stone wall. The scent of citrus trees and sun-warmed earth lingered in the air, laced with magic. The breeze stirred faintly, and something about the moment caught behind her ribs—something tight and unfamiliar.

She didn’t move right away. Just stood at the edge of the step, staring at the house that should have meant nothing to her, and somehow didn’t.

Then she walked forward.

Behind her, she felt Azriel’s stillness remain where it was.

He didn’t follow. His silence stayed with her, settled across her shoulders like a second set of wings. She didn’t look back to see him watching. But for a moment—as foolish as it was—she wanted him to come. She pushed the thought away before it could settle, before it could become anything more.

The bracelet turned once beneath her fingers, and she followed Rhysand into the River House.

The inside of the River House held a different kind of beauty—no less grand than the House of Wind, but infinitely  more intimate. Sunlight filtered in through tall, mullioned windows, casting soft gold across pale marble and warm wood. The air smelled faintly of citrus and old books, the kind of scent that lingered in lived-in spaces, not curated ones.

Elara paused just inside, her eyes trailing over the reception room that opened up before them. River-blue tapestries hung from the walls, subtle star motifs embroidered into the borders like some quiet homage to the Court’s crest. It was elegant but not cold. Purposeful but warm. That surprised her.

Rhysand stepped ahead, gesturing toward the long table set to one side beneath a crystal fixture shaped like drifting mist. “We mostly use this for small gatherings,” he said, his tone easy, almost careless. “Court business, the occasional formal dinner when I can’t escape one.”

Elara let her fingers skim the back of a high-backed chair upholstered in soft velvet, the color so deep it was nearly black. She tilted her head slightly, eyes sweeping over the silver trim along the wainscoting. “Seems a bit excessive.”

Rhys’s mouth quirked into a crooked grin. “Comes with the job.”

They moved on, the quiet sound of their footsteps muffled by thick rugs laid over the stone floors.

More windows lined the corridor ahead, their heavy curtains pulled back to let the morning spill in freely. The light fell across framed artwork spaced with careful intent. Some were landscapes—mist-draped mountains, sunlit groves. Others were more abstract, impressions of Velaris in color and light, brushstrokes that conveyed emotion more than detail. There were portraits, too. She didn’t look too closely at most of them—until one made her stop.

The hallway quieted, and Elara’s breath caught.

It wasn’t the size that stilled her, though the canvas was large—framed in silver-gilded wood that caught the light. And it wasn’t the technical skill, though every brushstroke was exact, the texture of her mother’s shawl rendered in such fine layers it looked real.

It was the subject.

Her own face gazed back at her. She was younger—barely out of adolescence, perhaps—with sharper angles in her cheeks and less war behind her eyes. Beside her stood her mother, tall and poised, her hair swept back as Elara remembered it. The background blurred into soft color, but the details between them—the way their shoulders nearly touched, the look in her mother’s eyes—were clear.

Rhysand stopped beside her. His voice, when it came, had lost its earlier ease.

“Feyre painted it last Solstice,” he said, watching the canvas. “Gave it to me as a gift.”

Elara said nothing. Couldn’t, not with her throat tightening the way it did.

“She said the baby should know his aunt,” Rhys continued, quieter now, almost reverent. “And the mother who raised us.”

The silence between them stretched—not uncomfortable, but heavy with something she couldn’t name. Her hand drifted toward her side, fingertips brushing the leather bracelet where it sat snug around her wrist. Her pulse beat against it, light and fast.

“But now,” Rhys said, his eyes still fixed on the painting. But there was no mistaking the smile in his voice as he continued, “he’ll get to know the real thing.”

Elara didn’t trust herself to answer. The words formed, then scattered before they could reach her lips. She looked at the painting for a moment longer—at that strange, distant version of herself—and then turned. Her feet carried her forward, steady but quiet.

And her brother, as if sensing her mood, trailed behind her.

Rhys opened a door as they passed it, the hinges whispering softly as it swung inward. “This one’s for you,” he said, stepping aside. “If you ever want it.”

Elara stopped. The room was sunlit and still, the curtains drawn halfway to let the breeze stir through the sheer fabric. It wasn’t large, but it didn’t need to be. A simple bed with a deep blue coverlet stood beneath the window, flanked by a small nightstand. A few books already sat there, their spines worn enough to suggest favorites—one of them was in old language, she noticed.

Near the wardrobe, a pair of leathers hung neatly on a hook. New. Never worn. Measured to fit her, if she had to guess.

Her throat tightened. Not from the sight of it exactly, but from what it meant. Her brother—this male who had been a stranger for so long—had made a place for her. A quiet room in the house he shared with his mate. In the life he’d built. He had made space for her in it.

And she didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know if she could step over the threshold and not feel like an imposter.

She didn’t move forward. Just let her gaze flick around the space once before she offered a faint nod. “The House of Wind is fine,” she said, voice too light to be casual. “I couldn’t intrude on your space. Your home.”

The words felt clumsy as they left her mouth. She couldn’t explain it properly—how she had needed that distance. Still needed it. Something about seeing her name carved into the bones of this place would’ve made it too real, too much. Would’ve made the past few months crash down on her all at once.

“Of course,” Rhys said easily. He didn’t press, didn’t try to coax her across the doorway. But his eyes lingered on her, dark and searching. He looked like he wanted to say something else—something that hovered just behind his teeth. But he didn’t. Maybe he could see it in her, the tension in her jaw or the barely-restrained urge to disappear.

He’d been walking on glass since the day she arrived, and she couldn’t even fault him for it. Because she was, too.

“The nursery’s almost done,” he said instead, a quiet pivot that she welcomed. He turned toward the next room, fingers brushing the doorframe. “Feyre banned me from helping. Something about me not knowing what a baby needs.”

Elara let out a breath that was close to a laugh. “Sounds like your mate knows you well.”

That crooked grin returned, relief breaking across his face as the earlier awkwardness was forgotten. “Apparently.” He pushed open the door.

The nursery was cast in soft light and cooler tones—dusk blue and silver, moon-pale lavender. Not the garish brightness of a child’s room, but something quieter and much softer. A cradle waited beneath the window, its edges smooth and curved like flowing water. A rocking chair sat near the hearth, its cushions plump as they had never been used before. One wall bore shelves already half-filled with slender books and hand-carved toys—little animals, stars, a painted sun with a smiling face.

Elara didn’t move beyond the threshold at first. She only looked. The air in here felt untouched, hushed in a way that reminded her of churches and burial grounds—places where silence meant reverence. Or memory. She didn’t understand the pressure behind her ribs until she realized she’d stopped breathing.

“Elara?”

The voice was gentle, but it broke like a ripple through the quiet.

She turned—and froze.

Feyre stood in the corner of the room, calm-faced and flushed from the stairs, dressed in a twilight-blue sweater and leggings. But beside her there was someone else. Someone slighter, and fairer. Someone she recognized almost instantly.

Elain Archeron.

Elain’s hands were folded at her waist, fingers twisting once, then stilling. She didn’t step forward. Her eyes were wide, watching Elara with a calmness that rang just slightly false. She wasn’t shaking—Elain Archeron didn’t shake. She’d been raised better than that. But her spine had gone straight and rigid, her chin lifted with that exacting grace reserved for formal dinners and court visits. Elara had seen it before, in the faces of the human queens as they met with Hybern.

She recognized it for what it was: fear held tight beneath courtesy.

Elara’s own body didn’t shift. She didn’t lower her eyes, didn’t smile. There was nothing to offer—no word that would smooth over what had been done. What she had done. She had taken this girl. Delivered her to the Cauldron. Held her as she screamed.

And yet Elain stood there. Straight-backed and silent.

She didn’t speak. There was not a word of accusation, not a flinch. But her hands remained tightly clasped, and her breath was ever so slightly wrong—too shallow.

Elara met her gaze without blinking. There was nothing in her expression, nothing she could give that would undo it. So she gave nothing at all. Feyre’s eyes flicked between them, reading too much.

She didn’t know if she preferred Nesta’s fury to this.

Feyre stepped forward—not close enough to crowd, but near enough that Elara could feel the shift in the air. The warmth of her presence. The scent of paint and lilac clung faintly to her, softer than the colors in the nursery. Her golden-brown hair was twisted back, a few strands loosening as if she hadn’t noticed.

Her cheeks held the flush of exertion or nerves, though her expression stayed careful. There was a tremble in the smile she offered. Something tentative and real.

“I didn’t know,” Feyre said, voice catching on the edge of breath. “When I was in the Spring Court… I didn’t know what they’d done. What they were doing. I should have—” Her throat worked, words faltering. “I should have known something. Known it was you.”

Elara didn’t move. Her body remained angled slightly toward the door, one shoulder turned just enough to suggest distance. Not quite defensive. Not quite open. As if she was ready to run and bolt out of this home her brother had built at any moment.

She wasn’t sure what to say, what reaction Feyre might be expecting—or dreading. She could hear the sincerity in her voice, but sincerity didn’t erase what had happened. Didn’t change what Elara had done.

She could have said nothing. Could have walked away. But something in Feyre’s expression—not the guilt, but the way she held it—made her speak.

“It’s fine,” Elara said, her voice low. Flat, but not unkind. “I didn’t know who I was either then.”

It was true. She hadn’t. And even if Feyre had tried—had guessed—Elara wouldn’t have believed her. Couldn’t have. Not with the weight Hybern had laced through her mind. Not with the fog of it dulling every edge of memory. Not with Dagdan erasing every potential thought or memory as it popped into her mind.

Feyre’s gaze didn’t leave hers. She only shook her head.

“I’m sorry if anything I did—I was trying to undermine them,” she said quietly. “Dagdan and Brannagh. I kept pushing back, trying to keep them from getting too far with Tamlin. I thought it might help in the long run, but I didn’t think about who else it might affect.”

The names landed like glass shattering beneath Elara’s skin. Her spine stiffened. Not by choice. The sound of them—spoken aloud after all these months—struck something too old, too deep. She hadn’t heard them since she’d buried their voices in her memories, smothered the commands they’d hissed into her ears.

She did not flinch. She didn’t let it show beyond the taut pull in her shoulders, the sudden stillness that swept through her limbs. She forced the cold back where it belonged, where it couldn’t touch anything.

Feyre noticed, of course. Elara saw it in the way her hand twitched slightly, as if she meant to reach out but thought better of it.

“You made my job very difficult,” Elara said at last, her voice dry. A poor attempt at levity—too thin to pass for humor, too steady to be accusation. Her lips lifted in a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not that I gave it much thought at the time. I was ordered to help find the holes in the wall—at any cost.”

She kept her gaze ahead, not on Feyre, but on the soft-colored walls or the cradle waiting beside the window. Anything but making eye contact with the Cursebreaker. Her brother’s mate.

Feyre blinked. Her brows drew together slightly, a crease forming between them. Then came the wince, subtle but there, followed by her hand lifting halfway—an instinctive reach that faltered, uncertain whether she was reaching to apologize or take the blame. Maybe both.

But Elara raised a hand, palm up, halting.

“Don’t,” she said. The word was quieter now, firmer. “It was what it was. I didn’t question what I was told. And now… now I think it might’ve been the first time someone got in their way and walked away from it.”

Her mouth twitched, just once. She had to offer Feyre something, so she said, +“Setting the Bogge on them… that was inspired.”

Feyre huffed a soft laugh. “They deserved worse.”

“They did,” Elara agreed. The words came out lower, and she didn’t try to hide the bitterness in them. The twins’ names still tasted like ash in her mouth. She didn’t let herself sit with the thought long—too easy to fall down that well.

Feyre exhaled slowly, her chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm.

“It’s strange,” she said. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides. “I’ve thought of you for so long. Since Rhys first told me about you. And now that you’re standing here, I—”

Her voice caught. She gave a soft, unsteady laugh that cracked along the edges. “I’m so glad to meet you. Properly.”

Elara stared at her, unsure what to do with that—how to hold it. How to believe it. For years, the only thing people had wanted from her was violence. And yet here Feyre stood, warmth in her eyes, no weapons in hand, no trap she could see.

She forced her arms to uncross, forced her shoulders not to flinch when Feyre looked at her that way. As if she were wanted. Not forgiven, not pitied—but welcomed.

Beside her, Rhys had said nothing, but she could feel the shift in him. Not just in his body but in the air itself—lighter somehow. She risked a glance and found him watching Feyre, not her. His expression was unguarded in a way she’d never seen before.

It struck her then—how much of himself he had built around these people, this home. This family. He looked happy. And she didn’t know what to do with that, either.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, the words rough and uneven, as if she were dragging them up from some long-frozen place. “But I’m glad, too.”

She meant it. Even if the words didn’t sit comfortably in her mouth, even if her instincts still screamed at her to keep a wall between herself and all this softness. She meant it.

Feyre’s smile gentled again. She didn’t step closer, didn’t reach for her. Just stood there with her eyes full of something kind and certain, as if she already understood that Elara wouldn’t be able to give more than that.

Elain stepped forward slowly, skirts whispering against the polished floor. Her hands were folded in front of her, delicate fingers clasped so tightly they’d gone white at the knuckles. Her eyes—large, luminous—were fixed on Elara’s face.

Elara held her ground. Her weight shifted subtly toward her back foot, and one hand fell loose at her side, fingers curling faintly in case she needed to bolt—or fight. She knew what came next. She’d seen the shape of it before. A sharp breath. A cutting look. Something brittle and dressed in civility, polished rage tucked behind a pretty face. She braced for it, the way one braced for a blow they’d taken too many times before.

But Elain didn’t move like Nesta. Didn’t speak like her either.

“Feyre told me,” she said at last. Her voice was soft, careful, but not weak. “About everything that happened. About what they did to you.”

There was no venom in Elain’s tone — no edge.

Still, Elara’s spine locked straight. That old instinct roared awake in her blood—coil back, strike first, get out. She said nothing. Just waited, silent and cold-eyed, for the real thing hidden under all that calm.

Elain’s chin lifted by a breath. “I don’t blame you.”

Across the room, Feyre shifted. The movement was slight, but Elara felt it more than she saw it. Beside her, Rhys didn’t speak, though he watched with quiet interest, his arms loose at his sides now, shoulders no longer held quite so tightly. There was a flicker of relief in his expression. Subtle, but there.

Elara stared at Elain.

Not the high-bred features or the soft fall of her hair. She looked past it—into the stillness behind her eyes, the honesty waiting there, open and unguarded. It made her uneasy. She didn’t know how to hold something like that. Didn’t know why it hadn’t already been torn apart.

“You should,” Elara said, her voice low, nearly flat. The words spilled out before she could corral them. “You should blame me.”

Elain didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, that same calm still resting over her face. “You weren’t yourself.”

Elara’s hand drifted to her wrist, fingers brushing over the worn leather band there—slow, almost thoughtless. The feel of it grounded her, let her push down the heat coiling in her throat. That guilt hadn’t gone anywhere. It never did. But it didn’t burn the way it used to. It pulsed now, steady and dull, like an old bruise beneath the skin.

Across from her, Elain didn’t waver. She simply stood there, serene and steady, as if she’d already made her choice—days ago, weeks ago. Long before Elara stepped into this house.

And it struck her, then. Someone had told Elain. Given her time. A chance to think. To make peace with Elara’s presence in her own way, however she needed to.

Had they done the same for Nesta?

Had anyone warned her? Had anyone sat her down and said she’s back, so the fury wouldn’t blind her the moment they crossed paths?

Or had they just let it happen—let it explode?

Elara didn’t know. But the question sat like lead in her chest.

Because if Nesta had been blindsided by her presence… Elara could understand it. She did understand it. The fury. The hurt carved into every word the female had hurled at her. If Nesta had walked into that room expecting one world and found another instead—Elara could understand the way her voice had shaken with rage, how her eyes had burned like she wanted to tear the entire House of Wind apart just to be free of her.

They hadn’t warned her.

There had been no quiet word from Feyre, not like had been given to Elain. They gave Nesta no space to prepare. No time to brace. Just let her walk into the House one day, only to find Elara standing there. It was a cruelty Elara might’ve expected for herself. She certainly deserved it. But to do that to Nesta—to leave her exposed to the shock and ache of it all—felt especially merciless.

Elara drew a slow breath and pushed the thought aside. Let it drift back where it belonged. Then she said, softly, the words catching just slightly in her throat, “Thank you.”

Elain gave her a small smile in return.

Elara didn’t know what to do with it.

She followed them downstairs, where a long stretch of windows bled light into the River House study, flooding the room with morning warmth that felt almost too soft for what this meeting might become. She didn’t sit—just lingered near one of the wing-backed chairs, eyes on the door.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Amren was the first to file in, draped in a heavy silver-gray fur that ignored the spring heat entirely. She moved like a blade half-sheathed—slow, deliberate, vaguely amused. Her eyes flicked once over Elara, sharp as ever. And then, with the faintest of nods, she said, “It is good to see you, girl.”

Elara blinked. Straightened, despite herself. She knew who Amren was—what she was. Had known of her long before everything fell apart. Before she had been taken by the King of Hybern and twisted into Munin. But they’d never spoken, never crossed paths in more than a distant, passing way. That the female remembered her at all—

Amren moved on without waiting for a reply. Took a seat by the hearth and crossed one leg over the other, draping her pelt over the arm of the chair like a crown.

And then—Elara felt it. That shift in the air.

Nesta entered the room with Cassian just behind her, every step like the echo of some distant storm. The general’s hand rested lightly on her back, more subtle than usual, but there all the same.

Elara went still. Nesta didn’t speak. Didn’t snarl or sneer or slice the air with her voice. But the glare she leveled across the room was enough. It was blistering. A look that said I remember. That said I haven’t forgotten what you did.

Elara braced herself for the words she knew were waiting—sharpened and ready to cut. But none came.

And Elara felt the relief like a weight sliding from her ribs. Shame followed close behind. She didn’t want protection from Nesta’s rage. If facing it did anything to ease the fire still burning in her—the grief Elara had helped carve into her life—then maybe it was worth enduring.

Maybe that, at least, she could give her.

Feyre cleared her throat. “All right, the two of you. Get on with it.”

The words sliced through the haze of Elara’s thoughts, dragging her back to the present, to the warmth of the study and the eyes that had turned toward her. Right. The report. The entire reason that she had come to her brother’s house today.

She straightened in her seat, brushing her fingers on the edge of the table. Her throat was dry. She cleared it once, then said, “Briallyn has been busier than you all thought, but not in the way you expected.”

The silence that followed was expectant.

Azriel, seated beside her, picked up the thread without missing a beat. “In the days that we’ve been watching her,” he said, voice low and even, “we learned what her next steps are.”

Elara shifted, barely. But her mind had already drifted—back to the village, back to the man who had begged for his life and the way Azriel’s knife hadn’t hesitated.

It was necessary. That was what she told herself. Each time. A whisper in the back of her skull like a prayer to the Mother, even now. It was necessary. They needed that information. The trail they’d left behind—she’d done it for this room. For these people. For Dorothye and Arnulf. For the chance to stop what was coming.

“Get on with it,” Amren snapped from the hearth.

Elara’s gaze flicked to her—just long enough to see the glint in her eyes. But it was Azriel who answered, “The other queens fled from Briallyn weeks ago, as Eris said. She’s alone now, in their shared palace. And what Eris said about Beron is true too. The High Lord visited Briallyn on the Continent, and he pledged his forces to her cause.”

That made a few heads shift. Feyre’s lips pressed into a line. Cassian muttered something under his breath.

Elara looked up, meeting no one’s eyes. “But it’s not just Beron’s forces. She’s gathering an army—human and fae alike. The borders are porous, and too many of the smaller villages are still loyal to her, even after her transformation. She’s using them.”

Azriel’s shadows coiled and slithered along the curve of his wings, dark threads slipping over bone and leather. “She’s looking to restore her youth,” he added, voice quiet but unyielding. “And she’s close.”

“She’ll never attain the Cauldron to do such a thing,” Amren said, her tone dismissive, final. “No one but us, Miryam, and Drakon know where it’s hidden.”

The room had gone still again. Elara didn’t breathe. Amren’s sharp silver eyes slid to her then. Elara met her gaze. And nodded, once. She hadn’t known the Cauldron had been secured at all, let alone that it was still in their possession. But she would keep the secret.

Whatever flicker of surprise had stirred in her chest, she let it die before it could reach her face.

Amren seemed satisfied with that. She turned back to the rest of the room. “Even if Briallyn did uncover its location, there are enough wards and spells on it that no one could ever break through. Not with the power she has.”

“She knows this,” Azriel said, voice low but steady. His shadows twined slowly at his shoulders, as if listening. “What Vassa told us is true. The death-god Koschei has been whispering in her ear.”

Elara shifted in her chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her. “He’s still trapped,” she said. “Still anchored to that lake. But Briallyn has been feeding him.”

She felt the prickle of every stare then, even the ones that hadn’t turned toward her. “The girls who’ve gone missing. She’s been giving them to him—letting him siphon their magic, their power. That’s how he reaches her.”

A flicker of discomfort passed over Feyre’s face. Beside her, Rhys said nothing, but his jaw had tightened.

“She’s not working alone,” Azriel continued. “He pointed her toward something called the Dread Trove. Not for her sake—but because he needs it.”

Azriel looked to Cassian then. “You need to ask Eris whether Beron knows about this. About the Trove.”

Cassian nodded once, but didn’t speak. Elara didn’t blame him.

“What’s the Dread Trove?”

The question came from across the table. Nesta. She didn’t look at Elara when she asked it. Didn’t glance her way, didn’t acknowledge her presence at all.

Elara swallowed. She hadn’t realized how long this night would be.

--

The fire crackled quietly in the sitting room of the House of Wind. Its warmth flickered over the stone walls, casting soft orange light across the low table between them. Elara sat curled in the corner of the long couch, legs drawn under her, a blanket draped haphazardly over her knees. She hadn’t meant to stay this long, hadn’t meant to linger with Azriel and Cassian, but her blood was still humming.

Cassian had poured himself a drink. He hadn’t touched it.

Nesta had vanished the moment they’d arrived back at the House. Elara hadn’t seen which corridor she’d chosen. Only heard the echo of her boots and the final snap of a door slamming shut behind her.

She couldn’t blame her. Not after what they’d asked of her.

Azriel leaned back in the armchair across from her, elbow propped on the armrest, fingers curled loosely against his jaw. His shadows had quieted since the meeting, but not entirely. One of them still slithered across the edge of his wing towards Elara, like it couldn’t quite settle.

“Do you think she can find it?” he asked, voice quiet. He didn’t look at Elara. Only Cassian.

The general exhaled, slow and steady, before answering. “I hope so.”

Azriel didn’t nod. “Nesta really should do a scrying.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Nesta isn’t up for a scrying.”

“She’s done it before.”

“And nearly broke, the last time she tried.” Cassian leaned forward, planting his forearms on his knees. “You were there. You saw what it did to her.”

“You do know it, though.” Azriel’s tone was unreadable. “You’ve seen it. Even beyond the power glowing in her eyes.”

“That’s not the point.” Cassian’s words came out flat, the edge of command barely suppressed beneath them. “She’s volatile right now. We don’t know how much of her power she even has left. And the last time she tried—”

“I know,” Azriel said quietly, still watching the fire. “I helped rescue Elain, after all.”

Cassian leaned back, the leather chair creaking beneath his weight. “Nesta will scry on her own. Eventually.” His voice was rough, more resignation than certainty. “If she’s capable.”

“She is capable,” Elara said, sharper than she meant to be, pulling both males’ attention toward her. Cassian blinked. Azriel turned his head slightly, his eyes unreadable.

“Nesta is very capable,” she said, more firmly now, “but I’ve seen the way you treat her. You demand things from her that she is not ready to give, and when she pushes back—you treat her like she’s the one in the wrong.”

Cassian opened his mouth, his voice quieter than before. “Elara—”

She ignored him, pressing forward while her temper still held. “You dragged her into that meeting. Made her sit there while you discussed her like she wasn’t in the room. And now, now you expect her to scry—as if the power that was forced on her owes you something. As if she does.”

Across from her, Cassian sat straighter, his expression tightening by degrees. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

“She was taken,” Elara continued, the words slow and steady now, carved from some older, deeper place inside her. “The Cauldron violated her. Stripped her of her body, her humanity, and handed back something else. And instead of letting her grieve that, instead of letting her heal, you keep trying to make her into something useful.”

Cassian’s hands had curled into fists against his thighs. A flicker of something flickered across his face—shame, maybe, or guilt. She didn’t look away from him.

“I know what it’s like,” she said, and this time, her voice was quieter, stripped of heat but no less firm. “To have your choices taken. To be made into something unnatural for someone else’s purpose.”

At the edge of her vision, Azriel moved. His shadows had been slow to stir before, but now they curled tightly around him. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Whether the quiet behind his expression meant approval or anger, or something else entirely. But she wasn’t sorry. Not for this.

Let them be uncomfortable. Let them sit with it. Someone had to say it. Someone had to see Nesta as more than what she could do for them.

Elara had watched them all avoid the truth long enough. She looked down at her hands, palms resting against the fabric of her trousers, then lifted her gaze to the fire again.

“She didn’t ask for this,” she said quietly. “She didn’t want this. And none of you—not Rhys, not you—ever gave her room to want anything at all. Just... expected her to be grateful.”

Cassian’s response came low, rough with something old. “She’s not the only one who suffered.”

“No,” Elara agreed, voice steady despite the tension winding tighter in her chest, “but she’s the only one who is being punished for it.”

That did it. Cassian pushed up from the armchair with a frustrated breath and began pacing—three steps forward, two back—as if he couldn’t keep the weight of it still inside him. He turned toward her, jaw tight. “You think I’m trying to punish her?”

Elara didn’t look away, though she felt the coiled heat of Azriel’s attention sharpening beside her, as if ready to get in between her and Cassian.

“I think,” she said slowly, “you expect her to behave in a way that’s convenient for you. And you get angry when she doesn’t.”

The flicker in his expression wasn’t large—but it was enough. A flash of something raw that he didn’t quite manage to hide, and a muscle jumping in his jaw. Azriel hadn’t moved but his shadows were no longer subtle. They twined like smoke across his shoulders.

“She’ll scry,” Elara said, quieter now. “Eventually. When she chooses to. And not because you want her to, but because she’s strong enough to face what comes of it.”

Her gaze locked with Cassian’s, unflinching. “But you don’t get to ask her for it. Not after everything.”

He didn’t answer. Whether he couldn’t find the words or didn’t trust what might come out, she didn’t know. The silence felt heavier for it. The fire crackled faintly, casting orange light against the walls. Somewhere in the belly of the House, something shifted—wood groaning softly, air moving in the corridors.

Elara exhaled and leaned back, her shoulders brushing the high back of the chair.

“Let her be angry,” she said, not looking at either of them now. “Let her be difficult. At least then she still belongs to herself.”

Cassian didn’t say another word. He just looked at her—long and unreadablel. Then he turned, boots striking soft against the stone, and stalked out of the room. The House let him go without protest. A door shut somewhere in the distance, the echo swallowed by thick silence.

She looked to the Shadowsinger. Azriel didn’t speak. He sat as he always did—still and quiet, regarding her quietly.

When he finally spoke, the words were low and measured. “You’re kind to her,” he said. “Even after how she’s treated you.”

Elara blinked once, slow and tired. Her voice came thinner than she meant it to. “I’m not kind.”

“You are,” he said simply, as if the statement were obvious. “You’ve barely known her. And you defend her more than the rest of us do.”

“She’s angry,” she murmured. “I understand anger.”

The silence stretched. She could feel his eyes on her—didn’t need to turn her head to know how closely he was watching.

“She needs to heal,” she said at last. “And no one gives her room to.”

A beat passed. Then his voice again, softer and curious. “You think she deserves your patience?”

The sound that left her mouth was almost a laugh, but it frayed halfway out. It turned bitter by the time it reached the air. “I think I deserve worse.”

That made him turn. Not just his head—but his whole body, angled toward her now. The shadows peeled away from the contours of his face just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his cheekbone, the set of his mouth. But his voice didn’t harden.

“You’re more forgiving of Nesta,” he said, “than you are of yourself.”

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to—not for this, not when the fire was easier to face than the expression she might find on his. Her eyes stayed on the flames, steady and low, licking across the hearth as if they, too, were trying not to draw attention.

“I’ve done worse than she has,” she said quietly. “And you’ve all forgiven me.”

When Azriel finally spoke, his voice was calm, steady, the words so simple they stung. “You didn’t have a choice in what you did.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said, almost immediately. The words scraped her throat raw, and something cracked at the end of them. “I still did it.”

It hung there. The truth she tried not to touch most days. She didn’t want his comfort. Didn’t want him to tell her it wasn’t her fault. And, to his credit, he didn’t. He didn’t speak at all. Just let it hang in the air between them, close enough to smother.

Elara rubbed at the leather band on her wrist—tugged at it, twisted until the skin beneath ached, until her fingers throbbed with the pressure of it. Her voice, when it came again, sounded older than she remembered it being. “Every time I look at her, I think about the night I dragged her out of her bedroom. Kicking and screaming. I remember her fear. I remember her trying to claw at my face. And then the Cauldron—” She stopped. Her breath faltered, thick and splintered. “I didn’t try to stop it.”

She didn’t dare look at him.

“I didn’t try,” she whispered again. The fire crackled softly, indifferent. “When I dragged Nesta into Hybern—I didn’t hesitate. I followed orders. I gave her to them.”

Her hands had curled into fists in her lap, tight and white. She didn’t feel the pain until her nails pressed too deep, until they broke the skin. She breathed through it. Waited for him to say something she’d have to walk away from. Some hollow reassurance, some gentle mercy she didn’t deserve.

But it never came. Only his voice, cutting through the quiet, “Dagdan made you.”

Her head snapped up. The Shadowsinger met her eyes and didn’t look away.

“You didn’t have a choice, Elara,” he said. “He made you.”

Her breath hitched. She hated the way the words burrowed under her ribs, hated how much she wanted to believe him. To let it be enough.

“I still did it,” she said, but the fight had bled out of her voice. The words came quieter now. Smaller.

Azriel didn’t argue. But he didn’t look away.

“And I would’ve done it. So would Cassian,” Azriel said, his voice calm. Like he’d already lived that possibility in his mind and made peace with it. “If the roles were reversed. If I had been under his thumb the way you were. I would’ve delivered Nesta and Elain. There are so few people who can resist a powerful Daemati.”

Her throat burned at the thought, as if the very idea of someone else doing what she had done could rewrite the truth of it.

“You don’t know that,” she muttered. The words came out brittle.

“I do.” There was no hesitation in his voice now. Just certainty. “Because I’ve done terrible things without being forced. You—”

She didn’t let him finish. She turned her gaze back to the fire, the flames shifting in that hypnotic, meaningless way. She didn’t want to hear him say you didn’t deserve it. Didn’t want the softness, not tonight.

His words didn’t absolve her simply because he’d spoken them.

“She’ll never forgive me,” she said, so quietly she wasn’t sure he’d heard. Her voice felt like it belonged to someone else. “Not Nesta. She can’t even look at me without flinching.”

That part—that was the part that stayed with her. The way Nesta’s gaze skated over her like she was something toxic.

Azriel didn’t deny it. His stillness beside her felt more honest than anything anyone else had offered her since returning to this court.

“Maybe she won’t,” he said after a pause. “But that doesn’t mean you’re beyond forgiveness.”

“I don’t deserve forgiveness,” she said. The words were sharper now, laced with something bitter. “I’m not asking for it.”

Azriel didn’t push. Just asked, “Then what are you asking for? What is it that you want?”

Her lips parted, but no answer came. She sat there, staring at the flickering fire like it might offer clarity if she looked long enough. Her mind felt disjointed. She thought of Nesta, her rage simmering just beneath the surface. Thought of Elain’s distant, haunted quiet. Thought of Feyre, who looked at her with something like sympathy—and of Rhysand, who hadn’t once brought up her crimes since welcoming her into Velaris.

She didn’t know what she wanted. Not really. Not revenge, not redemption. Not peace either. She just wanted… to stop feeling like every breath she took was borrowed.

“I don’t know,” she whispered finally.

Azriel nodded, as if he understood anyway.

“You’re still healing,” he said. “So is she.”

Elara leaned back against the cushions. Her spine ached with tension she hadn’t noticed she was holding. She let her eyes slip shut for just a moment. Her throat still ached, scraped raw from words she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t.

Chapter 66

Notes:

Once again, sorry for the slight delay. Life / end of school year stuff got ahead of me this past week.

The sky above the House of Wind glimmered with the faded gold of late afternoon, the sun slipping toward the mountain spines, turning the stones underfoot warm and drowsy. Elara stepped out onto the training grounds with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leathers, boots scuffing faintly on the dust.

Her body itched with restlessness—three days back in Velaris, and already the quiet pressed in around.

Was she itching to be back out there? Beyond the limits of Velaris? Back on the Continent? She wasn’t quite sure. She’d loved being out there, doing something rather than spending her time idle, waiting for something to make her feel useful again.

She hadn’t meant to walk here. She’d meant to head toward the overlook, to let her wings spread and pretend that the wind was underneath them. She couldn’t fly —she’d never talked to her brother about lifting her supposed imprisonment — but she could at least to that.

But her legs had carried her toward the ring instead, her muscles remembering motion and exertion and noise.

And maybe, if she were being honest, she'd hoped it would be empty.

The sound of voices cut through the crisp air just as she reached the edge of the rise above the training ring.

“Why don’t you show me what all that night-time brooding has resulted in?” Cassian’s voice rang with a grin.

Elara stopped short, her shoulders stiffening. The General. She hadn't realized they were still training. She’d hoped for solitude, maybe a few swings at a practice dummy. But now—

Still, her feet didn’t turn back. Instead, they moved forward, slow but certain, her body making the decision her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. She came up to the edge of the ring just in time to see them circling.

Azriel and Cassian, both shirtless, both gleaming with sweat under the lowering sun. Their wings were half-flared, their muscles taut and coiled as they shifted on bare feet over the packed red clay. The rhythmic sound of fists hitting flesh echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by grunts and the occasional curse.

Cassian struck first, a brutal left hook that Azriel ducked easily. The shadowsinger’s counter came low and fast, a sweep of the leg that made Cassian stumble, just slightly.

Elara lingered at the edge of the ring, half-hidden behind one of the stone pillars, watching.

It was impressive, watching the two of them. Centuries of discipline in every movement. Power wound tight beneath skin. They moved with an ease she didn’t often associate with Illyrians—the little she knew about them from the battlefield.

But it was Azriel who held her attention.

Something about the way he moved—controlled, silent, his eyes sharp as blades—tugged at her. It wasn’t just admiration. That would have been easy to ignore.

No, it was the way her breath caught every time he pivoted. The heat that curled in her stomach as the muscles in his back flexed with each strike. How her palms suddenly felt too warm inside her pockets, her skin too tight across her chest.

Azriel's face was unreadable, even in combat. Calm. Focused. His shadows moved like extensions of his body—writhing tendrils that shimmered and pulsed with the effort of holding back.

He didn’t notice her watching. That made it worse.

“Elara,” she chastised herself, barely audible, shifting her stance to cross one boot over the other, arms folding tightly. Her fingers found the leather cord wrapped around her wrist—rough, familiar—and began twisting it slowly.

She should look away. She wanted to. But her gaze kept straying back to him. The way his chest rose and fell, slick with sweat. The hollow of his throat. The slow drag of his lip between his teeth when he paused, watching Cassian for an opening.

And she—Mother help her, she wanted to—

Her jaw clenched. What was wrong with her?

Her heartbeat thudded too loudly in her ears, too aware of her own body, of every inch of skin heating beneath her tunic.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just that he was beautiful—which he was. It was that he’d looked at her differently, lately. In a way that she hadn’t been looked at since—

No, she wouldn’t let herself think about it.

Cassian lunged. Azriel countered with a twist of his hips and caught the blow across the ribs. He stumbled back with a grunt.

“Right,” Cassian huffed, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Whoever lands the next blow wins.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Azriel replied, chest rising and falling as he straightened. “We’ll go until one of us eats dirt.”

Elara didn’t hear Cassian’s response.  Because in that moment, as Azriel adjusted his stance, as his eyes narrowed and a shadow peeled off his shoulder like smoke—she realized. She was attracted to him.

Elara was still twirling the leather cord around her wrist when she caught the flick of Azriel’s gaze shifting past Cassian’s shoulder. It was barely perceptible—his eyes widening by the smallest fraction—but it was enough.

Cassian noticed it too. His head snapped around toward the edge of the ring, following whatever Azriel had seen. And that was all it took.

Azriel moved like a blade loosed from its sheath. A sharp pivot, a punch that cracked through the air, and his fist collided with Cassian’s jaw with a satisfying thwack. The general staggered back a step, blinking, hand flying to his face.

Elara’s breath caught, not from concern—for Cassian could probably take a sword to the gut and still flirt through the pain—but from the sheer smoothness of it. Azriel didn’t gloat. He just smiled, that rare and quiet thing that curled at the edge of his mouth like smoke.

“Bastard,” Cassian muttered, working his jaw and rolling his shoulder. He wasn’t angry—his grin was already returning.

Elara followed their line of sight, and there she was—Nesta, arms crossed, hip cocked, somehow managing to look both unimpressed and battle-ready without moving a muscle. Her expression was flat, but her eyes burned.

Cassian called, “You’re drooling.”

“If there was anything enticing,” Nesta said coolly, “it was watching Azriel punch you in the face.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Nes,” Cassian shot back, even as he stepped toward her like he couldn’t help it, the entire spar forgotten.

Their voices blended into the hum of the breeze and far-off city noise, but Elara barely registered it. The moment had been broken. Whatever fragile balance she’d clung to—the one that let her stand in the shadows and watch Azriel like no one would notice—was gone now. The ring was no longer hers to haunt.

She could feel it. The beginning of eyes turning her way. She was no longer unseen.

Her boots were already shifting backward, the ball of her foot brushing the edge of stone where it met gravel. She didn’t need Nesta to spot her. Didn’t need Azriel’s shadows curling in her direction like they sometimes did, that lazy, knowing drift of attention he never voiced. She wasn’t ready to face that—not with her pulse still pounding, not with heat still licking up the back of her neck, not with the vivid image of his hands still etched behind her eyes.

If he looked at her—if he really looked at her right now—he would see too much.

So she let herself turn. Let the leather bracelet slide loose from her wrist. Her shoulders stiffened as she walked away, slow but steady, like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just stood there with her body practically buzzing at the sight of him. Like she hadn’t nearly been caught drowning in it.

It was probably for the best. Better to retreat now, before she did something truly foolish.

---

Spying on Briallyn and her men was a lot of waiting.

Azriel didn’t mind. He was used to it—long hours spent in silence, the slow churn of information as patterns revealed themselves. Observation always gave more than brute force ever could. And compared to their last encounter at this castle—this was preferable. Boring, perhaps. But quiet. Clean.

He adjusted the angle of his crouch against the crumbling rafters, shadows curling tighter around his shoulders and drifting across to where Elara sat perched a few feet away. She hadn’t moved in over an hour.

The granary’s upper level creaked with the wind, exposed beams framing the wide window where they had a perfect view of the camp below. The slope of the hill fell away beneath them into a shallow basin where Briallyn’s army lay. The main pavilion stood at the center, green canvas streaked with pale gold, guarded by four human men. Two more rotated along the outer ring every half hour, regular as clockwork.

No one had entered or left the command tent since they’d settled in.

Rhys had made himself perfectly clear—no interference, no confrontation. Just observe.

Azriel didn’t argue. Not out loud, anyway. But after three days crouched in shadows and fog, he found himself glancing—again—at Elara.

She hadn’t complained once. Hadn’t shifted or sighed or made a single remark about the cold seeping into the stone. The breeze cut through the broken rafters, tugging at her braid. She wore the leathers that he’d given her on their first trip to the Continent, soft matte black, tailored for movement and warmth, though his gaze caught—unintentionally—on the way they clung to her thighs as she adjusted her weight. His shadows twitched in response before he reined them in.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Her eyes were locked on the valley below, lashes unmoving. He couldn’t tell if she was tense or completely at ease, and that unsettled him more than anything else. Azriel prided himself on reading people. Movements, twitches, habits. They were all ways that he could get information from people.

But Elara—she sat like a statue, still and sharp and quiet, as though her body had long since learned the discipline of waiting.

He wondered, a little self-consciously, if she found all this tedious. She’d lived as a weapon, had been the one to get information for the King of Hybern. This drawn-out, subtle kind of warfare—perhaps it didn’t suit her. Maybe she would rather have been down there already, blades out, blood on her hands.

But if she was irritated, it didn’t show. Her gaze never drifted. Not to him, not to anything but the guards and tents and terrain. She could’ve been carved from the very stone beneath them.

Azriel turned his attention back to the camp below, letting his eyes move over the familiar landscape. He logged the details mechanically—the sharpened curve of each blade strapped to a guard’s thigh, the too-new axes at the perimeter, the lazy rhythm of the rotations that suggested overconfidence more than skill. Two males swapped out with the pair guarding the eastern side, just as they had three hours ago.

None of them looked up once.

He noted the rest in silence. Small things, but they added up: the guards spoke too much, laughed too easily. Briallyn’s forces weren’t expecting anything. Not tonight.

He didn’t mind the waiting. Not really. Not when she was pressed so close beside him—barely a hand’s width away, her body still and alert, her scent cool and steady in his lungs.

“You’re not bored?” he asked, voice low enough it barely stirred the space between them.

Elara’s lips pressed into a thin line, then released. “No.”

It was a quiet word, clipped and final. But he saw the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she’d fought the instinct to say something more. She didn’t look at him. Just kept her gaze pinned to the camp, unblinking.

They hadn’t spoken much these past three days. A few words here and there—mostly strategy, mostly practical. Nothing personal. And nothing like before.

Azriel should’ve expected it. After the night in the House—her voice cold and furious as she called both he and Cassian out—something had shifted. Not her proximity. She hadn’t pulled away from him physically. She still sat close. Still stood beside him when they scouted, shoulder brushing his as they moved. But she had turned inward again. No more teasing, no sly glances from beneath her lashes.

He hadn’t known how much he missed it until it was gone.

His shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, as if they too noticed the subtle shift in her. They slid toward her without being asked, brushing against her arm before retreating, like they couldn’t help themselves.

Azriel could relate.

He was aware of her in the same way he was aware of the hilt of his blade, of the pulse of danger in a room. Every breath she took. Every shift of her body. When she leaned slightly closer to speak again—though she didn’t—his entire focus narrowed. Her thigh brushed his, and he barely kept his own from twitching in response.

The tether between them thrummed, faint and constant.

Silence stretched between them. Azriel didn’t know how long it had lasted—five minutes, ten—but the weight of it had begun to press against his ribs. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just… solid. Dense in a way that made it hard to breathe evenly. He shifted the angle of his head by a fraction, barely enough to break the stillness, and murmured, “Two more at the north gate. She’s keeping the same pattern as last time.”

Anything to fill the silence between them.

Elara didn’t startle, didn’t even glance his way. Her voice was as quiet as his when she replied, “They’ve rotated that tall male with the scar under his eye. He’s Briallyn’s second now.” A pause. Then, softer still, “He limps on his left side.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked toward her. She was crouched low beside him, weight balanced perfectly, eyes scanning the valley below with that eerie, assassin’s calm. Not surprised. Just impressed. Again. It shouldn’t have startled him anymore—her precision, her attention to the smallest things—but it still hit him like a blade slipping between his ribs when he least expected it.

“You think she’s planning to move soon?” he asked, voice pitched for her ears alone.

Elara hummed, the sound low in her throat. “Too many scouts coming and going. Something’s already in motion.”

“Either that,” he said, “or they’re waiting for us.”

He didn’t miss the way her jaw tightened slightly at that. It was a risk, returning to the foothills after the last encounter. A bigger one, maybe, now that Briallyn knew who they were, what they’d come for. But Rhysand had been clear: observe only. Don’t provoke. Don’t get drawn in. Azriel hated how close it still felt, despite that.

Beside him, Elara shifted—barely more than a scrape of her boot against stone as she leaned forward again. The sound was swallowed by his shadows before it could echo, but still he noticed. Her eyes moved slowly, sweeping from the perimeter to the command tent. Every inch of her was controlled, calculated, sharp.

“No change,” she said, almost absently.

Azriel nodded once, his attention returning to the shadows that clung to them like a second skin. He kept them tight tonight, strung around them with expert care—muffling scent, muting sound, cloaking them from view. An invisible barrier that kept them from repeating the mistakes made the last time they were here.

But the shadows had begun to shift. It was subtle at first. A wisp of movement curling low across the stone between them, then another—brushing the edge of her wrist where the glove ended. Curious. Gentle. Like wind across water. Azriel frowned. Not because he feared they’d be seen—the shadows would never betray him that way—but because he hadn’t asked them to do it.

He tried to call them back, to still them.

They didn’t listen.

Ours, they whispered, curling tighter around her. Warm. Strong. Lovely.

He exhaled through his nose, barely audible. Not now, he wanted to tell them. Not here. But still they lingered. Wrapping a thread around her boot. Trailing across the hilt of the dagger at her thigh. Touching without touching.

Elara didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she did and simply allowed it. There was no flinch, no glance down. She remained utterly focused, eyes narrowed on the flickering firelight far below.

He grit his teeth as one of the shadows slid further up her sleeve, slipping between the folds of leather and cloth like it belonged there. The movement was slow, almost indulgent. Another tendril curled around the braid draped over her shoulder, tugging once—testing the weight of it—before settling again.

Elara glanced down at the shadow curling along her arm, her brow twitching the faintest bit. “Is this… normal?” she asked, her voice calm. She didn’t sound accusatory, or concerned. Just curious, which somehow made it worse.

Azriel didn’t answer right away. He watched as another thread of darkness drifted along the inside of her elbow, brushing the tender skin there. It hovered for a breath, then curled inward like it was listening to the thrum of blood in her veins.

“They’ve been doing this for the last ten minutes,” she added, tone still even. She didn’t meet his eyes, gaze fixed instead on the valley below, where Briallyn’s camp slept under moonlight. “Figured I’d wait to ask. But if I should be alarmed, now would be the time to say something.”

“They’re not a threat,” Azriel said quietly.

Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Didn’t say they were.”

“They don’t usually act like this,” he admitted, shifting his weight slightly. The stone beneath them was cold, but her presence was warm against his side. “Not even with me.”

Her head tilted a fraction, though her attention never left the shadows still curling around her wrist. “But they are now.”

He nodded once. He couldn’t deny it.

The shadow along her wrist had gone still now, settled like it had found a pulse to rest against.

Elara stared at it for a long moment. “They don’t trust me,” she murmured, and there was no sharpness in her voice. No wounded pride. Just the flat weight of certainty, of a truth already lived with and accepted.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. That wasn’t it. That had never been it. But the truth was heavy, and it curled behind his teeth like smoke. It wasn’t mistrust that made the shadows behave like this.

It was the bond.

It was her.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t react beyond the slightest furrow of her brow, too faint to be read.

He watched the darkness slip around her fingers, resting there like it had always belonged. She was fierce, yes. She was dangerous. She had done things he could never condone in another. But none of that mattered.

He loved her.

Even now, it was killing him—that she didn’t know. That she sat beside him with her body angled just enough toward him to feel like closeness, but her mind felt miles away. That she thought the shadows hovered out of suspicion, not reverence. That she didn’t realize they weren’t circling because they feared her—but because she was his.

Another shadow slipped along the length of her braid, trailing over the dark strands like it was learning the texture by touch. She felt it. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t swat it away.

“Maybe you should listen to them,” she said quietly.

Azriel’s brow furrowed. His body stilled. “What does that mean?”

She didn’t turn to look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the flickering orange glow of the campfires below, as though it were easier to watch the enemy than to face him.

“You’re too trusting,” she said. Her voice was steady, but it lacked its usual edge. No bite, no challenge. Just tired truth. “Too willing to forgive the person I was. After everything I’ve done.”

His jaw flexed.

“You decided I’m not a threat,” she continued, still quiet. “So that’s it. Decision made. You’ve already... moved on.” A pause, and then softer, almost an afterthought, “Maybe they haven’t.”

Azriel’s throat worked. He wanted to curse. Wanted to haul her around to face him and demand she understand—that they didn’t shy from her, didn’t circle like wolves about to attack. The shadows curled around her because they knew what she was to him. Because they felt it, the way he did, deep in his blood and bones. The pull. The promise. The ache.

But he didn’t say any of it.

Elara shifted forward again, slow and fluid, resting her elbows on her knees. Her chin tilted slightly as she scanned the perimeter, her face unreadable in the dark. Like the conversation had already been folded up and tucked away. Like it hadn’t mattered.

“They’re smarter than you give them credit for,” she murmured. “More honest.”

Azriel’s fingers curled into the edge of the stone ledge. “They’re not afraid of you.”

“Doesn’t mean they trust me.”

That hit. Sharp and clean, straight beneath the ribs. He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight enough to ache.

“You think I should treat you like you’re still Munin.”

Her laugh wasn’t a laugh. Just a breath, sharp and hollow. “No,” she said. “I think you should stop pretending I’m not her.”

“You’re not her,” he said roughly.

She finally turned to him, not with defiance but something quieter. Worn-down. Unforgiving.

“I wore her face for years,” she said. “Did her work. Killed who she was told to kill. I didn’t just play a part—I was her. It doesn’t matter if I have memories that were stolen from me. She's still under my skin, Shadowsinger. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to look at her and explain that it didn’t matter. That he’d take the blood on her hands, the broken pieces, the worst of her, and still choose her. That he already had.

She exhaled, slow and steady, like the breath had been sitting in her chest too long.

“It’s easier for everyone to pretend to move on than to admit what I really did.” Her voice was even, but there was something brittle tucked beneath the words. “You included.”

Azriel didn’t look at her right away. His eyes stayed trained on the camp below—on the torchlight flickering against tents and shifting figures. But from the corner of his vision, he caught the movement. The subtle way her fingers toyed with the leather bracelet at her wrist.

He recognized it instantly, though he hadn’t seen it in centuries. The day they thought she’d died… that was the only time he’d seen it up close. It had been bloodstained then, mud crusted and half-torn, found shoved into a mouth burned beyond all recognition. A mouth they believed to be Elara’s.

When Rhys had broken down at the realization that his sister was gone, he’d explained the bracelet. Said it had been a gift from her lover. The male who’d died trying to save him from Hybern during the War.

Azriel ground his jaw as she twisted the leather tighter around her wrist. The same wrist his shadows still circled. He pushed the ache down. Pushed past the sharp bite of something too close to jealousy. Jealousy of a male who’d been dead for five hundred years. Who’d died loving her.

The quiet that followed settled over them like mist—soft, but suffocating.

He didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t know how to reach across the fault line between what she believed about herself and what he knew to be true. That she was his. That was why he trusted her.

“You think I’m wrong?” she asked, not sharply.

“No,” he said, the word low and thick in his throat. “I think you’re trying not to let yourself believe I could be right.”

That made her turn. Not just a glance—she looked at him, fully. Something flickered in her face, something uncertain. As if she hadn’t expected the honesty.

Her eyes locked on his, and in the dim light, it felt like the breath between them changed. The look she gave him—gods, that look—like she could see through every armored layer he’d spent centuries building. As if she were trying to memorize whatever she saw beneath.

Her breath caught.

And maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the closeness—the way their knees nearly brushed, the way the wind had gone still. Maybe it was the way his shadows refused to leave her alone, coiling around her wrist with a soft kind of insistence. Like they weren’t just acting on their own anymore. Like they were responding to his pull, not just their own instinct.

She looked at him like she might speak again. Like something hovered just behind her teeth, waiting. A question, maybe. Or an accusation. Or that quiet, sharp thing she sometimes did—where she cut through him without drawing blood.

But she didn’t say anything.

Her gaze lingered, though. Too steady. Too focused. Like she was trying to work out the reason behind every glance he gave her, every step he’d taken to follow her here. Why he hadn’t left, even when she’d given him every excuse to.

Azriel didn’t move. His hand hovered near hers, fingers close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. If he shifted even slightly, their hands would brush.

He watched her mouth as she exhaled—slow and shallow, as if breathing too deeply might break whatever this was. The space between them had collapsed into something too charged, too tight. His shadows wound low around her hips, like they didn’t know whether to cling or retreat.

She didn’t pull away.

His head dipped the slightest bit. His palm brushed her knuckles. Her breath caught. Not loud—but he felt it. Saw the way her lashes lifted, the way her lips parted just enough to make room for the words she never said.

And then—

A shout cut through the trees.

Not close, not far. Somewhere down the ridge. Male voices. The snap of leaves beneath boots.

Elara’s body went still in an instant. Her head turned sharply toward the sound, braid shifting over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed, and whatever softness had been blooming in her face was gone.

“Patrol’s shifting,” she said tightly, already rising to a crouch. “They’ll sweep through here if we wait.”

Azriel followed her lead, scanning the tree line as his hand instinctively reached for the hilt at his back. The shadows flared, alert. “We’ll need to winnow. Quietly.”

She was already beside him, slipping through the brush with a predator’s grace. Her hand found his shoulder as he straightened—light contact, but grounding nonetheless.

“We’ll have to winnow,” he said, voice low. “Quietly.”

He slid his arm around her waist. She fit there like she always had, like she’d never left that space. Just before the shadows wrapped around them, she spoke—soft and wry.

“Maybe next time,” she said, “we don’t wait until we’re they’re almost here to notice them.”

Then the forest dissolved into shadow.

---

The roasted vegetables had gone cold, but Cassian didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

“So,” he said around a mouthful of chicken, elbow resting against the wood of the table, “is there anything new to report? Any word on Eris’ soldiers?”

Elara sat across from him, one elbow braced on the edge of the low table, her eyes fixed on the half-eaten contents of her plate. Her fork had been idle for at least ten minutes. She’d only touched the potatoes. Azriel sat beside her—close, but not close enough to feel the brush of his shoulder against hers.

“We didn’t find anything,” she said, voice flat. She lifted her glass and took a sip she didn’t need, the cool wine bitter against her tongue.

Azriel gave a single nod of confirmation. He hadn’t spoken since they’d sat down. Shadows flickered faintly at his shoulders, but they weren’t restless like earlier—no lazy coils slipping into her hair or tracing the edge of her sleeve. They stayed tight to him tonight, like they’d exhausted themselves with their more curious habits.

She was grateful for it. Grateful, too, that Cassian had joined them.

She’d been avoiding Azriel. Not openly. Not in a way that anyone could call her out for. But after the moment at the training ring—after the way she’d looked at him, after she realized that she was attracted to him—she hadn’t trusted herself not to ask questions she had no business voicing. Those three days on the Continent had been long. Long, and quiet. She’d spoken when she had to. Nothing more.

Cassian made it easier. His loudness left less room for things unspoken.

Cassian narrowed his eyes, swallowing another bite. “Nothing? Nothing about the Dread Trove?”

“There were some guards,” she said, setting down her glass. “Some patrol changes. We were lucky we didn’t freeze from the excitement.”

He snorted, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re getting better at sarcasm.”

“I’ve had decent examples.” She rested her chin in her hand, fingers curled beneath her jaw. She meant it—mostly. Cassian’s humor wasn’t always subtle, but it had a rhythm she was starting to follow. And he’d started turning it on her lately. Not with mockery, but with something else. Inclusion. His jabs had softened from wary to familiar.

That meant something, didn’t it?

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, studying the way he nudged a roll across his plate, how he deliberately avoided looking at Azriel as he spoke. Maybe he could feel the tension, too. Or maybe he was just trying to make this easier for both of them.

Azriel shifted beside her, not enough to break the quiet, but she felt it—an awareness that prickled along her spine. He hadn’t touched his food. Hadn’t spoken since the first report. His presence pulsed at the edge of her thoughts, steady and silent and impossible to ignore.

Cassian reached for another slice of bread. “Still,” he said, “better quiet than ambushed. I’ll take that as a win.”

Elara gave a noncommittal hum. Her eyes flicked to Azriel's hands, resting on his thighs, the shadows curling around his wrists like lazy cats.

Cassian chuckled and took a drink, the rim of his glass catching the firelight. “See, this is nice. The three of us, dinner, no blood, no dramatics. Almost feels like the war is over and we’re just—” He made a vague motion with his fingers, circling the air. “Friends.”

Azriel’s fork paused against his plate. The slight scrape of metal on ceramic was the only reply.

Elara didn’t say anything either. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t say you two might be friends or remind Cassian that less than a year ago, she had stood on the other side of the battlefield, ready to bring their court to its knees.

She kept her face neutral, passed the carrots without hesitation. She was trying. Really trying. Sitting here, chewing through overcooked squash and nodding like she belonged—like her hands hadn’t been stained by a different banner. It was harder when they said things like that. Words like friends that lodged deep in the bone and made her feel like she was playacting someone else's life.

Cassian’s foot nudged hers under the table, just enough to break the silence.

“You get weirdly quiet whenever I say something sentimental,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Makes me think you might not actually like me.”

She glanced at him, arching a brow. “What makes you think I do?”

That earned a bark of laughter, loud and easy. Azriel’s mouth twitched—barely—but she saw it. The briefest curve at the edge, like even he wasn’t immune to Cassian’s relentless charm. The fire crackled again behind them, its warmth soft against her back. Garlic and rosemary lingered in the air from the kitchen, and her glass was still half-full.

For a moment, she could almost pretend. Almost believe the illusion they were creating—three warriors, seated in a house far from battlefields, sharing roasted carrots and biting remarks. It reminded her of the nights on the Continent, when Clotilda would throw open the windows and let the dusk air in, and Dorothye would scold her for burning the onions. Nights where the only thing she’d needed to worry about was whether there’d be enough bread to go around.

Then—the door opened.

Elara stiffened before she even looked. Her body reacted before her mind caught up, a breath held tight in her chest. The shift in air. The tread of boots she hadn’t heard approach.

Nesta stepped in.

Elara didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The fire behind them crackled still—but Elara couldn’t hear it anymore. Or maybe she just couldn’t feel the warmth.

Cassian straightened.

“Nesta,” he said, voice gentling in that way Elara had never heard him use on anyone else.

Wrapped in a dark blue sweater, her hair pulled into a loose knot that looked more like an afterthought than a style, Nesta looked like she hadn’t meant to join them until the last second. Maybe not even then. Her steps were careful.

Her gaze swept the table.

It landed on Elara. Not in surprise. Not even in acknowledgment. Just landed—and moved on.

Elara didn’t look away. She’d done that once. The first time Nesta had looked at her like that in the House of Wind, like she was something scraped off the sole of a boot. And Elara had dropped her gaze, as if submission could erase what she’d done. It hadn’t helped.

Nesta’s hate wasn’t something to be softened. Wasn’t something to dodge or plead against. It would burn through pity, through apology, through time.

And maybe—maybe Elara didn’t want it to stop.

Beside her, Azriel shifted. Just a fraction, so slight she wouldn’t have noticed if she weren’t already attuned to the exact cadence of his presence. The subtle pull of air, the brush of shadows near her elbow. She didn’t look at him, but she felt the awareness between them, taut as a wire.

Cassian, trying to smooth the crackle in the room, said brightly, “There’s food, if you want to join.” He gestured at the spread—bread, half-eaten roasted vegetables, the bowl of cold lentils no one had touched.

“No,” Nesta said at last, her voice flat but not sharp. “I’m not hungry.”

Cassian didn’t falter. If anything, his grin widened. “We’re a delight, really. You’ll love it.”

“I doubt that.” But she pulled out a chair anyway. Sat at the far end of the table, her shoulders squared like she was bracing for a blow.

Elara kept her posture easy, her limbs relaxed. Or appeared to be. She wasn’t sure anyone at the table would be fooled, least of all Azriel. Her back remained straight, her breathing steady, but she didn’t trust her voice. Didn’t trust her expression not to crack and betray the cold twist in her gut. Nesta’s presence scraped at the edges of something raw. The memory of watching Nesta disappear into that black water.

She hadn’t stopped thinking about that moment. And Nesta hadn’t forgotten who had dragged her there.

Azriel said nothing. He never did in these moments. His plate was mostly untouched, fork pushed to the side. His shadows, subdued earlier, curled lightly around his shoulder again, sensing the shift.

Cassian reached across the table, fingers brushing against a cloth napkin as he slid a slice of bread onto Nesta’s plate. “We were just discussing how Elara and Az managed to stake out an entire encampment without finding anything. Riveting spy work.”

Elara let herself rise to Cassian’s bait. She dipped a roasted parsnip in the oil, watching it drip back onto the plate before answering. “We did find out Briallyn’s guards enjoy standing around and doing nothing.”

Beside her, Azriel exhaled—so quiet she almost missed it.

“Thrilling intelligence,” Cassian said, gesturing with his glass. “I’m sure Rhys will be grateful.”

Nesta said nothing. She reached for the glass of water that had appeared before her. Her shoulders, tense beneath the thick sweater, didn’t loosen even when she sipped.

Elara’s appetite vanished. The roasted carrots on her plate might as well have been ash. The air had shifted again—heavier now, weighted with everything that wasn’t being said. She knew what Nesta saw when she looked at her.

She was Elain being ripped from her arms. She was screams in the dark. The Cauldron. The scent of blood on a stone floor. She was everything Nesta had lost and could not forget.

Cassian, still trying to keep the conversation above water, nodded toward Nesta’s untouched plate. “You should eat. It’s not poison. Unless Az cooked.”

Azriel didn’t rise to it. He hadn’t moved much at all, save for the slight flex of his jaw. Maybe once, they had traded those kinds of jabs, maybe in a time before things had grown so brittle and sharp between them. But Azriel wasn’t laughing now.

Cassian leaned back, fixing Elara with a grin that felt a little forced. “I still don’t know how you’re putting up with him, Elara. Az is about as cheerful as a rock.”

Elara looked up at him slowly. Her voice came out dry, unbothered. “You say that like rocks aren’t better company than you.”

Beside her, Azriel stilled.

Then—Nesta made a sound.

Not a word. Not quite a laugh. But it was real—a quick, involuntary breath through her nose, too loud to be hidden, too quiet to be intentional. It twisted her mouth at one corner, the barest hint of amusement tugging there. Like she hadn’t meant to find it funny. But she had.

Cassian turned to her, eyebrows raised. Startled, but visibly pleased.

Nesta didn’t look at him. Just lifted her glass and sipped, as if the sound had come from someone else entirely. Her posture didn’t soften, not fully. Her face didn’t warm. But when her eyes flicked back to Elara, they didn’t burn. Not like before. There was no warmth there—but the white-hot fury had cooled, banked behind something calmer.

Not forgiveness. Not understanding.

But maybe—maybe something less than hate.

Chapter 67

“Nesta has to start looking for the Trove,” Amren said, her voice flat, sharp, almost bored. She didn’t glance up from her drink. The firelight reflected off the wineglass in Amren’s hand as she tilted it, letting the red liquid swirl in slow, idle circles.

The table stretched long and polished beneath golden light, the River House dining room quiet save for the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. Plates were half-cleared. The scent of rosemary, lemon, and char lingered in the air—leftovers from a roasted bird someone had carved clean. Laughter had come earlier. Now it was silence that reigned, sharpened by the chill threading beneath Amren’s voice.

Cassian shifted beside Elara, the sound of his leathers creaking too loud in the tense silence that followed. “Nesta’s been looking,” he said gruffly. “Don’t push her.”

Elara said nothing, though her gaze drifted toward him.

The defensive set of his shoulders was already there—tight, raised like he was waiting for another blow. She didn’t disagree with him, not this time. Still, she wasn’t sure how hard Nesta had actually been trying. Reading through dry tomes in the House of Wind wasn’t the same as a hunt. Not the way Elara understood it. But she didn’t voice that—not here, not surrounded by Rhysand’s Inner Circle, not with her brother sitting across from her, looking every inch the High Lord.

“She’s had the priestesses researching for her,” Rhys said from her left, swirling his own wine without taking a sip. “I hardly call that looking.”

Elara’s spine straightened. There was nothing openly cruel in his tone—just cool disdain. Her mouth pressed into a line, but she said nothing. Because technically, he wasn’t wrong. Nesta wasn’t exactly out in the wild, chasing shadows of the Trove. But Rhys saying it like that—in that voice, with Cassian seated right there—it wasn’t helpful. Not to anyone.

Cassian didn’t respond. But Elara caught the tic in his jaw, the way his hands curled slightly against his thighs. His breathing had shifted. Azriel, seated silent as ever on the other side of her, didn’t so much as blink. His expression remained unreadable, carved in stone.

Then Varian—poised and elegant as ever, his presence next to Amren somehow always subdued, despite his rank—lifted his gaze from his plate. “You still haven’t asked Helion to research the Trove in his libraries?”

A valid question. But it sent a ripple through Elara. Her attention flicked to him, sharp and fast. She didn’t understand it—why Rhys had allowed her to remain in the room when Varian was here. For all his veiled warnings, for all the secrecy he’d insisted on about her presence in Velaris, he didn’t seem to mind that the Summer Court prince had a full seat at this table.

Still. It was a good question.

“Helion is a last resort,” Rhysand said, swirling the wine in his glass with a casual flick of his wrist. “I’ve already called in a favor with him, and I’m hesitant to ask for another.”

The words were smooth, measured, almost careless—but his eyes flicked toward her for the briefest second.

And Elara knew.

She remembered the Day Court’s golden light, the smooth marble, the scent of citrus and sea. She remembered the stillness in the air when Azriel had found her, when she had been brought into Helion’s office as a prisoner.  The negotiations behind closed doors that had stretched on for hours. She had assumed Rhys had simply called in a debt. But not the kind that came with warnings.

She’d never asked what it had cost.

Her spine lengthened almost imperceptibly as she shifted in her chair, her body straightening in the same way it once had before a blade strike. She didn’t say a word. Just lifted her hand to fiddle with the leather bracelet at her wrist. She looped her thumb beneath it, turned the strap over once. Twice.

Rhys continued, as if that glance had never happened. “But it may come to it in a matter of days if Nesta does not at least attempt scrying. I’d have Elain try her hand before we approach him, though.”

The table had gone still, save for the steady clink of Varian’s spoon against the edge of his teacup. Elara’s gaze flicked toward Cassian—who looked as though he might snap the stem of his glass if he gripped it any tighter.

“Nesta will do it,” he said, the edge in his voice restrained but raw. “If only to keep Elain from putting herself at risk. But you have to understand—Nesta was deeply affected by what happened during the war. Elain was taken by the Cauldron after she scried. You can’t blame her for hesitating.”

“I don’t have the luxury of indulging her hesitation,” Rhys said, setting his fork down quietly.  The calmness in his tone was worse than fury. “We’re running out of time. If she won’t act, we already know Elain will.”

Elara stopped mid-motion, her fork halfway to her mouth. She hadn’t realized she’d picked it up again. Rhys’s words echoed, heavy and bitter in her ears. She didn’t look at Azriel, though she felt him still beside her. Shadows ghosted along the curve of his neck, dark and barely there.

“You can’t be serious,” Cassian said, his voice quieter now, low and dangerous. That anger had shifted—less about Nesta now, and more about whatever Rhysand had just implied about Elain. “You’d send her in before giving Nesta a real chance?”

“I’m not interested in placating Nesta’s pride,” Rhys replied.

Something in Elara’s chest twisted at that. Not because she thought he was wrong—but because she knew exactly what Nesta would hear in those words. Pride. As if it hadn’t been pain all along.

Azriel’s shoulder brushed hers. Barely a shift—no more than the whisper of linen against her arm—but Elara felt it anyway. It wasn’t accidental. It was more like a quiet signal, maybe, or some instinct catching fire just before the strike. As if, even before she did, he knew what she was about to do.

But she didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Rhysand’s voice still echoed in the hush left behind.

“You’re a hypocrite,” she said. She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t slam a fist down or spit the words like a curse. But they landed with weight all the same.

Silence snapped across the table. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to falter. Chairs didn’t creak. No one breathed. Every gaze turned toward her. She didn’t shrink under it. Not this time. But the thud of her pulse—thick, unrelenting—made her feel as though she’d just stepped off a cliff and was still waiting to hit the ground.

Rhys’s head swiveled, slowly towards her. The flicker of violet in his eyes was unreadable, but the silence that followed stretched thin and sharp as a wire. She hadn’t, in all of her fractured memories, ever seen her brother like this. She’d seen him surprised, of course, and angry with her —she hadn’t been able to forget that birthday he discovered her and Conn since the memory had come back to her. But here he was — Rhysand, the High Lord.

“Excuse me?” he said.

She met his gaze without flinching. Her hands were loose in her lap. Her spine held straight. But her pulse thundered against her ribs like it had somewhere to run.

“You’re quick to forgive me,” she said. “To sit me at this table. Let me stay in your home. Act like I belong here—when I’ve done far worse things than Nesta ever has.”

And she had. Mother above, she had. The memory of it never truly left her—faces she couldn’t name anymore, lives cut short by her hand. The truth of it hung there, ugly and heavy, and she didn’t look away from it. Didn’t look to Cassian, whose hands had gone still beside his plate. Didn’t look at Azriel, though she could feel the tension in him, quiet and coiled.

Rhys didn’t answer immediately. She watched the minute shift of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped once against his glass before stilling.

“That’s different,” he said finally. “You were—”

“Controlled?” she cut in, soft and cutting. Her laugh was low. Dry. There was no real sound to it. “You keep saying that. And I keep telling you I was still the one who did it. I spilled blood that will never come off my hands, and you let it go. You told me I deserved peace. You told me I was more than what they made me into.”

And she had wanted to believe him. Stars, she'd wanted it with a desperation that shamed her. But how could she take the gift of forgiveness when it was being withheld from someone else? Someone who deserved it far more than Elara had?

“You are,” Rhys said, the word hard as flint.

“So is Nesta.”

That stopped everything. Across the table, Amren’s eyes were narrowed, unreadable. Cassian looked like he was trying not to move at all. Even Varian, silent at Amren’s side, kept his gaze fixed on the center of the table, the lines around his mouth tense.

Azriel didn’t speak. But his hand, resting beside hers, curled slightly on the polished wood—close enough that if she moved her pinky half an inch, she could have touched him.

“She was thrown into the Cauldron,” Elara continued. Her voice was steady, low. “Something that I had a hand in. She clawed her way out. And when she lashed out—when she shut everyone out—you called her difficult. And now you want her to use the very magic that scares her. That reminds her of that time. And when she hesitates, you threaten to use her sister?”

Across from her, Rhysand’s jaw worked once, a flicker of movement too tight to be casual.

“This isn’t about punishment,” he said, clipped. “It’s about the safety of this court—”

“Is it?” Elara leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table with a deliberateness that felt dangerous even to herself. “Because if it is, you can go to Helion and ask for use of his libraries.”

She didn’t need to look at him to feel the ripple of irritation in the way his power shifted—barely, but there.

“Instead,” she continued, “you want Nesta to scry—to do something that terrifies her. But if Nesta were a little quieter, a little more palatable—you’d treat her the way you treat me.”

The silence returned. Not the stunned kind this time, but the brittle, coiled sort that suggested something had snapped beneath the surface. Across the table, Cassian’s expression was unreadable. Beside her, Azriel stirred. She didn’t have to look to know the warning in his eyes.

“Elara,” he murmured, soft enough that only she could hear it. Her name in his voice wasn’t harsh—but it was meant to stop her.

It didn’t.

Amren reclined in her chair with the slow grace of a predator settling into the dirt, swirling her wine with a sharp smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re quick to defend someone who wanted to kill you the moment she laid eyes on you, girl,” she said. “You forget how she treated you?”

“I deserved it,” Elara replied. The words left her lips before she could weigh them, but there was no use pretending they weren’t true. And she meant them. Every time she saw Nesta’s face—those cool eyes narrowing in disdain, the way her mouth had curled like Elara was something that needed to be removed—she thought: Good. She should hate me.

“Is that so?” Amren’s voice dipped.

Elara set her fork down with care, the metal soft against the wood. Her fingers drifted to the strip of leather tied around her wrist, and she began to twist it—slowly, rhythmically, grounding herself in the movement. A habit she’d never quite broken.

“I helped kidnap her. They may have given me the order, but I planned it. I staked out the Archeron house for days to do it the most efficient way possible.” she said. No embellishment. No softness to the words. She wanted everyone to hear it stated plainly, so they could see just what kind of person she had been. “Helped force her into the Cauldron. And Elain, too.”

“Even if I didn’t push them in myself,” she went on, “even if I was following orders—I didn’t stop it. Didn’t try. I watched it happen.”

Her eyes lifted to Amren’s, slow and steady. “So if Nesta wants to glare at me like she’s imagining my throat under her nails, she can. She’s earned it.”

The table held its breath. Forks hung midair, firelight flickering across the length of polished wood and half-drained glasses. Even the candles seemed to dim, their flames swaying but not crackling, like they, too, were waiting.

Across from her, Cassian didn’t speak. Just watched her, still and unreadable.

Then—barely—his brows knit. A flicker of something moved behind his eyes. Not softness, not quite, but something adjacent. Understanding, maybe. Gratitude buried under pride. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. The kind a soldier gave another across a field, after surviving something bloody and long.

Elara didn’t return it. The knot in her throat pressed against her breath, but she kept her shoulders level, her hands still.

Azriel hadn’t moved beside her. Not even a shift of his boots, or the soft drag of leather. But she felt him. Then a shadow slipped along her plate. Featherlight, coiling in toward her elbow. Another curled toward her wrist, brushing over her skin like silk through water—slow, tentative, asking.

Her thumb, resting in her lap, stilled on the worn leather wrapped around her wrist. That quiet touch—nothing more than air and magic—anchored her in a way no words could. Azriel didn’t speak. Didn’t even glance her way. But she felt him beside her like a second spine. Like if the world pushed, he’d press back.

Rhys still hadn’t looked away. The High Lord’s stare cut sharp across the table, but Elara refused to meet it. She didn’t want to see what flickered behind those violet eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or doubt. She wasn’t sure which would burn worse.

Then Cassian cleared his throat, grabbed a hunk of bread, and dragged it through the last streak of sauce on his plate with unnecessary force.

“I hate when the dinner table gets emotional,” he muttered, ripping off a piece. “Makes the food taste like ass.”

The words cracked the silence like a blade tapped on glass. Varian snorted—an unguarded, startled laugh—and shook his head, muttering something in Summer Court dialect Elara didn’t catch. Amren leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine with an amused, knowing smirk.

The tension didn’t vanish entirely. But it cracked, thinned. Gave way to the smallest breath of air between them all.

Elara’s hand fell back to her lap. Azriel’s shadows slid away, no protest in their retreat.

But the place they’d touched—bare skin above her wrist—still tingled like memory.

---

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warmth casting flickering shadows across the stone floor. Beyond the tall windows, the night had quieted, Velaris folded in on itself beneath the stars. Even the city lights seemed subdued—faint smudges in the distance.

Elara stood near the far bookshelf, one hand braced lightly on the carved edge. Her gaze drifted over the spines lined in neat, deliberate rows—histories, old philosophical treatises, well-worn volumes of poetry. The scent of cedar and old paper clung to the room, comforting and faintly nostalgic.

Behind her, crystal clinked. A decanter’s stopper drawn free.

“Still prefer the liquor in my study,” Rhysand said, his voice mild as always. As if they hadn’t just come from a dinner where everything had nearly unraveled. He poured the whiskey in silence, two fingers into each glass.

She turned as he held one out to her. The glass was cool against her palm, solid and cut clean, catching the firelight in fractured lines. She took a sip. It burned. Good. Let it sting.

Rhys sat on the edge of the armchair opposite hers, crossing one leg over the other. He didn’t drink yet. Just held the glass loosely in one hand, gaze unreadable.

Then he said, too evenly, “You shouldn’t have undermined me.”

Her gaze didn’t lift. She turned the glass slowly in her hand, watching the light catch the rim, the slow whirl of the liquid inside. “You mean I shouldn’t have told the truth.”

A beat passed. Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass, but she didn’t drink. “I meant what I said.”

“I know that you did.” Too calm. That tone of his—that diplomatic, court-ready tone—wasn’t for her, and they both knew it. But he used it anyway, like distance could keep the moment from unraveling.

Elara finally lifted the glass again. The whiskey burned its way down, clean and harsh, grounding. She let it settle before she looked at him, “Why am I here, Rhys?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t so much as shift in his chair.

“You mean tonight, or in general?”

“Both.”

Rhys leaned back. Not relaxing—just repositioning. One arm draped over the side of the chair, the other holding the glass near his knee. He stared into it, as if it might offer better answers for her.

“You’re here because you’re my sister,” he said at last. “This is your home. Despite what you think about what you deserve.”

Elara didn’t have a reply for that. She just sat back in the chair, letting the firelight paint her cheekbones in shifting gold and shadow. Rhys’s eyes remained on her, the same unreadable violet as the upholstery, but edged now with something sharper beneath the surface. The faint clink of ice settling in his glass cut through the quiet. He went on, “But you can’t challenge me in front of everyone like that. Not when tensions are already high. Especially when Varian is there.”

Elara’s gaze didn’t shift from the hearth. She didn’t blink. “You didn’t seem too concerned about Nesta’s tensions.”

A pause followed. Brief, but heavy. Rhys went still. Not dramatically. Just a subtle halt in movement. Even the swirl of whiskey in his glass stopped. She didn’t look. She didn’t need to. She knew the expression he wore—the one that meant she’d struck a nerve.

Rhys set his glass down, the soft tap of crystal against wood too controlled to be casual. “I know you think I’m being unfair to her.”

Elara didn’t look at him. The flames were easier to focus on. Easier to read. “A little.”

“I’m harder on her than I am on you,” he said after a moment, words delivered without apology. Just truth. “You think the two of you are the same. You’re not.”

Still, she gave no reply. Just the faint shift of her jaw, the glass still balanced loosely in her hand. Her silence wasn’t agreement, and it wasn’t defiance either. It was armor.

Her fingers curled slightly around the cut glass. The edges pressed faintly into her palm, a grounding point. She didn’t answer. She hadn’t decided if she wanted to.

“You both clawed your way out of something terrible, something you couldn’t control. But you’ve spent every breath since then punishing yourself,” he added, quieter now. “Nesta… pushes the blame out. You take it in.”

The words caught something low in her chest. That place where the breath never fully expanded. Her reply was quieter, but not soft. “This isn’t about me.”

“No?” There was no challenge in his tone now. Just something thoughtful. Heavy. “You stood up for her like it was.”

She didn’t look at him. She watched the fire instead, the slow ebb and pull of the flames along the logs. “It was about what you said. That’s all.”

Rhys didn’t answer. She could feel him studying her in that way he always had—as if reading what went unsaid was a language he’d grown fluent in, even if he wasn’t in her head. The firelight danced along the glass in her hand, catching and breaking apart in soft glints.

“You were cruel,” she said after a long pause, keeping her voice steady, “Unnecessarily.”

“She’s made herself impossible to reach,” Rhys said, voice low, not quite frustrated—tired, more than anything. He hadn’t moved from where he leaned against the desk, glass still untouched beside him. “What would you have me do?”

Elara didn’t answer right away. The fire cast long lines of gold and rust across the rug, and in the space between his question and her response, she counted the breaths she took to keep her own voice steady.

“She’s your family now, isn’t she?” she said, quiet but firm. “Treat her like it.”

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck in that way he did when the mask slipped just a little. “I didn’t bring you in here to fight.”

“Then don’t,” she said, lifting her glass, letting the rim tap gently against her lip though she didn’t drink. “Just tell me that I’m right.”

That startled a faint, reluctant smile from him. One that was barely there. “Mother above. You’re worse than Feyre.”

Elara’s brow arched slightly. “She doesn’t interrupt you at dinner?”

“Not in front of foreign princes,” Rhys said. “At least, not aloud.”

That earned him a small, flickering smirk. Brief as dusk on the sea—gone as quickly as it came, but it softened something at the edges of her face. The room felt less brittle for a moment, the tension slackening just enough to breathe.

But the moment didn’t linger. Rhys sobered again, rolling his glass between his palms. “I know I was hard on her. I’ll speak to Cassian.”

The words slipped out before she could weigh them. “Speak to Nesta.”

That pulled his gaze to hers again. A long pause followed, thick with the things neither of them had said over the years. His eyes searched her face—not for answers, maybe, but for whatever had made her say it like that.

“You’ve grown close to her,” he said.

“No.” The denial came too quickly. She caught it too late, the way her voice flattened, and looked away. “Not close. I think she’d still kill me if she could.”

Rhys said nothing, but didn’t look away.

“I just…” Elara’s fingers slid down the side of her glass. “I see her. A little.”

Rhys inclined his head. “She’d hate to hear that.”

“Probably.” Her mouth quirked again, but the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The quiet between them lingered, warm and steady, the whiskey dulling the sharper edges of the evening. The fire hummed in the hearth, crackling softly. Elara set her empty glass down on the desk, the gentle clink almost too loud in the stillness.

She didn’t look at Rhys when she spoke. “Where’s Feyre?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the faint narrowing of his gaze—just a flicker of surprise. Then he gave a quiet laugh, like the question had caught him off guard. “Sleeping, most likely,” he said. “The pregnancy’s made her tired, especially in the evenings.”

Elara nodded, her eyes trailing back to the fire. “She’s missed a few dinners lately.”

“She’s usually out by the time the sun’s down,” Rhys said, swirling the last inch of amber in his glass. The liquid caught the light, reflecting small bursts of gold.

Elara hesitated, fingers brushing the condensation ring her glass had left on the polished surface of the desk. “How is it going?” she asked, her voice low. “The pregnancy.”

She saw it in the shift of his posture—how his spine straightened, how the sharpness in his expression faded into something softer. The entire weight of him seemed to shift, his mouth relaxing around the quiet reverence that lined his next words.

“Well,” Rhys said, and there was something in his voice she hadn’t heard in a long time. Not just hope, but wonder. “We visited Madja this morning. She gave us the all clear.”

A breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding slipped out of her. The corners of her mouth lifted, almost without her permission.

“She says everything looks perfect. Feyre’s strong. And the baby is, too.”

Elara nodded once. It was the only gesture she could manage without cracking something open. “That’s… good.”

“It is.” The words came out soft, almost dazed, like they didn’t quite feel real yet. For a moment, the High Lord wasn’t seated across from her. It was just Rhys. Her brother. His expression open, tired in the way all expecting fathers probably were—eyes distant, heart full. “Madja thinks we’ll start to feel the wings develop soon.”

Elara blinked, caught off guard. “It’ll be born with wings?”

Rhys’s mouth pulled into a crooked smile, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Yes.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “That’s… dangerous, isn’t it? For the birth.”

“It can be,” he admitted, his tone dipping toward something more sober. “But Madja’s developed a technique. Something she’s refined over the years. She can use pain-dulling magic to shift the bone structure gradually, help the body prepare for it. It won’t be painless. But it won’t be like it was for others in the past.”

Elara let her gaze fall back to the ring of moisture left behind by her glass. She traced it idly with one fingertip, letting the silence return for a beat.

“Feyre isn’t scared?” she asked.

“She was, at first,” Rhys said quietly, his voice nearly lost beneath the soft hiss of the fire. He turned the glass absently in his hand, watching the last drop cling to the rim. “But she’s not anymore. She’s… calm about it. More determined for things to go smoothly than anyone else.”

Elara didn’t respond right away. The words pressed against something tight in her chest, a slow, aching pull that had nothing to do with the drink and everything to do with the way he’d said it—like he still couldn’t quite believe it. That Feyre had made peace with the fear. That she was holding steady in the storm.

“I’m glad she has you,” Elara said at last, quietly.

For a moment, Rhys didn’t answer. His expression shifted—subtly, but enough for her to notice. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes, some memory that passed through him without staying long enough to name.

“Me too,” he said.

The fire behind them cracked, a single log settling deeper into the embers with a low, popping sigh. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it held warmth, and weight, and something like mutual understanding.

Elara leaned back in her chair, just slightly, the leather creaking beneath her. “She’ll be a good mother.”

Rhys didn’t hesitate. “She already is.”

Elara smiled, a small curve of her lips that stayed this time. “And you’ll be a good father.”

The compliment caught him off guard. She could see it in the way his eyes widened slightly, the way his shoulders shifted—as if those words were still unfamiliar, still something he wasn’t sure he deserved. But he didn’t deflect or argue.

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he stepped forward, setting his glass aside on the desk.

When he opened his arms, it wasn’t hesitant, but it wasn’t forceful either. It was a quiet offer, one that left room for her to decide.

Elara stood slowly, heart ticking a little faster. But she didn’t back away as he reached for her, didn’t flinch when his arms came around her shoulders. The embrace was warm, steady. She let her head rest lightly against his chest, her hands relaxed at his sides.

She didn’t say anything more. Neither did he.

---

She didn’t expect the Shadowsinger to still be up.

The House had gone quiet long ago. The sitting room was nearly black, save for the pale sheen of moonlight pooling across the rug and glinting along the windows. She padded in barefoot, the cool floor now familiar beneath her feet, loose pants brushing her ankles as she crossed toward the faint light. A steaming mug nestled in her palms, the scent of chamomile curling upward.

Her hair was still damp at the ends, strands clinging to her shoulders and spine, unbraided, forgotten.

She hadn’t come down for company. After her conversation with Rhys, the silence of her bedroom had grown too heavy to bear—walls pressing in, ceiling feeling just slightly too low. She’d hoped for solitude, but she needed a wider space than the four walls allowed. Something to slow her racing thoughts, to settle her breath again.

But then she saw the shadows.

They stirred near the window first, unfurling from the darkness as she approached, and her body went tense before her eyes found him. Azriel stood with his back half-turned to the room, starlight catching on the edges of his jaw, the lines of his shoulders. His shirt hung open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the slight wrinkle of the fabric betraying how long he’d been there. His shadows were quieter now, more like mist than movement, shifting slow and idle at his back.

She froze without meaning to.

It was still a shock, sometimes, to see him this way. To feel her own reaction to him—unwanted, undeniable—knock through her like a pulse. Even when they worked side by side, even during tense dinners or guarded silences, she’d managed to maintain the illusion of distance. Of disinterest.

Azriel didn’t look over, but his voice came, low and calm, anyway, “Could hear you coming a hallway away.”

She stepped farther into the room, trying not to flinch at the sound of his voice. “I wasn’t trying to be quiet.”

That drew his gaze. His head turned, just slightly, enough that she could see the faint gleam of his eyes in the dark. “That’s new.”

She didn’t deign his comments about her avoidance of him with any sort of acknowledgement. Instead, Elara sank onto the couch without asking. The fire had been left low—just a soft cradle of embers glowing behind the grate, warmth lingering more than burning. She tucked one leg beneath her, mug balanced in her hands, and looked toward the male still standing at the window. “You always lurk like this?”

Azriel didn’t move at first. Then, without turning, his voice came low and dry. “I don’t lurk.”

“You’re staring into the dark with your arms crossed,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her mug. “That’s textbook lurking.”

A twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth, subtle as a shadow. She hated the way it made her stomach flip. Even now, after everything she’d endured at the hands of others, he could do that with a single glance. Or a near-smile that barely counted.

“You’re not sleeping either,” he said.

“Too much in my head,” she replied. Her fingers drifted to the leather bracelet at her wrist, the worn edges smooth beneath her thumb. She didn’t know why she always touched it when she was restless—only that it helped.

Azriel’s gaze lingered on the bracelet, then shifted back to her face. He didn’t ask what it meant, didn’t offer any questions.

“You?” she asked after a moment.

He nodded once. “Same.”

She looked toward the fire, watching the embers shift. “Dinner was... something.”

He let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a laugh and an exhale, and crossed the room. Instead of choosing the far armchair or the distant end of the couch, he sat beside her. Not close enough to touch, but not far either. His nearness felt deliberate, steady, and without any pressure behind it.

“You mean the part where you called the High Lord a hypocrite?” he said.

She gave a faint shrug. “He’ll get over it.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, though she could feel his attention still on her. When she glanced his way, she caught him looking again at the bracelet, his expression unreadable.

“He cares about you, you know,” Azriel said, his voice so quiet she nearly missed it under the soft crackle of the hearth.

Elara didn’t look at him. She stared at the embers instead, at the soft red pulses buried deep in the ash. “I know,” she said tightly. Her fingers still toying with the leather at her wrist. “Doesn’t mean what he’s doing is right. Treating Nesta any different than how he’s treating me.”

There was a pause, long enough that she wondered if he would answer at all. Then, “No. But he wants you here more than anything. I think he’s afraid you’ll disappear on him.”

Her jaw ached from how hard she clenched it. She didn’t need to be told that. She had known it the moment Rhys’s voice had gone quiet in that careful way—like she was a wounded thing that might bolt.

“I know that too,” she muttered.

Another silence settled between them, but it didn’t feel tense. Elara shifted slightly, stretching out her legs, letting her head fall back against the cushions. The hem of her pants rode up, and when she moved, the arch of her foot brushed lightly against his ankle. She felt the contact and stilled, expecting him to draw away—but he didn’t.

Instead, the quiet stretched. The fire gave off just enough warmth to keep the chill at bay, but the heat she noticed now didn’t come from the hearth. It came from him. The nearness of his body. The steadiness of it. There was no pressure, no expectation in his presence, but the flicker of contact had made her suddenly, painfully aware of how close he sat.

How long it had been since she’d let anyone stay this close.

She glanced over at him, catching the lines of his face in profile—half in shadow, half in soft gold from the nearest lamp. “You always just… sit like this?” she asked, voice light, a touch teasing. Anything to distract her from this feeling. “Brooding in corners, saying three words at a time?”

Azriel turned his head slightly. The movement was fluid, unhurried. “That a complaint?”

Her lips lifted, but she kept her gaze forward. “No,” she said, slower this time. “It’s just… you make it really hard for people to figure you out.”

One brow arched, subtle and amused. “People?”

“I meant… in general,” she said too quickly. From the corner of her eye, she saw the faint curve of his mouth—almost a smile, but not quite. But it was still there, and by the Cauldron, it did something to her. Twisted something low in her stomach she hadn’t let herself feel in too long.

She looked away before the words even finished leaving her mouth.

“I’m just saying. You’re very—" Her tongue moved faster than her common sense. “Mysterious. I’m sure it drives the females wild.”

Azriel blinked slowly as if her words took a moment to register. A full heartbeat passed. Then another. Elara froze. The heat started low, burning in her chest before crawling its way up her throat and into her cheeks. She cursed herself silently, gripping the edge of the blanket tucked beside her on the couch as if she could physically claw the words back.

“I meant—objectively,” she added, too quickly. “Just a general observation. Not… personal.”

Azriel’s expression didn’t shift much. Not really. But something in his eyes sharpened, the way it always did when he was paying attention to something no one else had noticed. And tonight, Elara hated him for it.

He repeated the word like it tasted different in his mouth. “Objectively.”

She stared at the fireplace, jaw tight. “You know what I meant.”

“I think I do,” he said, and the dryness in his voice threaded between amusement and something else—something unreadable. Her stomach twisted, nerves and something warmer tangling too tightly to separate.

Without looking at him, she stood, tugging the blanket off the back of the couch as a cover for her retreat. She folded it in half, then again, more sharply than necessary, pretending to straighten the cushions while her pulse beat in her ears. “I should get to bed.”

Azriel glanced up at her, still seated, his shadows curling behind him like smoke. They moved slow, easy, almost relaxed. “You sure?”

“Yeah. The House gave me chamomile. That means it’s time.” She gave a shrug that aimed for casual and missed.

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—just the ghost of one. He didn’t respond. Just watched her, that same quiet steadiness in his eyes, like he was listening for something she hadn’t said aloud.

Elara turned before he could speak again. Her steps down the hall were too brisk, her shoulders too stiff.  By the time she reached the stairs, her face still burned. She muttered a curse under her breath, teeth gritted.

What the Hel was wrong with her?

Notes:

So, if it wasn't entirely clear, I'm basically ignoring the whole "the birth might kill Feyre" plot in ACOSF. I was never a fan of it, never a fan of Rhys' actions in it, and how Nesta got them out of it, and I don't want Elara to be complicit in hiding that particular secret from Feyre. The beautiful thing about fanfiction is that... I can choose to ignore it.

Chapter 68

Notes:

What is this - an early update?! Unfortunately, this will be my only update this week as I am going to be away starting tomorrow. I'll be back on my regular schedule starting next Tuesday. But.... I apologize in advance....

Elara wasn’t certain what had drawn her to the upper library that night. Maybe it was the quiet, or the way the stone corridors seemed softer up here, further from the heart of the House.

More likely, it was the fact that she couldn’t sleep. Again.

The nightmares —memories, really— still came. Not every night, but enough to keep her wary of closing her eyes for too long. Sometimes she woke with her breath caught in her throat, the taste of blood or ocean salt or something colder still in her mouth.

Some mornings she forgot where she was. Who she was. It always came back—but those few seconds of confusion still left her rattled. And sometimes, it made her wary to give into sleep.

So she walked, barefoot and silent, until her feet carried her here

She stopped at the threshold of the library, one hand braced against the stone archway. There was light spilling out—soft, golden faelight—and voices carried low across the space. She didn’t catch every word, but the first voice was unmistakable.

“It really does listen to you.”

The General. Cassian's tone was unmistakable, dry-edged with something close to awe. That narrowed down who else was in the room, and as the realization struck her, Elara’s steps slowed. She didn’t know why she hesitated. Perhaps she did.

“You don’t need to lurk by the door,” Nesta called, her voice level but not unkind.

Elara didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Instead, she stepped into the room, posture held loose but guarded, schooling her expression as she glanced across the space. The air inside the library was warmer than the hallway. She let her eyes take in the map spread across the table—creased at the edges, dotted with ink markings and little shards of colored stone. A small bowl sat beside it, filled with bones and pale stones that caught the light.

Elara stopped a few feet in. “You’re scrying.”

The words left her before she could temper them, too flat to be judgment but not quite neutral either. Rather, she was impressed. She took another step forward, then paused.

Nesta didn’t respond right away. Her hand hovered over a stone but didn’t touch it. Cassian stood at her side, arms crossed, but there was tension in his stance—like he was ready to intervene if something went wrong, even if he didn’t know what that would look like.

“Do you want me to leave?”

She meant it. She knew what this kind of magic took from a person—especially given Nesta’s connection to the Cauldron. Nesta didn’t want to do this, and it would leave her vulnerable. And she knew, too, that Nesta’s tolerance for her was paper-thin on a good day.

Nesta finally looked at her, eyes cool but clear. “If I wanted you gone, I’d say so.”

This time, Elara didn’t hide her reaction. Her brows arched slightly as she looked toward Nesta, catching the subtle flicker of tension across the other female’s face.

Nesta straightened. “It would be good to have more people here,” she said. “In case anything goes wrong.”

There was a beat of silence, something quiet and watchful passing between them, but Elara only dipped her chin before she stepped forward.

Cassian was still planted firmly beside Nesta, shoulders squared in a way that spoke more of instinct than performance. Elara made a point to keep her distance, taking her place on the opposite side of the table. The wide slab of dark wood stood between her and Nesta like a line neither of them had acknowledged, but both seemed content to hold.

Cassian turned slightly toward Nesta. “Why did you change your mind?”

His voice was quieter than before. Not soft, exactly, but gentler. As if he already knew what she’d say and wanted her to know she could say it.

Nesta’s jaw worked for a moment. She stared down at the map, at the circle of stones near her hand.

When she spoke, her voice was low. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the priestesses who came to practice today. Roslin said she hadn’t stepped outside in sixty years. And Deirdre…” Nesta’s throat bobbed. “Deirdre had scars down her arms. Old ones. I asked them to come here, to train, to face everything that scares them.”

Her fingers traced the edge of the nearest stone. “I told them they were strong. That they had to try. And the truth is—I’m asking them to be brave. But I haven’t been willing to do the same.”

Elara didn’t say anything at first. Just let her eyes drift over the scene in front of her. The bones in the bowl. The fine tremble in Nesta’s fingers, barely visible unless you were looking for it.

She remembered Azriel telling her about Nesta’s program with the priestesses. One of the few times he’d spoken without reservation, his voice almost unreadable as he explained it—how Nesta had gotten them to come up from the Library, how she had quietly begun building something out of nothing. Elara hadn’t said much then, not out lout. But privately, she’d thought it was a good idea.

She remembered her own beginnings. Cold mornings on at the training rings, the weight of bruises on her ribs, the slow, stubborn build of strength. A trainer —Alaric, the name was pulled from somewhere deep in her mind. The way it had given her a sense of purpose when she had been told her life would be a well-planned marriage and hosting dinner parties.

For half a second, she’d even considered offering to help Nesta.

But then she’d remembered what it would mean—working beside Nesta. Every day. Training together. So she’d stayed silent.

“No one accused you of anything,” Cassian said, his voice quiet but firm.

Elara barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek instead, schooling her features. Rhys had. Not directly—but there’d been judgment in his voice the last time Nesta’s name had come up, and certainly not in front of her. Elara doubted he’d said anything to Nesta’s face.

Or, maybe he would.

Nesta didn’t flinch. “I don’t need anyone to say it. I know it’s there. I might be afraid of what I’ll see when I scry—but I’m more afraid of what it means if I let that fear win.” Her gaze lifted then, steady and unflinching. “I won’t be a coward. And I won’t be a hypocrite.”

“You sure you don’t want to do this with Rhys or Amren?” Cassian’s voice wasn’t teasing this time. It carried that low wariness Elara had come to recognize in him—less a challenge, more concern tucked beneath all that General's bravado. He stood a little ways off, arms loose at his sides, but his eyes hadn’t left Nesta’s face.

“I don’t need them,” Nesta said. Her gaze didn’t go to Cassian as she spoke. It found Elara instead, held there for a beat too long. There was something almost defiant in her expression, as if daring Elara to contradict her.

Elara tilted her head slightly, a flicker of something like amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth, but she said nothing. She could understand why Nesta would want to do this without her brother or Amren standing over her shoulder. Especially after the way that she had been treated by them.

Nesta seemed to take Elara’s silence for agreement. She turned back to the table and set the bowl down with care, the bones and stones inside shifting with a muted rattle. The room quieted. Not just quiet, but still—like even the walls were holding their breath.

Nesta sat with her back straight, hands poised just above the surface of the bowl. Her fingers hovered there, not quite touching. Then, finally, she closed her eyes.

Minutes passed. The fire crackled softly behind them, the occasional gust of wind whispering against the tower glass. Nothing else stirred.

Cassian watched in silence at first. His expression was unreadable, but his body leaned ever so slightly forward, as though prepared to move before his mind gave the command. After a while, he asked, “Anything?”

The words broke the silence like a twig snapping underfoot. Elara’s head turned toward him. “Don’t talk,” she said, voice quiet but firm.

Cassian shifted, his mouth pressing into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. Still, he stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Nesta. Elara noticed the way his hand hovered near her shoulder without touching, like he was preparing to catch her if she fell.

Nesta didn’t move. Her face was drawn tight with effort, lips slightly parted. Whatever she was reaching for, it was somewhere distant. Elara didn’t need to see what was behind Nesta’s closed eyes to feel it—the air itself had changed, heavier now, dense with something old and humming at the edges of her awareness. The hairs at the back of her neck rose.

There was power in the room. Not hers. Not Cassian’s.

Nesta’s.

The Cauldron’s.

It didn’t come in a blaze of light or violent crack of sound. It crept in slowly, like water seeping through old stone. It was there, but flickering. Elara recognized the shape of it. She’d felt something like it long ago, when Nesta had first been forced into the Cauldron’s dark waters.

Power not quite under control, like a sword too large for its wielder.

Cassian lowered himself beside Nesta. He kept his voice gentle this time. “Nesta?”

Nesta opened her eyes. They were dim, flat with exhaustion.

“I can’t do it,” she said softly. “The power—I don’t think I have it anymore.”

Cassian leaned in, brows drawn. “It’s there, Nes. I saw it. I felt it, even now. Just—try again.”

“I can’t.” The words came more quickly this time. Still quiet, but firmer. She didn’t meet his eyes.

Cassian reached for her hand.

“Nesta, please—”

“She said that she’s done.” Elara’s voice carried across the space before he could say more. She didn’t raise it, didn’t lace it with judgment. It was only a reminder, a boundary.

Both Cassian and Nesta turned to her. Surprise flickered over their features, quick and unguarded—like neither of them had expected Elara to speak, let alone take sides.

She didn’t hesitate. Her boots were nearly soundless as she moved from around the table, steps steady, though her pulse beat a little too hard in her throat. She stopped in front of Cassian and looked up at him, just long enough to make sure he was actually seeing her.

“She tried,” Elara said, voice quiet but firm. “And right now, she’s telling you that she’s done. Listen to her.”

Cassian's jaw tightened. His mouth parted, breath catching like he was about to object—maybe insist on one more try. But the words didn’t come. Whatever argument he’d had readied evaporated before it reached his tongue. He closed his mouth, gaze shifting toward the open doorway where Nesta still hadn’t moved.

Elara turned toward her next. She kept her stance loose, hands relaxed at her sides, but she felt the way her body braced anyway, preparing for the sharp edge of Nesta’s temper. It would be deserved, Elara thought. She had spoken on her behalf without invitation. Had stepped into something that wasn’t hers.

Nesta’s face gave nothing away at first. Her posture was tight, and that familiar look of self-defense flickered there—like a door rattling in the wind. But then, instead of the snap Elara expected, Nesta’s expression shifted. The tension in her brow eased, just slightly.

“Thank you,” she said. Not soft, not warm. But honest.

And then Nesta walked out, her steps unhurried, her shoulders squared.

Cassian hesitated a beat longer, his eyes lingering on the empty bowl at the table like it still held answers. Then he followed, his footsteps fading into the corridor behind her.

Elara stood alone now. The silence of the room settled thick around her, not heavy, but restless. She exhaled through her nose, sharp and quiet, and rolled her shoulders. She didn’t sit. Didn’t even consider it.

The air still felt wrong. Not cold, not hot. Just... charged. Nesta’s magic — it had to be. Her skin prickled beneath her clothes, as if the remnants of Nesta’s power still hovered there, clinging to the fabric, brushing the back of her neck with unseen fingers.

She moved, almost without thinking. The tower halls were mostly empty at this hour, the quiet broken only by the distant whisper of wind against the stone and the soft scuff of her boots as she walked. She wasn’t heading anywhere in particular. Her legs carried her through the corridors like they had their own mind, like if she kept walking long enough, the energy under her skin might finally bleed out.

The balcony door was already cracked open when she reached it, a thin stream of night air curling in like an invitation. Elara stepped through without thought, her fingers grazing the carved frame as she passed.

The city below flickered with its usual quiet life—velvet shadows, golden lamplight in the distance, a few late bells echoing somewhere far off. She didn’t know how long she stood there, arms folded over the stone railing, her weight braced on one hip as the wind tangled in her hair. Minutes passed. Maybe more. Her wings itched with the need to move, to stretch wide and carry her far from the weight pressing down on her chest.

But she stayed. She didn’t forget the rules. They’d gone unspoken since she’d moved from the Moonstone Palace to Velaris, but Elara knew that they remained. Despite working with the Shadowsinger, despite her new relationship with her brother, she was not allowed to leave the House on her own.

She was still imprisoned here. And the House, no matter how nice it was, was still a cage.

Her hands curled slightly, nails pressing into the stone. She could fly. She wanted to. But tonight, even that small defiance felt... wrong. Like if she gave in, she wouldn’t come back.

“What are you doing out here?” The question broke through the hum of her thoughts, low and familiar, like the shift of something solid just behind her.

She turned.

Azriel stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, shadows tugging softly at his shoulders as if they couldn’t decide whether to drift toward her or keep their distance. He wasn’t in armor tonight. No blades. Just a soft black tunic, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his hands through it on his way here—or maybe before.

It made him look younger, less like the war-scarred male everyone else seemed to see and more like the one she caught glimpses of in those rare moments in the House

“I could ask the same of you,” she said.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, but his eyes didn’t leave her. She pushed off the ledge, not sure why, and stepped closer. The stone was cool beneath her bare feet. She didn’t stop moving until the air between them thinned, his shadows curling at the edges of her vision like a greeting.

She didn’t look away when his gaze narrowed. He was watching her now with a different sort of focus, like he was trying to read a language written across her face.

“What happened?” he asked, voice quiet. That careful tone he always used when trying not to spook her. His eyes swept the balcony before she could answer, tracking the corners, the ledges, the sky above—always scanning, always ready for something to go wrong. Elara stiffened slightly.

Did he think she was going to jump? To take off into the night and far fly away from here? She couldn’t blame him for that. Despite this growing feeling deep in her gut when it came to the Shadowsinger, he still didn’t trust her.  Her mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Nothing.”

Azriel didn’t believe her. She saw it in the way his jaw ticked, in the way his shadows lingered behind her for just a moment too long, as if they were checking her over themselves.

She took another step toward him.

She didn’t know why. She wasn’t even sure when her body had started moving again. The air between them felt tight, filled with something that tugged at her chest and stole the edges of her thoughts. Her hand brushed the side of her thigh, restless. Her wings were half-furled behind her, instinct pulling them open even though she hadn’t given the order.

Azriel didn’t move. He stood just inside the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the sconces behind him, his features shadowed and still. There was a focus in his gaze that made it feel like she was being measured. Not for weakness or threat, but for something more elusive. A crack he was waiting to see splinter through her skin.

Her hands twitched slightly at her sides, but she didn’t turn away.

"Elara," he said again. Her name coming from his lips like it belonged there. And Mother help her, it unraveled something. Not because of how he said it, but because it was him saying it.

There was something about Azriel, something anchored and dangerous and maddeningly patient, that kept tugging her toward him.

She shouldn’t be standing this close. Shouldn’t be letting herself feel this drawn. He was Rhysand’s friend. One he had named brother. And she—she was a ruin barely stitched together, her past soaked in blood and shame. She had no business wanting anything from him. Wanting him.

She exhaled slowly and leaned back against the stone railing, pressing her spine to the cool wall like it could help her keep the pieces in place. Her arms crossed over her chest, more out of habit than defense.

“Nesta tried scrying,” she said finally, eyes dropping to the city below.

Azriel nodded once, as if that was enough for him to understand. “And?”

“It was...” She hesitated. Not because she didn’t have the words, but because she had too many. “It was a lot.”

Her head tilted back, and she let out a long breath through her nose. “She said it wasn’t working. That the power was gone. But I could feel it.” Her voice dipped low. “It was there.”

There was a pause. The kind of pause Azriel dealt in often—quiet, long enough to make her wonder what he was really thinking. Then, softly: “You’ve never actually felt her power before?”

She shook her head and lifted a hand to run through her hair, fingers catching on wind-tangled strands. “No. The King spoke of it, of how badly he wanted her to return it to the Cauldron. Said it had marked her.” Her eyes flicked toward the Shadowsinger’s. “But I’ve never felt it—not like that.”

She looked away, almost ashamed to admit it. The tremor of power that had rippled through the room earlier had been something else.

Her fingers curled at her sides. She tried to brush it all off, to let the quiet between them stretch long enough to convince herself it was over. But beneath the words, beneath the memory, the truth pressed down like a weight: this was her doing. Nesta’s power, Nesta’s fear—Elara had played a part in it, whether anyone wanted to admit it or not. She had helped put her in that Cauldron. She had watched them fall into it.

Azriel didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t try to make it better. No reassurances. No soft it wasn’t your fault that would only make her recoil. Maybe he’d finally learned she wouldn’t accept it. Maybe he understood that some things had no clean forgiveness.

The silence stretched too long. It wasn't peaceful, not really. It had a weight to it—something dense and fragile, like a thread pulled too tight. Elara could feel it fraying inside her chest, feel the way Azriel wasn’t moving behind her. Just watching.

She could almost feel the question hanging there, even if he wasn’t saying it out loud.

She needed to get off this balcony.

The chill of the stone beneath her bare feet, the sky wide and open in front of her—it had felt like an escape, at first. Now it just felt exposed. The air between them had shifted, taken on that quiet charge that always seemed to follow Azriel when he looked at her like this.

She shifted her weight and turned, starting towards the door.

She didn’t know where she was going—back into the House, maybe to pace the halls or vanish into the library until the tightness in her chest faded. She just needed to move. To put distance between herself and whatever this was—this thing coiling beneath her skin, sharp and restless. She just knew she had to move. Had to go.

She passed him—but only barely. Two steps in and Azriel’s hand came around her wrist.

“You shouldn’t be alone when you’re like this,” he said, voice low.

She stilled. Her heart gave a strange beat, too quick. Not because she was startled, not exactly. But because of the way he said it. The quiet certainty in it, like he wasn’t asking or suggesting, just... stating something he already knew to be true.

She looked over her shoulder at him, her jaw set.

“Why?” she asked, tone brittle. “I live with this guilt every day, Shadowsinger. One more night of it isn’t going to break me.”

Azriel didn’t flinch at the way her tone had shifted. Didn’t take the bait. His grip loosened, but his voice stayed steady.

“No,” he said, and there was no argument in it. “It won’t. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

That stopped her cold. She turned toward him, her mouth parted, some retort dying before it reached her tongue. His face was shadowed, the faint glow from the House casting sharp lines across his jaw, his eyes dark and steady on hers.

“You might think you do,” he added, softer now, “after everything. But you don’t.”

Her chest tightened. Something about the way he said it—not with pity, not with softness. Just truth. Like he wasn’t trying to convince her. Just remind her. Her pulse skittered against her throat. She felt the tension gathering again—tight under her skin, aching and raw in the hollow of her chest.

He stepped back to give her space, but didn’t leave.

Then, gently, “Let me stay with you. Let me help.”

Elara blinked. The wind tugged strands of hair across her face. The light behind her from the hall flickered, casting half his face in golden shadow.

“Why?” she asked, the word more breath than sound.

Azriel’s eyes didn’t leave hers. They darkened—not with anger, but something heavier, something that sank low in her gut. His voice was rough when he finally answered, “I think you know why, Elara.”

Her name again. That was what undid her. Just the way he said her name. Like he didn’t care about who she used to be, or what her silence tried to hide.

Elara swallowed. Her throat felt tight, dry like she hadn’t spoken in hours. Her hands—it was hard to tell if they were cold or hot. Numb, somehow. Useless. She flexed her fingers once, trying to ground herself in the sensation, but it didn’t help.

“Azriel—” she said, her voice a low, unfinished thing.

He didn’t move. Just watched her with that terrible stillness of his, like he was waiting on her. To move closer, or to move away.

And maybe that should’ve stopped her. Maybe it should’ve given her time to think, to step back. But her body had decided something else—something primal and quiet, deeper than thought. Before she could make sense of it, she moved.

One step. Then another.

Her palm found his chest, pressing flat against him. The heat of him bled through his tunic, steady and solid beneath her hand. She could feel the thrum of his heart. Not fast, but not calm either. And when she looked up—when she met his eyes—she didn’t bother fighting it.

Her mouth found his in a sharp, unthinking rush, her breath catching as her fingers curled into the fabric at his chest, clutching it like she might fall apart if she let go. Azriel didn’t hesitate.

He responded like he’d been waiting for it—like this had been coiled inside him, waiting for a moment to break free.

He drove her back, fast, the air rushing out of her lungs as her spine hit the wall. His mouth never left hers. The movement wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either—it was sure. The way his body pressed into hers, the strength in his arms, the way he didn’t stop to ask if she was certain. It was all enough to make her dizzy.

His hand anchored at her hip, fingers splayed wide, his grip firm but not possessive. The other braced above her head, boxing her in. And by the Cauldron, she didn’t want to run.

She wanted more.

His mouth moved against hers, deeper now, and she gasped, startled by the low, quiet sound she made. His tongue brushed hers and the whimper that escaped her lips wasn’t something she could have smothered, even if she’d tried.

Her body responded before her mind could catch up. Her leg shifted, brushing against his, parting just enough to draw him closer, to close that final sliver of distance between them. The heat of him was overwhelming, the tension in his body barely restrained, and she was burning from the inside out.

Azriel groaned into her mouth.

Not softly. The sound of it rippled through her, low in her spine, down to her core. His lips dragged down the line of her jaw, the brush of them slow and hungry, until they found the sensitive place beneath her ear.

She tilted her head for him without thinking.

“Say it again,” he murmured against her skin, his voice a rasp of heat and shadow.

Her breath stuttered. “What?”

He didn’t lift his mouth from her. Didn’t pull back. Just said, quieter this time, “My name.”

She closed her eyes. Let herself say it. “Azriel.”

She didn’t mean for her voice to break like that. Didn’t mean for it to come out as if she’d been holding it in. But something about the way he exhaled—sharp and sudden—told her he felt it too.

Her hands moved lower, unthinking. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his tunic, the soft fabric yielding to skin and muscle. He was warm. Solid. When her palms flattened against the hard plane of his abdomen, he inhaled through his teeth—and that sound, Mother help her, it splintered her.

His lips left her skin for a single breath, his voice catching as he said, “Elara—”

But she kissed him again. Slower this time, before he could put a stop to whatever this was.

Like she didn’t know how long this would last—like she’d regret every second she didn’t spend with her mouth on his. His hand slid up her side, fingers spanning the curve of her ribs, brushing higher. He stopped just short of her breast, the closeness of it enough to make her breath catch and break. Her heart kicked hard against her chest.

She would let him take her apart. Let him ruin her. Right here against this wall, if he asked. If he kept touching her like that. If he kept looking at her like she was more than just what she’d done—like she was something worth—

The scream shattered everything.

A keening wail that didn’t sound entirely normal. It split the air, scraped down her spine, and left something primal in its wake.

Azriel froze. His body went rigid, hand still curled around her waist. Elara went still too—only for a breath, one fractured second, the taste of him still on her lips and his shadows still curling faintly around her hips like they hadn’t caught up to what was happening.

Then she said, “Nesta.”

Azriel was already moving. The shadows recoiled and snapped into formation, crawling over his shoulders like smoke. His siphons gleamed a brilliant shade of blue The softness in him vanished, replaced by something cold and honed. A predator with a target.

Elara pushed off the wall. Her pulse still thundered. Her skin burned where his mouth had been, her thoughts still tangled, her body still reeling—but she didn’t hesitate.

They ran.

Side by side through the hall, past shuttered windows and flickering faelight. The heat of what had just happened didn’t leave her. It moved with her, clung to her skin like a second breath—but there was no room for it now.

Not when Nesta was screaming like the world was ending.

Notes:

So yeah... sorry about that. See you next week!

Chapter 69

Notes:

I'm so sorry about the wait and the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter! I know, I know. It took El and Az long enough, but I needed to flesh out Elara's character and healing (and even that's not done yet). So, I wanted to give them some time.

Nesta was going to be alright.

At least, that was what Rhys kept telling her. His voice had been steady when he’d said it, but there was something about it that made him sound rehearsed. As if saying it aloud made it fact. Maybe he even believed it. But Elara had seen Nesta’s face when the scream tore out of her, raw and animal and too real to be anything but true. She’d seen how Nesta curled away from them afterward. No calm reassurance could smother that sound, or the expression that came with it. Not even Rhysand’s.

Elara sat rigid on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, legs tucked close, still in the clothes she’d worn yesterday—creased navy tunic, sleeves rumpled and pushed to her elbows, the hem uneven from where she’d yanked it down too many times. Her hair was a tangle, one long snarl that had fallen forward over her shoulder.

The tea on the tray hadn’t steamed in hours. The House had put it in front of her, worse than a mother hen, as if it thought she needed something to soothe her. But Elara didn’t drink it. Just held it. The ceramic was smooth, grounding.

Sleep hadn’t come all night. Honestly, Elara hadn’t even tried. Her mind refused to settle after Rhys had left the House for the night, his mouth pressed into a concerned thin line. She did not like that look on her brother’s face. Whatever had happened while Nesta slept, it had ripped something open.

So Elara sat in silence.

And when the silence stretched too far, her mind slipped back. Not to Nesta. But to Azriel.

It came in pieces—his mouth, the tension in his jaw before he’d given in. The quiet thump of his heartbeat beneath her hand, steady as it pressed between her palm and his chest. The wall cool against her back, his body caging hers. That brief pause before she kissed him—his breath caught, shadows stilled, eyes burning like he’d been waiting for her to move first.

The memory coiled low in her belly. It should have humiliated her. Should have made her recoil, wrap herself in blankets and pretend it hadn’t happened. It didn’t. Instead, it made her chest tight. Her lips still felt raw, skin prickling where his stubble had scraped. And the way he’d said her name—

She inhaled sharply and stood, setting the mug down too hard. It clattered against the tray but didn’t spill. Her hands trembled anyway.

A mistake. That’s what it had been.

She crossed the room with stiff limbs, opened the window despite the breeze curling in cool and sharp against her bare arms. The House was silent. No footsteps. No doors creaking open. No sound of wings.

She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned into the wind, eyes closed. Mist clung to the night air, brushing her face like breath. She told herself it hadn’t meant anything. That they’d been shaken. That she hadn’t known what else to do in that moment, and neither had he.

It had been adrenaline. That was all. The rush of fear, the nearness of him, the sharp echo of magic still vibrating in her bones—it had short-circuited her judgment. Anyone might’ve reacted that way, after so much tension wound tight.

Anyone.

That was what Elara told herself. Because anything else—anything real—meant opening a door she had no right to walk through.

Her fingers moved without thought to the leather cuff around her wrist. The stitching was frayed in places—she traced one of them with her thumb, slow and rhythmic. A quiet motion, something to do with her hands while her thoughts prowled too close to the surface.

They all wanted her to believe she was getting better. Like if Elara stayed long enough, followed the rules, sat quietly through meetings and training and dinners, the Court of Dreams would just... absorb her. Assimilate her. Pretend her past — that Munin— was a shadow already outgrown.

But they didn’t know the whole of it.

They hadn’t stood ankle-deep in blood and did not even blink an eye. Hadn’t watched human boys sob and beg for their lives while their throats were slit. Hadn’t left messages scrawled in gore on cottage walls. Rhysand didn’t know. Cassian didn’t. Feyre, maybe, suspected—but she looked at Elara like she was a sad thing, not a monstrous one.

Azriel didn’t know either. Or maybe he did and refused to let it fully land, wouldn’t let himself name it. If he truly understood the depths of what she’d done—what had been asked of her and what she’d done anyway—he never would’ve looked at her like that. Never would’ve let his mouth brush against hers like he had last night. Never would’ve whispered her name like that.

If he saw clearly, he’d flinch.

So whatever had happened between them—whatever fragile, aching thing had stirred to life on the balcony—it couldn’t happen again.

That was why, after Nesta had finally woken, sobbing and hollow, Elara had turned without waiting for anyone to speak. Without looking back at Azriel. He’d been standing by the door, eyes locked on her, shadows curled still and expectant. But she’d left before he could say a word. Before he could ruin it or make it worse or—Mother forbid—ask her what it had meant.

Now, she was hiding up here. Avoiding hallways. Avoiding him. Avoiding herself, mostly.

She didn’t hear the footsteps. Just the knock—soft, intentional, the kind that came from someone who didn’t want to startle her.

Her body jolted. Not from the sound, but from how far down she’d sunk. She’d drifted so completely into her thoughts that the physical world felt like an afterthought. She swallowed, cleared her throat.

“Come in,” she said, and even to her own ears, her voice sounded scraped raw.

The door eased open without a sound, the hinges obedient to the House’s mood. Rhysand stepped in like he wasn’t sure if he should. His shoulders sloped with fatigue, plain leathers clinging to him like a second skin. None of the usual polish, no tailored jackets or amused smirks.

Just the scent of wind and flight and the unmistakable weight of someone who had not slept.

The shadows beneath his eyes made him look older. Not ancient—not in the way she’d seen him appear when she stood against him on battlefields—but real. Like someone whose immense power actually had a limit.

Elara didn’t rise from where she sat. Her back stayed pressed to the back of the chair, knees hugged loosely to her chest. They stared at each other for a while, neither speaking. Not tense, exactly. Just quiet. He looked like he wanted to say three things and had only managed to choose one.

“You look like you slept even less than I did,” he said at last.

A muscle pulled at the corner of her mouth—something like a smirk, except there wasn’t enough humor behind it to make it land. He was probably right. They’d all been rattled by what had happened, by Nesta’s scream, the moment her mind cracked open and let something in. But Rhys had Feyre to fall into. His mate. Someone whose body and voice could calm the storm.

Elara had a room full of silence, memories that she wasn’t ready to unpack, and a body that still thrummed with things she refused to let herself think about for too long.

Rhysand didn’t move farther in. Just lingered in the doorway, as if he were asking her a question. She didn’t answer it—didn’t invite him in, didn’t send him away. She let the silence stretch, too tired to make this easier for him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice lower now, gentle. Not High Lord-gentle. Brother-gentle.

She rolled her shoulders in a shrug, eyes fixed somewhere near the mug cooling beside her. “Fine.”

He didn’t press. He rarely did, not when she sounded like that. He was learning, Elara thought. How to navigate his sister, and her temperamental moods. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. Let the quiet return.

Then he asked it again, quieter still. “You sure?”

Her fingers curled around the mug. The ceramic had long since lost its warmth. She didn’t look up. “I’m tired. That’s all.”

It wasn’t all. They both knew it.

There was a pause. Then she asked, too quickly, “How’s Nesta?”

Rhys dragged a hand through his hair. The motion said more than the words that followed. She watched the way his fingers dug into his scalp, how his shoulders sagged just a little lower.

“Better,” he said. “Cassian’s hovering like a mother hen.”

A dry sound escaped her. Not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. “So she’s not talking about what happened.”

“No,” he said. “Not yet. But she’s… calmer. From what I understand, she slept a bit after last night.” He looked past her, toward the pale blue edge of morning pressing against the glass. “It’s a start at least.”

The silence stretched again. Long enough that the ticking of the hallway clock filtered through the walls. Elara didn’t shift from where she sat, legs pulled up, fingers reaching for the mug she’d discarded even though it had long since lost its heat. She could feel Rhys watching her—taking in the details the way he always did. The cold tea. The rumpled blanket halfway off the bed. The slight droop in her shoulders she hadn’t bothered to fix.

“Do you have any plans for the day?” he asked, voice careful, like the question might set something off.

She lifted her eyes slowly, sweeping the room with a glance. The barely-used wardrobe with its door cracked open. A book lying facedown on the nightstand, untouched since she put it there two weeks ago. The slippers she hadn’t worn. Her gaze drifted back to him. She didn’t answer.

The corner of Rhys’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Right. Silly question.”

He pushed off the doorframe at last, walking a few paces into the room. He didn’t loom—just moved like he was trying to remind her he wasn’t here to corner her. “What if I told you I had something better than locking yourself up here all day?”

Her brows lifted, dry and unimpressed. “Like what? Tea that isn’t cold?”

He huffed, but there was no edge to it. “What if I said… you could leave the House today?”

She stilled. Her grip on the mug didn’t tighten. Her posture didn’t change. But her head turned, slowly, until she was looking at him full-on, “You’re letting me go?”

He met her eyes. Didn’t look away. “I’m offering to take you to Velaris. Just for a while. You said you wanted to see Fiona.”

Elara didn’t answer immediately. She studied him. Waited for the catch—there was always a catch. The house arrest had never been cruel, but it had been clear. Boundaries. Quiet rules she was expected not to test. And now this.

“And what changed?” she asked, voice flat. “You suddenly trust me?”

Rhys didn’t flinch. “I’ve always wanted to trust you.”

A humorless sound escaped her—half scoff, half breath. “Yeah. That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right,” he said, stepping in closer, his voice low and steady. “It’s not. But I do now.”

He let it hang in the air. No push. No performance. Just the statement.

Then, softer, “It’s not just about what you did for Azriel. Or for us. It’s about who you are, Elara. And I think…” He hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but like he was making sure the words landed the way he meant them. “I think I was wrong to expect you to prove it to me before I offered it.”

Rhys gestured toward the hallway behind him with a tilt of his chin. “I’m heading out in an hour,” he said, calm but with a thread of invitation woven in. “If you want to come… wear a hood. We’ll keep it quiet.”

She didn’t answer. Just watched him from where she sat, the lines of her face unreadable.

Rhys only nodded, like he hadn’t expected more from her. Then he turned and left, boots muffled against the carpeted hallway. The door clicked softly shut behind him.

Elara didn’t move.

The room had quieted again. The light shifted across the floorboards, thin and pale through the drawn curtains. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the cooling mug, and she stared into the tea as if it might offer an answer she hadn’t found in Rhys’s words.

There was no pressure in what he’d said. No veiled demand. Just an offer. A door cracked open, if she wanted it.

Her thumb dragged slowly along the lip of the ceramic. She swallowed once, hard. She looked around again. The blanket still slouched at the edge of the bed. Her boots tucked beside it, scuffed and half-unlaced. The wardrobe loomed in the corner, its contents untouched except for the same worn leathers she reached for every day.

But now, for the first time in longer than she wanted to admit… she considered something else. Not armor, not flight leathers. But something civilian, something soft. Something that she hadn't worn in over five centuries. 

Her eyes flicked toward the wardrobe.

She exhaled, quiet and long. And then, finally, she set the mug down.

---

She didn’t think she could do this.

The Sidra shimmered a few streets away, but here the city felt quieter. This district was older—tucked behind the square, where the streets narrowed and the buildings leaned in on each other. The stone beneath her boots was uneven, the mortar chipped, like the road had been patched too many times. Ivy climbed the walls around her, tangled and half-dead, and the air smelled faintly of coal smoke and damp brick.

Fiona’s house was modest by Velaris’ standards. Pale shutters. Three tight windows stacked above the door. A planter hung beside the steps, its flowers wilting from the heat. The place was modest. Familiar, even though she had never been there before. And somehow it made everything harder.

Elara stood still on the path, staring up at the door like it might swing open on its own. From somewhere nearby came the sound of a cart rattling over stone, and a burst of laughter floated from an open window. She barely heard it.

She swallowed and flexed her hands, trying to ignore the way her palms had started to sweat. This wasn’t what she’d expected—to feel paralyzed by a simple visit. She’d asked for this, she knew. She’d been the one to ask Rhys about a visit to Fiona. But, now, confronted with it…

She hadn’t even let herself think through what she might say.

Her dress felt too tight across the chest, though it wasn’t. Just a simple charcoal gray, fitted enough to pass as something worn on purpose, not borrowed. It had been a long time since she’d worn anything like it. And now, standing here, she felt like she was pretending. Playing the role of someone normal. Someone welcome.

What would Fiona think when she opened that door? What would she see?

Elara rubbed a hand down the front of her skirt, trying to smooth the invisible creases. Her heart was beating too fast. She had walked into far worse places with a blade at her back and a target in front of her. She’d stood in courts that wanted her dead. But this—this felt different.

Fiona wasn’t just some old friend. She was Conn’s sister.

And that made this feel dangerous in a whole different way.

Her hand lifted toward the door. She paused. The skin of her knuckles hovered just shy of the wood.

But she couldn’t bring herself to knock.

Instead, she turned slightly, casting a glance back down the quiet street. No sign of Rhysand. The alley where her brother waited was empty now. He was gone, just like he said he’d be. One hour, he’d told her. He’d be back then.

Her throat tightened as the thought struck—how easy it would be to leave. She could walk away. Down the street, around the corner, disappear into the folds of the city. Fade into the noise, into the crowd. Eventually make her way out of Velaris. Pretend none of this had ever happened.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. It wouldn’t take much.

Then the door creaked open.

She stiffened, startled by the sudden sound of wood on hinges. There had been no footsteps, no warning. Just a strip of warm light spilling over the doorstep and the soft, familiar figure standing in its center.

Fiona.

For a heartbeat, Elara couldn’t breathe.

The female hadn’t changed much. Her hair was pinned up in the way it always used to be—half falling out, like she’d run out of time halfway through the attempt. A smudge of flour clung to one cheek, and she wore a faded apron tied at the waist. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, revealing flour-dusted forearms and the kind of tired posture that came from long hours on her feet.

She looked like she’d just stepped away from kneading dough.

Fiona’s eyes widened as they landed on Elara. Her breath hitched, barely audible.

“It is you,” she said.

Elara opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. Her throat felt raw. She forced herself to meet Fiona’s eyes, to hold them. Rhys must have warned her. Had to. There was no way Fiona hadn’t known she was coming. But still—how much had he really told her? What parts had he left out?

Because if Fiona knew everything… how could she stand there and look at her like that?

Elara’s voice scraped out, low and hoarse. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

Fiona didn’t move at first. Just studied her, gaze sharp and steady, like she was measuring the truth behind the words. Then she took a single step forward, her boots soft against the wooden floor just past the threshold.

“You think I’d forget the female who broke my brother’s nose for flirting too much at the training ring?”

Elara blinked. The memory crashed into her like a sucker-punch—Conn’s yelp, the sharp crunch of bone, Fiona’s laughter echoing across the field. Her throat closed around it.

Fiona kept her eyes on her, searching, not with suspicion but something quieter. As if trying to make sure Elara was real. Then she stepped back, one arm reaching behind to pull the door wider open.

“Well?” Fiona said. “You going to stand out there like a ghost, or are you coming in?”

Elara hesitated. Just for a second, her feet stayed rooted to the stones. Her pulse thudded hard in her ears. But then she gave a small nod, barely more than a dip of her chin, and stepped forward across the threshold.

The townhome was small but tidy, with a kind of lived-in quiet that pressed at Elara’s ribs the moment she crossed the threshold. The hearth burned low, casting soft flickers of gold along the walls. A kettle hissed steadily on the old stovetop, and something in the air smelled warm—flour, dried rosemary, and maybe the faint musk of aging paper.

Elara paused just inside the doorway, her boots heavy on the smooth wooden floor. The space was worn but cared for—blankets folded neatly over the back of a chair, a basket of half-mended clothes near the window, and above the mantle, an old sword mounted on the wall, untouched long enough to gather dust at the hilt.

She swallowed hard and unfastened her cloak. The clasp caught once against the leather strap on her wrist, but she didn’t stop. Her fingers were clumsy, stiff with cold—or maybe nerves. She draped the cloak over a nearby hook, careful not to disturb the rhythm of the house, like too much movement might break whatever spell was holding it together.

Fiona glanced over her shoulder from the stove. “Tea’s almost ready,” she said, voice light.

Elara nodded. That was all she could manage.

She let her eyes drift as Fiona poured. A narrow bookshelf stood against the wall, half-filled. On the middle shelf, just barely catching the light, sat a framed sketch—two figures, the lines soft but distinct. Conn, with that crooked grin he always wore when he thought he was being charming. One arm slung around Fiona’s shoulder. He looked younger in the drawing. Lighter.

Elara’s throat tightened. She looked away.

Fiona set two mugs down on the small wooden table, the porcelain worn at the rims. Elara sat slowly, one palm braced against the table to keep her balance. Her mug was steaming, the tea too dark—but hot. She wrapped her hands around it anyway, the heat sinking into her skin.

She took a breath, and when she lifted the mug, the edge of her sleeve slid back. The leather bracelet caught the light—weathered and stitched, the edges darkened with time. Her thumb moved to it without thought, rubbing at the seam, twisting it slightly until it sat just right. She didn’t notice Fiona watching until the silence stretched a beat too long.

But Fiona didn’t say anything. Just sat across from her, sipping her own tea.

Fiona reached for her cup again, her fingers curling lightly around the handle. She didn’t look away when she asked it, her voice calm but direct. “How long have you been back?”

Elara blinked. The question wasn’t sharp or accusing—just… honest. She stared down at the dark surface of her tea for a moment before answering. “A few months, at this point.”

Even saying it out loud felt strange. A few months. It didn’t seem real. She’d spent so much of that time reacting—surviving the Moonstone Palace, adjusting to the Night Court again, flying across the Continent at Azriel’s side. All of it had passed like water slipping through her fingers. She hadn’t stopped to count the days.

Fiona nodded slowly, opening her mouth like she was about to say something—then closing it again. She traced the rim of her cup with her thumb, glanced briefly toward the fire, then back to Elara. “What happened?”

The words weren’t accusatory. Just soft. A request.

Elara stared at her. Not at the mug. Not at the fire. Just Fiona. She hadn’t expected it—how much that question would hurt. Her throat worked around a lump she hadn’t realized had formed, her grip tightening around the now-warm mug.

Still, she spoke.

The words came slow at first, scraping their way out. She told her about Conn. About how she’d wandered like a ghost for weeks after his body had been returned to his family. How the grief had eaten her from the inside out. How her mother had thought that going to Illyria—doing something, anything—would fix the ache.

She told her about the ambush on the mountain pass, how the Spring Court soldiers hadn’t wanted prisoners. About the blow to the head that fractured everything. About how, when she woke in that darkness, she couldn’t remember his name.

Then came the rest. Dagdan. The silence that settled in her mind, thick and wrong. Munin. The centuries she spent with her soul caged and her hands bloodied. The voice that had lived behind her eyes, twisting her into something else.

By the time she reached the end— helping Azriel, living on the Continent, getting to know her brother again—her throat was raw. The tea had gone cold long ago. She hadn’t taken a sip. Her fingers stayed wrapped around the mug anyway, like it had somehow kept her tethered.

Fiona’s face had gone pale by the time Elara stopped speaking. She didn’t say anything at first, just stared into her tea as if it could explain everything Elara hadn’t.

Then, finally, quietly, she said, “He would’ve been glad to know you made it out.”

Elara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It scraped out of her like something jagged, and for a second, she didn’t know whether to thank Fiona or correct her. Instead, her voice came out rough and low, her eyes fixed on the warped grain of the wooden table. “I should’ve died with my mother.”

Fiona’s reaction was immediate, sharp. “Don’t say that.”

The words cracked through the warmth of the little room, loud enough that Elara blinked. Fiona caught herself then, reined it in with a softer tone. “You loved Conn. He loved you. That’s the real you. That’s what I remember. Not what was forced on your after.”

Silence stretched again. The fire popped gently in the hearth. A breeze pushed faintly at the window, rattling the pane.

She needed to shift the weight, somehow. Before her throat closed entirely.

“So…” Her voice came out scratchy, half-wrecked. She cleared it and tried again, this time without looking directly at Fiona. “What do you do now? For work?”

Fiona seemed to sense the change. She didn’t push. Just leaned back in her chair and ran a hand over the braid that had started to loosen. “I’m a healer, mostly. I work at the small hall off the Palace of Bone and Salt.”

Elara glanced at her then, just enough to catch the faint smile that tugged at Fiona’s mouth.

“But these days,” Fiona added, a little proud now, “I’m only part-time. The rest of my hours go to my daughter.”

Elara’s spine straightened. She hadn’t expected that. “You have a child?”

Fiona nodded, and the change in her face was almost startling. Light broke through her features.

“Kaia,” she said, smiling so widely it tilted the whole room a little. “She’s four. She likes painting on the walls and pretending she’s a Bogge. She gets the dramatics from her father.”

Fiona laughed to herself and stood, crossing to a small drawer tucked beside the hearth. She rifled through a stack of paper and pulled out one piece, folded at the corner and covered in blotchy crayon. She brought it back and held it out, “She drew this yesterday. Said it was me.”

Elara reached out slowly, like the paper might crumble in her hands if she wasn’t careful. She unfolded it with the same gentleness she might’ve used for a torn map, revealing a crooked stick figure with wild hair, pointy wings, and a mouth bursting with sparkly red flames.

Her chest ached before the smile formed. But it did form. “She’s talented. You look absolutely ferocious.”

Fiona snorted. “She says she wants to be a warrior. Or a baker. Depends on the day.”

Elara let out a quiet laugh. It didn’t sound forced. That surprised her more than anything else. She looked at the drawing again. The glitter embedded in the wax, the bold lines, the explosion of color with no concern for accuracy. There was life in it. Messy and fearless and loud.

This could’ve been her life. If Conn had lived. If she hadn’t walked into that ambush in Illyria. If the war hadn’t taken everything and burned the rest. A quiet house. A child who thought she breathed fire. A drawing hung crooked on a wall that no one ever had to defend.

But that version of her had died with Conn. That Elara hadn’t been strong enough to survive what came after.

She folded the drawing carefully—not all the way, just enough to set it flat again—and placed it back on the table, smoothing the edge with her fingers so it wouldn’t curl. Her smile had faded, but the ghost of it lingered.

“She’s lucky,” she said quietly.

Fiona didn’t speak right away. Just watched her for a moment, eyes steady, like she knew exactly where Elara’s thoughts had gone. But she didn’t say any of the things Elara feared she would.  She only nodded. “So am I.”

Fiona watched her for a long moment without saying anything else. Just watched—like she was working something out, like she wasn’t sure if now was the time to say it or if the moment was too brittle to press into. Then, gently, “He would’ve been glad you came.”

Elara didn’t move. Didn’t lift her head. Her fingers stayed curled around the mug, the handle warming beneath her grip even though the tea had long gone cold. Her knuckles pressed white.

“Conn… he used to talk about what kind of home you’d have one day.”

That made something catch low in her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the dark swirl of tea, pretending she hadn’t heard. But her grip tightened, just slightly.

“I think he believed you two would get there eventually,” Fiona went on, still calm, still soft. “Even if it took him fighting your father for your hand in marriage.”

Elara exhaled through her nose. It wasn’t quite a scoff, wasn’t quite a laugh—more like something stuck in between. Her father would’ve misted Conn just for daring to dream about marriage to her, but Conn never cared. He brought up their future together again and again, as if her father’s position as High Lord played no part in either of their lives.

Fiona smiled faintly at the reaction, but her voice didn’t shift. “He’d hate the idea of you punishing yourself. For surviving. For having more life to live.”

Elara’s throat worked around something hard. She didn’t speak. The words felt like they were pressing right up against her ribs, trying to find a way out, but she held them back. Like opening her mouth would undo the careful stitching holding her together.

She didn’t know how to carry something like that—the idea that she was still allowed to dream of a future after everything she’d lost, and everything she’d done. It felt too big, too kind, too undeserved. But somehow, coming from Fiona...

Fiona lifted her cup again, not looking at Elara now,  “He loved you, Elara. That doesn’t change. But it doesn’t mean you don’t get to be happy again.”

---

Azriel’s boots made no sound on the stone floor, but the set of his shoulders gave him away. They were rigid, drawn tight like a bowstring. He stood in front of Elara’s door, unmoving, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. It had already been nearly a full minute.

He should’ve knocked by now.

He told himself this was about answers. That last night needed to be addressed—spoken aloud so it didn’t fester. So she didn’t walk around pretending it hadn’t happened, and he didn’t spiral from not knowing where she stood. That was the truth, or at least a piece of it.

But still—he could see her. Could feel her, the way her body had pressed into his like she’d meant it. Like she’d needed it. The sound she’d made when he deepened the kiss—that soft, broken thing—clung to him nearly as much as his shadows. He could see it, hear it, every time he closed his eyes.

His fingers curled into a fist at his side. By the Cauldron, he hated how easily his body responded. How that memory undercut everything, sharpened his focus until it was nothing but her. He breathed deep, trying to master it.

This wasn’t just lust. Not for him. He’d waited too long, endured too much, for it to be that simple. The mating bond had thrummed underneath his skin last night, singing from that all too short contact.

He knocked—once.

Then he waited.

There was no answer.

His hand hovered again, knuckles inches from the wood. He hesitated. Then forced the words out, voice low and even. “Elara.”

Still nothing. He tried again, quieter now, not quite sure why he softened. “We need to talk. About… last night.”

Silence.

Azriel didn’t move, but something in him went still in a different way—colder. His shadows twitched at his shoulders, sensing it too. He looked down the hall once, then back at the door. The wards on the House of Wind would’ve prevented her from leaving without an escort, but—

He let the shadows slip forward. They slithered under the crack in the door like smoke, seeking. Feeling. Brushing over floorboards, chairs, windows.

He waited. Counted the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

Nothing.

No warmth. No heartbeat. No movement.

His heart knocked hard against his ribs. She wasn’t ignoring him.

She wasn’t in there at all.

His chest tightened. He reached for Rhys through his mind—shoving past the instinct to keep his thoughts contained, to keep things private. He wasn’t in the mood for subtlety.

She’s not here, he said, mind-to-mind. Her room’s empty. She’s not in the House.

It took only a second for Rhys’s voice to slide into his mind, smooth but unreadable. She’s with me. We’re heading back now.

Azriel exhaled, but it wasn’t relief—not exactly. It was sharp, fast, and bitter around the edges. His fingers tightened around the doorframe until the wood groaned beneath the strain.

Next time, he said, voice cold and flat even in his own mind, you might consider telling someone.

There was a beat, then a flicker of amusement that wasn’t entirely unkind. Didn’t think you’d care this much.

Azriel didn’t answer. He turned on his heel, shadows trailing behind him as he moved. He cut through the hallway, heading for the western landing terrace. That was where Rhys would touch down. That was where she’d be.

The breeze was light when he stepped outside, the scent of lilac clinging to the air. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and forced himself to stay still. Pacing wouldn’t help. Neither would standing here rehearsing what he was going to say, but the words came anyway—half-formed, insistent.

He thought about last night. About how close she’d let him get. The heat between them hadn’t been a mistake, and he was going to tell her that. He hadn’t planned some speech, but the words were there, waiting, shaped by honesty and something dangerously close to hope. For once, he wasn’t going to pretend. Not with her.

It didn’t take long. The soft rush of wings beat over the treetops, and he lifted his gaze as two figures emerged from the sky. Rhys dropped down first, already slowing his descent with practiced ease, but Azriel’s attention was fixed on the second form behind him.

Elara landed a beat later, graceful but slower than usual. She touched down carefully, her movements still and quiet. There was no sign of injury, but something about her seemed worn down. Not broken—never that—but dulled, like she’d been through something heavy she hadn’t yet set down. Her posture held, composed as ever, but her eyes flicked toward him and stayed just long enough for him to see what lived there. Not fear. Not distance. Just quiet. Deep, steady quiet.

She offered a faint nod, voice soft and even, the edges of it too delicate to be her usual armor. “Good morning, Shadowsinger.”

He stepped forward, his mouth already parting with the words he’d meant to give her. But she was already moving past him, her footsteps careful but unhurried. Her voice followed, gentle and final, with none of her usual thorns.

“I think I’m going to rest for a bit,” she said. “It was a long morning.”

He watched her retreat, the braid down her back swinging softly with each step. His shadows stirred and slipped after her, brushing close like they didn’t want her to leave. But something about her tone held him back. He didn’t call her back. Didn’t follow.

Instead, he stood there, still and silent, with all the things he hadn’t said held tight between his teeth.

Azriel didn’t move right away. He stood rooted where she’d left him, his hands clenched in the folds of his wings, shadows curling low and tight around his feet. The ache in his chest hadn’t faded since the moment she walked past him. His mind, however, stayed sharp.

His voice came quiet, almost low enough to be lost to the wind, but Rhys heard it. “What happened?”

Rhys was still watching her too. His expression gave nothing away—just the calm, unreadable stillness of a High Lord who’d learned how to hide every crack. “I took her to see someone.”

Azriel turned toward him fully. That answer wasn’t enough — his instincts began roaring at him, to find the person who had made his mate feel like that. “Who?”

There was a flicker of something behind Rhys’s violet eyes, but he didn’t hesitate. “Fiona.”

Azriel blinked as he tried to think of where he had heard that name before. But the name meant nothing to him, not immediately. “Who is that?”

Rhys didn’t look at him when he answered, just kept his gaze where Elara had gone, his voice careful but firm. “One of Elara’s oldest friends. Conn’s sister.”

The name hit like a punch, sharp and unexpected. Azriel stilled. He didn’t flinch, didn’t let anything shift in his face. But inside, something went rigid. He might not have recognized the name Fiona, but he knew what the male had meant to her—what he was, even if Azriel had never seen the full picture. He hadn’t needed to. The weight of that loss had been carved into her long before they met.

It was stupid to feel what he did. Jealousy didn’t belong in the same breath as grief. Conn was dead. Elara had lost him. She’d loved him. She might still. And that truth settled uncomfortably in Azriel’s chest, hot and bitter like something unspoken. His face didn’t betray him. His voice was neutral, even. “Right.”

But his shadows betrayed what he didn’t say. They had gone still, alert—tension curling through them like wire pulled taut. They hovered around his shoulders like they were waiting for a command, waiting to strike.

Azriel exhaled through his nose, glancing back in the direction Elara had gone. The look in her eyes made more sense now—that sadness, soft and steady. It hadn’t been about him, or last night, at all. It had never been about him.

He could still feel the echo of her mouth on his. Still remember the exact sound she’d made when he deepened the kiss, the way she’d clutched his shirt like she needed him there. That moment had felt like something more. Something real.

He’d thought—foolishly, maybe—that it meant she was his, that she had subconsciously began to feel the bond between them. Even if she didn’t know it yet. Even if she wasn’t ready.

But while he’d spent the morning preparing to tell her how much it hadn’t been a mistake… While he had spent all morning remembering what last night had felt like, she’d been remembering someone else.

Chapter 70

Nesta had asked that she be at the River House.

Elara stood just past the front gates, fingers curling around the iron rail as she let the crisp morning air brush over her. The Sidra murmured in the distance, steady and smooth, and birdsong trilled from the canopy above, but she barely registered it. Her focus snagged on that request—that Nesta had asked for her.

It didn’t make sense. Nesta rarely looked at her without the glint of cold in her gaze, all sharp edges and restrained loathing. The last time they’d been in a room together, Nesta had glared at her like she could peel Elara apart with nothing but silence. But then Cassian had found her yesterday, hands on his hips and brow tight with something unreadable, and said, “Nesta wants you there. For the scrying.”

She hadn’t been able to form a reply at first, had only stared at him like she’d misheard. She could still hear the hesitation in his voice. Elara. It wasn’t the Shadowsinger or her brother that had told her to be there, including her when she made the others uncomfortable.

Nesta had asked.

That alone had planted a taut knot in her stomach, one that hadn’t eased even as she crossed the threshold into her brother’s grand home. Her boots scuffed across the polished stone floors, the sound soft but uneven. Her hands fidgeted at her sides. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. Unease, maybe. She’d seen what had happened to Nesta after her first scrying attempt, the sharp scream she’d let out from her sleep.

Or maybe it was something else entirely—like the sharp pulse in her chest the moment Cassian had added, “Azriel’s coming too.”

She’d nodded, but the words had cracked down the center of her mind, leaving a ringing echo behind. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night. Since her fingers had twisted in his clothes, her lips open under his, her body melting against him like she’d been starved.

And then—nothing. Pulling away from him to run to Nesta’s room. Past him. Not looking back.

Coward, her inner voice hissed. But she’d already convinced herself it was better this way. That it had meant more to her than to him. He hadn’t followed. He hadn’t pushed. Maybe that was kindness. Maybe that was restraint.

Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to.

So she’d stayed away. She hadn’t cried, not that night. She’d curled up on the chair beside the window and watched the stars blink out one by one, the bracelet Conn had given her wound so tight around her fingers it had left faint indentations in her palm. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t dared.

Her days since had been quiet, regimented. She spent most mornings with Rhysand, talking to her brother about the things she’d missed in Velaris the past five centuries, never delving too much into her own past. She’d gotten to know Feyre—hesitantly at first, but the female had a gentleness about her that made Elara feel less like an interloper and more like a part of the family. Feyre’s laughter reminded her a little of Dorothye’s. That had hurt, unexpectedly.

She'd asked Rhys to take her back to Fiona’s townhouse a few days ago. Kaia had opened the door wearing a red scarf like a cape and smeared berry jam on her cheeks, declaring herself a “dragon warrior.” Elara had knelt in the entryway and let her roar, let her brandish a stick from the garden like a sword. Fiona had laughed from the kitchen, a hand on her belly and eyes full of something that Elara could only describe as joy.

Elara had smiled. Meant it, even. But later, once Kaia was asleep and Fiona had kissed her cheek goodbye, Elara turned towards her brother to be escorted back to the House of Wind and felt that same quiet weight settle in her bones. She didn’t know what it was—longing, maybe. Or mourning for a version of herself that could’ve had that life.

Either way, she left those visits exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep didn’t solve.

But it was getting easier. The ache didn’t bite quite as sharply now. Her memories of Conn still hurt, still carved hollow spaces in her, but they no longer swallowed her whole. And Fiona... Fiona was making space for her without pretending the past didn’t matter. That helped.

The door creaked softly as Elara stepped into the study, the familiar scent of parchment and warmed cedar wrapping around her. A fire had been set earlier, its embers pulsing low in the hearth, casting long shadows over the stone floor. She hesitated on the threshold, her boots silent against the rug as she took in the gathered room.

Cassian leaned back in a chair near the table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but sharp with watchfulness. Feyre stood near the mantle, her hands outstretched toward the candle wicks that flared to life at her touch, steady and measured. Nesta stood at the far end of the table, spine straight, arms stiff at her sides. Her gaze flicked up the moment Elara entered, cool as ever—but not hostile.

Elara's steps were measured as she entered, but her heart wasn’t. She felt it thud a little too hard in her chest when her eyes landed on the figure standing in the shadows just beyond the archway.

Azriel didn’t move as she crossed the threshold. His arms were folded, his head angled slightly down, but his gaze found hers as though it had been searching since the moment she walked in. Shadows coiled at his boots like hounds waiting for command. There were faint lines beneath his eyes, like sleep hadn’t come easy for him either, and the set of his jaw was tense enough that she could almost feel it. He looked like she felt—strung tight and brittle beneath the surface.

Her chest pulled tight. She kept her face neutral, gaze flicking away before she could lose herself in the storm behind his eyes. But he didn’t look away. Not until—

“Let’s be quick about this,” Nesta said, her tone clipped and clear.

Elara inclined her head, a small nod, and moved further into the room. She passed the table slowly, her hand brushing the back of a chair she didn’t sit in. Her place was across from Nesta, and she took it without pause. She felt Azriel behind her now—close enough to track his breath, but far enough that it didn’t touch her. His presence lingered like heat on the back of her neck.

Cassian brought out the scrying bowl and placed it in the center of the polished oak table. The silver rim caught the candlelight, gleaming faintly. He said nothing, but his eyes slid to Nesta, careful, watchful. Feyre joined them a moment later, her fingers lighting the last of the candles in smooth, practiced gestures. The flames flickered, throwing soft gold across the glassy surface of the water.

“When you attempted it two days ago,” Azriel’s voice broke through, low and controlled, “you felt nothing?”

The sound of him curled through her like a hook. Elara kept her face carefully composed, didn’t let her eyes drift toward the shadows at her back. She’d told herself she wouldn’t react. Wouldn’t give herself away.

Nesta exhaled, short and sharp. “Nothing. My mind circled on itself. Like I was hitting a wall over and over.”

There was something in the way her fingers pressed against the edge of the table, knuckles whitening slightly. She stood like a soldier trying not to flinch, and Elara could see the effort in it.

Her voice came before she had time to second guess it. “Your power was there.”

The words were soft, but they didn’t waver. They moved across the room with a quiet certainty, and for the first time in a long while, Nesta looked at her not like she was waiting to be burned, but like she was curious.

Elara’s eyes didn’t drop. “I could feel it when you tried last time. Like it was around the edge of your reach—close, but not quite there.”

Nesta nodded once—barely more than a dip of her chin—but it was enough. It was as though Elara had put into words everything that Nesta was trying to convey.

Across the table, Amren tilted her head. Her silver eyes glinted like blades in the candlelight, sharp as ever, and entirely unreadable. “What did you think of?” she asked, the honed edge of her voice ever present.

Elara watched as Nesta’s shoulders drew taut as bowstrings, and her gaze cut away toward the wide window, toward the river beyond. “The Trove,” she said at last, her voice thin but even. “About what happened the last time I scried.”

There was something in the way she said it—not just the words, but the space she left between them. Something guarded. And Nesta still hadn’t looked at Amren. Not once. Elara glanced between them, noting the way Nesta’s jaw clenched like she was swallowing a hundred other things she wouldn’t say aloud. She wondered what had passed between them. Whatever it was, it hadn’t healed.

Feyre stepped forward slightly, her fingers curling around the edge of the table. “We won’t let anything happen to Elain,” she said, firm enough to make it a promise. “Rhys warded her this morning. There are eyes on her at all times.”

That drew Elara’s attention. She hadn’t known that. But Nesta had clearly feared it—had asked for it—and her brother had listened. She looked toward Rhys, who stood near the hearth, arms folded, watching quietly. He met her eyes, and she gave him a small nod. Nothing more. Just a wordless acknowledgment that, in this, at least, he’d done right.

Nesta didn’t look convinced. Her voice came low, tightly wound. “Eyes can be blinded.”

From the far side of the room, the voice that answered seemed to unspool from the shadows themselves. “Not the ones under my command.”

Elara froze. The sound of his voice—cool, composed, unshakable—wrapped around her like a tether. She felt it at her nape, her ribs, deep in her sternum. Her spine straightened reflexively. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on the map unfurled across the table. Its inked lines and faint ridges gave her something to focus on. Something that wasn’t the gravity of him in the room.

Azriel spoke again, quieter now, but no less certain. “We won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Nesta exhaled once, but gave no further protest. She nodded, then slowly extended her hand over the stones at the center of the bowl.

The shift in the room came subtly at first. A slight rise in pressure, a soundless hum brushing the edges of awareness. Then—stillness. Like the house itself had gone silent, waiting.

Nesta’s fingers didn’t tremble, but her brows pulled together, her lips parting on a shallow breath. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Elara felt it. A prickling at the base of her skull, familiar and unwelcome. That sensation she remembered from the last time—like a thread tugging gently at the edge of her awareness. But now it wasn’t gentle. It pulled with sharp fingers, demanding.

The air cooled. The warmth leached from the room like blood from a wound. One by one, the candles began to sputter. Their flames shrank, pulling tight into themselves, and the light dimmed to a flickering hush. Elara’s breath caught. She let it out slowly, tried to keep her focus steady. But when she exhaled, a faint cloud misted the air in front of her lips.

She shifted her weight, eyes sweeping the dimming room. Her fingers tensed at her sides. And before she could stop herself, she looked to the corner of the room. 

Azriel was already watching her. His hazel eyes didn’t waver. They locked with hers across the dim room, and Elara felt it like a tether pulling taut between them. His expression gave nothing away, but the shadows—those traitorous, sentient things—coiled tighter around his shoulders, curling down his arms as if bracing for impact. Like even they could feel the chill in the air, the wrongness settling in.

Elara swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, dry. She forced herself to tear her gaze from him and look back at Nesta—but his eyes stayed burned into her mind.

The flames danced low on the wicks, barely flickering. The cold clung to her skin, wrapped around her ribs. She folded her arms across her chest to keep it out—not because she was shaking. Not because Azriel’s stare had stirred something deep in her that she’d been trying so hard to bury.

“Where is she wandering to?” Amren asked, voice low and sharp. Her silver eyes narrowed on Nesta and the edge of her voice had changed. Gone was the aloof curiosity; what remained was something more dangerous. Unease.

Azriel’s voice came from behind Elara, quiet but edged. “This didn’t happen that time during the war with Hybern.”

Without turning, Elara said, “And it didn’t happen two nights ago, either.” Her voice was calm, but her arms tightened around herself, sleeves tugging under her grip. She didn’t miss the way Azriel shifted behind her, how his eyes followed the movement, caught it and held on.

The bowl at the center of the table remained unchanged, but the room felt colder by the second. The flames were nearly guttered out now, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

Amren leaned forward, unnervingly still. “If you see the Mask, girl,” she said, each word cutting the air like a knife, “then now would be the time to let go.”

But Nesta didn’t move. Her eyes remained shut, brows slightly furrowed like she was listening to something far away. Her hand still gripped the stones in the bowl, knuckles pale from the pressure.

“Nesta,” Feyre said, urgency threading through her voice. “Open your hand.”

Nothing.

Feyre’s gaze darted to Rhys, wide with concern. “She never lowered her shields,” she breathed. “Her shields are—”

“A fortress of solid iron,” Rhys finished grimly. He didn’t take his eyes off Nesta. His mouth was a hard line, and the glow of violet behind his eyes was distant, dulled. Not because he wasn’t trying—but because something was keeping him out.

“I can’t get in,” Feyre said. Her voice had thinned with the weight of it. “Can you?”

She meant Rhys, but Elara caught the tremor beneath the words. The crack at the edge of Feyre’s composure.

The air in the room felt like it had thickened, congealed. Not just cold now—but heavy and charged Like a storm building, pressure rising.

Elara leaned in, just slightly.

“Come on, Nesta,” she murmured, her voice barely audible above the hum of magic in the room. Her breath fogged again as she spoke, curling in front of her face like a ghost.

Nesta didn’t move. The air felt colder now, the tension thick as smoke. But then—Elara felt it.

Azriel. He was no longer standing across the room. His presence flared beside her. She didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. Her breath stuttered once, catching on the scent that clung to him—mist and cedar, clean and sharp and familiar in a way that made her ribs ache.

His body radiated heat—real heat, the kind that sank through clothes and skin and bone. It blanketed her side, and for one strange, fragile second, she imagined stepping into it fully, curling into it like she had that night on the balcony. She didn’t move. But she could feel him standing there, a solid line of safety and tension, every inch of him focused on Nesta.

A whisper of his shadows brushed the back of her shoulder, so light she might’ve imagined it. Like they’d reached out on instinct.

Across the table, voices swirled. Rhysand murmured something to Feyre in a tight undertone. Amren’s voice cut sharper, low and fast, her eyes glowing silver now. Cassian hadn’t moved from Nesta’s side. But Elara couldn’t hear any of it clearly.

Just her breathing.

And his.

“She’s gone deeper than last time. You feel it too, don’t you?” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else, but Cassian glanced her way and nodded once. His features were drawn, tight with strain. If Nesta was afraid, it hadn’t shown on her face, but the strain on Cassian’s certainly had. Elara studied the bowl again. The stones glowed faintly beneath Nesta’s hand, and her fingers remained clamped around them, white-knuckled, unmoving. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t fading. It was sharpening. The silence in the room stretched. The power built. Elara felt it in her teeth, in her bones. Something older than any of them humming beneath the floorboards. The magic was changing, growing heavier, sharper. She caught Nesta’s scent now—metal and flame and cold.

And then Cassian’s voice cut through it all, “Get her out, Rhys.”

Elara flinched, the words dragging her back to the moment as if someone had snapped a tether taut around her chest. Cassian wasn’t hiding anything now. Gone was the calm, collected commander. In his place stood a male who hadn’t blinked in far too long, whose voice trembled with something dangerously close to fear.

Nesta still hadn’t moved. Her chest rose, shallow and uneven, her lips slightly parted. Her entire body remained hunched over the bowl like something had locked her there.

“I can’t,” Rhys said, the words quiet and tight, the tone behind them laced with something far grimmer than frustration. His eyes were still fixed on Nesta.

He didn’t look at anyone when he added, “The doors to her mind were open the other night. They’re shut now.”

The silence that followed landed hard, and Elara’s gaze darted to him, trying to process what she’d just heard.

“Nesta,” Cassian said again, louder this time. “Nesta, open your hand and come back.”

The room snapped. No other word fit for what it felt like—as if something huge and unseen had recoiled all at once. The cold vanished, yanked away like a tide pulled back too fast. Heat flooded in to replace it, too sudden, too much. Elara swayed, her vision swimming from the abrupt shift. The warmth pressed down heavy and thick, and it took her a second to find her footing again.

Nesta blinked.

Elara’s heart stopped.

Those weren’t Nesta’s eyes. They couldn’t be.

Silver fire burned in them—bright and sharp and unnatural, twin flames lit behind the pupils. Nesta’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t glance around, didn’t look at Cassian, didn’t react to anything at all.

There was no recognition. No fear. No trace of the steel-hearted female who had once glared daggers across dinner tables. There was nothing left in that gaze but something ancient and cold and impossibly vast. Before Elara could move, there was a sudden shift beside her—a blur of motion, the whisper of leather through air.

Azriel’s wings flared open.

Dark and massive, they filled her vision, swallowing all the light. One curved slightly around her, not quite touching, but enough to make her feel the barrier he had become. He stood between her and Nesta without a word, his body tense, angled like a blade, every line of him radiating readiness.

The protective curl of his wing made her breath catch.

Her brow furrowed, lips parting with quiet confusion. She leaned in the slightest bit and murmured under her breath, just loud enough for him alone. “I’m not breakable.”

Azriel didn’t respond, not aloud. But his shadows shifted, bristling faintly, like they wanted to close ranks around her anyway. She felt their attention, their pull. Her skin prickled beneath her clothes.

Still, she moved.

Carefully, she stepped sideways, brushing past the edge of his wing. Her shoulder skimmed his arm, and he didn’t stop her. But she felt the hesitation in the tension that rippled through him, in the way his shadows curled tighter around themselves as she slid back into view.

Nesta hadn’t moved.

She was still seated, still clutching the stones. But everything about her posture had changed. Her back was too straight, her shoulders drawn too sharp beneath her dress. That presence—whatever it was—it filled the room, coiling out from her in all directions. Elara could feel it like a pressure in her ribs, like there was something watching from behind those silver-lit eyes.

Cassian stepped forward.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t glance at Rhys or Feyre for permission. Didn’t flinch from the silver-flamed thing wearing Nesta’s face. While the rest of them held their breath—silent, unmoving, bracing for what that inhuman stare might do—he moved toward her like she was the most natural thing in the world.

The presence in the room shifted, watching him. But Cassian didn’t waver.

His voice was low, quiet enough that Elara have missed it if her attention hadn’t been fixed on the female before her. “Hello, Nes.”

Nesta blinked. It wasn’t much. Barely a twitch of her lashes. But the flame behind her eyes flickered—not out, not even dimmed, but changed.

Cassian caught it. His shoulders loosened just slightly, and he crouched down beside her chair, slow but not cautious. He reached out, not to grab her, but to ground her—to reach something beneath the fire. His hand hovered above her knee, then settled with a gentle press.

“Let go of the stones and bones,” he said, soft and coaxing, “Let go of the stones and bones, and then you and I can play.”

The words were strange—stranger still in the face of this cold magic—but his tone made them land like something familiar. A joke shared a thousand times.

And then he leaned in.

Elara barely had time to register the motion before his hand came up, cupping Nesta’s jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone, and he kissed her.

A breath caught in Elara’s throat. The sound scraped softly in the back of her mouth as she straightened, heat crawling up her neck. She hadn’t meant to react. But the rawness of the moment—the intimacy of it—hit her like a slap. She looked away, blinking hard at the bookshelf to her left as if the titles might offer an escape.

Her hands folded in front of her, clenched tighter than she realized. Something itched at the edge of her mind—guilt, maybe. Or shame. Or the sick ache of knowing she had been so wound in her own unraveling that she hadn’t noticed how much this had grown. Cassian and Nesta—somehow—they had built something. Something with roots strong enough to hold her here.

“Interesting,” Amren said, the single word laced with that familiar, surgical detachment. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the room with the ease of a blade, dousing the silence left in the wake of Cassian’s kiss.

Elara startled, her grip loosened from the edge of the table where her fingers had curled into the wood. They throbbed as blood returned, and she flexed them slowly, as if her hands didn’t quite belong to her. Her breath came shallow. She’d been holding herself too tight again, every muscle locked in place since the moment Nesta’s eyes had opened. Since that flame had looked through them.

Shadows still pressed at her back—soft now, like they were trying not to cling. Azriel hadn’t moved. She could feel him there, just beyond her periphery, quiet and steady as always. His body had been a wall behind her. Heat and scent and instinct. But she stepped away from it anyway.

She forced her feet toward the opposite end of the table, toward where Amren beside Feyre. Her gaze dropped, trailing along the surface of the wood where the scrying stones had settled in the scuffle. Something glinted there—barely visible unless you knew where to look.

And she did.

Her breath snagged. That faint, clean etching, cut with precision just beneath the thin, curling smoke of a candle. Words—no, a name. A place.

Her throat tightened.

Rhysand’s gaze met hers across the table. His expression didn’t change. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, his violet stare already locked on the exact same spot. He had seen it too. And understood.

Elara’s lips parted, and the words barely came out. They weren’t meant for anyone else, but they spilled into the quiet all the same.

“The Bog of Oorid.”

---

The scent of old ink and cedar oil clung to the corners of Rhysand’s study, thickened by the slow-burning hearth behind his desk. Outside the windows, clouds clustered low over Velaris—heavy and dark, their bellies swollen with rain. The light in the room had dimmed to a bruised sort of gray.

Azriel stood with his arms crossed at the edge of the long map table. His shadows curled low at his feet, silent and watching, as though they too were trying to make sense of the cursed shape on the parchment. The Middle.

An ink-black smear across the map, veined with ruin and rot.

“We have to retrieve the Mask,” Cassian said, his voice like a stone dropped in deep water. One fist pressed hard into the table beside the map, the other hanging at his side in a clenched arc. “Nesta’s the only one who can track it now. The thing was Made. And so was she.”

Azriel didn’t look at him. His jaw worked once, tight, as he stared at the jagged inked borders of the Middle. He’d known this would come—had known it the moment Nesta’s eyes went silver and something ancient had stirred behind them.

Cassian looked up, as if sensing Azriel’s thoughts. His face was shadowed in the dim light, scarred brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t like it either,” he said. “But she’s willing. She wants to see this through.”

“And you trust that?” Azriel’s voice came quiet, razor-edged. It cut through the low crackle of fire behind them.

Cassian’s eyes sparked.

“I trust her to know her own limits,” he said, not snapping, but firm. “And I trust myself to be there if she pushes too far.”

Azriel shifted slightly, the leather of his boots whispering against stone. He looked down at the map again, but didn’t speak. The room was too still.

Behind the desk, Rhys hadn’t moved. His hands were clamped on the carved arms of his chair, knuckles pale against the dark wood. The veins in his neck were taut, his shoulders drawn tight beneath his black tunic.

“If I could go,” he said at last, voice low and laced with regret, “I would. You know that.”

None of them spoke the reason aloud. Feyre. The child. The consequence of what would happen if he crossed into a cursed land while his mate carried life within her. The weight of it thickened the air, pressed at their ribs.

Silence crept in, brittle and sharp. Then—

“I think we bring Elara,” Cassian said.

Azriel’s head whipped toward him before the words had fully settled. “No.”

Cassian didn’t back down. “She’s survived worse than this.”

“She’s not ready.” Azriel’s tone stayed calm, but there was strain beneath it—coiled and simmering.

“She can decide that herself,” Cassian replied, before crossing his arms, “She was trained for situations like this. She knows how to move unseen. How to handle things none of us can predict.”

Azriel said nothing.

He didn’t so much as glance at Cassian. His eyes stayed on the western edge of the Middle—where the boglands bled into the forest, and the land turned to mire. His shadows slipped along the edge of the table, coiling over the contour lines as if tracing a path. He didn’t stop them.

The room was thick with waiting. The fire behind Rhys cracked, but no warmth reached the cold forming low in Azriel’s gut.

Rhysand’s violet eyes drifted toward him, sharp and knowing. “You don’t think she can handle it?”

Azriel still didn’t speak.

Because it wasn’t about whether Elara could survive the trek through the Middle, or slip past the twisted things that waited there. It wasn’t about whether she’d stay hidden, or hold her own if the Mask whispered to her too. That was the worst of it. She could.

And if she didn’t come back—if the powers took her like they nearly took Nesta—he would have no one to blame. Not even himself.

It would hollow him out.

“Is this about her past?” Cassian asked, too casually. As if the question didn’t punch through the silence like a blade.

Azriel’s shadows surged, rose sharply from his shoulders like bristling fur. He straightened, not looking at Cassian. “Enough.”

His voice wasn’t raised. But it hit hard. Enough that Cassian finally looked up, blinking once, his mouth tight. He opened it again—likely to press further—but the sharp flicker of Rhysand’s magic was faster.

Why are you reacting like this? Rhys’s voice sounded in Azriel’s mind, calm and quiet but distant enough to set his teeth on edge.

Azriel’s spine stiffened. He didn’t move. Didn’t give any indication he’d heard. Cassian hadn’t noticed the mental thread.

It’s not like you to shoot down a good asset, Rhys continued, smoothly. Not without reason.

Azriel locked his jaw and kept his gaze on the map, on the jagged marshlines that cut through the western edge. The same place the Bog had appeared. He could smell the rot already, hear the quiet hum of things without names waiting beneath the water.

Elara’s not an asset, he answered finally, forcing the words into Rhysand’s mind, each one like iron against his tongue. She’s your sister.

Cassian exhaled, like he didn’t want to argue anymore, and leaned back over the map.

“We’ll enter from the west,” he said, low but sure. “Cross on foot where it’s shallower. Az, you take the lead if we run into anything.”

Azriel didn’t nod. Didn’t look up. He could feel Rhys’s mental voice again, brushing the edge of his thoughts with too much precision.

I know that. The words were quieter now, not scolding—just… exasperated. But she’s also extremely capable. Cassian is right. She’s perfect for this. And she’ll want to help. You know that. So tell me, really. Why are you acting like this?

Azriel’s eyes didn’t move from the spot on the map where the Bog was marked—just a faded black ink label, its letters small and curled, like it had been written with too much care.

It’s nothing, he said.

You’re not even looking at me, Rhys said in his mind, amused now. There’s something you don’t want me to know.

Azriel didn’t blink. Didn’t shift his stance or loosen his grip where his arms were crossed. He just stared harder at the map—at that narrow swath of the Middle, where the bog crept like a spreading bruise into the land. His shadows drifted low around his boots, almost still. A dead giveaway.

You’ve been acting strange around her for as long as she has been back, Rhys went on, thoughtful now. And suddenly you can’t stand the thought of her going into danger. Even when she has endured far worse.

Drop it, Azriel snapped back, the words like cold steel in his mind.

There was a long pause—long enough for Azriel to think he might get away with it.

Oh. Rhys’s mental voice was quiet. Almost surprised.

Azriel’s heart didn’t move. He didn’t confirm it. Didn’t breathe. He kept his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on the swampland drawn in neat, inky lines. If anyone glanced over, they wouldn’t know anything had changed. But inside, everything had tilted.

You’re kidding. Rhys’ voice was flat now. There was no humor in it. No edge. Just stunned disbelief.

Still, Azriel gave nothing away. The silence between them said enough.

You’ve known for a while now, Rhys murmured, the realization unfurling in his voice. You’ve known, and you didn’t say anything.

Cassian cleared his throat and tapped a calloused finger against the map, shattering the thread of quiet like glass under boot.

“We move in three days.” He dragged his finger westward, across the terrain. “That gives us time to prep, but still gets us ahead of Briallyn. Should also give Elara time to decide if she’s coming.”

“She’s not going,” Azriel said, his voice softer now, but no less certain.

Cassian paused mid-motion, hand hovering over the parchment. He looked up, eyes narrowing. “Why?” There was no edge in the question—just confusion, maybe even a little concern.

Because she’s your mate, Rhys said in his mind. And you’re unraveling at the idea of her being so close to a Made object.

Azriel closed his eyes for just a breath. One second, no more. Just long enough to catch the edge of himself before it frayed further.

You’re acting irrationally, Rhys added, gentler now. I recognize it. I’ve been there.

Azriel didn’t lift his head. Didn’t meet his brother’s gaze. He opened his eyes again and reached out, tracing a direct path along the shaded part of the map, his gloved finger running along the black lines etched to mark terrain too dangerous to fly over.

Instead, he opened his eyes and traced a path through the marshland with a gloved finger, skimming the border where the shadows would be thickest.

“If we’re going,” he said aloud, his voice cold and precise, “we fly low. No light. No sound. We don’t let anyone sense that we are coming until we are already there.”

Cassian’s knuckles tapped a steady beat at the edge of the map.

 “We move at dawn, three days out,” he said, glancing at both of them but lingering longest on Azriel. “Elara and Nesta together—one sees, the other tracks. Az, you’ll scout ahead. We’ll be ready.”

Azriel said nothing. He kept his stance locked, arms folded tighter now. The crackle of the fire in the hearth had dulled into a soft hiss, and even Cassian’s voice felt far away, dulled beneath the low hum of something else threading through Azriel’s head.

Does she know? Rhys’s voice slipped back into his mind, quieter now, less pointed but no less persistent. Elara—does she know what you are to her?

Azriel didn’t blink. His shadows shifted once—barely—but the movement rippled down his spine like the twitch of a blade still sheathed.

No, he answered finally. She’s still figuring out who she even is after what Hybern did to her. She doesn’t need this.

The silence that followed pulsed, just for a beat. Then Rhys replied, the words sharp and low. Good. A pause. She doesn’t.

Azriel’s throat tightened, not from the words themselves but from the truth they carried. When he glanced up, just once, Rhys was already watching him. Not with the smooth indifference of a High Lord, not with that distant poise he wore like armor. This look was older. Sharper. Protective in a way Azriel hadn’t seen in years.

She’s not just your mate, Rhys said, the words low and iron-edged. She’s my sister. Whatever this is, you take care with her. She’s not—

“I know,” Azriel said aloud before he could stop himself. The words barely carried, but they landed like stones dropped into water. He didn’t look away.

Rhys didn’t nod exactly—just inclined his head the barest amount. It wasn’t approval. But something close to understanding, buried beneath years of restraint.

Cassian’s eyes flicked between them. His brows drew together faintly. “Something I should know?”

“No,” Rhys answered smoothly, already rising from his chair and turning toward the wide arched window behind him. “Nothing at all.”

The fire hissed again as a gust of wind rattled against the glass, and in the pause that followed, Azriel moved. His boots barely made a sound as he turned and strode for the door, every step measured, each one heavier than it should’ve been.

He didn’t stay to see whether Cassian would ask again—or if Rhys would lie for him a second time.

Out in the hall, the air felt colder. Less filtered. Less bearable. His heart thudded in his ribs—not from fear. No, fear would’ve been easier. This was something heavier. The truth, no longer his alone to carry. It pressed in from all sides.

And worse—so much worse—it made everything ahead of them more dangerous than ever.

Notes:

Welp, at least someone else knows now. Too bad its not Elara.

Chapter 71

Notes:

Wow! Yesterday marks one year since I published the first chapter of this story. I can't believe this is where we are now. I hadn't intended this story to be this long, but Elara means the world to me so I continued to show her healing process. I know it's ridiculously long. But thank you so much to everybody who has stuck by this story, whether you started reading last week or a year ago!

“Look at this hellhole.”

Elara didn’t need to. Cassian’s blunt assessment spoke for itself, but even so, she glanced around the edge of the decayed trail they were following. The Bog of Oorid stretched out before them like something half-rotted and still breathing. Trees, stripped bare of their bark, rose like bones with branches gnarled into clawed shapes. Everything looked dead. Or worse—undead. Even the moss that clung to the trunks and stone was ashen, leached of color like it had given up trying to grow.

She grimaced and exhaled slowly through her nose.

“He’s not wrong,” she muttered, though she wasn’t sure anyone heard.

To her right, Azriel took in the landscape with a tight jaw, his wings folded close behind him. When his eyes moved over the black water seeping between roots and rocks, he flinched, barely perceptible but real. She noticed anyway.

The water was too still, far too dark. It wasn’t covered in shadow, but something denser. Ink-like. Stagnant. The kind of black that didn’t reflect anything—only swallowed.

“No insects,” Azriel said at last, his voice quiet and edged with unease. “Not one bird.”

The silence made the world feel suspended. As if time itself hesitated to move forward here.

“Who would bury their dead here?” Nesta asked behind them, her voice laced with both disdain and disbelief.

“They didn’t put them in the earth,” Elara said without turning, her voice low. “These were water burials.”

A pause.

“I’d rather be burned to ashes and cast to the wind than left here,” Nesta said. Her tone was still sharp, but there was something raw beneath it. Like even she knew this place didn’t want the dead—it fed on them.

“Noted,” Cassian said dryly. A brittle attempt at levity that only made the silence louder once it faded.

Azriel’s voice cut through a beat later, barely above a whisper. “This is an evil place.”

The words sent a chill down Elara’s spine, not because they surprised her—because they didn’t. Because even Azriel, who had walked through horrors she couldn’t begin to name, sounded afraid.

She shifted her weight and stepped forward carefully, boots sinking a little deeper into the saturated ground. A wet, sucking noise followed her as she moved, the scent of rot rising with each step. Behind her, Cassian and Nesta murmured something about the creatures said to live here, kelpies and the link. Elara repressed a shudder. She didn’t want to think about what kind of things might still be watching them from beneath that ink-still water.

Her fingers itched toward her weapons, but she forced herself to keep them at her sides. Instead, she walked a little farther into the bog, just enough to let the land speak for itself. She let the wrongness settle over her like a shroud. The heaviness in the air. The sense that they were not just being watched—but remembered.

She hadn’t been to the Middle since the days of Amarantha. She hadn’t let herself recall what those days had tasted like. What they had smelled like. But now, with the bog swallowing every breath of wind, every chirp of life, it was impossible not to remember.

Elara exhaled slowly and let her thoughts drift—not far, not completely, just enough to measure how far her companions’ voices were. Still within earshot. Still safe, for now.

Something brushed her wrist.

“You shouldn’t be going off on your own.”

Elara didn’t jump, though the voice came from close behind. She had known he was there—had felt him watching her even before she stepped away from the group. She stood near a shallow ridge, where the mud thinned out just enough to show slick, dark stone beneath. Everything beyond that line was rotting trees and thick fog.

She turned to find Azriel a few paces back, his shadows curling low around his boots. He didn’t look angry, but his mouth was tight, and there was something restless in the set of his shoulders.

She glanced behind her. Nesta and Cassian were still talking near a warped-looking stump, heads bent over the map, voices too low to catch. She hadn’t gone far. Ten steps, maybe fifteen.

Her only response was a raised brow. He exhaled.

“It’s better to stay together here,” he said.

Elara turned back to the bog. The water stretched out in every direction, dark as ink, with no clear end in sight. Dead trees leaned at odd angles. Everything looked like it had been drowned long ago.

“Just getting a lay of the land, Shadowsinger,” she said after a pause. It was the most she’d spoken to him since that night on the balcony, and she didn’t bother hiding the edge in her voice. “I promise you, I can handle myself.”

“I know you can.” His voice was low, steady. She felt rather than saw his eyes on her—scanning her, probably. Checking for what? Cracks? Weakness? Injuries? She didn’t move.

“El—”

“Come on, you two!”

Cassian’s voice cut through whatever Azriel had been about to say. Both of them turned.

“We’ll get a better view from the air,” he added, already reaching for Nesta. The eldest Archeron didn’t argue as he pulled her into his arms.

Elara rolled her shoulders back and called her wings. She didn’t wait. The second they formed, she pushed off the ground, grateful for the distance. The smell down there was thick with wet earth and decay, and it only got worse the longer she stood still.

Azriel joined her a moment later. Neither of them spoke as they followed Cassian higher into the sky.

From above, the Bog of Oorid looked even worse. Endless pools of black water, moss-choked roots, fog that didn’t move right. Nothing living stirred. No birds overhead. No ripples. Just stillness. Like the entire place was holding its breath.

Cassian’s voice drifted over the wind. He was pointing things out for Nesta’s benefit—listing the types of creatures that might be buried down there. Kelpies. Wights. Spirits that didn’t stay buried. Nesta asked questions every now and then, her tone clipped and sharp, but Elara didn’t catch the words. She wasn’t listening.

She flew a little ahead, letting the air clear her head. The wind was cold up here, and her arms ached from holding steady. They’d been flying for a while now. It felt like too long.

She sensed him before he spoke.

“Elara—”

“I promise I’m not going to fly off, Shadowsinger,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice came out more tired than anything else.

They flew in silence, the wind cold between them. Elara kept her eyes forward, scanning the bog below—though there wasn’t much to see. Just more water, more rot, more of that same gray fog curling between broken tree limbs. But Azriel stayed close, his presence constant at her side. She could feel him watching her, again and again.

Eventually, he spoke.

“Elara.”

She didn’t answer. She just kept flying. He edged a little closer, voice low. “We need to talk about the other night.”

“No,” she said flatly. “We don’t.”

“Elara—”

“It’s not the time, Shadowsinger.” She didn’t raise her voice, but the edge in it was sharp.

He didn’t back off. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

She exhaled through her nose, trying not to let the frustration show, even though it was already bubbling beneath her skin. “Maybe because I have a good reason,” she said coolly. “Maybe you should take the hint.”

Azriel’s wings shifted as if he’d been struck.

He didn’t argue, didn’t call her out for the coldness in her tone. He just stared at her for a long beat, something unreadable in his eyes, before he veered sharply to the right. Within seconds, the distance between them had grown. Elara didn’t stop him. It was better this way. Cleaner.

At least, that was what she told herself as she angled into a slow sweep, eyes moving over the same damn stretch of dead land. There was nothing useful here—no surge of power, no hint of the Mask. Just water, fog, and rot as far as she could see. The others were still in sight: Cassian looping in a wide circle, Nesta gliding near him with her arms crossed tight to her chest. They hadn’t noticed Azriel break off yet. Elara kept scanning the bog below, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pull in her chest that came from not knowing where he was.

The wind stung her eyes, but she didn’t slow. She shifted her weight slightly to bank left, bringing the line of trees into view again. For a second, she thought she saw movement—ripples in the water where there shouldn’t have been any—but before she could take a closer look, Cassian’s voice cracked across the sky.

“Azriel!”

The shout yanked her attention to the north. Cassian was hovering mid-air, looking wildly around, his face twisted in something that wasn’t panic—but close. Nesta’s head was whipping around Cassian’s shoulders, her posture suddenly alert.

Elara whipped her head the other way, scanning the sky. There had been no warning. Azriel had been right there, not even ten minutes ago, and now there was nothing. No movement. No wings. No shadow.

Her gut clenched as she looked again, slower this time, heart pounding harder with every passing second. He wouldn’t have just flown off—not without saying something. She kept turning, trying to will the horizon to give him back.

And then she saw it—faint and flickering, a flash of blue beneath the fog.

Her breath caught, chest tightening as her body locked up mid-ai as she recognized Azriel’s siphons. He wouldn’t have lit them up, wouldn’t have called on his power, unless he needed to. Not in this place. Not where every pulse of power might as well be a beacon.

Cassian dove first, Nesta still clutched tight in his arms as he shot below the mist cover. Elara followed without thinking, wings flaring wide against the sudden drop. The cold slapped against her face, the wind yanking hard at her flight. Her shredded wings caught the worst of it—every ragged tear in the membrane dragged her back, slowed her down—but she forced her way forward anyway, desperate to see where Azriel had gone.

She hadn’t broken through the fog when Cassian came hurtling back up.

Nesta was screaming something, barely audible over the howl of wind. Elara veered sideways, wings snapping to slow her enough to match Cassian’s altitude.

“What is it?” she shouted, cutting close.

Cassian’s face was a snarl, his eyes blazing as he spat, “Autumn Court soldiers. One of those bastards shot Az through the wing with an ash arrow.”

The words barely registered before her vision tinted red.

Something primal snapped inside her. She didn’t think—just started to pivot mid-air, angling to dive straight down. She didn’t care if it was stupid. She didn’t care if it was reckless. Someone had hurt him.

“Elara!” Cassian’s barked command cut through the haze, causing her to stop mid-flight.

“I need you to stay with Nesta,” he said, already scanning the ground again. “I’m going to deal with these pricks.”

She bristled, wings still half-tilted to dive. “I can fight—”

“I know,” Cassian snapped, his gaze locking on hers. “But I need you to be there for her.”

Elara’s body screamed at her to disobey. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms, and her wings shook with the need to go to him. But she looked at Nesta—still white-knuckled, silent now but shaken—and forced herself to nod once, short and tight.

Cassian wasted no time. He flew ahead, circling back to lead them out of the immediate airspace. After a few minutes, he found a high perch—a gnarled, twisted tree far enough from the fighting to be out of range but close enough to see flickers of motion in the mist.

He set Nesta down carefully on the branch and shot Elara a look that said don’t move before he vanished beneath the canopy.

Elara stayed.

She crouched beside Nesta, wings folding slowly in as she squinted toward the fog, but there was nothing to see. Only vague shapes. Only the echo of shouting that didn’t quite reach them.

The waiting settled into her like a sickness.

She had no idea how bad it was. How deep the arrow had gone. If Azriel was still flying or on the ground. If he was conscious. Every second felt like something was being peeled back inside her, exposing a raw nerve she didn’t want to name.

She didn’t understand why it felt like this.

She didn’t understand why her chest still burned.

Elara lost track of how long they’d been up in that tree. A few minutes, probably. It felt like hours, her nerves stretched too thin, every sound filtered through the rotting silence below. Cassian should’ve been back already. He was the Lord of Bloodshed, a war-hardened brute with centuries of battle behind him. Three Autumn Court grunts shouldn’t have kept him long. Unless—

Her jaw clenched. She couldn’t finish the thought.

Azriel was still out there. Bleeding. Somewhere beneath that dense gray mist.

“Where is he?” Nesta’s voice snapped through the stillness, ragged with something close to fear.

Elara shifted where she crouched beside her on the wide branch, bark digging into the backs of her thighs. “I’m sure he’ll be back any moment,” she said, keeping her voice flat, steady. “He’s the commander of the Illyrian legions. He’ll be alright, Nesta.”

“You don’t know that,” Nesta said sharply, twisting to face her. “He’s been injured before. You know that.”

Elara exhaled slowly through her nose. She did know. She remembered the exact way his his wings had twisted, half-shredded from shoulder to tip as she stood at the opposite side of the throne room in Hybern. Remembered the panic that had gripped her, even then, when they were supposed to be on opposite sides of the war.

“He’s going to handle it,” she said, forcing her shoulders to stay relaxed. “But he can’t do what he needs to if he’s worrying about you. So you need to stay put.”

Nesta’s snort was full of contempt. “That’s bullshit.”

Elara turned her head, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“Azriel is down there too.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Elara snapped, louder than she meant to. Her hands were clenched on her knees now, nails digging into the soft leather. “Of course I’m worried—”

“Then act like it.”

“I am acting like it,” she shot back. “I’m following the plan. Because going in there blindly, without backup, isn’t going to help him. It’s going to get us both killed.”

“They’re your people too,” Nesta hissed, stepping in closer, her face flushed. “Azriel and Cassian are your family. And you’re just sitting here while they bleed?”

The words hit harder than they should have. Elara flinched, just slightly. She’d never had a family to defend before — not in recent memory, at least. Shame crept up, heating the back of her neck and cheeks. That familiar burn started to crawl beneath her skin—the sharp, clawing instinct to run toward danger. To tear through anyone who might’ve hurt him.

“I don’t want to leave them,” she said, voice rough. Her hands were trembling. “But I have to be smart about this. We have to be smart about this.”

“Then do something.” Nesta turned without warning, swinging one leg down from the branch, testing for a foothold on the knotted trunk. The bark crumbled under her boot.

“Nesta—”

But Nesta wasn’t listening. Elara reached for her, grabbing the back of her coat just in time to stop her from slipping entirely off the branch.

“Would you think for a second?” Elara snapped, hauling her back up with more force than necessary. “You can’t just throw yourself down there. We don’t even know if the soldiers are still nearby.”

“I don’t care,” Nesta growled, jerking her arm free. “I’m not sitting here like a coward while the people I love bleed out below us.”

Elara stared at her. At the rage, the fear, the absolute refusal to do nothing. And by the Cauldron, she understood. Every part of her body was telling her to fly. To search. To fight. To find him.

But she forced herself to breathe through it. Just a few seconds longer.

Cassian would come back. He had to.

Still gripping the rough bark, Elara turned her gaze to the mist below and prayed the wind would shift soon.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Elara muttered under her breath as Nesta started climbing down the tree like she had any real plan.

Her wings snapped open and she dove, catching Nesta by the back of her coat just as the female reached the lowest branch. She hadn’t meant to be rough, but Nesta fought her like an animal—twisting, elbowing, every limb flailing in defiance. Elara grit her teeth, trying to haul them upward, but a solid knee caught her in the ribs, hard enough to knock her off balance.

They tumbled.

Elara couldn’t catch herself fast enough and she hit the ground first, shoulder slamming into something half-buried under the mud. Nesta crashed beside her, and they landed in a tangled, graceless heap of limbs and mud, right in the middle of the bog.

The shock of cold, wet earth stole the breath from Elara’s lungs. She shoved herself upright, wincing as her wing dragged behind her, the torn edge catching in a root. Nesta was already on her feet and moving—because of course she was—without so much as a glance back to see if Elara was still alive.

“Nesta,” Elara snapped, trying to shake the filth off her hands. “Don’t—”

But the other female wasn’t listening. She stepped into the bog like it wasn’t a cursed swamp crawling with creatures that wouldn’t hesitate to drag them under. The water sloshed around her thighs, and she pushed forward with that same stubborn fire that made Elara want to scream.

Something in the air shifted. The wind stilled. The sounds faded until all Elara could hear was her own breathing, and the gentle lap of dark water around her boots. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to get Nesta back on dry ground. She scanned the water, heart in her throat—and then she saw it.

Just a few feet ahead, nestled in the shadows between reeds, something white broke the surface. Too pale to be stone, too smooth to be anything natural. The face—if it could be called that—was long and expressionless, those pitch-black eyes fixed on Nesta like a predator waiting to strike. It didn’t move. It didn’t need to. Elara’s blood ran cold.

“Nesta,” she said sharply, her voice low but firm. “Stop. Don’t take another step.”

Nesta froze, her back to Elara, and for one beat, it seemed like maybe she’d listened. But then, with barely a ripple, a pale hand surged from the water and clamped around Nesta’s ankle.

Elara surged forward, but she wasn’t fast enough. The bog opened, swallowing Nesta in a single, smooth pull. One heartbeat she was there—feet planted, arms ready to fight—and the next, she was gone. The surface closed over her like nothing had happened.

“Fuck!” The curse tore from Elara’s throat as she reached the edge, mud sucking at her boots. She dropped to her knees without thinking, hands plunging into the black water, feeling for anything—skin, cloth, movement.

There was no time to think. No time to call for help or weigh options. There was only one choice.

She took a breath, tightened her grip on the dagger at her thigh, and dove.

---

“Nesta!”

The sound ripped through the fog, sharp and ragged. Cassian’s voice, too loud in the muffled quiet of the bog, cracked at the end. The damp air pressed in from all sides, too thick, too still. Even the wind had fallen silent, and sound didn’t carry the way it should have—it warped, turned flat and distant.

Azriel didn’t look at him. His eyes swept the mist, cataloging shapes, shadows, movement—but not her. His heart thudded, fast and brutal, and his shadows coiled in tighter, crawling along his shoulders like they were searching too. They weren’t whispering, not like usual.

He forced himself to think like a soldier. Terrain. Threat. Target. But his focus kept slipping. There was a cold knot under his sternum that had nothing to do with the bog.

Where the Hel did she go?

She wouldn’t just vanish. Not Elara. He scanned again, faster now. She was trained. More than trained—she was calculated, deliberate under pressure, controlled even when cornered. She didn’t make reckless moves. Didn’t run off without backup.

Unless… unless she’d thought it was the only choice.

Cassian cursed behind him, low and furious, then shouted again. “Nesta!”

There was no response—just the same stillness, broken only by the water shifting under their boots.

Azriel kept turning, his wings half-spread for balance as he moved across the unstable ground. He could barely see past a few feet. The mist clung to everything, curling around trees, waterlogged roots, their armor.

“Where did Elara take Nesta?” Cassian demanded suddenly, closing the space between them in three quick strides. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw clenched tight enough that Azriel could see the muscle ticking. His voice was sharp enough to slice through fog. “Did you see where she went?”

Azriel didn’t flinch, though his patience was hanging by a thread. “She didn’t take her,” he said, voice flat and certain.

Cassian blinked, chest still heaving, but Azriel didn’t give him time to argue. “Elara wouldn’t risk her like that,” he said, already shifting away to search again.

Because she wouldn’t. No matter how angry she was, how reckless she pretended to be when she didn’t want people looking too closely—Elara wouldn’t leave someone behind.

Cassian scoffed, the sound dry and rough. There was something bitter flickering in his eyes as he shook his head, the frustration rolling off him in waves. “How could you possibly know that?” His voice rose with it, just slightly. “It’s no secret that they don’t like each other.”

Azriel’s gaze cut to him, sharp and warning. His voice dropped low, quiet enough to carry weight. “You’d better watch the next words that come out of your mouth, Cassian.”

They stared at each other, the bog pressing in around them, thick and silent and oppressive. Just two males standing ankle-deep in stagnant water, trying not to say what they were both thinking. That they’d lost her. That maybe this place had taken them both.

Cassian’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, but Azriel was already turning away, not trusting himself to look at him. He reached inward, pulling on the network of shadows that clung to him like a second skin, sending them out across the damp, rotting air.

Search. Find her.

They scattered instantly, fanning into the mist, sliding through the trees and waterlogged brush, silent as smoke. He waited, holding perfectly still, jaw tight, chest locked.

Nothing.

The shadows returned empty.

No movement. No trace of her scent. No flicker of her heartbeat. It was as if the bog had swallowed her whole, leaving not even a whisper behind.

“Nesta!” Cassian shouted again, louder this time, voice cracking near the end. Then, after another beat, he turned and shouted, “Elara!”

Azriel didn’t move, though his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Cassian rounded on him again, his wings twitching, voice ragged with panic. “We need Rhys.”

“I already tried,” Azriel said. His tone was clipped, harder now. “I opened the bridge. There’s nothing there. He can’t reach us.”

Cassian let out a savage curse and dragged both hands down his face, the strain catching up with him. His armor was streaked with mud, water soaking through his boots, wings trembling faintly from the effort of holding himself together.

Azriel didn’t waste breath on comforting him. He didn’t have any to spare.

Elara had been careful. Always. Precise. She didn’t rush in without a reason.

Unless something had found them first.

The thought landed like a blade between his ribs. If she was hurt—if she was alone out there, buried in mist and silence—he couldn’t finish the thought. His jaw locked so tight it sent pain spiraling up the side of his head.

He turned back toward the fog, wings flexing slightly as if preparing to launch into the air again.

“We find them,” he said, low and cold and certain. “No matter what.”

Chapter 72

Notes:

Sorry for the delay, last week ended up being a little crazy!

The only thing that Elara knew—the only thing she could feel—was the cold, crushing silence.

As soon as she had thrown herself into the Bog, the water closed over her head like a fist. There was no light. No sound. No direction. Just that brutal, choking cold pressing against every part of her, squeezing the air from her lungs before she could even think to hold it.

Her limbs flailed as instinct took over, but it was all wrong. The Bog didn’t behave like normal water. It was thicker, heavier, dragging her down instead of letting her rise. Her wings, tattered and useless, caught and pulled her further into the black.

She forced her eyes open. Silt and rot stung them immediately, and she blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of anything in the endless dark.

Stupid. Her lungs burned already, her ribs locking tighter with each second. Stupid, Elara. She should have thought before leaping. Should have come up with a plan, mapped her exit, found something solid to anchor herself to. She’d been better than this once—sharper, colder, calculated to the bone.

But she’d also been less of herself then. Less... her.

Then she saw it.

A flash of bone-pale motion cut through the dark. It darted in and out of the gloom too fast to track—slick and serpentine. The kelpie.

And clutched in its grip, struggling against it, was Nesta.

Elara’s blood turned to ice. The creature was dragging Nesta deeper into the muck, long limbs wrapped tight around her. Nesta was thrashing, her limbs wild with panic and raw fury. Her fists pounded, legs kicked, even under the crushing water. There was something terrifying in her desperation, a kind of rage that made her glow faintly even here. But it wouldn’t matter. Nesta could fight all she wanted, but she wasn’t strong enough to break the hold of something that had lived in the Middle since before even the courts had names.

Elara kicked forward, muscles straining against the weight of the Bog. Every motion felt like swimming through pitch. She didn’t get far. The Bog pushed back, almost like it didn’t want her there, like it knew she didn’t belong. It pressed at her, sluggish and cruel, slowing her arms, dragging at her legs.

Then it changed.

It started with something brushing against her ankle—soft, slick. And then it tightened.

Her entire body jolted as something coiled around her leg and yanked.

She twisted, desperate to see, and the water blurred worse with her panic. The thing around her ankle looked like a vine—but not. It pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat of its own, and it glistened with something dark and clinging. Before she could reach for it, more wrapped around her other leg, then both wrists, jerking her back like a puppet on strings.

She thrashed, panic rising. Her hands strained against the binds, trying to claw free, but the vines—if that’s what they were—only squeezed tighter, drawing her deeper and deeper into the gloom. The surface was gone. Nesta was gone. All she could see was the faint glow of something vanishing above, and the slow blur of her own arms as she fought.

Her lungs were on fire now. Her chest heaved, instinct screaming at her to breathe even as her mind begged her not to. She wouldn’t last much longer. Not down here.

She kicked again, twisting violently, and one of the vines slipped slightly from her wrist. She used the moment to dig her nails into it, pulling until the skin beneath her nails peeled away in chunks. Whatever it was, it didn’t bleed. Just hissed, a ripple in the water she felt more than heard.

She always knew it would end like this. Maybe not the details, not the place or the shape of it—but the feeling. The end pressing in around her. Before she'd had a name, before she'd known there was a family out there that might want her, she’d understood something bone-deep.

That whatever her death looked like, it would be alone.

Her chest seized. The pressure in her lungs turned sharp, unbearable.

Clotilda’s face flickered through the dark—stern, unflinching, arms crossed as she’d insisted Elara eat something with actual nutrients. The first person who hadn’t looked at her like she was a weapon or a threat.

Rhysand, standing at the door of the Moonstone Palace. Tired. Hopeful. The male who had wanted her to come home so badly it had twisted something in his expression, even when he tried to hide it.

And Azriel. The last look he’d given her, right before he vanished into the mist—still waiting for her to say something real. She’d told him to take the hint. Gods, she’d practically spit it in his face.

Maybe he’d be the one to find her body, dragged up bloated and green from this festering place. She hoped not.

She tore her arm upward, twisting hard. The vines gave suddenly, and Elara surged toward the surface, the burn in her chest turning white-hot. She broke the water with a ragged gasp, coughing violently as the air hit her lungs like knives. She heaved once, then again, hands scrabbling for purchase on a half-sunken branch. It cracked under her grip but held just long enough for her to pull a dagger from her belt.

Not enough time. Never enough time.

Then she went under again.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. She kicked through the muck, slicing the water with her limbs, ignoring how her legs were already cramping from the cold and strain. She spotted the kelpie again, dragging Nesta deeper, its bone-pale arms looped around her like a grotesque lover. It moved with the slow, terrifying grace of something that had never once lost a fight.

Nesta’s hair streamed behind her, a snarl of silver and black in the current. Her arms were still moving, striking weakly at the thing wrapped around her torso.

Elara’s grip tightened on the dagger. She swam harder. The weight came back. Not physical, not at first. The Bog itself thickened around her, choking her speed. The vines returned, slipping around her legs, slick and fast. Then her waist. Then her arms. They moved differently now—like they understood what she meant to do. Like they were afraid.

She reached out, almost there.

Something latched around her throat.

She convulsed, nearly losing the dagger. The vines coiled like a noose, yanking her back a few inches. Enough to make her lose sight of the kelpie again. The thing’s eyes flared through the murk—deep, obsidian pits, too intelligent. As if it were not only watching Elara’s ordeal, but enjoying it.

Fury ignited in her belly.

She screamed into the water. “Let her go!”

But it was just a stream of bubbles, lost in the black. And just like that, a lungful of her precious air was gone.

Elara thrashed, but her limbs barely responded now. Each movement was slow, syrupy, like her body belonged to someone else—or no one at all. Her vision darkened at the edges, the black creeping inward, dulling the smear of movement ahead where Nesta was still being dragged into the depths.

The vines coiled tighter, pulsing with some grotesque rhythm that matched her heartbeat. Slower now.

And fading.

She reached again, or tried to. Her fingers twitched, a useless spasm in the dark. She couldn’t even feel the dagger anymore. The Bog’s weight curled around her lungs, around her ribs, as if it had decided to cradle her now, gently, like a child it never intended to let go. Nesta was slipping away, the pale blur of her figure dragged deeper. Elara opened her mouth, but no sound came. Only a ragged thought, hollow and final.

I’m sorry.

She didn’t know who the apology was meant for. Nesta. Azriel. Herself. Maybe all of them.

Then—something shifted. The water stilled. Not calm, but waiting.

It started like a hum inside her bones. Not her own magic, not the Bog’s hateful rhythm. This was older. A cold, living current that coiled around the space where Nesta had sunk. Elara felt it slide past her like a phantom hand. And then the vines… twitched. Only slightly, but Elara felt the hesitation in them, the recoil.

Her blood iced over.

Something was wrong. Not in the way everything already had been—but cosmically, terrifyingly wrong. Power was rising from Nesta’s limp body, curling outward like smoke, like a cry. Not a scream. A call.

Elara didn’t understand it. Couldn’t. All she knew was that she should not be here for this.

Her lungs stopped burning—because they had stopped trying. She floated backward, weightless. Released. The Bog seemed to give her up like she was no longer worth holding onto. No longer a challenge. She let it.

She was too far gone to fight anymore.

Her mind drifted. Not to names, not to words, but to the ache of memory.

Azriel, standing in the wind, his mouth tight as she told him she didn’t need protecting. But his eyes had stayed on her like he didn’t believe her for a second. Rhysand, leaning on the balcony rail with that weary, cautious hope in his smile. She had made herself laugh for him once. A hollow, brittle sound—but he had taken it as a gift. Clotilda’s kitchen. A crooked chair, chipped mugs, something warm simmering on the stove. She hadn’t known she’d needed peace until she sat in that room and tasted it.

And Conn. That laugh in his throat when he pulled her close, his hands in her hair, his breath at her temple. Her whole body had known safety in his arms, like she’d been built to belong there.

The water pulsed around her again—then shattered.

A blast of raw magic detonated below, not with sound but with force. A pressure wave tore through the bog, every current reversing as if the very water recoiled from what it had just touched. The kelpie shrieked—a silent, awful vibration she felt more than heard—as it was ripped back. Torn apart by something it had no right to hold.

The vines snapped back. The water surged. And Elara—her limbs floating loose, her vision nearly gone—was carried with it, her body dragged up in the aftermath of something ancient and wrong and impossibly powerful.

That was the last thing she felt.

---

Cassian’s voice was a raw, distant thing now—hoarse, cracking, still screaming Nesta’s name into the bog-mist like he could will her back by force.

But Azriel didn’t hear him anymore. Couldn’t. Every inch of his body was tuned to the water, to the sickly, glimmering surface that lay too still, too clean. That silence—it wasn’t right. It pressed in on him like a hand to the throat.

His shadows poured into the bog like smoke, frantic, shrieking through the silt and rot. They scoured the water with blind desperation, unable to find what they searched for. Over and over, the thought pulsed in his blood, relentless.

Where is she—where is she—where is she—

Then the bog ruptured.

Something clawed out from the depths—fingers bloated and blue, knuckles cracked and bones visible through sloughing skin. Then another. And another. Waterlogged corpses pulled themselves free, one after another, until the entire bank was crawling with the dead. Soldiers long drowned, their armor rusted into flaking shells, their weapons still clenched in skeletal hands. They didn’t speak, didn’t cry out. They only dragged themselves up from the muck, swaying and stinking of old death.

Azriel moved instantly. He shoved Cassian back with one hand, the other already lifted, siphons glowing like twin embers as his blades slid into position. He could feel the tremor beneath the earth, the crackling magic in the air like lightning ready to strike. The corpses were still advancing, too many of them to count. But if they had hurt her—if Elara had been down there with them—then it wouldn’t matter how many rose. He would cut through every last one.

But they didn’t attack.

One by one, the dead fell to their knees, their weapons clattering into the bog. They bowed low, hands sinking into the black mud, heads bowed as if kneeling before something holy—or something far worse.

From the center of the bog, a shape began to rise.

It was Nesta.

She emerged like something called up from beneath the world, soaked and streaked in muck, her hair a snarled curtain of silver and pitch. Her eyes didn’t even flick toward Cassian, who staggered forward a step before freezing. Her arms hung limp at her sides, except for one. In that hand, she clutched the kelpie’s head by the hair—its long face torn and slack, weeds and bone trailing behind like ribbons. Her mouth didn’t move. Her shoulders didn’t even shake with breath.

The Mask covered her face.

Gold, smooth, and terrible in its stillness. Not ornate, not even cruel—just ancient. Watching. The bog seemed to shrink away from her, the water trembling at her feet. Around her, the corpses bowed deeper, their rotted faces pressed into the dirt.

Cassian dropped to his knees beside Azriel, one hand trembling over his heart. His voice was gone now, his body still as he stared up at the female who had become something else entirely.

Azriel barely registered the movement. His gaze hadn’t left the water.

“Holy gods,” he breathed, but it wasn’t wonder that had taken hold of him. It wasn’t the Mask or the army of the dead or the ripple of ancient magic that still trembled in the air. It wasn’t awe that held him in place.

It was terror. Not of Nesta, not of the death she now commanded.

His eyes remained locked on the water.

Not Nesta. Not the kelpie. Not the Mask.

Elara.

His mate. And the water had not given her back.

Then—he saw her.

A shape behind Nesta, half-lost in the shadows between the reeds and the moonlight. Floating. Drifting face-up just a few feet away, the water cradling her. At first he thought he was imagining it. But then the current turned her slightly, and the breath was ripped from his lungs.

Azriel’s mind blanked. For a split second, his body simply forgot how to move. His stomach bottomed out, his blood iced over. He knew that stillness. Knew what it meant. Elara—Elara—His feet moved before the thought finished forming, and he dove, wings tucked tight as the Bog swallowed him whole. Cassian shouted something behind him—his name, maybe, or a curse—but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered but the limp figure slipping farther from view.

The water was colder than it had any right to be. But he pushed forward with savage strokes, kicking through the murk until she was in reach. Her body bobbed just beneath the surface, caught in a silent, terrible current. Her hair had tangled around her like seaweed, the color too dark, too wrong against her death-white skin. Her lips were blue. Her chest didn’t rise. There was no movement.

No breath.

No bubbles.

Fuck.

Azriel lunged, grabbed her beneath the arms, and dragged her against him. She folded too easily, too limply. Her head lolled against his shoulder, mouth open, eyes closed. He gritted his teeth, flared his wings hard enough to slice the air, and launched himself toward the edge of the Bog, his boots hitting the muck with a splash. Every movement felt sluggish, like the Bog was trying to pull them back in.

He didn’t slow until they hit the mossy bank, where he dropped to his knees and cradled her down to the earth like something precious and fragile—like she might crack open under his fingers.

“No, no, no,” he hissed, the words tumbling out in a hoarse whisper as he smoothed her wet hair away from her face. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Her head tilted limply in his hand. Her skin was cold. Not just chilled—but lifeless. Shadows whirled around him in a frenzy, coiling around her shoulders, as if they could warm her. They pulsed with his panic, his terror, his rage. Azriel leaned over her, chest heaving, and pressed his mouth to hers. He breathed in deep and forced the air into her lungs.

Nothing.

He drew back, water dripping from his jaw, and then did it again, this time harder. Still nothing.

“Come on,” he ground out, his voice low and shaking. “Come on, damn it. Don’t do this.”

He breathed into her a third time, teeth clenched, tasting silt and blood and the salt of her skin. Her chest didn’t move. No flutter of lashes. No twitch of fingers.

“You can’t fucking do this to me, Elara,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice cracking at the edges. “Not now. Not after all of it. You don’t get to give up now.”

He sealed his mouth to hers again, a fourth desperate breath filling her lungs, his hands pressed to her ribcage, willing it to rise. Nothing.

Something splintered inside him. Not the kind of pain he was used to. This wasn’t blade or flame or bone—it was grief, ripping into him. His body shuddered, chest trembling with it, because he hadn’t said it. Hadn’t told her. Hadn’t fucking let her in. And now—

She spasmed violently.

Elara jerked upright with a choking, hacking gasp, water pouring from her mouth in a flood. She coughed hard, racking sobs of air shuddering through her, her body folding in half as she retched bile and river sludge. Her hands scraped against the moss as she gripped the earth like it might keep her from drowning again.

Azriel froze, his heart roaring in his ears, and then he was moving—his hands hovering at her back, steadying without touching, not yet, not when she was still gasping like every breath was a fight. She turned her face to the side, eyes squeezed shut, and dragged in a soundless inhale.

Then another.

Relief hit Azriel so hard it almost knocked him over. The force of it crashed through his ribs like a second wave, dizzying in its intensity, blinding in the way it stripped every thought from his head except one: she was alive. He gripped Elara by the shoulders, not gently, forcing her upright even as her limbs sagged like wet cloth beneath his touch.

“You’re all right,” he said, rough and hoarse, the words barely scraping past his throat. “You’re fine. You’re here.”

He didn’t know whether he meant it for her or for himself. Maybe both. Maybe he just needed to hear the sound of her breathing again, her lungs moving air instead of swallowing water.

His shadows moved before he could think, streaming around her like a dark, frantic net. They brushed against her cheeks, her throat, her wrists—searching for signs of life as if they hadn’t believed it either. One curled along her jaw, as if trying to cradle her face, before vanishing into her soaked hair.

Elara blinked slowly up at him, dazed and sluggish, her lashes matted with water. Her lips were still tinged with that awful shade of blue, her skin cold beneath his hands. She coughed once, and her mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out. Azriel hauled her closer, wrapping both arms around her and folding his wings around her body, blocking out the rest of the world. If he could have wrapped her in heat and breath and shadows to warm her back to life, he would have done it without hesitation.

“I’ve got you,” he said, quieter now, and something in his voice broke open at the edges. “You’re safe.”

She coughed again, the sound raspier this time, her eyes fluttering open in a slow blink. They were red-rimmed and glassy, not fully focused. She tried to speak—her mouth opened, her tongue moved—but the only thing that came out was a wheeze, a shallow rattle of air.

Azriel closed his eyes for a heartbeat, hugging a breath that could’ve been a laugh or a sob. He didn’t know which. Didn’t care. She was breathing.

Elara didn’t finish whatever she’d been trying to say. Her body slumped forward against his chest, her face pressing into the base of his throat, damp and cold. He didn’t move. Wouldn’t—not until he felt the tension return to her muscles, until her strength surged back and told him it was safe to let go. Her fingers twitched against his leathers, curling in the barest movement, just enough to press against his chest.

“Did we get it?” she rasped, so faint he almost missed it.

Azriel followed her gaze—or what he thought might’ve been her gaze—back to the center of the Bog. Nesta still stood in the shallows, the golden Mask now in her hand as she looked wide-eyed at Cassian.

“Yeah,” he murmured, dragging his gaze back down to Elara. “We got it.”

Elara let out a breath, soft and shuddering, like she’d been holding it through the entire descent. Her body sagged further into his. Her weight was nothing. Azriel reached up and gently ran his hand down her soaked hair, his fingers picking twigs and lakeweed from her scalp. His palm lingered at the nape of her neck.

“Let’s get you home,” he whispered, not caring how raw it sounded.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes had already drifted shut again, lashes brushing against his throat. But she didn’t fight him, didn’t flinch or pull away when he shifted, wrapping his arms around her and letting his shadows fold over them like a blanket.

He rose, holding her close, and vanished into the dark.

---

The winnow didn’t end with a jolt—it ended like surfacing too fast, air slamming into her lungs too sharp, too sudden.

Elara landed softly, Azriel’s arm still braced around her ribs as her boots met polished stone. He eased her weight down with more care than she deserved, keeping her upright until she was steady—then let go. The moment he did, her knees buckled a fraction. She caught herself before she fell, palms bracing on her thighs. Her breath came shallow, ragged.

The floor beneath her was cool. Marble. Familiar. The Moonstone Palace. Not the River House. Not the townhouse. Not Velaris. Here—above the Hewn City.

Her stomach twisted.

Water pooled beneath her boots, sliding from her soaked leathers in fat, uneven drops. Her hair clung to her neck, lakeweed knotted among the strands. Her lungs still ached—tight and burning, like the Bog had left pieces of itself behind inside her. She coughed once, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the second one in.

Behind her, she heard Nesta being shifted in Cassian’s arms, limp and unresponsive. Azriel didn’t move from her side, but she didn’t need to look to know his focus had gone to Nesta again. Not that it mattered. Elara could stand on her own.

She forced her eyes up—and found her brother already standing there.

He stood at the far edge of the room, the high archways behind him casting long shadows across the marble. His expression turned to stone the moment he laid eyes on Nesta, then sharpened further when his gaze fell to Elara. That fury in him was quiet—cold, precise, and dangerous. But it was there. And it wasn’t new.

“Get a healer,” he ordered, his voice low and cutting. “Now.”

“I’m fine,” Elara rasped.

Her voice scratched at her throat like sandpaper, her lungs still refusing to work properly. She tried to rise and nearly overcorrected, her leg buckling. Pain lanced across her ribs where the vines had cinched tight, wrapping around her like barbed wire. She gritted her teeth, eyes stinging.

Rhys didn’t look at her. Not at first. He scanned Nesta, then Azriel—still unmoving, a silent shadow beside her—then let his gaze flick to her face.

“You’re soaked in Bog water, you were under too long, and your skin’s like ice,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re not fine.”

Elara pressed her palm to the nearest pillar, trying to hide the tremble in her fingers. Her head swam again—whether from the winnow or the drowning or the fact that she’d barely drawn a full breath since resurfacing, she didn’t know. She was cold to her bones. Her joints ached. Her ribs were bruised or worse, and she hadn’t yet checked if the kelpie had left any other marks.

She lifted her chin. “Tell the healer to help Nesta first.”

“You don’t get to decide—”

“No healer,” she interrupted, louder this time, voice raw. “Just a bath. And dry clothes.”

The room went quiet except for the slow drip of water sliding from her cloak to the tile.

Rhys stared at her for a long moment. His face was unreadable, though something flickered in his eyes—exhaustion, maybe. Or memory. He let out a sharp breath through his nose.

“Fine,” he said at last.

Then, his attention shifted again, turning toward Azriel. “I’m going back for the males who ambushed you.”

There was nothing gentle in the way he said it. No question in his tone about whether they still breathed. He vanished in the next blink, shadows curling around his form and swallowing him whole, leaving the marble floor cracked with silence.

Cassian hadn’t put Nesta down.

He stood a few feet away, cradling her as if she weighed nothing, one arm beneath her knees, the other steady at her back. Her head lolled against his shoulder, strands of wet silver hair still clinging to her brow. He was watching her breathe—counting, Elara realized, by the tension in his jaw. He murmured something low, probably for himself, before speaking louder.

“She’s breathing normally,” he muttered. “But I don’t like the way she passed out.”

He glanced over at Elara. It was brief, but it hit with more force than she expected. Something flickered there—worry, yes, but something more tangled beneath it. Gratitude, maybe. Regret, possibly. For what, Elara wasn’t quite sure. His gaze swept over her waterlogged form, her shaking limbs, the faint red bruises forming on her throat. His mouth pressed into a hard line, like he wanted to say something.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “What is with you and nearly dying in bodies of water?”

The question hit her sideways. For a second, she didn’t answer—too stunned by the memory it dredged up. The frozen lake, the too-thin ice, the dark shape of Cassian’s body plunging into the water after her. The way he had been more angry that she hadn’t been trained to strengthen her wings rather than at her recklessness.

Her cracked lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk breaking through. “Maybe I like the drama.”

Cassian barked a laugh, short and rough and strained. “Next time, try drowning in a fountain. We’re getting sick of fishing you out of swamps and rivers.”

Elara’s brows lifted faintly, but before she could reply, Cassian turned. His boots left a wet trail as he strode toward the stairs, Nesta still slack in his arms. He didn’t look back.

Cassian’s footfalls faded. The hush that followed was thick as fog, swallowing the cavernous entrance hall in silence. Marble gleamed under flickering faelight, still smeared with water and streaks of mud from the Bog. Elara’s soaked boots left dark prints where she stood, wavering slightly on her feet. Her teeth chattered—quiet, involuntary, like the last tremors of a storm passing through bone.

Azriel didn’t leave her side.

He didn’t speak, not at first. Just watched her in that relentless way of his, shadows curling and uncurling at his shoulders, restless as breathing.

“You should sit,” he said eventually, voice low.

Elara’s fingers twitched at her sides. The rational part of her wanted to scoff, to tell him she was fine again, to drag herself upstairs with what was left of her pride. But her limbs didn’t listen. The trembling had settled deep in her core now, a low ache in her lungs and ribs. Her legs gave out without warning, and she sank gracelessly onto the nearest bench. Her elbows planted on her knees, fingers splayed against wet thighs as she tried to catch her breath.

Azriel followed her down—kneeling in front of her like he didn’t even think about it. Like this was the only place he could be. His hands hovered close to hers, close enough that she felt the heat of them, but he didn’t touch. The scent of the Bog clung to them both—rot and water and iron—but beneath it was him. Shadows and wind and smoke.

“You’re shivering,” he murmured.

Elara didn’t look up. “I’ll live.”

It came out rasped, too raw to be flippant, but she forced her mouth into something resembling a smirk anyway. Her fingers curled tighter against her knees. She didn’t know what to do with the fact that he hadn’t moved. That he was still kneeling in front of her.

Azriel’s throat worked. His shadows fluttered around her like anxious birds, brushing against her cheek, her wrist, searching for proof of her aliveness. When he finally spoke again, his voice cracked a little at the edges, “I thought I lost you.”

She blinked, startled—not by the sentiment, but by the raw honesty that carved through his tone.

Elara looked up, slowly. The effort cost her. Her neck ached, her temples throbbed. But she met his eyes anyway, and something in her chest twisted.

“You didn’t,” she said, but the reassurance stumbled, her voice cracking on the second syllable. Her throat was still raw from the water, and her chest felt tight—like there wasn’t quite enough room in it for what she was feeling.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” she added, half-croaked, trying for humor. It came out weak, almost broken.

Azriel didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile, either.

Elara dragged in a breath. Damp, sour air filled her lungs, but it didn’t do much to steady the shake in her limbs. Or the heat blooming beneath her skin—not from the cold, but from the way he was still so close.

His eyes flicked to her mouth, just briefly.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Azriel’s hand hovered just above her knee, hesitant, almost afraid to close the distance.

Elara’s instincts screamed at her to pull back, to retreat into herself like she always did. But this time, something else pulled at her—the warmth in his presence, maybe.

Instead of stepping away, she let her fingers brush his. Just barely.

He shifted closer, careful, gentle, until her shoulder brushed his chest. She felt the steady beat of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, solid and sure.

His chin came to rest lightly atop her head, and for a moment, the cold around them seemed to fade.

“Come on,” he whispered, voice softer than the breeze. “Let’s get you warm.”

And finally, she let herself lean into him.

Chapter 73

Elara tried not to think about Azriel as she approached the dungeons of the Hewn City.

Rhys had winnowed her straight from the Moonstone Palace, silent as ever, dropping her past the steward’s private hall, right into the heart of the dungeons. He hadn’t spoken more than necessary—hadn’t asked if she was ready. They both knew the answer didn’t matter. It was safer this way. For her. For the mission. The Steward above remained uninformed, kept in the illusion that Elara remained dead.

The air thickened the deeper she went. Cold, wet stone pressed in from all sides, slick with condensation that smelled of mold and blood. Torches burned low in uneven sconces, casting shadows that crawled across the damp floor. The walls curved slightly, enough to disorient her footing as she walked. Water pooled in uneven cracks. Her boots splashed quietly, the sound immediately swallowed by the weight of the place.

She was warm, at least. No longer soaked to the bone, her clothes dry and close-fitting beneath her black coat. The worst of the shivering had passed once she’d bathed, once her skin had remembered how to hold heat. But her chest still ached in a dull, bruised way. A phantom pain—her lungs reminding her what they’d barely survived. Her muscles were steady again, but her head felt heavy, her balance slightly off.

She didn’t let it show — Rhys would only force her to see a healer.

When they reached the dungeons, Azriel was already there.

He stood half-shadowed beside the outermost cell, leaning against a carved column of black stone like it had grown around him. His wings were partly flared, angled behind him in a posture she’d seen before. He didn’t move when he saw her. Didn’t even glance up. But she felt it. The shift. The coiled attention snapping toward her the second she entered the corridor.

Truth-Teller hung loose in his hand, the blade dark. A fine spray of dried blood crusted the back of his knuckles. The shadows curling around his shoulders didn’t so much slither as breathe—like they were waiting.

Elara didn’t slow.

She kept her face neutral, movements measured. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her own blade. The last few hours had scraped her raw, but she knew how to hold herself together. Knew how to walk into a space like this and not flinch.

Her steps slowed only as she reached him. Close enough to feel the cold radiating from his leathers. Close enough to smell blood and steel and him. Close enough that she couldn’t shake the memory of being held by him only mere hours ago.

She didn’t look at him. Not now. Not here. Not with chains groaning and blood dampening the stone. Not with the taste of iron clinging to the air or with Rhysand standing just ahead. Not with an audience.

She inhaled through her nose. Drew her spine tall, chin high, as if good posture alone could erase the awkwardness that had happened only hours ago. She was fine. She had to be.

The trapdoor at the far end of the dungeon gaped open, rusted hinges locked at full tilt. Something down there hissed again—low, wet, a sound. Blood dripped down in fat, steady trails, seeping from the heels of the unconscious male on the left. It vanished into the dark without a splash. The other male sat upright, chained to the wall, his breathing thin and shallow.

Neither had made a sound since she entered.

Rhys’s voice cut through the silence. “Are you feeling more inclined to explain yourselves?”

He stepped forward, his power a slow coiling thing behind him. There was no warmth in his tone. No give. Just the cold finality of a High Lord who’d already decided what would happen if he didn’t like the answer.

Neither male reacted.

“They’ve been like this since I got down here,” Azriel said quietly. His voice sounded frayed at the edges, like it had been ground down over hours. “Not a scream. Not a twitch. Nothing.”

His shadows pulled tighter across his shoulders as he spoke, like they were bracing for something. For someone. The one upright male blinked, slow and wrong.  Elara’s fingers curled at her sides. There was something off about the stillness.

A wrongness in the set of the shoulders, the slack curve of the mouth. She studied him, watched how his chest rose and fell at an even, mechanical rhythm.

Amren circled the males like a cat in a den of birds. Her expression was unreadable. “It appears they are under some sort of enchantment,” she said at last. “Their only drive seems to be to harm without reason. Without context.”

Elara didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed locked on the upright male’s face. Her eyes traced the dull sheen to his skin, the strange dilation of his pupils. There was no recognition there. Her lungs drew in a tighter breath. Something about the way he held his body—it was too still. Too perfect. Her boots shifted on the damp floor. The back of her neck prickled.

The male turned his head, slowly. Like he’d only just noticed her. Or like he hadn’t noticed at all—like something else was looking.

She went cold.

Her chest compressed, blood rushing in her ears. A taste rose at the back of her throat—ash, smoke, the faint sweetness of rot. Her hand twitched at her side. The dungeon blurred, just for a moment, with something not here—a memory, maybe. A voice not her own speaking from her mouth. A command she hadn’t given pulling her limbs into motion.

Elara stepped forward.  

Azriel didn’t say a word, but she felt it. He didn’t want her near them. Not while they still breathed. Not when their scent—blood and sweat and something fouler—clung to the stones like mold.

She ignored it. Another step. The fetid air stirred around her.

Something about the two males scratched at a door she didn’t remember locking. A low, persistent scrape in the back of her skull. They didn’t move, didn’t blink. Their eyes tracked Cassian, then Azriel—only them. As if Feyre and Rhys and Amren weren’t there at all.

Rage smoldered in their gazes. Rage without focus. As if it had been stoked too long and left to burn out of control.

Feyre’s voice barely rose above the silence. “They’re like rabid dogs. Lost to sanity.”

Cassian grunted. He hadn’t moved from his place near the wall, his arms crossed, expression grim. “Fought like it too. No intelligence—just a desire to kill.”

Elara’s gaze flicked to the trapdoor in the floor. She didn’t need to look directly at the males to feel the wrongness radiating off them. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

“Their actions aren’t their own,” she said, flatly.

Amren turned to her, silver eyes narrowing. “And how would you know that, girl?”

Elara didn’t look at her. She kept her eyes on the males. Their lips were still curled in those strange, half-snarl expressions, their bodies oddly still. There was no recognition in their features. No light behind their eyes. Only the echo of something puppeted. Hollow.

“I’ve lived it,” she said, and her voice came out too tight, too thin. Silence followed, not the heavy kind, but brittle. As if someone had cracked the wrong floorboard and everyone was deciding whether to look. Elara exhaled through her nose. “Not exactly like this,” she added, softer now. “But close. Close enough.”

Her hands didn’t shake. She wouldn’t let them. She just stood there, spine straight, chin level, staring into eyes that no longer belonged to the males they once had.

“When someone else holds your leash,” she said, each word deliberate, “there’s only one thing that matters. The order you were given.”

The taller male blinked again. That same slow, unnatural motion. Elara didn’t flinch, but the corner of her mouth twitched once—tight, grim. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. She didn’t want it. But she knew what they were seeing now. Not just the soldiers. Her.

Something shifted behind her eyes. A crack. A slip. Something that she hadn’t meant to let in.

Dagdan’s voice slid through her mind like oil—soft, cold, commanding. Kill her. Wait three days. Smile while you do it. The memory wasn’t sharp, not like it had been before. It came filtered now, muddied through time, but the effect landed the same. Her stomach twisted. She could still feel the way her limbs had moved back then, following those commands unquestioningly.  

And always, always that sick little curl of satisfaction from him when it was done.

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away.

“They’re not just enchanted,” she said, and her voice was colder than she’d intended. “They’ve been hollowed out. There’s something in them now. Something else. Pushing everything else aside.”

Rhysand didn’t speak. Neither did Amren. Elara moved again. One more step forward—until she stood directly at the edge of the trap. Azriel didn’t stop her this time. But she felt it—the soft movement of him behind her, a single pace closer.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe too deeply either, not with the stink rising from the open hatch. Iron and rot and old blood. It clung to the walls, dampening the torchlight, pooling around her boots. Her eyes found the first male.

His face was a mess—one temple swelling badly, blood crusted along his brow. She could guess which blow had done it. His breath rasped in and out, shallow but steady. His body twitched, only once, as if pulled by invisible strings.

But his eyes—

They weren’t his. Not anymore. Elara stared into them, forcing herself to hold the gaze. There was no flash of recognition, no flicker of emotion. Just that same cold, vacant fury.

Had she looked like that?

Had Munin?

Her lips parted slightly. She hadn’t seen herself in those moments, had never bothered looking in a mirror in five centuries. But she knew. She must have.

Not all the details matched. Dagdan had used his Daemati power—had wrapped his mind around hers like a chain, like a leash. He’d whispered orders straight into her skull. This was different. She couldn’t say how she knew—only that she did. This felt darker. Cruder. A blunt instrument, not a scalpel. But the result was the same.

A Fae, stripped of their will. Rewritten. Replaced. Turned into a weapon.

She didn’t realize her fists had curled at her sides until the leather of her gloves creaked. Her gaze didn’t waver from the male’s face, though the flickering light made his eyes seem to flash—like the soul behind them was trying, failing, to surface.

She knew that feeling.  The tension in their limbs wasn’t tactical. It was compulsory. Her spine stiffened. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t say any of that out loud. Didn’t let the silence break again. But she felt Azriel behind her, still as stone.

“They’re trapped,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Whoever did this—whatever this is—they cut something out of them first. They don’t know why they want to attack. They just… do.”

The torch above them hissed as it guttered. She didn’t blink.

Her gaze stayed locked on the male with the bruised temple. Blood still dripped steadily from his split brow, trailing along the cracked floor like veins across stone. His chest lifted, shallow and mechanical. Her fingers curled tighter, nails biting into her palms.

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” she said, quiet. Her voice didn’t tremble, but it felt like something frayed beneath it. “I know what they are because I’ve been what they are.”

Behind her, no one moved. The kind of silence that meant listening. The kind that stung more than words.

Rhysand’s voice came from her left, not loud, but closer. “Are you sure?”

There was no judgment in the tone—but it still hit low. Not because of what he said, but because it was him. Her brother. The High Lord who had sent Illyrians into war, who had cracked Hybern’s armies apart like bone, who had rebuilt Velaris from ruin with the weight of everything still on his shoulders—and who was, now, here. Still standing beside her.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. She couldn’t face what might be in his eyes. Pity. Disappointment. Worse—agreement. The confirmation she hadn’t crawled far enough from what she’d been. So she kept her eyes on the males. On the hollowness in their posture. On the brutal, empty fury in their faces.

“I’m sure,” she said, and the words scraped raw as they left her. Her throat burned. “I’m certain of it.”

“They’re not in control of themselves,” Feyre said, stepping forward. Her voice was soft, but it carried. “If Briallyn or Koschei has them like this… is it right to harm them?”

The words landed like a stone to the ribs. Elara’s lungs held still. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and her eyes drifted toward the blood trail stretching beneath the nearest male. She hadn’t let herself think it—not here, not now. Not while Truth-Teller was still wet with the blood of those males. Not with the smell of metal in her nose and the taste of old terror lodged in the back of her throat.

She hadn’t let herself draw the parallel. But now Feyre had cracked it open.

And she couldn’t close it.

No one moved. No one spoke.

“No,” Rhysand said at last, his voice lower than it had been all night. “It isn’t.”

Elara startled—only slightly—but it was enough. She hadn’t noticed him move, hadn’t realized he was that close. His presence filled the space beside her like smoke. Her breath caught, her chest too tight to fully draw in air, but she didn’t step away.

It wasn’t shame that tightened her throat. It was relief. She let the brittle edge of her mind soften. Not completely. Just enough to shift open the door. Thank you, she sent to her brother, the words barely more than a thought.

Do not thank me, Elara, came the answer. It is the right thing. And you may want to consider giving yourself the same consideration that you give to them.

Her chest pulled tight. Her gaze dropped to the floor, to the grooves worn into the stone by decades of prisoners’ pacing. She didn’t know how to answer that.

“The fog around their minds,” Amren said from behind them, circling the chained males with the clinical curiosity of someone inspecting a fractured relic, “and the fact that they endured Azriel’s ministrations without showing an understanding of anything beyond basic pain… it confirms our suspicions.”

Elara’s shoulders locked. Her fists clenched before she could stop them. She didn't look at Azriel, didn’t want to see what was in his eyes. This was his job, inflicting pain on the prisoners of the Night Court. She knew that. Knew, too, that if he hadn’t brought them down with force, Cassian might not be standing here at all. But still. The image stuck—those bloodied faces, eyes empty of anything except rage. Not because they wanted to feel it. Because someone had put it there.

“Pain doesn’t reach you when you’re being controlled,” she said, her voice lower now, sharper. “You know you’re being hurt, the body reacts to it. But the mind… doesn’t. Not until your orders are complete.”

No one interrupted her. Elara looked at the nearest male again. The one with the bruised temple, blood pooling beneath his cheek. She wondered, with a slow rising nausea, if that pain would catch up to him later—if his body would remember what had been done, even if he didn’t know why.

“I think they’re still in there,” she said, quietly. “Some part of them. Even if it’s buried.”

“We need to ask Helion for a visit,” Feyre said, her voice low but urgent. Her fingers were laced tightly in front of her, as if holding herself back from reaching for someone—anyone. “To try and break the spell on them.”

The words struck something deep in Elara’s spine.

Because she remembered.

She remembered what it had taken to free her. And it hadn’t been mercy. It hadn’t been magic.

It had been a death.

Dagdan’s mind had wrapped around hers like a vice—tight, suffocating, intimate in the most grotesque way. And it hadn’t loosened until Feyre had killed him.

Even then, even after his voice had vanished, it had taken weeks before she could fully feel her own body again. Before the silence in her head didn’t make her flinch. Before she trusted her own hands not to grab a blade on instinct.

“Yes,” Rhys said. His tone had gone darker—quieter, but edged in something heavier than agreement.

Elara glanced at him, barely. Just enough to see the look in his eyes.

Guilt.

The kind that had clearly been building for a while.

The kind she didn’t know what to do with.

His voice returned to her mind a moment later. Not a push. Not a demand. Just there. I’m sorry you had to see that. To see what was done to them. We didn’t know.

She didn’t hesitate. Of course you didn’t know. Her tone was flat, tired, brittle in that quiet internal space. It’s impossible to tell. No one did with me.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was dense. Saturated.

Heavy with everything he hadn’t said—not just today, but for years. All the moments he might’ve looked closer. All the times he didn’t.

She didn’t resent him for it.

But it still pressed against her like a hand to the throat.

Are you okay? he asked finally. The gentleness of it nearly cracked her open. I know this must be a lot for you.

She blinked. Slowly. Was she okay?

Only hours ago, she’d nearly drowned. The Bog of Oorid had pulled her under. She had almost died for going in after Nesta.

And now this. A mirror she couldn’t stop staring into. Two broken males with familiar eyes and haunted silence. She’d seen her own ghost staring back at her from their faces.

She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t breathed properly in what felt like days. She didn’t know how she was standing.

Honestly? she said, after a long breath. I don’t know.

She didn’t expect an answer. But Rhys’ voice came anyway—quiet and steady, both in her mind and aloud, as if the thought had barely needed a breath to form. “They stay here. Under guard. I’ll contact Helion immediately.”

Movement stirred through the chamber in the wake of it. Footsteps shifting. Leather creaking as Cassian’s arms crossed. Amren and Feyre exchanged a low murmur, too hushed for her to parse. Someone exhaled slowly—probably Azriel—but the sounds came dulled, like they were happening behind glass.

Elara stood still. The stone beneath her boots might as well have been ice. And she didn’t trust herself to shift, not yet, not with that tether in her chest still drawn so tight it felt like it might snap.

That’s okay, Rhys’ voice murmured through her mind, quieter now. I don’t think anyone would expect you to be okay after this.

She didn’t answer. Her throat burned with the pressure of it—of everything—but she nodded, the smallest tilt of her head. She wasn’t even sure who it was meant for.

Cassian’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade. “And Eris? When do we tell him we found his soldiers?”

A pause, long enough for the silence to settle again, “Or what we did to most of them?”

Elara’s stomach twisted. Her fingers curled in at her sides, slow and tight. She didn’t need Cassian to spell it out. She knew what the Illyrians had done to the soldiers, she knew what Cassian and Azriel were capable of. She knew they would have been acting in self defense against Eris’ soldiers.  And they might have all looked like monsters.

But now, under torchlight and chains, she knew better.

They’d just been used.

She swallowed—hard. The taste in her mouth turned sour.

“You acted in self-defense,” Feyre said, stepping forward again. Her arms crossed with quiet finality. “As far as I’m concerned, whoever is controlling those soldiers is to blame for their deaths. Not you.”

Elara didn’t reply. Couldn’t bring herself to. She just swallowed again, jaw clenching around whatever words tried to rise.

Amren let out a dry huff. “We’ll inform Eris when we’ve verified everything.” Her voice cut like a scalpel—clinical, precise. “There’s still a possibility he’s behind this. Or at least complicit.”

No one disagreed. Elara didn’t move. Didn’t look at any of them. Her eyes remained fixed on the nearest Autumn Court male—his face still slack in that strange, fixed half-scowl, as though even unconscious he could only feel rage. He could have died like the others.

Feyre’s voice shifted then—gentler, not in softness, but in weight. “These two males… they have families. People who are surely worried sick about them.”

Elara felt Feyre’s tentative glance in her direction before she saw it. A flicker at the edge of her vision. She didn’t lift her head.

“We should move as quickly as possible,” Feyre continued. “Time matters.”

Elara gave a small nod. Nothing more. It was all she could manage.

Cassian, ever practical, rustled his wings once as he folded them in. The movement was brisk, but not rushed—just efficient, as always. “We’ll be as fast as we can,” he said.

The words didn’t echo in the chamber, but they stayed somehow. Hung in the cold air like the scent of blood that still clung to the stone floor.

Then, one by one, they left.

Feyre and Rhys turned toward each other, murmuring—words too low for Elara to catch, though she saw the tension in Feyre’s brow, the faint crease between Rhysand’s eyes. Amren vanished without so much as a parting glance.

Cassian lingered a moment longer. His gaze drifted back toward the two chained males—lips pressed in a hard line, jaw tight. He didn’t say anything, just looked. Then turned on his heel and strode toward the archway, footsteps heavy in the silence.

And then… silence, full and undisturbed. The iron torches along the stone wall sputtered faintly in their sconces, casting long, flickering shadows across the floor. A puddle of water glistened dark beneath one of the males, tainted red at the edges.

Elara didn’t move. She stood with her arms loose at her sides, fingers numb, gaze locked on the pair of broken males who had once been soldiers. Who had once laughed, maybe. Spoken to friends. Lived their lives. Been free.

Now—this.

Their chests rose and fell in shallow rhythm. Their bodies were slack but tense, twitching once in a while with something that wasn’t quite pain. She knew that feeling. The wrongness of it. The leash under your skin even after it was gone.

“Elara.”

She turned her head.

At the far end of the chamber, Azriel stood just beyond the archway. His face was unreadable in the distance, lit only by the flickering torchlight behind him. Shadows clung to his shoulders and boots, swirling like a second skin. He hadn’t left. He’d waited.

“I’ll be along,” she said. Her voice came out softer than she intended, almost lost to the cavernous stillness.

He didn’t argue. Just gave a slight incline of his head before stepping back into the shadows, disappearing as quietly as he had remained.

She stayed still until the last traces of his presence had faded—until the weight of silence fully settled once more. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand. Magic shimmered faintly against her skin, silver-blue and steady, and a cloth appeared in her palm, along with a small jar of salve. It was simple magic. Familiar. The sort of thing she’d used too many times before, in places just like this.

She approached them with quiet steps.

The male on the left tensed when she drew near. His shoulders flinched, but his eyes didn’t focus. They were open, but empty. Staring through her at something else, or perhaps nothing at all.

Elara crouched beside him, lowering herself slowly until one knee touched the cold stone. Her fingers hovered for a moment above the side of his face. The bruise on his temple had darkened further, the skin split along the edge. Carefully, she dipped the cloth into the salve and pressed it to the injury, her movements gentle.

They hadn’t screamed when Azriel struck them. Hadn’t begged. Hadn’t spoken. They had only obeyed, compelled forward by something beyond their control.

She had known that kind of silence. That mindless compliance. The ache of it had never truly left her.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t stop. She cleaned the blood from his mouth, then shifted to the second male, his wrists still raw from the shackles. He didn’t move when she touched him. No response at all. But she worked with the same care—tending him as though he could feel it, as though it mattered.

Because it did.

Notes:

Honestly, this moment with the mind-controlled Autumn Court soldiers, and everyone deciding what to do with them, has been in my head since day one of writing this fic. I'm so glad to finally bring this moment to life.

Chapter 74

Notes:

Sorry the delay (even if it is still technically Tuesday, my time). I have no excuse, other than I am a teacher on summer break who had no clue what day it was. I hope the chapter makes up for it!

The palace was quiet at this hour.

Azriel moved through as silently as he could muster. Not even his shadows whispered to him. The marble beneath his boots was cool, polished smooth from centuries of footsteps, but even it felt too loud right now. He’d rather not draw the attention of Nesta or Cassian, who were both still at the Moonstone Palace as well.

There was only one person that he wanted to talk to tonight.

He hadn’t intended to come. Elara had made it clear that afternoon that she would pretend that nothing happened between them.

But the bond had been humming steadily for the last half hour, demanding that after whatever had happened between them these last few days, that it be satisfied in some way.  A constant pressure. A thrum beneath his skin demanding that he go to her, to care for his mate. She wasn’t in danger. He knew that. She wasn’t even upset, not exactly.

But he had to check on her, had to know that she was okay after everything that happened that day.

He paused outside her door.

His shadows drifted toward it, brushing across the seams. He could smell lavender, the faint warmth of a dying fire.

He knocked once, barely audible.

There was a pause. Then, “Come in.”

He eased the door open.

The room was dim and warm. The hearth glowed low, casting soft light across the floor. Elara sat near the fire, curled on the end of the chaise with a throw wrapped around her legs. Her hair was still damp, combed back from her face, and she wore one of those loose, worn shirts that the palace must have provided for her after the bath. Her feet were bare.

A tray sat on the table beside her, mostly untouched—fruit, some kind of bread, a glass of wine she hadn’t even picked up.

She didn’t flinch when he stepped in. She didn’t glance away, either.

Azriel shut the door behind him with a quiet click. “I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” Elara said. Her voice was rough from disuse, but it didn’t bristle. Just… tired.

“You stayed down there a long time.” His voice stayed low. He didn’t say the rest—that he’d left one of his shadows curled in the ceiling beams of the dungeon, watching her after he left. Watching as she knelt beside the wounded males in silence. As she cleaned their wounds when they finally let her close. She likely knew. He didn’t think she’d care.

“I couldn’t leave them.” Her tone was flat. Matter-of-fact. Like it was the simplest truth in the world. And maybe it was.

He tried not to think about what had flickered across her face in that moment—when she saw the soldiers chained, glassy-eyed, bleeding. When she realized that they were not monsters, not entirely. That they had been used. Bent to another’s will. Just as she had once been.

She sat with her back to the fire now, head angled slightly toward the flames, though her eyes didn’t seem to register them. Her expression was empty, but her fingers tugged at the fraying edge of the blanket in her lap. His shadows drifted back, coiling loosely around his shoulders like they too had picked up on the thread of unease in her posture. Giving her space. Letting her breathe.

Then, quietly—more to the fire than to him—she spoke again. “They were just like me, once.”

Azriel flinched.

He didn’t think she noticed. Or maybe she did, and just didn’t care to acknowledge it. But the words carved straight through him. His throat worked around the jagged thing lodged there. He had chained those males himself. Interrogated them. Treated them as enemies.

He hadn’t paused to consider that they might be victims. That they might be like her.

And now… he couldn’t stop seeing her instead.

Would she think he would’ve done the same to her? Would she be wrong?

“What are you doing here, Shadowsinger?” she asked suddenly.

The edge in her voice wasn’t cold, not exactly. But something had shifted. Her chin lifted just slightly. Her hand pulled the blanket tighter over her lap, as if it could shield her from the weight of what lay between them.

He didn’t move closer.

Just leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the hearth. Let his shadows curl along the floor around him, slow and quiet.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. He hadn’t even tried. He’d spent the last several hours pacing the length of his room, one step for every time he imagined her still down there in the dungeons. Hurting. Alone.

A breath escaped her—short, sharp. Not quite a laugh, but maybe what came after one. Her eyes stayed on him now. Her body didn’t relax, but she didn’t tense further, either. Something brittle in her face seemed to ease.

“Felt like someone else was awake,” he added, quieter now. “Someone whose thoughts wouldn’t stop, no matter how quiet the palace got.”

Elara’s eyes cut to him at that—sharp, wary. But she didn’t scoff. Didn’t throw a quip like she normally might have. Azriel kept his voice even, every word carefully measured, like the wrong one might send her retreating.

“Thought maybe I’d see if she wanted company.”

The fire cracked softly. Wind moved over the balcony doors, a slow, steady rhythm—like the palace itself was breathing with them.

Elara didn’t move. For a moment, he wasn’t sure she’d answer at all. Then, finally, her voice cut through the quiet, “What gave me away?”

Azriel let one of his shadows slither lazily across the stone. Not threatening—just… present. It stretched toward her, curling close to the arch of her bare foot before slipping back into the edges of his trousers like smoke.

“You’re not as good at hiding from me as you think,” he said. That earned a flicker. Not quite a glare, but something defensive tensed in her face. Her mouth tightened. Her body didn’t move, but he could feel it—that shift in her. He pushed off the wall—slow, unhurried—and stepped forward. Just one pace. Close enough to narrow the space between them without breaching it. His voice dropped, softer now.

“I think you know that.” He continued, “After the other night.”

Her jaw shifted. Her gaze faltered. Just a flicker. Just enough. And her breathing—he noticed it hitch, then slow again like she was forcing it under control. But she didn’t say yes.

“Don’t you?” he asked again, crouching low. Not beside her, not fully—just close enough to meet her at eye level if she looked at him. She didn’t.

Her shoulders lifted, then dropped. A quiet motion, heavier than it should have been.

“Don’t do this, Azriel.” It wasn’t cold. She wasn’t angry. She just sounded… worn. Like her body had made it back from the Bog, but the rest of her hadn’t quite caught up yet.

“I’m not trying to push,” he said. “Not trying to trap you.”

He didn’t add the next part. That he’d been terrified she would see him that way—that anyone reaching for her might feel like a cage after what she’d lived through.

But Elara shook her head, fast, almost startled, “Gods, no. I know you’d—it's not that.”

A knot of relief loosened in his chest, sharp and sudden. But it didn’t last.

Because she hesitated. Just long enough for him to catch the shift in her posture—the slight curl inward, like she was bracing. Like something inside her was rattling loose, and she hadn’t figured out how to say it out loud.

“What is it then?” he asked, before he could stop himself. The words came rough, a little too bare. His throat was dry. His pulse loud in his ears.

This was it. The rejection. The moment she told him it wasn’t enough. That she didn’t want it, didn’t want him. Even though she wasn’t aware of the bond. He told himself it was better this way—better to have it out in the open, to stop hoping, waiting, wondering if he should tell her. But his hands still curled slightly on his knees, and the quiet hammering of his heart rang loud in his ears.

Elara looked away again. Her fingers tightened in the blanket pooled around her legs, twisting the edge of the fabric as if it could hold her together. Azriel watched the movement, the subtle tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders curled inward despite the steel in her voice.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

The words hit harder than he expected. Azriel went still, except for the pounding between his ribs. He kept his voice low. “What?”

Her jaw flexed, like she was already regretting saying anything at all.

“Because I’m not like you all. I’ve done horrible things.” Her voice cracked on the last words. “I don’t get happy endings, Azriel.”

There it was. The bleak certainty she wore like armor. He’d seen that look before—in prisoners who hadn’t yet realized they’d been freed. He didn’t speak. Not at first. Let the fire speak for him, its soft hiss against stone the only sound for a beat too long.

Then he said, “Would you say that to those two males downstairs?”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes sharp, spine straightening. Azriel held her gaze, refusing to let her hide from him.

“Would you tell them they don’t deserve a chance at peace?” he asked. “That they don’t deserve to be loved or forgiven because of what someone did to them?”

She recoiled, not in body but in breath. “That’s not the same—”

“It is.” He knew his voice was harder than he meant it to be, but he didn’t take it back. Not when her eyes flashed like that. Not when he saw the way the words cut through her, slicing past every excuse she’d been building around herself.

He took in the line of her jaw, the press of her mouth. Saw the tension she thought she could hide. Saw the hurt she wouldn’t name. He didn’t blame her. The Mother knew that he didn’t. But he couldn’t let her sit there and pretend that the same mercy she offered others didn’t apply to her.

“You defended them,” he said, quieter now, stepping closer though he didn’t sit. “Down there, in the dungeon. You looked at them and saw what was still good about them. You helped them. You’re still helping them.”

Azriel leaned forward, but didn’t reach. He didn’t touch her. His shadows were still, waiting, “And now you’re trying to convince yourself you’re different. That they’re worth saving and you’re not.”

That silence again. Tight as a snare. Her hands were still fists. Her knuckles had gone white. Azriel swallowed once. He wasn’t good at this. The truth, laid bare, was always messy. He’d spent centuries holding himself apart so he wouldn’t have to wade into someone else’s darkness. But hers… hers called to his in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

He let out a breath and said, “Why are you always the one person you won’t show mercy to?”

There was a flicker across Elara’s expression, a break in the mask she wore so tightly. She turned her head away again, not rejecting him, not leaving—just retreating inward like a wounded thing trying to hide the bleeding.

He didn’t push her. He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there for a long second, watching the curve of her shoulder, the way her throat moved as she swallowed. The words she wasn’t ready to say hung in the air between them, thick and aching.

Finally, Azriel turned from her and crossed to the low table. The glass of wine sat untouched beside the plate of fruit she hadn’t even looked at. He picked it up, not to drink, just to give his hands something to do. The crystal was warm from the firelight as he swirled the wine once, watching the slow drag of liquid against the rim.

She hadn’t moved behind him. But she hadn’t shut him out, either. That was more than he’d expected.

Azriel turned his head, slowly, to look at her. She wasn’t looking directly at him—her gaze was fixed just beyond the hearth—but her fingers had curled tighter around the edge of the blanket pooled in her lap. She’d drawn it closer without realizing, like someone bracing against a chill, or like someone trying to make themselves smaller.

That look—he’d seen it before. The way that she tried to hide herself, tried to brace herself for whatever uncomfortable conversation was about to happen. She was putting that mask on again. But, somehow… this was different. Quiet in a way that made his chest ache. Braced, yes—but not in defense. More like she was waiting. Steeling herself.

Waiting to see if he would pull away.

“You don’t have to make a decision right now,” he said. His voice didn’t rise, didn’t even shift with the firelight—it just threaded into the room like smoke, warm and low and steady. “Or tomorrow. Or ever.”

She didn’t answer. But he saw the way her shoulders shifted, the way her breathing changed. Slower. Shallower. She didn’t look at him, not fully, but her head tilted just slightly, like she was listening more closely now.

“I’ll keep my distance if that’s what you need.”

Her chin dipped—barely a movement. It might have been a nod. Or a flinch. He didn’t press to find out which. Her hands had gone still in her lap, fingers now loose and open, as though letting go of something she didn’t know she’d been holding.

And then, after a beat, she looked up.

Just for a second. Her eyes met his. And in that fraction of a moment, something slipped through—raw and quick and unguarded, like she hadn’t meant to let it show. And just as fast, she tucked it away again. But it was too late. He’d seen it. The longing. The fear.

The wanting.

Azriel swallowed. His voice was rough when he spoke again, quieter than before. “But I’m not going to pretend the other night didn’t happen.”

He gave her time to look away. She didn’t.

“I’ve tried,” he said — the Mother knew he tried, “and I can’t.”

His heart kicked once, too loud in his chest, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he took a single step forward, closing the space between them.

“It doesn’t scare me, Elara.” Azriel’s voice was low, worn thin at the edges. “What you’ve done. Where you’ve been. I see it. I still want you. I will always want you.”

The last part slipped out before he could stop it. He hadn’t planned to say those words, but they hung in the space between them like something final. Something true. He didn’t look at her. Just stared across the room, jaw tight, trying not to brace for the silence that followed.

She didn’t speak.  But her lips parted slightly, breath catching like her body had startled before her mind could catch up. She tilted toward him, barely—a small, instinctive movement no one else would have noticed.

But Azriel saw it.

His fingers curled where they rested against his thigh. He didn’t reach for her. He wouldn’t crowd her. Not after everything.

“I’ll go,” he said, voice a little rougher now. He turned his feet without rush, without sharpness, and took a step back. “If that’s what you want.”

He didn’t expect an answer. Not right away. But after a long moment, she moved—just her hand, sliding across the blanket toward the cushion beside her. Her fingers stopped just short of the empty space, not quite an invitation. Still, it was enough.

He didn’t move until her gaze met his again. When she looked at him this time, her expression had changed. Not guarded. Not resigned. Just… quieter. Honest, maybe. Tired of pretending.

Azriel crossed the room in silence, every step measured. He sat beside her slowly, careful not to touch her, careful to leave enough space for her to breathe. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting soft gold over the stone floor. It lit her hair in warm threads and glinted off the curve of her cheek.

After a while, her voice broke the quiet. “You still want me?”

He turned to her, just enough to see her face in profile. She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the fire, but he saw the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the faint tremor in her fingers where they gripped the edge of the blanket.

“Yes,” he said, easily.

Elara let out a breath, shaky and low, like something long-held had finally slipped from her grasp. Then, slowly, as if testing her own courage, she let her head tip—not fully against him, just enough for her temple to hover near his shoulder.

Close, but not quite touching. Like she was waiting to see if he’d shift away, if he’d pull back the moment she breached that thin, invisible line.

But Azriel didn’t move. His breathing stayed even, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sound between the soft crackle of fire and the wind stirring faintly beyond the walls.

She didn’t say anything at first. Her body remained angled toward the flames, still taut beneath the blanket, but she didn’t retreat. Just breathed in and out, her pulse thrumming like a drumbeat too far away to name. Then, so quietly he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been listening for her voice every second since the day he realized who she was, she said, “I don’t deserve it.”

Azriel didn’t look at her. He angled his head slightly, just enough to catch the firelight on her lashes, still damp from her bath, casting faint shadows down her cheek. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. He could tell.

“You keep saying that,” he said after a long pause.

“Because it’s true.” Her voice held no fire, no heat.

He shifted—not much, just a breath of space, a small movement so their arms brushed. Barely more than a nudge of cloth against cloth. But the moment their skin connected, her shoulders tightened like she’d been struck. Her chin dipped, eyes locked to the fire again, hands clenching faintly in the fabric across her lap.

Azriel didn’t withdraw. He let the contact remain, feather-light. His voice dropped, low and careful. “Tell me what you think that means.”

Her jaw moved, the muscles flexing once before settling. She didn’t answer right away. Just stared into the flames, their flickering light painting her face in shifting gold. When she finally spoke, her voice came quieter, steadier—but no less sharp.

“It means I watched helplessly as Nesta and Elain were thrown into the Cauldron,” she said. “It means I stood behind Dagdan and the King while they plotted to bring down the Wall. I gave the orders that got innocent people killed. I carried out orders that—”

Her breath hitched, throat tightening.

“That I should’ve stopped,” she finished, barely audible now. “And I didn’t. Not until it was too late.”

The fire popped softly, a curl of embers rising and dissolving in the low light. Elara’s fingers clenched in the blanket draped across her lap, the fabric bunching beneath her knuckles. Her shoulders had gone rigid again, spine stiff against the back of the chaise, like her body could hold back the words threatening to break through.

“So no,” she said, her voice tight. “I don’t get to sit here and pretend I deserve a family. Or peace. Or—” Her breath caught, sharp in her throat. “—or you.”

Azriel closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Not because he didn’t want to see her—he saw her too clearly—but because the sound of those words, the way she believed them, landed with a force that hollowed something out inside him. It settled in his ribs, deep and dull, like a bruise.

When he opened his eyes, she hadn’t moved. Her gaze was back on the fire, but he could see the strain in her jaw, the way she was bracing for whatever he might say next.

“I’ve killed innocents too,” he said, quiet but not hesitant.

That made her look at him. Slowly. Not a flicker of her eyes but a full turn of her head. And she didn’t look away.

“I’ve followed orders that didn’t sit right,” he went on, holding her gaze. “Stayed silent when I should’ve spoken. Looked the other way when it was easier. I’ve been the blade Rhys wielded more times than I can count.”

Elara didn’t speak. But something in her face shifted—like a thread had pulled loose. Her eyes searched his, not with disbelief but with something more fragile. Like she didn’t want to believe he understood, because if he did, then maybe everything she was telling herself was a lie.

“Do you think I don’t know what it feels like?” Azriel asked, his voice barely above the low hum of the fire. “To lie awake and count names? To wonder if the blood on your hands is the only thing anyone sees when they look at you?”

He shifted closer—not enough to crowd her, but enough to meet her fully. His fingers rose, careful, deliberate, and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. He let them linger there, just a moment longer than necessary, not forcing the contact but offering it.

“I see you, Elara,” he said, the words catching gently in the space between them. “Not what you did. You.”

The tension in Elara’s body rippled. Her spine had gone stiff, her shoulders braced—but then, slowly, they began to ease. Something in her posture slackened, like a cord inside her was finally being allowed to loosen, if only a little.

“But I’m broken.” The words scraped out of her. Brittle and quiet, like they’d been buried for too long. “You don’t understand, Azriel. I—I don’t know how to be this. Maybe once… but not anymore.”

His hand hovered near hers on the blanket. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t close the space. Just let it rest nearby, not offering comfort, not reaching—but present. Willing. The way someone stood in a doorway and waited to be let in.

“You think I’m whole?” he said, a faint twist to his mouth, not quite a smile. “You think I know how to do this? How to hold someone… something without breaking it first?”

Her eyes met his at that. A flicker, quick and searching.

“I’ve spent five hundred years convincing myself I didn’t need anyone,” he said. His voice stayed low, but it carried something heavier now. His gaze stayed on hers, steady despite the pulse thudding through him. “But then there was you.”

Her breath caught, and her expression shifted—just slightly. She looked tired. Not from the day, not from the physical strain of what they’d endured, but something deeper. That kind of weariness he’d seen in himself, once. The kind that came from constantly bracing for disappointment. From extinguishing every flicker of hope before it could burn.

Her eyes dipped for the briefest second—to his mouth.

And when they lifted again, there was something new there. Still rimmed with the shadows of grief, still pulled tight at the edges with doubt—but in the center of it, there was something warmer. Want. Fragile and real and unshielded.

His shadows stirred as they recognized the want in her.

Azriel didn’t move. He could’ve crossed the space between them in a blink, could’ve reached for her hand, her face, anything—but he didn’t. He just sat there, letting the warmth of the fire play across their skin, letting the silence speak for him.

But then Elara shifted. Slowly, like each movement asked something of her body she wasn’t sure she could give. She slid her legs down from beneath her and turned to face him fully. Her knees drew up toward her chest, her arms resting loosely over them, hands knotted together like she didn’t trust them to stay still otherwise. Her hair was beginning to dry, curling slightly at the ends, catching faint glimmers of firelight.

“I don’t know how to want something without feeling like I’m stealing it,” she said quietly.

The words landed somewhere low in Azriel’s chest, sharp and aching. His heart thudded once, slow and deep like a war drum, like his body knew what she meant even before his mind could catch up.

“You’re not stealing anything,” he said. His voice didn’t lift, didn’t sharpen. “You’re allowed to want.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed, and she didn’t look away, not this time. “Even this?”

Azriel didn’t answer with words. He lifted his hand again. And when his fingers reached her cheek, she didn’t flinch. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, flushed slightly from the heat of the bath. Damp, soft. Beautiful in the most fragile, aching sense of the word. She leaned into the touch—barely. A shift so small he might’ve missed it if he didn’t know what it cost her to do it. Her lashes lowered, and her eyes slipped shut like the weight of his hand had undone something in her.

Azriel let his thumb sweep gently across the curve of her cheekbone. A touch as reverent as it was tentative. Her breathing hitched, and still, she didn’t pull away.

Her eyes had gone distant again, her jaw a little tight, as if some internal instinct was dragging her back behind the walls she’d only just started lowering. He braced himself for it—for the tension, the retreat, the cool dismissal she wore like armor. For the snap of the bond as she shut it out entirely, shut him out.

But she didn’t.

Elara leaned forward—slowly, like her body wasn’t sure it had permission—and stopped just short of him. Her brow pressed against his. Barely a touch, but it stole the air from his lungs. A breath’s width of contact, and everything in him stilled.

Her scent wrapped around him, warm and clean from her bath, threaded through with lavender and something softer he couldn’t name. There was heat beneath it, the scent of her skin and power and presence. He didn’t dare breathe too deeply, afraid he’d shatter whatever held her here.

“Okay,” she whispered.

The sound was so soft it barely reached him, but it was real. She didn’t move away.

Azriel’s hand lifted to the back of her neck, fingers threading carefully through the damp ends of her hair. Her skin was warm beneath his touch, and their foreheads stayed pressed together, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

And then, in the space between heartbeats, she closed the distance.

Her lips brushed his, so feather light he thought he must have imagined it. But it was enough to undo something in him, something he’d kept locked away for too long.

Azriel didn’t deepen the kiss. He didn’t press or pull her closer. He wanted her to set the pace. To know she was safe. Her mouth stayed on his, soft and cautious. And then her hand lifted, tentative at first, fingers brushing along the side of his neck. She let it settle there, palm warm, thumb barely grazing the edge of his jaw.

She kissed him again—this time slower, firmer. A tilt of her head, the smallest exhale against his skin. There was more certainty in it now. Not boldness, but something steadier. As though some part of her had stopped fighting it.

Azriel didn’t move. He stayed right there, letting her explore whatever she needed. Letting her know that if she pulled away again, he’d let her. That she could have this moment without consequence or expectation. Because the truth was, he would’ve stayed like that forever—still and quiet and wrapped in the weight of her closeness—if that was all she could give.

Azriel’s pulse kicked hard beneath his skin, deep enough that he swore she might feel it. She kissed him again, and this time he parted his lips just slightly, giving her space to explore, meeting her when she did with a quiet sound from deep in his chest. It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry. Just a low, steady hum of wanting her and letting her know.

Elara shifted closer, slow and careful, like she wasn’t sure the floor wouldn’t fall out from under her. Her knees brushed his thigh, the weight of her leg pressing against his. Her chest tipped slightly into his shoulder. That tremble in her fingers returned, subtle but there, the hand at his neck quivering as her breath hitched.

He tilted his head, just enough to feel her exhale across his mouth.

“You’re allowed to want this,” he said softly, reassuring her once again. The words brushed her lips more than the air did.

“I do,” she whispered back. Her voice cracked on it. “I just don’t know how to take it without… ruining it.”

Azriel didn’t answer with more words. There was nothing he could say that would untangle the knots she was still trying to loosen. So instead, he leaned in and kissed her again—deeper this time. His hand shifted from her cheek to her jaw, his thumb stroking over the hinge of it in a slow arc.

She was real under his mouth, real and warm and here in a way that made his chest ache.

When he pulled back, it was only by a fraction—enough to give her breath, to let her set the pace. Her eyes opened slowly, pupils wide in the low light, lashes damp, skin flushed with heat. The fire cast long shadows across the curve of her cheek, lit the line of her throat where her pulse fluttered.

Her chest rose and fell once, then again, like she couldn’t quite catch a full breath. Her voice was barely there when it came.

“Stay.” The word was soft, stripped bare. She didn’t dress it up in strength or pride. She didn’t try to mask what she meant, “Don’t leave.”

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “I won’t.”

That was all it took.

Elara pulled at him—not forceful, just a hand at his arm, a shift of her weight as she leaned back on the chaise. She moved slowly, like she was still waiting to see if this would all dissolve into smoke, but she didn’t stop. She slid down against the throw pillows, curling her legs beneath her again, and when he followed, she let her body lean into the curve of his side.

His wings adjusted behind him with a quiet rustle, careful not to crowd the small space as he sat beside her. One of his hands braced against the cushion near her hip, steadying himself. Her arm stayed close to his, the barest brush of her shoulder grazing his bicep as she shifted, then stilled.

Elara’s fingers moved without hurry, finding the collar of his shirt. She didn’t pull—just touched, toying with the fabric like she needed something to do with her hands, something to focus on besides the pounding of her own heart. The firelight caught on the curve of her knuckles as she worked one button free, then another. Azriel didn’t stop her. Didn’t move. He just let her look.

When Azriel finally dipped his head, slow and measured, she rose to meet him—just slightly, just enough for her breath to catch. Their mouths met again.

This kiss was nothing like the first. There was no hesitation now. No testing of ground. Her lips parted beneath his, her mouth warm and open, and he answered it with the kind of aching reverence he hadn’t let himself feel in years. His hand moved with care, fingers settling along the side of her ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath the soft swell of her breast.

She made a sound into his mouth—quiet, choked. Azriel felt it like a tremor through his whole body. Her warmth pressed into him, her body curling closer, drawn by some instinct she hadn’t let herself follow until now.

“Azriel,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don’t want to think.”

His lips hovered against hers, their breath mingling in the space between. “Then don’t.”

He kissed her jaw next, the line of her throat. She tilted her head without being asked, gave him the space. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tentative at first—but they stayed. She wasn’t just letting this happen. She was asking for it. Reaching for it.

Reaching for him.

Even now—with Elara laid out beneath him, firelight painting her bare skin in amber-gold, her breaths uneven and shallow—Azriel held still. His weight hovered carefully above her, braced on his forearms, every muscle coiled with restraint. Not because he didn’t want her. Because he did. So deeply it carved through him.

But he waited.

Waited for her to settle. For her gaze to shift from that flicker of uncertainty to something else—something brighter and steadier. Not just want. Not just need. But hope. That she could have this. That she wouldn’t break from it.

Her hand curled lightly around his wrist where it pressed into the cushion beside her head.

He leaned down. Brushed his lips over hers once. Then again.

Not asking. Offering.

Elara responded like a spark catching dry tinder. Her mouth pressed hard to his, not tentative anymore. Not shy. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging, then down to his shoulders, clutching like she might fall without something to hold. Her mouth opened wider to his and heat poured between them, scorching and sudden. Azriel groaned low, the sound vibrating against her throat as her legs shifted beneath his hips, drawing him closer.

His body adjusted, easing into her space with practiced care, one of his hands gliding up her side, trailing the edge of her ribs. His palm dragged slowly down her thigh. Elara moved with him, into him, arching slightly to meet the weight of his hand.

He kissed along her jaw, down her throat, mouth soft at first, then more insistent as he found the spot just below her ear that made her inhale sharply. Lower still—beneath her collarbone—where her pulse thudded, he paused and pressed his lips there. Just to feel it. Just to anchor himself to that beat.

When he looked up, her eyes were already on him.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The question was in his gaze.

Elara nodded once.

Azriel sat back on his knees, careful of the way her body curved upward toward his. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and when he pulled it up, she lifted her arms to help. The fabric slipped away, leaving her bare to the firelight, the shadows curling respectfully back as if even they knew this wasn’t theirs to witness.

His breath caught. Not from lust, though it simmered hot and steady beneath his skin. But from the way she looked at him.

Elara wasn’t shying away, wasn’t flinching. She was letting him see.

He bent low again, mouth brushing between the soft curves of her breasts, his hands spreading across her ribs. Elara arched, just slightly, her breath stuttering in her chest. Then his lips closed around her nipple, warm and gentle, sucking softly.

She gasped, head falling back against the cushions, her fingers twitching on his scalp. And he took his time. Worshipped her with his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her whimper. Her fingers clutched at his shoulder, her back rising from the chaise in a slow, instinctive movement, her other hand tangling again in his hair.

He felt her hips shift, restlessly. Heard her try not to ask. Azriel kissed lower.

Lower still.

Until he was kneeling between her thighs, shadows curling at the edge of the firelight like sentries. Elara froze. He saw it — the flicker of panic. Her thighs tensed to close.

Azriel slid his hands gently along her inner thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles.

“I want to taste you,” he said quietly.

Her lips parted, breath caught. And slowly—so slowly—she nodded. He kissed her thigh first. Then the other. Then finally, he bent low and dragged his tongue along her center. She gasped, one arm flinging over her face as if to hide, the other locked around the pillow.

Azriel groaned against her — Mother above, she tasted like heaven. Like want and heat and something he didn’t deserve but would give his soul to have anyway. He licked again. And again.

When his mouth closed around her clit, when he sucked softly — she made a sound he’d never forget. Broken and breathless. And when he slid one finger inside her, her whole body arched. Her thighs trembled.

“Az—Azriel—”

Gods, he loved the sound of his name from her lips.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice husky, lips slick with her. “You’re doing so well.”

He didn’t stop until her thighs clenched around his head and her back lifted from the cushions. Until she shattered with a cry, trying to muffle it against the back of her hand. Her body pulsed around his fingers, her climax drawn out and helpless.

She was still trembling when he rose over her again. Still dazed when he kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

She didn’t hesitate. Her arms came around his neck in one smooth, certain motion, and she pulled him down to her. Her legs parted beneath him, instinctive, unafraid. Her body called to him like it had always known his, like it had been waiting. Azriel felt it—through her hands in his hair, through the bond, through the whispered, “Please.”

He stilled, hovering just above her, their bodies lined up.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, breath brushing her lips.

Elara nodded once. Her eyes didn’t waver. But it was her voice that undid him—quiet and unguarded. “I want to feel you.”

Azriel didn’t rush. He lowered himself slowly, and she opened to him—breath catching, fingers clutching at his back, every line of her body reaching up to meet his. He felt every inch of her, the way she took him in, the way her breath hitched as she adjusted. She was so warm, so real beneath him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

They just breathed. Forehead to forehead. No masks. No distance. Only this.

And then he began to move.

The first thrust was slow. Deep. Elara’s lips parted around his name, barely audible, and Azriel braced one hand beside her head, the other cupping her jaw. His thumb brushed over her cheek as he moved again, drawing another gasp from her mouth.

He didn’t chase anything. Didn’t hurry. Her hands roamed his back, her hips lifting to meet him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him close, and Azriel let himself get lost in the way she clung to him.

When her body began to tighten beneath his, when her breath came in sharp bursts and her fingers trembled where they gripped his arms, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to her jaw, her neck.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, barely more than a breath.

And then she broke—quietly, completely. Her body arched beneath his, trembling, and he felt her release roll through her like a wave. Azriel followed with a quiet groan, burying his face against her throat. His rhythm stuttered, deepened, until he finally gave in to the pull of it. The sensation of her, the sound of her, the way her body held him like she wasn’t ready to let him go.

Neither of them moved for a long time. Their skin was damp. Their chests heaved in tandem. Elara’s hand found his shoulder, fingers trailing lightly along the edge of his wing.

Azriel kissed her brow. Her cheek. Her mouth, slow and unhurried. Like they had all the time in the world.

And when she tucked herself against his chest at last, her breathing soft and even against his skin, he held her. Not because of the bond. Not because of instinct.

But because he wanted to.

Because there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Chapter 75

Notes:

Eeek. Sorry in advance for this one.

The first thing Elara noticed was warmth.

Not the lingering heat of dying embers in the hearth—they had long since faded—but the solid, living kind. Warmth from skin, from breath. A body curled behind hers, steady and still, one arm draped securely around her waist. She could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against her back.

Azriel.

She remained still, eyes open as she stared up at the velvet canopy above. Morning light filtered faintly through the heavy curtains, casting soft streaks across the room. The rest of the space remained dim, quiet, undisturbed. Her body ached in subtle, unmistakable ways—her thighs sore, a tender fullness lingering between her legs. There was no pain, only the kind of ache that came from being known. Her skin still carried his scent. And beneath that, her own.

She waited for guilt to find her—for the old voice that always returned after rare moments of softness, whispering that she didn’t deserve this. That it couldn’t last. But it didn’t come.

Instead, her mind replayed the feel of his mouth on hers. The sound of his voice, rough and steady, never demanding. The gentleness in his hands, the reverence in the way he looked at her. And afterward—after her walls had slipped and her body had given in—how he had simply held her. Without expectation. Without asking her to explain anything more than she wanted to.

He had just stayed.

She blinked slowly, her eyes stinging—not from tears, but from the unfamiliar quiet. There was something about the stillness of this moment, the way he remained close but didn’t push, that made her chest tighten.

Behind her, Azriel shifted slightly. His arm pulled her closer in his sleep, just enough that his chest pressed gently into her back and his breath stirred the skin near her shoulder.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t want to.

The realization startled her—not because it was dangerous, but because it wasn’t. She didn’t want to pull away. Didn’t want to rebuild the wall between them or pretend the night before hadn’t happened. For once, she didn’t want to pretend any of it didn’t matter.

Her throat tightened, emotion catching without warning. Behind her, Azriel stirred—a subtle shift in the blankets and the quiet press of his chest as he pulled her a little closer. His arm settled more snugly around her waist. A moment later, she felt the soft brush of his nose at the curve where her neck met her shoulder, followed by a slow, warm exhale.

Elara’s eyes drifted shut. For a breath, the old instinct surged—the urge to pull away, to sit up and throw a sarcastic remark over her shoulder just to create space. Just to reestablish control.

But it passed. Quickly and without the usual bite. It no longer carried weight the way it once had.

So she didn’t reach for distance.

She reached for him.

Her hand moved slowly, fingers brushing over the back of his where it rested against her stomach. His thumb responded almost immediately, drawing a lazy circle against her skin—nothing rushed, just a quiet answer, like he’d been waiting for her to touch him first.

The light had shifted while they lay there, warmer now, catching on the velvet canopy above them in faint golden streaks. She stared at it for a long moment, letting the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hum of presence, of safety, settle into her bones.

This moment—waking in his arms, no walls between them—should’ve frightened her. For most of her life, it would have. But right now, it didn’t.

She shifted slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder.

Azriel’s eyes were already open.

Still heavy with sleep, lashes casting faint shadows beneath them, and his hair falling messily over his brow. He hadn’t moved to fix it. He just watched her, a faint smile pulling gently at the corner of his mouth. He murmured something too soft to catch—more breath than word. Then, after a beat, his voice reached her, low and husky with sleep. “You’re awake.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she pressed her hips back into his, grounding herself in the warmth of his body. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” she murmured, her voice surprisingly rough with sleep.

“You didn’t.” His lips brushed her shoulder, pressing there in a kiss that was slow and quiet. Like he had all the time in the world.

“I’ve been awake a while,” he added softly.

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t need to.

It was there in the way he held her. In the steady movement of his thumb against her skin. In the way his body curved around hers—present, patient, still—like he’d been lying there for some time, trying not to disturb her. Just waiting.

Elara shifted in his arms, careful not to move too fast. The blankets slipped lower with the motion, and a chill passed over her bare skin, but she didn’t bother pulling them back up. Azriel’s eyes were already on her, following the movement of her face, the curve of her mouth, the way her hair fell over one cheek. He didn’t look away. He didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t watching.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low and rough with sleep, the word dragging across his throat like it had been waiting there all night.

She gave him a faint smile—crooked, hesitant. “You stayed.”

One brow lifted slightly. “You sound surprised.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just watched him in the soft, golden light filtering through the curtains. His face was open, quiet, and he didn’t fill the silence with questions. He didn’t press. That patience—the way he gave her space—settled something inside her, even if it didn’t make the words easier to say.

“I’m not used to this,” she said finally, her voice soft and uncertain. Her brow furrowed slightly as she searched for how to explain it. “It’s been… a long time since anyone stayed.”

She didn’t tell him about Conn, about all those stolen nights from another lifetime that had to be hidden in shadows. She didn’t say how no one had ever just laid beside her like this, like it meant something.

Azriel didn’t push her to explain further. Instead, he reached up slowly and brushed a strand of hair back from her face, his knuckles grazing the shell of her ear as he tucked it gently behind. The touch was light, almost absentminded, but she leaned into it anyway.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

She sat with the question for a moment before she nodded. “I think so,” she said. Then, more certain: “Yeah.”

They lay there in silence for a while. The covers had pooled around their waists, but the heat between their bodies lingered. It grounded her—made the moment feel real. Under the blanket, his hand found hers, and without thinking, she laced their fingers together. His skin was warm and sure, and when he gave a gentle squeeze, she let herself breathe a little easier.

Still, the comfort pressing in from all sides wasn’t enough to hold back the slow return of everything waiting outside this room. The world was still there. So was her past. The roles they played. The war. Even last night lingered like a shadow between them—something they hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

Her gaze fell to the hollow of his throat, where his pulse beat steadily beneath skin that still carried the faint scent and taste of her.

“I liked last night,” she said, the words barely louder than a breath.

Azriel’s eyes met hers without hesitation. “Me too.”

“I mean it,” she said, before she could stop herself. “I don’t regret it.”

He didn’t speak for a second. Then he leaned in and brushed his mouth against hers—soft, tentative, more reassurance than desire. “Good,” he murmured, his lips still close to hers. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

A sound escaped her—halfway between a laugh and something else, something smaller and unsteady. Like her body didn’t quite know what to do with the emotion curling in her chest.

But as quickly as the warmth rose, so too did the weight. She felt the shift in herself, not from him. A flicker of panic, maybe. Or just the cold edge of reality catching up to the quiet she’d allowed herself to fall into.

Her gaze dropped, turning away from him—not sharply, but instinctively, like her body needed space to breathe.

“Elara.” Her name, spoken in his voice—quiet and steady—nearly undid her. But she couldn’t look at him. Not yet. She shook her head slightly, forcing her voice past the tightness in her throat.

“Just… give me a second.”

Azriel didn’t move. He didn’t press, didn’t ask her to explain. He simply waited.

She focused on the pillow between them, on the way their legs were still tangled beneath the blankets. Her fingers were loosely intertwined with his, her thumb resting lightly against the back of his hand. It looked simple. Ordinary. But it wasn’t.

Not when it involved them.

When she finally spoke, her voice came out low, hesitant. “Can we keep this… between us? Just for now.”

Azriel didn’t flinch or draw back. If anything, his attention sharpened. Like he was listening not just to her words, but to everything she hadn’t said aloud.

“You don’t want anyone to know,” he said quietly.

Her throat worked, and she looked down at their joined hands, tracing the faint scars across his knuckles. “So much has changed between us lately,” she murmured. “Rhys and I are finally… not at war. And this—us—it would shift things. I’m not ready for that yet.”

Azriel didn’t interrupt. He didn’t press her to explain further, or offer placating reassurances. He simply waited.

“I don’t want to give him a reason to pull away again,” she added after a moment, her voice quieter now. “We’ve worked too hard to come back from where we were. I just want to keep this—what we have—separate. Untouched by all that.”

The admission felt heavier than she expected, and she braced for some flicker of disappointment. Some shadow of frustration or hurt in his eyes.

But Azriel only nodded, slow and sure.

“I understand,” he said, voice rough but steady. “It stays between us. For as long as you need.”

Something inside her loosened—something that had been clenched for years without her knowing. A knot buried deep beneath her ribs slowly began to unravel, its grip finally giving way under the quiet weight of his presence. She didn’t let go of it entirely; she wasn’t ready for that. But the tension eased, just a little.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Azriel leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then let his lips trail down to the hollow of her jaw. His voice was a breath against her skin. “Don’t thank me for doing the bare minimum.”

“You’re not the bare minimum,” she murmured, and the faintest smile pulled at her lips before she could stop it. “You’re better than that.”

That drew a soft laugh from him, low and warm. He guided her closer, and she didn’t resist. She let herself settle into the space he made for her, let their bodies align again beneath the covers. Her cheek came to rest against his chest, and her hand found its place just above his heart. The steady rhythm there grounded her. His scent clung to the sheets, to her skin, familiar now in a way that made her throat ache.

The light filtering in through the curtains had shifted, brushing soft and golden across the walls. She knew the stillness wouldn’t last. Eventually, the day would pull them apart. The world would return with its demands, its noise, its war.

But for now—for this one fragile morning—it was only them.

And for once, that was enough.

---

The halls were quiet again.

Late afternoon light spilled in long, golden bands across the marble, catching in the cracks along the archways and pooling at Elara’s bare feet. She stood near the end of the corridor, arms crossed over her ribs, wings held tight and close. The braid she’d twisted her hair into was already starting to come loose at the nape of her neck. She had dressed. Bathed. Even forced herself to eat. But she still felt like a raw nerve wrapped in silk.

Lavender clung to her skin. She’d used too much of the soap, scrubbing harder than necessary. As if she could wash away the feel of last night. As if she’d wanted to.

She hadn’t. That was the problem.

She tried not to think about the way Azriel had kissed her shoulder that morning, his voice low as he whispered I’ll see you tonight like it was a promise. Tried not to remember how safe it had felt—dangerously so—to wake in the quiet curve of his body, his arms around her like she was something worth keeping.

No. She had other things to think about.

“Ready?”

The voice came before the footsteps. Rhysand rounded the corner a moment later, a long line of shadows and polished grace. Cloaked in black, as always. His face unreadable, but not cold. Not to her.

Elara didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, turning toward him. “I think so.”

He came to stand beside her at the window. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked past the glass, toward the distant shimmer of Velaris cradled in the mountains. Then his eyes shifted to her.

“You slept?” he asked.

Elara met his gaze. She nodded again. “Eventually.”

She didn’t add that sleep had only come after hours of quiet touches and whispered breaths, after Azriel had curled around her like some living shield. After her body had finally stopped bracing for something to go wrong.

Rhys didn’t press. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Or maybe he did know, in the way he always seemed to. He just gave her a small nod, then extended his arm.

“Come on,” he said. “Fiona’s expecting you.”

“Right,” Elara said, adjusting the fall of her braid over her shoulder as her wings gave a small shift behind her.

“She said she was baking,” Rhysand replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Seemed rather insistent that you eat something.”

Elara huffed a breath through her nose, less annoyed than resigned, and stretched her wings outward in preparation for flight. The muscles in her back ached slightly—just enough to remind her how little sleep she’d truly gotten. The wind above Velaris would help, she told herself. Air always helped. Movement, too.

But her brother didn’t follow her lead. He remained where he stood, hands relaxed at his sides, his posture deceptively casual. His eyes, though—his eyes had gone quiet, unreadable.

“You stayed behind yesterday,” Rhys said. His voice was low, without accusation. “With the soldiers in the dungeons.”

Elara stilled. The sunlight streaming through the window suddenly felt thinner, its warmth no longer reaching her the way it had a moment ago. Slowly, she let her arms fall and crossed them over her chest instead. Her gaze caught on the carved paneling of the wall across from them. She fixed her attention on the curling ivy etched into the wood, the tiny notches left by time and wear—anything to avoid the weight of her brother’s stare.

“They didn’t speak to me while I was down there,” she said at last. Her voice was level, not defensive—just cautious. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

Rhys said nothing.

“I wasn’t trying to question them,” she continued. “I only wanted to take care of their wounds. They shouldn’t have been left like that. Not when they weren’t fighting back. Not when they didn’t even know where they were.”

Still, he didn’t interrupt. He only watched her, silent as she filled the space between them.

“I sat there for hours,” she said, her voice quieting. “Didn’t speak. Didn’t push. I just… waited. After a while, they let me close enough to clean them up. I brought water. Bandages. That’s all.”

Her fingers shifted against her arms where they were tucked beneath her elbows. Her wings moved as well, folding tighter against her back, as if to make herself smaller.

“They didn’t deserve to suffer for something they couldn’t control,” she added. Her voice was softer now, nearly a whisper. “No matter what they’ve done. Or what was done to them.”

Rhys inclined his head slightly, though his expression didn’t shift. It remained calm, impenetrable.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“No.” Her throat tightened around the word. “I needed to.”

Silence stretched between them again, not heavy exactly, but full of something unspoken. He didn’t fill it with questions or reassurances. He only watched her—patient, steady, and careful in the way that only someone who had carried his own weight of grief and guilt could be.

“Do you still feel like you’re fighting her?” he asked at last.

She didn’t answer right away, even though she knew what he brother meant. Her gaze dropped to a thin seam in the stone floor, and her arms drew closer around herself. The truth was near the surface, and it cost her something to bring it forward.

“I don’t think I ever stopped,” she said quietly. “Even when I try to move forward, she’s still there. I can still feel what she did—what she felt. It’s like I’m dragging a shadow behind me everywhere I go.”

Saying it out loud didn’t ease the weight she carried, but it didn’t make it heavier either. It simply was—undeniable and honest.

Rhys gave a single nod before turning toward the narrow window beside them, where morning light poured in, soft and golden. “You gave them more comfort than you realize,” he said quietly. “Azriel told me.”

Elara’s stomach clenched. Her eyes flicked to his face before she could stop herself. She hadn’t expected Azriel to share that—not even with Rhys. She had wanted that night in the dungeons to remain her own, untouched by anyone else’s understanding or judgment. It had been a private act of penance, something unspoken she needed to give without being seen.

And yet, she wasn’t entirely surprised that Azriel had noticed. Or that he had told Rhysand.

“He said you never flinched,” Rhys added, his gaze still turned toward the morning light. “That you treated them with care.”

She lowered her eyes again, her throat tightening around a lump she hadn’t expected. There were no easy words for what that night had done to her—the way it had settled something deep inside, something that had been frayed and unraveling for far too long. After all the silence, the blood, the slow and tentative trust, she had needed to offer them kindness—needed to give what she had been so long denied under Dagdan’s hand.

She hadn’t realized Azriel had seen her in that moment. And now, she couldn’t decide whether she felt more exposed or more understood.

“Feyre told me once,” Rhys said, his voice quieter now, “that surviving doesn’t mean coming out clean. It means coming out at all. And the ones who still care after everything—they’re the strongest of us.”

Elara swallowed hard, her jaw tightening as she tried to steady herself against the truth in his words. “I don’t feel strong,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Rhys replied, his tone steady. “But you are.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him—not fully. But a part of her wanted to. A part that hadn’t backed away from the dungeon cell, that hadn’t flinched at Azriel’s gentle touch. A part that hadn’t disappeared.

Beside her, Rhys shifted, stretching his wings in one smooth, practiced motion. The breeze from the open window stirred the velvet-black membrane as it caught the light.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice soft. It wasn’t a command or even a push—just an offer.

Elara glanced out through the archway once more. The mountains rose around the city, steadfast and familiar, while the rooftops of Velaris caught the morning sun below. She didn’t have all the answers—not about her place here, not yet. But for the first time, it didn’t feel like she was borrowing space. It didn’t feel stolen.

Rhys was still her brother, even after everything. And she was still here. Still standing.

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

Her wings unfurled beside his, the movement smooth and natural. As they launched into the air, wind catching at the end of her braid, Elara let the warmth of the city below settle into her bones.

---

The House of Wind was quiet when Elara returned. Not empty—just settled, wrapped in the kind of stillness that lingered after a shared meal and hushed conversation. The air held traces of rosemary and ash, soft and familiar. Somewhere deep in the halls, a door clicked shut, the sound distant and unhurried.

Fiona had made sure she ate everything on her plate. She’d brewed a mug of tea steeped with clove and ginger, the scent of it still clinging faintly to Elara’s skin. At one point, when the conversation had inevitably circled back to Conn, Fiona had reached out and pressed a warm palm over hers.

Conn would have liked Fiona’s house. The way the floorboards creaked underfoot. The cluttered shelves overflowing with mismatched books and dried herbs. That stubborn garden out back, which Fiona claimed she hadn’t touched in weeks but which still overflowed with wild thyme. And the child toddling between rooms, all curls and sticky fingers, determined to follow the conversation despite not understanding a word of it.

Elara had tried again to apologize—to say, through the ache still lodged in her chest, that she hadn’t stopped it. That she should have. That Conn never should have come on that final mission. But Fiona had only met her gaze and said gently, with no hint of blame, “He wouldn’t want you to linger in your grief.”

The words had struck somewhere deep, somewhere still sore, and Elara hadn’t known how to respond.

Now, back on the cool stone floors of the House, her body felt present, but her thoughts hadn’t quite returned with her. A restlessness stirred beneath her skin, weightless and unsettled.

She took the long way through the garden, her boots crunching over gravel as the scent of crushed leaves rose in the breeze. Laughter reached her first—low, rough, familiar—followed by the unmistakable clash of steel and the rhythm of bodies in motion.

She paused at the edge of the courtyard, standing just beneath the archway.

Nesta and Cassian moved like they’d done it a thousand times before. There was no hesitation in their sparring, no wasted effort. Elara watched the subtle ways they adjusted to each other—the roll of Nesta’s shoulder before a strike, the way Cassian shifted his weight without glancing down. Every movement was precise, deliberate, almost tender in its familiarity.

Then Nesta landed a strike that knocked Cassian flat onto his back with a satisfying thud.

Elara didn’t think before the words slipped free. “About time someone floored him.”

Cassian groaned and flopped a hand over his chest, squinting one eye open. “You always show up when I’m getting my ass kicked?”

She smirked, the expression more reflex than amusement. “You always get your ass kicked when I’m around. I’m beginning to think the famed Illyrian general is all talk.”

Elara smirked, though the expression came more from habit than true amusement. “You always get your ass kicked when I’m around. I’m starting to think the famed Illyrian general is mostly bluster.”

Cassian let out a theatrical groan and sprawled more dramatically across the stone floor, one hand flung over his chest like a fallen hero. “Blasphemy,” he muttered, casting a sidelong glance at Nesta. She only arched a brow in response, entirely unapologetic.

Elara might have laughed. Might have stayed long enough to offer a sharper quip. But something beyond the sparring pair caught her attention—just past Nesta’s shoulder, near the edge of the courtyard.

A flicker of red slipped into view at the corner of her eye. Not blood. Hair.

She froze.

Beneath a crumbling trellis, half-shielded by vines and the shadow of a pillar, a female sat watching them. Elara hadn’t noticed her before. Her back was straight, her posture too carefully measured for someone simply enjoying a morning in the courtyard. She wore the pale blue robes of the library’s priestesses, and her copper hair had been braided neatly down her spine. She looked like she wanted to disappear into the stone bench—but the directness of her gaze made it clear she wasn’t hiding.

Elara’s heartbeat thudded once, hard and cold. Her wings shifted slightly in response.

The priestess rose. Her hands hung loose at her sides, but tension rippled across her shoulders and down her arms, coiled tight like a drawn bow, “You.”

The single word wasn’t shouted, but it carried across the courtyard with clarity. The tremor behind it, the one she was trying to control, landed harder than the word itself.

Elara didn’t move.

The priestess stepped forward. Her eyes remained locked on Elara’s face, steady and unblinking, the kind of focus that spoke of long anticipation. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

The courtyard had gone silent. The scrape of boots, the soft thud of blades, even Cassian’s quiet groaning—all of it faded. Elara didn’t look at Nesta, but she felt her stillness too, felt the shift in atmosphere as everyone else fell away.

The priestess took another step. Her voice gathered strength with every word. “You led them. At Sangravah. You were wearing a cowl then, but I’d know you anywhere.”

Everything in Elara stilled. Her muscles locked. Her breath caught. A cold tightness gripped her chest and refused to let go. She didn’t need to look into the priestess’s face to remember—not really. She hadn’t looked that night either, not fully. But the memories rose all the same.

The screaming. The panic. The priestesses running barefoot across stone slick with blood, clawing at locked doors. And Elara—cloaked, silent, already turning away from the scene as it unfolded behind her—had obeyed her orders. Had gone to retrieve the missing piece of the Cauldron without looking back.

She hadn't even thought about the priestesses caught in the middle of that. Not until now.

“No,” Elara said. Her voice came out too softly, barely more than a breath. She wasn’t sure anyone had even heard it. “No, I didn’t—”

A sick twist knotted in her stomach. Her limbs felt distant, unresponsive, as though her body no longer belonged to her. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, her voice fraying. “I didn’t see—”

“You saw enough.”

The words snapped through the air like a whip, and the priestess didn’t so much as blink.

“You watched,” she said coldly. “And then you walked away.”

“I didn’t want it to happen. I never—”

“But you didn’t stop it.”

Elara had no answer. None that would matter. She hadn’t stopped it. Maybe she couldn’t have. But that didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t tried. The words thickened in her throat, too heavy to force out. Her chest constricted, the edges of her vision beginning to blur. Her wings had folded tight against her back, held in place by instinct more than choice.

Cassian took a step forward, his expression shifting from confusion to wary recognition. “Gwyn—” he said, his voice low and careful.

The priestess didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the warning in his tone. Instead, she advanced another step, “Do you know what it’s like to scream until your throat bleeds? To beg for someone—anyone—to stop them?” Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the effort it took to keep herself standing. “And then to watch the one who led them turn her back, like it meant nothing?”

Elara didn’t deny it. She didn’t try to explain. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse. So she just shook her head.

“No,” she said at last. The words didn’t even feel like her own. “I don’t.”

Gwyn’s next question came more softly, but the edge in it cut deeper. “Do you know what they did to me?”

Elara looked away. Her jaw locked, but she managed to speak through the tightness.

“No,” she said again, and though her voice barely carried, the meaning landed with force. But she wasn’t ignorant. Not really. She had a terrible, vivid idea.

Even so, she forced herself to meet Gwyn’s eyes.

“I hope you never do,” Gwyn said, her voice cool and unwavering. Then she turned—shoulders squared, back straight, every movement precise, as though she had already risen above the weight of what had just passed between them.

And maybe, Elara thought, she had.

Elara couldn’t move. She stood rooted in place as the sunlight sharpened around her, bright enough to sting, though she didn’t blink. Her skin felt too tight, and her chest—her chest was splitting open. Something old and buried had stirred awake, clawing its way to the surface.

No one spoke. Cassian remained near the sparring ring, still and watchful. Nesta stood nearby with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but fixed steadily on Elara.

Elara turned without a word. She pivoted on her heel and left the courtyard, her footsteps echoing too loudly against the stone, louder with every stride. She didn’t know where she was going. She only knew she couldn’t breathe out there—not under that sun, not under their eyes.

The door to her room slammed behind her with enough force to crack the frame. A thin fracture split across the plaster like a scar. She didn’t stop. Her hand wrapped around the lamp on the nearby table before she could think. The base struck the wall a heartbeat later, shattering on impact. Glass scattered across the carpet in a cascade of glinting shards.

Next was the chair—small, fragile, useless. She grabbed it by the back and hurled it toward the fireplace. The legs cracked against the hearth, splinters flying. Her hands ached from the force, but she barely registered the pain.

The world should have broken with her. It should have shattered, bled, burned.

She moved to the dresser and braced her hands against the edge. Her grip tightened, arms trembling. With one violent pull, she tipped the whole thing forward. It crashed to the floor in a tangle of wood and metal, drawers bursting open. A pile of folded shirts spilled onto the floor, still untouched from the day she’d arrived.

Her breaths came too quickly, shallow and desperate. No matter how wide she opened her mouth, the air wouldn’t come. She couldn’t draw it in. Couldn’t fill her lungs.

You watched.

She had. She hadn’t intervened, hadn’t stopped the chaos when it started. She’d given the order to clear the temple, knowing what those males would do. She’d needed the distraction to find the Cauldron fragment—and so she’d turned away.

Elara slid down against the wall, her legs folding beneath her, arms locking around them. Her forehead rested against her knees as she pressed herself into the tightest shape her body would allow. Her fingers dug into her sleeves. The breath in her chest seared hot, and her ribs felt too narrow to contain it. Her heart pounded, loud and uneven.

A flare of heat bloomed behind her sternum, raw and feral. It wanted to be unleashed. To burn everything to ash.

She didn’t hear the door open.

But she felt him. She didn’t know how, but she did.

Elara didn’t lift her head. Couldn’t. Her body felt rigid, too raw to move, as though even the smallest motion might cause her to fall apart again.

Azriel stepped around the wreckage without hesitation—past the broken chair, the shattered lamp, the clothes and splintered wood scattered across the floor. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Not a single note of judgment passed over his face.

He crouched slowly in front of her, his forearms resting lightly on his thighs, his movements deliberate, like one might approach a wounded animal—offering presence, not pressure.

“Elara.” His voice was quiet, barely audible above the rush of blood in her ears.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him.

Azriel stayed still. He didn’t push or prod. Just waited, as he always did, as though silence was a language he understood better than most.

When she finally raised her face, her cheeks were damp, her lashes stuck together in clumps. Her voice came out hoarse and brittle. “Don’t.”

His jaw tightened at the word. She caught the flicker of it from the corner of her eye. But when he spoke again, his voice was still gentle, careful in a way that made her throat ache even more.

“I’ll go if you ask me to. But not until I know you’re safe.”

Elara stared across the room at the broken dresser, its drawers hanging open like slack mouths. Splinters littered the floor. One of her shirts had torn in the fall, and the fabric now fluttered slightly in the draft coming from the window.

“I ruined everything,” she murmured.

“It’s just wood,” Azriel replied. “You’re allowed to be angry.”

She blinked, forcing the tears back, her jaw clenched hard. “She was there. At Sangravah.” Her voice wavered. Her eyes darted to his face and then away again. “That priestess—she saw me. She knew who I was.”

“I know,” he said, and though his voice was quiet, it carried no trace of surprise. Cassian had told him. Of course he had. Of course Azriel would know.

She pressed a palm to her chest, as if the pressure might ease the hollow, aching space behind her ribs. “She was hurt because of me.”

Azriel didn’t reply. And that silence—it felt like mercy. Any words of comfort, of disagreement, would’ve only shattered her again.

She turned her head toward him slowly. Her face was raw, her body still trembling. “I don’t get to be forgiven just because I feel guilty now.”

His brows drew together. There was protest in his expression, but before he could speak, she cut him off.

“No. Don’t say it. I don’t.”

“Elara—”

“The males in the dungeons,” she interrupted, the words snapping out of her like something she could no longer contain, “they didn’t choose what happened to them. They were forced into it.”

She paused to catch her breath. Her voice wavered now, thinner, almost unraveling. “So was I. But that’s not all I was. I wasn’t just another soldier being dragged behind a leash. I gave orders. I led those males.”

Her throat bobbed as rage and shame tangled inside her, a storm beneath her skin. “I walked into that temple knowing what they might do to clear it. And I let them. I left those priestesses behind.”

Her voice cracked, and she didn’t bother trying to hide it.

Azriel’s expression didn’t shift. There was no judgement there, no pity.  And for once, she was grateful. She couldn’t have borne either.

“And every day since you came back,” he said quietly, his voice steady, “you’ve tried to make it right.”

Elara looked away, her gaze dropping to the mess on the floor—the broken wood, the shattered glass. All of it wreckage she had caused with her own hands. “That doesn’t undo what I did.”

“No,” he agreed, without hesitation. “But it changes what comes next. It changes who you are now.”

She stared at her hands, still trembling in her lap. Her knuckles were scraped raw, and dried blood clung beneath one nail. She hadn’t noticed until now.

“But the people I hurt are still here,” she whispered. Her throat tightened with the words, air sticking behind them. “I can’t pretend that wasn’t me. That it didn’t leave something behind. I walk through this Court and wonder who else looks at me and sees her. What I was.”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His hand drifted closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off it—but he didn’t touch her. It was as if he could sense that she couldn’t bare to be touched.

“You can’t erase what happened,” he said at last. “But you’re not running from it. You’re not hiding or making excuses. That’s more than most people ever do.”

She pressed her lips together, the tight ache in her chest refusing to ease. She didn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say. But after a long moment, she let her fingers shift toward his—just enough to brush against his knuckles.

Azriel moved then. Slowly, carefully, he slid closer until her shoulder met the firm warmth of his chest. He angled toward her as if to make space, and when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in and rested his chin gently against the crown of her head.

Elara let her eyes close.

The world still felt broken. It probably always would.

But here, in this small, quiet moment, it didn’t feel quite so sharp.

And she didn’t feel quite so alone.

Chapter 76

Elara sat curled on the garden bench, her legs tucked beneath her and a heavy blanket draped over her shoulders. The book in her lap remained open, her finger resting on a paragraph she had already read three times. The words weren’t difficult to understand, but her focus kept slipping. Her eyes skimmed the page without absorbing anything.

She wasn’t reading for the story. Not really.

The wind had a sharper edge today. It whispered through the hedgerows and carried with it the dry scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke. The garden’s late blooms had already begun to wither. Even the sun, when it broke through the pale clouds, felt tired—thin and cold against her skin.

Winter wasn’t here yet, but it was coming. The trees knew it. The air knew it. Even the stones beneath her boots seemed to hold the chill longer now.

A bird startled in the branches above, wings flapping hard before it darted out of sight. Elara barely glanced up. That low hum of restlessness had been with her all morning, buzzing just beneath her ribs, impossible to shake.

She had come out here looking for a distraction—something to keep her mind from spiraling. But it hadn’t worked. The moment Rhysand had grounded her, something inside her had unraveled. That quiet thread of purpose she had just begun to rediscover—staking out Briallyn’s trail—had been cut without warning.

And she knew why. Briallyn had the Crown now. They couldn’t risk sending anyone too close, not after what had happened to the Autumn Court soldiers. The danger was real. The consequences, irreversible.

Understanding didn’t make the stillness easier to bear.

She shifted beneath the blanket, tugging it higher across her arms. She’d gone to visit Fiona a few times since then. That had helped, briefly. Fiona’s house always smelled like thyme and warm bread, her daughter a blur of sticky hands and tumbling laughter. But Fiona had a life. A child. And Elara couldn’t keep showing up like a ghost with nowhere else to go.

Her thumb pressed into the edge of the book, but she didn’t turn the page. Her thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

Azriel.

The flush rose in her cheeks before she could stop it. Even now—even after what they’d shared—the memory of his gaze made her chest tighten. He was training the priestesses today. Of course he was. Azriel didn’t know how to be still.

She adjusted the blanket again, as if it could shield her from the thought of him. But it was useless. The image had already settled in: the quiet weight of him beside her, the heat of his breath against her skin in the still-dark morning. The way her name had sounded in his voice.

It had felt like something she hadn’t let herself want in centuries.

Elara turned the page slowly, her thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The blanket still clung to her shoulders, though she had grown warm beneath it. Too warm, thanks to the paragraph she’d just read.

A blush bloomed across her cheeks, spreading upward like heat rising from a fire grate. She shifted, subtly trying to hide the flush, even though she was alone.

Sellyn Drake. Of all the books in the House, this one had shown up on her nightstand like an offering. She hadn’t planned on reading it—had only cracked it open out of curiosity, maybe boredom—but now her eyes skimmed the page again, like her mind needed confirmation of what she’d just read.

It was not subtle.

A scrape of footsteps echoed down the stone path behind her. She stiffened. Not from fear. Just instinct. Her hand moved to close the book before she could stop herself, fingers hovering above the page. When she glanced up, a familiar figure emerged from the garden steps.

Nesta.

Her braid was half undone, strands sticking to the sweat drying along her temples. Her cheeks were flushed pink from exertion, though the wind had left a matching bite across them. She wore her training leathers like armor, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she walked with the kind of ease that came only from having already thrown someone to the ground that morning.

“What are you reading?” Nesta asked, her voice just dry enough to carry amusement without fully committing to it.

Elara sat up straighter. “Nothing,” she said too quickly, then winced. She caught the faint pull of a smile at the corner of Nesta’s mouth. “It’s just a book.”

Nesta’s eyes flicked down to the cover Elara hadn’t managed to hide. Her smirk deepened. “Is that Talon of the Hawk?”

Elara groaned, dropping her forehead into one hand. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I woke up and it was just… there. I think the House is getting ideas.”

Nesta gave a huff that might’ve been a laugh. She peeled off her cloak and tossed it onto the opposite end of the bench before folding herself into the space beside Elara. Her arms crossed again, but more loosely this time, her posture far too pleased for someone feigning indifference.

“You’re blushing,” she said, glancing sidelong.

“I am not,” Elara replied, a little too defensively. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. She wasn’t used to Nesta speaking to her like this—not with that easy tone, not like they were equals instead of wary shadows passing through the same halls.

Nesta leaned in, her voice lower now, amused. “You’re on chapter fourteen, aren’t you?”

Elara hesitated. “...Maybe.”

Nesta’s grin spread, full and unrepentant. “So you just met the frost cave.”

Another groan escaped Elara as she pressed the book to her face. “I had no idea it was going to be that detailed. I thought Sellyn Drake wrote courtly romances. Not—”

“Not smut?” Nesta offered sweetly.

“Not graphic smut,” Elara said, peeking out from behind the book. Her eyes were wide, like she still wasn’t quite over it. “They were naked for two whole pages. And there was ice involved.”

“Try The Warden’s Mercy next,” Nesta said, leaning back like they were discussing the weather. “Five pages. And there’s a rope scene.”

Elara blinked. “Why would they need rope?”

“It’s a metaphor,” Nesta said with perfect nonchalance. “And also very literal.”

For a moment, Elara just stared at her. The garden was quiet around them—winter creeping closer by the day. The trees stood bare at the edges of the courtyard, their limbs tangled against the cloudy sky. Wind stirred the edge of Nesta’s cloak where it spilled off the bench, and Elara’s breath curled faintly in the chill.

Then—unexpected, sudden—laughter spilled from her lips.

It caught her off guard, startled and a little breathless. But she didn’t try to swallow it. Not this time.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“Dead serious. You’ll never look at a training rope the same way again.” Nesta said, flicking a leaf off the bench with the back of her hand. “Drake’s early stuff is all faded glances and unresolved yearning. But the later ones?” She arched a brow. “Filthy.”

Elara’s gaze dropped back to the book resting in her lap. Talon of the Hawk—with its tasteful gold embossing and tragically misleading synopsis—still looked innocent enough. She flipped back to where she’d left off, thumbing the corner of the page. “I think I was expecting… I don’t know. Epic battles. Heartbreak. Less biting.”

“There’s plenty of heartbreak,” Nesta said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her braid had started to come apart at the crown, fraying in places, damp with sweat. She looked like she’d just walked off the sparring mat and hadn’t bothered to cool down. “It just usually happens between sex scenes.”

That startled a laugh from Elara—short, breathy, and unguarded. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until it broke out of her. The sound felt foreign coming from her mouth, like it had belonged to someone else for a while.

“Do you read them all?” she asked after a pause, her voice quieter now. “All the Drake books?”

“Most of them,” Nesta said, shifting so she could sit more comfortably, one knee drawn up on the bench. “Especially when I couldn’t sleep. They’re easy to fall into. Something about the way she writes females—angry and messy and complicated. No one swoops in to save them. They claw their way out themselves.”

Elara’s fingers curled slightly against the cover. That line—angry and messy and complicated—sat heavy in her chest. “I think I needed that tonight,” she said, barely louder than the wind rustling through the garden trees.

Nesta gave her a faint smile. Not soft. Not pitying. Just knowing. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t press too hard. Cold wind swept down from the mountains, rattling the branches overhead and sending a scatter of dried leaves across the courtyard floor. Elara drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders, burrowing in.

Then Nesta added, almost casually, “We tend to talk about them. The books, I mean. Gwyn, Emerie and I.”

Elara blinked. “Oh.” She didn’t know why the admission caught her off guard. Or why it felt like something more than an offhand comment. Her thumb slid between the pages to hold her place, and she shut the book with a soft snap.

“So this is what Valkyries read in their spare time?” she asked, managing a crooked smile.

Nesta glanced at the cover and shrugged. “It’s not required reading, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I could survive another chapter without needing cold water.” Elara’s face was still warm, but she didn’t bother hiding it anymore.

Nesta’s mouth twitched. “You get used to it. Or you start critiquing the technique.”

That made Elara laugh—low and genuine this time, her head tipping back against the wall behind the bench. “Is that part of the training, too? Analyze the fictional males?”

“It’s part of the bonding,” Nesta said dryly. “Some of them—Gwyn, especially—can get surprisingly academic about it. There was a whole discussion once about rhythm and pacing. She brought charts.”

Elara let out another soft laugh, shaking her head. She hadn’t realized how far the season had turned until now—the light was different here in the late afternoon, thinner and gold-tipped. The trees stood bare beyond the courtyard, skeletal limbs reaching toward a pale sky that smelled faintly of frost. Somewhere in the distance, bells echoed faintly from the city below, muffled by the wind.

“I saw her earlier,” she said, nodding toward the distant archway. “She was running laps with two others. Looked brutal.”

“She runs most mornings now,” Nesta said, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her arms came to rest loosely on her knees, fingers still flushed from the chill. “We’re cycling through the Valkyrie sequences. Harder to fake it when you’re dragging yourself across the mat.”

Elara huffed softly, brushing a thumb against the edge of her book. “It shows.”

Nesta didn’t reply right away. The wind curled around them again, carrying the scent of smoke and damp earth—early winter, creeping in slowly at the edges. Elara tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her hand lingering at her collarbone like she could press warmth back into her skin.

Then Nesta asked, “You ever think about joining us?”

Elara blinked. Her head turned slightly. “Training?”

“You’ve got the posture of someone bored out of their mind,” Nesta said, voice even, not unkind. “Figured you might want something to do with all that restless energy.”

Elara’s fingers tightened on the book in her lap. She glanced down at the cover, then away again, the movement small but telling. “I’m not sure I’d be welcome.”

“Because of Gwyn,” Nesta said, not as a question. Elara didn’t even want to think how Nesta hadn’t mentioned herself.

There was a pause before Elara nodded. “I don’t want to push into her space.” She swallowed, tried to keep her voice steady. “I’ve done enough of that already.”

Nesta exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. “She has her reasons.”

“I know.”

“But so do you,” Nesta added. She leaned forward slightly, not looking at Elara, just letting the words fall. “Gwyn's not fragile. And if she told me she couldn’t train with you nearby, I’d listen. But she hasn’t. You wouldn’t be on the mat with her directly anyway—not for a while.”

Elara stayed quiet, watching the breeze stir a curl of ivy across the low stone wall. She traced a line down her knee through the blanket, her thoughts a little too loud in the stillness.

“I can’t blame her for hating me,” she said at last, the words rough-edged. “She should. She looked me in the eye and remembered what I was.”

Nesta didn’t flinch. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s wary. There’s a difference.”

Nesta was quiet for a long moment. The wind picked at the end of her braid, tugged at the fraying threads of her cloak.

“I don’t pretend to forget what happened,” Nesta said eventually, her voice quieter now. “What you did—what you were part of.”

Elara looked away.

“I used to see your face and feel like I couldn’t breathe,” Nesta continued, gaze fixed on the gravel below. “Every time I saw you in the halls or in the training ring, it hit me all over again. What you were. What you helped do to me. To Elain.”

Elara didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“But then I watched you,” Nesta said. “Not just what you said. How you were. How you carried yourself.” She tilted her head slightly, like she was sorting through a memory. “You weren’t that same female anymore. Not even close. You didn’t bark orders. You didn’t look through people. You didn’t flinch from the anger you knew was coming. You stood there and took it.”

Elara’s hands curled loosely around the book in her lap.

“And when the kelpie dragged me under,” Nesta added, her voice lowering further, “you went into the Bog after me.”

Elara’s head snapped up. “I didn’t get to you in time. You pulled yourself out.”

Nesta shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You went in.”

“I didn’t think. I just—” Elara started, but the words thinned before they reached her mouth.

“You just jumped in,” Nesta finished. “To save me. And I know Azriel. I trust him with my life. If he can look at you and see who you are now—if he can let you in—then that means something.”

Elara’s throat worked around a sudden tightness. “That doesn’t mean Gwyn will.”

“No,” Nesta agreed. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

Elara’s eyes dropped to her lap again.

“But she will,” Nesta said. “She’s smart. She sees what’s real. It just takes time.”

The words landed more heavily than Elara expected. She didn’t answer right away—just watched as a gust of wind stirred the dried leaves near the steps, brittle gold and rust-brown tumbling over one another as they scattered toward the garden’s edge.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at last, her voice soft but steady.

Nesta rose with an easy motion, brushing her hands over her thighs before rolling her shoulders. She tilted her head toward the steep staircase that led back up to the House, eyeing it like a final opponent in a sparring match. “Do that,” she said, adjusting the fall of her cloak as she turned. “I’ll leave you to your smut.”

Elara made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh, mock-affronted as she pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders. “It’s romantic,” she said, glancing down at the book as if that might defend it.

Nesta didn’t miss a beat. “So is training. Especially with a certain Shadowsinger there.”

Elara’s head snapped up, mouth parting just slightly. “What is that supposed to—”

But Nesta was already walking away, steps slow but confident, her braid swinging lazily behind her. She didn’t look back, didn’t offer another quip, didn’t give Elara the chance to press.

Elara stayed where she was, shoulders drawn up against the cold creeping in through the stone. The blanket bunched around her elbows, her fingers idly brushing the worn leather spine of the book. A crow called from somewhere in the trees below, its cry sharp in the stillness. She let her gaze drift back to the gravel path, the bench shadow stretching long beneath her, the chapter she hadn’t turned still open in her lap.

Elara let out a breath and rested her head against the back of the bench. The wind tugged gently at her hair, and for the first time in days, she didn’t feel quite so exiled from herself.

---

Elara was going to have to have a conversation with her brother about these early morning meetings.

The message had come just after dawn, Rhysand’s voice slipping into her mind before she’d even finished stretching. Not a knock, not a polite summons through Azriel, but Rhys’s own words, clear and brisk: Be at the River House within the hour. Azriel will take you.

She’d groaned into the pillow, her face still buried against Azriel’s chest. He hadn’t moved much when she stirred, only tightened his arm slightly around her waist, already half-awake, as if he’d already heard the summons from her brother. Of course he had. Of course Rhys would tell Azriel to take her.

And maybe that shouldn’t have felt like a breach. Maybe she was being ridiculous. But something in her chest had pinched at the assumption—how much, exactly, did Rhysand know about her and Azriel? She hadn’t even told her brother the truth, had asked Azriel to keep their relationship a secret. And guilt curled in low beneath her ribs every time she looked at him. But the longer she and Azriel kept the ruse, the more Elara found herself hesitating—for reasons she didn’t entirely want to name.

The only small mercy was that Cassian had arrived to the River House late and looking… disheveled. His hair was damp, his shirt askew beneath his leathers, and he reeked faintly of rosemary and old books.

None of them said a word. Not even Amren, though Elara caught the unmistakable flicker of a smirk as Cassian slumped into the armchair beside her. Azriel, seated across from them near the window, only raised an eyebrow—barely. Elara said nothing, though her mind flashed to the last time she’d seen him look this tense. After the Mask. After Nesta had gone rigid and strange with silver fire in her eyes, and Cassian had been the one to ground her again. Elara hadn’t forgotten the way he’d touched Nesta’s face that night, worried that she was gone forever.

Now, though, the general only grunted and muttered something about being “ambushed by morning people” as he reached for the tea tray someone had thankfully brought in.

“Alright, Rhysand,” Amren said from her perch near the hearth, her legs crossed as she tucked a fold of her silk robe beneath her. Her silver hair gleamed in the pale morning light, loose down her back. “Tell me why I’m sitting here before breakfast while Varian is still asleep in my bed.”

Rhys didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved to the wide table near the front of the study, fingers brushing aside a few stray papers before gripping the edge of a canvas tarp. Without ceremony, he pulled it back in one motion.

Beneath it lay three weapons: a long sword, a dagger, and a heavy greatsword. All of them gleamed faintly, even without sunlight.

Cassian went still. Elara watched his back straighten, the mug of tea forgotten in his hand.

“We’re here,” Rhys said, tone low but deliberate, “because I got a visit at dawn from a blacksmith out near the western edge of the city. He was panicked. Wouldn’t touch the weapons again once he’d finished them.”

Cassian’s voice was quiet, but there was steel behind it. “What blacksmith?”

Rhys’s gaze locked with his, unblinking. “The one you and Nesta visited several days ago.”

A tense silence followed. Azriel shifted beside the window but said nothing. Cassian’s mouth parted slightly, as if to protest—but no denial came.

“You went to visit a blacksmith?” Elara asked, her brow furrowing. She leaned forward slightly, her blanket slipping from her shoulder. “Why?”

Cassian didn’t answer immediately. He was still staring at the blade closest to him, eyes narrowed. Elara turned toward Rhys instead, but her brother was watching the general, waiting. Cassian didn’t even look at her. When he did speak, his gaze stayed fixed on the weapons as he asked, “Why did he bring you these? As a gift?”

Elara barely had time to wonder if that was sarcasm before Azriel shifted beside her, his gloved hand reaching forward, fingers angled toward the dagger nearest him.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Rhys said sharply.

Azriel froze. His fingertips hovered just above the hilt for a heartbeat longer before he drew his hand back. The shadows that clung to his arm retreated with him, curling tighter beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

“They’re cursed,” Rhys went on. “Or so the blacksmith claimed.”

“Cursed?” Azriel asked, his brow furrowed.

Azriel leaned forward, his chair creaking faintly beneath him as his gloved hand reached for the hilt of the dagger. The morning light filtering through the River House’s arched windows cast a pale sheen over the weapon’s surface. It shimmered—not like silver, but like something alive beneath the metal.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Rhys warned, the sharpness in his voice cutting through the room like a whip crack.

Azriel froze. His fingers hovered for half a breath longer before he pulled his hand back, slow and wary, a crease forming between his brows as he studied the weapon’s edge.

“The blacksmith dumped them here in an absolute panic,” Rhys continued, stepping away from the table as if distance alone might keep the blades in check. “He said the blades were cursed.”

“Cursed?” Azriel asked.

Elara’s voice overlapped with his, incredulous, “So what are they doing here?”

“He just said cursed,” Rhys answered, gesturing broadly at the table, his tone edged with irritation. “Said he wanted nothing to do with them and that they were our problem now.”

Amren shifted in her chair, her narrowed eyes locked on Cassian. “What exactly happened in the shop?”

“Nothing,” Cassian replied, shaking his head. He glanced at each of them in turn, exasperation creeping into his voice. “I swear. He let her hammer the metal for a bit, so she could get a sense of the hard work that went into making the weapons.”

Elara blinked, her thoughts pulled backward—toward a much earlier time. She remembered standing in the forge outside Stormhall, her skin slick with sweat as Alaric barked instructions over the roar of the bellows. He’d taken her, Conn, and Fiona out there when they were barely old enough to lift the tongs, just to show them how a weapon took shape. To teach them what it cost to forge something meant to kill. That heat, that hiss of metal meeting water, had never quite left her.

But even then, she’d never seen anything like these blades.

Cassian went on, arms crossing over his chest. “But there was no cursing.”

Rhys straightened, the movement abrupt. “Nesta hammered the blades?”

The alarm in his voice made Elara’s shoulders tense. She turned toward him fully. “What is going on?” Her eyes flicked to Amren, who hadn’t looked away from the weapons since the tarp had been removed. The ancient female’s expression was unreadable—but there was something wary there. Something bordering on reverence. “What exactly is the big deal if Nesta hammered the metal a few times?”

Rhys and Amren exchanged a glance—brief, but enough to send a ripple of unease through the room.

Rhys finally answered, voice low but steady. “Once, the High Fae were more elemental. More connected to the world around them. They read the stars. They forged weapons and jewelry and art that carried the weight of their power—not because they enchanted them afterward, but because they poured that power into the work as it was being made.”

Elara frowned, but before she could speak, Cassian’s voice broke in. “Do you mean Nesta put her power into that sword?”

“No one has been able to create a magic sword in more than ten thousand years,” Amren said, rising from her seat. Her bare feet whispered across the rug as she approached the weapons. “The last one Made, Gwyndion, vanished around the time the last of the Trove went missing.”

Elara’s gaze swept across the table again. The sword closest to her wasn’t ornate. It didn’t gleam like the ceremonial blades used by ancient Courts. But there was something about it—about the way her skin prickled when she looked at it too long—that felt old. Not just in years, but in weight. In memory.

“This sword isn’t Gwyndion,” she said quietly, recalling the texts she’d been forced to memorize as a child. The old scrolls that Rhysand had insisted she read. The legends. The myths.

“Gwyndion is gone,” Amren said with a faint nod, and for the first time, a thread of sadness ran beneath her words. “Or at least has been gladly missing for millennia. This is something new entirely.”

Elara looked at the sword again—really looked this time. At first glance, it didn’t appear exceptional. The blade was smooth, forged cleanly, but unadorned. No ornamental gems, no carved runes. But the longer her gaze lingered, the more her skin tingled, as though the air around it had changed. Like heat shimmering above summer pavement, but colder. Deeper.

She blinked and adjusted her stance, her shoulder just brushing Azriel’s as he stepped closer.

“Nesta created a new magic sword,” he said quietly.

His voice came from beside her, low but steady, and when she turned, she found his hazel eyes already on her. They held a quiet gravity, as if he’d been thinking it long before saying it aloud.

“That would mean—” she started, breath catching.

“Nesta didn’t know what she was doing,” Cassian interrupted, the edge in his voice sharpening with every word. He moved to the other side of the table, folding his arms across his chest. “She was just letting off some steam.”

“That might be worse,” Amren said flatly, her tone dark with unease. She stepped closer, gaze narrowed on the greatsword at the center. “Who knows what emotions she put into the blade with her power?”

Elara’s eyes flicked back to the weapon, and something in her gut twisted. It pulsed faintly—not with heat or cold, but with emotion. Rage. Sorrow. Defiance.

“So we use the sword,” Cassian said, defiant now, like he could shove down the rising tension with sheer will. “And we figure it out.”

Elara nodded once. “I’ll do it.”

“No,” Azriel said, almost before the last word left her mouth.

Rhys’s voice followed a beat later, calm but firm. “Not you.”

Elara’s spine stiffened. She met Azriel’s gaze again, expecting to see disappointment or frustration. Instead, there was only concern—quiet but unyielding.

It was Amren who cut through the standoff. “I wouldn’t dare draw these blades,” she said, her voice unusually subdued. Her eyes drifted toward the largest of the three—the greatsword, still resting in its plain leather scabbard. “Especially not that one. I can feel power clustering in it. Did she work on it the longest?”

Cassian hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

Amren crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. “Then it is to be treated as an object of the Dread Trove. A new Trove.”

The words fell like a stone dropped in still water.

Elara’s breath caught as the weight of that declaration sank in. The Dread Trove. She’d grown up with whispered stories of it—items so old, so powerful, that their magic had warped history. And now... Nesta had forged something to rival them, without even realizing it.

Across the table, Cassian’s face shifted as understanding began to dawn. She could almost see the thoughts forming behind his eyes—plans, possibilities, weapons to arm the Night Court, to protect it.

Elara’s stomach turned. She didn’t like that look on his face. Didn’t like the idea of using Nesta’s fury and heartbreak to mass-produce objects of war.

Luckily, Amren caught it too.

She turned slightly, the lines of her body sharp. “This is why Nesta can never be told.”

Rhys folded his arms, his voice quieter now, but no less steady. “That seems like a risk. What if, unaware, she creates more?”

Amren’s gaze narrowed. “And what if in one of her moods, Nesta creates what she pleases just to spite us?”

Elara stiffened.

She didn’t speak right away, didn’t trust herself to. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table as her jaw clenched. She didn’t know what burned hotter—her indignation or the sheer disbelief at how easily Amren could reduce Nesta to something volatile and reckless.

Nesta had her moods, yes. She had her temper. But Nesta was loyal to the Night Court — had helped with scrying for the Mask.

Silence settled over the room like dust, heavy and clinging. The kind that held after something precarious had been said—where breath and decision hung in equal measure. No one moved. Not even Amren, whose eyes stayed fixed on the sword, her expression unreadable.

Elara didn’t fill the quiet immediately. She took a breath instead, slow and even, and looked between them—her brother, Amren, Cassian, Azriel. All of them so calm, so sure of themselves. She wasn’t.

“You want to keep this from her?” Her voice cut through the stillness, low but sharp with disbelief. She looked at Rhysand first. Her jaw clenched when he didn’t meet her gaze.

“Amren is right,” he said, and his tone was too measured. “It’s safer this way.”

Elara straightened. “Safer for who?”

“For everyone,” Amren replied before Rhys could. Her voice was cool, like she’d been waiting for that question. “Nesta’s power is unstable. She Made something without even knowing it. What happens the next time she gets angry and touches a piece of steel?”

Cassian shifted where he stood, his back tense, his arms no longer crossed but loose at his sides, fingers flexing like he needed to grip something. “She’s not a danger.”

“No one’s saying she is,” Rhys said quickly, too smoothly. “But she’s unpredictable. That power didn’t come from the Cauldron untouched. It’s wild. It’s dangerous.”

Elara crossed her arms, steadying herself. “So is mine,” she said, her eyes not leaving her brother’s. “So is yours. Everyone in this room can be dangerous if they really put their minds to it.”

Rhys finally looked at her. The weight of his stare was like pressure building under her skin, but she didn’t back down.

“Nesta has every right to know what’s happening to her body—her magic,” Elara went on. Her voice didn’t rise, but it hardened. “You think hiding this is going to protect her? It’s going to alienate her.”

“She’ll panic,” Amren said flatly.

“Then she deserves the chance to,” Elara snapped. “You don’t get to decide she can’t handle it just because you’re afraid of what she might do.”

Amren’s eyes narrowed. “We’re talking about a female who doesn’t fully understand her power and might’ve accidentally created a magical weapon while working through a tantrum.”

“She wasn’t throwing a tantrum,” Azriel said quietly.

“Fine,” Amren said, her voice dry. “A moment of emotional overload.”

Elara caught it—the shift in Rhys’s jaw. Barely there, just the smallest twitch. But she’d known him long enough to read past the mask. She turned her head toward him and watched the flicker in his violet eyes before it was buried beneath cool calculation again.

“You’re afraid,” she said, quiet but sure. “Of what this power means for Feyre. Or the baby. Do you really think Nesta would hurt them?”

Rhysand didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

Elara’s jaw tightened. Her arms folded across her chest again, a shield she didn’t bother hiding. “This isn’t protection,” she said. “It’s control. And it’s not your choice to make.”

“If we don’t tell her and she finds out another way—” Cassian’s voice was low, strained. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “She’ll never trust us again.”

Amren’s mouth curled in something like disdain. “If she makes more of them, then what?” She flicked a hand toward the table where the sword and dagger still rested, dark against the polished wood. “A whole new Trove of Nightmares?”

“Then we deal with it,” Elara said sharply. “With her. Not around her.”

Azriel leaned back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest. His shadows gathered at his shoulders, quiet and still, as if waiting to act. “Elara’s right,” he said. “We don’t hide this.”

Rhysand didn’t speak at first. His expression had gone unreadable again, eyes distant, calculating. Then his gaze returned to the group, and he said, “Then let’s vote.”

Elara didn’t hesitate. “Tell her.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “Tell her.”

Azriel gave a small nod. “Tell her.”

Rhysand’s mouth thinned. “No.”

Amren didn’t even glance up. “No.”

The air seemed to still around them, pressing tighter with every breath. The swords sat on the table between them like a challenge, quiet and inert, but humming with unsaid things.

Elara looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were pale where she’d crossed her arms too tightly. She forced herself to ease her grip. “Then we tell her anyway,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it landed.

Cassian pushed off the desk. “I’ll do it.”

No one stopped him.

---

The wind tangled through the ends of her braid as they touched down, her boots striking the cold stone of the House of Wind’s upper balcony with a muted thud. Elara straightened, adjusted the collar of her jacket, and tried not to shiver. The climb of wind currents still lingered on her skin. She rolled her shoulders, muscles stiff from flying longer than she should’ve—longer than she’d wanted to be in silence with her own thoughts.

Azriel landed a beat after her, though they'd flown separately the whole way. His wings rustled softly as he tucked them behind him with practiced ease. His shadows curled around the edges of his shoulders, pulling tighter now that they were still. The siphons on his hands glinted faintly in the fading light, cool and watchful.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at her sidelong, one brow raised, like he was still gauging where her thoughts had landed since the meeting. Since the argument.

Elara let her breath out slow. She rubbed her fingers along the cuff of her sleeve, brushing at a loose thread like it mattered. “Thanks for that,” she said.

Azriel’s brow creased slightly, and he angled his body toward her.

“For backing me up,” she clarified. “Even when it would’ve been easier to stay out of it.”

He didn’t move for a long moment. Then he leaned a shoulder against one of the stone pillars, his arms folding across his chest, wings settling. His gaze didn’t waver.

“You were right,” he said simply.

Elara huffed. “I usually am.” Her voice held the same edge of sarcasm she always used to deflect, but her mouth twitched at the corner, betraying a flicker of something lighter. She looked down, toeing the faint, scuffed arc of an old landing etched into the stone. The groove was shallow, but she traced it anyway, a finger of wind curling around her ankles.

She cleared her throat. “Still. I know it puts you in a weird position. With Rhys.”

Azriel shrugged once, a slow roll of muscle and indifference. “He can handle disagreement.”

Elara glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “Can he?”

Azriel’s mouth tugged up—just barely. The ghost of a smile, gone as soon as it came. “Eventually.”

Elara’s lips parted, like she might say something else, but then she closed them again, glancing out over the battlements instead. The sky stretched wide and darkening, Velaris flickering far below like a bed of embers waiting to be stirred.

She shifted a step closer, arms folding across her chest as the wind curled down from the peaks above, catching in the ends of her braid. The cold bit through the seams of her jacket. Azriel didn’t seem to feel it at all, just stood with his back against the stone pillar.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” Elara said, her voice low against the hush of the mountain. “But you did.”

Azriel’s gaze dipped—not to her eyes, but to her hands. His stare lingered too long. She flexed her fingers, half-aware of the gesture. When he looked back up, the shadows had pulled closer around his shoulders.

“You’ve earned the right to be heard, Elara,” he said. “You don’t need me to validate that.”

“I didn’t say I needed you to.” Her mouth curved slightly. “Just that I appreciated it.”

He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. The sound tugged something small and reluctant out of her chest. Then, after a beat, she added, “Usually I’m the one people are afraid to argue with.”

Azriel’s brow rose slightly. “Must be nice.”

She snorted. “I open my mouth and half the room flinches.”

“Not me,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him. “Not you,” she agreed.

Silence unfurled between them again, but it wasn’t strained. Just full of the things neither of them had ever been good at saying.

Azriel moved. Just slightly—his weight shifting forward from the pillar, his hand lifting. The movement stalled, fingers hovering for a breath in the air. Then, with a softness that didn’t quite match the roughness of his hand, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. His knuckles grazed her jaw.

She didn’t move.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice barely above the wind.

Elara nodded once.

She could feel the moment his mouth paused at the hollow of her throat. The warm press of it stilled against her skin, his breath curling in the space between them. She didn’t move. Not at first. But her fingers tightened just slightly in the fabric of his shirt, an almost-there pull, as if her body had decided before her mind had.

And then—

“Azriel!”

The shout echoed down the corridor, followed by the heavy slap of boots on stone. Cassian.

“You’re late!”

Azriel froze. His body tensed beneath her hands. Then, with a quiet, frustrated sound, his forehead dropped to her shoulder. The groan he gave was soft, low. Full of exasperation.

Elara bit down a laugh. The sound still escaped, muffled by the brush of her lips against the curve of his ear. “Saved by the general.”

He didn’t lift his head. Just stood there, breathing her in like he could stall the moment a second longer. “He has the worst timing.”

“If we weren’t certain he was oblivious,” she murmured, “I’d say he does it on purpose.”

That earned a real huff from him, though it sounded more pained than amused. His arm shifted, hand brushing lightly down the slope of her jaw one last time before slipping away. The cold touched her skin the moment his fingers left. But the shadows he wore didn’t follow him—they clung to her for a breath longer, winding faintly around her wrist like they hadn’t made up their minds yet.

“I have to go,” he said, reluctantly.

“I know.”

He looked at her then. Not a glance. A look—long and searching, like he was trying to memorize her face. As if something about the way she stood there, still catching her breath, meant more than it should.

And then he turned, the movement sharp and quiet, and disappeared into the corridor without another word.

Elara stayed where she was. The silence folded back in around her, golden light spilling in from the tall windows, dust motes drifting through it like ash. Her pulse hadn’t quite calmed. Her skin still buzzed faintly—throat, jaw, the inside of her wrist—anywhere his mouth or hands or shadows had touched.

She closed her eyes for a second, just breathing. Then turned and walked the other way.

Chapter 77

Notes:

I am so sorry for the delay. Honestly, my summer has gotten away from me - in the best way possible. I got distracted by a My Chem concert and the shore, and suddenly my cache of already written chapters was at zero. So I've been working to build those up again, especially before work starts up again for me. But thank you so much for being patient! This one is very much a slice of life chapter.

---

Azriel had told her to meet him in the courtyard after training.

He’d said the priestesses would be gone by then, that he’d take her to Fiona’s from there.

Snow fell in thin, wavering lines through the late morning light, the flakes drifting like ash across the stones. It wasn’t heavy yet—just the first quiet warning of winter—but Elara felt it settle along her shoulders anyway, dampening the wool of her coat, and she drew the collar closer to her throat as the wind picked up.

The courtyard was half-shadowed beneath the House’s upper balconies, the training ring below edged with fresh snow. Only a few boot prints marred the smooth white—most of the priestesses had already left, just as Azriel had promised.

She slowed as she crossed the upper walkway, gaze slipping sideways toward the open ring.

The breeze stirred again, brushing loose strands of hair across her cheeks. Her limbs ached—not with pain, exactly, but the kind of subtle resistance that came from a mattress far too soft and warm. She’d gotten used to it without meaning to. Sleeping deeply. Waking late. It was a far cry from last winter, when she'd curled on a threadbare mattress, in the drafty apartment on the Continent.

At least, she had spent the Solstice with Clotilda and the children.  

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

She'd found her brother. She’d found something like a place here.

But still, she missed them.

The thought lodged deep, just as her boots reached the edge of the walkway. She stepped down to the ring level and paused.

Gwyn stood near the weapon rack—alone. Her head was bowed slightly, fingers working at the thick braid over her shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice Elara. Just unwound the end of the braid, then began redoing it, expression focused.

Elara’s steps faltered.

She didn’t want to interrupt. Didn’t want to press into whatever silence Gwyn had earned by staying behind after the others. And selfishly—stupidly—a part of her had been looking forward to this moment. Seeing Azriel, without anyone else around to weigh the air between them. Now it felt like stepping into someone else’s space.

Without thinking, she shifted her stride—just enough to arc wide around the training ring, the way one might veer gently off a forest path to avoid disturbing a sleeping animal.

And yet Gwyn stepped directly into her path.

Not abruptly, not with aggression, but with the kind of quiet, intentional movement that made it clear this wasn’t something Elara could avoid. The shift was subtle—a step and a pivot—but it left Elara no room to pass without brushing her shoulder.

Her stomach began to sink.

She hadn’t expected to see anyone in the courtyard, much less Gwyn. She had already rehearsed the moment in her mind—Azriel waiting near the archway, snow falling in silence, the two of them flying down toward the city without interruption. Now that fragile calm had fractured.

Elara’s instinct was to retreat. To veer away, murmur a neutral greeting, and keep walking. But something in Gwyn’s stance held her in place. Not confrontation. Not hostility. Just the sense that Gwyn had already decided this conversation was going to happen.

“Wait,” Gwyn said, the word soft enough that Elara almost missed it beneath the crunch of snow under her boots. “I wanted to talk.”

The hesitation in her voice said enough—whatever this was cost Gwyn something to say aloud. Elara exhaled, slow and steady, and turned toward her fully. The wind cut along the stones behind her, catching the hem of her coat, brushing cold fingers against the back of her neck. She folded her arms, more to keep her balance than to appear closed off.

Gwyn looked down briefly, her fingers brushing the edge of her braid. She didn’t fidget, didn’t pace—just stood there, grounding herself. When her eyes lifted again, there was something new behind them. Not accusation. Not suspicion. Just quiet resolve.

“Nesta explained to me what had happened,” Gwyn said. “With—” She caught herself, then continued. “To you.”

Elara’s heart gave a slow, heavy thud. She searched Gwyn’s face, looking for any trace of judgment, some flash of wariness or thinly veiled disgust. But Gwyn’s expression remained unreadable. Elara’s voice was quieter than she meant it to be when she asked, “She did?”

Gwyn nodded once. “Don’t be angry with her. I know it’s not her story to tell, but... she saw how I reacted when I first saw you. I think she just wanted to give me some context. For why you were here.”

Elara said nothing for a moment. The snow fell steadily now, melting against the warm stone before it could settle. A few flakes caught in Gwyn’s braid, clinging to the copper strands.

She could imagine exactly how it had looked to Gwyn. The former assassin who had worked in the shadows for the King of Hybern, someone who had given the order that upended Gwyn’s life, now living among Gwyn’s friends. Training with them. Laughing. Breathing the same air.

Elara’s throat felt too dry to swallow.

She hadn’t expected kindness. Maybe a stiff nod, a politely strained goodbye. At worst, cold contempt. But not this. Not the quiet steadiness in Gwyn’s posture or the way she stood her ground, gaze unflinching.

Gwyn didn’t move aside. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, but the line of her spine was straight, and her feet were planted like she had no intention of walking away.

“I didn’t understand it at first,” she said, the words measured, her voice soft but not uncertain. “Why you were here. Why no one seemed… concerned. And that made me angry.”

Elara’s fingers twitched at her sides. She resisted the urge to cross her arms, to shift her weight or tuck her chin. Guilt was already tightening beneath her ribs, sharp-edged and familiar. “You had every right to be,” she said, barely above a murmur. “To be angry. Or cautious.”

“I was,” Gwyn said simply. She didn’t deliver it with accusation. It was just a fact, laid down like a stone between them. “But then Nesta told me how you tried to help her. That day, in the Bog.”

A damp chill touched Elara’s spine at the mention. That place still clung to her in memory—the heavy air, the way the reeds had swayed like reaching hands, the sickening pull of the water. She hadn’t saved Nesta. Not really. But she had gone in after her. That had to count for something.

Gwyn reached up, fingers working through the crown of her braid with unconscious ease. She twisted a loop tighter, then tugged a few copper strands back into place, her movements neat and practiced.

“Nesta said you didn’t hesitate,” she continued, eyes still on Elara. “That you went under, even knowing what was down there.”

Elara didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure she could. She kept her breathing slow, tried not to let her shoulders fold in, even as the memory rose again—dark water, limbs numb with cold, a shadow moving just beneath the surface.

But Gwyn didn’t flinch. Her expression didn’t flicker. She looked grounded in a way that was hard to fake.

“I don’t forgive easily,” she said at last. “But I do believe people can change.”

The words were simple. They landed softly, but they stayed. And they carved out something hollow inside Elara’s chest—something she hadn’t realized was waiting to be filled.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” she said, after a pause that felt too long. Her voice had dropped lower, not quite steady. “I didn’t even expect this.”

“I know,” Gwyn said quietly. “But I also know what it means to be rebuilding something from ruins. So if you’re here to train—” she tipped her head toward the ring “—you won’t find me in your way.”

Elara’s throat felt tight. She nodded once, slowly, as if anything more might shatter the moment. “Thank you.”

A crooked smile tugged at the corner of Gwyn’s mouth. It wasn’t warm or cold—just real, the kind of expression that asked for nothing in return. “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

She turned without waiting for a reply, striding back toward the weapons rack. Her fingers found the end of her braid and began rewrapping it into place, the gesture brisk and efficient. She didn’t glance back.

Elara stood there in her wake, heart lighter in her chest, legs a little steadier on the stone. The air in the courtyard had shifted—less taut, less sharp. For a long breath, she just stood still, unsure when she’d last felt something like grace offered without demand, without a ledger waiting to be balanced.

Wind stirred the edge of her sleeve, cool against her wrist. She drew in a steady inhale, let it go slowly, and turned toward the upper ring. A figure leaned in the shadows beneath the high archway—silent, unmoving, arms crossed over his chest. Wings tucked in tight. Shadows curled at his boots like smoke, unbothered by the sunlight that filtered through the columns.

Azriel didn’t say anything as she approached. He didn’t have to. That slight tilt of his head—subtle, deliberate—told her he’d been watching the entire time.

Elara exhaled through her nose, brushing a few strands of hair off her brow with the back of her hand. Her voice was dry as she reached the arch. “You know, most people might step in when they see someone being ambushed.”

Azriel didn’t uncross his arms. “That wasn’t an ambush.”

She slowed her pace, keeping a careful distance between them, though the tension that had once driven her to keep space now felt less like a shield and more like a habit. “You left me to the wolves.”

“Gwyn is not a wolf.” He let the smallest smile tug at his mouth. “And you’re not the one who needed rescuing.”

The words landed more deeply than she expected. They lodged in her ribs and stayed there, heavy but not unwelcome. The smirk that had lingered on her lips faded. A different kind of warmth settled in its place—quiet, unsteady.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. His expression didn’t shift, but there was something intent in the way he held her gaze—like he was reading something between her silences.

“She said she wouldn’t mind if I trained,” Elara said at last, voice lower. “With the others.”

Azriel’s head tipped slightly again, a near-mirroring of her own earlier gesture. “Are you going to take her up on it?”

Elara shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Maybe. I’d rather not have Nesta flatten me in front of everyone.”

Azriel’s mouth curved, slow and just a little smug. “I’d never let that happen.”

“You?” She narrowed her eyes, watching the play of amusement across his features. “You’d let her knock me flat.”

“Only if you deserved it.”

“Oh, I definitely don’t,” she said, stepping in just enough to make a point. She caught the flicker in his eyes, the tiny shift in his shoulders. He didn’t back away. “And you’d better hope I never decide to return the favor. You’ve got a lot more height to fall.”

Azriel laughed, quiet and low in his throat. “Threatening me already?”

“Promise, not a threat,” she murmured. Her voice came out softer than she intended— too much breath. Too much wanting tucked in the space between them. She should’ve left it there. She’d meant to walk past him, maybe toss one more jab over her shoulder. But his shadows stirred at the edges of her boots—lazy coils, loose and slow.

Her gaze flicked to the corridor. The hallway behind them was quiet, lit golden by the mid-morning sun.

“Is anyone else around?”

“No one’s watching,” he said, voice rough with quiet amusement—right before he reached for her. His hand slid along her waist, confident and unhurried, and the shadows closed in.

Elara didn’t flinch. Her fingers hooked in the front of his shirt, dragging him down the inch he hadn’t dared close himself. His mouth brushed hers, light and maddening.

“You’re getting too good at this,” she said against his mouth.

“Keeping secrets?”

She bit down gently on his lower lip, the corner of her mouth curling. “Hiding me.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest, half-laugh, half-growl. His mouth caught hers again—this time with purpose. One hand slid up her spine, fingers steady and warm, while the other cradled her jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath her ear. His touch was careful but sure, like he knew just how close she was to bolting and wasn’t the least bit concerned that she would.

The shadows wrapped tighter around them, softening everything. Muting the air. For a heartbeat, she forgot they were in the House at all.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it had weight to it. Familiar now, yet no less devastating. Her ribs ached with the force of holding it in—what she didn’t say, what she wouldn’t let herself feel. But her body betrayed her anyway, toes curling in her boots, heat gathering in the hollow of her throat..

When he pulled back, she didn’t move.

“You’re going to get us caught one of these days,” she murmured, forehead resting lightly against his.

His breath was warm against her cheek, and far too steady. “Then maybe you should stop kissing me like that.”

Her lips curved before she could stop them. “You kissed me first.”

“I wasn’t the one who pulled us into a dark corner.”

“You used the shadows.”

“You looked at me like that.”

She opened her mouth—probably to deny it, maybe to tease—but he was already kissing her again. The kind of kiss that made arguments irrelevant. That silenced whatever protest had been forming in the back of her throat.

---

Elara adjusted her scarf higher over her jaw as the wind tunneled down the avenue, stirring the scent of cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and pine resin through the open-air stalls. Sunlight slanted low across Velaris, catching on frost-glazed windowpanes and the glint of silver thread strung through Solstice garlands. The market was crowded, thrumming with laughter and the dull clatter of boots on stone. High above, faelights bobbed lazily between lanterns and rooftops, blinking gold.

Fiona walked beside her, a knit cap pulled low over her curls, her arms already full of bundled packages and ribbon-tied boxes.

It took Elara longer than it should have to notice what was missing.

She slowed her pace, letting her gaze drift to the alley mouths and rooftop edges. Nothing. No dark wings overhead. No prickle at the base of her neck, no watchful presence in her shadow. She glanced behind her once more.

“They didn’t send anyone with me,” she said, quiet.

Fiona turned, one brow raised. “Hmm?”

“No one’s following us,” Elara said, scanning the street again. Her tone came out more confused than concerned. “Do you think they forgot?”

Fiona’s smile was soft but sharp around the edges. “Or maybe they’re finally starting to trust you.”

Elara blinked. That word. It landed awkwardly in her chest, like a stone dropped in still water. Trust.  She thought of her first days here—waking up in the Moonstone Palace with wards layered thick across the walls. Azriel’s voice, low and unreadable, giving her the rules. The way his shadows hovered just behind her shoulder. Even then, she'd known it wasn’t fear driving him, not exactly. She hadn’t blamed him.

But now—now she walked through the heart of Velaris with no escort. No tether. No eyes on her except the ones that glanced over her in passing, mistaking her for just another shopper wrapped in wool and leather.

She swallowed against the twist in her gut.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured.

Fiona bumped her shoulder lightly. “You should.”

They turned down a narrower lane, the storefronts cozier here, their windows dusted in frost and soft lamplight. Children darted past, chasing after floating paper faelights shaped like stars. Elara stepped aside to let them pass and found herself smiling before she could stop it.

It was easier with Fiona. The older female had no part in Elara’s capture, no memory of Munin slicing through enemy lines. She knew what Elara had been, but not how it looked. Fiona hadn’t seen the blood. Hadn’t felt the fear that she inspired in those who stood opposite her.

That mattered, more than Elara liked to admit.

“Freedom looks good on you,” Fiona said, offering her a steaming cup from a vendor’s cart. “Now come on. Solstice waits for no one.”

The cider was hot against her palms. Elara took a careful sip as they slipped into the next shop, the scent of pinewood and dried orange peel curling around her. Warmth met her like a thick breath, wrapping around the ache in her fingers. The space was small, the floorboards creaking underfoot, shelves stacked with hand-carved trinkets and woven scarves. A copper kettle whistled behind the counter, the shopkeeper offering a distracted wave.

Elara drifted through the rows, fingertips brushing the spines of leather journals, the gleam of etched charms. Her gaze caught on a box of painted chess pieces, the white queen missing her crown.

“I have no idea what to get him,” she said quietly.

Fiona didn’t look up from where she was turning a crystal over in her palm. “Your brother?”

Elara nodded. “There was one Solstice where I almost forgot to get him a present.” She lingered beside a table stacked with wrapped soaps and ink sets, the memory surfacing like bruised fruit. “I think I picked up a pair of wool socks from a vendor. Something cheap. Just to say I got him anything at all.”

Fiona made a sound that might’ve been amusement. “I’m sure he still appreciated it.”

Elara tried to smile, though it didn’t quite land. “Maybe. But we didn’t know each other back then. Not enough to buy gifts that actually meant something.”

Elara tried to smile. “Maybe. Neither of us knew the other well enough to buy presents for one another. He would always get me jewelry, or something dainty. Perfect for the daughter of the High Lord.”

She trailed her fingers along the edge of a small wooden display table as they walked, tracing the grain in the polished oak. Her hand lingered over a tray of etched rings, small gemstone pendants that sparkled in the lamplight.

“I remember that,” Fiona said beside her with a quiet chuckle. She had paused in front of a rack of wool scarves, idly smoothing one between her fingers. “You used to complain about it. Called it ornamental bribery, if I recall.”

Elara huffed softly, surprised she remembered.

But the joke faded as quickly as it came. She moved past the table and into the next aisle, the scent of pine and clove lingering in the air like something warm pressed close. A family squeezed by—two little girls in matching velvet cloaks darting ahead toward a tray of sugared pastries near the register. The mother laughed and called after them, her voice cheerful and unguarded.

“This year… it’s different,” Elara said quietly.

Fiona turned toward her but didn’t speak. She only watched as Elara picked up a leather-bound journal, ran her thumb across the edge of the unmarked spine, and set it back down.

Elara glanced over, her voice low. “I want to get him something meaningful. Not just out of obligation. Something that shows…” She paused, unsure how to finish that sentence. That she was trying. That she was grateful. That she hadn’t forgotten what he did—pulling her out of that dark place in her own mind, giving her a room with windows, a place at the table, a chance to be more than what she had been.

She shook her head. “And it’s not just Rhys. There’s… everyone else, too.” Her tone turned rueful. “The extended family I never asked for and somehow still ended up with.”

Fiona gave her a small, understanding smile. “Well, he seems like the sort who’d appreciate a book. But come on—what does Rhys actually want?”

Elara sighed through her nose. “A day without stress? A week without war?” She brushed her fingertips over a carved sculpture of Illyrian wings mid-flight. “Maybe a muzzle for Cassian.”

Fiona choked on a laugh. “The General… in a muzzle?”

That made Elara grin—properly this time. “If you’ve ever met him, he was most likely on his best behavior. I promise, when he’s in casual torment mode, it’s worse.”

They moved on, the floorboards creaking beneath their steps. The shop spilled into another narrow space, this one filled with paintings and sketches framed in thin walnut wood. Elara slowed in front of a row of ink drawings—Velaris cityscapes, mostly. But one caught her attention, just for a moment. The Sidra, frozen mid-winter, with boats tied along the dock and snow clinging to the lampposts.

She wasn’t sure when it had started—this shift in how she saw them. Cassian, with his booming voice and constant jokes. Feyre, gentle and observant. Even Nesta, in her own way. They were a court, yes. But somehow, they had become something closer to—

Elara turned away from the drawing, shaking the thought off before it could finish forming. She crouched near a low shelf of paints and pulled out a small boxed set of watercolors—pale blue, sea glass green, several warm earth tones that reminded her of the canvases that hung now at the River House.

Fiona raised a brow from where she was inspecting a bundle of hand-bound sketchbooks. “For the High Lady?”

“She’ll use them,” Elara murmured, tucking the set under her arm.

They continued browsing, slipping from that store into the next, the air outside sharp with wind. The next shop was more eclectic—paper stars hanging from the ceiling, shelves stacked with rare teas, incense, and tiny carved figurines that looked like they belonged in a child’s pocket or a spell box.

Still, nothing screamed Rhysand. Or Mor. Or Azriel.

Elara scanned the shelves again anyway, moving slowly. Her eyes lingered on a miniature hourglass filled with silver dust. Beautiful, but useless. She turned it over once, then set it back, her brow furrowed.

She met Fiona’s gaze over the rows of trinkets and gave a helpless shrug. “I’m trying,” she said quietly.

Fiona’s expression softened. “You are.”

They moved deeper into the shop, weaving between narrow display tables where the scent of leather mingled with old pine and varnish. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the windows fogged from the cold outside.

Elara’s hand drifted toward a glass case tucked beside a shelf of wool scarves. A row of finely cut leather bracelets lay arranged in a velvet-lined tray—some dark and wide-banded, others thinner, stitched with silver thread. She paused before one in particular. Simple. Sleek. The leather dyed a deep charcoal, the clasp nearly invisible.

“Conn gave me one of these one Solstice,” she murmured, fingers brushing the worn edge of the bracelet at her own wrist. She tugged her sleeve back just enough to glance at it. The leather was softened from wear, a faint crease along the edge where her wrist bent. “I still wear it.”

“I remember,” Fiona said quietly.

Elara nodded once. “I got him cuffs that looked almost exactly like this. Matching, really.” A faint smile curled her mouth, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Oh, I know,” Fiona said, the warmth in her voice a balm. “He came home that night with the stupidest smile I’ve ever seen. Kept flexing his arms for an hour like he’d grown new muscles.”

Elara barked a laugh—quiet, breathy. But it came easier than she expected. The sound lingered under her ribs, settling into the soft ache she’d carried since Conn’s death. That ache would never leave, not entirely. But moments like this—the shared memory, the gentleness of it—took the edge off.

She stepped to the side as a pair of fae females passed, arms full of ribboned packages. The clatter of their boots faded quickly against the thick wool runner.

Fiona picked something up from a nearby shelf and turned, holding it out with a small lift of her brow. “What about this for Rhys?”

Elara took the slim folio from her hands. The leather was rich, smooth to the touch, with a barely visible embossing at the corner. A moon and mountain design, elegant in its understatement.

“It’s understated. Doesn’t require you to guess his size.” Fiona offered a wink.

Elara ran her thumb along the edge. “It’s perfect.” And it was—something Rhys might actually use.

But even as she said it, even as she turned toward the register to pay, another thought tugged at her. She hadn’t told Fiona about the other gift pressing at the edge of her thoughts. The one she hadn’t fully admitted even to herself. Something for Azriel. A small thing. Something that wouldn’t say too much. Wouldn’t presume. But still… something.

Elara adjusted the bag in her hands, gaze flicking over a display of knives, silver pens, tiny puzzle boxes. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, only that she would know it when she saw it.

Fiona walked a few paces ahead, peering into the shop window next door. Elara didn’t move.

Would Fiona understand? Or would she see it as a betrayal? Conn’s memory still lingered everywhere—in this street, in her bracelets, in the way Fiona had smiled just now. Would it hurt her to know that Elara was… not moving on, exactly. But shifting. Living. Letting someone else into the space where grief had once claimed everything.

The thought made her stomach turn. A tight, guilty knot low beneath her ribs.

She didn’t say it aloud, but her fingers lingered on a small obsidian pendant as they passed a glass case near the door. The stone caught the light in a way that made it look like it had been carved from shadow, polished until the edges gleamed. Simple and sharp. It reminded her of something she couldn’t quite name—cutting, quiet, familiar.

Maybe it was the color. Or maybe the way it had been shaped to look like it belonged to no one at all.

She let her hand fall away and moved on without a word.

Outside, the wind had picked up, blowing a swirl of gold leaves down the cobbled street. Fiona shivered beside her and tucked her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat, cheeks pink from the cold.

Then, without warning, Fiona looped their arms together. “Next stop?”

Elara glanced down at the folio tucked safely under her arm. The leather had already warmed slightly against her side, as if absorbing her intent. “Somewhere that sells candy,” she said. “I have a friend’s daughter to spoil.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Do you have a grudge against me or something? I’m the one who’s going to be up all night dealing with the sugar fallout.”

Elara only shrugged, letting a smile tug at the edges of her mouth.

Fiona snorted, but she didn’t offer another argument. She only tightened her grip on Elara’s arm and led them down the street, toward the sweet shop at the end of the lane. A warm glow spilled from its windows, fogging the glass with heat and the promise of caramel and spice. Somewhere inside, a bell jingled as the door swung open, and a child’s laughter carried out into the brisk air.

---

Afternoon sunlight stretched across the Sidra, golden and low, gilding the water’s slow, silvery ripple. A pale haze blurred the rooftops across the river, softening the edges of Velaris. Even with the sun warming the cobblestones, the breeze still carried a bite—the kind that scraped over bare skin and reminded you that Solstice hovered just ahead.

Elara drew her coat tighter as she leaned back in her chair, the iron slats warming slowly beneath her. She and Fiona had claimed a small wrought-iron table on the café terrace, tucked just far enough from the main thoroughfare to be spared the louder bursts of laughter from the nearby crowd. Their table was a mess—half-eaten food pushed aside, empty cups cluttering the corners, and shopping bags spilling across the third seat as if claiming it for their own.

Fiona had kicked her boots off hours ago. She sat cross-legged in her chair, chin resting in one palm, the other gesturing wildly as she recounted some chaotic tale from earlier that week.

“And then the teacher actually tried to tell me my daughter had bitten someone,” Fiona said, voice edged with incredulity and amusement. “So I asked, Was there blood? And when she said no, I told her my daughter was probably just defending her snack.”

Elara laughed into her tea, a quiet sound that deepened as she tried not to choke on the mouthful she’d just sipped. “I’m sorry—defending her snack?”

“She’s four. That muffin was her entire world,” Fiona said with a shrug, though her eyes gleamed with pride. “Honestly, I can’t even pretend to be mad at her. She’s fierce.”

Elara lifted her cup, steam curling against her face as she smirked over the rim. “I wonder where she gets it.”

Fiona just raised a brow and kicked her socked foot lightly against Elara’s ankle beneath the table.

The conversation drifted then, quieting into a lull that didn’t need to be filled. They both leaned back in their chairs, the metal creaking faintly under the shift of weight. The late light fell across their table in long, lazy streaks, catching on the rim of Elara’s cup and the glint of a foil-wrapped chocolate she’d forgotten to finish. Somewhere across the river, a bell chimed the hour.

Elara let the warmth of her tea linger in her mouth before swallowing. She watched the sunlight glance off the Sidra in molten ribbons, a heron coasting low along the surface. The warmth in her chest had nothing to do with the drink.

Fiona stirred her spoon through the remains of her tea, the metal tapping idly against porcelain. “I still can’t believe she’s four,” she said, eyes distant. “Some days she looks at me like I’m the one who needs guidance.”

Elara’s gaze stayed on the river. “You’re a good mother, Fiona.”

“I try.” Fiona’s voice softened. “She makes it easier than I expected.”

A pause. Then, almost too gently: “It’s good, seeing you like this again. Like you’re not… holding your breath.”

The words settled between them, heavier than they seemed. Elara’s smile faltered, barely perceptible. She looked away, tracking the slow movement of the heron as it banked and disappeared behind a cluster of river reeds. The breeze lifted a strand of hair from her collar. She didn’t tuck it back.

Elara shifted, the motion slight, but her spine straightened all the same. Her fingers curled a little tighter around her mug, its smooth porcelain gone lukewarm. She could stay silent. Let the thought drift off like smoke. Fiona wouldn’t push.

But Fiona was Conn’s sister. Had seen her at her lowest, had sat beside her in silence when silence was all she could manage. If anyone might understand—might see what coiled sharp and quiet in her chest—it was her. Elara’s eyes dropped to the table, to the half-eaten pastry between them and the crumbs dusting the rim of her saucer. Her voice, when it came, was low. “Do I really seem that different?”

Fiona looked at her, properly this time, no teasing curve to her mouth. “You do.” She shrugged a little, but her tone softened. “There’s a… lightness to you again. A softness. Like something opened up.”

Elara breathed in, held it. That ache in her chest fluttered again—unsteady, uncertain. But not unwelcome.

“I think—” she started, then paused, shook her head once like it might shake loose the right words. “There’s someone who’s helped me with that.”

Fiona didn’t flinch. Didn’t push or prod, just set her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, watching her with the quiet, steady patience Elara had always found unbearable when she wasn’t ready to talk. She’d seen in so many times in the years following Conn’s death. But this time… it didn’t feel like pressure.

“Yeah?” Fiona asked, gently.

Elara nodded, once. “It’s Azriel.”

There was a pause. Fiona leaned back slightly, her brows rising just a little—not with surprise, but thought. “The Shadowsinger?”

“It wasn’t planned,” Elara said quickly, too quickly. She winced. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t always there. But then suddenly, it just… it was more.” She frowned at her tea, fingers tightening again. “It’s still—new. I don’t know what it is, not really. But it’s… it’s different.”

Fiona said nothing for a long moment, only watching her, like she was weighing something behind her eyes.

“Is he good to you?” she asked at last.

Elara blinked. Her lips parted, but the answer didn’t come right away. She had to feel for it, sort through the strange, quiet spaces where Azriel had settled in her life without ever asking her to give anything back.

“He’s… careful,” she said, finally. “He listens. He doesn’t push. Even when he could.”

Fiona’s smile was small. Knowing. “So, yes.”

Elara huffed—something half-laugh, half-exhale—but the smile that tugged at her lips didn’t linger. It faded almost as soon as it came. She stared down into the dregs of her tea, the amber liquid gone cold, the cup warming nothing now.

“I worry sometimes it’s too soon,” she said, the words roughened by restraint. Her fingers had drifted to her lap, curling in tight. “That Conn…” She swallowed, voice thinning. “That I’m dishonoring what I had with him by letting someone else in.”

Across the table, Fiona didn’t speak at first. She only shifted forward, her bangles clinking softly as she reached out and laid a steady hand over Elara’s.

“Conn would want you to have a life,” Fiona said, her voice quiet but firm. “A real one. With warmth. With someone who sees you.”

Elara looked down at their hands—hers cool, still slightly tense; Fiona’s warm and steady, a gentle weight anchoring her. The Sidra glittered below, catching the pale afternoon light, but she kept her gaze on their joined hands.

“It just still feels like I’m letting go of him,” she murmured.

“You’re not.” Fiona’s fingers tightened, once. “You’re letting someone join you. Conn is still part of that. He always will be.”

The breeze lifted strands of Elara’s hair from her face, brushing cool across her cheek. She nodded slowly, but her hand slid back beneath the sleeve of her coat, fingers finding the leather bracelet there—thin and worn, fraying just a little near the knot. She hadn’t taken it off in months. Not since Rhys had given it back to her.

Her thumb brushed the edge, a soft, absent gesture.

“I won’t forget him,” she said, the words barely more than a breath. “I couldn’t. Not with…” She hesitated, let the sentence unravel. Her lips lifted in a small, sheepish smile, then softened into something quieter. Sadder. She tapped the bracelet once with a finger, then left her hand resting over it.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The clatter of dishes came from inside the café, mingling with the distant murmur of water and voices from the street above. A gull wheeled across the sky, casting a flickering shadow over the terrace.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes—but shared. Familiar.

Then Fiona leaned back, folding her arms with a tilt of her head that was too casual to be innocent. “You ever think about getting Azriel something?”

Elara blinked, dragged from the weight of her thoughts. “What?”

“For Solstice,” Fiona said, lifting her cup to her lips. “I saw how long you stood looking at those knives in the forge stall.”

Elara’s face went hot. “That wasn’t— I wasn’t looking for him.”

Fiona raised a brow over the rim of her cup. “You sure?”

A pause. Elara opened her mouth, shut it again. Then—reluctantly, quietly—she laughed under her breath. “Maybe a little.”

Fiona grinned, sharp with amusement. “Leather cuffs, perhaps?”

“I hate you,” Elara muttered into the sleeve of her coat, voice muffled by wool and the table between them. Fiona didn’t even flinch. She just grinned and reached across the table to steal a piece of bread from Elara’s plate, tearing off a corner like a thief in plain sight.

“You don’t,” she said around a bite, crumbs dusting the edge of her knuckle as she leaned back.

Elara lifted her head just enough to glare, though the fire behind it had mostly dimmed. “You’re stealing my food now?”

“I bought your lunch. It’s fair game.” Fiona’s tone was maddeningly cheerful, unrepentant.

Elara snorted, sitting back with a rustle of her coat. She brushed a few flakes of crust from her lap and dropped her napkin on the plate. Around them, the café carried on—the clink of forks against porcelain, the scuff of boots across tile, chairs scraping as someone got up from a corner table. The doors let in a drift of late afternoon air each time they opened, cool and carrying the salt-and-bread scent of the nearby river.

Elara’s eyes drifted to the wide windows beside them, to the soft sloshing of the river as it caught the pale gold of the setting sun. Her fingers, restless, traced the rim of her teacup in slow, thoughtful loops. Her voice, when it came again, was quieter. Less guarded.

“Do you really think it’s okay?” She kept her gaze on the water. “To… be happy again?”

Fiona didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned on one elbow, her fingers still wrapped loosely around her teacup. She followed Elara’s line of sight toward the Sidra, her face unreadable, all the sharp brightness of before quieted into something steadier.

“I think,” Fiona said at last, “that Conn would’ve wanted you to be whole.”

The words settled into the space between them. Not heavy, but real.

“And I think,” Fiona continued, “Azriel’s the first person I’ve seen make you feel like yourself again.”

Elara’s breath caught, but she didn’t argue.

She only looked down. Her hand moved to her wrist without thinking, fingers finding the worn leather bracelet and slipping across its surface with slow, familiar care and she rubbed over it once. Twice. Again.

“I still think about him every day,” she murmured.

Fiona didn’t interrupt.

Elara didn’t need her to. She just kept her hand there. Pressed over the bracelet. Holding on, even as some small part of her heart—hesitant, trembling—began to loosen its grip.

Chapter 78

“I fucked up.”

Cassian’s voice came out sharp as he strode into the dining room, too loud for the quiet hum of the late afternoon. His hair was mussed from his hand running through it, his pacing already a restless pattern across the floor. He didn’t sit.

Elara looked up from where she sat beside Azriel, half-bent over a scattered mess of intelligence reports. Maps and notes lay spread between their plates, the last crumbs of a half-eaten meal pushed to the side. Briallyn’s movements had taken up most of the afternoon, but Cassian’s entrance immediately shifted the air. His face was drawn, his jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

She bit down on the sharp remark that wanted to come out. The one about dramatic entrances. One glance at him—at the uncharacteristic tension in his body—and she swallowed it.

Across from her, Azriel didn’t even lift his head. His pen scratched once more against the margin of a field report before he spoke.

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

Cassian stopped pacing just long enough to huff a humorless laugh. “I told Nesta.”

That got Azriel’s attention. His pen stilled.

“About the Trove she created,” Cassian went on. “About her power.”

Elara leaned back in her chair, hands curling loosely in her lap. She felt the silence pulse like a second heartbeat between the three of them.

“How’d she take it?” she asked quietly.

Cassian exhaled through his nose and finally dropped into the nearest chair, bracing his elbows on his knees. “About how you’d expect.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Maybe worse.”

“You were going to tell her,” Azriel said. Calm, but there was tension laced beneath the words. “Eventually.”

Cassian didn’t look at him. “Yeah. But I also told her about the vote.”

Cassian didn’t look up. “Yeah, well—I also told her about the vote.”

The words hit like a stone thrown through a window.

Azriel’s head snapped up. Elara went still. Too still.

Cassian winced and leaned forward, bracing both forearms on his thighs like he could physically anchor himself in place. “She started asking questions. Pushing. And I—I don’t know, it just came out.”

“You told her about the vote.” Elara sat up straighter, her voice low, not quite a question. Not quite believing.

“I didn’t mean to,” Cassian said quickly. “I panicked.”

Azriel’s voice cut through the room like cold steel. “That was idiotic.”

“I know,” Cassian said, closing his eyes. “I know.”

Elara stood slowly. The legs of her chair scraped faintly against the polished stone as she pushed it back, the sound far too loud in the sudden silence that followed Cassian’s confession.

“You told her we voted,” she said, her voice too even. That edge of calm that came just before something sharp. “That we talked behind her back. That we decided what she could and couldn’t know—what she could be.”

Cassian ran a hand over his face, then down to the back of his neck, rubbing hard like he could erase the guilt clinging there. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that.” Elara’s arms crossed over her chest, tighter than before. “You don’t get to dress it up now just because you regret it.”

He looked up then, frustration flickering past the shame in his expression. “You heard what Rhys said. What Amren said. You were there. They thought it was safer—”

“They thought,” she snapped, cutting him off before she could stop herself. “Rhys thought. We thought. Not her. Not the female whose power we were discussing. Not the one it actually belonged to.” She took a step back, breath unsteady. “And we made that decision without her.”

Azriel hadn’t moved from where he stood by the hearth. But his shadows shifted quietly around him, curling close to his boots. She felt his eyes on her, not unkind—but weighing. He hadn’t spoken, and somehow that made it worse.

Cassian dropped his hand and took a step toward her. “Do you think I wanted it to go this way?” His voice had roughened. “Do you think I was happy about lying to her? Rhys made the call—”

“We never should have let him.” Elara’s voice was lower now, but it landed just as hard. She turned away before she could say something she’d regret. Her arms stayed crossed, fingers digging into the fabric at her elbows as she stared out the tall windows toward the river.

“She won’t forgive this,” Elara said, voice quieter now. She pressed a palm to the windowsill, fingers curling around the carved wood. “Where is she now?”

Cassian exhaled behind her. She didn’t need to look to know he had slumped forward again, elbows likely braced on his knees, hands curled into fists. “She stormed out after training,” he said, voice rough. “Didn’t say where she was going. But I think she wanted to be alone.”

No one said anything. The silence dragged, thick and brittle. The fire in the hearth snapped softly behind them, the only sound in the room.

Cassian exhaled hard through his nose and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I was trying to protect her.”

Elara turned toward him, her voice low and even. “If you want to fix this, don’t explain it like that.” She didn’t raise her voice—didn’t need to. “That’s what people say when they don’t trust you to handle the truth.”

Cassian’s jaw worked. He didn’t argue, but his mouth flattened into a grim line as he leaned back and let his head fall against the back of the chair.

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

Azriel finally set down the reports he’d been reviewing, the parchment landing with a soft thud. “You’re lucky she didn’t incinerate the entire House.”

Cassian grunted. “She’s probably just stewing in the bath.”

Elara stiffened. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table before she even realized she’d moved. Something beneath her skin had shifted—prickling, tightening—as if the very bones of the city had inhaled sharply and gone still.

And then it hit.

Heat and ice, threaded together, sank into the floor beneath her boots. The air vibrated—not like sound, not like thunder. Deeper than that. It moved through her chest in a low, grinding pulse. Like metal dragged across stone.

She didn’t breathe.

The chandelier overhead swayed once. The fire in the hearth guttered sideways. A glass on the sideboard cracked sharply down the center.

Cassian muttered something under his breath, but his voice was too far away. The world had narrowed—down to the floor trembling faintly beneath her boots, the windows suddenly too bright with starlight, and the way Azriel’s hand brushed her back.

She didn’t lean into it, but she didn’t pull away, either.

His shadows arched high now, curling across the ceiling, whispering against the stone like restless wings.

Cassian stepped toward the window, his shoulders squared and tense. “That felt like Nesta.”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the skyline, on the sweep of rooftops stretching toward the mountains. He stood as if listening—to the city itself.

Outside, the Sidra had gone glass-still. The usual ripple of water, the faint hum of magic that lingered over the wards—it was all just… gone.

Azriel’s jaw ticked. “She’s not in the House.”

Cassian’s wings flared again, half-folded and twitching at the edges. “You think she—?”

Another wave pulsed beneath them. Quieter this time, but deeper. Grief, Elara realized. Grief and rage bound so tightly together they had become something else entirely. Something sharp. Something that wanted out. Azriel turned toward the door, “She’s in the city.”

Rhysand’s voice hit her mind a moment later. Elara. Are you alright?

She didn’t flinch, but her grip tightened around the table’s edge. Yes. Her eyes flicked to the tall windows, to the winter-drenched Sidra glittering beyond. The surface of the river was deceptively calm. Still at the River House. I think it’s Nesta.

Are you hurt? The words came faster, harsher. Command laced with fear.

No. Her gaze slid toward Cassian, still standing too stiffly near the window, his face drawn tight. But Cassian told her. About the Trove. That we voted on whether she should know. She’s reacting to it.

There was a pause—too long, too quiet.

Across the room, Cassian had gone pale, mouth parted slightly as if he could still taste the sharpness in the air. His shoulders had locked, every inch of him braced for impact. Beside her, Azriel stood utterly still. Only his shadows moved now, twitching like agitated crows.

She didn’t need to ask to know Rhys was speaking to them too. The three of them, linked in thought.

And outside, the city carried on as if nothing had shifted. Bells chimed faintly from the market street, sunlight slid across the river, and a couple strolled past the front gate, laughing.

But something had shifted.

We have to get her out of the city, Rhys said, and his voice had gone low and lethal. Now. Not with Feyre pregnant. Cassian—

There it is, Elara thought, not bothering to soften the words. She stood straighter, pulse still loud in her ears. This is why I told you not to vote on it. You should’ve told her the truth. You all should’ve trusted her from the start.

There was no response.

Azriel crossed the room in two long strides, his shadows snapping tight to his heels as though pulled by tension coiled in the air itself. They recoiled from the windows, twitching, restless.

He didn’t glance back as he spoke. “She’s not in the House of Wind.” His voice was low, clipped. “That came from the city. Near Amren’s place, judging by the surge.”

Cassian muttered something under his breath—sharp, almost bitten off—then said, “Fuck.” His fingers dragged through his hair, jaw tight. “She said she needed a bath. She must’ve left straight after.”

The words barely finished when Rhysand’s voice sliced into their minds again, fast and cold. Cassian needs to get her the hell out of Velaris. Somewhere remote. Far.

Cassian was already moving, a blur of muscle and shadows heading for the door. “I’ll find her,” he said, like the words were an anchor.

Elara watched him go, noting the slight hitch in his step. She wondered what Rhys had said—if it had been orders or a plea. Maybe both.

Azriel’s eyes were already on her. “We’ll get her things,” he said, quiet but steady.

She nodded once, but didn’t follow him right away.

Her hand rose without thought, fingers brushing against the cuff at her wrist—Conn’s bracelet, the leather worn soft with time and skin. Her thumb found the seam where the stitching had frayed, tracing the ridge.

Outside, the last of the sun dipped low, gilding the rooftops with a quiet kind of fire. She didn’t need to see where Nesta’s power had cracked through the calm—didn’t need to follow the scent of scorched stone or the echo of magic. She could still feel it humming just under her skin.

Her gaze lingered on the horizon where the pulse had come and gone, where the city had flinched and righted itself again.

She didn’t say anything more to Rhys. No sharp words, no second thoughts.

He’d felt it too.

The violence of a woman discovering just how much she'd been lied to.

---

Elara curled in the worn armchair, one knee hooked against the cushion, the other drawn tight to her chest. A book rested open across her stomach, spine bent against her palm. Her eyes skimmed the page, tracing lines of ink, though the words kept slipping past.

She hadn’t expected to like it. The last Sellyn Drake novel the House had conveniently left beside her bed, she had devoured in a single night, though she hadn’t admitted it aloud. Nesta had recommended this one, a knowing little tilt of her mouth when she pressed it into Elara’s hands. And somehow, here she was—eight chapters deep into something that could only be called smut.

A smile ghosted across her lips before she could stop it. If the King of Hybern could see her now. Or Dagdan. Their prized Munin, their assassin, the creature honed sharper than steel, tucked into a chair with a tray of food balanced on the table at her elbow, tea steaming beside roasted vegetables. Reading romance, of all things. She almost laughed at the thought.

It surprised her, too.

Her thumb slid across the page, flipping it. The female protagonist, all sharp tongue and iron edges, was starting to feel too familiar—reluctant to admit she cared, more vulnerable than she wanted anyone to believe. Elara’s mouth pressed thin. She leaned her head against her tucked arm, eyes skimming another paragraph while the fire cracked softly in the grate.

She set the book down on her stomach for a moment, dragging her fingers through her hair until the strands fell loose and untamed around her shoulders. A sigh escaped, quiet, not frustration—just awareness of the stillness.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Nesta.

The city had gone silent after that surge of power, like everyone was holding their breath. Cassian hadn’t returned. Rhys hadn’t offered anything beyond clipped assurances. And still, the heat of that moment clung in Elara’s chest like a coal waiting to catch flame.

She didn’t blame Nesta. Not really. The truth had been kept from her too long, bent and hidden beneath layers of fear. The vote. Her powers. Nesta had deserved to know. Elara could not fault her for what she had done with the knowledge, only the timing that left the rest of them scrambling now. Scrambling to contain a fire that might have burned cleaner if they’d only been honest.

Her gaze drifted back to the book. She lifted it, let her eyes catch on a line midway down the page: You can’t keep testing people’s loyalty and expecting them not to leave.

The words tightened something low in her stomach. She shifted upright in the chair, setting her feet to the floor. A hand reached for the tray, fingers tearing a piece of bread she hadn’t touched yet. She chewed slowly, swallowing past the weight of the line, then abandoned the half-eaten crust back on the plate.

Dinner for one tonight. Cassian had taken Nesta gods-knew-where to burn out her anger, and Azriel had gone to meet Rhys to keep the city calm, to explain away what witnesses had seen.

The light in the room had shifted. Long gold streaks on the rug had cooled to amber, then mauve, as the sun slid lower across the horizon. Shadows stretched beneath the bookshelves, bending over the spines as though the volumes themselves were waiting. The tray of food at her elbow sat untouched, the steam long since gone cold.

Elara’s spine ached from how long she’d curled herself into the armchair. She let her head tip back against the cushion, eyes following the lazy drift of dust motes as they caught the soft light. Her fingers had gone slack on the book in her lap and absently drifted to her wrist. The bracelet Conn had tooled by hand still sat snug against her skin, warm from hours pressed there. Her thumb brushed the rough edge in a small, familiar circle. Lately, the motion had become instinct.

She closed the book softly, careful not to jar the quiet.

She should have gone upstairs by now. Should have eaten something properly. Should have checked in with someone—anyone—about where Cassian and Nesta had disappeared to after the flare of power in the city.

But all she could do was sit. And breathe. And pretend the silence of the house wasn’t swallowing her whole. Her lashes lowered, heavy. One beat. Then another.

The sudden press of warmth along her shoulders startled her. Scarred hands, slow and sure, settled over the tops of her arms, cupping them as though she might break beneath the touch. His palms slid deliberately over her sleeves, grounding, steady.

Elara tensed—then eased, recognizing him.

Azriel’s voice brushed the shell of her ear, low and edged with quiet amusement. “I leave for a few hours and you let Sellyn Drake get her claws in you?”

A startled breath broke from her, part laugh, part relief. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s the idea.” His thumbs pressed small circles into the knots at her shoulder blades, coaxing loose the tension she hadn’t even realized she carried.

Her eyes stayed closed a moment longer. “I thought you were still with Rhys.”

“I was.” His voice dropped, quieter now. “Until I wasn’t.”

Her mouth curved, dry. “You’re being dramatic.”

Azriel leaned over the chair back, forearms braced along her shoulders, his weight anchoring her. His shadows curled lazily, brushing over the fabric of her chair as if to inspect it. “No. Sellyn Drake is dramatic. I read one of those books once, you know.”

She cracked one eye open, skeptical. “You did not.”

“I did.” Too smug. “Cassian dared me to read Queen of Blades and Bone. I lasted five chapters. Got to the part where the pirate prince used his mouth to—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

His chuckle was low, a quiet ripple that seemed to hum through her and settle in places it shouldn’t.

Elara twisted in the chair, shifting enough to glance over her shoulder. His face was closer than she expected, steady and shadowed in the dimming light. For a heartbeat, neither of them said anything.

Elara hadn’t meant to say it. The words slipped past her lips before she could catch them, so soft she almost hoped he hadn’t heard, “I missed you.”

Azriel’s hands went still, shadows curling tighter to his shoulders as if they too had heard. His pause lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough for heat to crawl across her cheeks. She wasn’t the kind of person to say something like that—she never had been—and the urge to take it back, to cover it with some sharp remark, nearly strangled her tongue.

But then his hand lifted. His fingers slid along her jaw, the callused pad of his thumb brushing the fragile line of bone beneath her cheek. His touch was steady, sure, though his eyes—dark and watchful—lingered on hers.
“I wasn’t gone long,” he said, voice low, as though even speaking it might break the moment.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She forced herself to hold his gaze, even as her face burned hotter beneath his touch. “Still.”

For an instant, the room tilted. The crackle of the fire, the wax dripping down the half-melted candle—all of it seemed to fade. He leaned in, slow, unhurried, brushing his mouth over hers once. Then again. By the third kiss, he deepened it, coaxing, steady, warm. Familiar, yet still enough to make her pulse stumble.

She shifted against the chair, restless beneath the sudden closeness. Azriel didn’t falter. He moved like smoke, climbing over the back of the chair in one fluid motion until he was kneeling before her. His arms braced on either side of her thighs, caging her in, shadows curling lazily along the floorboards around them.

The only light came from the fire and the dying candle. Both caught the sharp planes of his face, throwing them into flickering contrast—the strong line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the intensity in his gaze that pinned her where she sat. She didn’t move. Didn’t dare. She only watched him, waiting, every muscle taut with something she couldn’t name.

His eyes dragged over her, slow as a hand—her face, her parted lips, the hollow of her throat. The air thickened until she felt too warm, her skin prickling from the fire’s heat and something else entirely.

His hand drifted, brushing the edge of the Sellyn Drake novel she’d left abandoned on the cushion. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his voice stayed rough, low. “Did they kiss yet, or are they still pretending they don’t want to?”

Her lips curved, wry despite the thrum in her chest. “There was a closet scene,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Too much description. Very little space.”

His eyes lifted, locking onto hers again. Hooded. Dangerous. “Sounds familiar.” The words were smoke, curling into her, wrapping tight.

He leaned closer—not a kiss this time, but the press of his forehead against hers. His breath mingled with hers, warm, uneven. Her hands moved without thought, sliding up the hard column of his throat, fingers brushing against the familiar scar that sat beneath his ear. He didn’t flinch. He never did anymore.

Azriel tilted her chin, gentle, reverent, as though she were something fragile and breakable in his hands. His mouth found hers again, this time quieter, slower. Their lips barely parted, yet the kiss lingered, deeper for its restraint.

When he drew back just enough to speak, his voice was hoarse. “Tell me to stop.”

Her answer came in a whisper, but there was no hesitation. “No.”

His shadows wrapped closer, drawn tight around them until the world beyond the walls seemed to vanish. They slid over her skin like silk, weightless yet grounding, and Elara swore she could feel the steady pulse of his magic syncing to her own heartbeat. When Azriel’s hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, it wasn’t hungry or rough—just steady, needing.

Her back arched before she could stop herself, breath snagging in her throat. She hadn’t known wanting could feel like this—slow, careful, without the jagged edge of fear.

She tugged her shirt over her head in one swift motion. The fabric fell to the floor between them. Azriel didn’t move to claim her, didn’t lunge forward. He only looked, shadows coiling low around his shoulders like they too were watching. His gaze held her as though she were something sacred, as though touching her might break the fragile line of reality. And when his scarred hands finally lifted—when they cradled her waist, her ribs, her back—it was like they had always known how. The calluses brushed her skin, rough and reverent, his palms shaping to her as though her body had been waiting for them.

She pulled him closer, needing the weight of him, needing him to press back and prove she wasn’t imagining the heat in his eyes. His mouth found hers, slow at first, then deeper. Her hands moved with more certainty now—up the hard line of his jaw, down to where his shirt clung tight at his ribs.

The shadows stirred. They rose from the floorboards like smoke, curling around her legs, brushing her waist. They weren’t cold. They were careful, a second set of hands that seemed to ask permission rather than take. Elara stilled, startled, but the strange intimacy of it rooted her in place instead of driving her away.

“Not here,” Azriel whispered against her mouth, voice rough, scraping as if the words cost him. His lips grazed hers again, barely touching. “Let me take you somewhere better.”

Her nod was little more than a breath, but it was enough. His shadows swept in, drawing close, a velvet darkness pressing gently at her skin. Then came the rush of wind, the faint pop in her ears—

And they were gone.

They landed in a room dimly lit, warmer than the hall they’d left behind. Navy walls, burnished sconces glowing gold. The air smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. A bed sat neatly made, the sheets tucked crisp and straight, but the space still bore the quiet stamp of a life lived here—polished boots by the dresser, a folded cloak draped with care.

Her stomach tightened. She had never been in this room. All the nights before—it had been her space. Not his.

Azriel stepped toward her slowly, gauging every flicker of her face, waiting for the moment she might retreat. But she didn’t move. Didn’t run.

His thumbs brushed the hem of her shirt where it still hung loose around her arms. “Tell me if you want to stop,” he said softly.

“I won’t.” Her voice was steady, low. She lifted her arms for him.

He undressed her slowly, reverently, as if unveiling something precious. Not to strip her bare, but to know her. Each inch revealed to his gaze came with the slow trace of his fingers, scarred knuckles brushing the line of her side, mapping her as though he were marking a trail he would return to again and again.

His head bent, lips grazing the slope of her neck. Lower, to her collarbone. Her sternum. She whispered his name, not even thinking—and he froze. His forehead pressed to her shoulder, breath rough as though the single word had undone him. The sound of his name on her lips was its own kind of unraveling.

Then, with a jerking motion, as though control had finally slipped, he pulled his shirt over his head.

They both laughed once when their knees knocked together near the edge of the bed, the sound rough, unsteady.

“Not your smoothest entrance, Shadowsinger,” Elara muttered, dry as ever.

Azriel’s mouth kicked up. “What can I say? You throw me off balance.”

Her reply caught in her throat when his hands bracketed her hips, firm and sure, dragging her back against the mattress. He didn’t rush—he never did—but the weight of his touch made her blood surge. She fell onto the sheets with a muffled breath, the scent of him—mist and cedar—already thick in her lungs.

His mouth found hers, no hesitation, no tentative edge. Slow enough to savor, deep enough to leave her reeling. Shadows curled up the walls, sealing them in, but she barely noticed. Every nerve was tuned to the slide of his lips, the scrape of his stubble along her jaw, the low rasp of her name in his throat.

His hand skimmed down her stomach, fingers ghosting lower in an infuriating tease. Her patience snapped. She caught his wrist, dragged it down.

Azriel’s gaze burned into hers as he moved, studying her—her breaths breaking, the twitch of her thighs, the parting of her lips when his fingers pressed just right.

Her back arched, her grip digging into his shoulder. “Az—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice gone gravel-rough. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. He always did. He worked her apart with ruthless patience until her body bowed, until she came undone on a gasp that tore free of her throat, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her through it, shadows shuddering tight to the walls.

She didn’t let herself rest in the haze. Her hands slid to his shoulders, tugging him up, pulling him where she needed him most. No hesitation now. He sank into her, slow but unyielding, and she clutched at him as though the world might splinter if he pulled away.

The pace wasn’t tender—it was steady, consuming, every thrust dragging heat through her veins. His hands pinned her hips, his mouth never far from hers, swallowing the noises she couldn’t hold back.

She hadn’t realized how much she craved this—the sharp, grounding press of his body, the burn of being filled, the reminder she wasn’t just built to endure pain.

He rasped her name into her skin. She moaned his into his mouth when she shattered again, the world fracturing around them until there was nothing left but him, his weight, his breath, his hold anchoring her to the bed.

He didn’t shift away when it was over. Instead, he pulled her with him, dragging her chest against his until her cheek settled over the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The mattress dipped beneath their weight, his arm circling tight across her back. His thumb traced slow, idle circles over her shoulder blade, the motion rough from calluses yet careful all the same.

One of his shadows slipped across the sheets, cool and unhurried, curling around her thigh like a band. It stayed there, anchoring her, as if it refused to let her drift anywhere else.

Her gaze wandered down to her wrist. The leather bracelet was still there, worn soft with age, its knots faintly fraying. Conn’s. She lifted her fingers, brushed over the familiar weave. This time, she didn’t bother to hide the motion.

The bed shifted slightly as Azriel’s attention followed. His hand—warm, steady—closed over hers before she could pull away. The contact startled her, not with force but with the quiet certainty of it. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and drew it to his mouth, pressing a kiss over the leather. The heat of his lips lingered against the cool band, reverent in a way that stole her breath.

Her head lifted, eyes meeting his. Shadows rimmed his face, softened the edges, but his gaze held steady, unflinching.

She squeezed his hand, her knuckles brushing his scarred skin. A quiet thank you. Nothing more. Then she let herself sink back down, cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart as it thudded solid and sure beneath her ear.

Notes:

Ok, so I well and truly debated on whether or not I should insert Elara into that little hike with Cassian and Nesta, and to be honest, although we are deep into ACOSF now, I just don't think I could. I wanted Nesta's growth there to be her own, and Elara wouldn't have stood for how Cassian treated Nesta on that hike anyway so.... I kept her at home. So here are some more slice of life chapters.

Chapter 79

Notes:

Sorry, guys. This one is a bit short, as it mostly sets up the next chapter. As always, please let me know what you think!

Elara didn’t know what possessed her to go back to Valhallan again. Maybe she was stir-crazy—that was the only explanation. The situation with Briallyn —Rhys’ fear of the Crown— had kept her caged for too long, her life on pause while others moved around her. And now, with Nesta and Cassian gone, the House of Wind had turned oppressively quiet. Every corner echoed with stillness she couldn’t stand.

And then there was Azriel.

He had mentioned leaving for Valhallan, and the thought of staying behind while he’d go off had twisted something in her chest. She was getting too used to him being near, to the quiet rhythm of his presence. Heat crept into her cheeks when last night flickered across her mind—hands, breath, the sound of his voice against her skin.

She’d told herself she should pull back, make space before she sank too deep.

But when it came down to it, she hadn’t wanted to. Not at all.

So here she was, walking the stone-paved streets of Valhallan’s capital city. The air was sharper here, the kind that burned faintly in her lungs, far colder than the gentler breezes of Velaris. Buildings rose high around them, walls weathered by salt and storm. A market thrummed faintly in the distance, the sound of vendors hawking goods rising and falling like the tide. She hadn’t walked these streets in decades, and the city felt both foreign and familiar—like returning to a house where the furniture had been rearranged.

She pulled her hood lower, head bent. It had been over two centuries since she stood in Valhallan’s throne room, the Summer Court emissary’s severed head laid neatly at her feet. Her blood sang with the memory. Coming back here might have been a mistake.

People here looked longer than they did in Velaris. Glances caught on her cloak, on the small difference in the cut of her stride, on the unfamiliarity of her face. In Velaris, strangers passed one another without thought. In Valhallan, people remembered.

Would they remember her?

Azriel moved beside her, silent as ever. The only sign of his attention came in the flicker of his shadows—thin ribbons that curled across the cobblestones, brushing her cloak as if to check she was still there, still hidden in the dark veil they cast over both of them. He had only allowed her to accompany him under that condition: she stayed near to him and hidden, so that no one would recognize her.

Elara’s eyes lingered on him, on the sharpness of his profile as he scanned the street. She wondered if he noticed her pulse quicken at the brush of his shadows, if he guessed how hard she was fighting not to lean into that protective quiet he wrapped around her.

And still, her mind slipped elsewhere—back to Mor, the entire reason for this particular outing. She hadn’t seen her cousin since the war. Not since the battlefield where she had fought beneath the wrong banner, blind to who she was, blind to who she belonged to. She remembered the way Mor had stood across the chaos of steel and fire, even if she did not know her connection to the famed warrior.

The city around them carried the same sharp air, colder than Velaris, filled with the muted clang of ironwork and the far-off murmur of markets. Faces turned their way more often than she liked. Strangers in Valhallan were noted, assessed, filed away. She kept her head down, though Azriel’s shadows curled over her shoulders, veiling her like they did him. That had been his condition for allowing her to come. Stay hidden. Stay small.

She wondered if Mor would even recognize her.

Azriel led her to a narrow street lined with stone townhouses. The one he stopped at was not at all what she had expected: elegant without being gaudy, lighter in feel than most Valhallan dwellings. It was the sort of home given to someone trusted, someone important. The Summer Court emissary had stayed in the palace once. She wondered, fleetingly, if that had changed because of her. Because of the head she had dropped before the King and Queen, so many lifetimes ago.

Before she could decide if that thought was bitter or numb, the door opened.

Mor stood framed in the threshold, golden hair loose around her shoulders, her expression wide and unguarded. The sight of her hit harder than Elara had been ready for. For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Elara braced herself for pity, disbelief, or worse—distance.

Mor’s lips parted, her breath catching. And then, almost reverent, she whispered, “By the stars, it is you.”

Before Elara could think, Mor was moving—closing the space in a few swift steps and throwing her arms around her. She didn’t ask permission. She just clutched her, fierce and trembling, her body shaking with emotion. “Rhys told me,” she said into Elara’s hair, voice breaking. “But I didn’t… I didn’t quite believe it until right now.”

Elara’s lungs seized. She stood rigid in the circle of Mor’s arms for a breath, two, fighting the sting in her eyes. She hadn’t been held like this in centuries. Her fingers curled against Mor’s back at last, a half-desperate grip to anchor herself. She muttered, low against Mor’s shoulder, “There was no way you could have known. The King made sure of it.”

Mor drew back, her hands trembling as they came to cup Elara’s face. Tears glossed her eyes, making them shine like molten amber. “That doesn’t matter. I should’ve seen through it. I should’ve felt something.”

Elara shook her head, jaw tight. Her voice came out quiet, restrained. “Even if you did know, there was no way I would have. Dagdan controlled my mind.”

A sound tore from Mor’s throat—half sob, half gasp. She gripped Elara harder, as if she could steady the years that had broken them apart.

Azriel stood just behind her, quiet as a shadow. Mor’s gaze slid past Elara’s shoulder, caught on him—and her eyes brimmed. She reached for him too, fingers curling into his arm before tugging him into the circle like she couldn’t help herself.

Her laugh came wet, choked. “And thank you, Az, for bringing her back to us.”

Elara felt him stiffen under the touch, a barely-there shift of muscle, but he let Mor pull him close. He returned the embrace with a careful hand to her back before stepping aside again, posture straightening.

Mor didn’t release Elara’s hand. She tugged her gently forward into the sitting room, the heat of the place washing over her. Sunlight spilled in tall golden shafts through the windows, the hearth snapping low, the air thick with spice and woodsmoke. Too warm. Too safe. It jarred.

“Sit,” Mor said, steering her toward the couch with a grip that suggested she feared Elara might vanish if she looked away. “Please.”

Elara lowered herself gingerly to the edge, coat still buttoned, fingers clasped tight in her lap. The old cushions dipped under her weight, familiar and strange all at once.

Azriel lingered near the door, arms loose at his sides, but his shadows curled, watchful.

Mor didn’t stop speaking, her words tumbling out in uneven bursts. “I saw Munin in the war and never once thought—never even considered—” Her voice cracked. “Elara, if I had—”

“Mor.” Elara cut her off, quiet but steady. Not unkind. “Stop. You didn’t fail me.”

Mor’s mouth pressed together hard, her throat working as she blinked fast. She leaned down, smoothing a hand over Elara’s hair, fingers trembling as they caught on tangles. The touch carried years of regret. Old and new, all at once.

“You were alone,” Mor whispered. “All that time. And I didn’t even know to look for you.”

Elara swallowed, eyes locked on the fire where embers hissed against the log. “You all believed I was dead,” she said, voice thin. “You couldn’t have known.”

The silence stretched. Heavy. Azriel shifted near the door, a faint scrape of boot against stone.

Then Mor eased back into her seat, her hand still hooked loosely around Elara’s. Her voice gentled, almost casual though the ache lingered beneath. “How have things been? Since you’ve come home?”

Home. The word landed wrong in her chest, too heavy, too final.

She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Quiet.”

Mor arched a brow, skepticism breaking through the grief. “You’re living in the House of Wind with Cassian and Azriel. ‘Quiet’ seems like a lie.”

The corner of Elara’s mouth tugged, a faint smile that carried little warmth. “I don’t really… do much.”

It was true enough. Her days blurred together—hours filled with books she barely remembered reading, a handful of missions with Azriel breaking the monotony. Nothing else.

“Shocking,” Mor muttered, leaning forward until her elbows rested on her knees. The flames in the hearth gilded her hair, throwing bright copper light across her sharp cheekbones. Her gaze flicked toward Azriel, a knowing gleam sparking in her golden eyes. The corner of her mouth curved, almost sly, as if she were privy to something Elara hadn’t spoken aloud. Elara’s stomach twisted, her face heating before she forced her eyes back to the fire.

“And how’s everyone treating you?” Mor’s tone was deceptively casual, but that smile lingered.

Elara’s throat tightened. She let her hands curl in her lap, pressing her thumbs together to steady herself.

“Better than I expected,” she said finally.

Mor nodded, slow, though her gaze sharpened, a glint of steel beneath the warmth. “Even Nesta?” The name came out clipped, laced with disdain. There was no mistaking the acid on her tongue. Elara frowned, dragging her eyes from the fire to her cousin.

“She hasn’t been unkind.” Her voice carried a careful evenness, though her chest tightened. How could she begin to explain the nuances of it—that Nesta’s sharpness was not truly directed at her, but that Elara carried enough guilt for both of them? That she had been the hand behind so much of Nesta’s pain long before Nesta had ever known her face?

Mor scoffed, leaning back against the sofa cushions with a sharp flick of her hand. “Ungrateful, that one. After everything—”

Elara shook her head, cutting her off gently. “She’s not ungrateful. She’s working through her own trauma.”

Mor’s lips pressed together, her eyes narrowing just slightly. For a moment, Elara thought her cousin would argue, but then Mor looked away, drawing a long breath through her nose. The silence that followed was tight, but Elara understood it for what it was: a choice not to press further, not so soon after five hundred years apart.

The fire popped, sending sparks upward. Shadows curled along the floorboards, then retreated, as if Azriel had loosened his hold on them. Elara let herself study the flames, their warmth soft against her cheeks, though thinner now, as though the fire no longer burned with the same ease.

Mor’s gaze slid toward Azriel. He met it, silent as ever, and gave the faintest nod. Some unspoken exchange passed between them.

Mor exhaled heavily, running a hand through her golden hair, her fingers snagging before she let it fall around her shoulders again. “Briallyn is searching,” she said at last, her voice low. “More obsessively than ever.”

Elara’s head turned sharply, her stomach clenching at the name. “Searching for what?” she asked, her eyes flicking between Mor and Azriel.

Azriel’s shadows stirred at his shoulders, restless. “For the Harp,” he said quietly, each word deliberate, heavy.

Mor gave a grave nod, her mouth tight. “She’s not subtle about it anymore. Whatever patience she once had is gone. She’s moving faster, tearing through her resources without care. If she finds it first…” Her words trailed off, but the weight of the unspoken possibility settled into the room like a storm rolling over the horizon.

“With the mask in our possession, she can’t control the entirety of the Dread Trove.” Elara’s throat worked as she swallowed, the words tasting like ash as they left her tongue. “But having the Harp will give her an upper hand against us.”

Mor’s golden hair caught the firelight as she leaned forward. She didn’t speak right away, the hesitation uncharacteristic, and that alone set Elara on edge. Finally, Mor said, her voice low, “It will give her more than just an upper hand.” Her lips pressed into a thin line before the words slipped free. “If she finds it, she’ll use it to free Koschei.”

Elara froze. Even the flames seemed to falter in the grate, shadows lengthening against the stone walls. The air thinned in her chest, sharp and dry, as though something unseen had stolen half her breath.

Mor’s gaze stayed pinned to the fire. “The Harp can undo more than physical space,” she explained, her fingers worrying at the edge of her sleeve. “It unravels boundaries. Locks. Seals.”

“Including the one holding him in place,” Azriel said, voice steady, quiet, the sound of a blade sliding free of its sheath. His shadows stirred around him, then settled, as if echoing the gravity of his words.

Elara’s eyes cut to him, to the unflinching calm in his face. A calm that only made the pit in her stomach sink deeper.

Mor turned her head, her gaze sliding toward Elara with something sharper in it—something that almost felt like pity. “If Koschei escapes, there won’t be a second war. There won’t be time for one before he overpowers us all.”

Elara leaned back in her chair, the carved wood biting into her shoulders, as though even the furniture pressed the weight of the words into her ribs. “And you think Briallyn’s close?” she asked, the sound of her voice rougher than she intended.

Mor gave one firm nod. “Close enough that you’re here now. Close enough that we might not be able to wait much longer.”

The fire popped, a coal splitting open in the grate. The silence after carried more threat than any shouted warning.

Across the room, Azriel’s eyes found hers. Something tightened inside her chest, a knot that refused to loosen. She had been telling herself that she could heal in Velaris, that time would stretch long enough for her to breathe, to relearn who she was without the constant weight of survival pressing against her skin.

But the truth settled cold and heavy inside her now. There would be no peace. Not while Briallyn searched. Not while the Harp lingered out there, waiting to be claimed.

And Elara realized, with a hollow certainty, that pretending was no longer an option.

---

Elara spotted Nesta before Nesta spotted her.

Alone, moving through the quiet stretch of the river path with the unhurried pace of someone who finally had nowhere to be. A water skin in her hand, the other tucked against her ribs around a book. Sunlight cut over her hair, catching in the pale streaks that hadn’t grown out yet. There was a calm to her, something loose in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before she’d left with Cassian. No sharpness in her eyes, no rigid set to her jaw. Elara slowed without meaning to, taking in the difference before she made herself move forward.

Her boots crunched softly against the gravel, and Nesta’s head turned, gaze sharpening just enough to register her approach.

Elara didn’t bother with preamble. The words clawed their way out before she could school them down. “I should’ve told you what was going on. Immediately. I shouldn’t have been part of that vote.” Her throat worked, dry and tight. “I didn’t deserve a say. None of us did—it was your power.”

Nesta stilled mid-step, tilting her head in that feline way of hers, assessing. For a beat, she only watched Elara. Then one brow lifted. “I figured you’d bring that up. Just didn’t think it would be the first thing you said to me.”

Heat prickled at the back of Elara’s neck. She dropped her gaze briefly to the ground, to the long blade of grass bending in the breeze near Nesta’s boots.

“It’s all I’ve been thinking about,” she admitted, voice low, rawer than she’d intended. “It was so unfair to you.”

The words hung between them, brittle as glass. Elara braced herself. For anger, judgment, for the sharp edge of dismissal that Nesta wielded better than most.

But Nesta only gave a small, almost careless shrug. Slow, deliberate, as though she’d weighed it. “You were doing what you were told,” she said. “Same as Cassian. Same as Azriel. If I’m not blaming them, I can’t blame you either.”

Elara blinked at her, unsettled by how easily it was said. “You’re not angry?”

Nesta’s eyes softened, the smallest shift, before she shook her head. “I was. But not at them, and not at you.”

Elara studied her closely, wary of the calm in her face, the way the words lacked bite. Something had shifted—she could feel it in the air around her. As if Nesta had carried something heavy up into the mountains and finally set it down.

Her thoughts flickered: had it been a vision, some private clarity in the wind-scoured silence? Or simply distance, the hush of high air and no one demanding anything from her? Whatever it was, it had smoothed the sharpest edges, left her standing here like a different version of herself.

Elara found she was grateful for it, though she couldn’t quite say why.

Nesta shifted her weight, the river path curving into a shaded corridor of trees, and the conversation that had begun with sharp edges seemed to soften. She glanced toward the slope of roofs in the distance, where Velaris’s spires caught the lowering sun.

“I’m heading to the temple,” she said, her tone light, almost distracted. “There’s a service tonight. For the priestesses.”

Elara’s brows lifted. “Really?” The word came out with more surprise than she’d meant, a quick cut of sound.

Nesta only gave a half shrug, the water bottle in her hand tilting with the motion. “I’ve never really been before. As humans, we never gave much thought to religion or holidays. But something about the way Gwyn described it…” Her voice trailed, thoughtful, before she looked back toward the cobblestone streets. “I never get to hear music anymore.”

Elara searched her face, expecting a smirk or a hint of self-mockery. But Nesta’s expression was unguarded, quiet in a way Elara wasn’t used to seeing. Her fingers traced absently along the edge of her book as though restless, as though she needed something to do with her hands. Then, after a breath, she added, almost casually but not quite: “You should come.”

Elara froze mid-step, her body tensing before she could catch it. The offer landed heavy, pulling at some part of her she didn’t want touched. Her gaze flickered away—to the river, to the scattered stones at her boots, to anywhere that wasn’t Nesta’s eyes. The temple. The priestesses. Gwyn’s voice, low and steady, telling her that she forgave Elara.

Elara’s stomach tightened. She had never walked into that library, but she knew enough about what those females had endured. Knew enough to understand that her own hands were not clean in the face of it. She had been a shadow in those years, a blade in the dark, part of the machine that had carved grief into too many lives.

Her head shook almost before she realized she was doing it. A firm, clipped movement. “No,” she said quietly, voice rougher than she intended. “I can’t.”

Nesta didn’t push. She only studied Elara for a beat, mouth pressed into a line that was neither judgment nor pity. Then she nodded once, as though filing it away, and started down the path again. The sound of her boots against the gravel was steady, unhurried.

At the end of the corridor, where the trees broke into open sky, she slowed. Half-turned. Sunlight glanced along her cheekbones, softened the hard line of her jaw. “If you ever change your mind,” she said, her voice carrying without strain, “the offer still stands.”

Elara didn’t answer. She only stood there, watching as Nesta moved away, her figure narrowing into distance until the shadows swallowed her. The breeze shifted through the branches overhead, and Elara’s chest felt tight with something she couldn’t name. Not just the words left behind, but the weight of the one who had spoken them. Nesta Archeron, who had once been fire and barbs and fury alone, had turned back and offered her this.

Elara’s fingers curled at her sides. Something had shifted in her. She had seen it in the steadiness of her stride, in the absence of venom in her voice, in the gentleness that lingered at the edges of her words.

And if it could shift in her, perhaps—just perhaps—it could shift in Elara, too.

---

He felt her enter the room before he heard the door.

Before the latch clicked, before her steps whispered across stone, his shadows had already stilled—stretching toward the hallway like a breath held too long. Azriel didn’t lift his head. He didn’t need to. Elara had entered the room.

Her scent drifted in next, winding its way through the cool air and lodging in his lungs with a force that unsettled him. He tried not to let it show. Across the war table, Cassian leaned back in his chair, boot hooked on the rung, wings loose in the way they always were after a fight or a sparring session. Nesta trailed behind him, her braid slightly mussed, her face carved into that mask of indifference that usually meant she was hiding something sharp beneath.

Elara slid into the seat beside them without a word, the fall of her dark hair catching the light from the lanterns overhead. She didn’t look his way. Didn’t even flicker a glance at him. But his shadows betrayed him, gliding over the edge of the table, drawn as if they’d been waiting for her, brushing against her wrist before pulling back in a curl of smoke—like they hadn’t meant to be caught.

She didn’t flinch at the touch. She never did. But she didn’t look at him either. That absence—deliberate or not—struck harder than he wanted to admit. She had been firm in her decision to keep this between them, a secret not yet spoken aloud in front of his brothers, not yet named. Azriel knew her reasoning, respected it. Still, the instinct clawed at him. The raw, animal urge to drag her closer, to claim her in front of them all, to let them see that she was his mate, gnawed at the back of his throat like a hunger he couldn’t shake.

Rhysand’s voice cut through, smooth and calm. “Thank you for coming. This won’t take long.”

Azriel forced himself to turn, to focus on his High Lord instead of the female sitting a mere arm’s length away. He anchored his elbows on the edge of the table, fingers steepled, the picture of discipline. But a part of him refused to let go, shadows trailing across the floor to hover near the curve of her boot. His gaze flicked to Rhys, but his attention tracked her—the tilt of her head as she listened, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers hovered over her thigh as if she were fighting the urge to fidget.

Cassian shifted in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. Nesta crossed her arms and leaned against the table’s edge, sharp eyes scanning the map spread across its surface. Elara kept her face carefully neutral, eyes fixed on the ink lines of territories and borders, though Azriel saw the tension in her jaw. Saw it and wanted to reach across the space, to ease it from her.

Rhys’s expression was taut as he looked from Azriel to Elara. His hands rested flat on the war table, knuckles white against the polished wood. “Nesta had… a vision. Earlier tonight. At the service in the temple.”

The words landed heavy, pulling silence across the room. Cassian leaned back in his chair, arms crossing, the scrape of leather against leather the only sound. Finally, he muttered, “It wasn’t just a vision.”

Nesta didn’t correct him. Her posture shifted forward, elbows braced on her knees, eyes focused on something far beyond the chamber walls. “The Harp. I saw it. Felt it.”

Azriel stilled in his seat, shoulders tight, while across the table Elara’s spine straightened with the same shock. Shadows hissed close around him, restless.

“It was during the music,” Nesta continued, voice low, almost reverent. “I heard it then, calling me. Telling me what we could accomplish if I used it.”

Rhys’s head snapped up. “Where?” His tone was sharper than steel, slicing through the tension.

Nesta’s brow furrowed, as though piecing it together even now. “I can’t be sure…” She hesitated, lips pressing thin before she spoke again. “But I think it was the Prison. The feeling there—it matched the description Feyre gave me once.”

The table seemed to pulse with silence, a heavy, unyielding thing.

Then Cassian exhaled through his nose and pushed forward, the chair legs scraping hard against stone. “We’re going tomorrow.”

Rhys’s jaw worked, but he nodded once, as if conceding to the inevitability of it. “I’ll take you there. I can’t go in with you—not with Feyre pregnant. But I’ll take you.”

“I’ll go with them,” Elara said, her voice steady, even before she’d fully finished sitting back in her chair.

Azriel’s mouth opened before thought could catch him. “No.”

Rhys echoed him a breath later, sharp as a blade. “Absolutely not.”

Azriel leaned forward, shadows curling tight to his shoulders. “It’s too dangerous.”

Her eyes met his across the table. Steady. Unblinking. Fire flared there—unyielding, fierce, and gods help him, it was beautiful. “You think I can’t handle it?”

He didn’t flinch. “I think something is off about this.” His voice was controlled, but his shadows betrayed him, flicking outward, straining toward her.

Before the sparks between them could ignite further, Rhys cut in. “It could be connected to Briallyn.”

Rhys leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the polished table. The shadows of the chandelier caught in his sharp cheekbones as he said, “We still don’t know the full extent of what she did with the Crown. How far her influence reached. The Harp stirs now—after months of silence? What if this isn’t coincidence? What if Briallyn is somehow using the Crown to set a trap for us?”

The words cut through the room. Cassian’s half-smile slipped, leaving only the warrior’s grim line of a mouth. Nesta straightened, shoulders drawn tight as if bracing herself.

Elara’s hand curled against her thigh before she gestured sharply toward them. “But you’re fine sending in them? But not me?”

Rhys’s jaw worked once, the faintest tic. “I’m saying maybe you shouldn’t walk straight into something that hits too close to home. Too close to what Dagdan did to you.”

The air seemed to thicken. Azriel caught it—that faint ripple across her features. The barest flicker of something raw before she smoothed it away, shutters slamming closed.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet but unyielding. “I’m not under anyone’s control now. And I won’t be again.”

Azriel’s chest tightened. He’d spent weeks fighting that shadow behind her eyes, watching her claw her way out of it piece by piece. And now—here she was, chin lifted, shoulders squared. Standing her ground against Rhys. Against all of them.

It was fear that had his hand tightening against the edge of the table. Fear that had stalked him from the first moment he’d realized who she was. Fear that had nearly undone him when she’d vanished beneath the black waters of the Bog.

Rhys studied her with that calculating, wary stillness of his. Elara did not flinch under it, though Azriel saw the telltale signs—the strain in her shoulders, the way her fingers had curled into her lap until her knuckles paled. She needed this. Needed to prove she belonged in the fight, not just at the edge of it.

“She’s right,” Azriel said, the words low but cutting through the silence.

Rhys blinked, his head shifting slightly. “What?”

Azriel didn’t waver. “If Briallyn’s behind this, then Elara’s insight is exactly what we need. She lived it.” He kept his voice calm, steady, though his pulse thudded against his throat. “You sent her with me to track Briallyn once already because you trusted her instincts. Trust them now.”

A beat of quiet. Then Elara turned her head, her gaze brushing his. Something flickered there—hard to read, but softer than before. Warmer.

Rhys’s jaw ticked again. A muscle pulled tight in his temple. Finally: “You’ll stay close.”

Azriel dipped his chin once. “Always.” As if he had to be told.

Elara’s gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer before sliding away, but he felt the weight of it, warm as a touch.

Chapter 80

Notes:

Ugh, I suck. This was supposed to be out at about 6am EST. And then I woke up late, had to run to work for a bit, and then ended up having car issues (on a brand new car). By the time I got home, I was so exhausted I couldn't do anything but sleep. But I rpomise I didn't forget about you all, so even if it is delayed, here is chapter eighty (eighty - can you believe it?!).

“Are you sure about this?”

“For the tenth time, yes, I am sure,” Elara said, the words puffing out in the chill air. She adjusted the strap of her blade across her back, steadying it as the wind picked up. “Besides, it is too late now.”

The mountain loomed above them, jagged black stone cut against a pale sky. They had already winnowed to its base; the hike upward was slow, the ground uneven and loose beneath their boots. Nesta and Cassian were ahead by several paces, voices carrying on the wind as they spoke of the sword Nesta had forged, her hand gesturing now and then to where it was strapped across Cassian’s back.

Elara’s eyes flicked toward the weapon. A part of her—a part that would always think like a blade in waiting—longed to see it used, to test what kind of death it might deal. But another part, smaller and quieter, hoped she never would.

Azriel’s shadows slid around her boots as the incline steepened, curling in lazy ribbons before vanishing back into the hollows between rocks. He walked at her side, always within reach, steady despite the sharp wind that whipped across the stone and carried the salt tang of the sea. A gull screamed somewhere in the distance.

“You didn’t have to speak up for me yesterday,” Elara said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “With Rhys.”

Azriel’s jaw shifted, his gaze trained on the climb. “I did.”

She arched a brow, breath coming heavier now as they picked their way higher. “I can handle myself.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet, steady as the ground beneath his boots. “That’s why I did it.”

She faltered for half a step, blinking at him. He didn’t look at her, didn’t change his pace, but his tone carried a weight that pressed against her ribs.

“Rhys only said no because he cares,” Azriel went on, shadows brushing against his shoulders as if drawn by the words. “But he forgets—sometimes—that you’re not just someone to be protected. You’re someone who can do the protecting.”

The words struck deep, lodging in places she had spent years trying to bury.

Azriel’s gaze flicked toward the rocks ahead. “And I needed a reminder of that, too.”

Elara dropped her eyes to the uneven path, heart tight in her chest. She let the silence hang for a few breaths, letting his words settle into her bones. Then, softly, almost carried away by the wind, she said, “Thank you.”

His hand shifted at his side. The back of his knuckle grazed hers, the touch barely there. She didn’t move. Neither did he. The air between their palms burned, the space shrinking until her fingertips twitched toward him, aching to close the gap. His fingers hovered—hesitant, then lingering, as though the smallest brush of skin was enough to unravel him.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. “I meant it.”

She let their hands drift close as they walked, never quite touching again. But his shadows brushed her wrist, cool and silken, twining like a ribbon that refused to unravel. She did not shake them off.

The climb blurred into a steady rhythm of boots scraping stone, of wind whistling over jagged rock, of Cassian and Nesta’s voices carrying ahead. The air grew sharper as they ascended, then colder, until the mountain swallowed them whole.

By the time the four of them reached the depths of the Prison, the silence was suffocating. The path twisted into a corridor of black stone, slick with condensation, every step echoing far too loud. Elara’s stomach tightened. She could feel it—the thrum of magic so heavy it pressed on her ribs, its weight steeped in age and malice. The air itself tasted of iron and salt.

Beside her, Azriel kept close, his movements honed and deliberate, though she noticed the slight way his shoulders tensed, the way his wings shifted as though they could sense danger before his eyes did. Shadows licked at his hands, restless, slipping over her wrist again as if testing the air. Ahead, Nesta walked with her chin high, though her face was pale. Even Cassian’s usual swagger seemed dimmed, his head turning sharply at every hollow sigh of wind.

“Here,” Nesta’s voice broke the stillness.

Her footsteps stopped. Cassian’s too. Their silhouettes loomed ahead, framed by the curve of the tunnel. Elara and Azriel slowed to join them, the scrape of stone underfoot grinding against the silence.

“You’re sure… you’re sure this is the place?” Cassian’s voice carried low, pitched with unease Elara wasn’t used to hearing in him.

She frowned, eyes flicking between them. Something in his tone unsettled her. Beside her, Azriel had gone utterly still. His jaw worked once, twice, as if bracing himself before his stare fixed hard on the wall of rock in front of them.

Elara swallowed and let her senses stretch outward. The Prison’s magic pulsed around her like a heartbeat, vast and endless, thick enough to choke on. But underneath it—beneath the familiar crushing weight she’d grown accustomed to since stepping inside—something else coiled. Darker. Quieter. Watching.

Nesta didn’t seem to notice. She only lifted her hand, eyes sharp as steel, and pressed her fingers toward the wall. Stone rippled around her skin like water, passing through as if it were smoke.

“Maybe we should wait a minute,” Elara said quickly, glancing between the Illyrians. “Come up with some kind of—”

But Nesta was already moving. Cassian caught her arm, his voice sharp with command, but she twisted free with a flick of her wrist and strode through the wall. Her figure vanished as if swallowed whole.

Elara cursed under her breath. Cassian swore louder. Still, they followed.

The stone parted around her shoulders like mist, cold as ice, and then she was through. A chamber stretched out before them, wider than any of the corridors, its walls glimmering faintly with veins of something that wasn’t stone.

“I had no idea there was anything else in this Prison,” Cassian muttered, turning in a slow circle, his voice echoing in the vast space. “I thought there were only cells.”

He looked at Elara, brow furrowed, as though she might hold the answer.

She only shrugged. “If I ever learned of it, the memory’s gone.” Buried somewhere in the five hundred years she’d rather not unearth.

Nesta’s voice carried across the chamber, firm, certain. “I told you. I saw a chamber here.”

Red and blue light from Cassian’s and Azriel’s siphons washed over the stone walls, the glow catching on jagged edges and throwing their shadows long across the chamber. The air was cool and stale, heavy with the bite of salt and something older, metallic, like rusted iron. Elara blinked until her eyes adjusted to the dark, each step crunching on loose gravel scattered across the uneven floor.

They rounded a bend and the tunnel widened. Her throat tightened as an archway came into view, its entire frame carved with raised symbols that seemed to writhe when the siphon-light struck them. The grooves were worn deep, some chipped with age, yet they still held a kind of force that made the hair along her arms rise.

And there, in the center of the chamber, stood the Harp. It rested on a pedestal of stone, the strings pale as bone, gleaming faintly as if they caught a light that was not there.

Nesta stopped short, forcing the rest of them to halt in a staggered line behind her. She tilted her head up, eyes scanning the symbols across the arch. “Do any of you recognize these?”

Cassian’s frown was sharp as he glanced at Azriel. Both shook their heads.

Elara’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “They’re runes. Old wards. The Old Language… but I can’t—” Her eyes darted over the script again, searching. “I don’t know what they mean.”

Nesta nodded slightly, gaze still locked on the Harp. “Whatever they are, Rhys’s wards on the Mask didn’t keep me out. Maybe the Harp will be the same. Like calls to like, as you’re all so fond of saying.”

Cassian’s shoulders squared, his voice low but firm. “No. I’m not letting you walk in there alone. Not if that thing wants to play.”

The air tightened between them. Elara shifted forward, cutting through it before either could dig in deeper. “I don’t think we have a choice.” Her eyes flicked from Nesta to the Harp, then back again. “Nesta’s the best chance we’ve got at getting it. If we don’t, Briallyn will find her way here and take it out from under us.”

Nesta gave Elara the briefest nod, acknowledgment flickering in her sharp eyes.

“She’s right,” Azriel said, his voice low but carrying easily in the vaulted chamber. His shadows curled close to him, restless. Elara shifted beneath his gaze, heat prickling at the back of her neck.

“Like Hel is she going alone.” Cassian’s snarl reverberated against the stone, startling her enough that her brows shot up. His broad shoulders squared, siphons gleaming as if they, too, bristled at the thought. “If she goes, I go.”

Nesta looked up at him, her jaw tight. “What if my presence would go unnoticed, but yours sets off a trap? We can’t risk that.”

“I can’t risk you.” The words came raw, stripped of all his usual swagger. Cassian’s eyes were fierce, panicked in a way Elara had never seen before.

And then she understood.

It was in the way his wings had flared instinctively, like a shield he could not put down. In the way Nesta’s breath hitched, though she tried to mask it. Elara had seen it once before—between Feyre and Rhysand, that invisible pull that drew them toward each other even in silence. The kind of bond people whispered about, spoke of with reverence or envy. Mates.

Elara’s throat tightened. She had heard the stories, felt the awe in others when they spoke of the word, but seeing it with her own eyes was something else entirely. Cassian looked as though he might shatter at the thought of Nesta stepping into danger, as if every heartbeat of hers now pulsed inside his chest. Rhys had looked at Feyre the same way.

As if the very air bent toward her.

And here it was again, sparking between Nesta and Cassian. Something so rare, so unshakable, that Elara couldn’t look away. A quiet ache bloomed low in her ribs, a yearning for something she had only ever stood at the edge of.

“I’ll go with her,” Elara said before she could think better of it, the words spilling from her chest like a promise. “I’ll make sure she is alright.”

“Elara—” Azriel’s protest cut sharp through the chamber. She turned to him, lifting her hands in a wordless gesture for him to stop.

“For centuries, this prison has been keyed into Rhys’ blood—my blood.” The words tasted heavy, carrying the weight of who she was. The High Lord’s daughter. The High Lord’s sister. “If anyone is going to get through besides Nesta, it’s me.”

Cassian’s gaze snapped to her. Gratitude, raw and unguarded, bled into his eyes. He needed this—needed someone to walk beside Nesta when he could not. Elara inclined her head just enough for him to see that she understood, that she would bring her back.

Then she looked to Azriel. Shadows licked at his shoulders, as restless as the tension in his frame. His stare pinned her in place, and what she saw there mirrored Cassian’s expression a moment ago: fear, threaded with something deeper. His throat bobbed as he gave a single, reluctant nod.

Cassian unbuckled the great sword from his back, strapping it across Nesta’s body in silence, the gesture itself an act of surrender. At the same time, Azriel drew closer to Elara. His scarred fingers brushed the back of her hand, a fleeting touch that made her pulse stumble. His thumb lingered at her knuckles, grounding her even as his voice stayed low, taut.

“At the first sign of anything wrong…”

“We’ll come back,” Elara finished, steady, though her heart thundered.

Nesta’s jaw was tight, her knuckles pale around the hilt of the great sword Cassian had buckled to her side. Elara caught the look Nesta gave her, sharp as a blade, then softer—barely. A single nod passed between them, an unspoken truce. And together, they stepped forward.

The wards hit like a wall of tar. Thick, suffocating. Magic clung to their skin, dragged at their limbs, every step a battle against unseen chains. Elara gritted her teeth, pushing forward, each pace slow, deliberate, her wings tucked tight against her back as if the wards might crush them.

The air pressed on her lungs, the taste of iron heavy on her tongue. By the time they emerged on the other side, she half-expected to find blood staining her hands. She waited, breath caught, for something—screams, shadows, a punishment from the ancient magic. Nothing came. Only silence.

“There are no wards I have ever felt before.” Nesta’s voice was low, touched with awe, though her eyes never left the shadows around them.

Elara forced her breath even. “They’re ancient. I don’t know if this kind of magic has been used in millennia.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

She glanced back. The glow of siphons—Cassian’s red, Azriel’s blue—flared faintly through the wards, painting the stone in fractured light. It was the only illumination down here, seeping like veins across the black walls.

Runes crawled over the stone, spirals and jagged marks, their edges faintly glimmering when the siphons caught them. Some looked freshly carved, others eroded, as if centuries of power had burned their shapes into permanence. Elara reached out a hand but stopped short, her palm tingling just from the proximity.

“They probably predate this place being used as a prison,” Cassian’s voice carried muffled through the wards, distorted, like speaking through water.

Nesta’s gaze flicked back, brows furrowed. “What was here before?”

No one answered. The silence pressed heavier than the wards had.

Elara forced herself to move, boots scuffing softly against the stone floor. She followed the pull of the magic until her eyes caught on it—the Harp.

It sat on a pedestal as if waiting, strings gleaming faintly though no light touched them. Not a speck of dust marred its surface, no sign of time’s hand. It looked newly made, beautiful in a way that was wrong, untouched, perfect.

Power bled from it. Not a hum, not a whisper—an overwhelming, sickly radiance that sank into her skin and settled in her bones. Elara’s stomach turned. A cold sweat slicked the back of her neck. Her fingers curled tight at her sides to stop the trembling.

Nesta’s eyes narrowed on the object, fascination glinting in them. But she turned at last, catching the way Elara pressed a hand against the wall for balance.

“Are you alright?” Nesta’s voice was sharp, but there was something almost—concerned—threaded through it.

Elara shook her head once, as if to clear it. She had faced death before, worse things than this. But her pulse hammered, bile creeping up her throat.

From beyond the wards, Azriel’s voice cut through, edged with that low demand she had come to recognize. “Elara. Are you alright?”

Her throat was raw, but she forced herself upright, spine stiffening, wings twitching against her back. “Fine,” she said, though the word scraped out more brittle than she wanted.

She didn’t look back at the siphons glowing faintly beyond the wards. Didn’t look at him.

Her eyes stayed on the Harp, that perfect, terrible thing.

The wards still pressed against her skin like a second, suffocating layer, even though she and Nesta had already stepped through them. The air inside was thick, the taste of it sharp, metallic, crawling down her throat. Every instinct screamed to turn back, to run to the steady voice on the other side of the barrier, but Elara dug her heels into the cold stone.

“Come back.” Azriel’s voice cut through, ragged with something too raw to mistake. Panic. “Elara—get out of there.”

Her eyes flicked once toward the faint glow of his siphons beyond the wards, the blue and red flaring brighter with every word. But she forced her attention back to the object that lay before them, gleaming in the dim chamber. Her chest tightened as if the harp itself had reached out, curling invisible fingers around her lungs.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she said, her voice harsher than she intended, clipped to hide the tremor threatening to betray her.

Nesta’s head turned sharply.

For a moment, Elara thought she might argue, but instead Nesta’s expression shifted—something softer, almost reluctant sympathy. Her sharp chin dipped once. She lifted her hand, fingers trembling as if weighed down by the atmosphere itself, before letting them hover above the instrument. A beat of hesitation, and then her hand closed firmly around the Harp.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Nesta went rigid, every muscle locking in place, her eyes going wide but unfocused, as if staring at something far beyond the room.

“Nesta?” Elara dropped to her knees beside her, reaching for her arm, shaking her once, twice. “What’s happening?”

There was no answer. No blink, no twitch, just the frozen stillness of her body locked in some unseen grip.

“NESTA!” Cassian’s roar ripped through the chamber. His siphons exploded with light, slamming against the wards with violent bursts, but the magic only rippled, swallowing the force like water struck with a stone. He slammed a fist into the invisible barrier, face contorted with fury and fear. “Get her out of there!”

Before Elara could move again, the Harp seemed to pulse in Nesta’s hands. The air throbbed with the beat of it, and then Nesta’s body flew back as if struck by an unseen blow. She hit the stone floor with a sickening thud, the harp still clutched in her grip.

Elara scrambled across the ground, knees scraping against jagged rock, fingers fumbling to reach Nesta. “Nesta, come on—stay with me,” she gasped, trying to drag herself upright.

Nesta’s body jerked violently, spasms wracking her limbs. Her eyelids remained clamped shut, but her eyes moved frantically beneath them, too fast, too unnatural. Elara tried to keep hold, tried to steady her, but her own skin prickled, her stomach turning sour as the harp’s magic bled into her.

Cold sweat broke across her neck. Her grip faltered. The strength in her arms gave way as nausea surged, the bile rising too quickly to swallow down. She dropped Nesta back against the stone, hands flying to brace herself as her stomach heaved.

Her body shook as she retched, every convulsion pulling another wave of weakness through her.

Through the haze of sickness, she barely caught Azriel’s voice, sharp and demanding, the panic threaded through every word: “Elara! Bring her back—now!”

She tried to lift her head, her vision swimming, Nesta’s twitching body a blur in front of her. But her muscles refused to obey. Her body was betraying her, and the harp still hummed, as if laughing.

When Elara forced herself upright, her vision still swimming, she caught sight of Nesta’s hand rising toward the Harp. Her fingers hovered, trembling as if pulled by something unseen.

“No—” Elara lunged, hand outstretched, but Nesta’s finger struck the first string before she could close the distance.

The note hummed through the air like a ripple in water, soft yet bone-deep. The chamber itself seemed to shift, the heavy pressure of its wards loosening around them, the stale air lifting as if they were suddenly standing in a different world.

“Nesta!” Cassian’s voice rang out, edged in panic.

Elara staggered forward, knees weak, and shoved a hand toward Nesta. “Are you alright?” Her throat was raw, her words ragged.

Nesta’s eyes flicked to hers before giving Elara a tight nod. “I’m fine.” But her gaze darted toward Cassian. “Someone very wicked used this last. They trapped their enemies here—inside the stone.”

Her voice faltered on the last words, but the truth of them reverberated in the walls, in Elara’s stomach, until bile clawed its way up her throat. She swallowed hard, as if she could keep the sickness down with sheer force.

“Are you hurt?” Cassian demanded, his siphons still sparking faintly at his shoulders.

Nesta shook her head again, but her knuckles whitened around the Harp’s frame. “No. It showed me something—it forced it on me. A memory.” Her voice sharpened, brittle. “Briallyn. Wearing the Crown. She saw me here.”

Elara’s stomach turned to ice. If Briallyn knew… If she sent someone for the Harp, they would not survive the encounter.

Nesta’s jaw set, and she began to move, her grip on the Harp steady despite the tremor in her body. Elara forced herself to follow, every muscle tight, every step heavier than the last. The wards barely resisted their passage this time, sliding away as if the plucked string had dismantled them.

The moment Elara emerged from the chamber, she was caught. Azriel’s arms closed around her with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs, shadows curling tight around them. He didn’t hesitate, not even with Cassian and Nesta there, as if holding her was the only way he could be sure she was real.

“Elara.” His voice was rough, breaking against her name. He pulled back just enough to grip her shoulders, his hands skimming down her arms as if to find damage beneath her leathers. “Tell me you’re alright.” His eyes scanned her face, sharp, unyielding, his jaw a rigid line.

She wanted to say something biting, to twist the edge of her usual sarcasm into the moment and defuse the tension clawing at her chest—but her voice refused to come. The words shriveled on her tongue, leaving her only with the tremor in her hands and the thundering of his pulse where his thumbs pressed into her skin.

 “Elara.” Azriel’s voice was rough, urgent, as his eyes scanned hers. “Tell me you’re not hurt. Did it touch you? Did you touch it?”

She swallowed hard, her voice barely scraping out. “No… I didn’t. I’m alright.”

Cassian only moved on when he was certain Nesta could keep her footing, and Azriel lingered half a step longer, his shadows curling close as if reluctant to leave Elara. When he finally gave a stiff nod, they all started up the carved steps, the cold stone echoing each boot fall.

Nesta and Cassian pulled ahead without meaning to, their voices low, Cassian’s hand hovering at the small of her back as if he couldn’t stop himself from checking. Elara caught the way Nesta’s shoulders dipped in irritation, though she didn’t brush him off entirely.

Elara’s lips curved faintly as she tilted her head toward Azriel. “You know,” she murmured, careful to keep her voice below the others, “I think those two are mates.”

Azriel’s stride didn’t falter, but something shifted in him. The faint tension of his jaw, the slight pause before he answered—he didn’t dismiss it outright, but he didn’t confirm either.

“And why do you think that?” His tone was even, quiet.

“Because he fusses over her. Every scrape, every stumble—he looks like it’s going to undo him.” Elara’s eyes flicked to where Cassian was nearly bracing Nesta again. “It’s the way mated males act. Protective to the point of madness.”

The corners of Azriel’s mouth tightened, though he said nothing. His silence pressed between them, heavy enough that Elara frowned, but she let it drop.

The quiet stretched until Azriel broke it, his voice low. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I told you, Shadowsinger.” She gave him a smirk sharp enough to cut through the tension, though her voice was gentler than usual. “I’m fine. The Harp’s magic tangled with me—maybe the wards made it worse. But I’m steady now.”

He didn’t look convinced, shadows still darting around her shoulders. So she brushed her hand over the back of his, light and fleeting, a reassurance more than a touch. “You can stop being a mother hen. You’re just as bad as Cassian.”

Azriel’s scoff was soft, derisive, though a shadow of a smile flickered in his eyes before it vanished again.

Elara’s smirk lingered, but inside, something twisted. The way he hovered, the way Cassian hovered—both so similar. She forced the thought away, tried to keep her pace steady.

The air grew colder as they climbed, damp stone closing in again, the silence heavier than it had been in the chamber below. She let her mind wander, lost in half-formed thoughts, until the movement ahead jolted her back.

Cassian threw an arm out, barring Nesta’s path. His body shifted instantly into battle stance, siphons flaring bright red against the dark. His voice cut through the thick silence, sharp and urgent.

“Run. Now, Nesta—run.”

Elara’s heart lurched, her head snapping toward the source of his alarm. Azriel’s wings flared beside her, siphons answering Cassian’s with a hiss of light. Every line of him was coiled to strike.

Then she saw it: a door gaping wide in the wall of the Prison, its black mouth yawning into nothing.

From within, a voice unfurled, smooth as silk, “I wondered when you and I would meet again, Lord of Bastards.”

The words slithered across the stones, and the air turned colder still.

Chapter 81

Notes:

I love you all. Honestly, the way you all said you were CACKLING at Elara's obliviousness as she puts it together for Cassian and Nesta.

Anyway, the school year has now officially started. I'm hoping to keep my update schedule the same, but in all honesty, I've been struggling with the upcoming few chapters quite a bit, so it's taking me a bit longer to write them. I've got about three more in my cache of pre-written chapters, and I'm struggling with even outlining beyond that right now.

“I wondered when you and I would meet again, Lord of Bastards.”

The voice came from the dark ahead, smooth and cutting, like it had been waiting centuries to speak.

Azriel’s shoulders snapped tight. His wings shot wide with a crack of air, the leathery stretch slamming Elara back a step. He didn’t look at her, didn’t risk it. One movement from him would have been enough to give her away. He planted himself between her and the sound, shadows coiling up his arms, thickening around him until they licked at the stone.

Lanthys.

The name carved itself into his skull. Not a creature you forgot. Cassian had bound him long ago in a mirror, dragged the thing to the Prison, and left him there. Azriel hadn’t thought the bastard could get out. Nobody could.

But the wards had failed. Nesta had used the Harp. And in doing it, she hadn’t just freed herself.

Azriel shifted his weight, grounding himself on the uneven stone. Every instinct told him to get Elara out, to winnow her straight back to Velaris and lock her behind walls. But the wards still held—around them, around everything. They weren’t leaving.

He felt Elara move. The scrape of her boot against the floor. She was trying to lean past his wings. Stupid. Brave. Both. His jaw locked as he spread them wider, the tips brushing the walls.

“Don’t move,” he said, low and sharp, pitched only for her.

She stopped, but he knew that wasn’t surrender. She was still there, standing too close, refusing to step back. Her stubbornness pressed at his spine as much as the air pressing in from the corridor.

The darkness didn’t shift. No shape emerged. Lanthys liked to draw things out. Azriel could almost hear the thing smiling from whatever corner he lingered in. The kind of smile that promised he already knew where every weak point was.

Azriel flexed his hands. Siphons flared hot against his scarred skin, ready. Every muscle locked, his whole body wound tight as a bowstring.

If Lanthys wanted her, he’d have to go through him first.

Cassian’s voice rang out from somewhere ahead, sardonic and sharp as steel, “So you plan to swirl around me like a rain cloud? What of that handsome form I saw in the mirror?”

The words carried down the stone corridor, clear enough that even the air seemed to listen.

Lanthys’s laughter followed, dry and cruel. It scraped along the rock, filling every hollow space until it was impossible to tell where he stood.

Azriel’s grip tightened on the hilt of his blade. He forced his jaw still, didn’t let the flicker of relief show. Cassian knew what he was doing—keeping the male’s attention fixed on him, and not on the two shadows lingering behind. Not on Elara.

“Is that what your companions prefer?” Lanthys asked, voice low, like silk pulled across broken glass. “What are you?”

The pause that followed was short. Strong.

“A witch,” Nesta answered. Her voice rang steady in the gloom. Controlled, hard-edged, without a trace of hesitation. “From Oorid’s dark heart.”

Azriel’s gaze slid sideways in spite of himself. Nesta stood like she’d been carved from the same stone surrounding them, shoulders squared, chin high, not an ounce of fear in her tone. He had to give her credit. She understood exactly what they were facing, and still she held her ground.

His wings shifted slightly, the movement enough to veil the shadowed space where Elara stood. He angled his body just so, keeping his eyes on the dark where Lanthys lingered, but dipping his head a fraction—just enough to speak low, words not meant to carry.

“You have to get out of here,” he whispered. His voice barely stirred the air. Elara’s presence pressed at his back, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of her, could track every subtle shift in her breathing. Too close. Too vulnerable.

Her whisper came quick, uncertain. “What? Who—what is that thing?”

Azriel swallowed the sharpness that wanted to edge into his voice. His heart pounded hard, painful against his ribs, but his tone stayed even. Steady. “A being that was meant to stay locked away. If he notices you, if he sees you—”

He cut himself off, jaw locking. He couldn’t finish the thought. Wouldn’t.

Elara didn’t move. Didn’t step back. He almost turned to shove her toward Nesta himself, but forced his hand to stay at his side, fingers twitching once against the hilt.

“Let Cassian and I distract him,” he said instead, quieter still. “You and Nesta need to run, and you need to get to Rhys. We’ll need him to seal whatever’s been opened.”

The words felt like iron in his mouth. An order, even if she’d hear it as a plea.

In the distance, Lanthys laughed again, the sound rippling across the stone like water down a crack. Azriel’s shadows swelled thicker in response, curling protectively at his shoulders.

She didn’t answer him right away. The silence between them stretched, taut as a bowstring, and he could almost feel her bristling behind him. Independence radiated from her in sharp edges—he knew that stubborn set to her spine, the weight of her thoughts grinding in defience against the order he’d given.

She was strong. Cauldron, she was strong. Stronger than anyone gave her credit for, stronger than half the males who still looked at her wings and saw nothing but ruin.

But this wasn’t about steel or speed.

This was about an immortal who played with minds the way children toyed with wooden soldiers—pulling them apart, twisting them, discarding the pieces. Azriel had heard what Lanthys left behind in his games, had seen just how terrified Cassian was of him.

His throat worked, a silent scrape as he swallowed. He hated himself for even saying the word run. Every part of him rebelled at it. But the thought of her caught in Lanthys’s grip—her thoughts ripped from her, her will bent until he no longer recognized her—his stomach lurched at the image.

Something tugged deep in his ribs, sharp as a hook. Her worry bled through, faint and unspoken, threading itself into his chest. He clenched his jaw. The bond.

She didn’t know—didn’t feel it the way he did, didn’t know what it meant that her fear pressed against him like this. The words pressed at the back of his teeth. He wanted to tell her. Wanted her to know, wanted her to hear it from him before he turned to face what might kill him.

But if Lanthys heard, if his head snapped toward her, even a glance—there would be no chance to say anything at all.

A shift of air told him she moved. A pause, then the faintest dip of her chin—a nod he caught from the corner of his eye. She obeyed, though every careful step whispered her reluctance. Her boots slid soundlessly over stone as she edged sideways, deeper into the dark, shoulders angling so her shadow melted into the wall. He felt her presence pulling from him, a cold drag against the bond that made every muscle in him want to snarl and reach after her.

Seconds. That was all the time he had. Lanthys’s was still distracted, sizing up Nesta after no doubt sensing just what her power could do. The being hadn’t registered them yet. If they lingered—if Elara lingered—he would.

Azriel pulled in a breath through his nose, let it slip between his teeth, and released a shadow. Just one, thin and precise as a blade’s edge. It snapped forward along the stone, hugging the floor so tightly not even a bat’s ear could have heard it. The thread coiled once, a brush against leather, then again around the base of Cassian’s boot.

A signal born of years pressed shoulder to shoulder in battles.

He held himself perfectly still. Not a twitch.

Then, across the chamber, Cassian shifted. A red spark bloomed faintly at his siphons, quick as the blink of an ember before it died. One beat. A second. Then nothing. The answer was clear. Acknowledged.

Azriel’s eyes swept the corridor, searching, calculating. Every shadowed detail lodged itself in his mind — the slick damp stone beneath his boots, the stench of mildew clinging to the air, the rusted chains that still dangled from an alcove like broken ribs. Bones littered the shallow recess, brittle and yellowed, some crumbled to dust. One stood out — a femur carved with crude markings.

Old and ritualistic.

That would do.

His hand flexed on the hilt of a blade. Shadows peeled from him in a sudden surge, snapping through the dark like whips. Not toward Lanthys. Toward the alcove. They struck the bone with precise, vicious force. The femur smacked against the wall, the crack shuddering through the corridor like a strike of thunder. It splintered, fragments scattering across the floor, breaking the fragile silence that had hung over that little shrine.

Lanthys’s voice cut off mid-word. The unnatural shadows crawling the stone twitched, writhing as though the sound had unsettled them.

Azriel’s siphons flared before Lanthys could turn back. Blue light burst down the length of his blades, sparking and cracking sharp enough to sear the air. It flooded the corridor in a sudden blaze, and in the heartbeat before the light swallowed everything, he saw her.

Elara.was already moving — quick, purposeful. Her hand shot out, catching Nesta’s. He watched the way her fingers closed, steady and unshaking, pulling the female with her.

For one brutal instant, the sight struck him hard. Relief, sharp and cutting, mixed with the terror that knifed through his ribs. Because she hadn’t looked back at him. Because she trusted him to hold this thing. And Cauldron, he would.

Cassian’s roar followed, “Run!” His voice cracked off the walls, raw and commanding.

Boots pounded, a retreating thunder that pulled away down the corridor. Elara’s braid lashed over her shoulder as she half-dragged Nesta with her, the two vanishing into the dark with the others.

Azriel’s body refused to turn. His gaze locked forward, blades angled to intercept, siphons spitting light like sparks from a forge. His shadows swarmed close, wrapping him in a shield, buying him seconds.

If he could hold this thing — just long enough. Long enough for her to reach safety. The thought of Lanthys’s attention turning toward her, curling its claws into her mind, twisted something sharp in his gut. No. He would not allow it.

The creature shifted, its form rippling at the edge of his light, testing him.

Azriel widened his stance, grounding himself against the slick floor. He adjusted his grip on his blades, flexed his scarred hands once to steady the tremor of rage that clawed up his arms. His heart hammered a brutal rhythm, every beat a reminder of who was running behind him — and who wasn’t safe unless he stayed here.

He inhaled, slow and deliberate, forcing control over the panic trying to claw its way in. The bond between them thrummed faintly in his chest — a pull, a reminder, a promise he couldn’t afford to break.

Hold. Just hold.

Brillant blue light crackled from his siphons again, and he stepped forward to meet the thing that hunted them.

---

Elara’s chest still heaved, lungs scraping for air that never seemed to reach deep enough. The alcove they’d stumbled into stank of damp stone and old, rotting magic, the cracked walls groaning as if the Prison itself wanted to spit them out. Her body buzzed with leftover adrenaline—her muscles twitching, her wings aching from the sprint.

But worse was the silence—the jagged, unnatural silence where Azriel’s breath should have been beside her.

We left them. The thought cut through her like a blade, sharp and merciless. We left them in there.

She pressed her palm flat against the wall, the chill biting into her skin, forcing herself to count the breaths. One. Another. Anything to anchor herself. But every time she shut her eyes she saw it again—the brief flare of his siphons behind her, the sweep of his wings as he shifted to block the monster’s path. The hard, unyielding line of his body between her and death.

She hadn’t looked back. She couldn’t — not when he had told her to grab Nesta and get out of there. And yet the guilt sank like a blade into her ribs.

Coward, something inside her hissed. But she’d known. She’d known he wanted her to run.

Nesta ripped her arm from Elara’s grip with a sharp movement that snapped Elara back into herself. The silver flames licking Nesta’s eyes burned brighter as she turned.

“We have to go back,” Nesta said. Her voice wasn’t raised—it didn’t need to be. The steadiness of it carried a command sharper than any shout.

Elara turned toward her, heart already sinking. Nesta stood in the mouth of the alcove, sword dangling at her side, the Harp clutched tight in the other hand. Her skin looked too pale, her expression drawn thin, but her eyes—gods, her eyes were alive. A storm of fire and terror and something torn in half.

“Cassian is still in there,” Nesta pressed. “Azriel too.”

Elara stepped forward, planting herself squarely in Nesta’s path. Her own pulse was a roar in her ears, drowning out the logic she tried to cling to.

“They wanted us to leave,” Elara said, her voice low, steady. “They made that decision.”

Nesta’s nostrils flared. “And now they might die for it.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” The words tore from Elara before she could rein them in. Her hand fisted at her side, nails digging into her palm until it hurt. “Do you think I don’t want to turn around?”

Her voice cracked despite her teeth gritting against it. The admission slipped free like blood from a wound. “I hated it. Every step away from them—I hated it.”

She squared her shoulders, forcing herself to meet Nesta’s wild, flame-lit gaze. “But that thing—whatever it is—it wanted you. You were the target.”

The Harp glinted faintly in Nesta’s grip, the weight of it seeming to bow her shoulders. Elara took a sharp step closer. “Getting you and the Harp out was the only thing that made any of this worth it.”

Even if Azriel dies for it. The thought scraped raw at her throat, but she shoved it down, burying it deep where Nesta couldn’t see.

The air changed. Not just a shift in draft, but a sudden, crushing weight that slammed into Elara’s chest like a dropped stone. Her lungs seized. Every nerve in her body screamed—too fast, too wrong.

A scrape echoed, leather on rock. Then the unmistakable snap of metal sliding free. The hard, deliberate clatter of boots striking stone rolled down the tunnel like a war drum.

Elara spun, wings twitching open before her mind caught up, her heart leaping into her throat.

From the tunnel’s mouth spilled soldiers—at least ten of them—armor burning crimson and brass in the gloom. Autumn Court. Except… not. Their eyes were vacant, movements too fluid, too uniform, like puppets tugged forward by unseen strings.

Her stomach turned violently. The taste hit next—sharp and acrid, like spoiled fruit gone sour on her tongue. Magic, but not the kind that belonged here. Autumn’s fire, yes, but laced with something older. Darker. Wrong.

“What the hell,” Elara breathed, voice low and flat, though she was already stepping in front of Nesta, her body reacting before thought. Her wings angled wider, a shield between the priestess and the oncoming line. That spoiled power pressed closer with every step the soldiers took, thick and choking.

The word slipped from her mouth unbidden, tasting like venom. “Briallyn.”

At the name, Nesta’s grip on the Harp shifted, white-knuckled, the faint tremor of her arms betraying how tightly she clutched the ancient stringed thing.

“She’s moving faster than we thought,” Elara whispered, more to herself than Nesta, dragging in a controlled breath through her nose to still the panic clawing up her ribs. The instinct to fight throbbed through her, but reason snapped harder.

Her hand darted out, clamping onto Nesta’s arm with a bruising grip. “We need to move.”

But Nesta didn’t yield. Her boots rooted to the stone, chin lifting in defiance. “We can’t leave them.” Her voice was steady, too steady, though her eyes burned with something close to fear.

“Cassian and Azriel are still inside,” she pressed, colder now.

Elara’s throat closed at the names. The shadowsinger’s face flickered in her mind—wounded, cornered, alone. The bond in her chest tugged sharp, insistent. She shoved it down, hard.

“You think I don’t know that?” The words snapped out of her, sharp as steel. Her fingers dug harder into Nesta’s arm, nails biting through fabric. “But Briallyn’s soldiers are here now. If we fall, the Harp falls. You fall.”

Nesta’s teeth flashed as she spat back, “So we run?” Her tone dripped disdain, as if the word itself was poison.

“We get out.” Elara’s voice went cold, cutting. “We get Rhys.”

She yanked Nesta once, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Because that’s what they’d want us to do. Because we can’t help them if we’re dead.”

Nesta’s eyes shimmered, her jaw locking tight as if to hold back words she couldn’t say. Fear, fury, guilt—all warred beneath her skin, tightening her shoulders, making her breaths come too shallow, too fast. She looked ready to bolt, though whether it would be toward the fight or away from it, Elara couldn’t tell.

“Nesta.” Elara forced her voice steady, gentling it in a way that didn’t come naturally. “You’re not abandoning them. You’re protecting what matters. That’s what this is.”

The words hung between them, heavy. Nesta’s throat bobbed. She closed her eyes, lashes trembling against her cheeks, and her hand slipped to the Harp at her side. Her fingers shook as they brushed the ancient strings. Then, with a sharp exhale, the trembling stopped.

“Take me to Cassian,” she whispered.

Elara’s stomach seized, cold dread cutting through her. “Nesta—”

But the strings were already glowing, threads of power weaving light through the shadows. The air itself seemed to vibrate, humming with a force older than language. Elara didn’t hesitate. She lunged, her hand clamping around Nesta’s arm as the magic snapped, sharp and merciless, tearing space apart.

The world fractured. Broke. Then slammed back into place with bone-jarring force. Elara’s knees smacked stone, pain biting up her legs. The copper tang of blood hit her nose, thick, cloying.

Her eyes lifted—and her heart dropped straight into her stomach.

Cassian lay crumpled on the ground, body slack, a dark pool spreading beneath him. His chest rose once—shallow, faint—and then again, weaker. “No—” Nesta staggered forward, a raw sound ripping from her throat as she screamed his name.

Elara couldn’t move. Not yet. Not when her gaze caught on the other figure.

Azriel.

He was still upright, but only barely. One knee braced on the ground, his arm clutched tight over his ribs, siphons guttering with weak, flickering light. His shadows lashed and whipped like panicked animals, their usual precision broken, their edges frayed.

Then he lifted his head. His eyes found hers through the dark.

The look in them—raw panic, sharp with pain—nearly undid her. Her breath stuttered, her chest tightening until it hurt to pull in air. Something deep inside her clawed to the surface, wild and terrified.

Her body swayed toward him before she even thought about moving. Her hands shook. She couldn’t seem to steady them. This was wrong. They’d left him. Left him here to bleed. The realization slammed into her, brutal and merciless.

“Azriel,” she breathed, voice breaking.

Nesta didn’t hesitate. She bolted for Cassian, whose broad frame was twisted against the stone as though some invisible force had thrown him there. His face, usually the picture of iron-clad confidence, was lined with panic, his hand half-lifting as if to keep her back, as though her coming closer might only draw more danger to him.

Elara barely registered it.

Her eyes had already locked on Azriel, and once they did, nothing else seemed to exist. He was down on one knee, his body angled toward the wall for support, wings tucked close but trembling with strain. His shadows lashed violently at the air around him, coiling and snapping like they were desperate to protect him but unable to stem the bleeding wound at his side. Blood soaked through his leathers, spreading in a fast, dark stain that gleamed wet in the dim light and dripped onto the floor in a steady rhythm. His siphons flickered weakly, sparks of blue that guttered out almost as soon as they lit, like a candle fighting against a storm.

Her chest constricted at the sight, and without thinking she rushed to him.

The stone cut into her knees as she dropped beside him, but she barely felt it. She reached for him, catching his shoulders before he could pitch forward, and forced his eyes to meet hers. “Azriel—” The name came out raw, threaded with a fear she couldn’t hide.

He tried to push himself upright, his jaw locking tight with the effort, but when their gazes caught, she saw it: a glimmer of defeat in his hazel eyes. It was the look of someone who had already measured the odds and found them impossible.

“No,” she whispered fiercely, as though the word alone could tear that hopelessness away from him. Sliding her arm under his, she braced and pulled, shifting his weight against her chest. He was heavy, heavier than she expected, his blood hot and slick across her hands. Still, she held him, forcing his body upright against hers, unwilling to let him collapse.

The voice rose then, curling from the mist that filled the chamber, thick and insidious. “You shall wish that I had already killed them by the time I am through with all of you.”

Azriel stiffened faintly, his shadows coiling tighter, but his breathing hitched, ragged against her shoulder.

“You shall wish you had kept running.”

The sound of that voice scraped along her skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. Elara’s head snapped toward the source, her spine straightening, wings twitching as though preparing for flight or fight. A heat gathered in her chest, a bristling defiance that no amount of fear could dampen.

She had lived through worse. Dagdan’s shadow had stretched over centuries, twisting her mind and body until survival had been the only thing left to cling to. She had endured pain and cruelty, and she had clawed her way out of it. She was still standing, wings torn but not broken, heart scarred but still beating. Whatever this Lanthys planned to unleash, she would weather it. She had to.

What she could not endure was the thought of the male in her arms slipping away. She looked at the shallow rise and fall of his chest, at the faint tremor of his hand as it twitched against her, at the damp streak of blood trailing down his ribs, and a truth settled in her bones with frightening clarity. She could face monsters and gods, and she could face the endless nights that came after. But she did not think she could survive losing him, even if she could not bring herself to name what that meant.

Elara risked a glance toward Nesta. The female was already moving, shoulders squared, that massive black blade clutched in her hands.

She cut into the air itself—slashes that seemed reckless, desperate. For a breath, Elara thought Nesta had lost her mind, swinging at shadows. But then the sound hit—an ear-splitting shriek that made the stone underfoot tremble.

Nesta did not falter. She steadied her stance, grounding her boots in the grit of the floor, and raised the sword again. Elara’s mouth parted as the steel seemed to come alive, a light too sharp and too strange to be anything crafted by mortal hands.

The mist recoiled, twisting, folding back in on itself before surging forward again. It stretched and pulled into the shape of a male. The outline sharpened until there was flesh, skin, and impossibly smooth muscle. Naked, unashamed, beautiful in a way that made Elara’s stomach twist with unease. Perhaps one of the most beautiful males she had ever seen. But his black eyes—flat, endless—locked on Nesta and narrowed with something between interest and disdain. His voice slid like oil across the room. “That is not Narben.”

Nesta lunged, the sword blazing in her hands, the air cracking around her swing. The male moved with impossible swiftness, darting back, avoiding the slice with a step that looked more like smoke pulling from a flame. His gaze never wavered. “What death god are you?”

Steel hissed again as Nesta swung, driving him backward. And for the first time, Elara thought she saw fear—no, not fear, but wariness—in the way he avoided the blade rather than meeting it. Nesta advanced anyway, relentless, her voice a raw command that cut through the mist. “Get in your cell.”

Elara tore her eyes away, heart pounding, and looked back at Azriel. He was slumped against the wall, lips moving, silent at first—then the words formed clear enough for her to read them: run. He was still trying to send her away, even now, even as blood seeped hot and dark through the gash under his ribs.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t leave him here. She couldn’t leave any of them.

The voice came again, soft and beckoning, slithering across the room from where Nesta held her ground. “Come with me, Queen of Queens, and we shall return what was once lost.”

She swallowed hard, shoved her panic deep down where it couldn’t cripple her, and moved. Kneeling beside Azriel, she propped him against the wall, bracing one arm across his chest to keep him upright. His skin burned beneath her touch, his breathing ragged, every inhale dragging his shoulders higher before dropping in a shudder. Her free hand found the slim killing-knife at her thigh.

Her eyes catalogued his wounds because she had to, because she needed to know what she was fighting for. The cut beneath his ribs was deep, bleeding too slowly, too thick—it wasn’t clean. His armor had split, leaving a raw, ugly opening across his side. Shadows pooled at the wound as though they could stitch it closed, but they only flickered uselessly. His knuckles were torn, one wing half-dragged across the floor. He was still breathing, but each gasp made her own chest ache in echo.

If he died here, if this was the moment she lost him, she didn’t know what pieces of herself would remain intact.

She forced the thought down with soldier’s precision, shoved it behind the iron wall she’d once lived by. Focus. Breathe. Compartmentalize. Munin again. She had to be.

Nesta swung again, her blade arcing through the mist with a snarl of steel. The air split, cold and sharp, but Lanthys shifted aside in a ripple of shadow and smoke, laughter curling low in his throat. “Such raw fury,” he drawled, as though humoring her effort, as though this was all some game. His eyes, black and bottomless, slid from Nesta and found Elara.

“She’s not the only blade here,” he murmured, though his lips hardly moved. The words did not belong to the air. They vibrated straight through her bones.

Come, Munin.

Elara’s stomach dropped. The sound wasn’t sound at all—it was pressure, velvet and cruel, the same way Dagdan’s voice had once curled through her skull. That same insidious slide, whispering commands in honeyed tones.

Her fingers slackened where they had been gripping Azriel’s arm. The scent of his blood thinned, the solid weight of his body dimming as though someone had pulled a veil between her and the world.

She tried to hold on—gods, she tried—but the edges of the Prison blurred.

And then she was standing, not kneeling, armored in black that gleamed like oil. Her wings were whole, powerful, stretching wide as though they had never been shredded. Her eyes were lined in kohl, her face painted for war. A curved dagger hung easy in her hand, its edge slick with fresh red. Nesta and Lanthys sat side by side upon thrones carved from bone and obsidian. They inclined their heads, and her body moved without question—without hesitation—to do their will.

Lanthys’s voice wrapped around her again, softer now, coaxing, sinuous. You could be the weapon you were forged to be. Without guilt. Without shame.

It was different from Dagdan—Dagdan had pressed, forced, stripped her mind bare until there had been nothing left but obedience. Lanthys did not force. He offered. His voice slithered like smoke into all the hollow places she carried. And for a heartbeat, it was bliss to let it fill her.

To be Munin again—sharp, merciless, unburdened.

The vision tilted, shifted. She knelt now, no longer at their side but below them. Thrones loomed above her, Nesta’s cold fury paired with Lanthys’s silken darkness. A massive sword was planted at her side, her hand steady upon the hilt. Her head bowed, not in defeat, but in service.

The court stretched before her in silence, the faceless mass of it hushed, awed, terrified. She lifted her head.

A mirrored wall caught the truth of her: her own face staring back, blank and beautiful, carved into ice. She did not blink. She did not breathe. She was perfected, hollowed.

And when her mouth moved, the voice was hers and not hers, echoing from some distant cavern within: “I serve.”

You’d never need to run again. His voice coiled in Elara’s head. Never fear you’re too much. Never beg to be forgiven.

Elara stiffened against Azriel’s side, her hand tightening on the slick fabric of his leathers. The iron scent of his blood clung to her tongue, but the words wormed past it, hollowing her out. Her heart stuttered. She could almost feel her mind reaching toward him—toward that promise—as if her own thoughts were no longer her own.

You’d be free, Munin.

Her thoughts shifted, sliding into a vision that was not hers to choose. A freedom without weight. No guilt dragging at her shoulders. No shame pressed into her chest. She imagined the silence—clear, merciful silence—where her conscience had once been.

Then his voice deepened, low and sly, brushing across her skin like cold breath. And I’d even let you keep that mate of yours.

The vision buckled, shifting around her. She was in her own bed, the sheets rumpled and smelling faintly of mist and cedar. Azriel lay beneath her, chest heaving. His own shadows bound him, slick and heavy, wrapping around his wrists and throat like chains. They pinned him down, but he didn’t struggle. His hands were smeared with blood, his mouth curved in a quiet, satisfied smile. She was astride him, moving, her body burning with desire as if this was the only place she belonged.

I’d even let you keep that mate of yours.

The word detonated inside her. Mate.

The illusion shattered. Elara gasped, stumbling back into herself. Azriel’s ragged breathing tore at her ear, harsh and uneven. His blood was warm and sticky against her palm where she held him. The rasp of his wings scraping stone filled the space between each heartbeat.

Her stomach twisted. Mate. She hadn’t known—hadn’t even dared to think it. But Lanthys knew.

Her hands trembled. She curled them into fists, nails biting hard enough to break skin, forcing herself not to let go of Azriel, not to collapse back into that siren call of power. Because she saw it clearly now: what awaited her if she gave in. A blank-eyed blade, stripped of will, kneeling forever at the feet of those thrones. Leashed again.

Her freedom wasn’t there. It was here. In the reckless, bleeding fools who still fought beside her. In her brother. In Azriel—her mate.

Her vision sharpened through the haze of panic. There, half-buried in dust near Cassian’s boot, a chain glinted faintly. The links thrummed with dull, fading runes. Binding magic. Enough to hold a creature like Lanthys, maybe for seconds. But seconds were all Nesta would need.

“I won’t serve,” Elara muttered. Her throat burned with it, but she forced herself upright, forcing her shaking knees to lock beneath her.

Her first step buckled. She caught herself on the wall, breath scraping past her teeth, and pushed forward.

Behind her, weak but urgent, Azriel’s voice rasped through the pain. “Elara…”

Elara lunged. The stone floor scraped her knees as her fingers closed on the half-buried chain, cold iron biting deep enough to draw blood. Its weight dragged at her arm. She twisted, muscles screaming, and with one vicious swing hurled it toward him. The links sang through the air and caught—snapping tight around Lanthys’s ankle just as his foot struck forward.

He stumbled. The sound that tore from his throat was a roar so deep it rattled the walls. Shadows shuddered in the chamber, the mist recoiling from his body as he crashed against the pull.

Elara planted her heel on the chain and wrenched back, every tendon in her arms straining. The iron flared, biting through her palm, but she held fast.

“Now, Nesta!” Her voice cracked on the command.

Nesta didn’t flinch. She pivoted with startling grace, her body a single line of deadly precision. The greatsword swept in an arc of pale light, humming as if the weapon itself had drawn breath. For a suspended instant the only sound was that song—the blade cleaving through air, through shadow, through flesh.

The head hit the ground with a hollow thud. Lanthys’s body swayed once, chains rattling, before it collapsed in a mist of blood and dark.

Elara staggered back, chest heaving. The iron burned her hands, links falling slack at her feet. For a moment all she could hear was the thunder of her pulse. Then—

A hand. Fingers, weak but insistent, curled around her wrist. Not to stop her. To hold her. To find her. Azriel’s touch trembled against her skin, his grip barely there, yet it steadied her as nothing else could.

Across the chamber Nesta stood amid the haze, panting. Blood streaked her cheek, her braid half-loosened, but her eyes were startlingly clear.

Elara’s voice rasped, hoarse and frayed, “Nesta—get the Harp. Briallyn’s soldiers… they’re coming. We need to get out. Now.”

Cassian stirred nearby with a ragged cough, wings twitching in useless spasms. “Briallyn?” His voice was little more than gravel.

Nesta’s mouth pressed tight, grim. She gave a single sharp nod. “Bring Azriel. We don’t have time.”

Elara shifted closer, sliding her arm beneath Azriel’s shoulder. Her legs buckled once, nearly giving beneath the weight of him, but she locked her jaw and hauled him upright. His head dropped against hers for the span of a heartbeat, his breath ragged against her temple, then he pushed as well, forcing his own body to move with hers. Together they found balance—halting, clumsy, but forward.

Nesta had already stooped for the Harp, its strings glistening faintly beneath the blood on her hands. With her free arm she dragged Cassian to his feet, bracing his weight against hers.

Elara stumbled toward them, Azriel’s weight crushing into her side. She reached out, her bloody hand catching Nesta’s wrist before they could vanish. Her voice broke on the words, shaking yet determined. “The front lawn of Feyre’s house… on the Sidra… in Velaris.”

Nesta didn’t question. She only raised the Harp. Her fingers brushed a single string.

The note reverberated through the stone, pure and otherworldly. The chamber seemed to warp, the air bending around them as though the world itself obeyed the sound.

And then it was as if the world tore open, swallowing them whole.

They hit the ground in a rush of cold air and golden sunlight, boots sinking into damp grass that smelled of riverwater and pine instead of dust and rot. The Sidra gurgled lazily nearby, its surface catching shards of light, while birds erupted from the trees with sharp cries, wings thrumming in the sudden disturbance.

The front door of the River House slammed open with a sharp crack. Rhysand stormed down the steps, violet eyes blazing, shield magic flickering and crackling along his fingers, the air humming around him like it couldn’t decide whether to protect or strike. Then he froze, the motion caught in his chest as he took in the four figures standing on the lawn.

“You’re safe,” he breathed looking to Elara, voice taut with relief and something else—panic, disbelief. “Are you—?”

Elara barely heard him. Her gaze was locked on Azriel, who leaned against her as though her body alone was the only thing keeping him upright. His jaw was tight, shoulders trembling slightly with each uneven breath, yet his fingers still twined around hers like an anchor.

Her chest tightened, her pulse hammering so loudly in her ears that she didn’t even hear her brother call for a healer. Her mind spiraled, tracing back to the whispered words, the voice of Lanthys echoing through her: one word thudding like a bell deep in her bones.

Mate.

Chapter 82

Elara paced the length of the hallway outside Azriel’s room, the soft stone floor drinking up the sound of her restless steps.

She kept her arms close to her sides, fingers flexing and curling, but nothing helped the restless energy buzzing under her skin. Even after scrubbing herself raw in the bathing room, the faint copper tang of blood clung to her nails, as if it had seeped too deep to ever truly leave. Moonlight poured in through the tall, arched windows that lined the corridor, pale shafts catching the tremor of her hands every time they lifted.

She clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened, then forced them open again, only for the cycle to repeat.

Behind the closed door, the steady murmur of Madja’s voice wove through the stillness. Elara caught the rustle of cloth being folded back, the clink of glass against wood, the scrape of a metal instrument being set aside. All sounds that should have soothed, but Azriel had not made a sound. Not a single one.

That silence pressed against her ribs, heavier with each heartbeat, worse than any scream could have been.

Her pacing carried her back to the far end of the hallway, where the moonlight cut across her boots. She turned sharply, dragging both hands through her hair until it tugged at her scalp, then stalked back the other way. Her body couldn’t seem to settle, magic still alive and sparking beneath her skin. Phantom shudders from the Harp and its impossible chords rippled through her chest, the echo of Lanthys’s presence lingering like frost down her spine, and Nesta’s sword—whatever that blade was—still seared bright behind her eyes.

But none of it—none of it—burned the way Lanthys’s voice had when he’d leaned close, brushing against her mind with that chilling familiarity.

I’d even let you keep that mate of yours.

The words landed again. Her breath left her in a short, harsh exhale as she pressed her palms flat against the wall, grounding herself against the cold stone. She turned away from it a second later, too restless to remain still, and walked the corridor once more. Her footfalls echoed louder than they should have in the vast, empty space, each one a reminder that she couldn’t find her rhythm, couldn’t find air deep enough to steady herself.

Something in her chest had shifted, off-kilter and unfamiliar, a weight and steadiness that hadn’t existed before. She hadn’t felt it in the Prison—there had been too much blood, too much magic, too much fear binding her every nerve.

But here, in the silence broken only by her pacing and Madja’s low voice behind the door, there was no escaping it.

She slowed, pressing a hand to her sternum as if to quiet whatever throbbed there. A thread. That was the only way she could name it. Thin, fragile, stretching between her and the male bleeding out on the other side of that door.

Yet it was also steady, and strong, as if it had been waiting for her to notice.

The realization thickened her throat until she could hardly swallow. Lanthys hadn’t been lying to torment her. He hadn’t been twisting her mind. That thread, that pull—Azriel—

Elara’s steps faltered completely. She stood in the middle of the moonlit corridor, hand still pressed flat against her chest, breath coming too shallow. The word she had tried not to think, the one that had shaken her in the Prison, resounded again inside her head. Mate.

Elara stopped pacing only when the ache in her chest pulled her up short. The weight of it anchored her to the door behind her. Not just to Azriel’s presence on the other side of it, but to him.

Every breath carried that steady, muted pressure—like fingers pressing hard against a bruise lodged beneath her ribs. Not enough to steal the air from her lungs, but enough to remind her with every beat of her heart that he was in pain. That he was suffering.

And no matter how many steps she put between herself and that room, the pull dragged her back. She finally let her shoulders sag against the cool wall, her palms braced flat as though she needed something solid to keep herself standing.

Her mouth was dry, too dry to swallow. The word rattled inside her skull, too heavy to be spoken aloud. Mate. She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron, as if the sting might silence it.

Tilting her head back, she let it thunk softly against the stone. The ceiling stretched high above, moonlight catching on carved beams, but it offered no answers. She hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t dared to want it.

She wasn’t the sort of person who got things like this. She didn’t get fated, sacred, good. The Mother handed out those kinds of gifts to people like Rhysand—people who’d clawed their way through fire and war and still asked how to save others. He’d bled for it, earned it.

But Elara? She was nothing but the sum of what had been carved into her. A blade disguised as a female, a weapon whose hands would never scrub clean no matter how raw she made them. There was too much red on her ledger for the Mother to balance, and yet—somehow—the bond had found her.

Her throat burned as she forced down the lump there. Maybe it was a mistake. A cruel twist of fate. Maybe the Mother was laughing at her, toying with her, placing Azriel in reach only so she could watch Elara unravel. Maybe this was her punishment for every wrong committed in her life.

Or maybe he hadn’t noticed yet. Maybe he hadn’t felt it thread through him the way it was beginning to pulse through her, every time she closed her eyes.

And still, beneath all of that, something in her—small, stubborn, impossible to smother—wanted it. Wanted him. Wanted the way his gaze cut through every defense she put up. Wanted the memory of him trying to shield her with his body, even when blood slicked his skin and the ground was tilting beneath him. Wanted the feel of his hand curling around her wrist in those last moments, not to restrain her, not to command her, but to keep her from shattering apart.

To anchor her.

Her breath hitched as she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until stars burst in the darkness. It felt right. Too right. And the truth of that terrified her in a way nothing else ever had.

The hinges groaned as the door eased open, and Elara’s head snapped up so quickly her neck twinged.

Madja stood framed in the doorway, her lined face calm, her expression unreadable in that way only centuries of practice could forge. The healer’s hands worked at a cloth, methodically stripping them of blood.

“He’s stable,” Madja said simply, her voice carrying no weight of comfort. She finished wiping her palms clean and tucked the cloth into her belt. “And awake. You can go in now.”

Elara’s throat went dry. She didn’t ask anything further—didn’t trust her voice not to crack, not with the tether tugging inside her chest. So she only nodded once and stepped forward, following that quiet thread, letting it pull her toward him.

The chamber smelled faintly of herbs and warmed stone. Most of the blood had been magically scrubbed away, though every so often she caught a lingering trace of it, metallic and sharp in the back of her throat. The single faelight suspended above the far wall cast a muted glow, leaving the corners in shadow. Her boots sounded too loud against the flagstones, despite the care she took to soften each step.

Azriel lay propped against a mound of pillows, his bare chest swathed in bandages that bound tight across his ribs. Shadows curled close to him, not in their usual restless orbit but drawn in tight, draped over his shoulders. His head tilted slightly toward her as though her presence tugged at some invisible string. He didn’t look at her right away. His eyes were half-lidded, his breathing shallow but steady.

He looked pale. Exhausted. But alive.

Relief hit her so sharply that she braced a hand on the doorframe, her chest hollowing as if someone had punched the air from her lungs.

“Elara.” His voice rasped low, rough from disuse, but it still wrapped around her like a hand closing softly at her wrist.

“You’re in one piece,” she managed, though her voice came out quieter than she intended. “Good.”

At that, his eyes finally opened fully, sliding over her face, her form, with a relief so unguarded it made her ribs ache. His gaze lingered on her a moment too long, as if reassuring himself she truly stood there in front of him. “So are you,” he said, and his words were heavy with the truth of it.

Elara looked down before that weight could break her open. Her fingers found a small scar at the base of her thumb, worrying at it until the skin reddened.

“You were supposed to run,” Azriel said at last. His voice had dropped, the rasp softening into something quieter, steadier, though his shadows twitched faintly as though betraying what he didn’t say.

“I know,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on her hand. “I tried to listen. Nesta wouldn’t let me.” She paused, and the silence stretched, full of things she couldn’t voice, before she lifted her eyes to him again. “I’m glad we came back for you.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately. He only watched her from hooded eyes, as if he could hold her still with nothing more than his silence.

Elara’s fingers found the leather strap at her wrist, letting her thumb graze over the woven leather. The quiet stretched, brittle as glass. She debated whether to break it, to let the confession spill, and then the choice was made for her.

“Lanthys showed me something,” she said at last, her voice pitched low before she could stop herself. “While Nesta was fighting him.”

The shadows along his arm stirred like smoke disturbed by wind. He didn’t interrupt. Only inclined his head the smallest degree, a silent permission for her to go on.

“In my head,” she continued. Her throat felt tight, the words scraping their way out. “Visions, illusions—I don’t know what to call them. But they felt real. Too real. He showed me standing behind him and Nesta, in a throne room. Showed me what I’d be if I joined them.” She swallowed, the memory sharp in her mouth. “Munin again.”

Azriel’s jaw worked, teeth clenched as if to keep something back. His hand flexed where it rested on the blanket, tendons straining.

“He tried to manipulate you.” His voice was low, but the anger in it burned, tempered and cold.

“Yes,” she said. She kept her eyes on the leather bracelet at her wrist, tracing it with her thumb as if the motion could ground her. “And he nearly succeeded.”

The admission hung between them, fragile and dangerous. She breathed in through her nose, let it out slowly. Her chest felt too tight.

“And then…” Her words faltered before she forced them on. “Just before Nesta killed him, he said something. In the vision.” She lifted her gaze, though it felt like lifting a weight. “He said, ‘I’ll even let you keep that mate of yours.’ And he showed me you.”

Azriel went still. The shadows at his back froze, suspended mid-coil. Elara’s heart thundered, and she fought the urge to retreat, to take the words back. Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting his eyes.

“I didn’t feel it until after,” she said, softer now, but unyielding. “I didn’t recognize what it was. But once he said it, once I started thinking about it… I could feel the tether. Between us.”

Something flickered across his face. A crack in that unmovable composure. Barely perceptible—but she caught it.

“You knew,” she said. The words were scarcely louder than a breath, yet they seemed to echo.

He held her gaze. Shadows stilled entirely, curling tight around his shoulders as if to shield him. “Yes.”

Her pulse skipped. “How long?”

Azriel’s throat worked as he drew in a measured breath. He didn’t look away. “Since the final battle. Against Hybern.”

Elara blinked. The room tilted, slightly, as the meaning settled. The final battle against Hybern? She had been Munin then, nothing but a dog on a leash, still caught beneath the King’s hand. She had known nothing about who she was. Nothing about what waited for her beyond that cage.

Azriel’s voice was rough, but steady.

“I only knew you as Munin. Didn’t know who you were—just what you had done. What you were doing to help once Dagdan’s hold on you was gone.” His gaze dropped for a breath, as if even now the memory unsettled him. “It shocked me.”

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “It snapped into place then after the King had been killed. And then… just before you disappeared, I realized who you were underneath that cowl.”

Elara stilled. Her lips parted, but no sound left her.

“I searched for you,” he went on, softer now, quieter than the night wind outside the high windows. “Across the Continent. For months. Every whisper of a female with wings, every half-rumor—I chased it. I chased you.”

The words struck too hard, and she took a step back from the bed. The shadows at his shoulders shifted, uneasy with her retreat.

“You knew,” she managed to repeat, her voice almost too faint to catch.

Azriel leaned forward, wincing as the bandages pulled. He braced a hand on the mattress, as if the act of reaching her were worth the pain. “I didn’t want to corner you with it. Not when you were finally free to make your own choices. I didn’t want the bond to feel like a chain.”

Her hands curled at her sides. Not fists of rage, but of something tighter—an anchor to keep herself from splintering apart. She stared at him, at the sharp planes of his face shadowed by the lamplight, at the scars on hands that had searched for her all that time, and still she felt the weight pressing on her chest.

“That’s a long time,” she said at last, her throat dry, her tone edged with something she couldn’t smooth away. “To keep something like that. To keep it from me.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed. He tried to rise again, his wings twitching with the effort. The color drained from his face as he shifted his weight.

“Don’t.” Elara was across the room before she thought about it, pressing him back with a hand against his shoulder. “You’ll tear the stitches.”

For a moment his hazel eyes searched hers, as if reading the tremor in her voice, the softness she hadn’t meant to show. Slowly, he eased back against the pillows, though his gaze never left her.

“I didn’t know if you’d want it,” he said, his voice low, almost raw. “If you’d want me. And I didn’t want you to feel… obligated to me.”

Her breath snagged, shallow and uneven. “So all this time… it was you who knew. Not me.” Her gaze flicked to him, sharp as a blade, though the tremor in her voice betrayed something more fragile. “I walked blind through every moment, and you—” She cut herself off, her jaw locking tight. “You let me.”

Azriel’s hand twitched against the coverlet, as though he wanted to reach for her. “Elara—”

She gave a brittle laugh. “Was it easier that way? Watching me stumble around in the dark? Maybe it spared you from… from having to say it aloud.” Her words were cool, too measured, but her throat worked against the burn rising there.

His wince was fleeting, but she caught it, the flicker in his expression that told her he felt the barb land.

The room pressed in, air too thick, her chest lifting and falling too quickly. She wasn’t angry at him, not truly. The fury curled inward instead, a hollow, gnawing thing she couldn’t name, couldn’t voice. She had been blind. Blind, when she should have seen. The fault was hers, and she hated that it was.

“I need a minute,” she murmured, the words clipped, already stepping back.

His arm shifted, as though to rise, but the strain in his body betrayed the effort. He didn’t make it far. “Elara—”

“I just need a minute,” she repeated, steel edging her tone now.

Her fingers lingered against the door handle, the weight of his gaze anchoring her there. But she turned it anyway, the quiet click of the latch sounding far louder than it should have as she slipped into the hall and let the door close behind her.

---

The click of the latch still rang in Azriel’s ears long after the door shut. He sat back against the pillows, jaw tight, every muscle in his body aching with the same fury that coiled in his chest. His injuries throbbed with every shallow breath, a reminder that he couldn’t follow her, couldn’t drag himself after her the way every instinct demanded. Shadows licked restlessly over his arms, slipping between the bandages like they felt his rage as much as he did.

Coward, some bitter part of him whispered. He had let her walk away—again.

His fists curled against the sheets. Anger at his own broken body burned hotter than the pain. Anger at himself for not saying the right thing, for letting her see too much. Anger that she had looked at him like that—hurt, shuttered—before she left.

The door opened, soft but sure, and Rhys stepped inside. Azriel didn’t lift his head, only muttered, “What do you want?”

Rhys crossed the room, leaning a shoulder against the wall near the bed. “Checking in. Madja said you were stable now, but to stay in bed for a few days.”

Azriel’s lip curled, but he didn’t answer.

Rhys’s gaze swept over him, unreadable, though his tone was calm. “You’ll heal. You always do.”

“That’s not the point.” Azriel’s voice came out low, harsh. His shadows recoiled tight against him, coiling like a storm about to break.

Rhys studied him a moment longer, then said quietly, “What happened? Elara left here looking like she’d been gutted.”

Azriel’s jaw locked. He dragged a hand over his face, fingers digging into his temple as if he could press the words back down. It didn’t matter. Rhys already knew. He always did. Still, it felt like tearing something open when Azriel finally rasped, “She knows.”

Rhys’s brows drew together. “About the bond?”

Azriel nodded once, curt, the movement stiff with tension. He didn’t look up.

Silence stretched. Then Rhys exhaled, a long, low sound, and said, “Well. That explains the storm in her eyes.”

Azriel closed his own, swallowing the bitterness on his tongue. He had wanted Elara to find out on his terms. Not like this.

Rhys stayed leaned against the wall, his arms still crossed, gaze fixed on Azriel like he was weighing what to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “I thought that it was a good thing you weren’t going to tell her. Thought she deserved the chance to heal without us pressing expectations on her.”

The words landed heavy. Azriel’s jaw tightened until it ached. “So did I. And now she’s furious—because I didn’t tell her. Because I let her walk blind into it.”

Rhys didn’t argue. His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a frown, wasn’t quite a grimace.

“She’s angry because she’s Elara. She doesn’t want anyone deciding what she can or can’t bear. And I—” He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “Maybe I miscalculated.”

Azriel turned his face away, shadows flaring as if to shield him from the rawness twisting in his chest. The thought of Elara’s expression when she’d left—it wouldn’t let go. “She should hate me for it.”

“She doesn’t,” Rhys said, too gently.

That quiet sympathy only sharpened the blade already buried in him.

Rhys finally pushed off the wall, straightening his jacket with that calm, measured ease Azriel knew masked calculation. “She’ll need space,” he said quietly. “But she’ll also need something to anchor her. A sense of purpose, outside of all this.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into the sheets at his sides, the movement pulling at half-healed wounds. He didn’t flinch. “And what, exactly, are you planning to give her?”

“That depends,” Rhys said, voice still infuriatingly smooth. “On what she’ll take.”

Azriel shifted, the motion sending a white-hot line through his ribs. He let the pain steady him.

Rhys sighed through his nose, a sound of someone measuring patience against provocation. “I’m not asking her to be a weapon again. I’m trying to give her the chance to choose what she’ll be. That’s all.”

Azriel didn’t believe him. Not entirely. He studied his brother, every easy line of posture, every calculated softness in his tone. He’d seen Rhys pull apart enemies with that same velvet voice.

“You’ve decided something already,” Azriel said flatly. “What is it?”

Rhys’s mouth curved, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “You’re not going to like it.”

---

A minute had turned into days.

Azriel was still confined to the River House, healing under Madja’s sharp eye and strict orders. Elara hadn’t been back. She had retreated instead to the House of Wind, grateful for the distance, grateful for the height and the silence of the clouds wrapping around her.

She had needed space. Space to breathe. Space to think.

She told herself she was certain he was fine—Illyrians healed quickly. He would be on his feet soon. But she hadn’t asked. Not when she crossed paths with Cassian and Nesta in the halls. The question had burned in her throat, but she had swallowed it down, unwilling to risk a slip. Unwilling to risk letting anyone know what she now knew.

She hated him for keeping it from her. She hated herself for not seeing it.

By late afternoon the sitting room was dim, only the fire throwing restless shadows across the walls. Snow drifted outside, slow and silent, veiling the mountains in mist. The House was hushed, as though even it sensed she wanted to be left alone. Elara sat curled in the armchair nearest the hearth, knees tucked up, a book drooping uselessly from her hands. She had been staring at the same page for an hour.

The words didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

The knock was soft, but she heard it. Of course she did. She didn’t look up as the door opened and shut, the faint stir of power in the air telling her who it was before he spoke.

“You’ve been quiet lately.” Rhys’s voice was low, careful.

Her eyes stayed on the flames, her shoulders tight. “Not a crime, last I checked.”

She felt him cross the room, settle into the chair opposite her. The air shifted with the weight of his presence, but he kept a deliberate distance, hands clasped loosely between his knees. Watching her. Waiting.

“Maybe not,” he said after a beat. “But you’re brooding.”

That earned the faintest twitch of her mouth, though her eyes never left the fire. “I learned from the best.”

Rhys let out something between a huff and a sigh. Silence lapped at the edges again. Elara turned a page in her book though she hadn’t read a line.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” he amended at last, his voice gentle, but with that pointed persistence that always threaded through his concern.

Her grip on the book tightened before she let it fall to her lap. She shrugged, eyes never leaving the flames. “Not everything has to be dissected, Rhys.”

He moved farther into the room, lowering himself onto the chair across from hers. His hands steepled loosely, elbows resting on his knees, posture relaxed though his gaze was far from it. “No. But I’m not blind. You’ve been carrying something since the Prison.”

The words landed too close, too neatly. Her jaw locked. With a huff, she pushed to her feet, the book sliding forgotten onto the cushions. She crossed the rug, arms folding tight across her chest, the movement sharp as she began to pace before the fire.

“Not everything is a Cauldron-damned crisis,” she said, her tone clipped, edged with the bite she didn’t bother to dull.

Rhys’s eyes followed her steps, calm, unwavering. “I’m not just your High Lord,” he reminded her quietly. “I’m your brother. If you need to talk—”

“Drop it.” Her voice snapped like a whip, sharper than she intended, but she didn’t take it back. She spun to face him fully, arms banded tight, her shadowed eyes fixed on him. “I don’t need you digging at me. Not now.”

The firelight flickered against the cut of his cheekbones, but he didn’t push again. For all his patience, she could still feel the unspoken words pressing against his tongue. Words she couldn’t let him pry out of her. Not when she hadn’t sorted through it herself—Lanthys’s face rising from the mist, Azriel bleeding into the stone, the bond straining taut inside her like a chain she couldn’t ignore.

Her pacing slowed, but she didn’t uncross her arms. She knew her brother—knew how terrified he was of losing her again. That truth hummed under every careful word he spoke.

Blessedly, Rhys seemed to hear the edge in her silence. He leaned back, his voice shifting, measured. “The Court of Nightmares is preparing for the Solstice Ball. We’ll be expected to attend.”

Elara exhaled, not relief exactly, but something close. She turned away from him, moving toward the window where snow blurred the city into pale shadows. Her reflection glared back at her faintly in the glass. “Of course. I hated those things growing up.” Her arms drew tighter around herself, a barrier even here.

“It’s tradition,” Rhys said, unbothered by her tone. “And it’s time they know you’re alive.”

She stilled, the words cutting through her with cold clarity. Slowly, she pivoted back toward him, eyes narrowing.

Elara stopped pacing. The movement left the air tight, her arms crossing more firmly as she turned to face her brother. Her stare was sharp, searching. She hadn’t been around Rhys in his role as High Lord for long, but she didn’t need years to see through him. She knew when he wasn’t saying something. She knew when she was being used. And she didn’t like the thought of being paraded in Keir’s court.

“I want to remind them what blood runs through your veins,” Rhys said, his tone calm, almost careful. “And that you’re not gone. You’re an asset to the Court.”

Her jaw flexed. “What are you getting at, Rhys?” Her voice was tight. Her head was already full—Azriel, the bond, all of it circling like a storm—and the last thing she needed was to untangle another one of her brother’s strategies.

Rhys leaned back in his chair, hands steepled. He looked every inch the High Lord, detached and calculating. “We need the Darkbringers. If Briallyn attacks, we won’t stand a chance without them. And for better or worse, Keir still commands them.”

Her mouth twisted. She dropped her arms to her sides, fists settling on her hips. “So what do you want me to do?” she asked coolly. “Smile and curtsy until he hands over his loyalty?”

Rhys’s eyes flickered, though his voice stayed even. “No. I want you to make him remember what it means to cross our bloodline. And what benefits there are to siding with us.”

She stared at him, the suspicion immediate. “You’re not planning to barter me off to him, are you?”

The words left a bitter taste. Memories clawed back—her father speaking with Keir in hushed tones, weighing marriage alliances as if she were coin to be spent. A future she had wanted no part of, not when all she had wanted was Conn. Her arms folded back across her chest, tighter this time, as if holding herself together. Her thumb found the worn leather at her wrist, rubbing over it without thought. Conn’s bracelet.

Her anger coiled sharper, held down by that small, grounding touch.

Rhys’s expression sharpened in an instant. His eyes flicked to her wrist, to the leather strap she was worrying between her fingers, and it was as if he knew exactly where her thoughts had gone.

“Absolutely not,” he said, voice low but firm. “You are not a pawn. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, shoulders drawn tight. His gaze held hers without wavering.

“But Keir responds to power. To promise. If the idea of your presence dangles something just out of reach—so be it. That’s all it is. A reminder that you’re alive. And that the potential for something is there—no matter how false it may be.”

Elara went quiet. The heat in her chest spread until she couldn’t stand still. She pushed up from her chair and crossed to the window, arms folding hard across her middle. The peaks beyond the glass were swept with wind and snow, jagged against the gray sky. She stared at them, letting the silence stretch, until the weight of his words settled heavy, like armor she had long ago stripped off and sworn never to put back on.

“And if I can’t convince them?” she asked finally, her voice flat, steady, though her grip on her elbows tightened.

Rhys’s reply came softer. “Then we try another way. But I don’t think it will come to that.”

She turned. The movement was deliberate, her chin lifting as she met his stare again. Her eyes cut sharp, but something else threaded beneath—old bruises pressed too hard, a flicker of unease she couldn’t quite mask. She remembered the nights she’d walked into Hewn City, forced to be cool and untouchable, forced to pretend she was more weapon than girl. That mask had cost her something she still hadn’t named.

And now—Azriel. The thought of him intruded like a crack through the armor she was trying to rebuild. What would he think, seeing her wear that mask again? Would he understand what Rhys was asking her to do?

Her fingers flexed against her arms, nails digging into fabric. She had a mate now. A mate who had been kept from her—hidden—while her brother played at strategy and secrets. The pang of hurt and anger swelled, sharp enough she had to look away before it showed too clearly on her face.

Elara’s fingers brushed over the smooth edge of the table before she drew in a long breath, her shoulders tight.

“I’ve worn masks before, Rhys. Been a symbol. A weapon. I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to that.” Her voice was steady, but her arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself together.

Rhys’s expression softened, the sharp gleam of command easing as he leaned back in his chair.

“I’m not asking you to be what you were,” he said quietly, his voice carrying that quiet conviction that never seemed to waver. “I’m asking you to be who you are now—someone who can help save this court. Who already has.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she walked toward the far window, boots whispering over the polished floor, and pressed a palm against the cold glass. The mountains rose in the distance, peaks jagged against a sky smudged with cloud, wind chasing through the ravines.

Velaris lay somewhere beyond them, tucked safe for now. She thought of Feyre, her belly full with new life, the promise of something fragile and untouchable. Cassian, still stiff with bruises he covered in laughter. The Harp, thrumming with power in Nesta’s grip. Autumn Court soldiers whose minds were not entirely their own anymore.

And Azriel—her mate, whether she had wanted the bond or not—already carrying too much weight for his own court, and yet about to bear more.

She turned from the window, crossing her arms more tightly, pinning him with a look. “You think Keir will fall in line if I stand beside you?”

Rhys let out a breath that might have been a laugh if there wasn’t so much steel beneath it. “I think Keir’s always been ruled by fear and pride. If he thinks you could slice his throat in the middle of the ballroom, he’ll be on his best behavior.”

Elara stared at him for a long beat, jaw working. Then she sighed, the sound edged with resignation. Her hand rose unconsciously to the leather strap at her wrist, her thumb rubbing over the worn surface, and she looked away. “Fine. I’ll come to the Hewn City. I’ll do what I can.”

For a moment, silence filled the chamber, broken only by the faint howl of wind rattling the panes. Rhys leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and when he spoke, his voice had softened again. “I knew you would.” A small smile flickered there, too brief to be smug, and yet she saw the thread of relief behind it.

Elara didn’t smile back. Her gaze drifted once more to the mountains beyond the glass, the peaks already shrouded in shadow, and she wondered just how much of herself she would have to lock away to stand in that court again.

And when she thought of Azriel—of how he would look at her in those halls, all shadows and restraint but his temper running hot beneath—it made her hesitate. She wasn’t sure if she dreaded the thought of disappointing him more than she dreaded the night itself.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and other feedback are always appreciated!

Love it? Hate it? Come yell at me on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/sburnheart