A Court of Bounds and Echoes

by WyrdMarked

Summary:

She didn't ask to be dragged into this world.
She didn't ask to become something more than what she already is.
And she certainly didn't ask for him.

But some fates don't wait to be chosen.
Some truths refuse to stay buried.
And in a land built on ancient power and older lies,
even a whisper can become a war cry.

******************
Cassian x OC
This story comes after ACOSF
All events and characters intact, except Cassian and Nesta are not together.
____________________________________________________________

Chapter 1

Aven's laughter cut through the noisy bar, her cheeks warm from the buzz of good company and a drink she couldn't quite remember ordering. Her friend, Emma, leaned across the table, her arm draped over a half-empty wine glass, grinning like she'd just caught Aven mid-crime.

"You work too much," she declared, tapping a red-tipped nail against the glass.. "When was the last time you actually had fun? Like, actual fun?"

"This is fun," Aven shot back, gesturing vaguely to the crowded bar, where mid-level professionals in sensible shoes laughed too loudly over cocktails they'd regret by morning.

Emma raised a skeptical brow. "Work happy hours don't count. And neither does checking your phone every five minutes in case your boss wants to 'circle back' at ten p.m."

Aven rolled her eyes and reached for her drink. "Some of us have deadlines that don't wait for margaritas. Not everyone can live the freelancer dream, Em."

"Deadlines are boring." Emma gave a dramatic sigh. "You need to live a little, or you're going to shrivel into a stressed-out husk before you hit thirty."

Aven snorted. "Joke's on you — I already have stress-induced wrinkles and an espresso machine I talk to more than actual people."

"Living the dream," Emma muttered, smiling.

Aven took in her friend with amusement in her eyes, and chuckled. "Alright, next time we go crazy. I'll even leave my phone at home. Do we have a deal?"

Emma winked at her in agreement and turned over her shoulder towards the entrance just as a slender, mid-height man entered, breezing through the bar like he was late for a photoshoot he didn't care about. Loose jeans, a navy wool sweater that probably cost too much, and the same half-cocked smile that had gotten him out of more parking tickets than should've been legally possible. His eyes scanned the room and he smiled when his eyes landed on Emma and Aven.

"Hey, troublemakers." He pulled them both into a quick hug, slid into the seat across from Aven. "Sorry, the meeting dragged on. Honestly, I could've run the whole thing in twenty minutes if everyone just stopped talking." He rolled his eyes and flagged down a server with a practiced flick of his hand. Henry was considered generically handsome, with his blue eyes and short light brown hair, gelled and styled. Aven always thought he could be a runway model if only he had been a bit taller.

"You two should get married, given your shared love for work." Emma snorted and dramatically sighed. "It's hard being the only normal one in our group who sees there's life beyond work and emails."

"If she wasn't five-foot-nothing and morally opposed to beer, maybe," Henry said, grinning at Aven.

"If you're the normal one, then the world is screwed" Aven chuckled at Emma and turned to Henry. "And you wish...".

The evening blurred in the way good ones often did — filled with laughter, steady drinks, the kind of easy banter that only came from years of friendship, and the kind of conversation that bounced between absurd and philosophical without ever feeling forced.

Aven let herself settle into it, the noise of the bar fading into a cozy sort of buzz.

The three met back in university, and Aven had always felt lucky for it. Emma and Henry had been a big reason she made it through. It took her a while to really let them in. Trust wasn't exactly something that came easy to her. And sometimes, even now, she felt guilty and remorseful about how long it had taken — like she'd wasted so much time that she could have spent together with them instead. But once she let them in, that was it. And she tried to be the same for them.

When the conversation came back into focus for her, Emma's new boss was apparently the human embodiment of a migraine, Henry was debating whether to try Bumble again, and the great McFlurry with fries debate was still raging.

"I'm telling you, McFlurry and fries is the superior combo," Henry insisted, brandishing his beer like it held the proof. "You've really got to pick a side, Venn."

Aven laughed, shaking her head. "Not getting involved. You'll both weaponize my opinion the second I pick a side."

"Oh, come on!" Emma groaned.

"Sorry. Switzerland-ing this one. Neutral forever," Aven said, raising her hands.

"Coward!" They accused her in unison and continued fighting like siblings.

It was moments like these that made her feel connected, grounded. She loved her friends fiercely, even when they drove her crazy.

Eventually, Aven drained the last of her drink and set the glass down with a decisive clink. "Alright, party animals. I'm out. Some of us have an early meeting tomorrow."

"You're the worst." Emma groaned. "Fine, go home. But don't forget - brunch this weekend. No excuses."

"You got it." Aven promised, hugged them both goodbye, and stepped outside into the bite of the autumn night.

The air outside hit sharp and cool, slicing through her coat as she walked to the car. The city buzzed around her, streetlights flickering as cars zipped by. Feeling lighter than she had in weeks, she shoved her hands into her pockets, exhaling a cloud of breath into the crisp air.

She climbed into her car, flipped on the radio, and pulled onto the road. The drive home was uneventful at first, just the hum of the engine and the faint strains of music from the radio. Her mind wandered —it was an endless cycle of work, eat, sleep, repeat, punctuated by nights like this.

But she didn't mind. The opposite, actually. If she were to be honest, she'd say she's proud of what she has achieved so far and what she made of herself. She had a really good job, stable financial situation and friends she'd die for. That's nothing to complain about.

The highway was mostly empty, the occasional car passing in the opposite lane. Streetlights stretched on in uniform intervals, casting rhythmic pools of light across the road. Her fingers tapped absently on the steering wheel, her thoughts drifting to her birthmark.

She didn't think about it often - a circular pattern on her spine in the middle of her back she'd had since birth. Given how light in colour it was, it resembled a rounded scar the size of a coin rather than a birthmark. Except she never had any injury there. But doctors had waved it off as a pigmentation anomaly, and it hadn't ever caused her trouble so she never bothered with it.

Until now.

The heat started faintly, a subtle warmth that made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

Weird.

She adjusted her posture, rolling her shoulders to shake the sensation.

The warmth turned into a prickling heat, radiating outward from her back. Her fingers tightened on the wheel.

"What the hell," she muttered confused, checking the heater settings. But the warmth didn't come from the air. The birthmark had always been an oddity, but now it felt like it was actually alive, pulsing with a heat that made her skin crawl.

"Okay, that's new," she muttered, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Don't freak out. Maybe it's—"

The tingling turned into heat, spreading through her spine like molten lava. Her hands gripped the wheel tighter as the heat turned to painful pressure.

"What the fuck," she tightened her jaw, trying to breath through the pain. It seemed to be working, the pain washing away like water on the beach. But then it was back.

A sudden, searing pain cut through her back, stealing her breath.Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. Her grip on the wheel faltered, the car swerving wildly.

"Shit!" she gasped, trying to steady herself, but the pain was overwhelming. It was searing, blinding, like fire and ice colliding beneath her skin. Her vision blurred, and her breaths came in short, sharp gasps. The world around her began to tilt, the road twisting and spinning in a dizzying whirl.

"No, no, no!" she cried, her heart pounding as the guardrail loomed in her headlights.

The impact was deafening. Metal crunched and glass shattered as the car tore through the barrier and plunged off of the bridge and into the black, icy water below.

__________

Cold. Like thousands of knives under her skin.

It was a shock to her system, bringing her back to consciousness.

Aven jolted awake to the freezing shock of water, rushing into the car from all sides. Her seatbelt was still fastened, locking her in place as the car tilted nose-first into the black abyss.

Panic surged.

She fumbled with the belt, her fingers trembling too hard to get a grip.

Come on. Come on.

She gasped for the last breath of air as the water rose over her head and swallowed the car fully.

Panic clawing at her, the belt finally clicked free and she pushed herself out through the broken windshield. Her lungs burned as she fought to swim upward, while her soaked clothes dragged her down like anchors.

The surface seemed impossibly far away, her movements becoming sluggish as she ran out of air.

Just as her vision began to darken, a brilliant light enveloped her. It wasn't the sporadic, pale light of neon street lamps breaking through the water surface. It was a soft, golden shimmer bleeding into the water around her.

Another wave of panic surged through Aven's body, and she let out a panicked scream - only it never made it out. Freezing water flooded her throat, now choking her. She tried pushing herself to the surface one more time, using the last of air she had in her burning lungs.

But her body stilled as her vision went white and the light swallowed her whole.

__________

She came to retching, gasping for air.

Her fingers scraped against frozen ground, her limbs convulsing with the leftover panic of drowning. Every breath was a battle, her ribs aching, her chest screaming as she coughed up the last of the river. It took her a full minute to realize what she was breathing wasn't water. It was air. Thin, dry, and sharp as glass.

When Aven opened her eyes, she was forced to shut them again immediately and try again more slowly. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, still coughing and shivering as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.

Snow stretched in every direction, blinding under a painfully blue sky. Icy wind whipped through her hair, plastering it to her face and slicing through her drenched clothes.

"What the hell," she rasped, her voice barely audible. Her throat felt shredded. Her body numb and trembling.

She lay there for a moment. Her breath puffed in visible clouds as she blinked against the overwhelming brightness of the scene around her.

Her mind scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing. Tall trees and jagged peaks of mountains loomed on all sides, their stark outlines cutting into a sky so blue it looked fake. The wind whipped through her hair, stinging her face and sending chills down her soaked body.

Aven rose to her feet with all the grace of a newborn deer, her legs stiff and useless. The wind howled around her, whipping through her hair and stinging her face, but she barely felt it. Her mind was too busy cycling through increasingly implausible explanations for what she was seeing.

"No way. This isn't happening," she muttered, shaking her head. "I'm still in the car. I hit my head. This is... a hallucination. Or a coma dream. Or both."

She let out a shaky laugh that sounded far more hysterical than amused.

"This is fine," she muttered, her voice tight. "Totally fine. Just a dream. Or maybe I died and my brain is throwing out its last Hail Mary to keep me entertained."

Her breath hitched as her gaze swept over the endless expanse of snow, broken only by patches of rock and frostbitten trees. She wrapped her arms around herself, more out of instinct than any real hope of warmth.

"You'd think my dying brain would come up with a warmer place to hallucinate. Like, I don't know, a bea-"

A sound broke through her rambling.

Wings.

The rhythmic beat was growing louder with each passing second.

She froze, her breath catching in her throat, heart hammering in her chest. Her head snapped up, and she squinted against the glare of the sun as dark shapes appeared in the sky.

At first, she thought they were birds — huge ones — but as they descended, the shapes took on a terrifyingly human form.

Men.

Men with massive, bat-like wings.

Aven stared, her heart pounding, but not entirely from fear.

"This is... creative," she muttered to herself, her voice tinged with a shaky sort of curiosity.

The three figures landed in front of her, their boots crunching in the snow and their wings folding behind them with a sound like snapping leather. They stood taller than most men she'd ever seen, their faces sharp and cold, their eyes like daggers that pinned her in place.

Aven blinked, her eyes darting between them as she took an involuntary step back.

One of them barked something at her — rough and foreign. Not a language she recognized.

She tilted her head, a nervous laugh escaping her. "Sure, why not? Scary dream guys speaking gibberish. Makes total sense."

They stepped closer, and the nervous edge in her voice sharpened.

Aven stumbled back, hands raised. "Okay, look. I don't know what the fuck kind of dream this is, but I am not into it."

Her pulse quickened as they surrounded her, and a sliver of unease crept in. One of the men — their leader as it seemed — stepped forward. He studied her for a moment, his cruel gaze lingering on her soaked clothes.

More words, sharper this time.

"I — I don't understand what you're saying." She backed away again, slipping slightly on the snow. This didn't feel like a fun fever dream anymore.

His expression darkened and he reached for her, his hand snapping out with alarming speed. Aven flinched, instinct taking over as she smacked his hand away. "Don't touch me!"

He reached out again, his hand wrapping around her arm with a grip that felt far too solid for a dream.

She screamed, twisting away, but his hold was iron. He yanked her forward, and she thrashed against him, her fists pounding uselessly against his chest.

"Get off me!" she cried, panic clawing at her throat.

Her resistance only seemed to anger him. He barked another order, and the others closed in around her, their hands rough as they restrained her. One of them grabbed her hair, forcing her head back as they spoke in rapid, unfamiliar words.

Pain lanced through her scalp, and her fear turned to fury.

"Let me go!" she snarled as she managed to yank her arm out of his grip. Her elbow connected with someone's ribs and her nails raked across one of their faces, leaving bloody lines in their wake.

For a brief, triumphant moment, she thought she might break free. She turned to run —

— Then the blow came.

A fist connected with her cheek, the force of it snapping her head to the side. She crumpled to the ground, stars exploding behind her eyes.

The cold seeped into her as she lay there, her body aching, her vision swimming.

She barely registered the second blow before everything went black.

__________

Pain dragged her awake.

She woke to the smell of iron and damp earth. Her head throbbed like it had been cracked open and barely glued back together, her mouth dry and tasting of metal. For a moment, she kept her eyes closed,

She didn't open her eyes at first, clinging to the hope that this was just a vivid nightmare.

She cracked one eye open.

The room was dim, flickering firelight casting shadows across rough stone walls. It was small with a ceiling just low enough to make her feel like it might collapse in at any moment. The air was thick with the scent of iron and something sour, and the faint sound of voices echoed from somewhere beyond.

Her heart pounded as she took in her surroundings.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She was on the floor, her arms bound tightly behind her back. Her legs were tied as well, the coarse rope digging into her skin. She struggled against the restraints, but it was no use.

The voices grew louder, and moments later, the door creaked open. Panic coiled in her gut as she pushed herself upright. Her muscles screamed in protest, her arms numb and bound behind her. She shifted to relieve the pressure on her side, blinking through the blur in her vision.

Two of them entered, their expressions hard and unyielding. The leader from before wasn't among them, not that it mattered.

One lingered near the door, silent. The other one crouched low in front of her. He reached out and gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He spoke, his voice low and mocking.

Aven jerked back, but his hold was firm. His gaze traveled down her face, then lower — lingering at the hollow of her throat like he had the right to look. He said something else, and whatever it was, it made the other one smirk.

"I don't —"

The slap came without warning, snapping her head to the side. For a moment all she saw were stars.

They both chuckled.

While she lay on the ground, catching her breath, the one crouching reached to his hip and took out a blade. Aven's heart kicked hard against her ribs but before she even had time to react, he cut the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. He then stood, reached into his satchel and tossed a bundle of rough, folded fabric at her feet.

Clothes.

Without a word, they turned and left, the iron door locking shut behind them.

Aven didn't reach for the clothes right away, despite freezing in her soaked ones. She stayed there, breathing hard, eyes locked on the place where they'd stood.

She better wake up from this freaking coma fast, because this seemed to have turned into a complete nightmare.

Chapter 2

She lost track of how long she'd been there. If time even existed in this place.

There was no sunrise, no sunset. Just black stone, stale air, and the rasp of her own breath — shallow and ragged — echoing off the damp walls.

The cell was dark and cold and unnervingly quiet. Sometimes a sliver of torchlight crept from the cellar through the cracks in the heavy metal door but most of the time she was in complete darkness. And it was so quiet that her own breath felt deafening. She heard nothing coming from the outside of the dungeon cellar, and even within the cellar there was only silence — it seemed she was the only prisoner here. How lucky for her.

She only knew someone was coming when the hinges of the dungeon entrance screamed and then she only had a few seconds to brace herself before they reached her cell.

Each time the door groaned open, her heart lurched. The light of their torch would spill in, casting long shadows that curled like claws along the floor, and blinding her. And their voices would intensify — as if she removed her hands covering her ears —, breaking the silence.

She learned to fear those visits quite fast.

They kept speaking to her —asking questions, she assumed — but not in any language she understood. It reminded her of Welsh or Finnish or perhaps Gaelic but she couldn't place it. What stood out to her was how brutal they sounded, their voices sharp enough to flay her nerves. And their frustration grew with each of her silent responses. And when she did speak, they got even angrier.

So they used their fists instead.

Bruises bloomed like ink under her skin. A welt on her cheekbone from a backhand. An ache deep in her ribs from a boot to her side. Raw wrists from the ropes they never bothered to take fully off.

She didn't know what they called her, but they said it often — the same word, always with venom on their tongues. She could tell from the way their mouths twisted around it.

Witch.

"This isn't real," she whispered into the dark, her voice hoarse and cracking like dry wood. "It's just a dream. I'm going to wake up. Emma and Henry will be there, and this—this will all be gone."

She repeated it like a prayer.

___________

She had no idea how long she'd been there. Could have been a day, could have been a month. Time blurred together in a haze of pain, fear, and hunger.

She stopped trying to measure time in hours or days, and switched to bruises instead. How long it took the pain in her shoulder to stop flaring after they yanked her up. How long it took for the swelling of her bruised lip to go down. Or how long had it been since her last meal — although this one was unreliable as they fed her very sporadically.

Her body ached. Her cheekbone throbbed where one of them had struck her just one meal ago, and the cold stone floor sapped what little strength she had left. Her stomach made noises she didn't recognize anymore. A feral kind of hunger, sharper than anything she'd ever felt. And they gave her so little food that it hardly mattered. A crust here, a scrap there. Just enough to keep her alive.

And sleep — sleep only came in fits, interrupted by her nightmares. Faces she loved morphing into the ones that hurt her. Nightmares within a nightmare. The irony didn't go unnoticed.

As the time passed, she tried her hardest to cling to the idea that this wasn't real. But with every punch in the face, every kick in the stomach and every sleazy touch from her captors, it was becoming harder and harder to not start wondering what if...

"This is just a dream," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. "I'm going to wake up."

But even as she clung to that belief, enormous cracks had already started forming in her resolve.

The pain was too vivid. The hunger was too sharp. Her body screamed with every ache and bruise, and no dream had ever felt this real.

___________

The door creaked open.

Aven flinched instinctively, backing away from the entrance as two Illyrians stepped into the cell. Their wings loomed behind them like shadows, and their eyes raked over her with a familiarity that made her skin crawl.

One of them said something. She couldn't understand the words, but the tone was clear enough. It was a command.

She shook her head, continuing to back away until her spine pressed against the wall.

"No" she rasped, the word like sandpaper. They didn't need translation either.

The larger of the two men stepped forward, his hand reaching for her arm. His grip was a vice, iron fingers digging into her already-bruised arm as he yanked her towards him. She jerked back but it was useless.

They hauled her out of the cell, her boots scraping against the rough stone corridor and her heart pounding as they led her out of the dungeon cellar. Pain lanced through her eyes, the light always too bright now that they had grown used to the dark, and she shut them again, lowering her head on instinct. It always took a while to adjust.

The camp was a sprawl of large tents, black stone houses and muddy earth. Smoky fires burned low in iron pits, the scent of charred meat and ash clinging to the wind. They didn't meet a single soul while walking to their destination. The only sign of others living in the camp were grunting noises and sounds of clashing steel coming to her from a distance.

Still somewhat blinded by the daylight, she caught flashes of how far and wide the camp spread beneath the slate-grey sky, and came to the realization her cell is on the edge of the encampment. Well, at least some good news in this shit situation.

She barely had time to take it in when they arrived. They always dragged her to the same place—a massive tent set apart from the rest, its wooden frame groaning under the wind, the seams sealed with stitched animal hides. It stank of damp fur, smoke, and blood. The interior was dim, the light filtering through the skins in a dull, amber glow that made everything look like it was rusting. The only source of light and warmth were the torches burning along the walls, their flames flickering like shadows of war.

They brought her to the center of the room, where their leader — who she had come to recognize as Darak — waited. He sat at a table of dark wood, scarred and scorched from years of inflicting abuse, his wings partially unfurled behind him in quiet, intentional intimidation.

His face was carved from cruelty. Deep lines around his mouth that spoke of laughter long since rotted into mockery. And those eyes — dark, almost black, watching her with the cold curiosity of a man examining a prey.

They threw her to the floor in front of him, and she landed hard, the breath knocked from her lungs.

He spoke, and she didn't understand, and honestly, she didn't care. She was so tired of these interrogation sessions that led to absolutely nothing except her getting beat up. They must have realized by now that she really couldn't speak their language, which meant they were doing this for fun.

"I don't understand!" Aven snapped, louder than she should've had the energy for. "I don't —"

The slap came swiftly. Her head whipped to the side, hair flying in tow. The sting burned across her cheek like fire while her eyes tried to refocus again. She'd had her fair share of beating growing up so she was no stranger to pain, but admittedly, it never hurt like this. Nevertheless, she decided to not give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry, so she bit her lip and swallowed the sob threatening to rise in her throat.

Darak leaned forward.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her collarbone with the practiced nonchalance of someone who knew exactly how powerless she was. She recoiled and he gripped her shirt.

"Stop it!" she hissed, panic giving her voice a ragged edge.

He laughed. A cold, humorless sound that made her skin crawl. The other Illyrians chuckled as well, their eyes glinting with malice.

When they were done with the interrogation — or as she liked to call it their new favourite pastime —, they dragged her back to the cell, shoving her roughly onto the floor. Her body hit the stone and stayed there. The door slammed shut behind them, and the sound of the lock turning echoed in her ears.

Aven curled into herself, her arms wrapped around her knees as she tried to block out the memories of their hands on her, their mocking laughter.

"This isn't real," she whispered, rocking slightly. "It's just a dream. Just a —"

The word splintered.

Her voice cracked, the words catching in her throat as the tears came before she could stop them. She pressed her fists to her mouth to silence the sobs, but they tore through her anyway.

If this was a dream, why did everything hurt so much? Why did the slap still burn on her cheek, the cold seep so deeply into her bones, the hunger gnaw on her stomach?

___________

The cycle continued.

Each time, her body weaker. Her steps slower. Her eyes more hollow. They stopped needing to drag her. She followed. Not out of obedience—out of preservation.

And when the guards came for her again, she was too weak to fight. Her legs folded under her as they pulled her from the cell again. She stumbled, and they didn't bother catching her.

They dragged her back to the Darak's tent, where the same pattern of shouting, questioning, and violence repeated itself.

Aven bit her lip to keep from crying out when one of them yanked her hair again, forcing her to look up at their leader. His sharp eyes bore into hers, Darak asked the same questions. Or maybe different ones. She couldn't tell. But his voice was always the same—cold, clipped, cruel.

"I. Don't. Understand," she ground out, her teeth clenched.

Her defiance earned her another slap, this one hard enough to send her to her knees.

They hauled her back to the cell after what felt like hours. Every step was a struggle, her legs trembling beneath her as they practically threw her through the doorway. She hit the ground with a thud, the impact jolting through her knees.

She lay there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the ceiling as her mind churned with thoughts she couldn't stop. If you die in a dream, do you die in real life?

They never fed her enough — barely gave her enough water — and what little food they gave her was often stale or moldy. Her body grew weaker by the day, her energy draining like sand slipping through fingers.

But it wasn't just the physical toll. It was the mental battle - the gnawing fear, the helplessness, the isolation.

Her mind began to crack. Not all at once — more like erosion. Bits of herself sloughing away, leaving her hollow and raw, and betraying her. Offering fleeting moments of hope only to crush them.

She thought she heard Emma's voice once, soft and familiar, calling her name from the darkness. She'd smiled, almost. Until she opened her eyes and saw only darkness.

Another time she thought she felt the weight of Henry's cat on her legs, the comforting pressure of his purring warmth. But when she reached out, her fingers brushed only cold stone.

Reality and dreams blurred together, and she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

Until one day, something shifted.

She sat huddled in the corner of her cell, staring blankly at the wall. Her lips were cracked, her throat dry, but she didn't bother calling for water. They wouldn't bring it.

Her gaze drifted to her wrists, the rope burns angry and red, infected maybe. A thought crept in, quiet and insidious.

What if this is real?

Her breath hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as if she could force the thought away. Didn't work.

"Fine," she muttered after a moment of pondering, her voice barely audible. "Let's say it's real. Let's say I somehow went from driving my car to... whatever this is. What then? What's the plan, Aven?"

Her throat tightened as she stared at her hands, dirty and shaking in the dim light. She thought of her apartment, her job, her friends - the life she had taken for granted.

"Fuck, I miss emails. Who misses emails?" she whispered, a bitter laugh bubbling up in her chest. "I would kill for a Slack message right now."

It turned into a quiet sob, and she pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold herself together. Tears came, silent and hot, carving paths through the grime on her face.

For the first time since she'd landed in this strange, brutal place, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of her fear, her despair. It crushed her, pressing down until she could hardly breathe.

When the tears finally stopped, she sat up slowly, wincing at the sharp ache in her ribs. Her fingers brushed over the tender spot on her cheek where one of the many punches had left its mark.

She was cold. Hungry. Broken.

But she was still breathing.

Her gaze drifted to the heavy metal door, its iron hinges glinting faintly in the dim torchlight from the hall outside.

You're still alive, she reminded herself. And as long as you're alive, you have a chance.

The thought sent a spark of determination through her, albeit small but enough to cling to.

Her voice was hoarse as she whispered into the silence, "I'm not dying in this shithole."

Chapter 3

Aven pressed her back against the cold stone wall of her cell, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She couldn't stop shaking. The cold was relentless, threading into her bones, as if the stones themselves fed off her dwindling body heat. On the rare occasion the torch light made it to her through the door slits, she was able to see her breath clouding in the air.

The clothes they'd given her were coarse, scratchy, and barely functional — some kind of patchwork tunic with sweater and trousers, enough to keep her from freezing but too thin to keep her warm.

Her muscles trembled, not just from the cold but from exhaustion. And pain from all the beatings she'd endured so far. It bloomed behind her eyes, coiled in her jaw and nested in her spine. She'd lost count of how many sessions they dragged her through. Six, maybe seven? It was hard to tell, time had lost all meaning in this pit.

Still, she was grateful for one thing — this constant cycle of fitful sleep, visiting Darak and following recovery kept her from total boredom. She could only imagine how fast this place would break her if she were left with nothing but silence and time. Silver linings, right?

Her forehead dropped to her knees as her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to her life back home.

She missed her friends so much it hurt. The image of them sitting by her hospital bed, begging her to wake up, while machines kept her alive, made her stomach twist. She'd never wanted to be a burden to them. And worrying whether she'd ever open her eyes again? That was a big one.

She still hasn't accepted the idea that this was real. It couldn't be. Not really. It had to be one of those coma dreams forcing her through some weird psychological maze she had to solve to get out. Maybe complete a mission. Learn a lesson. Find inner peace or whatever. But even if it was just a dream, she sure as hell wasn't planning to spend it locked up and abused.

So Aven made a decision.

It was time to get the fuck out.

__________

The thought took root in her mind like a weed through cracked pavement, stubborn and sharp. So she started going over everything she knew so far: the guards, their patterns, their faces and whether they rotated shifts. The layout of the dungeon, the corridor, the camp. Snippets and flashes from each trip. Anything that might help.

The next time they came for her, she moved slowly. Not enough to piss them off, but enough to stretch the moment — to count, to observe. Her head was foggy, hard to focus, but she clung to every detail.

The guards were methodical and disciplined, always in pairs.

Twenty-six steps from her cell to the dungeon door. Same lever lock as her cell, she'd need something to pick it. Another over hundred and twenty steps from the dungeon door to the outside. The corridor was long and draped in shadow, with a few doors in the back of it, long after they needed to turn left to get outside.

If her life didn't depend on this, she might've laughed. It felt like she was trying to reenact a Sherlock Holmes scene — mentally mapping her escape step by step like some kind of mastermind. Only, she wasn't. She was cold and starving and couldn't even remember all the fucking steps.

Still, she knew one thing: her chance wouldn't come easily. So she braced herself with patience and when the moment came, she'd be ready.

__________

When they dragged her to Darak's tent again, her stomach churned the moment she saw him.

His presence was like rot in the air, thick and festering.

Darak was a brick wall of a man. Tall — of course; everyone here seemed to be —, and broad, with shoulders like stacked stone and an aura twisted by years of corrupted power and privilege. What unsettled her the most wasn't his size, though. It was the way he looked like a man who is not opposed to using additional interrogation techniques with female captives. She'd wondered before why it hadn't gotten worse, why he hadn't crossed that final line. Perhaps this fucked up subconscious of hers had its limits afterall?

She didn't know.

But she knew she hated the way he looked at her.

So this time, when they threw her at his feet for another round of sick games, he leaned too close and his hands slid too far, something inside her snapped.

It had started with a flinch, her body recoiling from his touch. But when he didn't stop, instinct took over. Her hand flew up, connecting with his cheek.

The slapping sound was everything.

For one heartbeat, one glorious second, his face twisted in surprise.

And then came the response.

He struck her hard enough to knock her sideways, sending her sprawling to the floor. Before she could even gasp, his boot met her ribs and she folded with a choked wheeze.

"Bitch." he spat and Aven understood.

They dumped her back in her cell like garbage.

Her body screamed in protest, pain pulsing like war drums beneath her skin. But she didn't regret it.

Small victories, Aven.

Soft, gold light flickered through the slits in the door. It moved in and out of shadow across the cell floor, casting shapes she couldn't quite follow. She was thankful for these occasions when the guards left some of their torches outside her cell. It made her feel less alone.

Still numb, her breath shallow and unsteady, one arm draped over her forehead, Aven leaned against the wall. The stone behind her was cold. Everything was cold. She'd kill for feeling warm again.

Her thoughts drifted, again, Always back to them.

How much time had passed? In the real world, she meant. Was this one of those dreams that felt like months — only to wake up and find it had been a day? Or was it the opposite? Was time slower here? Would she wake up to years gone, the world having moved on without her?

Aven swallowed a lump in her throat.

What if Emma and Henry had moved on? What if this broke them? She always imagined them ending up together — saw it a mile away before they even did. She hoped they were still close. Still okay. Still them.

What about her job? Did she still have one? Or had they written her off when she never showed up? What about her apartment? Her rent? Her bills?

Her mouth twisted into something bitter.

Fuck, she thought, dragging her hand down her face.

It was time to wake up because this was driving her crazy.

__________

Time blurred again.

When she wasn't spiraling through thoughts of home, she was planning.

It's not like she had many great options so the plan was quite simple — get out of the dungeon, run toward the woods, and hope for the best.

She'd time it with her next visit to Darak. If they returned her after dark, she'd go right then. If not, wait a little longer.

Timeline — check.

She knew how to pick locks. That part, at least, she had down. It was a shitty gift from a shitty childhood — learning to unlock her room door to check on her foster siblings. Sometimes to sneak outside. Always back before anyone noticed. She even learned how to relock it. Got away with it every time. Except the last.

So yeah. Rough idea of escape — check.

Now she just needed something to pick them with. That was the real problem.

Her cell was useless. Just a straw bed, a bucket, and darkness. Nothing sharp. Nothing metal. She'd explored every inch by touch.

She hadn't seen anything she could snatch on the way to and from Darak's tent either — and even if she had, grabbing something without them noticing was nearly impossible. Unfortunately, until she has figured out how to pick the door, she'd be stuck here.

A means of escape — in progress.

__________

When it was time for another one of their visits, she didn't resist. She came willingly, saved her strength and kept her eyes open.

The camp looked the same as always — tents and stone buildings scattered across the plateau, distant clangs of weapons, smoke rising from fires. The wind bit through her clothes, sharp as ever. She made a note: Warm coat. Add to list.

Her focus was interrupted by voices coming from Darak's tent.

Aven tensed, pulse quickening.

Inside, four other men sat around the dark wooden table. All of them staring when the guards shoved her in.

Fuck.

Her gut clenched. Guess she jinxed her luck earlier.

Darak waved her over, voice slurred with a few drinks. She didn't move at first. But when he spoke again, his tone dangerously low, she obeyed. She reached his side in a few steps. He muttered something to his guests, clearly mocking her, and for the first time since she started this miserable dream, she was glad to not understand.

Darak stood up, entertaining his guests in what seemed to be a celebratory occasion for them. They all seemed comfortably relaxed on wine and enjoying themselves. He grabbed her face, his tone turning teasing — like he was baiting her. She tried to jerk away, and he only tightened his grip, eyes darkening.

Then he let go and moved behind her.

Hands landed on her shoulders. She froze as his voice floated around her, speaking to the others like she was some kind of exhibit.

And then — without any warning — he yanked her head back by the hair, exposing her throat to everyone.

A strangled cry escaped her, cruel laughter followed.

A finger slid down her throat, her pulse impossibly high. She bit her tongue, trying not to give the man a reason to hurt her, which now proved to be the hardest thing she'd ever done.

Slower. Lower. Down her chest, in between her breasts all the way to her waist and the tunic hemline. Then his hand slid beneath her clothes and found bare skin. Panic like she never experienced before surged her and a scream ripped from her throat.

"No!"

She slammed her head back — felt the jolt of impact as her skull connected with his chin, making her nauseated. He cursed, dragged her around by the arm, and delivered a slap harder than any she had received before. She barely registered her lip split.

She stared up at him, blood on her teeth, and spat in his face.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then everything exploded.

He roared, fingers to her throat and Aven barely managed a breath before he hurled her toward the table. She landed hard on shattered glass and broken plates, the pain dulled by the sheer adrenaline roaring in her ears.

Vision swimming and ears ringing, she braced on her forearms, blinking through the haze — and where she expected to find four men seated at the table, she found only empty chairs. Because, to her surprise, they were all clustered around Darak.Their voices were filled with anger and tension, handing him water, barking orders at the sentries and wiping her blood and saliva from his face.

What the hell?

She didn't dare make a sound, using the lack of their attention to get her bearings and wait for the inevitable.

But it never came.

Darak snapped something at the guards, anger — and fear? — tinged his voice. A second later she was hauled up and dumped back in her cell like nothing had happened.

She lay for a while, blinking at the darkness, the edges of her vision pulsing.

Then she looked at her hand.

Her fingers were clenched tight, knuckles white.

Cold metal pressed against her skin.

A fork and a knife.

Swiped from the chaos when no one was looking.

She'd grabbed them. Somehow, in the chaos, she'd actually grabbed them.

She lay there, chest rising and falling, the copper taste of blood still lingered.

Oh fuck, she thought, a grim smile tugging at her mouth.

I've got my way out.

__________

The distant clink of a lock snapped Aven awake.

She blinked, heart already starting to race. The air in the cell hadn't changed, but her body had — less ache, less fog. She must have slept through the night, because for once, she didn't feel like absolute death.

That relief lasted all of one second.

Panic surged in her chest.

They were early. Too early.

The usual pattern — the rhythm she'd trained herself to expect — was off. Which could only mean one thing.

Darak has come up with payback.

Shit.

Her hand shot to the corner where she'd hidden the stolen fork and knife, fingers fumbling to shove the metal deeper into the straw bed just as footsteps stopped outside her cell. She barely managed to sit upright before the door groaned open.

Two sentries stepped inside, their faces twisted with more hate than usual. Their eyes raked over her like they wanted an excuse. She tensed, every muscle bracing for impact. But before they could grab her, a noise echoed from outside — loud and chaotic.

The guards froze, their heads snapping toward the outside. Shouts rang out, followed by the muted clanging of metal and the rapid thud of footsteps. Were they gathering to fight?

Aven's heart raced as she watched the guards exchange tense words. One barked something at the other and they both turned, slipping back out the door with barely a glance.

The cell door slammed behind them.

But didn't catch.

The latch didn't click.

Aven didn't move. Didn't breathe.

And then—

With a soft screech, the door bounced back an inch. Left ajar.

Her gaze flicked to the gap, the faint light from the hall spilling into the room like an invitation.

This is it.

Her body protested as she pushed herself to her feet, every bruise and ache screaming in defiance. She reached for the fork and knife, tucking them carefully into her sleeve just in case the guards came back.

One shaky step toward the door. Her heart thundered so loudly she was sure someone would hear it. Her fingers brushed the edge of the door — and she hesitated. Fear gripping her like a vice.

If she was caught...

No. She couldn't think about that.

She swallowed hard, breath shallow, and forced herself to take another step. When she slipped out of her cell, she paused, listening. Straining for footsteps, voices, anything.

Nothing.

Now or never.

Aven crept through the hallway as quickly and quietly as possible, moving toward the dungeon's main door. She paused again, pressed her ear to the metal, checking for anything beyond the muted commotion outside. She reached for the handle, hoping — praying — they'd forgotten to lock it too.

No such luck. The handle refused to budge.

A sharp pang of disappointment hit her chest. She let it pass.

Alright. Time to shine.

The lock was old, rust crept along the keyhole like a rash. She'd only ever seen ones like this in books and movies. She bent one of the fork's tines against the stone floor, twisting it until the metal shrieked and gave way. Not perfect. But hopefully enough.

The knife trembled in her fingers as she slotted it into the keyhole, using it as a makeshift torque bar. Her other hand guided the bent tine in behind it, feeling — searching — for levers she couldn't see.

Nothing. Then—

A scrape. A twitch of pressure.

She bit down on her cheek, kept the tension steady, and wriggled the tine. One lever lifted. Another shifted with a tiny click.

Her heart jumped. She froze, listening.

Still silence.

Her wrist ached. Sweat pricked at her skin despite the cold, but she didn't stop.

Another click. Closer now.

And then — the final lever caught, lifted, and—

Click.

The lock released with a groan that echoed far too loud in the stillness. Aven sagged against the door, one hand gripping the cold iron bars, the other pressed over her racing heart. Her chest heaved, every beat a warning.

If they catch me now, I'm done.

Time to go.

One step. Then another.

And then —

She was out.

Chapter 4

Aven pressed her back to the cold stone wall, her breath shallow and trembling. The corridor stretched before her, dim and quiet, lit only by a flickering torch that cast restless shadows across the floor. She didn't dare move yet, not until she was sure the hall was empty.

Her heart thundered in her chest, every beat a deafening reminder of what was at stake. Shouting outside still rumbled through the stone — too distant to make out any words, but close enough to know something had gone wrong. Panic. Orders. The clash of boots. Whatever chaos had erupted had pulled most of them away. Most.

You're not free yet, she reminded herself. Stay sharp.

The dungeon door behind her felt like a lifeline and a noose all at once. She could feel it dragging her back, luring her to retreat to the false safety of the cell. Because when she looked forward, down the corridor, her stomach twisted and her pulse started pounding impossibly fast. She felt like her heart might burst.

But she wasn't going back.

Aven crept forward, her steps muted against the stone. She should be crippled by pain after everything they'd done to her, especially last night. But the adrenaline blanketed it all.

A raw hum buzzed beneath her skin, a singular thought cutting through the chaos. Move.

She reached the familiar left turn — the one they always took to drag her outside.

No one.

Her gaze darted to the far end of the hall. Doors. She hesitated. She could be out in seconds. The exit was right there. But—

Supplies. If she was going to survive more than five minutes out there, she needed them.

She veered away from the exit, swallowing the surge of panic clawing at her throat, and hoping that she hadn't just made the biggest mistake of her life.

She paused, listening. Nothing. Complete silence.

She tested the first door — locked. Second — same. She didn't have time to fumble with the locks. The third creaked open to reveal racks of armor and weapons, all sized for warriors twice her size. Still, her fingers closed around a dagger the length of her forearm.

The next room was pitch-black. She didn't risk it.

The last door gave way to a small chamber — a resting room, maybe. Sparse and cold, dimly lit. A crooked desk. Two chairs, both cracked and tilting. Crates and barrels stacked haphazardly, filling the rest of the space.

Alright. Food. Water. Clothes.

She slipped inside, fingers trembling as she pried open the first crate. Bread. Hard and stale-looking, but edible. Her stomach clenched with hunger, but instead of devouring it, she shoved the loaves into a makeshift satchel she'd torn from a rag tossed over a barrel.

The next crate was empty. Frustration rose in her chest.

To her luck, the third was filled with cloaks — fur-lined and thick. She tugged one free, worn and tattered, but warm enough to matter. The fabric scraped her neck as she fastened it with trembling hands.

She bundled the dagger in another cloth scrap and tucked it into the satchel, positioning the bundle across her chest. Not practical nor safe. But carrying the thing barehanded while crawling through snow sounded like a death wish.

Her eyes landed on a jug on the desk. Water. She snatched it up and drank greedily, nearly choking from how fast she gulped it down. No flasks, no way to take it with her. She wiped her mouth and straightened.

Go.

Aven peeked into the corridor. Still empty.

She stepped into the hall, every instinct screaming. Her boots padded across the stone, her heart a wild drumbeat. She reached the turn — the one that led out.

The archway yawned ahead, the camp sprawled beyond it, veiled in sunlight and smoke. Cold air swept in, biting her face. Her breath hitched. She was this close to hurling her guts out.

Breathe.

Mud squelching under her boots, the day slammed into her as she stepped out — blinding light, bitter wind, chaos echoing in the distance. Fire pits scattered around the camp, lining the pathways.

She stayed off of them.

Keeping low, she wove through the tents, avoiding the paths and hoping no one noticed her. It was inconvenient, having to escape now rather than as she'd planned. It would've been easier under cover of night, where shadows would have helped her stay hidden. But this would have to do.

As her boots shuffled through the mud, she could still hear the chaos of whatever had pulled the warriors to the square in the distance. It was enough to cover the sound of her hurried steps as she crept toward the edge of the camp.

And there, just beyond the final row of tents, the plain stretched wide — empty and covered in snow.

Her eyes darted around, scanning for movement.

Nothing.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, each step feeling impossibly loud despite the snow muffling her movements. She slipped out behind the last row of the tents, her breath fogging in the frigid air. She glanced back toward the commotion one last time.

And finally crossed into the open.

__________

The snow deepened immediately, biting into her calves. Each step was a battle, the cold slicing up her legs. Her pants soaked through almost instantly, freezing water climbing up higher with every step, and she could already feel the numbness creeping in.

No gloves. No matches. Nothing to start a fire.

She was going to freeze.

Idiot.

In the camp, most of the snow had melted from the heat of bodies and flames, leaving only mud and sporadic patches behind. But out here, the snow was holding strong, thick and untouched. And it made every step feel like dragging herself through wet cement.

Aven wanted to cry from sheer frustration. She was exhausted. Hungry. Cold. The cloak was too heavy. The snow too deep. And the stupid satchel bounced awkwardly, throwing her off balance.

And the forest still looked impossibly far.

She stopped, hands on her knees, wheezing like she was being strangled. Each breath rattled in her ribs like a broken drum.

She turned. Her tracks stretched behind her like a map — bold and exposed, carved into the snow. Her stomach turned. They'd see.

That thought clawed through her spine and shoved new energy into her limbs.

Keep moving.

She stumbled forward, mind spiralling.

The trees grew closer, their branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. Just a little more. Just a little more—

Then came the shouts - distant, muted.

No.

Her heart dropped. She turned and saw them. Two figures standing at the edge of the camp, pointing her direction. Wings unfurled, black and wide, slicing through the air as they launched into the sky.

Her lips trembled as she let out a desperate whimper and bolted.

Aven's heart pounded like a war drum, drowning everything else. The world blurred. Her chest ached, her legs screamed. The cold shredded her lungs as she ran, her breath tearing from her throat in short, panicked gasps. And the snow — the freaking snow — dragged at her boots, each step too slow.

She didn't dare look back. Only the treeline mattered.

The wind howled, and the sound of wings grew louder.

The shouting behind her sharpened. Louder. Closer. She could almost feel the thrum of wings cutting through the air, the sound like distant thunder rolling closer with every second.

Her stomach twisted violently, her mind screaming at her to move faster, even as her body began to give out. Her legs felt like lead, but she pushed on, the terror in her chest far stronger than her exhaustion.

When she finally reached the forest, it swallowed her whole as she sprinted into the trees. Branches whipped her face and hands, tearing into already battered skin. The cloak snagged on a thorny bush, and she let out a frustrated cry as she yanked it free, stumbling deeper into the shadows.

She couldn't hear their wings anymore, now only branches snapping and snow crunching behind her. They had landed and it's only a matter of time until they've caught up with her.

Tripping on a root and crashing to the ground, pain now bloomed across her knees, and blood filled her mouth where she'd bitten her lip.

Get up.

She shoved herself upright, palms scraped and raw, leaving red streaks in the snow. She ran until her body forced her to stop, dropping into a crouch behind a tree, lungs heaving, heart battering her ribs from the inside.

She held her breath, her hands clamped over her mouth to stifle the sound. For a brief moment, she wondered if she'd lost —

Voices.

Confident. Mocking.

And close.

So she ran.

A few heartbeats later, a hand snapped around her arm, yanking her backward so hard her shoulder screamed. Momentum flung her to the ground, snow cushioning none of it.

They didn't rush to restrain her. Instead, they towered over her, basking in their triumph as she scrambled upright, fingers fumbling for the dagger.

The laughter shifted — entertained, curious.

They took a step toward her and she swiped at them. They snickered again and reached for her. She swiped again, catching one of them across her hand. Just a scratch, but it was enough.

"Bitch." he snarled, the word all too familiar by now.

Then they leapt.

One grabbed her wrist and she let out a scream as his grip crushed her bones, the dagger falling uselessly. But she fought. Her teeth sank into his arm, the taste of blood and leather flooding her mouth. He roared and his grip loosened just enough for her to break free. She kicked at his knee, then turned and drove her elbow into his stomach.

He stumbled, but the second one was already there.

She clawed his face, her nails dragging bloody lines down his cheek. He cursed, grabbing her hair, and yanked her backward.

"Get off me!" she screamed. Her foot connected with his groin, and he doubled over with a guttural groan.

She didn't wait and bolted.

But her vision swam, her legs were going numb. And she knew she only had moments left before her body gave out.

The forest opened up around her, the shadows and branches falling away and giving way to a small clearing. And that was when she tripped again, her knees slamming into the frozen ground with a force that sent pain shooting through her entire body. She tried to rise — barely made it — blood and snow mixing under her palms.

Wings tore through the air and Aven turned just in time to see them closing in again.

They caught her near a fallen tree.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, thrashing wildly as one of them hauled her off the ground. Panic surged into something feral as she fought back. Her screams echoed through the forest, her voice cracking as she fought with everything she had.

This is it, she thought, terror clawing at her throat. They're going to kill me.

Then —

BOOM.

The sound split the forest in two.

Everyone froze. Her own heart lurched as two massive figures slammed down just a few yards away from them.

The first one was tall, broad and muscular, his dark wings unfurling as he rose to his full, terrifying height.

The second was even larger, his presence so overwhelming it seemed to fill the entire clearing. Their movements were deliberate, controlled, and the tension in their stance radiated power and fury.

They spoke — sharp, clipped commands in the same brutal language. Her attackers hesitated, their wings twitching as they exchanged glances. But whatever the newcomers had said wasn't enough.

More words were exchanged. And then the one holding her shoved her aside and drew his sword. His companion followed.

What came next was utter chaos.

Aven could only watch in horror as the fight erupted, the newcomers moving like predators, their blades gleaming in the sunlight. Blood sprayed across the snow. The sounds — steel clashing, bones breaking, guttural roars — drove her heart straight into her throat.

Step by step, she inched backward to the far edge of the clearing, her eyes fixed on the battle.

One sentry dropped — the blade slicing through him like butter.

The other barely had time to react before he too collapsed, a heap of broken limbs in the snow.

It was over in seconds.

Aven's stomach twisted violently at the sight, bile rising in her throat as the metallic tang of blood filled the air. Now at the end of the clearing, she finally tore her gaze away and took off into the forest again.

It drove her mad how ridiculously slow she was. She could barely move, every step a fight against her own failing body.

Someone shouted and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw them following her.

The larger one met her eyes — and her blood ran cold.

NO.

Her breaths fractured in desperate gasps as she pushed herself harder, but her body had nothing left to give. Her foot caught on a root, and she fell, rolling down a steep incline. Branches tore at her. Rocks scraped past. Snow. Dirt.

She came to a stop at the bottom, her body sprawled and shaking. The world spun, her vision dimmed.

Above her, the trees reached for the clear blue sky.

Then —

Nothing.

Chapter 5

The first sensation was weightlessness.

Aven's body felt as though it was floating, suspended in midair — yet something warm and firm pressed against her side. Her mind swam in and out of awareness, flashes of cold air and the rush of wind tugging at her consciousness.

The cold. The biting, bone-deep cold that had chased her through the forest, now strangely absent.

In its place — warmth. Soft, foreign warmth that enveloped her body, pulling her gently from the abyss.

And movement. The faint, disorienting sensation of being carried. The rise and fall of something beneath her cheek as the wind howled far away.

She wanted to open her eyes. To fight, to claw her way free from whoever — or whatever — had her. But her body refused to listen. It was like being wrapped in a weighted blanket, her limbs too heavy to move, her mind too sluggish to form a single coherent thought.

So she let go.

Maybe she'll finally wake up from this nightmare.

She'd earned it.

She deserved it.

She proved herself enough.

Her thoughts scattered like dust in the wind.

And the darkness pulled her under once more.

__________

It was her consciousness that awoke first.

Warmth.

Gentle, golden warmth spilled across her face like sunlight — soft and weightless, coaxing her toward the surface.

No trail of dampness or suffocating cold and darkness. Just warmth, fresh air and peace.

She was lying in a bed. A real bed. Not straw. Not stone. Soft and warm and clean — unlike anything she'd felt in what seemed like forever. It was like floating on a cloud. The sheets beneath her were smooth and subtly scented, like wildflowers after rain. The air carried something fresh and green — pine, maybe.

She shifted slightly, her body not screaming in protest. Her limbs were heavy, sure, and she ached deep in her bones, but it wasn't the sharp, splintering pain she'd come to expect. This felt like a hangover after surgery. Or maybe a long coma.

Coma —

Oh my god, she made it. She was awake.

The thought hit her like a jolt of electricity. Her heart began to race—not from fear, but from relief. Pure, soul-splitting relief.

Tears leaked from the corners of her closed eyes, sliding across her temples. Emma. Henry. Her world. Her life. They would be there. She would see them. Cry in their arms and never let go. No more dungeons. No more monsters. No more —

Aven tried opening her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. She blinked again, and the blurry outlines of her surroundings began to take shape. Her eyes began to adjust, and the room came into focus. The breath she'd been holding collapsed in her chest.

The room was beautiful.

The ceiling was pale stone, smooth with occasional carved patterns. The walls were light, warm-toned, polished to a gentle gleam. And the light filtering in through tall arched windows — now covered in floor-length curtains — was soft and clear, casting golden hues across the room.

Her body felt stiff, every muscle with a muted ache. She tried to sit up. Her limbs refused her at first. But eventually, she managed, propping herself upright against the pillows. She sat there, still for a moment, her mind sluggish as it tried to process her surroundings.

She turned her head. The bed she lay in was enormous. Far larger and softer than anything she'd ever slept on. Thick, plush quilts were tucked around her, their warmth a stark contrast to the icy wilderness she'd last known.

A fire crackled quietly in a hearth to her left. Two plush armchairs sat near it with a side table in between them. A desk stood by the windows, a single chair pushed beneath it.

There was a dresser on the opposite wall, carved from dark wood. Two doors broke the otherwise smooth expanse of walls — one slightly ajar, revealing the edge of a sink, and the other closed tight.

Everything was clean, orderly, and decidedly luxurious.

Where exactly was she?

This kind of room had to cost a fortune. Who paid for it? There's no way her insurance was covering this. Suddenly, a pang of disappointment came as an interruption when she realized Emma and Henry were not there.

How silly. Of course they wouldn't be. No one can sit by her bedside all day, every day.

Another moment later, and then it hit her — this didn't look like a hospital room nor a private suite. In fact, it looked nothing like the kind of room she'd ever be able to get.

Where the hell was she?

She blinked rapidly, pushing herself upright with trembling arms. She forced her legs over the side of the bed and placed her feet on the polished floor, cool.

When she reached the windows, she grabbed for the curtains and, with a slow drag, pulled them apart.

Her chest tightened. Bile rose in her throat.

Mountains. Towering, snow-capped peaks stretched out in every direction, their jagged silhouettes piercing a blue sky. And in the far distance, tucked into the hills, was a glowing city. Elegant spires. Wide domes. Terraces draped in greenery and flowering vines.

It was beautiful.

It was wrong.

Her knees nearly buckled.

She staggered back from the window, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her vision blurred.

No.
No, no, no, no.

A sob wrenched itself from her throat, raw and jagged.

She slapped a hand over her mouth to stop the next one. Then the next. But they came anyway. Each one heavier and deeper than the last, until she couldn't breathe through them.

She wasn't home. She hadn't woken up.

Emma wasn't coming.

Henry wasn't coming.

No one was.

She turned on instinct, lurching toward the door. Her fingers fumbled for the handle. It didn't budge. Her heart slammed into her ribs.

Locked. Again.

A scream tore out of her as she slammed her fist against the door. "Let me out!" Her voice cracked, high and hoarse. "Let me out!"

Nothing.

She backed away, breath hitching, hands trembling. Her back hit the wall and she slid down, legs folding beneath her like a puppet with cut strings. The sobs returned, harder now — relentless and suffocating. Her chest burned. Her lungs couldn't pull in enough air. The walls spun around her, warping and closing in.

Not another cell.

Her hands curled into her scalp, nails digging into her skin.

Then — an idea.

If she couldn't get out, she wouldn't let them in.

Aven bolted upright. Grabbed the desk chair and shoved it beneath the doorknob. Then she turned to the dresser, bracing her shoulder against it, pushing, dragging, shoving until it scraped loudly across the floor as she wedged it in front of the door.

She stood back, panting, scanning for more. But nothing else looked heavy or sturdy enough. This would have to do.

Her eyes flicked around the room and the weight of it all crashed back over her. Her breath shortened. Her pulse roared in her ears. A feverish heat spread through her body. She bit down on her fist to stifle the sobs, but they ripped out anyway.

Frantic, uncontrollable sobbing shook her whole body, tears spilling down her face in hot rivers. She let them. Let it out. Let it all flood through her — the fear, the fury, the heartbreak.

Eventually, Aven stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the cold tap, and splashed water over her face. Again. And again. Until the sting of it grounded her.

Then she shuffled back to the bed.

She crawled into the farthest corner, her back pressed tight to the wall. She hugged a pillow to her chest, dragged the quilt over her head, and tucked herself into the smallest shape she could manage.

Sleep dragged her under not long after.

__________

The second time Aven woke, the light in the room had changed.

It was warmer now, casting long slats of gold across the stone floor. The fire still crackled quietly. Everything else was still.

She lay there for a while, unmoving, blinking up at the ceiling. It took longer than it should have to remember where she was — or what had happened.

Then it came rushing back. The balcony. The city in the distance. The locked door. The panic that gripped her like a vice.

A shaky break left her lips as she pressed a hand to her chest, trying to hold herself steady. Her thoughts were quieter now, dulled around the edges. She shifted beneath the quilt, and that's when she realized — her body felt different.

For the first time, she truly noticed her body.

Her arm no longer stung. Her ribs still ached, but the pain had dulled into a deep soreness. Her skin didn't burn with cold or throb with open wounds. Carefully, she peeled back the quilt and looked down.

Her hands were bandaged, clean and snug. Faint pink marks still circled her wrists, the rawness now soothed and almost gone. The rest of her was bruised — yes, but the bruises were changing, fading into soft shades of green and yellow. Like watercolours bleeding through wet paper. She lifted the hem of the nightgown she wore. Her knees were bandaged too. Her skin had been washed. And her hair —

She sat up, reaching for the back of her head. Her fingers brushed through strands that had been untangled. Brushed. Possibly washed, too.

She looked down. Her clothes — those filthy, torn rags she'd worn for god knows how long — were gone. Instead, her body was clean, dressed in a grey sleeping gown that fell to her knees.

Someone had washed and changed her.

The nausea came on fast.

Shame and fear of vulnerability crawled up her spine, sharp, cold. Her hands trembled as she gripped the hem of the gown, her mind skittering through every horrific what if. She hesitated, then moved her hand between her legs, bracing herself for the worst.

There was nothing. No pain. No soreness. No signs of anything horrible having happened to her. Still, it took a full minute for her lungs to start working again.

Once the panic ebbed, she pushed the quilt off and forced herself upright. Her legs were shaky beneath her, but she made it to the bathroom. She relieved herself, washed up and splashed cold water on her face. Again. And again. Until the burn of it forced her into the present.

She looked up — and froze.

A stranger stared back at her.

Pale. Hollow-eyed. A swollen lip, now scabbing. A bruise blooming across her jaw. Another one beneath her eye. She looked wrecked. Exhausted. Like something feral dragged from a cage and scrubbed half-clean. Her throat tightened, but no tears came.

She just stood there, staring into her own eyes — muted green ones looking back at her.

When she stepped back into the room again, something felt off. It took her a second to realize.

The chair.
The dresser.
The barricade she'd created.

Gone.

Everything was back in its original place — the chair pushed back under the desk, the dresser back on the side of the room — as if she'd never touched it.

What the hell?

A knock. Soft but sudden.

She jumped, her bare feet skidding against the stone, her head whipping toward the door. Her heart pounded in her chest, a sharp thrum of fear driving her eyes across the room in search of something to defend herself with.

Nothing.

Her next instinct was to hide but before she could move —

Another knock. And this time, the handle moved.

And the door creaked open.

Aven's heart caught in her throat, bracing for a fight.

But instead, the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen stood in the doorway. Golden hair swept back in soft waves, loose strands framing her face, dressed in an elegant tunic and pants of sage green. She held a tray in one hand, the steam of tea and food rising gently into the space between them.

She smiled —soft, radiant — and spoke. Aven didn't understand the words, but the woman's voice was smooth. Friendly. Unthreatening.

Then, she lifted the tray slightly, as if to say look what I brought you. Before Aven could decide whether to retreat or speak, the woman entered the room. Aven instinctively backed away, arms crossing over her chest.

But the woman didn't come closer. She simply walked over to the armchairs — deliberately avoiding eye contact like they recommend to do with scared dogs — and placed the tray on the table. Then, with slow movements, she turned to the dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out something soft.

A robe.

She held it up, offering it wordlessly. Aven's eyes darted between the piece of clothing and the woman's kind expression. When she didn't move, the woman walked to the bed and placed the robe neatly on top, then returned to her seat across the room. She sat with fluid grace, poured two cups of tea and pointed to the food.

Aven stood frozen for a long moment, her thoughts racing. She didn't know what she expected but it wasn't this. No armor. No weapons. Just calmness and a tray of food.

Eventually, the discomfort of standing there in only the nightgown overcame her. She hurried to the bed and slipped the robe on, tying it tightly around her waist. When she turned, the woman gestured again — an open palm inviting her to sit at the table.

Aven's stomach twisted at the smell, growling. The woman arched a brow, her smile deepening. As if she'd been waiting for that.

Still, Aven held back, distrust prickling as she eyed the food.

Like on cue, the woman picked up a piece of bread, dipped it into her bowl of stew, and took a bite. Then another.

That was all the reassurance Aven needed. She crossed the room and sat down, snatching a piece of bread and stuffing it into her mouth.

It tasted like heaven.

The woman poured a bit of soup into her bowl and passed it to her.

Aven devoured it, fast and desperate.

The woman made a small gesture, lowering her hand in a gentle motion — slow down. But Aven couldn't. Her body was in control now, and she was too hungry to stop.

By the time she finished, her stomach was already twisting again. She barely made it to the bathroom before she vomited.

Fuck, it hurt. Her stomach clenched, her throat burned.

When it was over, she rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face, and returned to the room slowly, shame making her cheeks burn. The woman was still there, sipping her tea as if nothing had happened.

Without a word, she poured another portion — smaller this time — and handed it to Aven. This time, she ate slowly, her hands still trembling a bit.

The woman began to speak again, soft and melodic, filling the quiet between them. Aven blinked. The words still meant nothing.

"I don't understand," she muttered, shaking her head.

The woman tilted hers in return, then repeated herself gently. Aven shrugged, shaking her head again.

A flicker of understanding passed through the woman's face. She smiled and nodded.

"Mor," she said, pointing to herself. "Mor."

Then she pointed at Aven, her eyebrows raising in a question.

Aven hesitated. Then: "Aven."

"Aven." Mor repeated and Aven just nodded in agreement.

They returned to eating in silence, the air between them feeling softer now.

When Aven finished her meal — still a laughably small portion, but enough — she cradled the teacup in her hands. Jasmine. Her favorite.

Then — another knock.

Her back went rigid, the teacup frozen midway to her mouth. Mor raised a hand calmly.

The door creaked open and a second woman entered.

Small in stature but commanding in presence. Her skin was dark, lined with age and wisdom. White hair twisted into a thick braid falling over her shoulder. Robes layered in deep forest green and soft charcoal, cinched at the waist with a leather belt covered in pouches and vials. But it was her eyes that caught Aven's breath — storm-dark, unreadable, steady as a mountain.

A healer, Aven guessed.

The woman said nothing as she crossed the room, her steps quiet, and her gaze sweeping over Aven in a single clinical glance. Then she muttered something, the blonde woman responding with a quiet laugh.

"Madja," Mor spoke and pointed at the elderly woman. "Madja."

Aven nodded in understanding.

Madja placed a bundle of tools and vials on the table, then pulled out the chair from under the table. Palm facing upwards, she pointed to the chair, then to Aven, then back to the chair.

A healer's request to sit down.

Chapter 6

Aven hesitated.

On one hand, she didn't want to give in to the strangers' requests. Sitting down for breakfast with them didn't automatically warrant trust. On the other hand, there was something calm about the healer that tugged at her, softening the tension in her chest just enough to move.

After a long moment, Aven stepped forward and lowered herself into the chair across from the healer, her body tight with nerves. Her eyes nervously darted between Madja, her tools, and Mor — still seated by the fire, watching them over the rim of her teacup. Aven's fingers picked at the raw skin around her nails. Her toes tapped lightly against the floor, a silent echo of her anxious energy.

The healer spoke, her voice low and assuring. The words were foreign to Aven, but the cadence was soothing, as if the sounds themselves carried comfort.

She began with Aven's eyes, asking her to follow the motion of her finger — side to side, then up and down. She moved on to her ears and hearing, using gestures to explain to Aven what she needed from her. When you hear my fingers snap, you tap your knee.

Next came Aven's breathing, motioning her to take long, steady breaths, then hold and release. Madja's hands were warm and steady when she pressed gently along her ribs, looking for fractures and cracks but finding none. Aven flinched once or twice when she didn't expect the movement, but Madja never startled nor scolded. Just carried on, unbothered.

The healer moved slowly, with intention, always giving a subtle signal before shifting focus from one part of Aven's body to another. When she reached for her hands, she did so gently, unwrapping the bandages with practiced care. The wounds had scabbed over, but they still stung as Madja cleaned them. Aven winced, but Madja's hands remained steady and light, never lingering too long.

Then, the bruises. Madja worked in silence, massaging a cool balm across the angry marks, each touch easing the sting. When she reached Aven's split lip, she dabbed on a few drops of oil that tingled faintly against her skin.

When the examination was over, the healer gave a soft nod, a trace of satisfaction in her expression. She began to pack away her things, but before turning to leave, she paused. She stepped close and gently cupped Aven's face in one hand, her silver-ringed fingers cool against Aven's cheek. Her eyes searched Aven's, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them. A sad, understanding smile touched Madja's lips.

And just like that, she was gone.

Mor stood from her chair and crossed the room, fluffing the blanket on the bed, then gestured for Aven to lie down. Aven hesitated for a heartbeat but then obeyed, her body sinking into the mattress like her bones were filled with lead.

_________

When she woke again, the room was cloaked in darkness. Muted moonlight filtered in through the curtained windows, casting soft silver streaks across the floor. She sat up slowly, groggy and heavy-limbed, then padded barefoot across the stone floor to the balcony doors.

And froze.

The view stole her breath.

In the distance, the city shimmered — warm golden lights scattered like fireflies against the black of night. The mountains loomed just beyond, their peaks barely visible, crowned in snow and starlight. Aven stared, transfixed. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

A flicker of something stirred in her chest — an idea.

She turned and padded back to the bed. There she grabbed a few cushions and her blanket and carried them out where she laid them out on the floor in the inner corner of the balcony. After going back inside to grab a piece of leftover bread, she wrapped herself up in the blanket and settled in, drawing her knees close.

The bread was still delicious, soft with a crispy crust. The night air kissed her face and gently played with her hair. The city lights danced far below. And her heartbeat, for once, was calm and slow.

She exhaled.

Something in her chest loosened and she decided to let all her worries go for now, and give into this brief moment of peace.

And eventually, the hush of the night drew her back to sleep just as a faint rustle of wings sounded nearby.

_________

Aven dreamed of nothing.

And when morning came, her limbs a bit stiff from sleeping curled up on the balcony floor, she still felt better than she had in a long time. The view was stunning yet again — sky painted in soft pastel, the sun just breaking over the horizon and spilling light over the mountains, waking the city up. And she decided that if she really needed to be stuck in this reality, she'd spend it right here.

She got up slowly, stretching out the tightness in her body, and went inside. She then washed up and began slowly exploring the room. It wasn't filled with much, just essentials, but every detail was beautiful. She ran her fingers along the cool stone walls, trailed the ornate trim of the windows, traced the smooth wood of the dresser.

The fireplace still crackled softly.

She frowned.

She hadn't added any wood to it since she'd woken up the first time. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen any logs in the room at all that she could use to feed the flame.

Strange.

She tugged open the drawers of the dresser, one by one. In the middle one, she found clothes. A pair of leggings. A tunic. An oversized sweater that looked impossibly soft. And thick, cozy high socks.

A contemplative glance toward the bathroom.

Gathering the clothes, she dragged the desk chair with her and wedged it under the bathroom door handle after having locked it — just in case.

She drew a bath, filling the tub with hot water, steam curling into the air. The first step into the water was heaven. As she lowered herself in, a soft gasp escaped her lips, her bruises stinging in the heat. But she didn't care. She needed this — feeling warm and clean, scrubbing the horror of the past days away.

But the bath didn't take long. As blissful as it was, the longer she lingered, the more uneasy she felt. She kept throwing nervous glances towards the door, half-expecting one of the warriors to burst through and come for her again.

When she finally stepped out, she dried herself quickly and rummaged through the drawers. A small jar of lotion caught her eye. She paused, then shrugged and used it anyway — deciding she didn't care whether or not it was meant for her. It smelled very faintly of flowers and something herbal. Not unpleasant.

Finally, she towel-dried her hair, brushed through it gently until the dark strands fell in loose waves down her back. Clean, warm and having dressed in fresh clothes, she felt almost human again.

She glanced at her reflection — and blinked. The swelling on her jaw was almost gone. The bruising had faded to the faintest yellow. And her split lip? Barely visible.

She leaned in. Was she imagining things?

Before she could dwell on it, she stepped out of the bathroom — and jumped in surprise. Mor lounged in one of the armchairs, sipping tea like she'd been there the whole time. She gave Aven a small wave and a soft, "Good morning."

Aven paused. A fresh breakfast was laid out on the table again, with a cup of tea already poured for her.

They ate in comfortable silence.

_________

After breakfast, Madja returned.

Feeling more relaxed this time around, Aven found the visit a lot less unnerving, and even managed to sit through it without flinching. Still, there was something in Madja's face. A flicker of concern or maybe curiosity. Like something didn't quite make sense to her. It made Aven wonder — the check-up had gone well, so why did the healer look puzzled?

Before Aven could dwell on it, Mor quietly ushered her back to bed after the healer had left. This time, she didn't resist at all. She simply crawled under the blanket and fell asleep almost instantly, her body heavy with the kind of exhaustion one year of sleep couldn't fully cure.

She woke some time later to Mor's soft knock at the door. But this time, Mor didn't settle by the fireplace with tea. Instead, she gestured for Aven to follow.

Aven hesitated, tension lacing up her spine. She paused for a moment — her first instinct being to refuse — but finally decided to take the leap and trust her, and followed her out of the room.

The hallway outside stretched long and elegant, carved in pale stone and lit by soft sunlight streaming through high windows. Mor walked a few steps ahead, her loose braid swaying gently with each step, the deep red of her outfit catching the light. The fabric rustled softly in silence — a sound that was almost hypnotic in its calm rhythm.

Aven, by contrast, felt anything but.

Nervous energy ran through her veins. Her eyes flicked from wall to window to door, cataloguing everything, her mind desperate for any sense of control. Just in case she needed to run back to the safety of her room.

When the corridor finally opened into a vast lounge, Aven's steps faltered.

The space was enormous. Soft white and cream furnishings were arranged in cozy clusters, wide windows bathing the space in sunlight, air faintly smelling of sandalwood and mountain air. Absolutely stunning.

At first, she was distracted by the beauty of it.

And then she saw them.

Three figures scattered casually across the lounge — two women and a man — deep in conversation, their voices fading as their eyes turned toward her.

They all were...stunning.

Her breath hitched as they pinned their attention on her, the weight of it suffocating. She felt tempted to run but her feet were rooted to the floor.

Mor turned, standing just a few ahead, her expression kind as she extended a hand. "Aven?" she said softly, coaxing her forward. Aven stood there for a moment as she weighed her options. The three strangers seemed relaxed, but there was a quiet power in the way they carried themselves. And she'd be a fool if she took them for anything but. And yet, she had no real choice.

Anxiety running through her body like electricity, she forced her legs to move. Their gazes didn't let up — and she kept her chin high, meeting each and every one. She refused to look like prey. Even if she felt it in every inch of her body.

When she reached the nearest chair, she sat down slowly, clenching her sleeves, and braced herself for whatever came next.

Mor smiled at her, turned to the others and spoke, her tone calm with a hint of an edge to it. A warning? A plea?

Aven didn't get a chance to wonder. New voices murmured from the far end of the lounge, her eyes snapping to the doorway and a heartbeat later, two large — winged — figures came waltzing into the lounge. Her blood ran cold.

It was them.

The ones from the woods.

Her breath vanished. Her stomach dropped. And then she was moving.

Her vision tunneled as she surged to her feet, throat closing tight. Her legs refused to obey — buckling under the weight of panic — when a hand gently caught her arm.

"Aven," Mor said gently, her other hand raised in reassurance. Aven didn't flinch at the touch. But her chest heaved, pulse roaring in her ears. Fight or flight screamed through her, her instincts splitting down the middle.

Across the room, the two men halted. Slowly they raised their hands, palms out — we mean no harm. And then they found seats at the furthest end of the lounge, creating as much distance between them and Aven as possible.

Mor spoke to her again, the tone low and reassuring. So Aven decided to trust her — against her better judgement — and hesitantly sat back down, eyes not leaving the newcomers. Her chest coiled tight at the memories of the camp.

The silence in the room was brittle, everyone waiting for the others to break it. So Mor did — with an introduction round. She first gestured to herself, repeating her own name.

Then she turned to the woman sitting left of Aven. Aven's breath caught as she took in the petite woman's striking features.

Amren — as Mor introduced her — was small, smaller even than Aven, but her presence filled the room like thunderclouds before a storm. Straight, ink-black hair, sharp facial features, lips painted blood-red. Her eyes — silver — narrowed as she regarded Aven without a word. Aven quickly averted her gaze.

Mor shifted her attention to the next one in line, and Aven's chest tightened.

"Azriel."

It took Aven several heartbeats to realize that he wasn't sitting in shadow. He was cloaked in them — what the hell — the tendrils curling around his tall frame like they were alive. Messy short hair, cleanly shaved and casual outfit, he looked nothing like back in the forest. His hazel eyes barely flicked to her before shifting away.

The memory of the forest slammed into her — the way they had descended, brutal and deadly, their blades cutting through her captors like paper. Shivers ran across her skin, her fingers digging into her palms as she tried to calm the rising panic.

Mor's voice pulled her out of it. "Cassian."

And it sounded like she added a snarky quip into her introduction for which Cassian seemed to have fired back with a smirk of his own.

He sat sprawled in one of the lounge chairs, one leg casually draped over the other, wings relaxed behind him. Shoulder-length hair pulled into a half bun, a short beard grazing his jaw, and dressed in a dark outfit. He looked devastating.

"Hey, Aven," he said, lifting a hand in a friendly wave, his grin disarming. His eyes locked on hers, with intensity she didn't know what to do with. So she looked away.

Finally, Mor gestured to the two remaining people in the room. "Feyre. Rhysand."

Aven's eyes flicked in between them.

Feyre had effortless elegance to her. A simple gown of rich blue mirrored her sharp eyes. Golden brown hair, braided over one shoulder, her posture relaxed. And her aura — a quiet, steady strength. She looked like someone who had built herself from the ground up and dared the world to question it.

Then there was Rhysand.

Dressed all in black, polished, and hair that was ink-dark and perfectly tousled. And his eyes — violet— so striking they felt like a trick of the light. He lounged on the sofa with one leg draped over the other, one hand resting on Feyre's knee, the other comfortably thrown over the back of the sofa. He wasn't as large as Cassian or Azriel, and yet, Rhysand emanated power. Aven's stomach churned as she glanced between him and Feyre. The definition of a power couple.

Her gaze got snagged by his ears — they were pointy. She then scanned everyone in the room and realized that many of them — even Mor — did. She never noticed.

Rhysan's voice pulled her attention back.

"Hello, Aven," he said smoothly. The words were friendly. The smile even more so. But every inch of her told her to run. He spoke again, quietly, his voice calm and steady. Aven blinked, her mouth dry.

"I don't understand," she muttered.

Rhysand's expression didn't change, though his violet eyes seemed to have sharpened slightly. He then spoke, some of the others answering him, their voices quiet, almost too low to hear.

The room went silent.

"Aven?"

Her name came again, his voice deeper now. Low and commanding.

Her gaze snapped to him. And her breath caught as his violet eyes locked onto hers.

And suddenly — it was like something reached inside her. A hook latched in her mind, reeling her in.

She couldn't break free.

Then came the pressure.

At first, it was faint, gentle even, like a breeze brushing over her thoughts.

But it quickly grew, the breeze turning into a push against her skull, spreading like a heavy fog in her mind. Her temples pulsed, a sharp pain bloomed behind her eyes, and she clenched her jaw against the rising pain.

Her breath caught as the pain deepened and she hissed, the pressure building, until it felt like her skull was being split apart.

Panic clawed its way through her, sharp and wild.

Her vision blurred.

Then light exploded behind her eyes — bright, shimmering light that seemed to consume everything around her.

A heartbeat later, the light began to shift, forming a massive, endless wall stretching in all directions. Her chest heaved as she stared at the wall, the sheer immensity of it making her feel like an ant beneath the weight of the universe. It was cold to touch, impenetrable, partially translucent — cloudy — as if someone filled the wall with water and then added milk.

On her side of the wall, she saw nothing. Only white fog, stretching everywhere. She heard voices whispering through the mist, warped and distant. And also someone's screams, equally as far away. She felt pain — now having grown into a splitting agony — but it was more like a distant memory of someone she'd known. Surreal.

A shadow appeared on the other side of the wall.

Tall, black and distorted.

A man.

Eyes — violet and glowing — piercing the haze.

The man stepped closer. Lifted a hand. And placed it on the wall.

A new wave of screams, now louder.

That's enough! A male voice boomed far away.

And suddenly, she was pulled away from the wall. Everything snapped back and the reality of it hit her at once.

She gasped for air.

The pain was not a distant memory and didn't belong to someone else. It was her own — and it was happening now. It slammed her mind and body, overwhelming her.

And the screams in the distance? Those were also her own, filled with agony and fear. They tore from her throat as she collapsed onto the floor, curling into herself, tears streaming down her face. Her nails scraped against stone, her voice hoarse and raw as her cries carried through the room.

Through the haze, she heard voices — loud, urgent, angry.

Then, the pain vanished, like a tide retreating, leaving her a wreckage on the floor.

Silence swallowed the room again, anticipation high, as Aven lay there, her body slowly recovering from the aftermath of what felt like the worst hangover she'd ever had.

"Aven?" a tentative voice said, and a gentle hand touched her shoulder.

She flinched violently, snapping her head toward the source — Mor, her expression filled with concern. Shock and betrayal churning through Aven's chest, followed quickly by fear and fury and a million other emotions.

What in the actual fuck was that?

She slapped Mor's hand away, anger burning in her eyes. Her fists clenched as she pushed herself to her feet, leaning heavily on the table for support.

"Fuck you for this," she spat — voice hoarse, lips trembling, eyes brimming with rage.

Mor tried to speak, but Aven was already moving — backing toward the entrance, gripping furniture she passed by for stability. Her eyes darted between them, seeing if any of them tried to stop her.

No one moved. Everyone remained seated. Except Mor, who stood closest to her, a regretful expression on her face. And Cassian who had risen to his feet by now, tension radiating from every line of his body.

A few heartbeats later, she turned and walked as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.

Back in her room, she bolted for the bathroom and retched violently into the toilet, her body trembling as waves of nausea and shock crashed over her. When her stomach had nothing left to give, she slumped against the cold tile, forehead pressed against the cold porcelain.

Silent sobs wracked her chest.

After what felt like hours, she dragged herself to the sink to wash up, her hands still trembling as she scrubbed her face. She went ahead and blocked the entrance door with the chair again, ignoring the fact that it would probably be back to its original place by morning again.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around herself, she buried her face in the pillow and waited for the tremors to leave her body.

Chapter 7

Aven waited for the tremors to stop. And they did. Eventually.

They left in waves. First, the full-body surges receded, thankfully quite quickly. But she lay in bed for what felt like an eternity before her hands stopped trembling as well. The splitting headache lingered the longest — sharp and searing, as if her skull had been cracked open and acid poured inside.

All she wanted was sleep, just a few hours of unconsciousness. Anything that would have helped get through this.

But clearly, that was not happening.

So she lay in bed, trying to pick the lesser evil. Eyes open, the headache seemed to be worse, piercing behind her eyes. Eyes closed, recent memories plagued her — winged men, the cold cell, all the abuse. The forest. The violence. And most recently, the lovely run-in with Mor and her companions.

What the actual fuck was that?

None of it made sense. None — the strange group, the unbearable pressure in her head, the blurry figure behind the wall.

Rhysand. It had to be him, right? Unless, by some cosmic coincidence, violet eyes were a common trait in this place. Which, to be fair, given everything she'd seen so far, was not completely off the table.

Deep down she knew it had been him. The question was, how did he get there?

But had he actually been there... in her mind? Had she summoned him? Had he forced his way in?

That wasn't possible. Right?

She had to admit, her definition of possible had been getting challenged on a daily basis since this nightmare had started. The burning birthmark. Waking up soaked and freezing in a snow-covered plain. Men with wings. Pointy ears. Strange eye colours. The list went on...

Her mind has been really playing tricks on her.

Except —

She never considered her imagination to be vivid. This real.

Her pulse quickened and nausea flooded her senses. She jumped out of bed and ran for the bathroom, barely making it in time.

She collapsed beside the toilet, barely able to hold herself up as she retched again and again, though there was nothing left inside her. Her stomach was completely empty as it convulsed with every dry heave, the bitter tang of acid assaulting her throat. Aven thought she might just choke.

Eyes watering, she retched a few more times before slumping on to the toilet seat, letting the porcelain cool her down a bit. She breathed in short, broken gasps, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Then — tears.

They welled in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks. And she cried like she hadn't cried since she was a little child, feeling of desperation and helplessness taking over. It was time to admit what she'd been avoiding for days — or weeks — now.

This was not a dream.

This was not a coma.

This was not a cruel hallucination.

It was real.

Somehow something somewhere went wrong and she ended up here — god knows where — away from her friends, life and everything she had known. Instead, she now was stuck here, in a world she couldn't name, with creatures she didn't recognize, and language she didn't speak. And magic. Fucking magic.

It sounded absolutely ridiculous..

Utterly. Completely. Absurd.

And yet — True.

She let out a choke, gasping sound. Hoarse and shaky.

And another. And another.

It turned into a laugh. A low, broken, hysterical laugh that echoed off the tiles.

Aven laughed like it was the funniest thing in the entire universe. Except there was no joy in it. Only bitterness. Emptiness. Despair.

And before she could stop it, something inside her cracked and she broke into sobs, the laughter turning into weeping tears. She curled in on herself, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight, as the truth — the acceptance — thundered down on her like a wave crashing against a cliff.

She was truly and utterly alone.

"Fuck," she whispered hoarsely. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Aven lay on the floor for a while longer, the cold tiles leeching the heat from her skin. Eventually, the storm passed, the tears dried up and the nausea faded into a hollow void. Only the headache remained, although duller now.

She managed to crawl back up onto her feet, feeling like all her energy had been sucked out of her, and walked over to the sink. The face that stared back at her looked nothing like hers — eyes red-rimmed, circles so dark they looked bruised, red nose, and face drained of any remaining colour, pale and blotchy.

Admittedly, she had seen better days.

She looked down and only now did she notice the bandages on her hands, still wet from earlier. They now were ragged and peeling off of the edges, and she just realized what an uncomfortable feeling that was. She ripped them off and tossed them in the corner. Washed her hands and face again, colder this time, trying to numb her skin and depuff those eyes. Not that it mattered.

Back in the bedroom, she changed to her nightgown. The second she pulled on a new pair of socks, soft and fuzzy, and an oversized bathrobe, a knock sounded. Soft. Tentative.

She froze.

Must be Mor.

"Aven?" Suspicion confirmed. She stayed quiet, ignoring the request.

Another knock. Mor said something.

"Go away!" Aven barked. She'd figure out what that meant.

A third knock never came.

When Aven heard the sound of retreating footsteps, her shoulders slumped and she breathed a sigh of relief. She curled up in one of the armchairs by the fire, a blanket covering her lap.

Her current arrangements were confusing. Back in the camp, everything had been clear — she was the prisoner rotting in a cell, they were the bad guys, and she knew exactly whom and what to fear.

But here?

She had her own stunning suit with a private bathroom, Mor joined for meals, and a healer looked after her. All these are things that should have indicated she was safe. Then the incident with Rhysand happened and she didn't know what to think. It felt like a trap. Like one of those pretty, meat-eating flowers waiting for the right moment to snap shut.

She had no idea what — and whom — to believe, and it made her skin crawl.

A knock tore her out of focus.

Not again.

So she ignored it, stayed quiet and didn't move. Let them think she was asleep so they wouldn't bother her.

A second knock.

Then a third.

Leave me alone.

A fourth.

Then a fifth — two sharp raps.

"Leave me the hell alone!" she snapped. Shoving the blanket aside, she stormed to the door, fury sparking behind her eyes. Why can't Mor leave her be —

Aven moved the chair away and yanked the door open.

And froze.

Cassian stood in the doorway, broad shoulders relaxed beneath a loose black shirt, dark hair wild like he'd flown through a storm. A wooden tray balanced in his hand. He said something, grinning like he'd been waiting all day for this moment.

Aven blinked, throat locked. Her heart leapt up, the fear automatic. Her hand went to the door to slam it shut — but he was faster.

His boot wedged easily into the frame, a fake hurt expression in his face.

She shoved again. Nothing.

He tilted his head, a glint of amusement in those hazel eyes. And before she could blink, he stepped inside and slipped past her like it was his own damn room. She spun, dumbfounded, as he carried the tray to the small table by the fire, whistling a soft, careless tune.

What the actual fuck?

Aven stood frozen, breath caught somewhere between fear, rage and disbelief. She crossed her arm over her chest, suddenly hyper-aware of wearing only a nightgown and a robe. His behaviour was nowhere close to those monsters from the camp, but that didn't stop the instinctive fear from curling tight in her gut.

"Get out," she growled, as he set the table.

Cassian looked at her then, expression unreadable. Then, he picked up something off of the platter — a biscuit — and offered it toward her like a peace offering.

She wanted to smack it out of his hand.

Instead, she snapped at him again, "I said out."

He deepened his look, let out a long exhale and set the biscuit back down.

Then he started walking toward her.

And her breath hitched.

He spoke, low and steady, taking slow, relaxed strides toward her. She didn't understand a word but his tone didn't sound angry or aggressive. If anything, it almost sounded explanatory. Like he was talking her through something. What the hell was happening?

Still, she lifted a hand. "Stop."

He didn't. He kept moving closer, slow, with hands casually tucked in his pockets. She backed up instinctively. God, he was massive. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Did she even reach his collarbone?

"Don't," Aven snapped.

Another step back. Then another. She kept retreating, he kept following. She was so focused on keeping him at a distance, that she lost track of where she was going —

Her knees hit the armchair behind her and she fell into it with a startled yelp. She blinked, disoriented, losing focus. When she looked up again — another yelp. He was right in front of her, utterly unfazed, a blanket in his hands.

He bent over, draping it over her lap with deliberate gentleness. Then plucked a biscuit from the tray and placed it in her hand, dropping into the other armchair. From there, he poured them both a cup of tea, extra honey.

He didn't say anything else.

He just lounged there, biscuit in one hand, tea in the other, eyes focused on the fire like he hadn't just bulldozed her personal space and rearranged her entire emotional state.

What. The. Hell.

Aven sat there, stunned and speechless, for a while. Her heart was still racing, her breath a tad shallow. Suddenly, her stomach grumbled. The scent of the baked goods and tea curling in the air, impossible to ignore. Cassian's lips tugged into a brief, smug smile.

What a dick.

She dug into the biscuit, still cautiously eying him, and sipped on her tea. Her body responded instantly, really appreciating the sudden dose of sugar. Warmth spread through her body, loosening something tight in her chest and dulling the headache. With her nerves calmed and her heartbeat slowing down, the fire crackled softly, lulling her to sleep.

Little by little, she felt herself being pulled out of the dark pit she'd been drowning in.

When she glanced at Cassian again, he was watching her. And before another wave of fear had time to grip her, he rose to his feet. She tensed. But he didn't say much, just poured her another cup of tea and turned to the door — then paused.

"Good night, Aven."

And then he was gone.

___________

Aven sat by the fire for a while longer.

She had no idea what to think of her encounter with Cassian. She hated how he barged into her room. How he intimidated her with his size. How he effortlessly threw her off balance. And yet, she felt lighter. Grounded.

The panic — and what remained of it — was gone. Her breathing was calm. Something had shifted inside her. She hadn't fully wrapped her mind around the truth she'd admitted to herself last night but it didn't shake like it had before anymore.

So for the first time in a very long time, she fell asleep not lost in fear.

And when she woke the next day, her body felt stronger and her mind clearer, sparked with determination. She would go along with this world. Play the game. And she would find her way back home.

She had barely finished getting dressed when the knock came, just as she expected.

When she opened the door, Mor stood there with a breakfast tray in her hands, and an expression that was equal parts curious and apologetic. Aven said nothing, but stepped aside to let her in, a blank mask firmly in place.

Mor sat down and poured two cups of tea. She glanced back at Aven, soft smile, gesturing toward the second armchair — peace offering. Aven hesitated, arms crossed and waited. Mor gestured again, spoke softly, her tone saying: I get it, you're upset. But come sit with me anyway.

So Aven did.

Mor was far more talkative this morning, chirping, as she attempted to mend the little connection between them. And while Aven loathed what was done to her, how violated she felt by that encounter, Mor was the only friendly face she knew around here — she didn't count that jerk — and was actually grateful to have her.

So she spoke, too.

About the delicious food. The amazing view. The absurd luxury of the house.

None of it meant anything to either of them — for all she knew, they were probably talking about completely different things at the same time — but they both seemed to enjoy the breakfast conversation anyway.

And just as she'd predicted, Madja arrived after breakfast. The healer was brisk and efficient, checking Aven's vitals and applying healing balm to fading bruises. When she was done, she nodded in quiet approval and left with a murmured farewell.

That's when Mor turned to her, eyebrows curling and her smile turning apologetic again. She wanted Aven to follow. And Aven already knew then — she wouldn't like whatever would come next. But she followed anyway.

This time, Mor led her to a study.

It was as beautiful as the rest of the house, stately and serene, and soaked in soft golden light. Wall-to-wall bookshelves lined the opposite side of the room. In front of them sat a massive desk of dark wood. On the other side of the room, several lounge chairs and a velvet sofa were arranged around a low tea table, already set with a silver tray of biscuits.

The room was already occupied.

Feyre sat on the edge of the dest, Rhysand standing beside her, leaning casually against its corner. Body language intimate and perfectly in sync, their heads were bent, foreheads almost touching, in what seemed to be a silent conversation.

Amren lounged in one of the chairs by the tea table, her legs elegantly crossed, already eying Aven with a feline sort of boredom. Goosebumps ran down Aven's spine.

Cassian leaned against the tall window, wings half-folded, the late morning light casting a long shadow across the floor. Arms crossed, posture relaxed with one leg propped against the wall, his gaze sharpened the moment she entered.

She wondered where the other one — Azriel — was. And found him a moment later. Azriel stood pressed against the far wall, half-sunken into shadow, nearly invisible. His eyes were fixed on her, observing.

Aven hesitantly paused in the doorway. Mor turned her way, offering an encouraging smile, a soft hand at the small of her back. She drew in a long breath and stepped forward.

"Good morning, Aven," Feyre said kindly, and Aven muttered back. "Hi."

They gestured to the chair placed in front of the desk, just two three steps away from Rhysand and Feyre.

Rhysand spoke next, voice smooth and low, directed solely at her, explaining something. As usual, she understood none of it. But from his tone and the gestures he used, she got the general idea. He — together with Feyre — wanted to try to enter her mind again.

Her pulse spiked. That was everything but fun yesterday, and though the headache had dulled, the memory of it still sat like a bruise behind her eyes. She really didn't want to go through that again. But what if there was a chance it could help her get answers, help her find her way back?

She gave a tight nod.

Mor stood behind her, placing her hands on Aven's shoulders in silent support.

Then, Feyre and Rhysand both looked at her, and in perfect unison whispered, "Aven."

Their gaze locked her in.

She braced for the pain coming.

But none came.

It did start with a breeze of pressure, just like yesterday. Then, a bright light appeared again. But this time it was not accompanied by pain. Lucky her.

The light shimmered and blurred, and one breath later she stood before the wall again. Surrounded by white mist curling around her legs, the air thick with static and something ancient.

She looked around. The wall was the same as before, a monolith stretching in all directions endlessly. And as before, it was partially translucent — like frosted glass — cold and humming with power.

No screams echoed this time. Only whispered voices, distant and muffled.

And there, behind the wall, a blurry shape appeared far away, getting closer with every breath. Then, when it got close enough, it started splitting into two. A woman and a man, walking hand in hand. Shapes blurred, features obscured, she only saw the outline of their shapes. And their eyes — blue and violet, shining through.

Feyre and Rhysand.

They stopped before the wall, looking around. Then in unison, they each raised a hand and placed it gently against the surface.

Aven flinched, bracing for the pain, but once again, none came. A wave of relief washed over her.

They held their hands there for a few heartbeats, eyes closed. When suddenly —

A sound.

The tiniest crack. Just like stepping on fresh ice — so soft she almost thought she imagined it.

A hairline fracture the length of her arm bloomed across the wall. Aven stepped closer, curious, and reached for it. Her fingers hovered for a bit — and then touched the split.

That was when it all came crashing down again.

Screams.

Distant but getting louder.

Pain.

Not born in her body, yet still hers. Echoing faintly in her bones.

The wall pulsed.

The mist exploded.

She was yanked backward.

And her scream tore through the room.

She collapsed to the floor, chest heaving, hands clutching her head. The pain vanished instantly, leaving only a dull, pulsing throb behind — like her mind had been dragged across gravel.

Mor was at her side in an instant, steadying her as she gasped for breaths.

"Aven," she said gently. "It's okay, you're okay."

Aven registered her own name, the rest came through as garbled noise. She then groaned, squeezing her temples. Her vision going blurry.

"Have some water," Mor murmured, handing her a glass.

"Thanks," Aven replied hoarsely, taking slow sips.

Silence.

Complete silence.

Aven registered it a heartbeat later. And when she raised her head, everyone was staring at her, taken aback.

Mor placed a hand on her shoulder, asking something — but Aven couldn't make sense out of it, so she just shook her head with a shrug. Mor frowned and turned to the group, pulling everyone into a hushed conversation.

Mor spoke. Then Rhysand. Amren. Feyre. Cassian. Azriel stayed silent, observing, his gaze never having left Aven.

Their voices swirled and buzzed around her. Words blurred and overlapped. Until —

"...anything like it..." Rhysand's words broke through the buzz.

Aven blinked.

"...going...do?" Feyre's voice followed, and this time Aven heard it.

She froze.

"...see...happens..." Azriel murmured from the corner.

Her eyes darted across the entire room, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Aven sat back in the chair, feeling like she was having a stroke. No one had switched languages, no one had translated anything. So how the hell was she able to catch pieces of this conversation? It felt like listening to an untuned radio — buzzing noise broken up by occasional flashes of clarity.

Aven's headache intensified, pressing on her temples.

"I want to go to my room," Aven muttered, voice low and dazed. "I have a headache again."

Everyone stopped, six sets of eyes snapping to her at once.

"What?" Cassian asked.

"...understand...?" Mor whispered, stunned.

Aven blinked.

"...I don't understand...do I?" she mumbled confused, looking from one stunned face to the next. Her heart picked up, breath becoming faster.

This wasn't right.

Something was —

Agony.

White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes, ripping through her mind like a blade.

Aven collapsed before her scream echo faded out.

Mor caught her just before her head hit the floor, calling her name.

"Aven!" she shook her, slapping her cheeks in an attempt to wake her.

But Aven didn't respond.

The room had gone utterly still.

Chapter 8

8 days ago

Cassian paced the study in the House of Wind, each heavy step echoing off the stone floor like a drum. Normally, this room felt spacious and familiar. Wall-to-wall bookshelves that held books older than most Illyrians. Windows that overlooked the snow-capped mountains, now still cloaked by night, about to be swallowed by dawn.

But tonight, for some reason, it felt stifling, making his skin buzz with a strange nervous energy, the walls closing in on him.

Rhysand was leaning against the desk like he usually would, his arms and ankles casually crossed. The typical calculating gleam in his violet eyes. Cassian had seen that look before — right before Rhys ordered someone executed or sent to Az for a chat. Dressed in a loose black shirt and pants, hair slightly unruffled, Rhysand looked every bit the predator he was, the night clinging closely to him.

Azriel stood by the wall across the room, half-devoured by dark, his shadows swirling around him. If someone entered now and didn’t know to look for him, they’d never notice him. His dark leathers clung to him like a second skin, blue siphons glinting dimly, expression unreadable.

Cassian dragged a hand through his hair, the tension in his body thrumming, muscles tightening in his flight leathers.

“So,” he said, his voice breaking the silence, rougher than intended. “What do we know?”

“Not much,” Az admitted, controlled and quiet. “She’s human. Strange clothes, strange language — doesn’t speak a word of ours. They have her for a witch.”

“Of course they fucking do,” Cassian rolled his eyes. “Gods forbid a woman looks or speaks differently than they’re used to.”

Azriel nodded, his tone darkening. “They’ve had her locked up for seven days now.”

A curse ripped from Cassian’s mouth before he could stop it. Seven fucking days. In a freezing cell. Under Darak’s authority. He didn’t need details to know what that meant. His fists clenched at his sides. “And no one thought to report it. Or even question it….”

Az grunted in agreement. “No one who cared.”

“Humans don’t just wander into Prythian.” Rhysand’s brows furrowed. “How did she get there?”

“That’s the thing,” Azriel started, his voice dropping low. “I don’t think she’d just…wandered,”

“What do you mean?”

“They found her in the middle of a plain.”

Rhysand raised his eyebrows, “And?”

“She was soaked. Head to toe. Like she’d been pulled out of a river.”

“So?” Cassian blinked.

“There was no river anywhere near her. Or lake. Or any kind of body of water. Just snow and her, alone.”

The silence that followed was heavy, Cassian’s gut twisting. What the hell?

“Curious,” Rhysand murmured, focused. “There has to be an explanation. What else do you know?”

“Nothing.”

Casian turned his head sharply, “What do you mean — nothing?”. Azriel never knew nothing. There was always something.

Az met his eyes. “I mean nothing. No origin. No scent trails. No connections. Not even tracks of her journey to our court. It’s like she wasn’t there…and then she was.”

Silence stretched in between them again, thick and taut. Cassian rubbed a hand down his face, trying to understand what he had just heard. “That doesn’t make sense.”

He could feel the air shift and stiffen. They’d all been on edge ever since the Blood Rite and the whole fiasco with Briallyn, with Nyx and Feyre — and with her Rhys — almost dying, and Nesta nearly burning herself out to save them all. And while everyone seemed to be safe and healthy and Nyx being the gift of their lives, the threat of Koschei loomed over them unresolved, putting them all on edge.

“We have to get her out,” Cassian said, his voice hard now, allowing no room for argument.

“We will,” Rhysand assured him, tone measured. “But not before we know what we’re walking into. This can’t be random. And if there’s more to her presence, we need to know.”

“That might be a problem,” Azriel said. “I can’t get anything else. My shadows won’t go near her. It’s like something pushes them back.”

Who the hell was this girl?

Rhysand frowned, letting Azriel's words sink in. "Has this every happened?" 

Azriel just shook his head.  "It's really strange. But they don't sense any danger from her."

“Alright, then we go in blind. And we figure it out from there.” Cassian suggested, his temper fraying.

Rhysand studied him for a moment, a strange glint in his eyes. “And if Darak doesn’t cooperate?”

Cassian’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “Then we make him.”

“Try not to start a war,” Rhys sighed.

“Don’t tempt us.” Cassian mused, leaving the room. Azriel fell into step behind him.

___________

Azriel pulled Cassian through his shadows, appearing one hour’s flight from Darak’s camp. They shot to the skies without a word. Apart from the cold slicing across their faces, the weather was quite favourable — with dawn just breaking and clear sky, they had good visibility. And the wind, although strong, blew in their direction, carrying them forward as they soared over the snow-laced forests and frozen plains.

The camp came into view just after dawn, a cluster of stone houses and tents huddled at the base of one of many of the jagged peaks, with a snow-covered field on the other side. Smoke curled from several chimneys and fire pits burning outside, and the morning sun just coming up from behind the mountain covered the central square in a soft faint glow — so opposite to the nature of this place.

Movement below.

They were spotted midair. Hesitant shouts and abrupt movements, guards — and what seemed as the rest of the camp — scrambling into place. Cassian and Azriel landed hard in perfect unison, boots crunching against the frozen ground, as intimidating as possible.

Some sentries had already been standing guard when they landed. Others had been emerging from their tents and houses, faces wary, leathers well-kept, weapons visible — swords strapped to their backs, daggers at their hips and ankles. And some simply stood at a distance with their arms across their chests, eyes narrowed and judging. The hostility hung thick in the air.

Shouts kept echoing, more sentries poured in and a large crowd formed. Cassian’s wings itched with anticipation. Many of the Illyrians here were still quite young, which was a potential issue on its own. Young hot-headed males, thinking they could challenge — and win — their leadership outside of the rules. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had to take someone down today because they acted on their impulses and didn’t know their own place. Or skills.

Cassian and Azriel waited a moment — longer than they should have — when Darak emerged from the crowd that had by now surrounded them. Objectively, Darak was a solid leader, his camp having produced some of the best warriors. Subjectively, he was a piece of shit. A walking pile of piss and pride. And Cassian had been waiting for an excuse to take him down for quite some time now.

Darak was a boulder of a male. Tall, stocky and thick-necked, with shoulders like rocks. His greying hair was kept short, beard long and unkept, face scarred. His leathers were worn but well-kept, marked with insignia of his rank. He might have been handsome once, but years in this miserable place turned him into an eyesore. Cassian hated his ugly face.

And those eyes.

Hatred.

Pure, undiluted hatred leaked from his eyes as he approached, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Lord Cassian,” Darak said with a sneer, tone mocking. “What brings you and the Shadowsinger to our humble camp?”

Cassian stepped forward, his presence towering. “We’ve heard you’re holding a prisoner.”

“Mm, we have a few of those.” he smiled in response, tight and thin. “As you know, we do like to accommodate our guests while we offer them many opportunities to…change their minds.”

“Yeah, you’re generous like that.” Cassian’s jaw ticked. He had nothing but disgust for this male. “Now, let me give you a chance to think — perhaps a little harder this time — about what prisoner we meant.”

Darak’s face soured. “She’s nothing. A stray. We found her in one of the fields and brought her in for questioning.”

Cassian didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Azriel’s voice slipped in. Soft as silk, almost conversational almost. But it made the warriors closest to them tense. “Since when do you bother with nothings?”

Darak didn’t even glance at him. “We wanted to be thorough in our…observation.” he growled, eyes locked on the General.

Cassian tilted his head, a challenge in his eyes. “I’m sure you managed to gather a trove of valuable information.” he mused. “Care to share with us?”

Darak stared at him, hatred and contempt radiating off of him like heat. He paused for a moment, weighing his options. Cassian could almost hear the rusty, screeching wheels in the male’s skull. Only to crack it open.

“Her name?” Cassian suggested, voice clipped. “Age? Where she came from? How she got here?”

Something shifted.

The air thickened, electrified, and what had started as unfriendly tension turned into outward hostility. Everyone’s faces hardened, their body language stiffened, ready.

“That’s what I thought.” Cassian growled, tone thick with disgust. “You spent a week torturing a human for your own entertainment. That’s over now. Take us to her.”

“The bitch is of no use to you.”

Cassian stiffened. Were they too late? “What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t speak our language.”

“Maybe,” Azriel offered, voice full of cold amusement, “she just didn’t want to talk to you.”

Cassian smirked.

Darak shot him a look meant to kill, and added a muttered insult for good measure.

“Careful what you say next, Darak,” he murmured, dark and quiet. “I haven’t eaten yet, and hunger limits my patience.”

Darak’s lip lifted, baring his teeth.

“Take us to her.” Cassian ordered again, leaving no room for debate.

Darak hesitated, hatred in his eyes flaring hotter. But he finally turned and motioned them to follow. They crossed the camp to the south-western wing, weaving through clusters of warriors who abandoned their posts to spectate.

Darak led them down the dungeon and then stopped at the last door.

The cell was empty.

“Where the fuck is she?” Cassian’s chest tightened as he rounded on the leader. He grabbed him by his leathers and yanked him forward until their noses almost touched. “What did you do with her?”

Darak’s confusion seemed genuine. “Nothing! She was here this morning — ”

“Find her,” Cassian snapped, his voice reverberating off the stone. “Alive. And unharmed, if that wasn't clear to you.”

He released Darak with a shove. “There will be consequences otherwise.”

The moment they stepped back into the yard, the camp erupted into chaos as Darak barked orders and everyone scattered. The search had begun.

Cassian exchanged a sharp look with Azriel.

“Let’s find her before they do,” he growled, launching into the air with Azriel right behind him. She couldn’t have gotten too far — not in the condition she had to have been in. The fact she’d escaped at all was impressive. If not a little stupid. 

They soared above the camp, scanning the area around. The blue sky and morning sun allowing them to see well and far. Below, the plains stretched out white and wide, the distant forest yawning open on the horizon.

Then — movement.

Two males, far in the back of the plain that stood in between the camp and the forest. And there, not too far ahead of them, a small frantic figure weaving into the trees, shadows of the forest swallowing her. They were closing in on her fast.

Cassian’s pulse kicked.

Azriel reached for Cassian, shadowing them both closer to the forest. Azriel then peeled off toward the woods. Cassian followed, flying above and tracking the trio through the trees and bushes. It wasn’t a matter of finding them — but finding them in time, before they had taken their rage out on her.

Those bastards caught up with her in a clearing, overpowering her.

Gods, she fought them with everything she had left.

Cassian didn’t hesitate. Neither did Azriel.

They dove and landed just several yards away from the trio.

The impact of their landing cracked through the trees, a warning shot if there ever was one. Snow exploded under their boots, both the sentries as well as the girl freezing in their spots.

“Release her,” Cassian ordered. The two sentries hesitated, exchanging glances as if using a silent language to decide whether or not to follow his order.

“The witch is ours,” one of them snarled, tightening his grip on her arm. She winced.

“You only get one warning, soldier,” Cassian growled. “Let her go and walk away. Or learn the consequences of your subordination.”

“Bastard,” the male’s lip curled, disgust drowning his face. In the next heartbeat, he shoved the girl aside and drew his sword. The other one followed.

Idiots.

Untested, overconfident males not knowing their limits. Just what Cassian had expected.

Well, they're about to learn them.

Cassian and Azriel descended upon them, swords clashing, blades ripping through the air. It took only moments to cut them down, their bodies crumbled, blood spilling onto the frozen ground.

Cassian looked up — just in time to see her flee again. She was on the other side of the clearing, diving into the forest, her small frame disappearing into the shadow of the trees.

Shit.

They didn’t want to chase after her, that would add more to her panic. Admittedly, she couldn't have known they were there to save her and not to drag her back. He let out a heavy sigh and they both broke into a run. They followed her trail, dodging branches, scanning for movement. It didn’t take long to find her.

“Stop!” They called after her, voices urgent. She turned over her shoulder for a heartbeat, their gazes locking. And he felt a…pull. Urgent and irrational.

She turned away, moving so — so — slowly. Frustration washed over her. He could see it in the way she moved, trying to go faster but there was nothing left. They would have needed several more yards to reach her, when she suddenly stumbled forward and went over the edge of an incline.

Shit.

They reached her a heartbeat later, at the base of the hill, splayed out in the snow. Her breaths were ragged, body shaking. By the time he dropped to his knees next to her, she was already unconscious.

“Hey,” he whispered, trying to wake her up. No response — she was long out.

He slid his arms underneath her and carefully scooped her into his arms. She sagged against him, like a doll.

“Is she alive?” Azriel’s voice was grim.

“Barely,” Cassian answered, jaw tight.

Azriel nodded. “Let’s get her out of here, then.”

They didn’t waste another second, Azriel’s shadows swallowing them all. The girl didn’t wake, only stirred once, her head bouncing slightly against his chest, and he tightened his grip, an inexplicable pull settling deep in his bones.

___________

Cassian slowly landed on the balcony, careful to not bounce the unconscious girl in his arms as he adjusted his hold on her. Her frame was light and limp, felt almost boneless and extremely fragile, making him worry about causing further damage and pain.

Azriel touched down silently beside him, leading the way inside. “Madja is already here,”

The healer waited for them in the foyer, standing by a large wooden table, now covered in layers of blankets and sheets. She wore simple grey robes and her pale hair was pulled into a tight braid. Her dark grey eyes narrowed the moment they landed on the girl in Cassian’s arms.

“Set her down,” she ordered, gesturing to the table, ready to be used.

Cassian obeyed, his movements careful as he laid the girl down on the makeshift exam bed. Her face was pale — ghastly even —, long dark hair matted with blood and dirt, and her torn clothes barely covered her. The cloak she’d had earlier was gone, lost somewhere in the forest.

Madja didn’t waste a breath, immediately raising her thin hands and hovering them above the limp body. Her brows furrowed slightly in concentration as a faint shimmer of light began to emanate from her palms, searching for injuries — and their extent.

The light suddenly sputtered.

And vanished.

Cassian stepped back, crossing his arms as he watched. “What do you think?”

Madja didn’t respond, her frown deepened instead. She tried again, the glow returning — only to disappear a heartbeat later.

Azriel took a step forward, “What’s wrong, Madja?”

She stepped back, brows furrowed, incomprehension drowning her face. “My magic isn’t working on her.”

Cassian straightened, wings tense. “What do you mean?”

“I mean my magic is not working on her.” Madja repeated, her voice filled with utter confusion. “She’s not rejecting it — or pushing back against it — it just feels like there’s a barrier I can’t penetrate.”

Before either of them could respond, the door opened and Rhysand entered the room. He was dressed simply, his dark shirt open at the collar, hair casually brushed back. His violet eyes narrowed as he took in the scene.

Feyre followed close behind, her long braid thrown over her shoulder as she approached the table, concern rooted into her features.

Mor entered last, taking a stand next Feyre.

“What’s happening?” Rhysand questioned, his gaze flicking between Madja and the girl.

Madja turned to him and explained. Then continued, “Her injuries seem to be quite significant, although only external. But I’ll have to tend to them manually.”

Rhysand’s expression was stone as he studied the girl. “Why wouldn’t your magic work?”

The healer shook her head in answer. “I don’t know. I’ve seen some unusual cases in my life, but this — it’s different. I don’t sense any curse or enchantment and yet my magic just flickers out. Whatever this is, it’s beyond me. Perhaps you can take a look once I’ve taken care of her. and she's more stable”

Cassian clenched his fists, his frustration mounting. “Now what?”

“Now,” Madja said, her tone firm but patient, “I’ll clean and bandage her wounds. It will take longer for her to heal, but it’s the best we can do for now.”

“What if she has internal injuries?” he pushed back.

“We have to hope she doesn’t,” the healer answered flatly. “I don’t see any signs so that’s a good start. The healing tonic will — should — take care of any smaller ones. But if there’s more serious ones, I won’t know until it’s too late.”

A sharp edge of frustration clawed its way up Cassian’s spine. He hated feeling helpless.

Madja’s sharp eyes darted back over the girl’s injuries, her movements precise as she assessed the damage. “This will take time,” she continued, her tone brisk. “And space. Everyone out.”

No one moved.

“I’ll need only one of you to stay to help me move her around. Female.”

“I’ll stay,” Mor volunteered and stepped closer to the table. “Just tell me what you need.”

“Alright. Everyone else — out.” Madja repeated, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at Cassian. “Everyone.”

Rhysand raised a brow, his violet gaze flicking to Cassian. “You heard her.”

Cassian didn’t move.

“I’m staying,” he decided. “I can turn around, but I’m not leaving.”

Rhysand, Feyre, and Azriel exchanged a glance. Then, without protest, they slipped out into the hallway, leaving them alone. Madja huffed, clearly annoyed, but she didn’t argue. Just shook her head, muttering under her breath as she turned back to her work. “Stubborn Illyrians.”

Cassian ignored her. He turned toward the balcony, staring absently at Velaris in the distance, trying to listen for the girl’s vitals — weak, her pulse so slow he had to strain his ears to catch it.

So he stood there, like a soldier in formation, while Madja and Mor inspected the girl. He heard the rustle of fabric as they removed the girl’s torn clothes, and the soft splash of water as they cleaned her wounds. All that while Madja ordering Mor around like Rhysan's third were an apprentice.

“She’s lucky you found her when you did,” Madja acknowledged after a while. “I’m not sure she’d have lasted much longer.”

Cassian didn’t reply. Madja was right, she wouldn’t have. Those bastards would have caught her and either killed her on the spot or dragged her back to the camp which would have only extended the inevitable.

When Madja finally finished, she stepped back, brushing her hands against the folds of her robe. The girl was now bandaged where needed, healing balm applied in thick layers on all the bruises which practically covered her entire body. Dressed in a simple dressing gown that had replaced her old clothes. Madja had even managed to drop the first dose of healing tonic down the girl’s throat.

“She’ll need rest,” the healer stated. “And she should stay asleep for at least 3 days, her body will need it to heal. I’ve given her a sleeping tonic — have Nuala and Cerridwen administer it to her daily. And get her cleaned properly — hair, body, everything. There’s no reason she should stay in this filth.”

Cassian and Mor nodded simultaneously.

“You’ll also need to keep an eye on her. If anything changes — anything — call me immediately.”

Another round of nods.

“And someone needs to carry her to her room — I assume one has already been prepared for her?”

And another one.

Cassian stepped forward, carefully lifting the girl, her weight featherlight in his arms. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and the healer gave a small nod before gathering her supplies and leaving the room.

“Oh,” she paused in the doorway. “I will write down precise instructions for her care — you can pick them up in my quarters in the evening.”

And then Madja was gone.

Cassian carried the girl through the quiet halls, Mor trailing close behind. The halls of the house were still and quiet, soft morning light casting light glow along the stone walls.

Her room had been prepared earlier — a spacious, sunlit chamber. A large bed. Plush armchairs by the fire. Balcony. And a private bath. Cassian laid her gently on the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. For a moment, he stayed there, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress as he watched her breathe.

"Let's go," Mor said gently, making way to the door. "The others are waiting."

Chapter 9

The voices reached them before they even turned the corner into the study — low and tense, heating with each word. They entered the study just as Feyre turned to Rhysand, "— we can't just throw her in a cell, Rhys. She just got out of one."

Cassian took in the room in one swift glance. To someone who didn't know any better, it might've looked like a casual afternoon tea — Amren had joined the group, now lounging by the low table with legs elegantly crossed and chin propped on her hand, bored expression on her face. Feyre and Rhysand were seated next to each other, having a part of their conversation aloud and a part mind to mind. Azriel sat next to Amren, observing everyone — but there was a crackle of tension in the air, sharp and biting.

"Having fun without us?" Cassian drawled, swinging himself onto the nearest sofa, sprawling out as he locked his hands behind his head. "What did we miss?"

"Not much," Azriel answered quietly from the adjacent seat, shadows swirling around.

"I didn't mean it literally," Rhysand muttered, his hands lifting in a defensive gesture. "I will however admit that I'd feel much more comfortable if she were in a more secured space than the bedroom. I would hate to underestimate her — or the entire situation."

Mor scoffed, having thrown herself into a seat next to Feyre. "Who do you think she is? A world-renowned spy? Right. Because masterminds love being tortured for fun just to infiltrate our court."

Mor said it with enough sarcasm to sour milk. But nobody laughed.

The ridiculous idea settled over them like a heavy heavy cloak. What if?

Rhysand's violet eyes sharpened. "Would it really be unimaginable? Getting captured might not have been part of the plan — but what if the intention remains? We've seen — and done — enough of scheming to know better than to dismiss it as a possibility."

His voice dropped lower. "And I won't know for sure until I can get into her mind. Which for now is completely shut down."

Cassian blew out a breath through his nose, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "Look, I get it. None of us know who and what she is. But right now?" he jerked his chin towards the hallway. "If she were awake, she probably couldn't even stand on her own. If she is a spy, she's the world's most broken one. So I say we keep her in that room, keep an eye on her and we deal with her once she's awake."

"Cas is right," Azriel joined the conversation. "The human's no immediate threat. Let's let her heal and we can talk to her when she wakes."

"Are you sure about that?" Amren's voice purred, silver eyes glittering. "I find it interesting how she repelled Madja's magic like Cassian does women — that's everything but human."

Gods save them all from anything this female deems interesting.

"Hilarious." Cassian sneered at her.

"It's strange, yes," Mor agreed, swirling her tea, "and unexpected. Which is why you're not wrong to be cautious. So we watch her, but no drastic measures — yet."

Feyre leaned against the backrest of the sofa, her expression grim. "We still don't know anything about her. Humans don't just wander into Prythian. Especially not the Illyrian mountains. How did she get here?"

Rhysand nodded, turning to the Shadowsinger. "Azriel, you know where exactly they found her, right?"

A nod.

"Good. Let's take a little trip today. I'd like to visit the area." He turned his mate, flashing her the kind of smile he usually reserved for private moments. "Would you like to join me, Feyre, darling?"

She smiled, but shook her head. "I'll stay with Nyx. Truth be told, this whole situation is making me nervous. And the timing — after Briallyn, and Koschei... It feels like too much of a coincidence."

Rhysand's hand found hers, squeezing gently before he brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "You are right. We need to be cautious."

Cassian raked a hand through his hair. "So what about the girl?"

"She keeps her room — for now." Rhys answered. "You and Mor keep an eye on her. When she wakes, I need to see into her mind."

"When she's physically able to handle it, you mean," Cassian added, his eyes narrowing. Amren shot him a strange look but he ignored it.

A short pause, "Yes."

They finished their tea not so long after. Rhysand and Azriel rose in perfect unison, ready to take off, but not before dropping off Feyre at their house first. Amren left shortly after them, barking something about spending too much time around Cassian — to which she didn't deem his witty response interesting enough to react, so she just nonchalantly waved her hand and left the room.

By the time even Cassian and Mor left the study, the sky outside turned blood orange.

___________

The girl slept for three days straight now. They kept a close eye on her, watching for any signs of internal injuries they might have missed, or any downward shift of her condition. But there was nothing.

Nuala and Cerridwen tended to her daily, making sure she was clean and cared for. They administered doses of sleep and healing tonic per Madja's instructions, assisted with salves and bandage changes and also kept an eye on her in case she woke. But the healing was... maddeningly slow.

Were she Fae, she would have healed on the first day. Instead, it dragged on. Yes, the bruises started to fade and the worst swelling had gone, but progress felt like watching snow melt in early spring.

The air in the House matched. Everyone was on edge, nervous energy running through them all.

After Rhysand and Azriel returned from the Illyrian plains, the tension had tripled.

Because Azriel was right — she did appear out of nowhere.

There were no tracks. No sign of passage through the Illyrian wilds. No campfire remains or scent trail. Just a ripple in the fabric of the world.

Rhysand had sensed it, faint but there. The faintest trace of strange energy in the air — like winnowing, but different, more raw. Nothing he sensed when it had happened — which concerned him enough on its own — but with enough proximity and focus, he felt a strange shimmer, like catching the last warmth of tea left out too long.

And then Azriel had returned just an hour ago from another of his scouting sessions with more to report. They'd reconvened in the study, lounging by the fire and enjoying after-breakfast tea and sweets. Nesta was out with the Valkyries and Elain was with Nyx, so it was just them again.

"They're furious," Az said. "Darak and the entire camp. They think we murdered the two of them in cold blood —"

""—which we did—" Cassian smirked and reached for another biscuit.

Az blinked. "—and they're calling for retribution. You can head there at your earliest convenience to smooth things over."

Cassian bowed his head, an amused challenge in his eyes. "My pleasure. I'll make it very clear what actually happened."

Rhys gave him a sidelong glance. "Just don't start—"

"—a war. Yes, Rhys, I know the rules." he rolled his eyes, mouth full of pastry.

"Well, you might want to consider following them every now and then." Mor mused, which earned her another eye roll from him.

"Anything else they shared about the girl?" Feyer asked.

"No. Just the same story — that she's a witch and she had brought death to their camp and the entire court. They were very vocal about regretting not killing her on the spot."

Feyre nodded in understanding, and frowned. "And the human lands? What else have you found?"

Azriel's brows drew together. "That's... harder to explain. I had noticed an increasing number of incidents. It started with scattered reports which seemed to have no connection nor pattern. A fire here. A collapsed farmhouse there. Travelers going missing. At first, it seemed random. But the numbers started to grow too fast."

"How fast?" Cassian asked.

"Fast enough to raise my suspicions," Az replied. "I've been tracking it. And the pattern doesn't sit right. Homes burned to ash. Entire families gone. Bodies missing. No witnesses. And no survivors."

Feyre covered her mouth, pale. "Is it connected to her?"

Azriel hesitated. "I don't know. It didn't start with her appearance. Many — most, actually — of those incidents predate her arrival by weeks. Months, even. But the timing is still very strange."

"What else do you know?" Amren requested.

"Nothing," he shook his head. "I don't have any leads. I'll let you know once I have gathered more."

Cassian glanced toward the window, where the sun was just beginning to rise past the rooftops of Velaris. A strange feeling slithered beneath his skin.

What the hell was happening?

Several cups of tea and a few rounds of biscuits later, they were still discussing Azriel's findings when it happened.

A scream broke up their conversation — panicked, desperate, and coming from the girl's room.

She was awake.

Cassian went taut and rigid, having to stop himself from jumping to his feet. His gaze followed the screams, fists tightly clenching. They exchanged glances, waiting for the other to be the first one to react. Previously they had agreed to approach her carefully to not scare her even further. If they now approached her, would it help or make things worse?

More screams.

To everyone's surprise — Amren raising her eyebrow — Cassian shot up to his feet and went for the door. Mor reached up from her seat and grabbed his arm. "Don't. Not yet."

Cassian shot her a disapproving look but didn't move. And after a few moments, the screams faded.

Instead, in their place came another sound, slow and scraping.

"She's barricading herself," Azriel noted quietly.

"Problem solved," Mor muttered. "I think it's clear she doesn't want company."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Cassian exhaled, rubbing his hand over his face. His instincts screamed at him to go check on her. But rationally he knew that wouldn't bode well. So he sat back down instead, trying to settle. Across from him, Amren watched him with a curious gleam in her eyes, but, for once, said nothing.

"Going back to our previous topic, " Rhysand broke the silence, "is there a chance we could get more information?"

He now turned to Amren, "Do you think our friend Varian and the Summer Court might have noticed something similar?"

She narrowed her eyes, "Are you trying to use me as your personal spy, Rhysand?"

And Rhysand just smiled innocently and grinned, "Not at all, dearest Amren. Simply seeking to expand our knowledge."

"I might ask him when I see him next time." Amren sipped her tea, eyes still on him. "If I feeli like it."

Cassian snorted and stuffed his mouth with yet another biscuit. "How generous of you, oh ancient one."

___________

The girl slept through the rest of the day — or at least, that's what they assumed when they heard nothing but silence coming from her room. At one point, they'd worried something had gone wrong so they called Madja to come check on her. But the healer found nothing concerning and only assured them this kind of behaviour happened often enough — one waking up after a long sleep in a sudden burst of energy only to crash again. She also warned them it might still happen once or twice more, nothing to be alarmed. So after the girl had been checked, fed healing and sustainment potion, and her bandages exchanged for new, they let her be.

And waited.

At least, Cassian did.

He wanted to be useful and do something, but after visiting Darak's camp and practically starting a brawl with him and his in command — and handing them their own asses on a silver platter — he found he had nothing else to do. Or, to be more honest, nothing he wanted to do. Strange, restless energy prowled under his skin, leaving him feeling unsettled and helpless even though he knew there was nothing he could do.

They simply had to wait for the stranger to wake up in order to find out what was actually going on. He also knew she was well taken care of and there was nothing to worry about. And yet, he couldn't make himself leave, convincing himself that he needed to keep an eye on her in case shit goes south. He couldn't leave a complete stranger unattended, especially with Nyx in the neighbouring town.

So he had decided to go sparring with Az to let some of the energy out. They moved like storm winds, fast, brutal and precise. Cassian fought harder than necessary, like each strike might have loosen up the knot that had formed in his chest.

Az parried a vicious strike and stepped aside, eying Cassian. "You're unfocused."

"Am not," Cassian grunted, sweat running down his forehead. A lie.

Another strike. Another parry.

Azriel spun on his heel and brought his blade down fast, catching Cassian on the shoulder. A clean hit. "And slow," he added. "What's gotten into you?"

Cassian growled and returned the blow to Az, "Absolutely. Nothing."

However, the Shadowsinger was quicker on his feet, easily dodging it.

"Perhaps I should call Nyx — pretty sure even now he hits better than you" Az teased, smirk on his face.

"Ass," Cassian muttered, a short and sharp laugh escaping his throat.

This went on for another few rounds. Neither of them held back. Azriel kept riling Cassian up, ensuring he gave him enough space and opportunity to blow off all that steam. By the end of it, they were both drenched in sweat, holding a silent competition of who was less out of breath. Safe to say, they ended up both keeling over and lapping for air after trying — and failing — to hold it in.

But to Cassian's relief, he did feel better. The tension in his chest had eased and he now felt slightly more relaxed and comfortable in his own skin.

And to everyone's surprise, the girl woke up again before the sun dipped below the horizon. Mor had taken the opportunity to go check on her and be the first friendly face she'd see around here. Apparently, she even managed to coax her into eating which, admittedly, didn't go too well and she ended up hurling her guts out — her stomach stressed after days of partial starvation. But they had managed. And not only that, they also had Madja meet her and give her a thorough exam before having her go back to sleep.

Cassian, for his part, still didn't know what to do with himself. So under the guise of safety and ensuring everyone was safe, he landed on the roof on top of her balcony and settled there, keeping watch. If she were up to something, he'd know right away. Right?

She woke up again sometime after midnight. He heard her shifting around her room, going in and out onto the balcony. Until she seemed to have finally settled down — and eventually fallen asleep. When he went to check on her, she was buried in her blanket, curled up in the inner corner of the balcony. Her face was pale, features pinched in sleep. Even resting, she looked... broken.

His chest tightened.

He felt a tug — a quiet urge to scoop her up and carry her to the bed where she'd be more comfortable. But instead, he took off, and settled on the roof again.

___________

And when the girl woke up the next day, it was decided they would speak with her the very same day. So when she was done with breakfast and getting examined by the healer, Mor brought the girl to meet them. They had agreed to meet her in the lounge — bright, open space which they assumed would make her feel a little at ease.

Boy were they wrong.

Cassian and Azriel arrived last, entering the room to find everyone already seated. Aven sat across the lounge, posture tight, chin high, trying to look composed. And it might have worked - if not for him and Az.

The moment her eyes landed on them, everything in her changed.

Her blood ran cold — Cassian could feel the spike of her heartbeat from across the space. Panic clamped down on her so fast and violently, it knocked her to her feet in a stumbling, desperate lurch.

The sheer panic in her face punched him in the gut. And he decided there and then he might pay Darak and the other bastards another visit. And that's when the realization hit him — this was not because of resemblance to Darak and the others. She was actually scared of them.

Fuck. But he guessed it made sense — her only experience with them was in the forest and, admittedly, that couldn't have been a pleasant sight.

Luckily, Mor managed to calm her down. And to ensure they didn't scare her any further, they found seats on the other side of the lounge, as far from her as possible. He felt her eyeing him, like she was waiting for him to change his mind and jump her. He could see the tension in her body, ready to bolt again.

Mor turned to the rest, breaking the silence and starting an introduction round.

Aven.

Cassian's breath caught.

But he didn't have time to dwell on it as Mor continued the introductions. He watched Aven's breath snag at the sight of the ancient female. Rightfully so. Amren, seated neatly, looked more predator than any kind of ally, her silver eyes sharp and assessing. Aven looked away quickly, like she knew better than to stare too long at something dangerous.

Smart girl.

Then Azriel — he saw the moment she realized she wasn't imagining the shadows in her eyes, and he glimpsed the faint shiver that passed through her shoulders. A second later, her heart skipped a beat and started beating faster. The memory of the forest must have slammed back into her. Cassian grimaced on the inside. He hated the flash of fear tightening her jaw.

"Cassian," Mor's voice sounded, and Aven's eyes snapped to him. "thinks he's charming. Mostly just loud."

He huffed a laugh. "Says the female who's been yelling at me since we were kids."

Slouched in his seat, he lifted a hand in a lazy wave "Hey, Aven,".

Her gaze met his — and it hit.

Wide, wary eyes locked with his. And for a heartbeat, Cassian couldn't move. Just stared at her. When she broke the stare and looked away, he felt a strange pinch of emptiness. He shook his head slightly and continued watching the scene.

Mor now moved on to Feyre and Rhysand. Cassian watched Aven's eyes flick in between Feyre, poised and graceful, and Rhysand, polished and relaxed.

"Hello, Aven."

She muttered something in response, nothing any of them understood.

"I'm about to begin."

"Be careful, Rhys," Mor warned. "We agreed to be nice."

"Go easy on her, brother." Cassian added. He understood why they needed to do this. And logically, it was the only way. But deep down he hated the idea of it.

Rhys spoke again and Cassian could see the moment Rhysand locked her in. Her body went tense and taut, locking up in one position, going absolutely still. He clenched his fists, and in the corner of his eye he caught Azriel shooting him an observing look.

Aven, started tensing up.

First, her fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. Her breathing hitched. Jaw clenched.

Then a sound escaped her — it started as a pained cry, ragged and broken. And with every breath, it grew. Until it became an agonizing scream.

They all sat there frozen, waiting for Rhysand to stop. To break the connection.

Aven continued screaming, her voice turning rasped.

He will stop any any second now.

Except Rhysand didn't.

They looked at each other expectantly.

"We should stop." Mor raised her voice, worry lacing her voice.

"I agree. I think that's enough." Feyre said quickly, placing a hand on her mate's arm in a silent request.

"Rhysand, stop." Cassian called out, fists clenched, jaw tight. "Rhys —"

A new wave of scream — louder, like the pain had increased ten fold.

"That's enough!" Cassian bellowed, breaking Rhysand out of focus. And Aven suddenly gasped for air like she just came up to the surface. Her cries continued as she held her head in her hands, nails raking through her hair.

"What the hell, Rhys!" Mor snapped, turning to her cousin. "You should have snapped out of it long time ago!" She then rushed to Aven — only for her to slap her hand away, her eyes blazing with fury and fear.

Oh gods, was she pissed.

She spat something at them, words they didn't recognize dripping with anger. And they didn't need to — the message was clear.

She made for the exit, while eying everyone, like she was daring them to come after her. She looked vicious. Cassian didn't dare smile. But deep down, he admired it.

The girl had guts.

When she bolted into the hall, they all stayed silent for a little longer. Cassian's eyes lingered on the empty hall before he turned to Rhysand.

"What the fuck was that, Rhys?" he snapped, breaking the silence. "Torturing the girl was not part of the plan."

Rhysand let out a sigh. "I didn't torture her."

"Sure as hell didn't look like that from here..."

"I barely did anything." He said in his defense. "I couldn't get through."

"What do you mean?" Feyre frowned, everyone else looking equally as confused.

"I mean I couldn't get through. All I saw was a wall. A massive, never-ending wall. It was partially translucent — I could see her silhouette on the other side. But apart from that, I saw or heard nothing from behind it."

Everyone stared at him.

"And?" Amren drawled.

"And when I touched the wall, it immediately reacted — it felt like it tried to push me away. I have never seen anything like it. Even the most skilled ones in mind shields can't build something like this. That wall is comparable to Feyre's and mine."

A silence deeper than before settled over the room.

"From a human?" Amren wondered, her silver eyes narrowing. Rhysand only nodded, contemplating on what had just happened.

"She doesn't leave the House." he then commanded, High Lord now speaking. "I don't sense any immediate danger from her, so she can stay in her room. But she's to be watched — until we know who and what she is."

 

*******************************************

I'm really sorry about the long wait - we're in the middle of moving and I had no energy left. Hope you can enjoy this chapter :)

Chapter 10

And just like that, Aven had become enemy number one.

Well — not quite. But their suspicion of her had deepened significantly. And with Nyx only a few months old, Cassian couldn't help but wonder how long it would take before Rhysand lost his restraint and shattered his own rules, just to claw his way into her mind. To see something — anything.

Admittedly, it did prove hard to get a read on the girl without being able to speak to her. Rhysand might be right — maybe she was a spy who'd gotten herself into a nasty situation and just so happened to be rescued by the very same court she was meant to infiltrate. But maybe they were dead wrong. And she was just a human who'd been thrown into something far beyond her control. Or maybe there was middle ground to it?

Cassian let out a sigh and rubbed a hand down his face. After their session earlier, he'd returned to his room to wash up and try to clear his thoughts. Now, he stood in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror — wet strands of hair curling around his face, water still dripping down his chest.

What a fucking mess. So — so — many questions. And no answers. Only instinct. And his instinct wouldn't let go of the feeling that they were missing something. That they had it all wrong. He didn't believe any of this was a coincidence. The girl's arrival had to be connected to whatever Koschei was brewing. But how? And why her?

Rhys was right about one thing — they sensed no immediate threat from her. But it was harder to trust that completely when they had no way to confirm it. Sad to say, they'd grown too used to Rhysand's power.

He stepped out of the bathroom and into the lounge of his room, grabbing a half a sandwich leftover from earlier, and sank into one of the chairs as he devoured it in two ravenous bites. Stress always made him hungrier than battle.

Once dressed — loose pants, a soft tunic, hair left to air-dry — he made his way downstairs. When he entered the kitchen, Mor had arrived, placing a tray of food and tea on the table with an annoyed sigh before dropping into a chair.

"What's gotten you in knots?" Cassian smirked, pouring himself a cup. "Is the little human causing trouble again?"

"You know damn well she is," Mor rolled her eyes and let out a weary laugh. "She locked herself in again and is refusing to open the door. And I'm not about to force it...but she needs to eat and drink. And yes, we could have the House bring it to her, but I don't want to do that just yet. These visits matter — they allow us to check on her and see how's she doing. But she will not let me in."

She kicked her boots up on the table, crossing her ankles, and rubbed her eyes. "I really hope we didn't scare her beyond repair, Cass."

Cassian pursed his lips, considering. "She looked more pissed than scared to me." He patted her on the shoulder and grabbed the tray. "You know what, let me try."

Mor arched a brow and smiled in disbelief "You think you're going to have any success when she ignored me? Gods, your ego knows no bounds, does it?"

"Exactly why women adore me," he winked over his shoulder and headed off before she could toss something at him.

Cassian didn't expect a warm welcome. But something about the way she'd reacted earlier — the fire in her eyes, the anger and fury that outshone the fear — stuck with him. Maybe she didn't need coddling. Maybe she needed someone too stubborn to walk away.

He had no real plan in his mind. He would decide how to do this when he got there.

The first knock earned him nothing.

The second, still silence.

So he decided to keep knocking until he got a reaction.

The fifth one did it.

He heard her shout something, voice frustrated and annoyed. Followed by the sharp stomp of feet on the floor. Then scrape of the furniture being moved out of the way. A huff. And then — she opened the door.

"Mor should learn to know her audience. This was easy." A victorious grin spread on his lips. "Hello, there."

The fury vanished from her face the second she saw him, replaced by tight, frozen caution. When she tried to slam the door shut in a moment of panic, he wedged his boot into the frame.

He decided he wouldn't give her a chance to spiral. So he waltzed into the room like he owned it, casually ignoring her wide eyes and stiff posture. If he couldn't talk her down, he'd show her she didn't need to be afraid. He was betting on the fire he'd seen in her before to face him.

And gods, it worked. For a little while, at least.

Anger burned through her, cheeks flushed as she shouted at him, flustered and indignant. He let her vent and throw those furious glares. But when he took a step forward, her defenses cracked and he saw uncertainty replace all the fury. She started backing up, hands held out as if she could push him away with will alone — completely unaware he was guiding her exactly where he wanted her.

He smirked in satisfaction when her knees hit the armchair and she toppled backward with a startled grunt. He was there instantly, covering her with a blanket before she could even properly sit up.

She looked absolutely wrecked. Pale as moonlight. Disheveled hair. Deep dark under-eye circles. And the air reeked faintly of sweat and vomit — likely brought by a panic breakdown.

She needed sugar. And warmth. Something to bring back some of the colour to her skin and energy to get rid of those slight tremors which he assumed were still an aftershock from earlier.

So: biscuits and tea.

Cassian said nothing as he poured the drinks and handed her the sweets, and then took the seat beside her. He fixed his gaze on the crackling fire, listening instead to the stutter and slow syncopation of her heartbeat.

It took longer than expected, but eventually, her pulse steadied, her breathing evened, and some of the life returned to her eyes as she sipped on her tea and slowly worked her way through a third piece of pastry. When he was satisfied with how much she'd eaten, he rose to leave. His stomach was tight with the sight of her — broken, exhausted. Spy, his ass...

He paused in the doorway. "Good night, Aven."

———————

When Cassian woke up in a shit mood the next day. With too much on his mind, he didn't fall asleep until late, so with only a few hours of sleep, he washed up, shoved on fresh clothes, and made his way to the kitchen where breakfast was already laid out on the table — Mor, cheerful as ever, piling some of it onto a tray.

"Rhys and Feyre want to try again today," she said, glancing at him as he entered. "And why do you like hell?"

"Still better than you," he muttered and threw himself into a chair right in front of the bread and pastries..

"Hm," she mused, "Doubtful. But I like your confidence."

Cassian wrinkled his nose at her in faked disgust, and bit into a flaky, sweet bun.

"How was she last night?" Mor asked softly, clearly trying to gauge how things would unfold later on. She hadn't expected him to succeed in getting Aven open her door — her expectations confirmed once he shared with her that he had practically tricked her into it — but wanted to know more about last evening.

"She was in rough shape," he admitted and proceeded to fill her in. How Aven had looked, how he made sure she ate something, and also the likely breakdown she had had before his arrival.

"So she did settle down?"

He nodded. "Eventually. I think she's starting to come to terms with her situation. At least for now." He reached for two slices of bread and some meats, and started assembling his plate. "You brining her to us right after breakfast?"

"Yes. Madja's going to check on her first but I'll bring right after that."

"Well then," he raised his sandwich in a mocking salute. "May she not bite your head off."

He saw the fire that burned in Aven's eyes and the sharp temperament that ran through her veins. The girl had guts and he had to admit — he looked forward to seeing more of it.

Mor grinned, tray in hand, and walked out, leaving Cassian alone with his breakfast.

_______________

Two hours later, they all gathered yet again. This time in the study.

It didn't take long before Mor arrived with Aven in tow, the girl looking far better than she had last night. The shadows beneath her eyes had lightened, the swelling now minimal. And colour had returned to her face — she still looked tired, but no longer like she'd just clawed her way out of a grave. Even her posture had improved, her movements a little more determined and sure of themselves.

Cassian silently nodded in approval.

They didn't bother with pleasantries and went straight to business once Aven sat down. Rhysand and Feyre explained — tried to — what they intended to do. Cassian watched the girl and saw the wheels in her head turn as she considered her options, her brows furrowing. He didn't blame her one bit. If he'd been through what she had, he wouldn't want anyone near his mind again either.

But to his surprise, she agreed fairly quickly — to get it over with, he thought — and Feyre and Rhys didn't hesitate to begin, as if afraid she'd change her mind.

The rest of them sat back, silently braced for the worst. Muscles tight, eyes locked on the trio, ready to intervene if things spiraled again.

Only...they didn't have to.

Aven sat rigid in her chair, her fists clenched tight on her knees. But there was no pained scream ravaging her throat. No signs of pain at all, actually. Her face seemed tense — but in focus rather in pain, brows drew together in concentration.

"This seems to be going...alright?" Cassian murmured, suspicion lacing his voice."Of course Rhys needed our dear Feyre to show him how things are done." He huffed a soft laugh, eyes still on the three of them.

"What do you think it's happening?" Mor asked from next to Aven. "It must be going either really well...or really badly."

"I'm leaning towards the first option," Azriel answered from his shadows and Cassian hummed in agreement.

The room settled into stillness, each of them cautiously watching. Amren looked bored as usual but Cassian knew better — she missed nothing. He was about to switch the ankle crossed over his leg when a scream ripped through the air.

Aven's body arched, her voice raw with pain — and then, just as fast, it was over. She collapsed forward, gasping for air, both hands clutching her head. Mor was at her aside in an instant, steadying her. Cassian's gaze darted to Feyre and Rhysand. Both sat there unmoving and silent, their eyes pinned on the girl. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation when —

"Thanks," sounded from Aven's direction.

Cassian blinked. What the hell?

He wasn't the only one who'd heard it. Everyone stilled, eyes flicking between each other like they were trying to see if they'd imagined it.

"Did you just speak our language?" Mor asked cautiously, hope creeping into her voice. But to everyone's disappointment, Aven just shrugged her shoulders, having no idea what Mor said.

Mor turned to the group, confused. "I wasn't the only one who heard that, was I?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"What the hell just happened?" she continued. "And what happened with you two?"

"Admittedly? Not much." Rhysand answered, voice measured with subtle strain behind it. "The wall was still there, we could barely do anything."

"But you did something?" Amren challenged, eyes narrowing in curiosity.

Feyre nodded slowly. "We managed to touch the wall. It was...unreal. It pulsed underneath our hands like it was alive."

"Alive?" Cassian echoed.

"Not alive like a creature," she added softly, "but sentient. It felt us. Our power, our intent. It didn't lash out like it did with Rhys before. It...allowed us in. Or close to it."

"It was surreal," Rhysand joined. "I've never felt anything like it before. I don't think I've even read about anything like it." He ran his hand through his hair, then took Feyre's hand in his and brushed a kiss to her knuckles in an assuring gesture. She smiled lovingly, seemingly grateful for it. Cassian could only imagine the worry they had.

Rhysand turned back to the group. "The wall cracked. When we touched it, I mean — a thin, almost invisible fracture. That's when she reacted, and we stopped."

Everyone stared at them, disbelief spread across their faces. Cassian gazed back at Aven, who now sat quietly as she watched them, her brows furrowed in what looked like confusion.

"Let's keep watching her," Azriel proposed, voice low, expression unreadable. "And see what happens."

Aven hissed suddenly, the heels of her palms now pressed to her temples. "I want to go to my room, I have a headache again."

All eyes in the room snapped to her in unison.

Cassian's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

"Do you actually understand us?" Mor whispered.

Aven blinked rapidly, clearly overwhelmed and confused. Her eyes darted across all of them as in desperately searching for answers. Then her breathing hitched, growing ragged and shallow. That didn't look right.

Aven shrieked — and collapsed.

"Aven!"

_____________

"Physically, she's uninjured," Madja announced as she stepped into the lounge, grey braid slung over her shoulder. Cassian trailed right behind her. She set her healer's satchel down and slowly sat down, reaching for an already poured cup of tea. One long sip, followed by a weary sigh.

After Aven collapsed, they'd carried her to her room and sent for the healer immediately. She hadn't stirred once, with skin pale as death again, lips colourless.

"Her heart is steady, perhaps slightly slower than I would like — let's keep an eye on that." Madja cast a pointed look at Mor. "But no signs of physical trauma. Whatever is happening to her is, at least for now, only in her mind."

"Thank you, Madja," Feyre said gently.

The healer nodded and took another sip. "Now, would someone care to explain what actually happened so I know what I'm working with?"

The group exchanged glances as in silently weighing how much to share.

"Come now, I don't have all day," she hurried them and took a bite of a sugared pastry laid out in front of her.

Rhys cleared his throat. "We attempted to enter her mind again," There was the barest flicker in his expression, almost a flinch beneath Madja's disagreeing stare. And then, he and Feyre took turns explaining the events that followed.

"Hm," Madja frowned. "If you two cannot access her mind, I'm afraid there's very little I can do. My magic still doesn't work on her." She took a thoughtful pause, eyes narrowing in concentration. "She might be experiencing some kind of overload — information, emotion, language — and her body had decided to shut down as a protective mechanism, to process everything in peace."

That sounded like a reasonable explanation.

"Keep an eye on spikes in her heart rate, temperature fluctuations or any other strange behaviour. Let me know if they last too long. In the meantime, Nuala and Cerridwen know what to do."

Everyone nodded in understanding.

"For now," she said, already rising. "I will take my leave. Try not to send for me before nightfall. I'd quite like a few hours of work where I can actually help."

Cassian caught the faint smirk tugging at Amren's mouth. The ancient creature had always liked Madja's lack of tolerance for nonsense.

"Thank you, Madja." Rhysand said and the healer nodded in acknowledgement, popped the last piece of her pastry into her mouth, and left.

"What do we do now?" Cassian asked. What could they do?

Feyre took him in. "We wait."

_____________

So they did.

After Madja left, the lounge thinned out fairly quickly. There was nothing they could do now — except wait. And everyone had more interesting ways to spend it than sit around and wait for the girl to wake up.

Rhys and Feyre returned to Nyx, needing the connection to soothe the fear that coiled in their chests. Amren left for her apartment — likely to gorge on blood or some poor willing soul, to entertain herserl while Varian remained in the Summer Court. Mor mentioned something about wreaking a little havoc on the Hewn City to shake off some of the pent up tension. And Azriel offered to go with her, shadows curling around him as if excited to come along as well.

And so, Cassian was left alone.

He considered brooding in his room but instead made his way to the Valkyrie training ring. They were mid-session when he arrived, divided into multiple smaller groups based on their skill level. Their numbers had grown significantly since Gwyn and Emerie — and unofficially Nesta — won the Rite. Word had spread like wildfire through the library, sparking interest in combat or self-defense among the majority of the library inhabitants. Priestesses who once barely spoke above whisper or dared to go outside now learned how to wield blades. It was one of the most moving things Cassian — and the entire Night Court — had witnessed in centuries.

He sat on the sidelines for hours, observing quietly. Every single female in that ring had chosen to fight. To heal. And he couldn't admire them for it more.

Even as he stayed with them, his thoughts drifted back to the House. He knew Nuala and Cerridwen checked on Aven regularly, reporting any changes. Or the lack thereof — the girl was still as ice on the Sidra, not even a twitch of a finger. But he couldn't help it and decided to check on her a few times himself — her being a security threat and all.

The last time he came to check on Aven was just before midnight. The room had been still, quiet but for the low crackle of fire in the hearth. And for whatever reason, he took a seat in one of the armchairs. Just for a moment before he'd return to his room. Just until —

He must have fallen asleep.

He realized it when he blinked awake, the soft glow of morning filtering in through the curtains. His neck ached, limbs stiff from being curled awkwardly in the chair. Groaning softly, he rubbed at his eyes and stretched his neck, his gaze shifting to the girl.

And to his surprise, he found her warily staring back at him.

"Good morning, sunshine," he grinned.

A heartbeat.

And then, softly:

"Hi."

Chapter 11

Aven came to consciousness after what felt like a minute. It took her a while to remember where she was and what had happened. And then, suddenly, everything came rushing back —

Meeting the others.

Allowing them into her mind.

Understanding bits and pieces of their conversation afterward.

And...pain.

Wait.

The conversation — she really had understood them, hadn't she?

Not all of it. But enough. Enough that it couldn't have been her imagination.

Her heart skipped.

How was it possible?

Aven sat up slowly. Her head still foggy, vision blurred. Rubbing her eyes, she blinked toward the source of the morning light filtering through gauzy curtains — golden and warm, but far too bright for her aching eyes.

It took a few attempts, but when she finally managed to keep her eyes open, she looked around the room. And her breath caught.

Cassian.

Sprawled and sunken into an armchair by the hearth, arms crossed over his broad chest. Fast asleep.

What the actual fuck?

She stared at him for a while longer, unmoving. Hoping he'd just vanish like a dream.

He didn't.

He was real. And still asleep.

What the hell was he doing in her room?

She didn't dare move just yet, her brain running through her options:

Sneak to the bathroom and lock the door. Except he'd probably just wait outside.

Sneak out of the room altogether. Except — go where?

Dammit. She didn't want to deal with anyone now, especially not this brute. Last night — or however long it had been — was enough. Still watching him, her gaze unfocused for a second and she spaced out. When it sharpened again, his eyes were open. And looking straight at her.

"Good morning, sunshine," he greeted her, grinning. And she understood. Every. Word.

Oh god. She understood.

Panic jolted her spine straight, and before she could stop herself —

"Hi."

Shit.

Aven immediately regretted it. She should not have done that. She didn't know why, exactly, but something in her gut screamed to keep this new development to herself. Yes, they'd been...kind enough. If you ignored the part where they mentally tore her open. And yes, she had a stunning room and comfortable bed that didn't reek of mildew and had no metal doors keeping her in. But trust them? Absolutely not.

Everyone always has an angle — in her or this world alike. And until she figured out theirs, she wasn't showing her cards. Especially not this one.

Cassian's eyes lit up. "How are you feeling?"

How considerate.

She blinked at him with the best confused expression she could summon, the one she'd naturally perfected during her first few days here.

He tried again. "Aven? How are you feeling?"

Aven opted for the holy trinity — a shrug, a head shake, and a faint grimace – all delivered with the most convincing look of confusion.

He paused, eyes searching her face. And then she saw it. The moment he realized she still didn't understand. That it was a fluke and she'd just probably picked up on a greeting. Nothing more.

Perfect.

God, she needed him gone. Not just to get her thoughts in order, feeling extremely caught off guard. But because, from what she could tell, she was wearing nothing but a sleeping gown. And the idea of being this exposed in a room with a man she barely knew was too much for her comfort.

And he'd slept here?

She pulled the blanket tighter to her body and pointed at the door.

"Too bad. We hoped for a breakthrough," Cassian sighed in disappointment. "You really don't speak the language?"

Aven almost answered. But caught herself in time, a new worry suddenly bubbling up. She realized she didn't know if she had the ability to switch in between the languages or if everything she said got universally translated — as bizarre as that would be.

What kind of problem even was that?

Instead of answering, she furrowed her brow and stared him down, throwing another blank look for good measure and hoping he'd take the cue.

And eventually, he did. He stretched lazily, wings giving a slow shake behind him — and she caught herself staring at them in...awe?...still trying to get over the fact people here had them. When he was done stretching, he made his way to the door. But before he left, he crossed the room, grabbed the bathrobe off the dresser, and came toward her.

She tensed.

But he only placed it carefully at the foot of the bed, his body language deliberately non threatening, as in making sure she wouldn't take it the wrong way.

"I'll get Mor," he said quietly, and left.

The moment the door clicked shut, Aven released a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, and flopped backward into the pillow, yanking the blanked up to her chin as if it could shield her from everything.

Her mind raced as she lay there, staring at the ceiling. She shook her head — she could understand them now. Not just a word or two or a few phrases. Actual sentences. How was that even possible?

Out of nowhere, a vague memory came rushing back.

She was standing in a sea of mist. Thick and cold, wisping around her ankles.

She was back at the wall.

And when she looked up, there it was. Towering, semi-transparent behemoth, shimmering like oil on water. When she paid closer attention, she came to realize it blurred — iridescent waves coming out of the wall in pulsed echoes.

And there, at the center of it — the tiny crack, barely there.

She approached the wall and saw it. From it spilled dark smoke, seeping through in minute threads.

No, not smoke. If she didn't know any better, she'd describe it as night.

Darkness streaked with silver flecks, like starlight caught in ink.

As surreal as it was, it was beautiful.

The memory ended here. And she remembered nothing else, having no idea how long she'd been unconscious or anything else that might have happened while she was out.

Aven kicked off the blanket.

Got up, put on the bathrobe and walked over to the bathroom.

She needed a long, hot bath.

___________

She started the water, adding whatever oils and salts she could find around the bath. Floral and unfamiliar, but far from unpleasant. Before stepping in, she double-checked both doors — her room door as well as the bathroom door — and locked them both. She knew it wouldn't stop them but hoped they'd respect her need for privacy.

The first step into the water felt like heaven again — almost cinematic in its perfection. She let out a long sigh as she eased the rest of the way in, letting the heat seep into her bones. And this, she decided to take her time.

She still didn't trust them, not even close, actually. But it did seem slightly ridiculous to imagine one of the barging in and dragging her out of the bath naked. They seemed like the kind of people who'd wait for her to get covered before throwing her into a cell.

So she allowed herself to relax. And think.

She'd practically announced to Cassian that she could't understand their language. So even if she changed her mind now, revealing the truth would be awkward. Yet another reason why not to back out now.

It was obvious she'd have to tell them eventually. But she needed to do it on her own terms. With so much chaos around her and everything out of her control, this little secret was the only piece of control she was able to carve out for herself.

And her plan was simple.

Keep pretending to not understand.

Listen.

Learn.

And decide what to with that information once she had it.

Truth be told, there were only two things she really needed to know.

One, whether she could trust them or if they were just another threat, only with nicer manners.

Two, how to get the hell back home.

Aven stayed in the bath for what felt like forever, her fingers and toes turning into soft, wrinkled raisins. She waited for the water to get cold as a cue to get out. But strangely enough, it never did. As a result, she must have stayed there for much longer than planned.

When she finally got out, feeling a little weak and heavy from the heat, she dried off and reached for the lotions and tonics in the cupboards, this time choosing one labeled Jasmine & Rivermint. She gave it a whiff, a pleasant scent of jasmine and mint — only sweeter — tickling her nose. She then moved onto her hair, already dreading having to brush out all the tangles that must have formed while she slept. But to her surprise, the brush glided through her hair smoothly, as if it had been just brushed. So she gave it a few more squeezes with the towel to get as much water out, and braided it loosely.

After she had dressed in another set of clean, impossibly soft clothes — leggings and an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of cedar and lavender — she felt almost human again.

Feeling stronger and more confident, breathing in the fresh air on the balcony, she decided it was time to leave her room on her own. She needed answers and she wouldn't find them here, basking in the sun.

Her skin itched with unease, her nerves buzzing like ants crawling under the surface, as she opened the door of her room —

And jumped.

Mor was standing right behind it, hand raised as if about to knock.

"Aven!" she beamed. "Cassian said you were awake so I brought breakfast. Figured you'd be hungry."

Aven blinked, caught off guard. She gave Mor her best confused head tilt. But when her eyes landed on the tray of food, her stomach growled so loudly it might have spoken for her.

Mor smiled. "That's what I thought."

She then gestured behind Aven toward the room. "Would you like to eat in here...?" Then pointed beyond the far end of the hallway. "Or back in the kitchen?"

Aven paused, like she was weighing her options. And eventually, pointed toward the kitchen.

"Alright, let's go," Mor chirped, spinning on her heel and leading the way, Aven in tow.

"So, you really still don't understand us?" she said over her shoulder and when Aven offered no response apart from innocently raised eyebrows, she continued. "What a shame. We thought something might have changed after...you know...the unfortunate incident." Mor's face cringed as she said those words.

Unfortunate incident my ass, Aven thought bitterly. She wouldn't wish that kind of pain on her worst enemy — with Darak as a happy exception.

But she only shrugged.

They entered the kitchen to find Cassian and Azriel already seated at the table, devouring what looked like their second breakfast of the day. The spread on the table was simple — a platter of cured meats, cheeses, fresh vegetables and fruits, fresh bread and some pastries. Despite the modest layout, Aven's stomach growled again, more insistent this time, and she just realized how truly hungry she was. Since waking the first time, her meals had consisted of mostly soup, biscuits and tea which were the only things her stomach could tolerate so far.

But now? Now she was ready for real food.

Cassian and Azriel both gave her a brief wave as she entered, gesturing toward the empty chairs at the long table. She chose the one farthest from them without hesitation. Azriel's shadows curled lazily around his shoulders, and she could've sworn some of them turned in her direction. She rolled her eyes at herself — what a ridiculous notion.

Aven filled her plate with bread, cheese and some vegetables that looked familiar to her, and poured herself a steaming cup of tea. When Cassian offered her a platter of cured meats, she waved him off. She nearly groaned as her teeth sank into the cheese — ivory on the outside, golden in the center, soft and creamy with nutty depth that made her close her eyes for a second longer than necessary. She wasn't even a cheese person...but this? Divine. Or maybe she was just really famished.

Either way, absolutely delicious.

The bread didn't disappoint either. Crust golden and crisp, inside warm and soft with a subtle sweetness that paired perfectly with the sharper notes of the cheese. Heaven.

Suddenly, the conversation came back into focus and Aven had to blink to snap herself out of the food haze.

"...the plan for today?" Cassian was asking.

"Not sure. I thought she'd want to stay hidden in her room —"

Yes, she'd like that very much, actually.

"— but now that she's actually willingly left, I was thinking I'd show her around the House?"

"Don't Feyre and Rhys want to see her again?"

Her heart beat spiked. Not because of their names — she was certain they went easy on her — but because she remembered what it felt like to have them inside her mind. And she wasn't eager for a repeat. Two blazing, soul-searing headaches were more than enough.

She did a mental check to see if her expression was still appropriately blank and flicked her eyes in between them like she was trying to follow, but clueless as ever.

"In the evening," Mor said with a nod. "They're with Nyx now. Later, they're meeting with Amren to go over everything about Koschei and Briallyn. To see if and what we missed."

"Do you think we did?"

"Most definitely," Azriel joined the conversation, his voice low and certain. "There's too much for it to be coincidence anymore. We just need to figure out the pattern."

Cassian frowned, taking a bite out of a pasty. "And the girl? How do you think she fits into it?"

The girl? Aven held back a snort. They didn't want her to know they were talking about her. All the more reason to keep her cover.

"Hard to say," Azriel sipped on his tea. "Right now I'm inclined to think she's not actively involved with Koschei —"

Of course she's not involved with anyone, she thought bitterly. And who the hell was Koschei?

"— but we know far too little to be certain."

Oh, they could be absolutely certain. Not only was she not involved with anyone, she didn't even know anyone. Even if she wanted to be part of something — which she didn't — it would be impossible. What was their problem? They looked like walking gods and they were suspicious of her?

The crawling discomfort returned. She shifted in her chair, pulse spiking.

"What's next?" Cassian asked.

"We'll give her the day," Mor answered, glancing toward Aven with what looked like sympathy. Aven just raised her eyebrows again and tilted her head, as in asking What?.

"Nothing, Aven," Mor said gently, and turned to Azriel. "And then we'll see. Do you have any news for us?"

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Not much. I've expanded the map — roadside attacks, burned houses, no survivors. But it's quite hard to tell if it's really a part of the pattern, or just...humans being humans."

Aven nearly choked on her cheese, fighting for her life trying to not blow her cover.

What the fuck?

Attacks? Fires? Dead people? And all these part of the same conversation as her name?

Did they think she —?

She swallowed a lump in her throat. Only it wasn't nerves — it was literal cheese. It lodged itself at just the wrong angle. She coughed violently, eyes watering as she choked. All three heads turned toward her and watched her as she struggled getting her airway cleared. She flailed for a moment, then managed to dislodge it with a final, wheezing gasp. Slumping into her chair, she exhaled with relief.

When she looked up, she finally saw their perplexed faces. "Sorry," she whispered and took careful sips of her tea to wash down the rogue bits.

Mor smiled in approval. "Looks like she's learning some words. I wonder where in the human lands she's from — I thought they all spoke the common tongue there."

Cassian and Azriel both nodded along. "As far as we know, they do."

"Strange," Mor mused. Oh boy, they had no idea.

Cassian kept his gaze on her, making her feel like he could pierce through her. But oddly enough, she noted no traces of suspicion as she initially worried. If anything, he looked... amused.

Azriel, on the other hand, was unreadable as ever. Brooding and silent, the strange shadows not leaving his side. Curiosity got the best out of her and she, without realizing it, just stared and observed. They really did move, wisping lazily around his shoulders

Someone cleared their throat.

Aven, broken out of her daze, blinked rapidly and looked down, suddenly focused on spreading cheese on her bread as if it required all her concentration.

___________

The rest of the breakfast was uneventful and in silence as they have seemed to run out of topics to discuss.

Which was a shame. Would it have been nice to gather more information? Yes. But was it already hard enough to keep her straight face and not blow her cover? Also yes.

So when she eventually found herself back in her room, Aven was almost relieved. It gave her a chance to digest everything she had learned without wanting to blow her brains out.

It was all too much. Overwhelming in a way that made her chest tighten. And to her disappointment, even sitting on the balcony — with its breathtaking view of the far city and the mountains — did little to calm her. Despite the serenity of the moment, her thoughts still raced at light speed, making the noise inside her head more unbearable. 

So when Mor came to take her on a house tour, she went gladly along.

The house was absolutely stunning. She realized she hadn't fully appreciated it before, too preoccupied with fear. But now...the carved stone archways, the beautiful floor-length windows and the way the light played across the marble floor. It all struck her at once.

Mor led her first through familiar areas — past the study, through the grand lounge — then through a large double door and onto a massive balcony.

The view took her breath away.

Similar to the one from her room, yes — the sprawling city below, the mountains in the distance — but something about this view was more...deliberate. With the massive space of the balcony and the way it was positioned, it made her feel like this place was built for the view only.

As they walked, Mor chatted endlessly, mostly to fill the silence and to perhaps keep herself entertained. She rambled about the rooms and their uses, the best places to sunbathe or read. But overall, Mor did a great job sharing nothing useful. Not even a hint of something remotely important. It was maddening. So Aven mostly spaced out, only keeping her ears sharp for any mention of things she could file away for later — which turned out to be zero.

Eventually, Mor guided her to the kitchen again. "You're welcome to come here whenever," she said, gesturing broadly. "If you're ever hungry before the main meals, help yourself to anything you find."

She tried her best to communicate it with hand motions, smiling all the while like she was miming for a child. Aven wanted to laugh, but instead just nodded and smiled back. The effort was endearing.

They grabbed a few bites before moving on.

___________

Later, when she found herself alone on her balcony again, snuggled in a blanket and watching the sky slip into dusk, one thought gnawed at her with sharp persistence.

She hadn't seen a single exit.

The house was built like a labyrinth, at least to a newcomer, with every door leading to more rooms and more corridors, but none of them leading outside.

And that was why, a few minutes later, she found herself sneaking through the halls of the house alone. She figured if she got caught, she could always feign confusion and pretend she got lost trying to find the kitchen. Easy enough.

She stepped softly, trying not to draw attention. The setting sun cast long shadows across the floor, and Aven couldn't decide which time of the day she preferred the house in.

Finally, hungry and defeated — having only found more hallways or locked doors — Aven decided to pay a visit to the kitchen and grab something to eat. At breakfast, Mor mentioned Feyre and Rhyand would want to see her again this evening so she figured it would only be smart to face them with a full stomach for extra strength.

But as she neared, voices echoed from within.

She paused. She was too far to make out every word, but she recognized Cassian's voice. And Mor's. Then someone else's...Feyre?

She edged closer, stopping just around the corner. Out of sight, but close enough to hear.

"...so what are you saying?" Cassian's voice, low and tense.

"I'm saying that after the news I gathered today, I no longer think she's all that innocent —"

Her stomach dropped.

Were they talking about her?

Her heart thudded, loud and hot in her throat.

"— and that we should change our approach. Coddling her will get us nowhere." Azriel said flatly, as a matter of fact.

"What do you propose?" Mor asked, cautious.

"She should be treated as the threat she is," he replied. "Let's move her to the interrogation quarters and let me do my job."

Aven slapped her hands over her mouth just in time to muffle the gasp that nearly escaped.

Interrogation quarters? What the fuck was that — a fancy term for a torture dungeon?

Panic crashed through her in a gigantic wave, her heartbeat skyrocketing.

She couldn't go back to that. Not again. Not ever. Just the idea of it made her sick to her stomach.

"Alright," a voice sounded, cool and decisive. "Let's do it tomorrow. We have somewhere else to be this evening."

Rhysand.

Then a sharper voice chimed in.

"I am not otherwise preoccupied this evening," Amren purred. "I could get her ready for our dear Spymaster. It's been ages since I've tasted a human."

Aven's entire body locked up.

Fuck no.

"Thank you, dear Amren," Rhysand mused. "But I do need you this evening. You will have to wait until tomorrow. We all do."

Amren let out a dissatisfied grunt, not different from an irritated cat.

That was enough for Aven.

Trying not to give into her panic and dash out of her, Aven turned on her heels and walked away quietly, praying to the universe she wouldn't accidentally topple over and give herself away.

Once certain she was out range, she ran.

She bolted down the halls and into her room, slamming the door and locking it. Then jammed a chair under the handle, chest heaving in distress.

What the hell was she thinking?

She couldn't believe how stupid she was. How could she have ever thought she was safe here?

Aven couldn't explain it, but she had no doubt that whatever was waiting for her tomorrow from Amren and Azriel would be a thousand times worse than what she endured in that camp hellhole.

She cursed herself for not taking the search for an exit more seriously.

Because now, when she really needed one, she had no idea how to get out.

She paced around the room, dragging her hands through her hair, her thoughts spinning in terrified circles.

They said tomorrow.

That gave her tonight. A slim window of time...if they stuck to the plan.

Her eyes scanned the room, gaze landing on the balcony.

Well, she thought, that's the best I've got.

Chapter 12

Aven found herself climbing over the rail of the balcony not more than twenty minutes later.

Fear and panic surged through her, more solid than any plan she’d had time to form. The thought of being locked up again — of waiting in some cold cage until they decided what to do with her — had her moving as fast as her trembling limbs would allow. She’d torn a bedsheet into a makeshift satchel and stuffed it with every piece of clothing she could find. Not that it was much. A spare pair of loose pants, a tunic, and a sweater. She’d considered stealing more sheets to use as a blanket, but in the end, decided against it, hoping she could reach the city before the cold claimed her,

The plan was simple.

In theory.

Climb over the balcony. Use the ledges and rails to scale the house. Make her way across its massive length to the far end on the other side — she’d seen earlier that the balconies over there nearly kissed the mountain wall. If she was lucky, she could hop across.

And if she wasn’t…

Well, maybe the universe would take pity on her and when she’d fall, she’d wake up back in her world. It would be nice to see her friends again. 

Climbing — or more accurately, shuffling along — proved harder than she anticipated. She didn’t know if it was the height despite avoiding looking down, the sheer terror that had driven her to this, or the overall stakes of this situation that were weighing on her chest like lead. Her breath turned shallow, her grip unsteady. 

As much as she wanted to believe otherwise, Aven doubted she’d magically snap back to her world if she died here. And that… was far more terrifying than she wanted to admit. Because it meant this was real. All of it. And that thought alone churned her stomach inside out.

There were no good outcomes.

If her escape worked, and she somehow made it to the city… then what? She had no money. No support system. No clue how this world functioned. She didn’t plan to stay, obviously, but until she found a way home, she’d need food, shelter…maybe even a job. And she wondered what kind of work she’d be able to find among people — creatures — this foreign to her. She’d be lucky if she ended up a beggar on the street and managed to survive. 

And that was the better scenario. 

And if her escape failed… There were two possibilities. Neither of them a good one.

She’d either fall from this cursed balcony and die — maybe end up freezing to death if she somehow made it onto the mountainside — or she’d get caught. And thrown into some underground prison cell again, this time probably with tighter chains and even fewer illusions of mercy. She doubted she’d survive long. And part of her hoped she wouldn’t.

So here she was.

Shuffling through her options — one shittier than the last — scraping her palms as she clung to every ledge and crevice she could find. Nails digging into stone. Muscles trembling with effort and fear. Eyes locked on her destination, still too freaking far away from her: a balcony ledge on the far end of the House, its edge almost close enough to the mountain to leap. 

She was halfway there now, crawling across a wider section with the spacious balcony right far below. The view from here would have been breathtaking if she weren’t one little slip away from dying. Her fingers throbbed, their skin starting to tear from the jagged stone — she never had realized how weak her hands were.

Just as she reached for the next ledge, her foot slipped.

A sharp cry tore from her throat as she barely caught herself, her fingers screaming in protest as they clawed for grip. Her heart thundered against her ribs, breath coming in panicked gasps as a wave of adrenaline crashed through her body.

She froze, not daring to move.

That was too close.

Aven stayed there for a moment, pressing her forehead against the cool stone, and focusing on her breathing in an attempt to steady herself. 

In. 

And out.

Her legs shook and she briefly wondered if she’d be even able to move them again. One more inhale.

Time to keep moving.

She reached forward, grabbing onto another secure spot — one that looked sturdy enough to support her weight — and pulled herself up to cross the distance. A cool breeze whispered across her face, catching the sweat along her temples and cooling her skin.

The stillness around her was almost eerie. She practically wished for wind or rain, anything to mask the noise of her movements. Every scrape of fabric or a shuffle of shoes against the stone sounded deafening. She might as well could have been yelling Here I am! with every step.

Focused entirely on moving quietly and not drawing attention to herself, she crept forward — until her fingers missed their hold.

The grab point slipped out from beneath then.

She didn’t have time to reach for it a second time.

Her scream ripped from her throat as she toppled over the edge, her stomach flipping, mind blank, barely fast enough to register what was happening as she plunged through the air.

Before she could process what was happening, something slammed into her from the side and… she wasn’t falling anymore.

Eyes flying open from the shock, she blinked at the world now still around her — still mid air. Arms held her tightly, one wrapped around her back, the other under her knees. And when she tilted her head up, her wide gaze landed on a face she knew far too well by now.

Cassian.

Frowning. And absolutely pissed . 

__________

Her breath hitched and a fresh wave of panic surged through her chest.

Not only had they found her — but her escape attempt seemed to have made things so, so much worse.

Aven twisted in his grip on instinct, fighting to break free, not caring for a second that succeeding would mean plummeting to her death. But Cassian held on.

“Stop it,” he growled, tightening his hold. The best she could do now was to kick her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Great. Because who didn’t love a little humiliation before their demise? 

A few heartbeats later, Cassian landed — and dropped her unceremoniously onto the stone floor. 

Aven landed with a yelp, barely catching herself with hands and knees to soften the impact. But the very second she touched solid ground, she scrambled away, putting as much distance between them as possible. She shoved herself to her feet, chest heaving, eyes wide, already darting for any possible escape. 

But there was none. Just the balcony and the endless drop below. 

She eyed Cassian cautiously, who now stood there like a goddamn mountain. Wings flared, jaw tight, fury radiating from him like heat off sun-baked stone. He looked ready to explode.

And Aven was ready to admit — she had fucked up. 

“What the hell was that?” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. Without meaning to, she took another step back. Not that it made any difference. His presence dominated the entire space, the air seeming to shrink around her.

Her gaze snapped toward the railing on reflex. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he quietly warned as his eyes tracked her every movement. 

“Please, let me go,” she pleaded as she raised her hands like a shield between them and the words spilled out in her own language. Pretending ignorance was the last sliver of control she had left and she wasn’t ready to let go of it. “I just want to go home.”

Cassian’s frown deepened as he stood there and watched her. For one desperate second, she wondered if telling the truth now might save her from whatever punishment was coming.

But before she could change her mind, another figure joined them on the balcony.

Cloaked in shadows — no, in pure, velvet-dark night — Rhysand stepped through the massive doors. No wings. No anger in his expression. Only cold, predatory focus. 

It was the most terrifying thing she had ever seen. 

Her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

And Aven decided there and then, that if she were to die, it would be her choice how exactly she went out — and lunged for the railing.

Or…she tried to, at least.

She barely made it halfway before a strong arm hooked around her waist and yanked her back.

“No! Let me go!” she screamed, thrashing in his hold. “Don’t touch me! Let me go!”

She fought like her life depended on it, twisting and clawing. But Cassian didn’t budge and continued walking towards Rhysand — away from her only escape — carrying her like she weighed nothing, 

“Fuck” she swore out of desperation, closer to a grunt as Cassian’s forearm pressed on her stomach. “Let me go, you asshole!”

Cassian suddenly stopped, a few strides away from Rhysand, whose eyes pierced through her like he was sizing up a threat — the irony of it wasn’t lost on her.

In an attempt to wriggle her way out of Cassian’s grip, she let out a humpf as he only bounced her up, shifting her weight easily and not letting her go.

“See?” Cassian said as she flailed in his arms, amusement coating his voice now. “Told you she knew our language.” 

Aven froze mid struggle.

Rhysand’s mouth curved in the barest ghost of a smile and his head nodded in defeat. “Looks like the next round at Rita’s is on me.”

Her breath caught.

Wait. What?

The realization hit her like a slap.

In her panic, she screamed in the wrong language — their language. 

And not only were they not surprised. They seemed to have expected this. 

And bet on it.

Heart pounding, she managed to push herself upright the second Cassian put her down. She staggered back a few steps, eyeing them both like a cornered prey, partially expecting them to grab her again. “What’s happening?”

A victory sheen glazed Cassian’s eyes for a second, as in to tease She really does speak .

“You tell us, Aven,” he huffed, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re the one scaling the House with a death wish.”

“Please,” she whispered, voice cracked. Her whole body coiled tight, ready to bolt even though there was nowhere to run. “Please just let me go.” 

“Not before you answer some of our questions,” Rhysand said quietly, taking a step back and opening the massive door. 

His gaze held hers and her stomach twisted as though the ground beneath her had vanished.

“It’s time you talked.”

__________

To her surprise — and extreme relief — they brought her to the study instead of the torture cell she’d been expecting.

Feyre, Amren, Mor and Azriel were already there, comfortably seated like they were enjoying a casual midnight snack…while she’d been out there fighting for her life. 

Oh well.

They nudged her toward the same chair she’d sat in during their first conversation. Cassian sank down next to Mor, and Rhysand moved behind the desk to join Feyre.

Despite the much more comfortable setting, Aven’s nerves screamed. Her stomach churned so violently she wondered if she’d be sick right there. Her heart thudded at her throat, so strong and fast she half expected it to explode. 

Dying of a heart attack would be an utterly ridiculous way to go given her circumstances.

“So, Aven,” Rhysand said at last, his tone smooth and quiet. “Would you like to begin?”

She swallowed hard.

No. Not really.

“I thought…” Her voice came out cracked, barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat, forcing more volume into it. “I thought you meant to move this party to the dungeons?”

The words sounded braver in her head. As soon as they left her mouth, she regretted them and braced herself for retaliation. 

None came.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cassian’s mouth twitching, like he was fighting a smile before quickly replacing it with frowned focus.

Rhysand didn’t even blink. “We still can, if that's more to your liking.” he mused.

“No!” she blurted too fast. “It’s just…that’s what you discussed earlier.”

She realized her mistake the very second the words left her lips. She never should have admitted that. She curled her fingers into fists, digging her nails into her palms. Deep enough she wouldn’t be surprised if some broke the skin.

“Ah, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing. The air in the room dropped a few degrees. “Now tell me Aven — how exactly did you understand that conversation? And how is it that we’re now having this one?”

Her breath hitched.

It was time to dish up the truth.

But first, she asked, “Are you still going to…torture me?” 

Aven knew she had no leverage. They could promise her safety and do the opposite five seconds later. But the threat of violence lingered like a storm cloud, making it impossible to think straight. All she could see and all she could focus on was being dragged away and broken.

“That depends on whether we like your answers.”

The voice wasn’t Rhysand’s.

It was Amren’s — the first time speaking directly to Aven — and Aven decided at that moment that she could happily go the rest of her life without hearing it again.

A wave of stress crashed over her, heart rate reaching a new personal best. 

That’s when Cassian suddenly stood up. “Alright, alright — that’s enough,” he hushed as he picked up a nearby blanket and to Aven’s surprise placed it over her shoulders. “I think we can all agree she’s learned her lesson.”

On his way back to his seat, he gave Amren a look that — if Aven wasn’t mistaken — bordered on judgemental.

Wait…lesson. 

What lesson?

“What does that mean?” she frowned, the realization slowly downing on her. 

No way…

This time, it was Mor who answered. “We had a suspicion you lied to us about your ability to speak our language,” she said gently and there was something almost apologetic in her tone. “So…we figured we’d give you a little push to come clean.” She offered a weak smile. “What we didn’t expect was you trying to climb your way out of here.”

Aven just stared at her. Wide-eyed. Mouth opening…then closing again.

Her gaze darted across the others. Rhysand and Feyre only watched her, like she was a puzzle to solve. Azriel remained silent, unreadable. Amren looked…amused? 

Aven opened her mouth again, forcing herself to speak through the disbelief shaking her voice. “So…you didn’t mean…what you said?”

“No,” Cassian shook his head. “No, we didn’t. No one’s torturing anyone.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Amren muttered. 

He waved her off. “Our Ancient One here can be a little …enthusiastic sometimes.” 

“I’ll show you enthusiastic, Cassian.” Amren hissed, baring her teeth. 

He just chuckled and kept going. “But what she meant to say was that she’d love to hear your side of the story. While we all sit here. In this study.”. 

“So…” Aven hesitated, unsure of what to say. 

“You are safe, Aven,” Feyre said suddenly, her voice quiet but strong as she gave a long look to Amren before turning to Aven. “We mean you no harm. We only want to learn the truth.” 

The words hit her like a tidal wave.

A rush of relief surged through her — and with it, the final crash of adrenaline. 

Her stomach gave out.

She gagged, then retched what little was in her gut right there on the floor. 

Normally, this would be the perfect time to die of embarrassment. But there wasn’t room in her body for that emotion — not with the terror, exhaustion, and shock still raging like wildfire through her system. 

Her whole body now shook, cold sweat clinging to her skin. 

“Take this,” Mor handed her a glass of water as the vomit on the floor suddenly vanished with one lazy flick of Rhysan’s hand, as if it had never happened. “We’re sorry, Aven. We took it too far.” 

Aven drained the water in a few desperate gulps, her throat raw and burning. When she finished, Mor passed her a steaming cup of tea. The warmth seeped through her trembling hands, spreading through her chest and calming the worst of her shakes. “We’d only like to ask you a few questions.” 

“As Feyre said,” Rhysand stepped in now, his voice like velvet over steel. “We mean you no harm. But that doesn’t mean we won’t change our mind if we think you’re hiding something. So…I’d advise honesty.” 

Aven clenched her jaw, fighting back the sting of tears, but somehow managed a small, jerky nod. “What do you want to know?” 

“What’s your name — your full name — Aven?”

“Thorne…I’m Aven Thorne.”

“Where in the Human Lands are you from?”

“Human Lands?” she blinked. “I…I don’t know what that is. But I don’t think that matters. Because I’m not from this world.”

Silence. 

But no surprise. If anything, it looked like confirmation hung in their faces. Like she had just validated what they had expected all along.

“Interesting,” Feyre murmured. “Which world? And why did you come here? And how?” 

“Our planet is called Earth. Do you know it?” 

Everyone shook their heads slightly. 

“It’s a small planet — compared to the other ones we know of — with one huge difference to your world. We don’t have magic — or people with wings for the matter.” she explained as her eyes darted toward Azriel and Cassian.

“And why are you here?” 

“I wish I knew, trust me,” she laughed, dry and bitter. “I was driving home when I crashed my car and —” 

“Car?” Rhysand cut in.

“Ehm…yeah. A vehicle. For transport…it gets you places.” 

They stayed silent for a heartbeat, as in considering whether it’s an important part of the story.

Feyre then continued. “What do you remember of your journey here?” 

“Journey?” Aven repeated. “There was no journey. I was home and then…I wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“One second I was trying to get out of the sinking car, swimming towards the surface. Then there was this…light… And suddenly, I was coughing up water on some icy field.” Her throat tightened. “I wish I could tell you more, I wish I knew more. But…I’m as lost as it gets.”

“How did the Illyrians get you?” Cassian asked, so much more softly than she’d expect him.

“The what?” she furrowed her brows. “Oh…the camp assholes?” 

A nod.

“They showed up moments after I woke up. I barely had time to figure out where I was before they came flying in.” She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of her tea. “Tried talking to me. Got angrier when I didn’t understand a word. Things escalated and I got punched…the next thing I knew, I was locked up.” 

She fought not to dwell on the memory, but it was hard to describe the events without surrendering herself to them. So in an attempt of distraction, she reached out to Mor asking for more tea.

“What happened then?” Rhysand followed with another question. 

She stayed silent for a few heartbeats, contemplating what details she should offer. “They held me hostage for I don’t know how long, I lost track after the first few days. Interrogated me. Beat me. And locked me up again. And again.”

She looked around, everyone was focused and listening with interest. But they didn’t push for more details on these events, the chipped answer and its sharp end was a clear message to them — I don’t want to talk about it.  

“Why didn’t you admit to them you could speak the language?” 

“Because I couldn’t — then. The language just happened when I woke up earlier today.” Another sip of tea, another wave of warmth chipping away her tension. “I think it had something to do with whatever you two did in my head. I swear I didn’t speak it before.” 

“And why lie about it after?”

“Why do you think?” she snapped, but immediately pulled herself back. Her voice softened, bitter and tired. “I was scared out of my mind. Alone in a world I didn’t recognize. With a language I couldn’t speak. And surrounded by strangers I didn’t know.” she explained. “So when I suddenly understood you, I…I just needed time to figure out if I could trust you.” 

Or to at least learn something useful…

“And? What’s your verdict?” Cassian asked, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

Aven eyed him warily, weighing her words. Finally, she just huffed and muttered, “Jury’s still out.” 

He grinned.

“How do we know you’re telling us the truth?” Feyre challenged. And the intensity of her gaze made Aven’s skin prickle. And she wondered what did they already know?

“I don’t know…” Aven admitted, slumping back in the chair, taking a few more sips of her tea. “But you caught me red-handed trying to escape. Right after you tricked me into thinking I had every reason to.” She exhaled in defeat. “I don’t think I’m the criminal mastermind you all have me for.”

Silence. It was not difficult to tell that her answer was not well received. 

“I don’t know how to prove it to you.”

Another beat of quiet. Then —

“We’d like to peer into your mind again,” Feyre said at last. 

Of course…that’s what they wanted. 

“And it seems to go…smoother when you’re willing.”

Aven chewed her lip, weighing the little shred of control she had left. But before she could answer, she need a little more information

“What exactly…is that? The mind thing, I mean.”

“We’re what’s called Daemati,” Feyre explained. “As such, we’re able to enter and read others’s minds. Their thoughts. Memories.” 

“Can you also…manipulate them?” 

The question slipped out before Aven was able to stop it. Tentative and careful.

She wasn’t sure she even wanted an answer. Agreeing to this felt inevitable, but somehow knowing the full extent of what they could do made it worse. Like being at the doctor’s office and deliberately looking away when they draw blood. Perhaps the ignorance of it would make it easier to cope. 

“Yes.”

Well, at least they were honest. . 

“Before I agree,” Aven hesitantly started. “I need to know —” 

She took a long, shaky breath, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. Forcing herself to sound more in control.

“Am I your prisoner? Am I free to go? Can I ask you for help — to figure out how I got here? Or…or how to get back home?”

Silence settled over the room. They watched her with the same careful, unreadable stares that had followed her since the moment she woke in this place. 

“I know I’m in a shit position to be asking for anything, “ she added quickly, swallowing a lump growing in her throat. “But I need to know.”

“Yes and no,” Rhysand answered and Aven’s stomach clenched. “You are no prisoner, Aven. We have no intention of locking you up or causing you harm.”

Alright…that wasn’t a bad start.

“But,” Rhysand went on, “we also have no intention of releasing you into the world — this world. At least not before we have learned more about the purpose behind your arrival and presence here. And how certain things may be connected to you.”

What things?

“So,” he said, folding his hands on the desk, “until then, you are to remain here. In the House. You will be clothed, fed, and out of harm’s way. And also free to move around the House as you wish. We also help you get your answers. And in return,” His gaze sharpened just slightly. “You’ll agree to work with us.”

That sounded…reasonable. More than reasonable, actually. 

Aven considered it for a moment. It was a hundred times better than ending up a beggar on the streets — or worse. It sounded almost too good to be true which made her instinctively wary. But still… it was her best shot at figuring this nightmare out. And surviving long enough to hopefully find her way home.

Her pulse spiked, heart pounding against the inside of her throat. But she lifted her gaze, steadying herself as she met Feyre’s and Rhysand’s eyes.

“Deal.” 

Chapter 13

A strange scent hit her nose. It came out of nowhere — metallic and sharp, like blood. And something smokey, like ashes scattered in a dying hearth.

Then came the burn.

A searing, stinging heat flared across both wrists. Aven cried out, recoiling as if scorched by invisible flames. Her eyes dropped — and stopped.

Encircling each wrist was a thin black line.

She yelped again.

“What the hell?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

She stared at it, not yet understanding what had just happened. Frantic, she scrubbed at the lines, her fingers smudging uselessly over skin that refused to yield. But the lines didn’t budge. As if they were inked into her skin.

Tattoos.

“No, no, no — what is this?” she shouted, louder now, eyes wild as they snapped and locked onto the one person who looked anything but surprised.

Rhysand.

“What did you do to me?”

And indeed, he now watched her without a lick of surprise in his face. Instead, a smug, unreadable mask settled over his features.

“In our world, a bargain isn’t just a promise,” he said, voice smooth and cold. “It’s magic, sacred and binding. And marked by tattoos.”

A pause.

“And you, dear Aven,” he added with quiet satisfaction, “have just struck a bargain with me.”

Her brain screeched to a halt.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t —” Her voice cracked as she clawed harder at her wrists, as if expecting the lines to come off as a scratch-off lottery ticket. Red, bloody lines now joined the tattoos. “Take it off!”

“It will come off,” he said, “once both sides have fulfilled their end. We get you your answers. And you will help us get ours.”

She nearly choked on her own rising panic. Or maybe it was rage? She wasn’t sure anymore.

Her eyes darted across the room as if calling, urging for help. But everyone stayed silent, only observing the scene, a serious mask covering their faces.

“You — you can’t do this! I didn’t know! How the fuck would I know about this?” She shook her head, breath short and shallow. “I know nothing about your world.”

“Consider this your first lesson.” Rhysand answered, all too pleased with himself. “I’m sure many more are to come.”

Aven was seeing red. Red in her vision, in her chest, boiling beneath her skin. Getting played like this — what an absolute fucking joke.

But she also knew her limits - their limits which didn’t dare to cross. They had all the power, all the advantage and she was lucky to still be alive. So she ground her teeth, swallowed all the rage and only shot him an angry look - still mild in comparison to how she felt. “So what’s next?”

His answer took her by surprise.

“Sleep,” he said simply. “We go to sleep, Aven. And when you have gathered your strength tomorrow, we’ll sit down and discuss how to begin.”

Feyre gave a small, tired smile. “Good night, Aven.” she offered gently, before slipping her hand into Rhysand’s, and leaving the room.

Aven opened her mouth to argue further, but before even the first words escaped, everyone else rose from their seats in practically unison, and started to leave.

Azriel offered a near-invisible nod as he passed, so fleeting she almost missed it. Then he, too, was gone.

Then Amren came. Gliding past like a panther scenting blood. Her silver eyes gleamed - sharp and ancient - and pinned Aven to the spot, fight or flight screaming through her limbs.

And when Amren’s lips widened in a smile, Aven took a tentative step back. She would have loved to break into a run, but legs were led.

“Oh, come on Amren!” Mor sighed, exasperated as she fell beside her. “Leave the poor soul alone. Gods know we’ve terrified her enough for one night.”

Yeah, enough to last a damn eternity.

Mor turned back toward Aven, her expression softening. “I’m really sorry about how things went tonight.” She placed a gentle hand on Aven’s shoulder. “We didn’t mean for it to…Let’s sit down and give it a proper fresh start?”

Aven barely heard her. The word came like water against stone — passing over her without really sinking. She gave Mor a mechanical nod, eyes still fixed on Amren’s retreating form as she and Mor exited the room.

Then —

“Alright, let’s go,” came a low voice behind her, jerking her out of her daze. She turned to find Cassian standing there with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Still mad about how he manhandled her earlier, she stared at him with narrowed eyes.

He motioned to her to follow and began walking. And she did — only because the weight of the night had finally caught up with her and she felt like the exhaustion was about to crush her. She really needed to lie down.

Oh god, she couldn't wait to throw herself into her bed.

Aven cringed, suddenly realizing that her bed sheets are half-torn and or missing. But truth be told, she didn’t really care now. She was so tired even the floor started to look comfortable.

“I can find my own way,” she said as they walked, voice tight. Cassian just hummed in fake agreement. “No, seriously,” she snapped. “You don’t need to walk me to my room. I know where it is.”

“I don’t doubt your navigation skills in this House are absolutely stellar,” he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But we still need to make sure that you don’t get another one of your clever ideas and try to run for another exit.”

“I couldn’t find any other…” she muttered under her breath in annoyance.

Cassian’s brows raised. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.” She walked faster, toward the door.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, keeping pace.

Cassian’s presence grated on her nerves.

The anger from earlier still simmered underneath her skin and she had to fight — hard — not to take it out on him. She felt so angry. So irritated that she would have loved to just grab him by his shoulders and shake the damn smirk out of him.

All sorts of emotions raged through her, actually, each of them fighting for control just to be pushed to the side and overtaken by the next one.

The fear for her life. To be more specific, what could have happened had they been serious about their plan.

And the shame. God, the utter humiliation of getting caught — saved — mid-escape after getting played like a fiddle. She would take this to her grave, she swore to herself.

Couldn’t forget the relief she was still alive and safe — or as safe as she could be among these people. She had to admit, terrifying as they were, she no longer believed they meant her immediate harm. Immediate being the key word here.

And last but not least, the blinding, full-body rage that gripped her when her gaze landed on her wrists, each of them now inked with a thin line. On instinct, she reached for her wrists again, her nails trailing the raw, tender skin where her nails had scratched earlier.

Shackles.

That’s what the tattoos felt like.

That’s what they looked like.

A pair of handcuffs that couldn’t be removed.

She felt branded. And violated. And she absolutely hated it.

Another wave of anger washed over her again, and she must have muttered something to herself louder than she had realized, because Cassian’s voice cut through the thick silence beside her, “You alright?”

“Huh?”

“You seem suddenly upset. More than before, I mean.”

“I’m fine.” she said tightly, grinding her teeth and counting seconds until she was in the safety of her room.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. And with the hall draped in complete silence — save for occasional breeze wisping past — she wondered if he could hear it, thundering in her chest like a war drum.

She needed space. Air. To take a breath — or a hundred — to calm down. Her nervous system was shot, fried beyond recognition, and now every little thing set her off and had her on edge.

She balled her fists and quickened her pace, fueled by the desperate need to be alone. And she found herself even more annoyed when Cassian didn’t have to adjust his pace in the slightest, matching her speed effortlessly. Her eyes rolled.

The world felt like it was slipping out from underneath her, the wave of exhaustion ready to wash over her any second. Aven only hoped she’d reach the bed before getting slammed by it. Sheets or no sheets.

A yawn snuck up on her and she turned away from Cassian, trying to stifle it.

It was clear it didn’t work when Cassian muttered dryly, “You know you can just yawn,”

Mind your own business, she growled. Only to realize a heartbeat later that she hadn’t said those words aloud. Instead, she just glared at him, hostile and exhausted.

Great. Now even her body was betraying her.

She frowned and looked away — and finally saw her door. Relief poured over her.

Reaching for the handle, his voice interrupted her. “Sleep well,” he said softly.

Aven ignored him, crossed the threshold of her room instead and began to shut the door.

“And Aven?”

Her hand paused mid-motion, the door staying slightly ajar. Just enough for her to glance up at him.

“Don’t do anything stupid again.”

She narrowed her eyes, her glare dripping with irritation. A comeback perched on her lips — but her brain, slow and sluggish, failed her again and gave her nothing.

Hopeless.

So instead, she deepened her frown and shut the door in his face.

She could have sworn a low chuckle echoed from the other side.

Prick.

Aven turned to her room with a sigh so deep it felt like it came from her bones. She was absolutely drained.

The room looked the same as she left it. Except…neater?

The drawers she’d yanked open in the rush were now tucked back into place. The balcony door she hadn’t bothered closing was now shut — she wondered if they locked it to stop her from any further shenanigans tonight — with only the adjacent window left slightly ajar to let in a whisper cool night air.

And her bed —

The bed was made. Fresh, crisp sheets stretched across it, tucked perfectly like a high-end hotel. No sign of the tangled mess she’d left behind, no trace of her desperate survival prep.

At that thought, embarrassment washed over her once again. How utterly humiliating was it to get manipulated like a complete amateur and just to get saved. By the said manipulators…

But that’s who she was, wasn’t it? She was no mastermind. The only person she’d ever outsmarted was her foster father. And even that was debatable – the ridiculous amount of booze he consumed on the daily had done half the work for her.

Just the thought of him rushed bile up her throat, so she quickly shoved the thought down and made for the bathroom instead.

A bath would have been nice, but exhaustion won out. If she so much as dipped into warm water, she’d pass out…and probably drown in it. So instead, she stripped off her filthy clothes, washed off the most urgent layers of sweat and stone dust, and stumbled into bed.

The fresh sheets smelled of citrus and lavender, and she could have cried how heavenly they felt.

Aven made a note to herself to thank whoever changed them.

And a heartbeat later, sleep claimed her.

______________

Aven woke to a faint feeling that she wasn’t alone. Keeping her eyes closed — more precisely not being able to open them just yet — she listened for the intruder.

But heard nothing.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling someone was in her room.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, blinking against the muted light in the room, they landed on two figures.

Two women stood near the window, locked in what seemed to be a silent conversation.

They were tall and slender, with dark, ashy black skin that shimmered faintly in the light. Long black hair cascaded down their backs, parted only by the pointed tips of their ears. They wore deep silken fabric tightly tied across their torsos, falling in elegant sheets from their waists.

But something was off.

Their features were blurred, as if someone had wiped a thumb across a painting. No matter how hard Aven squinted or blinked, they remained unfocused. She darted her eyes across the room. The rest was sharp — the walls, the bed, even the curtains. But the two women…no matter how long she looked, their features remained cloaked in blurred shadow.

She considered for a moment how disturbing she should find this situation. And decided to pick her battles when it comes to losing her shit. And this was not one of them. Not to mention, she was simply way too tired to panic.

So she just lay there, watching them as they continued their silent conversation. They moved like mirror images, as if every gesture was a shared thought. Their presence wasn’t threatening, just…unsettling.

Aven stirred, shifting her feet under the blanket, and sat up. Both women snapped their heads to her, cautiously watching her as if waiting for her reaction.

“Hey,” Aven rasped, her morning voice still raspy.

They lingered a second longer — and then vanished.

Aven slowly blinked, staring at the empty space where the women had just stood a second ago. Good thing she was low on energy, because this would have been worthy of a freak-out.

She tossed off the covers, rubbed her eyes and trudged toward the bathroom.

They had said something last night about talking and starting over today. But there hadn’t been a set time, and she had no clue what hour it was now — she guessed midday given how strongly the sun shone through the curtains — so she chose the only thing that made sense: a long bath.

______________

After what felt like blissful hours, Aven finally stepped out into the hallway, feeling like a new person. Time to face…whatever this was.

She had questions, a thousand of them, and the longer she stayed here, the more new ones formed. Not just the obvious ones — How did I get here? Why am I here? — but also the spiraling ones.

Magic was real, clearly. But what kind? How did it work? Who had? Did everyone? Or only a few? Was it good? Bad? Both?

And those wings — she only saw them on some of them. But could all of them fly?

She shook her head before her thoughts could burst out of her skull. This was giving her a massive headache and she felt like chasing smoke — each question leading to ten more but none leading to answers.

Frustrated was insufficient to describe her current state.

When her surroundings came back into focus, she realized she was near the kitchen. Her stomach clenched. Roughly twenty–four hours ago, she stood here and overheard that dreadful trap. However, when she listened closely now, she heard only silence. And when she stepped inside — empty.

Relief bloomed in her chest, appreciating the chance to be alone for a while.

She moved toward the table where a tray awaited her, a folded note with her name written neatly across it. How thoughtful, she thought, that they left her breakfast when they were done with their own.

She reached for the tea — and immediately yanked her hand back.

Hot.

Freshly brewed. She actually didn’t know how she missed the steam coming out of it.

She frowned and scanned the room again, expecting to find someone standing in one of the corners, waiting for her to notice them. But found no one.

Confusion marred her face.

But she finally decided it didn’t matter, picked up the tray and carried it to the far end of the room, settling into an armchair by the window. And started to devour her food, her stomach starved.

She was halfway through chewing on the bread when a female voice startled her out of her daze. She hadn’t even heard the footsteps.

“So you’re the one they dragged in from the mountains,” came the cool, unfamiliar voice from the far side of the room. Aven’s head snapped up.

A woman stood at the head of the table, arms crossed and a cold, assessing gaze fixed squarely on her.

Aven blinked, her mind still foggy with sleep and really slow to respond. The woman didn’t look particularly friendly — and that made Aven, in turn, not particularly inclined to be otherwise.

“Yeah…I guess.” she answered, the bread attached to her mouth muffling the sound.

The woman kept staring, those icy eyes boring into her like she could see through Aven’s soul.

Everyone in this house was beautiful — god, it was like living in a catwalk show — but this woman was on another level. She was devastating.

She wore a simple navy dress with a half-collar that rose neatly along her neck. Her golden-brown hair was braided and wrapped around her head like a crown, her pointy ears visible through it. Her lips were pressed into a tight line of disapproval — like simply looking at Aven offended her. How nice.

Her eyes, somewhere between silver and blue-grey, and sharp as ice swept over Aven head to toe and back again. And then — without a word — she turned and walked out.

Aven stared after her, eyebrows raised in confusion. That was…interesting.

She wondered how many lived here that she hadn’t even seen yet?

She was just bringing the bread back to her mouth for another bite when Mor strode into the room like a burst of sunlight draped in a red flowy dress.

“Ah! Aven,” she chirped, her smile bright. “I see you found the breakfast the House left for you?”

Aven grimaced. “You mean what you left for me?”

“No,” Mor replied, matter-of-fact. “The House.”

Aven blinked. “You might need to give me a little more than that, Mor… What do you mean…the house?”

She couldn’t really mean…

Mor giggled apologetically and sank into the armchair across from her. “The House —” she gestured around them, “is sentient. It takes care of itself — and everyone who lives here. So yes, the House made your breakfast.”

Aven’s mouth parted, eyes darting from around the kitchen to her food.”That…sounds made up.”

“It’s not,” Mor said cheerfully. “You should be thankful, honestly. Neither of us can cook. Unless you count that nasty oatmeal Cassian and Azriel make.”

“Hey!” a voice called from across the room. And Aven turned her head just to see Cassian with Azriel in tow walking in. Cassian wore a mock-wounded expression, hand pressed to his heart.

“We heard that!” he whined.

“We did.” Azriel echoed quietly, his voice dark and smooth. Unexpectedly soothing.

“That oatmeal is delicious!” Cassian continued his defense, leaving Aven wondering what the hell was going on.

“No, it’s not,” Azriel said, glancing at him with a subtle shake of his head. His hand lifted slightly, as it to say, Let it go, man.

Cassian muttered, “Yeah, alright.” and slouched into one of the chairs at the long table, a steaming cup already in his hand. Azriel joined him a second later.

Mor just laughed and turned back to Aven.

“How are you feeling today?” It was a sincere question, tinged with concern.

“Better,” Aven admitted. “I feel like I could sleep three more days, but…better.”

Mor nodded. “Understandable.”

“What is the plan for today?” Aven asked, glancing at all three of them. “Feyre and Rhysand said we’d talk, but I don’t know when.”

Not that she was particularly eager for that conversation, to be honest.

Anger still surged through her just thinking about last night, bubbling to the surface every time her eyes landed on her wrists. She found herself feeling particularly grateful for the long-sleeved sweater she wore, tugging the cuffs down every so often to keep the markings hidden.

“Well,” Mor started. “they’re just having tea in the lounge if you’d like to join us there?”

Torn between wanting to go back to her room to sleep for a month and wanting to finally get some answers, Aven swallowed a lump — half bread, half nerves — and nodded. “Yeah…yeah, sure.”

“Then whenever you’re ready.”

“We can go now, I’m full anyway.”

Mor’s gaze flicked to the tray, still mostly untouched. A soft, sorry smile tugged at her lips, but she said nothing.

______________

Some time later, Aven found herself in the lounge, once again surrounded by the usual players. To her relief, the atmosphere was much more relaxed than last night.

“Despite what last night may have suggested,” Feyre said once Aven had taken her seat. “we mean you no harm.”

It probably hadn’t taken much effort for them to read how stressed and worried she had felt last night.

“Given this peculiarity of the situation,” Feyre had continued, “we had to put certain security measures in place. Some of them may require your cooperation. But we do want to help you get back home. So let’s work together to make that happen.”

Aven hadn’t realized how badly she needed to hear those words — to feel the sincerity — until they were spoken. And they cracked something in her. A wave of quiet relief washed over her, and she had to bite her tongue to keep tears from forming in her eyes. A tiny ember of hope formed deep in her chest against her will. Could this really be beginning of her way home?

So now they sat here, listening to her story again. Every detail, every step, relieving the nightmare with as much clarity as she could manage. Everyone listened intently, interrupting only to ask clarifying questions, especially about the parts from her world they clearly weren’t familiar with.

“And that’s when those two found me.” she finished, nodding toward Cassian and Azriel, bringing her nightmare retelling to an end.

Cassian grumbled, “We have names, you know…”

She ignored it.

“We are sorry you had to experience such terror, Aven,” Rhysand said quietly, his voice so much softer compared to last night. “And thank you for sharing it with us.”

Then Feyre stepped in. “When you spoke about driving in the khar —

“Car.” Aven corrected.

“Car,” Feyre repeated, offering a small smile. “You mentioned pain in your back. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Aven admitted. “It started off just warm, but very fast turned into this searing blinding pain. I’d never felt anything like that before. It felt like it came from my birthmark — but that could’ve been just my imagination.”

“Birthmark?” Feyre’s curiosity perked.

“Yeah,” Aven nodded. “I have this weird birthmark —“

“Could we see it?”

Aven glanced around the room, all eyes on her. Unease prickled her skin, but she said, “Yeah…I guess.”

She stood up and turned her back toward them, reaching for the hem of her sweater while everyone gathered around her. To her surprise, when she looked over her shoulder, only the women had risen to gather around her. The men remained seated — Cassian pointedly facing the windows across the room.

Appreciation warmed her chest.

She pulled up her sweater higher, until it bunched on her shoulders, exposing her upper back — and what was nestled in between her shoulder blades, along the curve of her spine.

It wasn’t immediately noticeable as it was almost the same colour as her skin, but once someone looked long enough, they couldn’t miss it.

The birthmark resembled the roots of an ancient tree: thin tendrils branching outward in a delicate, circular pattern that seemed almost too deliberate to be natural. It’s

“Interesting,” Mor breathed. “I’ve never seen a birthmark like this. May I…?”

Aven nodded.

A moment later, she felt Mor’s warm fingers lightly trace the mark. It was flat to the touch — she knew that from years of checking it herself.

“Do you recognize it? Mor asked, turning to Amren.

“No.” the woman answered slowly, frowning for a heartbeat.

“That’s a very unusual pattern,” Rhysand murmured. Aven looked at him, her eyes scrunching in confusion.

Feyre winced and tapped her temple. “I showed him.”

It took Aven a second process. “Ah. Right.”

“Were the healers in your world able to explain the mark to you?”

“No, they had no clue. Just wrote it off as an anomaly.” She pulled her sweater back down and turned to face the group again. “There’s so many different skin conditions, they just figured I won the lottery with a cool pattern.”

“Lottery?” Mor asked, confused.

“Yeah, lottery…” Aven grimaced. “It’s basically when a bunch of people put in a little money together for the chance to win a really big prize. Like a game of luck. One or two people get picked at random, and win the whole thing.”

Blank stares.

“People do it hoping they’ll get rich, even though the odds suck. Anyway, I meant I got lucky.”

She nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders as she sat back down, but couldn’t help to notice the almost alarmed looks they all exchanged. Cassian and Azriel included.

Did Feyre show the mark to them too?

“So what does it mean? Do you think it’s connected to me…being here?”

“We don’t know,” Rhysand answered. “But we shouldn’t dismiss it as…luck.”

She’d never thought much of the birthmark. Only showed it off once or twice in college when five drinks in and everyone was flexing their weird talents. But this conversation made her wonder.

“Do you have any idea how I got here?” she asked. “You guys have magic. Is it common to travel to different worlds? And also, where am I? What is this world?

Time to start getting her answers. Piece by piece.

God, she hated puzzles.

“You are in what we call Prythian,” Rhysaid replied. “More specifically, in the Night Court — our Court.”

That told her…nothing.

“I don’t know what that means.” she admitted.

“Our continent is split in two: the Human Lands and Prythian. Humans live on one side. And Fae live on the other. ”

Alright, getting somewhere.

“Are all of you Fae?” she asked, eyes flitting between them — and landing on Cassiana and Azriel, and their wings. “Or are there more…kinds?”

“Most of us are. They —“ he waved his hand. “— are Illyrians.”

“Same as the camp assholes?” she directed the question to them.

“Yes,” Azriel said quietly, his tone leaving no room for more questions.

Noted.

“These are the major groups,” Rhys continued. “But there are others — creatures, monsters….but we can talk about that later.” He trailed off as Aven visibly paled.

“What…monsters?”

“None that are crawling anywhere near here,” Mor said with a reassuring grin.

They better not be.

“I still — I still don’t understand how I got here,” Aven changed the topic. “How is it even possible? I realized a while ago that this isn’t a dream but it’s still really hard to grasp. How do I get back home?”

Silence.

And then, finally —softly — Rhysand spoke. The pity in his voice made her stomach sink. “World travel is extremely rare. I have never seen such a thing done.”

The words hit harder than she expected.

“In theory, it would require an object of immense power to open a gate between worlds. But you didn’t appear to be carrying any?”

She shook her head slowly.

“Or a rift — a tear between realms — that you might’ve accidentally stepped through.”

She had no idea what that even meant.

“Then there are also worldwalkers,” he added. A spark of hope lit up in her chest once again. “Powerful beings who are able to travel between worlds without needing any magical objects. Or rifts.”

Aven straightened. “Could that be me?”

She almost choked on the hope that slipped into her voice. But if she were one of them — then maybe, just maybe she could learn to control it. And find her way home.

A quiet, sour chuckle echoed across the room.

“Worldwalkers are extremely rare,” Amren finally said, her eyes like steel. “In my thousands of years —”

Her what?

Aven blinked, not sure if she heard that right.

“— I’ve only met a few.”

She stood. And walked toward Aven, like a cat prowling to a trapped mouse.

“They emanated power,” she said, taking a step.

“Were clever,” another step.

“Cunning.

Step.

“And they tasted divine.”

What the actual fuck —

Aven didn’t even have time to flinch as Amren reached out and, with a single swipe of her nail, ran her claw along her cheek.

A sharp sting.

“And you —”

Amren lifted her finger, looking at it curiously. There was a large drop of blood — Aven’s blood — on the tip, now slowly running down the finger. And then — without breaking eye contact — she licked it.

“— you, girl,” Amren leaned in, her voice full of distaste. “are no such thing. You taste like an animal for slaughter. Soured with fear.”

Silence fell.

And of all the reactions Aven could’ve thought of, the only one that managed to get through, was how that was the most insulting thing she’d ever heard.