Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Forced Proximity
The River House was quiet. Too quiet.
Nesta stood by the large windows, staring out at the dark, swirling Sidra that cut through the land like a vein of silver against the winter landscape. The water was choppy, the current relentless, crashing against the banks in a rhythm that felt like the chaos inside her.
There was no serenity here, no peace in the view. The river was unusually wild, frigid, and untamed—much like her heart. And yet, she hated it. Hated that she was here again, staring at the reflection of a life she could never have.
She loathed this house. Feyre and Rhysand’s house—a symbol of everything she couldn’t have. Of love. Of family. Of the perfect life that felt so far out of reach. Feyre’s smiling face seemed to stare at her from every portrait, the echoes of laughter and warmth filling the rooms. Nesta felt like a shadow in this place, a reminder of something that didn’t belong.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Feyre. She did. Even though that love had become strained under the weight of her own bitterness. But this life—the one they had built together—wasn’t for her. It was built on smiles and kindness, things Nesta had never been able to fully embrace. Her life wasn’t about peace or perfect family portraits. It was chaos. Mess. Destruction.
She stood, spine straight, unmoving-a statuel, staring out at the river, lost in the violent churn of the water that mirrored the storm inside her.
But she wasn’t here for the view, or to spend time with her estranged sisters. No. She was here because they needed her. Or, more likely, they wanted to keep pretending that she was part of their world. She wasn’t. And the weight of that reality pressed against her chest every time they asked her for help—as if she were just a tool they could use to fix whatever broken pieces they thought she was still holding onto.
She suspected they were all hiding from her—metaphorically and at that moment in time, literally. Hiding from the parts of her they couldn’t fix. The parts that didn’t fit their ideal of family, their ideal of love. Mean, unlovable Nesta, the one they couldn’t change. But they still tried. Always. She suspected they didn’t know how to look at her anymore, how to face the parts of her that had been shattered too many times.
And yet—she had agreed to come. She had said yes to whatever this Illyrian mission was. She had agreed to help, even though every instinct screamed against it. They never gave her credit for that. Never noticed how much of herself she had given just by showing up. Not because she smiled pleasantly or thanked them like Elain, but because she did it. Every. Single. Time.
****
Cassian’s presence filled the room before his voice did. The smell of pine washed over her. His footsteps were soft but deliberate, and despite the heavy silence, she could feel him standing there—waiting, watching. She refused to turn around. She didn’t want to acknowledge the tension crackling between them. The space was small enough that she could feel the heat of him, the weight of his stare, without having to look at him. It had been so long since they were near each other like this.
But she couldn’t ignore him forever.
"Change," his voice cut through the silence, low and commanding. "It’s going to be cold in Illyria."
The leather flight leathers he held were familiar, dark and worn. She hadn’t worn them since the war. A shudder rippled through her, but she fought it down. She hated how easily those memories slipped back in. The fur cloak draped over his arm wasn’t a surprise either. She could almost feel the heat of it, feel the weight of his touch on it, and she hated how it made her heart race just a little faster. It reminded her of moments of softness and care.
"I am aware that Illyria is cold," she snapped. "Beyond having been there before, I’m not an uneducated brute who is unaware of my surroundings."
Cassian sighed, a heavy sound full of frustration. "Oh, Starting off strong, sweetheart. Uneducated—check. Brute—check. I see you brought your best material for this trip." His footsteps echoed across the room as he crossed it, his voice lighter now, but the underlying tension didn’t dissipate. "You’re going, Nesta. Insulting me isn’t getting you out of this. We don’t have a choice."
She spun around to face him, her anger rising like bile in her throat. Her eyes met his, silver fire burning behind them. There was still a bitter edge left from their last conversation. So many months ago—looking at this very same river, just a mile down the road. Solstice—that had been their breaking point. They both knew it, but neither of them had dared to address it.
"I don’t need you to remind me," she snapped, her voice colder than the air outside. "I said I would do it. I keep my word. But I don’t understand it. I don’t want to be part of it—some half-assed mission to the Illyrian mountains."
Cassian didn’t flinch. He never did. But his jaw tightened, his wings twitching—an almost imperceptible shift that told her he was holding back something. The silence was unbearable, thick with the weight of unsaid words.
"I know, Nes," he replied, the words tight and controlled. His gaze didn’t leave hers. "But you know how this works. The Illyrians don’t listen unless there’s someone they’re afraid of. The unrest is growing. They are challenging our leadership and threatening to leave the Night Court. You’re the perfect candidate to reassert our strength. You know that."
Her fists clenched involuntarily, and her heart pounded harder. He wasn’t wrong, but it alo didn’t feel right. Why was she the perfect candidate? Once again, she wasn’t just Nesta. She wasn’t just an outcast, or a warrior, or… whatever she was to… She didn’t let herself finish the thought. She was a tool. A weapon. It made her blood boil. But there was something nagging at her. There was more to this than he was letting on.
"I’m not some weapon for you to wield, Cassian," she bit out, trying to steady her voice, but the hurt slipped through. It always did. The sting of truth was like a knife to her chest.
Cassian’s gaze darkened, and then his wings twitched again—this time more aggressively. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension, but there was something softer in his eyes now. Regret? Or was it resolve?
"I never said you were," he said, his voice low, dangerous, yet tinged with something softer. His hazel eyes softened, the specks of green noticeable just for a second, but then he hardened.
"You’re a symbol of power. If we can convince the Illyrians that we’re stronger than they are—that we’ll crush them if they don’t listen—maybe, just maybe, this uprising ends without more bloodshed."
The truth of it hit her hard. Her pulse quickened, and her stomach churned with the weight of it. The cold truth landed between them like a broken promise. But she couldn’t let it go. Something wasn’t right. She wasn’t just a symbol of power. There was more to it. An arrogant grin crossed his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"They think you are an all powerful witch, your reputation and presence can do what words can’t."
The words hung in the air, suffocating her. She turned away from him, her fingers gripping the straps of her bag too tightly, the straps biting into her palms. Her back to him, her breath shallow. She hated how close he always seemed to be, how his very presence made her feel too much—exposed.
Still, despite everything, she couldn’t stop herself from asking. From pushing for more answers.
"Cassian…"
His wings twitched again at the sound of his name, but he didn’t respond right away. He shifted, his body stiff, almost too controlled. She didn’t give him a chance to avoid it. Her eyes met his, a challenge burning behind them. The last few hours of uncertainty and anger were pressing against her, demanding to be heard.
"If the whole point of this mission is to scare the Illyrians into shape, then why the hell do I need to be there? My power or not… You’re the general. You’ve been doing this for years." Her voice dropped to a bitter edge. "You’re already doing it. Why is my presence—my Cauldron-given power—my 'witchness' necessary for this?"
Cassian’s face tightened, his jaw set like stone, but there was a flicker of something—something she couldn’t quite place—behind his eyes. He looked down, his expression pained for a brief second. He exhaled slowly, as if gathering the courage to say what he knew would be difficult.
"You’re right," he said quietly, voice strained. "I’ve been pushing the Illyrians into line for years. I’ve used force, intimidation… whatever it took. But in this current situation, the cause of the uprising is– unique. It came out of something unexpected.”
He runs a large calloused hand through his wavy, black shoulder length hair. “This uprising is motivated by, well, it’s hard to explain, sweetheart. It’s different. The propaganda they are using to incite people…I can’t use my normal tactics to bring them inline." The pause between them was heavy. His wings flexed.
Nesta raised an eyebrow. "I understand they are different, I understand they are questioning you, Rhysand– the Night Court." she said flatly, crossing her arms. "But what does that have to do with me?"
“They believe in tradition, Nesta,” he said slowly, each word laced with reluctance. “The Illyrians hold onto a set of beliefs that’s... more old fashioned, traditional than most of the other fae, the other Courts. They’re more strict when it comes to the roles of men and women– as you know I’ve been working to change that.”
Her frown deepened, but she stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.
“They believe in sacred bonds, in monogamy, in mates even more so than others. It’s… it’s ingrained in their culture.”
Cassian’s gaze flickered toward her but quickly dropped again. He was clearly trying to gather his thoughts, but whatever was coming next was hard for him to say. “During the war, the majority of my force was Illyrian. They followed me, they fought with me. But the ones who survived…” He paused, his voice faltering for a split second, pain clouding his eyes. “They remember. They remember how you called to me from the sky… how, how we went to die together.”
Nesta’s breath caught at the memory, a shiver running down her spine. She hadn’t expected him to bring that up—not like this, not in this context. She didn’t want to go back to those moments, those days where everything had been so raw, so real and, in their own way, so hopeful.
"But after the war…” Cassian continued, his voice thickening with a hint of bitterness. “Those stories, those memories, made their way back to Illyria. The things we did, the bond they thought they saw between us. They didn’t know what to make of it—but it was something they could understand. Something they could respect. They saw us, they decided what we were, and they thought they understood it. They thought—” His voice trailed off, and for the first time, he seemed unsure of himself. "They thought we were… something sacred. Lord of Bloodshed and Lady Death."
Nesta’s stomach flipped, a sick realization dawning on her. She crossed her arms tighter, the walls in her mind closing in, a cold knot forming in her chest. "And?" she pressed, her voice low, her gaze narrowed. Her heart was pounding, the strange tension between them now almost suffocating.
Cassian shifted uncomfortably, clearly not wanting to continue. But she wouldn’t let him stop. Not now. Not when she was this close to understanding what was happening.
“And…” He swallowed, clearly torn between saying it and holding back. Finally, he met her gaze—his eyes dark, guarded, but tinged with something close to regret. “They believe… they believe we’re in a sacred union.”
His gaze held hers with an intensity that made her want to look away, but she didn’t. The lack of sleep, of food, the excess of drinking, her usually sharp mind seemed to be moving through sludge.
Cassian closed his eyes, looking vulnerable, pained as he tried to find the words. "As I was saying, the Illyrians are more traditional. They believe in sacred bonds. In monogamy… In mates."
He paused, his voice thick with reluctance.
His voice cracked, and it was so different from what she was used to.
"Nes, they think we are… well, that we are mated. You and me."
Nesta froze. The word hit her like a physical blow, and she could feel the blood drain from her face.
"What?" she breathed, disbelieving.
Cassian met her gaze, his expression carefully guarded, but there was a faint twitch of his lips.
"They think we’ve mated—whether or not that’s true."
Her chest tightened, but she didn’t let the shock show. She couldn’t. Not now.
"Well, that’s ridiculous."
Cassian sighed, his gaze softer now.
"It is. But if it means getting through to them... it might be the only thing that works." His voice lowered. "We need them to believe it. The rumor has spread, and now it’s more powerful than facts."
Nesta blinked, thrown off-balance. Her world warped like a mirror from the traveling fair that would visit every spring back when she was human. It was all so wrong. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. Her eyes narrowed, disbelief creeping in.
“But… they need to believe it? Because? Are you telling me…” Her voice faltered for just a moment. “You’re telling me that I’m joining you on this mission because people think we’re in love?”
Cassian’s gaze shifted, uncomfortable but resolute. He nodded. “Yes.”
Nesta’s stomach churned, and she took a step back, as if the ground had suddenly shifted beneath her feet. This? This is what we’re doing? But she couldn’t let it go. She had to understand. She had to know how deep this web of lies and assumptions ran. She stared at him, disbelief warring with confusion.
“But you've gone to Illyria before. You’ve been there without me. This has never come up before, it must have?”
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she saw something else in his eyes—something like pain. He looked away again, like he was afraid to let her see too much.
“It has,” he said slowly, his voice quiet but edged with tension. “There have been whispers, questions. They’ve started to ask—why you’re not there with me, why you haven’t joined me like they think you should. And it’s becoming… a problem. Those working against me, against our court have used it as a motivating factor as a symbol of my weakness. As a man.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration plain on his face. “And I know this is all wrong, Nesta. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But if I can’t—” He paused again, visibly struggling. "Those who believe I can’t keep you, that I’m unworthy of you…”
She could see how much it costs him to say it,
“If I can’t show them that you’re mine, the whispers, the questions– they wont stop. They are questioning how strong I really am. They’ll think I’m weak if I can’t maintain the bond they believe in. And that? That will make them question my authority. My leadership. The Night Court. Everything. It already has.”
Her mouth opened and closed, as if she couldn’t quite process the words he was saying. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the ridiculousness of it all. It felt like a bad plot from one of her books—some twisted romance where everything was based on the wrong assumptions.
“So,” she said, her voice hollow, a bitter edge to it. “This is all a lie. And now I’m supposed to play along because they think we’re in love and it will enable you to keep their respect?”
Cassian’s silence was enough of an answer. He didn’t say a word, but the tension in his gaze was enough to show just how much he hated this. How much he hated that this was the only way out of this mess.
Nesta swallowed hard, fighting back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to crash over her.
Anger.
Betrayal.
Embarrassment.
But most of all, confusion.
And deep down, beneath the storm, something else stirred—fragile, vulnerable. Something she couldn’t name.
She wasn’t just a weapon for them to wield; she was a tool to bolster him. To reinforce his power. As if he hadn’t proven his worth to them a thousand times over—his victories, his leadership, his loyalty to his people. Yet still, because of his birth, he would never be enough. His siphons, his strength, the love he gave his people—it all counted for nothing in the eyes of those who refused to see him as anything more than an unworthy bastard.
For a brief, aching moment, her anger faltered, replaced by something deeper—something that clawed at her heart. Sadness, and something he refused to recognize, raw and sharp, for him. For the man who had fought for everything he believed in, only to watch them question his every move.
“Are you saying that if we don’t play this part, the Illyrians will turn on you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Cassian’s gaze met hers, the weight of everything hanging between them. “They’ve already started to. So, yes.”
She let out a breath, more of a shudder than anything else, and closed her eyes. She had agreed to help, but she hadn’t known this. Hadn’t known the stakes. She thought they were here to stop an uprising—she never imagined she’d be asked to become a part of some fabricated love story.
And yet, here they were.
The words hit her harder than she expected, the implication slicing through the air like a blade. It wasn’t just a reminder of the rumors. It was an affirmation that her past was nothing but a weapon now, something to be used at the whims of others. And Cassian was no exception. She swallowed hard, the sting of it raw in her chest.
"And if they don’t buy it?" she asked, her voice trembling on the edge of something she couldn’t quite control. The fear she tried to push down for so long was creeping back up, and she hated it. Hated how he could make her feel this way.
"What then?"
Cassian’s jaw tightened, his wings rustling behind him, and for the first time in a long while, she saw the crack in his façade. He wasn’t sure, either.
"We’ll make them," he said finally, the words hard, cold. There was no room for doubt. No hesitation. His voice was tight with frustration, the weight of their mission pressing down on him like a mountain. Nesta’s throat burned with the effort it took to hold her composure. She clenched her fists at her sides, feeling the surge of rage fight against the anger.
His voice turned soft. “Nes, sweetheart? I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you want…”
She let the words hang there.
Her eyes burned with the sting of unshed anger, but she didn’t respond. What was there to say? Everything was too raw, too fragile between them. She had said yes. She was going, whether she liked it or not.
Cassian’s voice broke the silence once more, rough, carrying the weight of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "We leave in five minutes."