Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hi, Barbies! Here's a tiny gift. This is some of the music I listen to for inspiration:

𓆩✴𓆪 Never Felt So Alone

𓆩✴𓆪 I Know I'm Not the Only One

𓆩✴𓆪 La leçon particulière

𓆩✴𓆪 Kiss It Better

𓆩✴𓆪 Hurts So Good

𓆩✴𓆪 Born Without a Heart

𓆩✴𓆪 Somewhere Only We Know

𓆩✴𓆪 Good For You

𓆩✴𓆪 Little Girl Gone

𓆩✴𓆪 Skin

𓆩✴𓆪 Daylight

𓆩✴𓆪 You Put A Spell On Me

𓆩✴𓆪 Don’t Blame Me

𓆩✴𓆪 labour

𓆩✴𓆪 Wherever I Go

𓆩✴𓆪 Creepin'

𓆩✴𓆪 BABYDOLL

𓆩✴𓆪 Heroes

𓆩✴𓆪 Bad Liar

𓆩✴𓆪 Love Is a Bitch

𓆩✴𓆪 Enemy

𓆩✴𓆪 I Wanna Be Yours

𓆩✴𓆪 Bones

𓆩✴𓆪 Stand Up

𓆩✴𓆪 i'm yours

𓆩✴𓆪 High

𓆩✴𓆪 Here With Me

𓆩✴𓆪 Talking Body

𓆩✴𓆪 Mai Dansea

𓆩✴𓆪 Die for you

𓆩✴𓆪 Moth to a flame

𓆩✴𓆪 All eyes on you

𓆩✴𓆪 Lose Control

𓆩✴𓆪 Endgame

𓆩✴𓆪 Too Sweet

𓆩✴𓆪 Cruel Summer

𓆩✴𓆪 Eat Your Young

𓆩✴𓆪 Intikam Yemini

𓆩✴𓆪 Venom

𓆩✴𓆪 Keeping me Alive

𓆩✴𓆪 L'atra dimensione

𓆩✴𓆪 Anlatamam

Chapter Text

Prologue

          I know it’s hard to believe, if I had heard the same story from someone else, I would have thrown him a few silver coins and asked him to stop telling me stupid lies: parallel universes, worlds that intertwine towards the edges, the feelings of deja-vu and the absurd sense that you are being watched when you stand with your back to the door.

          Nothing new, right? Your neck is probably tingling right now and you need to look back. Did you notice anything out of the corner of your eye? There's nothing there, stay calm. Well, even if they were, they wouldn't be able to touch you through this thin veil that covers your world. Oddly enough, just like this dusty pellicle protects your soul from being stolen by… oops, I'm not allowed to say his name. He might come back for me, and I've already made a living here.

          So I'll just say this: watch out for witching hour, when the energy layers crack. Be careful not to read, not to think deeply and not to get lost in the subconscious, otherwise you will end up like me: lost in this world that I barely knew.

          What did I do wrong? I was awake, a little drunk, too thoughtful and willing to do anything to get rid of stress. Anything. Including an absurd bargain that appeared to me in a nightmare. Who started the bargain? I'll tell you, it sounds silly, but his name is Samael, a kind of obscure deity, a double-edged sword, demon or angel. He only asked me what I wanted, and I replied on impulse that I wanted something new, an adventure.

          And I received it, a double-edged sword, a world I barely knew from books, but about which I had forgotten much, a world that was about to change with my coming.

          My name is Vesper, the titles that come after my name don't matter anymore, but once upon a time, I was called different, I used to be someone else.

Chapter Text

PART 1: Pit of Despair

Chapter 1

3:33

          " Goddamit, Nadia. I sucked so bad today at that blood donation. " I complained while rummaging in the dark of my bag for the keys to my small apartament. " I have no ideea why the fuck did I sign up for that volunteering thing. "

          The stinging odor of disinfectant irritated my vision. Not to mention the grey walls that were stained with white dots of solution for killing beetles were making me feel even dirtier than I actually was. The neon on the stairwell lights up and a shadow quickly passes by me, causing a moment of internal panic. I don't have time to say a greeting towards the neighbor, but only notice the pair of black boots, which silently climb to the next floor. Quite odd, I thought they were in Italy trying to make an in-vitro fertilization.

          " It wasn’t so bad after all, doctor Appleheim didn’t stick the syringe down your throat at the end. " Nadia lets loose a high-pitched laughing on the phone that pulls me out of my thoughts, " At least you didn’t popped the poor man veins like me. " She complains and I search the red dots splashed on my shoes, remembering the disastrous moment.

          Nadia was my first friend from university and that is only because she basically jumped me on one of the anatomy laboratories, recognizing me from the day we submitted our files. I was quite impressed, I could never recall a person’s face if I only saw her once. Well, it was not because I had bad memory or short memory, - I got a handfull of healthy brains in my skull thanks to my reading addiction – but rather because I was not paying attention to anyone near me that day.

          There were actually five girls in our group that we could call quite good friends, but the two of us were always inseparable. We even wanted to do our license together, in the last year of med school.

          The familiar smell from my little apartment relaxes my muscles instantly and I take a moment to shrug the bad energies off of me. Amber, from the parfume I always wear, and hyacinth from the mini freshener I had on the shoe closet. Opening the lights from the main hall, I’m greeted by my cat’s deafening meow. " I missed you too, little boy. "

          I throw my shoes on the floor tiles, remembering myself to wipe the dust from the dark cherry color.

          The past weekend was one of the hardest calamities I have ever endured this year. Not that the last of it was any better: my love life was badly affected by my family intrusion of my intimacy and as a repercussion, so was my family life. Also, my grades from med school suddenly dropped as a result of my insomnia and constant tension.

          And I am not even adding that heavy weight I feel on my chest or the fact that I should start working soon because I had no financial support anymore.

          " How do you feel? " Nadia asks after a long pause of silence.

          I still on my own tracks and watch the cat caress my feet. Did I ever told her about my personal problems? Fuck, how could I forget that? I never liked to play the victim.

          Not good, I tell myself. Like I was kicked in the nuts and one of it got stuck in my pelvic bones.

          " You’re talking about the fact that I can’t catch a vein or?... "

          " Yes, what else? " a note of concern staines her honeyed voice, " Something else happened? "

          Oh, so I didn’t tell her.

          " No, no, what could happen? "

          Fucked a girl, that’s what happened.

          I snort at my own lying ass and lock the door behind me. " I am a little upset, but nothing some alcohol can’t heal. "             

          " Alright, dear, " Nadia chuckles and I feel her small smile through the phone, " I’ll do the same. See you tomorrow! "

          I threw the phone on the pile of folded blankets and stick my fingers in my eye holes, trying to stop the thriving headache in my temple.

          I knew it was not going to be alright. My parents were so ashamed I was dating a girl they kicked me out of the house. It was that or the possibility of losing the only person I have loved and turned my love back multiplied.

          I unpack my bag and sit on the edge of the bed, allowing myself some time of peace. The book that I finished last night laid on my night stand, making me feel stuck in their world of faes and happy endings. My bed was neated and the white sheets seemed so appealing to me, an open invitation to a death sleep. I could already depict the coldness of them engulfing me whole, promising me a short termed patch for my damaged heart.

          Closing my eyes, I listen to the ticking sound of the clock that my father gave me. I guess it was a present to remind me how a waste of time I was for him.

          Of course I had no peace of mind in my own home. He was everywhere. " Sooner or later I’ll take the syringe from doctor Appleheim and stick it in my throat by myself. "

          These emotions, the anxiety and haste made me feel so tired. Was it ever going to end? This constant sense that my every step was being watched and analyzed, my never ending bad luck? Is my existence a joke to some higher divinity that gets bored every now and then and throws some bad shit into someone’s life just for fun?

          " Come, Icarus " I mumble and open my white blouse, swearing at the shit material of these doctor uniformes that made me sweat like a man, " your whore of a mother needs a drink. "

          I get up and change into a green hoodie, tying my hair in a knot at the back of my head and making a mental note to wash it tonight. I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and I instantly regret it. I looked hazardous, my green mascara was smeared under my eyes making the dark circles turn purple, my scalp was still stained from my red dye and the broken blood vessels from my eyes overpowered the grey irises.

          Maybe I was going mad after all, and I was barely 23.

          After several unsuccessful attempts to find a wine glass, I satisfy my needs with a pink cup for coffee that says: ‘ Don’t be a whore, suck some coffee! ". I fetch the white wine from my almost empty fridge and officially start my lonely night.

          The cat jumpes on the table and meows, considering me with his golden eyes. I stare right back, taking a massive sip from the alcohol and admire the only patch of white fur around his neck. Nausea hits me when I remember that chilled night of December, when I stumbled over his paralyzed body at the trash. Some stray dogs found him helpless and too small to fight back or know who’s the enemy and skinned him alive. Since then I protected him with my whole being.

          My throat starts burning and I sigh, burying my tears in the past. If I let myself fall prey to crying, I don’t think I would be able to stop for years. Even so, I can’t stop wondering what would happen if I wasn’t me, if I could be someone else, start something new, do things better. I wish I could repair everything wrong in my world, but I know I don’t have the strength nor the courage to do that. I was scarcely able to handle the things with my family back home, how the hell could I cope up with something bigger?

          I sniff the sweet scent on the wine and throw my head back, easing the feeling of sadness. Not even this damned alcohol can help me.

          A strange sensation of not belonging overpowers my senses and my limbs tremble under the weight of my own body. I feel the time pass by me, making me feel older. My soul seems heavy and my exhaling is stuck in the middle of a breath.

          Is this a panic attack?

          I touch my neck from instinct, feeling the heated chain around it and open my eyes, focusing on the clock from my father. A moment passes by before I realize the weirdness of the situation and I lift my brows in confusion. The clock hands didn’t work anymore, fluttering in a repetitive way at 3:33 a.m.

          " What the shit? I just got batteries for you... " I moan and put the half drank wine on the kitchen island.

          I barely make a move towards the hanging object, when a dreadful element catches my attention.

          My cat. My immovable, frozen Icarus, stretching after a mosquito on his back paws, holding himself like a statue. My mouth drops open, without being able to believe what I was witnessing. For several minutes I am not able to make a move, examining his tiny body and waiting for him to sit back down. His mouth is slightly opened, letting the sharp fangs visible and his slit pupils are fixating the imperceptible fly.

          With the only sound around me being my acute heartbeats, I lift my shaky hands and touch his frozen torso. The bile is rising in my esophagus when his rubber like skin comes in contact with my icy fingers.

          The shock is rapidly replaced by the feeling of fear and helplessness.

          Was I high? Was the wine old or expired? That wasn’t even a possibility.

          " This must be a joke " I can’t even hear my breathy voice as I launch to the bottle, searching the little sticker on the side. Nothing alarming poppes, but at the end of it, a red sentence makes the hair on my neck rise.

          ‘ Open the door. ‘

          A shiver runs down my spine and the sensation of being watched creeps behind my ringing ears. I take a step back and pinch myself, making sure I was not in a disturbing nightmare.

          I was so used to having them lately, that sometimes, right after I woke up, I still saw the scenes in front of my eyes: a spilled cauldron drowning me, dark shaped-like creatures grabbing my legs from my bed and that fucking peculiar lady with ink black hair and a pair of green eyes that seemed sick and eerie. Maybe I had sleep paralysis, but I never suffered of one before and I knew it wasn’t manifesting like this.

          I check my phone with the intention to call back Nadia when the hour gets my attention. 3:33, the worst half of 666. When I tap the clock to check the whole hour, I see the interminable series of 3. I turn back to the one from my wall, and a hole formes inside my stomach. 3:33. I thought it was barely 9 p.m.

          Now, I was not scared anymore, but fucking terrified. If the lights abruptly went out, I think I would curl on my floor and have a heart attack.

          Dizziness hits my consciousness, and then, as if my cat being stuck in the air and the clocks showing a strange hour wasn’t enough, someone knocks on my front door.

          My mouth dries up and my blood runs out from my cheeks. The coldness from my apartment makes my extremities’s temperature to drop and I am not able to move from the spot where I was looking directly at the doorknob. I turn my head slightly to read the label from my wine bottle and consider the opportunity to just strangle myself by the ceiling.

          " That would not be an option. "

          My shrill scream bounces off the white walls, sounding pathetic and petty. I jerk so bad backwards, that I step in my cat’s water bowl and slip, hitting my head on the sink and making me see double for a split second.

          The place where I hit my skull pounds deep in my brain, and I start wondering if I fell before I drank that wine and this is just a result of my unhandiness. But the tall, slender man sitting in the middle of my kitchen was as real as my pain behind my eye globes. He seemed so effortlessly classy and… harmless that I almost relax in his presence. The black suit was tailored on his body and seemed to be in a perfect match with his dark laced boots.

          I feel his brown irises searching me, as if I was the one who broke into his house and looked like a wild animal on the loose.

          He dodges the light blue carpet that was covering my white floor and offers me a hand with wrinkled fingers. He was so pale that I couldn’t understand how he was not see through.

          I swallow the vomit back and shiver, feeling the water dampen my pants and hoodie.

          " My apologies, miss, but you were not answering your door. " he admits after I don’t move from the spot where I was rooted. " I was afraid you might have changed your mind. "

          His voice was so… narrative, like a story teller. It was so clean, with barely any inflexions and no accent to stain his phrase. But, even with this composed figure, my intuition kept raising red flags on the back of my head.

          " My, my mind? There was a reason why I was not answering the door. " I find myself speaking lowly, using a cracked tone.

          I couldn’t even recognise myself. My head was empty, still loading the fact that someone got into my home without entering the front door.

          And I live at the 3^rd floor on my block.

          My complexion takes him aback and he exhales and lifts his dark, full brows in sign of surrender. He withdraws his hand, takes my cat gently from the table and sits him nicely on his lap when he takes a seat on one of my chairs. " If you like your ass to be wet, I don’t mind, I just hoped we could talk like some civilised… creatures. "

          He stoically declares, petting my cat’s head and admitting his existence with a tedious look on his face.

          The man’s features were alarming. They seemed old and young at the same time, with small wrincles on the sides of his mouth and a strong jaw with dinky stubble piercing his follicles.

          " You entering my house with no invitation is not civilised. " I bark and gather the courage to lift my body from the water puddle. " What is your name? "

          " I go by the name of Samael, " he declares, making a slight bow with his head and offers me the other chair from the table, " but you can call me however you feel like it. "

        The movement takes me off guard and I switch my attention to the top of his head. A bizzare comparision to his dark suit, was a strand of white kept hidden between his rich, raven hair caught in a low ponytail.

          " Don’t touch my cat. " My order came more like a request, so I clear my throat, and move to stay as close as possible to the knives in the support.

          " Those won’t save you. " He sternly warns me and puts Icarus on the seat besides him, turning his focus on me. " I came here because you wanted a change, I am here to offer you that chance. "

          " I have no idea what are you talking about and how on earth you could help me, but I don’t want anything from you. " I make myself clear, rumaging my brain after something I could use in my defence.

          Samael chuckles, and the sight seems both wrong and forbidden to look at. " If you wanted to be left in peace, you wouldn’t have said that. "

          I blink in utter disorientation, starting to feel overpowered by his suffocating presence. The headache from earlier catches my temples in a cage, biting down on every nerve in that region. I clench my fist several times, feeling my fingers swollen and stiffened.

          This man’s presence held something wrong and out of this world. The energy around him was as contrarious as the sun and the moon: it was loud and calm, lightweight and obscur, a breath of air and a hand around your throat. From time to time, when he peerced me with his gloomy eyes, I had the impression that he was feeding himself from my own energy resources. He walked, stood and watched like a man bored by existence itself, like he attended every single historical decision and wasn’t surprised by anything he encountered.

          " Look, " I dare to speak, unable to put a finger on what was going on around me " my cat is frozen, I think I am on drugs and I almost pulled someone’s vein out of his arm today. " I list, watching Samael’s unmovable posture " I am in no mood for tricks, whatever hack you used on my phone, it was funny, alright, give me back the batteries from my clock and switch this plush cat with my real one. "

          " Oh, but this is your real cat. " He simply states, leaving me dazzed.

          I wanted to punch him in the face so bad and mess up that strict façade of him.

          " Listen to me. " He asks, finally standing up from his seat and coming towards me, cornering me, scaring me. " I am not here to hurt you, I heard your cry for help and I am here to offer a bargain. "

          Now that Samael was closer, I could see the hiding viperin figure behind his chiselled features. The man was tall as a tree and smelled like old, dusty books and forest after rain. My kitchen looked smaller and bland with him in the middle of it, overthrowing everything with his sultry presence.

          " What bargain? " I fell into his trap, suddenly bewitched by his face.

          I couldn’t take a hold over my body anymore. I was watching everything from the outside, through a blurry curtain that was restricting me from taking my physical being back.

          " I can give you freedom, peace " I have no reaction as he comes closer, touching my rosy cheek with a frozen hand, "  the chance to make everything better. "

          My spirit revolts inside me and I feel the temperature from the room starting to rise, like the energy particles hit each other, staggered by an invisible force. The beats from my heart sound like a distant echo, crying for help and I realise then, that I was having palpitations, that my blood wasn’t reaching all the sectors of my body and that I couldn’t think straight.

          " You are able to start over, with all the knowledge you have now of everything that happen. " Samael carries on, unbothered, clawing at my cheek with his fingers " but with one condition: never spoil anything from the future to the ones from the past, otherwise you’ll change the course of events, and things may go to the wrong path... people may die, others may not be born. The universal balance will be broken and the worlds will crumble on top of each other. Be careful. "

          I feel my skin pulled from my face, gathering under his nails.

          " What is the price? " I ask mechanical, hearing my eardrums thudding continuously.

          I catch a glimpse of blood running lazily down my collar bone and damping my hoodie and some loosen strand of my hair, making it even redder than before. I can’t even totally feel the stinging sensation.

          A brush of air starts ruffling the papers I had scarced on the table. The lighting bulbs flicker furiously and I catch a glimpse of the creature standing in front of me. His face changed with the intermision of darkness and light, molding his face from the composed human to a horrific complexion.

          His mouth was wide as if he couldn’t close it completely and a pair of irregular, blood stained lips surrounded it. His tongue was sharp and scarred by the uneven fangs sticking out of his gums. His orbs were black and his skin was purple.

          " Your name and a drop of your blood should be enough. " Samael smiles victoriously as he makes me shake my head with his hand in sign of a silent acceptance.

          What happens next is over my power of understanding.

          He pushes me, but instead of hitting the wall, I start falling through what seemed an interminable void of circles. I hardly even get to see anything, too terrified of the thing that’s waiting for me on the bottom. I catch a flash of a city, a city built near a river and try to cling to the nearest building, but fail. Something from another level hits my rib cage and I open my mouth to scream, but the falling speed cuts my breath and I start waving my legs and hands. Sparkles obscure my vision as the pressure gets higher and the colours from all the worlds overwhelm my senses. The five amprents on my cheek start burning and the pain in my lungs gets oppressive.

          In that spining wheel of circles, I hear my phone ringing, but the song is so far away it barely reaches my ears. A familiar tone that makes my eyes sting with longing. The last thing I see before I hit the bottom of a lake is a war on a mountain and a burning flame cutting through the darkness.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

 God Forbid... 

Author’s P.o.V:

          Before the first war, five hundred years ago, when humans grew tired of the faerie’s tyranny upon their kind, there was this plain saying, who gained power through the blood of every slaughtered male and female, regardless of their nature. It was a chanted, vicious poem, spreading malevolent or honourable effects once it was spoken.

          Even though it was brought into this world in the same very moment as the spilling of The Cauldron, The Mother hid it from the world, for it was a calamity to the ones that fitted the category. Then, after years of being preserved in the back of the minds of the population, it surfaced when a group of celestial beings fell into our circle, commanded by a wrathful god who ruled a young world.

          ‘ Like calls to like. ‘

          It was the truth. But a very bitter truth.

          For this, the mortals suffered tremendous atrocities: skinned alive, enslaved and worked until they died of fatigue in the mines of the faeries, spitted on and stripped of any independence. It was even worse if you were a half-faerie, if somehow, you’re mother was taken by a whore and fucked by several sharp-eared bastards.

          The reason may seem futile and… dispassionate. The creatures thought that mankind was made for this, for pain and hardship: pain calls to pain, misery calls to misery. They weren’t nice even to their own comrades: the lesser faeries. The differences disgusted the High-Faes: the rounded ears that remembered them of humans, long limbs, glowing skin, horns and clawed, webbed feet. This was all deemed to be inferior and shameful.

          But all of this injustice was so far away. It didn’t mean that the consequences weren’t present now: the wall itself was evidence that scars remain and some don’t even heal.

          The winged male, roaming the skies at this late hour thought the same. His memories of the dark cell rarely affected him when he was conscious, but the trauma that resurfaced every time he slept was still proof enough that he needed more than climbing out of the abyss.

          The war with Hybern didn’t last very long, but both him and the rest of his family, suffered great loses for a merely illusion of peace.

          Some things where not good before that, to start with, but others grew colder and colder. He thought of the relationship between the three sisters, that was hanging by a thread and then at him and his brothers. The Archeron family was scattered anyway, but after their absent father died during the war and the other remaining sisters being transformed in faeries, the hole grew bigger, pathless.

          Somehow, it seemed like destiny made them meet. One sister for each brother. The Mother was so sure that the pairs were able to pull each other from bad memories and heal their hearts together. But it was not that simple: Nesta wished to see no one around her and Elain was so closed inside her shell-shaped mind, that rarely someone could reach inside of it. He wished that someone to be him, but The Cauldron made a mistake and gave the middle sister a mate that didn’t fit her.

          Rhysand was the only one that was content with his wife, but he got his own plate of agony for fifty years before he reached this point of alleviation.

          Azriel’s gut tightened at the thought of what his High Lord had to endure for the sake of Velaris. 

          Recently, the two of them had enough of Nesta’s rebellious behaviour. Only yesterday, at the breakfast table, they got the bill from Rita’s restaurant and some gambling magazine. The Shadowsinger didn’t interfere with their decision, it was not his resolution to take. He had other things on his head to worry, so much that they kept him up at night.

          It wasn’t about the money, because the inner circle got plenty of them in the treasury. It was about her unhealthy way of coping.

          Feyre took the drastic decision to end her sister’s suffering by sending her into the one of the shittiest places on earth: Windhaven Camp. Azriel brushed the sensation that it wasn’t the place to help Nesta, blaming it on his distate for the illyrians and their backward mentality.

          He didn’t deny the fact that the oldest sister needed and impulse to step out of the hole she was falling. He understood the urge to drink and fuck her way out of trauma and forget about bad memories and powers she couldn’t control.

          Azriel did the same, after all.

          But her behaviour hurted more than just Feyre, it scared Elain too, pushed her out of everyone’s reach and he couldn’t bear this.

          His jaw tightened at the picture of her delicate frame, coming back to the town house after she went to visit Nesta. Her shoulders were brought inward and she kept her elegant features hidden. He didn’t need his shadows to read her posture. The tears stains from her dress where proof enough that things didn’t end well between them. Elain didn’t spoke to anyone that night, or the day after and Azriel never had the courage to go and say a word to soothe her heart.

          He found himself on the hall of her dorm once, hiding in the dark, waiting like a dog for her glistening appearance. Azriel could imagine Elain, only in her pink nightgown he knew she was wearing. It was her favourite. He could trace the fragile silhouete of her body with the fingers of his mind through the thin silky material. It covered nothing. It was only a shield.

          Never to touch. Always out of reach.

          The Shadowsinger took a deep breath and stretched his wings again, feeling the warmth of summer caressing his membranous wings. He felt his pants grew tighter. He didn’t want a damn boner in the open sky. He was not his brother, he could hold in his temper, his needs, even if they grew bigger each day. Pleasure hall wasn’t enough and he felt dirty screwing an unknown woman and picturing Elain under him, how she’ll sound while he entered her, how her breath would hitch.

          Focus, his shadows seemed to whisper in his ear, curling around his ear lobe.

          I wish I could, Azriel answered, more to himself than to his companions.

          He switched his attention towards the final trees, trying desperately to soothe the ache from his belly. The stench of resin hit his nostrils first, before a pair of big firs came into view. He recognised their lining that marked the entrance of Velaris.

          There was something odd about this night. As he approached the wards protecting the city, Azriel realised that the sky was fuller. The stars were piled on top of each other like they shielded against something, or shielding someone. Not even the spymaster’s favourite’s giant constellation, Orion, wasn’t to be seen, outshined by the prodigious mass of shining bulbs. The moon was coated by opaque grey clouds, leaving the sky open and somehow forsaken, reflecting Azriel’s own unhappiness.

          The night air was unusually heavy and hot, too much even for the beginning of summer. Inhaling it felt like being trapped underwater, violating your nose and giving the male a headache. His black illyrian leathers were tight and made him sweat underneath. Also, he didn’t see any animals running down the forests paths, didn’t hear the rustle of leaves or howling wolves.

          Azriel didn’t take the signs as something bad, but rather a normal way of acting when it came to solstices. More so because the summer one held a meaningful symbolism: the light that helps us find a goal in our journey, setting us to the right path and having a new beginning.

          He lost a low chuckle through his lips. Azriel wasn’t the one to believe such bullshit. In his five hundred years of living, he never saw that guiding light, he reached his goals through torture and patience. The latter was beginning to fade as he grew more impatient, longing for warmth and the feeling of belonging to someone.

          Inside, he kept his emotions under a firm grip, knowing that displaying them was a sign of weakness. And he didn’t have the freedom of being vulnerable anymore.

          Sadly, that made him forget how to show them. Or how they felt.

          When Azriel passed the protection layer, the air changed swiftly from the thick and almost liquid one on the mountains, to one a lot more breathable and flowery.

          ‘ Thank the Mother. ‘, he thought, escaping the honeyed atmosphere from the outside.

          The lights of the mansion were on. The meeting has started. Or already finished. He only hoped that he didn’t arrived late. Not that he was eager to see Nesta’s punishment or sense Elain’s mating bond on her.

          He cringed at that and landed on the balconies threshold, donning his frozen mask.

          " Brother. " Rhysand acknowledged his presence first, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s, squeezing gently before eyeing Cassian.

          The High Lady nodded in his direction " She needs to come to her damn senses, " then fixated her eyes somewhere in the distance, putting a shield between her and the world around. " otherwise, I don’t know what else I can do to help her. "

          " You’ve done enough. " Rhys delicately assured her, brushing his fingers through Feyre’s light brown curls. " You’ve helped her enough. You and Elain, Amren. Cassian. Everyone tried to give her space and a place here. With us. "

          So it didn’t go smoothly.

          There is nothing to bind them anymore, his shadows whispered, uncovering themselves in the dim light of night.

          " I am sorry I didn’t get here on time. " Azriel spoke, stepping silently and covering the archway with his wings. " I had business to attend to. " His remarked didn’t pass unnoticed by his High Lord.

          ‘ My office. ‘, Rhysand said in his mind.

          ‘ Is not urgent, but it is something you need to hear. ‘

          " We convinced her to come with me to the camps. " Cassian added, putting one ankle over the other knee. 

          " More like forced her. " Rhysand completed.

          Azriel remarked how his brother took time arranging himself today: with lacquered brown boots, ironed shirt and freshly shaved.

          " I knew she wasn’t going to take this easy. " Amren was seated neatly on the couch, toying with her new favourite bracelet that Varian gave her as a present " But something tells me you’ll manage. "

          She gave Cassian a half nod, smiling in her own devilish way. Azriel knew why Rhysand brought her here, so he would preserve any sort of familial bond between him and Feyre’s sister.

          The spymaster senses the tension in the room and scans it rapidly, locating the source of the strange ambiance. It came in big waves from Cassian, who kept his shoulder straight and his muscles contracted.

          " She’s scared, tormented. " Cass draws a breath, visibly irritated with the stubborn older Archeron sister.

          " Let her dig her own grave, boy, then offer her a hand. " Amren stirs the wine in her almost empty glass, licking her red lips.

          " I thought that’s what this past year has been: reaching to her. " his brother closed his eyes, a pained look crossing his features for a second, " But I received only death looks and venomous words. "

          Azriel knew what he was talking about: the gift he threw in the Sidra, last solstice, after the fight they had on the market streets.  After she made it clear she wants nothing to do with them. With him.

          He was the only one out of the Inner Circle who knew what they’ve lost that day: The Veritas. The apple sized bulb, incastrated with truth magic, that required the Spymaster’s infiltration in the Court of Nightmares’s dungeons.

          Azriel suspected the reason behind this gesture, to show Nesta the truth, Cassian’s truth. Even though he knew the General’s feeling towards the oldest sister, it was his own secret to tell.

          " Keep reaching out your hand. " Amren stated, piercing Cass with her silver smoked eyes.

          " I’ve gotten young warriors in the line before. " Cassian dared to joke, shifting from his previous pose and coming closer to where the Shadowsinger was standing near de balconie’s archway.

          " Nesta’s not some young buck pushing the boundaries. " his brother contested, kneeling at Feyre’s feet and caging her palms in his own.

          " I can handle her. "

          " She’ll give you a hard time. " their High Lady spoke, shaking out of her sadness, " And she’ll enjoy every second of it. "

          " She’s miserable. " Amren rose, finishing her glass, ready to get back to her house. " Too bad that rule doesn’t exist, or is not exactly as precise as I made it to be. "

          " Then make sure to add it later. " Rhys helped Feyre to the base of the stairs, " We don’t want to be caught frauding the system. It is enough Keir doesn’t have us at his heart and seeks any wrong step to split the Night Court. "

          Elain had walked in halfway through his brother’s testimony. " I left her baggage in the hallway. " she spoke softly, hiding her hands in the purple dress she was wearing, " It is small. I don’t think it will rise any problems of transportation. "

          He inhaled unconsciously, feeling the lilies and daisies smell all over her. She kept a solemn face, never taking her eyes off of Rhysand.

          Oddly, one of his knives came out of his pocket and kept stabbing him in the ribs, giving him a blessed distraction from Elain. With his head în another world, he took it out and placed it on the table next to the fireplace.

          The spymaster shot a look towards her soft brown eyes, asking himself if she was strong enough to bear her sister’s deadly arrows that were about to come her way. But Elain’s gaze remained steady as she listened to Rhys, not sparing him a glance. So he changed his focus to Cassian, who looked pale and angry.

          " I’ll bring it up to the House of Wind. " Cassian agreed, stepping on the balcony. " How’s Varian accommodating the weather from Velaris? "

          " I show him new things every night. " the little devil throws us a meaningful look. " He loves the view from our windows. "

          Feyre laughs softly and Elain blushes, turning her gaze to the ground.

          A sudden feeling of tiredness settled on Azriel's shoulders and a wave of pain crossed his body.

          The sky, his shadows whispered, the sky.

          He blamed it on his lack of sleeping, but as he turned to watch the night sky, a shooting star passed silently and a ghostly smell of amber made his heart ache.

The Continent

          " This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is The Mother of all we feel. "

          Mother of all we feel…

          I will bring you to my feet!

          Don’ t falter, Evening Star!...

          Your existence is like mud under my nails.

          Stop it, I pray to the different voices around, watching the scenes fly pass me: an old man, a young king, two ladies helping me get up and blood. So much blood.

          The Three Dead Kings are waiting for their Daughter.

          Their blood is all over your hands, Queen of Ashes.

          Make it stop, I beg again, feeling lost inside the darkness.

          Strike her again!...

          Mother of all we feel…

          I’ll make a crown out of your bones.

          I have been waiting for you…

          A gentle caress touches my forehead and a pair of hazel eyes passes swiftly trough my mind.

          Wake up, I beg you.

          A piercing man’s scream shatters my eardrums and I jolt, barely aware of where my body starts and ends. The ache inside my heart is agonizing and I feel like I faint several times before my mind is fully anchored to my material body.

          I always had the uncertain sensation that my death will be miserable. And I always blamed myself for thinking too much, for feeling too hard and for playing the victim too often. But the truth is: Death was always stalking me – like a lovely sister of Bad Luck that became my friend -, eradicating in her path everything that was dear to me. Grandparents, uncles, dogs, birds and recently, the parental love that I never had, actually.

          I blamed the cancer, because that is what the fate seemed to have prepared for us: hereditary colon cancer. I was afraid that I had it, but my mother was too scared to do some analyses, refusing to hear the truth and preferring to stay blind. So I did the same.

          But that doesn’t mean I escaped. I experienced another kind of illness.

          I am not american, I came from the Balkans, from a part of Europe where fairy tales, curses and legends are at home.

          Not recently, maybe years prior to this day, my mother, an aunt and I visited an old lady. She lived in a village with unpaved streets and we paid her to do a tarot session and read in our coffee cups.

          That was the day I knew some higher divinity had a vendetta against me.

          The lady was ancient, reaching – after the precision of a teenager – a critical level of ninety years. She smelled like rotten eggs and something characteristic for an old woman with no bathroom inside her house and no sewerage. Her house was made out of adobe and lacked a few windows, the plaster had peeled off of the exterior walls, leaving the horse’s shit and wheat straws to be seen.

          The interior wasn’t any better. It stank of sauerkraut, it was very chilly, dull and inhospitable, with a raw wood floor and an iron bed covered by a smeary flattened mattress.

          She invited us to sit around a little table in a slightly tidier room. It seemed like it was made especially for guests who were into pagan games. The wooden furniture was covered by a hand-sewn table cloth, coloured with red, white and blue thread. The chairs had red leather seats, and the few windows were covered with soot and embroidered curtains. The crone kept here an old sewing machine, with pedals and a sharp spindle in witch she impaled three porcelain dolls.

          " Keeps the dark forces away. " She hinted, observing me.

          The old woman had a glassy eye, corrupted by cataracts and the other one held such a bright blue, that made you wonder if she was blind or not. She looked more like a witch than someone’s granny. She missed a good part of her gray hair and only a few tufts remained trapped in a bun at the base of her head, covered by a black handkerchief. The woman wore a mourning gown, a full-length dress, with a brown apron hanging around her navel. A nephew of hers died of a chromosomal disease that made him look like an experiment of God.

          I never believed her. I knew this was a form of punishment, implied by the one who ruled up or down, because she was playing with dark magic.

          The crone opened the books to read my life and looked at me crookedly.

          With a confident, wrinkled hand, the woman put three cards on the table, after she shuffled them and had me cut them three times.

          4 of hearts. 5 of clubs. 3 of spades.

          I don’t recall with what lies she charmed me with, I was horrified by her looks. Some years passed before I opened up a discussion with my mother and she remembered me of the crone’s premonitions.

          It was about an unexpected, long journey on a foreign continent, devoid of good people and love.

          " She called it a place with no pure magic. " My mother added, drinking from her cup of coffee.

          She told me that someone puts me through great obstacles and I will suffer many losses in my path. In the end I was to be successful, but with terrible costs.

          " To save only one hand for the price of the whole body. " My mother raises her brows, and the memories seem to torment her for a second. " Quite strange if you ask me. "

          " She swore, by the tongue of death actually, that the man from the shadows is waiting for you. He is the only one that can save you. "

          Shortly after our meeting with the witch, she died. It seemed she had gone mad. Her kids found her trapped in the space between the stove and the wall. She was frigid.

          Mother of all we fell…

          I claim you, mou nafsah…

          I manage to take a deep breath, feeling my trachea obstructed by mucus and salt. A convulsive cough makes the capillaries in my eyes to stop pumping blood, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar pressure. My mouth opens, gasping for oxygen and a loud moan escapes my crusty lips when a spasmodic pain flourishes in my body.

          The sounds echo around me and I worry that some of my neighbours might hear me. But I couldn’t stop. I try to tense my muscles, but another wave of nausea storms my stomach. I twist and vomit on the ground beneath me.

          " God forbid… " I whisper, feeling the air hitch in my throat.

          The smell of salted water and fresh flowers decrease my nausea, and my vision begins to clear slowly, patches of light dispersing the darkness. I blink a few times, feeling my eyelids glued together.

          Only after a few moments I am able to see the scenery. A vast meadow, fresh and… alive, in a strange way,

          " God forbid… " I hum lowly, touched by the sudden beauty that surrounds me. " Where am I? "

          One of my vertebrae cracks when I raise my head wearily, reminding me of the tangled position I was in.

          The patch of grass was guarded by rocky, ink-black mountains, which shone in the distance like the precious jewels of an imperial crown. It looked like I was inside a dormant volcano.

          The sun shone brightly over me, warming my tangled, frizzy hair and making me cringe at the sensation of dirt and salt tightening the skin of my shoulders. Carefully, I turn around, enthralled by the clear lake stretched out, alluring insects around it. A thin strip of sand noted the difference between the water’s edge and the beginning of the grass.

          I must have fallen in it, that’s why my clothes were drenched and covered with a dusty pellicle of dry salt.

          Dizzy, I look at my filthy, creased thumbs and use my mouth to breath. My nose was stuffy and it hurt terribly, like it broke when I landed.

          A gray stag lowers his head to drink water.

          " Don’t… " I start, feeling my hoarse voice rubbing against my larynx. I clear it and try again: " It’s salty. Don’t. "

          He watches me, and for a second, we both look skeptical at each other. Is he questioning my existence? I watch his high, branched horns and involuntary smile at his long snout and bright, gentle eyes.

          I pull back, not wanting to scare him and squeeze my head between my palms, unable to neglect my growing headache. "I am sorry… "

          I was losing it. My minds, my spirit of observation, my instinct. It couldn’t be true. I fucking fell out of the sky, through nine circles of worlds. Something told me it resembled Dante’s Inferno, but I knew I wasn’t in Hell. At least not so soon. This place was more like Heaven, not burning flames and red demons wanting to get your soul.

          And I felt very much alive.

          I was probably drugged or drunk or the fall on my cat's bowl must have done something to my brain, because I couldn't be here.

          My memory wasn’t a reliable source either. Broken and discontinuous fragments appear in my brain: Icarus caught in the air, Nadia, volunteering for that blood donation, 3:33, the clock’s batteries, the 3rd floor and the man in the black suit. Everything was like a tornado, always moving and changing, without sitting next to each other so that I could make sense out of this.

          The intention to cry makes me stiff and I feel like crying, because I sigh and hiccup and my eyes sting and my throat hurts, but I can't feel the tears on my cheeks. I can feel the drops gathering in the corners of my eyes, but nothing bluries my vision. I only feel a confusing emptiness that gnaws at my intestines.

          The stag pities me and the grass seems to wrap around my ankles, comforting me. For a second, is not cold and earthy, but my cat’s soft fur brushing my skin, welcoming me back home, telling me he missed me so much.

          My dry and rough voice runs through the calm of the place, over and over again and I mourn. My existence, my destiny, my life. I beg for help over and over and try to get up, but I fall to my knees and feel desperate when the only thing that answers me is my voice’s echoes hitting the onyx mountains.

          In an unconscious attempt to wake me up from this nightmare, I strangle myself and even when my nails are dangerously deep in my skin and my blood no longer reaches my head, I can't get out.

          It was real. I had indeed fallen through those circles and landed in a lake. In the lake next to me. I don't know how I got out, but it saved me from drowning. Or maybe something else happened. I didn’t know.

          The stag was gone and the grass had fallen off my ankles. I was left alone, face up, lying on my back and looking at the empty blue sky. So empty that it reminded me of how I felt right now.

          And what are you going to do? I wonder. Are you going to die here without knowing the truth?

          " I do not know. " I whisper, feeling my chapped lips scratching at each other. "  I want to die here. I want to die. "

          Mother of all we feel…

          I have been waiting for you…

          The song in my ears, which danced between my eardrums even before I woke up, makes me get on all fours and crawl, absent from my own body and indifferent to the cuts that pierced my palms and knees. I crawl and wheeze and cuss until I barely breath.

          I don't even know how long I move like that, with my eyes on a clear horizon and my mouth dry. The desperation was my only comrade right now, pushing me further and faster. I had nothing, but desperation and ambition flowing through my blood.

          After an infernal time I wake up face to face with the foot of the mountains chain. The black rock shone as brightly as it did from the lake, like billions of tiny diamonds were encrusted in it. I brush the tips of my fingers against the material.

          A bolt of electric power dashes through my muscles, followed by thousands of whispers in my ears. Goosebumps appear all over my soaking skin and my body is suddenly awake. The cells in my body vibrate, enthusiastic and respond to the mountains, rushing to the tips of my nails, warming my hand. I am aware of the stag coming closer, of the green serpent roaming silent at the bottom of the lake. I see the flowers bloom under my attention and the trees bending in my presence. A sparkle comes to life at the connection and I drew back, perplexed.

          Maybe this place has a large energy field around it, flowing from mountain to mountain and protecting it from any technology. Maybe that was the reason it was not populated.

          The stag by the lake appears, sniffing in the direction of a narrow opening in the rock. I could scarcely slip through it. I look at him puzzled, feeling the madness that settles in my head.

          " What are the chances that you will understand me and know that I want to get out of here? "

          I speak more for myself, and the shock crosses me when he nods and the crown of horns goes towards me.

          " God forbid… " I chant for the third time and I lower my head, sticking my fingers in my eyes. " I think I'll have to get used to it, until it shows me that it's all in my head. "

          It wasn’t just my imagination. I could smell fresh grass and clean water, I could feel my body stiff and my extremities swollen, I was aware of the headache and my ears popping from time to time from the pressure. My feet ached from the gravel and my knees and elbows stung as I crawled on all fours.

          The only thing that made me doubt the surrounding landscape was my memories, probably scattered because of the fall and the long sleep. Sometimes I got so close to a detail in my head I could brush it with my fingertips, only to disappear as if it never existed.

          I dare to reach out, wanting to caress the animal on the fluffy head. I stop a few inches from him, noticing my filthy palms, full of mud, blood and lacerations. I would have tarnished his beauty, just to fulfill my desire to feel contact with a living being.

          "Thank you... " I bow to him, touching my heart with my palm.

          After a few seconds, his eyes widen in warning, blinking at me, wanting me to understand. " I am sorry. I can’t… I… I will be careful. Thank you… "

          I try to slip through the small crack, but the opening is too narrow for me. I remove my hoodie, leaving only my bra and jeans on. Holding the piece of fabric in my hand, I manage to pass through the tunnel. My clothes went two shades darker from the dust on the rough walls and my exposed skin rubbed painfully against the sharp edges of the mountain.

          Finally seeing myself on the other side of the volcano, the desolating image strikes me, causing my anxiety to reach alarming levels.

          The beauty and the peace inside the oasis contrasted sharply with the barren earth and gray sky. Life seemed to disappear, being replaced only by a vain hope of survival.

          Left and right, miles of yellow-grass meadow laid deserted, and here and there were a few peaks of brown mountains filled with smoke from the houses that lived on the ridge.

          I turn to the volcano from which I just came out, just to be petrified. There was nothing behind me. No sign of it, no rough wall of bright onyx, no sign of a stag or fresh grass. The sky was just as cloudy and the pasture just as barren.

          Even the feeling of calmness ran out of my system.

          " Well, maybe not everything is real... Or beautiful… "

          I wave my hands in the air where I knew I came from, but I don't feel anything. I lay on my knees, desperately looking for proof that everything was true. When I feel like I'm losing hope, I catch a glimpse of the black mountain and the patch of grass leading to the lake. 

          It seemed like the air was cut by a knife and the opening lead to another dimension. 

          " How is that possible?  "

           I look around and notice the dogwood tree, the same height as me and with a few budding flowers. It marks the entrance to the oasis.

          Unsure of what I was going to do next, I set off. If I were to stay here, I would never know what happened to me, how I got here, or where I am. I had no chance of returning.

          Sadness grips me and I sigh unconsciously, wandering the barren pasture, heading for what I thought was the East.

          Dark thoughts surround me and I can barely find the strength to keep going. The desolating atmosphere wasn’t helping me at all with my internal grief.

          My parents wouldn’t know where I am. They’ll probably imagine that I had committed suicide out of love, as all young people do today. The feeling of my watch on my left hand was a constant memory of the person that I loved back home. What will she do?

          God, how cruel everything was. I couldn't even remember her name. The terror of forgetting her brown eyes or round face embraces me and I start to cry. I could finally feel the tears streaming down the scratches on my cheeks.

          My Icarus. My sweet Icarus. He was going to be left alone. Who will feed him? Who will love him? My little savior…

          I cover my face and stop, unable to cope with the pressure that covered me like a blanket, suffocating me.

           " Miss, are you alright? "

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The Waking World

          " Miss, are you alright? "

          My head is still spinning trying to decipher the puzzle of events I was subjected to. In one second, I was at home with Icarus, mourning my twisted way of living, and in the next, some kind of sly saint makes me an offer, bewitches me into agreeing with it and throws me in a distorted reality that does not belong to me.

          Was this a parallel universe of the same world? Like a forked road and somehow I departed from the right path. In fact, I didn’t deviate, I didn’t do anything wrong, someone pushed me, lied to me to believe that a right direction was actually wrong.

          Looking back, I can barely recall the way I felt starring into his eyes. His looks are vaguely present somewhere in the back of my mind, sheltered by a glamour that tasted of sadness. My hair was still a little frizzy from the powerful electric field he created in my home and my fingertips were still tingly.

          Here, I felt big and small at the same time, guilty and somehow, a distortion that erased the beauty of a mirror with gold-polished edges. An imperfection, something that shouldn’t have existed in this timeline, something that changes the flowing of a river. Like a stone in the middle of a watercourse.

          I was so close to punching myself in the head to wake me up, to rip myself out of this nightmare, but I had already proven myself that nothing works, as the wounds I had on my hands and feet were witnesses of my distressed tries.

          Deep inside, I knew there was another way out, but I just couldn’t figure it out yet.

        " Miss? "

          A sweet voice calls near me and a spark of hope rises in my stomach, as I recognize my friend. I find myself calling for her. Nemira? Was it Nina, actually? Her name stuck on my tongue like a sweet and sour candy that wouldn’t melt. The feeling of knowing, but being unable to access the information, forges my brain, which is already quite worn out from the last few hours of desolation. It must have been hours, though? I couldn’t be sure of the time that I lost while I was diving through the air nor the time I wasted while I was unconscious. It fucked up my biological watch.

          Frustration makes my scalp itchy and I grit my teeth with the last remains of my strength, trying to bury my anger and despair as deep as possible. It wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere if I kept crying, yelling or acting wild. I had no idea where I was, I did not know the moral or political laws of this realm, the continent or country in which I had fallen. The reasonable solution was not to be an enemy.

          I could play the lamb, I could pretend to be whatever this world wanted, as long as I got what I needed at this moment: answers, solutions for my problems and a way home.

          But… I had to ask myself, do I want to go home?

          I remove my muddy palms from my face and raise my eyebrows to unglue my swollen eyes. I had cried so much that my tears dried between my lashes and at the corners of my eyelids, forming a sticky and lumpy rheum. My irises hadn’t gotten used to the brightness yet, because I wasn’t able to control myself and not collapse every two seconds. The pressure on my forehead intensifies and time seems to get bogged down until I manage to get a clear image of the being in front of me.

           First, I catch the same desolate picture of aridity with faded shades of brown and sickly green, then the back currants that peeked out from the sun-burnt area. The figure in front of me is lost in the landscape, angular and thin, resembling the cut trunk of a tree that no longer bears fruits.

          My blood rushes from my head to my feet and I drag my ass back when she takes a timid step forward. Her legs are covered by a brown skirt that brushes the dust off the floor, patched at the hips and nibbled at the hem from all the years it was worn. She was not wearing any shoes, leaving her calloused toes exposed to the rough gravel.

          " No, no, don’t run… please. " she whispered softly as if I was a rabid animal ready to strike, " I don’t mean to scare you away. I just… " she bites her lips nervously, watching me with weary brown eyes. " I just want to know if you need any help… "

          Do I need help? Probably. Was I going to accept it from any stranger who offered it to me without knowing his full intentions? Of course yes.

          " Water. " I say dryly, licking my lips with my dusty tongue.

          I raise my head towards the other half of the woman and frown, raising my hand to shelter my eyes from the burning of the sun.

          " You don’t look familiar. I mean… you know? " she shrugs as she kneels in front of me and rummages in her old leathered bag until she pulls out a bottle held in a raffia clad.

          As she holds it for me to take it, I see her yellow stained nails and the little chamomile flowers hanging from it.

          " I mean you seem like you don’t belong to this parts of the continent. "

          Her accents slips between words and I frown. Was I in my own world? In Ireland? No, it was impossible. I just passed through a hole in the air and got from a chill oasis with diamond mountains and a stag to a sad field.

          I don’t think this things happen often in Ireland.

          " There is a little bit of water on the bottom, but I think is warm -" I cut her off, removing the plug cork and chug the mild water.

          The taste makes me choke and I cough, feeling the terrible aroma drowning my taste buds. The dust I inhaled mixed with the old water and the algae from the lake and iron formed a thin layer of rubble inside my mouth.

          " I warned you, y’know? " she chuckles and hides the bottle back in her bag.

          When the silence fell between the two of us, I felt the need to fill it, but I couldn’t find the right words to do so. I had so many things I could ask, but I had no strength in me anymore, no ambition. Nothing.

          Instead, I let her study me. From my wet hair sticking to my face, to my puffy bags under my eyes, over my bruised and runny nose, my chaped lips, my red stained neck and clothes. I was a bloody mess.

          However, she didn’t seem impressed. I felt pity from her. Maybe this type of disfigured people thrown from the sky were not a novelty around here.

          " What’s your name, dear? " she tilted her small head, letting a few curls to fall over her skinny cheekbones.

          She had an angelic allure, with dark features highlighting her sickly looking alabaster skin: raven like hair caught in a tight bun, thin and arched brows and sparse eyelashes.

          " My name? " I repeat, woken up from my starring.

          My name. My name… What was my name?

          I could feel my throat closing. Do I have a name? Of course I do, I just need to remember. My gaze ran from one corner to another, bombing me with so much visual information that I forget to breathe. Was I not a person anymore? Do I still exist? Does my name define me? Who am I? Was I really here? A silent galaxy flowed in my brain, a dizzyng void in which all the elements I knew the night before were lost: my name, my girlfriends name, my parents, my friend. All this sat covered by a thick curtain, like some creepy shadows of the past.

          I looked at the still working watch hanging from my wrist. The only thing I kept dearly attached to me. The gift from my late lover.

          I started crying again, with quiet sobs and barely present tears to sting my eyes. I was incapable of reproducing one of the simplest things: the name I was given at birth.

          " Shh… That’s all right if you can’t tell me, y’know? " she stretches her lean arms towards me and embraces my shoulders, placing her chin on top of my head. " We need to find something suitable for you. "

          " Forgive me. " I manage to say, digging my nails in her fragile wrists, " I fell, I can barely remember anything. "

          Gradually, we get up from the field and start walking towards the smoke that was rising between the valleys of the mountains. She sustained me with one arm, as my limping in my right leg was painfull and slowing us down.

          " Do you at least recall where you come from? The name of the city, how it looked, a random name of a priest you used to know, a friend, anything, you know? "

          What was i supposed to answer?  What occured to me was pure science fiction. Even for me it was hard to believe, but for her? She may think I am lunatic. I could be locked up for who knows what experiments or thrown in a prison for heresy. If they have a religion here…

          I was a panicked and tearful stranger with no idea about her own damned name, dressed according to the modern standards of a world that here seemed invalid. I was a walking evidence of apocalypse. Even I would lock myself underground if I was from here and saw myself.

          Maybe I should lie. Should I lie? No. They would catch me immediately if I gave random names or directions. There was no sign here that could indicate the name of any nearby town or village and I didn’t have any knowledge of the local places so I can be able to give vague indications regarding my supposed home. I was clueless if there was an ocean separating us from another continent on the left or if there was a deadly canion on the right.

          I was a leaf in the wind waiting to be guidate or to be withered.

          " I have a cat… " I find myself talking, accepting the crocheted woolen scarf that she draped over my shoulders, " Fortunately, I remember his name – Icarus. "

          Maybe ’ I used to have a cat. ’ was a better way of puting it into words. Maybe it would soothe my heart if I talked about him like he was dead. I touch my watch and close my eyes for a second, restraining myself, gaining strength from the feeling of cold leather.

          " Icarus. " she repeats cautiously, considering me through her black lashes, " You love him dearly, don’t ya? "

          I nod, counting in my head the big rocks that we where avoiding in our path, searching for serpents or insects, anything for a little distraction.

          " I love all my pets too: cows, horses, sheeps, dogs, cats, even the chickens and ducks. My family has a farm on the hill, y’know. "

          " That’s where we headed to? " I ask shyly, tightening the scarf around me.

          I could finally feel the cold creeping through the seams of my clothes. As we keep getting closer to the base of the mountains, the scenery slowly changes from the sad, steril land, to a more vivid and cold enviroment. Tall trees, mostly firs with thick crowns, appear in our sight, guarding the path on both sides. Even the soil seemed to be alive, with a more redish color and some grass starting to grow.

          You could even smell food, fresh food and smoke from the fires in the houses. Even the feeces from animals and howling of wolves where present. It was such a real image of a normal village from my own reality. It made my senses go into overdrive and my head to spin. It must be something wrong with the meadow if it looks so soulless.

          The young woman nods and increases her pace, " Yes, and I hear you are hungry as well. "

          I laugh feeling the shame rosing my cheeks. I was starving.

          " My name’s Niven. I am the youngest from my family. I have a brother as well. "

          " And how old are you? "

          " 16, my brother is 20… I guess, I never remember, you know? It doesn’t really matter our age. "

          I silently approve. That would explain the level of naivety and gentility she exudes. No sane person would take a stranger from the streets to take him home and feed him. Especially not one that looked like me and didn’t have a name.

          " My dad is a priest in the village, he has some relations, he can definetly find you a safe place to stay and a job until… you know, remember who you are. " she bites her pale lips again and turns her dark pair of eyes to study me again. " You have quite a small forehead and your nose is strong and defined. Are you sure you don’t come from a palace? That you don’t have a noble background? Altough… I’ve never seen a prick wear your style of clothing. Is nothing wrong with it, don’t missunderstand me, but is bland and washed out. "

          I stop in my tracks and blink several times, trying to procces the amount of informations she just dropped on me. I touch my nose and open my mouth to speak.

          Royal family? Bland and boring style? If I fell in an Outlander type society, I won’t be able to survive more that a couple of weeks.

          " You mean to say I am uninteresting? "

          " Oh, dear, I am so sorry. " she laughs and drags me by my hand after her, " I mean to say you don’t fit in their expectations either. Only by your face you might have a chance… I am not saying you are ugly, you know? You just, nevermind. "

          " No, I’m not noble, I come from a common family, an ordinary village, this much at least I remember, I - " I fell from a carriage, I was pushed from my horse, I was hit on the head and they left me here, I was robbed, " I came here with a carriage, but I must have fallen backwards and hit my head. "

          " Well, that can explain the blood from your clothes and the holes, and injuries. "

          How easy it was for me to lie. I bite my tongue long enough to sting and I don’t let go until I notice how her face relaxes. I had given her information that satisfied her. She wasn’t so naive after all. Maybe she was acting.

          " I know it happens often on this road. So many stones that break wheels and shake horses that you almost always find a boozer or a foreign traveler lost in the valley. " she babbles as she fishes a ring of keys from her bag, " The problem is that these places are quite dangerous for those unfamiliar. "

          The farm was made of black and solid wood, with a roof made of earth and logs pierced by a chimney that gave out a lot of gray smoke. The whole yard was surrounded by a fence made of thin sticks and a narrow river, crossed by a stone bridge.

          " Did you happen to see anything peculiar? " Niven stands up suddenly, catching me off guard with her innocent doe eyes.

          " Y’know, this place used to be full of legends. Even Icarus, your cat’s name has a legend. And in the middle of the meadow, it is said that an oasis sanctified by a questionable saint is hidden from the eyes of the world, feeding from the once beautiful field. But maybe you -"

          " Nivy! "

          A woman’s voice comes from behind the house, followed by a slender silhouette.

          Niven turns her bulbous eyes to me and whispers quickly, before releasing my arm from her strong grip and grins falsely, " Your name is Cyan. "

          I swallow hard and assert quickly, repeating my fake name in my head. Cyan. Cyan. It was so similar to the way I used to be called.

          " Niven, where’s the chamomile? And, oh -"

          The person, who I supposed was Niven’s mother after their dark features, stoppes in shock, looking me up and down, " A friend of yours? Niven? "

          " No, mama, I found her, she was lost in the middle of the field. " she admits, squeezing my shoulders and bringing me closer to her mother, " She was near the village of Dupnitsa, near the dogwood tree. "

          While the silence fell over us, a mute information passed between the two of them.

          Her mother was the same height as Niven and almost as young as her, the only evidence of her true age were the barely visible wrinkles on her forehead and on the corners of her eyes. They wore similar clothes: gray skirt, just as patched, raised by one corner and tucked into the thick pants she wore underneath. It probably helped her to have a better mobility considering the size of the yard she had to take care of. Above the narrow forehead the white roots tinted her brunette hair, which she kept hidden behind a green scarf. The color brought out her hazel eyes.

          She even had the same angelic allure, with clean face, slightly bronzed, pale lips and dark, straight eyebrows.

          " I don’t want to bother, I can leave if necessary. "

          I dare to say, feeling Niven’s short nails digging in my skin. I knew they wouldn’t kick me out, by the look of the house they seemed to be a family with a big heart. They would host me enough to be able to find a way home, or at least a job, if possible.

          The woman tucks the wooden basket under her arm and bites her inner cheek, " No, no, it would be my sin to throw you out, come in and clean yourself up. "

          Niven’s face lights up, a smile creeping at the corner of her mouth. She looks at me with a victorious air before leading me to a small hut near the big farm.

          While we go around the wooden construction in the center, I catch a glimpse of an empty barn and a boy, leading the sheep towards it. The cobbled path leads us past an open horse stable, giving me the honour of admiring their beauty in the last rays of the sun.

          I don’t think I was ever so close to one of them. I could see the muscles flexing on their backs and legs, I could almost feel the smooth black and brown hair under my fingers. I instictively smiled.

          Much further back, kennels where built for chickens and ducks, but the birds where still free on the grass, watched closely by a black cat perched on the hut towards which we were heading.

          The cat feels me as I stare at her in awe, waiting for her to turn around. I wanted to be sure my Icarus didn’t somehow ended here with me, but as he finally looks me in the eye, the missing white from his neck and the golden irises scrutinizing me destroy my hopes.

          " Is the cat allowed to sleep inside? " I ask, still watching the quadruplet.

          " No animal, apart from my brother, can sleep in the house. My mother’s rules. " Niven chirpes as she holds the lightweight curtain covering the door for me.

          I try as best as I can to wipe the filth from my feet on the carpet from the entrance, then I follow Niven throught her narrow hall.

          " But sometimes I sleep with my cat without anyone knowing. "

          The floors were made of sanded, unvarnished wood, covered with hand-sewn red carpets. They had a few shoes settled on a tiny cabinet and some winter clothes hanged above them. The hall opened to three separate rooms and no mirrors were to be seen in any of the chambers.

          It smelled familiar. Something that I use to feel while on vacation to my grandparents. It smelled of freshly washed wardrobe, of wood, chamomile and a hint of animal furr.

          " You can sleep here with me until we figure things out and find a way to help you, to bring you back to you family. " Niven explains, rummaging through a row of packed clothes and pulling out a skirt and a thick cotton shirt, along with a pair of socks and a waistcoat.

          " These are my old attire, from when I was younger. It seems they work for you pretty well. Now, I’ll prepare the bath here and then we can go eat something ‘cause I’m really starving, you know? "

          Nodding my head absently, I stare at the low bed, tracing every wrinkle of the white sheets and pillows. I hadn’t heard much since she mentioned my family. I needed all my focus to keep back my tears.

          So as she brought the small tub near the edge of the bed and prepared it with towels to prevent spilling and steaming water, I noted every defect of the chamber. The brown peeled headboard, the dust on the painting above the bed, the too much perfection of the colors with which it was made, the cracks on the corners of the wood walls, the dark colors who closed the space step by step.

          Nothing was how it used to be and the crippling fear that this will be my life from now on kept cutting deeper in my heart.

          " I wonder… are you used to being washed? I mean, you know… do you want me to… huh? " Niven stutters and rubs her hands together.

          I open my mouth to end her suffering, but she starts before me, " I have no idea of the life you used to have before, but we are not wealthy, no family from this area actually is, so I have to apology to you from now if we disgust you with our living or our clothes or the smell or -"

          " Niven, please, please, stop. " I rush to her, clenching her cold fists in mine, and force myself to form an affectionate smile, " You’ve done for me more in one hour than most did in years, you brought me a glimmer of hope. How could I do this to you? I owe you all the years I am to live from now on, ‘cause I could’ve died on that field without your compassion. "

          Peace settles inside her fox shaped eyes, transforming her whole face in a pretty mass of youth.

          I remember all the things that people used to say in turkish dramas: may your hands be healthy, fare a well, may the God be with you. I could adapt to this way o living if it meant that I could survive long enough to find someone who could truly help me.

          Was Niven able to help me find  a way home? Could I really put my life on her hands, give her the truth, and expect her to not kick me out or beat me with rocks or whatever this lads did to the humans that fell from the skies? Was I ambitious enough to adapt and live like this? Would I be at peace with the thought that maybe I could never ever get home again?

          " Can I make the fire as you wash? " she asks me shyly as I peel my itchy clothes from my skin.

          " Of course, I am not that bashful. "

          As I scrub the mud from my body and clean my nails and hair, I feel her quick glances on my nakedness. Like she was searching any kind of signs that I was not human enough, a tattoo or to be certain I didn’t have fingers stuck together like the ducks had.

          Once I get out, she patiently hands me a towel and braids my wet hair. Apparently, she didn’t have any panties on either, because I didn’t receive any undergarments that looked like a pair of those. I was thankful for the chamomile soap that seemed to be home made, it helped me to get rid of the cadaveric smell that was stuck in the fabric of my old clothes.

          " This is not your real hair, is it? " she questioned while she tucks my braid under a scarf, then quickly goes to the nightstand.

          " No, it’s dyed. " I form a straight smile, dismayed by the fact that she wouldn’t understand what the chemical treatment was and take it as a satanic ritual and somehow burn me at the stake.

          " Oh, the girls from here dye their hair too. " she comes back with a small bottle of perfume and puts a few drops on my neck and underarms, " Never red though, no one wants to catch the eye of an unwanted attention. You can boil walnut leaves to make a satiny brunette or crush some coal in oil for really dark hair or boil red onion, but the smell lingeres quite some time. This is what my mother uses, but you can find much more elevated and expensive methods on the market. "

          " What do you mean by ‘ unwanted attention’? " I ask while we get rid of the red water and help her clean the droplets from the floor.

           " Well, few men know how to respect women and also, the royals and… you know, the creatures that I told you about, the ones from the woods and fields and stories. But no worries, you keep it covered and you should do just fine. "

          Her smile faltered and a sting of anxiety made my stomach to twist. I retain myself from making other comments about the matter, but held the idea inside my head, considering I should try and ask again about it, in the future time.

          Outside, the sun already hid behind the mountain peak, leaving in its trace only violet rays and a powerful smell of firs. The night sky brought with it a chilly wind, rummaging through the billions of stars stacked on top of each other. It was and odd view, like they tried to hide something underneath them or tried to hide themselves from someone. Not a single constelation was to be seen tonight and even though everything was bright from the abundance of white dots, a feeling of loneliness and crushing sadness engulfed me. This is the first night I spent here, far away and despite everyone surrounding me, alone.

          I wonder if someone looked for me back home. If someone cared enough to call and realise that something is wrong. But I had no more power there and it made me no good to sit and think about it more than I already had.

          Once inside the kitchen, I smack a shy smile to my mouth, praying that I could make it trough the dinner, the shame and the desperate need to stick a knife in my throat. Here, it was warm and almost comfortable, a caress for my pain. They had no tables, but a low one in the middle with round small chairs surrounding it. Near the entrance, the whole wall was filled with brown furniture: a cupboard where Niven’s mother was cutting bread, a glass case filled with plates and cups and a large hob where the meal was  boiling. On the other side, a boy I suppose was Niven’s brother, was stirring the fire on the fireplace.

          The shame intensifies as I notice two other faces observing me.

          " C’mere, dear, have a seat. " the old man signals me to the chair in front of him.

          " Thank you. " I whisper and stick my nails in my palms, trying to not make the situation any more awkward.

          His accent was more obvious than Niven’s or Niven’s mother. It was actually harder to understand what he said as the words came together.

          They didn’t seem disturbed by my presence, they had a peculiar patience. The youngest, I presume Niven’s brother, was so much like her and their mother, the only difference was that his skin was much darker due to the hours he spent outside and his eyes, a pair of flaming green eyes, full of life, exactly the ones of his father.

          The priest, their dad, had somewhere between fortyfive or fifty years with a beard already grey and a tanned complexion. His black hair had silver strands through it, tied in a low tail. He wore a black robe who made his tired eyes more tender. Wrinkles were all over his face: on his large forehead, on his high cheekbones, at the corner of his eyelids. The only thing he shared with his daughter was the pointy nose.

          " We have been waiting for you. "

          His words makes my skin tingle with anticipation, holding a powerful meaning behind. I blink a few times, dizzy and put my hands on the table to steady myself. His voice was made for telling stories, sweet and cultured and honeyed.

          I feel their eyes on me, expecting, waiting… worshipping. I frown and clear my throat. Where they into a form of religion that required sacrifices? Where they cannibals? Was their father a pimp?

          God forgive me for saying this about a priest, but a girl is free to make as many claims as the danger is still unknown.

          " Her name is Cyan, papa. " Niven gushes, taking a seat next to me, " I found her on the field near Dupnitsa. "

          " You treat her like she’s a dog you found. " the boy snortes, ripping a piece of the fresh pita.

          " Don’t say that to our guest. " their mother scolds him, pouring hot tea in our cups.

          " You have a beautiful name, Cyan. " the old man laughs, helping his wife with the hot pot, " We are used to strangers. I guess Niven told you every story about the meadow and all the lost people. "

          I watch the sweet vapors rising from the sauce and put a little on my clay plate. Chicken with mushrooms and boiled potatoes, everything seasoned so densely that made my mouth to water just by the smell of it.

          I bring a piece of sauce and meat to my nose, feeling rosemary and turmeric and no trace of any illicit element.

          " It is not poisoned. " the woman smiles at me, touching my shoulder, " We don’t kill our guests. "

          " I’m sorry, is just a habit. " I explain, licking my lips from the few drops of tomatoes, " I like to smell the food, it brings much more aroma to the meals if I enjoy them with my nose first. "

          " It might be from the hot weather. " the boy says, watching me behind his lashes, " Or maybe they’ve thrown you away because you are a terrible thief. "

          " Shum! " his mother shouts, banging the ladle on his plate, " Who taught you these manners?! "

          " What if it’s not her, mother?! Must we welcome all the skimpy bastards for a lost myth that never came true in all these centuries? She left us waiting, she abandoned us and let the people that fought for her to die and disappear. We are hunting the ghost of a queen, we are praising the queen that never was. "

          Everybody watches Shum go from pink to red, an amount of mixed feeling clouding his eyes: rage, fear and sadness where circling his green irises. A pair of veins where pulsing angrily on his temple and even his short hair seemed to rise on top of his head.

          The pit from my stomach grows wider and I force myself to swallow the piece of meat I’ve been crunching for minutes now. The chicken started to taste too much like chicken, so I take a sip from my tea, trying to stop the occuring vomit.

          " You’re not eating tonight, Shum. Leave my sight. " his father orders, his voice filled with the same composure.

          Shum steals some bread from the table and throws me a heavy glance before he strides outside in the night, " I hope I don’t wake up with a knife to my neck tonight. "

          " Excuse him. " Niven recovers fast, putting in front of her a chicken leg, " At his twenty something years old he acts like he rules the farm. "

          We eat in silence for a while, before the priest breaks it again.

          " My name is Kallus, I am the priest of the village, Thaibar is the name. My parish is a little further from here, you can visit me tomorrow. She is my beloved wife, Cynthia. She’s the village most skilled seamstresses. "

          " I would love to see Thaibar, I’ve never been here. " I say, letting a little bit of truth to come through.

          " Marvelous! I haven’t had a grocery shopping partner since- " Niven stops abruptly, like she was struck by a rock in the back of the head.

          " Since I broke my leg, a year ago, and I wasn’t able to walk long distances anymore. " her mother explains, with the same straight smile on her face.

          I stand up to help Cynthia clean, but she interrupts me with a hands gesture.

          " Don’t worry about it, I can handle it. Go to sleep with Niven, you might need every minute of sleep for what’s to come. "

          " Are you certain? I can at least wash the dishes or sweep. "

          " Cyan, be at peace, as long as you stay here you’ll have plenty to do. " Kallus giggles, gathering the crumbs from the table and stacking the plates on top of each other, " I can find you a job, if you desire. What did you do before? "

          Here it was. The first trap question. The first question I had to give a good lie and an honest answer at the same time. I couldn’t say I used to work in the IT field, I don’t think they had that here. I was not an engineer either and as it seems, on this realm it wasn’t a job for women to do. So the right answer was the truth.

          But what truth? Was I a doctor? No. My knowledge in this field was still limited to more theory and less practice. I had barely caught the vein of the last patient. Even so, I knew minimal things. And I was spared of using injections as I don’t think this society even knows what an injection is… I guess.

          " Apprentice! " Niven exclaims, grabbing my hand under the table.

          " Exactly! I was an apprentice at a local drugstore. I worked for a doctor: made cures, clean wounds, stitch them under supervision, took blood pressures. "

          Goddammit! I over exaggerated a little.

          " Wonderful! I have an acquaintance at the palace. She also works in the village sometime. She needs an apprentice. "

          A few seconds pass before I can fully process what Kallus said, " Palace? "

          Cynthia turns from the dishes, splashing the soap on the cupboard, " Yes, the palace of His Majesty Draegan, bastard son of the last King of Hybern. "

          Her face molds in a disgusted figure, but she hides it quickly, continuing her occupation. She hits the plates a few times, her hands shaking almost imperceptibly, " You don’t have to work there if you don’t want to, Cyan. "

          For a second I have the weird impression that I am in a play, waiting for the curtain to fall and the drama to be over.

          " Forgive me, you mentioned… you really said Hybern? "

          I blink like a dumb puppet, fidgeting my hands on my lap, ripping the skin from my nails. God. What the fuck. I was so behind with everything that was happening around me that I didn’t even realize when I stood up and brought the last dishes to Cynthia.

          Being so close to her right now, I study her ears, expecting to find the inhuman sharpness, but all I see is the elegant round shape and a pair of small silver earrings.

          " You heard well. " the woman watches me with doe eyes, an older version of Niven, with sweet and motherly features, " But no one forces you to work there. We know the environment, Kallus can find anything else until… you’ll be ready to search for your parents, for your home. You do have parents, no? "

          " I… "

          As the last remains of air left my lungs, the room begins to be too warm for my likings and to small to contain the three of us. I never experienced claustrophobia, I never suffered of it, but now, I could feel an unfamiliar sensation filling my head. The walls seemed to tighten at the corner of my eyes and the oxygen was slowly running out.

          Memories burn my scalp from the inside, and an image of my mother’s face covers Cynthia’s for a split second. They had so many things in common. I never noticed. The eyes, the mouth, the maternal feeling of protecting you with her own life.

          My throat start aching from the attempts of stopping my tears.

          " I have a mother. " I admit, letting Cynthia’s soapy hand to rest over mine, watching the bubbles soaking my sleeve.

          I have a father, as well, but I couldn’t say that I missed him as much as I missed her, that I could give my life for him as fast as I would do for my mother. No hesitation.

          A tear escapes my face, dripping on our locked hands, " I don’t know where I can find her. "

          The truth leaves my lips and Cynthia’s face goes trough a series of emotions: fury, sorrow, helplessness. She reaches out to hold me in her arms and I stiffen, dismayed by her mercy and unused with the act of showing affection, but I lay there, with my head against her shoulder and my hands frozen midway. I collapse on my knees and start crying, muffling the sounds in her shoulder, feeding my energy with hers.

          " I’ll help you find them, my child, I will do my best. " She promises, crushing me in her hug.

Kallus turns and gently caresses the scarf covering my hair. I can’t look at him, I murmur something that even I can’t understand. He nods and smiles sadly, contemplating. Fear and pain take away the tenderness and happiness of his green eyes, and for a mere second, tears gather on his lower eyelid.

          A tragic note takes over the room, as if foreshadowing misfortune and agony.

          " Go get some sleep, Cyan. Tomorrow morning we’ll get to the village’s healer, to make sure you don’t have any serious injuries and see what we can do with that apprenticeship. "

          When I lift my head I see Niven patting my back, a brief kind smile on her face. Somehow, her support helped me so much to find back the strength to stand back on my feet. Her aura was so bright and resilient, drawing me toward her, showing me the full half of the glass.

          " You can stay here with us, until we find a way to solve this or you wish to leave… "

          Cynthia wipes my red cheeks of tears and gives me a  tender kiss on my forehead.

          " I can work, I want to work. "

          I didn’t want to be trapped here and do nothing, be taken care of. I want much more than that, I am much more than a fragile human falling from the sky. I want t to try and find my way home, try to adventure in this world, find answers, solve my problems. After all, to be more tough.

          " Come on, you need sleep for tomorrow. " Niven whispers, resting her palm on my shoulder.

          " May your hands be healthy, Cynthia, the meal was delicious, and much honor to you, Kallus, for such a heartwarming introduction. "

          The priest laughs, signaling us to leave. An emerald necklace glides from underneath his black robe, stealing my eyes for a moment with it’s shine.

          The walk to our bedroom is covered in silence, digesting the events from the nights, both of us wondering in secret what will happen with this charade that we created. Niven’s face was shadowed, even with all the lights from the stars shinning above us. She seemed touched, like a brick of her sweet façade went to dust.

          Since I was a child I was overwhelmed by other’s feelings, gifted with such an intense empathy, almost drowning in other’s anger or depression. The moments where the emotions belonged to me only were rare, scattered and forgotten, ‘cause they still bring me back to a dark place.

          So, seeing my savior, should I call her like that, in a questionable mood, made my anxiety rise. Was she going to kill me by daylight? We shall see. Was she going to stare at me as I slept? Probably, maybe she’ll even imagine murdering me.

          " Good night, big brother! " Niven’s shouts, but doesn’t receive any verbal answers in return, only a displeased grunt.

          She offers me a simple, white nightgown, twin to hers and she moves to button up my dress and untie my hair.

          " My mother will make you a more practical line of clothing and a nightgown. I hope you don’t mind wearing mine until she finishes them. "

          " I must thank you again for your kindness, Niven. I’ll take anything you can give me and appreciate it as if it was my own. " I gather some courage and hug her lightly.

          " I’ve always wanted a sister, you know? Maybe The Mother finally makes my dream come true. "

          We giggle and I take my place in the bed, guiding myself after her: I on the right, with my face facing the window and her on the left, towards the door.

          I was hungry after sleep, but the hard mattress wasn’t really helping me too much to find a comfortable position for my sensitive cervical. I always had troubles with pillows. They gave me terrible headaches in my sleep if they were too hard or too soft. Anyone would say that maybe I was spoiled, but it really was a menace sleeping sometimes.

          A thought kept giving me a hard time.

          " Niven, I don’t seem to remember but, can you remind me of what’s further from Hybern? "

          She turns her body towards me and I do the same, with our knees gathered up and touching under the blanket.

          " Well, I never went to study. My father taught me and my brother, alongside some other children with no financial possibilities a few things about geography and history, so please don’t laugh at me. " she pauses, putting her pillow on a more comfortable position and continues, " There are two other continents: Prythian, right next to us and the Faerie Realms, farther away. I never travelled, you know, women are not allowed on ships as it is said they bring misfortune on the sea, but my father went in many trips to gather people for his church, The Saint Mother’s church. He’s not like the The Old Nuns, you know? My father tries to bring back an old cult. " she stops, eyes wide, like a pigeon got out of her mouth, " Don’t mention this to anyone. I don’t really have someone to talk to, it slipped out. "

          I smile, half asleep, and give her reassurance, " I won’t tell anyone, I promise. "

          I search for her hand under the sheets and put my little finger over hers, making a pact. Her brown eyes shine and she blushes.

          " I have a cousin in the Faerie Realm, in Scythia, actually, we have seen each other very rarely. People speak she is a witch. I asked if she could show me some tricks, but she makes fun of me and scolds me for giving rumors too much attention. "

          Witches? I rummage trough my memories in search of this species. Was it mentioned in the books? I can only remember the faes and the half-faes being mainly mentioned. Also, The Weaver, The Bone Carver, Koschei and the one that kept scaring Cassian. I can’t remember his name.

          But there was another problem. In what book was I present? Cynthia mentioned there was someone else ruling Hybern now, the dead king’s bastard son. If the king was dead, than I must have fallen sometime after the third book. Also, this situation wasn’t all the way sure, as the king’s name was never mentioned. Maybe I was present before the action from the series even occurred.

          My brain stopped working for a second, and tiredness crept inside me, blocking me from thinking more. After all, I have no certainty other than some names that I truly am in Maas’s universe.

          Maybe all the other circles I fell through must have been the other book’s realms, Aelin’s and Bryce’s.

          " Do witches exist? "

          " Oh, yes. " Nivy raises her thin brows and nods her head, " There are plenty of other creatures luring around these realms. That’s why the meadow is dangerous after the sun sets. But no one wants to admit the truth. "

          " What kind of creatures are in Prithyan? " I ask, pretending to be stupid.

          " Mostly Faes, higher and lower faes, or at least I know of. But don’t worry, they are all barbarians. They killed the last King of Hybern during the war, but the court from here put Draegan on the throne almost immediately, to exclude any other competition or complications. "

          " Are there any boats that travel to Prythian? "

          Niven blinks often, confused and thinks for a few moments, " There is, but I told you women are not allowed to travel the sea. That’s why I’m trapped here. The handful of people that still live on these lands are fewer and fewer and more corrupt, the new king is even crazier than the last one. "

          " Aren’t you afraid? "

          " I am, especially for Shum. " She whispers and turns her face to the ceiling.

          " Why? He works at the palace? "

          " He does, he brings a lot of money to the table, but the palace is not a safe environment for his temper. "  she clarifies and watches me with teary eyes, " He has good intentions, I know it inside my heart, but sometimes harsh words escape his mouth and says the wrong things at the wrong time. Yesterday, he stole a mare from the kingdom, brought her here. They were going to kill her ‘cause she’s not able to give birth, she’s weak and is a half-breed. "  

          My heart tightens in my chest and I bite my inner cheek, mimicking her position, " I can’t say I blame him, I would do the same if I had the courage. "

          " I wouldn’t. I have reasons to live, I have a goal. I want to achieve it while I’m still breathing. "

          " What purpose? "

          " Peace. "

          Peace. It sounded forbidden and out of place. These lands never saw peace, as far as I can remember. So I understand her wish: to live in serenity with your family, to have no fear for what tomorrow could bring. This world was not for the weak and even if everyone kept praising the fact that dreamers could survive and rebuilt, is the hope that often killes us from the inside.

          " Take me tomorrow to see the mare, please. "

          " I promise. " she laughs softly and closes her eyes.

           Author’s POV:

          The night of the Summer Solstice was almost over. A cryptic deity seemed to watch over the waken world, waiting, lurking inside their dreams, feeding from their nightmares. The honeyed air held the same thickness, piercing like a bewitched dust through Velaris’s barrier, causing it’s inhabitants to toss and turn in their beds.

          Tormented from the unusual temperature, many of them opened the windows, letting the amber aroma to fill their rooms and draw them into a profound sleep. The weakest of them burned bay leaves in their chambers, overwhelmed by the state of anguish floating in the atmosphere.

          Not even the magpies with their cursed song didn’t held the courage to sing.

           The River House was quiet after the late discussion of Nesta’s future. Feyre and Rhysand were long asleep and Cassian flew to the House of Wind to have some space before he needed to face the elder sister’s rage.

          Even the Spymaster’s shadows were sedated. Only the nightmares seemed to find Azriel’s barely enough sleep, seething his mind, poisoning his only hours of rest.

          He fell into a deep state of unconsciousness, something unusual for him to do, leaving his back towards the ajar door and his scattered hand placid on the dagger underneath his pillow. His senses abandoned themselves in the amber aroma, subdued and unresponsive, guided by a velvety feeling in a tumultuous dream. 

          His heavy wings were scattered on the large bed behind him, twitching from time to time, and his right leg hanged inert from the edge. Azriel was half dressed, getting rid of his shirt during the night, tortured by the warmth, even his pants were too much to bear on his sweaty, sun kissed skin, but he had no will nor power to take them off as well.

          The Shadowsinger slept facing the window, letting the starry sky to caress his marble carved face, leaving the Goddess the rare opportunity to devour his beauty. His cheeks trembled and a permanent frown was tattooed between his full brows. A few drops of sweat fell from his wet curls, caressed his temple, his neck, spiraling down his flexed shoulders and ended on the damp white sheets beneath his massive body.

          An inaudible sight left his dry lips as a pair of malicious eyes appeared behind his eyelids, soothing and alluring, making his chest to halt in agony and longing. He thanked the Mother for sending Elain into his dreams, but deep inside he knew it was not her who visited his mind. For she tasted like honey and fresh spring and this other…thing left his mouth salty and his tongue thirsty for wine. He felt like he was drowning in a green sea, in foamy waves and sorrow. Azriel could almost touch it, could feel it wrapped around him, pressing on his chest, swallowing him whole.

          " Wake up… "

          Azriel’s eyes snapped open, feeling the nausea falling over him and his body stiff. He scanned the room alarmed by the sudden emotions asphyxiating him, wary of the presence who watched him sleep not long ago. The shadows where still gone, but he could sense the lingering aura the creature left behind.

          Forcing himself to leave the bed, he searched the whole house, gripping Truth-Teller in his fist, tasting his sweat in his mouth. Azriel was determined to rip the guts from the thing that made the whole house smell of musk and amber and… burned skin. He knew that in the shelter provided by darkness spells bound more easily and the effects over people where swifter.

          Even before he went to sleep he could tell something was wrong with the nature and the course of time, as if the hours were as bewildered. The fact that he managed to fall asleep was a big question he had to think about, but as he examined room after room and the gardens outside, his intuition grew foggier.

          There was nothing to be found or if it truly was something in the house, it was long gone before he woke up.

          Watching the full moon come into sight behind the multitude of stars, Azriel swallowed hard. The ache in his chest grew bigger, stronger, bringing him to his knees and making his senses go crazy. He touched his torso, feeling the warmth spreading across his pectorals, crawling up his neck. 

          " Wake up, it’s a trap… "

          He couldn’t see anything but the same pair of eyes, pleading again and again for him to wake up, begging him to be aware. He opened his mouth to scream in despair, he forced his mind to send a message, but he was bound, his mind, his heart, his arms. Invisible strings biting into his skin and his soul.

          But he was awake, wasn’t he?

          " Wake up! "

          Azriel jumped from his bed, standing on his feet, growling and bearing his teeth. He was awake now, he was aware, but the only thing that remained from his nightmare, was the feeling of him being bound.

          Amren got out of the bed she shared with Varyan, who was still fast asleep, and frowned at the illuminated towers of the City of Dreams. The sweat running down her spine made her aware of the tight feeling inside her chest and her naked body that felt submerged in tar.

          The feeling was familiar and a shiver made her matted hair stand on her neck. Something had happened somewhere in the world, something of such magnitude that pierced through the barrier she herself created and endangered the atmosphere of Velaris. Amren knew enough people capable of such power, but to her peace, they were all stuck in another world or as she hoped, dead.

          But her instinct whispered something else and the centuries she lived made her much wiser than to rely on some hopes she made.

          Turning on her heels she pulled a satin robe from the back of a chair and stepped into the darkness of her house, finding her path without any need of candles. Her eyesight was still almost as good as when she had her full powers.

♤♡♤♡

          Amren stopped for a second with her eyes resting on the floor. Her pride forbade her of complaining or show her true emotions, but she had to be true to herself and admit, at nightfall, that she was still struggling with this body. From head to toe a High Fae, useless, without powers and without the desire to consume blood. It disgusted her the way she had to use a toilet and eat fried meat.

          She gritted her teeth and entered her office. It was not the first time she thought of accessing the hidden safe, hoping she’ll find something to help her, but just as many times she had withdrawn the idea, knowing that the sacrifices required were far too great and too dangerous. She couldn’t take them, not when she finally had something to be happy about, a family. Not when she had Varian by her side, accepting her as she is.

          But tonight she failed. A fear settled in her stomach and she knew where to turn if she needed ancient information.

          Amren walked to the massive desk and fumbled for the charcoal key, hidden inside the pages of a book about Old Gods and stuck it into the rusty frog under the desk. Careful not to trigger the magic dust trap she had set to protect the object inside, she took the aspen wooden box and wiped it the palm of her hand. She searched with her fingertips the hidden cavity and placed the ruby pendant from around her neck in it, opening the lid.

          The whispers immediately reached her sensitive ears before she even saw the petite book. The heady smell of bergamot and jasmine almost made her sneeze. The scent of angels made her wince. She knew this was a cheap façade and that they stank of clotted blood and battle powder.

          She also knew that the pages were visible during the night-time, in the moonlight or during an equinox. Candles perturbed her and manipulated them to her will. A smart grimoire.

          As she flipped through the pages, she found the name of her old master and her heart stopped while she quickly read the information. The heath did not foresee his coming, nothing like this was inscribed in the hieroglyphs of the ancient language or through the pentagrams. The apocalypse was still far away.

          Something else caught her attention, in exchange. The grimoire chose a few letters and made them float at the top of the page, dispersed.

          Amren quickly pulled out a paper and a quill and dipped it in the ink, writing down meaningless sentences after sentences.

          She spent a hours inside the office, until the east birthed the sun forcing the letters be to erased and the pages to wrinkle as if they were burned. No information came forward. Amren knew she had to report this to Rhysand. But as the sun descended to the page on which she had written all the word and sentences, the ink darkened in some places revealing a single clue, insignificant and leading nowhere. What was that? A village? A city on the continent? A flower or an animal? Who bears this name?

          " Vesper. "

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The Countess 

          When the first sign that the sun peeked through the mountain ridges appeared, I had already been awake for almost half and hour, fully aware that I had visited someone else's dream.

          It wasn't my purpose, on the first place. I lacked the skills and the determination necessary for such an... abnormality. Not to mention that I had no idea something like this was possible.

          Sleep found me immediately after I put my head on the cold pillow and, for a long time, I dreamed nothing but rhythmic undulation of darkness. Behind my eyelids, there was nothing but a black void with colored fireworks, from time to time. I think my sleep ' adventure ' took place much earlier in the morning.

          I knew a little about the REM cycle and how most dreams happen in the last part of it. I could swear it wasn't just a figment of my imagination: the fragrances, my steps, the house, the burn. It had to be real.

          Nothing surprised me at this point. You could tell me you were a little elf in disguise and I would believe you, no second thoughts.

          However, I was not entirely sure of the things I had seen. Sequences after sequences were chained together, but in an order that seemed to be constantly changing. I was aware only about the suffocating atmosphere and the feeling that time was passing so slowly, that even my actions were letargic.

          In my head, there is a clear image of a large room, with tall ceilings and mint green painted walls. Were they actually green? It was nothing like the ones I saw in my old world. I could sense various perfumes, mixing and becoming one: fresh roses, jasmine and something more... strong, metallic, something that reminded me of iron. I remember how simple the furniture was arranged: fluffy armchairs, the recently extinguished fireplace, the polished floor that didn't make any squeaking sounds, even the few remaining cups left on the table, as if the residents had just gotten up and left.

          Through my eyes, everything was dressed in black and blue, like I had a thin veil over my face, preventing me from seeing the truth. I studied a few paintings that were hanging above the stairs. In one of them, a young lady was wearing a delicate crown made of stars over her complicated braided hair.

          Could that be?.... Maybe, I can't recall exactly her description but... She was so different from how I imagined her.

          Was I actually in their home? Would they know someone was in here?

          My attention is captured by a sudden glow near the fireplace: a letter-opening knife, wrapped in black leather. I grab it, without thinking much further, and I jolt back, caught off guard by the burning sensation that stained my right hand.

          The dream shifts again, before I am able to make any sounds of protest, and I end up in another part of the house: a long, black hall, filled on both sides with unwelcoming, closed doors. I desperately examine my palms, still feeling the dreadful sensation of my skin being ignited by the blazing blade, but nothing was there anymore.

          Raising my head, I search the harsh atmosphere of this place. Even the glamorous black wood of the furniture seemed unfriendly. A sweet aroma hits my nose and I almost grunt, indulging myself in that masculine scent. It was like stepping outside, in the pouring rain, and taking the first breath of the freshly watered environment.

          I had no clue if it was the barely breathable air that was bringing to the surface all these fragrances or if it was only in my mind. My own skin starts to tingle when I touch the cold handle of the door placed right in front of me. Closing my eyes, I exhale, ready for the things waiting for me on the other side.

          To my disapointment, I wake up before I am able to discover what was hiding behind the door. The only detail I left with was the aching memory of a firm and sweaty body, trapped under my fingertips.

          Contrary to all these senses that brought me to a stage of ecstasy, there was the salty taste of seaweed, covering my tongue and dragging me outside my head.

          The little room was the same as I left it when I drifted off to sleep. Me falling through several circles and ending in a weird dimension was no nightmare. So was the fact that I was an orphan.

          As pleasing as it was pungent, the smell of hay and grass was still a dull reminder of the place I was captive. The doused fire no longer prevented the coolness from creeping through the cracked door. Giving him free will, his teeth sank into my thigh, causing it to hurt even more.

          Standing up, I look at Nivy, still deeply asleep, turned with her back towards me. Her pale skin shone almost transparently in the dim light of sunrise, contrasting with her brunette curls. Strands of her hair came loose from the braids she made before falling asleep and were stuck to her neck.

          She resembled Snow White so much, radiating innocence and kindness even when she was unconscious.

          A strangely familiar pain makes my heart drop in my stomach. I contract my right hand a few times, letting the shock to diminish and the truth to sink in.

          The universe was crossing a line here.

          Pulling my arm from under the cover, I evaluate the satisfying weight of the object: a marvelous knife, still icy against my fingers.

          The silver handle was wrapped in smooth, dark leather, and in the middle laid a petite blue stone. A sapphire? The freshly sharpened blade glimed blindingly even in the obscure rays of sunrise. It was of an harmless simplicity, but it held in its vibration a violent beauty, as if the former owner had imprinted his own personality in it.

          To make my suspicions come true, I search the palm of my right hand. The tip of the knife stained my skin with a furious red, as if it was accusing me of stealing it on purpose. Abscess bubbles stained from place to place my wound, giving me a hard time closing my fist without eventually bursting them.

          Was it going to stress me out the whole day? Surely. Was there anything else that could surprise me? Most probably.

          This was the kind of world where everything was possible if you had enough ambition and if you were able to manifestate. It was a world of magic and supernatural. It would be a great thing to stay alive until I find a way back home.

          If I can manage to do that too.

          Now, a phone would have been amazing, even a laptop or a computer. I would be able to do a quick research about Thaibar and their ways of living.

          These guys didn't even had a car that I could borrow.

          On the outside window's sill, the shadow of a thin cat makes my heart race inside my chest. I exhale, full of hope and muster up the courage to remove my feet from under the warm sheets. I firmly stick them to the wooden floor, trying my best to not be defeated by the cold morning chill. I hide the knife between the clothes Niven gave me yesterday, constantly checking on her.

          " Icarus? " I whisper, somewhat affected by my own delusional conviction and gently pull the muslin curtains.

          On the other side of the fogged glass, a gray shadow studies me, its chest and upped lip stained with a white patch. He doesn't recognize me and sniffs the window in disbelief, trying to expose my intentions.

          Disappointment is a much easier word to say than to feel, because more often it affects your lungs, drowning them in breaths that are insufficient in oxygen, making you unable to fully live in the present.

          Icarus was not on the other side of the barrier, obviously. He was lost somewhere down the line of time, in another world, waiting for me to come back home. This was my greatest fear and it came true: losing the animal that had truly loved me from the beginning.

          For a second, I press my forehead on the cold glass, remembering the black fur and the way it felt when I ran my cheeks over it. Even his distinctive smell was present in my memory, the only thing that made me feel like I was home.

          Carefully, I open the window, finding myself nose to nose with an unwelcoming stare. My skin tightens under the action of the bleak morning wind and my teeth chatter on command. The cat sniffs me again, surprised by the unfamiliar gesture.

          " I am... Cyan... " I hesitate, still unable to recall my name, and dare to caress his pink ears with a finger. " Do you have a name? Maybe I can call you Misty, as the weather we met in. What do you say? "

          She doesn't reject me, the only sign that she agrees with my presence are the slight ups and down of her nostrils.

          " I have.. " I stop, aware of the mistake I was about to make and reconsider my words, " Had... I had a cat as well, Icarus... "

          The cat considers me with her wide orange eyes, blinking slowly. She tilts her head to the side and starts purring, looking at me with the same curious expression.

          Out of the corner of my eye I catch Niven's mother carrying two buckets to the chicken yard, then she disappears completely, drowned by the fog.

          I offer another warm smile to the cat and close the window, quietly starting to get dressed so I could go out. I put on my clothes the way I had seen Niven do it, taking the piece of wool on top, for an extra amount of warmth to my back. When it comes to my hair, I'm barely able to tie the red ribbon as easily as Nivy.

          Undecided, I ponder the elegant knife left on the chair. I couldn't leave it here and risk raising more suspicions. I wouldn't know where to hide it, to begin with. It was enough that Shum had the impression that I was going to murder them all in their sleep. He didn't need any evidence too.

          Without another word, I raise the hem of my skirt, wrap a handkerchief around the blade and tuck it into my tights.

          If I was lucky enough, it would go unnoticed.

          I take one last look at the girl's still and even breathing body and gently close the door. Crossing the dimly lit hall, I take a quick glance towards Shum's room. He was the one who was going to kill me if he found out what I had in my pants.

          Once outside, I take a deep breath of the humid atmosphere, feeling the faint scent of amber tickling my nostrils. Niven's mother raises her forehead from the buckets of water and signals me to come to her. With another red kerchief clutched between my fingers, I awkwardly step forward, covering as much as possible the faint limp.

          I loved the mountain air even when I was at home, but here it was different. It seemed fresher, richer. Even the thick fog covering the mountain peaks in the distance was perfect, as if I was watching a bitter painting about the end of winter.

          The majority of animals had woken up and Cynthia had already started her morning routine. The woman was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, with her skirt tucked into the waistband of her pants and a brown woolen vest to cover her torso.

          A hoarse ' meow ' prickles my ears and I notice the small skinny creature following me closely. I get on my knees and try to grab her, so I can warm her inside my clothes, but she avoids me, contenting herself to just follow me from a distance.

          " Good morning, Cyan! " Cynthia greets me with a big smile and a pair of rosy cheeks due to the morning chill, "I hope you slept well. Do you need my help with the kerchief? "

          " Good morning to you too, ma'am! I..." I'm at a loss for words, forgetting about the soft scarf in my fist. I nod my head, not really knowing what was I doing with it or why I hadn't arranged it myself.

          " Come, give it to me. Was it warm enough last night? Did Nivy push you out of the bed? I noticed that there was no smoke coming out of the chimney for quite some time and I thought that it must have gotten terribly cold inside. "

          " Honestly, I didn't even realize when the fire ran out. And no, Niven slept on her side of the bed all night. " I admit, enjoying the soft touch of her fingers on my scalp, " It was warm under the sheets, the problem appeared when I got up. "

          I giggle carefree and turn to face her when she finishes arranging my kerchief. Her icy fingers run down my face, then to my shoulders, caressing me. She adjusts my woolen scarf around my waist and takes my hands in hers.

          I barely contain a grimace of pain when Cynthia squeezes my right palm, digging her short nails in my burned skin. A tortured sound comes out of my mouth and I try to mask it, by clearing my throat.

          " Done. This will help you with the cold. " She smiles again, rubbing our palms together to warm them up. " How did you wake up so early? With Nivy, I have to fight wars to get her up at seven, at least. "

          Biting my tongue, I happily endure the stinging sensation, if it meant seeing Cynthia joyful. I loved making small talk with her. Her voice resembled my mother's, and I ached to hear it again, even if it was another woman in front of me.

          " I'm a morning person, in general. I used to help my mother with chores around the yard. " I admit, thinking about how every morning, Icarus woke me up at 5 am by laying on my chest and purring quietly. He used to lick my face and wait for me to get up so I could change his water and give him food.

          Not even the mother part wasn't a lie. When I was at home, every Saturday, we cleaned together and after we finished, we went into the kitchen to cook. It was one of the things that united us and helped us forget about certain problems. My father was one of them, and we both used to suffered because of it.

          " Your mother is lucky to have you. " Cynthia lifts one of the buckets and empties it into one of the pig's water bowls.

          " Let me help you. " Rushing to another bucket, I pick it up and do the same thing as her.

          " Oh, ha, there's no need. " She chuckles, looking at me in a motherly way, " I do this every morning, I can handle it, it calms me. It's my only moment of peace. "

          " I believe you. My mother used to say the same thing. "

          " Alright, then come help me with the grains, then we have to feed some hay to the horses. I will teach you. "

          I agree, feeling a ghostly joy settle in my chest. God, at least I was a little useful.

          " When you have time, maybe you'll show me how you make the bread. It was one of the best things eaten. "

          Cynthia turn towards me, pure shock written on her face, then bursts out laughing, " Gods! Of course! I'd love to teach you! "

          For the next two hours, I learned to be Cynthia's shadow. I carried buckets, raked leaves, I fed horses and I found the courage to touch them.

          I've never had the privilege of being so close to such a majestic and imposing creature. They smelled like hay and spring water and their hair was shiny and healthy. I knew from articles online that they were one of the most intelligent animals.

          There were four horses here: two stallions, a white mare and another one, a smaller one, the one I assumed Shum saved from being killed.

          The mare had matted black fur and was so weak that she could not stand up. Her left eye was constantly watering and seemed slightly infected. Shum had taken care of her as best as he could: her stable was freshly cleaned and she had more food than the others. But it was in vain if she didn't eat at all.

          " Hey... " I greet her in a whisper tone and reach out my hand, pressing it to her dry muzzle. " You're not feeling very well, are you? "

          Her breaths were shallow and heavy and she could barely keep her head straight. However, the horse didn't seem to have a problem with me touching her, so I pluck up the courage to brush her and try to remove some of the dead hair.

          Shum was sure to be angry at what I was about to do. I grit my teeth and ask Cynthia for some instructions.

          According to her, I find the chamomile on top of a shelf in the kitchen, alongside some apples and carrots. I put some of the leaves in an already boiling water and leave it for a couple of minutes. Then, I go up to the attic and get some torn and unused clothes and a small block of salt, that I break into tinier pieces.

          After I gathered everything I needed, I got down to business.

          I made a bed for the mare, with hay at the bottom, to make it softer, and all the old clothes on top, to keep her warm. She didn't seem eager to sit on it, but I wasn't discouraged and gave her space. After all, she was still too weak to move.

          While the tea was still warm, I wiped the mess from her eyes, disinfecting the area. She didn't have any strength in her to resist me and she didn't even try to. She left her heavy head in my lap, allowing me to take care of her as best as I knew. With what was left from my tea, I brushed her hair again, giving it a glossy shade of black.

          Using one of the knives I had stolen from the kitchen, I cut the apples and carrots in tiny pieces, so she wouldn't have to make too much effort to chew on them.

          The mare sniffed the food and refused them vehemently. I set them aside and reach for the salt. A thrill of happiness revived my souls and tears gathered at the corners of my eyes when she ate all of it, getting the necessary minerals for her muscles.

          She'll be strong when she recovers.

          " Be brave and trust yourself, we will get you to feel better. "

          After I said my goodbye to the mare I went outside again.

          Misty followed me around all day, so from time to time, I stole a piece of raw meat or bread and sneaked it to her.

          Around eight in the morning, Niven made her presence felt in the yard, walking out of the house with Shum. He was wearing a minimal outfit: a white shirt, a vest on top, a pair of loose trousers and worn boots.

          " Oho! Good morning, ray of sunshine! " Nivy chirps, hugging me as if she's known me all her life, " Mother! Where's papa? "

          " To the parish. He'll come back to get you to the medic and then see if he can find Cyan some work to do. "

          Shum walks past me scowling and grumbling under his breath, avoiding my gaze.

          " Who fed the dogs?! " He shouted, staring frantically at the empty bowls in front of the cages.

          " I did. " I admit, feeling somewhat guilty for something I still don't know if I should be or not.

          Shum turns his obsidian locks towards me, his face contorted by hatred. With his fists clenched, he rushes towards me like an uncontrollable whirlwind.

          " Witch! Disguised witch! You want to poison my dogs! " He screamed, throwing his arms in the air, " Their diet is special! They don't need to eat fats, we don't want lazy dogs around the farm! They must hunt and protect us! "

          I take a few steps back, raising my hand protectively. My mouth drops open and I frown, still stunned by the reason he was angry with me.

          " Shum, what has gotten into you? " Niven steps between us, blocking him with her own body. " Even I feed the damned dogs sometimes. They are not always meant to hunt! "

          " You think you're smarter than me?! " Drips of drool fly into the air as the two brothers push each other wildly. " Step aside, Nivena. You're as blind as our mother and I have a feeling you'll end up just as crazy as her. "

          " Right now, you are the crazy one, brother. Do you even hear yourself? " The girl fiercely knocks him against the wooden fence that separated the horse stalls from the rest of the yard. " You are wasting your brain cells among all the scumbags you consider friends and you forget why we came here in the first place. Do you really think it would have been better for us to go back to where we came from? "

          " Yes! Yes! We would have been home! " He yelled back coming closer to her face and grabs Niven's vest in his fist.

          " Shum, I'm terribly sorry. I had no idea... " I start, keeping my hands in the air, feeling all the joy their mother gave me evaporating from my system.

          " Don't say a word to him, Cyan. One who doesn't believe in what he sees doesn't deserve your apology. " Niven slaps his hand and moves away from him. Shum doesn't stop and grabs her forearm violently, " Let me go, you bastard! Don't forget that at our old home we were only servants, not people. "

          " Are you all blind? She's trying to get under our skin. She's a fucking witch, an energy sucker! She's got you all in a daze! "

          " I only tried to help Cynthia, to make her work easier, to make myself useful... "

          " You are a pitiful orphan! " He spat in my face, pointing with a finger in my direction, " A thief, a face carved in blood, a pagan! "

          " A face carved in blood? " Niven asks, astonished by her brother's words and moves closer to me, holding my hand. " What the fuck are you saying? " Her unexpected rage throws me off-guard, witnessing another side of her.

          The girl's once soft features shift into sharp ones: her deer eyes take on an agile glow, much like a hunter's, her eyebrows arch high on her forehead and her body suddenly tenses up, seeming to explode through her own clothes.

          A sense of danger creeps inside my head and I feel unsure of how to react.

          " That is enough, son! " Their father's raucous voice makes us all startle, taken by surprise by his sudden apparition. " Go to you sheep and don't come back till sunset... ".

          The priest grabs Shum by the elbow and throws him a few steps away from his sister. It was an odd situation to witness. An old man, with an appearance shaped by life's hard challenges, fully clothed in his parish attire and barely holding into his tears. The green in his eyes diminishes, as if his own strength abandoned him by cursing his son.

          The boy seemed so much younger now that he was being stripped of his selfishness by his own father. The madness that took over him suddenly leaving his expression hollow. The air around him changes, heartbreak being written all over him now.

          Kallus takes off his black hat, clenching it tightly in his fists as he watches Shum drift off into the distance. A golden ring shines on his pinky finger, revealing the circular spirals of a snake.

          How odd to see such a cunning creature on a man who preaches god's doings.

          I raise my eyebrows and bite my inner cheeks, feeling like an intruder even more. I had to get out. I had to find a way home. But how the fuck will I do that without raising any suspicions? I need to get my hands on a map at least. Would that be of any use, actually? I read these books a long, long time ago. I only remember some of the major plots and... that's it.

          Entranced, I squeeze Nivy's arm tighter. My presence here was breaking apart a family and I couldn't be the one responsible for it.

          I promise myself that I will stay here only a couple more days, then I will leave, with or without the map. Maybe if I died I will be transferred back to my old world, even though I doubt it will be that easy.

          Cynthia's rosy cheeks wither away, revealing a handful of translucent veins under the skin of her eyelids. Her fragile neck looked like it was going to snap at the first gust of wind. Puzzled, I realize she's been here all along, listening to her own son's insults.

          With her lips trembling, she swallows hard, hiding her delicate hands behind her brown skirt. A ghost. Cynthia was a ghost. A relic of something that used to love life not long ago, who trampled among the ethereal curtains of time, losing herself among worlds and without purpose.

          My body feels heavy as I contemplate her existence. She turns on her heels, gloomily entering the farm, like someone had just crushed her last remaining hope. She doesn't turn to watch us anymore, keeping her head bowed and her shoulders slumped. Her soul was a great abyss of sadness and I was afraid she could drown in any minute.

          " Cynthia, my love... " Kallus mutters her name, a bitter pain etched in his posture.

          I grit my teeth and close my eyes, trying as hard as possible to not cry as well. I felt tied to a barbell and thrown somewhere in a deep sea. Unable to swim, I sink and suffocate and suffer and enjoy the feeling of letting go.

          I feel my skirt pulled down by a corner, and notice the little gray cat sitting still next to my leg. She stares deeply into my eyes, as if distracting me from the pit that was slowly swallowing my positivity. I count the vapors that form in the air due to my breathing and raise a silent prayer along with them: may everything end quickly and well for everyone.

          I give Misty my most sincere smile and thank her for the piece of serenity she tried to bring me.

          The priest takes a deep breath and gently touches Niven on her back, " Come on, girls, we have a hard day ahead of us. "

          He awkwardly tries to lift our morals, smiling slightly in the corners of his mouth, a smile that doesn't meet his cheerless eyes. Niven quicly wipes a tear from her cheek, reviving the same gentle and naive face. Even the pets had remained silent in the courtyard during the fight between them.

          The air around us changes, being filled with lies and bitterness. The impression that something wrong was going to happen never letting my thoughts rest. This time, I didn't know what to predict and how to prepare. Everything was filled with chaos here and the situations seemed to get out of control quickly.

          A clear proof was the very knife that I felt hanging heavily from my hip.

          God forgive me, but in this position, I didn't look like a saint either if they ever find what I was hiding.

          We don't make any conversation as we wait for Kallus to collect some things from the house before heading to Thaibar. Niven hugs her father before we leave, a silent promise that she will always be by his side.

          I smile and wrap my arms around myself, trying to offer me the same kind of relief.

          The girl detaches herself from her father's body and wraps one arm around me, rubbing my back in a warm gesture, " Don't worry, my brother... He's always been like this, with aspirations greater than what he can carry. " She whispers in my ear as we move forward, leaving Kallus lost in his thoughts, a few steps behind us.

          " I have a friend, in Thaibar. She works at the flower stand opposite the potion store where you're going to be. " Nivy informs me, somehow trying to erase from our memory the last twenty minutes, " Her names is Aoife. We met when we were a little younger, at one of the village's spring rituals. "

          I remember this. The Spring Court had something... similar, if not the same ritual. I just couldn't remember what it was called and what his purpose was.

          " Ao-.., what a complicated name. A-o-i-... "

          " No, no. It's pronounced Ee, that is, repeat after me. Ee-fa, Eee-faa. Did you catch it? "

          " Eee-faa. " I chatter my lips a few times, guided by Niven until she agrees that I won't make a fool out of myself in front of a stranger.

          " She's one of the main claims of the Resurgence. "

          " Resurgence? What's it about? "

          " It's exactly what the name means: a spring ritual, a celebration of the world being revived after the cold winter, The Resurgence... " Niven dramatically gestures the word, using her long limbs to draw a circle in the air. " Young girls are put in the river that springs from the mountain ridge to wash away their sins accumulated over the year. They get ' cleansed ' for marriage. In their hands they hold a bouquet of corals and the one that attracts the golden fish, the symbol of the ritual... " She says, adding the word ' cleansed ' between two mimed quotation marks, " She's chosen the most beautiful woman in the village. Aoife has been the winner for several years now, but she doesn't seem thrilled by the thought of getting married. "

          I frown, swallowing any retort related to the misogyny of the stereotype of virginity and the nonsense of ' washing away your sins '. Apparently, nothing was different from my own world, so far.

          " A very big bullshit, if you ask me. " Niven huffed, arranging some curls that had come loose from her braids. " Each woman in the village has her own assets, and they may or may not be beauty. Everyone is special and everyone is good at something. Beauty is relative and ephemeral and it is always in the eyes of the watcher. "

          I agree with her, proud by the way she was thinking. I didn't know if it was just her naivety speaking or her experience with life, but I was thrilled by the fact that not every girl here wished to be a servant for men.

          We were far enough from the farm and now, the first forms of Thaibar could be seen: a few houses of varying sizes, all in the same dreary shades of gray and brown, with little wisps of smoke coming of the chimneys. Some small figures walked outside the wooden walls of the village, getting in and out of the unguarded doors.

          I was expecting to see soldiers with swords and armors, like I used to see in those ancient movies with princes and princesses. But, apparently, it was not the case here. Maybe the village was too unimportant to be protected.

          Thaibar was actually small, according to the dimensions that we could comprehend from the high point we were on, and was surrounded by two hills, large enough to hide it from the strangers.

          " So... " I begin, noticing the smoky clouds that were blocking the sun's rays from shining above the settlement.

          It seemed as if whatever divinity they were worshipping here, punished them, depriving them of the astral body, cursed to never feel the warmth and beauty of the green and fruitful meadows.

          Maybe that's why they were all so pale.

          " So, what, Cyan? What where you going to say? " Nivy reminds me, searching my face with her sweet eyes. She raises her hand and covers my ears with the kerchief, " So you don't get a cold... ", she adds, running her finger through my eyebrows, arranging them.

          " So, um, you also have rituals here... " I start again, passing the low gates, with the same height as me.

          I could already notice the shops lining up ahead of us. With my ears, I catch the noisy bustle of the town.

          " Oh, of course! Who doesn't? Tell me one of yours. "

          I stare at her with wide eyes, feeling like I was caught again in my own lie. Pecking my lips, I smooth my dark blue skirt and pick some invisible dust from my shoulders.

          Someone yells from afar that he's selling mudstones, benefic for bone disease, which I quickly interpret as some kind of rheumatism. We used to suffer from that too, in my world. Feathers begin to fly around us when a handful of children chase a brown chicken before us.

          " The Dead's Saturday. " I remember, smiling pleasantly when Kallus greets some acquaintances from the village.

          The crown of people seemed to swallow me and Nivy, throwing unpleasant faces into our direction. I watch them back, trying to understand their behaviour towards us. Was it something I did? Or the problem was Kallus and his daughter?

          Poverty is a soft way of describing these people. They walked barefoot, through puddles of rainwater and horse shit, through piles of mud and garbage left behind by the vegetable stalls. They were miserable.

          When I caught them talking or smiling, more than one tooth was missing from their mouths and the ones that remained, were decayed and purulent, infections spreading to their gums. Some of these people had swollen face, distorting their features.

          It wasn't getting any better when it came to their clothes, either. A clear sign of their way of living was the lack of bodily hygiene. They spread a harsh smell of sweat and filth that made you dizzy. The mud was the least of their problems. Patches of clothing were moth-eaten, skirts were torn and holed and so were the men's trousers.

          There wasn't a wider palette of colors in this world, just brown, black and a washed out red.

          " The Dead's Saturday... " Niven humms thoughtfully, grasping in her long fingers what appeared to be a soft grapefruit.

          Please don't eat that... I pray inside my head. My stomach flutters uncontrollably and a lump forms in my throat, threatening to come out in any minute.

          " Ten habgis, miss Aldo. "

          Nivy raises her soft eyes to the thin and scantily dressed salesman. He was not dressed accordingly for the cold weather, either. She hands him the requested money and we move on, gifting the fruit to an old woman who sat in the mud, begging for coins. She thanks Niven, returning a toothless smile.

          " What do you do on this holiday? Besides celebrating the dead, obviously. "

          The village was disturbingly similar to those depicted in movies like Outlander and The Witcher. I swallow hard, overwhelmed by all the surrounding information and let myself be guided by Niven's bony elbow.

          Some of the taller, and probably more important, buildings, were made out of stone, while the rest of the houses were built from creaking wood. On both sides of the narrow street were shops with colored dresses displayed in their windows. A symbol was printed on some of the constructions: a spiral leading to two entwined swords.

          Kallus signals us to follow him, while he manages to slip amond the elderly women who were chatting and exchanging duck eggs. I raise my woolen scarf to my nose, trying to dissipate as much as possible the smell of dry sweat.

          " We make a cake out of barley in their honor. We enchant it with incense and after that, we go to the cemetery where we surround the grave three times and give the food to them, in the afterlife. "

          Niven turns to me in awe, as if she was capable of reading my thoughts and drops her innocent feline mask for a few seconds. " It sound like a pagan ritual. ", she whispers, motioning with a finger to be silent. " These things are forbidden in these lands. Only the old deities are glorified here in a futile attempt to awaken them. "

          I bite my lips, hypnotized by her black eyes with golden iridescence, and I nod my head, obedient.

          Insecurity settles in my soul and red flags pop up in my head. I must be more careful with these people. What the hell am I thinking? Ancient deities, paganism, rituals with virgins, obscure stories about redheads, nothing I should get involved in. The problem was that the possibility of a connection between my departure from home and myths like this was something that was implying me too.

          " The immortals! The immortals have come to town! I curse you! " A grumpy old man pounces on me and Niven. He manages to clamp his fist around my wrist, smearing me with soot. A horrifying tremor grips my body as a bloody scene unfolds before my eyes: A burning Thaibar.

          " In the name of the Mother... " Niven whispers as I rip my hand from his hand.

                  " You brought famine upon Thaibar! " He screams again, bubbles of foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. His white locks were soiled and covered with a hat eaten by moths.

          Several men, dressed in black armor, surround him and force him on the ground, kicking him in the ribs with their iron shoes. Their faces were covered by a black helmet, not even their eyes could be seen. The same symbol crowned their shoulders and chests, marking them as part of the royal house.

          " Shut up, you disgusting waste of breath! Find a way to pay your debt to the palace. ", bursts out one of the three men, slamming the poor men's head on the mud.

          " Niven, they're going to murder him! " I push against her, trying to look over her tall shoulder at the old man's body, now lying inert on a putrid puddle.

          " He's mad, Cyan... " She snarls at me, managing to get me out of the circle of people gathered to see the slaughter.

          " It's a fucking human being! " I shout against the loud crowd, watching her reach for her father.

          " You'll always see these kind of... atrocities here. Get use to it! " Niven lectures me.

          Kallus stops in front of a cramped house, with a barely legible sign that said ' Potions '. " He's not sane, Cyan. He's always causing trouble for the parish and to village people. "

          I stare at them, bewildered by their reaction and for a second, I realize how alienated I am from this world. A priest without resentment towards and old man, no matter how crazy he was and his innocent daughter, ignoring him completely, telling me these was common practice.

          I was going to faint.

          Biting the inside of my cheek, I close and open my fists a few times, trying to focus on the jerky throb in my leg, only to suppress the emotion that had gripped me. The knife's blade had moved imperceptibly during the time I had been shaken by the old man, and now, it was stabbing my thigh.

          I rearrange it as imperceptibly as I can, then straighten my back.

          When we enter the small shop, the heavy smell of freshly burnt bay leaves makes my head spin and I stumble on my own feet. Kallus quickly supports me with both arms and grabs a wooden chair.

          " Oh my... Cyan, you look so pale... " Nivy pressed her palms against my forehead, checking my temperature.

          Of course I was. I just saw a man beaten to death while everyone was starring and last night, I was in someone else's house without even trying to do that. I am more than dizzy and pale. I am utterly lost and the risk of me losing my fucking mind has reached alarming levels.

          The easiest way out was killing myself, but I was too afraid some smartass was going to bring me back to life, not even leaving me to enjoy my time in the afterlife.

          The vomit rose high in my throat. The ringing in my ears was terribly annoying and in front of my eyes were only smoke of bay leaves.

          " Nimue! Nimue, quick! "

          Several silhouettes come to life in front of me and I inhale the vapors, feeling them burn my neck on the inside. Frightened by the winged figure that flied towards my face, I hit them with my hands, making them burst into hot steam.

          A chocking sensation overwhelms me and I stick my tongue out in a desperate desire to throw up what I've swallowed. It felt like my pharynx had swollen and my lungs had collapsed, inert, leaving me completely breathless.

          Was I having an anaphylactic shock?!

          " She's chocking on the smoke. " The priest announces, alarmed, blowing the clouds away from my face. " Nimue! "

          " Let her throw up if she feels the need to. " Niven says in panic, rubbing my palms into hers, then massaging my chest.

          I stumble forward and catch Nivy's skirt with my nails. My head feels like it's on fire and my scalp itches terribly.

          An angular face emerges from the bay smoke I exhale and considers me for a few moments. Or rather he looks through me. The man's elegant features float in the air, waking something inside me, clawing at my rib cage to get out and answer the call.

          " May the sky give me strength, Kallus! You cast all the devils of the earth upon my head! " A hoarse female voice scratches my eardrums, descending like an angry purple cloud above me, " This girls has the evil spirit inside her! "

          The wave of air dissipates the saturnine face, caused by the austere woman who now sat in front of me, analyzing my mouth, nose and eyes.

          I mumble, watching with wide eyes how the smoke splits one last time, changing and unfolding a whole scenario of two people that seemed to be making love.

          " The Mother of all we feel... "

          " Please... " I gasp, hearing the same song that woke me up inside the oasis, pass my ears briefly.

          My skin tingles and the burn in my palm sends violent electric waves through my arm. A bony hand grabs my face, digging it's uncut nails in my already wounded cheek. " Open your mouth! "

          When a sweet drop touches the roof of my oral cavity and trickles down my throat, the song and the smoke stop their torment. My vision clears right away and I finally catch the form of a lady about thirty-five years old, who beholds me warily. " What's this thing doing here? ", she asks, turning my head to inspect the pair of claws I had acquired before I fell through the worlds.

          I swallow all my ideas, feeling myself seized by her dark violet eyes that seemed to eat you up from the inside out. She licks her thin lips, contoured with a burgundy pencil on the outside, and smiles broadly, " I feel sorry for you soul, little girl. "

          I blink often, watching her leave me and go behind her work table, covered by mountains of notebooks and bottles, knives and herbs. The berry scent turns my stomach upside down and I can't hold the disgusted expression that slips on my face.

          I hated berries.

          " She's the girl I told you about this morning. She says she's trained in the art of medicine. " Kallus begins, getting up from his kneeling position he'd taken when he sat me on the chair and places a protective hand on my shoulder.

          I still can't find the courage to look at the soul eating woman so I focus on the knife on my hip, it's weight giving me a sense of peace.

          " I don't need weak disciples, especially not like this one. She's the first branch to break at the slightest breeze. " Nimue responds strictly, dipping one of her small fingers, the one without a nail, in a clear liquor, then smells it. " Do you recall what happened with the last one and the one before him, and so on? No one lasts long enough here. "

          Kallus takes off his black hat and steps towards her silently, blocking her image with his own body, " I swear, Cyan is not like the others. Not even close. "

          Dizzy enough, every fast rotation of my head made my balance stagger, even while sitting on a chair. Passively, I scan the gloomy corners of the store.

          The peeling walls were full of pictures with pentagrams and lists of names of plants and animals. On a far wall, behind the slender woman, there were three pictures hanging, all of them related to the anatomy of a raven, a snake and another that explained how the light protrudes through the eyes.

          " Ugh, spare me the pleads. ' Chosen ' this, ' Chosen ' that, and yet, the only purpose for which they are ' chosen ' is to die, over and over again. When are you going to learn your lesson, old man? When will you end this mad circus? "

          The woman props herself on her hands on the table, coming closer to Kallus's face. The hems of her purple velvet dress swept the dirty floor, turning black. The edge of the sleeves were embroidered with a thin layer of golden thread, knotted like thorns up to the elbows. On her left wrist, Nimue wears an elegant golden bracelet, with numerous precious stones attached.

          " It's the last time, Nimue, we don't even have the energy anymore to keep it like this. " The priest acknowledges her, putting his hat back on top of his black tail.

          They both turn to me and Niven. The soul eater studies me for a good few moments, then back to Kallus, holding up her imperial posture.

          " This is the last time. I can't hide the things we do anymore, I don't want to put myself in danger anymore. I want what's left of my life to go down in peace. "

          " You know why she's here... The silent prayers, even you raise them sometimes. We don't have another purpose here, Nimue. We have been partners for so long, served each other. You, me... Cynthia... "

          " Haven't I done enough for you and my-... your wife? " Nimue swallows half of her word, causing a bitter taste inside her mouth. " Get up, girl! Let me check you. "

          Shit. The knife.

          My back straightens and I let myself be inspected by the weird woman. She held a strange charm in her sharp features. I wouldn't call her beautiful either, she had something special buzzing in her aura. It was the mean behavior that made me dislike her.

          She unties my scarf from my head with violent movements, pulling a few strands of hair from the back of my neck in the process. She looks inside of my mouth, eyes and ears, then moves to my hands and sternum. Kallus excuses himself and goes outside, seeing that Nimue was about to undress me.

          Begging anyone willing to listen to help me hide the knife, I start to take off my clothes. I still had no plausible explanation for him. It doesn't even look like a kitchen knife...

          Left only in my nightgown and a pair of socks, now surely dirty from the floor, she inspects the bruises from my ribs and legs, palpating the violet patches of skin from time to time. Her actions were much more gentle than I imagined them to be and her skin soft enough to barely be felt against my limbs.

          " You stink of amber... " Nimue mentions, her words full of venom, and she looks at me through her thin eyelashes. " The concussion might affect your memory. I can't tell if it's for a short or long period of time because of the inflammation. I can give you some medicine that you must take at night, before bed. Maybe it will help you dream your memories and discover something about your past. Also, where did you say you fell? The wounds on the thigh and the scalp are swollen and wet, most likely infected too. I'll give you some Echinacea ointment. "

          " I think somewhere on the meadow. " Shamelessly, I lie, and pull my nightgown back over my legs.

          We all know I didn't fall in the field. Besides, no one knows how exactly I got out of the oasis and didn't drown.

          Nimue's eyes sparkle with interest, dissecting my words in her head. Her face twitches as if she's digesting the information. She grins, knowingly, then leaves me get dressed up and signals to Kallus come inside when I am done.

          " For your happiness, the girl can stay. She'll work with me every morning from 8 to 5 o'clock in the evening and if it's necessary, she'll follow me to the palace and stay past her schedule. I don't want you to talk without being asked and I want you to get rid of that amber perfume. It gives me headaches. At this point, you are not my apprentice, but my servant, until I figure out if you can reach my standards. "

          Hoe.

          My perplexed looks turns into a repulsed one. I was used to this kind of humiliation from my former doctors in university. But here, reached another dimension of insensitivity.

          " Are you dumb or deaf? "

          " Neither. " I answer, putting my hands behind my back like an obedient little soldier, " Thank you, for your... " Kindness? Reception? Help? Humiliation? " For you help... "

          " On my life, you're so tiring. Kallus, she's quite fine, just a few bruises and a nasty scratch that'll leave a mark. I hope you don't mind, you're not much of a bless for the eyes. "

          Niven opens her mouth to object, but I frown at her, not giving her the chance to screw this up.

          " I give you my gratitude, Nimue. If there's nothing more to add, I'll take the girls and leave you to your duties. "

          " Aha, no, no. " The soul eater interrupts, raising her head to stop us from leaving. " Let the girl stay, I want to test her before I send her back to you. "

          The priest nods approvingly and squeezes his fist to his chest in my direction, showing me to have courage.

          Confused by the situation, I don't even perceive Nivy's light touch on my wrist until is too late.

          " What can you do? " Nimue asks while tying an apron around her wasp like waist, then starts rummaging around the room, replacing the old books from the table with new ones.

          Nothing, right now, I knew nothing. I'd rather be a doormat or wash the floors.

          " I, a... I know a little about everything. " My answer comes out much more skeptical than I intended, feeling my hands shake behind my back.

          My memory was way behind the things that were happening now. It was still stuck in the trauma I suffered when my parents found out I had a relationship with a girl. So, to try and force her to help me right now, was in vain. I felt exactly like I used to in my old university, when someone asked me a specific thing that I had learned about and I would have a delay.

          " This is not an answer, redhead. You see, you either pull yourself together and start taking advantage from this service or you realize, early enough I hope, that you're incapable and leave me alone. It is not possible to work with me and have no idea about things like: speaking elegantly and managing situation to come out as you like. Especially, if it's the palace. Come, firstly, clean the place: the tables, the floors, the shelves. After you finish, there are plenty of bottles and jars waiting to be washed and filed in order. "

          Before she could finish her sentence, I rush to take an apron and tie it around me so I can begin with my chores.

          " Arrange the potion books according to the level of effectiveness and also, depending on the difficulty of obtaining them. " She stops and makes a revolted face, " Oh, and take that scarf off your head. We're not in the damned yard here. Don't make me look bad. "

          I felt like I was back in my pharmacology class. Only if she knew I failed the exam on the first semester. But, I doubt she'll have any idea about what pharmacology was.

          " Of course, ma'am. " I accept, removing the red kerchief I tied back after i was undressed, and stuff it inside my shirt.

          " Miss. " Nimue corrects me, without turning to face me, and continues her quiet work. " When you're done, come back here and I'll teach you how to make your own potion and ointment. "

          " Excuse me... " I stop in my tracks, weighting the idea I was about to expose, " If you don't mind, how can I treat an eye infection? One of Kallus's mares has a problem and she's tearing up- "

          " Do you think I look like a caretaker at the farm? " She questions me, sarcastically, and puts a hand on her hip, " We're treating humans here, not animals. Now stop humiliating me like that. " She finishes the conversation and turns her back to me. " And besides, you should already know what's the treatment for infection. "

          Yeah, I should. Unconsciously, I squeeze a book between my fingers until I feel the covers break in my palm.

          Fine. Don't give me the information. I'll find it in your books, witch.

          And so, the most horrible hours of my life began to unfold. Initially, I cleaned all of Nimue's work tables that covered the walls, collecting her written recipes that were scattered around, and placing them in stacks. I even tried to move the furniture so I could sweep the floor, but it was in vain. They were built from massive wood and were incredibly heavy. This action only lead to a mocking smile from her.

          After washing her floor from mud and other interesting fluids, I go to my next task: shelves.

          " No, you fool. Don't touch the potions on that shelf. " She scolds me and takes the wet cloth from my hand, starting to clean herself that portion of cabinet.

          I leave her be and start sorting the potion bottles. I manage to place them alphabetically and in such a way so that the label is visible. My heart trembled the whole time. What if my finger slipped and I dropped them. Nimue would have had my head on a plate, probably.

          When I moved the bigger jars, although I was used with aborted fetuses and bits of human organs from my anatomy laboratories back in my old world, I was still unprepared to see animal parts floating in green juice. In other vials, she kept bats in formalin or eyes and teeth. The most shocking part was a small uterus, that was labeled as ' monkey '. She even kept kept nails, human nails in a dry jar.

          I need a break. This woman was a sadist. Is this what doctors did in this society? Collecting human and animal parts and making medicine out of them?

          Somehow, it didn't shock me that much. I read a book, actually, with a very suggestive name ' The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers '. I learned about how the Chinese population used placenta and mummies as ointments and pills. So, it wasn't something new, we just become more moral over time and chose not to exhume the dead for supposed healing recipes.

          Going down to the basement level of her house to collect the last jars, I discovered much more terrible things than a monkey's uterus. She had macerated pig hearts, next to which sat quietly a braided tail, made of a real woman's hair. Among the black strands you could see little reddish cockroaches that hat matted the hair and created a nest. Then, in another silver box, were frog legs, stripped of their skin.

          Placing my hand on my forehead, I feel my temperature begin to rise and the slice of bread I munched on this morning come in my throat alongside my bile.

          " Poor thing... You're going to let some frog ruin your dream of becoming an apprentice? " Nimue giggles behind me, grabbing a jar with yellow eyes in it, as if it was no big deal.

          " Are those real? "

          " Do you like them? " She asks happily, bringing the transparent vessel closer to my face, " I collected them myself from the community corpses. "

          Fuck me. Why am I still in this shit hole?

          " That's what I wonder too. " Nimue answers, wiping a speck of dust from a blue iris.

          " Excuse me?... " My eyes widen, thrown off guard by her repsone.

          Did I really said that out loud or?...

          She shrugs, smiling and sprints up the stairs to the store above.

          I purse my lips and clench my fists. The impression that she tries to get rid of me is not a supposition anymore, it was a certainty.

          " I haven't even started. " I reply, taking the register from the floor and starting to clean and organize the witch's materials.

          She doesn't say anything back, but I can hear her laughter above the floor.

          By the end of my shift my eyes were dropping in my mouth and some of my bones cracked at the slightest move. I couldn't even smell anything rather than formalin, mold and fetid elements. I wasn't expecting to be paid, I didn't do anything other than act as a maid here and there, without showing my limited knowledge related to the medical field: injections, a few incisions, sutures.

          This job didn't correspond at all to my training and, to my dislike, tested the limits of my understanding. But it wasn't only about the job, but about this universe in general.

          Even if my working hours were officially over, I still had plenty to do.

          Tomorrow is another day. I say in my head, slapping the wet cloth against the bucket.

          As I walk past the stacks of books I had to arrange in the library, I notice something that really sparked up my interest: ' Guide to treating infections in cattle and sheep. '

          Damned reptile. Of course she also had manuals about animals, considering the fact she collected parts of them. I borrow, borrow not steal, the book and hide it behind my woolen clothes, then I make my way to Nimue.

          " Rayna, come here. " She hoarsely calls for me, making room at her table so I can join her, " Let's prepare you medicine. "

          " Cyan, miss. " I correct her, rolling up my wet sleeves.

          " Whatever you say, Shyna. Look, you've got two paragraphs here: the echinacea ointment for wounds and lavender potion for sleep. "

          I sigh and begin to follow her instructions, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she leans her hip on the table and folds her arms against her chest. Nimue's hair was tied at the nape of her neck in a simple bun, making her features sharp.

          Even this witch was a fairy-tale beauty and I didn't like to say it out loud.

          I begin my job by crushing the plants in a ceramic bowl. Of course I was criticized for the fact that I pressed too much on the dry leaves and that my movements were lacking finesse. She pushes me aside for a few moments and shows me how to do it.

          I couldn't deny it, her actions were more fluid, hypnotic. She had the hands of a pianist: long and slender, feminine, with clean and short nails. Nimue knew what she had to do and how the end result should be like and, apparently, it worked.

          Even her face held a serious mine, a slight satisfaction written on it. Everything seemed like a sacred ritual that Nimue loved to perform.

          " Here, your turn now. " She invites me to the table and places her palms over mine, guiding me, " Gentle, smoothly, press firmly and take your time. Think of the leaf as a piece of ash, running from the fire. Imagine it crumble under your touch. "

          Nodding, I envision all the properties of the herb coming together in my bowl. A childlike joy blooms in my soul when the plant cuts itself into pieces easily, like it was satisfied of the way I was using it.

          " Making potions is not that simple. You must use all three elements that create a man: the body for strength, the mind for the necessary information about the ingredients and the soul, for a touch of magic. "

          While turning the mortar, Nimue adds a few teaspoons of fat and a few drops of some kind of essential oil.

          " This is shea butter. Very, very rare and very, but very expensive in these places. I would give you pork fat instead, it is much more nutritious, but not very useful when dealing with infections. It could actually worsen the condition. Is full of glucose, too sweet, and you know how germs love the taste of carbohydrates. " She explains as she wipes her hands with a towel and studies me with the same pair of cold lilac eyes. " The essential oil is castor oil. Considering that your wound is on you scalp, it will help you hair grow in that place and stay healthy. "

          Damn, she really was smart. I knew everything she said was true because I learned it in university too.

          " Also, never put lotions on fire, you destroy all their properties. Only teas and certain potions, the ones that contain green plants, not colored. " Nimue informs me, testing the texture of the medicine. " Colored plants contain spirits that enjoy the heat and sabotage your cure. Better to drown them in water for a couple of hours or freeze them if possible and only after that, let them dry. "

          With an almost invisible appreciative gesture, she pours the cream unto an iron box.

          " Good. Now, let's prepare the night potion. "

          My conclusion after this day was that, as much as I despised Nimue, she loved her work enough to teach it good.

          " Are you coming back tomorrow? " She questions me from the doorway, her rough voice being carried away by the wind.

          " Unfortunately. " I joke, turning my face to her.

          " What? " She laughs, showing me a pair of impeccable teeth. " Well, if you're so determined to show up, then I expect you to explain me all the information from the book you've stolen from me. "

          I freeze in the doorframe, with a hand on the hip the heavy manual was hidden.

          " Oh and, I know you didn't fall in the meadow, as you lied, and you should find a scabbard for that dagger you keep. " She smiles crookedly and approaches me, " What I don't know is how you got your hands on it. "

          " As long as I don't use it, there's nothing you have to worry about. Miss. " I reply, taking a few steps back.

          " Do you even have any idea of how to wield a dagger? You barely even managed to properly crush a handful of dead leaves. But twist a knife into someone's heart? Never in a million years, my sweet little star. "

          " We all have secrets, Nimue. Do you want me to make my own suppositions about how you got your hands on this pretty dress or that shining bracelet? "

          Her eyes become alert and her upper lip twitches.

          " I respect yours. " She resumes and twirls a finger through a wine colored piece of my hair. " For your mare it is enough to wash her eyes with chamomile and linden tea, feed her salt so she can rebuilt her muscles and some grains mixed with red apples. After she begins to eat well and can hold her weight on her own, give her hay sprinkled with basil. It'll keep curses away. The mare will be fine by the time you're gone. "

          " How do you know when I'll leave? Will I get home? " I step forward, hearing the floor groan under my shoes.

          " The future is not for us to see. " Nimue chants, slamming a fistful o metal keys in my palm and making a brief contact between our skin.

          She's stunned for a moment, as if she sees for the first time who lays in front of her.

          " You can use the lotion for the burn in your palm, as well. And be careful what path you take by night. You have green eyes and red hair, the traits which the old gods relished most in mortal females. "

          Nimue leaves me in front of the store, waving her ass from side to side, sweeping with her purple skirt the dirty streets.

          I don't get to say goodbye. I'm left on the sidewalk, with my mouth open and barely able to understand the last five minutes of our conversation. Redheads and old gods. The same thing Nivy mentioned the other day. If that was true as well, I might use the knife earlier than I imagined...

          This night was going to be a well-deserved break between the two of us.

          Moving slowly, I take my time to try and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. The sky had taken on a rosy hue, a sign that it was already beginning to lose its power and the air smelled of crushed nuts and dust.

          Was I watching the same sky as my loved ones back home?

          I lower my head. I couldn't watch it anymore and not feel empty. This silence, this lack of people, of Niven, was draining me, squishing my heart. I stop, trying to banish all my dark thoughts and make room for some rational ideas.

          If by the end of this month, I was not going to find a way home, I knew what had to be done with my life: throw it away. I couldn't live between strangers, run from house to house. God knows what I have to endure if I even stay on the streets for too long.

          Someone grabs my waist, waking me up. Unprepared and with my nerves stretched to their full capacity, I swing, ready to fight whoever dared to touch me.

          " Whoa, whoa, calm down, Cy. It's me, don't break my nose if you don't know how to fix it. "

          Niven comes out from the shadows, with a huge smile on her pretty face.

          " You scared the soul out of me. " I breath, putting my palm on my chest to feel my heartbeat, " I'm sorry, my head feels so big after today. "

          " Does the Countess approves you? " The blond girl that was by Niven's side asks, running her hands through her beautifully braided hair.

          " Countess? If you mean Nimue, I have no idea. She's expecting me tomorrow. " I explain, analyzing the feminine and voluptuous features belonging to the stranger. " It's only temporary anyway, I can manage. "

          " You haven't changed you mind. You still want to leave me. " Nivy says with an accusing look on her face and takes us both by the hands, leading us slowly down another path with broken stones.

          We make way among the few people still left on the narrow streets, noticing that we are heading in a different direction than the one we came from.

          " You can't adopt me, Nivy. I would like to go home after I remember where I come from. " I look at the stalls with empty baskets and the few stone buildings that rose behind them. " This is not the way home. "

          " It's a surprise. If you want leave, at least let me show you how we secretly have fun. " The brunette chuckles, jumping from one feet to another.

          " I'm Aoife. " The beautiful stranger with the face of an angel introduces herself, showing off her big blue eyes. " Nivy told me that you have and unforgettable face and that's right. I've never seen features like yours before, I swear. "

          My cheeks start to burn and I can swear I'm blushing. I was not a beauty. I wasn't even a natural redhead. I was using a cherry box dye, so that my roots could go unnoticed when they grew too much. Not even my oval face or my prominent cheekbones were not helping much. I looked childish and way younger that twenty-three.

          Here, the standard seemed to be a heart-shaped head, thin lips and way, way more skinnier than I was. My tighs were full of flesh, due to my short height and I had some hip dips as well. My stomach was soft and hid a little belly below. It was the reason I hated wearing tight dresses. I didn't even have boobs in this shirt without the help of a push-up bra. I was pear-shaped and the only thing I really liked about my body was my quite alright behind.

          " Thank you. She told me you are the spring's favorite, as they say. "

          My attempts at making conversation were as poor as I was. A trace of regret saddens her eyes. She doesn't say anything, but puts on a joyless smile.

          " How was your first day? " Niven asks, like a mother who questions her child about the first day of school.

          " Do you want me to exclude the grotesque elements? " I sigh, aggressively massaging my forehead.

          " How dare you? Those are the best! "

          The black smoke from the chimneys were intoxicating the already precarious atmosphere, filling it with the smell of wood and coal. While listing the types of stuffed animals that the ' Countess' seemed to collect, the emotion of not belonging oppresses my soul again.

          The dull pain in my whole body somehow anchored me in this reality and made me much more aware of the situation I was in. I felt the need to drown my sorrow in a drink. More than ever, actually. This was something that happened to me lately, due to stress and unhappiness. It was a fact that scared me terribly: I could become and alcoholic. Just like my father.

          But he was now in another world and my weak heart, unable to hate him, made me think of him. He threw at me so many calumnious words that I can't even remember them all. Does he know that I am no longer among them and that my soul aches?

          Yes, even now, after he beat me and threw me out of the house, after he cursed me and told me he regretted the day he conceived me. Does he know that I can't breathe being so far away from them? It's not even a cliché anymore: we were worlds apart, but I still carried the scars in my chest, buried deep enough to last for a lifetime.

          I sigh deeply, hoping that I can release some of the weight that was making me move slower than usual.

          " Something wrong, Cyan? " Nivy asks me quietly, raising her delicate eyebrows, " You're upset, all of a sudden. "

          Aoife smiles like in those movies I used to watch, the ones with Marilyn Monroe in which she was so delicate, elegant and beautiful. They even looked alike: blonde, small face, a dimple in the chin, small and pouty lips and a pair of eyes as blue as spring water, sharp as those of foxes and overflowing with vitality.

          " Aoife, I'm sorry to interrupt, Nivy, but I can't help it: you have a beauty that I've only heard existed. I've never... um, I've never seen anything like you. "

          I swear I wasn't hitting on her. I wasn't into girls that looked like girls. It was hard to explain even to my parents. I felt attracted to the girls that looked like boys, and that is because I was into men. Even if I despised the majority of them.

          So complicated.

          A blush creeps on Aoife's neck, getting in harmony with her already rosy undertone. She brushes some loose strands of hair away from her face acknowledging my admiration towards her. " You have such a way with your words... But, you should know I am lectured, too. In maths and geography. "

          Niven laughs lightly, tenderly grabbing her shoulders and positioning herself behind her. " Yes, Cyan, she is among the few people who can do arithmetic and read in two ancient languages. "

          As I applaud, I lift the hem of my skirt to avoid an area full of brown water. We turn on some narrow streets, until we get far enough from the view of Thaibar. From this point, up on a side of the hill, we could see the black towers of the castle, rising high on the air and puncturing the grey clouds.

          " What's there? " Squinting my eyes through the darkness that was beginning to fall over Thaibar, I make my own presumption.

          " The kingdom of Hybern, the metropolis of the region. " Niven informs me, cursing them under her breath.

          " I work there. As a maid. " Aoife speaks, not looking in our direction and kicking rocks with her feet, " My shift starts in a few days. "

          " I can't understand your ambition to work between those... worms. "

          " I have a family to feed, Niv. My mother suffers from madness and goes on the road at night thinking she's a prostitute and my brother has school. The palace is the only place where I make enough money. "

          Her nose wrinkles, as she finally lifts her head towards the horizon. Narrowing her eyes, she looks like she is about to go and spit on everyone on the palace.

          It was the same expression as the one that appeared when I brought up the Resurgence. Visible disgust and wrath. I wonder what made her react like that, besides the people. Was she forced to do something? Maybe participating to that competitions was nothing more that an attempt to put herself out there. Gain a husband, steal his money...

          Empathy was deeply rotted in my character. It's always been like this and, sometimes, it was a curse upon my existence. Being able to read the room or the person in front of you, not like an expert would do it, but like a human being that's been through the same, was consuming.

          Aoife was as readable as an open books. Her shoulders were pulled back in an effort to prepare herself to return to those monsters and her eyebrows were dropped, the hope of escaping being lost long time ago.

          We cross a small field of plain, barren field, with scattered earth dunes that scratched my feet through the slim shoes. Rays of light emerge from the forest in front and a dull sound of music tickles my ears.

          " We might not have enough time to speak tonight, Cy. " Aoife catches my hand and leads me through the tall rows of trees, " But I wanted to say that you should prove the Countess what we already know about redheads - they are the fiery women that even the dark is afraid of. "

          She throws me a toothy smile and waves a kiss towards me and Niven before she throws herself into a chaotic pirouette around the campfire. The flames burn high, almost reaching the naked branches, and sparks jump between the dancing bodies, amplified by their energy. Even the crackle of fire seemed to intertwine with the music, setting the rhythm.

          Children and young people screamed and threw themselves into the crowd, others played at the drums and whistles. The more experienced ones sang, not with words, but with sounds and interesting notes. The girls squealed and danced barefoot, twirling flower crowns on their forearms, and the boys accompanied them, circling them with specific dance moves.

          It reminded me of a Georgian dance. The kind where the females were gracious and their moves were delicate and refined.

          Some others played cards on a trunk tree, betting their money on luck, not interested in dancing or admiring the silhouettes and others, kissed, passionately as the fire, hidden between the trees.

          A heady atmosphere of fairy tale and goodwill rejuvenates me, and I find myself laugh and spin my eyes around, trying to eat all of the picture so that I can feel full again.

          Nivy watches me, just as happy, and gestures me to take my shoes off. Gladly following her instructions, the sharp grass stings my heels. It was an atypically pleasant sensation. It eased the tension between my shoulder blades, absorbing all the stress collected from the day.

          Several tables were lined up one after the other, filled with platters of bread, ham and cheese and a few seasonal vegetables like green onions and tomatoes. Nearby, several barrels were arranged, some already emptied by the amateur drinkers of white and red wine.

          " Follow me, let me give you a taste of the best wines from the continent. The wine of Thaibar, made from grapes ripened in the forest, watered by the river that flows from the ridge of the mountains and lulled by the song of nightingales. "

          " They should put you in charge of sales after this commercial. " I joke, and confidently bring the red liquor to my lips.

          A smell of licorice and sour fruits makes my nose tinge. Honey like sweetness overpowers my tongue, and my mouth waters instantly.

          I was about to get really fucking drunk.

          " Foreigners say it's actually fairy wine, forbidden to humans. " Another girl smiles at us, bringing the carafe to her mouth and sipping thirsty.

          Her kerchief was tied around her neck and her skirt was pulled up and tucked into the trousers underneath, a style that all the workers here adopted.

          " I heard about it. They say it holds you hostage in their realm and makes you their servant. " I recall, savoring the mixture of flavors on my taste buds.

          Maybe there were drugs in this. I doubted they didn't have cannabis or marijuana. Maybe they didn't knew their properties but, this wine, the aroma, it warmed you from the inside, from the first sip and boosted your morale instantly.

          Another girl, leaded by Aoife, joins the discussion, speaking somewhat outraged about the world beyond the ocean, " Our wine is served in great palaces among the world, by those sharp-eared shitheads, clashed above their war tables and bathed in at those parties. But no one gives credit to the real people who know the recipe of the wine. "

          " Don't start, Zuleyha. " The other female pleads, rolling her eyes as she unties her kerchief, revealing her long neck and voluminous chest, speckled with hickies. " Thaibar is on the map thanks to us. No one can steal this wine from us. "

          " Shut up, Minodora. You know I'm right. Those damned rich creatures drink our sweat and then brag that the people in the palace made the wine, not us, the peasants. This wine - " Zuleyha says and hits the glass with her purple stained fingers, " It's been made by my father since he was seven. Fucking seven. Honey and grapefruit peels, a very rare ingredient, and the vines must not be planted or moved, they must be left to give birth alone, in the forest, near the river. They have to be gathered by birds and protected by the leaves of oaks. Nothing is by chance, everything is a gift from above. That is why our wine is divine. "

          " That's why Thaibar is divine. " Minodora corrects her.

          " Sounds like a ritual. " I add, already intoxicated by the richness of the alcohol.

          " It really is. "

          " Cyan, finish you drink, let me teach you how to dance. "

          I grab Niven's outstretched hands after I finish the last drop of wine in one gulp and let myself be carried by her to the burning fire.

          Although Nivy was an amazing instructor, holding my waist and moving me to the drums, this dance was something more about learning to feel it, not the steps. It required more than a glass of wine and a little more debauchery and revelry. I took the opportunity to teach myself to move slightly gracious, to raise my hands while twirling them and move my hips soft enough to not make it look vulgar.

          It was like learning a small part of belly dance too.

          You had to lose yourself in jumps and cross steps, pirouettes and undulations. Everything came together: from the sweat provided by heat and the small gusts of wind that made you fly through movements, from the ground that anchored you when you landed. It was a dance of nature, elements and people.

          Shum also makes his presence felt in one of the dancing circles. While we exchange partners, he comes face to face to me, to his horror.

          But I am the one taken by surprise.

          " I'm sorry for my behavior today. " He admits, making me raise my eyebrows high enough to reach the stars.

          I frown, and refuse to let him lead the dance. One of my biggest problems when having a pair was this, not letting the man guide me through the steps.

          He mimics me, and raises his thick eyebrows too, pulling me closer to him. Shum holds my palm and my waist, with a soft, boyish grip. His green irises were flooded by alcohol.

          " Don't worry about it, Shum. I hope we can get along. I'm sorry for feeding your dogs. "

          The boy hesitates for a minute, then looks at me, " I didn't think to say this but I am drunk and... Thank you, for taking care of the mare this morning. "

          I step on his foot, stunned by his words, and murmur a clumsy apology with my lips. I anchor my hand on his shoulder and try my best to not break his confession.

          " She managed to crawl onto the bed you improvised and even ate the fruits you cut... My mother told me. "

          " You gave your mother an apologize? "

          " Yes. It was unfair of me and I felt... terrible. Let's start over again. What do you say? "

          Nodding, I accept his proposal.

          This was a nice ending to a tiring day. I could see a shy light at the end of this tunnel, but there was something holding me back, preventing me from feeling free: something was wrong, something atrocious was going to happen and I couldn't shake the sensation of my shoulders.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Haunted

Author's POV:

          Amren abandoned herself in study, after the phenomenon from a few nights ago. She went through manuscripts after manuscripts, emptying her library, and still didn't find any explanation to satisfy her. She couldn't imagine how something of such magnitude was not felt by Rhysand, with his incredible powers or Feyre. Her High Lady travelled the underworld when she was only a human, she should be touched by this kinds of changes, especially because of her variety of assets brought by the courts.

          Why was Amren alert? Why did she wake up? Was this something to do with her old form?

          It was precisely the reason she took this mission upon herself, feeling responsible for excluding any danger that could threaten the Night Court and her loved ones. Even more, she felt that the message was addressed to her, that she could play and important role in what was to come. Amren enjoyed feeling important, actually, but she wasn't quite ready to go through the same trauma in such a short period. Destroying The Cauldron and dying, it wasn't something easy to do, she didn't want to sacrifice anything anymore, she couldn't give anything else but herself.

          The information shown by the sun was bothering her more than she admitted. Amren found it useless, considering that there was no village or person in the region who bears this name. It lead nowhere, dead end. She asked for the registries of the population nearby, where parents go and write their child's name, so she can be sure. She hadn't yet resorted to the somewhat darker methods, but that was because she didn't give Rhysand any report about what she discovered. Mostly because she didn't feel like her restlessness had a sure cause.

          Her High Lord had enough on his plate, the fact that a grimoire sent a message was not something to bother him with.

          He was far too preoccupied with rebuilding the kingdom after the war, his illyrians, the continent and even Feyre, he felt her pain caused by Nesta, so it was his problem to deal with too. On top of that, he always disliked the type of magic brought into the world by witches. He believed that the powers that came from within a person were as pure as his intentions. Instead, what the witches did was absorb the energy from the environment and then use it. The final result consisted largely in the type of charge that energy carries, positive or negative.

          What Rhysand didn't know was that witches were connected to the chaos of the universe, and the most experienced ones could transform even the evil charge into a good one.

          " Kingdom comes first. " His father used to say, when a group of lesser creatures came to his palace, searching for protection in exchange of their services. Even if what they offered was a great help for the court, he drove them away: orcs, witches and a handful of fauns. He didn't want to be associated with such beings, lesser fae.

          But right now, this was a matter that could involve The Night Court, sooner or later. She felt it in her bones. Although the name was meaningless, it held a great weight when whispered, melting on your tongue and poisoning your mouth.

          As second in command, even now, that she'd lost her powers and was no longer as useful as she liked to think, Amren still had a word in the concerns of welfare of the Night Court. Regardless of his opinion, she had to seek the meaning of what the universe revealed to her. He had Feyre by his side, and if her husband wouldn't approve the search, she would be willing to do whatever it took to win the peace.

          Sipping from her glass of dry wine, she savored the sour aroma on her reddened lips, trying to remember of how blood used to taste. She tapped her dark fingernails on the time-worn pages and closed her eyes for a while.

          The thought of getting back to the River House was unpleasant. The last time she was there was actually the last conversation she had with Nesta, when their sliver of friendship dissipated in front of her. She didn't have any burning desire to return, but it was necessary. Amren had to present this issue to Rhysand and Feyre and see what the next steps are.

          She had to let the fear aside: the name had nothing to do with her past.

          Or was she mistaken?

          Angels used to take names crowded by Cyrillic and symbols, with a hard pronunciation, often leaving you deaf just by hearing them. On the other side, the evil entities wouldn't reveal themselves in the sunlight, but rather in the rays of the moon.

          Vesper. Vesper.

          If she was to go to Rhysand, might at least boast with a somewhat more accurate discovery.

          An idea suddenly dawned on her as she watched the light reflect in the dictionaries of dead languages. Amren blinked a couple of times and stood from her burgundy chair, a decisive look written on her silver eyes.

          Did she not read those first?

          She grabs the manual covered in green leather and inspects it for a second, taking in the waves that elevated in the rays of sun. It was not dust, she kept her books cleaned and tried to protect them from the destruction of time. Smoke, diaphanous threads of white smoke, as if the pages were burning.

          Amren quickly noted near ' Vesper ', the word ' Sun ', linking them, then opened the pages of the dictionary at the V-Y interval.

          As relief flooded her posture, relaxing her limbs, she couldn't believe her eyes. With her fingers, she searched numerous sentences, until she reached the word that brought a victorious smile to her tanned face.

          Vesper – lg. old, used in the Asf. Kingdom, æcləstīąstiķ - Vespą. Def. Star, evening star, prayer raised by ' The Eyes of The Mother ', unused.

          Amren's smile disappeared. She didn't need to write down thin information. She knew what the books were talking about. ' Vesper ' was passed down as a mere word in literature, but her manual about the future didn't see it, which was rather bizarre considering the powers her grimoires held.

          She also remembered this sisterhood, a group that divined The Mother and were versed in prayers, protection and healing. They were fierce and scary and nothing stood in their way when it came to protecting the ruler of the kingdom. The sisterhood had no scruples and didn't care about the costs. They were capable of anything.

          But they weren't the only one capable of unleashing massacre on earth if they were stepped over. Even the Illiryans couldn't compete with their wrath and vengeance. But for the sake of everyone, they disappeared, all of them, all gone long ago, together with the land and many more sisterhoods who fought for peace.

          Guilt poisoned her mind, creeping deep enough to reach her soul. She angled her body over the desk, supporting herself in her hands and dropped her head. Amren and her battalion were to blame for the eradication of the women, the land and their religion.

          A great power had been lost with the rebellion of angels, with hers, a great betrayal had occurred and stained her hands, her reputation. Many orders, as well as thousands of people from that court, suffered. They never recovered, and so they died, buried underground, lost and never to be revived.

          Amren had to compose herself. This ' Vesper ' did not represent any danger at the moment, it seemed like it wasn't born or formed yet.

          Quickly rearranging her stuff on the table, she hid her books in the secret drawer and took a few notes with her, before leaving the room. Immediately after closing the door, she found herself staring in Varian's brown irises.

          He was wearing his traveling clothes, all blue and green, with the emblem of his court embroidered on his suit. A serious expression hardened his dark features.

          " Varian. Is everything alright? " Amren greeted him, unprepared, forgetting to use her senses, " I didn't expect to find you here? "

          " Amren. You didn't expect to find me in our house? " The man chuckled stoically, with a slight delight on his chocolate skin, " I would say you look as beautiful as every morning, but unfortunately, I didn't have the pleasure to wake up with you next to me, lately. "

          " Well, I feel productive in the morning, so I try to help Rhysand with some political issues. " Amren avoids spilling the whole truth, smoothing out her gray, two-pieced suit, " Looks like I've lost plenty, considering you're ready to go back to the Summer Court. " She points out, leaning her small hips against the wall adorned with valuable paintings.

          She wasn't much of an art collector, but Varian was, and she liked to please him by bringing him all the oil portraits, vases and woolen rugs she found. Moreover, she had her own gain: many of them, such as the frames and carpets, were sewn or painted with gold and precious stones.

          " I didn't plan anything. A situation occurred back home and I came to talk to you about it. " Varian reaches out and grabs a strand of Amren's brunette hair, twirling it a few times before kissing it.

          Her heart raced at the sight of the romantic gesture. He did it quite often when it was just the two of them, and she was starting to like it more and more each day.

          " Tarquin sent me a letter about some strange events that took place across the land. He didn't mention much. He's probably cautious considering how often the messages ended up being intercepted. " Varian pauses for a second, brushing his fingers to Amren's chin, " However, he told me enough. The sea is agitated and brought to the surface some ancient creatures. They started to kill the fishermen and the people who have houses near the shore. And... on the night of the solstice, Tarquin was nearly killed in his sleep. "

          Amren blinked, barely able to digest the information. " An assassination attempt? "

          " I'm not sure. As captain of his guards, it is my job to protect him. I failed this time. " He clenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed, a sparkle of guilt darkening his brown eyes even more. " The Samsars, his secret guards, his shadows, slept soundly, all night. "

          " I thought The Order of Samsars disappeared with Tarquin's father. "

          Amren rummaged her memory for the information about this group of men. They where trained in an underwater legion, a small group, willing to sacrifice much more that their life to protect the High Lord of The Summer Court: their voice, their shadows, every sound they made, sold to the Old God of the Sea.

          " Not really. A handful of them are still alive. Tarquin tried to make them go and live their own life, but they already lost too much to go back. He said he's never going to make another generation, they're training is... brutal. "

          " But some are still willing to become Samsars, right? "

          Varian shook his head, a silent approval. Amren knew the capacities of The Shadowsinger: stealth, silence, efficiency, loyalty. These were only a few of his assets, but a whole group, devoted to this kind of work... They might catch up with his power.

          " I still don't understand how they fell asleep. The oath they take at their final test takes their ability to ever sleep again. "

          A restless eternity in exchange of an open entry to the God's underwater domains.

          " A spell hit the palace. A damn powerful one. Half of the servants went to sleep and some never woke up. Tarquin escaped. That is why I have to go, urgently. "

          She knew he was afraid: for his court, his cousin and his sister, Cresseida.

          " How's Cresseida? Did she escape? " Amren remembered her dark features, a more sensual mirroring of her brother, Varian, with her fierce face and complete devotion to her home.

          " She took care of my position while I was gone, but she slept as well. "

          " I'll talk to Helion, he could be able to help us. I have a suspicion it might be related to the Summer Solstice. "

          " If you want do discuss this with him, do it without attracting too much attention, please. " Varian withdraws his hand and smoothes his short, white hair. He take's Amren's palm in his own and starts walking towards the entry of their home. " The Summer Solstice is an occasion of joy, a moment of rebirth and overcoming our deepest fears. The light at the end of the tunnel. It shouldn't unleash on us like this. "

          " Varian... " Amren cut him off, sensing his tension from his muscles, " You have the best astrologers from the area, ask them if they saw any... curious event on the sky, that night. "

          She knew she wasn't being totally honest with him, that a part of her, the one bound to the Night Court, was using him to gather this piece of information for her own plans, but it was something innocent. Moreover, if the events from the Summer Solstice had repercussions over them too, maybe what she found was also including them.

          " I will do as you asked, Amren. " Varian replied, his words a soft whisper of devotion to her, " Now, come on, let's get you to your friends and then I'll be on my way. "

          They shared a short kiss, their way of saying ' Goodbye ' and ' I'll be waiting for you ', then left, holding their hands.

          When they arrived in front of the River House, Varian spoke again, " I know I'm asking a lot, but please don't mention anything to Rhysand for the moment. " His brown eyes locked into hers in a silent plea, " At least not until I know for sure what happened inside the castle. Tarquin still feels betrayed and he'll think only the worst if he finds out you knew about this. "

          " The thing we did to him was necessary. " She commented, only to satisfy her desire of having the last word.

          " My cousin would have given Feyre the book. She only had to be honest about her intentions. "

          " Are you lecturing me? " Amren paused, striking him with her grey eyes, " The last time someone dared to hold me a moral, he lost his minds. "

          Varian offered her a cunning smile, leaving two dimples to stain his cheeks. That was one of her weakness, right there, written on his face in plain sight.

          " You already made me lose my mind, Amren. " He said, before disappearing slowly in cloud of steam.

          He winnowed without another word, leaving her in front of the tall house. She felt weak in the knees. An effect Varian had on her every time he used his humorous come backs to try and calm her down.

          She smoothed her short, brunette hair and took a deep breath, still smelling the sea salt and lime fragrance up in the air. She watched behind, to the buildings that were slowly reconstructed by their inhabitants and the stone path that still held holes in it after the attack on Velaris.

          She had to prevent something like this from happening ever again.

          When Amren got to the front door, she didn't waste energy on knocking, but made herself welcomed into the large dining room. She instantly sensed that something was off with the atmosphere.

          The mint green walls were the same, so were the windows and the furniture. An unknown fragrance floated in a very limited portion of the air particles, giving their house an unfamiliar buzz of energy. As usual, there were flowers, lilac, for the most part and jasmine, but also mist and... something spicy. No one she knew had this particularity.

          She took a few steps around the room, lifting several objects and inspected them carefully, testing their weight and how they felt when countered by her senses. The fireplace held another odd resonance. She let the perfume settle on her tongue. Here, it wasn't spicy and sweet, it tasted like pain, like burned flesh.

          Amren blinked a couple of times and studied the grey mark a knife let on the marble that surrounded the fire. She wiped it, then rubbed her fingers together, bringing them to her nose.

          Someone else set foot insider their home. An outsider.

          Leaving the dining room, she inspected the rest of the house. The sweet cologne lingered lesser and lesser, totally extinct by the time she reached the kitchen. Here, something else overpowered it, something more soft, a forest of coniferous trees. Cedar.

          So, Azriel felt it too and searched for an answer.

          Nuala and Cerridwen greeted her with a head bow, as they glided pass her. Two barely felt specters, visible to the eyes only if they had the desire to be seen.

          Elain's sugar-coated tone resonated like a breath of spring within the walls, barely audible even for the fae ears.

          " Nesta refuses to train since she went to Windhaven. " Feyre informed her sister with a barely restrained irritation, trapped between her vocal cords, " She stands in the middle of a rock with her unsatisfied face and humiliates Cassian in front of his subordinates. "

          " I heard. " That was all that Elain said, her only focus being on moving the purple flowers from the table up to the window, where the light shone more brightly, " At least she started to eat and went easy with the drinking. It is a win, too, Feyre... "

          Her High Lady did not seem satisfied with the so called ' achievements ' of Nesta, considering the way she had been self-flagellating in the past few weeks. Her vehement refusal to eat anything other than crusty bread and restaurant leftovers was getting her nowhere. Sometimes she took a step forward, not eating anything at all, days after days, as if the punishment was for their sisters, and not on her body.

          Her hobby was worse: drinking and going to pubs where she gambled on Rhysand's money and after all that, she fucked all the men she found agreeable.

          Feyre didn't know what hurt more: either that their older sister became a wreck after the war or that their relationship completely fell apart. Their last night as a united family took place in a tent, all cuddled up together in each other's arms and the moment they said their last ' Goodbye ' to their father, now buried meters underground.

          Elain, on the other hand, was not so torn between pleasing the court and loving Nesta. For a long time there was only her older sister, protecting and loving Elain like no one else ever had, although Feyre was the one to sacrifice herself for the family, for their well being. The bond between Elain and Nesta was deeper.

          The fact that Nesta refused to meet Elain, to see her, was crushing. Only because she begun to resemble the Inner Circle, their habits. It hurt her more than the transformation from human to High Fae.

          " I trust Cassian. " Feyre recovered, getting ready to leave the kitchen, " He's trained a lot of illyrians, some even more difficult than my sister. And of top of that, he cares about her. It's so much more in the middle. "

          " Feyre... " Elain cut her off, rustling her dusty pink dress between the legs of the chairs, " Is there another way to bring Nesta back? I fell like we're limiting her decision-making power. "

          Amren remained frozen in the room next to the kitchen, carefully pricking her ears. Elain didn't talk nonsense. Nesta was more or less constrained by other people's decisions, but only because hers were made out of grief and suicidal desire.

          Guilt made her stomach hurt. She took part of that, too. In fact, she was one of the people who refused to meet with Nesta again, her friend, out of desire to make her suffer enough to get a reaction out of her, to make her reach back.

          ' Keep reaching your hand. ' She advised Cassian, a mistake she learned from something she didn't do.

          Amren had no idea at that moment that Nesta was unable to see the full part of the glass.

          Feyre, on the other hand, was aware of the kind of help she received from the circle, in a similar circumstance. The only problem was the type of character they both inherited: while she was more understanding and ambitious, Nesta was a whirlwind that destroyed first, and then regretted. The same strategy wouldn't have worked.

          " We are all different and we all suffer in the way that brings us enough healing to make us forget. I didn't want to allow Nesta to destroy herself, so I did the most thoughtful think at the time. It was out of love... "

          " It's not very thoughtful of us to let her train among the creatures she dislikes the most. " Amren spoke for the first time since listening quietly, sharpening her smoky irises as Feyre's head appeared from the kitchen.

          Her chestnut hair was twisted in a high curled ponytail, no jewelry to adorn her features. She wore her monotonous clothes, designed to be worn outside, in the village, while she tried to help the citizens to restore their broken goods. Amren was bored instantly by the dark colors. She had her bag with her, the one where she transported her pencils: she was going to her new painting studio, as well.

          " The discussion ends here, Amren. Nesta needed a way out and we offered her the best option. "

          Amren pursed her lips at her High Lady's scolding tone. She had enormous respect for the girl, after what she's done for their realm, breaking the curse and doing what she could during the war. Amren knew it was mutual for Feyre, too. But this line, this limit, never prevented her from calling things out when she knew something was wrong. Not even when it came to Rhysand.

          Feyre avoided the tall dining table, and left the house without saying anything.

          For a moment, the room stood silent, an uncomfortable cloud falling over the two remaining girls. Amren ignored Elain as best as possible, never having a problem with her presence, but always trying to avoid their interactions. It wasn't like the youngest sister ever created issues inside their house, she was always silent and obeying. But that was the problem, her lack of response, the absence of fighting in her.

          The little creature was speechless at the sight of Amren. Her hazelnut eyes wide and her pupils constricted. Elain didn't move at all, her hands still suspended in the air, over the flowers. It seemed like she hadn't gotten used to Amren's terrifying presence and it didn't look like she was going to, anytime soon.

          Amren grimaced slightly at the extravagant chastity that Elain exuded from every pore. Maybe that's why Azriel was head over heels for her, he felt like he needed to shield her from the world, to save her and keep her away from every creeping looking man. Just like a baby.

          She cleaned her teeth with her tongue and shifted her weight from one leg to another. Oh, how much she hated the people unable to protect themselves.

          " Have you seen Rhysand by any chance, today? " She asked, willing to break that weird look that was passing between them.

          The girl's hair had come lose from her top knot, secured behind her head with a golden clip, falling elegantly over her eyebrows. " No, not at all. " Elain spoke in a broken voice, wiping her hands from the cream apron tied around her. " Feyre said he's gone for a few hours. He'll be back by sundown. I can... I'll send him whatever message you need, if it's urgent. "

          " No, I'll manage. Beautiful flower, by the way. " Amren complimented, then set off to the library.

          Maybe she'll find some answers there.

◇□◇□

          A few hundred miles away, Azriel watched vigilantly as several messengers left the court of the human queens, all of them taking a separate path than the other. A pretty diversion for a newbie, but he was no beginner in this art.

          He passed easily from branch to branch, dematerializing and jumping through the shadows. This was the maximum of his powers he could use here, just a droplet of it, so close to the palace and the Queens wards. It wasn't the first time they detected someone's magic, so he needed to stay as low as possible.

          His whiskey irises searched the five men, all dressed in the same black outfit, spreading like ants.

          Follow the small one, master...A shadow whispered, peeking over his armored shoulder, then circling the sword he held on his back.

          Azriel didn't hesitate, he trusted his companions more than anyone. He had not changed his position for more than four hours, waiting for the committee to break, and the muscle fever in his thighs had begun to impose it's point of view on his body. But he would never allow himself to jeopardize the mission just because he was numb.

          Things had been hectic here, too. The last surviving Queens had moved their army closer to west, near the line that separated the borders of the faeries from the human ones, but none of the females had left their palace since they bathed in The Cauldron. His spies had informed him about the fact that they often all gathered in one room and stayed there for hours.

          The Shadowsinger glided easily through the trees, silently taking every step so he could stay as close as possible to his target. It was like hunting a deer. He studied the prey, noted their habits, their day to day lifestyle, their weakness, planned his way of approach, and barely after that came his favorite part, the chase. The primal instincts it rose inside him, the way it made him feel glorious and in control, the satisfaction it brought when he took them by surprise, their terrified looks. Everything made him feel alive.

          The veiled movements the Queens made could only mean three things: either they were preparing to be invaded by Vallahan, an agreement was signed or maybe they were plotting something else. All suspicions were put under the question mark: why would regions like Montessere and Vallahan accept the Mortal Lands? Where did they have resources from, and if they had some, who made this offer to them? Mor still tried to get a peace treaty with the Vallahan region, but they didn't seem very eager to grant it to us.

          What seemed even more suspicious was the desire of the stronger regions to unite with the humans, a species they believed to be inferior. With Hybern now out of the game, there were two other forces left to worry about. And most importantly, they didn't recover from a war.

          The political situation in Prythian was no better, either. The Night Court was still somehow halved into that of Nightmares and Rhysand's actual kingdom. With Keir leading the army of darkbringers, a strong bonus in every fight, his High Lord couldn't control something that wouldn't submit to him. The Summer Court also suffered, even before Tarquin, but their situation was somewhat better, materially speaking. With the help of their ships, they managed to do enough trade to support their economy.

          The problem was the relation between Tarquin and Feyre, who had stolen the Book of the Breathings from under his nose, and he sent them back those blood rubies. Of course, there was Helion's court, still prosperous by nature and with whom they were on good terms. He would always ally with them in case of trouble. The Winter Court was in the same situation, with Kallias as High Lord.

          Then, there was Beron, the inept Beron, who would rather see his whole land burn than make peace with Rhysand. The Spring Court was the worse, becoming a ruin of that it used to be. Tamlin lost control, and with that, everything went downhill, becoming a ghost in the flesh. The population dropped drastically, leaving only those who had no families in other places.

          Azriel couldn't say he felt sorry for Tamlin, not after he'd put Feyre into a depressive episode and stolen Elain from under his nose. His jaw clenched, the only sound he made for several hours now being the grinding of tooth enamel.

          Thanks to his excellent memory, he could recall even the smallest patches of dirt that stained Elain's body, during the moments when she had been kept in chains. His pupil dilated, the black swallowing his hazel iris, and his nostrils flared. The mask he wore was suddenly too much to bear on his face. She was not a suitable subject to think about in a mission, so he focused instead on the steps the tiny man made, travelling through the forest.

          Still shrouded in shadows, trapped between the thick branches of a tree, he watched as the emissary came to a halt, carefully assessing the terrain. Azriel froze as the man raised his head and studied the blue sky on his direction. He knew he couldn't see or smell him, he diminished his own fragrance and absorbed the habitat's perfume, totally sheltered by the rough smell of blooming buds and wet leaves, trampled in the path.

          The mortal was around forty, short legged and stuffed into an unfitting suit. With Azriel's trained ears, he could hear the man's rugged breathing, like he just finished running a hundred miles, not only two. A gust of wind made him stumble on his bloated feet, raising particles of sweat and burned chicken in the air. The Shadowsinger didn't even flinch when the unpleasant smell rose up to his nose.

          Another figure came into view shortly after the Queen's emissary stopped in the middle of the woods. Azriel couldn't say that he had seen Vallahan's people often, but his features seemed far too common for someone who spent his time by the ocean.

          The Fae doesn't belong to Vallahan, he bears the fire ot the Autumn Court. A bolder shadow curled around his ear and crept under the mask covering his mouth and nose.

           Though so... Azriel responded in his mind, blinking once, letting his companions know he understood the message.

          The stranger was tall, but slender enough so that his indigo attire would be lacking at the edges, leaving his wrists visible. His blonde hair had a reddish undertone outside the sun's rays, betraying the place he came from. On his silver decorated jacket, lied the three-triangle Valknut, symbol of Vallahan.

          The Shadowsinger sensed the stirred state of the human, as he rubbed his hand over the leather bag he held under his arm. He probably administered a few doses of sedatives, so as not to be suspected if he was going to betray them.

          Azriel remained silent, like a beast lurking in the dark, with his lips pressed roughly together. Only his eyes glowed, like molten gold, underneath the black hood that covered his brunette hair. If he went a step further and kidnapped any of the emissaries, it would mean a warning that Rhysand specifically ordered not to send, yet. He could knock them both down in the blink of an eye, without them even having the time to realize who hit them and from where.

          There was no point in a war declaration after they just came out of one.

          He couldn't infiltrate the palace personally, either. The land around the kingdom was fenced off with an old spell, uniquely designed for faeries. When they stepped on that patch of cursed area, uninvited, it could turn them into stone, permanently.

          This inconvenient didn't scare Azriel off. He was a man full of resources and too ambitious, he liked to have his mind put to work. Through his web of spies, he contracted old acquaintances who owed him their lives, and they put him in touch with a group of human mercenaries, willing to do anything for the fair price: jewels and money. The work? Five men managed to break into the kingdom, each positioned at different distances, so if any of them was ever caught, the information would reach the last one, near the gate. Some became guards at the entrance, other maids, coachmen, salesmen and servants, and all were glamoured by a spell Amren created, so that their thoughts could not be read and their intentions sensed.

          Information flowed much more easily that way: humans were always unconscious by nature, that's why inappropriate knowledge always slipped out in the presence of a maid or a servant serving them coffee. Then, there was and awful lot of work to do: laundry to be washed, carried by a coachman and taken to the store where they took care of the items. Because they don't have a sewer for water, the workers from the magazine left, obviously bypassing the guards, and collected the amount of water they needed from the river.

          This was the way the data came for Azriel. All roads were open to him, just as he pleased.

          A crease appeared on Azriel's tanned forehead when the man offered a letter, alongside an iron box, inscribed with symbols.

          The Fae man asked the Queen's emissary to open it.

" Show me the emblem. " The human said.

          The Shadowsinger sharpened his senses, looking intently at the stranger. When he opened his dark blue tunic, on his left pectoral was imprinted the symbol that all the warriors of the Autumn Court received at the end of their initiation: a leaf made with a fireplace poker.

          His suspicions were correct: the Mortal Queens were not only flirting with Montessere and Vallahan, but also with Beron. The question remained the same: why?

          When the man finally opened the box, a small map, tied with a velvet ribbon, lied inside.

          It's bewtiched. His shadows whispered, slowly wrapping around his contracted torso.

          " These are the instructions to find what you need. "

          After they parted, Azriel left out a loud gasp, glad that he could finally move from that irritating position. The leathers he wore blocked the splinters from entering under his skin, but didn't helped much with the rough terrain he had to sit in. Flexing his wrists and ankles, the tension begun to loosen up, enjoying the pain that came with the movement. He put his elbows on his knees, taking the amount of rest he craved before flying back to Velaris.

          Pulling his mask down with a gloved finger, he savored the forest ambiance, rainy and green, helping him calm his nerves and quiet his mind. He remembered he still hadn't talked to Rhysand, or anyone else, about the nocturnal visit from a few days ago. Not because he had anything to hide, but because he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it all.

          Remorse stained his pride. He made a mistake. He fell asleep and wasn't aware that a stranger came inside. He didn't even rest. What if someone else was in the house with him, Feyre or Elain, and they suffered because of his carelessness? He is the one who should take care of them, to assure no one got hurt under his watch. If someone was going to suffer, Azriel should take it all upon himself.

          Physical torture was something he had gotten used to a long time ago. The only thing that disturbed him were the mental and emotional agony, which he had no idea how to manage.

          He ran his palm over his face and pressed two fingers to his eyes. Azriel uncovered his veined wings from the shadows, and flexed them a few time before setting off, feeling their enormous weight on his large back.

          No one else mentioned feeling strange on the evening of the Summer Solstice, and he didn't want to alarm anyone with the nightmares he grew used to. It was an issue that Madja could solve with a sleeping potion of some kind. No, not a sleeping potion. But something that could prevent dreams and nightmares. That would be more useful than a deep unconsciousness that a sleeping pill would have brought him.

          The smell of magic evaporated by morning, as his sleep. Azriel patrolled the whole night, searching every centimeter around the River House, then flying over the sleeping city. But as the sun begun to shine and the people to appear, reopening their stores, he knew that the peril was gone. He was left empty-handed.

          The imprint the nightmare left on him felt as heavy as if the whole sky fell on his back and dragged him underground. Captive behind invisible bonds. His mind was always full, always calculating and planning, and when a small moment of peace found him, the same pair of green eyes came back, haunting, and his nostrils were filling with a ghostly smell of amber, intoxicating him.

          He hated that fragrance. It was far too strong, too spicy for his preference, which leaned more towards something floral, like jasmine. Especially when it came to women.

          Of course he prefers flowers, for fuck's sake.

          He snorted and sharpened his movements, fleeing as fast as possible from the Human Realm, as if he could leave his problems behind.

          The dull ache in his chest remained. It wasn't a sensation to get used to. Every night, the loneliness became more intense and the bed colder. The urgency for a body to lie next to him, to hold and to squeeze until morning, was unbearable. This was a different kind of punishment, it could drive him crazy, it made him more unpredictable, fiercer than before. Even he was aware of that change in his behaviour.

          Azriel spent the following nights inside the ring, hours on end, until the skin on his knuckles cracked and bled, and the number of destroyed swords began to increase. His body acquired a more defined shape than usual, being subjected to tougher and longer training. He had muscles before, but were more lean, more specific for the kind of job he had, but now, his waist grew larger, his shoulders more round and his abdomen started to created the pack most of the warriors who used brute force had.

          All this just to feel free from those damned shackles that bound his soul.

          Was he bewitched?

          Amren could answer most of his questions, but was he willing to address them? No. The little devil had a big mouth and was too sly for his taste. No matter how competent she was in this matters, Amren wouldn't have helped him with anything other than to annoy him.

          The next solution was the library. He could either ask one of the priestess or document himself. Amren was an extreme choice.

          " Azriel. " Rhysand's voice filled his brain.

          He didn't feel like answering right of the bat, he still had that tinge of guilt for not telling him about what happened that night. His High Lord should have been the first to sense that something was off with Velaris. After all, Rhysand created the city.

          And yet, perhaps Azriel's powers made him more sensitive to these small changes in the atmosphere. Even the shadows, his trusted guardians, were sedated that night. The next morning, they hummed on and on, attracted by the last remaining energy in the living room.

          Green amber...

          Green amber...

          Come back...

          They chanted, as if an electric field sustained them, called them in a hypnotic song.

          " Azriel, hurry up, Amren found some interesting information to share. "

          " I'm on my way. "

          And with that, the buzz produced by Rhysand's ability retreated from his head, giving him the peace he needed.

          It doesn't take much longer until the River House comes into view and he lands on the arched balcony. Fortunately for him, the living room was free, no mating smell, no cringe interaction with others. The tension made his muscles spasm rhythmically and his jaw to twitch.

          He moved silently, gracefully skirting the couches and wooden floorboards that he knew creaked under his weight, and waited a second outside Rhysand's office door. Ever since he passed the barriers surrounding Velaris he knew who awaited him in the room: Amren, his High Lord, and his protégées, Nuala and Cerridwen.

          However, he didn't feel ready to face people. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't escape the irritation boiling in his blood and the overwhelming need to get it out.

          Is rooted in our existence... A shadow snaked on his bicep, and snarled, making Azriel's head to spin

          Let me find her ...Another begged, the same brave one who often climbed into his ear and whispered truths he denied feeling.

          Shut up! Azriel howled in his own mind, showing his clamped teeth.

          Impulsively, he walked in, interrupting the conversation.

          " Are you well, Shadowsinger? " Amren's flat tone teased him, waking him up from his madness.

          Her smoke like eyes nailed him to the ground, trying to decipher his unreadable expression. They were both bent over Rhysand's desk, reading a pile of old books that impregnated the room with naphthalene.

          He suddenly felt dumb. He never made mistakes like this. Azriel pulled up his mental shields and hid his scent, then shifted his weight from one leg to another and came closer.

          " I am good. I have something to report. " Azriel informed, using his frozen mask.

          " You felt it too, isn't it? "The little devil spoke again, her voice a hollow echo between Azriel's temples.

          The room seemed too small to keep three people inside, the atmosphere to oppressive, as if in their palms was the most crucial discovery. They exchanged looks between them, and it was enough to understand the answer. An obscure presence seemed to infiltrate among them, listening intently to their conversation.

          The Shadowsinger searched the room, expecting to find some ghost in the far corner, but no one was there. Did Amren experience the same nightmares as his? Or the amber smell?

          Even the sunlight dimmed, obstructed by the thick window of Rhysand's office. His companions grew thicker, swirling around his tense shoulders, tightening around his massive chest in an attempt to shield his heart. He took of his hood, revealing his structured features. In his amber eyes, the only readable thing was caution, alert, as if someone could discover his secrets.

          " Amren noticed an incident, a rather special one, on the night of The Summer Solstice. " The High Lord broke the silence, frowning his violet gaze at the mountain of papers on his desk. " A comet crossed the sky and landed to west from our position. "

          " Hybern. " Azriel concluded, quietly approaching the ominous manuals, " How did you get your hand on this information? "

          " Varian helped me. I asked him to have his astrologers look for events that took place on the sky in the past week. " Amren explained, pointing with a red nail at the calculations and the estimated position of the crashing.

          " Something tells me this isn't all. " He muttered under his breath, more to himself, grasping a torn piece of sheet between two gloved fingers. " Vespertus... "

          He rubbed his teeth together, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. His shadows deepened, darkened, becoming sharp tongues around him.

          " What's this? " Azriel asked again, feeling his voice choked.

          " The Vespertus is a prayer. " The gray clothing, adorned with intricate patterns of red, fussed as Amren turned her tiny body towards him, showing a paragraph from a thick book called ' Darkness of Days '.

          " Sounds promising. " He let his humor out, unfazed by the doomed title. It sounded like they had to confront another life threatening situation, and he wasn't very happy about this.

          " It is, actually. " Rhysand chuckled, brushing the dust from his sleeves.

          " So, some bored individual really prayed for a comet to hit us? " Azriel wondered, a wrinkle becoming visible between his dark brows.

          " No. Vespertus is a prayer that is not spoken, it's a type of salvation that occurs when people in unison feel the need for deliverance, for freedom, cleansing and peace. " Amren clarified, showing him a symbol with a group of women, all dressed in robes, like the priestesses.

          Their open palms were raised above their covered heads, praying to a seven-pointed star that sat imperially upon them.

          " Meaning this isn't the last war we've faced. Something worse is coming, and this comet is here to help us. " Rhysand added, crossing his arms over his black tunic, covered with the symbol of the Night Court, " Or, in the worse case scenario, condemn us all. "

          So, Azriel wasn't the only one who went on mission today, his High Lord also had his own role to play, considering his impeccable suit and the heavy crown placed above his hair. The fatigue played over his cheekbones, the only sign of the weight he had to carry since the end of the war: gatherings, the illyrians and the ones they lost, their families, the women who were still subjected to inhumane treatments from those bastard. Everything rested on his and Feyre's backs, and everyone from the Inner Circle contributed as best as they could to ease their work.

         " The Vespertus is in the middle of a scale. " Amren began, showing them another drawing of a balance, with a feather on one end and a drop of blood on the other, " A prayer can be directed either for good or for evil. It depends on the people around: those who use it, those who raise it to the sky and most importantly, the ones who form it. "

          " How do we get to this comet? " Azriel questioned, still holding the note in his hands, looking at it intently, as if it was going to combust, " And how can we be sure that someone else hasn't discovered it yet? "

          The room went quiet again. Nobody was sure of anything. The Shadowsinger wished Cassian was here to lighten up the atmosphere, but he was caught up in other problems, the ones with a sour face and long legs.

          " That's the issue, we don't. " Rhysand huffed, looking at Azriel, then at Amren, " The thing is, this comet might be a human being. "

          " Why would that be a problem? It's much easier to catch and carry a man that a real comet. " Azriel argued, clenching and unclenching his left fist, still sore from the training. He still hadn't used his power to heal himself. The throbbing pain was a welcomed distraction from the world around.

          " Because this person may not have been born yet. Spiritually speaking. " Amren smiled, proud of herself, and showed them another page: a naked woman, kneeling before a bloody sword. " For a Vespertus to be born, to be formed, it takes a tragic event to radically change the way she sees the world. The kind of event that sets her on her journey to become was she was sent to do. Her spirit wasn't broken, she is not a revenging prayer yet, but a mere mortal. It is very difficult to trace her, we don't have her name or anything connected with her, something that belonged to her. "

          " Are you telling me a woman fell from the sky and survived the damned crash? " Azriel asked skeptically, the wheels in his head starting to spin, " And mortal, on top of that... "

          Not even the illyrians, trained in all types of weathers and under all conditions, would not come out unharmed.

          " Yes. " Amren approves decisively, placing a hand on her hip. " It was a rift in time. Her fall was cushioned enough for her to escape without fatal wounds and with minimal damage. It's possible that the place where she landed to turn into an artifact: an oasis, a temple, a forest. Anything of this kind, but with unimaginable powers. "

          Azriel remembered how time felt that evening – like tar, unbearable. But that didn't explain the tension he felt, the fact that someone had broken inside their house and sent him to sleep, then hexed him.

          " If she fell into Hybern's territory and they get there before us, then it's not just Montessere and Vallahan we should worry about. Such power would help them establish their army. " The worry on Rhysand's face seemed to age him more than usual.

          " Maybe we're lucky. Maybe they didn't feel the phenomenon, yet. " Amren said, flipping through the pages, " It's not something many people experiment, only special ones are affected. "

          " What do you mean, Amren? " Azriel asked, his interest being caught even more.

          " The High Fae will be immune or maybe they'll notice something common enough to overlook. " She picked up her wine glass and finished it in one gulp before continuing, " Those who feel the pressure in the air or the fact that hours pass differently are creatures made somewhere else, not the ones created by The Cauldron. "

          " You observed it too, didn't you? " Rhysand spoke, affected. " I only know that it was too warm and I craved sleep. "

          Amren shook her head, before answering, " I couldn't breath. I might be more receptive to these changes due to the form I had before. "

          " Where do we begin the search? " Azriel broke the little devil's embarrassment, placing a hand on his hip. The illyrian skins hung heavy over his body, as did all the weapons he carried all the way. He was used with a large amount of equipment, but now he felt exhausted and still had information to give to Rhysand.

          " The only direction we have is an approximate one, searched as accurately as possible by the Summer Court. They are among the few who can measure this coordinates. " She pulled another piece of paper from her pocket, with several village names on it.

Ozana
Nyzim
Thaibar
Valencia
Bismezym

          " I want you to go find her, Azriel. " Rhysand demanded, putting his hands on the table, " I can't leave the court right now due to our political situation. Amren must gather more information on this Vespertus and the amount of power is in the game, and Cassian... he has Nesta and Vassa to worry about, and above all of that, this mission is not of his competence. "

          " I am spying on the Mortal Queens. I can't leave my people alone and risk their lives. I won't be able to communicate with them. "

          " I know. Find a way do deal with them, you are the only one prepared and mannered enough for this. I can have Morrigan come with you for any future political issues that may arise with your arriving. "

          " I need some time to think. " He cut his High Lord off, irritated.

          Rhysand blinked often, caught off guard by Azriel's refusal to please him, then nodded, giving him his free will.

          The Shadowsinger stuffed the two papers into the pocket of his jacket. With this gesture, he already knew he accepted the order, otherwise he wouldn't have taken those objects for further studying. Maybe this woman was going to take him out of his dark thoughts, for a moment or two. Not her, per se, but the search to put his hands on her, planning the abduction and the infiltration, surveying the territory. He had to meet with Morrigan as well, think further through any problems with the palace. If they entered the land, after they just killed their king, it wouldn't have been a sign of peace.

          But he was already thinking like he was going to leave.

          " Give me an answer tomorrow. "

          " I have news for you. " Azriel changed the subject, putting his hands behind his back. "The Mortal Queens exchange information with the Autumn Court, not just Montessere. One of their people came dressed in the formal tunic and the symbol of Vallahan, but he was asked to show the mark and on his left pectoral was the leaf their army gets after they finish the training. "

          Two shocked pair of eyes studied him.

          " Beron has always been a leech. " Amren spat, gathering her books and preparing to leave. " But I didn't expect him to make a deal with someone he was at war with. "

          " What do you know about Eris? "
         
          " Nothing at the moment. Cassian has a meeting with them in a few days. " Rhysand clarified, sitting back in his black chair. " These waters aren't going to calm down anytime soon. "

          " They exchanged a note and a map, closed in an iron box with several symbols on it. "

          " A map? Did you see how it looked like? " Amren pursed her lips, covering her body with a cape.

          " Very small, old, wrapped in velvet and it smelled peculiar, sweet and muddy. In the coming days I'll meet with my spies for more details. "

          " Our problem is that Prythian is in the middle. If we are attacked from all three sides, we will get down faster than we anticipate. " Rhysand took off his crown and threw it on his desk. " Let's hope it doesn't get there, we're not even at half of our capacity. "

          " Maybe the Vesper will help us. "

          " Let's not put our hopes in myths. " Azriel snapped, preparing to leave. " We're not sure we'll find her or if she's still alive. We don't know where she came from and how she looks, if she's mentally sane or not. We don't know if she's willing to help us. This woman could very easily be tortured now and we wouldn't know. "

          " Then hurry, brother. Help us gain this small advantage. " Rhysand whispered, bringing his fists together at the level of his mouth, watching him with his purple eyes, like he was trying to read Azriel's mind.

          The Shadowsinger made a small gesture with his head, then turned on his heels and left, with Amren following after him.

          " I know you want to ask me something, Shadowsinger. " She caught him, her ancient voice echoing down the long hallway. " I know your shadows sensed it. "

         " My shadows were sedated. " He turned to her, enveloped in the darkness. " And so was I. "

        " What did you see? " The little devil pressed, taking a step forward, " An entity? Did she bewitch you? " Amren's deep red lips stretched into a smile, " Don't worry, whatever effect the solstice had, it will pass. Even I feel uneasy, like I'm being watched. "

        " Everything was fine, I checked the whole house. " Azriel's heart pounded between his ribs.

        " Really? " She continued, stopping a few steps away from him, enough to let him smell her ancient perfume. " I suppose you were aware of the scent of burning flesh or amber. I know you didn't tell Rhysand someone was inside. "

        " I don't have to explain anything to you, Amren. " He replied, entering his room and roughly closing the door behind him.

         Azriel pulled out the papers from his pocket and studied them in the light of the candle. His breath hitched as he felt the familiar fragrance on his fingers. His blood roared inside his veins, furious, then smashed the pieces on his nightstand.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Decisions. Part I.

          An arabic quote I read months ago that stick with me so far said: " Some say its painful to forget someone, other say it's painful to wait for someone. But I say, the worst pain comes when you don't know wheather to wait or forget. "

          It made my body tremble with an unsettling feeling of chaos. My life was an untamed, catastrophic tornado since my parents threw me out of their house and suddenly, the situation went from bad to deadly when I got thrown here. It felt like I had a personal vendetta with life and the universal powers that controled us.

          I've been here, with Niven's family, for almost two weeks now, working and trying to be useful. Half of what i promised myself to wait before I find the courage to kill myself. Not much changed, I just grew used to the wound I had in my sould. I had no new horizon, no signs from the deity that brought me here, no shooting star to make a wish upon. Nothing. Only my pathetic body to count on.

          My old lifestyle was just a reminder of what I never cherished when I had the time.

          So I took what I had at this moment, considered the time I had left as well, and made the best of it so far.

          Every morning I woke up around 5 a.m., disturbed by my dreams. The potion Nimue gave me helped me grab with force some shattered pieces of my previous mind. I can remember faces better, my old university and one single name: Nadia. The girl I talked lastly on the phone before I got pushed here.

          Altough the medicine had some good parts, it had repercusions as well. While I gained more knowledge about my past, I forgot other dear to my heart details: my father's eyes, my mother's voice, the smell of my cat's hair.

          There were moments of clearence, when I watched the crystal empire of the skies and a fugitive image of my dad's irises runned through my head. Other times, I listened to Cynthia's soft voice while she hummed a sad rythm, and tears stung my eyes as I recalled my mom. When Misty was around and climbed on my dress to find her spot next to my chest, underneath my clothes so she could get warm, I used to sniff her furr and close my eyes so I can picture Icarus's joyful personality. I grabbed with my nails whatever small detail mended my bloodied heart. 

          But those where passing moments, fast as time itself and they were rare and prone to be forgotten easily.

          Sometimes I even had this feeling that maybe I can't go back because my life there was finished. I had no purpose anymore, nothing to give and nothing to receive. Other times, I hopped I was more useful here, working for money, feeding the animals, helping the people from Thaibar as best as I could.

          But feeding the pigs and cleaning Nimue's desk wasn't something I felt blessed about, either. I wanted more. It was hard to believe that everything was a damn coincidence. I fell into a book, for god's sake, one full of magic, of adventure, of wars and a little romance. I had to do something for this universe.

          I bought some other clothes as well, at Nimue's request to stop looking like a homeless cowgirl, and learned to style my hair in braided buns, so I could hide its colour better from curious eyes. Everyone warned me about my looks several times, and I grew a little conscious about my complexion. Not to mention the three rosy digits, forever imprinted on my cheek. A parting gift from the sly deity that sent me here. Even with several hours of working under the sun, my pale skin refused to get darker and I received only red spots of sunburn. Nimue offered me a potion to darken my wine tinted hair, so I could go unnoticed by the palace servants and mythical creatures who roamed the forests.

          To no avail. The red dye was hardly getting replaced by the jet black one. The change would last until the next time I washed, when my hair would reject the color, bringing back its shiny burgundy. It was like he had a mind of himself. Not to mention the fact that it seemed to grow with the same color, not my natural chocolate brown. So we all grew use to it and I learned to put a handkerchief around it.

          I started to help Cynthia around the farm every morning. Sometimes I cleaned the kitchen, other times we washed clothes by the river and chatted, like mother and daughter. I started to deeply care for her. I felt like she filled a part of my mother's empty space with her peacefull presence. She wasn't her, but it helped me ease my pain, little by little. She taught me some of their traditional dishes: fried venison, lamb soup, pork sauce with mushrooms, bread.

          I even got the courage once and described her the person I was in love with. Of course, masculinizing her, and she laughed at me and advised me on how I shouldn't jump at every flower he brings me. That I should have my nose high and let myself be chased, to test his patience.

          " A man who desires you should leave everything behind and follow you like the light of his eyes. He should kneel only to you, pray to you like you were his saint, his goddess. Never settle for less, or you will have a miserable life ahead. "

          I would listen carefully to her words. I was still a newborn in this world, basically, and I craved every piece of instruction so I can learn to manage. I wasn't going to tell her that I knew everything she told me. I learned enough from my mother's miserable marriage.

          We got along good, but from time to time, a dark cloud covered her eyes and she would watch me and ugly cry, without saying another word. Her face would distort in a silent plea and she would shiver violently, like the cold claws of death sank under her skin, dragging her to the Underworld.

          We were alone when that happened, and I didn't know how to react so I hugged her through her episode and whispered that I will be by her side, no matter what. Cynthia would sob heavily, making my body tremble as well, and she would clutch my arms like she was about to drown in her sorrow. It worked, rarely, but when her mind was too absorbed by her thoughts she whimpered like a baby:

          " I won't be here anymore... You'll have to carry yourself without me. I am so sorry... I beg you... Please give me your forgiveness... "

          " I trust him... That man tied to you by the tongue of Death... Trust him... I promise you... Don't run from him anymore... He is your fire, that man surrounded by darkness... "

          Then her vision would clear and ask me what happened, with no memory of what she said. I never told her either. She seemed quite unstable and I was afraid I'll make her sadder than she already was. So, I always resumed in only cleaning her face from tears with my blouse, smiling as sweetly as I could. I lied to her multiple times, but she disturbed me with her words and I always tried to forget so I could move on with my task: searching for a way home.

          Only I knew what lied in my heart every time I heard that. It made me wonder if my crashing here was actually meant to be. If I had a role. Nobody told me anything, but I never had the courage to ask, either.

          The worst part was that I started to love them, slowly, surely. They all were dear to me and I tried my best to thank their kindness by sharing my hardly earned golden coins, buying dresses and shoes, flowers for Cynthia and even cheap jewelery, like an iron sun I gifted Niven a few days ago.

          Even Shum and I got along. Some days better than others. We wouldn't talk much, but every small conversation was polite and innofensive. He let me take care of the mare, and it was more than enough to burry the hatcher of war. But even with his nice behaviour, I felt him off. 

          I was always super sensitive to people's energy, I could feel their emotions, I could read them fast. Back home I used this gift to learn and read tarot cards for me and for my closest people. I felt like my intuition was helping me guide the reading session. It seemed to work.

          Instead, here, my higher self was always alert every time Shum made a move. He seemed to focus all of his attention on me, as if he tried to combust me with his gaze. I often felt his presence close behind me when I went to work. I didn't know what he planned, but I knew it wasn't pretty.

          The horse felt better and better. She could stand on her own and ate more than any other from the stall. Her black hair was always shinny and her growing muscles were visible under her dark skin. I treated her eczema and her external and internal parasites with several creams and herbal remedies. I washed her properly from time to time to keep any mosquitos away from her other healing wounds on her hooves. 

          The stallion became sweeter, playful even and when Shum gave me his permission, I went with her on walks around the fields, holding tightly her ropes. She loved to be kissed by the sun, she loved to feel the grass and smell the sprouting linden trees. As time passed, I started to love her like she was my adoptive child. I could always hear her gretting when she saw me opening the door every morning, with a bucket of food for her. The mare would let her massive head down, waiting for me to kiss her nose and brush her long hair. Misty would follow us like a faithful guardian, jumping on the horse's back when mud stained her silver furr on our walks or watching me as I cleaned the mare.

          I usually kept long conversations with them, and when we were alone, several miles away from the farm, I told them all the stories I remembered from my past life. Sometimes I would cry, as I felt the stallion's merciful brown eyes on me, like she could understand me and pitied me for my suffering. The cat would climb onto my lap and catch my tears from my face, silently acknowledging my fears.

          Niven became my sister quite fast. She would gossip about everyone in town, about whatever her family did that annoyed her, about her past boyfriends and how they had no idea to please her. I would cringe and laugh, telling her about the memories I had, adapting them to this world. She was gracious, pure-hearted and such a good soul. Sometimes, her desire to help every lost spirit made me worry for her safety. I became attached to her more than anyone else, loving her like she was my family. I was around her equally as much as I was in Nimue's shop, preparing medicine. 

          Once, when I hugged her, I remembered she resembled one of my dearest cousins from my old world. I knew her name on an instant, Claudia. They had the same dark looks and pale skin. I clutched her to my heart even tighter, fealing a piece of relief in my chest.

          I wondered why I still didn't have the courage to ask her about a library, to tell her my story, how I got here. I wanted to know more about the world beyond the ocean, about Prythian, about the seasonal courts and their High Lords. Maybe that way I could figure out the time inside the plot I fell into. But it was never the right moment and I was always so afraid of being rejected.

          Aoife was like the younger sister of Niven and I. We would always meet in Thaibar when I got myself a pause from Nimue and visited her store. We would talk about her family, about how her mother's situation was getting worse. I asked her to bring me to her once, so I can consult her, see if I can give her any medicine without making Aoife pay for anything.

          I knew she lived in a less than modest inn and that she was the only provider. Their living space was tidy and smelled like fresh dandelions, but it could trigger claustrophobia for the ones faint of heart. Even so, there was enough space for a chamber with two beds, the main room was also the kitchen and the place where they would bath. I laid my bag on the rusty table next to the simple clay vase filled with fresh flowers. There were three chairs, covered with a brown sheet so it could cover the cracks. Her windows where half painted with something that looked like glue, a pair of worn out red curtains covering them.

          Her mother's illness, Lydia, was quite advanced. She would be delusional most of the time, talking nonsens and walking naked around the house. When she first saw me, she bowed deeply, her forehead touching the ground and chanted a prayer like an obedient nun.

          It took me by surprise, even if Aoife warned me about what I was about to encounter. I blinked a couple of time, shaking the surprised figure off of my face and I smiled swiftly.

          " Like mother, like daughter. " I complimented, searching her blonde locks and deep blue eyes.

          The girl was a devoted image of her mother. Both small, with a slender figure and elegant features.

          Aoife approved with a tiny gesture, her heart-shaped face holding a sad mine as she watched her mother's sanity drifting between her fingers. After I asked a couple of questions and examined the woman myself, I had a strong feeling she dealt with what I used to call in my old world: schizophrenia.

          I would have said that maybe dementia or alzheimer could be involved as well, but it was not only a short term memory loss. Her odd way of acting, how she saw things, how she spoke to someone who was not in the room, all of these were more common for this type of mentall illness rather than anything else.

          Her mother was not with us anymore. She was lost in her own world and only a miracole could help her.

          " I'm afraid her mentallity is trapped inside it's own. " I explain, taking an elegant shaped bottle from my brown bag, " Pulling her outside of the dimension she made to protect herself might be dangerous for more than one reason. "

          " Can you be more specific? " Aoife pleased, placing her small and slim fingers on the table. " I know she's crazy, if your words are just a sophisticated way of saying it. I need to know if there's something I can do to either ease her pain or heal her. "

          She had been working at her flower shop and cleaned in a hurry when I came. Her wrists and nails were stained with mud and bits of grass and she radiated earthly tones of perfume, mixed with chrysanthemum.

          " I'm afraid she has no sense of pain anymore. " Speaking, I sting her mother's bare foot in several places, watching as her lost expresion never falters. " Her illness might be a protective mechanism against a traumatic event. Did she experince something like that? Do you remember? "

          The woman smiled at us, wide, crystal blue eyes piercing us both, like she saw something floating around. " There is so much gold! I want that in my pockets! Oh and those tongues of Death!... " Lydia rocked her thin body from side to side, laughing like a naughty teenager. Her clothes were disheveled and a few sizes too big for her sudden lost of weight.

          " I have no idea... " Aoife frowned, examining her mother causciously. " She was like this before my father left us. The only people that know are probably Niven's father or Nimue, as she was the one to tend to her. "

          Ah, great, so no one I could ask.

          " Alright, I'll see what I can find out and depending on that... Maybe we can find a way to help her. "

          The blonde laughed soflty, brushing a tear that escaped from her peacefull eyes and embraced me. " That will be wonderfull. Even if you don't find a solution, only the fact that you were willing to help means so much to me. "

          I smiled, holding her shoulders in my hands. A sudden thought passed my mind: I used to hold my lover like this before.

          I broke the hug, like her skin burned my hands and rushed to give her the bottle. " When she starts having her episodes, pour a few drops in a glass, enough to fill the bottom, then water. It will calm her and she'll sleep soundly. "

          " Thank you, again! "

          Something caught our attention outside and we stilled in the position. The noise made by a large crowd seemed to grow bigger and louder as they aproached the door to Aoife's place. It seemed like a revolution started on the streets and they wanted to burn all the houses. 

          A few expresions passed our faces as we tried to decide what to do.

          In my humble opinion, I had no idea what a noisy crowd could mean here. In my dimension, this was either a protest or a wedding. Here, maybe someone sold his daughter and was throwing golden coins or someone was getting hanged publicly. Two different ideas I gathered from two different shows: Game of Thrones and Outlander. And francly, both of them had too much sexual assault for me to stomach.

          With a growing fear inside my bones, I tried to decide if I should be the one to check or let Aoife be the bait. I studied her for a few seconds, taking in her tiny silhouette and angelic features, just two of the reasons someone would jump her with no remorse.

          It wouldn't be fair to her. It was her world and I had a dying wish. And between the two of us, I was the one with a scar on my face. I was the one to check.

          I put my index on my lips, gesturing to remain silent and I moved closer to the window curtains.

          Lydia started to clap and laugh. " Mother, please. " Aoife asked, grabbing her from the bed and trying to hide her in another room.

          Peeking slowly over the glue paint, I only saw the streets swallowed by men and women, pleading and cheering. Colors of brown and black blocked my view, like a plague covering Thaibar. It seemed like a funeral. The image of that old man being beaten to death by the guards appeared before my eyes, the hollow and sick looks the people gave him as he drew his last breath before me.

          " I don't think it's safe. " I announce and must the courage to open the creaking door just  enough to throw an eye outside.

          Aoife comes to my side and studies the events from the town.

          " A royal parade? " She questiones, both in awe and horror, pushing past me.

          A royal what?

          Several dark knights walked proudly through the corridor made of people, sharp swords on their backs and the royal emblema shinning on their iron shoulders. They looked terrifying in their black costumes, with their face covered, spreading a smell of death and blood in the air. Some of them had arrows as weapons and I couldn't help but wonder if it was the famous ash wood that poisoned their edge. Their horses seemed as dangerous as they were, with red pupils and dressed in heavy armours. They seemed wild and aggressive, their galop loud and synchronised.

          " I don't think it's wise to get out. " I whisper, trying to grip her arm and pull her back inside

          The same hole digged between my lungs as my fingers roamed in the air, unable to find her in time.

          " Who's that? " Aoife asked again, standing on her toes to see over the peasant's head. " I have never seen him inside the palace. "

          As I stepped next to her, I locked our hands together. Alarmed, I studied the people passing, overwhelmed by the loud shouts and the amount of information coming my way. My intuition told me to run far away from that demonstration of power, but the blondie's feet were deeply rooted inside the earth.

          The first one I saw was the new king. Or at least, the one I suspected to be, thanks to the massive, golden crown engulfing his chestnut locks. His sharp face held a machiavelic expression, filled with victory and superiority. The man's trimmed beard and moustache was perfectly alligned with his high cheeckbones and black eyebrows. I felt like his beauty was speckled by harshly cut features: small eyes, straight eyebrows, angular mouth and a square chin.  

          He didn't wear any armour, only a fine tailored brown and gold suit that matched his tanned complexion. It looked like a cheap version of the High Fae's.

          " Is that the king? " I whisper in Aoife's ear and she approves, ducking her head so she wouldn't be seen by him. Her eyes remained locked on the stranger that followed close behind the crowned man.

          I raised my head and something inside me stirres. Red alarms rang inside my brain while I try to get a grip of my balls before I faint. It was like a deja-vu, eerie and unbelievable. I knew this man or... I felt like I knew him.

          The first thing I noticed over the sea of humans was red, a natural dark red, slightly auburn when the few sun rays hit his hair. It was kept at the back of his neck, leaving the long strands to carress his round shoulders. His face was long and arrogant, slightly ducked, so he could see every dirty peasant who asked for a few coins. Moving slowly, he dug his left hand inside his horse's bag and threw a fistfull of money in the air. His thin eyebrows frowned at the disgusting image of humans searching the mud.

          He was noble as well and the colours of his tailored jacket were more than enough to guess who he was. This, and the grey morality of the character visible even now, by visiting Hybern. Green and orange, embroided with heavy, shinny buttons. He must be Eris Vanserra, the heir of the Autumn Court.

          I swallowed and checked the dark handkerchief around my head. What should I do? He might be my ticket to Prythian, to my possible salvation. But how the fuck would I get close to him with so many guards and the high chances of getting fried by his powers. I wasn't even sure that going to the other continent would help me much, who would listen to me there? What was I even going to say?

          " Hi, I fell from the sky. Please help me get home. "

          It was a possibility though, even if it meant to start over...

          Of course, if I made it alive there, if I convinced Eris, the shadiest motherfucker from the series, with dark morals and high standards. Why wouldn't he make his way with me, trick me, then leave me like trash, nailed to a random tree? He was a Fae, after all, and I've heard enough not to trust him at all.

          But he did make it clear in the series that he tried to help Morrigan by breaking their engagement.

          I pressed a thumb to my temple, and focused on him. He was not a bad man... fae, whatever. Maybe...

          Pull yourself together, you're acting like a child!

          " Lower your heads!  " Nimue materialised from thin air, dragging me and Aoife away from the show.

          " What's the matter? " I asked, almost breaking my legs on the slippery streets.

          " You adore being the center of attention, little demon? " She snickered, pushing us inside her shop. " The man from the Autumn Court eyed you for minutes on end and you didn't even had the shame to avert yours. "

          " I was... No, I didn't realise... " I started to apologise, rubbind my hands.

          " Maybe he was watching me. " Aoife said, gathering her dress and peeking out the window again.

          " No, that gruesome king was watching you. That's even worse. For fuck's sake, stay away from the window! " Nimue screamed, grabbing the girl from her shoulders and pushing her aside. " You wouldn't want their attention drawn to you, trust me, these are fae creatures. They are aggressive and possessive, and really, really powerfull. What bussines do you have with him? "

          Aoife opened her mouth, but quicly closed it, ashamed.

          " Who are they? " I asked, trying to calm my breath.

          " The king's name is Draegan. He is a bastard who crowned himself and his mother after his father died during the war from Pryhtian. "

          " Who killed the last king? "

          This, this was the piece of information I needed to be sure of the timeline.

          " There are three sisters, the youngest one is the first High Lady in history. She reigns with her husband, Rhysand, over the Night Court. The first and second born sisters beheaded the King of Hybern. " Nimue confirmed my suspicions, giving me a solid point of where I was.

          So I fell in the fourth book, or somewhere right after the third.

          " And the redhead? " Aoife pursed her lips, swirling a blonde strand on her finger.

          " He is the oldest son of Beron, the High Lord of the Autumn Court. He is heir to the throne and is very, very unpredictable. " She wiped the concerned look from her face and shushed us.

          There was no doubt of what I had to do next. Risky or not, I had to talk to Niven.

          When the voices of the crowd slowly died, Nimue pulled two black cloacks from her drawers. " Both of you go back to your houses. Don't come outside untill tomorrow. Draegan is mad enough to put spies to follow Aoife if he caught his attention. "

          We circled the working table, filled as always with books and potions, and went to the back door.

          " This will help you leave unnoticed. Take Aoife to the farm. " Nimue commanded, her lilac dress swriling aroung her feet as she hurried us down the dusty path. " We'll meet after the weekend passes... Hopefully. "

          I stared back at the woman, noticing the concerned air surrounding her. A bad taste filled my mouth as grey clouds covered Thaibar, drowning the houses in a darker haze. A growing fear held my breath hostage between my rib cage as I studied the Countess's beautiful features. Deep down, I felt like it was the last time I would see her sour face.

           " Go! " She hissed again, throwing her hands in our direction.

          I bit back my anxiety and made a few steps behind. Our eyes met and in that weird moment, a cryptic thought passed between her mind to mine.

          The iminent sense of danger. 

          I took Aoife by the shoulders and put her head down, just as a shadow moved above the houses. Nimue's lips moved quickly, whispering, then blew the air upon us. I felt my skin tingly, like a thousand bugs crawled and nipped at it underneath my dress.

          " I feel so damn itchy. " Aoife started, scratching her face and neck, " The Countess has lices?! "

          I shake my head and push a finger between my lips, telling her to be quiet. As I moved my hand in front of my vision, I catch a glimpse of my aged, pale skin, covered with patches of darker spots.

          " She glamoured us... " I murmur towards the blonde, feeling the gravity of the world pulling me inside the magma center.

          " She really is a witch. "

          And the magic does exist.

          The child inside me danced with joy at the simple realization. Peeking again over my hood, I saw my master talking to two tall men. The third one was coming after us.

          " Aoife, someone is coming after us. Follow my lead. " I whisper, falsely tripping over the uneven road. " Oh... Haha, silly me, Gertrude... "

          The girl watched me skeptical and I nugged her with my elbow, " Your knees might be better, sister, but I took my father's vigorous genes. "

          Her laugh scratched my ears, sounding like a veritable crow.

          " Ladies. " A rough voice caught us from behind and we slowly turned, putting a hand over my hunched back.

          " Oh, look Gertrude, maybe you won't die an old lady after all. "

          Understanding shines in Aoife's blue eyes, and the satisfaction of the game crosses her now old face. " Shut up, you old hag, you know I've always liked blondes. "

          I could feel the knight's smoldering gaze even through the iron mask he wore over his face. The man was at least two heads taller than Aoife and I, and his oppressive energy was like a knife in the back of my neck. 

          " Ladies... " His voice was tinged with a hint of cunning and brute force, as if he had also trained his vocal cords to resemble his massive body.

          " Miss! " Aoife corrected him, brushing her now white locks with her bony fingers.

          The man looked back, as if he could barely contain his irritation, then turned to us, " Have you seen two young women walking around the village: a blonde, works at the palace and another wearing a blue headscarf? A few peasants said they came to these fields. "

         I can feel the muscles in her face tighten, squeezing my forearm tighter. Her eyebrow twitches, but she manages to keep her innocent appearance.

          " Sir, I can't see with my right eye and, obviously, the left one is crooked and suffers from glaucoma. I'm practically blind, I haven't seen anyone. " I laugh loudly, then suddenly stop, faking a backpain.

          " I can see... I won't keep you from your work, then. " The knight's dumb joke didn't pas unnoticed. As he left, he did not bid us farewell, nor did he look at us a second time and hurried to the witch's hut.

          From the distance, I catch Nimue's lilac eyes staring at me, and a slight warm breeze ruffles her brunette hair.

          We're fine. I try to tell her through telepathy, as if my magic  would just pop out of nowhere.

          " Actually, sir, I think I saw something. " Aoife finds herself speaking and I can barely keep myself from throwing her off the hill, " The blonde is preparing to bury her mother, it seems she died last night. She was going to the forest to collect flowers, but I have never seen the one with the headscarf, can you describe her better?  "

          " Unfortunately, all we know is that she always covers her head and wanders around the village. The king thanks you for the information. "

          We both turn to our way and walk slowly to the forest where the parties were organized. When we are surrounded by pairs of tall trees, I pull down my hood and stop Aoife. I didn't even realized that spell had dissipated, so now I could look at the young version of the girl.

          " What was that? " I question, pulling my hand from her wrist, " What was with all those explanations? What if we got caught? "

          Aoife doesn't answer right away, instead she takes a deep breath and tugs a few strands of blonde hair from her head as she combs it with her fingers. She spins around a patch of grass, aggressively trampling over a handful of healthy marigolds, good enough for making tea.

          " Aoife, please stop... " I speak again, much calmer now, and put my hands on her shoulders, turning her face to mine. " I can help you. "

          The girl's physiognomy had completely changed: from hope to sadness, from ecstasy to agony. Tears stood on her lower eyelids, clinging to her blonde eyelashes.

          " I'm pregnant. " Her testimony hangs between the leaves, long enough for me to process the information.

          " With who? " I manage to keep my face solemn, trying hard not to make her go back into her shell.

          She doesn't answer me, but puts her hot hands over my palms and sobs jerkily. I remember our first conversation, in which she acknowledged that working at the palace was not all about cleaning and servitude. 

          " I asked about you because I wanted to know that being seen with me won't put you in any danger. If you change your handkerchief you will be fine, but I... I must either erase my own existence from the earth or someone else will erase it for me. " She puts her hands on her pelvis and falls slightly to her knees. "I'm so sorry, but I can't hold you, you're made with a monster..."

          I wipe a few drops of newly formed sweat and suddenly feel sick. Her child was made with Draegan, hence those languid looks, her searching, her desire to get into someone else's bed to hide whose child it really was.

         " If you're sure that's what you want, I can help you. " I admit as I sit on the ground next to her small body, then cup her face between my dusty fingers. " As long as the pregnancy is not far enough, I can help you get rid of it. "

          My mouth felt bitter talking about an unborn child like that. I didn't know which one was a more appropriate term for abortion: 'to kill him' or 'to get rid of him'. In either case, it sounded as if we were talking about a parasite, not a being in the process of becoming.

          But all these aspects were held by the age of the pregnancy: if it was less than a month or two, we couldn't talk about a life. It was very much an embryo, no heart, no lungs, no first breath, it would have been like any failed pregnancy. But if the child was much older, four, even five months, we were about to kill our first human.

          " A few weeks, three, maybe even four... "

          " Can I take a look? " I ask her cautiously and examine her abdomen as much as possible through the thin dress she was wearing, then feel her belly carefully.

          Everything was imperceptible. I couldn't tell just from a physical exam how advanced the pregnancy was. For a proper determination I had to separate her legs and look with a candle in her vagina in the middle of the forest. It wasn't medically ethical. But, again, nothing in this word was ethical.

        " I'm going to speak to Nimue as soon as possible to give you an abortion medicine. You must remain under her care for a day or two to make sure that the embryo is safely removed and that we can stop any bleeding that may follow. "

          " I can't pay you. All my money went to my mother's treatment. "

          " You don't have to, I have some money. I know Nimue. I'll solve it for you... "

          I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking about the bag of golden coins I'd painstakingly gathered during the weeks I'd worked for Nimue, waiting for me inside the nightstand that was now intended for the few clothes Nivy's mother made for me.

          I always had a little selfishness in me, I hated sharing my material goods and food with my younger cousins. Being the first niece in the family, I had to offer to others, without my will, much more often than I would have liked to. I was often left without the things that I enjoyed or with too little of them to satisfy me. That's how I ended up underappreciating myself and eating much less at our dinners, so that I could leave more to my parents. I thought about how they always worked to maintain our family and how they needed much more strength than me. The same thing occured with my younger cousins. If there were more of us at the table, I would take the wings, to leave the rest of the chicken to them.

          It was a small sacrifice for the things they gave me over the years.

          My father also taught me to save money and to avoid buying too many clothes, books or other things that in his eyes were useless. He gave me a small business from which I made enough money to be able to support myself and not rely on him anymore. It was not always prosperous, it mostly depended on the season, summer and autumn, when wine was made and people needed to preserve it over a longer period of time.

          Of course, other people appeared to whom I would have given my flesh in exchange, but they could only be counted on one hand: my mother, my girlfriend and my cousins from my mother's side. So no, I couldn't say that I would give my skin for my father, even though I knew deep down that he had done so much for me. The emotions that connected us had either rusted with age or dried up and petrified due to the many painful misunderstandings between us.

          " I'll find a way to pay you back. " Aoife sighed, wiping her eyes with the lining of her cloak, " You may think it's horrible that I have to give up the child, but I have no financial situation, nor a good mental state. I can't raise a poor, innocent soul to be happy. "

          " Don't think of me as an executioner. I am not putting a stigma on you and I don't see you differently. As an apprentice in medicine, I appreciate your rational side and I will try to help you as best as I can." I try to calm her down, while brushing her blonde strands that had stuck to her wet cheeks, " If it makes you feel any better, I would've made the same decision as you. You don't want to see your child barefoot like the ones in Thaibar. Let's just hope that he too will understand this when you both reach the skies. "

          From an early age I was taught, or whatever, I taught myself not to show my feelings: not to cry, because I would be weak and annoying, not to be happy, because in the next two seconds my father was going to crush my happiness, not to ask for bicycles, phones, laptops, because I would be constantly yelled at about the sacrifices he made for those money. All I had to do was wear the sickly smile, stuck with force in the middle of my face and a sterile dessert in my soul.

          However, my heart silently ached whenever I was hurt by those around me. Now, hearing such words even about an embryo that was going to be cut off from any chance of becoming a child, it shattered in my chest, throwing its sharp glass into my stomach.

          I place a hand on my own uterus, thinking about my words. I never wished for children. I wanted to live the life I didn't get until I was 23 years old, happy and without worries. I liked saving animals and taking care of them. I loved giving my hard earned money to adoption centers and volunteering there. I loved nature and theater, old music and opera. I could appreciate absolutely any kind of beautiful art and I could be cerebral at the same time. I always fought for what I loved, a living proof was my relationship from my old world.

          Would I be able to fight for a living for my child? Did I knew enough to teach him as well? Where would I get the money to dress him, to buy him something to eat? Could I offer him a roof to protect him from the cold and the rain?

         No. And I think that's what Aoife was thinking now.

          " Come on, get up, clean your face, we have to get to Niven and stay at the farm. " My words pass by her while I try to lift her from her mohammedan position.

          Sobs came uncontrollably from her already dry lips and her hands were shaking. She raises her eyes, now blue as the depths of the sea, and opens her mouth several times, trying to convey something to me.

          " Shh, shh, we'll be fine. I promise. "

           The girl places a hand on her sternum, burying her black fingernails in the white shirt she was wearing. I wrap my arms around her and rock her back and forth, like my mother used to do to calm me down.

          " After I kill my child, I'm going to sneak onto my uncle's ship and go to the continent. " Aoife explained, her voice barely rising through the broken sobs. I remain frozen, with my ears glued to her head. 

          I don't know what shocked me more: the words she chose, the frankness of it or the fact that she had a chance to leave.

          " Where do you want to go? "

          " Far from Prythian, on the northernmost continent, right near the shore where many immigrant ships anchor. There is a place where only women and a few children are allowed to stay. " She watched me with a spark of hope. " Not many people know about this place. It's a refuge for all species of creatures, protected by several layers of spells. Rosehall. "

          Rosehall. Rose-Hall. Another name I had heard of but being such an insignificant detail, I had forgotten about it.

          " You should run away with me. I can feel you don't belong here. "

          A second passes as I stare at her, with my mouth half opened, waiting for her to admit that she knows who I am and how I got here. I slowly roll my eyes around, waiting to see the farmers coming out with pitchforks and hammers from the trees. Not only was I an outsider, but I also had red hair. A flame for moths. And I also admitted that it was okay to want an abortion. Some people would torture you alive just for the last mentioned aspect.

          " What do you mean? " I ask cautiously, raising myself slightly in a more advantageous position for running away.

          " To be honest, I don't know what I wanted to say either. It's just that... " She looks at me carefully, with warmth, as if she knew me for a lifetime, as if she had seen in my soul something that no one has read before. " Don't mention this to anyone, but either I have a vision problem or I inherited it from my mother... I can see colors around people, my mother used to call it an 'aura' and yours is something I've never seen before : a dazzling gold, as if you were the daughter of the Sun incarnated in a mortal form. You are the first and only one so far. " 

           I blinked a few times. A lot of compliments in one sentence. They were compliments, right? Golden aura, daughter of the Sun, the only one with such a color. Should I feel special? Because if the answer is yes, then I was definitely totally in the wrong direction. I wanted to make myself small and unimportant, as I was two seconds ago, before she told me what a strange color I have around me. 

          Thinking about it, Lydia did mention something today: enough gold to put in her pockets, tongues of Death. Was this all connected?

          I believed Aoife. I've always had an unbreakable faith in supernatural things, chakras, wicca stuff, crystals, tarot, aura, palm or coffee readings. How many times have I been with my mother to a weird old woman to make us reads in coffee beans. And above all of this: I fell through layers and layers of worlds, piled on top of each other. I could believe anything at this point.

          I was also very sensitive to the energy of the people around me. I could feel them from a kilometer away with what intentions they came towards me, who is bad or good, who is hidden or just introverted. I didn't take it as some superhuman quality, but only as a repercussion of the traumas at home when I learned to recognize the person by the steps and developed my peripheral view.

          " You'll say I'm crazy. " She stated, aware of every expression written on my face. Of course, my eyebrows had risen to the middle of my forehead, but I couldn't control myself. "My mother could see the Shadow People roaming around Thaibar late at night. You've probably heard that you shouldn't go near the forest unless you're in a very large group. It's good that Nimue and Niven's family warned you to cover your hair: these creatures have a weakness for stunning, red-haired women."

          " No, I'm sorry, I take your word for it. I've also seen enough in my life. Thank you for trusting me. " I smile at her and try to pick her up. " Before we leave, can you tell me if you see anything else? You know, in my aura? "

          Aoife seems caught on the wrong foot, but she quickly balances herself and frowns, as if she is trying to move an object with the power of her mind.

          " No. I've tried before, but I keep bumping into something when I want to dig deeper. It feels like you have a shield around you, sometimes they appear like sharp, shadow tongues. They intertwine in a thin thread  with your aura and they go somewhere, but the trail is cut, like it was severed. " 

          I nod, half satisfied, half confused. I take her forearm in mine and gently lead her down the treaded path that led to Niven's family farm. The road through the woods was a very devious way to get to their house. It came through the back of the village and led to a large door, hollowed out in the surrounding walls.

          I glance at Aoife out of the corner of my eye, weighing on my tongue the question I've been dying to ask her ever since I heard that her uncle has a ship. This meant two things: if Aoife managed to filter herself in, either she could help me too or women were allowed on board as well. It was my ticket out of Thaibar.

          Of course, I had to think about several things if I wanted to run away with blondie. Well, if she ever let me come with her. Where I was going to go, money, how to reach the characters I knew from the book and how to persuade them into helping me. And all of this only if someone doesn't suddenly decide to kill me in all the other stages. I could get my hands on a map of Prythian. What I couldn't do was get to Velaris, where many of the Inner Circle spent their lives.

          Let's not talk about the fact that sexual assault here was something that occured often inside every court I had to cross to reach the night one. And not only that: it was the killing factor, as I said, thieves, creatures and faes and I had close to zero military training to deal with them. I didn't know how to handle a knife beyond chopping and cutting herbs and meat, I didn't know how to fight with someone. I only knew how to struggle and hope that I manage to do some damage. They had no guns here, just bows or swords or daggers. And on top of that: I had no powers to use.

          It was phenomenal how I had fallen into this universe, survived the crash and received no special power, no unique ability. Nothing. I was just a simple healer.

          The only thing I could use to my advantage, if I was going to travel, was to search through Nimue's manuals and get myself some poisons, sulfuric acid, something that could have resembled firecrackers or bombs, and all this had to be carried in a purse and in sufficiently resistant containers.

          Dear good. How complicated it was to get back to my own shitty life. If I must say one thing: I don't even know why I'm fighting so much to get back. No one was waiting for me except Icarus, and my life was as precarious as here. At least in this world I had something to eat.

          I raise a hand to massage my temples and sigh.

          I didn't know where to start the plan and where to end. My mind was broken. What I needed now was a second opinion: Niven. I was determined, today I have to talk to her, to convince her that I'm not crazy and that neither is she and that  I'm not from this world.

          " Something is bothering you. " Aoife observed, who now seemed a bit more relaxed, " Is it about our discussion earlier? "

          " Not at all. I promised that I would help you and I will do so. It's just..." I grimace, refusing to look at her, focusing my gaze on Niven's house from a few steps away. " If you were to leave, as you said, can I come with you? "

          Aoife measures me from head to toe. Someone calls us from afar.

          " I thought you were happy here. Why would you want to leave? "

          " You were right when you said I'm not from here. I have to find my way back home. " I confess as I stop on my tracks, my black cloak sweeping the ground around me. " I can't stay here forever, I need help and I think I can find it on the continent. "

          " You mean Prythian or the northern continent, right? " Aoife says cautiously, her blonde hair shining brightly in the light.

          I lightly nod my head and see her understanding passing in her eyes. "Something happened here... "

          " Girls, you're on time. Some of the workers from dad's church brought some bags with books they found there. " Niven speaks excitedly, moving her gaze from me to Aoife, who were staring at each other. " Um, since mom has work and Shum is away, I was thinking you could help me organize them and take them back when I'm ready. Did something happen? "

          " I think Cyan has something very important to tell us. "

          I finally look at the most important person in my life for the last few weeks. My savior, who was either going to think I was crazy or kick me out. Sweat was running down her temples and upper lip and the sleeves of her gray shirt were up to her elbows.

          " Niven, it's time to tell you the truth." 

          " You finally found the courage... I have been waiting for you to talk to me. "

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Decisions. Part II.
( +18! )

Prythian

Author's POV:

To Azriel's dismay, it took three whole days for the witch's stench to dissipate almost completely from his skin. He changed several rows of clothes, most of which he gave to the people who suffered after the war. During his little free time, he volunteered to go and help reconstruct buildings, where strong men for tough work were needed. He even found some time to go and make other pairs of suits at his favorite tailor. It was quite difficult to find attires in his measurements, so he resorted to other methods

It almost always happened in the middle of a training session to find his pants ripped between his wide thighs or to wake up with the sleeves of his shirts too short. Or maybe they were too narrow to fit the entire base of his wings. He took even his Illyrian skins to be adjusted. There were far too many belts and laces to do and undo, so he tried to make everything as comfortable as possible for his spymaster duties.

In the few days when the amber seemed to dissipate into the air around him with every beating of his heart, Azriel had the urge to replace the skin from his bones. It felt like rubbing sand against him. A strident odor that unfazed his senses, weakening his spy assets. He felt desperate.

It was pathetic how such a little problem threw his cosiness upside down. Maybe it was so derranging because he wasn't used to the smell. It was uncommon for this places, so it ruined his routine, his rules. Maybe it was the fact that it remembered him of his failure from the Summer Solstice night. Or only the mere thought that a witch's odor imprinted on him, and not the flowery one he wanted.

But, to his dismay, it looked like his entire body had been submerged in a cauldron of amber. It wasn't going away so easy.

Of course, the rational part of his brain knew that it was very likely that the lack of sleep drove him crazy. But it was not in his nature to deceive himself. He was a master of concentration and self-control, but this breach in security sat like an abscess on his nerves.

Not only had someone been clever enough to get past the sophisticated protection of Velaris, but apparently he'd made both the magic of the house and his shadows submissive. If she was capable of such control over immaterial things, he didn't want to know what she could do with material ones.

Azriel's blemished fingers traced his tanned temples. The ambiental temperature became too hot for his strict preferences and the darkness that cocooned the chamber unsettled him. With a few large steps he crossed the room and pushed aside the heavy, blue cotton curtains, then opened the windows wide.

A shy breeze blew through his white, linen shirt, caressing his intercostal muscles and exposed collarbones, then kissed the rounded tattoos on his neck. With the help of his sensitive and trained hearing, he perceived the voices downstairs and the muffled laughters from the city. The precipitous atmosphere had subsided and Velaris fell back into comfort and routine.

Barefoot, the Shadowsinger made his way back to the cluttered office, looking at the diagrams and information he gathered. He already passed the time limit Rhysand gave him to make up his mind. Even so, they both already knew the answer to the challenge. It was a matter of time until he was going to put into action what he decided to do. Azriel couldn't wait any longer, he couldn't ignore or pass on the mission when another war was knocking at their door. No one knew between who the final battle was to be fought and what the costs were.

His brunette eyebrows joined on his elegant forehead. The longer strands of hair casted shadows over his handsome cheekbones, giving him a ruffled look. The man's gaze remained locked on the candle flame, whole drops of wax had spilled over the clay plate and dried on the black furniture.

Azriel couldn't give up on anyone inside the Inner Circle. They barely found eachother. No one would die at the end. He could leave this role to anyone else, but not his family. Even if he sacrificed another life. Yes, he was capable to make this decision. If the price of peace was this " Vesper ", if she had to learn to fight, endure and win, then he was more than satisfied to find her and let her do her duty, with the cost of her life.

Not even his own ghosts could stop him. After all, who was he running from? Who was he so afraid of? He faced enemies far greater than a poor, ambitious witch, he suffered wounds far worse than the overpowering smell of amber, and on top of that, she entered the house on his watch.

A smile stained his plump lips. Azriel stood up decisively from the table, signed a few papers in a hurry and then arranged them in piles. Discipline, that's what he was going to teach the little thief. Order, discipline and pain. Especially the last one.

But, before leaving on the mission, he must take care of a part inside that was grinding him. The primal part that was making him unpredictable and aggressive.

Azriel knew who was to blame for the way his blood seemed to rush through his body, to his pants. He tried too many times to give himself some satisfaction and now he'd come to the opinion that his hands were not enough. Neither the small tortures he'd submitted himself for more pleasure, nor the games of edging and denying his climax. Nothing was enough. He wanted to fuck it out of his system.

The man stopped visiting brothels for some time and that was just out of self-esteem. Besides, he didn't need to pay any woman to approach him. It was enough to go out to Rita's or take a leisurely walk in the evening and someone would surely be there to make sweet eyes at him.

But now, he didn't feel like hanging around or waiting, his patience was gone, an unusual and dangerous thing for a man in his line of work. Azriel didn't have anyone to torture to release his anxiety from his belly, and we couldn't go into the ring now that Cassian was still praying for Nesta to join him in training. Rhysand had avoided giving him any more missions just to give him enough time to think about what mattered. Either that or he wanted to torment him long enough with boredom.

He quickly took off his tunic and pants, then snapped his fingers, preparing his bath. Lately, he was boiling his water so much that he went dizzy, with visions along the way. Azriel rubbed his skin until it started to turn red. It was the only way to get rid of the smell of blood, torture and amber. It wasn't as if he couldn't stand a little discomfort, he was trained to withstand much more than a tiny violent wash.

The steam floated inside the marble bathroom, creating bodies and faces. The Shadowsinger realised it was time to get up and satisfy his last need before giving Rhysand the good news. He lingered for a few moments, curious about what his own consciousness could shape this time.

A brave shadow snaked out of nowhere, and leaned over the edge of the tub, watching curiously. A more playful one danced near Azriel's wet body, waltzing through the smoky vapors.

It wasn't anything new. For the most part, there were just scenes from his past: fights, the cellar he was imprisoned in, sometimes even Elain. He gritted his teeth as the eager heat surged lower than he would've liked to admit, burning like hot coals beneath his tight muscles.

The molten gold inside his irirses sensed the slight shift from the white clouds. He ran his wet palm over his face to make sure that what he saw was real. She was not the woman of his fantasies, he was sure of it. It was a stranger, with her head almost the size of his palm. Azriel's interest hiked when he recognized her features. Or at least that's what he felt. His instincts told him that he'd seen her somewhere. It wasn't her face, but her eyes seemed to speak to Azriel: Big, round and sad.

" Wake up. "

Had it really been her voice that shook him out of the trance?

A few shadows jumped to his aid, memorizing the shape of her oval face before the vapors dissipated: a pair of round cheeks, one of them stained with a birthmark. thick and slightly arched eyebrows, a small nose in the middle and two full lips, with a defined cupid's bow. Stunned, Azriel realized the contradiction. This might not be the same person who sneaked inside their house after all, but someone else. Her human traits were at the opposite direction than the ones of a witch: curvier rather than arched, softer, not sour, life radiated from her, not the stench of death.

This girl... Could she be the female he's looking for? Vesper? But if so, why was he the one to see it?

With a slick movement, Azriel stood up from the tub, leaving the water to fall in waves on his stiff body. His joints still ached from his rough training. He made his way back to the desk, undressed and dripping. Azriel used his powers to sketch the portrait of the unknown woman on a blank sheet of paper, then put it in the folder prepared for the trip.

Yes, the Shadowsinger made his homework even if he initially refused the quest.

Downstairs, the voices grew louder. He could hear Rhys's mannered tone and Morrigan's sensual one, then Feyre's soft laughter.

Azriel dried his body, then changed into a casual evening suit. He chose a navy blue tunic and a pair of trousers, that he could easily take off if needed, tailored to hug his strong thighs. Azriel's mouth curled in a small grin. He put on his black, leather boots and ran his long fingers through his still damp hair to dry it in the place he liked. When it came to perfume, that was an easy decision to make: something fresh, earthy, lile rain hitting the pine cones.

Dark smoke played between his ankles as he was preparing to leave. Out of habit, he checked his antechamber where his desk and cupboards with his own volumes of books were. Anxiety rose in his chest when that gentle face looked back at him from the slightly damp paper.

Who are you? Azriel spoke for himself and his companions. Sharp tongues of darkness curled helplessly on his shoulders, trying to comfort him.

The answer seemed unknown even for them.

Azriel crossed the wide hall with silent steps. The faelights lit the high ceiling, making the golden ornaments to spark. Heavy, carved doors layed closed, one after the other, shielding the empty rooms behind them. The Spymaster looked through the huge stained window at the bottom of the stairs, admiring the playful lights of the city.

Tomorrow at dawn he was leaving to find that woman. An ace in their sleeve or a hatchet above their heads.

Once in the living room, he nodded towards Nuala and Cerridwen and poured a glass of red wine from Rhysand's collection. It seemd that his brother was determined to make him go on that mission just by taking out his favorite bottle from the cellar.

" Azriel! " Feyre began, decorating her elegant face with a sincere smile, "I had no idea you were here too. I thought you were staying in the House of Wind until you finished your research on the Mortal Queens. "

Her thin eyebrows arched higher on her forehead, almost meeting the hairline. She was wearing a simple makeup that brought out her tanned complexion.

" It seems my brother has finally made up his mind. " Rhysand sang, lifting a corner of his mouth, " You wanted to surprise me? "

His High Lord smirk turned into a smile. Azriel noticed the coincidence. The young couple wore almost the same attire: Feyre in a black dress, embellished with silver stars around her neck and shoulders, and Rhysand in a loose suit, sewn with the same type of thread, but the stars where around his sleeves.

As they both sat, pressed against each other on the mahogany, velvet sofa that reigned in the living room, they looked royal, untouchable.

Azriel felt droplets of jealousy staining his confidence.

Morrigan sat on the other side of the room, cushioned by big, fluffy pillows. Her long legs were hanging over the armchair, playfully taking on and off her red sandals.

" I've made up my mind, yes. " Azriel stated, swirling the alcohol in his glass and admiring the bouquet of flowers. " But I have one condition... "

The Shadowsinger went to his eternal place, near the window and made himself comfortable. In the 500 years since he knew his brothers, there were frequent fights over seats, so each one made a sacrifice. In the end, the way they sat remained the same since they remodeled the room. He absentmindedly looked around the familiar chamber and let loose a breath when he no longer felt the traces of magic.

" Anything, as long as you accept. " Rhysand said firmly, resting his elbows on his knees.

" I'll go alone. " Azriel concluded stoically, finishing his last sip of wine.

" It can't be. You need me in Hybern. " Mor spoke for the first time, one of her slippers falling noisily on the wool carpet. " I can help you get inside, I can help you out, I have some acquintances where you can lay low if needed. "

" Give me some credits, Morrigan. I can get inside as easily as you can. I can't risk your life too. I know what I have to do and on top of that, I'll be better on my own. "

" Are you saying I'm a liability? " The blonde woman raised her thin eyebrows at him. " Sometimes I think you forget who you're talking to. "

Azriel felt a smoldering flame ignite in his stomach. He looked her frankly in her blue eyes. Mor backed away quickly.

Something ruptured between the two of them the moment she admitted to Feyre that she liked women. The Shadowsinger had never felt so stupid. Only then did he realized how easily certain feelings could blind him. It got to the point where he could completely ignore everything around him for the sake of an illusion. He never managed his positive emotions, he thrived in a deathly, mortuary stillness. Azriel was better when he had to make cold, rational decisions, and his patience was his greatest asset.

Morrigan fumbled in her armchair. She brushed a strand of her splendid hair behind her ear and looked away

" I know who you are. You're third in command in the Night Court and Rhysand's emissary for a reason, but you're also my family. Right now, you have more important things on your mind than finding a simple woman. " Azriel explained, linking his long fingers to his abdomen.

Rhysand nodded and slammed a piece of paper on the table. " As neither Montessere nor Vallahan want peace, we have to find another solution. "

Azriel eyed the treaty now thrown on the table. It had taken Helion's entire library to compose it. " Make peace with a kingdom whose king we just killed? "

" Might not be the brightest idea, but it's a safe pass for you inside. "

" Well, if it works and you don't get hurt the moment you set foot in Hybern... " Feyre contemplated, when Amren opened the front door and greeted them with a macabre smile. " But, they don't want to sign the treaty? "

" No. Those ancient creatures and pirates are too slick and too full of money to accept such a deal. " The little devil added, then poured herself a glass of wine, " Besides, it's below their level to associate with humans and lesser fae.  "

Cassian appeared shortly after Amren, with a docile Nesta following close behind. Azriel silently watched the tension between the two and remained silent.

" I've already gave you a heads up about the comet, that Vesper. " Rhysand said, standing up and positioning himself protectively behind Feyre. He gave Nesta a nasty look then eyed Cassian, " You look good, brother. "

" I'm trying. You're talking about the human comet? " Cassian grinned, leaning his shoulder against the stairwell, " That's one hell of a woman: you fell from the sky, you don't die, then a bunch of people try to capture you and use you for something you might die. "

The older Archeron sister came closer to the main table, listening. Her dark grey dress held her shoulders tight together and her spine as stiff as a sword.

" That sums it up. " Rhysand joked lightly.

" We don't know what her role is at the moment. If the armies of Hybern can rise at any moment, we need as many aces up our sleeve as possible," Amren concluded, claiming a seat on a couch opposite Rhysand and Feyre.

Nesta looked at her coldly, measuring her from head to toe, " Is this another innocent being you want to use for your own good? "

Cassian let out a labored breath and scanned her out of the corner of his eye, but it was Amren who spoke before him. " I hope not. The Human Lands are in great danger. We are the only one willing to ally with them and protect them. We are put at risk. "

Determined, Azriel stood up drawing all the attention to him. " When I get back I'll dig deeper into all this flirtation between the Queens and the Autumn Court. I'm leaving tomorrow morning. It will take me a day or two to get to the west shore, then probably a few more before I manage to find the right village."

" In which one will you stay overnight? " Mor asked, already listing in her head the acquaintances she could reach to.

" If all goes well enough, I'll probably survey two villages a day and stop in the third. "

" Be careful. Three of them surround the kingdom. You'll be very close to the palace. " Amren warned him while cleaning her red fingernails.

" Don't worry about wings or laws. If anyone asks, you're just a messenger. Everyone knows you as my spymaster, so as long as you don't kill anyone, you'll be safe. " Rhysand explained as he look at everyone around. " I've prepared for you a peace treaty similar to the one made for Montessere. "

" That won't take away the stares and insults you'll get for killing their king. " Feyre interjected, somewhat tense.

" I prepared a potion for you. " Amren stood up and handed him a small velvet bag. " The moment you feel in danger just break the bottle and you'll be automatically teleported here. This is an extreme case where maybe your powers are blocked... "

" Perhaps it would be better if he hid his wings. " Cassian's hoarse tone was thick with fear.

" It won't help. Everyone knows how the famous Shadowsinger looks like. " Nesta finally spoke, from the corner where she had retreated. " That means you have to hide your face too. "

" That's why I told you that I should come with you. I can get the information easier. I can sense the truth. " Mor countered, sulking at Azriel's decision to exclude her from the mission.

" My shadows are as effective as your gift, Morrigan. Besides, I'd say I'm pretty good at extracting information from people. " Azriel's shadows swirled around his shoulders, loyal companions ready to strike.

" No, no, don't go around torturing people. " Rhysand flinched and waved an arm in the air.

" I'm not going to. I was proving my point. " Azriel nearly rolled his eyes at Rhysand's affected gesture.

" Keep the wings. It's a warning for everyone trying to do you wrong. " Amren suggested, a wicked smile written on her thin lips.

" Now if you'll excuse me. I have something to solve before I leave tomorrow. " Azriel bowed his head and went to the door.

" Take care of you. " Feyre said, keeping her hands tight against her dress.

Cassian patted him on the shoulder before looking at Nesta.

A slight melancholy made Azriel take a deep breath. It was always tough leaving them behind, thinking that maybe he won't come back.

This is what Rhysand had to live with for fifty years, only faith keeping him on tracks.

He looked back at his family, their faces full of hope, of expectation and concern. The spymaster could excel in any field of work where his presence was necessary, but with all the pressure of the war pressing on him, with all the tension enveloping him in a tight cocoon, he couldn't disappoint them. He had to get his hands on this woman and bring her safely to Velaris, then Rhysand and Feyre would know what to do, and he could retire from his role as babysitter.

Not that the one of a chaperone would fit him better.

Walking towards the crowded streets of the wonderful city, a strange emotion of impatience knotted in his lower stomach, pulling him into a narcotic state of excitement. Danger turned him on, sharpened his senses, that's why he loved his work and did it without regrets. Being an executioner, it wasn't something that aroused him, but it gave him enough satisfaction and pleasure, feeding on someone else's suffering.

He passed by the many pleasure houses that were located in a more obscure part of Velaris. The streets here were bathed in safe darkness, where people could satisfy their needs in peace, covered only by the languid night sky.

His sensitive ears caught a few jerky gasps and moans immersed in pleasure. Azriel rubbed his teeth together, clenching and unclenching his fists. There were no inhibitions here, only desire.

The Shadowsinger never liked to reach this point of despair. That doesn't mean that in the past he hadn't satisfied his desires with anyone who came his way and was eager to ride a man with wings. In fact, many times he didn't even took into account that he shared a room with Rhysand and Cassian. He gave himself free rein to his fantasies with the woman who fell into his trap. Somehow, he managed to stir the primal impulses in his brothers as well and they ended up sharing the female.

In his youth, his sex drive was much higher than any of his brothers, mostly due to the fact that he'd been locked up and had not managed to discover his sexuality until much too late. As he got older and realized what he preferred in terms of women, what fantasies excited him and how he liked to do it, he'd become very strict. First of all, he refused to share his women. Of course, his brothers could have the females after he was done with them, and very rarely did he end up having a threesome with Cassian or Rhysand and a woman willing to accept them.

Secondly, he no longer went to the famous pleasure houses, he'd come to disgust the lightness with which many accepted him. Azriel despised the easyness of some, preferring instead to let his primal instincts rule, to hunt his women, and not just any women, but only those cold enough at heart, the mean ones, those who wanted just sex, hard , bruising, no strings attached sex.

The Spymaster was by nature too methodical and too focused to allow himself to be distracted by anyone. He didn't follow a certain diet, but he trained in a rigid and ruthless way, he liked discipline and efficiency in absolutely everything that surrounded him. His sexual life included.

That's why he had Victoria or Tory, as she called herself when she was working. She was well trained to allow him to maintain the amount of control over their relationship that he sought. She understood what he liked and how he liked it and never asked unnecessary questions, unless he allowed her to discuss personal things. ' ' Relationship ' was a big word to use for the attraction between them, it was just a physical transaction that kept them both close enough, but at the same time far enough so that his family was not included.

When he appeared in front of the luxurious brothel, a few scrutinizing eyes followed his steps inside. It was unusual to see him enter such a place, especially as he exuded self-confidence and demanding masculinity through every pore. He slid effortlessly through tables and tables full of empty bottles and semi-nude people, searching for the one he needed. Azriel didn't even bother to look at the ones around, he just made his way to the torch of bright red hair that was spinning on a table littered with glasses.

A handful of drooling men watched her swaying movements with lewd eyes. Azriel towered over them from behind, studying Tory wide hips and muscular thigs. She looked dangerous, with fox eyes and thin lips, like a mythical creature ready to eat your soul.

The music chords were so erotic that the crowd didn't even bother to reach the specially arranged bedrooms, beginning the dirty job right here, in the huge room. Faelights were dimmed so that the faces of many were hidden in shadow, a sensual ambience playing among the heated bodies.

Azriel felt his skin itchy. He grimaced when he encountered the sea of intoxicating and heavy smells. The man hated other people's sweat, feeling them rubbing against his fresh clothes, seeing some of theirs dirty faces buried in some girls breasts. He grimaced at the sound of skin against skin, someone's balls hitting one of this girls's asses.

He raised his noble face to the thin body of his bed partner and extended his scarred hand. She smiled boldly at him and downed the last drop of alcohol from the glass. The man grabbed her by her narrow waist, lifting her smoothly and placing her back on the marble floor. Her skin burned where Azriel touched her through the cheap, translucent material of her dress.

" I knew you'd come back. " The viperin woman whispered close to his neck, then pulled his shirt aside to bite his collarbone.

The Shadowsinger gave her a menacing look and led her through the sea of heated bodies. Tory licked her lips, intoxicated by the fresh taste of his skin. She thought it was better than any type of wine or hard liquor from the brothel.

She rearranged her gaping dress over her large breasts and followed him obediently. Azriel's hand was big and warm and felt safe like that, wrapped around her slim fingers. His calloused thumbs scratched her soft, creamed palm, sending a bolt of electricity through her already excited body.

The woman scanned his tanned nape, covered in swirling tattoos that rippled down to his ribs and his majestic illyrian wings that she was never allowed to touch. Tory knew his divine body as well as her own. She would never admit it, but Azriel was her favorite customer. Although he used her, just like everyone else did, she appreciated the respect he gave her before, during and after they fucked, as well as his cold tenderness that somehow soothed her sadness.

She knew his tastes: he never choosed the sweeter, softer women around the house, the ones with warm hearts and pretty, pleading eyes. He ran away from the petite ones like they were poisoned. Tory knew why: he was to afraid they could get attached, that they couldn't handle his manners, his size. And who wouldn't? She almost fell for him every time they met. Azriel's presence felt like the forbbiden powder she took before she came to work. She couldn't stop chasing him, feeding off of his precise touches, of his burning skin, of his sombre eyes. Tory wasn't in love with him, but she loved his persona, more than she would like to admitt.

During the days he wouldn't visit, she felt everything bland, the meat seemed unseasoned, the air felt thick, the world was grey. Azriel was the salt and pepper, the aroma of pine trees and summer nights and the blue haze everything was missing.

Tory guessed that's why he always came after her when he wanted to lett off some steam. She drew a line between work and love: he preffered the fact that she fucked rougher, colder, calculated and she loved the pain that he brought to her sometimes.

Entering the safety of their favorite dark room, Tory already felt her juices leaking from her little panties. They couldn't even be called panties, they were covering little to nothing from her shaved pussy. There was only a thin string between her ass cheeks and a small triangle on her clitoris.

When Azriel finally turned around to watch her, she felt his burning amber irises tearing her see-through dress to shreds. Tory felt her insecurities leave her body under his severe gaze. This man always had this effect on her, making her feel like she was the goddess in the room, not him, like she was in control over the situation, not his presence. She had the power.

" Take your pretty dress off for me, Tory. " He demanded, his rough voice making her legs shake and her nipples hard.

Azriel wasted no time and she hurried to achieve his wish, working to undo the golden circle on her shoulder that kept her grey dress on.

" Easy... " Azriel instructed, tilting his head to the side, exploring her body curves through the translucent material.

Tory admired his painful beauty for afar: the dark blue complimenting his brunette features, his soft hair falling on his forehead, his strong forearms and veiny, long fingers. He was carved from the gods. A deadly temptation among this world.

His lazy gaze become predatory when she managed to pull her dress at her navel, freeing her nipples for him. The Shadowsinger made a step towards her and pulled her hair to the back, leaving her on full display for him. He traced the back of his hand between the valley of her full breasts, watching her bite her lower lip.

Tory's skin ached at the barely tactile sensation of his cotton shirt over her pink, oversensitive rosy buds. The woman angled her head upward, searching his numb expression for any available emotion for her. Tory wasn't short, she had a pair of legs many other females envied, but with him watching over her, a handfull of centimeters between them, she felt tiny under his scrutinizing eyes. Azriel could crumble her in his agile hands.

The woman let a breath escape her thin lips, already full of desire. She barely met him, less than ten minutes ago, and she was already eager to jump on his cock like a profesional horse rider. He never even touched her in a sexual manner, only took her hand to lead her to the dormitory like a sly gentleman. She didn't dare to drag her thumbs along his beautifull features either, too afraid that he would end all of this in a second.

Tory worked to unclasp the second ring then let the material fall around her feet. The small golden bracellett around her ankle rang when she stepped out of the circle. Her conscience told her that she should feel ashamed for the obscene pair of panties she was wearing, a millimeter piece of red lace, but her thoughts flew away the second she noticed Azriel's appreciative figure.

She knew he was dirty, she knew he loved skimpy little lingerie under elegant dresses, she knew he liked to dream of what was under a woman's clothes and she knew he loved to undress a woman with only his eyes.

" Good. " His soft whisper came in a baritonal note as he sat in the plush sofa, right in front of the bed. " Make yourself comfortable, I want to see you pleasure yourself tonight. "

As exciting as the proposal was, Tory felt a little dissapointed that she was, in fact, not going to ride anything tonight.

With only a small, ambrose tinted candle to light the large room, Azriel was half enveloped in shadows, like a ominous presence looming over. His lustful mouth curled upward in a viperin smile, like he could see it all on her face, " Be patient. We'll get there later. "

She could only count on one hand the times she got to devour those full lips.

Tory bit her inner cheek hard, tasting the blood on her tongue and she climbed the high bed painfully slow, making a show of her perfectly tanned body and her bouncy, round ass. The woman learned a few sessions later that he prefered a handfull of asscheeks rather than big breasts, even if he always gave them the same amount of attention. As she finally sat between the black silk sheets, her thong rubbed painfully against her.

" Spread your legs for me. " His order made her bones shiver and she complied, bending on her elbows to give him a view as fruitful as possible.
" Wider. " Azriel's tone was so low, so dark, that she barely heard him. " Move your panties to the side. They look cute on you. "

Tory's cheeks burned red with ecstasy. She snaked a slim hand down on her thin abdomen and pushed the tiny material enough to let him see her pink sex, leaking for him. Her heady scent morphed with his strong, pine-like perfume and hit her nose. Azriel's tongue brushed his lips, wetting them. He never ate any of the women out, she could understand why, she had the splendid opportunity to be devoured by the Shadowsinger only once.

It was a godly experience.

A new wave of heat ruptured through her tummy and she circled her clitoris, gathering the wettnes. She whimpered lowly, her breating becoming uneven. Tory imagined his calloused fingers instead, every edge and every scarr bringing a new spark of pleasure. She bucked against her white, velvety fingers and moaned. Azriel's eyes watched every motion of her wrist like a hunter, wary of how her body reacted to her touches.

" Put two fingers inside your cunt. " He shifted in the chair, adjusting the growing hardness of his cock.

When Tory conformed to his commands, arching her back, Azriel growled gently. "Good girl, Tory."

It was hard enough to take his mind off Elain, to let his body have such reactions to other women, but he repressed his instincts so much lately that he could barely keep himself from jumping on Victoria. With parted lips, he passed his large palm over his pants, greeted by a wave of pleasure.

The woman's brown eyes lit up at his gesture and she moaned, extending her fingers with long nails towards him. Azriel was breathing shakily, feeling his skin on fire. His balls strained painfully at the sight of her gleaming fingers pumping in and out of her cunt.

" Do you think you're pussy is ready for me, Tory? " He asked, a mischievous tone curling around his raspy timbre. " Do you think you can handle me, now? "

She nodded eagerly, stretching closer to the end of the bed.

" Use that beautiful mouth. " Azriel demanded, getting up from the chair, closing the space between them.

" Yes, Azriel. " Her breathy voice went straight to his aching groin. " Please, take me here, I crave your touch. Please... "

He towered over the bed, letting her slim hand stroke him through his tight pants and her pleading feed his ego. The woman's lips fell apart as she felt him hard under her palm, long and round and thick. His neck constricted at the pleasure, large veins appearing under his skin.

Azriel always made sure his women were ready for him when he fucked them, he loved the prelude, he wanted everyone in a safe and controlled enviroment.

He began undressing himself as the women worked them both. " Let me help you. " He simply said as he ripped the thin material from her hips, leaving furious, red marks on her white skin. He bent and captured her mouth in a ferverous kiss as he pinched a nipple between his two fingers. There was nothing soft, nothing intimate about his mouth, how he sucked her tongue demandigly, how he bit her lips, bruising them.

Azriel's other hand went to Tory's fingers, bringing them to his mouth, sucking each one of them dry. He hummed apreciative at the taste, then replaced her hand with his giant palm who covered her whole sex.

He coated his long, elegant fingers in her juices, then pumped three digits inside her already elastic cunt, working the bundle of nerves with his thumb. Tory trashed against the sheets, clamping her legs. " Keep your legs apart or I'll stop. " Azriel warned, spanking her sex.

She mewled under his unforgiving touch and unbuckled his pants, greedily freeing him. The muscles in his thighs flexed as she stroked him in awe, barely able to circle him with her fingers. His cock was beautiful, with a dark pink crown and a soft skin. Azriel gritted his teeth as she moaned in apreciation and hungrily licked the underside of his shaft from his base to the tip, trying to taste as much of him as she could from this position.

Tory's happiness of having him in her mouth was short lived as she felt her climax building in her belly. Her tongue slid into the small slit across it's tip, then sucked the beads of precum gathered there. Azriel panted, and brushed a hand through her hair. " You take me so well, Tory. You're so fucking behaved. "

Her brown eyes rolled in her head as he leaned and harshly sucked one of her nipples, bitting lightly at her underboob. She almost chocked around him as her orgasm shivered through her, making her legs shake. She tried to clamp them shut again, barely able to sustain herself on one elbow, but two shadowy hands kept her ankles still on the bed.

" Turn around. " Azriel's command came out breathless as he traced his burned hands along her spine.

He stroked himself a few times before easing inside her, groaning silently at the way she clamped around him. Patiently, he slided slowly, giving Tory enough time to adjust to his considerable size. The woman arched like a profesionist, presenting her ass for him, letting him fill her whole.

Azriel never made love to any of these women. He wasn't an easy lover and he never knew how to fuck like one, either. The only thing he could offer them in exchange was patience and tenderness, making them feel less like prostitutes and more like actual women who enjoy their sexuality. He always fucked them within the limits of what they could take, of what they wanted.

He tangles his fingers between her fiery locks again, beding her back at a painfull angle. Tory moaned otherworldy, pinning her hands to the headbord to sustain her body. " Azriel. " She pleaded as he landed a harsh slap against her round ass. " Do it again, please. "

He hit her again, harder this time, untill her skin was tainted a sexy colour of red. Azriel pumped roughly inside her, like he could abandon all of his suffering here.

She felt him stimulate a burried spot within her belly over and over, until her legs began to shake against the mattress. Her doe eyes rolled in her head, enjoying both the pain of her hair being pulled mercilessly and her pussy being used senselessly.

" Have you been  fucked like this today, Victoria? " Azriel's voice was thick and intoxicating, breathless even, as he burried himself faster in her gleaming pussy.

" N... Oh, oh... No, no " Victoria's brain was drowned in cedar perfume, too full of hormones and pleasure and overstimulated by everything he offered.

" Do you want to come all over my cock? " His dirty words made her orgasm come closer to her, within reach.

" Yes... Yes... Please, I want to come... " Tory's breasts bounced painfuly with each of his hard thrusts. " I didn't have any orgasms today. Help me, please... "

" Poor thing... Let me satisfy your needs... " Azriel purred, placing a large hand on her lower belly, pressing lightly. Tory braced her hand on his strong thigh, unable to think straight from the pleasure.

She came all around his cock, she barely had the chance to register when all of that happened. Azriel thrusted inside her a couple more times, groaning lowly. He withdrew from Tory's cunt, pumping himself untill his seemen painted his abdomen.

" Thank you. " Victoria said, a big smile on her lipstick stained mouth.

" I'm the one who should be thanking you. " The man admitted, as he made his way to the bathroom to clean up his mess.

" I'm leaving tomorrow. " Tory found the courage to announce him while wrapping the sheets around her naked body.

Azriel stopped in the middle of the hall. Tory sipped the erotic sight of his huge back and chiseled ass.

The woman wondered how sensitive those wings were, what reactions she could draw out of him if she licked them.

" Where are you going? " He asked her, slowly turning towards Tory.

" I've collected enough money and I'm going to move with my mother and sister somewhere further away. Maybe we'll see each other again if you ever need me. "

Azriel said nothing, just nodded slightly and closed the bathroom door.

♤ The chapter is not edited. ⚘️

Chapter Text

          Chapter 7

A Tale of Time

           " Thousands of years ago, before there was Prythian with its faes or the humans with their concept of time, even before the original death creatures who haunted our legends ever existed. Before the veil between the worlds fell in place and the universes started to build on top of each other, there were only two brothers, two geminis, two separate faces of the same coin, two sharp ends of the same blade. They were made by a Higher Power, an androginous specter of dust floating alone into the void, overlooking his kingdom of nothing. They were treated as his children. The two of them played together, ate at the same table, wore clothes made by the same hand, but they grew bored of the emptyness surrounding them. Always icy and friendless. So they asked their parent figure to make new beings around them.

          Because this High Deity loved his children so much, he indulged them and made several other creatures. But before he began his creation, he asked each one of them what kind of friends they'd like to have around them. That's when he realised the dramatic difference between his kids and the terrible mistake he'd made.

          The boy was the first one to be molded out of clay, but because his parent was in a negative state of mind, stroke by sadness, loneliness and surrounded by darkness, the child came out... hollow. His skin was olive and his hair and eyes were made with the most abysal black, so black that sometimes smoke seemed to dance around them. His beauty was ravishing, poisoning, unforgettable, like a dark temptation creeping inside your mind. That's one of the reasons he had many wives after he grew older. But his personality was sour, his gaze was ominous and his mouth was mean. A hyena in disguise.

          Because he missed his son's love and warmth, he sculpted out of marble a daughter. His pride. His power. She came out at the opposite end of her brother. The Deity just came out of his depression, so the girl was carved with love, hapiness and light. She was as beautiful as her brother, but she held a golden crown of blonde locks around her heart-shaped face and her eyes were full of patience and kindness. A smile was always decorating her full mouth. The Joy of the Void, her parent used to call her.

          No doubt who was the favorite child.

          To the Deity's luck, he made them powerless. Immortal, but no magic to pass through their veins. So, when they asked to have their own pantheons, their preferences came through.

          The son wanted a black castle, shielded by obsidian mountains and surrounded by bottomless rivers, so no one could disturb him. He wanted the power to make his own servants and people, shaped to match his wicked soul. So his parent, aware of his mistake and willing to make things right, gave him a tiny bit of magic.

          Big fucking mistake. Those were the first deities ever created to rule over the underworld, Hel, as the boy liked to call his new home.

          The daughter didn't need any magic to change things in her favour, but wanted her parent close as she made her choices. She learned the art of spellcraft throught plants and books and incantations from the Deity's whispers. She learned how to properly draw a sigil and how to infuse it with her intentions. She showed her friends what she learned and teached them how to use this magic for good.

          Those were the first Gods to rule over the kingdom in the sky, Elysium.

          But one particular night, after the son grew power hungry, he asked to have a meeting with his sister and told her his plans: to murder the Higher Deity, their parent and steal his power for themselves.

          The woman was shocked and denied giving him any support on his idea, trying to convince him it was the wrong path to choose. She even wanted to show him how to gain his own power through his own work, through their own beings. They were a direct bloodline to this Primordial Deity, the magic was in them, they just needed to know how to access it.

          Good thing she didn't get to.

          They argued and fought each other and by mistake, with the minuscule power his Father gave him, the man blinded his sister.

          With their brotherly relationship wasted, they both went to their palaces.

          The woman tried to regain her vision with her spells. The other deities tried to help her, but that was raw magic, her Father's magic. It couldn't be broken. Knowing what her brother wanted to do next and knowing there was no way she could stop him, she created a protection spell for her father and drew the mark under his bed.

          She never had the chance to alert him of what his son wanted to do. As he came back from his latest creation, a poisoned arrow, imprinted with that tiny specle of power he gave his son, pierced his heart.

          With a last beat, his heart exploded, shattering into an infinite of pieces who grew and created universes.

          He knew what his son's plans were. He had eyes and ears everywhere, so before the man came and collected his powers, he transfered as much as he could into his crying daughter, then urged her to hide. Before she left, he handled her his latent creation: humankind.

          After this, the battle over this artwork started. The dark forces wanted manking as their slaves, another conquest to his territory, while the daughter tried to save and protect them.

          They fought long and bloody battles, they created several armies with different powers, they crushed the ballance in the human world. Until the daughter sigilled the dark forces below, in their dark terittory, using her own blood. Everything with a cost: she sealed herself as well, in the skyes. This was the only way the humans were never to be touched by their evil power.

          To thank her, the people called her " The Mother of us all ", the protector of their kind, " The Joy of the Void " , " The Banisher of Ghosts " .

          But years passed, the veil started to crumple and with a mistake, Prythian came to life. The Cauldron was spilled and with its spilling, negative energy floated like mist inside the world and people and faes began to be corrupted by the dark forces. Peace was gone. As humans were slaughtered and brought to slavery, they gave the King of the Hel a name, " The Destroyer of Peace ", " The Butcher of Life " , but only one remained sealed into our minds, burned with fear inside our very core. " The Devourer of Worlds ".

          Because her powers couldn't have a direct effect on our race, she tried to help them and gave them the knowledge of The Wall and how to be created and a promise. She prayed for them and that prayer was sent. You are that prayer, Cyan, "  Prayer of the Lost  " , " The Vespertus " , the tale of salvation, the sword of revenge.

          She promised that she'll send her first daughter to bring peace to our world. To kill the evil. To restore balance. A Vespertus, a Mother's Sacrifice for her mistakes.

          So she sent several families to wait for your coming. A burning star across the skyes. But The Devourer found out and sent creatures to kill them. We are one of those families, Cyan, one of The Benefactors. We've been waiting for you for thousands of years. Many like you came through the dessert where I found you, but none of them were you: The prayer.

          This is why Shum kept saying all of those hateful things. He lost his hope. I'm afraid the darkness might got to his head, but he made peace with you.

          You are our hope, girl. And I am here to guide you to the next point. We need to find you your next guardians. "

          Standing there, listening to their story, I felt overwhelmed with contempt. I wasn't used to the idea of being the one. My whole life I was a second choice, a side character in someone else's story. I felt displaced and unsure, despite of my dreams of finally being chosen for something great. These people threw a handfull of great compliments: the saviour, the prayer, the first daughter of the Mother. 

          Silently, I denied each and every one of these titles. I wasn't worthy of them. At least not right now when the only thing I did was cry myself to sleep and attempt to kill myself in the process of hopelessly trying to find a way back home.

          Cynthia mentioned that I was some sort of legend long forgotten, deleted even from the oldest of oracles, erased from scriptures and sculptures. " The Benefactors ", as they were called, had gone great lenghts to hide me from prying eyes and evil spirits that might seek me out to kill me. Cynthia also stated that her mental health started to diminish after the Mother herself sent her dreams and premonitions of me. That's how Niven found me in that deserted field. That's why Cynthia never left the safety of the farm.

          The stove didn't produce as much heat as I felt in the air around. Maybe the news turned my hypothalamus all the way up, messing with my thermoregulation. My cheeks were burning so hard that I could feel them with my tongue from the inside. They were probably as red as they were hot.

          A part of my fervent refusal was also the fact that I didn't recall such plotlines in the conflict of the other books. I was aware of the Mother being real, so was the Cauldron and its spilling and the formation of Prythian, but a daughter was never mentioned, The Devourer of Worlds was also new. How much did everything change with my coming?

          Suddenly, that ominous voice that haunts my dreams chants again in the back of my head, his only condition before he pushed me here: ' you'll change the course of events '. Although I tried my best to not interfere with anything in what was going to unfold, maybe my mere landing here was itself an interference. Or maybe the fact that Eris saw me in Thaibar. That's why things had changed so drastically.

          I open my mouth to tell them about that creature, the unsummoned one, but the words feel heavy in my throat, burning like hot coal between my vocal cords. I swallow them, feeling every letter like a bunch of unchewed food forced down my esophagus. I tried again. Every word I thought about was blurry, the vocals kept mixing, like I suffered from dyslexia. My mouth felt smeread with pitch, impossible to get it to open and form the sentence.

          That son of a bitch bewitched me so I couldn't expose him.

          That's why only Nimue's potion had managed to bring up some of my memories.

          After their speech was over, eight pair of eyes followed me with expectation. Not once had I moved my body from that wooden chair. The cotton robe hanged heavily over my shoulders, black as a raven's feathers. I looked like I was taking part in a funeral, not a family gathering. 

          Honestly, I didn't know how to react. If I smiled, it would seemed sadistic and distasteful for the context, I was running out of tears and depression. I used them all in the beginning, while grieving my old life which, apparently, wasn't any better than this. I couldn't even be completely shocked, I would be a hypocrite. I always hoped to be more than a secondary character, even if it suited me quite well to be a healer. I was good at it. After all, that's what I was preparing to do for several years now, in my previous life. I was confident in my abilities and the classes with Nimue only helped me develop further on the practical side.

          But to hear that I, a mortal doctor, can save them from a so-called '' Devourer of Wolds '', well, excuse me if I want the chance to refuse or to rethink my life decisions or if I need a second to properly shit my pants. I wasn't able to put myself in opposition with a damned God, not when he could snap my neck with a flick of his fingers.

          There were two major aspects to consider. First of all, I was human, my life spawn was of maximum seventy years, I had fragile bones, my hearing was not as developed and I was not fast. I bruised easily, I was sensitive and the only weapon I truly owned was my sarcasm, which could also be used against me. The only formidable thing I did was fell from the sky and somehow manage to not fracture my pelvis. Very weird, I must admit, but even this made me question a lot of aspects. Starting with the fact that every time I tried to end my line of life here and hoped to restart back in my other universe, something, someone, seemed to hold my head over the water, forcing me to stay alive. Mockingly enough, every time I tried to swallow Nimue's death poisons, I seemed immune. Other than a terrible stomach ache and dizziness, I felt numb. Every time I tried to slit my veins near the river where I was washing clothes with Cynthia, the knife got blunt on the way, magically. Not even the dagger I stole in my dreams didn't do the job, my skin growing thicker every time I put the cold blade on my wrist.

          However, if I ever cut myself by mistake with something sharp while preparing our dinner, I would bleed. If I ever hit myself by mistake, it hurt like hell and the next day I would have a pretty nasty bruise.

          Secondly, as I mentioned, I was just a doctor. My skills went as far as my mind could process the information in books. I couldn't fight in the front lines in any form. I had to master the art of healing before going further and starting combat lessons. And I needed a master. I didn't know how to use swords, I didn't know anything about close combat, I didn't know how to use a bow and I lacked strategic logic. I didn't feel magic running through my veins, neither electricity pinching my fingertips. I couldn't cast spells like Nimue did with me and Aoife while we ran from the town, I wasn't telepathic or a necromancer. 

          The only time something had reacted to me was between those black diamond mountains, when a bolt of electricity shocked my muscles, charging my core. But that could very easily be from the oasis itself and not from me. That place seemed spiritualy loaded, full of religious symbolism, sacre to the animals that live in that place. I remembered the stag: glorious and tenacious, trying to guide me out. 

          In my previous life, I read tarot cards and loved to use crystals. My intuition was fairly developed and everyone for whom I did a reading for said that my facts about them were true and that what I predicted happened in the next days. Could this classify me as a witch? Doubtfully. Was I a fraud? It depended on how you wanted to look at the matter. I also liked to curse the shit out of people and situations when they pissed me off. 

          The weekend after our ' family ' talk, I remained as silent as a tomb stone. Kallus and the rest didn't push me either, leaving the decision to be made only by myself: would I step in the game or would I choose to step out of it. The only problem here was that eventually, even if I was passive, everything would come after me. Destiny doesn't forgive anyone, after all. If I was pulled here to achieve something, things would start to happen in that favour, forcing me to go with that flow. So this decision makind bullshit was just a facade, a placebo, to make me feel less burdened. I very much knew what the outcome would be.

          I remained locked in my head, turning the situation upside down, thinking at every possible end. I didn't get the courage to ask if I would die in the process. I wanted that, after all. Might as well have a saying in my life, fight a little. I already changed the course of events. 

          I received sympathetic looks from everyone those few days of silence, shy smiles, encouraging touches. Maybe I was getting them before too and only now I was aware of them. It was clear they knew more than they told me. 

          I went outside several nights, when I was sure everyone slept soundly. I had only one companion, Misty, who now was my cat, following me nearly anywhere, admiring me throughout the day exactly as my Icarus used to do. She wasn't a cat that liked physical love. I wasn't a touch starved person either. But I appreciated her omnipresence, the way I felt a little more protected with her near me. Misty made my loneliness more bearable. There was no pity and expectation in her yellow eyes, only patience and adoration. 

          At this point I wasn't even mourning my fate anymore. I needed guidance. Find the guardians, this was the next step on their list. I looked at the moon for a long time, waiting for an advice from her, a call, anything to enlighten my mind. It is easy to imagine that I received nothing, only dead silence. Maybe that was what I needed after all.

          I started my next day with a little more energy. I made notes from the books collected from Nimue during my aprenticeship. I found something interesting: a potion able to make you imperceptible to faes. They couldn't sense your intentions, nor smell you emotions or read your thoughts. You were somehow immune, indetectable. As a spark bloomed inside my chest, I felt like I was going to use this piece of information. I took it as a sign.

          After feeding the animals around the farm, I went to the stables. The mare I healed was waiting for me, hapilly snickering at me. She had grown beautifully, forming an impressive mass of muscles under her now shiny hair. Misty followed me, perching herself on the hay. I rested my head on the mare's muzzle and prayed for the same sign. That's when it truly hit me.

          These people had been waiting for me for so many years to help them. They warmly welcomed me into the privacy of their home, fed me, disguised me, gave me a job, protected me and helped me learn their way of life. I would be selfish to not return the favor. Just the way I did with the horse in front of me. And although I didn't expect anything in return, they didn't either, they left me a chance to decide. 

          I gritted my teeth. I was wasting precious time if I didn't start working for what I came here to do. Instead of wasting my life as I unsuccessfully tried to do several times, might as well put it to good use. Fight and die, if that's what I wanted anyway. Maybe this is the only way to get back home, fulfilling my goal here.

          Aoife had stayed with us. I secretly called Nimue to come and perform the curettage procedure without anyone in the family finding out. I paid. Nimue didn't refuse my money. After that, I announced my decision: I was going to do my best and help them.

          Today was the fourth day we went to that castle, placed in the heart of Hybern's territory. Of course, Nimue refused to send me into the wolf's mouth, but there was no other way to find what we were looking for: the prison. Kallus mentioned that the person we must find is locked up in a cell.

When I asked more about this matter he explained that we were trying to find a woman, a fae, to be more specific, old enough to be present at the creation of Prythian and downfall of several kingdoms. She used to be a part of a long eradicated race of blood thirsty warriors, a beloved and respected leader amongst her kind. But all her titles have no use now that they're all gone and she's the only one standing.

I can't even imagine what lays inside her soul. If she has one anymore, now that she's been locked for hundreds of years in Hybern's prison, subjugated to God knows what treatment they gave her. I bet it wasn't lovely. We don't know what torment she had to endure, physical and mental, if there is still some fight in her left, some will to live on or if the woman is even breathing anymore. All we knew is that she was the next step.

          Nimue instructed us about what behaviours we should have inside the palace, about the dress code and what should or shouldn't be done. She even made a map of the rooms she visited during her service for the King.

          It was the only map of Hybern's castle to ever exist as well.

          Aoife helped Niven and I to sneak inside and choose our work. She stole two pairs of servant clothes and wrote false names inside the ' Working Register of Slaves '. The book held a pretty name. It made my blood boil. Also, we couldn't be seen together, if one of us was ever caught, the other will be put in danger as well. So we separated: I was working as a general maid, cleaning, serving the meals, become a prostitute over night, made into a human chair for fae feet if there was necessary. It was one of the most shamefull jobs I have ever had in my entire life. It wiped out every ounce of my decency and ego. It was... pathetic to say the least. But we had to do what we had to do in order to get our hands on the map.

          Now I started to see why mortals despised this creatures.

          Niven became a chambermaid, cleaning the rooms after orgies, throwing their bed potty, ironing their clothes. It was disgusting as well. Lucky she never ran into one of their sex parties, otherwise she would have been forced to join.

          They were so satisfied to put us in dangerous and embarrassing positions.

          We were also surprised to hear Aoife's wish to join our cause. I wasn't. I felt her need for revenge, I saw that spark inside her eyes die the day she killed her child, how her youth has been stolen from her, how she needed to repay the struggle they put her through. Also, she worked in the kitchen. This way we had a large part of the castle covered.

          After a few days of training with Niven to ride a horse, I started to get the basics. I still wasn't good at it, but I could manage if I ever needed that piece of information. However, she expressly requested that we both go on the same horse, considering I wasn't fully ready to do it on my own. 

          We travelled like this for the next few days: me behind Niven, Kallus on his own stallion and Nimue on her mare. On the bridge that separated the surrounding land from the center of Hybern's castle we were asked to present our entry tickets each time we passed the gates. We were noted on a book covered in leather by our names, our entry and exit data. I was in a state of anguish every time I crossed the stone bridge and looked down at the abyss waiting below. Not to mention the fresh smell of rotting corpses that rises like steam on warmer days. Even if we were separated by a bunch of meters from an imminent death, we could see what happened with the ones that had mean intentions. Mounds of lifeless bodies and bones laid on the ground beneath, shredded by starved animals.

          All around the high stone walls marched entire troups of black knights, following every movement made both inside and outside. Archers, swordsmen and other types of regiments patrolled at well-established intervals of time. No delay. Even down here, guarding the huge, black iron gates there were at least ten of them watching vigilently. Some of them owned an unseen type of dogs, beasts as large as a horse, with cruel eyes and layeres and layeres of sharp fangs. Their fur was so black that not even the light didn't shine on it. They looked like they were dragged from Hell. 

         Good luck with the potion I found. I dosed it carefully, so that some part of our human perfume to still be smelled, so that our fear could still be distinguishable. But out thoughts were impenetrable,

          The obsidian palace, with tall and sharp towers, held a sinister aura around. It was guarded by circular streets and wide town squares with many decorated stalls, rich in vegetable, fruits, silk or velvet. You could find so many things here. Fae kids played loudly outside their homes, adults chatted vigorously, dressed in so much gold, with perfectly tailored clothes. They seemed to have no worry in this world. They walked proudly, with their sharp features held high, pale as paper, as if they owned everything and everyone. 

          I felt a strange emotion every time I passed these places. 

          Behind this perfect portait, if you looked closely, you could see the blood of the mortal servants it was all built on. They were starved in a corner, waiting for the kids playtime to be over so they could take them back inside, they were following a few steps behind the fae couples, with their eyes glued on the ground and their head lowered. They were working their asses off for a few golden coins, sweeping the streets, watering the trees and flowers, wiping the windows of their shops, arranging merchandise on the shelves. 

          It disgusted me every time. Waves and waves of hate fueled my desire to help these people to be free from their slavery. I wanted the faes to suffer as much as the humans. Those creatures came out of their luxurious houses, built in the same gothic style as the castle: gray brick walls, beaten with black, shiny stones. Even the pointed roofs towered menacingly. Everywhere laid a blancket of numbness, of uncertainty and falsity.

          Now I could clearly see why no one liked them in the books. They were thirsty for power, ready to crush and steal any shred of gold, every high position in the court. Despite their dazzling beauty, they had a dirty and poisoned soul.

          Every morning I bit my tongue, refraining from any spiteful comment, averting my eyes from any suffering human that was asking for help. Niven was right to not interfere that day in Thaibar, when that old man was beaten to death by Hybern's knights. I needed to help them in another way.

          Slowly, we parted our ways. Kallus walked towards the small church meant for humans. A barelly allowed luxury. Nimue followed us all the way to the palace, then she nodded her farewell with a glassy fear in her violet eyes. Between the cold and bare walls, covered with tapestries embed with jewels and silver thread, I felt a shiver run down my spine. I looked at Niven briefly, searching for a glimmer of hope or courage in her, but she was as deserted as I was. Her hostility towards the fae race was burning wilder than mine and this rage was sucking the life out of her. The massive chandelier hung like a dusty weapon of justice above our heads, ready to sever them if needed. We didn't even look at each other before leaving the main hall, joining the other servants.

          It was the fourth day of listening behind closed doors, staring intently at paintings and letters, lingering longer when pouring tea, hoping that one of this dumb faes would spill some precious informations. It was in vain, I was looking in the wrong direction. My action were limited anyway. At every corner of the corridors was an armed sentry. They didn't allow you too much, not even to turn your head to stare at a gorgeous necklace on some lady's neck or a splendid tailored dress.

          I knew these hallways as my own palm, looking at Nimue's sketches hours and hours, studying them in case anything bad happens. I knew the print on the carpets that covered the black and white marble, I knew when the corridors splited and how many doors were on each side of the wall. I also knew what type of mosaic was on the ceiling depending on the windows I passed. I was really damn motivated to do my job well.

          I watered flowers, I refrained myseld from spitting in their food, I carried trays and filled glasses with fae wine, I accepted every ' innocent ' indecent touch from the guests who got drunk at the courtyard celebrations and prayed everytime that things would not escalate. You couldn't say no. You kept you mouth shut and took it like a good slut. I was lucky enough to not be their type. But even my luck could run out at any moment.

          We all knew where to find the map of Hybern, but none of us was ready to say it. I had to go in Draegan's chambers. In essence, anyone could go fetch it, but I was the one with a death wish. They had to live, my fate was unknown anyway.

          Altough the most important thing now was finding the prison, something else was on my mind. Where was Eris? I hadn't seen him since I came inside the palace. Neither Draegan was to be found. This made me wonder if they knew something about me, if they saw me on the sky that night, if they were aware of any anomaly. Maybe they were on a hunting trip, just like all masculine fae liked to do in the books or in movies. Or maybe they were discovering new ways to torture humans. The most persistent question was still the same: What business did Eris have with Hybern? Were they trying to sign another treaty? Maybe his father forced him to come here... If the Autumn Court is planning to betray everyone from the inside, the odds are against Prythian and the Mortal Lands. Was I able to get in time to them and tell them about this matter? Would they believe me? It's not like they couldn't test me by getting inside my head.

          I place my cotton veil over my nose and mentally prepare to another risk. Aoife explained to us that the uniform here was very misogynistic. We were not allowed to show our faces, so we wouldn't tempt anyone with our beauty. Our hair must be tied and hidden under a scarf and also, we were covered from our necks to our toes in a black dress, with a red apron attached to our waist. Even our palms were covered with thick, abrasive gloves. Just in case we were clumsy and dropped the silverware on the floor. So toughtful for them.

       I don't look at the servants who pass by me and neither do they. We weren't allowed to make eye contact. I sneak into the servants corridors. In the few days we stayed here, three royal tasters died after it turned out that the food for the guests was poisoned. All of them were humans. Three wasted lives. The kitchen team continued to change and those who had left somehow disappeared without a trace. Everyone knew what happened to them. 

           The palace seemed to be charmed: every peeling painting followed you on the hallway, even the ones with a sunny meadow on it, every hole in the wall was like an ear thirsty for gossip, every creacking floor was a voice accusing you of something you didn't do. The knights who prowled every corner or lined the length of the main hall seemed an empty shell, no body underneath, only an evil spirit. No wonder you could never truly see their eyes: the mirror of the soul. I was afraid to even approach the gloriously exposed armor used by an old fae they worshipped, carved from glittering gold and rubies as red as the blood of fallen enemies. Even if it was empty, I expected it to move at any moment.

          Shielded by the darkness of the servants passages, a wave of courage guided my feet towards what I knew was only doom:  Draegan's north wing. I grab a set of fresh sheets from the laundry room. Although he didn't visit his rooms lately, the bed had to be changed daily. It was the perfect cover.

          Even if I didn't know what was the path to his chambers, I followed the ' N ' carved in the stone walls. The entire North part of the castle was claimed by him after his father's death. I step as quietly as possible on the jagged slabs of the tiny corridors and get a candle on the way. The halls were not as luxurious as the ones Faes used. They had rounded and really low ceilings and in some regions you had to lean forward to pass. The torches were so rare, that most of the way you were spending it in total obscurity. There were no mice yet, but among the dusty stones appeared roots, mold and some herbs that thrived in humidity.

          Someone coughs behind me and I turn, holding the candle like my life depended on it. There goes my crumb of barely gathered courage. I squint my eyes, cursing my bad vision, but I don't see anyone. The last light was more than twenty meters behind. The feeling that I was going to be caught was suffocating. I remember living with the very same sensation in my former relationship, with the fear that my parents would catch me and punish me. I let out a cold breath, still searching the hungry darkness. I turn and quicken my pace, following the carvings. I was alone in this area. Very few servants wanted to clean this wing. Nobody was crazy enough to find a workspace in the lion's den.

          The doors line on both walls, some of them required me to go up a few stairs, others to go down. I listen, biting the dry skin of my lips. Nothing. I don't know if my torch was shaking so bad between my fingers because I was afraid or because the cold chilled my poorly protected soles. I clench the other fist, bracing myself on the ground. I move to another door, located lower than the previous one and listen again. Feminine voices gossiped on the other side. Someone pours tea, another one cuts something on his plate. I stick my cheek closer to the wet door. I couldn't decipher the topic of conversation, they were too careful of the ears in the walls. Clever.

          Fuck me life decision.

          I walk further and stop at another door: someone is clapping, lots of applause actually, pause, a moan, another woman moans louder. '' You liked that, you dirty whore? '' A harsh voice makes me startle and I take a few steps back, '' We should bring a servant. I'd be so horny to watch a human eat you out. '' .

          That's my sign to get the fuck out. On my tiptoes, I run for a distance of a few doors without looking back. The candle was already extinguished from the suddem movement. I forgot that in the North wing Draegan allowed his escorts and his narrow circle to live. The only time luck hits me is when I notice a sign with a crown carved on several doors. I don't even think twice before sticking my head inside.

          ' Well done!... ' I whisper to myself. 

          I look back, noticing the superbly maintained tapestry. The door completely disappeared in the drawing, revealing a gorgeous tree with ruby and quartz flowers, woven on an azure background. All around, a crossed mosaic frames the tree. It was one of the most spectacular things seen in the palace. 

          I spin on my heels, facing the immensity of the room. Abandoned, the bedroom seemed deadly silent, like it was inquiring me of my presence here. There were no splashing sounds in the bathroom, the wide, arched balconies were open, leaving the orange curtains to flow in the cold wind. The huge, wooden carved bed had a canopy over it made of flowy, white veil. Above, there was a carefully painted portait of the last King: shoulder-length black hair framing a pale, rubber like skin, angry, black eyes. He seemed quite young, maybe around his forties. Next to it, almost sketched rather than painted, was a smaller drawing of Draegan: a  faithful image of his father, but with gentler features.

          I leave the sheets aside and take a few steps forwad. This chamber alone was as big as Kallus's entire house. High ceilings with different faces carved in white marble. Several thick wooden stools lay scattered, covered in red velvet.

          I move towards the curved nightstands. Nothing, just a few letters from his mistresses, a ruby ring that I slip inside my bra, a letter knife and a golden comb. I crawl on my knees on the balcony, trying to not make my head visible from the outside yard. I quickly flip through the religious books on the short table. In none of them did he mention any shooting star, not the two brothers: the Devourer or the Mother and neither was the Prayer of the Lost. There were mentioned reforms of the human lands, of the farthest continent, Pryrhian and Hybern. How the oceans were created, on the next page was a chart with several deities and what they brought to the world as gifts. The Benefactors really eradicated any notion of a fallen star. If that was true, in the end.

          In my world, there was this saying: Believe and don't search.

          I move to the bathroom from which I steal a platinum hairpin with jade and agate flowers. I always loved to collect semi-precious crystals, charging them, cleaning them with smoke and fire, then use them in my tarot readings. 

          After I finish, I move to the last door in the room. Here, my luck ran out: it was locked. I turn the brass globe left and right, hoping to hear a click, but I spent my energy in vain.

         '' Shit. " I mutter, cursing in my mother language and refrain myself from hitting the door with my leg.

          The key might as well be with him, around his neck or in his pockets, or maybe he hid it in this room, in this fucking huge room. I put my fingers on my temples and concentrate on the dust particles swirling in the setting sun. A gorgeous orange pours through the thin curtains, bringing an air of melancholy. 

          I turn my back on the scene. A familiar pain settles in my lungs and I breathe through my mouth, forcing the stress out of my system. I focus my attention on the lock, carefully drawing the key in my head, my salvation, made of shiny metal as precious as the items I stole from the room. I visualize the gesture, how Draegan turns the key in the lock, opening the door and revealing the antechamber, an office. I feel filled with peace and hope. I try my best to manifest, everything is going the way I want. I open my eyes and swear again. The door was just as closed as it was a few minutes ago.

          '' I'm losing my mind. ''

          I raise my palms and wipe them on my skirt, then point them on the lock. I keep my muscles contracted, then twist my hands, imagining how waves of magic come out of my fingers and open the door. Nothing happens. 

           Maybe the gloves were the problem. 

          I put them away and try again. I imitate the movements I saw in movies like Marvel and several other series. Nothing. I curse once more, a string of unorthodox words swirling in my mouth. I take another breath in my lungs and raise my hands, close my eyes, feel the warmth on the surface of my skin. I picture the type of power the author used to describe for Rhysand and his brothers. I imagine it working in my favour, not against me, then contort my forearms and let the energy flow. 

          '' For fuck's sake, I'm going to punch someone. ''

          I had no powers. Not even the smallest shred of energy, of magic to come and spark like a firecracker on my fingertips. I didn't feel any ancient whispers cursing through my veins. I actually felt dumb. I came this far, worked up the small amount of courage to reach this wing. Maybe I really wasn't the person these people were looking for. Maybe it was a mistake. I hadn't even asked what happened with the ones before me. Is not like I didn't knew, if they survived, I wouldn't be here. 

          I swear again and hit the door. Goosebumps rose on my skin as I watch the floor. The key, a rusty contorted metal, laying in front of my eyes.

          '' So my powers have a delayed effect or it needed a little kick to start showing? '' I ask myself and grab the cold metal.

          The door opens with a heavy sound, as if it had been closed and opened too many times. I put the gloves back on my fingers and erase any prints from the key. I was finally inside Draegan's office. Or the dead King's office. 

         Three out of four walls were covered with shelves upon shelves of perfectly maintained books. It smelled like leather and ink inside. As much as I hated Draegan, he kept his scripts in impeccable condition: leather spines, exceptional handwork, fresh strings, not eaten by moths. In the middle of the room was a big desk, full of paperwork and a majestic chair, made of black wood covered in red and maroon velvet. On the empty wall was an extinguished fireplace, cleaned of embers, with two elegant red armchairs placed in front of it.

          I rush to the office and search through all the drawers: documents about inheritance, letters from allies from another courts and continets I have never heard of, maps of oceans and lands, registers with numbers and series of soldiers in the army, who died, who was injured and who was still alive, able to fight. I look at the amount of people at the end, where they had summed up all the resources: more than half of their force was destroyed and most of the kingdom's treasury was empty. I look deeper, but all I can find are a few notebooks full of sketches and papers stamped with the initials A.F.. It came from Prythian. I couldn't calculate the beautifully outlined dates at the bottom of the page, because I had no idea of the time I fell in.

          This story must've happened over a long period of time given the stacks of sheets stamped with those initials. I twist my mind in all directions, hoping that some clue would appear out of nowhere. I had a vague idea, but the ' F ' initial was making me feel unsure: Amarantha. There's details of her status in the court of Hybern, about her work as a general, about her sister Clythia and her relationship with Jurian. She talks about her suspicions and about the revenge. There is a list of ships and the routes they followed to reach Prythian, what they transported and to whom, the payments form each High Lord. A detailed description of a treaty, how she searched for a mistake inside it to cancel it. Then, at the end, a terrifyingly large number: ' MORTALS '. 

          I wet my lips, feeling a drop of cold sweat falling on my neck. This woman killed almost two thousand slaves. The ones she refused to set free or tried to fight her. 

          Amarantha talks about her strong ties with the Spring Lord, Tamlin's father, and how they shared ' their honest opinions about what to do with the increasing numbers of the lesser creatures and their despise for the human race '. 

          My knees start to shake and I have to sit down on the carpet for a few moments to regain my balance. How can you hold such hate towards someone that didn't wrong you?

          On other pages she writes in great details about a recipe stolen from the King and how she used it to take the powers of every High Lord, about how she managed to build her kingdom from Under the Mountain. Rhysand is mentioned as well, how she took him as punishment for his father's actions, the sexual abuse and how she gouged out the eye of the Spring Court emissary. On the last pages, there are payments for a ball and a list of guests. There was also written the fate expecting everyone.

          The woman was totally out of her mind, power hungry, evil and bloodthirsty.

          I close the registers. It's enough for me. There is so much death in this world, so much torture, so many irregularities, too much people with power. And nobody does anything to stop it, to prevent it from happening again. I had a strange feeling that the history was about to repeat itself. Another five hundred years of torture, of human genocide and slavery. 

          Was I here to stop this? How the fuck could I put up with faes, with whole courts and kingdoms?

          My ears rang loudly. With trembling hands I arrange everything the way I found it. I pick up a scroll tied with a velvet ribbon and open it. My head was spinning and my hear was pumping fear in my body with each beat: fear of getting caught, fear of enduring torture, fear of punishment, fear of pain. 

           I hug the paper to my chest. A very detailed map of Hybern. I found it. I close the door behind me in a hurry and push the lock back in the space it felt out of. 

           Hot lava bubbles in my stomach when I hear heavy footsteps approaching. What were the odds for Draegan to come right fucking now?

          I blink. Torture, torture, torture.

         '' Oh... What is it that you're looking for here... human? '' A masculine voice rings from behind me, warm like a hot day of summer.

          I feel my body temperature ranging from hot to cold in the spawn of seconds. I keep my back to the fae, curled up on top of the white sheets that I had to put on the bed. I count in my mind: one second, two, three... five... seven. My breathing doesn't calm down and droplets of sweat fall from my forehead on the ground beneath.

          '' I'm not going to hurt you. '' His tone is cunning, hardening with a few octaves. He comes closer and I can smell fiery embers all around me.

          '' I... I'm changing the sheets, sir. '' My voice sounds like I was strangled, held by my throat by invisible hands.

          '' Where? Inside the office? '' I can feel the words leaving his smiling lips.

          Fuck. Shit. '' No, I was also cleaning the dust. ''

          '' If that's so, you're doing a poor job. There's some of it flying everywhere. '' He notices, a trace of humor laced between his sentence. '' Turn around. ''

          I exhale and do as I am told, but keep my eyes on the ground.

           A few moments pass before he speaks again, '' I remember you. We met in Thaibar, in the market. ''

          Double fuck. I look at his perfectly polished black boots, then at his tailored emerald pants. 

          '' Look at me. ''

          '' I'm not allowed to. '' I excuse myself, trying to find a way out of this conversation.

          '' I allow it. Come on. '' 

          Slowly, I rise my head. Why was everyone so tall around this place? 

          A sense of calmness passes thourgh me as I finally see who I was talking to: Eris Vanserra, proudly staying right in front of me. I might have been a little overwhelmed by his beauty, because I don't hear the next few words that come out of his thin, pink mouth. 

          Now that I was getting a closer look at one of the most controversial characters from the series, I was a little bewitched. Eris had no equivalent in the human world. His face was royal, high cheekbones, strong nose, cold, amber eyes. He was well built as well, tall and rather thin, with  graceful amount of muscles to stretch his gold and green tunic. 

          '' You might be wrong, sir. '' I defend myself, knowing damned well that we made eye contact in Thaibar.

          He laughs, unamused, showing a pair of white teeth. '' I doubt my eyes deceive me so bad. What do you hide there? ''

          I frown and turn my head to see the map on the floor, '' I have no idea. ''

          '' Liar. '' Eris whispers, knowing that he caught me red handed. He inhales and I thank god for the potion, because he can't feel the mixture of emotions driving me crazy right now. '' What are you looking for in King's Draegan chambers? Sex? ''

         I open my mouth, then close it. '' No. I was just about to leave. ''

          '' Without your scroll? '' He give me a cheeky smile, then grabs the paper from the ground. '' A map. Feeling patriotic? ''

          No, just a little chaotic. 

          Eris circles me like a lion would with it's prey. I straighten my back, following the map held by his long fingers. 

          '' I'll give it to you, don't worry. But only if you tell me why do you need it so badly that you put yourself in such danger. ''

         '' I need it. '' I admit. '' Can you please give it back. ''

          '' I thought it wasn't yours. Why do you need it? ''

          '' I changed my mind. '' 

          His smile falters when he hears something I don't. His eyes catch mine and I see something pass behind them. '' Get under the bed. I'll conceal your scent. ''

          '' I need the map. '' I press, coming closer to him.

          '' Fuck the map. '' He rasps, catching my arm in his large palm, then guides me to the bed. '' I'm trying to save you mortal ass. Do as your told and I'll find you and return it after. ''

          My eyes search his whole face for a sign of betrayal, but his features are serious and fairly worried. I know I was going to regret this, but I lay low and push myself under. Eris hides the map inside his jacket and winks at me before the door opens and he regains his composure.

          '' Eris, I'm glad you arrived. '' Draegan steps in and pats the redhead's shoulder in greetings. '' I have news for you: tonight we're dining with one of our old friends: a winged emissary from the Night Court. ''

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Jane Doe

𓆩✴𓆪

          " So, do we have a deal? " Impatience. Impatience was written all over King Draegan's voice, like a child ready to receive his Christmas present. " As you can see, our lands are really going to waste. There's almost nothing left to save. Our fields are barren, our rivers are poisoned by irreparable amounts of waste, our birthrate has plummeted and our workforce has dwindled alarmingly. We're no longer a threat, if that's what's stopping you from making a decision. "

          I look at the copper-coloured ornament that protects his toes and think of all the poverty he described. Those perfect boots, cleaned by the hands of a man whose salary wasn't even enough to feed himself and his children.

          Sell all your gold to those who need it, save the nation from poverty, do something to prevent it, not increase it, you fools!  

          I was expecting Eris to say something similar to what I was thinking, I wanted him to be a good character in this situation, to finally fight for this cause, but I knew there was more to it than a simple gesture of kindness between continents. 

          " The best I can do for now is to send someone to help you with the water, it would be a first step towards restoring the wells and rivers. " The redhead steps sideways, blocking the bed with his tall body. " My father will be happy to help you. I believe there's still hope between us, the new generation of rulers. "

          I press my face to the ground, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who made Aoife pregnant. The tassels caught by the guild hung low, blocking most of my view. I could barely see up to their knees.

          " It would be an immeasurable honour to have High Lord Beron in the palace. He and I have shared some grand ideas for the future of our lands, for the best use of the consumable races that seem to multiply every day. " I grimace, feeling the dark, malicious smile spread across Draegan's pleasant features. " And with the scientist your father sent me, it would be much easier to test the limits of our horizons. Wouldn't it, Lord Vanserra? "

          A ball of thorns blossoms in my stomach, accentuating the guilt, feeding my anger. I bite my inner cheek, tasting blood on my tongue. What did he mean by 'consumable races'? What's the horizon that both Draegan and Beron aspire to? I struggle under the bed, waiting impatiently for Eris's answer, hoping he wasn't involved in this plan, wishing he was faking it.

          Eris's silence is loud. He was caught on the wrong foot. Is what I needed for him: let him be shocked by their own wickedness. He remains near the edge of the bed, forgetting that he had to follow Draegan inside the antechamber.

          " Excuse me, yes, it would be. " Eris takes a deep breath, steadying himself. " I was just thinking about the stability of Prythian. Politics have gone mad lately, my father is buried under all the paperwork and I believe he will not be able to honour any of your invitations to dinner. "

          Draegan's laughter chills my blood more than the icy black marble. " I've heard about it too. A friend of mine from Vallahan informed me about all the damage. We are all suffering, right? Why not suffer together, strengthen each other's weakness. "

           " But curiosity gets the best of me: what do you mean by consumable races?  "

          " Ah... " The King's black boots, perfectly fitted to his muscular calves, turn towards Eris. " It's just something I mentioned to your father on his last visit. It's a delicate subject, I can't discuss it with you between so many hungry ears. I'll tell you when the time is right. And the soldiers of your court have done a wonderful job with the new recruits to our army. "

          Eris takes a few cautious steps towards the small wooden table where I left the white linen sheets. He seemed to be looking out over the balcony at the vast gothic empire, as if realising the damage already done. " And the soldiers... Of course. "

          His tone was even, cold, an unmistakable tension in his words, as if he had been slapped across the face several times in the space of ten minutes: his father, the cursed friendship between their kingdoms, all the help Beron was sending behind his back. These soldiers could be seen as a sign of betrayal to Prythian and their shared interest in these consumable races was a bad omen, too.

          As far as I remember, the Autumn Court was to the east, on the outer side of the land. It probably wouldn't be much of a blow to the continent, given its external position. The only problem is that, with the right help, they could easily split Prythian in two, all they needed to do was wipe out the weaker surrounding courts. At the moment, that weak link was the Spring Court, which, with few inhabitants and a seriously ill ruler, would be just the place. And most importantly, it was on the border with the people they wanted to enslave.

          Something is boiling in my chest, sour and malicious, threatening to consume me completely: injustice and weakness. Two feelings I'd become familiar with, but still not used to. This wasn't about the unfairness of my university, about working my ass off just to get the same grades as another kid who didn't work half as hard as I did. No, this was worse, it was about people's lives, innocent people who didn't even seem to know what was about to happen to them.

          I try to steady my breath as best I can, afraid that his sharp hearing might catch me sneaking inside his bedroom. It was difficult to breathe properly anyway, due to the fact that I was lying on my stomach with my weight crushing my lungs.

          " You mentioned earlier that... we were expecting guests? " Eris asked carelessly, strolling noisily into the waves of grey light pouring over the open balcony. Waves of dust rose into the air, whirling seductively. I place my hand over my nose and mouth, hoping to prevent any of those particles to activate my allergies.

           " Are you afraid of being seen here?  " There was something strange in his tone, as if he expected Eris to betray him in any moment.

          " Under no circumstances. My business is mine alone and no one has the right to accuse me of anything. I don't really give a flying fuck about other people's opinions, Draegan. I'm just curious who I'm going to meet tonight. An Illyrian, then? "

           I don't dare move closer to the edge of the bed, to watch the exchange of glances that pierce the silence of the room. Clinging to the frozen floor with my entire body, I felt my heart beat wildly, accelerating at the mention of the winged man. If it was someone I knew, was there any chance of talking to him? Could I catch him alone?

          Draegan chuckles slightly and I hear him bang his fist on the door the way I died earlier. The key doesn't fall as it should and I swallow dryly as he bangs another fist, waiting for the familiar clang of metal, " Very peculiar. "

          His brief comment makes my mouth drool and the bile rises in my throat, bringing with it a bitter taste.

          " Is something wrong? " Eris pauses with his heels turned towards me, summoning his nonchalant demeanour.

          " You didn't happen to notice if anyone was here before us, did you? " His tone changes completely in the blink of an eye, his words flowing through his teeth, full of violence and tension. 

          " Perhaps one of your maids? She forgot these old sheets as well. " The redhead sugests warily, feeling the wave of negative energy coming from Draegan.

          " Hmpf... As for you question... " He abruptly changes the subject, stopping on command his other personality from rising to the surface. " I have no clue, either. The letter I received doesn't mention a certain name. A precaution for highway robbers. I guess the both of us we'll be just as surprised. "

          Draegan steps into the antechamber, then seems to signal Eris to follow him, because after a few seconds, the door closes behind them, leaving me alone under the bed.

          This is the time to get out of here and run for my life. I follow the corridor back to the central room, where most of the servants leave their clothes and bags and take on their servant personas. Rivers of words flow through my mind, trying to make connections, to link what I learned to what I already knew from the books. One of my problems was that the next book in the series wasn't written yet, so I had not idea if the Autumn Court would really betray Prythian, and secondly, it didn't matter what the book said, I changed the course of events. From now on, it depended on the choices everyone was going to make, including me. Our fate was sealed.

          I felt blood on the tip of my tongue. My old habit of bitting my lips came rushing back. I found the map and lost it in less than ten minutes. I had to get it back, and that meant following Eris closely, which also meant getting too close to Draegan.

          It wasn't a secret that I was terrified of these people, of fae and their dumb ways. Draegan and his ill mind was one of my greatest fears, for now, and not just because of his slippery fingers and overly suggestive looks, but apparently he was smarter than he seemed. I'd rather be trapped underground and suffocate than feel this man close to me, touching me. 

          For this reason only, Aoife was a hero. She endured too much and only because she needed those money for her family. Could I ever reach this level of devotion?

          My fears weren't even my main problem, Eris Vanserra was. I can't begin to comprehend what has gotten into him, what sort of devil possessed him to help me. I knew he wasn't totally evil, like some people around here liked to portray him, but he wasn't good either. He went to great lengths to hide me, to conceal the scent I left on the objects I touched. I knew faes where michievous, their help was never to be taken for granted. Was I prepared to offer him what he wanted?

          Failure after failure, I couldn't even find out who the winged visitor was. There was a clear antipathy between the kingdoms, even before Prythian gutted the former king. This meeting would not end well. 

           I hide my hands between my skirt and make my way through the servants. Niven and I had certain hours when we could sneak in here, when most of these people would go up and prepare the main room for the upcoming guests.

          I do my best to arrange napkins and to clean their silverware, waiting for the clock tower to ring three times to announce lunchtime. A breeze of fresh grass and sunflowers makes me aware of the presence next to me. 

          " Have you found anything? " Niven's whisper is so low, that I can barely grasp the sentence through my stupid hat.

          I nod, slowly raising my head to see if there are more people around. " There's a detailed map in Draegan's antechambers. " I point my finger at the brunette before she has a chance to scold me for going into the king's wing. " But there's another problem that has arisen. I'm trying to solve that as well. "

          " Don't tell me you've been caught sneaking around his chambers! " Her doe eyes are wide open, black and dilated with shock. " Fuck... Did he?... "

          " No! No... Don't worry, everything's under control. " My lie caused her eyebrows to touch slightly and if I didn't know her better, I would have known that she was scolding me with that look. " I have to meet with someone to get the map back, that's all. "

          " Who caught you? "

          I smack my lips together, tasting that bile from earlier still lingering between my teeth. " Eris Vanserra. "

          A napkin flows to the stone floor, slipping from Niven's gloved hands. The tension in her body makes her tremble slightly and I see her swallow. " I'll go after the map. "

          I can't hide the surprise written all over my forehead and eyebrows, the only visible parts of my face. " No. Never in a million years. Your familly has already done their part. I'll be the one to do the nasty things from now on. "

          " You're not a spare part of this mission. " Niven bites back, glaring at me furiously. " You can't put yourself in any danger! "

          " I beg your pardon? If anyone has to come out of this hurt or dead, it's me. You have to keep your family under their radar and safe. " 

           " Under their what? " Niven asks skeptically and for a moment I forget that we're not in my old world, where a ' radar ' was a common knowledge. 

          " Under their curious eyes. I lost the map, I'll get it back. " I declare, throwing the silverware back in their baskets.

          Niven rolls her eyes and catches my shoulders between her rather strong palms. " If you die somewhere along the way, we're doomed. You need to get that through your head, Cyan. You die, we all die. Finished. You can't throw yourself around, hoping it'll work out in the end. You must stay alive untill the end. "

          Good God. How do I talk her down of this bullshit? 

          " Look, Eris saw me in those rooms, he knows me, he will only give me the map. Not you, not anyone else. Let me fetch it and then you can do your part of the job. I won't interfere... " 

          I can see her thinking deeply, her eyes moving frantically around the stone chamber, focusing on every small detail of this cold room. Her dark lashes were so long that they were shielding almost completely her eyesight, resting beautifully on her cheeks.

          " Very well. Do what you know you need to do, but it's the last time. " 

          I smile behind my mask and without thinking if anyone could see us, I throw my arms around her, embracing her warmth and the feeling of familiarity. She wanted to carry my burden, but she had her own and for that I could only love her more than I already did.

          It hit me just then how deeply I was about to miss this woman, my sould sister.

𓆩✴𓆪

Author's PoV

          ' The Three Dead Kings are waiting for their Daughter. '

          Somehow, Elain had managed to creep back into his mind, like a persistent trickle of water carving a path through a rock. She hadn't done it on purpose, the lone fae had been tending to her garden all morning: watering, digging holes, moving flowers from place to place. She hadn't sought the attention of anyone in particular, nor had she struck up a conversation with any of them, as if her noisy mind was enough to seek refuge in the peace of her safe space.

          And the winged man, like any respectable spy around town, was content to watch over her from the window of his room, satisfying his need to have her from afar. Even if he was only making a fool of himself, putting salt on a wound he never knew he had.

          In the light of recent events, Azriel understood why she was acting more strangely than before, and that left him with a bruised ego. In the small remnant of hope he had so carefully guarded, the Shadowsinger thought that perhaps, deep down, she was suffering from his dangerous journey, that perhaps she was plagued by worry and dark thoughts, for him, for his safety.

          But he was a selfish prick, utterly blinded by the need to project his desire for belonging onto someone else.

          Azriel huffed from under his black hood, disgusted with himself. If there was one thing he hated more than anything else in the world, it was begging someone for attention. After all, that's what he did for eleven years, trying in vain to win his father's affection and what did he received? A dark, cold cell, under a house full of happy laughs. He despised that with all of his wicked, hollow heart and funny enough, that's what he always found himself doing: begging to eat trash.

          Elain's strange behaviour was later explained: her gifted power demanded to be let out. She kept it under control until she lost her ability to keep it in check. It seems that for both sisters the benefits of becoming Fae came at the cost of less desirable things.

          The sun's head slowly peeked out from behind the Night Court's sacred mountain as he left his chambers. Azriel glanced back many times, his weary eyes resting on the sleeping city he used to call ' home '.  Lately, he wasn't sure if ' home ' was Velaris anymore, ravished by the feeling of not belonging, of missing something he longed for for nearly three hundred years. He understood the message his body was sending: he would rather be away from the House of Wind than with his family.

          He'd left before six in the morning, having been awake from his sinful thoughts since four. He had time to warm up his muscles in the ring for half an hour, then cleaned up and got something to eat. Azriel never said goodbye to anyone, he never did that before a mission. It was what motivated him to keep coming back. 

          Besides, there was no way he could: Cassian was fast asleep, tired of his futile attempts to get Nesta to train and their bickering. Rhys had given him the task of extracting information from Vassa, Jurian and Lucien, which somewhat compensated for the fact that Azriel was now busy with something else. Even Nesta wasn't awake at those hours, his hearing was far too fine and his brave shadow, who often chose to be his companion through sleepless nights, knew everything that went on in the corridors. So the reason the older sister slept late was the delicious wine she stole from Rhysand.

          Two days had passed since he landed in the vast and desolate western continent, two days of hopeless searching, of questions with no answers. The nights weren't any better. He camped in the woods, with no fire to warm his flesh, only his shadows as friends to watch his back. It was good when he could steal thirty minutes of sleep. It was even better when he didn't have that tingling sensation that he was being watched when the night fell. He was thankful that the amber perfume vanished. Amren was right when she told him it will pass. But the one who followed him closely through both cities he visited was another presence, someone who smelled of berries. 

          Azriel ignored it. He wasn't the one to do that with his problems, but he already had too much on his plate. This seemingly deserted land, with all its goods left to rot, was already a threat to his life. 

          The words from Elain's vision were on a loop in his head, keeping him aware, trying to focus on solving that riddle. Amren was contacted in an instance, she was the only one with enough knowledge on this obscure spectrum. After all, she was the one who discovered the fallen woman.

          Squeezing his wings tighter around him, Azriel slipped through the crowded markeplace of Nyzim, the second vilage on his list. He was disgusted every time his massive wing touched another civilian, feeling their filthy clothes brush against the thick membrane. The man tried to think of them as harmless people who hadn't had the good fortune to wash often, due to the lack of water in this place or the lack of hygiene that seemed to be a basic rule here. He tried his best to watch over them with patience and serenity, but it was almost impossible when all he got in return were frowns and dirty looks.

          He'd grown accustomed to the more than shocked, even horrified, stares of the surrounding humans. Still, he thanked himself for the view, and enjoyed the fact that all the people ran away from him, making room for him between the shabby stalls. It was better for his wings.

          With the hood of his cloak pulled low over his piercing eyes, he watched every movement without having the need to turn his head. His shadows waited meekly on his round shoulders, also hidden beneath the black cloak that covered his Illyrian costume and weapons.

          There was no need to ask questions, not always. His loyal companions would bring him all the information he needed, both wanted and unwanted, without him making too many moves that would attract more attention. The squinting looks he received were not uncommon, nor were the mean whispers his braver shadow provided him, coiled in his ear like a domesticated snake.

          Azriel was used to being insulted and treated inhumanely since childhood, so he knew how to fend off all these unspoken attacks, shutting himself behind an iron, impenetrable mask.

          His far too long activity in the field had made him a calculated, well-behaved and, above all, rational man. So the fact that Azriel already passed through two villages without anyone noticing anything out of the ordinary was an expected and already digested knowledge. Nothing surprised him. Azriel also suspected that the palace was already announced by the winged silhouette that haunted the villages around the kingdom and that made him stand stiff as a bow, ready for any approach from the new rulers of the continent.

          Azriel shifts his gaze to the village priest, silently directing his shadows at the old man's temples. The Shadowsinger could sense him from a few metres away, even without the aid of his dark tongues. He noticed his slippery hands, his red nose and the rhythmic ticking of his head: a chronic drinker who had suffered a heart attack. He also seemed to love the villagers' money more than his children, who lay barefoot and dirty around him.

          The shadow came back unnoticed, rippling faintly in the damp atmosphere. Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing the base of his nose. No one sensed a change in time, no one noticed a woman who didn't belong, no one slept more than usual on any given night, and no one smelled the haunting scent of amber. 

          The other day, he sat for hours on several rooftops, enveloped in total darkness, listening, analysing, sending several shadows around the place, inside these people's houses, intruding their privacy, searching under every rock, only to find nothing. He realised soon after that this was not the place he was looking for.

          All the women looked the same: pale, hungry and dirty. He even read statistics about the female population of Hybern, looking for a pattern to help him distinguish the one he was looking for from the rest. They all had brunette features: dark-haired, tall and well formed enough to carry the hard work of the field, brown or black eyes and their foreheads wrinkled with worry. Many couldn't read or speak, all had two or three children behind them, and when Azriel tried to read their minds, they seemed just as confused and burdened by their daily lives. His attention was heightened when he spotted a rare blonde, and watched her with interest, but soon realised that her energetic imprint was deeply rooted in this place.

          It was harder than he expected.

          Amren tried several solutions to the problem of finding the woman. She searched hard for spells and even insisted on bringing Nesta to help them, relying on her connection to the Cauldron. To no avail, for they had absolutely nothing that belonged to the stranger, and since she was apparently not yet 'formed', as Amren had put it, they could not track her at all. She could be in the depths of Hel itself, they wouldn't know, and they couldn't help her.

          For once, luck had somehow smiled upon them. When Elain appeared the other day, at exactly seven in the morning, hands raised above her head as if waiting for a ray of sunshine to slip through her slender fingers, everyone seemed to be biting their tongues. Her eyes were filled with a bright white smoke and her face was set in a grimace of satisfaction. It was as much relieving as it was terrifying. Her voice had taken on that mystical hue as she pronounced the syllables, thickening a few octaves and capturing a shuddering effect on all who wittnesed the event. Even his shadows went mad, swirling around him like a dizzy vortex.

          " When the remaining ruins bathe in her blood and the Onix Oasis cries out her name, the earth's womb will open and darkness will flow. She leaves with a promise, returning with a crown carved from the ancient bones of her fathers. There are three dead kings waiting for their daughter. "

          Azriel was there to catch her when she collapsed, exhausted of her own strength, touching her almost tenderly on her cold, supine cheeks, silently encouraging her. Rhys was the first to prick his mind, waking him from his reverie. He felt as if someone had thrown cold water on him.

          This prophecy was bigger than the ones she had uttered before, broader, more difficult. Everyone in the room knew what it was about, or rather who it was about: the Comet Woman. Amren almost danced with joy, glad to have something new to decipher, like a dog with a bone, running to find everything she could while the sentence was still fresh.

          The dreary weather in Hybern did nothing to improve his low morale.He couldn't understand how people could live in such conditions, without natural sunlight, without colourful, ripened fruit. Azriel slipped nimbly through a group of men, tempted to grab an apple from a blind woman's stall. He reached for his silver coins and took three between his gloved fingers, more than necessary, and threw them on the woman's counter, so that she could hear the clink of each coin.

          " It's too much. " She mutters hoarsely, seeming to watch him very closely with her strange, purple, parasitic pupils. " The guards will come and collect them if I make more than what my shop has to offer. "

          Azriel considered the old woman for a while, his whiskey-like eyes boring into those of the fourth-aged lady. A strange smell rose to his nose, old and pungent, of medicine and strange potions. Berries, he sensed, but it seemed highly unlikely that a sixty something woman could follow him through the forest. Her wavy white hair was covered by a wool hat and she had several layers of blankets and petticoats folded on her back.

          " If they come, tell them that I stole from you. They'll be too busy coming after a thief and you can take some of your food back home. "

          " Then be a good boy and cover me. " The old woman gave him a wry smile and took the money from the counter, stuffing some of her vegetables back inside her rusty bag.

          Azriel used his magic to darken their position, creating a nice glamour for those around. " Go now, and keep your pets close, there's something bad waiting at the end of your journey. "

          The man didn't have time to process as some children's cries pierced his sensitive ears, causing him to nod in the direction of the sounds. He turned back to the mysterious woman, trying to get more information from her, but the place where she stood only moments ago, behind the stall, was now empty.

          Azriel clenched his fists, calling upon every rational cell of his body. The shadows hidden beneath his travelling robes murmured, equally dazed, unable to sense the old woman's aura. The situation was uncomfortable for a spy, as if he were talking to a ghost. But it was impossible, the conversation had taken place, all her vegetables and fruit lay untouched in baskets, but the furs and money were gone, as was the smell of dead leaves and berries. 

          Maybe she was the one following him, after all.

          The people around eyed him. Azriel felt like an animal in a cage. An imaginary circle formed around him, like a shield, which everyone tactically avoided, not wanting to challenge him.

          " Have you seen the woman sitting here? " Azriel directed a question towards the peasant sitting right across him.

          The man he was addressing quickly went from shock to horror and backed away a little. With outstretched hands he reached for a knife hidden under the counter and whispered, " No one was ever here, sir. "

          Azriel looked shaken and took a few minutes to recalibrate. Since the comet had fallen, the universe seemed even more enraged against Azriel's being, as if what he had to endure was not enough. He nodded resignedly, trying to maintain an outward calm. How did she vanish into thin air? He couldn't ever trace her using her stench.

          There were few things that stretched his patience to the limit, and being taken for a fool was one of them. He had no idea who the old woman was or what she was trying to tell him. Maybe she was a spy for the kingdom, maybe she was a witch, or maybe she was just a simple woman trying to play a trick on a man who had shown her a mediocre amount of kindness. That seemed to be the pattern in these places.

          He hurried his pace, eager to escape this damned village as quickly as possible. This place was forgotten by the saints.

          Next on his list was Thaibar, a few kilometres to the east, a distance he quickly decided to cover on foot, hoping that he might still find something interesting, something that would lead him to the woman. 

          Amren mentioned that the place where the comet struck should be turned into a monument of some kind, from which ancient magic would flow. It could be anything: a temple, an oasis, a hole, anything energetically charged to the brim. Azriel relied on his senses to locate the place, but nothing of this magnitude had appeared. Surely the one who had fallen was no longer there, if she was conscious and able to walk. Even though they had speculated that time had looped around her to help her survive, her unharmedness was not a certainty.

          Azriel crossed the dense forest that separated Nizym from Thaibar without incident, allowing his shadows to spread freely between the slender trunks of the trees. He enjoyed the oppressive silence that hung over the thin branches, using this hour of travel as a kind of mini-vacation before facing the outside world. A few metres to the right lay a vast and barren plain, as if the earth had been cursed so that no fruit would live long in this area. 

          He came to a halt and frowned, feeling like there was something amiss with that meadow. There was something... peculiar in the air, as if the dust particles were full of their own life, floating into those little rays of sunshine, bathing in that small, warm glow. Azriel could hear it, buzzing like a million bees in the distance, like a song hummed by the birds. The Shadowsinger was suddenly overcome with serenity, his companions danced around him, thrilled by the same mute music. But there was nothing on that field, only a lonely dogwood tree marking the middle of the land.

          Azriel knew in that second that this was the place he was looking for, Thaibar.

          He became slightly optimistic, bewitched by that intense feeling.

          The trees, no matter how many they were, were thin and dry inside, with few leaves hanging almost withered from the branches. He removed his hood for a few seconds, letting his brunette hair fall loosely on his forehead and bravely looked around. Listening carefully, he came to the interesting conclusion that this forest was home to an impressive number of animals: bears, wolves, foxes, squirrels, including snakes, as if they had all been attracted by something. 

          Azriel became interested in this place, sending a silent question to his shadows that now stretched across the forest, hidden in every dark corner. One thousand three hundred species of animals had left their hibernation and come here almost a month ago. A time that coincided perfectly with the Summer Solstice and the fall of the comet. Most of these wild animals were female. 

          However, they had not attacked, killed or caused any harm to each other, living in total harmony. Perhaps even the people of the village were unaware of the danger that lurked in the forest. Maybe they had just gathered here to watch, to... protect?

          As he approached the edge of the forest, Azriel noticed the dense mixture of smells in this place. Nearly a hundred people had gathered here, repeatedly. The yellowed grass was stuck to the wet ground, trampled as if someone had been dancing here for hours. In the centre were the logs of a campfire, with many more improvised chairs and to the left was a thick tree trunk, cut in two and placed in the shape of a table.

         He walked around a few times, looking at the area where the party had been held, noting in his mind that it had been held near the edge of the forest, avoiding the dense part of the woods as if they knew it was not a safe place at night. Azriel stopped, planting his heavy, muddy boots on the ground. The murmur of his shadows suddenly died in his ears, as if they felt the same thing as their master. He took a few steps back, careful not to tarnish what he felt.

          Azriel felt the blow in his neck before it reached his lungs. He took a deep breath, sniffing again and again, trying to kick some ration into himself. He tried to convince his body that it was not true, that someone was still spying on him, tricking him, but there it was, that devilish, atrocious smell.

          But instead, it was his brave shadow that admitted it: Green, green amber...

          Those tongue made of darkness dissipated around him and took the form of a person, a woman, a few metres in front of him, small and faceless. He felt a pressure settle on his chest, heavy and poisonous, bringing Azriel's bad temper to the surface. He swallowed hard and spun around his shadows, as if to imprint on his retina the body of someone he had not yet met, of that someone who haunted him nights after nights. Only then, amidst the mixture of grass, flowers, jasmine and ashes, did he detect the distinct scent of amber. The perfume that held his nightmares on a leash, who ruled over his mind for far too long, this woman was the one who, for who knows what reason, had sneaked into his house and stolen from him: his knife and his sanity. 

          Azriel wanted them back.

          The man could barely contain the hatred and contempt that was now rising in his chest, as if it would overtake any logical thoughts. This woman would be brought to justice, with the same cruelty with which she commanded over his restless nights.

          As he left the place, he tried to unravel the traces of other people's scents one by one, to follow only the amber, like a mad dog on the hunt. The scent did not go very far, stopping at a more secluded farm on the crest of a hill. He glanced cautiously at the lone woman going about her work through the fence, quietly carrying several sacks of flour, unaware of Azriel's dangerous presence.

          It's not her. One of the shadows spoke harshly, wrapping itself around his muscled forearm as if to stop him from slaughtering anyone on sight.

          The truth was that the man's mind was drowning. Amber floated everywhere around the farm, like a shield, trying to protect the houses from any unknown, uninvited guest. He could see all the routes that woman had taken inside and outside the farm, which houses she entered and which stables she visited. Azriel watched the tall mare graze peacefully, black as night and shining like a lucky fish just caught from the river. His gaze was immediately drawn to her companion, a grey cat, thin and attentive to everything that moved around her, carefully watching everything that happened around the mare as if she were her protector. 

          A shiver ran down his spine as the small animal suddenly turned its questioning gaze on him, as if to ask him what he was doing in her territory.

          What piqued his interest was the fact that both the mare and the cat were wrapped in the scent of amber and bergamot, as if they belonged to the one Azriel was looking for.

          The Shadowsinger had too many thoughts in his head, he couldn't find any logic in any of them either, his mind too foggy and heavy. By the Mother, he was going to snap. This was where the woman in question lived, these people had brought her here and taken care of an unknown woman. But why? How much trust can you put in a stranger? It is not difficult to recognise a person who does not belong to the place, so how did this part of the story unfold? Azriel suspected it was much more than an act of kindness.

          A muscle in his jaw twitched at the thought that maybe they weren't the only ones who knew about the woman's identity, what she was supposed to become and what powers she could gain. If that was the reason, it was clear who had already earned the individual's trust.

          " Sir? " A soft voice addressed him, " Are you all right? What are you looking for? "

          The woman who took care of the farm, who had been watching him from a few metres away, had noticed him sitting there, staring at her awkwardly. Her small face was elegant with determination written all over her delicate features, but she was too pale and rather ill-looking. The woman was about forty years old, she had a palpable tension in her forehead and her fingers were clenched, ready to strike if necessary. She was gifted with a subtle maternal air and a special gentleness, it felt like flowers could bloom only by her touch only. She didn't approve of his presence so close to her own home and was about to pull out her claws. Azriel appreciated her ferocity.

          " I was wondering if you could show me where the palace is. " Azriel spoke in a steady tone, " I think I got a little lost on the way. "

          The man knew he couldn't trick her, not when she was watching him like she was about to bit his head off if he made a wrong movement. Azriel bowed his head, trying to show her that he was no threat to her. 

          " I find it rather hard to miss it, with those... wings attached to your back you can spot it easily from a distance. " There was no fear in her tender eyes, only vigilance. Azriel looked at her for a long time, reading her from the inside to the outside, noticing the sorrow that had settled over her features, deepening the slight wrinkles, along with another feeling, helplesness. She looked him in the eyes and smiled with restraint as she pointed to the barren plains and some distant towers beyond. " But I'll endulge you, sir. You should also know that people around Thaibar are not fond of your kind, maybe you should watch your back. "

           " It means you can understand why I can't use my wings to my liking. Arrows are hard to duck and even harder to get out. "

          " My son is a good archer. " 

          " Do you have any other child good with bows and arrows? " Azriel dared to ask, sensing the warning in her tone.

          " Three, actually, all very skilled in their own way. " The woman hapilly announced, ready to return in the safety of her garden.

          " All yours, I supose... " The man made a simple guess, trying to find more about where the stranger could live.

          " Born with blood and sweat. Mine. " She smiled, but that smile never touched her eyes completely. For Azriel was enough of a sign.

         " Then I shouldn't keep you from your duties any longer, have a nice day, madam. " 

          The woman only bowed her head, then returned slowly inside her house. Azriel knew she was watching from her window. 

          Also, there was something else laced around her being, something he grew familiar sincer Elain became a fae. The same trace of magic linked them both, the same tormenting and sad air enveloped around them: a seer? Azriel raised his eyebrows in surprise, but it was the grey cat that surprised him most, scrutinising him with her yellow eyes. She stood inches away from his boots, sniffing him. Azriel could swear the animal was frowning as well.

          The shadows deepend, trying to get closer to that strange cat that now started to circle him. Azriel ordered his companions to retreat, but that brave one came too close to the cat's round head and tugget at its sharp ear. The animal spat, surprised by the sudden attack and bared its claws.

          Azriel chuckled, leaning down. " I'm so sorry for their behaviour, they're not used to meeting cats very often. ". He tries to pet it, but to no avail, the cat was already running away, frightened by his shadows. " You should tell your master I'm coming for her. "

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

           " What do you know of the Deadly Nightshade? " Aoife's voice echoed in the basement room where most of the palace's laundry was washed.

          It was a small chamber, barely big enough for the five of us who gathered to change in the smelly uniforms of the palace guards. They reeked of fermented sweat and rusted iron, and the metal cuffs pinched your skin as you pulled them on. Kallus had the idea, thinking it would be much better if we covered our own scent not only with what was left of my potion, but with the unwashed stench of fae men.

          " What would a blonde like you want with the Nightshade? " Nimue cringed, her thick lashes framing her lilac pupils perfectly. " It's deadly. "

          The witch stood with her back straight as if it was nailed into the wall. Her lilac and herbs perfume wafted through the room like an aphrodisiac, overpowering the other, more disgusting scents. I move a little closer to her, the nothing in my stomach ready to spill up my throat at any moment, and take a deep breath. Not only did these clothes stink, but they were sticky and stained with God knows what.

          " Did you touch it? " I ask her worriedly, looking at her smooth palms. " I hope you didn't put your hands in your mouth afterwards. "

          Niven raises her eyebrows and leans into a corner, her oversized black shirt half unbuttoned, straining to tie a cord around her waist. Kallus is silent, only poking his head out from behind the curtain we have improvised to change in as much privacy as possible. The man looks at her questioningly, as if guessing what she's thinking, but his mouth remains tight.  

          " I didn't touch it. I was just asking about it. " Her plucked eyebrows rose up to her unwrinkled forehead, scolding us. " I happen to have it in my garden, I want to know if I should use it in my tea or not. "

          The young woman looked like a deity poured down from heaven in the light provided by a few bitter candles. Even tired from a full day's work of washing the stinking clothes of the castle's inhabitants, her hair, tucked under that ugly hat, looked just as shiny, her complexion just as clean, and her blue eyes darkened by a few shades.

          " We're breaking into a prison and you want to ask about tea? " Niven's smile spreads across her sweaty face. " Are you nervous? "

          Aoife is silent for a while, looking at me, threatening me not to open my mouth, not to explain more than necessary. There was a glimmer of hope in her sky-blue eyes, a glimmer that I didn't want anyone to extinguish. I suspected that the maid who had witnessed the humiliation during dinner had already informed the blonde that Draegan had asked her back to his bed, but I didn't know that she knew I had been there and that I was technically supposed to take her place tomorrow night. The real problem was that she had no way of stopping him other than letting him fall asleep and sneaking out of the room untouched. I didn't even know what I was going to do tomorrow night, the thought left me completely cold and empty. I hoped he would see my naked body and squirm and then let me go. But Aoife might have a much better idea, one that we could both do in secret.

          That pain in my chest comes back, as if my heart is detached from the surrounding organs and falls into an endless void. Both men looked at me tonight like a zoo animal: one with a pair of eyes that had killed me so many times, and one with a hope that brought me back. Eris had sacrificed another human for me. I had sacrificed someone else for my own goals, which I put above all else. That's not what I was supposed to do here, I wasn't supposed to kill them, I was supposed to save them. And yet the first innocent life had just been lost because of me.

          " I'm stressed when we have to steal from the most dangerous, unpredictable, mad-man in the continent, yes. " Aoife puts her hands on her hips, perfectly hiding the fear she knows she wears on her body like a coat.

          " Atropa Belladonna is deadly, in the right dose. " I explain, pulling those huge, man-made pants up my thighs. " If you use too little, it can cause paralysis, pain, vomiting, muscle cramps, all sorts of horrible symptoms. "

          Nimue throws her fierce eyes at me and crosses her hands on her chest. " You finally made your homework? Is it from those books you've been stealing from me? " 

          " I borrowed them and yes, I learned from them. A lot actually. " 

          The witch's smile spreads like a serpentine river across her thin, almost proud face. " I knew you were a good thief. But I wonder how you got that map. I wonder what you paid. "

          Even though we had become close in a very strange way, there was this... awkwards connection between us, laced with bitterness, a hint of animosity and trust. Nimue still looked at me like I was about to grow a second head. But the good things had come after she'd saved us from Thaibar that day, when all the guards were looking for Aoife. I still wished I knew the limits of her powers, what kind of witch she was, if there was such a thing, what she could do, and if I could learn more from her than just potions and rituals, if I could steal some raw magic.

          Niven glares at me, holding the huge helmet under her arm, then drops her head. She knew about Eris, about him catching me with the map in Draegan's bedroom, and she also knew that I'd met him to take it back. She also knew what he'd asked for in return, and she knew that I approved. But I gained so much more: crucial information. Eris had told me that the prison still wasn't on very good terms with Draegan, and that they didn't approve of his leadership over the kingdom, which is why it would have been easy to get in, based on the fact that they wanted to get rid of certain prisoners he had also sent there. In addition, Eris had secretly stamped the letter Kallus was holding, requesting the release of a prisoner for a short period of time.

          Little did he know that the ultimate price was a woman's life. Outrageous or not, part of me was glad that someone had gone to such lengths to keep me out of Draegan's fingers. The other part felt a dark cloud over her head, like an impending curse about to break in her temples: she would pay for the death of an innocent life. I would have gladly paid anything if I knew it would have saved me a quarter of this suffocating feeling.

          I don't know what I was dreaming about, I don't even know why I had such high expectations. Whenever I read romance novels and the protagonist mentioned that she was breathless when she saw him, I preferred to roll my eyes and say that she was easily impressed. I had a bad habit of thinking that I would be harder to surprise, that I wouldn't be so easily struck by the beauty of anyone, male or female. All my life I have been firmly convinced that there is no such thing as a perfect human being, that this concept is really in the eye of the beholder, the one who describes or paints a muse who for him or her represents the sum total of subjectively excellent qualities.

          That's what I like to think about all these characters I read about in fantasy books. From the first day I started working at the palace, I had noticed how flawless these supernatural creatures could look: fine complexions, shining like porcelain, pointed ears, silky, shiny hair, dazzling eyes, full or thin lips, tall, athletic, well-shaped bodies, with roundness where it belonged and an appropriate amount of muscles, with a slightly icy aura about them, as if they refrained from blinding us with their natural light.

          I got used to all that. Then came Eris Vanserra. Nothing but cool and cheeky flirtation, wide grin, fiery brown eyes full of promises, high cheekbones with thin, tight lips, slim waist with just the right amount of muscle in the places that mattered. He smelled of nutmeg and the fires we made in the forest of Thaibar, and he dressed exactly as an heir to the throne should. He was unexpected in every way. The misunderstood anti-hero turned pale when he returned the map to me and I told him I trusted him enough to explain why I needed the map. I don't know if it was the fact that I had the courage to put my trust in his hands that shocked him the most, or if it was my idea to break into Hybern's prison to free one of its most dangerous prisoners. But I could feel his temper change, as if for the first time someone had placed their life in his hands and he was afraid not to break it.

         Well, I was impressed with Eris and what he did to protect me as best he could. But the winged one had me head over heels after I saw him once. And my infatuation cooled as quickly as it came.

          If I had butterflies in my stomach seeing Eris so close, Azriel made me hold my breath. No, literally lose it. And with my breath I lost my logic, my train of thought, forgot where I was and what I was doing, what I was saying. I felt no dopamine coursing through my bloodstream, just a tremendous desire to impress. A blanket of silence had settled around me at that moment, my ears were completely sunk in and all my attention was focused on him, my body was painfully numb and any emotion had been silenced. It was as if I was in that oasis I had fallen into for the second time a month ago, completely calm and at peace. Yet I had been as dumb as a virgin in front of the most beautiful man I had seen in two worlds. He spoke to me, but I ignored him. I didn't have a good enough sentence to say to him. I could have given him a sign, pulled him aside, asked him to help me.

          I couldn't even look him in the eye. And I didn't want to. They melted and froze me in the few seconds I allowed myself that luxury.

          He was so tall and imposing, so grandly contoured, painstakingly carved as if by two right, expert hands, merciless to those who might see him and be blinded by his beauty. He had a strong chin and a sharp jaw, lips full enough to be kissed if the opportunity arose, with a Cupid's bow cut roughly to perfection. All framed by wide, slightly arched eyebrows and thick, glossy black hair that grew slightly over the ears and high forehead. The piece de resistance were undoubtedly the eyes: hard, enigmatic, surprisingly gentle, yet agile and unforgiving, quick to take in every detail, like whiskey through a glass in a smoldering fire, like amber unraveling in the sun's rays.

          Not to mention that I shuddered at the sight of his famous shadows. They weren't just shadows, they were more than that. They were like slippery tongues of darkness, rising and dissipating like smoke, concentrated at a particular point on his intensely forged body, playful and subtle, the more you looked at them, the more you realized that they were living elements, with a consciousness of their own, capable of inflicting wounds like any sharp knife. I could feel them studying me closely, as if they wanted to take a close look inside my mind. They sniffed at me like guard dogs, eager to protect their master from any threat. Fear gripped me as I noticed them moving around my waist, where I held the dagger I had stolen in my dream. Fortunately, I retreated in time, or I fear they would have shreded my clothes there to see what I was hiding and how deadly it was.

          I had decided by then, however, that I would not be approaching Azriel anytime soon. I didn't have the courage, not after seeing his monstrous wings rise like mountains from his back: black and violently muscled, with scars and bony fangs piercing painfully through the shiny wing membrane.

          I don't know what I expected from him. The same protection Eris had offered me so quickly and without question? More attention? If I was the main character in this story and had to help this world, that didn't mean I was a beauty, that such an imposing man with so many other options would notice me. I sighed inwardly as I realized how ridiculous I was, trapped in my own fantasy with him. But I already knew he was taken. I knew his heart belonged to someone else, and there was no way I could compete with a beauty like Elain, even though I hadn't seen her yet and didn't know if I ever would. So, with an empty heart, I put aside whatever love subplot might have happened during my journey here and moved on.

          Then, during dinner, when he looked at me so disappointed, so silent and angry, like a father who disagrees with his daughter's actions, I felt like the sky was cracking in my head. It was as if he was expecting me, a mere servant to do something, to save them. Did he realize that I didn't belong in this place?

          I had still hoped that he would somehow save the day, as he had at the meeting of the High Lords, when he defended Feyre, or when he freed Elain, or when he saved Gwyn from Sangravah. I had waited for him to intervene when Draegan slapped the first handmaiden, when he invited the second into his bed, when he kissed me disgustingly, or when he killed the fourth. But none of that happened, and I returned his gaze just as sourly, allowing myself to watch him as disappointedly as he had studied me for minutes.

          " Nimue, it doesn't make any changes to the plan if we know how Cyan got the map. " Kallus talks slowly, pulling me violently from the thoughts that had gripped me like ivy. " We should go over the details again if we want everything to work. "

          " I have another, I'd say good question, if Kallus allows me to make assumptions: how much can we trust the information that you heard from Eris Vanserra? " Nimue helps me strap something to my arms, the same suspicion lacing her words. " They say their lineage is descended from foxes. How much can you trust a fox? "

          " It's all the information we have in a time that's running out too fast. My father has heard the gossip from the continent: that Cyan's landing has brought anomalies to the surface that others consider the end of the world. " Niven mumbles worriedly, tucking her map into her armor. " Many say the Devourer rebels in his tomb between worlds, others that a Dark King stirs the forests and lakes between the continents. "

          " It means they felt it too. " Aoife whispers, staring into the flame.

          " The Night Court also sent his Spymaster here. " Nimue spoke again, considering me. " It means they might suspect something is wrong too. "

          " The Shadowsinger is the one we should fear, not Vanserra. " Kallus concluded, not taking his eyes off Nimue. " He hears and feels things no one else can, he might have sensed the change in the atmosphere and it took some time to find the place the energetic charge came from. It won't take him long to find us, to find you, Cyan. "

          " The one from the other world surely knows your fate. " Nimue concluded, clenching her fists. " Amren. "

          Amren, of course, how could I forget her. She had been... something, something very powerful before she died and was brought to life in the books. An angel, most readers in the other world suspected. She should have been the first to figure out what was going on and how to find me. That's exactly why I shouldn't have been afraid of them, especially if they were trying to find me, maybe they wanted to help me.

          " We must find this woman and save her. If there's anything left to save. " Kallus rubs his overgrown beard and looks sternly at Nimue, a whole conversation unfolding between them. "I looked some more and managed to find her name: Malou - the Bloody Blade. "

          " That Bloody Blade? " Nimue asks sternly and it's the first time I see her shocked by something.

          We all look at each other, dazed, as if a ghost had suddenly came among us, as cold as a raging winter, entering our bones. The candlelight dances and I can feel the strands of hair that washed over my face dancing in front of my eyes. I stare at the door, expecting some huge creature to enter and crush us all. For minutes we are silent, aware of each other's presence, but no one steps through the door.

          " The temperature has dropped, do you feel it? " Niven asks, pulling the sweaty armor closer.

          " There's a spirit with us. " Nimue concludes, closing her eyes and extending her palms. " It's harmless, but she wants to listen. "

          " Who is it? " Aoife asks, drawing a piece of cloth over her shoulders.

          " The last true, living Valkyrie is with us. " Kallus sighs, happiness filling his features.

          " Is she the one we're going after? " I ask, overcome with adrenaline and excitement. " Why is she a spirit? "

          I feel her surrounding me, like a curtain fluttering in the wind, almost suffocating me. I feel her unpleasant eyes on the back of my neck, sniffing me. I feel compelled to stand as straight as a tree..

          " One of their most important powers was their ability to cultivate different elements around them to improve their own strength. It's called Cultivation, it's a sub-power of Thriving, something only an extinct cult could do. It gives the wielder enough power to astral project. The Valkyries and the Eyes of the Mother were closely related, being the protectors of the Mother herself. But a group of beings brought their downfall far too many years ago. " Nimue explained as she looked around, as if she could see the silhouette of the one walking freely among us.

          " If she is Malou and still has this ability, it means -" Kallus was interrupted by Nimue, who smiled triumphantly.

          " That she's still in contact with one of the Eyes. It means one more is alive and waiting. " 

          " Do we have to find her too? " I ask enthusiastically.

          " Only Malou can lead you to the last of the Eyes. They share a bond that allows them to use their co-dependent magic. " Nimue explains, equally excited as she looks at all of us. " That's how she survived all these centuries... It's wonderful... You were right Kallus, there is hope for us. "

          " After everything is over, we'll celebrate. " Kallus allowed himself to chuckle softly in that darkness, and with that, I allowed myself to feel joy as well.

         We can do it. We can get out alive.

          With that hope still imprinted in all five of us, we quickly recapped the plan we were supposed to follow. Aoife had been another important part of it, bringing us another item we couldn't have gotten into the prison without: the key. It was a single one, made of a hard, black material that would open all the cells. There were several sections in the prison, categorized according to the danger level of the creatures imprisoned there. So all the wardens had one. The problem was that we didn't know exactly at which level we could find Malou.

          Kallus suspected that she was in section 'S', the highest level of security, where the walls were carved with runes on the inside, preventing any magic, designed to weaken the inmate himself. They fed off their life force, their energy, their powers, so they were always on and they never failed. That's why we had Nimue, who had been working for days on a symbol and the ink we needed to use. It was a diamond with elongated corners cut by a straight line in the middle. I'd seen it before in the other world, used by self-entitled witches on the internet. I'd used it myself, but it never worked.

          Kallus was to provide transportation from the prison to the palace and then to the farm. Then, right after all that, we were to run away with Aoife's uncle. That evening. Malou was supposed to be one of the most important prisoners Hybern had kept forgotten in a dungeon for so long, and her absence the next day would set off a lot of alarm bells.

          " May we not shrink from our purpose. " Kallus whispered, looking at Niven with his sad, green eyes, now shining like emeralds in the candlelight.

          " May we not falter under darkness's terror. " Niven goes on, grave as a tombstone, looking at her father as seriously as if she felt this was the last road.

          " May we finally rest when we are claimed. " Nimue seemed to end, placing the palm of her long-nailed hand over her heart in a final prayer to anyone who would listen.

          Aoife lowered her head, respecting the silence and the prayer they had said for all of us. There's no stopping us now as we sneak out the door, finally ready to finish what we started a month ago.

          After everyone has left the laundry room, I stop Aoife with a hand on her shoulder. " Brew this tea tonight and put a cup in his wine. It should kill a man in less than ten minutes. I don't know what effect Nightshade has on faes, so you might want to add another cup just to be sure. And whatever happens tonight, don't let him touch you or the other girl. " I whisper and hand Aoife the most precious thing I had with me, the black leather sheathed dagger I had stolen in my dream.

          " How do you know I have it on me? " Aoife looks at me puzzled and taps her apron pocket.

          " No offense, but you smell like dead rats and you have pink stains on your shirt. Nimue know you have it, too. So don't falter tonight. " I place my hand on her cheek, encouraging her, and walk away.

          As if she didn't know us, Nimue quickly sneaks back to her hiding place on the ground floor of the palace, where the doctor's office is. Her purple velvet gown covers her hips, swaing them as elegantly as a proud cat. Kallus and Niven retrieved their swords and set off in that robotic way we saw the guards walk.

          A sudden pull binds my legs and stops me in my tracks. For a few seconds I am unbalanced, pulled down by the weight of the armor. Tingles spread across my shoulders, as if thousands of butterflies had flapped their fine wings against my cold skin, and suddenly I realize why.

          " I've seen you before. " A deep, deadly voice speaks a few steps behind me. 

          I turn a fraction of an inch and see him again, the same man of my dreams, the same man I had lusted after not only in the other world, but here too. He grabbed Nimue harshly by the arm and demanded answers. Azriel was a few heads taller than the brunette, broader in the shoulders, and this time he was clean, his Illyrian skins now washed. He felt me watching him like a hungry animal and turned his head to me far too slowly, defiantly. Azriel had something murderous written all over his face, and he focused all his attention on me.

          " In your dreams, maybe. " Nimue answers proudly, unnafected by the Spymaster.

          My legs are racing, and with them my heart, as if they were competing to see who could go the furthest. All this infatuation mixed with disappointment and hatred and anger, and even though I knew that I shouldn't blame him for the girl who lost her life, but myself, my expectations demanded more and more from someone I didn't know at all. Azriel had his reasons for being here, and the way he was looking at me right now, I had a feeling it wouldn't be long before he realized who I was.

          Once we reach the stables, Kallus uncovers the imperial carriage the guards used to transport the prisoners. " I have been looking for one of these all day. Get in, I'll talk if anyone asks too many questions."

          Outside it was raining heavily, loudly and violently, like a bad omen, and suddenly I felt the need to be held, to be protected and to hide.

          " Wait! " I shout, stopping them before they get into the pitch-black carriage. The two horses whine and kick their hooves, but I don't hesitate as I throw myself into their arms like it was the last time. " No matter what happens tonight, I have the utmost respect for your family, Kallus, you have helped me more than others have in a lifetime, and I will forever cherish what you gave me: another chance. "

         " Don't say goodbye. " Niven whispers and I can feel those tears straining her soft voice. " This is not a goodbye, Cyan. We'll make it. "

          " I know. But I feel like I never had a chance to thank you and tell you that you have a place in my heart forever. " The hole in my stomach grows bigger and I regret that I can't say 'I love you' to these people, but I hope they read between my words. 

          " I love you like my own child and I would do anything for you, Cyan. We'll make it through the night. " Kallus says in a final tone, sucking back his own tears. " Now hurry before someone sees some guards bonding in the barn. "

          As Niven and I go to close the door, someone calls after us. " Chief Carambian, head of palace security. Identify yourself and your purpose in taking a royal carriage. "

        Kallus presents a paper, torn and signed, then speaks in a deep, dark voice I have never heard before. " The king requests that a prisoner be brought to the palace. Tonight. " 

          Through the open window of the carriage, I watch the other man carefully read the letter and then approve it. " You have clear path. "

         We stop stalling and set off at a fast pace. The horses gallop furiously through the backyard, stopping only for a few seconds, while Kallus is forced to show the false letter to the guards at the gates. The prison is a few miles away, in the opposite direction from Thaibar, hidden in the woods. At this late hour, only the lanterns attached to the cart illuminated the beaten path. The trees seemed taller and more menacing than those in the forest near Thaibar. Many of them had no leaves at all, just twisted trunks, as if they were in pain and had no one to comfort them. Outside it was still pouring heavily, soaking the path and making it slippery as Kallus turned. It smelled of wet leaves, cold and muddy, and the silence was so ingrained among the long branches that we were the only ones to break the seemingly sacred silence.

          We had that hope that we would make it tonight, that the first step of our plan would happen without anyone getting in our way. Even though my breath came in short and quick, like an asthma attack, even though the feeling of impending doom seemed to creep over my skin, the adrenaline I felt was more alive than anything else, burning my body from the inside out. I don't know how Kallus was able to stay out in the pouring rain, but he assured us that it was better for him to drive alone; too many people would have drawn attention to us.

          Sleep soothed my eyes, but I couldn't close them, I was too full of conflicting feelings. I don't even know what time it was, one, two in the morning? By now Aoife must have been in the imperial bedroom, pouring poison into glasses. The thought provokes a physical reaction of nausea in me, so I glance at Niven out of the corner of my eye to reassure myself. She's asleep, head down on the opposite couch, mouth open. She slept the entire twenty minutes we'd made it from the palace to the middle of this wilderness.

          There is a knocking on the metal roof of the carriage and Kallus calls from outside: " It's time, girls. "

         " Wake up, Nivy, we're here. " I shake Niven gently, pulling her hair away from her face and helping her out of her dream's grip.

          " I'm up. I'm up. " She mumbles, wiping the saliva from the corners of her mouth and pulling her hood over her head. " How long have I been out? "

          " Barely twenty minutes. " I answer as I open the door and jump onto the earth. A wet sound comes from the impact and I dive a little into the mud.

          " Here, take the declaration and Nimue's ink. You remember the sigil, right? " Kallus jumps out of the driver's seat as well, pulling all the tools out of his pockets, then continues when I nod. " Whatever you do, whatever they ask you, just say that Draegan sent you and that if they have anything to say about it, to come to the castle for answers. Malou might be in the last cells, just ask them to show you the Valkyrie. I'll wait for you in the carriage and keep an eye out. You have to understand that if you reach the basement level and something bad happens, you'll most likely be trapped down there. Move quickly and stay alive. Let's hope our Valkyrie is holding strong. "

          We both nodded, then poured what was left of my potion down our throats, then added a second one that Nimue had made to glamorize us. We needed to sound and look like men, not two twenty-year-old girls, so Nimue had prepared two extra bottles. I don't know how long her magic lasted, but I guessed no more than an hour or two, so we had to move very quickly.

          As far as I knew, there were two parts to the prison, the above-ground part, where the humans or not-so-dangerous prisoners were kept, and the underground part, where all the creatures and nightmares we were supposed to run away from were trapped.

          " May we not falter... " Niven whispers as we step out, away from the cover provided by the trees, and thousands of crossbows are aimed at our heads from the outer wall of the prison.

          " Amen!... " I mutter, already frightened.

          We advanced robotically, with the spears we had obtained from the palace in full view and with our backs straight. There was no turning back. The rain pelted down hard and furiously, seeping through the seams of our armor and soaking into the sweaters we had put on underneath to make us look more massive. Huge drops of water made a disconcerting sound as they made contact with the obsidian on our shoulder blades and helmet crest. The boots, five sizes too big, were playing havoc with my legs and the soles of my feet were already getting wet from the puddle that was forming beneath us by the second. Niven was no better, only a head taller than me, but much, much skinnier. She'd needed two pairs of pants and two blouses to fill the armor to the brim.

          " Legitimize yourself! " A voice shouts out of nowhere as we reach the huge gate. On the outside, it is lit only by two massive torches, which illuminate the rusty and bleeding spears coming out of the gate.

           I could feel the magic sweeping over me, from my ankles to the top of my head, raising my temperature and sharpening my vision. I felt more massive, as if I had grown a few inches taller, but also heavier, as if I had gained weight. I could feel my jaw tingling under the balaclava, and was surprised to find that I had grown a beard, and my ears were painfully pricked by the roundness of my helmet. We had already transformed.

          " General Charon. " I scream as loud as I can, feeling the witch's brew constrict my lungs.

          " Chief of the palace servants, General Carambian. " Niven shouted back, raising her head to be heard.

          A few horrible seconds of waiting pass, then a deafening screech almost makes me duck. The gate opens painfully, creaking on all sides and dragging heavily on the ground. Five fae await us at the entrance, shining swords, seemingly freshly sharpened, lying murderously on their arms, torches in their hands.

          The man who looked at us questioningly could not have been more than thirty years old, though he was a fae, which could mean he was easily five hundred years old. He was bald, his pointed ears protruding past the edge of his occipital bone, and his eyes were small and wrinkled, set in the center of his hateful face. He didn't smile, but his lips were thin and parted in a harsh, implacable line.

          He walks toward us, with his torch blowing in the wind and shows his sharp fangs. " It is past midnight, Lord Charon, what does His Highness desire at this obscene hour? "

          " We are not to judge King Draegan's orders or desires, so read for yourself. " I reply with how much coldness I am capable of, considering my underwear is shaking on me, and hand him the same sheet that Kallus had shown the stableman.

          " You wish to escort an ' S ' classed creature to the palace?! " His voice sounded hoarse, as if he had eaten forks and knives all his life, and his throat was not in the best shape. " I have to refuse. I can't let such fae out. It's dangerous. " 

          " Sire. " Someone speaks behind him, and the man turns his head to the side. " Sir Lisko, if the Master wishes, we must obey. " 

         " The prison still does not answer to its own self-appointed leadership. " Sir Lisko spits, obviously irritated, then stares at us for a second in silence. " Why would he want such creature free inside the palace. "

          " The creature must be bound and gagged. " Niven's words come out with a raspy, purely masculine timbre, and I smile under my mask, begging to get inside faster and get it over with. " King Draegan wants a spectacle for a guest - The Autumn Court's Heir and The Night Court's Emissary. "

          " You see, sire, he already has connections across the continent. He'll free us soon. " The same voice speaks, changing Lisko's mind.

        " Fine. You have one hour to take whatever you need. " He turns and gestures for us to follow.

          We obey without comment and the joy begins to grow in me. I hope that luck will be with us all the way.

          First, we crossed the small courtyard, where it seemed that the prisoners were allowed to go outside from time to time, judging by the number of tables and chairs arranged one on top of the other, balls and obstacle courses, probably made for training. Lisko, as the other man called him, lifts the latch on the huge, tree-covered building and invites us in. We enter the above-ground prison without much fuss, only to be bombarded with moans and groans.

         Darkness reigned over the smelly, cold cells, and for a second I wondered if anyone was alive in those cages. Not even the moon shone through the holes in the prison stone. At this late hour, everyone was probably fast asleep. Only the few candles in the walls lit the way for the guards. Niven looks around too, and I can feel the tension in her muscles and her disgust. There was an overpowering smell of closed air and unwashed bodies, feces and rotten food. All I could see were limbs: crippled hands half covered with blankets eaten away by rats, legs with gangrene that looked like they had been eaten by bugs. I almost vomited when I saw a man relieving himself between the sheets that should have been his bed. Someone screams above us, and I jump, stifling a scream of my own.

          Was it a prison or a sanatorium?

          " Don't be so scared, Charon. They're as good as dead and doped up. " Lisko says proudly as he grabs a set of keys from nearby and unlocks some doors. 

          " What did they do? " Niven can't help but ask as she watches a woman write in stone with her fingernails melted and bloodshot.

          " You may think we put all people in jail, but there are real criminals here. " He answers, then we stop in front of a cell where a man is fast asleep with his back to us. " He killed his entire family in a manic episode, then he ate them one by one. " We walk a few steps and stop in front of another cell where a child was lying in rags. " Don't be fooled. He raped his aunt and hung her in the attic, then stole her money and lost it gambling. He paid whores to please him, then cut out their tongues when he wasn't satisfied. He's barely fifteen. " 

          The boy's sardonic grin is all the confirmation I need as he bares his razor-sharp teeth like a hungry shark.

          " So you don't have innocent humans here. " I ask as I watch another man satisfy his needs under the covers.

          Lisko's wrinkled face turns toward us, cold and emotionless. He opens an obsidian door that leads to a staircase.

          "I'd say it's too late to seek your penance, General Charon. Freeing one prisoner doesn't make up for all the innocent lives you've taken. " He doesn't wait for me to answer, so he rolls his eyes and speaks again. " If you want to expand the cells under the palace, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the prison is full. I thought you'd put all the people you torture in there. "

          I try not to be too impressed by the way Sir Lisko, the last fae I would have expected, spoke with such disgust of the things Draegan and Charon had done to the humans. As if he really cared about the innocent lives lost within the palace walls. I look at his disheveled hands and my eyes widen when I notice the gold band that marks him as married. Could his wife be human?

          " We do. " Niven agrees for me and steps in front of me. " We need to find the Valkyrie. "

          "I don't know if she's still alive in this pit. You'll find her remains in the last cell on the left. Just stay in the main hall and you will be fine. I don't get paid enough to go into that hole with you at night. If you have what you need, I'll be waiting upstairs. " Lisko announces, and before he closes the door, he tells us one more thing. " Don't listen to the voices. "

          When the door behind us was unlocked, the silence washed over us, broken only by our intertwined breaths. It was hard to carry armor that weighed half as much as you, so I was out of breath every few steps. I picked up a torch leaning against the stone wall and stared tensely at Niven. Her helmet was turned toward me, as if she, too, was watching me in confusion.

          " We'll manage. " I speak and the echo answers me with the same words.

          We make our way down the spiral staircase, descending for minutes as if driving into the center of the earth, and at the bottom we would find the lava boiling. Occasionally we'd come to a window that once let in fresh air, but was now covered over. I looked down, careful not to slip on the broken steps that were missing large chunks of material. Not even the spiders lived here.

          Niven stops abruptly, both palms pressed against the narrow walls of the stairs for balance. " Did you hear that? "

          A shiver ran down my spine and I suddenly became much more alert. This was everything I didn't want to hear while I was buried in a grave. I frown from behind my metal helmet and sharpen my ears. Too bad the potion didn't give me their fine hearing as well, just the sharp look, maybe I'd hear the thing Niven was talking about. My heart raced, pounding so hard that I could see my chest heaving under those powerful beats.

          " I don't hear anything. I'm only really cold. " I say as we walk down a few more steps, then she stops again.

          " Strange, I'm really, really hot. But I hear them talking. "

          " Don't listen to them, Nivy, you heard the guy. " 

          When we finally step onto level ground, the fog engulfs my ankles, and with it, panic settles in my chest, sinking its insatiable claws into my heart. Pitch black. A deep blackness, as if I could cut it with a knife, surrounds us and with it the smell of decay. I refrain from any sarcastic comment and just clench my jaw, trying to find the courage to continue. I swallow dryly and raise the torch even higher, trying to shed as much light as possible into the wide corridor. I would never have dared to venture into an underground graveyard alone, filled with creatures that had magical powers and probably loved the taste of human flesh. I probably reeked of fear, a smell I'd always heard creatures of the dark loved, as if it were an aphrodisiac for their nostrils. I look back and am relieved to see the stone wall, it meant we could start somewhere, that this was the main corridor Lisko had told us about and we didn't have to wander lost through this cursed place.

          " Do you still hear them? " I ask skeptically with a sigh as we walk down the muffled corridor.

          The cells were hidden in the darkness, and I didn't dare bring the fire near them, not wanting to disturb whatever was in that darkness. It was enough that I felt thousands of pairs of eyes in the back of my head, watching me far too closely for my own liking. I was sure that, unlike the inhabitants upstairs, those down here were not sleeping, but hunting at these hours. I stayed as close to Niven as I could, the same distance from the cells, to reduce the chance of being grabbed by one of the tentacles. Sometimes I even felt ghostly touches on my back and forearms and forced myself not to look back. I had heard that it is not good to look back when someone is calling you, whistling at you, or when you feel unseen touches, so I preferred to stick to my earthly teachin

          " Yes, they want you to set them free. They promise to obey. We both know they won't. " Niven encourages me not to listen to them either.. 

         " What if they're innocent? "

         " I don't trust anything that thrives in the darkness. " 

          When we finally reached the end of the haunted corridor, it took me a few seconds to work up the courage to put my flame in front of the cell. I knew the underground prison wasn't empty, not by a long shot, even if I didn't hear any voices. Niven probably heard them because she was one of Mother's benefactors.

          " Maybe is on another hallway. " Nivy whispered manfully from behind me, turning her head. " But there's no light anywhere, we could easily get lost in this labyrinth. "

          " It can't be. " I say, waving the torch back and forth as desperation begins to overtake me. " She can't be dead! She's here, she's close, my intuition never lies to me. "

          But as I searched for the uninhabited piece of land, staring in shock at the perfectly made bed and the unused dresser, hope seemed to leave me as quickly as it had come. I could feel it inside, the certainty that I would find it here, still alive, that reality seemed to be playing tricks on me.

          " You finally came after me, mighty Benefactor? " Someone is talking, and for a second I think the fire is casting shadows on the walls as I see a pile of clothes jerking around, trying to turn around. " I died long ago. Buried in my own grief. "

          " Are you?... " I ask in a whisper, as if I could wake the dead. " You were the one listening, back in the palace? "

          Niven comes closer, mouth agape in shock and hope and triumph, and before I can stop her, she lunges for the iron bars, clenching them into tight fists.

          " Malou? Yes, but I'm not a Valkyrie anymore. " An endless sadness poured from her timbre, which seemed so, so old. " I could never be one again, after what I've done... You seemed quite thrilled to come and die here for my sake. "

          We had come this far and planned how to get in and how to get out, and we were so blinded by the idea that the woman might be dead that we hadn't thought about how to convince her to come with us. I wasn't being absurd, I had considered her mental situation, but I hadn't prepared any emotional speech about life and death, I had relied on her desire to be free again. But what if she didn't want to be free? I knew from my experience with my father that a conversation with a traumatized person is a constant back and forth, and that it is very difficult to reason with them.

          " Please, I need your help. We need your help. " I manage to speak slowly, as if the woman was deaf. " Something bad is happening outside, and we need you by our side. "

          The woman laughs, jerky, hoarse, then coughs as if her lungs are filled with pus. In this cold place, I wouldn't be surprised if the creatures ended up with bronchopneumonia from these precarious conditions. I wasn't even sure if they were being fed or even offered a glass of water.

          " Oh I know. I've heard about you're coming - Ves-per-tus. " She takes a long pause, then continues. " I used to guard and train women like this. Tragic miracles... The world may need you, but it does not need me. The world has been nothing but cruel to me and my sisters. So why should I make another sacrifice for something that erased me? "

           " The world has changed, some parts have been rebuilt by people with hope. Kind people. They fight for the minorities, they try to help, they try to dispel the darkness. " I try to convince her, not knowing if what I said was the truth or a lie, but thinking of Prythian, I knew some of my words were sincere. " You've been locked up for too long and the world has moved on, but you don't need to be caged just because you're afraid of the outside. You deserve freedom. "

          She fully turns and for the thousandth time tonight I allow myself to be surprised. An old, chocolate, wrinkled face looked back at me as if I had insulted or slapped her. I could see how her white hair framed her bony face, how it accentuated her glassy eye, crisscrossed by a deep, still reddish scar. Her cheeks and chin were adorned with tribal tattoos, now faded to gray marks. The real, healthy one, however, betrayed so many emotions in the blackness as deep as the one in prison: grief, regret, and such low self-esteem. Her lips were still round, fleshy, and well-defined, but they had become discolored with age.

          " The prison is sucking the life out of you. " Niven explains, still gripping the bars. " You are not alone. You are a legend, Malou. My family and I have waited centuries for this glimmer of hope, please don't say no. "

          " I do not need the mercy of the Benefactors. You have chosen to wait and be crushed by the ever-growing forces of darkness. You never fight, governed by that pathetic law of not harming anything that moves. We lost the battle once because of you. I let myself be captured. I don't deserve freedom. I deserve to rot in this cell. " Malou spits angrily and approaches us. " Now get the fuck away from me. Every glimmer or nice word you tell me will make me vomit in my mouth. "

          Niven squirmed, apparently shaken by the old woman's words, but I didn't have time to ponder all that had been so casually thrown in her face.

          " Malou, I know you may feel hopeless and alone and tired, but you are a warrior at heart. I was alone too, I was dead inside too, but there's a way home for all of us, even for you. You have to fight again. We have to fight again. Don't let your potential be lost in Hybern's hands. "

         " My home is lost. I don't want to be a blade again. No one came to help us when we needed help. I lost the most important battle - the war. "

          " No, it's not. You can find it again. Home is not a place, you can find it in someone else's heart. And I know for sure that you still have a piece of what you call home that is lost somewhere in this world. Fight by my side, let's rebuild what was lost. I beg you, I will give you all that you need, all that you desire. But I need you, the Mother needs you, everyone needs you. You may not feel like a Valkyrie, but you're a strong woman. You have the power to begin again. I'll be beside you in this war. "

          She puffs, then a wry smile spreads across her dry lips. " It's easy to throw words, child. Wars are not won by a handful of trained warriors. War means blood, colossal losses, dying loved ones, strategic battles, and sacrifice. Are you ready to make that sacrifice when the time comes? If you had to kill ten people to save one important man who has all the advantages over the enemy, would you do it? When you find out what I've done, what I've had to give up, you won't need me anymore. And more than that, you're just a human now. You're still not a Vesper. You don't have anything I want or need. "

          " That's why I need you. You can teach me everything you know. "

          " No. " Malou almost screamed, snarling at me with her sharp teeth. " It takes years, years! Even more, to train one fucking soldier. But a living Vesper? That takes centuries. All the arts you must master to fight the darkness are no child's play. You won't be able to save anything. We will die under your clumsiness. "

          " You have to give me a chance. " I say, her words tearing the hope out of me piece by piece, slowly killing me. " Don't die without putting up a fight. Don't give up. Stop running from the past, stop hiding in the darkness, you are a creature of light, a symbol. You have a chance to right your wrongs, don't kick it away! I'll go out there and do my best, even if I die. But I'd like to have at least one small chance of winning. "

          Malou looked at me with her healthy eyes and frowned so hard that the wrinkled skin between her eyebrows formed a deep crease. Obviously I've pushed all her buttons, because I see something change in her hard look. The 'no' becomes a 'maybe if...' inside her and I feel her change as she stands on her two feet and stares limply at us and back at the greasy cell. I feel the frustration seeping out of me, my patience wearing thin.

          " The Mother calls your name into battle and you refuse? Your comrade, your Carranam is still alive, still suffering, Gods knows where, waiting for you, and you choose to be nothing but trash to Hybern. Their punching bag. You are no longer a Valkyrie, indeed. "

          " Nivy... Don't say that. " I place a hand on her shoulder, trying to stifle any harsh words, but she shakes away from my touch.

          " Don't stop her, she's right. " The old woman stands on her emaciated feet, dressed in a long robe, sweeping the stone floor. A new light appeared in her eyes, as if the thought of her Carranam had restored this last hope. " If you become a Vespertus, if you manage to survive the literal heartbreak, I would want one thing, but you must do it with your hands. No one else. If I protect you with whatever power I have and train you in the old ways, you owe me one thing. "

          " Whatever you need. " I promise, feeling in my gut that I was making a colossal mistake.

          " My word is law, and so shall yours be. When the time comes, at the very end, my life will perish under your sword. You will sacrifice me so that I may finally be with my sisters. "

          " What? " I look at her in shock, overcome with horror. " Why would I kill you? "

          " Because she can't kill herself. " Niven concludes nervously. " The Mother would never allow such a sacrifice. It's an insult to her for you to take your own life. So if her work on the material world is not done, the Mother will not call her to the skies. The only creature that can end their misery is the Mother herself, or... "

          " The Mother's own daughter, blood from her blood. " Malou smiles, satisfied, knowing she had us trapped, we couldn't refuse when her agreement to come with us was depending on this bargain.

          Niven's words settle in my head and I look at Malou, her cunning face still strong. That's why I couldn't kill myself, because my life was in Mother's hands and she wouldn't let me go.

         " That's why you couldn't do it either. " Mallou approaches me and smiles sadly. " That's why you couldn't kill yourself. "

          " Have you... " Niven turns her head, and I refuse to look at her, overcome with shame.

          " How did you know? " I ask her with all the emotions churning inside me.

          " I'm almost as old as time, I know a lot of things. Accept my offer or I won't come. "

          I look at Niven, who is as dizzy as I am. I realize that I'm running out of time when my skin starts to tingle and my facial hair starts to fade.

          " Tic- tac. " Malou whispers, covered by the shadows.

         " I'll do it. " But I will decide when the time comes.

         Malou slips her hand through the iron bars like a snake and steals a dagger from Niven's armor, which makes Niven fall on her ass. She cuts her palm, then hands me the bloody blade. " Seal the deal! "

          I don't think too far ahead as I throw down my glove and follow her gestures, feeling the sharpness of the knife nick my skin. Pain shocks my shoulder and almost immediately dark blood spurts out, spilling everywhere, running through the cracks in the stones on the floor. Malou grabs my hand aggressively, digging her unkempt nails into my blouse. A cold thunder rumbles in the distance, as if what we are doing now is against nature, as if we have broken the laws of the universe. I feel the clap of thunder as if it had struck me, a strange energy coursing through my whole body, invigorating and exhausting me at the same time. 

          I refrain from screaming, the pain from the cut pumping through my muscles. I feel her dry skin rub against mine, our blood now bound together for what seems like forever. Tongue of darkness climbs up our arms, marking the bargain. Malou just grimaces, apparently gripped by this strange, piercing pain as well. Time stops for a few seconds and I watch silently as the black ink sprouts in my palm, closing the cut. A snake blooms from under my skin, while a bird, a raven, entwines itself on Malou's old palm.

          " I am the eye of the crow that watches over the head of the mighty serpent. " We say in unison, our voices possessed by thousands of ancestors.

          Niven stares at us dumbfounded, but doesn't linger long and begins to draw the seal on the cell door. Something crackles in the walls, disabling whatever was keeping Malou exhausted. The woman gasped, as if a pain had been removed from her soul. She quickly opened the door with the stolen key, then hurried to support Malou, who was barely holding on.

          " I won't always be like this. " She admits when I position myself on the other side and we start walking down the corridor. " I just need time to recover my strength and youth. "

          We'll wait for you here, when you need us the most. We'll feed from your blood, your sacrifice and we'll live. We won't forget your taste.

          I turn my head back when I hear the voices speaking to me. Malou looks at me with her different eyes and warns me not to pay attention to them. And so I do, throwing the voices out of my head, ignoring this warning and promise. Climbing the stairs with such a heavy weight becomes even more difficult. The magic begins to wear off when I notice that my height is beginning to decrease, Malou's shoulders are now suspended at different heights.

         Lisko opens the door when I knock on it with my boot and has Niven sign the register, leaving proof that someone had released the prisoner, then slips the King's letter into a file as well. He accompanies us to the gates in the torrential rain, along with five other guards, but he doesn't say much, as if satisfied that we've taken a nuisance off his mind. The gates close roughly behind us and I can hear the locks turning. The torches outside die before my eyes, extinguished by an unseen magic, leaving us alone in the woods.

          " Father! " Niven shouts into the night once she reaches the carriage. " Father! We're... here. "

          Her voice trailed off as she opened the door and saw the horror. Blood. Blood everywhere and Kallus nowhere. The red liquid was dripping from the horse's neck, their life stolen from them. I turn my head from the scenery, unable to witness that cruelty.

          We were trapped here.

          " He's not dead. " Malou shouts over the pouring rain, leaning painfully on my shoulder. " I would've smelled it. But he's far away from this place and I think he's hurt. Badly. "

          " Kallus! Where are you? " I scream, shaking violently, surrounded again by that doom.

         The emptiness in my stomach grows, and I feel like banging my head against a tree as I watch the desperation with which Niven surrounds the carriage, shouting wildly through the forest. Angrily, she throws her helmet to the ground and falls to her knees, screaming again and again, calling her father. I see her shoulders moving convulsively, as if she can't catch her breath, as if she's crying and laughing at the same time. I don't even dare look into her eyes. I am afraid it will break me, so I hide my eyes when she turns to look at me.

          " He is gone. " Niven says, crying, and as I watch the night creep through the wicked trees, I know the truth: Kallus was the price I had to pay.

Chapter Text

          The night wasn't as merciful as Cyan had imagined before the mission started, as she had hoped and as that dreadful feeling of impending doom was settling deep inside her marrow, the only thought she had in mind w9as that someone betrayed them. Someone who played his cards better than her little band of bandits and outwitted them, outfoxed five brains.

           Hypnotized by the moving shadows she imagined, Cyan stared into the pitch-black fog that rose between the scrawny trees. There was only empty silence in her eardrums, broken only by Niven's sharp gasps or Malou's heavy breathing passing by the side of her head. They peered at her from behind those lanky trees, dancing on Kallus' splattered blood, following Cyan's arrythmic heartbeats.

          Someone sold us out. Someone killed Kallus. No. He's not dead. He can't be. But his blood is everywhere. Maybe he fought back, he's really hurt out there in the forest. Of course he fought back, but Malou said there's no trace of his scent anywhere near.

          " We have to keep moving. " Malou gathered her strength, refreshed by the freedom, and watched the brunette, whose name she hadn't quite caught yet. She tried to muster some empathy, some compassion for the faith of the girl's father, for her grief, but these long, never-ending years, the losses she, herself had suffered, left her feelings freeze to death. When no answer came from the one she thought was the leader, she turned to the human who was barely holding Malou on her narrow shoulders.

         Is this the Falling Star  the Old Word spoke of? Malou refrained from showing her distrust and studied the human's gentle profile. Tree digits were imprinted deep in the roundness of her cheek, rosy and anfractuous, murdering that innocent, smooth facade. By their color variation, from pink on the edges and fierce magenta in the center and the way they were perfectly aligned and symmetrical and the vague smell of sulfur, she guessed a creature gifted it to her. A departing memory.

          " The guards will discover us and your plan will fail. " She could feel the heaviness of her eyes settling on Malou's relentless features. This girl's green eyes did not know an easy life, her questioning gaze electrified Malou, somehow ravishing the last remnants of her warrior instincts she burried deeply inside her subconscious. Cyan's eyes reminded her of a long lost partner, of a forgotten devotion she had once bravely held.

          Malou's mouth went into a straight line, building back her strong, garnet walls. Cyan's eyes softened rapidly, letting the fragile side of humanity come back. 

      " You're weak. " Malou felt the need to strike the girl with ferocity, wanting that second of bravery she held moments ago to come back. " This is not a world where pretty eyes and soft souls survive. I can smell your emotions a mile away. Imagine what it feels like when I'm so suffocatingly close to you, girl. Do something and get us moving! "

          Cyan's face fell, her insides twisted once more before she erased those shadows from the corners of her eyes and tried to put her brain to work. It must've been at least twenty minutes since Niven sunk herself to the ground, moving back and forth, trapped in a trance. Her knees were probably frozen, soaked with mud. Cyan grimaced as she heard the ghostly sound of a heart breaking and breaking again and again, washed by the rain that fell more gently, as if taking pity on their misfortune.

           The wind, however, grew wilder, entering the corners of their massive armor, making a home inside their bones. Cyan's jaw started to tremble uncontrollable as she struggled to move Malou inside the carriage, her iron shoes slipping on the mixture of mud and blood. Their only luck tonight was the full moon, which provided enough light for them to see the disaster around them. 

         " I'll lock the door. Don't make a sound. If we lose you too, it will all be for nothing. " Cyan whispered so softly that even Malou's sharp hearing couldn't hear all the words, but she agreed, already reading her intentions to protect her at all costs.

          The old woman gasped, irritated at the way her body had grown heavy and useless. The only things that had remained untouched were her most primitive assets: her sense of smell, her sight, her hearing, even her ingrained instinct to fight. Malou gathered the velvet cushion in her bony fists and repositioned herself on the carriage floor. She sniffed her old woman scent and almost threw up, disgusted by her pathetic condition. But she should be back in shape in less than a day. If she even made it to the next day.

         Mother of all we know, keep my body agile and my soul free. Mother of all we feel, may my blade be sharp and my focus steady. Mother of all we are, let the path be hard and my enemy fierce so I can win my place beside your righteousness.

          Malou's prayer rose to the sky like a chanted spell, soothing the aching pain of the wind. A bandage on a stinging wound.

          Suddenly, she felt wrong as she thought about throwing those hostile words at the girl. A mentor shouldn't be angry and hateful, harsh, yes, but not hateful. She was showing hate towards a woman who came to save their world, who was about to experience the breaking point of her initiation tonight. A fatal heartbreak. Malou knew that the Vespertus could come in all shapes and forms: faes, half-faes, witches, elves, dwarves, even humans. But the latter died more easily during the transformation. The rate of a successful Passing was lower than that of any other species, but the powers they inherited when it was over could destroy this world as easily as they could protect it. Humans fed their fire with ambition and love.

          Malou gathered her palms and prayed again, this time for the girl who was fighting for their lives outside.

           In the middle of the night, Cyan's desperation flooded the area. Her hands shook as if she'd been drinking all night and her steps were hesitant. She felt the guilt eating away at her stomach, her lungs, her voice. In the back of her mind, she had a clue as to who might be the one to drag her through such misery, but she vehemently refused to admit that he was to blame for her failure and that she was guilty through him. She was the one who had betrayed them. 

          " Niven. " She calls for the millionth time, trying to lift the girl's limp body from the ground. How could she be heavier than Malou? '' We have to go, we need to finish the mission, otherwise Kallus's sacrifice will be for nothing. ''

          " I don't care. Soon, I'll be dead too... " 

          " Please, don't say this. You are my hope, Nivy. " The stinging in Cyan's eyes diminished the moment she let those hungry tears eat her face, the string in  her throat grew tighter around her vocal cords. " We have to live! "

          Niven's hollow gaze took in the desperation in Cyan's features, her rich brows now tossed by the helmet, her well-structured nose reddened by the cold air, her parted lips now cracked and bleeding from Cyan's white teeth. Nivy's tearful gaze made Cyan glow in the moonlight like a true goddess in disguise, the planet perfectly aligned with her head. She saw a crown of stars dancing around the redhead's temple, the darkness only helping it to shine brighter. " It's already happening... The Mother of the Helpless. "

          Cyan began to cry harder, sobbing louder as she watched her soul sister slowly lose her mind. She pulled harder, digging her gloves into Niven's shoulder blades, finally lifting her large body.

          Something else made them stop. It seemed like the sound was coming from everywhere, a rhythmic gallop rushing through the night, a terrifying sound when you're left all alone in the woods. Cyan felt an ache deep inside her heart, a warning from her vital organ that it was reaching its endurance limits. She straightened her back and muttered a curse in her native tongue. Niven's bloodshot eyes widened, her posture shifted a fraction, becoming slightly more aggressive, but the fire she held a few hours ago was clearly extinguished, only embers remaining beneath her skin.

          " I'll take care of it. " Niven stumbles on her wobbly legs and raises her palms above her head with her last ounce of strength, bringing a weak, flickering golden halo to life around her wrists. 

          Cyan lifted the spear from the ground, trying her best to concentrate on the sound and where it came from. She watched as it's sharp end glowed with yellow and white light coming from Nivy's moving fingers, reflecting her blossoming powers. The mixture of black wood and metal slid under Cyan's sweaty palms, shaking like a candlelight in the wind. Remnants of someone's blood got caught under her nails, raising the bile in her throat.

          The earth shakes beneath their feet, cracking and releasing thick tree roots, monstrous and twisted by time. Moles flee from under the ground, frightened by the sudden earthquake, and hide in the depths of the eerie forest. Wolves howl in the distance and birds of the night fill the sky, trying to escape. The redhead stares in awe as pure magic erupts from Niven's body, yellow as a sunny day, illuminating half the forest. A strong smell of freshly dug earth fills her nostrils, and she glances around, noticing the branches squeak as they are finally allowed to move, guided by the golden mist.

          By the second the sounds grew louder and closer, a shield had already formed around them.

          " Wait! Wait!..." Cyan cries, throwing down the spear. A familiar horse whine rises through the night, like a triumphant trumpet announcing victory. The girl almost kneels in relief, her nerves already stretched thin. " How is this possible? "

          The horse rose on her hind legs, as if to signal that she was no danger to them, and then, as she slowly approached them, another pair of small eyes came into view.

          Niven's hands remain suspended in the air as bewitched as her companion was, mouth slightly agape. " Did mom send you? "

          A small piece of content filled their hearts, knowing there was still a way out of this forest, a chance to find Kallus. Cyan rushes through the branches, not thinking clearly, and runs to hug her friends. A few thorns kiss the outside of her face, but she doesn't seem to feel anything as she presses her forehead against the horse's to show her appreciation. " Misty... What happened to the farm? " She asks, raising her palm to touch the cat's wet hair. " We have to go back!  "

         As surprising as it sounded, the Spymaster managed to lose his only suspect faster than he expected. Or rather, faster than his hundreds of years of experience would have allowed. He let the girl go for a single reason: there were more important matters to attend to that required his attention more urgently than a deceptive hunch. Even if his instincts never lied to him, Eris and everything else could wait a little longer.

          By no means did he get rusty or too old. No. He just started the mission on the wrong foot. Everything tasted bitter on the tip of his tongue from the beginning, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He had to see it through. Even if they were a family, Rhysand wouldn't allow him to start picking and choosing which missions he wanted to go on. 

          Was this a bad time to consider that his younger brother was pulling rank on him? 

          After that upside down turning stomach of a dinner, the Shadowsinger was led into the chamber that was to be his home. He quickly had his companions search the large, dark room, lit only by a few candles. When no spells or dangers were found, he disappeared, hiding in the dungeons beneath the castle.  

          Azriel felt the dense layer of magic that prevented anyone from teleporting into the prison cells, but his way of traveling through shadows was no simple magic, and there weren't many wards that could prevent him from taking a look inside. After all, everything casted a shadow, from the most mundane objects to the darkest corners of the earth. Well, at least everything that was touched by a soul or had a soul. Wrapped in the compact layer of blackness, he followed the muffled sounds.

          No one was getting killed on his watch.

          With a deft finger, he covered the lower half of his face with his mask and drew two of his daggers from the shadows, ready to strike from the pitch-black corner. Two torches came into view and the other inmates began to shout and bang on the iron bars. The damp atmosphere grew louder with groans and the air became even harder to breathe, full of a fetid and cadaverous odor.  

          A harsh line appeared between Azriel's brows as he finally saw two guards dragging down the chopped stairs the servants from earlier, both half-unconscious. A sense of justice boiled inside his nerves, frigid as a bleak winter. His joints strained under the pressure of his arched stance, like a bow ready to shoot. The Shadowsinger waited no longer, already full of their poor ways of treating women. The hulking men suspected nothing as one of Azriel's daggers sliced through the night, fast and steady, and plunged into one of their throats. Blood splattered everywhere from the small and fatal wound, aided by the gurgling sound of him choking on his own fluids. In the blink of an eye, he was writhing like a fish on dry land, franticly trying to cover his sliced neck. 

          One of the women began to scream as red droplets landed on her uncovered face, waking her from her sleep. Two hands appeared from behind the iron bars, dirty and rat-nicked all over their forearms, and dragged the twitching body close to the cells. Everyone was horrified as another pair of hands emerged from another dark cell and began to rip the guard's skin off in a violent attempt to avenge the years they had been imprisoned down there and the horrors they had endured. Skinned alive, the man endured several minutes of torture, praying loudly to die faster.

          " Show yourself! " The other managed to scream, his black eyes desperately searching the empty halls. He tried to remove what was left of his friend from the cells, but the starving people they threw here were hungry for justice. The torch lay forgotten on the ground, sizzling in the pool of blood that was already forming.

          A riot broke out in the dungeons beneath the castle. Metal cups banged against the walls, people screamed and screamed as they pinned their limbs to the corridor separating the cells. Someone threw fecal matters on the guards armor, disturbing his stance.

          " La la, la la la, Death has come to collect the prize. La la, la la la, and he has you on his file. " A prisoner sings, laughing like a crow. The guard bangs his sword on the iron bars, trying to keep the situation under control, but he has no idea that Azriel could also thrive in chaos.

          The Shadowsinger reveals himself in the dim light, radiating power, terror, and a thirst to kill. His illyrian leathers were his second skin, molding into his muscles, instilling fear in his opponent. The only thing the poor man could see were the Spymaster's eyes, empty and sinister, like a dreadfull story told around a campfire.

          " I knew you were a bad omen. " The man squeaks, shivering.

         There was no point in wasting more time talking and as the man moves to deliver a blow, Azriel spins through the large opening created by the man's raised arms and stabs him between the ribs with lethal grace. The guard howls in agony, the prisoners cheering the pain, but the Shadowsinger has had enough of the show. To end the man's misery swifter, he silently moves behind him and breaks his neck with his bare hands.

          " Please don't hurt us. " The white-haired one speaks, holding the other woman tightly in her arms. " We are innocent, someone set us up... Please... "

          " I know. " Azriel speaks calmly and takes off his masks to ease the tension. All he needed now was to frighten them more than they already were, and he didn't want that. " I'm here to free you. I'll fly you to your homes, but you must leave the city tonight. Are you able to do that? "

          " There is a ship leaving for the continent tonight, but we are too many and I don't know if I can afford the price. " The older woman speaks, caressing the sleeping face of the other.

          There were no words left to say as Azriel places a bag of golden coins inside her fist, then winnows them both outside the castle, as far as possible from any danger. 

          " May the Daughter spare you... " Is all that he hears before he vanishes back to finish his bussiness.

          The Fallen Star to spare him? How many people knew about the existence of this woman? How many people were after her? Funny, The Shadowsinger snorted, I should be the one to show her mercy, not the other way around.

          Well, the man knew that after his little circus trick, he only had a day or two before anyone noticed the real culprit who managed to start a riot in those prison cells. Now he could finally focus on his real mission. Worryingly, the only thing he knew about the girl was the color of her eyes, and frankly, not even that was entirely true. 

          Were they slightly more blue, gray, or more green than usual because of the distance?

           Azriel shakes his head, feeling violated by the unexpeted toughts. Who cares what the girl's eyes looked like? Who cares why she was sent to their lands? Who cares about the girl's destiny as long as she tramples on the lives of others for her own sake? He was beginning to believe that she wasn't as blessed and holy as the pictures in the book made her out to be, how the stories he heard made her sound like a peace bringer. She was a ruthless human and all Azriel wanted was to finish the damn job and hand it over to Rhysand to take care of.

          As Azriel was striding through those empty halls, whispers caught his attention. He puffs, almost amused at how this night was going to unfold for him and anyone involved. He rubs his palms over his tired face, already tasting the last remnants of patience left in him. When was the last time he fucking slept for more than two hours without being disturbed by an emergency? 

          Swallowing his dissatisfaction, he gathers his strength and becomes a shadow. By the Mother, this was going to be a long and tiring mission for him. Azriel hoped to at least get a good night's sleep by the time he returned to the Night Court.

          As he reached the next corridor, the illyrian noticed a slender boy haggling with one of the onyx guards the king always carried for protection. From the look of the wing, luxurious and well-lit with large candles, Azriel guessed that this was Draegan's side of the castle, the one he shared with his accolites and whores. The guard nods and knocks three times on the carved door before slipping his covered head into the chamber.

          The human grows impatient, his raven hair tied in a low ponytail beginning to unravel from his frustrating lack of steadiness. He raises his hands and tries to tighten it a bit. Azriel squints, spoting the drops of blood at the bottom of his blouse and the large stains that cover his pants and shoes. His movements are nervous, his posture tense, as if he had just murdered someone and didn't want anyone to find out. He turns his head from side to side to make sure no one sees him, as if he was about to reveal a life-threatening secret. The Shadowsinger inhales, sniffing his emotions and chokes: panic, hesitation, anger, rage, thirst for vengeance, and guilt, guilt, so much guilt that Azriel nearly drowns from the smell alone.

          " What have you done, boy? " Azriel whispers, detecting the dubious amount of sulfur emanating from the human's body.

         Draegan steps out in the hallway, half naked, and grabs the boy by the collar of his blouse, throwing him against a wall. There's a quick exchange of information that Azriel doesn't hear very well, then he watches the boy stumble backwards, his green eyes wide in shock.

          " Take the Death Patrol, burn the town, burn the farm, burn the whole damn forest if you have to! " Draegan shouts, pushing his guard against the wall as well. " Don't let anyone live. I don't want hostages, I don't want witnesses, I don't want collateral damage. I don't care if you find them. I only want dead bodies! Do you understand?! The Dark One wants answers that I clearly don't have. How did they manage to walk right under my nose?! They want to crown her on my throne! "

           The guard nods almost hysterically as he takes in all of his king's wishes. The green-eyed boy bows his head deeply.

          " I did everything I could to buy some time. I even killed my father, for you, my fierce king! " The boy drops to his knees, kissing Draegan's feet. " She washed their minds, she stole their hearts and eaten their souls! If we get there fast enough, if we manage to end her life before anyone else, there will be a higher chance of turning her into a Tiamat - A Dark Verpertus, a star driven by chaos. "

          Tiamat? The Daughter... The Fallen Star. " Vespertus " Azriel mumbles, coming to the horrible realization that Hybern knew of the comet woman's existence. 

          " What the fuck... '' Draegan suddenly turns blue and places a ringed hand on his torso. Black vomit spews out of his mouth, scattering all over the red walls and blue carpets. " That bi-... Aaah! " The king screams in pain as he falls to the floor, convulsing like a rabid dog. " I can't breathe! Ugh... "

          " Sire! "

          Doors open on both sides of the corridor, and more faes gather around the king, trying to help him to his feet..

           " He's been poisoned! " A Fae shouts, sticking two fingers down Draegan's throat. " Call Nimue! Who was he with in his chamber?! "

         " She's gone, the blonde girl. " Another shouts after checking the bedroom. " You idiots, move faster! The king is dying! "

         " What was he poisoned with? " A white-haired man asks as he pours water on Draegan's twisted face. 

          One of the faes from the dinner table comes out with an empty glass of wine and inspects it. He rubbs his finger on the purple stains and smells them. " Tell that fucking witch to come faster, he's been poisoned with the Night Shade. "

          Mother of all we feel, Mother of all we know, Mother of all we are, Mother, Mother...

          Malou's prayer seemed to surround them, to protect them, to purify them, but the Mother vowed never to interfere in human or fae affairs; the Mother bound herself to never be able to touch the material world. The Mother made her fair share of sacrifice when she allowed her only Daughter to be torn apart by the world the Mother's Father had created.

          The Goddess wasn't even able to persuade the Fates as they started to cut string after string that night. One blind, one deaf, one mute. More lives were taken in less than two hours than in a day of war. The blind one chooses the strings so that no one could say her judgment was unjust. The deaf one cuts so that she never hears the pleas. The mute one discards them so that she can never say where the Gardens are hidden.

          The Mother could only watch as Malou took her rigged breath inside the carriage, while Niven rode wildly back to what was left of the farm. The goddess only blew a gentle wind into the mare's hooves, making her faster, swifter, more agile and glued her eyes and prayers to her only child, now left alone in the viper's lair. The Fates could only guide Cyan to her destiny, but they could never warn her about those dangerous steps she was about to take. 

          Cyan hid her cat in her armor, needing the warmth and reassuring touch of her loyal companion, and entered the castle with a dagger in her hand. She left her helmet in those woods, as well as some of her innocence. Her face was dirty with mud and dust, droplets of dried blood were splattered across glher temples and nose. She berated herself for forcing her body through those branches, but the sting of those cuts kept her anchored in reality. The tree claw marks on her cheek turned blood red from the harsh wind they endured with the carriage in pieces to make it easier for the mare to carry all that road.

          Her scalp was itchy, the low bun she had made was disheveled, her eyes were teary and sore and she wanted someone to answer for the loss she had suffered tonight. Cyan kept doing it, losing her mind in that satisfying, grim fantasy: stabbing and stabbing and demanding one life in exchange for Kallus's, thirsty and twitching with anxiety. She could see the sharp blade make a precise incision right in that fae's Adam's apple, stealing his breath and voice forever.

          Brutally, Cyan shoved two fingers into her eyeholes, trying to stay as neuter as possible.

          To her surprise, the castle was... empty. Or at least asleep. Either way: it wasn't a good sign the fact that she could venture head straight into Hybern's heart. Cyan wondered if it wasn't a trap someone had set for her. She would be grateful. Maybe this joke of a life would end sooner than she expected and she could return to the other joke of a life in the other universe. She mustered a smile that she quickly wiped away in pain. Her lips were too chapped and dehydrated and any expression drew blood from her skin.

          " Where the hell am I going? " Cyan wondered, still walking between the corridors.

          Quick footsteps could be heard behind her, and she hid around the corner, ready to pounce on anyone who came her way. Her anger drove her mad and robbed her of her wise decision making. The cat dug her claws into her chest, a warning to be careful. Cyan blew out the candles on the walls and cloaked herself in the darkness, aware that there was someone in this castle who thrived in the shadows and never slept. As soon as the footsteps lined up with her position, she let out an angry moan and knocked one of the people down.

           " Eris?! " The blade nicked his perfect jaw, leaving a path of fresh blood to stain the collar of his green tunic, but she never withdrew the blade. " You betrayed me! "

          Eris Vanserra was as beautiful and graceful as ever, wide-eyed and a bit disheveled from the attack. Cyan nearly lost her grip on the dagger hill, too stunned. The girl opened her mouth to avoid inhaling his scent of leaves and embers, concentrating on the way his firm and narrow hips felt between her thighs. She realized too late that it was the wrong thing to do, shying away and losing her defiant posture.

          " Cyan... " His hands remained glued to the floor, fully aware of the woman's state of shock, and he pleaded with her gently. " I didn't say anything. I swear on my mother. ''

          The man looked a little bored by the situation, but treated Cyan like a porcelain doll as he gently stroked the side of her hip with his slender fingers, trying to bring her to a state of lucidity. He drew his thin brows high on his forehead, bombarding the poor girl with sincere and warm amber eyes.

           " Cyan, what happened to you? " A pale hand reaches for her shoulder and she wips her wild eyes at the woman behind her. " Oh... By the gods... He's telling the truth. "

          " I could never do this to you. I promise... "

          Cyan felt a pang of guilt betray her confidence. She remembered from the books that the only person Eris loved most besides himself was his mother, and he had just taken a vow under her name. Her cruel eyes softened as she gazed at an angelic Aoife, barely covered by the horrible nightgown Draegan must have forced her to wear.

          " You managed to escape him... " Cyan muttered, observing a crimson pink blossom on her hollow cheeks. " Did he... "

          " Eris helped me. " Aoife praised Vanserra, staring at him as if he was a prince on a white horse. " Where is everyone else? "

          Aoife immediately regretted her question as she watched Cyan's entire complexion turn from red to white, as if she had seen a ghost.

          " Someone attacked and took Kallus while we were inside the prison. We don't know if he's still alive, but... The amount of blood -... It covered the whole damn place... " Cyan continues, strangling Eris with one shaky hand. She was on top of his large body, trying her best to keep him on the ground with the weight of her body. " Not even the storm was able to wash all that blood. Even the horses were killed. The blood dripped from everywhere - like a sacrifice. You were the only one who knew everything and I gave that information to you so freely! "

         A nerve pumped in her temple, making Cyan dizzy. She knew that Eris could topple her at any moment. He was a fae after all, he was stronger and faster, even smarter. But Cyan had a fierce fire burning in her veins, pumping and roaring. She would give her life to kill Eris if he was the traitor. But that ball of accumulated and trapped emotions made her chest swell, like a balloon ready to burst. 

          All of a sudden she regarded the blood covering her armour, moistening her hair, covering her face and palms like a plague. Kallus's blood was all over her body. Cyan bit her tongue until she felt iron drip down her throat. Tears streamed into her clouded irises as she saw Eris' pitiful face blurry. 

          Aoife covers her mouth with a thin hand and kneels beside their bodies, cupping Cyan's unrecognizable face in her cold palms, " It wasn't him. "

          Misty doesn't linger inside her master's armor and swings a sharp claw at Aoife, trying to protect Cyan from any harm that might come her way. The cat's still wet ears perk up and she hisses, warning Aoife to keep her hands to herself. Her eyes go wide in shock at the so-called ace up Cyan's sleeve. 

          A shudder breaks Cyan from her killing fantasy and she pulls the sharp end of the dagger from Eris' face, waiting. " It's true. " A rough voice finally comes from behind her, warming and cooling her at the same time. " Someone else ruined your plan. " He continues, moving closer to her compromising position.

          Bugs seem to crawl up Cyan's spine as she feels those hate-filled, glowing eyes clawing at her. She pushes her eyes with two fingers, trying to regain control of her toughts, and when Eris finally manages to escape between her legs, she collapses backwards, resting her weight on Azriel's knees. The cat recognizes him and hisses again, growling.

          Cyan lifts her head in time to see the corner of his full mouth move as if he recognized her cat, but his face suddenly changed to greet her with a death stare. " If your mouth runs as easily as your emotions drive you, then I can imagine why your plan went downhill. "

          " Don't be so harsh, Spymaster, not everyone is as perfect as you. " Eris helps Cyan to her shaky feet, trying to put some distance between the girl and the deadly assassin. A bold shadow curls toward them, but Aoife pulls Cyan further away, unsure of the fae's intentions and waves a hand in front of her, thinking that the tongue of darkness could dissipate as easily as smoke would.

          The redhead didn't have a comeback ready, still terrified by the way his form enveloped her in its own shadow, like a gigantic volcano ready to fry everything in its path. His bony, pointed wings rose behind him like two warning signs she was prepared to ignore. She was too exhausted, too traumatized, and too sad to be intimidated by anyone more than she already felt in this world.

          " We should leave, Cyan. " Aoife speaks, her eyes closely glued to Azriel's terrifying aura. She notices the sharp ends of several blades coming out of his pockets and swallows thickly. " I thought you were stripped of them ."

          " I was. " Azriel admits, scorching the green-eyed girl like a pig on a roaster. " Don't you want to find out who ratted you out? I'd be deadly curious. "

          Cyan slowly lifts her eyes and cursed herself for allowing such handsome and grim man to make her want to be small and unseen. She could swear he was jogging with the words in that sentence, but her mind was too foggy to play his game.

          " How do you know who betrayed us? " Cyan found her courage to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. God, that rage really ate her energy.

          Eris places himself strategically in front of the girls, his gold and green suit shinning boldly under the candlelight, " Don't let him fool you, the Shadowsinger always know everything. " Eris rises his chin to Azriel, disposing that charming facade he wore in the last days. 

          The illyrian can't help but chuckle in response to Vanserra's way of playing his cards and bows his head to the left, challenging the other male. He feels his shadows closing in on the redhead, trying to get inside her head. Out of the corner of his eye, Azriel watches the so-called Cyan, noticing her poor appearance. She seems to have been taken out of a book of horrors, the kind he used to read as a child, about witches, curses and deadly battles. From the looks of it, if he moved fast enough he could land a blow to her knees and have her winnowed by the time Eris even had the chance to look behind.

          " Much to your surprise, I don't. A boy came to Draegan's chamber and warned him right after he was poisoned. I don't know who he is. " Azriel gave in, stinging Aoife with an all knowing look. He held no remorse, no accusation against her, only a warning that he knew who did it. 

          " Night Shade. " Cyan lets a breath escape her dry lips, but does not return Aoife's stunned gaze. " But where is everyone else? "

          Azriel places a wide foot to the right, trying to get a better look at his most coveted prize, trying to memorize her features. Or whatever he could make out behind all the dirt and bruises that covered her oval face. " Indeed, it was Night Shade. They left towards the city. I managed to stop some of them, but they are too many and the onyx guards are harder to kill than the simple, fae ones. Who attacked you? "

          He had to admit that he was a little shocked to find himself in front of the comet woman, or The Fallen Star, as everyone preferred to call her, but he was also a little disappointed when he saw her size and the pitiful way she carried herself. How was a human like her going to save their world? Azriel just couldn't see it happen. Cyan was young, weak, and from the looks of it could barely take a few blows. She had no muscular build under that armor and he couldn't sense any type of magic, only sweat and rain. How could someone like her survive such a fall?

          Cyan's eyes were turbid, a mass of blue and green and gold - a chaotic ocean. She looked like she drank all night fae wine and never recovered. " That's none of your bussiness. When did they left? What did the boy look like? "

          " They must've really hit you in the head if you imagine I'll tell you so you can go around looking for him. " The Shadowsinger came closer, ready to snatch her and just leave Hybern behind, but Eris threw a hand in front of Cyan, sensing his intention.

          " She won't. " Vanserra swears, but Azriel could easily spit on any promise the Autumn Court made. " Now indulge the lady and answer! "

          " What do I get in return? "

          " I believe you're here for the same thing everyone is. " Cyan considered, watching Eris swallow his words. " So I'll come with you. "

         Aoife and Cyan stared at the Shadowsinger as he took his eyes off the pray he had finally caught and stabbed Eris with his piercing gaze instead, satisfied with the way everything had suddenly gone his way. " Tempting, but how do I know you're not going with the Autumn Heir? "

          " I'll let one of your shadows come close so it can bind me to you. "

          Soft green and violent amber crash together as Cyan finally finds the courage to set her eyes on Azriel's. Her mouth goes into a straight line letting her guard down, blown away by the power he held only in his gaze. She can see the wheels turning in his head, the barely visible tensed muscle in his fine jaw, the bright glow of victory in his irises. He seemed to have everything under control, calculating every outcome, solving every problem that might arise. Even if she managed to escape him, he would hunt her down on every continent, offended that she had broken her promise.

          Maybe this was her chance to go to Prythian and then back home. But there was no proof that they would help her, there was no proof that things weren't different in reality than in the books. What if they were evil and would do anything to save their world, including willingly letting her die? What if they tortured her to find out how she ended up here?

          In silence, a skilled tongue of smoke curls around Cyan's wrist. holding her in a leash. Goosebumps break out all over her forearm, sliding down to her fingers like a frozen ice cube. Their grip feels like millions of needles were pinching her skin, tight enough to leave a mark behind. She closes and opens her eyes a few times, convincing herself that the deep shadow is indeed alive and flattening around her. Before she can give Eris a sideways glance, Azriel is already blurting out all the information.

          " It was a raven haired boy, slender, not taller than the blonde girl, a pony tail, covered in blood, green eyes. "

          Cyan swallowed, taken aback. It was impossible. 

          " It can't be him. " Aoife spoke to the redhead, still clinging to her left arm. 

          Azriel didn't even notice the short chemise the blonde was wearing, as if she had been caught by the bandits in the middle of the night and barely managed to escape. He watched as Cyan took a deep breath, watched as her world crumbled over her head, as her shoulders slumped and realization took over her foggy mind.

          " We need to go to the farm. Right now. " Cyan announced calmly, feeling everything all at once. Her limbs began to shake violently when she realized that Niven and Malou were riding right into a trap.

          Azriel tsk-tsked in disapproval, ready to remember Cyan that she hadn't mentioned when she was going with him, but his breath was cut short as he watched the blonde draw a dagger from her thigh and gently place it in the redhead's gloved palm. A gift returned in the hope of bringing peace.  " Thank you. It protected me. " The blue stone upon it glowed brightly in the candlelight, blinding the Spymaster with cold rage. He remembered Amren mentioning something about its disappearance, he remembered how he felt that night, the nightmare he'd had, the smell, his agony. Azriel's hunting dagger lay stolen in the palms of the witch who had invaded their home.

        Voices scream in the distance, and Azriel's head whips around at the end of the hallway as he sees a handful of onyx guards running toward them.

          " Hurry! " Eris grabs the girls by their wrists and tries to drag them out of the castle. The Shadowsinger is faster and wraps a strong arm around Cyan's waist, blocking Eris's magic.

          " The witch is coming with me. " His voice thunderes, Truth Teller already dangerously close to Cyan's neck. Shadows rise around them, cocooning them protectively. One of them darts to Eris's feet, trying to drag him by his calves, but he scares it away with a burning orb send for those tongues of darkness.

           " Kill the traitors! Bring their bodies to king Draegan! " The one in the middle commands as one archer prepares to shoot them.

          Eris's fire ignites in his palms, throwing several fireballs at the guards, slowing them down. One of them screeches in pain as the hot armor melts atop his skin. Vanserra's orbs ricochet off Azriel's cobalt shield, bouncing off before hitting the marble on the ground.

          " Don't let him take her! " Aoife cries, throwing a vase in their direction, then another one.

          Digging her digits into the Spymaster's forearms, feeling those rippling muscles ready to suffocate her if need be, Cyan lifted her feet off the ground in an attempt to destabilize Azriel. In vain, his thighs were far stronger than a twenty-year-old girl, with half the weight of the huge man. The Illyrian raises another shield, blocking the Death Patrol a few feet away and hits his boot on the ground, a cobalt sound wave making the walls shake and the windows ring.

          A black sword appears in the captain's hands, smoke rising like fumes from the blade, cutting a long gash in Azriel's shield. Eris bends his arms and stirs the candle flames, burning the wooden archway. As it begins to crumble above their heads, shattering their helmets, the captain continues to deliver blow after blow in the Spymaster's flickering magic, creating a round opening in his defenses.

          " Let me go! " Cyan screams, managind to scrape her throat in Azriel's dagger. He doesn't seem to mind that danger was right behind them, less than a few meters away.

          " Witch! You stole from me, you broke into my house. Did you want to kill one of us? Did you want to have some fun by torturing us? I'll make you pay double the price... " He whispers in her ear, shaking her violently, sucking all the air out of her lungs. The scent of amber snickers from beneath her armor, mixed with sweat and mud and rain and blood. The Illyrian male goes wild, seeing black before his eyes as he holds his most coveted prize at his mercy.

          Don't break her neck. The bold shadow recommended, still gripping her left wrist.

          Too caught up in the act, Azriel seemed to forget that she wasn't really alone in that armor. Taking advantage of the proximity, the cat sees her chance for revenge and quickly claws at Azriel's right eye, blinding him for a second. The shadows, mesmerized by the fanged beast, released her and dropped Cyan brutally to the ground. A crack echoes in one of her knees, but she doesn't wait and limps to Eris's side.

          When Azriel is left alone to fight the Death Patrol, he throws Truth Teller after Cyan, assuming the guilt of the fatal blow. But time snaps, everyone seems to move more slowly, as if they had been immersed in tar, and only he and the witch were fully functional. He sees it happen, the black, sharp blade slicing through the air, creating a subtle hum of music as it heads for Cyan's head. 

          Aoife screams, but it's muffled, miles away. She waves her arms desperately, the strings holding her in place like a puppet preventing her from moving any further. Eris tries to launch himself in her direction, ready to be struck in Cyan's place, if only his legs didn't feel so heavy, so pinned to the ground. The redhead turns her face behind and watches as Death finally comes to claim her life. Relief is written all over her complexion, she can already taste the feeling of freedom, but she notices something strange happening in the atmosphere. The Shadowsinger is certain the dagger will land right between her serene eyes, but the Truth Teller's trajectory changes millimeters away from Cyan's forehead.

          And it lands. Right. Next. To. Her. Head.

          The dagger that never misses just missed its first target. 

          Azriel's whiskey eyes widen in awe. Cyan's green ones stare back, alive and unharmed. The contact is painful, and it brings the Shadowsinger a visceral agony as he lets her escape. Even if he has time to catch them, he lets them run to their freedom, his back turned to the danger the Death Patrol brought him.

          Eris winnows them right in the middle of Thaibar where chaos was just beginning to set. Flames as high as the mountains devoured houses and people, creating such blistering air that Cyan's armor instantly started to warm, boiling her inside of it. 

          " This is... devastating. " Eris says as he regains control of his mind and flips his palms. The fire consuming two twin buildings diminishes, absorbed into the fae's body. Cyan runs to the nearest well, only to find it blocked by a bundle of wood thrown into it.

          " They cut off the water supply a few hours ago. " A woman screams, running away with her child in her arms. " Run! Before these devils set you on fire! "

           Eris turns to another set of houses and extinguishes the flames. As sweat begins to dampen his smooth cheeks, a howl of pain erupts from behind them.

          Aoife watches in despair as her home is reduced to ashes and smoldering embers. Her screams echo through the night, joined by hundreds of others. Cyan manages to catch her before she falls to the ground and holds her tight as she screams and screams, mourning the years of hard work just to get her mother the medicine she needs.

          " Mom! Mom, get out! They'll burn you alive! " At the thought of her mother being in that cottage, Aoife chokes on her screams and tries to crawl away from Cyan. " Please don't leave me! "

          " Aoife, please, it's too late. " Cyan pleades, watching the foundation already crumbling to the ground. She closes her eyes tightly, Aoife's mother smiling at her from behind her eyelids. " Her suffering is finally over. "

          " No, no, it can't be!... May the god's fury bury you alive, Draegan! May you never see the light or the green fields! May you rot and writhe in the flames below! " Aoife's curse runs through the sky lit by those horrifying flames.

          Eris dodges an attack from a simple guard and burns him alive, melting his armor around his body. " We have to leave! Even if I estinguish these flames, the arrows keep bringing it back up again. " He announces loudly, his baritone voice barely audible in this hell. His handsome features were already covered in ash, which turned black at the contact with his sweating temples. 

          " Take Aoife to the ship! " Cyan wakes up, suffocating from the hot temperature. " Don't let her come back! Under no circumstances! "

          " What about you? " Vanserra kneels beside Cyan, watching her with his black irises. " I can't leave you here. "

          His burning hot hand cups her broken cheek, and Cyan suddenly feels the need to curl up in his arms and cry. " I'll go to the farm, see if there's anything left to save, then I'll come to the ship. " As Eris's worried gaze seems not to let her go, she continues. " I swear. I'll see you in Prythian. "

          A promise. A promise made in that pit of despair. Eris hesitated, searching a trace of doubt in her red eyes. His hand snakes around the back of her neck and pulls her closer, their foreheads touching. " I'll be waiting for you, remember that. I'll give you a week, then I'll come looking for you... " And in farewell, he places those thin, warm lips on her hair, blessing her, giving her a dose of his own ambition.

          Cyan's cheeks glowed like the flames around her, and she clenches her fist around his.

          " Run! I'll buy you time! " And so he did, grabbing Aoife by the waist and concentrating all his powers to raise a wall of flame that split Thaibar in half, wasting all the fire he had absorbed.

          Cyan began to sprint, her knees aching with each step, her amor heavy upon her body, ringing like cups smashed together. She dodged the corpses that littered the stony streets of Thaibar as best she could, avoiding stepping on and desecrating every unalived human that was scarced like trash. People in flames run around her, trying to keep the fire from burning them alive. Cyan hurriedly threw a blouse she found on a corpe at someone's head, cutting off the oxygen that was feeding the fire. She began to cry as she realized there wasn't much she could do and that it was too late for anyone to survive.

          Her tears stung the cuts and bruises from her face, making it harder to avoid the burning obstacles in her path. A few guards shout in the distance, unleashing a new set of burning arrows across Thaibar. She covers her mouth with her hands and watches as the night sky lits up with thousands of arrows. Her breath gets caught in her throat, her lungs burning from all the smoke and ash she inhaled, but she doesn't care. She prays and prays as she runs up the hill that Eris and Aoife would make it safely to the ship, that Niven and Malou would take Cynthia and make it aboard as well. She prayed that Kallus at least had a quick and painless death.

          A choked sound escapes her body. From pain, from exhaustion, from grief, she didn't know. Misty escapes from under her armor and follows her. The smell of Thaibar's flames traveled even here, in the open meadows.

          But as she got closer to the farm, she realized that the smell of burning bodies and houses was no longer coming from Thaibar. It was the farm. Her home.

          " No, no, no, no. No, please God! " She wheeps and starts running again towards the huge flames that seem to be eating the farm. " Why are you doing this to me?! No, no, no... "

          Cyan was no longer warm, even though the damned armor was almost red from the flames she passed through, she was freezing cold, her teeth trembling in her dry mouth. She couldn't remember how fast she went down the hill, if she fell, if she tripped. Cyan saw red in front of her, the tension restricting the blood flow to her brain. As fast as she could, she opened all the barns and released what was left of her animals. " Niven! " She cries desperately, running to the house where she used to sleep. " Malou! Niven! Please, please answer me! Cynthia! "

         Just as she was about to enter, a huge chunk of wood blocked her way. "Fuck! " The smoke grew thicker and denser, and she could barely see anything less than two meters from her feet.

          " In here... " A muffled voice called from the kitchen and Cyan darted in that direction. 

          " Stay outside, Misty! Run if I don't come out! " Cyan warns her cat, kicking it away with her foot. The cat meows in disapproval, but remains outside, frightened by the amount of smoke coming from the door. As Cyan rushes inside, she quickly covers her mouth and nose with her glove and waves her other hand in the air. Dark fumes bombard her watery eyes, making it almost impossible to see. " Dear God... Is anyone in here? Niven! " The temperature was so high that Cyan's breath burned her throat and lungs, coughing asthmatically.

          Everything was destroyed, the flames were everywhere, the tables were overturned, the chairs were thrown and scattered everywhere. It looked like someone was fighting in here. " Nivy? Cynthia?! "

          The darkest scenarios unfold in her mind, and to her dismay, they all seem true. Cyan screams as she steps on something mushy and feels fragile bones cracking under her foot. She stumbles, mortified, and falls face first, hitting her head hard enough to see stars. Bolts of pain thunder deep inside her skull as blood spurts from her broken nose. Trying to regain her sight, a wail of distress leaves her vocal cords as she's face to face with an eyeless Cynthia, gazing at Cyan with her toothless mouth wide open. Niven's mother, beaten to a pulp and brutally disfigured. The girl writhes in horror, dragging her body backwards, bumping into a pair of hanging legs. Trembling, Cyan turns around. A body is pending from the ceiling, armless and naked from the torso up.

          Drowning in her own tears, she clings to Kallus' feet, trying to lift him up to help him breathe.

          " He's... dead. " Cyan turns, her face baked by the hot temperature inside the kitchen and throws herself on the ground, next to Niven's body. " They were all dead when I got here. "

           " No... I shouldn't... " Cyan tears drop on Niven's dirty face, still as beautfiull as the first day she met her. " I'm so sorry. I sould have gotten here faster... "

          " Don't be. There was nothing you could do. It was our destiny, our only way to wash away our sin. In the time you've been here, we've breathed through you, we've lived through you, we've seen the sun finally rise for us through you.  "

          " Get up, Niven, let's leave while we still can... "

          " Let me finish! I'm not coming anywhere - they smashed my legs from the hips to the toes. I can't feel a damned thing. They're still here, searching... I think they corrupted Shum, the Dark One poisoned his toughts. He's not my brother anymore. Maybe you can save him... " Cyan refuses her request, kissing the palm of her sister that was now carresing her face. " You are the Vespertus, you'll carry on and avenge us. Listen to me!... This was the plan all along! "

           Pain crowns her scalp as she is suddenly yanked away from Niven by her hair. A fist collapses with her left jaw, leaving Cyan nearly unconscious.

         " You are here at last, mighty Daughter... " The reptilian voice laughs out of the smoke and another blow knocks the air out of her lungs as it lands right between her ribs. " I'm tired of waiting and so is the Dark One. Your existence is like mud under my nails. Strike her again! "

          Dizzy and unable to move, she takes the next blow without protesting. Cyan doesn't remember where it landed, fortunately her face was already numb. She watches through nearly closed lids as Draegan's twisted face emerges from the hungry flames, surrounded by six more onyx guards. He looked like he thrived in this chaos, in this misery, fed by their sorrow. Like shadows, his protectors emerge from behind him, swallowed by those hungry flames and drew a circle around them.

          " Take a good look at what you and your filthy bitch have done to me! " He shouts, pushing his face into Cyan's view.

          The girl begins to shake from her joints. She couldn't see much, her face was swollen and the atmosphere was thick with smoke. She prayed that she would pass out from all the pain cursing through her body, but it didn't happen and she had to endure all this torture.

          Cyan could barely make out the left side of Draegan's face staring back at her with crazy, black pupils. Ruined was a soft word to describe it. His expression seemed paralyzed, mauled. His lips were drawn back into his mouth, revealing a few remaining teeth and black gums. Not even his eye could be saved, eaten away by a white void riddled with black arteries.

          " You gave Aoife the Night Shade. You took half of my face. " He concluded, smaking her with his ringed fingers. " So I felt free to take something of yours. "

          Cyan pulled her head away from the guard and spat in Draegan's face with the last of her strength. The guard who was holding her hair punished her and with a quick movement cut off her long strands of red hair and threw them into the fire. Cyan remained face down on the ground, watching as the man behind her removed his ink-black helmet to reveal a painfully familiar face.

         " Shum... I tought- " 

          " I lied. " Shum rasped, his boyish features now morphed by Draegan's magic into a man's. " You stole my familly. You killed them. You are no blessing. "

          " Spit all you want, but tonight your life of eternal darkness begins. " Draegan laughs, letting the spit run down his face. " The Devourer of Worlds spoke in my ear of you, of your powers, of your destiny. Your whore of a mother thought she could shield you from him by hiding you in other constellations, but now you're licking my boots. We are many, many more. Allies from across the continent, ready to end humanity, Prythian, ready to let the Destroyer finally take us into his kingdom. ''

          " Why did you betray us, Shum? " Niven asks, her voice filled with remorse directed to her brother. " You murdered our father and stepped on our family name. "

          Cyan began to crawl beside Niven, her body a mass of painful movements and bloody wounds. Draegan made a sign to keep the guard from laying hands on her again, and left her to be with her sister, enjoying the show.

           " I was tired of waiting for a miracle. We prayed to the Mother for a thousand years and she never answered. She let us disappear one by one, she let our heritage be wasted. I was done the second Cynthia lost her mind because of the visions the Mother kept sending her, driving her crazy with time. She could barely get out of the house. We welcomed hundreds of strangers into our home before this one came. We have been robbed, beaten, captured, enslaved, and your Goddess has done nothing to help us. It took a single prayer to the Dark One to be heard, and then I realized who was truly on my side. "

          " You never understood did you? It was our punishment for letting those races be wiped from history, for losing a kingdom... "

           " I don't care anymore. I am reborn under his oath, I bear his mark. "

          Mercy, Cyan tought, but swallowed her tongue when a knife was thrown in front of her swollen eyes.

          " Enough! Kill her! " Draegan ordered, watching Cyan. " My guards have taken care of you other family members. Watch as your savior, your butcher queen, puts an end to your misery, Benefactor. " Draegan smiled, still shrouded in smoke and protected by flames. " Kill her, your soul sister! "

          " Do... It. " Niven whispers, her doe eyes pleading with Cyan. " Don't let him have my life. "

           " I can't... " She whisperes back, crawling to her knees to hug her inert body. " I can't... I love you... "

          " Please... If you love me, you will kill me! " Niven cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. " He claimed my parents for the Darkness when he took their lives. Spare me and let me go to the Gardens. You are my queen, you are the Daughter, the Blade. You are my saviour. Let my life end at your hands. "

          With trembling hands, Cyan finds the dagger tossed beside her and lifts it over Niven's heart, centimeters away. Still shaking her head in disapproval, she bites her salty lips, trying to gather her courage. With blurred vision, she scanns her surroundings once more, their father hanging from the ceiling, their mother lying on the floor and her sister at her mercy, waiting for her decision. They all planned this. They all watched her in the eyes knowing that they had to die at the end and never told her. 

          " Don't mourn me, Evening Star. Don't falter... You were worth it! " Niven smiles once more as Cyan screams in despair and plunges the dagger right through Niven's beating heart.

          The texture of the blade as it sliced through layer after layer, through skin and muscle and bone, made Cyan lose all control of her body. She could be dead by now, she couldn't tell, and it didn't matter. She killed the last person she loved unconditionally. She was a murderer, a kin slayer. 

          Draegan laughs loudly behind her, the guards lift her by the arms, but Cyan is pudding in their fingers, barely recording the film before her eyes. The Mother weeps above them as the Fates cut a golden strand - Niven's life.

          Everything else comes in waves. She sees the slender boy - Shum, dressed in the onyx uniform worn by Draegan's personal guards. The king whispers in his ears, limbs of darkness now at his control, moving like smoke through Shum's mind, controlling him like a puppet.

          " You betrayed us. " Cyan manages to say before she feels something breaking inside her chest, unraveling in her body from head to toe like a refreshing mist. She must be drowning in the ocean, her vision corrupted by green sparks and flowing waves of white steam. She smells the perfume of her old house, amber and musk. Her limbs begin to sting, as if small jolts of electricity were coursing through her veins, contracting her muscles. Cyan begins to light up, a fiery green light burst from her body.

          " Stop it before she fully Passes! " Someone screams, but there is only music in her ears, harps and violins soothing her toughts.

         Blind rage can be read in Shum's black orbs as he comes up behind her, possessed by whatever power Draegan wielded. He raises a hammer above Cyan's head, but the blow misses, striking and breaking her coxal bone.

          The light becomes unbearable to the eyes, and the force of the explosion throws everyone outside the burning house. The excruciating pain sends her body into an epileptic crisis, and she feels it - the heartbreak ripping through her heart muscles, her vital systems collapse one by one, exploding inside her now twisted body, eating away at her mind, her tissues, her emotions. Fatal for a human. And as she draws her last breath, she sees a man fighting to keep everyone away from her.

          Wings ruffle as Azriel tries to shield himself from the wave, and a mix of rage and cobalt fire rises right next to the burning farm where the Shadowsinger has been fighting to keep far away the black hounds trying to steal Cyan's body. The male is covered in blood and thirsty for more, fueled by a ghostly desire of revenge. His Illyrian blade clashes with an onyx guardian's flaming sword, while Truth Teller blocks the blow of another, aiming straight for his back. His shadows snake around their legs, throwing one to the ground and suffocating him. A dark sword rises to his side, slicing through his Illyrian leather. The sting only adds to the man's rage, which burns cruelly in his chest. The shakles he's been feeling since the witch's visit ring in his ears, vibrate through his body, and in a moment of blind madness, he cuts of the guardian's head from his body by forfecating his sword and Truth Teller, leaving it to roll on the ground.

          Shocked by the mania that has taken hold of him, Azriel steps back and watches as a fleeing Draegan rides back to his castle alongside the ponytail boy. He tries to follow, but an unseen thug holds him back, calling for attention. The barn.

          The Shadowsinger rushes inside, his face covered by his mask, and counts the victims. Checking the pulse of each corpse, he lets the flames carry a prayer to the heavens. A cry for help draws his attention to the one he seeks. An animal cry. Azriel's heart sinks as he sees Cyan's limp body covered by the fire, her furry friend desperately trying to bring her back to life.

          Lifting the cat in one hand and the woman's body on his shoulder, he flies them outside, away from the danger. There's not much he can do when the cat's curls itself on the girl's chest again, crying for him to help her, pleading him with her golden eyes to save her owner. 

          " I can try, but I don't know if it will work. " Azriel explains patiently, touching and examining the cats burned hair for any damage. " Wake up... " He speaks softly, inspecting the woman's severe wounds. Her nose was broken, her face was covered in bruises and various types of blood, her own and others. He felt sorry for her and gently removed the hairs from her temples. Azriel hated her, there was no doubt about it, but seeing her so unrecognizable from the beating she had taken, he couldn't help but feel guilty as well. " I hope your soul goes where it deserves to. "

          The woman was dead. It was easy to conclude. He dragged her into his lap, along with the crying cat and prepared to take them to the Night Court.

          " I'm sorry. " Azriel whispered, caressing her features. He unsheathed his sword as a pair of hooves landed right beside him, taking him by surprise. A mare, ridden by an old woman who looked at him as if she wanted to kill him. The horse was no better, huffing and puffing and baring her healthy teeth at him. " I assume you want the girl. "

          " This is a lost battle, illyrian " The woman nodds, her breathy voice filled with superiority. " Don't strike a wounded warrior. The girl is under my protection from now on. Let us gather our strength and then you can come and fight like a true man for your possesion. Spare us today and you won't regret meeting me next time. " 

          Azriel weighed his options, feeling the woman's cunning way of making him give up. His pointed blade was aimed at the old woman, but he couldn't move fast enough with the corpse on his lap. She was wise enough to speak of the honor of the illyrian race; to strike an already wounded warrior was a disgrace.

          But how can she protect this corpse? Who does she think she is? 

          Already tired from tonight's circus, Azriel takes the easy way out and agrees as he watches the girl's face again. The only victim to escape his dagger. " I'll let her go. " He decides, lifting her body and placing her and her cat on top of the stunning mare. " But I'll come back for her. Dead or alive, she made a promise to me. "

           " We'll be waiting. " The old woman said, leaving Azriel behind.

          You let her escape the second time tonight. The mass of darkness spoke in his ear, recalling his mistake from earlier. You got distracted... the amber...

          It's not in your nature...  The brave shadow curled, smelling the strands of hair Azriel clutched in his fist, collected from the girl's body.

           " Let's hope Amren is useful for something this time. "

Chapter Text

PART II: A Neverending Prisoner

Chapter 12

Again

          More than twenty minutes had passed since the old woman had bent over her, breathing asthmatically and cursing her osteoporotic bones. The cracking that continued rhythmically with each compression indicated a broken rib or maybe more, Malou couldn't even imagine that she had some physical power to crush bones.

          " She won't last the night, will she? " The blonde's sigh sounded so muffled, drowned out by the restless waves that lapped through the ship's hull, buffeting her from side to side. " She wasn't breathing when you brought her in, who knows when her heart stopped, and I think we've used up the last of the oxygen in her blood. Nothing will work... "

          The woman did not take her good eye off the already earthy face of the corpse before her, and continued to press her folded palms over the child's chest, praying constantly for a miracle. She had been through this before, over two hundred years ago. She knew by heart what was about to happen and yet, she still felt sadness and grief and pain.

          I'm still as alive as I can be... and free. Thanks to her...

          It had been two days since they had boarded the ship, and the woman in her arms seemed to be drifting away from the legend she knew like a prayer. The Chosen One falls from the sky, settles down, is crucial to make a familiar, to love, and then to have that love torn from her chest, to die of a broken heart and return with thoughts of revenge, as a saviour.

          Only it didn't happen that way. The fantasy was over. Time was merciless to the body, hardened and broken on all sides, and didn't seem to spare the cat's soul either, which continued to purr weakly over the corpse. They were both dying. So much blood had seeped out around them that it began to soak into the moldy wooden platform, spreading a bitter stench.

          The reek swayed her with a murderous memory: the corpses of the legion she was supposed to lead, the commander for whom she would have given her firstborn, her wings... She had to stop unraveling nightmares, this girl didn't have five hundred milliliters of fluid left in her body and she was only doing more harm. Her magic and her body hadn't recovered and she couldn't do anything supernatural. It wouldn't have been advisable to intervene anyway, the risk of awakening an abomination would have been too great.

          The blood had soaked into her cherry red hair, oozing from her nose, mouth, and eyes like a river that had already dried up and left blood clots behind. The gold earrings she wore dangled displaced in all the mess, glittering as if they were new in her dirty ears. Like a first-time saint in a brothel.

          Malou didn't dare to remove the girl's armor and look at her chest to convince herself that her heart had exploded and even if she tried, she wouldn't be able to. The clump of fur had been curled there without a sound since they'd brought her in. Her closed eyes were stained with tears that had trickled down her swollen cheeks. The cat seemed to be trying to warm her master, to protect her, to heal her soul.

          Droplets began to trickle down Cyan's face. No, it wasn't Cyan anymore. The young woman had died in Thaibar along with the rest of her family. Now she was nameless again.

          Malou couldn't tell if the tears came from the corpse or from the eyes of the other woman, the flower girl, who tried to clean the shadows of dirt from her friend's cheeks, to wash it away. In that dim, yellowish, fragile light, the blonde's exquisite features now seemed obliterated by the smoke that clung to her skin, looking even more grotesque. The silk nightgown she'd specially put on, forced on her by the king, as far as she knew, had lost its shine and looked more like a thin rag. Fortunately, Malou had a lot of furs, thanks to the freezing cold in prison, and had lent the girl one. It probably wasn't one of the most odorless pieces of clothing, but it would protect her from the cold and the indecent looks.

          " Blondie, go and put on something thicker. You're going to die of hypothermia and I don't feel like dragging another dead body behind me. " The old woman grumbled, barely able to catch her breath after speaking so many words at once. " We have plenty of time to guard her, she's not going anywhere in this state. "

          Malou clutches her much younger palms, enjoying the way her old scars pull at her skin, marring the line of life and happiness imprinted on her fingers. Slowly, her long buried traditions and memories began to resurface as the ink of her old tattoos began to darken beneath her epidermis, thick and circular. They gave her more strength, more will, more... hope.

          But for what purpose. Her star had failed the test.

          Aoife just nodded, her dead stare driving nails into the floor of the ship. " There are too many men on deck to leave you two alone. You haven't even regained half of your physical strength yet. "

          The old woman opened her mouth to throw a sour word, then realized the weight of her words and squeezed her legs tighter under her. Apparently, even now, after hundreds of years of so-called evolution, faes and human had not changed their barbaric ways. She turned her eyes to the circular window, constantly washed by the waves, but saw nothing new. It was another dark night, seemingly deeper, with no stars to light the ship's way. It felt like they were circling in the same spot of the angry ocean, who was hungrily trying to throw them into its belly.

          Malou shivered, constantly taken aback by the wave of new experiences her body was being subjected to, then felt sick to her stomach as goose bumps covered her skin. Fear. The woman spat right next to them, trying to get rid of the horrible taste in her mouth. Aoife watched her like a queen watching a buffon, her expression torn between sorrow and disgust.

            Without an almost complete recovery, she was as useless as a broom on board.

          Maybe I was a fool to give up my magic.

          " Isn't this your father's ship or something? " She heard herself wonder as she stroked with her eyes the blonde's dirty hair.

          " My uncle's... but that doesn't make him any better than the latter. " The girl laid a blanket over the corpse up to her torso, trying to keep both her and the cat's temperature as high as possible. " Misty... " Aoife pets the cat folded ears, then looks down at her palm. " By Sedna's tail, it's so cold... "

          The moment she wiggled her fingers, the gray fur began to ooze in clumps, stained with blood and dead skin. The cat didn't move from the pretzel she'd draped over her mistress's chest, digging her claws into the metal scales of the armor. The rhythmic thrumming became more violent, as if it were working hard to save her fate.

          Malou pressed her grown fingernails into her eyes, trying to pop the ball of pressure that was building up behind her eyeballs, hoping to ease the tiredness. She hadn't closed an eyelid in so many days, but it was as if her heart wouldn't let her leave the two girls alone. She could not rest until she had brought the woman ashore and buried her deep, deep underground.

          " I still have hope. " Malou confesses, wiggling her swollen limbs. " We'll take her to Rosehall, we'll nurse her another day or two. There are some healers there who might know how to help her, if her soul hasn't already run too far away, of course. If not... you'll stay with me to bury them. "

          " Them? "

          " If there is no way to bring her back, her familiar will soon die as well. Once the bond is established, she cannot physically live without her other half. Neither of them. The fact that the cat is still breathing is something we should hold on to. "

          " Can't you do something to help them? "

          Malou shook her head slightly and concentrated on her heartbeat, suddenly too aware of the way her body began to ache, paralyzed in the same position for hours. " I gave up my magic and as you said, I am not completely healed. I am still trapped in a hag's body... "

          " But- but, why? How? Kallus, he said you'll be able to help her! " Aoife moved her lips quickly, her eyes suddenly as wide as onions, sparkling as if she had found a solution to all her problems. " He said you're some sort of warrior, that you souldn't even exist anymore. He called you a Valkyrie! "

          " Don't call me that! " Malou spat suddenly, as if her soul was whipped. " I can't call myself that after everything I've done. I don' deserve it. "

          The blonde quickly turned from joy to hate and grabbed Malou's still unhealed arm like a vice, defiantly clenching the bones into a fist. " I don't give a cow shit if you still have that title or not. It's not for me. Do you do any kind of spells, witchcraft or whatever the fuck is necesarry? "

          The old woman shook roughly from her grip and squinted at her with her still good brown eye. " No. And don't ever lay your filthy hands on me again or I'll cut them off and eat them in front of you. "

          " Nimue was ten times better than you! Better start thinking of something we can do right now or I'll be the one to eat those useless hands. " The girl laughed harshly, as if a beast had possessed her and she was thirsty.

          " Look at yourself in the mirror, blondie! You did nothing tonight. You put your cunt on the line and then ran away as fast as your skinny legs could carry you. " Malou lifted her thick fingers and gestured the way Aoife's legs would have moved.

          Aoife's eyelids narrowed, her blue irises burning with fury. " I may not have been in a dungeon like you, but at least you weren't fucked by a disgusting man who happened to kill your entire friends and family tonight. "

           A cup shattered above them, bringing silence amidst the grumbling that could be heard one floor above. Malou realized immediately that she had been freed from the prison, the magic around that haunted place in the forest not only blocked the powers of those trapped there forever, but also played with their emotions. Of course, once out of that misery, she had also regained the oppressive ability to distinguish hate from love and courage from fear. Including the guilt that now snaked

          " Look, I know none of us have been any better off, but I think you can think of something that might help us now. Valkirye or not. " Aoife concluded, tired of hearing the wailing from behind the door they had taken shelter behind.

          Malou appreciated the sanity the flower girl was capable of in such a situation and dropped her head for a few seconds. She tried to put her gray matter particles to work, sifting through the hundreds of pieces of information that surged to the surface, but without a competent answer.

          The oil lamp flickered between them as another wave smashed against the round glass panes, sending a few streams of water trickling down to them. Beneath the corpse, seawater and blood had already formed a slimy film that soaked their knees. The salt had dried and surrounded them in a circle, offering protection in an hour of vulnerability. The smell of the corpse had faded, thanks to the white salt particles that seemed to be trying to slow down the decomposition process.

          " There's a saying: We have as many hair threads in our heads as we have days. " Malou began to unravel a braid from under her scarf, wrinkling her nose at the smell of seaweed and fish. " Find a strand of white hair. "

          " Why white and not pigmented? Shouldn't it have life in it? Symbolically speaking? " Aoife rose immediately from her knees, hearing her padded ankles click under the weight of her body. " It's going to be a real labor for me to find one in this stinking, blonde hair. "

          " White, yes. If I saw things from your perspective, you'd be right, but magic is complicated and changes its meaning depending on the purpose you give it to work for. " Malou narrowed her black eyes and motioned for the blonde to bring the candle closer. " For example, if I wanted to take away a day of her life, I who ask, I would need a strand of colored hair. A day that she would live, a day that would be indispensable to her mission. If I wanted to give her a day, I would need a white strand of my hair, an empty day that would pass over me without me feeling it. I could also use a strand of colored hair, but that would have more divine repercussions. It's too complicated, we'd be tipping the scales, changing our fate or hers. Hair is very valuable, you can bind curses, you can undo spells, you can track a person... "

          " Got it. There it is! " Aoife yells, brutally pulling out the hair. " What do I do now? "

          " Wonderful, tie a knot on her little finger, the symbol of the end. " The women hastily tossed aside the damp bedclothes and removed the corpse's blood-stained gloves. Aoife swallowed, unaccustomed to the way those swollen, purple-stained hands felt between her own.

          " Shouldn't we do the same to the cat? Didn't you say it was part of Cyan? " Aoife stopped herself from shaking, feeling like she was about to create an abomination.

          " Cyan is dead. Cyan died in Thaibar with Niven and the others. This woman is something else entirely. " Malou looked at her grimly, feeling the scar tighten around her eyebrow as her skin regenerated. " And no, her familiar is already tied to her soul, already giving her a rope to hold on to, but I think she needs a little help. "

          The blonde didn't say anything else, just looked at the woman lying unmoved between them, as if trying to recognize her. How could it not be Cyan? How could she be left behind in the hell of Thaibar? Tears blurred her vision, and for a second she seemed to be back in her town, planting and selling seeds, waving to Cyan as she went to work in Nimue's shop.

          Once the thread was knotted, Malou grabbed her other free hand and closed her eyes, trying to remember what the spell sounded like.

          " Do we have to bleed? " Aoife's question came with an overflowing innocence, so Malou couldn't hold back when she gave her an annoyed look.

          Exasperated, she closed her eyes again and focused her mind. " Only black spells need blood, we -"

          " Necromancy! Isn't that black magic? " The blonde's voice rises a few octaves.

          " On mother's tits, how many questions you ask... It's not necromancy, she's still between worlds, I can feel her. We're doing magic that's kind of on the borderline between white magic and black magic. Borderline. Now shut up and repeat after me. "

          The blonde was afraid to follow Malou's example and close her eyes, afraid of what she would see behind the darkness of her eyelids, of the silence that would be part of the ritual, of the hell that had not left her yet. But something made her change her mind, the hum that accompanied the silence, the electricity that stung the navel of her fingers, and then there was the icy hand that gripped their joined palms.

          With eyes glued with fear at the sight of a living corpse, Aoife whispered Malou's first words " Mother of all we feel... "

𓆩✴𓆪

          A version of the warrior nearly thirty years younger now, secretly bid farewell at the harbor to Aoife, who in turn seemed to have aged as many years. Dawn was about to break, and the deep, dark circles under their eyes were the only witnesses to the ritual that had left two symmetrical burn marks on the dead woman's little finger - twins to the wounds that now marked the skin of the two living women. 

          " You'll feel it when she wakes up...if she chooses to do so. You'll feel everything she goes through from now on - every cry for help, every moment of happiness. " Malou informed her, placing a tattooed hand on the blonde's crippled shoulder. She was never good at goodbyes, never good at making people feel better, so she immediately climbed onto her mare and prepared to leave.

          The change between Hybern's and Prythian's territory was obvious. First of all, feathery clouds could finally be seen slowly circling the red sky, and this half of the ocean didn't seem as deep and dark as the one from Thaibar's harbor. Many colorful fish swam around the wooden legs of the deck, diving and coming back to the surface in small groups.

          " Take care, Malou... " Aoife's hushed voice was barely audible over the raging waves crashing against the ship. The last few dozen survivors of the night stood on the opposite shore, watching the smoke swallow the morning light - gazing at the place that had once been their home. " And make sure she wakes up. Make sure she stays alive this time. " She struggles to command, swallowing her tears for the thousandth time.

         Malou lifted her chin, marked by perfectly inked Tuunraq, to the sky and breathed in the haunting smell of charred corpses. She gave a short nod and did not stay much longer. She hated this suffocating atmosphere and she hated even more the fact that she was now going to be involved in this mess for the long ride. With a nudge, she urged her mare forward and galloped off without waiting for another word from Aoife. She did not look back, even though her heart asked her to.

          She raced like a madwoman through the unpaved streets of the still-sleepy fishing village, hoping to reach Rosehall as soon as possible. She couldn't imagine anyone there not recognizing her. Of course, centuries had passed since she had last seen those lush forests of the continent, since any of the women who sheltered there had heard a word of her. She navigated by instinct, following the path she knew like the back of her hand. Malou did not falter at the sharp left turn as she left the village, nor at the detour she had to take around a massive tree that had not yet been cleared from the path.

          The woman stayed there once, in the small church of frothy white stone with green roofs, after the Great Kneeling had taken place. Malou spat and wiped the corner of her mouth, trying to get rid of the bitter taste that always came up when she remembered that cursed day.

          Empires do fall in one day...

          Back then, she had needed a few moments to figure out what to do next after losing so much - an entire battalion, a kingdom, a family, and her wings. She had nothing left to live for, but she didn't want to die like a fool. The only thing she had was a hollow vow she'd made on the day of her initiation, a memory so old she couldn't even remember it clearly, where she promised that the only way she would reach the Garden of Elysium was with honor. And suicide was not honorable. Besides, she wanted to see her friends again, and that meant she could not go to Hel under any circumstances. So, she had taken refuge there, in Rosehall, before she gave up her powers and allowed Hybern to capture her.

          Wild...

          Giving up her power wasn't any easier, either. Her soul still ached for that taste, for that reverberating feeling every time she reached for the white mist inside her. How it filled her muscles with brute force, how it made her heart beat angrier. But it was the least she could do to punish herself for leaving her family behind.

          Now that she thought about what she had done so many years ago, maybe she shouldn't make decisions in frustration anymore. Not that it mattered now. This time, she might actually be able to make up her mind and end it all - after finishing the mess she had gotten herself into. Or maybe she would meet a more honorable fate than suicide.

          But did she deserve honor?

          She shook the clumsily braided curls, made before her arms were strong enough to lift above her head, and breathed in the scent of the flower-filled pasture. It was as if she had been reborn, familiar again with the way her body was stronger, more agile, more capable. 

          Malou tried to focus her milky eye on her surroundings, though she knew it was of little use. She saw only shadows and faint spots of light, but she had gained an ability she didn't fully understand: she could see magic simmering, the delicate threads that connected two people, how oaths could change a person's energy, how spells could steal a fragment of someone's soul.

          And just as clearly, she could see the thin, white thread now wrapped around her little finger, leading to the cart behind her - just as she could see another golden, shimmering beneath the fabric, stretching back to the place she had left.

          If a former acquaintance could see her now, they would have laughed telepathically, the sound ringing through her brain like a plague. She knew where her next stop was - Sorscha. For all her skills as a warrior, she would never have known how to lead a Vespertus to spiritual greatness or whatever the priestess could do. How could she teach the girl to tame the forces that were about to erupt from within, how to balance the two worlds that would soon sink their teeth into her flesh? Light and darkness, life and death - both would fight tooth and nail for the spirit of a Vespertus.

          She knew the legend, the tale, the rumors - or whatever they were - but she had never imagined that she would live to see these times. There hadn't been many Vespertuses in her time either, the last one had been born when she was very, very little and had died just as quickly, before the Great Kneeling. Maybe that's why the kingdom fell, because the last one didn't fulfill her mission... There weren't many times when the world needed one either, the veil that kept the Underworld where it belonged was always thick with layers of Mother's magic. But who knew what had happened in the meantime? Malou couldn't even comprehend that she would be the one honored to train the next Vespertus.

          " Oh, fuck! " Malou cursed through clenched teeth as the wheel hit a massive rock, rattling the cart behind her. " I hope you're comfortable back there, honey. "

          She didn't expect an answer from the dead woman behind, so she turned her attention back to the dense forest around her, enjoying the faint buzzing of the bees for a moment. Maybe she should have stolen a knife from the ship - anything that might come in handy if some bandits decided to rob a corpse in the morning.

          " I think I'm forgetting who I am... " Malou muttered to herself as she flexed her nearly healed hands. She needed no sword, no shield, no daggers, no magic. Over the years, she had shattered so many jaws with her bare fists that only the sensation of cracking bone beneath her scarred fingers truly awakened her senses. Maybe a little training wouldn't hurt either - there's only so much an old lady can do in a dungeon.

          Soon, the blooming gardens of Rosehall began to appear between the slender tree trunks, filled with red, thorny roses. She raised four fingers to the clear sky and estimated that it was barely seven in the morning. Through the gaps in the leaves she could see the steeple of the church, greened by time, and its shining windows reflecting the cloudless sky. They looked just as she had left them years ago.

          On the way, she passed some of the women that took shelter there - a short, stocky girl accompanied by an older one who seemed to be her mother. Laughing and chatting loudly, they walked nonchalantly past the body lying just a few feet away. They didn't spare her a glance, nor did they ask Malou where she was going, so she slipped easily into the courtyard, where the air was thick with the scent of flowers, honey and incense.

          " A damn fairy tale. " She whispered again as she dismounted the black mare, her coat glistening like a gem in the harsh sun. " And you were well fed, I see. Did she take care of you? " Malou asked, and the horse snorted in agreement as she gestured with her chin to the back of the wagon.

          She looked around, remembering every inch of freshly wet grass, every storage building in the same place, the wood and charcoal still overflowing, the fruit and vegetables in the same place. Even the livestock was full, cows, goats, horses. It was as if a part of her heart had been healed, seeing all this again in one piece, unchanged. It smelled of fresh bread and tea even outside, and the choir could be heard from the front gate.

          " Malou?! " A familiar voice crept up from behind her, causing the warrior to spun around and take down whoever had managed to sneak into her blind spot so gracefully. " This is impossible... I thought you were dead! "

          Malou clenched her fists tightly, then remembered why she was here - and that she needed their help. She couldn't just go around throwing punches. Apparently, she really needed training, since she still hadn't learned how to use her ears properly.

          The sun had climbed so high in the sky that it shone brightly on the speaker, who was clutching a basket full of carrots and potatoes. Her slender figure was hidden under a simple brown dress and a gardening apron. But before Malou could cover her eyes with her hand, the knotted wings behind the woman gave her the clue she needed - along with the familiar scent of sweet cedar and lemon.

          " It can't be... Rosalinda? " Malou stepped closer, finally seeing the dark-haired woman smiling innocently, her body trembling slightly with emotion. " You haven't changed a bit. "

          " How are you still alive? " The woman had gained a few wrinkles here and there, but nothing else betrayed the years that had passed or the hardships she had endured to reach this sanctuary. She still kept the warmth in her golden eyes, the deep charcoal of her hair. " You left without a word all those years ago. I heard you were captured. " She set the basket down on the dew-dampened ground and gently pulled Malou into a soft embrace.

          " I was a... I was in a really dark place, but I need help. Like right away... " Uncomfortable with the sudden physical contact and increasingly aware of the stench of decay that was beginning to seep into the quiet courtyard, Malou tried to slip out of Rosalinda's arms and put her strong hands on the woman's round shoulders. " This is gonna sound crazy. " Malou laughed awkwardly and looked around before she whispered in Rose's ear. " You have to help me bathe and take care of a body. "

          Hearing herself say that made her feel stupid and out of place, like she was bringing bad news everywhere she went. She just met her old friend after all these years and the first thing she says to this woman is 'help me hide a body'. But maybe that's what true friendship is all about. Right?

          Rosalinda's thin lips parted slightly, but Malou didn't give her a chance to answer or to understand the gravity of her words. She carefully pulled her friend toward the cart and pulled back a corner of the blanket, allowing the soft Rosehall sunlight to kiss the pale face underneath. Rosalinda took a long breath as she looked at the young girl's bruised, haunted features. Her mud-stained gloves rose slowly to her chest, and she closed her eyes for a moment, as if to gather strength for what was to come.

          " Bring her to the back entrance. We'll hide her in the storage barracks in the backyard. " The woman's wings seemed to contract, weakened by the strain of the binding that had already left its mark just below the atrophied claw. " We'll burr- " Malou cut her off with a slow motion of disagreement from her head.

          " I need a room, Rose. " She explained calmly, stressing every word, alarmed by the way some women were already noticing their long exchange of information. "She's not dead, dead, just overthinking about coming back. I hope... "

          The woman eyed her wearily, her mouth still stuck on the word ' burry ' that never came out. " Are you, by any chance, amnesic? Delusional? Or just hit your head on the way here? She smells like a corpse kept unburied for more than 5 hours. "

          " It's been three days since she was killed. "

          Rose was shocked for the third time in less than five minutes, and this time she couldn't fully recover: first her old friend suddenly comes back from the dead, then she wants to bury a body, but not really bury it, just rent a room to keep it until it supposedly comes back. " I really think there is something very wrong with you, my friend, but for the sake of my reputation and yours, just take her out of here and bring her to the back door! "

          A good friend indeed. 

          The warrior's golden skin glowed like molten gold in the sun's rays as she spun sharply on her heel and slapped the mare's back. Jealousy was probably too harsh of a word, and pity far too insulting for someone as noble as Rosalinda. But what was worse? To have wings and not be able to use them, or to have them stolen and spend a lifetime longing for someone else's?

          Malou resisted the urge to spit again - a crude habit she had picked up from the ill-mannered Illyrians she had once lived among - and ran her tongue over her unbrushed teeth. Another five minutes outside and she was about to lose her mind over explaining a simple matter. 

          She forced a strained, half-welcoming smile at the familiar faces that froze in shock at the sight of her. A few women peered out from between the vines they were tying and waved happily at her.

          " We'll talk later. " she managed to call out, quickening her pace and praying that no one got close enough.

          She hoped the scent of daisies and tulips would mask the stench. She wasn't sure which was worse - her own, after what felt like centuries without a proper bath, or the corpse in the cart, which could start decomposing at any time. The rising temperature left her no choice, hastening both the decay and the sweat that pooled at her throat. She left a trail of dust in her wake, which was quickly absorbed by the thick hedges that lined the path.

          " Good boy, good boy... " She murmured, briefly scratching a curious stray dog behind its ears. " Go catch your own food. This one's mine. "

          Reaching the back of the church, Malou pushed the door open with her boot, then immediately scolded herself for the disrespectful gesture. She took in the stone staircase that spiraled up several floors and the narrow hallway that branched into several entrances.

          Glancing back, she saw two older women kneeling as they planted seeds in holes dug by a younger girl walking ahead of them, moving row by row across the tilled earth. A flicker of pride blossomed in Malou's chest as her keen ears confirmed that the women were too deep in absurd gossip to notice anything out of the ordinary.

          Rosalinda slipped nimbly past the sacks stacked by the kitchen door, her eyes darting around in concern. Laughter and clinking glasses echoed from the dining room, mixed with the occasional scrape of dishes. She knew there was no time for questions, but smuggling a body through a sanctuary full of wary women was no easy task.

          " Head or feet? " Malou asked as they took their places on either side of the cart. " There's also a cat. "

          " A cat? " Rosalinda's eyes widened, wondering if it was worse to see a dead woman or a dead cat, and she went straight to the small lump on top of the body. " I don't have your muscles, so... whatever's easier. "

          " Don't worry, my muscles have been on vacation for centuries. I've barely learned how to use my hearing. " The woman quickly wrapped the coarse cloth around the body, covering it completely, then tied it at both ends. " Take the legs and let me lead. You just tell me which floor to stop on. "

          " All right, but we have to move fast. If anyone sees us... " Rosalinda rubbed her sweaty palms against her white apron, staining it lightly with freshly turned earth. She hesitated, put a hand on her stiff limbs, swallowed hard, then tugged at the sack with all her strength without thinking.

          " I know, I know. " Malou sighed and pulled harder on the blanket as she struggled to take the first steps. Yes, she definitely needed some exercise, too, as her muscles ached in every joint.

          " If we meet someone, we'll say... "

          " We'll say I haven't had a bath in a few days and this little one here it's a sick, weak woman we have to take care of. No one will get too close. "

          Rosalinda nodded in agreement, then added sarcastically, " That will actually make sense, especially all wrapped up like a corpse... Anyway, we're almost there. "

          They passed a room where a woman played the lute softly. They both held their breath. Rose gestured that the woman was mad and didn't hear well. With great effort, they managed to sneak up the stairs, avoiding curious glances. Malou could feel her muscles shaking under the weight of the sluggish body, but she clenched her jaw and forced herself to keep moving.

          The two women moved slowly, each breathing more heavily than the other. The sun poured its gentle rays through the freshly washed windows, over the smooth stone of the corridors, making them both sweat profusely. Rosalinda tripped on the last step, exhausted, and leaned against the green wooden railing.

          " I think you're in better shape than me. " Malou smiled, trying to ease the strange tension. " Have you been sparring? "

          They finally arrived at a small, empty room with a simple wooden bed and a window covered with blue curtains. Rosalinda pushed the door open with her back and carefully closed it behind them. They laid the body gently on the bed, as if it were still alive, and Malou stretched her back with a sigh.

          " Yes, in my spare time, when I'm not washing and hiding corpses. " Rosalinda groaned, collapsed into the chair next to the unlit fireplace and poured two glasses of water.

          " I'm very sorry. I didn't know - "

          " Where else to go? "The black-haired woman continued, almost scolding Malou for her reckless behavior. " I've gotten used to your way of being, you're always surrounded by a dark cloud of problems and missions and secrets, but a body? Have you come that far? "

          Malou ignored how this answer made her feel. Unpleasant was an appropriate word, harsh, then she rolled her eyes and scratched the back of her head. " I didn't dig a grave, if that's what you think. I saved her. In terms you might understand: I am this girl's legal guardian. "

          " And she dies on your watch? " Rose concluded, sipping angrily from her glass. " I'll go as far as to say you're out of your game. Where have you been all these years? I've looked for you, I've asked for you, but it was as if the earth had swallowed you up. "

          " Well, it did, but not Earth, just Hybern. They threw me in jail and forgot about me there. "

          " You could escape at any time" Don't lie to me! You used to be a strong, tough, loyal, smart - "

          " Anxious, flighty, depressed, suicidal - "

          " Valkyrie! " Rosalinda rose from her chair and pointed her index finger at Malou's nose. " A warrior! "

          " Not even close! " Malou shouted, turning her back on her old friend and pressing her damp forehead against the window. " I am a shadow. " She breathed after a while, tasting the disgusting loss on her tongue. "I pretend to be tough and smart and whatever else is left in me, but I'm drowning in the same shame and guilt. I'm irredeemable, and that's okay. She didn't die on my watch, like you said, and she won't stay dead. My destiny is tied to hers and I must do everything in my power to help her succeed. It's the least I can do for my old general, for my lost troops. Maybe she's the way I can find some... solace. So, no, I'm not crazy or delusional, she must be nurtured back to life and for that... I need your help, please! "

          " Is that her? ... " Rosalinda came a little closer to the corpse, searching it from head to toe, wondering what it looked like, completely uncovered. When Malou only nodded, Rose inhaled, aware of the goosebumps the thought brought to her skin. " Does that mean... He? It... " She didn't even know how to address the abomination that lay beneath their feet. " Broke the veil? "

           " Not yet. But it's damaged, I keep hearing it tearing apart layer by layer. That's how she fell on our universe in the first place. "

          " I have dreamed of this. " Rose said, as if her vision was clearer now. " Weeks and weeks of the same vivid dream. I have had premonitions of forgotten bloodlines leading to... a daughter. " A smile crept across her face as she relieved the love in her stomach, the smell of marriage, but the smile faded as soon as it came. " I felt heartbreak, I felt myself reborn. I fell into a void of anger and sadness. And more than anything, I heard the utcher laugh, and he is as hungry as ever. "

          " When the rapture of the worlds happened, something changed in the nature of all creatures around. " Malou finished the conversation, not wanting Rose to get into the same state of euphoria her visions brought her, so she quickly changed the subject to something that always made her friend happy. " You had a son. Does he visit? Is he kind to you? " The old floor creaked under the weight of the warrior as she moved away from the door leading to a small toilet and began to carefully unravel the cloth while catching her breath.

          She didn't see Rosalinda smiling warmly and looking out the open window, breathing in the light breeze that made the curtains flutter lazily. " He's a good boy. A man, actually, " She admitted with a chuckle. " He's grown up faster than I thought. "

          A strange cedar scent filled the room, making the cloth on the corpse tremble slightly, as if the dead body inhaled the sweet air. Through her pale iris, Malou caught a glimpse of blue particles floating around, then the gray thread curled up on top of the girl's chest.

          " You deserve the best. " Malou turned to her, frowning, noticing the procession of particles spilling through the window, searching for something or someone. " How old is he? "

          She stopped, feeling a blinding headache above her temple. Apparently, nothing is infinite.

          " Old. But not older than you. Nobody's older than you. " Rose smiled charmingly, showing off her well-kept teeth. " The last time he was here, he told me he was flying to another continent. His High Lord is dependent on his powers, so he travels a lot. But he is very attentive to me. It's never more than a week or two before he makes time to see me, bringing me little things from the places he goes. But enough about me and my son. We need to clean her up before the smell grows heavier. " Rosalinda rolled up her sleeves and gestured to the bed.

          Malou's eyes landed on the scissors hanging from Rosalinda's belt. " May I? So I can, you know, undress her? "

          The woman nodded, somewhat embarrassed by the presence of the two. She hadn't seen her old friend in so long and wasn't sure how to act. The last time she had seen her, she had been in a pitiful state of depression and had tried to stop her from slitting her throat with those very same scissors.

          " I'm over it, don't worry. " She lied, knowing full well that she hadn't gotten over the huge hole in her chest and probably never would. " I won't stick it down my throat or anyone else's. "

          " Of course not. " Rose agreed and handed her the rusted metal.

          Carefully, as if a child were suffocating behind all the layers of clothing and armor that buried her, she cut through the remnants of cloth. The first thing that greeted her was the cat, the young woman's face still hidden.

          " Poor thing. " Rosalinda swallowed hard, quickly preparing the fire at the sight of the animal's disheveled fur.

          " I think the cat died some time ago. It was her familiar. " Malou felt the need to explain and continued to remove pieces of armor, throwing them to the ground. " I'll tell you everything after I set her up. "

           With only a few steps, Rose reached the bedside and with a quick movement revealed the vague features underneath. " Dear mother... " The woman gently cupped the frozen cheeks between her warm palms, carefully examining the bruises, cuts and wounds - silent witnesses to the torment she had endured before dying. The rest of her body was no better, telling the same horrific tale all the way down to her now bare feet.

          Through the cadaverous stench, Rosalinda detected something painfully familiar, hidden beneath layers and layers of blood and iron, 

          " She's so... young. " Rosalinda swallowed hard, but asked no further questions as her eyes fell on the faint burn mark that traced the girl's little finger. " You tried to give her some of your own days? "

          " Me and someone else, yes. We prayed until morning, but I think the Mother has more important duties to attend to... "

          " Boundary spells take longer than others. Opposing forces must unite for a common goal that you impose, and that is usually difficult to achieve. " The woman smiled again, trying to offer a glimmer of hope as she headed for the door. " Come and help me get some warm water and clothes for both of you, and then we'll talk. "

          Somehow, they managed to avoid most of the curious onlookers who asked about Malou's return and the place she had traveled to for so many years. Of course, the two had been more convincing than expected when they told details about villages that didn't exist or bizarre dishes she had never tried. The only taste that remained on her tongue was the wretched porridge with mold flowers that the guards had thrown into her cell. Malou pressed her sharp-edged lips together at the thought of how she had once humiliated herself, scooping every last bit from the filthy floor, then pushed the memory aside as she carried the buckets of hot water.

          Rosalinda, on the other hand, was still surrounded by her usual motherly aura of cheerfulness as she gathered a shirt here and a sock there from various rooms, trying to put together two acceptable outfits for the newcomers. She breathed a sigh of relief at not running into the High Abbess as she made her way through the vast dining hall or the basement washrooms, sparing herself the necessary explanations. But the illusion was shattered when they stepped back into the dimly lit room, which seemed even darker now that a lifeless body lay naked in the middle of the bed, warmed only by the cheerful firelight dancing on the walls.

          She didn't know what to expect. Both the young girl and her cat lay in exactly the same position they had left her in, as if tending to each other's wounds. The stiffened hand rested gently around the cat's torso, just as Malou had positioned it when she had undressed her, as if she wanted to protect the creature even in death from the cold that had followed them all the way to Rosehall.

          Rosalinda lit a few more candles in the small chamber and the tiny adjacent bath, then sent Malou to clean herself while she tended to the stranger. She didn't want to hear a single word of protest from her old friend, so she prepared her room and carefully began to wash the body. Everything unfolded like a ritual, watched over by the full moon as it rose majestically among the stars, accompanied by the sacred song of the owls outside.

          The woman gently stroked the girl's pale, stretched skin, washing and disinfecting the wounds before they had a chance to get infected. She had a lullaby in her head, about two enemies who fell in love in the end, and she hummed it softly as she repaired another cut.

          When Malou was finished, she placed the basket of dirty clothes by the door and helped Rosalinda dress the body in a blue nightgown and change the sheets before tucking her in carefully, as if afraid to disturb her deep sleep. Then she turned to the little cat, still sleeping soundly, and brushed her fur, removing dried blood and remnants of torn skin.

          When they finished, Rosalinda hurried to fetch a tray of food and tea. She also brought a bouquet of cornflowers for the young girl, whose name she did not yet know, and placed them by her bedside, stroking her hair as if she were her own child.

          "She has a harsh life ahead... " The woman murmured, unable to take her eyes off the girl's peaceful face.

          Malou stuffed a large piece of bread into her mouth, happy that for the first time in years she felt salt in food, and began to speak, leaving nothing out.

𓆩✴𓆪

          It was not tragedy that tore her heart apart, not even sadness or grief. Even in slumber, half awake, floating undecided, she felt love growing out of her chest, filling her body, a thousand and one hands lifting her above their heads, as if presenting a maid to the hungry dragon. She didn't even know when this happiness dissipated, shattering around her, breaking her into a thousand pieces from the inside, only to be replaced by that cold feeling of emptiness and fury and a tasty aroma of blood. She felt time trying to grab more of her ethereal particles, clawing at her to stay forever. She felt an eternity pass: days were mere hours among the fallen, and every hour spent lingering between worlds was agony for those caught in between. From time to time, a disembodied voice would call to her from behind, and another palm would catch her face before she turned to see who knew her true name.

          The girl knew there was something wrong with her - before her hands became transparent, or when she was tormented by the memories of her death. Cyan. The name sent a piercing pain through her, ringing in her ears like an unbearable wail. But she had no time to dwell on it as she relived the flames that had consumed Thaibar, feeling every burn of the innocent souls trapped in their homes, burned alive in the dead of night, crying into every voice that screamed their pain, feeling each lost ten times harder.

          Out of the vast landscape of white and blue and fog and cold, she suddenly drifted through what seemed to be ruins. Or perhaps it was a cave. Holes in the walls became windows into a raging winter, somewhere trapped between high mountains. She had no feet, no body, but the darkness gnawed at her bare soles, and the few candles hanging from the rocky walls barely illuminated the endless corridor. The wind sang through the holes with a piercing siren's voice, luring her deeper into the dungeon.

          Should she turn back?

          " How long? " The question swirled around her in a hypnotic spiral and she stopped at the top of a pair of chopped stairs.

          She turned to look, but the door that connected the empty mist she came from to the dark cavern was now a solid rock. A dead end. She could neither scream nor strike - she had no hands, no voice - but she could remember.

          " I don't know. Maybe hours, maybe days. But she must return. "

          Malou, she whispered in her mind, again and again. A shimmering thread was bound to her, stretching behind the rock. Another thread stretched from her in the opposite direction - a glorious gold. She didn't know what it was, but she could smell flowers and earth. Aoife. Why did they go in opposite directions?

          " If her spirit is still floating between worlds, then we have a chance. But, Malou, I hope you understand... some souls do not want to return. They find peace, lost loved ones... "

          But I want to return. Do I? Maybe I've already succeeded, and I can go home.

          A hand passed through her ethereal body as she descended deeper into this hellhole, where moans and sobs and prayers reached her ears from behind thick, black iron bars. Another groan echoed from the opposite side, and suddenly things began to take a clearer shape.

          A foreign body. Gloved hands. Heavy clothes sewn of coarse velvet. She felt the weight of her own head, her face burning as if acid had been poured over her left hemisphere - or was it the other? It gave her a pulsing headache, as if her immune system had found her eyeball and was trying to kill it.

          She stepped on the hands reaching out from behind the bars, though she hadn't meant to, sickened by the way the bones cracked beneath the thick soles of her boots. Above her hair, she felt the circular weight of something - like a crown hanging there, tightening like a noose around her throat.

          She emerged through a massive circular opening into another hall where she seemed to be... expected?

          Huge fires smoldered in three corners, casting a flickering red glow over the bunker-like chamber. A group of men gathered around a massive table, its single leg carved from bone, arguing and pointing accusing fingers at each other. Above them, a huge whole left the sky to be seen, gray and sober. Was she inside a volcano?

           " You made him take this decision!  "

           " I didn't push him into -  "

          " He doesn't need to be pushed, he's deaf to reason! "

           " You were the last to be inside!  "

          " At last... " With a guttural growl, the smoke that crowned the table seemed to stir, silencing the rest of the men. She didn't oberve the weird mist, coming and uncoming into weird shapes, as if it was trying it's best to come to a conclusional body. " What happened to that pretty face? " 

          I command my knees to bend and press a kiss to what should be the hand of the smoke thing. " I took care of the girl so your wise plan could begin, Your Darkness! "

          A rasping, wet laugh erupts from behind me, but I do not turn, too full of my own pride. " She cannot be killed, King Draegan, at least not by dae or mortal hands. She will die and be reborn as many times as the holy bitch allows! " They laugh again, pounding the table with their fists.

          " I have seen her with my own eyes... She was swallowed by the flames I threw on that farm!  My servants where there as well! "

          " You may have seen her, but I have never claimed her soul! " The white-dressed skeleton spoke, bits and pieces of skin and muscle forming and evaporating from his hands and face. " Is there anyone left to defend you after you have slaughtered half your palace? "

          One of the men, cloathed in red armor, his scarred face bearing countless wounds, bleeding and suppurating, chuckled and leaned on the massive sword he had just drawn from its sheath. " I have heard of stupid fae, but I have never actually met one. There's a better chance humans and half-creatures have better brains than... your kind. "

          Swallowing my pride, I rose violently from my kneeling position and pointed an accusing finger at him. " At least I brought something to the table! But what have you done, War?  Waiting and hiding here like a rat!"

          " I carefully sharpened my blade and waited for the right moment... I didn't slaughter half my servants just to prove I have bigger balls. " A promise of vengeance was written in his black eyes, burning like an endless flame. His smile faltered, his grim face taking the shape of a killer.

          An older man stepped out from behind a sculpted pillar, wearing a ruby-colored robe. " Stop lecturing him as if he were a scholar, War! He did what he thought was right for Devourer to fulfill his holy destiny! "

          " He may have had the purest of intentions, old man, but his mistake cost us a chance at victory without even putting up a fight! "

          " My brother is right, this - nobody has awakened the spirit of the Vespertus. "  The man in green, wearing a rusty, broken crown on his bald head, tore into the neck of a rat and chewed deliberately, bits of flesh spilling through the holes in his cheeks.

          " You could've killed this family long ago, throwing a disease among them would have easily wiped them out. " I speak, holding my chin up. " But maybe plague actually got to your head. "

           " You're testing my patience...  "   The latter revealed his diseased teeth, a stench of decay emanating from within.

          "  Stop! If he hadn't done what he already did, you wouldn't even have a chance to rise, War. Neither would Famine or Plague. Only Death would be by His Darkness's side, finally eating their souls. " His gray bread reached his torso as he lowered his head and whispered into what must have been the shadow form's ear.  "  My boy, our agreement is that you bring the Great King to the surface. This honor is something only you can do, there's no need to fight for a place among us. "

          " When do we march, Koschei? "  I mouth proudly, stepping closer to the old man.

           " The veil isn't thin enough, yet. But I am working on it.  " 

          Something cold slipped carefully from my leather glove, and suddenly the man in white and the man in red grab me, holding me against the table. " Koschei! What does this mean?! " I scream as the elder raises a curved dagger over my head.

          " Now we will give His Darkness a new body, so that you will stop tarnishing His vessel. "

          A piercing scream caused both women to drop their metal cups. A broken, ragged wail. Malou rushed to the body that had been lifeless only minutes before, now clawing desperately at its chest.

      The cat leapt up as if burned, reanimated with a violent shudder, nearly shattering the window before Rosalinda caught it and held it carefully in her arms.

          " Shh! Shh, you're safe, please... " Malou cupped the girl's wet face in her hands, forcing her to look up at her, but her pupils were too dilated, her voice too desperate.

          " They killed me... they killed me... " She repeated in a trance, her icy hands trembling over her chest, desperately searching for the wound that should have been there, the one carved by the curved dagger that she was sure had split her skin and sternum. " They killed me so he could get in... "

          " Malou, I think she... " But before Rosalinda could utter another word, the girl collapsed again, her convulsing muscles suddenly still as she sank into another trance. " Is she dead again? "

          Malou gently placed the girl's hands at her sides and checked her pulse, which had settled into the familiar rhythm of life. She counted her breaths, watched the flickering of her eyelids, then unbuttoned her shirt - only to recoil in horror as a scorched mark appeared above her heart.

          " Has she been dream-walking before? " The woman asked, pinned against the wall as she struggled to restrain the cat, which now fought to leap back onto the bed beside its mistress.

          " I have no idea, Rose. I just told you we barely know each other. " Malou buttoned the girl's shirt back up and took the cat from her friend's tense arms, letting it settle comfortably over its owner's head.

          " If she wakes up like this a few more times, it'll be hard to keep her hidden. Go inform your abbess that we're here. Tell her we are in need and will leave as soon as the girl recovers. "

          Rosalinda nodded and left the room, taking one last, stunned look at the girl who had finally come back to life.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

The Weight of What Remains

          The flames had left nothing but charred bones and collapsed buildings, smoke still rising in thick black plumes over the ruins of Thaibar. The remains sizzled as the city's remaining guards nearly emptied the wells in a desperate attempt to salvage something. A lone shadow paused at the edge of an ash-covered street and watched as survivors crawled through the rubble, their faces streaked with soot and desperation. Orphaned children cried in the arms of strangers, women in tattered clothes tried to dig out the bodies of their loved ones, and men, drained of all strength, lifted hollow eyes to the palace guards who eyed them with a mixture of contempt and indifference.

          Azriel flexed his wings, hesitated for a moment before pulling back his blood- and dust-stained boot. His gaze drifted to the smoldering farm. No one rushed to see if there was anyone left to save, though he knew the grim truth. He couldn't blame them - these people were drowning in their own grief. After cutting down a few brave soldiers who had tried to hunt him down, he had fled to the stables, freeing the few animals that had survived the night. 

          " Order! Stop crowding! " One of the captains shouted, shoving an old man who groaned in pain as his burned skin peeled off onto the heated stones. " And get rid of those who are no longer useful! "

          Chaos broke out between the guards, who had lost their last shred of humanity and patience, and the helpless citizens, who had lost everything. Some demanded justice, shouting that whoever had done this should be brought to justice and that they deserved compensation. Others whispered that the king had gone mad and set fire to the haystacks in the middle of the night. And those caught between life and death spoke of magic.

          A man dressed in royal purple, an envoy of the king, cleared his throat and stepped onto a crate to be heard. " Brothers! Listen to me! " He struggled to rise above the chorus of agonized groans and the workers turning over corpses and muttering to each other. " I beg your attention! Brothers and sisters! "

          But no one seemed to care - until his armed escort, whose sword was far too sharp for this kind of gathering, grabbed a woman by the arm and pressed the blade to her throat.

          " If you do not stop and listen, you will all end up like this! " His authoritative growl instantly silenced the square. Then, with a violent shove, he released the dust-covered woman and motioned for the royal messenger to proceed. 

          " Look around you - see what our invisible enemies are capable of! The very ones we have fought for centuries to eradicate! One of these creatures escaped last night and is roaming freely among us, spreading chaos and destruction! This is the work of a witch! See what magic does, see what those who wield this forbidden weapon are capable of! A madwoman of immense power, hiding among the peasants in the hills, has burned your village to the ground! She slaughtered your brothers and sisters, your mothers and fathers! Look what she has left behind - blood and ruin! But do not fear. King Draegan assures you that he will find her and bring justice. You will be compensated for your losses. The culprit will be caught and brought to justice! "

          Lies.

          Azriel clenched his jaw and scanned the captive faces around him. He understood that most of them could not even read, but they should not have been so easily fooled - especially when they knew only too well the suffering Draegan had inflicted on them over the years. The king himself was the architect of this massacre, and now he was twisting history, manipulating the crowd to wash away his sins and place the blame on a scapegoat.

          " We will seek help, we will spread this message beyond our borders, we will find the culprit! " The envoy declared, his voice dropping to a solemn tone, as if they were about to execute the last survivor of this disaster. " In the meantime, all those present will be welcomed to the palace for... a more thorough investigation. "

          He let the words sink in like a noose around their throat before adding, almost as an afterthought. " And, of course, for medical care! " His voice rose again, feigning reassurance. Then he smiled and led them into neat rows where they were searched under the pretense of looking for injuries.

          Azriel stood there, his hands now bound, and watched as the people surrendered, willingly walking toward their slaughter like pigs, unaware of the butcher's blade. 

          If he tore through the guards now, cutting their throats in a swift storm of steel, it would do no one any good. Not him, not the survivors - for what then? He had no way to save them all, no one would come to their aid in time. And to the rest of the world, he would look like the villain of this tragedy, not its witness.

          So this time, he would watch as their sentence was signed in blood.

          A scent of dried herbs and freshly bloomed lilac drifted around him like a ghostly whisper. Cautiously, he brushed his middle finger imperceptibly against the dagger strapped to his hip. He didn't turn around, even though the stranger had already overstepped every reasonable boundary, too close to his comfort zone. His shadows stirred, rising like the gossamer folds of a veil, curling protectively around him.

          " You've been following me ever since I set foot on this continent. " The Shadowsinger's words were muffled behind his black mask.

          " I would rather call it leading, not following. Following is... scary. Not really my thing. " The woman smiled, her violet eyes flicking over his broad shoulders to the people lined up - the place she once called home. " I wanted to talk to you, but you're frustratingly hard to catch. And besides, you make more mistakes than you care to admit. "

          " If you were trying to impress me, you chose the wrong approach. " Azriel turned slightly, one ear to the sounds of the ruined city, the other to the stranger standing an arm's length away. He swallowed a curse as he finally caught sight of her, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and interest. His voice fell to something grim. " I don't talk to strangers. Especially witches. "

          Bitterness bubbled up in his chest, smothered only by the creeping unease that always came from being within five paces of a witch. He hadn't encountered many of them in his five hundred years, but that nagging feeling - the unease they brought - was unmistakable.

          He'd tried to dissect this feeling over the centuries. To understand why it had taken root in his ribs like a parasitic vine. The most plausible explanation was simple: witches were born of chaos. Their magic - wild, unfettered - was unlike anything he'd seen from High Lords or fae warriors. And he had no idea how their power manifested itself. Did it come from personality? From something deeper? He had no idea. 

          With High Fae, you might expect elemental abilities- fire, ice, air, something within a known range. But witches? Witches could use fire and necromancy. Water and blood magic. You never knew what trick they had hidden up those billowing sleeves.

          Just as he had no idea what kind of glittering, nightmarish thing the woman before him might unleash, whether she would strip his mind bare, freeze him in place, or turn him into a pathetic little toad.

          Her smile curled lazily under the black hood that shadowed her hair. " You say it like it's a bad word, witch. Your mother's line draws its seer powers from bitches like me and many others. It's like cursing your own family, boy. "

          Azriel's dark eyebrows knitted together, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth almost ground against each other. " Quit talking about my mother while you still have that tongue behind your teeth. "

          " Her powers come from the oldest among us - dead, of course. Sybil the Seeress. The fucking faes gouged out her eyes. They only know how to destroy, anyway... " She continued uninterrupted, even disgusted, tilting her chin toward the still-smoldering city. Not even the sun could penetrate the thick, black clouds that loomed over the former Thaibar. Then again, it had never really shone here- the barren fields had always failed to produce enough grain to feed the people, making imports crucial. But now it was even worse.

          " I'm aware that your kind have not been treated very... lively? " The man murmured thoughtfully, the sarcasm leaving a foul taste on his tongue. " How many of you are left? A thousand, maybe two? "

          Her crimson lips snaked at one corner, as if to say that as long as they lived, they could still rule the world. " Five hundred and seventy-six. " The words scattered into the wind, and the remnants of a charred building suddenly burst into nervous flames, sending the villagers screaming in terror. " Seventy-seven today, if all goes well... But I do not mourn. The greatest among us are still hiding, waiting. "

          " A witch's pride- always something I admired... and the very reason you were all burned alive. " The illyrian inhaled the scent of charred flesh, the acrid stench stinging his senses and reminding him of the grotesque way Rhysand's father had dealt with witches. He hated them with every fiber of his being, all because of a prophecy - a prophecy that had finally come true. That hatred had driven him to exterminate most of them.

          And that was why Azriel tortured and slaughtered nearly as many witches - under his orders. Did this woman know that the blood of her sisters still sizzled on his skin?

          " I have better things to talk about than my people. I know about your mother's powers, and before you ask, no, I have no idea where she is. So spare me of your spymaster interrogation techniques and let me tell you why I stopped you. I want nothing from you, and I promise we'll never meet again. Unless the fates decide otherwise... " She whispered, raising her ring-laden fingers to the sky. " There is something evil- something trying to tear our world apart from within. And only a few can prevent it, or stop it before it's too late. You are one of them. "

         " You speak in riddles, and I prefer clear answers... " Azriel turned fully towards the woman, almost cornering her, barely restraining himself from crushing her throat with his gloved fingers. For a moment he thought she was mad, but something in her desperate violet gaze made him believe she was telling the truth.

          " I know what you're looking for. Or rather, who. You won't find her with simple magic tricks, not even with the powerless Messenger you have back home trying her best. There's only one woman - closer to Death than any of you - who might be able to help. But only if she can outgrow her own persona and stops being a bitch in the meantime. "

          She raised a hand, stopping him before he could strike. " And before you kill me, I'll give you one last piece of information. Priceless, I'd say. The girl you're after is guarded by two ancient women. There is no way that you or any other Illyrian could ever defeat one in battle and the other with magic. Here's my advice: Poison them first.  " The stranger spoke calmly, gently grabbing Azriel's fist before placing a small vial in his broad palm. " They won't die. But it's the only way to get you all together. "

          His fingers clenched around the tiny glass bottle, barely half the size of his finger. He watched the greenish liquid swirl within, tiny specks of herbs still dissolving, restless. Azriel lifted his angry gaze, his mind racing through the woman's cryptic words- but she was gone. Instead, a flock of ravens took flight, heading for Prythian.

          A bold, shadowed tongue curled protectively around the vial before it vanished into the realm of darkness.. 

          Convallaria majalis, master - Lilies of the Valley.

          With one last look at the destruction he had left behind, he unfurled his wings and soared into the sky, tearing himself away from the despair that lay like a heavy shroud over the horizon. The ocean stretched bellow him, a vast sheet of metallic blue, battered by harsh winds.

          Azriel didn't understand how it was always him who had to make the hardest decisions, the most painful crossroads- almost as if misfortune had become one of his brothers. He clenched his jaw and spread his wings wider, feeling the tension in his muscles.

          His mother. The vision of that woman cut into his mind like a well-honed blade- her eyes, the same amber hue as his, filled with secrets she never shared. The man could still remember the nights he'd caught her whispering into the darkness, murmuring names he didn't know, predicting fates no one wanted to hear.

          The Shadowsunger remembered how desperate he'd been to put her to sleep in those moments, haunted by the grotesque thought that they could kill her at any time, based solely on the accusation of madness.

          How much of his mother's legacy was buried within him? Could he have seen the future if he hadn't been so trapped in the shadows of the past? And above all, how did this woman know one of the best-kept secrets between him and his mother? Why had he remained so impassive in front of this witch, listening to all the nonsense she had fed him?

          But are they nonsense, Master?

          Azriel's mind wandered to another dilemma as the wind cut across his face and the clouds cast their shadows below.

           " A woman closer to Death than any of you. "

          Could it be Elain? With her delicate skin, her eyes filled with innocence and an insatiable desire to see the beauty in the world. She was a spring flower, something he felt he should never touch. And yet, at the same time, he felt that she looked at him with silent expectation, as if she wanted him close, but was too afraid to ask.

          Then there was Nesta, who seemed to defy everyone even when she spoke no words. Nesta, who lived on the border between fury and silence, between hatred and a fragility that only a few could see..

          Azriel felt his mind tightening, cornered. Was there truth hidden in the stranger's words? Elain had the gift of foresight, she could sense the shadows of the future. But Nesta... Nesta had seized Death by the collar and stolen a piece of its essence.

          And beyond that, something else was gnawing at him- the old woman from the night before, the one who reeked of prison. She seemed to know more about the Illyrian code of honor than any ordinary person. She had been neither afraid of his wings nor impressed by his presence, as if she had seen his kind countless times over the centuries and would've liked to spit at his feet. She had spoken too confidently, held her back too straight for a mere creature and rode like a warrior thirsty for blood.

          That was it—the way she gripped the reins, the slight forward lean to gain speed in battle, her right hand lax at her side. A habit. The instinct of someone who always carried a sword.

          She was something else entirely.

          And beyond that, Azriel had willingly given him the very thing he had traveled so far for— the comet woman, the one who had lain limp in his arms for endless minutes, the one he'd fought like a monster to protect against dozens of soldiers, and yet, he had still been too late

          Azriel could still feel her life slipping between his gloved fingers, he could still see those gray eyes staring at him—empty, freed from the malice they held just hours ago. He could reconstruct her features in his mind, though they remained hard to recognize through all the beating she endured. Azriel could only guess her full lips and the oval shape of her face with a strong nose in the middle of it and a pair of thick eyebrows to crown those hypnotic irises. He wouldn't have called her beautiful—not by the standards he was used to. But perhaps he was mistaken.

          Fortunately, the ash had formed a dense layer over his suit. Otherwise, he might have suffocated from the haunting scent of amber— spilled all over him by the stranger's blood.

          Azriel arrived at the land he called home faster than expected, and just as quickly flew over Rosehall, with its green towers and fragrant gardens. His heart clenched as an overwhelming desire nearly paralyzed his wings and sent him crashing headlong into the only window with a flickering lamp. With difficulty, he forced his muscles to move, keeping himself from crashing through the church walls with all his strength.

         Night had fallen, and from upstairs all the women looked like tiny ants gathering at the sound of the bells. He imagined his mother waiting for him at the lighted window, behind the blue curtains, probably mending one of the garments that had torn during the day, sewing tirelessly. He'd promised her that he would visit her when he returned from his trip to Hybern, but he couldn't afford to put his mother - or this sacred place - in danger. Not after the stunts he pulled in Thaibar and the whirlwind of events that unfolded.

         Azriel recalled what the witch had said about his mother, about her legacies, about her connection to Sybil the Seeress. He'd never heard that name before, not even from his mother's lips, but he hoped her fate wouldn't be the same as her ancestor's. If it was true— and it was— his shadows detected no trace of a lie in the woman's dizzying words.

          Azriel took one last look at the shadows moving behind the window before he flew away with renewed focus, putting his duty before his heart once again. As long as his mother remained in Rosehall, she would be safe.

           There was news to deliver in Prythian and many matters to attend to. He still hadn't found out anything about the box in Autumn Court or, more importantly, why he'd caught Eris lingering in Hybern. If Beron had made a deal with Draegan and the Human Queens, things were far worse than he'd imagined.

          But the question that gnawed at him the most was why. Why were these three great powers talking, and more importantly, what did they have to gain? Was another war brewing? Were they looking for something in particular?

          After what happened in Hybern, it would take less than a day for both the Autumn Court and the Queens to learn about the woman that fell from the sky. Then it would become a real competition - who would claim the grand prize first?

          Azriel dug his fingers harshly into his eyes as the girl's gaze flashed in his memory, filled with blood-stained promises. If she really had the powers Hybern now accused her of, she could probably melt him right there with those irises alone.

          Azriel was beginning to think that Cassian had been right all along - he'd been surrounded by women all his life. But even now he wasn't sure which he preferred: the ones who adored him or the ones who looked at him with nothing but contempt.

          When he arrived in Velaris, he wasn't the least bit surprised to see Rhysand waiting for him on the balcony, dressed in the same black suit, embroidered with lilac along the edges. " Not even a second later than you promised, brother. Your timing amazes me. " He stepped aside to let Azriel land before leading the way to the main room of the river house.

          Velaris was alive. Even at this hour, people flitted from bar to bar, laughing, oblivious to the dangers from which Rhysand had protected them for centuries. The faint sound of music drifted up to the windows -a violin playing an oriental rhythm, accompanied by a series of drums.

          " It's something you should learn from him. " Feyre rolled her eyes, dropping a paint-stained bag onto the floor before greeting him with a small bow of her head. " Welcome home, Az! I hope you're not hurt! "

          I'd rather be physically hurt than mentally.  " Good evening, Feyre... " His reply came out more monotonous than he had intended, the syllables so dry on his lips they barely left his throat. " You look well. Have you been painting? "

          " I'm building a painting studio, yes. " She shrugged off her green cloak, tossing it over the back of the couch, revealing a casual outfit—brown trousers and a matching shirt. " I want to create a space where people who love this type of art can feel relaxed and at home. After everything they've been through, maybe they need some time off. " Almost instantly, her clothes and bag disappeared, teleported to their proper places by the house's magic. A moment later, a few cups and a letter with a broken seal appeared on the low glass table.

         Azriel walked across the wooden floor with slow, heavy steps, making it creak beneath his weight. With a single finger, he gracefully removed his suffocating mask. The pleasant aroma of freshly prepared dinner— duck, with something citrusy, like oranges— filled his nose, making his stomach growl softly. He gave a dramatically exaggerated bow before turning to Rhysand.

          " She's just angry I was five minutes late to a bakery opening. " 

          " Fifteen. " Feyre corrected him before sinking into the soft pillows, pouring herself a steaming cup of tea that smelled of lavender leaves and cranberries.

          " Forgive me, my darling. " Rhysand kissed the back of her hand before lifting the strange envelope between two fingers.  " This is the reason I was waiting for you. You know curiosity gets the best of me but - What the fuck happened in that village, Azriel? "

          The Shadowsinger straightened into a near-military stance, arms clasped behind his back, chest pushed forward. He glanced at Feyre, unsure if she could hear this conversation. His High Lady met his gaze before closing her blue eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to organize her thoughts to a more proper state, throwing the light-handed work she's done and coming in her ruler mentality. If she had one. 

          Right now, all he wanted was one hour of rest — mental, spiritual, physical— any kind of damn break that would let him cleanse all the filth crawling beneath his skin.

          " The whole place burned. That should answear your question. "

         " You look like you need more than just a sit, Az. Do you want something to drink? " Feyre turned fully toward the Spymaster, watching him gently as she reached for an extra cup.

          " Would you like a foot massage while you're at it? Gods forbid we rush you into explaining why we might all be royally screwed. " 

          Azriel's expression remained indifferent as he turned to Rhysand, who had just lounged gracefully against the headrest of the couch, arms crossed. His black hair, usually impeccably styled, was now tousled— as if he had run his hands through it a hundred times.

          " Rhys! " Feyre scolded him, lightly smacking his forearm. " He traveled hundreds of miles. "

          Hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway, and within seconds, Amren's sharp fangs glinted as she appeared. " Where's the girl? "

          " Is this really the first thing you ask him? " Feyre immediately jumped to his defense, setting her cup down, shocked by their reaction.

          " That's the reason he went all the way to Hybern—to find that woman. " Amren circled them a few times, radiating agitation from every pore, so much so that Azriel nearly took off again just to get away.

          " See? " Rhysand turned to his wife, then back to his Shadowsinger. " Please, continue. Make my night. " 

          Despite being caught off guard by his family's utter lack of concern for him, Azriel betrayed nothing— not the turmoil burning in his lungs, not even when the blood in his veins seemed to freeze. Instead, he chose to return the favor— letting Rhysand stew in his curiosity just a little longer.

         " What's inside the letter? " Azriel asked in return, his expression remaining unchanged. The walls around his mind— built from dense layers of black smoke and nightmares— shuddered as Rhys slammed against his gates with force.

          The High Lord hesitated, his gaze fixed for several minutes on the embers smoldering in the fireplace, making Azriel sweat from every angle. " A letter from the new King of Hybern, Draegan, I believe he's called. He's asking for our help. "

          Feyre turned her head at an uncomfortable angle, one thin eyebrow arching in disbelief. " We just fought a war against them... not long ago. "

          " Yes, but the war was carried under his father's name. " Amren felt the need to clarify for Feyre, as if she hadn't been there herself. Then, with deliberate patience, she began plucking at invisible lint on her black two-piece suit, adorned with gleaming garnet-like stones. " He wants to create the illusion that there's a chance to build new bridges. "

          " After everything that happened, I doubt this is about importing grains. " The Spymaster added, his shadows already whispering pieces of the truth in his ears.

          A few tense seconds passed as the two males locked eyes in a silent, razor-sharp battle of wills. They had done this before—this invisible game of assessing dominance. The results had always varied, depending on the circumstances. When necessary, the Spymaster relented, conceding defeat. But Rhysand was different—there was always a certain stubbornness in him.

          This time, however, Azriel's stare remained as it was—icy, all-consuming, emotionless like a piece of stone. And, much to everyone's relief, Rhysand was the first to break.

          " A bounty has been placed on the heads of two women, declared guilty of the fire in Thaibar and the massacre of thousands of villagers. " His tone dropped drastically as he said the entire sentence in a single breath. 

          " She didn't do it. " Azriel spoke almost instantly, driven by a reckless instinct to protect something— or someone— he barely even knew. " Besides, I heard Draegan giving the order to burn the forests. Even the village, if necessary. "

          Feyre shot a bewildered look at everyone in the room, blinking rapidly, as if trying to rid her eyes of an invisible speck of dust. Though she was often disinterested in political matters, she had, on more than one occasion, come up with more honorable ideas than most.

           " Or maybe she did. " Amren interjected just as quickly, her crimson nails sinking into the velvet upholstery. " If she truly turned into a Vespertus, her mind is unclear. She doesn't distinguish between good and evil. If she wasn't positively influenced, there's a high chance she did everything she's being accused of. "

         " I don't know what to tell you, Az. " Rhysand exhaled, his head tilting downward, as if he were about to bore a hole into the polished wooden floor. " We don't know this girl or what she's capable of. "

          " So you'd rather believe our enemies?" Feyre spoke, a sharp edge creeping into her voice, her stomach twisting with the unmistakable burn of fury. " Hybern killed... " My father, she wished to say. " Half of us. "

          " We saw what Hybern is capable of, we know how they operate. " Rhysand countered, attempting to defend his position as he met his wife's piercing gaze. " If Amren is right— "

          " She is. " Amren snapped, referring to herself in the third person, her glare sharp as a blade.

          " Then we have no idea what we're signing up for if we choose to assume she's innocent. "

          " She wasn't turned into a Vespertus. They burned the village before they killed her. " Azriel nearly rolled his eyes with desperation but stopped himself, remembering that he hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of the real information. " She reeked of human blood from miles away. What kind of human could possibly possess such power? "

          " She died?! " Amren blurted out, paler than usual. A goblet filled with deep red wine floated beside her on a silver tray, and she snatched it up in a dizzying motion, downing it in one gulp. " Just wondering how deep this particular pit of shit goes. "

          " Maybe she had help... " Feyre chimed in, sounding more dazed than usual. Her eyebrows knit together at the center of her forehead, and her lips hung slightly open, her entire expression consumed by doubt.

          A faint scent of withered lavender drifted through the air. The tea had long since gone cold, leaving behind a stale aroma—one that only worsened the already tense atmosphere pressing down on them. Not even the warm glow of Velaris' lights, flickering through the windows, could soften the tension gnawing at their insides.

          Azriel liked to believe he wasn't the kind of man easily swayed by those around him. And yet, here he was, watching his own perception of this woman shift with alarming speed, despite having evidence—cold, solid evidence—that she had not been the one who intended to bring down all of Thaibar. The shadows curled tightly around him, steadier than he was, seething as if to remind him to keep his emotions and his judgments in check.

          His mind kept circling back to the way he had seen her running—like a madwoman—through the flames. How she had escaped. How he had spotted Eris and that blonde woman darting in the opposite direction. Perhaps he had missed something—a flicker of fire at her fingertips, a strange glow around her. But even his shadows hadn't detected any shift in her aura.

          And yet, caught up in the whirlwind of her, of this entire situation, he had somehow forgotten about Eris. The same Eris who had been willing to sacrifice a servant for her. The one he'd caught whispering to her, exchanging those knowing glances. The male who pulled her from the clutches of Azriel's own shadows.

          All of that—and something else.

          Even his dagger had missed her.

           " The shithole is deep enough that Eris was there, too. " Azriel muttered, allowing his shadows to thicken, to cool the heat rippling down his spine. He rolled his shoulders absentmindedly, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles, the ache threatening to snap in the vertebrae of his neck.

          " Eris? " Feyre tilted her head, her braid slipping over her shoulder. Something about the way it moved—perhaps the scrape of it against the fabric—itched at Azriel's senses. His sharp gaze flicked to the splattered paint staining the cotton of his High Lady's tunic before he forced himself to look elsewhere—at Amren's impatient fingers tapping against the armrest.

          " Oh, wonderful. Because what we needed in this mess was a man with daddy issues. " Rhysand drawled, arching a brow as he sank further into the couch, utterly unimpressed. His tongue flicked over his teeth, a lazy smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He could feign indifference all he wanted, but Azriel saw the almost imperceptible shift in his violet eyes—the way they flickered, scanning the room as if already calculating the weight of this revelation.

          Feyre ran a hand through her hair, uncertain. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something, but hesitation held her back. Finally, she inhaled deeply and turned to Azriel. " Are you sure it was him? "

          The Shadowsinger merely inclined his head—a single, grave nod.

          Rhysand let out a dramatic sigh and tossed the letter onto the table. The envelope slid across the glass surface, spinning once before coming to a stop.

          " So let me get this straight. We have an Emperor crying for our help, a village turned to ash, a supposedly dead girl who may or may not have been framed, and now Eris, who—let me guess—is playing his own game? "

          " Or his father's. " Feyre added with a careless shrug. " I'd put my money on Beron. He never liked this alliance with the other courts. Eris is just a pawn, like always. "

          Amren shook her head, her black hair sweeping against her sharp cheekbones with precise, controlled movements. Her brows furrowed slightly, irritation flashing across her features. " You all sound shocked that Eris could be playing his own game. Or his father's, for all I care. "

          Azriel's amber eyes narrowed. His chest rose with a slow, measured inhale, though the movement did little to temper the heat rising beneath his skin.

          " You should care. " he said, voice steady, edged in warning. " As far as we know, Eris won this woman's trust. If he catches her first, I doubt anyone would be surprised where her loyalties might fall. " His fingers clenched involuntarily around the dark fabric of his clothes, as if he could still feel the ash clinging to his skin.

          " I'll write everything down in a report. " Azriel muttered, as if the words themselves tasted bitter. He was losing patience—both with this conversation and with the sheer weight of doubt pressing down on him from all sides. " I believe witches are involved too. One of them followed me through all the villages before I reached Thaibar. "

         " My father exterminated them centuries ago. " Rhysand said promptly, with another heavy cloud hanging over his head now. He fell into a dream, with his eyes wide open, as if he saw every wood thrown into the fire that had killed them. " I thought they were hiding. The last of them that remained were too few to even fend for themselves. "

         " Your father only killed those who lived in Prythian. " Amren corrected, her cunning voice laced with something more— perhaps a rebuke, though she knew full well that Rhysand hadn't possessed enough power back then to stop him. " And not just them, but all the other mixed-blooded species. "

          Feyre glanced between the two of them, lost in the conversation, her half-empty teacup hovering near her dry lips. It seemed her husband had never told her about the massacre her father-in-law had orchestrated all those years ago.

          The Shadowsinger pushed past the memory of the dark-haired woman at the farm—who now, most likely, lay reduced to nothing but ash. His jaw twitched at the thought, at the way he'd caught a final glimpse of her face, drained of life, her eyes hollowed out with rage. " Eris was already there when I arrived. More than that—he had already ensnared the woman we were searching for. "

        " This woman might be very charming. " Amren said, shifting the blame once more onto the unknown female. Her heavy-lidded eyes masked her distaste, but the sharpness in her voice remained. " That's how she was made—to beguile and to lead others to ruin. She can't be trusted. Eris probably fell straight into her trap. "

          " Eris is not that easy to fool. " Rhysand countered, straightening his spine. " But maybe he knows. Maybe he's after her. "

          " He gave her something— a map. "

          " Was it the same as— "

          " No. It led to a prison. "

           " Fuck... " Amren whispered, turning her back to them. She stared out at the city, watching the streetlamps cast golden light against the darkening sky. 

           Azriel's shadows curled around him, detecting the sudden stiffness in her small frame—as if fear had sunk its claws into her muscles, into her very thoughts. In that moment, the Shadowsinger was certain of one thing. She knew more than she let on. But Amren had never been one to share much of her past.

          " While I was searching for her, I overheard a conversation between Draegan and a boy—one who had slaughtered his entire family. Then something about The Dark One and a Tiamat. After that, he collapsed. Poisoned. "

         " Did she do it? " Feyre suddenly asked, whipping around to face Azriel. " The girl, I mean—did she poison the king? "

          " I have no idea. "

          Rhysand, however, remained silent, staring at his Spymaster—his mouth slightly parted—before casting a furtive glance at Amren, though she seemed too lost in her own thoughts to notice.

          " You said this woman died? " Amren pressed, her tone sharpening, her agitation flaring like a live wire. " Is that why you didn't catch her? Because they managed to turn her into a Tiamat? "

          " Eris saved her before I could get to her. " Azriel's voice darkened. Then my own dagger failed me. His jaw tensed. " The last time I saw her, she was dead. An old woman came and took her. "

          " And you're certain she was dead at that point? " Amren stepped closer, her gaze sharp as a blade.

          " The body was unrecognizable. Bloated. Twisted. Her chest swelled like a dying animal's final breath, and her spine... " Azriel's voice dropped, rough with restrained fury. " It cracked like shattered porcelain. " The grotesque images flooded his mind like a plague, making his tone harsher than intended. " Is this what you want to hear? "

          Amren gave a small nod, retreating slightly. " The heartbreak. The family that boy killed was surely hers as well. " She mused, slowly shaking her head.

          " Wait—you said an old woman took her. " Rhysand frowned, pressing his fingers against his temple. " Did you give her away willingly? "

          " No. " Yes. " I was ambushed. " It felt right.

          " So we have no idea if she's truly a Tiamat or if Draegan took it that far and burned his own village to the ground. " Amren concluded, pouring herself another glass of wine. " We can work this out. "

          " What do we do? Send help, then? " Feyre looked up at Rhysand, her gaze glossy, almost pleading—like a dog seeking reassurance. " I suppose the other courts got the same letter. "

          " Maybe. " Rhysand held back from saying more, placing a hand on his High Lady's shoulder. " Something about this sudden plea for help doesn't sit right with me. Tomorrow, we need to pay a visit to Helion. Maybe even Tarquin and Kallias. "

          " I think he's afraid of this girl and just wants her caught and killed. " Amren straightened, preparing to leave. " But if he sent the letter only to us, it could stir conflict in the alliance we built. Anyone could accuse us of treason. " She exhaled. " I'll do some research and reach out. Maybe I can help you come to a decision. "

          " Draegan doesn't want help. " Azriel finally spoke, moving for the first time since the conversation began. " He wants chaos. He knows about this woman, and he wants her handed over easily. All the courts will go mad with a pyromaniac on the loose, so he's counting on them to pour their resources into finding her. "

          " A distraction of some sorts. " Rhysand aproved. " Instead of trying to build their strength back, they will be thinking twice of what criminal lurks between them. It will create a sense of tension inside the court's inhabitants. "

       " Aren't we being too harsh? " Feyre asked curiously. " She's just a girl, after all. How old is she, anyway? "

           " She might be entirely innocent. No one will ever know the real truth, and no one will believe her as long as they have an entire city and countless brainwashed people as proof against her. " Amren tossed her opinion over her shoulder, her gaze flicking toward the entrance door with something akin to longing. Was Varyan waiting for her at home? Is that why she was so eager to leave? " A girl capable of burning down an entire village in a single night without getting caught will raise a lot of questions. Maybe that's exactly what she's counting on. "

          " I'll wait for your report, Az. Then we'll figure out how to handle this as quietly as possible. " Rhysand rose to his feet, extending a hand to Feyre, preparing to leave as well. " Have you heard anything from your spies about the map the Autumn Court has? "

          " I wasn't in the right position to contact them without exposing both myself and them. I'll handle it as soon as possible. "

          Azriel clenched his jaw once, trying to relieve the pressure gnawing at his temples. Exhaustion weighed heavy in his bones, making him feel like he could sleep for centuries just to rid himself of the burden he carried. He forced his legs to move, swaying slightly as he dragged himself up the endless stairs. A few worried glances flickered in his direction when his hand latched onto the carved black metal railing, and he exhaled deeply from the depths of his lungs.

          A frayed piece of his soot-stained cloak snagged on one of the curved stars embedded in the railing's intricate design. His shadows—his ever-watchful companions—reacted instantly, carefully freeing the charred fabric and weaving a dense shield around their master.

          He barely registered when he reached his own door, only realizing he was in the right suite when the familiar scent filled his lungs. On a low blackwood table, a steaming feast still awaited him, making his stomach twist with hunger.

          With half-lidded eyes and sluggish movements he peeled off his clothes and discarded them into a corner of the bath chamber, disappearing from sight in an instant before sinking into the massive tub. He forced every invasive thought from his mind—the ones stabbing at his consciousness like a thousand daggers—held his breath, and let the water swallow his eyelids. His shadows hummed around him, as if they too relished these brief moments of respite before they would be called upon again.

          He scrubbed every inch of his skin with slow, deliberate care, as if he could wash away the scorched memories Thaibar had left seared into him. At the very least, the stench of amber was gone. Otherwise, he might have left everything behind and built himself a cabin in the forest, far away from everyone.

          For now, he refused to think about the guilt weighing over that woman's fate. About the mistake of letting her go. About Eris, Draegan, the strange old woman, or the bold witch. He let them all drain away with the bathwater.

          After eating ravenously—without even tasting the spices—he slumped into the plush chair, making it creak under his weight. His spine cracked in protest as he rolled his shoulders, loosening a stiff knot in his back. Naked in his own solitude, still half-damp from the bath, he gazed absently out the opaque window at the city slowly drifting to sleep, counting the dimming lights.

          A gnawing feeling settled in his gut—a near-silent ache twisting at his heart. One of his shadows curled around his neck, desperate to offer him the one thing Azriel truly lacked.

          Company.

          His gaze drifted to the door leading into his reading chamber, where the dim light of the fireplace barely illuminated his desk and bookshelves. The black pouch, soaked in dried blood, still sat atop the stack of unfinished reports, whispering to him in the quiet. He could almost see, in the depths of his mind, the lingering turquoise tendrils of amber wrapping around him, beckoning.

          He stood, moving as if intoxicated, and in just two long strides, he was at the window where moonlight poured in like a silver tide.

          The light of the celestial body seemed to hungrily kiss his freckled shoulders and slack wings, lifting him like a god into the heavens. Yet, Azriel was utterly oblivious to the regal treatment the goddess bestowed upon him.

          He greedily unwrapped the fabric and lifted into the light the few strands of hair he had torn from the corpse's head. He swallowed hard, a shiver of fear tracing a cold finger down his spine to the small of his back. Then—something strange. A hunger. It gripped him, and absentmindedly, he brought his blood-stained fingers to his nose.

          The scent caught in his throat, as if his own body rejected the intoxicating amber that poured in dense vapors from the three strands of hair. His knees nearly buckled when the phantom weight of the woman pressed against his lower limbs. He shut his eyes, trying to make peace with this newfound fear, and— almost in a gesture of reverence—brought the strands of hair to his forehead.

          What the hell was happening to him? What was he rejecting so fiercely? What was rebelling so violently inside him? What was it that he couldn't accept?

          Swallowing down his emotions once again, he threw the small pouch into a box and locked it with a key, then placed it as close to the window as possible, hoping that, from there, the scent would never reach him again. When he had time, he needed to get rid of them—take them to Amren or burn them if she found no use for them.

          He pulled on a simple training suit. He didn't bother drying his hair—he'd only sweat again and need another bath.

          The cold night air was the first to greet him, nipping at the skin of his arms in an almost adoring gesture. He stretched his wings, which felt like they weighed a ton this time, and took flight, reveling in the scents of bread, wine, and flowers that enriched the city even at this hour. He hadn't thought a few days in that abandoned, sorrowful village would make him miss his beloved Velaris this much.

          A gust of wind lifted his unkempt curls as he glided daringly between the sleeping rooftops of the houses. He needed something to anchor him in the present—pain, effort, even drunkenness. Anything, as long as it freed him from the images haunting his mind and the restless thoughts lining up impatiently, waiting to be acknowledged and analyzed. The sooner he finished his reports, the sooner he could erase all those details from his memory.

          As he prepared to land on the auxiliary training grounds, another winged silhouette already seemed to have claimed the space, throwing irritated punches and kicks at a wooden mannequin.

          Cassian.

          Azriel landed more silently than he intended, right on the cracked steps. He hesitated for a few seconds, debating whether he should turn back home to finish his reports or escape into the forest, where he could use as many trees as he wanted for target practice.

          But it was too late.

          Cassian spun around abruptly, panting heavily and drenched in sweat. The leather guards on his hands were already torn in places, and his knuckles had begun to bleed. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and flashed his brother a relaxed smile.

          " I haven't seen you this brooding since Rhys made you dance at that ball in the Day Court. " Cassian teased, raising a thick eyebrow. His hair had come loose from its bun, damp strands clinging to his forehead and temples.

          " There are no women here. Why are you not wearing a shirt? " Azriel shot back, trying to match his tone, though it was harder than he expected. Besides, he wasn't in the mood for conversation, and Cassian could be particularly chatty when caught in the right mood. " Or maybe Nesta's hiding somewhere around. "

          He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it aside, left only in a thin tunic that clung to his still-tense skin. He strolled towards the table stacked with weapons and bandages, securing a pair of hand wraps with practiced ease.

          Cassian sighed theatrically, but something in his brief moment of hesitation told Azriel he had struck a more sensitive nerve than intended. " Great. You came to take your anger out on me? At least give me a warning before you break my ribs. "

          " Keep up, and you might walk away in one piece. " Azriel replied curtly, stepping forward with determined strides toward his new opponent. It wasn't the first time the two had used each other as a means to vent.

          At least not in this way.

          Cassian let out a short laugh but said nothing more. He knew Azriel too well to keep pressing. The only way to get him to release tension after a long, grueling mission was to let him burn it off in motion.

          The man was already warmed up from all his hours in the ring, so he rolled his shoulders, observing his older brother's physical state with sharp attention. Of course, Azriel never let anything show. If he were injured, he would shift his weight onto his good side to create a false impression. If he were exhausted, he would hit lighter—not enough to seem weak, but just enough to avoid looking rushed.

          He was a machine of death, and now he was studying Cassian hungrily, counting his breaths, tracking every muscle twitch betraying his fatigue.

          " I've got muscle soreness in my right leg. " Cassian joked, feeling the need to break the tension.

          Azriel locked eyes with him, utterly unfazed. He didn't take the bait, merely spreading his feet apart with careful precision, lowering his center of gravity into a stable stance. He raised his fists—one extended slightly forward, the other near his chin—just as he had been trained for centuries. Then, he inhaled deeply.

          Cassian sighed and shook his head but quickly fell into position, knees slightly bent, feet parallel, ready to absorb the shock.

          They waited. Neither attacked immediately.

          They circled each other slowly, testing the ground, analyzing every shift in balance, every muscle fiber poised to give away an incoming strike. Their breaths unconsciously aligned, air filling their lungs in a synchronized rhythm.

          Cassian, impulsive as ever, struck first.

          A quick right hook—testing Azriel's defenses. Azriel dodged easily, stepping sideways, but Cassian had anticipated it, already sending a knee toward his ribs. Azriel barely managed to lower his arm in time to block it, but the impact's force made him slide slightly across the training ground.

          Cassian was stronger. He always had been.

          But Azriel was faster.

          He countered with a left hook aimed at Cassian's sternum, knowing it was one of his weaker spots. But Cassian tensed his abdomen, absorbing the impact, and in return, sent a short uppercut toward Azriel's chin.

          Azriel leaned back at the last moment, feeling the rush of air as the punch grazed past his skin. In a split second, he twisted and drove his elbow into Cassian's liver.

          Cassian let out a sharp curse and stepped back, his broad chest rising and falling as he sucked in air. His large eyes gleamed with something almost sadistic. " That one hurt. " He huffed, but the grin never left his face.

          Azriel didn't respond. His attacks came faster, sharper. Every movement was calculated, every strike had a purpose—to exhaust, to demoralize, to control the pace of the fight. He forced Cassian onto the defensive, made him shift strategies. But Cassian knew his tactics better than most. After centuries of training together, he could recognize the exact moment Azriel grew tired—he could tell just by how he breathed.

          For all of Azriel's speed, Cassian was relentless. He dropped his guard intentionally, luring Azriel into thinking he had an opening. And the moment Azriel struck, Cassian caught his wrist, twisted it, and sent him crashing to the ground.

          Azriel managed to roll and land on his palms, pushing himself upright in an instant—but Cassian was already on him. A straight punch exploded against Azriel's shoulder, numbing his arm. He staggered back, but Cassian didn't let up. A sharp kick to his thigh threw off his balance, and before he could recover, another hook slammed into his chest.

         Pain radiated through him, but Azriel barely registered it. Not the way he should have. Thaibar still burned in his mind. The dead woman's body still weighed on his legs. A scream was lodged in his throat, and rage fueled his muscles.

          Before Cassian could land another hit, Azriel pivoted, dodged the next strike, and drove his knee straight into Cassian's stomach. Cassian dropped to one knee, shaking his head. Azriel was already on him, a fist aimed right for his temple—

          But he stopped.

          His breathing was ragged, uneven. His pulse thundered in his ears, but the fury was gone. All that remained was exhaustion.

          Cassian glanced up at him, raising a hand in surrender. " Alright. " He muttered, pushing himself to his feet. " I think that's all you needed. "

          Azriel didn't answer right away. He let his hands drop, inhaling deeply. And that's when he realized—for the first time in hours—his mind was quiet. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair and straightened, feeling every muscle ache for rest.

           Cassian clapped him lightly on the shoulder, wincing when he felt the soreness from that brutal liver shot. " Next time, try not to kill me. " He grumbled, exhaling as if he'd been running for hours.

           Azriel just nodded and lifted his gaze to the dark sky. Maybe physical pain wasn't a solution. But for a few minutes, at least, it had given him the illusion of an escape.

          " How's the training going? " Azriel asked after a beat, not looking at Cassian as he unwrapped the bloodied bandages from his wrists. " Have you reached any kind of agreement? "

          " It's not going anywhere. " Cassian kneaded the spot where Azriel's knee had nearly crushed his liver before dropping onto the ground beside him. " She won't even look at me. She's stubborn, pissed off, impulsive— "

          " She's scared. " Azriel cut him off, leaning back on his elbows, letting the last of the tension drain from his body. " Something's stopping her from training here. Maybe it's the other Illyrians. Have you thought about that? "

          " No. " Cassian rubbed his jaw absently, his brows drawing together. " Even if the only thing I've thought about was her, no. I never considered that. " He ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, then sighed. " I haven't really seen much of her either. I screwed up this morning. "

          Azriel remained silent, waiting.

          " She wouldn't eat anything. She's so thin. I told her starving herself wouldn't bring her father back. " Cassian exhaled sharply. " She cursed me out. "

          " As she should have. " Azriel's mouth twitched in the barest hint of a smile—the first real emotion he'd shown all night. Then he sighed. " Give her time. Offer solutions to her problems, not orders to follow. She's not a soldier, Cass. She used to be human, and much like you, she liked to run her home the way you like to run your armies. "

          Cassian shot him a sideways look. " Since when do you give advice? "

          Azriel let out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. " Since you needed it. "

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

The Pain of What Remains

          " Hold still! " Rose said again, her voice low but steady as she cinched the cloth tighter around my ribs. The pressure sparked down my spine, sharp as lightning, and I flinched—but her hands did not waver.

          The chamber was hushed. Only the scrape of fabric and the faint caw of birds beyond the window disturbed the silence. Faded blue drapes framed the narrow opening, their color washed by years of sun, yet still bright enough to tint the floorboards with a pale, watery glow. The air carried chamomile, smoke from last night's hearth, and the chill breath of damp stone—the monastery's bones pressing in around us.

          " I can do it myself. " I muttered, jaw locked.

          " You'd collapse before you tied the first knot. " She said simply. She pulled again, and the cloth bit into the ridge of a scar, dragging a hiss through my teeth.

          They were everywhere. White and puckered lines crossing my abdomen, angry red streaks still healing across my shoulders. The worst ones curved jagged along my back, souvenirs from Shum's hammer and the fire that followed. Sometimes they burned as if freshly made; sometimes they only ached dully, like ghosts carved into my skin. The armor I had worn had grown so blistering hot it scorched through the thin clothes beneath, searing into my flesh until my skin boiled. It left sprawling patches across me—raw, pink burns of varying depths—that flared with savage pain every time I lowered myself into the hot baths Rose had prepared for me these past nights.

          Rose's eyes lingered on them, but she didn't flinch. She pressed her palm lightly against the cloth once she'd finished, testing the bind. " There. Better. You look almost whole. "

          I gave a bitter laugh. " Whole? My spine's cracked like shattered glass, my body's stitched together by scars. You call that whole? "

       Her gaze lifted to mine, steady and calm. " Scars are proof you lived. "

       " Scars are proof I was broken. " I snap without my will, feeling the already growing headache at the back of my head, pulsing with an angry pressure.

        Silence thickened between us, heavy with the scent of herbs and ash from the tea still hanging above the dead fire from the hearth. The blue drapes stirred faintly in the draft, brushing against the stone wall like whispers. " You talk like my son... " She murmured.

        Slowly—careful not to tear the stiff stitch that had been so neatly sewn into the curve of my ear—I turned to face the woman behind me. I blinked several times, half-expecting the blow that might land again on the purple patch bruising my cheek, where three claw marks had branded me.

          Rose sat like the flower she bore the name of: quiet, rooted, filling the small room with that peculiar kind of silence that makes shadows stretch longer across the walls. Slender, but unyielding. A frame marked by years of surviving what should have destroyed her.

         I ached to ask, to cradle her pain instead of drowning in my own. " What happened to him? "

          Her hair, ink-black threaded with silver, carried the faint scent of gardens and wild trees. " He had a rough childhood. I couldn't protect him then... and he carries his scars as well. "

          Her hazel eyes—so deep they might be mistaken for darker—never looked directly at me, but just past my shoulder, as though she saw something I could not. " He despises them more than the ones who made them. "

          I fought the urge to frown, to pick at her words like a vulture circling over a corpse. But her wings—small, mutilated things—spoke the truth she did not. The membrane hacked away, a cruel handprint carved into her flesh. Wings that should have been vast and sweeping were now shriveled, uneven, lopsided mockeries of what they once were. I flinched. The sight was so jagged, so wrong—her grace bent and broken beneath the grotesque ruin of those wings.

           Life in the Illyrian camps had carved her face into hard planes of endurance: cheekbones shadowed with weariness, lips rarely curving into more than the ghost of a smile. The books never did these women justice. I couldn't truly imagine what life was like among so many cruel, misogynistic men. I remembered how even Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court himself, could not fully break the Illyrian camps of their cruelty. They called it tradition—binding wings, brutal training, keeping women earthbound. It was a poison disguised as heritage. And Azriel... Azriel loathed his own kind for it. The scars on his hands, the shadows at his shoulders—they were proof enough of how deeply that hatred ran. She hadn't spoken the words aloud—that she was Illyrian—but the scars and silences told another story.

          " Does he... " The word call nearly slipped, and I bit my inner cheek. " Does he visit? "

          Rose reached forward, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. Her fingers were cool against my overheated skin, her touch startling in its tenderness. Then she smiled—sincere, unguarded, achingly maternal. " Of course. When time allows, when his High Lord lets him. Yes. He is a caring man. "

         I turn my heavy head back toward the small, quiet world the half-open window allows inside. Laughter drifts up from the courtyard below, reaching my ears but stirring no joy in me—none of that foolish, instinctive urge I once had to lift my lips in answer to someone else's happiness. From this floor I can see the thick forest that guards the monastery, and beyond it the vast sea and clouds, too white, too careless.

          It is a landscape so different from the gray, desolate view I once had from the ridge of Thaibar's farm. Yet now I would give anything to see that again—to smell Cynthia's bread, to hear the quarrels between Shum and Kallus.

          Kallus... Cynthia... The images tumble out like a chest I've tried to keep hidden in the attic. What they endured. What was done to them. What grotesque torture they suffered before I even arrived. The stench of burning flesh still clings to the fine hairs inside my nose, souring the scents of grass and food around me.

          My right hand jerks unconsciously to my mouth, muffling the sob that escapes before I can stop it. Rose stills, her cold hands pausing on the strip of gauze she winds around my waist each day. I don't realize I'm crying until she speaks.

          " Cyan. " Her voice is almost too soft, as if trying to catch me before I spiral back into that fire. " That's what you call yourself. But it doesn't fit anymore. It's too delicate, too clean. You carry too much now. "

          " I wish it had been me. " The words break out of me in jagged gasps, fighting the pressure swelling in my lungs. " I had a reason to die. It should have been me. It was my destiny... "

          I feel Rose's disapproval as she turns me gently, forcing me to meet her steady, tender gaze. " No. It was their destiny. This is what they chose. This is what they had to do. It was their legacy. "

          " Legacies can change. " I sob, scrubbing at my wet cheeks with the sleeve of my new brown shirt. " Humans are more than their destiny. "

          " Not this kind of legacy, no. " Rose shakes her head, her voice firm but kind. " It was their repentance for past sins. You were not their damnation, child—you were their salvation. The only way they could die in peace, and return to the Mother's grace. "

          My teeth grind together. The words claw at my throat—I want to spit them out, to scream fuck the Mother and her cursed choices—but I bite down hard on my tongue instead. " They were innocent... "

          So was the servant you and Eris framed and left to die by Draegan's hand.

          Rose studied me, her thin brow furrowing into a single deep line. She bent toward me, cupping my face with both hands, tender and unyielding, like a mother with her child. Her thumbs brushed the dampness on my cheeks, but her gaze stayed steady. " Malou would say otherwise. " She murmured.  " No one is ever fully innocent. "

          " I want to go home... " The whisper slipped out before I could swallow it back. My chest ached as I locked my eyes with hers—dark, almost black, pools that seemed to understand every secret of mine. " In my old world. That's where I belong. This doesn't fit me. I'm nobody's saviour, and I don't wish to be. I don't want to keep walking on this road. It isn't mine. "

          Her hands moved to the low bun she had braided into my cropped hair. She had styled it on a day I'd refused to face the mirror, after Shum's punishment for spitting in Draegan's paralyzed face. Even now, as her fingers smoothed the red strands, the phantom of his grip returned—the vicious yank at my scalp, the pure hatred burning in his eyes. I clenched my lids shut. Ice slithered down my spine, like worms under my skin, making me shudder.

          " I'm not here to dictate your path. " Rose said, her voice as gentle as the hands in my hair. " You still have free will. You can change, adapt, be reborn. You don't need to decide anything now—the choice will come when the time is right. And no, you don't have to be this world's saviour if it doesn't fit you. Not even a warrior. But I believe you can heal it, in ways no blade or prophecy ever could. You can be its healer. "

          I barked a laugh, cracked and bitter. " I'm not enough. I don't know enough. And I don't want to mend what someone else shattered. I'm tired of cleaning up after other people's sins. "

          Her brows arched slightly, and for the first time there was a hint of challenge in her eyes. "Isn't that why you chose to be a healer in the first place? To tend wounds that weren't your own?"

          The words pierced me sharper than Shum's hammer. I bit my tongue, silent. Rethinking, not rewinding. I didn't dare rewind—not to the last month, not to the screams, the fire, the endless blood.

          " If Malou ever hears me say that... " I muttered, forcing a smile that never reached my eyes, " she'll bash my skull in herself—before Draegan or anyone else in line gets the chance. And it's a long line. "

          Rose's mouth twitched, almost a smile of her own. " Better to be prepared than caught empty-handed. Malou knows it. She holds herself back with you—I see it in her jaw, in her punches. If she didn't, you'd be in the infirmary twice a day, maybe more. "

          " She's waiting for me downstairs. " I sighed. " But all we ever do is the simplest, most basic, beginner's drivel—balance, movements, theory. I'm so exhausted I can barely sit and spot the tiniest bird she tells me to find. "

          " Mind-stilling. " Rose said, still stroking my hair, her voice like balm on raw wounds. " You're still healing. In a body and in a soul. And one day, it will get easier. "

          Her gaze lingered on me, tracing every scar etched into my skin. For a heartbeat, a shadow crossed her face—a memory, of someone else she had loved and lost. Then, with a small, solemn smile, she whispered: " My son carries scars too. They shaped him more than he ever wanted. You remind me of him. "

          My throat closed. " I hope he does better than me. I hope he's wiser, stronger. I hope no stone is ever thrown at him again. You both deserve freedom... and peace. "

          Rose's eyes shimmered, wet with unshed tears. Her silence spoke louder than words: This is what you could offer us. At last, she only breathed, " I hope this for him too. "

          For a moment, I wondered about her boy—how he might look. An Illyrian, broad-shouldered and strong, dark-haired with those sharp, storm-born features the books always gave his kind. A warrior, yes, in body and spirit—but I prayed he carried more wisdom than rage, more warmth than cruelty.

          I leaned forward and embraced her. Truly embraced her. And for the span of a breath, my bones felt lighter, my cuts and bruises dulled. Rose's arms did not falter, not even for an instant. She held me fiercely, as if her grip alone could keep me from breaking apart, her strength cradling the shattered pieces of me.

          When I turned toward the door, her voice stopped me— edged with soft determination. " Vythra. " she said simply. " You remind me of the Goddess Vythra, wielder of storms, bringer of vengeance. "

          A bitter laugh slipped out of me. " I can't even remember my old name. And I can't leave Cyan buried in Thaibar—she's the only piece left of my soul sister, Niven. " The words scraped from my throat, and in my mind I stabbed her all over again, feeling the memory of her flesh tearing beneath my hands.

          Rose's throat bobbed, her voice hushed but steady. " Maybe you should. Maybe you should let her rest. Perhaps her family waits for her, beyond. "

          I shook my head slowly, leaning into the doorframe for balance. My spine screamed with every breath, my legs quivered under my weight. " I'll think about it. " I rasped. My palm slid against the rough wood. " But I'm still trapped here, aren't I? "

          No medicine from the monastery's healer eased my burdens, and the pain gnawed at me with every step down the stone stairwell. My sacrum cracked like sand under footsteps each time I shifted my weight, nerves pinched in the swollen tissue numbing my legs to the knees. Lightning shocks ran through my muscles, punishing every breath.

          But Misty padded at my side, silent as a shadow, her tail brushing against my calf whenever I faltered—as if to remind me I was still tethered to this world.

          With the wooden banister clenched in my grip, I dragged myself down the last step of that torment. " Good morning. " The words came out flat, nothing like the bright greeting tossed my way by the old woman bustling past with a tray balanced in her arms. Her pity clung to me like grease, impossible to wash off.

          I knew her from the kitchens. Sometimes I went there just to lose myself in work—scrubbing pots until my hands ached, peeling endless piles of potatoes, chopping vegetables for the midday stew. The rhythm dulled the screams that haunted me, gave my hands something to do besides tremble.

          " Breakfast's late today. " she said kindly, adjusting the tray on her hip. " We had too many mouths and not enough bread. "

          I managed a faint smile. " It smells lovely, Miss Guevera! "

          Her eyes flickered, quick and sympathetic, but she only nodded. " I'll save you an extra bowl. "

          I limped past her, Misty weaving between my legs, and drew in a sharp breath as the meadow opened up before me, sunlight spilling across the grass as if the world had never known ruin.

          Malou was already in the clearing, her body slicing through the air with the fluid arcs of her warm-up drills. She wore clothes too plain for the body that carried them now—cotton cut short at the arms, the black shirt hugging too tight across her shoulders and chest. Her arms, bare to the sun, flexed and gleamed as muscles coiled and uncoiled with each strike. The movements were clean, merciless, almost martial—yet with a rhythm that felt more like dance than combat.

          She didn't need a blade to look dangerous. Her fists snapped forward like a boxer from my old world, her kicks spun through the air with cobra-quick precision. I could only assume she was still shaking off the stiffness of the old woman's body she'd been trapped in for who knows how many years—rediscovering, with every strike and spin, the fierce lightness of youth and the sharp edge of agility that had once been hers. But even in her movements I could sense reluctance, as if her own body still felt foreign. She was holding back—almost as though she regretted regaining her strength, as if there was no true purpose left for it to serve. That night she had confessed she was no longer a Valkyrie, that she did not allow herself to carry that title anymore.

          Had she ever borne wings? Syphons? Any trace of power? I longed to ask, but the question stuck in my throat, and maybe it always would. Still, the thought of women who had once fought with such ferocity tugged at me. Maybe their stories could have driven me further, harder.

          In the book, only Nesta had truly revealed her warrior's talent—the silver flames burning through her veins. Feyre had refused to take part in the final battle, and I still wasn't sure whether to judge her for it. She lacked the experince, yes, but her powers alone could have shifted the tide.

          And me? Did I want to be like Feyre—standing aside, choosing not to fight? Or was I meant to do what I was brought here for? The reason I had survived this long. If I fought... if I died... would I finally wake back home?

          I stared at the red serpent coiled along my palm—the mark of the vow I had made with Malou. Its twin lived on Malou's hand, a black raven etched deep into her now elonged fist. Brother and sister, snake and raven, bound together in blood. A vow. Our vow. One I could never unmake. That when the time came, it would be me who ended her life.

          As I neared the clearing where she trained, I could almost feel again the phantom shove of Malou's grip on my once-dislocated shoulder, the sting of that cursed sage branch she kept tucked at her belt, ready to jab my ribs the instant my stance faltered. She never cared that my skin was still raw, that my legs bore half-healed burns. If my posture wasn't aligned exactly as she demanded, her correction came swift and merciless. She wasn't brutal for the sake of it. But she hated seeing her teachings sullied by clumsiness. No book I'd devoured about Fae warriors, no silly fitness tutorial I'd watched in my old life, had prepared me for the sting of being trained by the real thing.

          " How do you think she even got here? " I muttered to Misty, who had perched like a queen atop the laundry stone, tail flicking with disdain. The cat looked back at me with a single arched brow—if cats had brows—asking the very same question.

          " You wouldn't want to know. " Malou's voice cracked across the meadow, sharp as the snap of a whip. I flinched—Fae hearing. Of course. " And move it, Stumbles! The world won't wait for you, and I certainly won't. "

           I sighed, dragging my heavy frame forward, each step a protest. Just watching her move, sweat darkening the curve of her back, made exhaustion pool deep in my bones. " My stamina will never match yours. " I grumbled under my breath, studying the ripple of her muscles, the way the sunlight caught on her bronze-kissed skin.

          I had seen her once cloaked in rags, layers of cloth hiding a body whittled down by time. Now I could hardly reconcile that figure with this one—raw strength wrapped in grace. Only her tongue, sharp as ever, remained unchanged. The prison changes the looks, but never the person, I guess.

          Her tattoos wound up her forearms, black lines curling into sigils I couldn't read, drinking in the light. Her hair—thick, raven-dark—was bound high at the back of her head, no braids, no ornaments, as if every old honor had been stripped from her. Yet her chin, sharp and unyielding, carried itself like a crown, as though she had devoured her enemies alive and worn their defeat in her stance. The ink across her face only deepened the impression—straight lines and dots winding in tribal patterns that made her look all the more fearsome, a warrior.

          Could she take down Cassian in a fight—the Illyrian general himself, broad-shouldered and relentless, his every strike heavy as thunder? Or Azriel, with his lethal precision, shadows curling at his command, each movement honed to kill? Or even Rhysand, High Lord, whose power was near-immortal and endless as the night sky itself? Could she stand against any of them—against all the Illyrians who thought strength belonged only to males?

          " My life span won't be beaten by yours. " She muttered, tightening the bandages around her hands with practiced ease. " And yet, you survived The Passing. You've earned me, Stumbles. Now you'll live with it. "

          " You make my mornings... " I searched for the word, watching her roll her shoulders, the air shimmering faintly with the heat radiating off her. Worse. More exhausting. Like I want to climb the walls.

          " Say it! " She snapped, lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. " I hate when people dance around the truth. "

          " Difficult. " I spat, grimacing as the scab split on my lower lip where someone's sword hilt had kissed me days ago.

          " Ah, nothing sweeter than compliments from you. " Malou said dryly, tightening her stance and glancing at me with eyes that gleamed like steel catching the sun. " They invigorate me. "

          The meadow stretched quiet, dew still clinging to blades of grass that smelled sharp and wet in the morning light. I stood stiff, my back felt splintered, as if each vertebra were grinding against stone, my legs trembling already from the walk down the stairs. Misty circled my feet, brushing against my ankles as if to remind me I hadn't collapsed yet.

          " Get rid of those boots! " Malou barked, circling me like a hawk. " The first thing we learned when we were in training was mind-stilling. You'll break faster in the head than you ever will in the bone. If your thoughts scatter, you'll fall, no matter how strong your arms or legs are. "

          " I'm already broken. " I muttered, clutching my ribs. " What's the point of polishing shattered glass? "

          Her hand shot out, a sharp flick against my shoulder. " And yet you're standing here. So stop whining and stand. "

          I braced, wobbling on my feet, every muscle trembling with the effort to stay upright. The grass pressed cool and soothing against my bare soles, though they were blistered raw from the armored boots I'd worn days ago. Misty let out a sharp, cutting meow, her tail snapping like a whip—as if she were mocking my pitiful attempt at balance.

          " Do you seriously do this before every fight? " I grumbled, sweat already trickling down my spine. " Because it looks like it takes forever. "

          Malou's eyes snapped to mine, her mouth curving into a dangerous half-smile. " It's sacred! " She corrected, voice low and sharp as a blade sliding from its sheath. " Now shut up and hold still before I make you start again. "

          Malou's mouth tightened, her dark eyes narrowing. Once, she had worn the face of an old woman; now it was all steel and impatience. " That's not breathing. " she said flatly. " That's drowning. "

          " I am drowning. " I rasped, clutching at my ribs. " Every inhale feels like razor blades. "

          She crouched lower, close enough that her shadow cut across me. " Then breathe through them. Let it cut. " Her breath smelled like freshly chewed mint leaves. 

          I shook my head, heat burning behind my eyes. The world tilted, the meadow's green spinning into Thaibar's gray. My chest seized again—until I felt a small weight press against my side.

          Malou's gaze flicked to the cat, then back to me. " There. Even the beast knows. Match her. In, out. Not shallow. Deep. Steady. "

          I focused on the vibration under my palm, the rise and fall of Misty's tiny body. My own breath stumbled, then fell into rhythm with hers—clumsy at first, then less jagged.

          Malou gave the faintest nod. " Better. You're not a corpse yet. Don't act like one. "

          Oh, how I wished I was a corpse. Because what came next—after twenty long minutes of nothing but breathing in a yoga-like position—made me feel more useless than before. Balance.

          She planted me on one foot, arms stretched wide, my nose fixed on the finger she held in front of me like a dagger of judgment.

          Then the weight came again—low and crushing—dragging me off balance. It sank through my ribs, pulling me down into the dark, into the soil itself. A chain, heavy and unseen, cinched tight around my chest, tugging not only at bone and sinew but at something deeper, something that wasn't meant to be touched. My soul.

          I had felt it since the first day I woke screaming from that nightmare—that old man's blade, his voice, the moment he killed me. When breath returned to my body, so had the chain. Invisible, unyielding. It had lived in me ever since, a quiet torment. It made me ache without reason. Long for something unnamed. For warmth I couldn't chase, for contact I couldn't bear yet craved all the same. The pull never eased, not once. Always there, whispering at the edges of my mind, dragging me toward something I didn't understand.

          My spine shrieked in protest, nerves sparking down my legs until they went numb. My hips swayed side to side, desperate to find that single point on my sole that could hold me-

          " Steady... steady... " Malou's voice cut flat and sharp, a blade dulled only by irritation. Then—without warning—she leaned in and blew a gust of air straight into my face, hot and sudden. My eyes stung. My balance wavered.

          " Stop fucking blinking! "

          " Stop drying my eyeballs, damn it! "

          " If you're in a stance like this and someone comes at you drying— " She shrugged, palms open in mock innocence—then slammed her weight into me.

          I hit the ground hard, breath punched out of my chest in a ragged whoosh. Dust filled my mouth. "Morthul! "

          " Shit on a stick, " I coughed, spitting grit. " This is fucking pointless. I can't even stand! " Misty padded over, tail curling smugly, like she was enjoying the show.

          " Exactly. " Malou's eyes glinted like flint striking steel. " Balance isn't standing still, idiot. It's holding your center while the world tries to tear it out from under you. Find that— " she jabbed her knuckles into her own sternum " —and you live. "

          I wobbled back onto one leg, my thighs burning with the strain. A bead of sweat traced down my forehead—and not from the sun's warmth. I wasn't used to something so simple feeling so impossible. Once, standing on one leg would never have made me sweat. Once, matching my breath to the rhythm of the world around me, calming the frantic beat of my heart, would not have felt like scaling a mountain.

          Even my heart no longer felt like my own. Its beats were erratic, disoriented—unsure of where, of which arteries to send blood through, as if my nervous system no longer fired its signals fast enough. It was changed, heavy as a brick and sour as a lemon. Mad. My heart had gone mad.

          Malou's eyes softened for a breath. " Even your cat has more instinct than you. She doesn't fall on her ass every time the wind changes. "

          Her words slipped in one ear and out the other, but she wasn't wrong. My thighs were on fire, my back felt as though it were splitting in two—and she only twisted the knife by pointing it out. It had barely been three days since I'd managed to stand on my own legs again. Two, if you counted the first as nothing but long, limping treks to the infirmary. One, if I admitted the nightmares had stolen any chance of real rest.

          " I'll show you. " She said suddenly. Before I could breathe, she yanked me upright, forcing me back onto my feet, then stepped in close—striking distance. Her fist lashed forward, a blur in the air, stopping a hair's breadth from my nose. Instinct seized me—I flinched, squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the blow that never came.

          " Fuck... " The word tore out of me, quicker than my reflexes.

          " Pathetic, " she snarled. " You blinked, you froze—you died. " Her voice was as merciless as her training. She lifted her arm again, angling her stance so the muscles in her thigh flexed. " Between my arm and my leg is a gap wide enough to drive a spear through. " She caught my limp hand and shoved it hard into that opening, the contact rough, deliberate, like she was branding the motion into my body. " Here. That's your kill. But you missed it because you're too busy whining. "

          I reset, jaw tight, shame burning hot under my skin. My throat felt raw when I forced the words out: " I've got a reflex now, " I muttered. " Every time something comes at me, I shut down. Like a beaten dog. Not my fucking fault. "

          Malou exhaled, the sound sharp as steel scraping stone. A curse in her tongue slipped through her teeth before she snarled, "Life will beat you a thousand more times, girl. If every strike makes you flinch—Mother's tits—you'll never live through the next. That's why we meditate. That's why we breathe. To scrape the old fight out of your skull before the new one begins."

          Her words hit harder than her fist. Because the truth was, I hadn't bled that fight out of me. It clung to me like a leech, fat and swollen, draining me. The memory looped and blistered in my skull: the barn, the fire, the screaming. I was too busy drowning in it, too ready to believe I should have burned there. That I deserved to. Every breath fed it—turning shame into fuel, and fuel into ash choking my lungs.

          I bit my lip until blood filled my mouth, metallic and hot. My jaw trembled with the effort of not breaking. " I'll get it. " I rasped. " In time. "

          Her eyes narrowed, black as cut obsidian. " Time is for corpses. And you're not one. Yet. " She leaned close, her voice a low snarl. " So use your mind, Stumbles—or I'll knock it out of you myself. "

          The name snapped like a whip. I wasn't ready to carry scars, to bleed and survive. Not yet. Trauma was still new, raw, shredding me from the inside. I needed time to digest it, to breathe without breaking. But I said nothing. I knew if I dared, she'd throw me back to the dirt again—and in my broken body, getting up was harder than standing still.

          I thought of her, towering over me now as if she'd thrown me from the monastery's bell tower for failing at the smallest of tasks. Trauma had locked her away for years in Hybern's prison, and even now she hadn't fully broken free of it. Yet stepping out here, into the open, was still a step forward.

          So why wasn't I allowed the same? Why couldn't I sink, just a little, into my own pain—let it devour me until it burned itself out, until only the memory remained to scatter and leave behind?

          Time... Misty's gaze seemed to whisper, her golden eyes mysterious, unblinking. Time is short.

          I blinked, but Malou's hand clamped harder on my thigh, hoisting me back into the same torturous position once again.

          By the time I found the barest thread of balance—just enough to keep me upright while Malou prowled around me like a hawk—the breathing drills began. She drove me down into the grass, flat on my back, eyes pinned to the sky. The posture felt like surrender, like lying in a grave and waiting for the dirt to fall. The sun poured over me, golden and merciless, warming my skin but seeping no further. Inside, there was no warmth. 

          Only the echo of Thaibar.

          Dust scalding my throat. Smoke clawing through my lungs, thick and rancid. And worst of all—the corpse. Sprawled in the same position, limbs twisted and slack, eyes staring into nothing. A body I had covered with some cloth as I ran toward the burning farm. I could still feel the weight of it pressing me into the earth, as though it hadn't let go.

          " Not like that. " Malou's voice sliced through the meadow. She dropped to one knee beside me, palm pressing hard into my stomach. " Here. From here. " Then she thumped my chest, firm and precise. " Not this. Deep. Controlled. "

          I forced a breath, the pressure burning. " It feels... calming. "

          " Yes. It should. " Her tone was almost careless, though her eyes stayed sharp. " My kind used it to endure wounds that should have killed us. Air is more than breath—it clears, it steadies. Feel it refresh you. "

           I inhaled until my ribs screamed, exhaled in a jagged shudder. Misty curled tight against my hip, her purr a steady drumbeat. Without thinking, I matched her rhythm—inhale, exhale, steady, sure.

          Malou's brows flicked upward. " There. Even your beast teaches better than your stubborn brain. Learn to draw from the ground, not fight it. Breath anchors the blade. "

          " I think this might be my favorite one so far. " I muttered, the words slipping loose before I could bite them back.

          Malou barked a harsh laugh—then her boot planted on my chest, sudden and heavy. The air punched out of me.

          " You're crushing me! " I gasped.

          " I am crushing you? " Her weight pressed harder. Pain lanced through my lungs; I hacked, choking up thick mucus. Malou leaned over me, her shadow cutting the sun. " Imagine someone twice my size. Stronger. Hungrier. Not just to kill—but to strip you of everything. Your breath. Your pride. "

          The world tilted. Her voice warped.

          And suddenly, it wasn't Malou anymore.

          It was Shum. His shadow engulfing me. His fists, his stench of sweat and smoke pressing me into the dirt. The barn groaned around us, beams cracking as fire devoured them. Ash swirled thick, clogging nose, filling my tongue with bitter grit. Draegan's voice sliced through the inferno—cold, merciless: " Strike her again! "

           I gagged. My lungs spasmed, clawing for air that wasn't there. My vision tunneled, green meadow collapsing to black edges. Nails tore into my arms, my back arched as though pinned under invisible weight. Sweat burst hot and slick over my skin as my legs kicked wildly at enemies that weren't there. " I can't breathe! " The sob ripped out of me raw, feral. " Stop! "

          The weight vanished. Malou dropped to her knees beside me, hands clamping down on my shoulders to still my thrashing. Her face cut into view—bronze skin glistening, scars etched like maps, tattoos drinking the light. Not Shum. Not Draegan. Malou.

          " Cyan! " Malou's voice cracked like a whip. " Look at me! "

          My gaze flickered wildly—fire, meadow, fists, sunlight—until her face finally snapped into focus. The scar along her chin. The ink winding up her arms. Sweat sliding down her temple. Malou. Not them.

          " It's over. " Her voice dropped lower. " That fight is done. You're here. Rosehall. With me. With your cat. With women only. No men. No Shum. No Draegan. Just survivors. Just peace. "

          My cat meowed lowder, her small paws up my arm. My hand clutched at her fur, desperate for warmth, for something real. Malou eased her hold but didn't release me.

          " We stop here! " She said at last, her voice scraped raw with something close to regret. " This exercise is not for now. "

          I sagged into the grass,  tears leaking into my hair. I wanted to rip it apart in frustration. The meadow smelled fresh, with happy laughs and friendly banter somewhere far, but in my mouth there was still the taste of remorse.

           " You'll face those ghosts again. " she murmured, her tone no longer harsh. " But not all at once. Not today. "

          I ground my dry teeth together, and out of nowhere the ghost of Cynthia's bread rose on my tongue—aroma I'd never taste again. The memory curdled in my mouth. Rose had been right—hours ago, she had spoken the truth I hadn't dared name: I didn't want to be Cyan anymore. Not ever. I didn't want her pain strapped to my soul, her history binding me like chains I couldn't break. " Please... " My voice rasped, splintered. " Don't call me Cyan again. "

          Her thick brows lifted. " What? Why? That's your name. "

          " No. " My voice cracked, hollow, scraped thin. " It isn't. I don't remember my old name anymore. I've tried, gods know I've tried, but it's gone. And what's left... " My nails dug crescents into my palms. " I'm not her. I'm not Cyan. "

          Malou studied me for a long beat. Her hands, still braced to my shoulders, pinned me there—body, breath, and eyes all held fast in the present. " Then what do you want to be called? "

          My mouth opened, words tumbling uselessly, names scraping through my skull. Scarlett hissed like blood in my ears, sharp and crimson—but it didn't fit. Not right. Then—movement at the meadow's edge. Rose, walking slowly, a basket hooked over one arm. Her hazel eyes nurturing.

          " Vythra. " I whispered, the syllables trembling out of me. " Rose called me Vythra. "

          Malou tilted her head, weighing the name. Her gaze sharpened, not cruel but cautious. " The vengeful goddess of thunder. " She said slowly, almost reverently. " Vythra. Now that's a fucking name. It carries power, storm and strike. I like it better than Cyan." Her lips curled, the tattoos on her cheeks pulling tight. " Cyan always felt too human. Too soft. A little girl with books and medicine, laughing like the world wasn't sharpening knives behind her back. But Vythra— " she leaned closer, eyes burning into mine, smiling almsot sadistical " Vythra sounds like someone who crawled out of fire spitting ash in Death's face. Someone who answers pain with thunder. "

          The words empowered me, making me feel larger than I was. I trembled, a curse slipping out before I could stop it. " Shit... you make it sound like I'm worth something. But I'm not. Cyan was. Cyan was everything. I'm just... I'm just what's left. "

           Malou's tone dropped, rough but steady. " And what's left of Cyan? " she asked, quiet, but still sharp enough to cut.

          I drew a breath, playig with my short nails. " She's with her family. With Niven. She's at peace. I can't be her anymore... because she deserves to rest. "

           For a moment, the meadow stilled. Rose's footsteps crunched faintly in the grass, the scent of herbs trailing her. Malou exhaled, long and slow. She gave a small, firm nod. " Then Vythra it is. "

           " I hope the work was good. " Rose said warmly as she laid a blanket over the damp earth. The fabric clung to the grass, rising the earthy perfume around us. She set down the basket at her side, and the scent of warm bread and baked apples drifted up, softening the hard edges of the afternoon.

           Misty was there in an instant, tail high, nosing along the rim of the basket. Rose chuckled, scratching her gently between the ears. " And you worked as well, didn't you, little one? Never left her side. "

            " She worked more than me. " I muttered, lowering myself stiffly onto the blanket. My bones cracked in protest. " At least she doesn't wobble like a drunk parasite on one leg. "

          Malou snorted, flexing her hands, the scars across her knuckles whitening. " Shit. At least she doesn't complain every breath. A cat doesn't need breathing lessons or balance drills. She just falls and lands again. "

           I watched Misty nose curiously at the plates Rose uncovered one by one, revealing a simple salad and hard-boiled eggs. My hands still trembled as I peeled one, breaking it into smaller pieces before holding them out. Misty's purr rose soft and hungry, and I let myself sink into the comfort of her silvery fur, smooth beneath my fingertips.

          " You smell like a rabbit. " I whispered, kissing the space between her ears.

           Malou's voice cut in, plain and unadorned. " You two have a bond. " She bit into a tomato with barbaric force, juice streaking down her knuckles. Her gaze flicked toward me, sharp as a blade. " She died with you too. "

          I smiled faintly, still stroking Misty's back. " She was the only warmth I had when I woke. When I couldn't even sit up, she layed against me. She drowned out the sound of the fire in my head. Without her... I don't think I would've made it through the first nights. "

          Rose's eyes softened, " Animals remember suffering. They choose who they give their trust to. "

           Malou tore another bite from her tomato, chewing hard before speaking. " She doesn't just trust you. She carries your wounds. You bled together, you burned together. That doesn't fade. "

           I swallowed, looking down at Misty, who was now pawing delicately at the egg pieces in my palm. My chest tightened. " She feels it too, doesn't she? The pain. The... loss. "

           Malou's gaze flicked back to me. " Of course she does. That's the bond. Not the sweet purring, not the cuddling. It's the fact that she died with you—and chose to follow you back. "

          " So... " I began, trying to gather words from the cascade of thoughts rushing through me. " She's like a familiar? The way witches have? "

          Rose and Malou both stilled, hands frozen mid-movement, an unspoken weight flickering between their eyes. The pause stretched long enough that I felt my pulse spike. Before I could press them, Malou tilted her head toward the sun, her brow furrowed. " Yeah. " She said at last, voice flat. " Kinda like that. "

          I frowned, heat crawling up my neck. Gods, everyone here was so damn secretive. Like even the trees had ears, and every shadow was keeping something from me.

          Rose changed the subject abruptly, smile lingering as she drew out a round loaf. " How did it go today? Sweet girl, how do you feel? "

           " Like I was trampled by a herd of oxen, one after the other. " I tore into the bread she handed me, chewing around the ache in my jaw. 

          Rose broke an apple in two with her hands, offering half to Malou. "Sounds like Malou's training ways. Pain will stay, but you'll learn to live with it—and to make it work for you. "

          " Or it kills you before you can. " Malou muttered around a bite of apple. Juice ran down her wrist, and she licked it off like blood. " And before you call me a pessimist, little corpse, don't forget: that's the truth of this world. You learn fast—or you die faster. "

          " You're the one who keeps saying I survived The Passing. " I shot back, tearing at the chicken breast with my teeth. " You could give me one full compliment for once. "

          " Compliments make you lazy. Insults keep you alive. " Malou arched a brow, tattoos along her arm catching the sunlight.

          " Can you... " I shifted uncomfortably on my knees, the bruises along my thighs echoing each word with dull throbs. " Can you tell me more about The Passing? "

          Malou's jaw worked, chewing slowly. She wiped grease from her fingers onto her trousers before answering. " It's a test. No—worse than a test. A stripping. It rips your heart bare and asks if there's anything left worth keeping. It changes your whole body to something new, it breaks your barriers and let's the power of a Vespertus free. Raw, but free. "

          Rose cleared her throat softly, adjusting the cloth that lined the basket. " Not everyone who fails dies. Some simply... never return to who they were. Pieces of them are lost. "

          " Or useless. " Malou snapped. " Dead weight in battle. The Passing doesn't lie. It shows you whether you're blade—or rust. "

          The food in my mouth tasted weird. The pain I had felt back then swelled sharp beneath my ribs, as if all the world's suffering had been crammed into my chest and was clawing to get out, screaming for blood, blood, blood. I closed my eyes for a heartbeat and saw myself again—sprawled on the floor, surrounded by everyone I had ever loved, their bodies broken, their voices gone.

I forced the bite down, throat burning. " So what did mine show? "

          Malou smirked, not kindly, her teeth catching the light like a wolf's. " That you're still standing, aren't you? Broken, whining, bleeding—but standing. That alone puts you ahead of half the humans who go through it. Most don't survive. Bodies too weak, healing too slow. Not like the fae. " Her mouth twisted. " They pass in the highest numbers. But they're also the most mentally unstable. Pure malice and ego, rotting them from the inside out. "

          Heat surged into my skull, pumping acid through my veins. " So you knew. " I spat, my words tumbling out harsh and furious. " You knew I might not survive—you knew what price this change would take. And you said nothing. You didn't intervene. Not once. "

          Malou tossed the gnawed apple core into the grass and dropped to my level on the blanket. Her black eyes, bottomless as the void, locked onto mine, heavy with threat. " I've seen it before. I didn't train Vespertus myself, but I watched others of my kind do it. And I know this much: if I had intervened, I'd have snapped the thread. I would've killed you outright. "

          My throat closed. Rage and grief twisted into one. " But you already killed them—Kallus, Niven, Cynthia, thousands of people from Thaibar— "

          Her face hardened to stone. " Understand this: I didn't kill them. And neither did you. Draegan did. Your traitor of a brother did. He refused his fate—that of helping a Vespertus pass safely and went mad, turned himself in to the other side. That's what Benefactors do. That's what they've done for centuries. It is the Mother's law. "

          The words slammed against my ears until they rang. Mother's law. Mother's law. If I heard it again, I'd rip someone's head clean off. " I never asked for any of this! " I roared, voice breaking raw.

          Malou surged closer, looming, her shadow swallowing me. She grabbed my chin in her calloused palm, forcing my face up toward hers. Her grip burned. Her breath was hot against my cheek. " Neither did I! " She snarled, her voice low, guttural. " You dragged me out of that prison. Don't fool yourself into thinking I ever wanted this gods-damned shit any more than you do. " Her nails bit into my skin, grounding me in the present, Malou only responded, trying to contain her anger. " So we're both chained to a destiny we didn't fucking choose. "

          The afternoon light lay heavy across the back garden, gilding the rows of herbs and the stone walls with fading warmth. The monastery bell tolled once, then twice—deep, resonant strikes that rattled the air and pressed into my ribs, leaving us momentarily deafened. Even the sparrows in the hedges startled and went quiet.

          I sometimes wondered if Rose knew the truth—that I wasn't of this world at all. That I had fallen into it, dropped into the middle of its chaos, carrying only scraps of knowledge from the pages I had once read. I had read about them, about their wars and their courts... but never about her. Never about Malou either. Perhaps they hadn't even existed in the author's mind, not when I still belonged to my own world. Rosehall itself was little more than a whisper in passing, a place I can barely recall—mentioned once, though by whom or in what context, I can't remember anymore.

          Rose had just finished setting down the last of the bread when the hush broke—footsteps, steady and deliberate, crunching on the gravel path. The sound carried like a warning, each step cutting into the silence, unhurried but inescapable.

          The Abbess of Rosehall came toward us. Her robes were plain but spotless, the color of pale bone, cinched at the waist with a strip of braided cord. A veil shadowed her face, but her eyes—gray as steel polished smooth by years—never wavered. Behind her trailed the scent of incense and rosemary, as if she carried the monastery itself in her wake.

          " Daughters! " she greeted, her voice calm as cool water. " I come with words that must be spoken. "

          We rose to out feet, while Rose welcomed her with a graceful dip of her head. " Abbess. You honor us with your presence. "

          Malou planted her hands on her hips, shoulders pulled back, staring at the Abbess with cold, unflinching superiority. Her lower lip curled into a faint, restrained sneer, and her black eyes measured the woman as if she were an opponent unworthy of effort. She was still simmering from the words we'd hurled at each other earlier, but her fury wasn't unleashed—it was leashed, sharpened, held just beneath the skin like a hidden blade. The same control she wielded in combat bled through now, every breath deliberate, every movement calculated.

          I couldn't help but wonder if she was practicing the very mind-stilling she'd tried to hammer into me—closing herself off, holding her center, refusing to let her enemy see the storm inside.

          The Abbess's gaze flicked from Rose to Malou, then finally to me, lingering with a weight on the three claw marks from my face. " Rosehall's gates will close to you tomorrow at dawn. You cannot stay. "

          The words dropped like stones. My breath snagged. " What? "

          Rose's composure faltered, her hands tightening over the basket at her feet. " Surely this is too soon. Vythra is still weak—she cannot travel far. Please, Abess, grant her more time to mend. "

          The Abbess shook her head once, firm. " Rumors trickle in from the towns below. Whispers that fugitives have come through our doors. That they burned Thaibar and fled on a stolen ship. I cannot— " her voice hardened, " —will not put innocent women at risk by harboring those the world names as criminals. "

          " Bullshit. " Malous only said, passing her eyes from the Abbess to me and back to her.

          " I never— " My throat locked, heat and fury boiling up. " We didn't burn— "

          But the Abbess cut me off, raising a hand. " Truth or lie, it matters not. The seed of doubt is enough. Rosehall must remain untouched by fire or scandal. "

          Rose stepped forward, desperation cracking her voice. " Please. She needs healing, shelter. If you turn her out now, you may as well hand her to her death. "

          The Abbess's eyes softened, but only for a breath. Then they hardened again into stone. " My duty is to the many, not the few. She must leave. "

          Silence pressed in, broken only by the flutter of birds overhead and the wind stirring the blue drapes in the cloister windows beyond. Malou moved then, slow and deliberate, rising to her full height. Her lip curled, and before anyone could stop her, she spat at the ground between the Abbess's feet. The sound was wet, sharp in the still garden.

          " Coward's mercy. " Malou hissed, voice rough as gravel. She turned to me, her face carved into a mask of fury and resolve. " Pack your shit, Stumbles. We're gone by morning. "

          The Abbess did not flinch at the insult, but her jaw tightened. She turned without another word, her robes sweeping the damp earth as she walked back toward the cloister, her shadow long in the setting sun.

          I sat frozen on the blanket, chest heaving, shame crawling hot through my skin. Around me, the herbs swayed in the breeze, their fragrance mocking the bitterness in my throat.

          " I'm sorry! " Rose began, turning to Malou with quiet pleading in her voice. But Malou cut her off with a sharp lift of her hand.

          " You've done enough for us. Vythra will go to the infirmary one last time, hear if she can travel, take the medicine she's given—and that's sufficient. More than sufficient. "

          Rose turned toward me, her brows lifting, surprise flickering across her face at the sound of my voice. Once, I might have softened it with a smile, given her something of myself in return. But no such smile rose now; my face remained hollow, the weight in my chest too heavy to lift. " I'll try to sway her, but— " she began, her tone careful, searching for cracks of hope in the silence between us.

          This time I stopped her, forcing myself to rise from the damp blanket that clung cold against my palms. My body ached, but my words came out steady. " No. We don't want more trouble than we already carry. Malou's right—you've done enough. And I'll manage. It wouldn't be the first time I've walked away broken. "

          Silence fell, thick as the shadow of the abbess's retreating figure. Rose took a slow sip from her flask, weighing her words before speaking. " Then, before you go... " Her hazel eyes softened. " See the mare. She's been restless. "

𓆩✴𓆪

Morthul - Dead

The chapter is not edited!

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

The Balance of Gold

          The barn was burning again. The whole farm on the hill had become a torch in the frozen night, blazing like a white flag raised in mockery of my surrender. My eyes stung viciously, soot rising with every frantic step, clinging to my lashes, blinding my sight. Still I ran, lungs blistering, praying I'd find them alive, just as I had left them.

          Flames chewed through the beams overhead, embers spitting as they fell, hissing on the damp earth. Smoke clogged my throat like layers of old dust, thickening until every breath scraped raw. I stumbled forward, coughing, tears streaking my cheeks as I searched-Niven, Cynthia, Kallus-their names not words but prayers, lifelines.

          " Where are you? " I rasped, my voice lost in the roar of collapsing wood. Silence answered, searing heat blistering my cheeks, burning the edges of me away.

          And then, I saw him.

          A figure at the far end of the stables, wreathed in firelight. Broad-shouldered, head bowed, a body slumped at his feet. For a heartbeat, I thought it was Shum, waiting with his hammer, his darkness, his cruelty. But no. The closer I staggered, the more wrong it became. Too still. Too familiar.

          The flames bent around him, reluctant to touch. Slowly, his head rose, revealed by the orange glow. Monstrous wings unfolded behind him. An angel of the damned.

           Not Shum. Azriel. Or some broken echo of him.

          His eyes, hollow as burnt-out stars, fixed on me. In his hand dangled Kallus's head, mouth frozen in horror, eyes glassy and unseeing. My stomach heaved, bile scorching my tongue. And Azriel's shadows, those endless, faithful shadows-were gone. Utterly gone. The absence twisted my insides. He could have sent them anywhere: beneath me, behind me, binding me.

          I blinked hard, desperate to shatter the vision. But he remained, a figure wreathed in fire, the flames devouring every inch of air between us. Outside, the cries of agony swelled, feeding the ruin, a chorus that refused to die. The thunder of armored boots—black iron soldiers marching in endless ranks—splintered through every other sound, crushing it beneath their advance.

          His voice crawled out of the inferno. Not the quiet, steady voice I remembered. This one was rusted, ground down by centuries, warped until every word pierced my insides. " You should have stayed here. " It grated, every syllable like splinters under my nails. " Buried. Dead. Hidden. Just as my sister taught you.

          Heat melted my armor; skin blistered, boiling beneath. My chest seized. My scream drowned under the barn's groaning beams as they caved, falling slow as judgment.

          His shadow stretched long against the wall, grotesque and untrue, warping wider and darker than his frame, slithering into the smoke, bleeding into the earth.

          I staggered back, heart sluggish, unresponsive, as if it had already surrendered. Sweat coursed sticky down my hairline. His gaze followed-empty, endless.

          " You will not escape me. "

           And then-another voice. Cutting through. Smooth, steady, pulling me back like hands through water. " Wake up! "

          The word cracked the nightmare. Cedar filled my lungs, cool and sharp, and the fire dissolved into darkness.

          " Wake up! "

          The blaze shattered, spilling me back into the cold night. My lungs dragged in air too fast, too ragged, the taste of cedar and damp moss smothering the ash still clinging to my tongue. The world blurred between fire and forest until the nightmare bled away into shadowed trees. The woods pressed close. The fire was gone, but my skin still burned. Sweat soaked my shirt, bandages plastered tight against my ribs. My hands clawed at the bedroll beneath me, nails splitting on the coarse fabric.

          " Gods, you sound like you're drowning. " Malou's voice ruptured the nightmare entirely, low and breathy. She crouched above me, one hand braced firm on my shoulder, pinning me down before I could thrash further. Her black pupils gleamed in the dim moonlight with no pity.

          " I- " The word tore hoarse. I swallowed, throat arid. " I saw- "

          " You saw nothing, " Malou insists, her timbre laced with the edge of half-sleep. I knew she'd only rested with one eye closed. While I had tossed and turned, trying to find a position on the jagged stones beneath us, I'd watched her place her body deliberately between me and the cave's narrow opening, hidden under long, thick grass. She'd trusted me enough to leave her back exposed. " It was a dream. You're here. Look. " She jerked her chin toward the dying fire we made before we slept, toward the trees outside. " Forest, not flames. Dirt. Me, not whoever the fuck haunts you. "

          I forced my gaze to follow hers. The red coals crackling faintly, its smoke curling thin and harmless toward the stone ceiling. Beyond the round opening, branches stretched black against the paling sky, stars flickering weakly through their weave as if already bidding farewell. Their dim light spilled into the cave, uncertain and trembling, painting the walls that had cradled us for a few stolen hours—walls that had guarded us just enough to let us rest.

          The air was laced with the damp bite of mold and the faint sweetness of wildflowers, a strange marriage of decay and bloom. Cold soil pressed through the thin blanket beneath me, prodding at the ache in my back but soothing the inflamation in my muscles.

          Misty padded into view, her yellow eyes the first thing to pierce the darkness—silent as a wraith. She slipped against my thigh and pressed close, her steady breath seeping into my chest, a living metronome echoing Malou’s lessons. My hand, still trembling, sank into the softness of her fur, clutching at the warmth as if it were the only real thing left in the world.

          " You're colder than the grave. " Malou muttered, shifting back but keeping her attention on me. Her chin tattoo tightened, though her voice stayed dry. " You fight like a beast in your sleep. One day you'll wake the whole damn forest. "

          " I thought— " The sour burn of bile clawed up my throat, searing the back of my tongue. Azriel’s eyes lingered in my mind—not warm hazel, not whiskey glinting in firelight, but hollow, pit-black voids that watched without end. My voice cracked as it broke free. " I thought it was real. "

          Malou snorted and shoved her waterskin into my fingers. " Dreams feel real when your brain's chewing itself alive. Drink. Then let's eat something. "

          The water was cool—a small mercy sliding down, soothing the raw scorch it left behind. It steadied my lips, my chest, as if rinsing traces of the nightmare from within. Yet my body still wobbled. Behind my blinking eyes, hollow shapes clung to the darkness, drifting like smoke that refused to clear.

          Malou stretched her legs, moving her toes. " If you keep dragging ghosts into daylight, " she said yawning, " you'll never fully live. "

          " Azriel... " The name slipped out of me, half-whisper, half-confession. Had it truly been him? Or was my mind only twisting shadows, feeding on the bitter taste of our first meeting, the disappointment, the threat that lingered like smoke? His hunger to end me. Truth-Teller still cleaved through my thoughts, that memory of the blade's edge hovering a breath away from my skull, a single inch of air keeping me from death. Why did it miss me?

          Malou's head snapped in my direction, curiosity emerging through her usual self. Her brows arched, eyes narrowing into slits. " Azriel? " she echoed, the name rolling on her tongue. " And who the fuck is that? "

          Heat surged up my neck. " No one. " The word tumbled out too fast. A shield, thin and transparent. I wasn't going to just drop the information that I once had a crush on him. Big one, by the way.

          Her laugh came low, humorless. " Liar. You nearly bit your own tongue off thrashing like a rabid dog, and that's the name you cry out? Sounds like someone to me. "

          My jaw locked, eyes fixed on the space between us. " Drop it. "

          Malou's mouth curved. " Fine. But if he shows up swinging for our heads, don't forget: it was your lips that called him here first. "

          Misty meowed sharply, golden eyes glaring as if seconding Malou's warning.

          Trying to still my trembling hands, I dug into the pouch at my side and drew out the small vial Rose had pressed into my palm before we left. The stopper reeked of bitter herbs steeped in alcohol, sharp enough to sting my nose. Medicine. The only thing the infirmary could spare. I tipped a swallow past my cracked lips. It scorched down my mouth, biting all the way to my gut before settling there like a stone.

          " What did the healer say? "

          " That she couldn't stitch bone with magic she didn't have, " I muttered. " She’d said the fracture was too deep. That I’d have to wear this binding until it held—if it ever did. And with the kind of training I have to endure instead of rest, the constant strain would only press against it, dragging the healing slow. " My fingers brushed the stiff linen cinched around my waist. The bruises had already begun to yellow, the cuts and blisters scabbing over. If I'd been steady on my feet, maybe I would've brewed something myself, something stronger, but my mind refused to cling to Nimue's books, to her biting stares and sharper words.

          Nimue. I had nearly forgotten her. What had become of her shop? Of her? Was she still alive? Or just another name smothered by ash?

          Malou grunted. " So basically: don't fall, don't get hit, don't be an idiot. "

          " Exactly. " My smile cracked halfway. " Rose said the same. " She hugged me so tight when we left, like she could keep me together with her arms alone.

          Malou said nothing at first. Just looked from me, to Misty curled at my hip. Finally: " She did more than she had to. "

          I nodded, blinking hard. The memory of Rose's clipped wings and gentle hands pressed against me as sharply as the corset-wrap around my ribs. Her scent of chamomile lingered still, phantom-soft.

          " Ready? " Malou asked, already swinging into her saddle. She tucked the blunt dagger Rose had pressed into her hand before we left—the only real weapon to guard us.

          Not that I feared being unarmed with Malou beside me. Even without steel, without whatever powers she once carried, I was certain she could still tear the flesh from a man's bones with her bare teeth if pressed. There was something in the way she moved, the sharp coil of her muscles, the feral ease in her stance—it screamed she'd bite before she'd break.
" No. " I whispered honestly, but forced myself to rise anyway. I felt filthy, damp, the stench of sweat and medicine rising sharp and acrid to my nose.

           I'd skipped a bath, and it showed, my own skin felt foreign, sticky. Even a wet rag would have been enough. Instead, we stuffed handfuls of mint leaves into our mouths, chewing until our breath burned fresh and our teeth felt scraped clean by the bitter edge. It wasn't perfect, but it was survival.

          When we gathered our things and slipped cautiously out of the cave, Malou went first, her steps deliberate, scanning the trees to make sure the way was clear. Dawn greeted us shyly through the branches, the light thin and tentative, painting the leaves in pale gold. The air was still edged with night's chill, but the forest stirred awake, birds testing their voices, frogs croaking low in the undergrowth, the world layering sound upon sound until it felt alive again.

          My mare let out a soft whinny, shaking her damp mane as if in relief, glad to be free of the cave's wet, suffocating air, eager to drink in the crisp, dry coolness of morning. I pressed a fierce kiss to the crown of her head, whispering silent thanks into her dark coat. Thanks for saving us from the prison's chains. Thanks for carrying us like the wind itself, hooves striking faster than fear, until we reached the ship. Thanks for pulling us out of the chaos of Thaibar and into life again
     
          The food Rose had shoved into our pockets was already going stale, edges tough and crumbly, but it was enough to fill the hollow pit gnawing at my gut as we rode on. I broke off small pieces to share with Misty, tucked snug inside a scarf tied around my shoulders like an infant, her warmth a steady weight against my belly. She purred between bites, the sound vibrating faintly through the cloth.

          Above us, the sky sagged in a dull pewter stretch, clouds swollen and bruised, uncertain whether to split themselves open or drag their heavy bellies farther down the horizon. The air carried that sharp, metallic tang before rain, mingled with the earthier scent of damp moss and horse sweat, wrapping the morning in uneasy anticipation. The earth shifted from field to forest, the road narrowing as trees gathered in uneven clumps, roots knuckling through the dirt like veins beneath skin.

          The mare beneath me moved with a grace I couldn't take credit for: her stride smooth, steady, her breath puffing white in the chill air. Warmth rose off her body, seeping through the saddle into my bones. I leaned forward, running a hand down her neck. Her skin twitched beneath my palm, and a strange swell pressed tight in my, something like belonging. I hadn't expected to love her this quickly. But gods, she had carried me through fire, and she was still alive.

          Malou clicked her tongue, and her stallion tossed his head, hooves tearing restless bites out of the dirt. " Switch with me. " She said abruptly, her voice rough as gravel. She turned her head toward me, a few rebellious strands shaking loose to curl around her neck in dark waves. Mischief stirred across her features, softening the sharpness for once, and when her mouth tilted into a grin, it exposed teeth slightly uneven, humanizing in a way that made the smile all the more dangerous.

          I frowned at her, the reins tightening in my hand. She sat easy in her saddle, leather straps cinched across her chest, shirt already damp with sweat despite the cold. " No. "

          " Come on. That mare's built for me: fast, sharp, angry. A battle horse. "

          My palm smoothed instinctively over the mare's warm neck, the way a mother might cradle her child's head. " She's not for battle. She's mine. " Never, not once, could I imagine throwing her into the chaos of a fight, knowing how easily a sword, a spear, or a stray arrow could pierce her heart and end her. I would sooner walk barefoot and unarmed across the battlefield than risk her life for mine.

          Malou's snort cracked the silence like a whip. She leaned back in the saddle, one arm loose on the reins while the other slapped lightly her brown stallion's flank. " Possessive corpse. At least give her a name. Can't keep calling her 'mare' like she's some barn mutt. "

          My mind went blank. In my old world, I had always dreamed of having a horse, of learning to ride, of feeling what it was like. And now, after Niven's patient guidance, after Shum's harsher lessons, his very name still sour on my tongue, I finally did. This moment should have been everything I had once wanted. A dream come alive. Horses had always seemed to me like creatures carved from strength and grace, too majestic for clumsy human hands.

          I had thought of names before, toyed with a few in my head. But here, looking at her, this mare who had carried me through ruin, who had saved my life, every name fell flat. Too soft. Too small. None of them fit. I caught my lip between my teeth, frustrated, then gave up with a sigh.

          " You name her, then. "

          " We had horses as well, before all of this. My kind mostly used them, those of us without wings, at least. Pegasus. They were... something out of this world. Bigger than yours, with great feathered wings that could darken the sky. I don't believe they exist anymore... " Her grin faltered, teeth catching sharp in the dim light. For a moment she seemed far away, remembering something lost. Then her gaze dropped back to the mare, who slowed as we reached the forest's mouth. Mist curled thick around the roots, pooling like breath held too long. Malou studied her with the careful eye of someone who had measured beasts for war.

          " She's quick. Cuts through the earth like a blade. Doesn't falter, doesn't flinch. She reminds me of the horse we trained to carry us into the bloodiest wars. " Her voice dropped, almost reverent, like a hymn whispered to ghosts. Then, with a nod, she said: " Call her Aeria. Swift. Untouchable. Born of storms and victories. "

          I whispered it once, testing the sound. Aeria. The mare flicked her ears back as if she'd heard and approved.

          Malou leaned forward in her saddle, a smirk tugging once more at her lips. " See? Even your beast likes my choice better than your silence. "

          I stroked Aeria's neck again, and for once, I didn't argue. " Did you... have wings? "

          The meadow thinned into nothing but a pale strip of grass, the last breath of open land before the trees sealed shut. Ahead, branches arched together into a ribcage of bark and grass, forming a living gate that swallowed the light. Something in the air around Malou shifted: dense, almost toxic. She rolled her shoulders as though she could still feel the weight of what had once been there, some unconscious memory flickering across her muscles. And then, with the barest tilt of her chin, she nodded. A simple confirmation.

          I looked at her back, still unmistakably feminine, but trained hard, built for endurance. A pang went through me, mournful. I refused to ask the question burning on my tongue. Whatever had been done to her wings, whatever had stripped them away, I doubted it was a story she'd want to offer easily. The mere acknowledgment, that she had once possessed something so precious, was already a confession laced with agony.

          Aeria slowed, ears pricked, nostrils flaring. Misty rose rigid from my chest, tail puffed, golden eyes burning wide in the dimness. A low, guttural growl rippled out of her throat, vibrating against my ribs. My chest clenched tight. My instincts had always been sharp enough to keep me alive, and now every nerve screamed the same thing: wrong. The air was wrong. Heavy. Watching.

          Beside me, Malou shifted in her saddle, rolling her shoulders like she was trying to shake off a phantom weight. Her stallion's hooves struck the earth harder. Her jaw flexed, silent, but tension pulsed from her skin like static before a storm.

          " You feel it too. " I murmured, turning my head, scanning the shadows. The forest pressed closer, choking tight around us. Branches knitted overhead so thick the sun barely pierced through. Where the light touched, leaves clung shriveled and brown, brittle husks dangling like corpses instead of life.

          Malou didn't look at me. The easy looseness she carried before vanished, swallowed whole. Her gaze cut through the canopy. " I don't feel it. I know it. "

          We crossed beneath the arch of trees, and the world changed. The air dropped instantly, thick as lead, charged. Every breath felt weighted, dragging down into my lungs until I thought I might choke on it. The smell struck my nostrils: rusted copper, mushrooms rotting in damp earth, sap sour and cloying as spoiled wine. It coated my tongue, bitter, fungal, wrong. I gagged but swallowed it down, forcing my chest to keep rising.

          The deeper we pressed, the stranger it grew. Trunks warped into grotesque shapes, bending like spines half-snapped. Roots clawed across the path, gnarled fingers curling to trip hooves. Some trees wept sap so dark it was almost black, dripping in sluggish rivulets like wounds that refused to close. The silence here wasn't silence at all, it hummed, low and constant, as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting.

          I couldn't stand it. The stillness pressed harder than the stench, and if I didn't speak, I thought it might crush me flat. " Tell me... " My voice cracked, softer than I intended. " What were you like before the prison? "

          Malou's head snapped toward me, eyes hard as flint. Her stallion tossed its head as if echoing her fury. For a breath I thought she'd bite, spit venom, rip the question apart with her teeth. Instead she cut me off simply. " Not in our bargain. "

          I bit my tongue, copper blooming where I caught the skin. Aeria's ears flicked nervously at the tension, her stride faltering, catching on the tangle of roots. So I tried again, gentler. " What about Sorscha? Who is she? "

         Malou's mouth shifted, not soft, but looser, the sharp lines of her face easing as if memory had brushed against her. Her gaze went distant, reverent, a thread of sorrow pulling taut along her jaw. Her voice, when it came, carried something gentler than I'd ever heard from her. " My carranam. "

          I knew what she meant. I'd read about it once, in another series. Not love, not destiny. Something deeper. Souls bound not by mating bonds but by raw power itself. Two warriors, their strength and spirit braided together, each amplifying what the other lacked. Rare. Dangerous. Powerful.

          " Are you like... mates, then? " I asked carefully.

          Her brows slammed down, a harsh frown carving deep lines into her forehead. " She's a nun. "

          I blinked. " ...And what, nuns don't get to have fun? "

          Her head whipped toward me so fast my mare flinched. That frown hardened into something lethal, but her lips curled, not in a smile, but in the promise of violence. " I'll break your nose so clean, Stumbles, you'll be breathing through your ears. "

          The way she said it, flat, almost bored, made my skin prickle. But her eyes glinted, just enough mischief hiding in the steel to make me wonder if she actually would.

          " So why are we going to her? " I asked at last. " You train me. You could keep training me. "

          Her head tilted just enough to slice me with a sidelong look before she drew a long, deliberate breath. She was mind-stilling. I knew it. Because if she wasn't, she'd already be breathing straight through my skull, dragging the damp, soaked air right into my brain until I choked on it. " I can teach you the body. The bones. The blade. Endurance. Blood. Strategy. Swords, daggers, knives, fist-fights. You name it. That's my realm. "

          She tugged her reins tighter, her stallion circling a mossy stump. Shadows slid across her face, aging her into something carved and ancient. " But a Vespertus is more than muscle. She is balance itself. All power, every drop of it, carries weight. Lean too far into rage, you destroy. Sink too deep in grief, you drown yourself and the world around. Anger, sorrow, fury, they'll rip you hollow and make you unpredictable. Dangerous. "

          Her words made me crease my nose, because hadn't I already been that? Unpredictable. Volatile. A wound walking on legs. " And Sorscha? " I pressed.

           Malou's eyes stayed fixed ahead, into the thickening dark. " She'll teach you the rest. The stillness. How to walk your dreams instead of being dragged through them. How to see without eyes, how to breathe through fury until it bends to you, not the other way around. Peace. Balance. All that untouchable shit that anchors a Vespertus, so she doesn't tip into chaos, so she doesn't become a Tiamat. A Dark Vespertus. "

          I nodded slowly, lips parting around a faint sound that could've been awe... or disbelief. Maybe both. " Oh... "

          If I was supposed to be impressed, then fine, I was impressed. Or maybe I was just faking it. The Vespertus sounded like some divine, all-powerful, unshakable force. A goddess in armor. The kind of shit you only read about. But for the right person. And I was not that person. Not now. Not ever.

          I knew myself better. I was flawed beyond words. Imagine looking at me, so absurdly human, so breakable and thinking: Yes. This one. She'll carry the cosmic balance and all people's destiny in her hands.

          Fools. Godsdamned, cosmic-scale fools.

          Malou's voice dropped to a rasp. " A Vespertus must master every element: fire, earth, water, air. And when the time comes... " Her stallion stamped once, as if to punctuate the weight of it. " ...chaos. The oldest magic. The one that can make or unmake. "

          I gripped the reins tighter, sweat slick on my palms despite the cold. Chaos. The word coiled in my gut like a serpent, hissing. " I hate prophecies. "

          Malou's laugh was humorless. " Yeah? Tell me more. And you? Your old world, " she said, eyes ahead, " How was it different? "

          The question split something raw inside me. I fixed my gaze on the trees—shapes flickered at the edges of sight, small and quick, like ghosts taunting me. My fingers dug into the reins until my knuckles burned white.

          A vision slipped unbidden through me—hazel-brown eyes, my past lover's gaze, warm and devastating. The chain coiled in my chest jerked hard, clanging against that bittersweet memory. She was only a shadow now, so far away I could no longer recall her scent, her touch—only the hollow ache of absence gnawed at me. Yet the chain remained, unyielding, tugging deep, somewhere nameless, unreachable.

          Who knew what held the other end? Another soul? A curse? Or perhaps that dormant Vespertus inside me, waiting in silence for the moment it would wake. Or maybe nothing at all—and the weight I carried was only mine.

          I exhaled, dragged back not to this forest, but to sterile hospital corridors, to streets choked with bodies and noise. " Louder, " I murmured, voice thin. " Busier. No forests like this—only concrete, glass, iron everywhere. Machines to do everything for us. "

          Her brow furrowed, testing the words on her tongue. " Machines? Weapons? "

          " Not only. " I almost laughed. " For cooking, washing... moving us from place to place. "

          " You were too soft to walk? " Her stallion snorted; one of her brows climbed.

          " We were smart enough to make wheels and engines do the walking. " I snapped, a smile tugging despite the gloom.

           She grunted. " Engines. Sounds like fae bullshit. Did they eat? "

          I blinked, then chuckled. " Not like that. Fuel. "

          Her gaze narrowed. " Blood? "

          " Gods, no. " I barked a laugh that startled Aeria. " Gasoline. Oil. Things from under the earth. "

          " So you drained your own ground to feed your toys. " Her lips twitched. " And we're the savages. "

          The air hummed with unseen life, but the banter loosened something in my chest. " At least our toys didn't bleed trees. "

          A crooked smirk finally cracked her face. " Point taken. "

           At that exact heartbeat the forest answered. A wind slid through the canopy carrying whispers, too shaped to be breeze, too muddled to be speech. Trunks seemed to lean, watching; bark split like the edges of mouths. Aeria stamped, teeth flashing. The deeper we rode, the worse it felt: copper and rot on the air, darting shadows that refused to be seen head-on. It hit me that the forest did not want us. Every step felt like trespass.

          Malou leaned forward, voice almost to herself. " Steady. They test first. They always do. "

          A chill slicked my spine. I didn't ask who "they" were.

          Sound swelled beneath the branches: the drip of unseen water, hooves rasping damp earth, Misty's growl vibrating against me. My gut twisted. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

          " Eyes up, Stumbles. " Malou's voice cut low, sharp as a drawn blade. She didn't even glance at me—just tipped her chin toward the canopy. " Spot it. "

          " What? " My pulse hammered. Gods, not the bird-watching again.

          " The bird. "

          I squinted into the green murk, vision swimming. For a moment—nothing. Then a flash of white: wings slicing through the dim before vanishing like smoke. " I see it. " I muttered.

          "Don't lose it. " A shadow of a smirk curved her mouth. " Learn its pattern. If a bird makes you falter, an archer will gut you from a tree before you ever spot the string draw. "

          I groaned, tipping my head back until my spine ached. " Birdwatching? When the whole forest reeks like it's rotting alive? "

          Her gaze flicked sideways, flat and merciless. " That's exactly why. You keep your eyes locked on the obvious—the stench, the noise, your own panic—and you'll never notice the arrow aimed between your ribs. The forest hides everything: prey, predator, death. Train your sight here, in chaos, and you'll stop being the hunted. "

          I forced my eyes wider, blinking against the sting until the world steadied. The bird darted left, then right, slipping through the leaves like it was mocking me. My thighs throbbed from the saddle, every breath pressing the corset-wrap deeper into my ribs, but I clung to its flicker of wings.

          Misty leapt lightly onto the pommel, her paws silent, her weight a small anchor. Golden eyes sharpened on the same speck, unblinking, predatory. Her tail snapped once, precise as punctuation, and then—softly, smugly—she purred. The sound rose and fell like birdsong, an uncanny mimicry that made the forest hush for a heartbeat, as though even the trees turned to listen.

          " She's better than you. " Malou muttered, already scanning the treeline. " And she doesn't even try. "

          " Fuck you! " I hissed, mouth twitching despite myself.

          Her laugh was dark and gone in a breath. " Thrush, " she said, chin pointing. " Above the split branch. "

          I was ready to argue that all birds looked the same when the air split. Whosh. The ground shivered. An axe had bitten the earth at my boot, haft trembling like a struck arrow.

          My blood iced.

          Malou didn't flinch. She bent, wrenched the axe free as if it weighed nothing, and flung it aside with an Illyrian curse that scorched my ears. " On guard. Now. "

          The forest's porch yawned ahead, trees arched like ribs, and beyond it, chaos.

          Roots as thick as serpents writhed up from the churned soil, coiling around armored legs and dragging bodies screaming into the earth. Bark split open, bleeding sap in long amber tears. Branches lashed like whips, splintering against iron shields. The trees were alive. Vast, monstrous, their crowns thrashing like a hundred arms. Each bough wielded its own crude weapon—splintered clubs, jagged shards of wood, stones torn from the ground. Their trunks heaved on root-legs thick and gnarled, dragging themselves forward with the weight of giants.

          Most bore no eyes—only gaping maws in hollow knots, filled with stumps of jagged wooden teeth. Their shrieks split the air, high and raw, like forests groaning under stormwinds—piercing,  scraping straight through my eardrums.

          The enemy was shorter than I'd imagined—broad, squat bodies built like stone walls, their faces half-buried beneath braided beards crusted with soot and dirt. Helmets of hammered bronze caught the dim light, horns and tusk-bone charms clattering with every movement. Their axes swung heavy and sure, biting into wood with brutal precision, spraying splinters that glittered like shrapnel.

          Their war cries rang out like anvils struck, sharp and deafening, iron against iron. And their skin was dark as midnight, veins raised and gleaming beneath it, pulsing with molten light, gold flowing through them like living ore.

          The air was a furnace of resin and sweat. The ground thrummed with the forest's pain.

          Malou's stallion reared, hooves throwing sparks. Aeria danced sideways under me, ears flattened. Misty's hiss carved a line through the noise, yellow eyes bright and knowing.

          " Stay back! " Malou snapped, hand finding the knife at her belt. Her gaze cut the melee to pieces, weighing. " We've stumbled into a gods-damned feud. "

          I couldn't look away. A village hunched behind the dvergars: stone houses gouged into the hillside, chimneys belching smoke, iron-banded doors. Windows like narrowed eyes, the place itself glowering at us.

          " Do we fight with them? "

          " Depends. " Malou said, spitting into the dirt. " On whether they hate us more than the trees. "

          A root lashed, snared a dwarf's waist, yanked him off his feet. He hacked and howled in a language I didn't know; the forest wailed back like a wounded beast.

          The world held its breath as Malou turned, voice low and dangerous. " Mount up. We're leaving. "

          Axes shrieked, trees screamed, sap and blood soaked the same soil. Smoke and resin burned my nose.

          " We have to stop them, " I blurted, tightening my grip as Aeria stamped. " They'll kill each other. "

          " And that's our problem because...? " Malou didn't even glance at me. She sat rigid on the grass, her gaze fixed on the melee. Her voice cut across the chaos—impatient at my stupidity.

          " Look at them! " A dented helm spun across the ground, clanging to a stop. A root smashed down where its wearer's head had been. " If we do nothing, it spreads. One side wins, the other burns-or both die. There has to be another way. "

           " Another way, " she echoed, bone-dry. " You sound like a priest blessing bread he's never had to beg for. Sometimes there isn't. "

          Heat surged up my throat. " So we ride on and pretend? "

          Her jaw flexed. Shadows of old battles flickered in her eyes. She leaned close. " Listen, Vythra. The second you believe you can save everyone, you're already dead. "

          " I don't care. " I snapped, though my voice trembled, betraying me. " If I can save even one, it's worth it. "

          For a heartbeat, Malou just stared—her face a mask of iron, unreadable. Then she spat a vicious Illyrian curse, the kind that cracked like lightning in the air. " Get back here! "

          I ran before thought could catch me, boots slamming into the ground. Pain shot up my calves, my thighs trembling under the weight, but I lurched forward anyway, plunging toward the clash. My back lit with sharp thunderbolts that ripped down my legs, every step a punishment.

          The meadow had erupted into hell.

          Roots ripped the earth like serpents, cracking stones, snapping logs. Axes and daggers hammered bark; the clang rang like iron bells. Resin smoked; gold blood steamed. Screams and groans and poison curses tangled in the air.

          " Thieves! " the dwarves roared, thick arms slick with sweat, faces black and hidden behind their armor. " You suck gold from the marrow and call it yours! "

          The trees thundered back, voices groaning through hollow trunks. " Murderers! You carve us open for greed and laugh as we bleed! "

          I screamed myself hoarse. " Stop! You'll kill each other! " My words shredded and vanished. I looked pathetic.

          An axe spun toward me.

          Malou was already moving. She wasn't where I left her anymore, she'd flown. Her fist caught my collar and yanked; the blade thudded into the mud where I'd been. She shoved me behind her, chest heaving.

          She had no sword. Only Rose's knife-worn hilt, dull blade-that in Malou's hand became a promise. Roots lunged. She didn't hesitate. The knife punched into one and sap burst across her forearm in a hot golden spray. Another root whipped; it clipped her hip and she rotated with it, dragging me down into the muck.

          " Stay down, Stumbles! " Sweat glued black hair to her brow. She pivoted low, cutting in tight, efficient arcs. A dwarf lunged, axe high. She met him with a snarl. The blade kissed his forearm, shallow, but enough to make him stumble. Enough to say she'd gut him if he asked for it. 

          Malou was a storm given flesh. She spun, fists and feet colliding with roots and dwarf axes alike, each strike so precise it looked like she'd measured the air before moving. When a tree caught her in its many-armed grasp and lifted her clear off the ground, she twisted like a hawk breaking free, tearing through a thick branch with her bare hands. The snap cracked like a thunderclap. She hit the earth hard enough to rattle the bones of the village, leaving a crater in the dirt where she landed. Dust spiraled upward in a choking cloud.

          She was holding back—I could see it, feel it in the restraint of her movements. She could have torn them apart, snapped their necks, split bark from trunk. But she fought on the knife's edge, feral yet contained, ferocity leashed by something I couldn't name.

          And still—terror rose sharp in my chest. She could crush me without effort during training. Split me in two like one of those roots. Watching her unchained strength made my skin crawl with awe and dread both.

          Then, through the chaos, my eyes caught the true heart of it all. The source of their rage. The cause.

          A storehouse. Half-hidden by the battlefield's frenzy. Its wide doors gaped, the dim glow of piled treasure spilling out: veins of gold hacked raw from the earth, bars stacked high, coins heaped like offerings. Unwatched. Unprotected. All that fury for this.

          My body moved before Malou could see. I darted low, weaving through shouting dwarves and whipping roots. My ribs screamed, legs burning, but I made it to the edge of the storehouse. A torch hissed against the damp ground nearby—I seized it, flames licking hungry at the dark.

          Clambering up the side of the structure, I hauled myself onto the roof, heart pounding, torch raised high. The fighting slowed—just slightly—as a few heads turned.

          " Enough! " My voice cracked the air, raw and desperate. Dozens of eyes—burning gold, bark-dark, blood-shot—snapped to me. The torch spit sparks, hot wind stinging my face. I pointed it at the treasure below, my arm trembling but unyielding. " If you don't stop right now— " my throat burned, but I forced the words out violently—" I'll burn every ounce of this gold until it's molten and useless! "

          The torch shook in my grip, spitting sparks into the wind. My throat tore as I screamed, words ragged but ringing through the chaos: " Keep hacking and bleeding, and none of you walks away with gold or roots! You'll drown this meadow in your own filth, and it'll swallow you whole! "

          The meadow stilled. For a heartbeat, the battle froze. Even the trees bent slightly, their groans tapering into silence. The dwarves shifted uneasily, boots grinding against torn earth, hammers slack in their fists.

          Malou's spit hissed in the dirt. Her eyes, black fire, cut across them all, daring someone to move. Her body tense like a bow. She dropped the dwarf in her hands and let her fist low.

          And then—her gaze flicked to me. Something sharpened in her expression, so subtle I almost missed it. She froze. Not fear. Not contempt. Awe. Like for the first time she believed. She'd mocked me a hundred times for being soft, for stumbling. But now she looked at me as though the spark she'd been waiting for had finally lit. As though she wasn't just protecting me anymore—she was witnessing me. Or that thing in me that now tickled my ribs rising to glow inside my pupils.

          It lasted only a heartbeat. That ferocity in me. I could barely process it. But the others saw.

          A dwarven voice broke the silence, hoarse with unease. " A witch! "

          Another spat, knuckles white on his axe. " Cursed! "

          The trees groaned low, bark splitting in a sound like shifting bones. " She carries the earth in her breath. " 

          The dwarves muttered among themselves, their voices jagged with fear and anger. Some stepped back, eyes darting from me to their gold, to the torch that hissed so close to it.

          Malou's knife gleamed as she raised it higher, shoulders squared, her stance unyielding. " You heard her, " she snarled, her voice carrying her strength across the village. " One more swing, one more drop of blood—and the fire takes it all. "

          A hush fell over the clearing, deep and heavy, as if the forest itself leaned in to hear the choice. The meadow stilled, a graveyard waiting. A branch snapped behind me. I flinched. Misty.

          She stood atop a fallen trunk, small gray body arched, every hair lifted with static. Her eyes burned yellow in the firelight, too bright for any ordinary beast. She hissed. Not a barn-cat hiss. Deep, resonant, the kind that vibrated the roots and stones as if the spirits themselves spoke through her.

          The trees quieted. Branches twisted toward her, groaning like recognition. The dwarves froze, muttering sharp prayers, their axes trembling. " A spirit, " one breathed. " The beast is cursed. "

         " She's not cursed. She's a cat. And she's telling you what I've been screaming: you'll all die if you keep this up. You'll burn your forest, bury your dead, and leave nothing but bones. "

          " Lies! " a dwarf snarled through his beard, but his axe didn't rise.

          A tree rumbled from the shadows, voice like a low bell. " We do not wish to kill. We want our veins uncut. "

          " And we don't wish to starve! " Another dwarf spat, hands flexing, though the edge in his voice frayed.

          " Then listen. " Malou said, lowering the knife but not sheathing it. Sweat traced her jaw; her eyes could slice stone. " Vengeance has you blind. Mother doesn't give a damn if your bones rot here. She'll let you butcher each other until the crows burst. "

          Roots curled inward, dragging back from iron boots. Weapons dipped, uncertain, but lowering.

          Silence.

          My chest sawed; smoke and memory still rasped my throat. But the battle... paused.

          Misty hopped down and brushed my leg. 

          Malou's voice was raw as she yelled, " Someone here needs to stop swinging and start speaking. Or I'll swing for you! "

          Her knife glinted, catching the dim light, and gods help me—I believed her. I'd seen what she could do, the way her fists split roots like kindling, the way the earth itself cracked under her weight when she landed. That kind of power wasn't human. It wasn't even Illyrian. It was something unearthly, restrained only by her will.

          Every squat, stocky head whipped toward me. Beards bristled. Axes twitched. The nearest one, a barrel, chested brute with eyes like flint turned scarlet beneath his tangled hair.

          " Dwarves- " I started.

          " We are not dwarves! " someone roared, spittle flying. His dagger came up in a blur. " We are dvergars, you ignorant wretch! " 

          He lunged. 

          Malou's knife caught the haft of his dagger mid-swing, her other hand snapping out to slam against his chest. The impact cracked, sending him staggering back into his comrades. " Try that again. " Malou snarled, her voice low, dangerous, every syllable dragging. " And I'll make sure your beard's the only thing left to bury. "

          The dvergar coughed, doubled over, but still spat at the ground near her boots. " She insults us. Calls us dirtkin! "

          " I call you worse when you're not listening! " Malou shot back, knife still raised, her bronze skin gleaming. " And if your pride's so fragile that a word breaks it, maybe you're not worth the steel you carry. "

          The dvergars muttered among themselves, glaring at me, their eyes simmering with insult. But none of them moved. Not with Malou standing there, knife steady, her stance screaming that she'd take on all of them if she had to.

          The air throbbed with fury. Roots still writhed through the clearing, twisted like serpents around dvergar boots, while axes gleamed, slick with sap and blood. The trees groaned, a sound like old bones breaking, while the dvergars shouted, their voices sharp as struck anvils.

          One stepped forward, his chest heaving, his skin streaked with grime and veins of gold that glimmered faintly beneath it. His eyes burned like molten ore. " I am the dvergar's leader! The trees steal from us!"  He roared, jabbing a stubby finger toward the towering oaks. "Our fathers dug the mines, carved the stone, risked our blood! The veins are ours by right!"

          The dvergar leader was shorter than Malou by several heads, but his presence made him seem to fill the clearing. His frame was barrel-like—shoulders broad as quarried stone, arms knotted with muscle layered thick from years of swinging an axe. His skin, blackened with grime and soot, cracked in places where glowing veins of gold pulsed faintly beneath, like molten rivers trapped under rock.

          His beard was a wild, tangled mass streaked with gray, braided in thick cords bound with copper rings and gold charms that rattled when he moved. A battered bronze helm crowned his head, dented from battles long past, a jagged crack running across one side.

         His eyes the color of molten ore, burning with the fire of a forge. They gleamed with pride, rage, and desperation, twin furnaces that saw the forest not as sacred, but as something to conquer, to bleed for his people's survival. His voice rumbled like a smith's hammer striking an anvil.

          The ground trembled, and the nearest tree bent low, its bark splitting where amber sap wept like tears. Its voice creaked deep as the earth itself, vibrating in my chest. " I am the trees Father! Your greed bleeds us dry. The gold is not yours. It is ours, it runs through our roots as blood runs through your veins. You strip us bare, and for what? To fatten your coffers? To line your caves with glitter while our children wither? "

          The forest hissed around us, leaves trembling though no wind stirred. The dvergars shouted back in unison, stamping their boots. " We take what is owed! It fuels our forges! Without gold, our people starve! "

          A branch snapped down inches from my face, thick as a man's thigh, gouging the dirt. The scent of sap was sharp, metallic, like honey mixed with rot. My stomach twisted. If they kept on, one side would butcher the other before the sun set. 

          I dropped from the granary, landing hard enough to jolt through my knees. The torch smoldered in my grip, spitting sparks as I swung it low, close to the ground where the dry straw waited hungrily. Smoke licked up in sharp threads, the fire eager for air, for fuel. I raised it high so every eye could see—their gold piled behind me, glinting under the dim light like bait. My voice tore out raw, louder than the clash.

          " Enough! " I shouted again, stepping between them. Malou cursed behind me, but I didn't stop. " You're both right. And both wrong. " My voice cracked, but the silence that followed made it sound stronger than I felt.

          They glared at me, dozens of gold-veined eyes, countless knots of bark staring down. My hands trembled, but I forced the words out. " The gold... it belongs to the earth. To both of you. The trees cannot live without it. The dvergars cannot survive without it. But there must be balance. "

          " Balance?! " One dverg scoffed, his beard matted with sap. " What balance is there when they strangle us the moment we dig? "

          " What balance, " a tree groaned, " when their pickaxes scar our hearts? "

         I lifted my chin, even as sweat stung the scars on my back. " Take less. Only what you need. And for every ounce you carve out, plant a tree. One vein returned to the earth for every vein you cut. The gold will grow again in time, stronger. You'll have enough, and the forest will heal. "

          The clearing shivered with unease. The dvergars muttered, fists tightening on their weapons. One barked, " Plant trees? We are miners, not gardeners! "

          " Then learn. " I snapped, my voice raw, my throat burning. " Because if you don't, you'll have no forest left to feed your veins, no gold left to mine. You'll burn yourselves out. "

          A long silence stretched, thick as sap. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. Then one of the oldest trees stirred, its massive trunk groaning like a mountain shifting. It bent low, shadows spilling across the clearing, and when the bark split, veins of molten gold glimmered deep within—like marrow laid bare.

          Its voice rolled out of the fissures, slow and thunder-deep, the kind of sound that vibrated in bone more than ear. " She speaks truth." the Father rumbled, every word a weight. " The veins return when the balance is kept. We will allow it—if they swear. " He said, leaves trembling with each syllable. Older. Thicker. Its crown spread wide, heavy with dense, dark foliage, as though it carried centuries of knowledge on its branches. 

          The dvergars grumbled louder, stamping, until the golden-veined leader barked at them. His gaze flicked to me, suspicious. " And if we refuse? "

          Malou shifted at my side, knife glinting, voice low and dark. " Then you'll keep spilling each other's blood until none of you remain. There will be no gold to take and feed your greed and no tress to make gold. "

          The forest held its breath. At last, the dverg leader measured our words. " Fine. We will try this... balance. But if it fails, blood will pay the debt. "

          The trees groaned, branches shaking, and the golden sap pulsed once in their veins, like a heartbeat of agreement. The village was still scarred when the fighting ended, smoke curling from shattered huts, the ground torn where roots had ripped through stone and fire had blackened the dvergars' forges. But instead of blades raised, hands now worked.

          The tree Father and the dvergar leader shook their hands, sealing the deal and in that very space, a flower, white and pure, bloomed from the ground beneath them. A promise.

          Malou stripped off her outer tunic, her arms gleaming bronze in the dimming light, and set to lifting beams as if they were mere sticks. Her knife flashed, cutting away twisted ropes, freeing collapsed walls. She moved like a lioness, but instead of destroying, she built, her strength turned to restoring what anger had torn down.

          I knelt among the wounded. The dvergars were sturdier than men, their golden-veined skin hard as rock, but blood still pulsed from gashes and bruises still blossomed dark. My hands shook as I pressed cloth against a young boy's split scalp, my medical skills immediately coming out to play. For the trees, I poured water into their wounds, cool against the scorched bark, whispering apologies as I touched sap-sticky fissures. My voice sounded foolish, but the groan of their branches quieted, as though they heard me.

          Then I saw her. A small dvergar woman, her frame thin, a child clinging to her skirts like he feared she'd vanish. Her veins glimmered faintly beneath her skin, but dimmer than the others— hollow and starved.

          Without thinking, I reached for my ear. The simple gold earrings I'd worn since my old world—worthless trinkets there, lifeblood here. They weren't much, not compared to the treasure these people mined and bled for. But when I pressed them into her palm, her eyes filled as though I had placed a crown there.

         Her husband bowed his head, deep and reverent, his beard brushing the dirt. " Treasure for treasure. " I murmured, my throat thick.

          The woman clutched the earrings to her chest, lips trembling, then slid them into her ears. They caught the firelight, gleaming bright among the plain gold the other dvergar women wore. The child hid his face in her skirts, but I saw how his shoulders loosened, how the hunger in his gaze softened.

          The man's voice rumbled low. " We do not forget debts. "

          The woman lifted her chin, her eyes glowing faintly with gold-threaded veins as she bowed so low it ached in my chest. " Should you fall, should your blood spill, call for us. The debt will be paid. "

          " No debt " I whispered, kneeling beside them. " Just take care of them, they belonged to my mother back home. "

          By nightfall, a great fire roared at the heart of the village. Dvergars sat shoulder to shoulder with the trees, who bent their branches low like massive benches. The smell of roasted roots and charred meat mingled with the sweetness of sap, earthy and strange. Misty prowled through the circle, tail high, dragging scraps of food from amused dverg hands. Some trees let her sharpen her claws on them, scratching one of their itch.

          Malou sat beside me, sharpening her knife with slow, methodical strokes. The fire lit the black ink along her arms. " Dvergars, " she said at last, nodding toward the group. " They were carved of stone, or so the story goes. Gold runs in their veins, binding them to the earth. Greedy bastards, but proud. They'll never admit weakness, not even on their deathbeds. "

          Her gaze flicked to the trees, whose branches swayed as if listening. " The forest folk are older still. They say the first roots drank from the Mother's tears, and that's why their sap gleams like firelight. They protect the veins because it is their blood. And like all old things, they remember every wound, every theft. " Her voice carried low, almost reverent, almost bitter. " Two races tied to the same lifeblood, fighting for scraps instead of sharing it. Typical. "

          I tucked her words into my chest like kindling. Around us, the fire burned, the voices softened. For the first time in a long time, I felt the faint warmth of something like peace.

          By dawn, the air smelled of damp ash and dew. We saddled the horses, ready to leave. The dverg leader came forward, his golden veins gleaming in the morning light. He carried a knife, short but heavy, forged black with streaks of gold through the blade. He pressed it into my hand.

         " Dverg steel, " he said. " It cuts through more than flesh. It can sever any binding-chain, curse, vow. Use it wisely. "

          Before I could reply, the Father tree leaned low, a single seed dropping into my palm. It glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. " Plant it where no life dares to enter. " The tree whispered, voice like earth shifting beneath mountains. " And life will rise. Where the soil is dead, it will heal. Where the land is barren, it will feed. "

          I stood there, holding both gifts in one hand, seed in the other, my chest tight. Malou only smirked, swinging into her saddle. " Don't drop them, Stumbles. One will save your skin. The other might save your soul. "

          The dvergars were still arguing in low voices when the trees stirred again, branches creaking as if groaning under centuries of weight. But then-something changed. Their trunks split open with soft, resonant cracks, bark unfurling like doors in slow motion. Light pulsed in their cores, not firelight, not sun, something older, something that hummed with the steady rhythm of the life itself.

          " Your road is long, " one of the trees whispered, voice deep as soil. " The sea waits to devour your time. But we can fold distance. We can send you where you need to be. "

          Malou stiffened at once. Her knife hand twitched. " I don't trust shortcuts. They usually mean you end up gutted halfway through. "

          I swallowed, staring at the hollow forming in the nearest tree, its body bending, limbs weaving together overhead into an arch. It wasn't just wood anymore; it looked like ribs of light and shadow woven into a living door. The air near it shivered, smelling faintly of pine resin, damp stone, and something metallic, like the taste of blood.

          " The trees never lie and never switch roads. They guard. " The leader of dvergars spoke, touching the tree that now was a portal.

          " And what's the catch? " Malou barked, her voice sharp, daring them to lie.

          " No catch, " the tree rumbled. " Only trust. And gratitude—for you, and for your silver-tongued human. "

          I stepped closer. " Trust is not something I have much left of. "

          The tree's branches rustled like laughter, though the sound was almost mournful. " And yet, here you stand. "

          The portal shimmered, edges rippling as though the air was water. I felt it pulling, gentle but inexorable, like a tide.  It reached for me—not cruelly, but with a patient inevitability, as if the forest itself had already decided.

          Malou turned to me, jaw clenched. " We can't both think of a place. You don't know where she is. If we end up between continents, we'll drown. "

          I swallowed, lifted my hand and placed it into hers. Her palm was calloused and harsh. " Then think for me. " I whispered.

          For a moment, Malou only stared, something unreadable flashing in her dark eyes. Then she gave a single curt nod. " Hold tight, Stumbles! Don't let go. "

          The world snapped back around me in a jolt, and for a heartbeat, I wasn't sure if I was still alive. My lungs seized, dragging in air that felt too sharp, too clean, as if my ribs had never learned how to hold breath again. My stomach lurched, twisting with the sensation of having been turned inside out, stretched and crumpled like parchment before being shoved back into my own skin. 

           The grass underfoot was wet, clinging to my boots and soaking through the seams, grounding me in its chill. The air here smelled different—mildew, a faint sweetness. My skin prickled with gooseflesh, every nerve still humming from the memory of that pull, that swallowing silence.

          Beside me, Malou rolled her shoulders hard. Her jaw worked tight, but her face betrayed little—just a flicker of distaste, like she'd bitten into something sour. Even she looked paler, her tattoos inked darker against her skin.

          I exhaled, ragged. The world here felt wrong, not dangerous exactly, but... thinned. As if a veil hung over everything. Even the crooked little house in front of us seemed draped in it. Its sagging roof leaned like broken bones, its chimney coughed wisps of cold air, its walls warped and bowing inward as if crushed by time. Forgotten. Abandoned. 

          " This? " My voice scraped out, raw from the passage. " This is where she is? "

          Malou's gaze sharpened, her lips curling in disdain. " Glamour. The real thing's hidden. " Her shoulders coiled taut as she stepped forward. The door sagged wider, hinges groaning like an old wound reopening.

          And then—she appeared. Sorscha.

          Her robe swept the threshold like spilled moonlight—white and lilac, the colors of prayer—soft where everything else around her was fractured and forgotten. But her face... saintly and ruined in the same breath. Her lips were sewn shut, thick black thread piercing pale flesh, sealing her into an eternal silence.

          My stomach twisted. I had seen burns, broken bones, bodies torn apart. But this—this stillness bound in thread—froze me from the inside out.

          Her mouth never moved. The answer came where no sound should: inside my skull.

          Not words. Presence. Heavy as a cathedral bell tolling in my bones. Too vast. Her eyes—violet-gray, fathomless—fastened on me. Not on Malou. Not on the trees. Me. The threads at her lips strained as if about to split, but no sound escaped. Only that voice reverberating inside me, undeniable.

          Her gaze held mine. And in my head, her voice cut like a blade through silence:

          " The forest whispered your name. "

𓆩✴𓆪

The Chapter is not edited.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

White-eyed thief

          By the fourth morning, my muscle soreness prevented me from doing most of my daily activities. Every dawn—before the first sliver of light kissed the hills veiling the cabin—Malou tore me from sleep. At first she ripped away my blankets, dragging me into the bite of cold air; when that failed, she resorted to wrenching Misty out of my arms, ignoring my curses as the cat yowled her protest.

          The cabin itself was a liar. Wrapped in glamour, it was survival dressed as comfort: warped beams sagging like broken bones, shutters hanging loose, stone steps crumbled to gravel. But when the veil wavered for us, the truth gaped through: walls of honey-stained wood, moss entangling at the eaves, smoke curling lazily from the crooked chimney. My room sat tucked under the sloped roof, little more than an attic with a draft. At night, the fire below smoldered faint and slow, yet the chill always crept in, slipping through the floorboards, gnawing into my marrow. Still, it was enough to rest.

          Malou never slowed. Not once. She ran like the wind itself answered to her, every stride fluid, every breath even. I lasted half the distance before my chest locked up, before my knees screamed, before the pounding in my skull blurred everything into white heat. Maybe my body hadn't healed. Maybe my heart hadn't either. Whatever the Heartbreak had carved into me, Malou believed it wasn't excuse enough to stop. 

          Each step rattled my spine, though the sharp nerve-fire had finally begun to fade. The bruises yellowed now, paling to ghost-shadows across my face. Only the three claw-marks on my cheek remained dark, raw—a brand of the creature that had thrown me into this world. A reminder that I'd left people burning in Thaibar for my own survival. Every night, I pressed my hand over my mouth to silence the sobs that clawed their way out. They'd died for me: Kallus, Niven, Cynthia.

          Somehow, I had to make it matter.

          So I rose earlier. Sometimes even before Malou. In my old world, mornings had meant coffee and the rush to lectures; here, it meant cold air, wet grass biting my ankles, and running until the horizon blurred. Each day I pushed farther—a few dozen steps, a few minutes longer.

          And when Malou was finished grinding me down, Sorscha took over.

          Her training was quieter, stranger. She never barked orders. She simply watched, kneeling on the cabin floor, her posture folded into impossible symmetry, body still as statue. Then, in my mind, her voice would unfurl: breathe lower, sink deeper, steady the tremor in your fingers. She pressed me into stretches that pulled every joint taut, spine twisting until my muscles hurt, arms extended like branches. She had me balance, then fold into crouches that mimicked roots digging into the earth.

          With her, it felt less like training and more like... unraveling. A dance I didn't know the steps to, yet my body stumbled toward anyway. I mirrored her, moving in tandem, each gesture deliberate, as if guiding me through motions older than language. It terrified me. The way her lilac gaze never blinked, as if she was peeling apart my thoughts; the way her words seeped straight into my skull, reverberating like echoes in a hollow cathedral. They always made me shiver—her voice carried that same haunting gravity as a church choir.

          Malou spun on her heel the instant I slowed, my ragged breaths breaking the rhythm of our run. Her hand clamped around my elbow, quick, pulling me forward as if stopping was a crime. I barely made it halfway before my lungs seized, fire licking the inside of my sternum.

          " Pathetic. " Malou barked, circling back. Our horses snorted in agreement, the sounded like laughter before they dipped their heads again, tearing at the grass. She hooked two fingers into my collar and yanked me upright. " If you collapse this fast, you'll never survive the first charge. "

          " No shit... " I gasped sarcasticly, feeling saliva building in my mouth and the urge to vomit. " An here I was thinking I'd manage a few blows too. " 

          " Good. " She said dryly. " You've got breath to waste on smartass remarks, which means you've got breath left to keep going. So quit whining and use it. " She shoved my shoulders back and pressed her palm flat against my stomach. " Breath anchors the body. You don't control this— " her hand pressed harder, " —you don't control anything. A Vespertus doesn't fight the world—she moves with it. "

          I almost rolled my eyes while she forced me into a crouch, one leg bent, the other stretched long, arms out swaying in the wind. Sweat poured down my back, but she kept me there, pushing through my muscle fever untill I didn't feel anything anymore.

          When I tipped sideways, she jabbed my ribs with that damn sage branch she'd apparently dragged all the way from Rosehall. The sting snapped me upright, air hissing through my teeth. " Again! " She ordered, voice flat. " Breathe. In through your nose, drag it all the way down to your gut—let it settle like stone. Out slow, steady. Don't let it leak out like you're dying on me. " She crouched low, her own stance unshakable, and rapped the branch once against my ankle. " Your toes are your roots. Flex them. Anchor them. "

          It took a dozen failed tries before my trembling legs finally steadied, my spine aligned, my heartbeat slipping into rhythm with the world around me. Suddenly everything sharpened—the low drone of bees threading the meadow, the rise and fall of distant village voices, the soft rustle of wings above. The air cooled in my lungs instead of clawing raw, and with it came the layered scents of earth and bloom: damp soil, crushed grass, daffodils swaying a few meters away—perfect for the kind of vial I'd been daydreaming of crafting. For the first time, I didn't feel like I was about to collapse. I wasn't just standing in the clearing. I was of it—woven into the hum of nature, vast and knowing.

          From the corner of my eye, I caught Malou watching. Her stance never shifted, arms crossed, one hip cocked, but her discolored eye lingered— appraising. A faint grunt left her, almost approval, though she buried it quick beneath her usual scowl. " There. " She muttered, reluctant. " Even corpses can learn. " Later she tilted my chin skyward, making me blink against the green light. " Eyes up, Stumbles! Spot it! "

          " What? " My voice rasped, still shaky from holding the stance.

          " The bird. " Malou's chin jerked toward the canopy. Her voice carried no room for argument, only challenge. " You tell me where it flies, and I'll put this dagger through her breast before she knows she's prey. Then we'll have dinner. "

          I squinted into the mottled green, blinking against the blur of leaves and light. " Dinner? You're serious? "

          " Dead serious! " She tapped the hilt of the knife against her thigh, the motion sharp, impatient. " Focus, or we're gnawing on stale bread again tonight. And I don't share my share. "

          My gut twisted, equal parts hunger and nerves. The trees whispered above, shadows shifting until—there. A flash of white wings darting between the branches, vanishing and reappearing like a ghost. My pulse hammered. Every time she threw something unexpected at me, my anxiety gnawed deeper in my stomach. That was why I needed balance—to put a leash on my feelings.

          Malou's eyes flicked sideways, already reading the tension on my face. Her new green shirt stretched across her shoulders as she extended her arm, the dagger glinting between her fingers.

          " Well? " She drawled, her voice daring me to falter. " Unless you're planning to starve, call it out. Right or wrong, you see. Don't wait for her wings to move. Think of the bird's next step before she makes it. "

          I squinted, searching the canopy until a white streak darted between the leaves. My focus slipped, just for a breath, but then I caught it again—small and quick.

          " Don't lose it! " Malou warned, the barest ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth. The knife spun once in her fingers, gleaming in the sunlight. " Where does it go? Where do you think it will land? "

          " Left— " I breathed, my pulse keeping pace with the flicker of wings. The bird darted again. " Now higher—branch above the split trunk. "

          So I tracked. Breath after breath, spine aching from staring up, but my eyes clung to that pale flash until I didn't slip anymore. The bird wasn't just moving; it had rhythm, a pattern. I felt it, as if the forest itself kept tempo. Misty leapt, her golden eyes narrowing, tail flicking once as though to mark the exact spot. She purred—a low, vibrating note that seemed to echo my own ragged focus.

          " She'll land on the branch above us. " I whispered, every muscle in me strung tight. " Wait... now! "

          Malou didn't so much as blink. Her wrist flicked, effortless, and the dagger hissed through the canopy. A single, sharp thud followed—steel sinking into feather and flesh. The bird crumpled mid-cry, tumbling dead onto the branch I'd guessed.

          The sound echoed down my spine. I had been right.

          " You're slow. " Malou said at last, voice flat but edged with something close to approval. " But not hopeless. A fae archer would've had you in the throat before you blinked. That's why I drill this into you. They see sharper. They hear farther. You... " her gaze ran through the green meadow, " ...you survive by learning the step before they take it. "

          " Slow, because you're chained to ghosts. " Sorscha's voice unfurled in my skull, her soft chuckle followed.

          I flinched, gaze darting wild until it caught her—body folded into meditation, white and lilac robes pooling like spilled light across the grass. She had pulled back the monk's hood, letting her long silver hair catch the sun, braided simply and draped down to her waist. Her sewn lips didn't move, but her violet-gray eyes gleamed as though amused by our fumbling.

          " You drag Thaibar's ash into every breath. " Her voice pressed on, leaving behind the feeling of violation in my head. " You clutch your old world like a shield. Until you release it, your balance will always break beneath you. "

          I turned fully to face her, forcing myself to look, to grow accustomed to her presence. Shame coiled in my gut—because what unsettled me most was not her silence, but my own fear of it. She moved with a stillness too precise to be human, every gesture deliberate, every shift in her body slow as a tide. And when her eyes locked on mine, it was like being pinned beneath centuries—violet depths that saw too far. Hypnotic. Unnerving. A weight I could not shake.

          " Rid yourself of that charge. " she pressed, almost giving me a headache. " The body cannot hold peace if the mind is still in battle. "

          Malou shot her a sideways glance but didn't argue. She only muttered, " For once, the nun's not wrong. "

          Sorscha's gaze flicked toward her, a cool flash of warning. With the barest twitch of her wrist, threads of lilac lightning sparked in the air, coiling until they shaped themselves into a delicate bee. It buzzed once—sweet, deceptive—before darting straight into Malou's shoulder. A crackle, a sting, the smell of scorched fabric.

          " Ouch! " Malou yelped, jerking back as smoke curled faintly from her shirt.

          " I'm never wrong. " Sorscha's voice unfurled inside our skulls.

          " Can you read my mind? " I asked silently, pushing the thought in her direction.

          " No. I'm no daemati. " she replied, her voice curling between my eardrums. " But I could, if you let me close enough. Mental shields mean nothing against my kind of magic. Still, out of respect for myself—and for my kind—I don't violate minds. I don't take what isn't freely given. So no, I don't pry. I speak through the same channel prayers take when they rise to the skies... and to the Mother. "

          Hand-to-hand combat came next. Malou squared herself before me, feet rooted, hands loose at her sides. " Listen. Fighting isn't flailing until one of you collapses. It's a chain of choices. You block, you redirect, you strike. You search for the weak point—the tell he gives before the blow lands. Watch the tilt of his head, which leg he drags first, which side he shields most. "

          She lunged, her fist slicing toward my temple, only to slow at the last instant, showing me the path. " See? If you stay put, you're finished. We'll start simple. "

           We repeated it again and again, until my arms shook and the linen clung damp against my ribs. My loose clothes plastered to my back, my soles aching from the gravel biting beneath them. Every motion was stripped of flourish: a twist here, a shift there, all function, no ornament.

           With patience I never expected from Malou, she lifted my arms higher, straightened my fists, tipped me onto my toes to test my balance. Malou adjusted her stance, bare feet planted firm in the grass. " Fists up. Guard your face. Your hands are your shield. " She jabbed quick, sharp, the motion cutting through the air. " Small, precise. Don't swing like you're trying to chop wood. Hit like you mean to break bone. "

           I mirrored her, clumsy, my wrists aching as I copied the motion. She circled me, then tapped the side of my knee with her foot. " Bend here. Keep your balance low. Think less like a noble, more like a street fighter. You don't win by looking pretty—you win by lasting longer. "

          Sweat stung my eyes. I ducked beneath her mock punch and managed to throw one back, but it missed her entirely.

          Her smirk faltered, though, when I asked, " Do you... do you remember Aoife? "

           For once, Malou's fists stilled. Her scarred brow furrowed, that white eye narrowing slightly. " Yes. "

          I nodded, muscles taut, the two of us circling still in that poised stance, waiting for the strike. My gaze tracked every flicker of Malou's movement, desperate to keep up. " Eris saved her from Draegan. Put her on her uncle's ship. "

          Eris. His name ran deep inside me, making me feel the absence of something I never imagined. I prayed he'd gotten away, that he wasn't tangled in this chaos—or worse, accused of the fire itself. Beron would gut him for treachery, would skin him alive if he thought Eris had stepped even a breath outside his command.

          I closed my eyes for half a heartbeat, just long enough to summon his face—the sly curve of his mouth, the flicker of firelight in his eyes, the quiet promise he'd made: we'll meet again.

          The memory cost me. Malou's palm cracked against my cheek, sharp enough to make my teeth shake behind my lips. I hissed a curse, the world snapping back into focus.

          She looked away, her knuckles cracking as she tightened her fists. " We thought you were dead, " she admitted, her voice low, " That you didn't get through the Passing phase. Blondie begged me to do something. Anything. So we gave you what we could. "

          " What do you mean? " The words scraped from my throat, my stance faltering for a breath as I studied them both.

          Malou shook her head, the motion sharp, her ponytail whipping against her cheek. Meanwhile, Sorscha remained still, like a holy statue, her silence steeped in the shadows of the trees.

           " We tied strands of our hair together with a white one of yours, burned them into a knot of magic. Gave you a few days from our lives. Just enough to push you through. " Her throat worked, but she pressed on. " It nearly broke Aoife. She would've given it all, if I'd let her. "

          I staggered back a step, air caught in my chest. My fists, still raised, trembled. " Did she make it through? "

          Malou nodded. " We buried you in our hearts that night. Your cat included. And seeing you standing here, whining about bruises... " Her smirk returned, but hollow.  Malou didn't spare another second—she struck again, dragging me back into motion, not giving me space to remember Aoife.

          But I missed her all the same. The ache sat deep in my chest, heavier than any other memory—heavier because she was still alive, yet lost to me. And here, there were no cellphones to bridge the distance, no quick call to ask if she was safe. Aoife had been the steady one. The arms that gathered me and Niven close when the world turned cruel. She was—she was home. And that home no longer existed.

          I repeated the motions slow, deliberate: block, shift, twist, strike. " Break the nose—stuns them. Hit the throat—takes their breath. Kick behind the knee—drops them. You don't kill unless you must. You disable. "

          When she shoved me to mimic the stance, I stumbled through it, fists swinging wide, footwork sloppy. She rolled her eyes. " Again. Smaller steps. Tighten your core. "

          She reminded me of Chloe Ting, all lean strength and unforgiving core muscles: tighten your core, tighten your core. Safe to say I never managed to do that home, either. The memory nearly dragged a snort out of me—the burn of Chloe's workouts was nothing compared to the torment Malou put me through. I tried again. This time my fist sliced the air with a sharp snap, my chest rising as if the movement had finally clicked. For the first time, I could almost feel the shape of it—the logic settling into my body, piece by piece.

          Then—out of the corner of my eye—movement. Something gliding between the trees, too fluid, too quiet. My gut clenched before my mind caught up, before my gaze truly landed. A figure stepped inside the shadows of the trees, watching us. Slender. Familiar.

          Niven. The blood still ran slick down her skin, dark, the gash where I had stabbed her yawning open. Flesh that should have sealed only gaped wider, glistening, each slow drip pattering against the earth like a clock ticking toward doom.

          Malou towered over me, scowling. But her gaze had already shifted, sharp toward the treeline. I followed her stare with trembling eyes—yet the space between the trees was empty. No figure. No blood. Nothing.

          My chest heaved, each inhale scraping raw. " Didn't you see— " The words tore out strangled, caught between hunger for air and the panic still buzzing in my bones.

          Misty darted to my side as if summoned by the tremor in my voice. She froze, ears flattened, gaze locked in the same direction mine had been. A hiss ripped from her throat, sharp as tearing cloth, then another—short, broken, almost human in its outrage. Her back arched high, every hair on her gray fur bristling, her tail puffed into a furious plume. She spat at the empty air, claws kneading the ground as though she could shred what I alone had seen.

          It wasn't just me. She'd seen it too—or at least felt it. The phantom I'd chased wasn't all in my head.

          Malou's brows knitted, anger fading to confusion. " See what? You tripped over your own damn feet. "

          The image of Niven clung to me like paint that wouldn't wash out, her throat still gaping, the phantom slickness of her blood staining my hands. For a breath I almost reached out, as if I could steady myself on something that wasn't there.

           Sorscha had not moved. She sat folded in meditation, fingers laced loosely over her knees. Yet her eyes—fathomless—fastened on me as if peeling back layers I hadn't known I carried. The weight of that gaze pressed heavier than Malou's barked orders, so steady and relentless it prickled against my skin.

          At last her voice brushed through my skull, calm and melodic, resonant as a bell toll: " You are unsettled. Shadows cling to you. I cannot see them, but I feel the tremor they leave behind. "

          My breath hitched. I could almost hear Niven calling me, though it was only memory, only grief clawing open.

          " You should go. " Sorscha added, her gaze unreadable. " Your shift begins in half an hour, and Zelma is waiting. " She lingered on me a heartbeat longer, like she wanted to peel back my chest and look at the ghosts inside, then let her eyes slide closed again. Her stillness returned, so absolute it made the world itself seem restless.

          Malou dropped into the meadow grass with all the grace of a collapsing fortress, a grunt rattling out of her chest as she sprawled wide. She stretched her long legs until her feet nearly brushed the daisies, then rolled her shoulders with exaggerated cracks, as if she'd just carried the weight of every battlefield known to this world.

          Her shirt clung damp with sweat, darkened at the seams, the once-green fabric now streaked with dust and grass stains. Stray curls of black hair clung to her temple, plastered down in the most un-warrior-like way. She looked half-ravished by the morning's training—yet she still smirked like she owned the meadow.

          " Good, " She drawled, plucking a blade of grass and sticking it between her teeth like a farmer's straw. " Maybe you'll learn to carry a tray before you can carry a sword. " She tilted her head back, squinting at the sun, then added with mock solemnity, " And while you're at it, bring something from their kitchen. I'm starving, and unless Zelma starts paying us in roast chicken, we've got no coin left. "

          Her laugh barked out sharp, carrying across the meadow, until she noticed Sorscha's lips twitch—just barely, the faintest shadow of a smile breaking through her serenity. That only made Malou laugh harder, loud and unrepentant, like she'd cracked the saint herself.

          By the time I left the meadow, my body still hummed from Malou's drills and Sorscha's words throbbed like a bruise in the back of my head. I wrapped a scarf tightly around my head, tucking away every strand of red like instinct—like the reflex Thaibar had beaten into me. Red hair drew eyes, and eyes drew trouble. Better to hide, better to blend.

          The rest of me was just as plain: a long brown dress that brushed my ankles, a loose shirt in the same earthen shade, the kind of clothes that clung when I sweated and smelled faintly of dust no matter how often they were washed. It was easier that way—muted, unremarkable. When I reached the inn, I tied on a white apron at the door, already smudged with yesterday's grease.

           Zelma was waiting, as always. She was nearly fifty, though age had carved her in elegance rather than ruin. Her black hair, streaked faintly at the temples, was pulled back in a bun, but the stray wisps framed her face in a way that softened the angles. Green eyes watched everything—the door, the patrons, me—with a sharpness that never dulled, though they carried warmth too, the kind that made you want to sit near her fire and listen to her talk about the weather just to hear her voice. Fine wrinkles fanned from the corners of her eyes, not cruel lines but ones etched by years of laughter and squinting at a world that kept demanding more of her.

          Her cat, a round-bellied tabby with amber eyes, padded lazily across the counter, curling into a spot by the hearth as if it, too, owned the place. Zelma scratched it absentmindedly while stirring a pot, never breaking eye contact with me as I tied the apron tighter.

          " On time! " she said simply. And that was enough.

          The image clung to me: Zelma bent over the iron pot, stirring in slow, counterclockwise arcs that felt too precise to be habit. Every so often, her lips shifted—whispering words I couldn't catch, like fragments of a spell she would never confess to knowing. It made the air in the kitchen prickle, as though the very steam obeyed her rhythm.

          " Good evening, Zelma! " I chirped, smiling and immediately picking up my tray.

          The inn was little more than a broad timber house perched at the crossroads, its roof sagging beneath time. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the smell of stewed roots and baked rye. A wooden sign creaked on iron hooks above the door, the paint so weather-worn the name was unreadable. It sat perfectly placed: close enough to the village paths that shepherds and traders stumbled in at dusk, close enough to the next towns that wandering fae could stop for a cup of bitter ale and a bed.

          Inside, warmth hit like a blanket—spiced broth, woodsmoke, sweat. Benches crowded with farmers and travelers. A hearth as big as a wagon wheel roared at the back wall, its light painting everything amber.

          Me and Zelma got along quickly. Something in her bluntness steadied me, reminded me of kitchens back in my old life, of hands scrubbing, of voices calling, of routine. I worked hard—faster than I thought I could—carrying trays, scrubbing pots, hauling buckets from the pump out back. The ache in my muscles was almost welcome. It felt normal.

           One evening, while I scoured a stack of chipped plates, she leaned against the counter, drying her hands.

          " You work like you've done this before. " she said, her voice curious.

          I shrugged, keeping my hands busy in the suds. " I had sisters. We all worked. " A pause. " They're... elsewhere now. " My chest ached around the lie, around the memory.

          Zelma nodded slowly, her gaze turning distant. " I have a daughter. She's in the eastern marshes, near the stone bridges of Scythia. " Her lips pressed together. " It's too far to travel, and I can't leave this place alone. "

          The marshes. She described them with almost reverence—the flat waters broken by black reeds, stone bridges slick with moss, cottages on stilts that looked like they floated when the fog rolled in. " She says the air there smells of salt and ironweed," Zelma murmured, " and the frogs sing all night. "

          When she reached for a cloth to wipe the counter, I noticed the pendant swinging from her neck. A disk of polished silver, etched with curling lines that almost resembled roots. At its center lay a shard of ruby crystal, glowing faintly. 

          Zelma caught me looking and smiled faintly, tucking the pendant back into her blouse. " Family heirloom. " She said, her tone too light to be casual.

         I only nodded, but the image of it burned in my mind long after.

         The inn quieted after the rush, only the scrape of spoons and low murmurs left. I scrubbed the last of the trenchers, my sleeves damp to the elbows, when Zelma set herself by the hearth. She stirred the pot—counterclockwise. Always counterclockwise. My gaze snagged on the motion, on how her lips moved faintly, as if she whispered words into the steam.

          The ache began as a faint throb at the base of my skull, no more than a shadow at first. It grew the longer I watched Zelma move about the inn, her hand drifting every so often to her temple as if brushing at something only she could feel. The rhythm crawled beneath my skin until I knew—this wasn't mine. The pain didn't belong to me.

          Zelma's cat, plump and spoiled by the hearth, lifted its head then. Amber eyes glowed in the firelight, as if it had been waiting for me to notice.

          The pantry smelled of dust and dry earth, shelves sagging with unmarked jars that whispered secrets to my fingers—willow bark brittle as parchment, feverfew sharp and bitter, valerian roots shriveled like old bones. Outside, the garden shimmered under the moon: chamomile nodding heavy with fragrance, mint slicing the air with its edge, yarrow stars clustered low to the soil.

           I plucked what I knew—what The Countess had taught me, what instinct tugged from somewhere older still. By the time I returned, a small bundle cradled in my hands, Zelma was waiting at the counter, arms folded, her pendant glinting faintly.

          I laid the herbs out, ground them together in her mortar until the air thickened with their bitter perfume, then poured boiling water from the hearth. Steam curled upward, sharp and clean, carrying the promise of release. I handed her the glass, warmth seeping into my fingers.

          " You've got sharp eyes. " Zelma said at last, not looking at the brew but at me.

          I froze, then let a smile tug at my lips. " Do I? "

          Her gaze didn't waver. " Sharp enough to notice what others miss. Sharp enough to feel this ache I've been dragging for three days. " She touched her temple, the wince small but true. " Nothing I make will shake it. "

          She sipped, slow, never breaking eye contact. The lines around her mouth eased as she swallowed, and then—finally—Zelma smiled.

          The inn was thinning out when Malou finally strode in. The last of the farmers had slouched home, leaving only a handful of tired faces bent over mugs. Smoke from the hearth hung low, tangled with the sour reek of a busy day. Zelma had dimmed the lamps, their glow turning the beams orange and shadowing the corners.

           Malou rushed to sit in the first chair she saw. Her dark shirt was torn at the sleeve, smeared with something that wasn't entirely dirt, and her boots dripped mud onto the rushes. In one hand, she twirled a crust of bread she must've snatched from the counter; in the other, she gripped a hunk of smoked meat like it had offended her. She bit into it viciously, jaw flexing as if she was punishing the food more than eating it.

          I froze, rag limp in my hand. Something about her was wrong. The air around Malou crackled—like she'd just walked in from trouble she wasn't ready to name.

           " You're late. " I snapped, setting a mug of water down with a thud.

          Her only answer was a grunt. She sprawled into the chair, boots propped on the bench opposite, tearing at the meat with her teeth. Grease slicked her fingers, and she licked them clean without shame.

          When I didn't move, her gaze flicked up, dark and cutting. " What? Never seen a starving woman eat like royalty? "

          I narrowed my eyes. " You reek of more than sweat. "

          Her smirk slanted sharp. " Good nose. Bad manners. " She tipped the mug of ale back and drained it in one long swallow, then belched loud enough to make the tabby by the hearth startle.

          I leaned closer, voice dropping. " Where were you? "

          Malou wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smirk tugging as if she'd been waiting for that question. " Out shopping, " she said dryly. " Didn't find silk dresses or sugared fruit, so I settled for a brawl and someone else's coin purse. " She tore another strip of meat with her teeth, chewing slow, eyes gleaming with something I couldn't name. " Trust me, Stumbles, you wouldn't have liked the market today. "

          " You stole from someone? " My words snapped out sharper than I intended, the rag twisting tight in my fist.

          Malou only smirked, but before I could press her, the inn's door slammed open so hard it rattled the iron hinges.

          A gust of cold rushed in, carrying the smell of rain, snuffing the warmth from the hearth. The lamplight flickered, shadows dancing up on the walls as three fae lurched inside. Their cloaks hung crooked, faces pale beneath the grime of travel, panic sparking in their wild eyes. The handful of patrons froze mid-sip, tankards halfway to mouths, forks hovering above plates. A murmur rippled through the room—low, urgent, like the hiss of snakes in dry grass.

          " Don't slam the damn door, you idiots! " Zelma barked from behind the counter, her ladle still in hand like it was as good a weapon as any. The round-bellied tabby at her feet jolted, fur puffing, before curling back with a hiss as if it, too, had been disturbed.

          But the fae didn't heed her. Their eyes stayed locked on Malou—her white scarred eye, her half-crooked smirk. She tore another strip of meat with her teeth, deliberately slow, like she hadn't a care in the world. Then she leaned back in her chair, boots still kicked up, and raised her mug in mock salute. The color drained from his face as though he'd seen death itself sitting there, calm, chewing slowly.

          " She's here. " one of the fae rasped, clutching his arm. Blood leaked between his fingers, dripping dark trails onto the floorboards. His chest heaved as though he'd sprinted half the night. " The thief—the bitch with the white eye— ".

          " Well... " Zelma drawled, dragging her palms down her face like a woman resigned to routine disasters. Her ladle clanged back into the pot with a hollow thud. " Seems dinner's about to get interesting. "

          Malou didn't so much as twitch. She tore another strip of meat with her teeth, chewing slow, her one pale eye gleaming in the firelight. The scar slashing across her face caught the glow, carving her into something half-beast.

          " That's her! " One of the fae barked, finger stabbing toward her like an accusation. Chairs screeched against the floor as patrons shoved back, desperate to clear the path of whatever storm was about to break.

          The rag slipped from my hand, forgotten, my pulse hammering in my throat. For fuck's sake...

          Malou laid the meat down with eerie precision, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and rose. She moved with the unhurried grace of a predator—no rush, no stumble, just a steady sense of danger.

          Her smile was thin, all teeth. " Well, " she murmured, voice low enough to force us all closer to hear. " You found me. "

          The fae leader's throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darting to his companions before locking back on her. " You'll pay for what you stole. "

          Malou tilted her head, smirk sharpening. " Try..  "

          Malou was already moving. She struck like a hawk diving—chair shoved aside, fist driving into the leader's jaw. He went sprawling into a table, mugs toppling, ale splattering across the floor. His friends lunged, blades scraping free, but Malou met them head-on, breaking someone's nose with her forehead.

          One ducked her swing, only for her knee to smash up into his gut. He folded, wheezing, and she spun, knife flashing from her belt. The third came at her with a broken bottle, jagged glass aimed for her throat.

          I didn't think. Couldn't. One second I was frozen, the next I was moving. He circled behind her, plate raised high, ready to smash it across her skull. I launched forward, scarf already in my hands. With a scream I leapt onto his back, looping the fabric tight across his throat. He staggered, clawing at me, but I held on, teeth gritted, arms burning as he thrashed. His plate clattered to the floor, useless.

          Malou spared me a glance—just the briefest flash of her white eye—before ducking another swing and slamming her elbow into her attacker's temple. The tavern roared with chaos. Chairs overturned, patrons pressed against the walls. Misty arched and hissed from the counter, tail puffed twice her size.

          And then—everything stopped.

          It was so subtle, I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching Zelma. She'd barely moved from behind the counter, only her spoon still stirring slow in the pot. Her other hand—slight, lined with veins—had drawn a single circle over the wood. The air shifted, cool and heavy, like a door closing on the world.

          The fae's eyes glazed. Their fury faltered mid-swing, their grips on weapons loosening until steel clanged harmless to the floor. The one under my scarf slumped, dazed, and I dropped back gasping as he crumpled onto his knees.

          " Better. " Her voice carried, calm and certain. It threaded through the tavern like velvet, commanding without raising itself. " You came in shouting, bleeding, demanding justice. " She stirred once more, and the faint smell of soup rose. " But this is not the place for blood. Get out! "

          The fae blinked slowly, as though waking from a heavy dream. Confusion muddled their faces, but their anger was gone, hollowed out like ash after fire.

          " And you two, go home. " Zelma said simply towards me and Malou. " Sleep. Clear your minds. "

          And we obeyed. Just like that—like puppets cut from their strings. Stumbling, dazed, out into the night without another word.

          The silence left behind was deafening. Malou's chest heaved, her jaw locked, her knife still clenched as though the fight hadn't truly ended. My palms were slick; I wiped them against my skirt, heart still thundering in my ribs. Behind us, Zelma didn't so much as glance up—her spoon slipped back into its slow, steady circle, the pot bubbling as if nothing had happened at all.

         Outside, the night pressed close, heavy as a sodden cloak. The forest exhaled damp and icy, a breath that made me shiver. I tasted the faint metallic tang of old rain, still hanging in the air like an echo. Misty padded ahead, tail lashing, ears flicking at every snap of a twig. Malou strode at my side, shoulders squared, stride sharp, every line of her body bristling with unspent violence.

          " Why? " The word ripped out of me, shattering the hush. My voice was raw, still ragged from adrenaline. " Why the fuck do you keep doing this? Stealing, fighting—isn't the money I bring enough? "

          Her head snapped toward me. The scar split white across her face as her one pale eye caught the moonlight. Fury tightened her features into something almost feral. " Because some of us don't sit around washing mugs and stirring herbs. Some of us actually fight for what's ours. "

          My fists curled tight, nails biting my palms. " You nearly got us killed back there. "

          " No. " She snarled. " You nearly got us killed. Jumping between the dverg and the tree folk— "

          I cut her off, my laugh low, bitter. " Funny, for someone who keeps picking fights, you're real quick to blame the one trying to stop them. "

          " Stop them? " Malou scoffed, the sound humorless. " You call standing in the middle of a blood feud with your hands in the air stopping? You're lucky they didn't tear you apart just for breathing. "

          " At least I tried. " I snapped. " Better than skulking in alleys and lifting coin from drunks. "

          Her white eye flashed. " Those 'drunks' were fae, and they deserved worse. "

          " Aren't you fae as well? Sorscha? " I shot back.

          Malou's mouth twisted, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. " I was Valkyrie, once. Fae by blood, sure. But don't you dare put me in the same breath as those pigs spilling wine down their beards and calling it nobility. " Her hand twitched, as if itching for a hilt that wasn't there. " Sorscha's more than fae. She's what the rest of them pretend to be—devoted, disciplined, untouchable. The rest? They're carrion birds dressed in silk. "

          " And what about tonight? " My voice rose, carrying into the trees. " You almost got the entire inn burned down. For what? Gold? "

          Her jaw flexed, that scar pulling tight across her brow. " The thrill? You think I risk my neck for scraps of adrenaline? For the fun of watching cowards piss themselves? " She stepped closer, her shadow swallowing mine. " I've bled enough in wars that weren't mine. I don't waste blood now without reason. "

          Her white eye caught the moonlight. " What I want—what I'm owed—was taken from me. And I'll tear down every drunk, every lord, every gutter thief between here and the Hewn City if that's what it takes to get it back. "

          We stopped dead on the path, breath fogging in the cool air, glaring at each other as if the night itself demanded blood. The trees whispered overhead, branches clattering like bones.

          Hewn City?

          Malou broke first. She dragged a hand over her sweat-slick face, the gesture more weary than furious, and when she spoke her voice had dropped low, rough, frayed at the edges. " I'm not stealing for scraps. I'm hunting. "

          I blinked, thrown by the word. " Hunting what? "

          Her gaze snapped to mine. " My blades. "

          Something unfamiliar dropped low in my gut. Blades... I rolled the word across my tongue, tasting it. My mind flicked through the scraps I'd read—the Hewn City, its vaults and horrors, Keir's hunger for power. He was the one who kept the Ouroboros mirror locked away, the one they said could strip you bare with a single glance.

          If he guarded that, then why not other  things? Weapons too dangerous to be left in the wild. Weapons that might have belonged to someone like Malou.

          The thought found roots in my brain. If Malou wanted them, it wasn’t just sentiment—they had to be more powerful than she let on. And yet… fae were possessive, hoarding what was theirs. Maybe the simple fact that they belonged to her was reason enough.

          “ The Hewn City. ” I whispered. “ That’s where Keir keeps them, isn’t it? With the cursed relics. With the mirror. ”

         She gave a single nod. “ Twin blades. Same weight, same bite. I forged them with my own power—back when I still had enough to bend metal to my will. I bled into that steel, carved my initiation into every inch of it. They’re not just weapons—they’re me. My last chance at redemption. Without them, I’m half a spine. If I’m to train you, if I’m to walk this road by your side, I’ll damn well walk it whole. ”

           I stared, struck silent by the intensity in her voice. For once, her words weren't laced with mockery or venom. They were reverent.

          " Why now? How long have you been chasing this? "

          Her jaw worked. " Since the moment we came here. When I said I went looking for food... " She shook her head, a bitter laugh slipping out. " I was listening. Asking. Pressing. Someone whispered of precious items being smuggled, destined for the treasury of Hewn City, for their High Lord. I followed the trail. It's them—I know it. "

          " Why are they so important? "

          Her eyes went distant, shadowed by memory. “ Because I forged them the day I became Valkyrie. Under my general’s gaze. Gods, she didn’t spare me—hours of combat, blood running down my arms, ribs cracked—and still I hammered. Still I bled into the fire. My kind… we were more than the mockery of Valkyries they tried to revive. The metal answered me that day—it sang under my hands. When I rose with those blades, I wasn’t a girl anymore. I was a warrior. And my general— ” her breath hitched, sorrow passing behind her brown pupils, “ —she carved her mark into me that day. Those blades are proof. The last truth that says I was ever real. That my kind ever existed. ”

          The silence stretched, thick with her confession. I swallowed, her pain becoming mine as well as I watched her study her palms, the raven carved deep between her fingers. I eyed the serpent on mine as I asked. " And without them? "

          She looked at me then, her brown eye soft with unspoken pain. " Without them, I'm just another soldier. And you don't want to see me without a spine, Stumbles. "

         Before Malou could spit another word, the air shifted. A shimmer rippled along the trees—not wind, but something holy, brushing across my skin like a memory that didn’t belong to me.

          “ The blades are part of her soul, ” a voice whispered through my skull, calm as water poured over embers. “ As much as I am. ”

          Sorscha emerged from the meadow’s edge, gliding rather than walking, her presence bending the night around her. The white of her robes was split at the sides, revealing violet-dyed trousers clinging to her legs beneath. Her hands folded neatly before her, sleeves trailing behind. And her lips—still cruelly sewn, black stitches gleaming—only accentuated Malou's words.

          “ What happened to you all?”  I tried to push the thought toward her, the question stuck in my head. “ All those years ago? ”

          Her gaze lingered on Malou, heavy with love and loss, with reverence and grief wound so tightly together it was impossible to separate. A sister’s gaze. 

           Her answer slid into me like a feather, brushing my curiosity, taming it. “ I can only tell you my side, when the time is right. No sense in opening dead wounds tonight. No sense in resurrecting history already buried. ”

          Malou tensed as she saw her old companion. For once she didn't bite back, though her hand flexed at her side as if itching for the hilt of a knife.

          The chain in my chest pulsed, tugging deep, and for a heartbeat I wanted to scream. But then Sorscha moved, who knows what she whispered inside Malou's head that got her to calm down. 

         “ If you want to keep stealing, at least do it to those who deserve it. To those who steal from others with an iron fist. ”

          Malou didn’t argue, she only gave a short nod, a soldier’s acknowledgment, before turning away. “ I need to be alone for a while. I’ll catch you later. ” She strode into the treeline, shoulders rigid, her figure swallowed by shadows until only the faint glint of her white eye lingered—like a ghost refusing to vanish. “ Thank you... for having my back tonight. “

          The meadow hushed again, night pressing in thick as velvet. Then, a whisper slid cool into my mind: “ Come. We’ll train at night. ”

          She sat cross-legged in the grass a few paces away, as if she’d been waiting for me all along. The night curled close around her, heavy with the smell of wet earth and leaves, clouds snagging on the tips of the trees, holding back the stars. Her violet-gray eyes never blinked as she studied me from head to toe.

          Misty padded to my feet, golden gaze locked on Sorscha with unnerving focus. I tugged off the damp white apron, now stained and begging to be scrubbed, and dropped it. My nerves stretched taut from the day’s chaos; every shadow felt like it hid fangs, not teeth. A shiver clawed down my spine, dragging with it the warped memory of Niven’s face peering through the trees.

          Sorscha’s voice unfurled in my skull again: ” Shoes off. ”

          I blinked. “ What? ”

          Her pale hands shifted from her lap, one fluid gesture downward. No explanation, no repetition.

          Misty’s tail brushed my ankle, as if to say: She wants you barefoot.

          Grumbling, I unlaced my boots and tossed them aside. The meadow bit into me at once—cold blades of grass clung wet against my arches, mud sucked lightly at my toes, and sharp pebbles pressed insistently into tender skin. I hissed, rocking unsteadily.

         ” Good, ” Sorscha’s voice flowed through me as a current. ” Today you’ve learned the world by looking. Now, break that. What if you cannot see? ”

          She rose in a single, unhurried motion, robes whispering against the damp. From her sleeve, she drew a length of cloth—black, frayed at the edges, but soft. She stepped close enough for me to smell the faint tang of electricity on her skin. Without a word, she tied it around my head, binding me into darkness.

          The blindfold pressed light. Shadows closed in. My breath stuttered. Bare soles against wet earth, blind eyes behind cloth. And then—something else. A low hum creeping upward through my calves, threading bone and sinew. Not sound, not quite touch, but vibration. A pulse. The earth’s heart beating against mine.

          “ I’m going to fall on my ass. ” I muttered, shifting my hands around me,

           “Stand. ” Sorscha whispered inside me. Her voice curled low and patient, a command wrapped in silk. “ Breathe. Listen. What do you feel?  

          I obeyed. The air chilled as it filled my chest, carrying scents sharper than before: ” Wet moss, smoke from the distance, a thread of pine sap sticky-sweet. ” I exhaled letting all leave my senses to make space for new ones. 

         “ What else? ” Sorscha’s voice hummed low between my senses.

          I sucked in air. Without sight, everything felt muted, dangerous—my own pulse drummed in my ears, the rasp of my breath raw, sweat trailing hot down my temple. My toes curled into the grass. Dew kissed my skin, cool and sticky. A fly brushed past my cheek, its tiny wings a fleeting tickle against my sweat. My most trusted sense was gone, shackled.

          “ Listen. ”

          The meadow breathed around me. Fragments slipped in—what human ears could still catch: frogs croaking low in a ditch, the faint click of a beetle tunneling near my heel, the crunch of Malou shifting her weight in the grass behind me, impatience rolling off her.

           “ Smell. ”

          Scents pressed close, sharper in the dark. Animals—cows and horses far off, yet so near they might have stood behind my shoulder. Hollyhock and hay. Sunflowers and grain. Sorscha’s incense curling faint and sweet. Malou’s rough, salt-iron sweat brushing the back of my neck like a shadow teasing my skin. Wildflowers thick and honeyed, riding the night breeze.

          “ Feel. ”

          The earth throbbed under me. Not magic—life. Roots winding unseen below, old and endless. Trees murmuring in vibrations, speaking to night birds, whispering through the air. My heartbeat slowed, catching their rhythm. My body still stumbled, unsteady, but with each inhale, the edge of clarity sharpened. Behind my eyelids, the territory expanded.

          Sorscha’s whisper went deeper. “ Sight is only one leash. Break it. Let the others lead. ” 

          I swayed, steadied. My body mirrored hers as she circled, slow. I sensed her robes stirring the grass, her arm lifting. I reached, caught her wrist with trembling fingers, as though the wind itself had carried her to me. Above, wings beat the canopy. Before the breeze shifted, my skin prickled, already bracing.

          My head turned instinctively beneath the blindfold. Malou’s breath hitched sharp, her voice edged with disbelief.

          “ Well, fuck me, ” she muttered. “ She’s learning. ”

          No rocks rose. No storms bent to me. But for the first time, the world wasn’t dark. It was everywhere—alive, inside me, pressing from all sides. And the thrill that spread through my chest was sharp, dangerous—like the first crack in a long-locked door.

          Something shifted. Tiny stones scattered around my feet quivered, then loosened, peeling away from the larger rocks like they’d been waiting. They skittered, light as insects, tumbling toward my toes. The sensation shot through me like a pulled thread—an invisible cord tying my nerves to theirs. My fingers twitched, and the pebbles twitched back. My toes curled, and they inched closer, obedient, alive.

          A strange joy broke loose in me, fierce and wild. It was as if a rusted lock inside my chest had snapped, and now light poured through the crack. For the first time, the earth answered—not with thunder, but with a whisper.

          “ I… I did that? ” The words left me half-entranced.

          I flexed my hand, and the invisible string tugged again. The pebbles responded, shifting, rolling across the damp grass until they kissed the skin of my bare foot again. A laugh slipped out of me. My whole body trembled with the enormity of it, the wrongness and rightness of touching something so ancient.

          But Sorscha only came closer, silent approval glowing inside her. And I stood there blindfolded, barefoot, trembling—my heart pounding like a drum to match the rhythm of the earth.

          For the first time, I wasn’t just listening. I was calling. And the world was answering.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Unbroken Threads

           The River House gleamed beneath the first spill of sunlight, its stained-glass windows catching the glow and scattering faint rainbows across the polished floors. Velaris's morning air drifted through the wide windows the house's magic had left ajar—spiced with cinnamon and cardamom, sweetened with dried rose petals, undercut by the tang of leather from market stalls and the sharp ink of scribes. From beyond, the Sidra carried its crisp, mineral breath over the hills, slipping inside like a quiet guest. The house seemed to inhale with it, pale stone warming, carved balconies draped in white-gold light.

          Azriel stepped soundlessly along the corridors, wings caressed by the morning breeze, his shadows gliding ahead to soften every creak of the floorboards. He had not slept again. He never did on nights when his mind clawed through too many truths and half-answers. The river had whispered beneath his window until dawn, and still he had risen, as if his body had forgotten what rest was.

          Sometimes, in those hollow hours, he found himself running after her again—back through the flames of Thaibar. Shadows stretched thin through smoke and cinder, reaching, clawing, trying to catch her as his lungs burned with the effort of cutting down soldier after soldier in the narrow, flaming alleys. Always just out of reach. Always only the flash of her dark crimson hair scattering wild in the wind, sparks snapping in its wake, her steps igniting embers beneath their weight. Always failing—failing to catch her, failing to shield her, failing to stop the world from breaking her apart.

          The woman's bloodied face still lived between his gloves, as if the leather itself had kept its imprint. He remembered the slick heat of her skin, the dented armor melted and scarred, the blood that smeared no matter how often he scoured it away. His fingers twitched even now, muscle memory betraying him, recalling the phantom weight of her body between his arms—carrying her out of the blaze, lifting her as if she might still breathe, as if gentleness could undo death.

          Swinging her softly into the dark.

          The scent of amber had died that day. It stopped following him like a ghost, no longer clinging to his body, no longer seeping into the creases of his wings. Azriel almost missed it. Almost. Because as much as it had sickened him, that sweetness had offered something else—an edge, a whipcord of determination that kept him hunting, kept him breathing with the single thought of wringing the truth from her throat. Sweet. Cloying. Threaded through every memory until it was all he could breathe. For weeks it had haunted him—caught in seams of leather, in the downstrokes of his wings, in the drag of his every step.

          Until one night it was gone. Replaced by something stranger. Heavier.

          The chain.

          It had sunk into him like a noose, hanging from his chest and pulling down, down—beneath the mountain, beneath the earth itself, to somewhere he could not follow. Azriel had tried to master it, to bend it with will and discipline: meditation until dawn bled over the horizon, training until his body broke, exhaustion so complete he couldn't remember his own name. He had even tried to tear at it inwardly, to rip the invisible links with his teeth. Nothing worked. Not even his shadows—those loyal extensions of himself—could ease it. They recoiled from the weight, helpless to touch it, cursed to circle him as he bore it alone.

          So he carried it. That chain of longing and ache for something unnamed, something that lived far from him yet rooted deep inside his bones. Something he wasn't sure he deserved.

          And still, sometimes, when the wind shifted in the dark hours, the scent returned. Faint, mocking. Amber curling at the edge of his senses just as the chain inside him began to thrash, restless and mean. As though both ghost and tether conspired to remind him: she was still out there. And he would never be free.

         Perhaps the chain wasn't his at all. Perhaps it was the witch's doing—that crone he met while leaving the ruins of Thaibar behind. He still remembered her knowledge of his mother, even accused her of being a witch as well.

          Had she cursed him? Bound him to this restless ache to drive him mad, to bend him to her will when the time came? The thought gnawed at him, each link of the chain biting deeper as if in agreement. Or maybe it wasn't the witch. Maybe it was the Mother herself, amused at watching her silent son stumble under a weight he couldn't name. A mockery. A test. A punishment.

          His shadows shivered against him, uneasy. He drew a long breath through his nose, tasting the river air, nothing more. No amber, no sweetness, just the memory of it.

          He did not let his mind linger on Elain. Not here. Not when the chain throbbed like another heartbeat in his chest. Thinking of her would only muddy the truth. She was light, garden air, fragile blooms. This—this heaviness, this tether—was darker. Older. Something the shadows whispered of when they thought he wasn't listening. And yet, for the smallest instant, he wondered. Wondered if the chain's cruel pull was proof of some mistake?

          The hush of the house broke only when he neared the kitchen. Low clinks of cutlery, a muttered breath. He pushed the door open with the same care he gave an enemy's lock. Inside, the sunlight pooled across polished counters and the long oak table. Copper pans hung in neat rows above the hearth, their surfaces gleaming freshly cleaned. The smell of fresh breakfast and warm coffee lingered faintly, threaded with the sharper tang from the garden below. The stone floor held the night's coolness still, curtains moving in and out like quiet breathings.

          It should have been warm, alive—the kind of room meant for laughter and the clatter of voices. Instead, the silence sat heavy above the steaming plates the house's magic offered them, swallowing the brightness whole.

          Nesta sat rigid, chin high and unforgiving, nudging a piece of egg across her plate without truly looking at it. Her gown was the opposite—dark blue, simple in cut but chosen with care, her hair braided back with ruthless precision. No armor, no leathers. Even at breakfast, she dressed like every detail was an act of war. A defiance even in fabric.

          Cassian sat opposite, massive frame hunched, wings drawn in close. His plate was half-finished, as though even his appetite had been blunted. The quietness between them was a feud in itself—threaded with everything unsaid since she had first stepped into this house, since she had spat in his face, since she had resisted every hand he'd held out.

          Azriel's shadows shifted at his shoulders, restless in the stifling hush. He let his gaze linger on his brother's hazel eyes, weary yet searching Nesta's face, as if he might find a crack in her armor. There was no heat in Cassian's stare this morning, no teasing, no fire—only that stubborn, unshakable loyalty that had carried them both through battlefields and blood.

          Azriel crossed the threshold in silence. Cassian's head lifted, relief sparking before he smothered it. " Good morning, Az. "

          Nesta didn't move. Only her eyes flicked toward him, sharp as needles, colder than the Sidra wind creeping through the curtains. The stew on the table had gone cold, but the air was colder still—bitter enough that even the breeze seemed to hesitate before rushing out.

          Azriel exhaled through his nose, shadows curling low around his boots. He slipped into the chair across from them, every movement precise. His voice, when it came, was velvet over glass. "Morning, Cass. Nesta."

           His leathers were gone—replaced by dark trousers and a fitted cotton shirt that clung to his frame. Lighter, freer, but he felt the absence like a wound. Without the armor, he felt every word, every glance, as though he'd been stripped bare.

          Cassian shoved another spoonful of stew in his mouth, grin strained. His broad shoulders were tense despite his effort to play casual. He groaned when his brother's gaze slid toward Nesta. " How's training? " Azriel asked, testing, savoring the poke.

          Nesta's chin rose, her thin lips pressed tightly together. " Splendid, " she lied. " If you consider being dragged through mud by an overgrown bat, then yes. Splendid. "

          Cassian groaned, dragging a hand over his face. " Mother save me... "

          Azriel didn't flinch. His shadows coiled tighter at his shoulders, as though they, too, enjoyed the tension rippling between them. The corner of his mouth twitched. " Sounds like progress. "

          Nesta's smirk deepened, but her eyes never softened. " Funny. From where I stand, it feels like punishment. "

          Cassian's spoon clattered against the bowl. But the Spymaster only leaned back slightly, folding into the silence like it belonged to him. " Punishment can be useful, " he said matter-of-factly. " It teaches faster than praise. "

           Nesta's gaze sharpened further, as though she wanted to carve out whatever truth he was hiding. " And what did punishment teach you, Shadowsinger? "

          Azriel's fingers flexed once. Shadows flared at his wrists, then smoothed back down, controlled. His reply was quiet, so quiet it almost vanished beneath the Sidra's breeze: " That some lessons never end. "

           For a moment, none of them breathed.

           Cassian broke it, his voice pitched lighter than the weight in the air. " You never told me, " he said carefully, eyes darting between them, " what she looked like. The human we're after. "

          Azriel's fork hovered above the stew. " Fragile. "

          But his mind betrayed him: gray eyes like storms, unyielding even in ruin. A stare that haunted him more than death itself. Cassian's grin faltered. He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. " And from the fall? Did she take damage? Is she broken? " His tone was rough, threaded with curiosity.

          Azriel's hazel eyes flicked up, unreadable. " She walks. She breathes. That's all that matters. "

          Cassian studied him a moment, narrowing his eyes. " Then how did you lose her? "

          His whiskey-kissed eyes lifted lazily. " Because death moves faster than I do. "

          Cassian's grin slipped for good, his shoulders sagging. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, as if any word might shatter his brother's composure.

          Nesta's eyes, though—they never softened. If anything, they were hungry for flesh, pinning him as if she could pry the truth out of his ribs. " You don't lose things, " she said coldly. " Not unless you want to. "

          His fork lowered, the soft clink against the plate too loud in the heavy silence. He chewed slowly, swallowing without relish, as though even the act of eating was a duty rather than relief. The food filled his stomach at last, but it brought no satisfaction.

          His face remained unchanged, carved from stone, not a muscle betraying what stirred beneath. When he finally reached for the cloth beside him, his movements were precise, deliberate. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the same care he gave a blade after battle—methodical, controlled, leaving no trace behind.

          Cassian scrubbed a hand down his face. " Nesta— "

          " No, " she cut in, voice like flint striking steel. " If he and your High Lord are chasing a ghost, we deserve to know. Don't we? "

          Az's hazel eyes finally lifted to hers. " Not a ghost. " The words came quiet. " A woman."

          The shadows thickened, swallowing the corners of the room until even the firelight seemed to shrink away. The Sidra's breeze rattled the curtains, harder now, like the river itself wanted distance from the storm brewing at the table.

          Cassian swore under his breath. " Nesta. "

          But his brother didn't move. Didn't blink. His shadows coiled low, teeth bared in silence. And Cassian saw it—Azriel wasn't refuting her words. He was shouldering them. Enduring them like another lash across already scarred skin.

          Nesta snorted, the sound brittle as iron snapping. " What? We're relying on a human now? Again? " Her fork speared a carrot as if it were an enemy's heart. " What's next—you bring her home, tuck her into a room, let her sweep up your messes too? "

          The silence dropped heavy, pressing against the walls.

          Cassian shot her a warning look, but Nesta only leaned back in her chair, arms folded, mouth curled in disdain. Her eyes gleamed sharp as razors. " What makes her so different, Azriel? Humans die. They shatter. And yet somehow, this one—this one—you all circle around as if she's the Mother's gift wrapped in flesh. "

          Azriel didn't answer. His fork lowered to the table. Shadows slithered restlessly across the floor, whispering secrets no one dared translate.

           Azriel finally lifted his eyes. Not blazing, not snarling—worse. Calm. Cold. The kind of calm that came before execution. " She's different because she survived what should have broken her a hundred times over. Because she refuses to shatter—even when the rest of us think she should. "

           Nesta's smirk faltered for a heartbeat, but then her chin snapped up. " So that's it? Survival makes her special? Then you'd better crown half of Velaris, because they've all survived something. Don't dress it up as destiny just because Rhysand needs her for his own plans. "

           Cassian's fist slammed into the table, the wood groaning under the impact. " Get out! You don't get to fucking talk about Rhysand like that—not after what he endured under Amarantha's reign. Not after what he suffered for all of us. "

          Azriel didn't move. Shadows coiled tighter around him, swallowing the air, his jaw clenched so hard it looked ready to splinter. For a heartbeat, the whole room balanced on the edge of that tension.

           Nesta rose in one fluid motion, fire burning behind her gaze, silver flames licking at the edges of her irises. " And what about what we endured? What my sisterd and I survived? " Her voice was an arrow meant for their hearts. At the threshold, she turned once more, making her point heard enough: " Stop using women as weapons. Maybe then you'll win one gods-damned battle. "

           The door cracked shut behind her, leaving only the echo and the stench of burned pride in her wake.

          Azriel sat there replaying each word with killer's precision. Nesta's parting shot rang sharper than Cassian's fist on the table—because buried in all that venom had been truth. Feyre's sacrifice. Elain and Nesta thrown into a game they had never chosen, punished into a body and a fate they despised. Forced into a war none of them had written for themselves

           Cassian leaned back in his chair with a groan, dragging a hand through his hair. " She doesn't mean half of it. " His face was tired, lines carved deep from battles fought in war and at home alike. But his eyes—those gave him away. Sad, weary, carrying every word Nesta had hurled like he'd taken the blows himself.

          " She means enough. "

           Cassian studied him across the table, strong shoulders slumping. " We're not weapons, brother. " he said at last. " Not unless we choose to be. "

          Az didn't answer. He agreed and disagreed all at once, thoughts circling like hawks above a corpe. Rhysand—his crown, his burden, his brother. He reigned with a strategist's ruthlessness, yes, and sometimes used them all like pieces on a board. But it was always duty first. Their people's safety above their own. Azriel knew that truth in his marrow. And still... Nesta wasn't wrong. They had leaned on women more than he cared to admit. Feyre. Mor. Amren. Even Elain.

          His jaw worked once, twice, then stilled. Shadows whispered around him, restless, tugging at the edges of the room as if they wanted to slip out, away from the heaviness pressing at the table.

          Cassian exhaled roughly, leaning forward, forearms braced on the scarred wood. " She doesn't mean half of it. " He repeteaded, trying to convince himself of that. " Still, she knows how to hit where it hurts. "

          At his blind loyalty toward Rhysand, at his raw love for their family, at his will to die before ever letting harm touch them—he couldn't falter there. That vow had long since carved itself into Cassian's whole being. A gift and a curse.

          Cassian sighed again, pushing his chair back with a scrape. " Anyway, " he muttered, almost too casually, " Rhys is sending me to gather intel from Lucien and his little band of exiles. " He reached for the buckle of his leathers, tightening it like armor against what was coming. " I leave at dawn. "

          Azriel's gaze sharpened. " What for? "

          Cassian's spoon clinked against the bowl. " The mortal queens are stirring. Vassa hears things before the courts do, and Lucien keeps one ear in Spring, one in Autumn. Eris... " His jaw flexed. " He's useful when he wants to be. Rhys wants to know if anyone's gathering power again—or if Briallyn's ghosts are still reaching from the grave. "

          The Shadowsinger only inclined his head. He remembered Hybern. The stench it left on him. Eris's sly smile curling, his charm wrapping around that woman as if she were nothing more than a token for barter. Their disgusting plans, the way they slipped—together—out of Azriel's reach.

          His fangs brushed against each other, a sharp scrape of restraint. Eris had always moved like oil on water—slippery, seeping into cracks Azriel couldn't seal.

          His jaw locked until it ached. He had no doubts Eris would smile the same way now, dangling information like bait, forcing them all to wonder where his loyalties bent. And Azriel hated him for it—hated the fact that they needed him.

          Cassian shoveled in another bite then took off.

          Azriel left the house soon after. Daylight pressed warm against the roofs, bright enough to sting the edges of his shadows. Velaris thrummed awake around him—the clatter of merchants hauling open shutters, the metallic clang of smithies ringing down narrow lanes. The Sidra caught the sun in shards of silver, its surface alive with ripples that tossed reflections across the pale facades.

          Children darted between archways, laughter echoing as they chased each other past stalls where bakers fanned out trays of sugared donuts, the air thick with cinnamon and yeast. Silk banners stirred above, colors bleeding bright against the washed-blue sky. Painters already lined the bridges, brushes flicking across stretched canvas, while from deeper streets the steady beat of drums and the rise of a singer's voice cut through the market din.

          The Spymaster moved through it all untouched, unseen, even as life surged around him.

          The House of Wind loomed far above the city, but it wasn't his destination today. His steps carried him instead through a quieter quarter, where the scent of the river gave way to the iron tang of wards older than the walls themselves.

          Amren's building was carved from black stone veined with silver, its high windows catching the rays in fractured shards. The door before him was narrow, lacquered wood scorched in places, as though it had survived more than one fire. His fist hovered over it a long breath, knuckles tightening.

          Azriel rapped once against the heavy wood, the sound reverberating through the narrow street. The door groaned open on its own hinges, and the stench of polished gemstones hit him the moment he crossed the threshold.

          Amren's house was a hoard disguised as a home—glass vials gleamed from shelves crammed with leather-rotting tomes, jewels winked from bowls like offerings, and the air pressed thick, as if centuries of power had been bottled and left to ferment. She sat in a high-backed chair, legs crossed, one hand lazily twirling a crystal pendant as though it weighed less than dust. Her silver eyes cut through the dim, pinning him where he stood.

           " Well, well. " She drawled, voice too smooth. " The shadowsinger himself. To what do I owe the pleasure? Or should I ask—what's rotting you inside badly enough that you come here? "

          Azriel didn't answer at once. He hated stepping into this den. He reached into his leathers, pulled free the strands of hair bound with twine, and dropped them onto her desk. They landed light, bathing in the sunrays that spilled on top of the table. He felt relieved scattering them like that, finally getting rid of them.

          Her gaze flicked down, then up again, unblinking. " You've brought them? "

          " That's what you asked for. " 

          Her fingers hovered just above the chopped red strands, never touching, as if they might scorch her skin. " Amber, " she murmured. " Strange scent for this world. When did you take them? "

          " She was dying. " His hazel eyes scanned the hair again, though he'd memorized every thread night after night.

          " Dead hair holds no tether to who she is now. "

          The venom surged in his chest, bitter as bile. " Then it's worthless. "

          " No. " Amren corrected, tilting her head. " It's a key. But not to her. To where she was. Thaibar, that sweet pit of ruin you reek of. If we keep chasing her with this, we'll find nothing but ash. "

          Azriel's jaw locked. " Good. " he said at last. A bold tongue of darkness licked up his cheek, stroking his rage as if to calm it, " Ash is all she deserves. "

          Her laugh was humorless. " You speak of her like a curse, but she might be our only salvation now that she fell in our world. "

          " She stinks of witchcraft. She threw another life to the slaughter to save her own. She ran with Eris. She escaped me. That's why I'll find her. To end it. "

           Amren leaned back in her chair, red nails steepling beneath her chin. Her silver eyes glowed in the dim light of her home. " We need more. Blood. Flesh. Something born of what she's become. Without that, we'll chase our own tails until the stars burn out. " 

          Azriel didn't answer, banishing that bold shadow somewhere far, his silence as final as a slammed door.

          But behind him, Amren's voice cut the air. " Bring me something alive of her, Shadowsinger! "

            The words of the books still echoed in his skull when he let the shadows take him. They swallowed him whole, weightless and cold, pulling him through cracks in the mountain until earth gave way to damp air and the tang of rust.

          The tunnels beneath the Night Court stretched like veins, carved long before his people had named the mountains. Moss slicked the walls in patches, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling, each drop ringing out like a clock he couldn't silence. The smell was old—mold, mildew, a hint of rot—enough to choke anyone unused to breathing in secrets.

           Azriel stepped from shadow into the hollow of a chamber. A lamp hung crooked on a nail, its flame weak and sputtering, throwing long, jittering shapes against claw-scored walls.

          His spies were waiting.

          The first was all bones and nerves, swallowed by a cloak too big for him. His cheeks were hollow, his skin pale, the faint reek of old beer clinging to him. He bowed too quickly, eyes flicking not at the Spymaster, but at the restless shadows curling around his boots like thousand of snakes. " My lord... " he rasped, voice frayed at the edges.

          The second leaned against the wall like part of it—broad, scar carving down his jaw to his throat, clothes dusted with the dry earth of the mountain passes. His eyes stayed lowered. Men who knew what the head of assassins was never tried to meet his stare.

           The youngest perched on a crate, restless, knife tapping against his thigh in an impatient rhythm. His grin was thin, teeth flashing like he'd swallowed his own fear and called it bravado. " Boss... " he greeted, but his tone was too eager for Azriel's methods.

           The Shadowsinger didn't answer. He folded his wings tight. He waited.

            The thin one broke first. He wet his lips, then said fast. " Word out of Thaibar. Two fugitives, set fire to a village. Escaped by ship. "

           Azriel's brows lowered, the air tightening. He already knew that.

          The man shifted, his throat bobbing as he saw the worst tortionary of all unsatisfied. " They were hidden... for a time... by the women of Rosehall. "

            His head wiped as if he was struck. Rosehall. His mother's home. The silence that followed pressed down so heavy the lantern guttered, as though the very air feared him.

          The spy stammered, desperate to fill it. " Not anymore. The monastery cast them out. Banished. They'll be wandering the roads now. "

            His lungs pulled tight. Every instinct screamed at him to vanish, to fly through the night until he saw with his own eyes that she was safe. But he only inclined his head once. The man let out a breath, as if he saw death in his face and escaped.

          The scarred one finally spoke, his voice grave. " There's more. Hewn City. Keir's moving weapons in under cover of a banquet. Wants it to look like he's hosting Rhysand, while steel slips beneath the wine. "

          Azriel's gaze lifted to him, scolding almost. " When? "

          The man hesitated, then: " Soon. Two days top. "

          The young one's knife stilled mid-spin when Azriel finally spoke. " Good. " he murmured, the word so quiet the lantern flame seemed to lean toward it. " What else about the fugitives? "

          Uneasy glances flicked between the three men, as if each waited for the other to risk it. The young one, reckless enough to fill silence, swallowed and went on. " They fit what you told us. Two women. A redhead and... an older one. " He hesitated, then pressed, " But she doesn't seem older. Not really. The brunette—she's quick. Too quick. Fights like she's been bred for war. Word's she might be fae. Trained like an Illyrian, but hungrier. Bloodthirsty. "

          The gaunt one shifted, bony fingers knotting in his cloak. " Illyrians don't let their females train," he rasped. "And she's got no wings. No one knows what she is. "

          Silence stretched, taut as a wire. Azriel didn't move. He only studied them, his face unreadable, but the gloom at his shoulders thickened, filling the chamber. The knife-tapper's grin faltered.

          The Spymaster's voice, when it came, was soft enough to force them to lean closer. " You're giving me rumors. Superstition. " He tilted his head slightly, and something in his hazel eyes glinted. " Find me proof. Find me something I can put my hands on, or the next story I hear will be your screams echoing in these tunnels. "

          The lantern guttered as if snuffed by invisible fingers.

          The gaunt one flinched; the scarred man's jaw worked, but he said nothing. Only the youth dared to nod, his knife-hand trembling despite the mask of bravado.

          Azriel straightened, the murk withdrawing from the corners of the chamber like water sucked down a drain. " Bring me more. Names. Weapons. Where they go, who feeds them, who lies for them. I want everything. "

           Azriel rose. The gloom moved with him, muffling every sound until the chamber was swallowed whole. When the lantern guttered once more, only the drip of water remained—steady as a heartbeat, marking where fury had stood restrained.

          Darkness carried him upward, folding and unfolding until he emerged on the balcony of the Wind House.

          The High Lord's chambers glowed with soft lamplight, golden against midnight walls. The space smelled faintly of ink and cedar, a desk buried in papers and maps dominating one corner, books stacked in careless towers near the hearth. Beyond, velvet curtains breathed in the night wind.

          Rhysand stood at the railing, his silhouette carved against the Sidra. The river stretched silver and endless beneath him, the city scattered with lanterns like fallen stars. His hands braced the stone, head tilted slightly as if listening to something beyond the night. A glass of wine sweated on the balustrade, forgotten, the liquid quivering with the breeze.

          He didn't turn when Azriel's boots met the floor. " You've been gone a while. " He murmured, his voice calm, smooth as silk pulled taut.

          Azriel crossed the room in measured silence. " The strands of hair were useless. " he reported. " Amren confirmed it. They'll only lead back to Thaibar. No further. "

          At that, Rhys shifted, tilting his head slightly, but said nothing.

          " I have another way. " Azriel continued. " My spies traced whispers to the Hewn City. Keir is moving weapons under cover of a banquet. And there are... others. "

          Rhysand finally turned, lamplight catching the sharp line of his cheekbones. " Others? "

          " Two women. " Azriel said. " They match what I told you to watch for. A redhead, younger. And the other—brunette. Older, though she no longer looks it. Strong. Too strong. She fights like an Illyrian soldier. Commands like one. But she has no wings. No ties. "

           Rhys's gaze narrowed, his mouth curving without humor. " The crone. She was withered when you met her, " Rhys pressed, " A hunched old thing. And now she's younger? Deadlier? How does she know Illyrian tactics? Our codes of honor? "

          The spymaster's hazel eyes met his. " I don't know. Yet. "

          Rhys studied him a long moment, violet gaze darkening. " And the girl? "

         " Vanished. " Azriel answered, curt. " But there's something about this shipment. I have a feeling they'll be there too. "

          The air in the chamber tightened. The Sidra's breeze fluttered the curtains, the only sound.

           Rhys finally exhaled, gaze drifting once more to the silvered river. " Then the Hewn City it is. Keir thinks he can hide something so precious under our nose. We'll see what else crawls out when the curtain's pulled back. "

          Azriel inclined his head once, his expression unreadable. Yet inside, the thought gnawed at him still—the memory of that witch's withered hand pressing the vial into his palm, the smile she'd worn, sharp with secrets he couldn't name.

          Her words burned through him now as he lifted his eyes to the stars. The wind carried them back like a chant, rasping in his ear: " The girl you're after is guarded by two ancient women. No Illyrian, no High Lord, could ever defeat one in battle and the other with magic. Here's my advice: poison them first. It's the only way to draw you all together. "

          The phrase lingered: A woman closer to Death than any of you.

          Something bold and treacherous stirred inside him, a dark wraith brushing his ear. Nesta...

          He ground his teeth. Perhaps it was true. If his instincts failed him, if the fugitives didn't appear on shipment day, then Nesta was his next lead. The chain of logic wrapped itself around him as tightly as any tether.

          " Lilies of the valley. " Azriel muttered, the name sour in his mouth. His hand drifted briefly to his chest, where the glass vial pulsed faintly in the hidden compartment of his shirt. Too close to his heart. Too alive. 

          Maybe he had indeed become obsessed with his only failed mission. But that night, even Truth-Teller had faltered. The blade that never failed him, the steel that sang of certainty in his hand... had slipped, as though enchanted, as though she herself bent the strike away. Her presence had been a distortion, a pull, turning his surety to nothing. He could still feel it: the jolt through his grip, the unnatural wrongness of steel refusing to obey him. It hadn't been chance. Couldn't have been.

          And that, more than anything, haunted him.

          Because if Truth-Teller could be swayed, if even the surest part of himself bent in her orbit... then maybe the failure wasn't his alone. Maybe she was something different. 

          The thought coiled through him like smoke, sour and unwanted. He had carried bodies from war, slaughtered kings, burned through dungeons and battlefields alike — and always, always, he had completed what he set out to do. That was what he was. What he was made to be.

          But Thaibar still burned when he closed his eyes. Her hair flashing in the fire, that stubborn stare carved into him, the weight of her corpse between his hands. Every time he replayed it, he moved faster, struck harder, turned left instead of right — and every time, she still slipped through him like mist.

          Was it obsession, then? To stalk the memory of failure until it had claws in his marrow? Or was it duty — to tie off the one loose thread before it strangled everything else?

          His jaw locked. Obsession was a luxury. Obsession was weakness. And Azriel did not allow himself either. Still, when the wind shifted, carrying with it the faintest ghost of amber, his chest tightened as though the chain cinched again. His hands flexed, as if they still remembered the heat of her blood.

          And the question he refused to voice pressed harder: if this wasn't obsession, then why did she haunt him more than the hundreds he had already buried?

          He launched into the night air, wings slicing through the currents above Velaris. He had one more path to walk before the Hewn City—one more thread to pull in the abyss beneath the mountain.

          The library awaited.

𓆩✴𓆪

          The village stank of smoke and sweat, of woodsmoke that never quite cleared and bodies too long pressed into the same air. Chickens scattered before her shoes, feathers bedraggled, cries sharp in the heat. Houses leaned into one another like weary old men, patched with planks and stone, roofs sagging but stubbornly upright. Children darted barefoot across the lanes, hollow-eyed yet quick as foxes, laughter breaking sharp before dissolving again into quiet.

          Vythra moved through them with her hood drawn low, her dark riding dress plain but clean, patched at the elbows, dust clinging to the hem. A sash of rough wool cinched her waist, and her boots bore the dried mud of long roads. At her side, her mare cropped weeds along a fencepost, reins hanging slack. Misty prowled behind, tail twitching, a small grey wraith scattering any chicken foolish enough to wander close.

          Her last stop was the farm at the edge of the village. The man was already waiting by the gate, a package tucked under his arm, a cane in his other hand. His smile was lined but warm as he waved her over.

          " Welcome, my daughter! " he called.

          The scars across his arms told a story long before his words. Vythra pulled back her hood, letting the sun catch on her red hair. A strange warmth stirred in her chest at the sight of him—serenity, familiarity. He reminded her of Kallus, of that love that had once steadied her.

           "Sorry I'm late. " she said with a smile. " Half the village seems to need a healer these days." She placed a small box of potions on his threshold, her hands still faintly glowing. " I brought the usual: for inflammation, for sleep. Let me look at that leg. "

          He lowered himself into a chair by an old table, rolling up his trousers to bare the ruined limb. Her touch drew a hiss from the wound, steam curling in the air as the old pain eased. His breath shook with relief, his eyes closing for a heartbeat as though he dared not believe it.

          When she pulled away, he studied her with a soldier's sharpness.

          " Am I intruding if I ask how you got this? " Vythra asked, tucking her bandages back into her sack.

          His mouth twisted. " Wars I didn't want. They shoved a blade in my hand when I was barely a boy. Took this leg when I was twenty. After that—maps, not battlefields. Sending other men where I couldn't go. When it was finally done... " His gaze drifted to the fields. " I came home. To my wife. To the farm. Our children left for their own families. They visit sometimes. "

          He shifted, the limp still plain despite her healing. " We make do. Barley, some goats. But the fae from Montessere ride through, take what they want, leave nothing. My wife stretches what's left, but there's only so far it will go. " His voice cracked at the end, quickly swallowed.

          Vythra slipped a hand into her cloak and drew out the pouch, Malou's stolen gold heavy in her palm. Before he could protest, she pressed it into his calloused hand. " Then stretch it further. For her. For you. And if you ever need me again—there's a list in the box. The plants will help if I'm not here. "

          His scarred hand trembled, closing slowly over the weight. His eyes—blue, steady—fixed on hers. For an instant she saw the commander he had once been: calm under fire, stubborn even in loss.

          " You'll know who needs it most. " she told him softly. " And if you need me, call. I'll come. "

           A spark of pride lit his face. He inclined his head. " And you of me, when your hour is darkest. Mark my word, daughter! "

          Vythra tought they where only just words thrown for pleasentries, but his eyes were full of determination as she turned her back. Misty leapt onto the fencepost, yellow eyes catching the sun, tail curling like punctuation to the vow. The mare tossed her head, stamping at the dust, as if urging her onward.

          Vythra rose, adjusting her cloak. The village pressed close around her—hungry, hollow, waiting. But for the first time, she thought she saw threads weaving between them. Fragile, yes. But threads nonetheless.

          By the time she reached the crooked hut they called home, Vythra's basket was heavy with bread, smoked fish, and apples bruised but sweet. The house sagged under its own roof, timbers groaning as if resenting every gust of wind.

          Inside, smoke drifted low. Sorscha bent over the hearth, pale hair catching the firelight like spun frost. Malou sat at the table, her scarred hands steady as she sharpened a blade, steel whispering against stone.

           They both looked up when Vythra entered.

          " Food. " she said simply, setting the basket down.

          They ate together in silence, firelight softening Malou's ruined profile, painting Sorscha's threads of silver like cruel stars. For a heartbeat, they looked almost like a family. Not her family—not the one she had lost—but something adjacent. A shadow of it. And that shadow still made her guilty, thinking of Kallus and Niven, of their sacrifice. Benefactors indeed.

          Through the haze of smoke, she watched them. Her chest ached with the memory of how they had met.

          The portal had spit them out into the grass, the crooked house looming. For a moment no one moved. Then Malou had. Three steps forward, then she froze, as if afraid the illusion would shatter. Her breath had stuttered white in the cold air. " Sorscha ", she rasped, like the name itself might scald her tongue.

          Sorscha had lifted a trembling hand. Not to the world. Not to Vythra. But to Malou's scarred face. She cupped her cheek as though she had done it yesterday, not five centuries ago. And Malou broke. She had seized her—arms crushing tight, face buried in moonlight robes. The sound that left her was raw, almost a sob.

           They hadn't let go. Even when they did, their hands stayed linked: Sorscha's pale fingers curled at Malou's wrist, Malou's thumb brushing the cursed threads at her lips. Afraid that if they blinked too long, the other would vanish.

           " You're real. " Malou had whispered, voice rough as gravel. She memorized every line of Sorscha's face like she might lose it again.

          Sorscha's eyes glistened. " And you're whole ", her voice had filled Vythra's skull, resonant as bells rung underwater. " They didn't break you. "

          Malou had laughed, harsh and jagged. " Not for lack of trying. "

          It hadn't been tender. It hadn't been romantic. It was heavier. Like watching two halves of the same blade slot together after being broken apart for too long.

          And Vythra? She had stood small, awkward, a bystander to history reuniting itself. Her chest ached—not with envy, but with something stranger. Like witnessing a truth too old for her to name. Family.

          That word lingered long after Sorscha stepped back, long after Malou finally let her hand fall. For the first time since she'd known her, Malou wasn't fortress or fury. She was a woman. A sister. A missing half restored.

          Now, in the crooked hut, they sat by the hearth. Malou tore bread with sharp teeth, scattering crumbs into her lap, scowling as if the loaf had wronged her. Sorscha sat cross-legged on the floor, palms upturned on her knees, untouched by hunger. She never ate. The cursed threads at her lips shimmered in the firelight.

          Her eyes never left Malou. And Malou, for all her roughness, kept flicking glances back—like a soldier checking to be sure her comrade still lived.

          The silence grew too heavy. Vythra shifted, the weight of it smothering her until the words spilled. " How long? "

          Both women looked at her. Malou's profile sharpened, her shoulders stiff. But Sorscha answered.

          " Five hundred years. "

          The number hollowed Vythra's lungs.

          " I searched. " Sorscha's voice filled her mind, steady and terrible. "Through dream, through root, through tide. But the wards around her cage... they were stronger than me. "

          Malou let out a jagged laugh. " You didn't fail. I failed. Should've fought harder. Should've— " Her fist curled, scar across her ruined eye pulling tight.

          Sorscha's gaze hardened. " You lived. That is enough. "

          The air between them went taut. Vythra couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand their silence, that endless, ancient stare.

          " Why? " Her voice cracked, but she forced it out. " Why were you split apart? What happened? "

          Malou's lip curled, as if ready to shred the question. But Sorscha's voice cut through her skull first.

          " Our court fell. Buried deep under sea and earth, beyond all mending. Irrecoverable. A court where every creature had once found a home—scattered, banished, slain, lost. "

          The words landed. Vythra had read them once, scraps of ink on old parchment, whispered like myth. Hearing them now felt like the world itself had tilted.

          " Its ruin scattered us. I tried to hold the threads. But something darker tore them away. A force older. A betrayal I could not mend. "

          Her gaze slid to Malou, lingering on the scar across her eye like she remembered something else, something Malou did out of anger and revenge, something that took away her spark.

          Malou's knuckles whitened against the table. She didn't move, didn't breathe. At last she muttered, hoarse, " Ask your questions, Stumbles. But my story is mine. And I'll spill it when I damn well choose. "

          They didn't touch again. Didn't speak. But their eyes locked, unblinking, the air in that crooked house bending around them.

          The fire snapped, sparks leaping between them.

          Vythra swallowed, throat dry. They sat like two ancient pillars—one scarred, one silent—and the space between them hummed with something unbreakable.

          " I've thought about it. " she said at last, voice low but firm. Both pairs of eyes turned to her. " We'll go to the Nightmare Court. And we'll take back your blades. "

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

Court of Nightmares

Author's P.o.V:

          The mountain loomed like a severed crown, its roots riddled with black gates and jagged arches. Hewn City clung to its belly, carved into the stone itself as if the rock had been split open by some great claw. Obsidian towers jutted crooked from the cliff face, their windows burning with cold blue flame that never wavered in the wind. From a distance, the place looked less like a city and more like a wound that refused to close—spilling smoke, torchlight, and the faint echo of drums that carried across the valley. The air reeked of caves and court hustle, tinged with perfume that could not mask the history that was once written under this mountain. Even the stars seemed to avoid this place, leaving its jagged silhouette cloaked in a deeper dark than night itself.

          Vythra adjusted the veil over her nose and mouth, rolling her shoulders once to loosen the silks that clung too tightly. The false, long hair fell in waves around her shoulders, a reminder of what was taken from her barely a week ago. Her stomach turned itself inside out with every step, fear sliding beneath her skin like cubes of ice. The sight of the jagged mountain fortress — obsidian towers carved straight from the rock — only twisted it deeper. 

          Coins whispered against her hips as she turned her prismatic gaze toward the city, colors shifting with the anxiety in her chest. The costume she and Sorscha had thrown together pinched at her waist, hugged the small swell of her bust. The fabric clung close, pressing her into a shape meant to tempt. Twin slits ran high along either side, baring the length of her legs. At her ankles gleamed broad gold cuffs, heavy and old, etched with runes — Malou's work, carved by her own scarred hands. Green silk wrapped her in layers that were far too thin for the night air, jeweled with gold thread — molten from coins Malou had stolen, melted, and sewn into crude, glittering patterns. A thin coronet, strung from trinkets pilfered along the road, pressed into her brow. She hoped it looked like exotic wealth. She hoped it dazzled enough to distract.

          But the truth was harsher: she was half-bare. Skin gleamed between cut panels, vulnerable to every greedy glance. She prayed the glamour Sorscha had cast would be strong enough to blur her true face, to make her no one. To make her just another bauble paraded for their amusement.

          The contradiction tore at her. In stories, the Court of Nightmares had been a place of shadows and whispers, of decadent cruelty kept at arm's length by the High Lord's power. The books painted it as something almost theatrical — masks and games.

          This was not theater.

          The line of people waiting to enter curled like a living serpent down the mountain's throat. Courtiers glittered in jewels that glinted like sharpened teeth, their fabrics cut to display flesh as much as status. Between them loomed the guards: tall, muscular built, their black Illyrian leathers creaking with the stretch of wings bared wide. Demonic, vast, they stood with blades angled to catch the torchlight, steel gleaming slick as if still wet with battle liquids. The air reeked of perfume and fae sweat, sweet and sour, choking her lungs. And beyond the gate, the sound of music — raw, otherworldly, like a pulse made of fantasies.

          It was beautiful. Terrible. Nothing she had read prepared her for how alive it felt, or how it stripped her bare before she'd even stepped inside.

          " Remember, " Malou murmured, her voice pitched lower, rougher — the practiced rasp of a man. The bindings across her chest flattened the lines of her body, while the cut of the black coat broadened her shoulders, giving her the bulk she lacked. A brimmed hat dipped low enough to shadow the scar across her face, turning it into nothing more than a dark slash. " I'm the owner. You don't look at anyone unless I allow it. You don't speak unless I tell you to. If a guard asks, you're an import. Far east of the Dawn's markets. "

          Vythra's mouth curved behind her veil. " Charming. "

          The carriage they had hired shuddered beneath them, wheels crunching on gravel. Even it wore a glamour: the cracked leather, the rusted fittings, the weary old horses—transformed to appear gilded, sleek, a nobleman's prize. The illusion shimmered faintly around the edges, but strong enough to pass unless someone stared too long.

          Malou leaned close, her false baritone dropping sharper. " And stop reeking of fear. Your smell almost makes me gag. "

          Vythra stiffened. " I made this potion before. It should work. "

          " Then either your brew's gone weak, " Malou said flatly, her chestnut eye pinning her, " or you're shaking so hard inside it's bleeding through the spell. "

          Heat flushed Vythra's throat. She gripped the silk at her knees, fighting to steady her breath. She remembered the vial she'd rushed at the last moment, how quickly she'd mixed it, hands trembling over the herbs. The potion had masked scents before—her own, Malou's, Niven's—but what if this time it wasn't enough? What if Azriel's shadows cut through it like smoke through light? 

          God, she hoped he wasn't here today. She forced her lips into a smile that felt more like baring teeth. " Then I suppose I'll just have to dance well enough to keep their noses busy. Where's Sorscha? "

          And now all her hope rested in another potion — a transportation draught they had tested before, just once, to make sure it wouldn't tear them apart. She clutched it, hidden in between her breast, as if faith alone would make it work again. She still couldn't believe she had learned to brew such things, that Nimue's elegant hands had guided hers through until she could command it herself. 

          Gratitude pulsed through her chest, fierce and unshakable. Whatever else happened tonight, she would owe Nimue forever.

          From the darkness beyond the road, Sorscha's voice slid into their heads, softer than usual, stretched thin from the distance. " I'm here... "

          On the mountain's flank she knelt, half-swallowed by knife-blade grasses and twisted junipers. Her palms pressed to the soil as if the earth itself were an altar. The threads at her lips pulled taut, glowing faintly, straining like cords about to snap. Astral magic always cost her, but tonight it thinned her voice until it quavered like a distant echo.

          Misty crouched tight against her thigh, tail flicking in small, sharp movements, yellow eyes narrowed. Her ears swiveled with every stir of night air, every crunch of distant boots.

          " When you step through the gate, " Sorscha said, voice dragging like a tide, " I will project my body to where the blades are kept. My flesh remains here with the cat. If anyone approaches— "

          " Misty will alarm you. " Vythra finished, glancing once toward the dark ridge. The cat's ears twitched at her name on the other side, as if she could hear their voices through the channel Sorscha made for the three of them to communicate.

          They moved again.

          Aeria's hooves struck sparks against the stones, stamping her impatience at the nightmare they were being forced into. Even the mare knew this place was wrong. They had dressed her as carefully as they had Vythra—manes brushed until it gleamed, flanks washed in the river's cold water, jewels braided through her bridle so she glimmered like a warlord's prize. She tossed her head, teeth flashing.

          She was the only horse they trusted for this. The only one strong enough, fast enough, to bear two riders out again if all went to ruin. More than once, Aeria had carried them through fire and storm. When she chose to run, it was as if her hooves never touched earth at all, as if she galloped on the very breath of the wind.

          At the black gate, two guards stepped forward, halberds crossing with a hiss of steel, the chain between their tips swinging like a jagged smile.

          They were Illyrian to the bone: towering, thick-shouldered, every inch of them forged in war. Black leathers clung to their brutal frames, the metal studs and buckles catching torchlight in jagged gleams. Wings flared just enough to remind everyone what they were — vast, membranous, shadows stretching long across the stone. Their faces bore the wear of a hundred campaigns: one scar bisected a cheek, another bent the line of a nose that had been broken too many times.

            " Papers. " one drawled, voice carrying both boredom and the promise of cruelty. His eyes gleamed too bright in the torchlight — the kind of eyes that had seen too much blood to care whose it was.

          Malou slid a folded parchment from her coat with a snap of her wrist. " Keir's invitation. " she said, pitched low, impatience cutting every word. " With entertainment. As requested. "

            The first guard's gaze dragged down Vythra's body, slow as oil, making the coins at her hips feel suddenly heavy — shackles dressed up as finery. His lip curled. " Veil. " He said. " Lift it. "

          Malou's hand shot out, fingers gripping Vythra's chin. Not cruel — possessive. Claiming. She tilted Vythra's face just enough for the torchlight to catch the veil. " You'll see what you paid for when my girl performs in the hall. " She said, voice gone sharp with hunger. " Not before. "

        The second guard barked a laugh, deep and ugly, the sound rattling in his chest like old mucus. His boots scraped against the cobbles as he prowled closer. The leathery whisper of his wings unfurling scraped at Vythra's nerves, and she swore she smelled the musk of unwashed skin and sweat rolling off him, sharpened by the acrid oil he used to keep his leathers supple.

          He circled, slow, deliberate — like a wolf testing the pen's bars. His knuckles brushed the haft of his halberd as if itching to feel the tempting fabrics dripping from Vythra's body. Torchlight gilded the scars that puckered his jawline, a roadmap of too many battles won at someone else's cost.

          " Your girl? " he drawled, tilting his head until the black plait of his hair brushed one wing. His grin split wide, showing too many teeth, yellowed a little at the edges. " And what's her specialty? "

          The crowd beyond the chain had quieted. Courtiers in their glittering silks leaned in, perfume thick as sweet flowers on the air, eyes bright with cruelty. Some chuckled behind jeweled hands, waiting for a show, while others whispered wagers to each other, rings flashing like talons. Vythra felt the weight of every stare press against her skin, the veil suddenly too thin, her breath shallow beneath it.

          Malou didn't so much as flinch. Her chocolate eye stayed fixed on the first guard, flat and calculating. " She makes men forget to breathe. " Her timbre changed slightly, using an intriguing tone to lace her rough voice.

          The second guard's grin widened until it carved his face into something feral. The scent of his breath reached her — pork and wine — as he leaned just close enough for her stomach to turn. " Prove it. "

          Vythra's pulse thudded so hard she swore the veil must be trembling with it. But she forced her lashes low, masking her eyes, and stepped into the moonlight. The gauze across her mouth caught the glow, turning molten gold — hiding the tremor in her breath.

          One slow roll of her hips. Not clumsy, not overt — but the way she'd seen women move in Thaibar, the way they danced in her old world: professional, sensual, deliberate. She was no master. She had no teacher. Only stolen memories of bodies swaying in videos, bellies rippling like water, wrists painting the air with invitation.

          She prayed they wouldn't see the difference. That they wouldn't notice she was a novice, that instinct alone carried her. Her body remembered what her mind didn't — the rhythm of hips, the subtle pull of ribcage and stomach, the invitation of a spine that bent and unbent like a bow. A ripple beneath the silk, liquid and sinuous, like a tide that drew you out only to drag you under again.

          Not vulgar. Not yet. Just enough.

          The first guard's mouth parted, breath stalling. He caught himself too late. The chain lifted. The halberds lowered.

          " Go. " the first guard muttered at last, though his voice rasped with something closer to shame than authority. His gaze flicked once more over Vythra's form before he added, too loud, " Hopefully your girl does more than just wiggle her hips. "

          Malou's grip lingered on Vythra's chin, possessive, claiming, before she released her with a push. The brim of her hat threw her scar into darkness, but the smirk curling her mouth was full of promises.

          " Don't let her wander. " The guard pressed, forcing his voice steady, as if reminding himself of the power he was supposed to hold. His eyes slid away first. " Keir doesn't like lost toys. "

          " Neither do I... " Malou purred as she steered Vythra forward without looking back, boots striking the cobblestone alley in steady rhythm. Together they slipped past the chain, past the halberds, into the waiting throat of the mountain.

          The road to Hewn City coiled like a scar along the mountain's flank. The further they climbed, the thinner the torches burned, until only the cold gleam of faelight guided the carriages and riders pressing upward. Rich fae sat in lacquered coaches veined with gold, veils of silk spilling from their windows; poorer courtiers trudged behind on foot, dressed in patched leathers, jeweled trinkets dangling cheap and obvious from their necks. All of them wanted the same thing — Keir's favor, or the chance to tear down someone with more than they had.

          " How will Sorscha know where the blades are hidden?  " Vythra wondered, pressing the words down her bond, praying the channel was still alive.

          Malou's answer came low, steady, almost like the rumble of stone beneath their feet. " Through our carranam bond. She can feel them — their pull. But she can't wield them without my leave. That's why the timing must be perfect. We share blood, and only then will the blades allow her to take them. Without it... "  Malou's mouth twisted in a humorless smirk, the pale scar across her profile turning mean. " ...they'll burn you from the inside out. Agony until you beg for death. "

          Her one good eye flicked toward the hall, fierce and sure, daring anyone here to even try. The weight of her certainty pressed heavy above them, these weren't just weapons. They were Malou's, a true valkyrie to the marrow and beyond. And in this cursed court, no hand but hers would claim them.

          By the time Malou tugged her past the gates, Vythra's breath had turned shallow.

          Inside, the Hewn City breathed with life, if life could reek of perfume and weed. The grand hall unfolded in terraces and shadows, obsidian pillars rising like petrified trees. Blue fire curled in basins along the walls, their flames too steady, too cold, as if warmth had been bled out of them. Music thrilled from a dais where masked musicians sawed at their strings like they meant to punish them into screaming.

          The fae of the court sprawled across couches and along the steps, rich and poor alike. Jewels glinted on collars, at throats, across wrists, but some of the gowns were stitched with uneven thread, some of the shoes worn thin — desperation dressed up as decadence. Their faces were painted in cruel masks of amusement, as if their laughter was a blade they honed on one another.

          " I'm through. " Sorscha whispered into their minds. Her projected shape slid like a shiver along the far wall. To most it was invisible, but Vythra felt the prickle down her spine, the faint tug of threads brushing the air. " The blades are in the reliquary chamber. Wards. Old ones. Nothing I'm not used to. I'll give you the sign when I'm near them, Malou. "

          Malou's hand pressed hard at Vythra's back, guiding her down some spiralling stairs that fed into the main floor. Vythra's gaze skated across this masquarade, with wolves draped on cushions, every eye hungry. She kept her chin tilted just enough to look exotic, submissive.

          Then the hall opened wider, spilling them into a ballroom drowning in light. Dozens of chandeliers floated high above, their candles dripping lilac and amber fire that clung to every curve of the room. Shadows bent beneath the glow, making the carvings along the black walls writhe like living things.

          Fae courtiers shimmered beneath it all — draped in satins and gauzes dyed in venomous hues: emerald, garnet, lapis, obsidian. Threads of metallic embroidery caught the light like molten veins, turning each body into a walking treasure hoard. Their adornments weren't jewels, not here — they were shards of the night itself, carved gems that glimmered like trapped starlight, chains of hammered bronze and pale platinum coiled at throats and wrists.

          The air was dense with scent: spiced wine, crushed violets, musk from too many perfumed bodies pressed too close. The sweetness clung like honey left too long in the sun, thick enough to choke. Beneath it slithered the sharper tang of sweat and weapon oil — proof that every laugh was a mask stretched thin over menace.

          Music pulsed from the dais at the room's far edge: strings strained to the point of pain, drums beating with a rhythm that wasn't human. Not a song, but a command to move, to bare, to submit.

          Vythra's stomach tightened. She had read of Hewn Court feasts — the rumors of depravity, of revels where cruelty itself was art — but no words had captured this. The way the laughter rose too high, then broke off too sharp. The way the air vibrated with hunger, with eyes that stripped her bare. Her pulse hammered. She was prey in a hall full of predators — and every polished smile was a fang waiting to sink.

          Malou's voice brushed her ear, low and dry. " Keep your chin up. You look like you're about to vomit on their marble. "

          " Would that be so bad? " Vythra muttered back, lips barely moving. " Might be the most honest thing in this room. "

          Malou's mouth curved in the ghost of a grin. " Careful, Stumbles. Honesty here gets you gutted faster than a liar. "

          Vythra rolled her shoulders, the coins at her hips chiming faintly. " Then I'll make sure to lie beautifully. "

          That earned her a real smirk — quick, sharp, gone before anyone else could see.

          Around them, courtiers leaned in closer, whispers fluttering like moths in the candlelight. Some laughed at nothing at all, their voices edged too high. Others turned to track Malou and her "entertainment," eyes gleaming with the hunger of a pack waiting for fresh meat.

          At the room's heart, on a raised dais like a judge's bench, Keir sat with the air of a man who had never once known mercy. She had read of him, heard whispers — cruel, clever, slippery. She had imagined a gaunt schemer, weak beneath his arrogance. The man before her was worse.

          Keir's face was carved with disdain, every line an accusation. His hair, dark as wet stone, gleamed, his robes cut sharp and severe, stitched with threads that caught the faelight. His smile wasn't sly or mocking. It was worse — a smile as if cruelty was the only language he'd ever spoken.

          Her stomach twisted. The books had made him sound like a petty tyrant. The truth was more dangerous: a man who enjoyed making others squirm, who could turn silence into punishment and laughter into threat.

          Vythra knew without being told that this was Keir. His presence was the rot at the heart of the mountain. And beside him, on a lower but central platform, two empty chairs waited like thrones for shadows who did not need crowns.

          Vythra's feet stilled, rooted to the polished obsidian floor. Malou's hand clamped hard around her wrist and tugged her forward, a silent snarl in the pressure of her grip: don't you dare freeze now.

          She had seen sketches, read rumors, swallowed the myth of him: the High Lord of Night, the beautiful poison, the smiling knife. None of it captured the truth.

          Rhysand was not the wicked king from drunken stories. He was lovelier and more terrible than Vythra had ever imagined. The sketches she'd seen, the portraits whispered by the people in her old world— they had come close, but none of them captured the weight of him. He seemed rougher, older, not a young man wrapped in legend, but a man — in every sense of the word.

          He was polished to perfection, each angle deliberate, the dark suit drew out every strength he possessed, cutting along his frame as though it had been made to showcase power. And yet, even from the long stretch of floor between the doors and the dais, she could still see it: the warrior beneath the polish, the predator behind the elegance, his lilac eyes shining like an eternal sky full of burning stars.

          Moonlight seemed to crown him, clinging to the line of his jaw, pooling in the midnight cotton at his shoulders, bending itself around him as though the night obeyed. His body sprawled with deceptive ease, a long figure reclined as if bored, one hand draped along the arm of his chair. Careless, it might have seemed. But Vythra saw the truth.

          Not careless. Never careless.

          It was the stillness of a predator who knew — bone-deep, absolute — that nothing in this hall could touch him. Every glance, every slight tilt of his head was honed, deliberate, a performance of effortless command. A promise unspoken but clear as breath: this court existed at his mercy, and his mercy alone.

          And a step behind, just off his right shoulder, stood the reason Vythra's skin prickled like frost.

          Engulfed in darkness, embraced by shadows that slithered like living things, he stood in the farthest corner of the ballroom. The gloom seemed to welcome him, to fold around him like an ally. Only his eyes betrayed him — treacherous, burning, twin torches in the dim revel. They cut across the hall with merciless precision, tracing every arch, every exit, every trembling body with the patience of a predator who had all night to choose where to strike.

          Azriel.

          Quiet as a secret. Lethal as an unanswered prayer. A woman's wet dream and a man's sweaty nightmare. The kind of presence you didn't notice until you realized you'd stopped breathing.

          Not the haunted shadow from her memories — this was colder. He wore night itself like armor. The dark leathers clung so close they might have been poured onto him, molded to muscle and sinew until flesh and shadow were one. Gauntlets sheathed his wrists with ruthless neatness, every buckle and strap pulled tight, screaming in protest as they stretched across the breadth of his chest and the thick lines of his thighs. The siphons at his hands and shoulders caught the candlelight, small suns imprisoned in garnet, restraining the blue tide of power that churned beneath his skin. The air didn't empty around him — it gathered, a hush, as if the gloom bent closer to hear whatever he might command of it.

          His face was carved with patience, curly strands of dark brown hair falling smoothly against his forehead. His gaze skimmed the room with the precision of a man deciding not who lived, but where the bodies would fall when he was finished.

           Vythra's swallowed thickly, feeling herself once again a teenager that fell in love with the cool guy at school. He was beautiful, yes — more beautiful than even the High Lord who sat enthroned before him. A crueler beauty — honed and merciles, obssessive even. Her chest tightened. How could she hope to draw eyes here? How could a human body — small, fragile, unremarkable beside these eternal, impossibly elegant fae — command attention under this chandelier that poured light onto perfection itself?

          Her human skin. Her mortal hips. Her chest bound in silk and coins like a child playing dress-up in a goddess's mirror. She smoothed her breath before it rattled through the veil. But the thought pressed harder, choking: This plan was doomed from the start.

          And still, Malou's grip steadied her.

          " Eyes down. " Malou breathed so only Vythra could hear. " You look like you want to bite him. "

           " I do. " Vythra said, and felt Malou's mouth twitch.

          A herald lifted a staff and struck the floor once. " A gift to our gracious host. " He intoned. " An amusement from distant sands. "

          Malou pressed a hand to the small of Vythra's back—more command than comfort—and pushed her forward. Silk sighed. Coins chimed. As she reached the empty circle of polished floor, the musicians shifted to a rhythm she had taught them with a bribe—low, sinuous, building like a storm that seduces you into walking outside. The drums began slow, a deep, steady thrum that teased more than it promised. Each beat rolled through the obsidian floor and into her bones, daring her hips to follow. Above, the chandelier dimmed, its glow thinning to amber, cloaking her in shadows and gold, shaping the air into something intimate, illicit.

          Then a violin joined — its voice fierce, aching, drawn long across the strings as if it spilled heartache with every note. The rhythm swelled, drums and violin twining together, the steady heartbeat quickening into something hungrier. A song not of joy, but of temptation and threat. It was not a dance for celebration. It was a dance for dominance, for survival — and it wrapped itself around Vythra like a leash she had no choice but to pull.

          The musicians shifted, strings groaning low, then tumbling into a rhythm that was not Hewn City's usual dirge. It was older, rawer — the kind of music that pressed into the bones, tugging hips and ribs without permission. To Vythra, it was almost familiar. Almost home.

          Coins whispered at her waist as she stepped barefoot into the circle of polished obsidian floor. The light fell hard, torches hissing, catching on the veil that shimmered over her mouth and nose. The first roll of her hips was a whisper, subtle enough that a few lords laughed, jeering as though mocking a child's trick. But then the second came — sharper, cleaner, rippling through her stomach like a wave uncoiling. Her arms lifted, wrists loose, fingers trailing shapes into the air as though she painted with smoke.

          The mocking laughter thinned.

           The drums quickened, the violin crying low, and Vythra danced with it, silk moving lihe ghosts, leaving too much skin displayed. Her hips circled, liquid and deliberate, her belly rippling in waves that traveled up into the arch of her ribs and down into the tilt of her thighs. Each motion was sinuous, sharp, wholly unlike the stiff, formal steps the fae were used to.

          A hush settled, spreading outward like ripples on water. Some watched in disbelief — a mortal woman daring to move like this in their court, half-bare under their chandeliers. Others leaned forward, their sneers faltering, their eyes catching on the strange, hypnotic rhythm.

          They had never seen a dance like this — not the elegant, twirling patterns of their own halls, but something sensual in its control, indecent even. A dance meant to command the gaze, to pull it in and drown it, not to politely entertain. It was vulgar to their eyes, yes, but mesmerizing. Each sway of her hips, each barefoot step, each glide of her arms pulled them further.

          Even the cruelest among them found themselves stilled. Goblets paused halfway to lips. One lord's smirk cracked into slack-jawed silence. Another shifted in his seat, eyes bright with something between hunger and unease.

          A ripple of laughter greeted her first turn. Jeers, murmured wagers, some smirking lord already snapping his fingers for more wine.

          She let them jeer.

          Her hips rolled once, slow, deliberate, and the laughter hitched. Fingers stilled on goblets. She let her waist twirl like a snake's dance, her chest rising and folding in rhythm with the drums. Arms arched, wrists loose, fingers trailing silhouettes on the walls. Each movement vulgar to their eyes, yes — but controlled, a chain of power she wrapped around the room one sway at a time.

          Keir leaned forward in his seat, his smile bold, his glass of wine forgotten on some servant's tray. The lords at his right shifted closer, eyes bright and hungry.

          At the dais above, Rhysand lounged in his chair, chin resting on his knuckles, violet gaze half-lidded. Boredom, the picture of it. But his eyes never truly left her. He watched the room as much as he watched the dancer — calculating, waiting. The ghost of a smirk curved his mouth, as if he remembered someone else doing the same some time ago.

          Vythra spun, green veil flashing, making her eyes mirror the color like a bottomless ocean.

          When she came up from the dip, she risked it — a glance at the Shadowsinger who stood a step behind Rhysand's shoulder. 

           Azriel hadn't moved since she began. Wings tucked close, hands steady at his sides, knife forgotten on the table. His eyes tracked her not hungrily, not even with interest, but with cold attention. His shadows were restless — not slithering, not hissing, but taut, like hounds straining on a leash.

          Her glamour shivered under their scrutiny. She felt it, the way they pawed at the seams of her disguise, brushing the edges of her skin like icy fingers. She danced harder. Faster. The beat pulled her ribs apart, her hips writing sinuous script across the floor. Bangles sang in time, her long, emerald skirt fluttered with every sharp move.

          The court erupted — cheers, shouts, one lord slamming a fist against his table, another already reaching for her with wine-slick fingers. But, the only pair of eyes that mattered were his, Azriel's, unmoving, fixed and sharp, his entire body humming with the kind of patience that waits for a mistake.

           Vythra dipped low again, her shoulders brushing the floor. When she rose, her eyes found his across the distance, just for a heartbeat. His stare didn't waver. Didn't blink. And though his face gave nothing, she felt it — the pressure of his recognition, not of her face, but of the wrongness in her. The way prey recognizes the wolf.

            " Found them. " Sorscha breathed. Her astral body drifted through the reliquary's arch like air, slipping between a row of guards who never even twitched. Their armor clinked, their breaths steamed in the torchlight — yet her presence passed through them without stirring a hair. Cold brushed their napes, a prickle none of them heeded. She was unseen, unfelt, nothing but a ripple in the dark.

           She stepped warily, the chamber swallowing her whole. Darkness pressed close, broken only by a scatter of guttering candles that made thin halos onto the stone. Even the air seemed to bow, heavy and reverent, before the stand at the room's center.

          The rack rose from the floor like a relic dredged from the deep. Carved from whale-bone, its surface yellowed with centuries, every curve groaned with old weight. Runes inked so deep into its frame they seemed to glow of their own accord — faint, blue-white sparks that pulsed like veins under skin.

          Across its arms lay the blades. Two of them, stark and waiting, their edges bound by chains so thick the links looked grown rather than forged. Each link was etched with symbols that stank of salt and dust, the reek of tides and burial mounds clinging to them. Old magic — older than any court, older than the mountain itself. The kind of magic that remembered the sea's hunger and would not easily release what it held

          The blades were not pretty. Not meant to be. They bore no jewels, no gilded hilts, no ornament for courts to fawn over. Their steel was darker, folded and hammered until the ripples shimmered faint as water when faelight struck. They were built for endurance, for killing, for the hands of warriors who had no need of beauty when death itself was their adornment.

          One was long, broad, its edge nicked with faint scars that spoke of battles it had survived. The other, slightly shorter, curved almost imperceptibly, balanced for speed, for slicing through armor and bone alike. Their hilts were wrapped in old leather, cracked but fierce, as though the grip remembered the palms of the woman who had carried them into wars long forgotten.

          These were Valkyrie blades. Born for necessary violence, for the sisterhood that chose to fight when all else had fallen. They radiated not elegance, but inevitability.

          Sorscha reached, forgeting the blades were cursed, her breath catching as her fingers hovered above the hilts. Awe thrummed through her — not just for the steel itself, but for the weight of history that seemed to wake beneath her touch. For a heartbeat she was elsewhere, long ago, when she had been whole, when laughter and light had not yet abandoned her court, when their kind still walked the earth and their banners still flew proud. The blades pulsed with it, a memory pressing against her skin, reminding her of everything stolen.

           The moment her fingers brushed the nearest hilt, light flared — searing, white, alive. Pain tore through her hand, hot and merciless, as if the blade itself rejected her. The chains rattled, runes burning brighter, their glow like lightning pressed against skin.

          " Three, " she hissed, voice breaking as she drew her astral knife. " Two, " She dragged it across her palm, blood spilling into the runes. " One. "

          Vythra's red lips curled beneath the veil in something that wasn't quite a smile — more a challenge, sharp and fleeting. Then she spun, hips snapping, bracelets at her ankles catching the torchlight in a shower of glittering sparks.

          Across the hall, Malou moved with perfect timing. She plucked a goblet from a lord's careless hand, lifted it as though to toast, then smashed it against her own palm. Crystal shattered with a vicious crack, red spilling bright and fast over her knuckles. She hissed through her teeth, shaking her hand like the clumsy act of a drunk, but her single pale eye never wavered from its purpose.

           Blood dripped, pattering against the polished obsidian floor — feeding the wards as surely as Sorscha's cut far away. Sorscha's hand slammed onto the hilt again, finally able to touch them through their carranam bond.

          But Azriel didn't laugh. He only tilted his head, just slightly, like a hawk deciding whether the thing before him was worth the strike.

          She gave herself one glance, the way a cliff lets a wave strike once out of arrogance. He hadn't moved. But the knife in his hand had stopped its idle rotation. The air around him thickened a hair's breadth. As if something in him knew of her glamour—not as a face, but as a flavor he'd tasted before.

          She smiled, sweet and hidden behind the veil, and turned her back.

          " Hold! " Malou murmured from the hall's edge, eyes fixed on Vythra with a fury that read as possession to any who looked. " Stretch them longer. "

           Vythra arched backward until her hair brushed the floor, veil whispering along stone. A lord leaned too far out of his chair and nearly toppled; laughter sparked like flint. She came up in a roll that flashed her stomach and pinned three conversations where they sat.

          Outside, Sorscha's body jerked. The threads at her lips sputtered. On the wall above, the soldier's boot scuffed rock.

          Misty's ears went flat.

          Inside the reliquary, Sorscha changed tack. Not brute force. A seamstress's patience. She let her astral fingers slip between the links instead of fighting them, let the pain sing through her until she found the rhythm that wasn't hers. " Who forged you? " She asked the metal, not with words but with the shape of wanting. The chain's runes thrummed, and something ancient answered not in language but in refusal.

           The Bloody Blade. The Bloody Blade. They seem to whisper back.

           " Fine. " Sorscha hissed aloud, unseen, and drove the point of a conjured needle into her astral palm. Blood—hers, now—beaded and fell. It shone like mercury in the wardlight. She smeared that silver pain along the base of both blades and whispered a lilting pattern that sounded like a loom. The air kinked.

          The blades vanished from the stand.

          Straps snapped tight around her real thighs outside the city, leather biting as if hands had buckled them. Sorscha gasped at the sudden weight; they were home to someone, but for now they would tolerate her as courier. She rose, shaky and triumphant.

           Boots scraped again on rock. Misty spun, fur ballooning, and hissed a warning.

            " Problems.... " Malou said under her breath from the hall, through the mental connection Sorscha provided. " You're about to lose them. "

           Not the blades. The room.

           Vythra felt it too: attention like a wave cresting. She swept up a wine glass from a table, spun under it, and let it slip like an accident. It shattered with a bright, delighted shriek. Every head near her turned. Two guards took a step away from the reliquary hall instinctively—toward the sound of breaking, not away from what mattered.

           " Coming out. " Sorscha said. " The shield's almost up. Get ready. "

           Vythra's ankle bells sang. She made men forget that blood could exist.

          But one pair of eyes did not blink. Azriel's.

           He had never been a man for spectacle. The court's noise was only a hum at the edge of his senses. The dancer was skilled — too skilled. The glamour around her face was flawless, yet the air at her wrists and throat wavered, trembling like heat above summer stone. His darkness leaned toward her, restless, the way a hound leans toward a scent it cannot place.

          And then she crossed the line. At the far end of the hall, Malou tensed, every muscle ready to strike if this went wrong. Vythra slipped closer, hips swaying in a rhythm measured to the drumbeat, each step threaded with defiance. The coins at her waist whispered with every movement, her crowned forehead tilted low in mock deference — a bow meant to insult as much as obey.

          In one unhurried sweep, her hand slid to his side. Fingers grazed the hilt of his dagger — and the hard plane of leather stretched across his abdomen. A touch that pretended to ask permission but was nothing of the sort. A taunt. A dare. She toyed too close to the stance of a man who could gut her in a breath.

          Vythra's gray eyes fixed on him, unblinking, as if the whole hall had fallen away. His gaze caught hers — whiskey-dark, molten amber rimmed in shadow. She drank it in like liquor, burning her throat, warming and scalding all at once.

          She inhaled. His scent filled her — cedar, cold mist, the lingering aroma of his soap. Not sweet, not safe, but good enough to snap through her fear and ignite her courage. Azriel did not stop her. He did not flinch. His gaze only lowered, steady as a guillotine, watching her hand as though wondering just how long he'd let her live for the indulgence. 

          A bold tongue of shadow jolted awake, snapping through the air like a whip. It darted forward before Azriel could stop it, curling around a loose strand of her red hair, catching it in a caress that felt too close to a claim. The wine-red lock shivered in its grasp, and for a breath the shadow refused to let go — as if it knew her better than he allowed himself to.

          She drew it, the weight of true steel flashing under the chandeliers, and spun it along her palm as if it were no more than a ribbon, each turn of her wrist deliberate, until steel and silk seemed part of the same rhythm. She made the weapon a prop, a partner, letting it arc with her hips, gleam down her ribs.

            The fae gasped — some in outrage, others in delight. A mortal girl daring to touch the Shadowsinger's blade, to twine war with seduction.

          Azriel set his own knife down on the table beside him. Slowly. Precisely. His chin lifted by a fraction, hazel eyes narrowing. The room may as well have emptied. Only she remained, her emerald veil moving just enough to catch a glimpse of her red stained lips, his dagger singing in her hand.

           His shadows crawled at his shoulders, restless, hungry. One wrong slip, one falter, and they would strike.

          Rhys, without looking away from Keir, murmured, " You feel that? "

          Azriel's voice didn't move air. " Yes. "

          " Where? "

          He didn't point. " Everywhere. " Then the wards screamed.

          The torches guttered, then roared white, throwing every cruel face into stark relief. The bell tolled deep in the mountain's bones, once, twice, again — a sound that meant no one in the Hewn City would be allowed to forget this night. Courtiers scattered like startled birds, their jewels clattering, their laughter shattering into shrieks. Guards surged, steel hissing from sheaths.

          Keir rose in a serpent's coil, robes whispering against the dais. His smile faltered as he threw orders around.

          And on the throne's lower step, Rhysand finally straightened. He didn't move quickly — he didn't need to. A flick of his fingers quieted the guards nearest him, his violet gaze sweeping the chaos with slow precision. Not rage. Not shock. Calculation. He tracked the dancer, the broken circle of nobles, the smashed glass still bleeding Malou's hand, and the sound of the wards howling in the dark. His mouth curved, not into a smile, but something far more dangerous: his brother was right, she was right under their noses.

          Azriel did not stay seated. He was already moving, silent and deadly, slipping from Rhys's side with the speed of sound. His hand was on his second blade before the first guard even raised his halberd. His eyes never left her — the dancer who had dared touch his dagger, who now bolted for the doors with coins chiming like war drums.

          His wings flared once, low and sharp, shadows snapping out like whips.

          Rhys lifted his chin, voice smooth and unhurried, carrying above the din: " It's her, Az. "

          Azriel's hazel eyes narrowed.  He simply vanished into the chaos, the only promise in his silence: if she ran, she would be found.

          Malou and Vythra ran for their life. Down a side passage, past a carved pillar whose relief showed something drowning, across a balcony slick with spilled wine. The alarm changed pitch—someone had noticed not just a disturbance, but a theft. From a high arch came a stabbing glare of light as Sorscha's projected shape tore free of the wall, invisible but felt. " Turn left. " she snapped through the bond. " Left—there's a servant's hall— "

          " Stairs. " Malou snapped, her gaze cutting through the chaos, mapping exits the way only a soldier could. Every torch, every guard, every line of sight—she read them all in a heartbeat.

          Her brimmed hat went first, flung aside to vanish beneath trampling feet. Then the black coat followed, the binding beneath straining as she ripped free of the false bulk that had hidden her frame. No time for disguise now. The man was gone. What remained was Malou—scarred, lean, lethal. Malou's pale eye flashed as she shoved Vythra ahead, voice rough with command. " Move. Faster. "

          Behind them, the Hewn City erupted. The palace that had moments ago hummed with music now thrashed with panic: courtiers shrieking, jewels scattering underfoot, goblets shattering as fae shoved each other to escape the bell's merciless toll. The obsidian corridors funneled the flood of bodies, turning every step into a battlefield of flailing limbs and fear.

          Vythra stumbled once, nearly trampled, her veil tugged sideways as she clawed her way forward. Malou's hand was iron on her wrist, dragging her through the crush. When the first guard lunged, Malou hurled a chair into his chest, splinters cracking, buying them a breath. She didn't stop — every table, every discarded goblet became a weapon she flung behind them, anything to slow the predator she knew was coming.

          And he came. Azriel didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He didn't need to.

          A flash of steel whistled through the air. One of his knives spun end over end, slicing so close Vythra felt the draft of it — before it clipped Malou's ear. A sharp line of blood split her pointed tip, hot and immediate.

          Malou swore, vicious and guttural, the kind of curse only a soldier would spit in the face of death. She whirled, teeth bared, and seized the nearest thing — a heavy candlestick from a shattered sconce. With all the fury in her scarred body, she hurled it down the corridor.

          The iron slammed against the wall beside Azriel's head, scattering sparks. He didn't so much as flinch. Another blade had already filled his hand, shadows writhing in time with the faint glow of his siphons.

          " Coward! " Malou spat, blood trailing down her neck. " Try fighting a woman to her face, not her back! "

          Azriel's gaze slid to her — cold, unbothered — before it returned to Vythra as if Malou had never spoken.

          The hall itself seemed to yield before him, shadows peeling along the walls in hooked talons, dragging at every corner, reaching. His face was carved in marble, unreadable but for the sharp clench of his jaw. His siphons glowed faintly in the chaos, each jewel catching the torchlight like falling stars. His wings folded close, tight for the chase, every movement a lesson in controlled fury.

          The crowd tried to dissipate in his path, but he moved through them as if they were ants. Shoulders slammed aside, spines bent under his momentum, a hiss of pain trailing him with every contact. He grunted once — a low, guttural sound — when a panicked noble clawed across his chest, and the fae dropped instantly, shadows curling tight around their throat until they vanished into the press.

          Vythra dared one glance over her shoulder — and wished she hadn't.

            His piercing gaze had found her. Whiskey, glowing like precious gems under forge flame, locked to her through the chaos. Not frantic. Not hurried. Certain. He did not look at the others. Only her.

            Her stomach plunged. The veil clung to her lips with the heat of her breath, her body screaming at her to run faster. She shoved forward, skirts tangling at her thighs, her bare feet bleeding from all the glasses she gathered along the run, Malou tearing obstacles into Azriel's path — a table overturned, a pitcher flung hard enough to smash against the wall and spray shards like daggers.

          None of it slowed him.

          When he came around the corner and found them, he didn't break stride. His hand lifted — not for a blade, but for something deeper, more binding. The chain in their chests snapped taut, then went feather-light, as if the gulf between them had shrunk to nothing more than a breath, a kiss not yet taken. Shadows surged with it, claws dragging across the walls, groping like a dozen unseen hands eager to drag her down.

          Cold flooded ahead of him, rushing faster than his steps, an invisible tide that pressed into her lungs, her bones, until the air itself seemed to bend beneath his inevitability. He reached for her shoulder, his gloved fist opening, closing, ready to seize her by the hair — and in that instant the world shrank. The corridor vanished. The crowd blurred into nothing. There was no flight, no mercy, no space left to run.

          There was only him.

          " Now! " Sorscha said, voice like a struck gong, and slammed a barrier into existence between hunter and prey. Mauve electricity spidered from floor to ceiling, cracking the air. The stink of ozone hit like a slap.

          Azriel struck the shield full-on. Light roared over him, crawling along his leathers and across every scarred plane of his face like a storm devouring the mountain itself. For a heartbeat, the glare flung his own reflection back at him — fury and desperation fused into something unearthly, terrible, a creature sculpted from restraint and shadow barely contained.

          His canines split his lip, copper flooding his tongue, grounding him in the taste of his own rage. Muscles locked, chest heaving as the force shoved him backward, but still he leaned in, teeth bared — a predator's snarl without sound, the promise of violence denied.

          Not again, he told the storm. He could not lose her again. Not until he tested his theory. Not until he knew.

          But the magical wall did not yield, sparkling and electric. Its lattice of pale violet lightning hummed on, merciless and bright, every thread singing with ancient power. His shadows raged against it, lashing and recoiling, useless — hounds snapping their fangs against a gate that would not open.

          Vythra hesitated, her steps snagging on the slick stone as the barrier shuddered between them. Malou's curse split the air, raw and ugly, but before she could drag Vythra forward again, the girl wrenched the veil from her face. She stepped dangerously close, close enough that the humming wall of magic crackled heat across her skin. Close enough to smell him — cedar and mist, sweat and steel — bleeding through the barrier like a memory that didn't belong to her. Close enough to see the gold flecks sparking in his whiskey-brown eyes, molten and merciless. Close enough to catch the faint curl of his canines, sharp as hunger itself, bared in a silent promise.

          " Perfect timing for a staring contest, Stumbles. Shall we wait until he memorizes your freckles or maybe he'll gnaw through the wall faster? " Blood still dripped down the curve of her ear, catching in the collar of her now dirty, white shirt, tied in the middle with a small corset, but Malou only grinned — wild and sarcastic.

          Vythra's gaze lingered on him for one defiant heartbeat. Then she lifted her hand, slow and deliberate, fingers fluttering in a lazy, mocking wave. A farewell. A taunt. Bye-bye. Her steps snagging on the slick stone as the fortification threw purple electric bolts between them, accentuating their meeting. Her dye stained mouth curved, red, plump, defiant. " Guess even shadows can't cross every wall. "

          His answer was immediate, quiet enough that only she heard, his voice the epitome of a promised death. " Run while you can. " The barrier shivered with his words, the air itself taut as a bowstring. " I like the chase. " The Shadowsinger's eyes — already blazing in the chaos — darkened further. His shadows writhed and slammed against the barrier, serpents snapping to spill blood. His blue syphons shone, his power struck once, twice, light crawling across his leathers in furious bursts, mauve and dark cobalt.

          The words hadn't even faded when a bold comrade, a limb of blackness, struck the shield demandingly, right in front of her face. The magic flared white-hot, blinding, the impact so violent it rattled her teeth. The barrier quivered, threads singing as if about to snap. For an instant, the wall between them was all light and smoke, and she swore she felt the brush of fingers against her scarred cheek, as though his hand had almost made it through.

          Her stomach dropped, fear and adrenaline tangling into one. Malou's snarl cut the moment: " Move, Stumbles, before he finds a way to prove it! "

          The air in the corridor locked tight. For a heartbeat, the entire mountain seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if he would break through. And so they ran, the echo of their footfalls dwindling into the dark, leaving Azriel caged in lilac light, lips peeled back in a silent snarl that promised this wasn't over.

          On the mountainside, where Sorscha still knelt with her palms pressed to the earth, boots crunched closer through gravel and grass. Each step was slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of a man who knew prey was near. His breath rasped like a saw through wood, jagged and hungry in every drag.

          The tall grass and junipers should have hidden her. But the potion's power was fraying — its veil unraveling thread by thread. Their scent lifted into the cold night air, winding straight into a soldier's trained nostrils. He stopped, sniffed once, and changed course. Misty stiffened first. Her ears snapped forward, tail lashing, a low growl rolling from her chest like thunder in miniature.

          " Steady, little flame... " Sorscha murmured, voice split between two worlds. Threads burned raw at her lips as she clung to the projection inside Hewn City, but her gaze flicked once to the silver shadow crouched beside her. " Wait for him. "

         The soldier lunged, sword flashing. Misty leapt.

          She slammed into his face with the fury of something twice her size, claws sinking deep into flesh, carving ragged lines from cheekbone to jaw. His roar shattered the night, half-blinded, blood spraying hot across the grass. He swung the pommel of his blade with brutal force.

           " Misty! " Sorscha's cry split the air as steel met fur and bone.

          The blow caught the cat midair. Misty twisted, yowling, struck the ground with a sickening thud. She limped, paw bent wrong, but rose again. Her back arched, fur bristling, teeth bared in a snarl that split the chaos inside the tall obsidian walls. Her yellow eyes blazed defiance — unbroken.

          Sorscha's lilac gaze snapped open fully, burning in both realms at once. Threads at her lips blazed white-hot as she dragged Malou's twin blades into her hands. Her cloak tore in the night wind, hair whipping like a comet's tail, the white stitching on her robe flashing as if alive.

          The Illyrian soldier grinned when he saw her armed, cocky and provocateur, his wings flaring with predatory arrogance. He rolled his shoulders once, testing his grip, then lunged without patience.

          Steel met steel in a scissoring block. Sparks spat like fireflies, the clash ringing through the mountain. Sorscha twisted, diverting the killing thrust by a breath — but not before the edge bit deep across her shoulder. Flesh parted. Blood sheeted hot down her arm, dripping in heavy beats into the dirt, staining the sanctity of the whiteness of her sleeve.

          Inside the palace, the shield flared and faltered. Its glow guttered, trembling like a candle caught in storm-wind. Azriel felt it. The weave thinned — just a breath, a shiver in the magic. He lunged, shadows hammering the seam like starving hounds. His hand struck next, siphons blazing as he shoved raw power into the crack. Light seared his skin, blistered his gauntlets, the stench of burning leather curling into the air. He only bared his teeth, lips peeling back in a silent snarl, and forced harder. The barrier screamed, threads snapping one by one, bright as lightning — then it split.

          The Shadowsinger slid through.

          On the mountainside, Sorscha's knees bent low, her body coiled as she met the soldier's next strike. Her blades crossed high, catching his downward swing, then she twisted, grit and pebbles flying under her boots. With a guttural cry, she shoved forward, driving one sword up beneath his ribs. The steel tore through flesh and lung, bursting out his back. The soldier gagged, blood bubbling at his lips, eyes wide with shock as his own breath drowned him.

          Still, she did not stop. She ripped the blade free, spun with the other, and carved a savage line across his throat.

           " Move! " Malou barked, dragging Vythra down the last flight of steps, her voice all grit and command.

           Vythra shoved the vial into Malou's bloody fist. The liquid inside glowed faintly, yellow and viscous, sloshing. " Break it when you reach Sorscha and Misty. It'll pull you back to the continent. " Her breath hitched. " Don't waste it. "

           Malou’s pale eye flashed, raw with doubt. “What about you?”

          “ I’ll follow. ” Vythra lied, voice hard enough to pass for truth. “ Go! ”

          She shoved Malou into the shadows, saw her melt into the panicked crowd like smoke slipping through fingers. Then Vythra spun the other way, breaking against the tide, drawing the hunters. Her heart kicked so hard it rattled her ribs, but her face stayed cold. The pain in her back screeched against the muscles of her legs, begging to stop for a second. Her sole stung with each scratch. She would buy them time, no matter what.

          The Hewn City spilled open before her in jagged terraces of black stone, tier after tier stacked like broken teeth. The streets were deserted — not a lantern in a window, not a soul peeking out. Citizens had barred their shutters, bolted their doors, smothered their hearths. The silence of the place was worse than screams; it was the silence of prey hiding while predators hunted. Only the din behind her broke it — soldiers bellowing, boots hammering, wings cracking wide as they gave chase.

          Her silks tore in the wind as she ran, skirts flying around her legs, coins slapping against her hips with every stride. The glamour shimmered faintly over her face, but sweat burned under the mask, stinging her eyes. She could taste iron in her mouth — her own blood, or the city’s, she couldn’t tell.

          Below, the steps dropped into shadow where Aeria waited — ears pinned, nostrils flaring, foam streaking her bit. The mare’s hooves rang against stone, stamping sparks, the promise of speed and escape. Vythra hit the ground running, snatched the mare’s mane, and vaulted up in one ragged breath. She landed hard in the saddle, ribs jolting, but Aeria was already surging forward. Hooves cracked like thunder, striking fire from the black steps as they plunged downward.

          Behind them: chaos. The roar of voices, the whip of air as wings tore open, the thundering pursuit of armored mounts. A hundred soldiers, armed and starved for battle adrenaline, poured after her. Arrows hissed through the dark, slicing the air close enough to tug her hair, to sing against her ear. The shriek of steel filled the night, and still none struck true.

          It felt, for a breath, like the Mother’s own hand bent each killing blow aside — sparing her by inches, keeping her alive just long enough for the terror to root deeper in her bones.

          But Aeria was faster. She tore across stone and shadow, hooves hammering like war-drums, devouring the road toward the bend where Vythra meant to smash her vial and vanish into safety.

          A few more strides. A few more heartbeats— And then a child stumbled out between two carts. Small. Barefoot. Wide-eyed. Frozen like a rabbit in a snare.

          “ No— ” The word ripped from her throat, jagged. She wrenched Aeria’s reins so hard her arms screamed, the leather carving into her palms. “ Get back! Get out of the way! ”

          Too late. The boy’s feet were rooted in the dirt, knees knocking, tears shining in the torchlight. His mouth opened on a single word, high and broken: “Mama!”

          The roar of pursuit crashed down on her — soldiers bellowing, hooves splitting stone, wings tearing the air as Illyrians closed in from above. She heard the scrape of steel, the hiss of arrows. Death surged behind her like a tide, and she knew if she didn’t move now, both she and the child would be crushed into meat beneath them. There was no choice.

          Vythra leaned low, teeth clenched around a sob that never left her throat, and scooped him into her arms. His body was nothing but bone and terror, his fists clawing into her silk. His scream burned her ear. Her heart lurched so violently it stole her breath. Aeria surged forward. Behind them a spear shrieked through the night, kissing her bare thigh and ripping a part of the skirt clean away.

          Wind slapped her bare face, icy, merciless. Her hair streamed loose in a banner of red fire, her thin dress plastering to her skin with sweat and blood. Every inch of exposed flesh screamed target.

          And then she felt it — the air above her curdling bitter. A silhouette darker than night slid across the rooftop of a house they passed, so sharp it felt like winter raking down her spine. The boy whimpered against her chest. Vythra’s gut dropped: he was here. Watching. Hunting. The shield faltered and he was here to keep his promise.

          “ Where? Where do I drop you? ” She rasped, voice splintering under the strain. She didn’t dare look back. She couldn’t. Her whole body quaked with the knowledge that if she did, she’d see those gold-flecked eyes above her, bow already drawn.

          The boy's small hand trembled against her collarbone, hand pointed with a jerk toward a squat house, its door banging open, a woman’s scream splitting the night. Sobbing, he choked out a wordless sound.

          The air warped. A ripple, as if the world itself tried to wrench the moment aside. Wind bent, slow and thick as tar, dragging at the shaft of the arrow before it had even left the string. Time seemed to stop, to caress his anger, to mend his obsession. The Mother’s hand — desperate, protective — trying to twist destiny off its path.

          And then the night peeled open above them.

          Azriel dropped from the rooftops like a blade unsheathed from the sky, wings flaring wide, slicing silence into ribbons. Their span bent the air itself, heavy, inexorable, turning the street into a cage of shadow. He was silent as death, but the world seemed to groan under his arrival.

          He drew. For a heartbeat, only a heartbeat, his hand stilled. The child in her arms. Small, fragile, clutching her with blind trust. The chain in his chest jerked hard, a strangled plea not to release, not like this. The phantom scent of amber rose sharp in his nose, as if memory itself fought him, begged him to stop.

          But cruelty was discipline. And he had never failed twice.

          His face was carved from restraint and ferocity, cruelly beautiful in the moon’s glow, every sharp edge honed to a predator’s perfection. His nostrils flared as if the night itself had a scent he meant to devour, amber. It was as though the lunar goddess herself touched the roundness of his shoulders, urging him deeper into madness, feeding his fury, demanding the poisoned arrow find its mark.

          Gold flecks burned in his eyes like molten stars as his gaze locked onto her—the woman who had mocked him, slipped through his grasp, haunted his every shadow. She who had stolen, who had dared to trick him, came uninvited inside their house, who reigned over his nightmares.

          He would end it. Here. Now. No matter what fate whispered, no matter how important she might prove to this world, to his court, to the fragile balance they all fought to hold—he would not let her. She was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Too alive.

          And Azriel had sworn once, long ago, that nothing and no one would threaten his family and survive.

          The bow was no weapon in his hands. It was will made flesh. The string thrummed as he drew it back, shadows winding tight around the shaft, eager, impatient, their whispers hissing for blood. He touched the fletching to his cheek and breathed in. Not cinnamon. Not amber. Nothing but cold air and iron certainty. He ordered back the bold shadow that touched his knuckles, pleading to have mercy.

          He chose the line. Calculated the space that would carve her apart but leave the child untouched.

          He loosed.

          The arrow tore the night in half. It hissed like venom finally loosed from a fang, straight and merciless. The air bent again, thick and slow — the Mother’s will, trying to drag it away. But poison was older, heavier. His vial’s echo fought her, a darkness that gnawed through mercy, through faith, until the path straightened again.

          It struck. Between shoulderblade and spine.

          Her scream cracked open into the night as her breath snapped wide, stolen. Heat exploded outward — not blood’s heat, but wrong, oily, crawling, a weight that spread like tar under her skin. Poison, whispering through every vein. The vial in his pocket pulsed in answer, as though it knew.

          Azriel’s jaw clenched, his bow lowering fraction by fraction, his chest tight with the weight of the chain dragging deep. He had done it. He had marked her. And still, some part of him, buried under venom and victory, knew the taste of amber had not gone.

          The world reeled. Vythra dragged Aeria to a sliding halt. She half-fell, half-leapt down, shoved the boy into his mother's arms. Black and white faces spun in her vision, streaked by her own sweat. " Inside. " she rasped, her chest burning raw, " Lock the door. "

          Her fingers fumbled at her bodice. Glass pulsed there, a desperate heartbeat against her own. She ripped the vial free, slammed it onto the stone. It shattered with a shriek, releasing a bitter scent — acrid, metallic, like burning herbs. The air folded inward. Color devoured color.

          Aeria screamed, iron-shod hooves tearing sparks from cobble. Misty yowled, limped once, then hurled herself into the collapsing rip of magic. Sorscha's mind tugged taut like thread through a needle — and they were gone.

          Silence.

          Azriel landed a breath later, boots splashing into the bright smear she’d left behind. Not droplets. A line. Bold, unbroken. A trail meant for him, whether she knew it or not.

          He crouched in the street’s silence. Stripped his gloves off with deliberate slowness, as though the act itself was ritual. He pressed the leather into the gleaming stain, dragging until it was sodden, black-red. The metallic tang surged up, copper biting the back of his tongue. His chest rumbled once, low and animal. Not joy. Not triumph. Satisfaction. The clean click of a chain tightening, one step forward in the hunt.

          He pulled the gloves back on, flexed his fingers until the blood seeped through the seams. Then he looked toward the doorway where the widow clutched her child. Her eyes went wide, white-rimmed in the dark, before she pulled him tighter and vanished into shadow. He didn’t follow. He didn’t need to. He already had what he came for.

          “ Amren. ” he said to the night. 

          Above, on a balcony cut into the jagged face of the Hewn City, Rhysand leaned against the stone railing. Moonlight caught in his violet eyes, turning them into polished amethysts. His voice drifted down. “ Well? ”

          Azriel didn’t look up. “ We have her blood. ”

          “ And Keir? ”

          Azriel’s wings unfurled with lethal grace, blotting out half the lamps below. “ Later. We hunt first. ”

          Rhys’s chuckle was low, humorless, vibrating with quiet menace. “ Bring the gloves. Let’s see what our little monster can make of them. ”

          Behind them, the Hewn City howled. Guards shouted, bells clamored, courtiers shrieked. The mountain shook with its outrage. But on the balcony, two males stood calm as gods, shadows and moonlight twined, their court’s true power cloaked in quiet, merciless intent.

          On the continent, Sorscha slumped against cold rock, blades now strapped to her legs. Blood still dampened her sleeve, but Misty pressed herself close against her ribs, yellow eyes blazing, purr rolling low and steady — thunder trapped in a small body, as if her voice alone could knit the woman back together.

           And in the crooked house, Vythra crashed onto the floorboards. Malou slammed the door shut with her heel, dropped to her knees. The arrow burned like a black star lodged deep in Vythra’s back, its poison already radiating through her veins.

          “ Don’t you dare. ” Malou’s voice cracked, iron and breaking all at once. She tore silk and gold away with trembling hands, fabric ripping loud in the silence. Her pale eye gleamed fierce, wet at the edges. “ Don’t you dare leave me! ”

          Vythra’s breath hitched, shallow, ragged. Each exhale painted red across her lips, across the ruined glitter of her dancing silks. The plan’s end was a cruel mural — smeared, broken, too much blood for beauty. The room tilted around her, the poison rolling inside her like a tide determined to drag her under. Better me than them, she thought dimly. Better me than anyone else.

          The last thing she felt was weight — soft, insistent — pressed to her cheek. The rasp of a tongue, over and over, stubborn as fury. Misty’s purr vibrated against her skin, low and thunderous, as if the little creature could hold her soul tethered to her body by sound alone.

          And then the dark claimed her. Not like a fall. But like a hand that had always been waiting — and had finally, mercilessly, closed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

What Blood Unites and Death Divides

          Author's P.o.V.:

          The night had begun warm, the hum of Velaris rising from the streets below—laughter, song, the delicate strum of strings carried on air sweet with river mist and wine. Music that might have soothed another fae's keen ears. Nesta's only flinched. Every note pressed too sharp, every scent clawed too vivid. This body—this wretched, immortal body—had been forced upon her. A cage carved from beauty.

          And she wore it like a prison.

          She had abandoned shame the day Cassian finally understood why she refused to train up in the Illyrian camps. Why she wouldn't let those brutish warriors jeer at her the way they jeered at all women who dared to rise, dared to try. They laughed when others fell. They laughed even louder when those same people stood again.

          Nesta wanted, more than once, to unleash the raging white fire curled tight in her marrow and burn their laughter to ash.

          Her bare feet padded across the rug, slow, restless. She glanced at the locked door, as if expecting Cassian's shadow to fill its frame, even though the obsidian key glinted in the lock itself. Her own long, thin fingers drew her into an embrace, arms wrapped across her ribs as if to hold in the weakness she despised.

          And yet the battlefield rose in her memory: her body over his, shielding him with her own flesh as Illyrian soldiers fell all around. Smoke. Blood. Cassian's hand, slick with it, clutching hers. Was this what she wanted to remain—weak, incapable, a porcelain doll trussed up in lace and ribbons?

          Velaris's lights shimmered ghostlike through low clouds, blurred and distant. The need for someone beside her—anyone—gnawed so deep her teeth clenched hard enough to ache.

          She dragged the comb through her hair in harsh, punishing strokes, each tug snapping at her scalp. From down the hall, Cassian's door stayed shut. Sleeping? Awake and wounded by her words? Did it matter? She told herself no. Told herself that if he left her alone in her spiral, no one would come away bloodied. Not him. Not her.

          Her satin robe slithered off her shoulders, abandoned over the chair before the mirror. The candle hissed as she pinched it out, its dying smoke perfuming the air with lavender and lilac. Shadows swelled. She tugged back the blanket in one sharp motion and slid into the cold sheets.

          Sleep crept bitter, like always, whispering truths that gutted her. She had become what she loathed: fae. The very kind of creature who had destroyed her and her family. Though... what family was left? Feyre had said it years ago, before Nesta had even been Made. Whispered like prayer, like betrayal: I've found my family here. In this city.

          A better family. A whole one. Nesta had heard the words underneath: you were never enough.

          Her temples throbbed as the weight of it crushed her into sleep. The thin nightshift clung to her chilled skin as the hearth dimmed low, flames spitting weakly. Cold seeped into her bones. The House groaned, timbers shifting like it too was uneasy, lamps flickering as if caught in its own bad dream.

          The chamber was both sanctuary and cage. Towers of books leaned precariously on the nightstand, spines cracked from storms she had weathered with them. A shawl, never worn, sagged over the arm of a chair, forgotten. The arched window cast the moon's silver blade across her floor, slicing through shadow.

          The House breathed with her—fire crackling higher with her fury, dwindling with her despair. Tonight, it was low, whispering against the logs, the draft curling across her skin like a hand trying to tuck her in. A hand that meant well, but couldn't reach her. Couldn't keep her warm.

          Nesta jolted awake inside the dream, lungs scraping for breath.

          The first thing she smelled was wrong. Dust and ash—so thick it coated her tongue, gritty, bitter, like a hearth long gone cold. The air pressed heavy, full of smoke and iron. Above, the sharp whoosh of wings cut the sky. The sound prickled the delicate skin of her nape, crawling up her scalp as if invisible insects scuttled over her flesh.

          " Where? " Breathless, a woman's voice came in a pleasing tone, lilting in a way that almost soothed her childhood wounds. Almost. " Where do I drop you? " It rose again, barely piercing the cacophony pounding behind them.

          Nesta's head spun, well, the foreign body of a child did, driven by Nesta. A scent broke through the sewer stench and sweat—a smell she knew. Horsehair. Warm, abiding, grounding. For one fleeting second, she was back in her mortal youth, in green fields where she had adored caballine creatures, when the world had not yet devoured her whole. But that memory shattered.

          Her body wasn't her own. Too small. Too weak. She clung with desperate arms around the bare shoulders of a woman whose hair blazed red as spilled wine. The woman's garments made Nesta's throat tighten—bare silk and jangling coins, clinging where they should have concealed. Indecent by any standard. By hers, worse than indecent. A costume meant to provoke, to lure, to flaunt. Whore's clothes, Nesta thought with cold disdain, even as terror kept her clutching tighter. She smelled of amber and bitter orange peel—rich, cloying, sweet and sharp all at once. It wrapped around Nesta's child-body like a shroud, suffocating yet strangely safe. She found herself leaning closer, nose pressed toward the woman's neck. To hide. To sleep. To vanish. She didn't know.

          Fear clamped down as Nesta dared look over that bare shoulder and saw the army chasing them.

           Hundreds of Illyrian soldiers poured through the streets, wings flared like stormclouds ready to burst, blades flashing like beasts. Their war cries shattered the night, too loud for her small ears, too brutal for her tiny chest. Above them, shadows dived, arrows and globes of darkness raining down like venom from a broken sky.

          Her heart slammed against her ribs, wild, furious, as though it wanted to tear free and run faster than the horse. She lifted her gaze higher—and froze.

          The mountain loomed, jagged as a knife's edge, its face carved cruel by time and war. Nestled at its breast, glowing like a wound, stood the Palace of Nightmares. Its windows bled red light into the dark, each pulse of it a warning. A gong tolled, low and merciless, again and again, the sound crawling through her bones until her teeth rattled.

          The mare beneath them shrieked, hooves striking sparks off stone. The woman's hair streamed around Nesta's face like fire-lashes, stinging her cheeks. Her ragged breath matched the frantic thunder of hooves, and Nesta felt the rhythm rattle through her own tiny frame—trapped, helpless, caught in a storm she couldn't escape.

          And then—him.

          A figure stood perched on a roofline, carved from night itself. Watching. Waiting. His gaze locked, merciless as a hawk stooping on prey. Gold flecks burned in his eyes, molten, unblinking. The bow rose, the string drawn taut until it hummed, shadows writhing around him like starving serpents scenting blood.

          Nesta's lips parted, desperate to warn the woman carrying her, to beg her to look up, to see the danger crouched above. But the sound snagged in her throat, swallowed whole by the dream's suffocating haze. Only one broken word throbbed in her chest, silent as it burned her tongue— No.

          Moonlight struck the cobalt siphons, setting them ablaze in a chill brilliance — divine and merciless, beauty sharpened into cruelty. It was a presence her blood recognized even as her mind shrank from it, recoiling like flesh from flame. The hunter carved into her marrow, the shadow that had stalked her since the Cauldron itself had Made her.

          The bowstring thrummed, low and final, like a death knell. The woman's scream ripped the world in two.

          Pain tore through Nesta's own body as the arrow slammed into the place where her small head had burrowed. The impact vibrated like a war drum through her bones, rattling her ribs, splintering up her spine. Heat—black, venomous—slithered into her, searing as it spread. It crawled through her muscles like honey, until they locked, stiff and useless, her breath strangled. The poison didn't stop with her. She felt it flood the woman's body too, their pain braided together, agony echoing down Nesta's own small frame. Every throb of venom was a scream not just hers, but theirs, as if the arrow had struck them both, binding her terror to the stranger's torment She tasted copper on her tongue, smelled scorched leather, felt the woman's body jolt around her like they shared one skin.

          Nesta's own scream ripped free, ragged, guttural, echoing the woman's cry—

          And she woke—only half. Sheets clung damp to her skin, twisted ropes of linen soaked through with sweat. Her breath tore ragged from her lungs, every inhale searing as though the arrow still pulsed deep in her chest. The thin grey nightshift plastered to her body was wrinkled, darkened in patches where her fevered skin had drenched it, the fabric tangled and askew against her thighs.

          But the dream did not release her. It burned hotter. Fire writhed beneath her skin, coiling through veins and sinew, as if her very blood had been set alight. The Cauldron's shriek echoed inside her marrow, a soundless cry that rattled her bones and made her skull feel too small to hold it.

          She was no longer in her bed. Bare feet sank into something that wasn't ground so much as breath—a mire of smoke that slithered and curled, damp and reeking of rot. The air pressed heavy, thick as tar, stinking of wet stone and stagnant water. Every inhale scraped her throat raw, as though the void itself tried to drown her. Shapes stirred within the murk. Three rose, black silhouettes solidifying into horrors:

          A crown of jagged onyx, its barbs inked with faint, sickly starlight, humming sharp enough to split the sky. A mask, eyeless, weeping shadow that dripped in rivulets, every soundless sob bending the void around it. A harp, strings of gold stretched too tight, plucked by unseen hands—each note slicing like razors through her bones, clean and merciless.

          Her blood recoiled yet recognized them. She knew—because the Cauldron had made them. As it had Made her. " No. " Nesta rasped. Her voice came out broken, swallowed by the thick fog, torn as if the dream itself resisted her refusal. The smoke shifted. Drew back. And a woman emerged, a seven pointed star glowing above her head.

          Her hair blazed dusk-red like embers refusing to die, eyes grey as a storm that never ended. In her chest, a green flame guttered with every breath, poisoned, shrinking—darkness chewing through her from the inside out.

          Nesta's eyes dropped. The arrow jutted from her back, its shaft black, its head glowing faint with venomous light. It pulsed. Watched. Waited. Not of the three relics. Something older. Crueler.

          This was the woman who had shielded Nesta's child-form.

          Nesta's heart thrashed. The void pressed closer, smoke like icy hands clutching her throat. " Who are you? " Her words cracked, desperation bleeding through.

          No answer. Only those storm-grey eyes. Heavy. Endless. Grief as wide as an ocean pressed her down, pinning her in place without a touch, drowning her in silence. Then the void tore open, ruptured, exploding into light and shadow both. 

          Power tore from Nesta like a dam breaking—silent at first, then with a sound like a thousand fine threads snapping all at once. Light bled through her skin. Not fire, but silver—a cold, argent radiance that flooded the room and turned every edge to ice. The House of Wind shuddered beneath it: stones groaned; windowpanes chimed; a shelf pitched its books like birds scattering from a tree.

          Cassian jerked upright. Hearth-glow slicked across his bare chest; his loose sleep trousers rode low as his wings flared wide on instinct, throwing a shadow over the bed. The hallway seemed interminable untill he reached the wide-opened door of Nesta's bedroom. His heart slammed when he saw her: Nesta arched off the mattress, hair fanning as if underwater, that eerie light pouring from her like starlight made liquid.

          " Nesta! " he barked, already moving. Heat hit him before his hands reached her—not flame-heat, but the scorched bite of lightning after it strikes. His lungs seized; his muscles went tight. " Nesta! Wake up! " He caught her shoulders—calluses scraping silk—only for her to bow harder against his grip, feral and unmoored.

          The sheets began to smoke, edges curling to ash. Ozone stung the air; the hearth spat and guttered. Her nightshift clung to her, dark with sweat, the fabric fluttering as the air around her rose. She lifted.

          Only an inch. Then two. Then the mattress sighed empty beneath her spine while a pale corona thickened—silver and milk-white, a low, whirling cloud blooming under her like breath in winter. Dust motes spun in it like stars. The sound of it vibrated the glass, a humming just below hearing, as if a harp string had been plucked somewhere inside her bones and would not still.

          " Nes.. " Cassian begged now, voice rough. He slid one arm beneath her back, the other cradling her head, trying to anchor her, wings curving around her like a shield even as the silver flared against his membranes. His palms burned where they touched her; he didn't let go.

          Her eyes snapped open—not blue. Not mortal. A blinding, liquid silver that threw back his face in miniature. Her lips moved; the words were ragged, torn between breaths. " The... woman... "

          The light surged. Hairline cracks spidred through the plaster. The House answered in panicked kindness—a pitcher appeared beside the bed, water sloshing; curtains ripped themselves from their ties to try to swaddle her—but the power shrugged such comforts off like cobweb.

          Violet shimmer cut the doorway. Rhysand stepped through the wards as if they'd bowed to him. Night-black jacket, open at the throat; eyes the color of stormlight, already taking stock. Power gathered along his shoulders in a quiet, dangerous halo, the scent of cold night and rain sweeping in with him.

          " Contain her! " Rhys's voice cracked like a whip as he strode closer, violet power coiling from his hands. The very stones of the House quivered beneath the command. " She'll bring the whole place down—and us with it! " he snapped, already shaping a shield of raw night around them.

          But the silver fire did not yield. It surged, ravenous, tearing into his barrier like a living thing. The shield hissed as it burned, eaten away inch by inch, every tendril of flame devouring, feeding, hungering for more. The reek of scorched magic filled the air, smelling like a rotten corpse, as if the House itself were being consumed.

           " She won't wake! " Cassian snarled, straining as Nesta's body convulsed again. The silver cloud thickened; the mattress smoldered. His hands shook and held.

          Nesta's chest arched; her fingers clawed at nothing. The glow guttered once, twice, as if something inside her tugged the light back on a chain. Then—like a wave breaking—the radiance ebbed. She dropped into Cassian's arms, breath tearing, the cloud collapsing into a glittering dust that sank into the sheets and vanished.

          Silence. Only the crackle of an ashamed little fire and the rattle of the window latch.

          Nesta dragged a breath. Another. Her hand flew to her sternum, nails biting skin as if she could rip free whatever bound her there. " It—hurts. " She rasped, eyes still rimmed in that uncanny shine.

          Cassian’s grip gentled, thumb stroking her knuckles once, twice, the calluses rough against her trembling skin. His hair was mussed from sleep, dark strands falling into his brow, chest bare and heaving, the linen of his loose pants hanging low. Sweat clung to him, gleaming along the ridges of muscle, wings half-flared in restless tension. Fear and fury warred across his face—wild, unguarded, devastatingly raw. His dark eyes, wide and burning, locked on her half-sleepy face like she was both his anchor and his undoing. “ I’ve got you... ” He swore, the words rough, desperate, more vow than comfort.

          Rhys stood at the foot of the bed, unreadable and very, very still. A whisper of violet threaded the air—containment, control, the promise of it if things went wrong again. His gaze flicked over the charred sheet, the buckled plaster, the silver flames still hissing faintly from the cracks in the floorboards. Cassian’s wings wrapped around her like armor, but even that would not hold if her power decided otherwise.

          He thought of the Cauldron’s touch on her, of fire without heat, shadow without night, and how it shredded every law of balance he knew. Dangerous. Uncontained. A raw vein of magic that could cut Prythian open if it bled too freely. Nesta Archeron had never bent easily—not to courts, not to sisters, not to him. And now her defiance burned silver-hot, beyond even her own understanding.

          Rhysand’s jaw tightened, violet power coiling at his shoulders like a leash he was ready to snap taut. She was a threat as much as she was salvation. Perhaps both at once. And as he watched Cassian clutch her as though he could anchor her by will alone, Rhysand’s thought was cold: if she lost control again, even love might not be enough to stop her.

          The room smelled of ozone and sweat and singed linen—of terror, yes, but also the metallic tang of something inevitable arriving. Destiny, Cassian would have called it if he believed in such things. Rhys did. And Nesta, shaking in Cassian's arms, looked as if she could feel it pressing its cold palm over her heart.

         The House of Wind still quaked with Nesta’s aftershocks. Its ancient bones groaned as if they too remembered the blaze of her power, timbers creaking, dust drifting from the rafters. Silver flame smoldered in the cracks of the stone floor, faint but stubborn, licking at the edges of the room like it refused to die down. The walls shivered as if uncertain whether to hold or yield.

          Cassian’s heartbeat had barely slowed, his grip still iron on her trembling hand, when the air itself shifted—like the city exhaled, uneasy. The lamps guttered, one by one, their light bowing to something heavier, stranger. Even the hearth hissed, flames shrinking low, as though the House was wary of the girl who had shaken its foundations.

          Far below, under the River House, the shift became a roar.

          Velaris's foundations remembered what power felt like. The floor stones thrummed faintly, carrying Nesta's scream down through riverbed and bedrock, until it bled into a chamber lit only by cold flame.

          Azriel felt it first. A tug in his shadows, as if they strained toward some unseen cord. His wings shifted—leather creaking like bowstring—but he did not move his gaze from the bowl set into the ritual circle.

          The gloves landed in it with a wet slap. Blood seeped into the etched runes, fizzing. Hissing. The smell coiled at once, metallic and reptilian, copper and venom and something eerie, too ancient—like a snake bearing his fangs at someone's throat.

          Amren leaned in, her small frame haloed by candlelight. The firelight caught on the razor line of her smile, on the unnatural silver of her eyes. Her silk robes were loose, falling in folds that whispered against the table, though nothing about her looked soft. She uncorked the vial. Green fire poured, liquid smoke, and the stench clawed down their lungs. Sparks leapt to her skin and died there, as though even flame feared her. Her red claw tipped fingers stirred the mixture with leisurely cruelty, as if it were broth instead of blood.

          Across from her, Azriel stood sentinel. Black leathers drank every flicker of light; siphons at wrist and shoulder burned cold cobalt, their glow slicing at the dark like moonlight on steel. His wings folded neat as blades. Shadows curled at his boots, restless, as though they too scented the truth surfacing. His face was carved from marble, unreadable, though his jaw ticked once when Nesta's cry—muffled by walls, yet unmistakable—brushed across his senses.

         " Feel that? " Amren murmured, her voice barely more than a ripple of sound, as if speaking louder might scare away the gods or ghosts that gathered around them. Her silver eyes gleamed, catching the serpent-coil of smoke above the bowl. " She's awake. At last. "

          Azriel did not answer. His eyes never wavered from the bowl, though the shadows around his boots stirred like they knew he was lying still only in body. His mind was not here. Not entirely.

          It had gone back—to the Court of Nightmares.

          To the press of heat and perfume, the way the music had coiled through the bones of that cavernous hall. And to her. Red hair like spilled fire, hips catching the torchlight as coins whispered against her skin. She had moved as though the hall belonged to her, not Keir, not the Night Court, not anyone else. Foolish. Reckless. Bold.

           And him—he had let her.

          He remembered the scrape of her fingers as she reached for his dagger, the absurdity of it. The audacity. No one touched his blades. No one even thought to. Yet she had slid close enough to breathe his air, to press her hand against steel and leather as though daring him to stop her. He should have ended it right there. Should have snapped her wrist, should have reminded her what shadows did to those who strayed too near.

          But he hadn’t. For a heartbeat—longer—he had watched. Let her spin with his weapon in hand, veil and skin flashing like temptation carved into flesh. Mesmerised not by grace—there were countless dancers finer, trained for centuries—but by the sheer madness of it. By the defiance. By the stupid, taunting courage that had carried her right into the jaws of a predator.

          And by the darker truth still—that some part of him had wanted her to.

          His jaw tightened, a single tic betraying the storm beneath. One scarred, ungloved hand brushed the memory of steel—the dagger she had dared to lift, dared to press against her elegant swell of breasts as though it belonged to her. He remembered the heat lingering in its metal, the way it seemed to have drunk from the warmth of her thighs. Intimate. Irreverent. Blasphemy in the language of blades.

          Shadows hissed at the rim of the bowl, the bold tongue of darkness curled higher, licking along his cheekbone as if he’d caught the thought he refused to give voice to—hungering, accusing, mirroring the part of him he’d sooner kill than confess.

          Smoke thickened. First black, then silver, then a deep forest green. It twisted like something trying to breathe, coils knotting and unknotting up to the ceiling until at last a face emerged. Nesta’s.

          Amren's lips sharpened into delight. " There she is. "

          Azriel's shadows stiffened. His voice was strained. " That's not her. "

          " Blood doesn't lie, Shadowsinger. " Amren's silver stare burned hotter. " Don't argue with what you brought me. " The smoke convulsed. Reshaped. Not a face this time, but objects—three relics that sang to the marrow of the world.

          A jagged crown, points sharp enough to pierce the sky, each tip glittering with faint stars. A mask with hollow sockets that wept shadow, the void bending with every silent sob. A harp strung, each invisible note slicing through the air, trembling the bones of the room.

          The floor thrummed beneath them. Azriel's siphons flared; his shadows cringed away, whispering against the walls like frightened birds. And then—something else. Crooked. Wrong. A sigil, pulsing with rot. The smell of brine and grave-soil, of old tides gone rancid. Power that felt like teeth closing over the world.

          Amren hissed. Actually stepped back. " The Unmade one. Vespertus. " Silence answered.

          Azriel's eyes, molten gold in the shadows, fixed on the shape with lethal calm. " That thing exists? "

          Her smile bared teeth, cruel and beautiful. " It always has. You just weren't clever enough to look. "

          The smoke writhed, then burst. The bowl split down the middle with a crack like bone breaking.

          When Azriel slipped into the dining room it was noiseless. Shadows pooled and bled away from him the way oil sheds water. His leathers drank the candlelight; the seams gleamed faintly where something dark still clung. He did not announce himself. He only set his gloves—slick and dark, clean now—on the oak tea table with a soft slap.

          The room smelled of wax and ink, the Sidra's cool breath threading through the open balcony doors. A map of Prythian lay unfurled across the table, corners pinned with half-empty cups whose wine left purple rings on the wood. The candles guttered in a nervous draft; the House itself seemed to hold its breath.

          Nesta sat ramrod-straight in a chair, damp hair pasted at her temples, a robe Cassian had conjured wrapped about the nightshift clinging to her skin. Her hands kept finding one another and folding away, fingers trembling into fists in her lap.

          Cassian prowled like a caged thing, bare feet soundless on the rugs, wings twitching in restless anger. He halted only to slam a hand down onto the map; cups trembled. " So she's the key. Cauldron damn it. " The sound had the shape of a question and the weight of a verdict.

          " I don't want to be— " Nesta began, voice threadbare.

          " You don't get a choice. " Amren's voice slithered smooth from her chair, where she lounged as if the room were her stage. Her silver eyes were bright and hungry. " That woman's blood sang. Loud. For you. " She tapped a long claw against the lip of her untouched cup. " It screamed. "

           Nesta flinched, the motion small but visible. She set her jaw, the brittle armor of practiced defiance.

          Cassian snapped, wings flaring like a shield over her. " Don't treat her like a weapon. "

          Azriel leaned forward from the doorway, shadows at his boots shifting with him, cobalt siphons catching the lamplight. He looked every part the predator. When he spoke it was quiet, toughts and memories eating him alive from the inside. " She is the key, whether we like it or not. Keys open doors. We don't have the luxury of pretending otherwise. "

          Cassian whirled, fury in every line. " Don't you dare— "

          " Stop it! " Feyre cut in, her voice iron soft. She was at Rhys's side, fingers curled protectively at Nesta's wrist. " She is my sister. Speak of her like she's only a path to power, Azriel, and you'll answer for it. "

          Azriel inclined his head once—the barest acknowledgment. No argument left his lips.His gaze slid to the gloves on the table, still stained dark, then away again. Shadows curled tighter at his boots as if they, too, remembered. That arrow. The way it had split the night with its scream, the clean line of its flight, unerring as judgment. He had loosed it knowing exactly where it would land—straight into the cage of her heart. They had sent him to bring her in alive. He hadn’t missed. He hadn’t faltered. He had aimed to kill. And in that truth, there was no denial left.

          Rhysand had been quiet until then; when he spoke the room tightened around his words. He sat at the head of the table, the cut of his dark suit shadowing the candlelight, violet eyes dull and dangerous. " Nesta's dreams are not accidents. They're guides. " His fingers steepled beneath his mouth. "The Mask, the Crown, the Harp—dangerous enough. But if there is a fourth... " He let the implication hang like a blade. " Vespertus could unmake everything. "

          Amren lounged in an armchair like a serpent coiled on silk, her silver eyes glinting in the wavering glow. “ Lovely. ” She purred, though the sound was all venom and no warmth. “ We send our little monster to fetch it before someone more foolish stumbles into it. ” She tipped her head, talons clicking idly against her glass. “ Where did you say you dreamed of them? ”

          Nesta sat stiff-backed on the edge of her chair, robe drawn tight over her nightshift. Her pulse hammered so visibly in her throat Cassian almost reached to steady her. Her voice came rough, deliberate. “ It was near a lake. I could smell dead fish in the air. The ground was damp, rotting. Trees hollow as bones, fog strangling everything. There was no life—nothing breathing. Just… absence. ”

          Amren’s gaze cut to Rhysand. His violet eyes, cool and unreadable, met hers. “ The Bog of Oorid. ” he said certain.

          “ What is that? ” Feyre’s voice was soft, still human at the edges. She had wrapped herself in a pale robe hastily belted at the waist, her hair unbound, falling like moonlight down her shoulders. She looked small beside Rhysand’s looming stillness.

          Rhysand’s expression darkened. “ The Bog lies within the Middle. Once, it was sacred ground where warriors were laid to rest. Now it’s only darkness. A graveyard that grew teeth. Few who wander in come back. ” His voice seemed to carry the chill of that place into the room itself.

          Shadows shifted at the doorway. Azriel leaned there against the doorframe, silent until now, his leathers still smelling faintly like the ballroom. “ Bryallin is searching for it too. ” His hazel gaze flicked over the map, then to Rhys. “ Which means she knows of the Dead Trove. If she plots with Beron, she’ll have a path cleared. And if Eris's lost soldiers are there, they know those things are hidden. ”

          Amren tilted her head, her voice silken with menace. “ Then she must know of the fourth object as well. Vespertus. ” She crossed one leg over the other, slippers gleaming like wet ink, and tapped the edge of the map with one sharp nail. “ The Unmade is worth more than the other three combined. The Mask, the Crown, the Harp—each wields its own terror. But Vespertus? ” A smile cut across her mouth. “ It can silence them. Strip their power. Unmake what was once made. ”

          Nesta’s chin lifted. Her voice, though shaking, struck true. “ Then we find Vespertus first. Before anyone else touches it. ”

          Cassian froze, fists curling at his sides. His wings twitched, the instinct to shield her nearly choking him. But he said nothing. Could do nothing.

Azriel’s hazel eyes fixed on Nesta. “ Then we hunt. ” His voice was merciless. “ And we do not stop until it’s ours. ”

          Rhys tapped the map once, a staccato sound that echoed. " Keir suspects already. The Hewn City will howl about missing relics, and whispers from the Court of Nightmares will crawl across Prythian. Our window is narrow. "

           " In the dream... it knew me. The fourth. Vespertus—it's already looking for me. "

           " It should. You took something from the Cauldron, something that keeps calling for the fourth unmade object. " Amren inched closer to her. " A Vespertus is life itself, The only thing that can unmake life is Death. You two are linked. " Her words thudded in the room.

           The House sighed around them — shutters creaked, the Sidra murmured somewhere below — and the soft scrape of leather sounded as Azriel flexed his fingers. He did not explain how he came to the River House or why his gloves were wet. He did not mention the arrow. He said nothing of poison. His silence was a sealed thing.

          " Tell us about the Court. " Feyre prompted. " How did they steal the blades? Who else was involved? "

          Rhysand answered, taking the weight for once off of Azriel's shoulders, as if scraping the memory out of a wound. " They staged a banquet as cover. Keir's vanity—him putting on a show—was the perfect mask. While nobility drank and ogled, the reliquary was meant to be watched by moved guards, " he spat the last word, " but someone planned better. The blades were bound to only be borne by those forged to them or their carranam. Whoever tried to lift them without the maker would be torn by the metal itself. " He looked round, eyes hard. " Someone circumvented the wards. Projected, took them, and through some damned trick the blades ended up fastened to her. Three women are involved. They made a clean escape—almost—until the alarm. They split as we pulled away. "

          Azriel's face did not register surprise; his shadows merely tightened in silent acknowledgment. He did not tell them that one arrow had found a woman, nor that his gloves had been plunged into blood for a purpose he had not yet revealed. He gave nothing away.

          Rhys's jaw worked. " Then whoever holds them will be hounded by every eye that knows their worth. " He paused, then fixed Nesta with a look that softened the iron just enough. " You will not do this alone. "

          Cassian's hand closed on Nesta's shoulder, hard and fierce. " I'll keep you safe... " he promised.

          Nesta nodded. Fear and something like resolve braided through her. The candles cast their wavering light over the map, over cold leather gloves, over clenched hands and faces set in terms of war.

          Outside, the Sidra slid past in silver, uncaring. The final hunt had started.

𓆩✴𓆪

          The crooked hut sagged under the weight of its scents—steeped herbs, damp moss, steam rising from the cauldron. The air was thick with the perfume of boiling roots and bitter leaves, clinging to the rafters like cobwebs.

          Vythra turned on the worn toes of her boots, her travel-stained skirt flaring as she skipped from the rough kitchen table to the hearth. She stirred the iron pot with a heavy wooden spoon, the bubbling broth spitting against her wrist. Glass vials lined the table, catching stray beams of sunlight that filtered through the cracked shutters. Piles of petals and leaves, labeled and sorted with care, curled dry at the edges. White mortar, pestle, and shallow bowls gleamed faintly, all glistening with the damp promise of alchemy—or witchcraft, depending on who named it.

          Her hands worked with restless purpose: grinding, sifting, measuring, folding dried herbs into liquid, whispering lines she half-remembered from stolen books. She'd promised herself she would return them someday, though she already knew she wouldn't. When her mind knotted too tightly, she paused. Practiced the stances Malou had drilled into her. Breathed in patterns Sorscha had taught, counting the rhythm until her pulse steadied.

          She was further along now. Stones would answer when she called. Plants opened to her touch, their rot driven out like pus from a wound. With bare soles, she could hear the shifting of moles and the slither of snakes beneath the earth. Water, too, had begun to yield—she could coax droplets to hover, peel mist into ribbons, separate fog with a thought. But never easily. Sweat slicked her temples; her chest grew tight, heart hammering with the strain. Sometimes her nose bled from the sheer pressure, the buzzing ache behind her eyes like a hive tearing itself apart. It was never easy.

          And the body—her body—was suffering worse. Since Malou had reclaimed her blades, their sheer presence altered everything. One moment of carelessness, one half-measured strike, and Malou had split the training field in two. Another time, she had caught the old hut itself as it leaned, timbers shrieking, and with a single push of unnatural strength shoved the entire thing upright again, fixing it with logs and nails as if nothing had happened.

          They would need to move soon. Not only because the house groaned with every gust of wind, threatening to collapse around them. Something darker prowled closer. Worse than the chill fingers she sometimes felt stroking her bare ankles at night. Worse than the shadows in her nightmares. Worse than seeing Kallus's lifeless eyes at the door, dead hands scratching to come in.

          Her breath snagged as she pressed the knife down into a dried root. It snapped with a sound too much like tendon, like flesh tearing from bone. Like her flesh. The scrape of steel on wood echoed the split of an arrow through her back.

          She remembered too clearly. The way the shaft had lodged, the hot bloom of agony that hollowed her chest. The way her body had gone slack as the poison seeped into every nerve, until she felt nothing at all. When she looked in the mirror now, there was nothing to see—only a faint rosiness where the feathers had brushed her skin, where Azriel's arrow had sung true, sliding in the single impossible path between shoulder blade and spine, aimed straight at her heart.

          And yet she lived. No wound remained. Just a ghost-scar where death had kissed her and been denied. The Mother's cruelty, perhaps. Some divine joke. A hand that refused to let her slip away, trapping her instead—like a foolish insect caught in a fist that only ever tightened.

          She had died.

          Malou had reminded her of it at dawn, when she woke whole again. Vythra still saw their faces in her mind—sweat-streaked, smudged with ash and blood, bent over her as they worked. Stitching. Cleaning. Whispering prayers to gods who hadn't listened in centuries.

          Azriel's arrow had done exactly what he promised. Launched with ruthless precision—not at the boy she carried, but at her. The tip had slipped clean between shoulder blade and spine, puncturing her heart by two cruel centimeters. Enough to end her. Enough to kill her.

          She should have been grateful. That was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? To die and test the theory—that death might send her back to her true world. But it hadn't worked. Instead, she woke again in this place she hated, bound to a duty she had never chosen, never wanted. A duty to a land that had tried to murder her twice already. A land she had no reason to defend.

          No reason. No one.

          And yet, some bitter instinct told her that the only way home was through it. Through the task the Mother had shackled her with. Only by finishing it could she leave. To go back to her old lover, in the other world.

          So in a way, Azriel had done her a favor.

          But that didn't mean she didn't hate him more for it. Didn't mean she didn't want to drive steel into him—make him feel the same fever, the same suffocating dark, the same sharp hope turned to mockery.

          She remembered the hiss of the shaft, how the world had bent, warped, as though even the Mother herself had tried to turn the arrow aside. How it slid into her back, a perfect strike, venom curling beneath her skin like a serpent. How her lungs tore open, air ripped out of her in a brutal snap.

          And then—darkness. Consciousness unspooling, time dissolving.

          In that abyss, she had felt Sorscha's violet power hum through her like a lightning storm, shocking her heart, forcing it to beat again. Like aurora borealis painted across the black sky of her mind, burning incense in her nostrils.

          And the boy—gods, the boy. She remembered clutching him tighter, her whispered prayers scraping raw in her throat, words she had never believed in. Black heat slithered through her veins while above her Azriel's face loomed: merciless, cruelly beautiful under the moon, eyes burning gold over whiskey-dark irises. There had been no joy in him. No triumph. Just inevitability. He had looked at her as though sealing a promise that had always been waiting.

          Her jaw locked hard enough to ache. She ground dried leaves into powder and tipped them into the simmering pot. Steam curled up, sharp, acrid, filling the rafters with bitter smoke. The poison had not felled her—it had burned through her system like a mouthful of over-steeped tea, nothing more. Convallaria, she thought. Lily of the valley. She hadn't found anything concrete about its effects in the books she stole, but instinct whispered the truth: it had only been a test. Not meant to kill her. Meant to see if it could.

          Which meant it wasn't for her at all.

          Her gaze slid to the rain-spattered window. Beyond, a faint lilac shield flickered in the storm clouds like a trapped firefly. Sorscha stood under it, crossed legs, murmuring blessings only she knew, her palms hovering above Malou's twin blades. She dared not touch them outright—blood-bound steel would have made her scream with pain.

          Malou knelt close, heavy hood shadowing her scarred face, hands poised an inch above the weapons that belonged to her carranam. Silent. Watchful. The firelight caught in her pale eye, sharpening it.

          And Vythra, knife still in hand, thought again of Azriel's arrow. Of inevitability.

          Which of them had the poison been meant for? Malou—or Sorscha? Perhaps both.

          Vythra knew it wasn't her. She barely managed to coax pebbles to stir, or droplets of water to float. Every effort left her drenched, panting like livestock in the slaughterhouse. No—she wasn't the threat. The poison had been a test, a way to separate her from the only two beings capable of shielding her.

          She measured two drops of black liquid, drawn from the arrowhead that had pierced her, diluted but still menacing. The glass vial grew warm under her touch as she stirred. " One antidote, " she whispered. Another, weaker, thinner—" Two. " Malou would get the stronger one; she looked like the greater danger, half brute and wholly unbreakable. Sorscha would take the weaker; the monk had her ' Cleansing ', her uncanny knack for knitting flesh and purging venom from within her own body. Vythra prayed she could one day learn that trick herself.

          Then she brewed a third. She laced it with the lunar water she had left beneath the full moon. Silver shimmered across its surface, faint as a ghost's sigh. " And one escape. "

          Her chest tightened as she lifted it to the light. A teleportation draught. Nimue's whispered lessons clung like cobwebs in her mind—warnings, temptations, chains she could not shake. " Thank you, Countess! " She murmured, voice curling with equal parts gratitude and spite.

          Misty padded softly onto the table, one forepaw still bound. Vythra brushed her fingers through the soft fur between the cat's ears. She'd already poured nearly all her moonwater into the creature, struggling for hours to mend strained muscles and fractured bone. She had nearly collapsed by the end of it, but Misty now walked steadier, and the effort had not been wasted. Another day, and the cat would be whole.

          Outside, rain lashed the shutters. Malou entered, blades strapped to a red-dyed leather harness across her back. Her clothes clung wet, hair twisted into a severe knot dripping onto the floor. She tossed her cloak toward the fire without glancing up. " Still brooding about him? " she asked, peeling damp layers from her body with no hint of shame.

          Vythra froze mid-motion, fingers clenched around the vial of moonwater. Slowly, she raised her gaze, narrow, guarded. " I don't know who you mean. " She slid the vial into her bodice.

          Sorscha drifted in behind, silent as a ghost. The floorboards didn't dare creak beneath her, her white hair gleaming like molten silver in the firelight. " Drop it, Malou. "

         But Malou's scar twitched as her mouth bent into a half-smile. " That face isn't for herbs. It's for a male who put you in the ground and nearly kept you there. "

          The pestle struck too hard against the bowl. Vythra flinched, muttering, " I remember the poison, not him. " A lie. She remembered both. The unshakable calm, the bow heavy in his hands, the shadows that seemed to hold their breath around him.

          Malou's smirk widened. " Good. Hate will keep you moving. Hate makes the antidote sweeter. "

          Vythra stroked Misty absently, eyes fixed on the faint silver swirl inside the vial. " My shift starts soon. I should go. " Her voice was steady, though her heart whispered otherwise. Hate wasn't the only thing that had followed her out of that night.

          " Keep running... " Malou called after her, half-naked by the fire. " Your nightmares will catch up eventually. "

          Sorscha only shook her head, disapproving.

          The kilometers to the cabin blurred beneath the storm. Too quickly. Too easily. She hated that Malou had been right. Since the moment she'd woken, her senses were steeped in the ghost of him: his scent, his stance, the fluid coil of his body, the sculpted edges of his face, his voice. Each memory stalked her like numbers demanding resolution.

          Heat flared in her cheeks. Gods, how foolish she'd been—to dance among fae monsters, to bare herself like some courtesan before a male whose reputation was carved in torture and silence. She had read of him: the shadowsinger who spent centuries tearing secrets out of enemies, breaking bodies and minds with the same brutal artistry. He knew a hundred ways to unravel her, to make her regret every insolent word, every trespass into his space.

          And yet—he had let her. Let her dance too close. Let her tease. Let her run. As if mocking her. As if showing her just how easily he could have ended it. Azriel had given her a single second of life, a cruel grace, and then taken it away.

          And in that mercy, that cruelty, lay the sharpest torment of all.

          The crooked hut stank of wax and oversteeped herbs, their oils sunk so deep into the rafters they would never leave. Tonight it was no quiet den but a hive, noisy and swollen with bodies. The door banged open and shut in steady rhythm, boots dragging in the rain and cold. Villagers crowded the benches, dripping cloaks steaming by the fire, voices clashing in a dozen sharp pitches. A child cried; a drunk laughed too loud; the smell of wet wool, sweat, and roasted turnips mingled thick enough to choke.

          Vythra pushed her way between elbows, skirt hem catching on chair legs. Her palms stung from the cauldron's heat as she stirred, then darted to the counter to measure herbs into vials, then back again. Work kept her hands busy, if not her mind.

          " Come, child—faster! " Zelma snapped, breathless, weaving through the chaos with bowls balanced in her hands. The old woman's wiry hair had escaped its scarf, her face flushed with effort. She moved like a storm contained in a fragile body, quick as lightning despite her years.

          Vythra bit back a retort and ladled stew into waiting hands, careful not to spill. Wax candles smoked overhead, their flames bending every time the door opened to let in another gust of cold rain. Outside, the wind howled over the hills, rattling the shutters like skeletal fingers.

          " Careful, not stingy. " Zelma barked, swatting the air as if she could smack Vythra's ladle from across the room. " These men have bellies bigger than their heads. "

          " They'll drown in it if I pour more. " Vythra muttered under her breath, though she topped the bowl anyway.

          A drunk at the end of the table cackled, elbowing his companion. " Pretty lass, pour me two, eh? "

          Vythra shot him a glare sharp enough to cut meat. " You want two, fetch it yourself. "

          The drunk shut his mouth, and Zelma's laugh rasped from across the room. " Good girl. Bite before you bow—that's how you last. "

          " I'm not here to last. " Vythra said tightly, wiping her hands on her skirt as she moved back toward the hearth. " I'm just here to help. "

          " Help, " Zelma echoed, voice rough with something unreadable. She slid another steaming bowl into waiting hands, her eyes never leaving Vythra. " You've been helping since the moment you came through my door, child. And not just with stew. "

          Vythra frowned, but Zelma was already moving, her steps brisk, her shoulders squared against the press of bodies. The words stuck, though, snagging in Vythra's chest.

          Between errands, she stole glances at Zelma. Her eyes were sharp as cut glass, always watching, always weighing. Tonight they caught hers across the crowded room. And when Vythra bent to stack bowls near the hearth, the old woman's voice brushed her ear, soft, meant for no one else.

           " You are witch-born. "

          " Are you talking to me? " Vythra froze, ladle trembling in her hand. A sharp laugh scraped from her throat, harsher than she meant, Zelma only nodded slowly. " You're mistaking me for someone else. I'm no witch. I can barely keep a fire lit without choking on the smoke. "

          Zelma didn't look at her, didn't soften. Her gaze stayed locked on the fire, its glow gilding the deep creases of her face. " Fire bends when you walk past it. The earth hums under your feet. You think I don't notice? You think the world doesn't? "

          Vythra's lips pressed thin. " That's not power. That's...mistakes. Accidents. A curse, if anything. "

          Zelma's hand shot out, quick despite her years, gripping Vythra's wrist. Her skin was dry, papery, but her strength was like a vise. " Curses and gifts are the same coin, child. Only fools pretend otherwise. " Her eyes flicked up. " Like me. Like my daughter. We are not few. Our clan still lives—scattered, waiting. "

          The word thundered through her: Witch. Clan. Family she had never known she had. Vythra's breath caught. " Family? " The word tasted foreign, bitter. " What use is a family that hides until the world forgets it exists? "

          Zelma's mouth curved, not kindly. " The kind that survives. " Her lips parted again, but no sound escaped. Misty, curled beneath the bench, purred loud enough to shake the boards, as if answering in her stead.

          Exhaustion hit her like a fall, but it wasn't only her body giving in. The din of the inn dulled as though cotton had been stuffed in her ears, voices and clattering bowls fading to a hum. Wax smoke thickened, herbs burned sharper in the rafters, and Vythra swore the air itself pressed her eyelids shut. Zelma hadn't moved, not outwardly, but the old woman's presence curled close, heavy as a hand on her chest. Magic. 

          Her head bowed where she sat, her fingers loosening from the pestle. Misty's purr blurred into the roar of blood in her ears, into darkness that tugged her under—

          She dreamed.

          Not of herself, not at first. A land stretched out beneath a bruised sky, its soil cracked, its rivers sluggish with shadow. And in the center of it stood a woman—raven-haired, her eyes pale and unseeing white. But she was not alone.

          Shapes shifted behind her, half in light, half in shadow. Women, yet not wholly women. One had fingers that branched like twisted roots, bark crawling up her arms. Another's hair writhed like black serpents, teeth sharp enough to gleam in the dark. A third bore spines down her back, glinting as though wet. Others crouched low, too many joints bending wrong, their eyes burning in unnatural hues.

           Witches. A coven—or fragments of one. Not fragile, not hidden. They looked at her, through her, with hunger and recognition both. A family she had never claimed, yet one she could no longer deny. The raven-haired woman's lips parted, though no sound left them. Still, the meaning curled inside Vythra's mind: You are one of us.

          The air pulsed, alive, pressing against her skin until she thought it would split. And then—eyes. Grey. Cold. Merciless. Another woman, far away from all of them, trapped and angry, silver hue under her skin like flames biting her muscles to get out. Vythra felt the impending doom the way she felt it when Azriel killed her. Death. She was Death.

          The vision snapped taut, two fates colliding like flint. The string of it thrummed, ready to break the world. Ruins stretched endless: a crown half-buried in ash, its points still humming; a mask drifting face-up in stagnant black water, its eyeless sockets weeping shadow; a harp strung on the bones of a dead tree, each golden note slicing silence into pain. The air itself pulsed like a wound.

          Vythra jolted awake, pulse hammering, sweat slicking her temples. Half a world away, Nesta woke too. Gasping, chest tight, the same thunder in her veins.

𓆩✴𓆪

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

Guarded Hearts. Part I.

          Dawn had not yet broken when Nesta laced up her boots beneath the weight of her traveling gown. The velvet was a deep, bruised violet, its heavy folds catching the faint glow of the faelights. The long sleeves, edged in darker ribbon, and the high collar were meant less for fashion than defense against the cold bite of wind when they flew across the sea. Her braids coiled into a crown at her head, pinned tight, before she swept a black, fur-lined cloak over her shoulders.

          She paused before the mirror. The face that stared back at her wasn't the gaunt, hollow-eyed creature she had once been. Color had crept back into her cheeks. Training with Cassian had put steadiness in her arms, food had softened the sharpness of her collarbones. Healthier. But not whole. Not ever.

          Through the cracked window, morning air rushed in, damp and river-sweet, carrying the first birdsong threading through Velaris. For a moment, Nesta let herself breathe it—this city her sister called "home." But in her own chest, the word only festered.

          Her hand tightened around the small vial in her pocket, no bigger than her smallest finger. A memory of last night's council seared through her.

          They had gathered in the sitting room, lamps guttering low, maps sprawled across the polished table. The fire hissed as if it too strained to listen.

          The House stirred with them—floorboards groaning though no one shifted, curtains whispering though no draft touched the room. At Nesta's elbow a tray appeared: steaming tea, thick broth, bread still warm as if torn from an oven. She hadn't asked. It simply knew. The presence lingered in the corners, heavy and intent, like a guardian crouched at the edges of the firelight. Not just walls and stone—something sharper, listening.

          And as Nesta's gaze drifted around the chamber, she saw what the others missed. An extra chair had materialized at the table, empty but waiting. A teacup nestled beside Cassian's elbow that none of them had poured. Another couch pressed against the far wall, its cushions plump and inviting, though no one had need of it.

          The House was preparing. Expecting. As though another presence was already on its way, and she was the only one who noticed.

          Nesta had sat rigid on the couch, hands folded in her lap until her knuckles whitened. " Why do I need to glamour myself? She's never seen me. She shouldn't even know who I am. " The words came sharper than intended, a challenge. What she didn't say: she didn't know how. She refused to show them that weakness.

          Feyre, wrapped in a silken night-robe, brushed her hand down its sash and met her gaze evenly. " Because it's safer that way. Better to be over-prepared than caught exposed. "

          A retort burned on Nesta's tongue—that Feyre was one to talk, safe in Rhysand's arms while others bled—but Rhys cut across before she could unsheathe it.

          " Feyre is right. " He paced with the slow, High Lord-like grace that made rooms shrink around him, black boots whispering over the freshly cleaned crimson rug. The violet in his eyes was firm, considering every angle of the problem. " All of you will glamour yourselves. Not just your faces—your wings as well. Again. "

          Cassian shifted where he leaned against the mantel, bare forearms crossed, wings rustling like restless banners. " It's been a while since I've had to do that." His grin was forced. "So we fly halfway? Cross the ocean, then walk the rest like mortals? That's going to take forever. Why not just winnow? "

          Azriel, half-shadowed in the doorway, finally spoke. His voice was coarse, tense, as if he was hiding something. Nesta considered him for a second, trying to peel him open like she did now with an apple she carefully cleaned. " We don't know where to winnow. Blind leaps could land us in the middle of an enemy camp—or worse. Flying the sea gives us sight. If Nesta feels anything, if the land pulls at her, we'll notice it before our boots touch ground. "

           Nesta had grimaced at that, heat crawling up her spine and she stopped her fumbling with the fruit. She still tasted the remnants of power that had erupted from her hours earlier, sweet as sugar and suffocating as a pillow over someone's face. A compass, they wanted her to be. A compass she didn't know how to use.

           " Then take horses," Rhysand had said smoothly, planting a hand over the edge of the map. "The coastal cities are used to traders. Land near a fishing port—no one will blink at strangers passing through. Blend in. Listen. "

          Cassian arched a brow, one scar pulling with the motion. " So the grand plan is 'wander around until Nesta's Cauldron-sense tingles'? Sounds brilliant. "

          Nesta gave a curt nod, though inside she marveled that—for once—they were all actually agreeing. Blind hunting, yes, but still hunting. What she never understood was why Rhysand always spoke as if he were the one setting out, as if his own skin were on the line. It was always so simple in his mouth: catch and bring back. But it wasn't his body in the field. Not his High Lady's. It was hers. Cassian's. Azriel's.

          Her lips parted again, sharp words curling on her tongue.

          Amren, perched like a viper on the edge of a chair, slipped her red slippers from the table with deliberate disdain. " Not quite. The blood you found has been infused into a compass. " She flicked her fingers, and the small device appeared, needle quivering. " In Nesta's hands, it should pull toward what you seek. If she can manage it. "

          The room had gone still. Nesta's chin lifted, though her stomach coiled. " And if I can't? "

           Nesta hadn't realized she'd reached the ground floor until six pairs of eyes lifted to her descent. The marble steps gleamed dark as ink beneath her boots, each slow step echoing too loud in the hush. Her gloved hand clutched the banister, its chill biting even through the leather, sending shivers skittering up her arm. At her hip, the compass thrummed—hungry—its scarlet needle twitching faintly. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat.

          " Come, Nes. " Cassian called softly, already moving toward her. His voice was the same—warm and gruff—but his eyes held a weight she had never learned how to meet. He looked maddeningly handsome in his Illyrian leathers, every strap cinched, every weapon gleaming in its sheath. His dark hair was tied back into a knot at his crown, a few rebellious strands falling loose to frame his strong jaw and brush his nape. His cloak rippled behind him like a wing of shadow as he extended a scarred, calloused hand toward her. " Almost ready to go. Elain prepared something for the road. "

          For a heartbeat, Nesta stared at that hand—at the lines, the strength in it, the patience. Her stomach lurched, heat darting beneath her ribs. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, shoved the feeling down, and swept past him without taking it.

          Cassian's sigh chased her down the last step, a sound half wounded, half resigned. Behind her, leather creaked faintly as his fist closed tight, swallowing the brief gentleness he had dared offer.

          Elain stood waiting at the open threshold, haloed in the pale wash of dawn. Barefoot on the polished floor, her toes curled against the stone, white as porcelain. A loose gown of ivory silk draped her willowy frame, cinched only with a pale ribbon, its sleeves slipping off one narrow shoulder. Her chestnut hair fell unbound down her back, waves tumbling like she had just risen from sleep, strands glinting gold where the light kissed them. In her hands she cradled a bundle of herbs, their sharp green scent cutting through the lingering perfume of lamp oil and steel.

          But it was her eyes—large, brown, steady—that rooted them all. She wasn't looking at Nesta. Nor at Cassian.

          Azriel lingered half in shadow near the doorframe, tall and silent, his leathers worn from too many nights in battle. The faint blue gleam of his siphons pulsed at his hands and shoulders like restrained heartbeats. His wings, half-furled, seemed too large for the quiet room, black ridges brushing the rug. His scarred fingers flexed at his sides, restless, betraying the stillness of his stance. Shadows coiled at his boots, restless and listening, never inchind closer to the woman Azriel desired silently.

          Elain's gaze found him. Held him. The air between them tightened, as if even the House paused.

          " I've something for you all. " she said finally, her voice soft, melodic, but laced with that strange distance that made Nesta's skin prickle. Her eyes did not leave Azriel's, even as she pressed the food into Nesta's hands.

         " Guard your heart. " Elain's words slipped into the room, simple yet weighted, her voice carrying that strange, quiet gravity that made it feel more spell than speech. Prophecy, or close enough.

          For Azriel, the warning settled like steel against his ribs. His mind translated it instantly into blades and poison, into shadows slithering with threats he could cut down. But the way she had looked at him—steady, unblinking, as though she knew the fault line buried beneath his silence—something deeper stirred, something he refused to name. His jaw ticked, the scar at his mouth pulling tight.

          " Don't worry, princess. He hasn't got one to lose. " Cassian's voice, brash and warm, cracked through the moment. He moved closer, wings shifting behind him, his bulk a wall of effortless confidence. His smile was roguish, the kind designed to soothe tension but sharpen it all at once. Nesta stiffened at his shoulder, her breath hitching faintly, though she masked it with a roll of her eyes.

          Azriel's hazel gaze flicked to Cassian. Just a glance. Barely a heartbeat. But in that glance lived centuries of brotherhood, a thousand unspoken things. The humor didn't touch Azriel's eyes; it rarely did. He let the corner of his mouth curve—not quite a smile, not quite a threat—as though weighing whether to answer or to let Cassian's words die in the air between them.

          Instead, he bowed his head, shadows curling around him in a slow, restless coil. " I always do. "

          Lies.

          If he truly guarded it—his heart—he wouldn't feel it straining against its chains, clawing against the silence he had spent centuries building. If he truly guarded it, the stench of amber and bitter orange would not still linger in his mind, curling around his thoughts like tender hands, staining him. If he truly guarded it, the memory of a reckless woman's fingers brushing his blade, her nearness, her audacity, would not have lodged like a thorn beneath his ribs.

          The chain in his chest rattled, tugged tight—an invisible tether he refused to acknowledge. He cursed it silently, cursed himself more, as shadows pressed close as though they too sensed the crack forming in his armor. Azriel shoved it down. He had to. He had spent a lifetime locking away things he wanted, things that weakened him. He was made of restraint, of patience sharpened into steel. His heart had no business stirring now.

          And yet it did. Beating loud against his ribs, yearning toward something he could not name without burning. His shadows whispered treacherously, brushing against his jaw, curling at his hands. Not warning. Not defense. Longing. Azriel only stilled them with the coldest of thoughts, swallowing the ache, crushing it until it became nothing but silence again.

          He lied not only to Elain, but to himself. He did not always guard his heart.

          Sometimes—most times—he simply buried it alive.

          Elain's lips curved faintly, a smile or perhaps pity. " No, " she murmured, so low Nesta almost missed it. " Not like this, Shadowsinger. "

          The bundle shifted in Nesta's grip, prickling her palms. She looked from one to the other, the strange current crackling between them, and for once had no biting remark ready. Only the compass at her hip kept pulsing, as though it too felt the weight of Elain's words.

          She reached Nesta first, brushing her sister's cheek with fingers cool as dew. She leaned in, whisper-soft: " Destiny doesn't strike, Nesta. It stings. A prick so small, you don't notice until the blood's already drawn. "

         Nesta froze. Her breath caught sharp in her chest, the question rasping out before she could temper it. " Elain... what do you mean? " The words felt too loud in the hush that followed, like they did not belong in the dimly lit hall where shadows clung thick around them.

          But Elain did not answer. Her gaze slid past Nesta, unhurried, to where Azriel stood in his quiet watch. Her eyes lingered—too long, longer than sisterly courtesy. Measuring him, as if weighing the marrow of his being. A look full of secrets she would not voice. Her mouth curved in that subtle, unreadable way that set Nesta's teeth on edge.

          Azriel shifted under the weight of it, though he did not move more than a fraction. Shadows twined tighter about his boots, as if sensing his restraint, as if keeping him steady against words he hadn't expected.

          Nesta's spine stiffened. She had no patience for riddles, and even less for the way Elain looked at him—as if she knew something Nesta didn't.

          Cassian cut in, as he always did, storm breaking silence. " Enough cryptics. " He drawled, though the slight narrowing of his eyes betrayed his own unease. He flicked a glance at Azriel. " We've got a long road ahead, and I don't plan on flying circles because one of you fainted from dramatics. "

         She turned to Cassian then, slow as the turning of the tide, her gaze too sharp, too knowing for someone who so often drifted like mist. For once, her hands stilled on the bundle of herbs she carried—sprigs of rosemary and sage crushed between her pale fingers, their scent bleeding into the air. "And you," Elain whispered, her voice grave. " You'll meet the only one who surpasses you in battle. "

          The words slithered through the room, wrapping around them all. Someone stronger than Cassian—the general of Rhysand's armies—existed.

          Azriel's jaw ticked, though he did not lift his gaze from the shadows curling at his boots. His mind, unbidden, drifted back to the Court of Nightmares.

          To the warrior woman. As tall as them, muscles reaping under her dark skin. He remembered her dragging the dancer across the obsidian floors, her scarred face half-lit by torchlight, pale eye gleaming with something feral. He remembered how her movements had been too precise, too swift, like the coil and strike of a viper. And how, when he'd closed the distance, blade flashing, she had not flinched.

          He had managed only a single blow—dagger shearing a piece of her ear. It should have been a clean kill. Instead, she'd smiled. A crooked, bloodied smile, as though pain itself had been her weapon.

          If Elain's prophecy was true, if Cassian was fated to meet her...

          Azriel's shadows hissed low, uneasy, as though they too remembered the scent of her blood on his blade.

          Outside the tall windows, Velaris stirred awake: gulls wheeled above the Sidra's gleaming ribbon, the dawn spilling pale gold across the river. Rain clouds massed over the distant mountains, a storm gathering quietly at their edges. The wind pressed damp fingers against the glass panes, rattling them once, as though to echo Elain's warning.

          Nesta exhaled sharply through her nose, arms crossing over her velvet bodice as if bracing herself against the weight of it. She glared at Cassian, but even in her anger, the barb grounded her—because if Cassian fell, if he was bested... the world tilted off its axis.

          Cassian's smirk faltered, just slightly. His broad shoulders shifted under the leather straps crossing his chest, wings twitching in restless irritation. " Is that supposed to be encouragement? " he muttered, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

          Elain stepped closer, silent on bare feet against the marble floor. Her hair, chestnut silk, spilled freely down her back, catching the rising sun's light like threads of honey. Her eyes—wide, unblinking, doe-like—fixed on him. She leaned in—so near that her breath, warm and floral, brushed his cheek. " When the time comes, " she murmured, " aim for the scar. The place she thinks is strong. "

         Her gaze lingered on him a heartbeat too long, then slid away as if she'd never been speaking to him at all.

          Cassian swallowed, his throat dry, heart thudding once against his ribs. He barked a rough laugh. " Hell of a pep talk. " But the words clung. Stronger than him. The thought clawed down his spine. He'd spent centuries bleeding for the skies, earning every scar, every rank, every ounce of respect ripped from Illyrian hands that had never wanted him. Stronger. Than. Him.

          His hand flexed at his side, curling into a fist as if Elain's words had branded themselves there. He told himself it was impossible—none trained harder, none had fallen and risen again more times.

          Yes, there was Azriel—silent, merciless, a predator born in shadow. And Rhysand—strategist, commander, power. Together, they balanced one another, each filling the gaps the other left. Cassian had never denied their strength; he trusted it with his life. But he had never truly believed either of them could eclipse him where it mattered: in the raw grit of battle, in the brutal chaos where strength and will were the only weapons that mattered.

          And yet... this woman Elain spoke of. Not stronger than them. Stronger than him. Alone.

          The thought burned more than he cared to admit. He was the general of the Night Court, the one who held the line when armies broke, who bled so others didn't have to. To imagine another besting him—his pride snarled at it. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and no amount of bravado could shake its roots loose.

         He forced a smirk back onto his lips, but inside, the general in him was already cataloging every scar on his own body, every weakness he had ever ignored. If someone out there existed who could surpass him...then he'd meet them sword to sword. And he'd make damn sure the battlefield remembered who Cassian was.

          Azriel said nothing from where he lingered in the doorway, shadows draped around him like a second skin. They shifted—then went utterly still, tasting the weight of prophecy in the air. His scarred fingers flexed once at his sides, as if the silence itself demanded patience. " Alright, Nesta. Who do you fly with? "

          " I'll take her, she- " Cassian drawled, wings twitching with restless energy, a smirk already curving his mouth.

         " No ." Nesta's heart jolted. She hadn't meant to answer before her mind caught up—but the word tore out anyway. She blinked once, twice, then let her chin rise, her steel meeting Cassian's grin head-on. " I'll go with Azriel. "

        Azriel's brows rose the faintest fraction—the only betrayal of surprise. He did not object. Did not move, either. He only watched her, hazel eyes steady and unblinking, as though if he stared long enough he could unearth the reason beneath her choice.

         He knew Cassian and Nesta had their rhythm, their sparring banter that often blurred into more intimate. They burned hot and loud, a fire he had no right to touch. And yet here she was—choosing him.

          A ripple of unease passed through him. It felt like stealing, as though he'd reached into Cassian's chest and plucked something vital straight from him. He hated that thought, hated the awkward weight of it pressing between his shoulder blades. Cassian was his brother. And still, Nesta's hand hovered closer to his.

          Azriel's jaw ticked once. His scarred fingers flexed, the faintest movement, as though torn between pulling back and offering himself anyway. Shadows curled at his wrists, whispering their own truths: she had chosen. Not him. Not Cassian. But her.

          And that made it worse.

          Cassian barked a laugh, though it rang brittle, lacking its usual unshakable ease. " What, don't trust me not to drop you? " His grin was cocky, but his eyes flicked—her face, Azriel's, back again—searching for an answer neither of them offered. " Or maybe you just prefer someone who won't argue with you midair. "

          " Maybe I just want a quiet flight. " Nesta shot back. Her voice was sharp, acid-laced. Quiet meant control. And control meant safety.

          Azriel inclined his head once. A silent acceptance, nothing more. He stepped forward, the motion fluid as shadow itself, his leathers whispering against the floor. He extended a scarred hand, palm up, not pushy—never pushy. Just an offering. His face unreadable save for the faintest flicker, a glint of something softer buried deep in his hazel eyes.

          Inside, his chest coiled tight. He'd expected her to pick Cassian—Cassian, who always made her rage, who could withstand the burn of her words and laugh anyway. Not him. Never him. And yet... she had.

          From the threshold, Elain stood still as a portrait. Her lips pressed together, her hands cradling herbs too tightly. Her gaze lingered on Azriel—not Nesta—for one beat too long. She took in his shoulders, his gloved fingers, his thighs, then swallowed. Not worry. Something else. A flicker of jealousy that made her brown pupils spark, fleeting and fragile, but there. Nesta's chest tightened at the sight. Did she make the wrong choice?

          Cassian folded his arms, wings arching wide behind him, making himself look bigger, broader, as if sheer presence could reclaim ground. " Cauldron save us. " he muttered with a crooked grin. " You'll regret that choice by the time he goes all broody and silent on you halfway across the sea. "

         Nesta ignored Cassian's barb. She stepped closer, skirts whispering against the stone floor. Then—deliberately, almost defiantly—she slid her hand into Azriel's scarred palm. His grip was warm, firm, steady in a way that felt unshakable. Solid.

          The moment their skin met, his shadows recoiled as though singed. They hissed back, skittering across the floorboards, retreating from her touch as if she had burned them alive. Azriel did not flinch. His hand enclosed hers fully, anchoring.

          Nesta's chin lifted, daring him to let go. And for all his silence, Azriel's grip only tightened—just barely, but enough. " Then I suppose, " she said, her mouth tilting in defiance, " we'll enjoy the silence. "

          The flight was wordless at first, the world reduced to the thunder of wind in their ears and the vast, silver expanse of ocean stretched beneath them. The salt stung Nesta's tongue, coated her lips; the air was sharp, briny, cutting through her lungs with every breath. Her violet gown whipped and snapped behind her, the hem slapping against her boots, while her hair tore free of its pins and streamed wild, blinding her until she ducked into the hard wall of Azriel's shoulder. His leathers were cold, rough, smelling faintly of night air, and cedar.

          Azriel held her close, arms secured around her waist, one braced across her lower back, the other anchoring her thighs to his hips. His hold was unshakable—too practiced, Nesta thought, as if he had carried a hundred souls this way before. Not like Cassian, whose flights had been all grinning bravado and reckless dives, wings straining to impress her, to make her laugh or scream. Azriel flew silent. Efficient.

          Still, when Nesta dared a glance upward, she caught the faintest shadow of stubble darkening his jaw, the tiny imperfections that no one ever mentioned—the slight uneven line of his scarred mouth, the pale nick on his temple, the calluses roughing his knuckles where they brushed her side. Cassian had been all fire and bronze perfection. Azriel was shadow and fracture, every edge honed, every imperfection somehow more real.

          The ocean blurred below them, broken only by jagged rocks that tore through the foam like teeth. A continent swelled on the horizon, mountains black and brooding beneath thick cloud. Nesta shifted, trying to stretch her cramped legs, and her elbow brushed his chest.

          The spot beneath his leathers, near his heart.

          Azriel's body went rigid—only for a heartbeat, but enough that Nesta's sharp instincts caught it. Beneath the leathers, strapped tight against his chest, the vial pressed cold against his skin. The last trace of that poison. The last gift of that witch from Thaibar that knew of his mother. But he selfishly kept it to himself. Evidence of the one thing he never admitted out loud: failure.

          His mind dragged back to it—the choice he hadn't confessed. Nobody knew about it, he never confessed of owning something so crucial to their hunt. Azriel carried the potion with him everywhere, afraid he was going to lose it. He should have told them in Velaris, should have admitted that before they'd left the Court of Nightmares, before the planning, before this mission, that he killed her, their only hope of salvation, and his only cause of psychosis. That he had known from the start the poison wasn't meant for Vespertus at all, but for the others—the women guarding her.

          The chain in his chest rattled, dragging like iron links against bone, maddening in its persistence. He had no name for it, no sense of where it began or where it ended. Only that it bound him still—choking, tugging, like some cruel joke of fate. Once, it had been Elain's scent of flowers that laced around him, sweet and fruitfull until it seeped into his fantasies. But now? That ache had hollowed, faded into absence so sharp it hurt. Days had passed, maybe weeks, without him thinking of her at all, of her eyes or mouth, of her delicate fingers still dirty with mud.

          Instead, another presence invaded him—relentless. A woman he'd never meant to remember. The dead one.

          Her defiance replayed like a curse: the way she had dared dance with his dagger, had pressed steel against her body as if mocking him with her every breath. The way her storm-lit eyes had met his without fear, daring him to cut her down. And he had.

          He had.

          The arrow's hiss still lived in his ears. The bite of string against his fingers. The glide of fletching through the dark. The way the shaft had driven home between blade and spine, straight to where her heart should have burst. He had aimed to kill. And he had not missed.

           Yet she lived. Again.

          Amren's spell had answered the blood. The trail had not gone cold. Which meant the body he'd left to rot in darkness had risen again. Not by chance. By something that refused to let her die. 

          And now, her presence laced him like venom. He could not escape it. Not in the flight over the sea, not in the press of silence between him and Nesta, not even in the refuge of his shadows. He could not stop recalling her. The poison. The strands of her scarlett hair he'd claimed like a hunter marking prey. 

          Azriel gritted his teeth, shadows writhing at his wrists as though they too chafed under the weight of her. It wasn't longing. It wasn't desire. It was fury. That she lived. That she haunted him. That the chain inside his chest tightened every time his mind dared whisper her name.

          And the question pressed harder than the storm winds battering his wings: How had she survived?

          The silence between them cracked. Nesta's voice was hoarse against the gale. " If I fall, I'm haunting you. "

          Azriel's lips twisted faintly, not quite a smile. "You'd have to catch me first."

          Cassian's voice cut in from behind, carried on the wind. " Cauldron save us—now there'll be two of you haunting me. "

          The wind tore at them, salt and brine stinging Nesta's lips as Azriel banked low over the sea. His wings—vast curtains of night—angled sharply, dipping them so close the spray kissed her boots. The roar of the ocean rose like a living thing. Nesta gripped his shoulders, fingers digging through the worn leather, feeling the flex of muscle beneath. " When I had a vision of the woman we're after. I dreamed of a child. In her arms. She was... shot? While she was running away. "

         Azriel's wings stuttered—a single hitch no one else would have noticed, but she felt it, a tremor through his spine. He recovered instantly, banking upward in a clean, practiced sweep. " Are you asking, " his voice came back to her serrated, " or telling me? "

          Nesta narrowed her eyes, studying the hard profile of his face. The wind pulled at his dark hair, exposing the scar at the corner of his mouth. " Don't play games. You know something. "

          " I know dreams have a talent for lying. "

          Her chin lifted, defiance flaring in her silver-gray eyes. " I felt it. The arrow—it was meant to kill her. Why would someone want that? "

          Azriel's hazel gaze flicked to her at last, a flash of molten gold under the hood of his lashes. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He dipped them lower again, wings slicing the air with brutal precision. " What makes you think I know the answer to that? "

          Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. " Because you were there. "

          For a heartbeat, only the sound of the wind and the sea answered. His shadows curled tight against his ribs, whispering secrets she couldn't hear. When he spoke again, his voice had gone quiet, almost lethal. " I'm everywhere, Nesta. That doesn't mean I hold the answers to your nightmares. Don't waste your breath asking me to explain the Cauldron's cruelty. "

          Her breath caught, fury flaring. " You're lying. "

          " Maybe. " he replied uninterested " Or maybe you just don't like the truth: if death missed her, then perhaps it wasn't meant to find her. Not yet. "

          Above them, Cassian wheeled through the sky, wings flaring like a banner of storm-clouds. His laugh boomed across the wind, deliberately too loud. " I thought you two were best friends. " he shouted, grinning down at them. " Now she annoys you, brother? Maybe you should've refused to fly with her! "

          Azriel didn't look up, but Nesta saw the faintest flick of his ear, the tiniest flare of his nostrils at the jibe. His grip on her waist tightened a fraction.

          By the time they descended miles from Montessere, storm-clouds were already muscling across the horizon, blotting out the last veins of sunlight. The sky dimmed to pewter, the air heavy with the metallic tang that always came before rain. Wind tugged at their cloaks, carrying the faint scent of brine and smoke from distant hearths.

          If the storm broke, it would drive every villager indoors, shuttering doors and windows tight. No one lingered in the streets during a downpour—not here, not on a coast where storms could shred sails and swallow boats whole. And if people vanished from the roads, so too would their leads, their whispers, their chance at finding anything before nightfall.

          They couldn't afford to delay the mission more than a day. Time was already slipping, each hour tightening the noose.

          Azriel landed first, the impact silent. He lowered Nesta carefully, but his gaze was shuttered, almost bored.

           Nesta adjusted her skirts, fingers twitching as she smoothed the violet folds, her chin tipped defiantly. She slipped the golden compass from her pocket, thumbing the blood-red needle as though it might suddenly spin and guide her. The glamour settled like a veil, dissolving their wings until they stood not as Illyrian warriors but plain travelers, cloaked and unremarkable. 

          Cassian landed harder than he needed to, stone crunching under his boots. Dust flared at the impact, curling around his ankles. He waited until Nesta strode a few paces ahead—far enough that she couldn't hear—before his hand shot out, clamping onto Azriel's forearm.

          The grip was firm, brotherly but edged in challenge. Cassian leaned in, his breath still rough from the flight, a smirk tugging sharp at his mouth. " One day, brother, " he murmured low, for Azriel's ears alone, " I'll be the one your woman chooses to fly with. And when that day comes— " his grin widened, wolfish, " —I'll make sure to wave down at you. "

          Azriel didn't wrench free. He only glanced down at the hand on his arm, shadows curling there. Then his gaze lifted, cool and flat. " Wave all you want. She'll be screaming my name when you land. "

          Cassian's smirk faltered, just slightly. He let go, flexed his wings once and strode after Nesta with a bark of laughter that didn't quite mask the sting. He adjusted the strap of his sword across his broad chest, bronze-burnished wings flexing wide once, catching the light before the glamour cloaked them.

          Azriel only rolled a shoulder, shadows rippling like restless serpents around his arms. " You speak as if I forced her. " He said smoothly. " It was her choice. "

          Cassian's eyes narrowed. " A choice you could've refused. "

          " Ah. " Azriel's mouth curved the faintest fraction, humorless. " And risk her refusing to come at all? Pride has a cost, Cassian. You'd pay it gladly. I won't. Not when the world is already hanging by threads. " His hazel gaze cut sideways, deliberate. " Besides... I thought you didn't like telling women what to do. "

         Cassian's jaw tightened. " Talk in a bag, Az. I'll open it tomorrow and listen then. " He strode past, deliberately brushing Nesta's shoulder with the sweep of his cloak as he moved to the front. " Come on. Let's find some damned horses, since your quiet flight didn't earn us anything useful. "

          The village unfolded like a watercolor brushed against the sea. Whitewashed houses clung to the curve of the cliffs, their shutters painted in every shade of blue, echoing the restless ocean beyond. The cobbled road ran slick from the morning mist, damp salt clinging to Nesta's tongue as she led the way down toward the harbor.

         Life pulsed everywhere—fishermen shouting over one another as they hauled in their catch, nets glittering with silver scales that slapped wet against the stone. Children darted through the streets, trailing laughter and the smell of fried bread. Women leaned out of open windows to shake linens, voices lilting as they bartered or sang above the gulls wheeling overhead.

          Cassian adjusted the strap across his chest, scanning every corner with a warrior's eye even as his mouth curled into a smirk at the chaos around them. He looked larger than life among these people, a warlord disguised in plain travel leathers, though nothing about his swaggered walk suggested he belonged here. Azriel was quieter—always quieter—hood drawn low, shadows feathering close as though even the salt air sought to touch him. His hazel eyes flicked over every face, every doorway, cataloguing threat and pattern alike.

          Nesta walked at their front, chin high, her violet skirts darkened at the hem by sea spray. Her boots rang steady against the stone, but the compass in her palm pulled heavier with each step, as if it were a living thing straining toward something. She pressed her thumb hard against the golden rim, focusing, forcing that strange inner tether to tighten. A pulse answered deep in her ribs, tugging toward the far end of the road.

          The people noticed them, though they didn't stop their work—too wary, too polite to draw attention. Still, a few fishermen tipped their hats, muttering about strangers traveling this far inland. When Cassian asked, loud enough to be heard over the gulls, " Horse seller? Anyone know where we can find him? " half a dozen hands lifted, pointing toward the rise of barns beyond the square.

          Nesta's fingers clenched tighter around the compass. The needle spun once, twice, then steadied—pointing not to the harbor, not to the sea, but inland, exactly where the villagers' gestures had directed.

          The three of them followed the dirt road out of the square, past stalls laden with figs and lemons, the sweet tang of them mixing with brine. The further they went, the louder the gulls cried, wheeling inland as if to mark their path.

          The barns rose soon after, weathered wood gone grey from sea winds, their roofs patched with red tile. The smell of hay and horseflesh rolled toward them in warm waves, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the shore.

          Cassian's jaw tightened, scanning the open yard. Azriel's shadows stirred, brushing against Nesta's arm as if warning her, though he didn't speak. Nesta swallowed hard, the compass burning in her palm. The needle throbbed in time with her pulse, straining toward the largest barn at the far end.

          And waiting there—was the horse seller.

          The barn hunched at the road's edge, its timber ribs blackened with age, the yawning doors creaking wide like a mouth waiting to swallow them whole. The smell struck first—heavy hay and horseflesh, manure baked into the earth, the sharp tang of leather oil clinging to the rafters. But beneath it lingered something cloying, off-kilter. Sweet. Lilacs.

          The pale blossoms clustered thick around the fence posts, drooping over the rails as if they'd been coaxed into blooming far too soon. Their perfume hung unnaturally heavy in the damp air.

           Nesta slowed, nose wrinkling. " I thought it wasn't the season for lilac to bloom. " One thin brow arched high, suspicion sharpening her profile. Her hand brushed absently at her sleeve, like she wanted to shake the scent off her skin.

          " Lilacs in late autumn? " Cassian crouched, pinching a petal between thick fingers. It crumbled, papery, too dry for something so freshly alive. His mouth flattened. " That's not natural. "

          The horse seller burst out to greet them, almost too quickly, as if he'd been waiting all morning for customers. He was tall and spindly, with a mop of greying black curls and a grin far too wide for his narrow face. His teeth gleamed unnaturally white, his lips stretched like tallow pulled too thin.

          " Well, well, well! Three fine beasts for three fine travelers. " He declared, arms spread wide, sleeves too short for wrists that ended in delicate, almost feminine hands. Black eyes glimmered oddly—speckled faintly with lilac, catching the light in a way that made Azriel's shadows recoil, though he masked it with a blink. " Just don't ask what they've carried before. " The man added with a wink that tried for humor and landed in unease.

          Cassian groaned, folding his arms. " You'd make a fortune if you learned how to talk less while selling. "

          " Oh, but the story's half the price! " the man chirped, prancing toward a mare as if he were about to kiss it on the nose. " Fine legs, finer heart. Or perhaps a cow, hm? Lovely milkers I've got in the back. Strong backs. You'd be surprised what a cow can haul over mountains. "

          Nesta blinked. " We're not buying a cow. "

          " Speak for yourself! " Cassian bent to inspect a stallion's teeth, prying the jaws apart with all the confidence of someone born in stables. " Though I'd like to see Azriel try to ride one. "

          A muscle ticked in Azriel's scarred jaw. He didn't rise to the bait, only circled the yard with the silence of a cemetery, shadows sliding along the fences. The seller's eyes snagged on him a little too long, but when Azriel's hazel stare snapped back, the man's grin only widened.

          " Well, then! Horses, yes. " He swept his too-supple hands through the air, clapping them with an exaggerated flourish. " Three of my best. Fast, sure-footed. They won't complain if you ride them hard. " His lilac-speckled eyes flicked to Nesta as he said it, and her stomach dropped.

          Cassian huffed, slapping the horse's neck. " Price? "

          The man leaned in close, his grin sharpening. " For you, general? I'll pretend I don't know your face. Ten silvers a beast. "

          " That's robbery. " Cassian straightened, wings twitching under glamour. " Five. "

          " Eight, and I'll throw in a saddle blanket that doesn't reek of goat. "

          " Six. "

          " Seven. "

          Cassian's smirk curved wicked. " Done. " He dug into the pouch at his belt and tossed the coins with casual flair.

          While Cassian bantered, Nesta lingered near the fence, suspicion prickling sharper than the salt air. She held the compass tight in her palm, its needle quivering. Something here buzzed against her ribs, whispering danger.

          The man sidled close—too close. He brushed against her arm as if by accident, his hands soft, almost dainty. A sting. Sharp, fleeting. Like a thorn sinking shallow into her skin.

          Nesta hissed and jerked back. " Watch yourself! "

          The man bowed with that unnatural smile. " Clumsy hands. Forgive me, lady. " His voice was graceful, dripping apology, but the violet dots in his black irises sparkled enthusiastic.

          Azriel's whiskey gaze lingered, a fraction too long, searching rapidly Nesta's figure. " You alright, Nesta? " He caught the faintest flicker of her flinch after she nodded towards him. 

          When he glanced back, the seller was already bustling about the barn, too cheerful by half. The man's whistling cut sharp through the musk of hay and sweat, hands moving with almost theatrical eagerness as he strapped the saddle tight. Humming like he had nothing to hide. Like this was just another honest trade.

          The Spymaster's gaze narrowed, his focus locking in as though he could peel the man open with a look alone. Every detail tallied itself in his mind, one by one: the black eyes that weren't truly black but laced with strange flecks of purple, glinting like stars swallowed by the night sky. The oddly delicate hands—too slim, too soft, for a man who claimed to wrangle horses. The features almost pretty in their symmetry, too feminine for the role he played, and that lilac perfume clinging to him—out of season.

          Azriel had encountered this before. He knew he had. The detail teased at the back of his skull. But the memory snagged and dissolved before he could catch it, as if veiled—buried on purpose. Hidden not by his own mind, but by someone else. And then the man turned. Mischief leaked from every gesture, his body loose as if he were in on a secret no one else knew. His smile bent, sly and knowing. He winked.

          Cassian returned, reins in hand, grinning. " See? Easy. Three fine beasts. "

          The seller tipped his head. " For three fine travelers. "

          And none of them—not even Azriel—saw the drop of purple liquid glinting faintly where the man's hand had brushed Nesta's.

          The compass thrummed against Nesta's palm, warm and alive, its needle tugging with restless hunger toward the northeast. Each pulse traveled up her wrist like a heartbeat not her own. She clicked her short nail against the glass casing, steadying the tremor in her fingers before angling it again toward the dark wall of trees ahead.

          The red glow beneath the needle flared brighter the higher she lifted it, veins of light threading across the compass face like something alive, something eager. It felt less like an object and more like a tether, dragging her deeper into the green. Nesta exhaled through her nose, squared her shoulders, and announced, " It says we cut through the forest. "

          Cassian groaned, already nudging his stallion forward. " Of course it does. No road, no taverns, no warm food—just trees and mud. " He cast a glare skyward, muttering, " Why can't magic ever point us toward a decent inn? "

         Azriel rode with deceptive ease, posture loose as if the weight of the mission—or the woman fading behind them—was nothing at all. One scarred hand rested lazily on his thigh, the other loose on the reins, his shadows uncoiling restless across the horse's flanks. " Better the trees than a city watch sniffing around, asking what three fine travelers "—he mocked the merchant's too-smooth words, every syllable bitten with disdain—" plan to do with horses they barely knew how to bargain for. "

          His hazel eyes slid sideways, glinting in the fractured sunlight through the canopy. The faintest curl of his lip accompanied the look he leveled at Cassian. " Speaking of bargaining... you overpaid. Again. "

          Cassian twisted in his saddle, pointing a broad hand at him. " Excuse me? That was a masterpiece of negotiation. I even got the goat-blanket for free. "

            " You got played. " Azriel said flatly.

            " Played? " Cassian scoffed. " I saved us a silver and a lecture about cows. If that's not winning, I don't know what is. "

          " Apparently, neither do you. " Azriel murmured.

          Nesta let their voices blur into background noise, though the corner of her mouth twitched. Their bickering stretched through the last crooked houses of the fishing village, past the cobbled street that melted into packed earth. The salt-stink of the harbor faded, replaced by the resinous tang of pine.

          The forest loomed ahead, branches knitted tight, their shadows like black lace over the narrow trail. The moment they entered, the air cooled, damp with moss and the sweet rot of leaves. Their horses's hooves thudded softer now, muffled, the sound swallowed by birdsong and the occasional snap of a twig.

          But Nesta's grip on the reins tightened until her knuckles whitened. The compass jerked in her palm with every step of the horse, its pull growing heavier, more insistent, as though it wanted to drag her hand clean off her wrist. Her vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding together before snapping back too sharp. Heat crawled into her fingers, at first a prickling of pins and needles—then an ache, slow and poisonous, digging beneath the skin.

           She blinked hard, forcing her eyes to focus on the winding track ahead, the damp earth where wagon wheels had once cut deep grooves. But the air around her thickened, pressing against her chest, her lungs, her very skull. A searing weight, hot enough to make her feel as if her brain simmered in its casing.

            Her cloak suddenly felt suffocating, the fur lining clawing at her throat. She wanted—needed—to rip it off. Her breathing hitched, too shallow, too fast, as if the air itself was thick. A bead of sweat gathered at her temple, slid down, and dripped from her nose. It hit the mare's neck with a sharp splash, darkening the glossy hide. The horse flicked an ear back, uneasy at the salt of her fear. Nesta swallowed against the rising burn in her throat. The compass thrummed again, harder this time—like a second pulse, beating under her skin.

          " Keep up, Nes, " Cassian called over his shoulder, grin flashing as he dodged a low branch. " Don't let the shadows eat you. "

          She meant to roll her eyes. Meant to toss back something sharp. But her throat caught on nothing, dry and raw. Her hands slipped on the reins. She glanced down—her palm was traced with purple, veins blooming up her wrist like ink in water. Crawling higher. Her stomach lurched.

          But Nesta couldn't form the words. Couldn't call his name, couldn't even rasp Cassian's. The forest pressed too tight, the air too heavy. Each breath sawed through her chest like knives. She tried once more—opened her mouth—but only a strangled sound came. The compass fell from her fingers, clattering against her skirts. Her body pitched sideways, sliding from the saddle.

          The world spun—branches a blur, the meadow's edge vanishing, her horse rearing with a startled whinny. Nesta hit the mossy earth hard, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. She clawed at nothing, her chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow bursts. Purple veins streaked up her arms now, across her collarbone.

          Her vision tunneled. Above the roar of her pulse, she heard Cassian shout her name, panic finally breaking through his laugh. Hooves thundered back toward her, the ground trembling with every strike.

          Azriel's shadows surged, cold against her fevered skin, as her world narrowed to ragged breaths and darkness at the edges of her sight.

          And then—nothing. The forest had swallowed her.

          Cassian's laugh was still echoing off the trees when his gut went cold. He twisted in the saddle. Empty space. Hooves clattered, but Nesta's horse was riderless, reins dangling. " Nesta! " His voice cracked, sharper than he intended. His stallion skidded as he wrenched the reins, bolting back down the trail.

          They found her sprawled in moss and mud, hair fanned, body too still. Purple veins spider-webbed up her arms, dark against her pale skin, pulsing like something alive beneath. Her chest rose shallow, uneven, almost reluctant.

          Cassian was off his horse before it had stopped, hitting the ground hard. He slid to his knees beside her, scooping her against him, his hands frantic—checking her throat, her pulse, her mouth. " Cauldron, no—no, no, no—Nesta, breathe. " Her body sagged limp against his armor, heat burning off her like a forge. " She's not healing, " Cassian rasped, wild eyes flashing to Azriel. " Why isn't she healing? She's High Fae—she should've burned this out by now. "

          Azriel crouched low, scarred hand brushing over the veins crawling along her collarbone. His shadows recoiled, hissing. " This isn't normal. Something's blocking her power—locking it down. "

          Cassian pressed his forehead to hers, desperate, his breath ragged. " Then heal her! You're the one with a thousand tricks, Az—do something! "

          Azriel's eyes cut to him. " If I could rip it out, I would. But I'm not a healer. " 

           Cassian swore viciously, clutching her tighter, rocking her as if motion alone could keep her tethered. " I can't lose her. Not like this. " His throat worked, too tight. He pressed his palm over her sternum, tried to will his siphons to push energy into her, but nothing caught. The flames guttered, the bond between magic and body snapping useless sparks.

          " Why the hell won't it work? " His voice broke, teeth bared.

           " Because it's not meant to. " Azriel's tone was grim. He glanced north, where the compass lay useless, needle spinning in circles. Then to the faint glow of lights at the forest's edge—closer than the ocean behind them. " The next city's half an hour on horseback. I'll find a doctor. " He rose, already calculating, wings invisible but shoulders taut with the urge to take flight.

          Cassian's head snapped up. " You're not leaving me alone with her like this. "

          " We don't have a choice. Flying back home at Madja could take more than going to the next village. " Azriel's gaze pinned him. Shadows licked Cassian's boots, whispering urgency. " Get her closer to the village. Find an inn, a bed. Cover her with blankets, keep her warm. If she slips further, we'll lose her before I get back. "

          Cassian looked down at Nesta again. Her lips were bluish, her lashes beaded with sweat. She looked... gone. Like death was already peeling her away from him. His hands shook as he adjusted his grip, tucking her against his chest as though she were breakable. " She's burning alive, " he whispered hoarsely. " And I can't stop it. "

          Azriel's jaw tightened, eyes flicking once—just once—to her face, then away. " Then hold her together until I bring someone who can fix this. " His words were final. He mounted his stallion in one fluid motion, shadows snapping taut around him like a promise.

          Cassian bent low, murmuring into Nesta's hair, words too soft for Azriel to hear. When he finally looked up, his dark eyes burned, desperate and wild. " Ride, Az. Ride like death's on your heels. "

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

Guarded Hearts. Part II.

          Azriel nodded once. He was gone a heartbeat later, swallowed by forest and storm, leaving only shadows whispering in his wake.

          Cassian stayed in the mud, Nesta cradled against him, whispering her name over and over as if sheer repetition could anchor her here. The compass lay discarded in the dirt beside them, its needle spinning madly—like it, too, had lost its way.

          Azriel rode like the wind was chasing him. Faster, harder—each strike of his stallion's hooves devouring the muddy road. His jaw clenched, his scarred hands steady on the reins, but his mind ached with too many questions. Nesta's warning replayed—her sharp voice at the barn: " Watch yourself! " The memory slithered into the forefront, tangled with the image of that too-eager horse seller and the lilacs blooming out of season.

          Lilac perfume. His shadows whispered it, needled it into him. We have met that before. In Thaibar. Too sweet. Too heavy. Not meant for that barn. Not meant for spring. A cover. A lie. She gave us the lilies.

           Azriel's jaw clenched until his teeth ached. Every instinct screamed to turn back, to find that witch and drive his blade beneath her ribs until truth spilled with her blue blood. But Nesta's face—ashen, fragile, veins crawling black like spilled tar—burned behind his eyes, anchoring him in the present.

          How in the Cauldron's name had she found them here? Why had she come? Why the disguise, the false voice, the farce of selling horses? What did she truly want? Once, she'd told him poison was the only way to make them meet again—Azriel and the comet woman. And now, here she was once more, as if fate itself had looped their paths into the same orbit, refusing to let them drift apart.

          Revenge would have to wait. Saving Nesta could not.

          He calculated as he rode—the venom's spread, its potency, how much time they had left before it reached her heart. Not long. Not long at all.

          The fishing village had been all noise and color. This new place, miles inland, was calmer. Poorer, perhaps, with houses slouched against one another and streets packed hard with mud, but not despairing. Smoke curled from stone chimneys. Children darted through the lanes, laughter bright. A bell tolled somewhere, slow and lazy.

          Azriel reined in the stallion hard, the beast snorting clouds of steam into the cold air, flanks slick with sweat. Dust streaked his cloak, wind had torn his hair loose, and yet his spine remained straight. He swung down in one smooth motion, boots hitting the muddy street with a solid thud. The ground itself seemed to flinch.

          He shoved his hood back, scanning the cramped village. Smoke clung to the air, thick with the scent of wet wood. Stalls leaned crookedly beneath sagging awnings, children paused mid-laugh, eyes going wide. Even without his wings hidden, his presence rippled through the narrow lanes like a silent warning.

          People stepped aside without being asked—instinctively clearing his path. A woman dropped her basket, apples tumbling across the mud, but she didn't stoop to gather them. A dog whimpered and slunk under a cart. The hum of the street faltered, thinning into uneasy quiet as he stalked forward.

          He turned down one alley, then another—too narrow, too slow. Frustration clawed up his throat. When the next villager hesitated at his approach, Azriel's hand shot out, gloved fingers closing around the man's forearm with a speed that made him gasp. The grip was iron, not cruel but merciless. " I need a healer, " Azriel bit out, voice low, flint-rough, each word honed to command. " Fast. "

          The man froze, eyes darting to the black-leathered hand crushing his sleeve. He tried to pull back—failed. He saw nothing of wings or siphons, yet something in the stranger's stillness, in those cold, sharp eyes, made him swallow hard. He nodded quickly, voice trembling. " T-two streets east, " he stammered, jerking his chin toward a narrow lane that twisted behind the church. " You'll find her there. "

          Azriel released him, and the man stumbled back, rubbing at his arm, too afraid to speak again. The Shadowsinger didn't linger; he was already moving, cloak snapping behind him like a storm about to break.

          At the corner, he stopped. The air shifted—different. Thicker. His shadows lifted their heads in unison, tasting something familiar. And that's when he saw her.

          Outside a weathered stone cottage, bundles of thyme and rosemary swung lazily in the wind, brushing the wall like green whispers. The scent cut through the damp air — clean, alive.

          She stood beneath them. Dark hair, thick and sleek, bound into a braid that struck her back each time she laughed at something an old woman called from across the lane. Her dress was plain gray, the kind made for work, not beauty. Its hem was frayed, her apron stained with flour and a splash of something darker — tincture, or blood, perhaps. And yet she carried herself with a composure that mocked the simplicity of her clothes. Sturdy, practical, but almost regal in how deliberately she wore them.

          Azriel stopped under the drooping branches of a tree at the corner. The black cloak veiled him head to toe, and even without wings, he looked carved from the same darkness that haunted nightmares.

          People noticed. They always did. A woman gathering laundry froze, then pulled her child behind her skirts. A merchant slammed shut his shutters. The dog that had been nosing through the gutter whimpered and vanished into an alley. The lane rippled outward from him — silence expanding like a wound.

          Azriel didn't care. His attention was fixed only on her. The healer.

          From the distance, he catalogued details with the precision of a hunter: the faint yellow bloom of a bruise along her jaw, the deft sureness of her hands as she adjusted a vial in her apron, the quick, unguarded way her eyes — green as cut emeralds, bright and unnatural in this gray village — lifted toward the boy who had stepped too close. She smiled. Softly.

          Azriel's stance loosened, deceptively relaxed, though every muscle was strung tight. His hazel gaze traced her from boots to crown — noting the careful mending of her skirt, the scuffs on well-kept leather, the faint shimmer that clung to her. To anyone else, she'd look ordinary. To him, her presence rang wrong — like a false note struck beneath a perfect melody. His shadows felt it too. They stirred restlessly at his feet, whispering.

          One bold tongue of darkness slipped free, gliding over the mud, silent and sure. It brushed her hem — and froze. Recognition shivered down the bond between Azriel and the dark. His chest tightened. Shadows didn't recognize strangers.

          The woman didn't react. Or perhaps she did — a faint twitch at her wrist, a breath caught mid-movement. But she went on as if unaware, tucking the boy's wilted flower into her apron, her expression mild and kind. The shadow lingered by her boot, quivering like a hound catching the scent of home but unsure if it dares approach.

          Azriel's scarred fingers flexed over the hilt at his hip. That pulse of recognition thrummed through him, old and unwanted. Yet the woman before him was wrong in every way. The Comet Woman would never smile so sweetly. The one who had danced with his dagger before a hall of predators had burned brighter, wilder — defiant, indecent, magnetic. This one smelled of hearth smoke and cinnamon, of apple and dust. Nothing of lilac. Nothing of amber.

          A lie wrapped in warmth.

          Another shadow snaked around the column of his thick neck, biting his earlobe, the words scorching. Liar.

          A horse shifted nearby — dark-coated, sleek, too finely bred for a village nag. Its mane was brushed smooth, hooves polished. Another illusion pretending at poverty. Azriel's eyes narrowed. He filed the detail away. And then he saw it — the small stir beneath the woman's burgundy tunic, a ripple of motion. Two black ears rose, twitching, followed by a low purr. A cat. Sleek and silent, its fur dark as ink. Different color, different companion. Another inconsistency.

          It couldn't be her. Could it?

          He stepped from the cover of the tree, slow, deliberate. The crowd's murmur fell to nothing. His stride was measured, carnivorous, his gaze locked on her as though the world beyond her ceased to exist. He tracked every flicker — the shy tuck of hair behind her ear, the subtle tremor at her throat when the boy pressed a flower into her hand, the faint shift in her scent when she smiled.

          He knew she wasn't alone. The last time he'd crossed her path, she'd been guarded — two other women, one of them a glamourist strong enough to blur reality itself. If this was a trap, she wasn't the only piece on the board. He couldn't seize her. Not yet. Not when Nesta was fighting for breath miles away. Not when the forest still might be watching. Not when this woman might still be innocent.

          The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen. Too tall for his limbs, shoulders narrow but eager to broaden, freckles still scattered like dust across his nose. His blue eyes carried the wild hope of someone who had never yet been told "no." He clutched a single white flower in his rough fingers, already wilting from his sweaty palms. He stepped forward, thrusting it at her with desperate courage.

          The woman's lips parted, startled, before softening into something slow, reverent, almost tender. " My mother's favorite, " She breathed, the words carrying like a secret through the damp village air. " Chrysanthemum. " Her fingertips traced the flower's edges with aching care, as though the fragile petals were relics, holy things salvaged from another world. The sound of her voice—low, hushed, threaded with something soul-soothing—wove nostalgia through the street.

          Her features shifted—not much, just enough for Azriel to catch it in his path towards them. A fracture in porcelain, a split on a vase too beautiful to mend. The smile wavered, slipped, and for an instant she wasn't here at all. Her eyes glazed, heavy with memory, her body gone rigid, as though she'd been pulled under by some undertow no one else could see. Water leaking from a broken vessel. A mask slipping from its ties.

          Then the boy spoke again—clumsy, eager words tumbling out—and she blinked, shuddering back into her skin. The crack sealed itself. Her smile returned, too practiced. A facade re-fastened. But Azriel had seen it. " I—I thought you'd like it. I saved it for you. "

          Her smile tilted bittersweet. She touched his arm—gentle, careful, as though she feared breaking him. "I do. Truly. But keep your heart safe, boy. Flowers are better given to someone who can give them back."

          The boy's face crumpled—hope collapsing into something raw and awkward. His lower lip trembled as he whispered, " I just thought you'd like it. "

          Vythra's fingers tightened around the fragile stem, the white petals crushed between thumb and forefinger. Before she could answer, a shadow fell over both of them.

          " Are you the town's healer? " The voice rolled low, cool and hoarse.

           She spun, startled—heart thudding once. The woman froze, her lips parted, the flower caught between her thumb and forefinger as she stared at him—enchanted. Or perhaps afraid. Because her pupils trembled, as though her presence had pierced through his magic, as though she could see the monstrous wings unfurling behind his shoulders.

          A strange man stood a few paces away, half-shrouded by the slanting light. Even in plain travel leathers, he looked out of place here, a dark mark on soft canvas. Vythra blinked at him, mouth slightly parted, aware. Then, to his faint surprise, she tilted her head. " Have we met before? " She asked delicately.

          His dark brow arched, faint amusement ghosting across full, sharp-edged lips. For a fleeting heartbeat, he looked like one of her favorite turkish actors from her old world—those impossibly composed men with strong, masculine hands and eyes that carried quiet tenderness beneath all that power.

          " If we had, " he said civilized, " you'd remember. "

          He was tall—towering above her by nearly two heads, his very presence a quiet gravity that bent the air around him. Broad shoulders, scars half-hidden beneath the black hood, a face carved from something rarer than stone—something that had survived centuries untouched. Beautiful in that terrible, sacred way only warriors are.

          Vythra's magic stuttered beneath her skin, the glamour Sorscha had woven trembling like veil before her pupils. Her throat went dry for a second, her tongue heavy in her mouth. She swallowed—once, twice—as though trying to force down a knot that refused to move, like she'd swallowed a fly and couldn't get rid of it.

          Her heart stood guard behind her ribs, restless and unrelenting, like a sentry refusing to abandon post. Bound in invisible chains, it thrashed once, then went still. A heavy silence fell over her, the kind that feels like stepping into a graveyard—every breath an intrusion, every sound a sin. She felt as though she were about to confess the most dangerous secret in the world to someone who would never tell another soul. Ever.

          Before either could speak again, the sharp clatter of hooves shattered the fragile moment. " Ah, fuck... " Vythra muttered, rubbing her temple with the heel of her palm. She already knew who was coming—she could recognize that drunken gallop anywhere. She'd met him once, in Zelma's tavern, and ever since, the man had clung to her like a leech.

          He sent her little pouches of coins—Malou snatched those up before she could blink—and bouquets of wilted flowers whose leaves Sorscha dried and smoked for her ridiculous meditative trances.

          The man came barreling down the street, laughing and bellowing, his horse stumbling beneath him. His gut sagged over his belt; his nose was an unfortunate shade between plum and raw meat. " Wife! " He hollered, almost tumbling from the saddle as he pointed a crooked finger at her. " My sweet, quiet wife! Told ye I'd find ye again! "

          Vythra groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. " Saints save me. Not again. " Dread and nausea collided at the base of her skull, a sickening pulse that rolled straight down her spine. Shame followed close behind—hot, crawling, pounding in time with her heartbeat until she could barely tell where irritation ended and mortification began.

          Her eyes darted around the square, silently begging the world for mercy—or at least for someone, anyone, to intervene. But the villagers only stared, frozen between fascination and fear, watching her like a performer about to step into the same humiliating act they'd all seen before.

          The stranger's expression didn't change, but his composure cracked—the faintest twitch in his gloved hands beneath the cloak. Azriel gave him a slow, assessing look from head to toe, then nearly rolled his eyes when the man's voice scraped out, wet and strangled with phlegm and cheap wine. Even from this distance, the reek of sour alcohol reached him.

          He exhaled through his nose, long-suffering. Cauldron save me from idiots, he thought, the corner of his mouth curving in silent disgust. He didn't have time for this.

          The brunette woman turned her head, rolling her shoulders as though steeling herself for battle—or divine punishment. Her patience seemed to fray visibly, every muscle preparing for the inevitable scene.

          Azriel caught the flicker in her eyes just before she spoke—the tight control, the silent prayer for restraint—and decided that if she didn't chase the man off herself, he would. And he wouldn't need to raise his voice to do it.

          " I'm not your wife, Rotherforst. "

          " Yet. " He slurred with a wink, circling her and sending up clouds of dust.

          The boy beside her stiffened, his bony palms balling. " Leave her alone! "

          The drunk barked a laugh, swaying dangerously. " She doesn't need your wilted flowers, boy. She needs a man who can— " He stuck out his tongue and swirled it obscenely. The horse stumbled on a rut. There was a wet crunch and a scream as the man went flying, landing hard in the mud. " Mother's tits! " he howled, clutching his arm at a grotesque angle.

           Azriel's lips twitched—he didn't need to lift a finger. Apparently, fate itself was already stalking the man's heels, ready to deliver what he deserved. The idiot had too much time on his hands and far too little sense to know when to shut his mouth.

          Vythra sighed through her teeth, pushing the boy aside with a gentle but exasperated hand. " For God's sake, not again. " She crouched beside the fallen man, movements brisk and precise, irritation sharpening every gesture. " You've dislocated your shoulder, Rotherforst. Again. "

         What god was she calling for, exactly? The thought barely flickered before a bold shadow slipped free, sliding beneath Azriel's cloak. It crawled up the line of his throat, cool and alive, until it brushed against his carotid—a whisper of darkness pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

          From behind her came a dry murmur. " That seems to be a habit. " Azriel hadn't meant to speak aloud. The comment slipped out before he could stop it.

          She twisted to glance over her shoulder, one brow arching. " If you're offering commentary, make yourself useful. "

          He lifted an eyebrow, expression unreadable, and pushed the hood back. Water-slick strands of black hair clung to his temples, a few trailing against his cheek. The simple motion—casual, almost careless—obliterated whatever mystery the hood had offered. And what it revealed was almost obscene in its perfection.

          His face looked crafted, not born—cut clean and deliberate, as if some impatient god had shaped him from shadow and bone just to test mortal restraint.

          Vythra's stomach flipped, violently treacherous. Gods save me, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron. If he looked like this... what in the seven hells did his mother look like? A goddess, surely.

          " You want me to hold him down? " He asked, voice edged with faint amusement, that smooth, low timbre dragging across her nerves.

          The words shouldn't have sounded sinful. And yet, they did. Vythra mentally smacked herself. A man with a dislocated shoulder was screaming in her hands, and she was thinking about... absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. " I want you to make sure he doesn't run. " She said tightly, swallowing hard to steady her tone.

          " He can barely crawl. "

          " Then this will be easy for you. "

          He exhaled through his nose—a quiet, sardonic sound—and moved closer. The space between them seemed to contract, the air itself thickening with the scent of oranges and rain. Around them, the village had gone silent. Men stopped mid-step, women pressed fingers to their lips. The healer and the foreigner, bent together over the drunk sprawled in the mud—dark and light, grace and violence—looked almost like a ritual being performed.

          And if the Cauldron had any sense of humor left, it was surely laughing at them now—two fools tangled by fate and farce. The cat and the mouse, crouched side by side. The deer and the hunter, breathing the same air, unaware that they were already caught in each other's snare, . The irony hung thick between them, sweet as poison and twice as dangerous. Their disguises hung by a thread—one close look away from recognition.

          Only if Vythra lifted her storm-grey eyes from the drunken man's shoulder—just a fraction, just enough—to meet the rolling amber in Azriel's already scorching the back of her head.

          Rotherforst looked between them, eyes glassy with pain. Even so, he managed a leer. " Pretty hands, healer. You'd make a good wife—ahhh— "

          His sentence broke off in a strangled scream as the stranger dug two gloved fingers into the separated joint. " Oops. " He said flatly.

          " I'll count to three. "

          " Wait—give me a kiss first! " The drunk man blubbered.

          " One. " She said sweetly. And with deliberate cruelty, she shoved hard, snapping the bone back into place with a crack. " Three. " Rotherforst's scream sent crows flying from the rooftops. Vythra's green eyes flashed as she began to wrap the shoulder. " Keep it still for three weeks, " she said briskly. " No lifting, no climbing, and absolutely no courting. "

          Rotherforst groaned pitifully. " But I'd be good to ye— "

          " Good men don't leer while they drool. " The dark haired man cut in, his voice smooth as liqueur. " And they don't mistake kindness for permission. "

          The drunk squinted up at him, face pale beneath the grime. " And who the fuck are you? "

          The man crouched again, his smile was slight, dangerous. " Someone who doesn't repeat himself. " Rotherforst swallowed audibly.

           Rain came without warning. One heartbeat, the sky was bruised with clouds; the next, it cracked open, spilling sheets of silver that drowned the narrow streets. Horses snorted and pawed the mud as thunder rolled through the hills.

          Vythra hunched lower in her saddle, cloak plastered to her skin. Her braid clung heavy against her back, strands curling against her neck. Misty rolled inside her clothes, seeking a better sleeping position. The stranger rode beside her—silent, his hood drawn up again, rain beading on the leather across his shoulders.

          Who's sick? "

          He didn't look at her, didn't raise his voice over the downpour. " A friend. Collapsed after a forest crossing. Fever. Unresponsive. "

          " What kind of fever? "

          " Her pulse went erratic, veins blackened. We don't know the toxin. "

          Vythra's heart kicked hard against her ribs, a sharp, startled thud that almost stole her breath. Poison, she thought—but no, not the kind she'd seen before. The way he'd described it—black veins—that wasn't common illness or venom. That was corruption. Magic.

          She pressed her heels into her mare's sides, forcing the creature to surge faster through the storm. Wind clawed at the scars along her cheek, while the rain sought out the tender ridge of the fracture down her back—like the sky itself remembered where she'd once been broken and had come to test if she'd healed.

          Only she'd never seen this kind of sickness. Not in all her months of tending soldiers and peasants and fools who thought foxglove was tea. Black veins meant something unusual—something that didn't obey the laws of flesh or herb. Something forbidden. She didn't know much about it. But she'd read whispers in Nimue's scattered journals, half-burned notes left behind after the healer vanished. And in those fevered scribbles, she'd found the same words repeated again and again—black magic, or worse, magic made from what once lived.

          Vythra swallowed hard, tasting rain and fear. Whatever waited at the end of this road, it would test her knowledge.

          When the next flash of lightning tore the sky apart, she saw it—a squat inn crouched at the village's edge, candlelight bleeding through fogged windows like liquid gold. Two horses stood beneath the awning—massive, their flanks slick with rain, breath steaming in the cold air.

          People clustered near the entrance, hunched beneath soaked cloaks and scraps of cardboard, shielding their heads from the downpour as if the storm itself were alive and hunting. Their laughter was gone, replaced by the wet slap of boots and the sharp hiss of rain on cobblestone. The sign above the door creaked in protest, swinging wildly in the wind—its painted sign half-faded.

           " Those are theirs. " Azriel said quietly, nodding.

           By the time they reached the stable, water streamed down their faces, soaking every layer of cloth. Another man, broad shouldered with the same sun-kissed complexion stood at the counter inside, dripping onto the warped wooden floor, his hand pressed to the small of a pale woman's back. The innkeeper fumbled with keys, nervous under the brute's size and the storm's rage.

          " Two rooms. " He was saying—voice rough, scraped raw by fear dressed up as anger. His hair, black as midnight's edge, was tied in a wet knot at the nape of his neck, though most of it had already escaped, dripping rain down his temples.

          The woman in his arms—cradled like a child against the breadth of his chest—was deathly pale, yet beautiful still, the kind of beauty that clung stubbornly even in decay. Only the slackness of her body betrayed how close she hovered to the edge. Her violet dress clung to her like a second skin, soaked through, the fabric darkened to the color of bruised grapes. Rainwater dripped from her hair, pooling at the curve of her throat before sliding down into the hollow of her collarbone. Her sharp cheekbones, lips drained of color, and lashes clumped with rain made her look carved from frost.

          Her left hand, though limp, remained locked around a golden compass, its face trembling with a faint, erratic glow. The needle quivered, ticking nervously between her short, dirt-caked nails—as if even the object itself refused to be still, sensing that its mistress stood one breath away from vanishing entirely.

          Vythra's brows arched as her gaze caught on the delicate point of an ear peeking through the tangle of damp, fair hair. Fae. Of course she was. Even half-dead, she carried that otherworldly stillness—too perfect, too precise to belong to mortals. And yet the faint black tracery crawling under her skin told a different story: even the divine could rot.

          Her pulse stuttered. Fae bodies didn't just surrender to poisons—not like humans. They burned through them, fought them off, healed faster than nature ever intended. Whatever could do this to one of them was no simple toxin.

          Vythra frowned, mind racing through every tincture, every antidote she'd ever brewed. And then, through the corner of her eye, she studied the man beside her—the stranger whose presence still seemed to swallow her whole being and somehow temper the menacing alarm bells from her ears. Or rather, she studied his elbow, since her head barely reached his chest. Slowly, carefully, she tilted her gaze upward, catching the curve of his ear. Round.

          So was the other one's.

          Not High Fae, then. But their build—their quiet, lethal grace—was wrong for mortals. Broad shoulders, corded muscle, movement too controlled. Illyrian, maybe. Warriors shaped by the sky. But if they were Illyrians... where were the wings? Hidden by glamour, perhaps?

          Rhysand could do that, she remembered vaguely from the books—the High Lord who could vanish his power at will. But these two? No, they didn't fit the stories. It was never mentioned if Cassian or Azriel could hide their wings with their magic. So who in the fuck's name were they—and why, of all the healers on this damned continent, had they stormed into her night like a prophecy gone wrong, demanding help from a mortal woman in the middle of a tempest?

           She tried to catch a glimpse beneath their dripping, black cloaks—and what she saw made every muscle in her body go rigid. Straps. Metal. The dull gleam of sharpened edges. Blades lined their bodies—short swords at the ribs, throwing knives strapped to thighs and wrists, even a glint of something cruelly curved at the hip of the long-haired one.

          Vythra bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Swords. Knives. Daggers of every make and purpose. These weren't travelers—they were killers.

          What in the fuck's soggy hell had she just stepped into?

          A sharp breath hissed out through her nose, shaky and loud enough to betray her nerves. The taller one—the too-handsome one, all darkness and barely contained anger—shot her a sidelong look, the kind that made her gut twist. His black eyes raked over her—too close, too intent. Hypnotic. Magnetic. There was something almost feline in the way his nostrils flared, as though he was inhaling her perfume, tasting it in the air between them. As if he'd heard her thoughts, tasted her fear, and filed it neatly away.

          Vythra tore her gaze away, fixing it instead on the crimson hem of a middle-aged woman's skirt nearby, pretending to study the fabric's frayed edge. Anything to break the pull of those eyes. He couldn't smell her fear. He couldn't.

           Yet her pulse betrayed her, beating too fast. She felt the acidic potion she'd swallowed earlier—meant to sharpen her senses and dull her scent—bubbling uneasily with the remnants of her last meal, churning low in her stomach. Within an hour, it should have reached full potency.

          What would Malou do now? Find the exits — " Watch your step, Stumbles. " she'd mutter under her breath — and measure the seconds to each one from where you stand. Count it out in your head: door—six strides; back exit—ten; window—four, if you don't care about glass. Use the room as a weapon and a road: tables, tankards, stools, a hanging lantern, a loose shutter, a coil of rope, a bar towel — anything that can distract, slow, or hurt.

          Act fast. Scratch and bite if you must; aim for eyes, noses, wrists. Trip with a chair, shove a bench between you and them, or hurl a tankard to smash a light and turn the room into confusion. Throw everything you can reach — plates, food, the barkeep's ladle — to make noise and create openings. Every object is a delay; every second is a chance.

          Her eyes flicked around the tavern in a single, calculated sweep—no panic, just precision. Two doors: the main one they'd burst through and a back entrance behind the bar, half-concealed by a stack of empty barrels. Three windows, one cracked open for air, big enough to squeeze through if she was desperate. Twelve people in the room, not counting the barkeep.

           She mapped them instantly—the old man near the fire, harmless; the farmer with the pitchfork calluses, maybe not; the pair of sailors already too drunk to care; the barmaid, quick on her feet but small; and the innkeeper, watchful, with a blade under the counter. She could be outside in under twenty seconds if it came to that—fifteen if she didn't care about breaking glass.

          But her training—the mind-stilling Malou had taught her, the brutal focus Sorscha had drilled into her until her thoughts could cut through noise like a scalpel—kicked in before her panic could spiral. Her pulse slowed. Her breathing evened. The rain drummed steady against the roof, and she found her balance again, spine straightening inch by inch.

          If they turned on her, she decided, she'd be gone before their shadows reached her heels.

          The long haired man spun, wings flaring instinctively beneath glamour. " Azriel. Thank the Mother. " His gaze caught on Vythra and narrowed. " Who the hell is she? "

          Vythra's blood roared in her ears, a violent rush that drowned out every other sound in the room. Heat crawled up her neck, blooming across her cheeks until her skin burned, her pulse hammering against the hollow of her throat. She could feel it—see it—in her reflection on the glass: wide eyes, pupils blown, the startled look of a cornered cat.

          Azriel. No. No, no, no—it couldn't be. The name tore through her just as lightning cracked outside—one violent, blinding flash that split the sky and mirrored the fracture inside her. The sound rolled through the inn's walls like an echo of her own heartbeat breaking, cleaving straight down her spine, leaving her breathless and raw. The Shadowsinger himself, standing a breath away, close enough that the air between them trembled.

          The same man whose shadows had tasted her blood like it was a secret they meant to keep.
The same man who had killed her—whose arrow had sliced open her back, split her lungs, and found her heart. The man who had promised to hunt her until the world ended just to kill her.

          Her stomach dropped, hollow. Her limbs went numb, as if her body was already preparing for death. The air felt too thin, each breath cutting sharp through her chest. Her thoughts scattered like frightened birds. There was no mistake. No glamour could mimic that presence, that silent weight of danger wrapped in patience.

          It only meant one thing: they had found her. And they were here—on this forsaken continent—to finish what he started.

          Rage spiraled through her like stiff body, twining with fear, hatred, and disgust until the three became indistinguishable. They nested inside her lungs, each breath blazing from within. Her fists clenched and unclenched, over and over, as if she could release all that fury through the floorboards, drive it down into the earth where it belonged. But red flooded her vision—blinding, feral red—and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to turn on the male standing an arm's length away and strangle him. To dig her nails into those cinnamon eyes until she took them out and held them as medals. To kill him before he did it again.

          Because he had done it first. Vythra wanted him to relive the pain that tore her back to life a second time—the fever that sizzled her organs from the inside out until her skin turned pink, the stiffness that left her right arm limp for hours after resurrection, her body half-dead and unwilling to obey. She wanted him to see that black void she'd fallen through—endless and arctic. To choke on the panic and despair that Malou and Sorscha had felt as they'd dragged her back from it, teeth clenched around the fragile thread of her life.

          " Something wrong? " He asked, the aloof tone severing her nerves one by one.

          The audacity of it—of him—made her arm twitch, a hair's breadth from smacking that sharp-boned face. He looked different now. Harder. Colder. But that energy—the low hum that clung to the air when he was near—was the same. Unmistakable. Unless he was glamoured. Unless fate had decided to play another cruel joke on her.

          But the vibration in the air around him wasn't false. Power like that couldn't be faked.

          " I'm shivering. " She lied too quickly, forcing her gaze to stay fixed on the muddy, rain-slick floor instead of his face—those merciless eyes that would strip her bare if she met them.

          " Don't worry, dear, " the innkeeper said suddenly, stepping between them like an accidental savior. " The fire's already lit upstairs. "

          Azriel had just reached for the clasp of his cloak—probably to offer it to her.

          Vythra nearly scoffed. Of course he would. The bastard probably thought giving her a soaking-wet cloak would be some grand act of chivalry. Her lips curled, and she had to bite down hard to stop herself from spitting on the floor.

          And if he was truly him, then—

          " And who's she? "

          " The healer, Cas. " Azriel said simply—each word punctuated, as if he were spelling out something a dim-witted child should already know. " I found a healer. "

          Her heart stopped. Then restarted too fast, too loud. She was the damned healer.

          Vythra's mouth nearly dropped to the floor, the words punching the air from her lungs. Cas. Cassian. The General of Rhysand's armies. The Illyrian warlord of nightmares whispered across continents. Which meant the woman in his arms—the pale one, deathly still—must be Nesta Archeron.

          Her knees locked. Her palms went cold. Every instinct screamed run, every muscle tensed for it— but she couldn't. She'd never make it. Not with him in the room. Not with them.

          So she forced herself still—every muscle locked, her breath shallow, her pulse a frantic drumbeat. She stretched a too-wide smile across her face when the innkeeper turned to her, all teeth and terror barely disguised as politeness. Help me, her eyes whispered, desperate, pleading. But the woman only blinked back, confused.

            If she moved—even a blink too fast—they'd know. The predators and the prey, sharing the same air. And she was caught right between their jaws.

          " Three rooms, then. " Cassian said, blinking once before jerking his chin toward the stairs.

          Vythra barely heard him—the world had gone hazy at the edges. It felt as though the air itself had thickened, pressing against her chest. God forbid, she thought faintly, struggling to steady her breath. She wished to see his real face, not the illusion painted over it by whatever magic cloaked them. The glamour blurred their truth like fog, hiding what lay beneath.

          But even veiled, she could tell. The one called Cassian was probably just as breathtaking as the shadows that haunted his brother's eyes.

          Vythra opened her mouth to refuse, but the tone in his voice—the sheer command threading through every syllable—snapped it in her throat. Something about the way he moved ferocious, made her instincts curl inward.

          They burst through the door, the storm's roar swallowed by the sudden closeness of the room. It was small, suffocating—the scent of wet wood and sickness thick enough to taste. Candlelight quivered across the walls, catching on water-darkened beams. Nesta lay sprawled across the narrow bed, the thin sheet clinging to her fevered body. Sweat glazed her skin, her once-bright hair tangled and damp against the pillow. Her lips had blued, veins rising in black relief along her throat.

          Vythra's healer's mind overtook her panic. The faster she worked, the faster she could get out, back to Malou and Sorscha and alert them. She shrugged out of her soaked cloak, the fabric hitting the floor with a slap, and rolled her sleeves to her elbows. " Light. I need light. " She snapped, already dragging her satchel open.

          Azriel moved before she'd even finished the sentence—a blur of grace. A soft hiss, a scrape of flint, and a candle flared to life between his gloved fingers. The flame trembled once, then steadied, its light catching in his eyes—molten gold flickering through endless black. Shadows slithered away from the glow like obedient creatures retreating from their master's command.

          Vythra didn't thank him. Why would she? He killed her. Gratitude was for people who asked, not for those who owed. And soon enough, they'd be the ones thanking her—if she managed to drag that pale, dying woman back from whatever dark pit was pulling her under.

          She only muttered, " Keep it there. "

          Cassian stood at the foot of the bed, fists clenched tight enough to creak. " She's burning alive, " he rasped, voice trembling with something dangerously close to fear. " I can feel it. "

          Vythra spared him a glance—just enough to register the wreckage on his face. The strain carved deep between his brows, the tightness around his mouth like he'd forgotten how to breathe. Then she turned back to the woman on the bed. Nesta.

          She pressed a hand to the female's throat, her palm cool against skin that burned like a forge. She can help her, Vythra told herself. And she will. Nesta was innocent in this mess between her and Azriel. She wouldn't let another life slip away, not for pride, not to settle the score.

          The flesh seared under her touch, the veins crawling like dark vines beneath the surface. The pulse that hammered there was wild, frantic—a trapped bird's heartbeat. Her fingers brushed against something metallic—the golden compass clenched in Nesta's hand. The moment her skin grazed it, the object pulsed once, alive, sending a vibration through her fingertips that crawled up her arm like static.

          Vythra froze. The compass thrummed again, a low, hungry sound, as though it recognized her touch—and approved. " She's not burning. She's boiling from the inside out. Different thing entirely. "

          Cassian's jaw locked. " If you don't fix her, I swear— "

          Vythra didn't even glance up. " Kill me? Then who's going to heal N-... this woman? "

          Cassian took a step forward, but Azriel's hand shot out, palm firm against his chest. " Enough, " he stopped him gently, " Let her work. "

          Vythra's hands trembled while she moved, brisk but not rushed. She unfastened the ties at Nesta's collar, exposing the pale skin beneath, damp with fever sweat. " I need bowls. Hot water. Alcohol if you have it. And something clean—linen, not fur. "

          Azriel moved without hesitation, silent and efficient, rifling through the satchel he'd brought from the stables. Every motion was precise—measured like a soldier used to obeying orders before they were even spoken. She heard him take everything out, the faint jingle of glass, the muted thud of fabric against the table. Vythra came closer to the old, mahogany bedside and placed her own bag there.

          Cassian didn't move. Couldn't. His entire body looked strained, breath shallow, jaw locked. He was watching Nesta with the brittle stillness of a man one heartbeat away from breaking. His eyes—wild, glassy—clung to her face as if sheer force of will could keep her tethered. When Vythra reached toward the compass, his massive hand shot out, gripping Nesta's fingers tighter around it. Maybe to hide it from the stranger's gaze. Maybe just to keep touching her.

          " Move back. " Vythra said softly, no room for argument. And somehow, even Cassian obeyed.

          From her satchel, she drew out her own kit—small and worn. Vials clinked faintly as she laid them out in perfect order. Dried herbs, powders ground to fine dust, and several slender metal instruments that caught the lamplight with a muted gleam. The smell of alcohol and crushed foxglove filled the room with a medicinal and sterile aroma.

          " Hold her steady, " she murmured. "If she thrashes, I can't get the poison out."

          Azriel's hand closed around Nesta's shoulder, soothing as a feather, while Cassian hovered by her head, lips trembling as if whispering prayers to gods who'd long stopped listening.

          And Vythra began to work. " If I can drain the toxin before it hits the heart, she might survive. " The tip pierced skin. Blackened blood rose sluggishly, thick as syrup, into a glass vial. The stench was bad, worse than puss.

          Cassian flinched. " That's— "

          " Poison, " Vythra finished. " But crafted. Refined. Not a natural brew. " Black magic, she tought.

          " How can you tell? " Azriel asked curiosly. His breath brushed the crown of her head—warm, far too close. The scent of mint clung to him, intoxicating, seeping through the cracks in her concentration. Vythra's spine stiffened instinctively, every muscle drawing, as if her body itself remembered what danger felt like.

         She didn't look up. Her focus stayed locked on the veins webbing Nesta's throat, the way the blackness throbbed faintly with each heartbeat. " Because natural poison doesn't crawl toward the heart. " Her voice was clinical. " It spreads outward, not inward. This one seems like its seeking a weak point. "

          She dipped a cotton strip into a vial of cloudy liquid, the scent of crushed belladonna and spirit alcohol rising between them. Her fingers brushed Nesta's collarbone as she pressed the soaked cloth against the black veins. The reaction was immediate—a hiss, a faint plume of vapor. Vythra swallowed hard, feeling Azriel's presence behind her like a storm waiting to break. " And, " she added, her tone faintly defiant, " because it's fighting me back. "

          " The body doesn't fight it right, " She said, flicking her wrist as she worked. " See how her muscles twitch even when she's still? That's nerve damage. " She set the vial aside, drew another from her satchel, filled with something silvery-blue. " This will replace what I'm taking out. Stimulant, antiseptic, mild anti-fever compound. " She injected it slow, her hands steady even as Nesta's breath hitched.

          " It's hurting her. " Cassian said hoarsely, the words shredded between his teeth. His glare cut to Vythra—sharp enough to slice through air, through nerve, through her resolve itself. There was nothing pleading in that look; it was a threat.

          Vythra swallowed hard. Her mouth was desert-dry, her throat tightening around the weight of his stare. She didn't meet his eyes. Not when her own sweat had begun to sting her lashes, trickling down her temples to mix with the rain still clinging to her skin.

          Her pulse hammered too fast. Steady, she told herself. Focus. Not on the Illyrian giant radiating fury behind her, not on the shadowed male watching like a hawk from her left—but on the patient, the dying woman burning beneath her palms.

          Vythra drew a breath through her teeth, the air hot and heavy. " I know and if you want her to live, you'll let me work. "

          Azriel passed her a towel, his eyes tracking every motion. The room smelled of herbs now—bitter yarrow, crushed thyme, and a faint hint of willow bark. Steam rose from the basin as she wrung a cloth and pressed it to Nesta's forehead.

          " Fever's breaking, " Vythra murmured, almost to herself. 

          Vythra leaned back, her spine brushing the damp wall, sweat pearling along her hairline. The candlelight guttered low, sculpting hollows under her eyes and sharpening the cut of her cheekbones. She pressed the heel of her hand to her brow, trying to think past the hammering pulse in her skull.

          From the folds of the scarf tied at her waist, a small head emerged—the sleek black cat glaring up at Cassian with eerie intelligence, green eyes narrowing to slits. Its tail twitched once, as if daring him to take a single step closer.

          " Not now. " Vythra muttered, shoving it gently back under the scarf. The cat hissed, offended, but obeyed, curling against her ribs like a living secret.

          Across the room, Azriel's expression darkened further, unreadable but intent. His jaw worked once, silent, as his gaze traced her every movement—the precision of her fingers, the tremor she tried to hide, the faint flicker of exhaustion beneath her lashes. He could read her too easily; every guarded breath gave something away.

          He said nothing, but his thoughts were loud. She's running out of time.

          And she was. Vythra could feel it—Sorscha's glamour slipping, the illusion thinning at the edges. Her skin prickled where the spell had begun to unravel, revealing the ghost-pale tone beneath.

          She could tell she couldn't fool Azriel any longer. Cassian—maybe. His eyes were too full of worry to see past what he wanted to believe. But Azriel... impossible. The way he watched her—unblinking, dissecting—wasn't how men looked at women. It was how killers watched their next victim they'd already cornered. His gaze skimmed her like a blade testing for weak seams, and every instinct in her body screamed that he knew.

            Her pulse stuttered. She felt the weight of his awareness as if it pressed fingers to her throat, measuring her heartbeat. The air between them thickened—his shadows coiling, whispering in a tongue she didn't understand. They tasted her fear. It was the very first time she saw them since she meet him in the city. Their glamour was running thin too, then.

          Vythra swallowed and forced her attention back to Nesta, pretending to be calm, pretending her hands didn't shake. Keep working, she told herself. Don't give him a reason to look closer.

          She swallowed hard and straightened her spine, forcing her hands steady as she reached for the next vial. She had less than an hour before her mask cracked completely.

          Cassian's grip on Nesta's hand had gone white-knuckled. His voice was rough, the sound of a warrior who'd faced death too many times but had never learned to bear it. " You'd better make her walk out of this room alive and breathing on her own—because if you don't, I swear I'll take your heart and sew it into her chest myself. "

          Vythra didn't answer. She was too busy mixing another medicine, her fingers steady despite the tremor in the room. Dried foxglove crumbled between her fingertips, the powder fine as ash. She stirred it into a small ceramic bowl with a splash of moon water. Then, dipping two fingers into the dark paste, she drew a thin, precise line down Nesta's sternum. Steam curled faintly from the mark.

          Within moments, the unnatural red flush beneath Nesta's skin began to fade—just a shade, but enough for Vythra's shoulders to ease a fraction. Azriel's shadows had crept closer without a sound, swirling low around the bedposts. One tendril brushed the edge of Vythra's sleeve—a cautious, curious touch. She didn't flinch.

          Instead, she looked up, locking eyes with Azriel. The contact was electric, charged with unspoken suspicion. " You said she collapsed in the forest? "

          " Yes. " He replied, curt.

          " And the poison. " Vythra pressed, shifting Nesta's limp arm to examine it under the light. " How did she get it in her system? "

          Azriel's jaw tightened; the muscle there twitched once. " Someone pricked her, " he said after a moment. " At a farm. I believe. "

          Cassian turned to him sharply, confusion flashing across his face, but Azriel didn't elaborate.  Outside, thunder rolled over the village, rattling the windows in their frames. The wind howled, driving rain against the glass in wild, rhythmic bursts.

          Vythra didn't look up, her voice steady as her fingers pressed against Nesta's wrist, counting the sluggish pulse. " Her body's fighting two battles, " she said, quietly, " The poison and the damage it caused. I've purged most of what was circulating, but her blood needs to do the rest. The marrow will replace what's been burned away. It might take some time before she fully recovers. "

          Cassian's head snapped toward her, panic blazing raw behind his eyes. " Might? " he echoed, voice cracking on the word.

          Vythra sighed through her nose, keeping her focus on the rhythmic motion of her work— the careful turn of Nesta's chin so she wouldn't choke. " You can't rush recovery. Not even with Fae blood. " Her thumb brushed Nesta's ear, tracing the faint shimmer where the dark veins had begun to fade. " She's stable for now, but her system's still... fragile. "

          Cassian's wings twitched beneath his glamour—tension leaking through every inch of him. " Stable's not enough, " he growled. " She needs to wake up. "

          She tightened, breath shallow, and then she spoke— final. " She will. " Vythra said, fixing him with a look that felt like a hand peeling a veil from her eyes. The dull green that had muddied her irises since the glamour settled upon her retreated, shivered back into a harder, truer green that changed with her mood swings into grey or blue. " But if you want her alive, stop shouting like a bull in heat and let her rest. "

          Cassian slammed his fist into the bedside table so hard the wood cracked; the chair beneath him skittered away with a clatter as he sprang up, a warrior of grief and rage. Vythra jumped back two steps, scared by the feral flare of his nostrils. He looked as if he might tear through whatever stood between him and her.

          Azriel was between them in less than a second, a dark tide that cut the space with his shoulder and pinned Cassian by the broad of his shoulders. " Pull yourself together! " he snapped, gripping the other man's jaw until Cassian was forced to meet his eyes. " She saved her. She did everything she could. "

          " I swear on my mother I'll take this little bitch out and kill her with my own hands! " Cassian screamed, shoving Azriel before him. " You wretch! "

          " Go. Go to the other room. " Azriel's voice was filled with command, concise and agitated as the man he held started to thrash between his hands. He held Cassian back, kept him from lunging. " Go! "

          Vythra didn't wait another second. She dropped her satchel on the cracked nightstand, snatched her sodden cloak from the floor and bolted. The cat wriggled free and hissed, a dark sliver of fury tucked under her scarf, but she didn't stop; she ran. Down the stairs, past the bar, the patrons parting like reeds. She fled for the stable door, for the place where she'd tied Aeria, running like someone pursued by the bone itself of their past. Something followed her, a shadow inching closer to her feet. She tried to step on it, to make it flee back to their owner above. Misty hissed at them, obliging them to retreat from her master's body.

          The storm outside had turned monstrous—an animal unchained, tearing through the night with teeth of wind and claws of rain. The trees bent like penitents under invisible hands, their branches cracking like bones beneath the weight of the tempest. Lightning split the horizon again and again, each flash so bright it carved the world into violent fragments of white and blue, as if the heavens themselves were waging war. The inn's shutters rattled, the roof groaned, and the air reeked of wet earth and ozone.

          " Please, Aeria—make it home. Fast! " Vythra breathed into the mare's ear as she lashed the reins, urging the animal into motion. The stable door threatened to swing shut, a dark hand of bold shadow sliding across its frame, trying to trap her there, but she shoved through it, wood splintered under her momentum. Rain struck them, the wind whipping her red hair into her mouth; leather squealed, hooves thundered, and the world blurred into a smear of mud and torchlight. Aeria lurched forward, muscles ripling, and Vythra clung to the saddle with one raw hand, the other pressed to the mare's flank, whispering fierce promises as they fled: home, now, home.

          Above it all, the moon hung obscene and whole, a perfect silver eye staring through the carnage. It bathed the storm in ghostlight, making every puddle glisten like spilled mercury, every gust shimmer like a dying breath. It was a night that looked alive—grotesque, watchful, and hungry.

          Something—an instinct—made her half-turn. Her mare reared, nostrils flaring, hooves stamping, a furious neigh that cut the night. Her heart thudded, an animal's drum. She didn't want to look back. She didn't dare.

          Azriel tore after her like he was hungry. He found her right when she almost reached the village, a darker silhouette against the lightning-slashed sky—hair whipped free from its ties, blood red, sticking to her round cheeks. She was with her mare and cat, ready to escape again. The glamour had slithered away; the human mask dissolved under the downpour, and what remained gleamed: her true deadly grey eyes, her fleshy lips drawn into a line. Moonlight licked her skin a ghostly silver.

          They stopped with the world between them for one long, charged second. Rain hammered the ground. Thunder rolled.

          " You, " Azriel breathed, spitting the word like it hurt him. " You think you can keep running? You won't outrun me. "

          " Maybe not you or your shadows. " She shot back, voice barely audible. " But hearts... hearts are slower to catch. And harder to guard. "

          His jaw ticked at the words; they hit a place inside him that armor could not cover. Elain's warning—guard your heart—flashed sharp and sudden in his head, as if echoed by her very tone. Because she was right. You could chase a body. Corner it. Bind it. But hearts? Hearts never obeyed skill or command. They strayed, wandered into ruin, and bled freely when caught. Hers seemed untouchable, she had nothing left, not like what he risked loosing in this game. Yet she had thrown the truth at him: he could guard a thousand secrets, cloak a dozen lives in shadow, but not the one thing that was already cracking open beneath his ribs.

          Not from her. Not from this. As if she knew the damage she made.

          " What do you know about my heart? " His voice dropped several octaves. The fragile crack she'd made in his composure sealed in an instant—his shields snapping back into place. Whatever flicker of vulnerability she'd glimpsed in him a moment ago was gone, buried beneath the ice of centuries of obsessive control.

          " Enough to see it. " Vythra answered, almost sweetly, lacing her pain and tears into her tongue. 

          For a single breath, even the storm seemed pause. The rain hung suspended in the air, each droplet catching the lightning that ripped the clouds apart—white fire spilling across Azriel's shoulders, casting him in a god's silhouette. His gaze locked on her, and in that flash— he witnessed the flare of green flame searing through her eyes. Something older. Wilder. Her Vespertus nature straining against her small body like a creature clawing at its cage, begging to be unleashed. For the first time that night, Azriel wasn't sure who was hunting whom.

          The chain in Vythra's chest dug deeply in her sternum like a wolf crouched before the strike. Patient. Calculating. Each breath she took only made it tighten around her thorax, not painful—expectant. It waited, trembled. She could feel it listening, reading the air, her heartbeat, his heartbeat—matching rhythm for rhythm but never moving first. The silence of it was worse than sound.

           Chaos, it was all Azriel could feel. The chain battered the walls of his chest like a living viper, wild and desperate to break free. It thrashed against his vertebrae, loud as the storm outside. Every pulse was a hammer-blow from within, demanding release, demanding, again and again. What do you want from me?  He yelled in his mind, grasping the links with invisible hands, trying to seal them shut. But it didn't obey. It snarled against him.

          Azriel's hand curled around the dagger at his belt—not to draw it, but to have something sharp to hold onto while those words settled in the space between them. He let out a breath that could have been a laugh, or a growl, or both. 

          " And when I find it, Shadowsinger— " she leaned forward, eyes burning, preparing to ride fast back home, " I swear to my old gods I'll step on it. Again and again until there's nothing left of you. "

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

The Truth You Swear By

           The mare thundered down the muddy path, hooves striking puddles that burst like shattered glass beneath her weight. Rain striked against her flanks, dripping from her mane in silver ribbons. The forest around them blurred—branches bowed low under the weight of water, whispering secrets as she passed. The storm that had roared minutes ago had dulled to a heavy drizzle, but the air still crackled, charged and wild, as if the sky hadn't quite decided whether to forgive or strike again.

         Vythra crouched low in the saddle, her chest pressed against Aeria's neck, each breath mingling with the mare's steaming exhale. She could feel the rhythm of the animal's heart through her thighs—a frantic, desperate beat that matched her own. The scent of wet leather, of sweat and leaves and fear, filled her lungs until she no longer remembered the cedar or mist.

           Her cloak clung to her in a way that felt wrong—suffocating, like a living thing wrapping tighter with every breath. The weight of it pulled at her shoulders, cold and merciless, the wet fabric slapping against her thighs with each jolt of Aeria's gallop. She wanted to tear it off, rip the damn thing away, to feel the air on her skin and shake free of its grip. But the rain was relentless, needling through every seam, biting at her flesh like leeches that wouldn't let go.

          Her palms had gone nearly blue, the veins raised under the pallid skin, both from the cold and from how fiercely she clutched the reins—white-knuckled, trembling. It wasn't just the horse she was holding steady. It was her rage. Her panic. Her life. She gripped the leather like it was his throat, not a strip of rope but Azriel himself, her knuckles aching with the fantasy of strangling the ghost that chased her. The thought made her jaw tighten, her breath come out in shallow bursts. Letting go wasn't an option. Letting go meant falling. And she'd fallen enough times to know what waited at the bottom.

          She didn't dare look back. Not at the road dissolving into fog, nor at the shadows that might still be running after her, soundless and tireless. Azriel. Even thinking his name sent a shock through her system—hot, electric, merciless. Her stomach knotted, her throat constricted, breath catching as if his hand had found her there. She could almost feel him behind her, his presence sharp as a gun pressed between her shoulderblades.

          The chain buried deep within her chest had gone utterly still, as though the mere vision of him soothed the storm it usually stirred. As if his nearness lulled it into silence, tamed its violent thrashing. But there was no peace in her. None. Her nerves buzzed like a thousand needles beneath her skin, like she was riding barefoot over cadavers and burning coals.

          He haunted her still—no matter how many times she'd tried to bury his ghost in the folds of her mind. Somewhere, deep in the back of her skull, behind every thought and every breath, he lived—screaming, circling, fighting. A specter of her past clawing its way through her present, whispering of futures she didn't want to see. I am still here, he seemed to hiss from the hollow between her ribs.

          And maybe—maybe—she haunted him too.

          A flicker of something cruel and amused twisted her lips. It didn't fit the terror crawling beneath her skin, but she let it curl there anyway. Her cracked lips split open, and her own blood met her tongue. Her wine-red hair flew everywhere when the wind hit her full on, bringing her back to her road.

          Something warm squirmed against her ribs. Misty had slipped free from the scarf tied around Vythra's waist, the knot loosened by rain. The cat wedged herself between Vythra's soaked cloak and the mare's slick flank, trembling, her wide yellow eyes darting toward the forest's edge.

          " Easy, baby. " Vythra murmured, voice hoarse and breathless. She stroked the cat's damp fur with stiff fingers. " We're safe—for now. " The words tasted like lies. But Misty didn't need truth; she needed calm. So Vythra kissed the top of her head, her lips brushing against wet fur. " Shh. Almost home. Just hold on, sweetheart. Just hold on. "

          Aeria snorted, her breath misting in the damp air, ears flicking back as though she understood the panic thrumming through her rider. The mare's pace faltered slightly, her powerful muscles trembling beneath Vythra's knees. Each stride splashed through the drowned trail, water rising and falling in muddy crescents that clung to their legs. The path curved through the low, slick hills that led toward the village—if home could still be called that.

          Thunder rolled far behind them, deep and lazy, the sound of something vast and patient.

          Vythra exhaled shakily, the breath leaving her in a pale cloud that curled and vanished into the night. The rain kissed her cheeks with sharp, icy teeth, traced her jaw, slipped down the column of her throat, and slid like cold fingers between her shoulder blades. The sensation made her shudder—but fear clung tighter than the water-soaked fabric. It wasn't the storm she feared. It was the silence between its roars. It crawled beneath her skin, cold and deliberate, whispering that the Shadowsinger never truly lost what he marked. That every beat of the chain pulsing in her chest was a signal—an echo—one that could lead him straight to her door.

          She thought of Nesta—of that immortal, devastating beauty she'd only read about. Cold rage wrapped in elegance. Fire and frost in the same breath. Yet Vythra had seen the weakness beneath it too—the trembling fragility of someone who had clawed their way through hell and still bled beneath their armor.

          Then Cassian flashed through her mind—brutal, sun-forged strength, his anger like a forge left burning too long. Bigger than Azriel, built for war, for breaking things apart with his bare hands. She could almost see those hands twitching again, eager to crush her throat, to erase the threat she represented without ever understanding what she truly was.

             But Azriel was different. All lean power and quiet menace—no wasted muscle, no excess, every inch of him honed for precision. Where Cassian was a storm breaking stone, Azriel was the knife that slid between the cracks. His body moved with the grace of something trained to disappear, to strike, to know. He was leaner, more agile—the kind of male who, in her old world, would've spent his mornings hanging from doorframes, doing pull-ups until his arms burned, practicing those calisthenics. There was something almost intimate in the way he moved, as if every motion, every glance, had been practiced a thousand times to seduce and destroy in equal measure. A spy. A shadow. A weapon carved with purpose.

          She couldn't understand why they wanted her dead—or captured, or chained. What power could possibly justify this obsession? Unless it was the thing stirring now in her stomach, the whisper she felt every night before sleep—the Vespertus within her. The sleeping storm. The secret everyone seemed desperate to hide, and yet the same one they hunted her for.

          Vythra's jaw clenched, eyes narrowing against the wind. She didn't just want to survive anymore. She wanted the truth. Every damn piece of it.

          She leaned forward again, pressing her lips close to Aeria's twitching ear, the mare's mane tangling in her mouth, tasting of salt and rain. '' Just a bit more. '' She encouraged, her voice raw, splintering around the words. " One more hill. Then we rest. " The promise was barely more than a breath, half-swallowed by the rain. But it was all she had left to give—to the horse, the cat pressed trembling against her ribs, and the fragile thread of courage holding her together.

          And as the path curved into darkness, she realized her own heart was galloping too—not away from him, but toward something far more dangerous. Toward whatever the hell fate thought it was doing with them both.

          Dawn bled pale over the horizon when the cold finally sank deep enough to claim her whole body—sliding past skin and muscle, curling around bone. It reached her fractured pelvis, the one that had never healed quite right, and pain rippled outward in sharp waves, lightning bolts of numbness shooting down her legs with every step Aeria took.

           Vythra shivered violently, teeth chattering against the hush of the waking forest. Then she froze.

         A figure—thin, wrong—peeled itself out of the trees ahead. Not walked. Unfolded. The pale shimmer of a nightdress clung to its frame, wet and translucent, fluttering like a moth's torn wings. Filthy white against the slick black bark. The morning mist swirled around her ankles as if the forest itself exhaled her.

          " What the... " Vythra's voice cracked, more air than sound. Then the shape lifted its head.

          The curls—she'd always had beautiful curls—were now matted into ropes by blood, dark and shining, dripping in a slow rhythm. It wasn't just the hair. Blood streamed from her scalp, from somewhere deep, painting her face, tracing every fragile bone until it vanished into the lace of her collar. And still she stood there, swaying gently, like a puppet waiting for the next pull of its strings.

          Vythra's stomach dropped so hard she thought the earth might swallow her whole. Those eyes—soft brown once, gentle as a fawn's in spring—were wide now, glassy and blind, reflecting nothing human.

          " Niven? " She inquired in disbelief. Her fingers spasmed on the reins, yanking them so sharply that Aeria screamed and reared, foam and breath mingling in the mist. But Vythra barely noticed. Because she saw it: the wound. Right where she'd struck her.

          The memory came rushing back in flashes—the heat, the panic, the sound of a blade breaking through skin. And there it was again, staring at her like an open mouth: the deep gash in Niven's chest, a wound that had never closed. It gaped wide and wet, filled with stagnant blackness that pulsed faintly, as if still alive, that whispered you did this.

          Vythra's breath hitched. Her stomach twisted with the realization that this—this thing—was wearing the body of the girl who was once her soul sister.

          Aeria snorted and sidestepped violently, nostrils flaring at the copper-sweet scent in the air. Vythra barely kept her seat, her eyes locked on that gaping wound, on the slow, hypnotic drip of darkness that fell from it—thicker than blood: a testimony of her guilt and false heroism.

          The horse fought her grip, hooves slapping the mud in panic, head jerking side to side. Her breath came hot and fast, nostrils flaring in the cold air. But she obeyed. Trembling. Ears flattened flat to her skull. " Please, forgive me... " Vythra barely made sense of the roar inside her head and put in into simple words, as if that thing could understand her.

           Niven's lips parted. The color had drained from them—bluish-purple, cracked like dry earth. Her mouth moved, again and again, forming words that no air dared carry. The muscles in her face twitched, jerky, wrong. Her chest rose in little spasms, shallow and fast, as though trying to breathe through water. The white nightdress wasn't white anymore. Red spread across it, alive and wet, blooming like paint dropped in water. The stains spread in slow motion, veins of crimson crawling up instead of down, as if gravity itself refused to touch her.

          The forest changed with her. The trees seemed to lean closer. The branches, slick with rain, twisted into long black fingers. The air thickened—humid,  tasting of rot and ash from Thaibar. 

           Vythra's temples began to pulse in sync with her heartbeat—fast, frantic pounding like war drums inside her skull. Pressure built behind her eyes, swelling until her ears buzzed and her sinuses burned. The world narrowed to pain and pulse. She squeezed her eyelids shut, once, twice, over and over, but the darkness only seemed to throb brighter behind them, an angry red halo pressing outward.

          The rain didn't help. Cold droplets stung her lashes, crawled down her cheeks, slid into the corners of her mouth. She raised both palms to her face, swiping at the blur of water, trying to see—trying to breathe. Her lungs felt tight, stubborn, as though the air itself refused to enter. Every inhale rasped in her throat like sandpaper. She felt asthmatic. Trapped in her own body.

          Her breath broke into uneven shudders. Her shoulders jerked with each inhale, her spine drawn taut like a bowstring. The fine hairs along her arms lifted, glittering with rain—each one a frost-tipped needle waiting to snap.

          And then the silence came. Not the gentle hush of a forest after rain. This was heavy—suffocating—thick as oil. A silence that waited. A silence that pressed on her eardrums until she could hear only her own pulse.

          And Vythra knew—whatever was coming next, it had already found her.

          Do you feel the darkness? That's what Niven's lips seemed to say. Over and over. The shape of the words was unmistakable.

          Then her jaw began to move. Wider. And wider. Until bone cracked. The sound was small, but it echoed through Vythra's ribs. The skin at the corners of her mouth split, tearing open her temporomandibular articulation as if invisible hands were prying her apart. Her jaw unhinged completely—hung loose, grotesque, the mouth a black tunnel gaping to nowhere. No sound came, yet the air vibrated with a shriek only nerves could hear. A second later, that ghost lunged after her.

          Aeria reared, screaming, hooves clawing at the air. Mud exploded beneath them as the mare bolted down the hill, blind with terror. Vythra clung to the saddle by instinct alone, her knuckles white, her pulse roaring in her ears as the forest blurred into streaks of green and brown. Behind them, the soundless scream still lingered—stretching, chasing, like something that didn't need lungs to breathe or a mouth to hunt.

          What darkness was she talking about?

          Smoke curled faintly in the distance—a thin grey thread rising from between the trees. Home. She could see the cottage now, half-swallowed by mist, its roof sagging beneath the morning rain. Sorscha stood waiting beneath the eaves, exactly as she always did, her violet robes clinging to her form, the white hood drawn low over her face.  Further down the slope, Malou burst from the thicket, her wide silhouette eating away the meadow. Her black hair, soaked and plastered to her skull, gleamed in the thin morning light. She was shouting—gesturing wildly, furious and alive, twin knives glinting at her sides like extensions of her rage.

          They were searching for her,  Vythra's heart nearly cracked from the sight of them. The calm and the chaos. The two halves of the only world that hadn't yet betrayed her.

          Aeria slowed to a strained trot, sides heaving. Mud splattered up her flanks, the reins slick in Vythra's trembling grip. The moment her boots hit the ground, her knees buckled, the pain in her pelvis flaring hot. She stumbled, half crawling toward the cottage porch, the damp earth sucking at her skirts.

          Sorscha moved first—silent as a prayer. She reached out, steadying Vythra by the elbow before she fell face-first into the mud. Her hands were cold, her white hood hiding most of her face, save for the thin curve of her sewn lips. " You've seen something again, " she spoke in her mind. It wasn't a question.

          Vythra tried to answer, but her breath came out as a sob. " Niven. " She rasped, clutching Sorscha's sleeve. " I saw her—she was bleeding, she was— "

          " They're dead, Vythra. They're not here anymore. "

          " Where have you been, Stumbles? I've been searching for you in every damned village! " Malou's voice sliced through the rain like a whip. She stomped up the slope, fury and worry tangled in every step. Her wet hair clung to her neck, and her dark eye burned. " Shit... You look like hell. What were you thinking, running off like that in this weather? "

          " I had to, " Vythra snapped back, though her voice cracked. " He found me, Malou. He found us! "

          That stopped them both. Sorscha's slender fingers tightened on Vythra's arm; Malou's forehand arms flexed. like she was mentally processing and preparing for what was worse.  The two women shared a charged look, probably speaking in each other's minds.

          " That man?  " Sorscha spoke softly inside her head, accentuating Vythra's headache. " That man you talked about in your death slumber? The one who killed you? "

          Vythra nodded, her throat working. " And he knows. He knows what I am. Or at least that I'm not what I pretend to be. "

          Malou swore under her breath, running a hand down her face. " We should've left days ago. "

         Vythra's fear calcified into something wicked. " No more running, " she punctuated, " No more lies. I want the truth—about the Vespertus, about me, about what the fuck happened when I fell here. "

          Malou stiffened, " She shouldn't... " she lost her words, glancing toward Sorscha, the white of her left eye flashing like a warning. Her brow furrowed, deepening lines Vythra hadn't noticed until now—battle-marks carved by centuries and age. She sighed, fingers trembling slightly as she unbuttoned the collar of her black shirt, suddenly weary of the damp fabric sticking to her cinnamon skin. " You're not ready. "

          The Valkyrie rarely hesitated. She had faced monsters, empires, gods—but never the duty of explaining herself. The act tasted like sewer water. Yet she had sworn, in that prison, to serve the Vespertus when she appeared. She'd tied her life to a mortal girl's heartbeat and vowed to guide her, even if the road led to damnation.

          Malou had assumed Kallus had told her everything—that he had prepared her. But, like all the Benefactors, he'd done what they did best: half a duty and a whole disaster. Just like when their kingdom burned. How was she supposed to tell this drenched, furious, trembling girl that she was destined to die for the sake of the world? That she was both salvation and doom, and didn't even belong here?

          The rain hissed softly around them, running off Sorscha's hood in silver threads. The nun's voice broke the silence. " She should know. " Her usual violet eyes faded almost pink in the half-light, a color that only surfaced when her composure began to crack. " The Veil thins by the second, sister. We're running out of time. "

         Vythra's jaw set, her defiance glowing hot. " You're afraid I'll back down if I hear the truth? " Her voice rose, echoing off wet bark. " I wasn't ready to die twice either—but it happened. " A pulse of green shimmered in her irises, bleeding into the gray like darkness taking over the skies. " So stop treating me like a child and tell me what's festering inside my veins. "

          For a heartbeat, only the rain replied—steady, relentless, ticking like the heartbeat of an unseen clock.

          Malou exhaled slowly, her breath a ghost in the cold air. " The Vespertus isn't just power, Vy. It's hunger. It's the dark between stars. You carry a fragment of something even gods refused to name. You think it sleeps, but it doesn't. It's waiting. "

          " Waiting for what? " Vythra shouted, stamping her boot into the mud. Water splashed high, striking her legs and Misty's fur. The cat hissed, tail bristling, eyes glowing an unnatural green that mirrored her master's fury. " I've been trying! Training! Forcing it out! People died for this—Kallus's family, the servants from Draegan's palace, Thaibar's villagers. All for this cursed thing inside me that everyone wants to use! "

          Malou felt it then—the air shift, the magic crawl like a tide beneath her boots. A pulse, dark and ancient, rippled from Vythra's core. Her shadow stretched, too long for the blurry sunrays. Was this the Vespertus's duality, the Tiamat clawing its way to the surface? Malou's muscles tensed, hands drifting toward her twin blades. Not to kill, but to contain. You couldn't kill the vessel; the Mother's will anchored her too tightly to this realm. But patience—hers, and perhaps the world's—was wearing thinner than the Veil itself.

          " It's not your fault, Vy, " Malou said softly, though her voice wavered with something dangerously close to grief. " They chose their end. The same way I once chose mine. My soldiers—my people—they all died so something brighter could stand where we fell. "

          Sorscha's voice slithered inside their minds, but it sliced through the fog in Vythra's head, through the fury and obscurity that took over her being. " Everyone does their part. Including us. Including you. " She stepped forward, her hand hovering near Vythra's trembling shoulder. " When it wakes—this power inside you—it will decide what you become. Not you. "

          The wind exhaled through the trees, a long shiver that made the torches from the house gutter. Vythra didn't answer. She stood there—mud-streaked, shaking, a mortal girl with the fury of stars beneath her skin—feeling, for the first time, the chain inside her heart stir awake, its rhythm syncing with the storm.

          Vythra's stomach turned. The air around her felt heavier, as if the forest itself had leaned closer to listen. " So that's it? I'm just a vessel waiting to crack open? "

          Thunder rolled again, deep and trembling, as though the heavens themselves listened in silence.

          Sorscha's voice was calm—but it carried a sorrow so heavy it almost bowed the air around her. " No. You are the vessel that lived. That's what terrifies them. Many more others died through their Heartbreak. " Her eyes glimmered beneath her pale hood, reflecting the fire's last trembling embers. " You're our Mother's single daughter—hidden between worlds, sealed where no god could reach. It wasn't a coincidence that you fell here. Whoever brought you... they didn't find you by accident, Vythra. They summoned you. Looked after you. For something greater. "

         Lightning fractured the sky—white and merciless—splitting the trees into skeletal shadows. For a single breath, Vythra saw her reflection in the gleam of the windowpane: drenched, hollow-eyed, a figure she didn't recognize as herself and scared the living hell out of her. What was this dark side inching closer to her soul? Calling after her? 

          Become mine. Fight for me. Bow to me. The whisper slid into her ear uninvited — not Sorscha's gentle tone, but something warped and hungry. A voice that scraped and echoed, metal against porcelain, a fork dragged across an empty plate looking for leftovers. Be mine, sweet girl. Come to me... willingly.

          The words slithered through her skull, curling around her spine, crawling down her throat like fire that burned from the inside out. Vythra froze. The truth struck her all at once: this wasn't freedom. This was another cage.

          Her heart jolted. Her skin prickled. She forced her lungs to move. " No. " She rasped under her breath, then looked around. Who was she replying to? " No more riddles. No more games. " Her voice was hoarse, desperate. " Tell me the truth—no bullshit. What's my real purpose here? "

          The whisper retreated for a breath, like the tide pulling back before a wave. Her attention flicked to Sorscha. The nun's face was taut, her eyes glazed white as her index worked. Sweat pearled on her brow, rolling down her temple in gleaming threads. Each symbol she traced shimmered faintly, burning out the moment it formed, as if something unseen fought to erase it.

          The air itself began to hum. Then Vythra felt it — a pulse, a pressure. Something trying to crawl into her veins. Her vision wavered; the edges of the world flickered with light. Raindrops slowed as they fell, each one refracting a color she didn't recognize.

          It wanted in. The voice returned, distorted, almost coaxing. Let me in, darling. I'll make it stop hurting.

          Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding. She plastered her hand on her head, beginning to hit it again and again, to beat that entity out of her mind. The electricity in her blood sparked higher, searing, bright. Her body convulsed once as her heart slammed against her ribs. Her knees buckled. The rain seemed to hiss against her skin, evaporating on contact.

          Sorscha's voice broke through the static — faint but resolute. " Fight it, Vythra. Push it back. " But even Sorscha's voice trembled now, her hands faltering mid-symbol. The lines she'd drawn flickered violently, the air rippling like heat over desert sand.

          The whisper laughed — low, guttural, everywhere.

          Sorscha's eyes rolled back, blood running from her nose. She pressed her palms together and whispered something in a tongue older than language. The sigils burst like fireflies, scattering into the wind, forming a barrier of gold around Vythra's trembling form.

          The voice shrieked, before vanishing into the rain. Silence fell like an executioner's blade.

         Vythra's breath came in ragged gasps, her body shaking. The chain in her chest thudded once, twice — hard enough to hurt. Her head almost exploded.

          And then, faintly — just faintly — another heartbeat answered. Not her own." He's trying to take over you, girl. Don't listen to him. Focus on me. "

          Vythra's body convulsed, her heart slamming against her ribs. She felt the voice beneath her skin, slithering, searching for a way in. " Get out! " She rasped, clutching her chest, fingernails digging into flesh.

          Sorscha's eyes blazed pink, and she slammed her palms against the mud, tracing symbols that flared gold before dissolving into the earth. The air sizzled with tension. " Call it, Vy! " She cried. " Use what's yours—the Vespertus answers its true name! "

          A scream tore from Vythra's throat, half defiance, half agony. Light erupted from her chest—a flash of green and gold, power clashing against the unseen voice. The forest trembled. The whisper turned to a shriek, a distortion that melted into static before vanishing.

          Silence. Only the rain.

          Sorscha knelt, panting, hands shaking and smoking faintly from the magic's recoil. " He's getting stronger. He's found you through the chain. "

          That damned chain. Vythra wiped the blood from her lip, her breath ragged. " Then we cut it, " she hissed, " Before he finds the other end. " Whoever knew where the other end was? Vythra couldn't think straight. Where was the other end of the chain?

         Malou's voice broke the quiet. She'd been there the whole time—guarding their real bodies, face carved from shock, the wet wind curling around her. Her expression was tight, her knuckles white around the hilt of her blade, as if gripping it could anchor her to this world. " You can't cut it. As long as we don't know where the other end belongs, we can't do such thing. "

         Vythra's head snapped toward her. Malou stepped forward, her boots sinking into the ground. " You came to save us, " she reminded her, voice brittle as cracking glass. " You are good and pure—like a saint. You were sent to spare us from something none of us—Fae, witch, or mortal—can fight alone. "

        Sorscha's breath hitched, her rosary of bone beads clicking softly. Malou continued, gaze locked on Vythra's pale, cadaveric skin. " He calls himself the Devourer. The thing that just tried to mold you after his liking. The Mother's older brother. He ruled before time began—until she chained him beneath the world. But now... " Her jaw tightened. " Now the Veil between realms is thinning. "

          Vythra felt her stomach twist. " And when he wakes? "

          Malou's gaze lifted, black as coal and twice as heavy. " He'll devour the universes. One by one, " She said, her criminal timbre dragging through every syllable as if to imprint them in Vythra's numb brain. " He thinks the worlds will thrive under one ruler—his. A god-king with a clenched fist around creation. He'll banish the others, silence the divine, and cage the rest of us in his order. "

          " No protection means easier entrance. " Sorscha explained, blood on her lip, the words barely audible as Malou caught her elbow to steady her.

          A tremor split through Vythra's spine, cold slicing straight to bone. " You're saying I can stop that? " She barked a laugh, the sound ugly, hysterical. " Me? A mortal healer who can't even hold her temper, let alone hold off the apocalypse? "  She laughed harder, breathless and bitter. " I couldn't even stand up to my father, and you expect me to go toe-to-toe with a god who could crush me like a bug? " Her voice rose, cracking with exhaustion and disbelief. " You're insane. All of you. "

          Malou's head tilted slightly, rain dripping from her lashes. Her hand flexed once at her side. " Watch your mouth. "

          But Vythra didn't. " You're all fools if you think I'm your salvation— "

          Malou moved. One heartbeat she was still, the next she was on her. A flash of motion — a roar of breath — her fist locked in Vythra's cloak and yanked. " ENOUGH! " Mud splattered around their boots as she slammed Vythra upright, the girl choking on her own gasp. The older woman's strength was monstrous, unrelenting.

          " I swear by every god still listening. " Malou snarled, her teeth bared like a wolf's, " if you open that mouth one more time to curse yourself, I'll knock you out cold and drag your limp ass through training until you crawl like a soldier. " Her grip tightened, nails biting through wet fabric and skin. " You think this is about you? About your misery? "

          Vythra tried to speak, but Malou shook her once—hard enough that her teeth clacked.

          Misty hissed, her small body coiled like a spring. The fur along her spine rose in a slick, trembling ridge. She leapt down from the cut tree, tail lashing, a low growl vibrating in her throat—feral and protective. Malou's head snapped toward the sound, her white eye glinting with warning. " Call off your beast! " She barked through her teeth, baring her pink gums at the girl.

          But Vythra couldn't. She barely breathed. Malou's fist tightened, viciously, around the collar of her soaked cloak until the fabric twisted into a noose around her throat. The pressure bit deep, crushing against her carotids. Vythra's mouth opened, gasping for air. She felt it on the roof of fer mouth, a taste of oxygen. Grey clouds began to bloom at the edges of her visual axis. 

          The cat stepped closer, muscles rippling under wet fur, her tiny paws sinking into the mud. The sound that came out of her wasn't feline anymore—it was guttural, primal, like a thousand animals gathered and spoke through her.

          Sorscha moved fast, her robes whispering as she circled them, hands raised in a placating gesture. " Easy now, little spirit.  You've done enough fighting for one night." Misty's pupils thinned to slits, her gaze flicking between the three women, the stormlight reflecting green fire in her eyes. The earth gathered beneath her claws. " Calm. " Sorscha whispered again, her magic lacing the word. The sound hummed like wind through the cat's mind. The air thickened, warm, perfumed faintly with sage.

           Misty's snarl faltered, just slightly—but she didn't back down. She pressed herself against Vythra's leg, claws still half-buried in the dirt, tail wrapped like a living shield.

         " This world will end if you don't stand up. " Malou roared, the veins at her neck taut and visible. " And when it does, he'll eat another, and another, untill it reaches yours. You think it stops here? It doesn't stop anywhere. " She stepped closer, rain streaking down her face like war paint. " Tell me, girl—do you have magic there? Warriors? Are your people ready for a grotesque end? For cities turned to ash, children eaten by silence? " Her voice cracked. " Hope is useless if there are no gods left to protect your kind. So tell me— " Her lip curled, teeth flashing. " —is your God listening? "

          Vythra shook her head once, lungs burning with the cold, a bruise-color creeping under her skin. The image came unbidden and merciless: her old world reduced to smoking ruins, streets slick with blood and bodies—worse than any battlefield she'd read about, a silence so complete it pressed on the eardrums. Bullets and grenades would be toys against him; steel would melt like a child's temper tantrum. Even the witches of her time—those supposed bastions against the impossible—would be only flickers before that darkness. The internet would not save them; it would only catalog the end in endless loops of panic and grief. It would take less than a day to erase everything she knew.

          " Then stop whining like a gutter-rat and start acting like the damn weapon you were meant to be! " Malou's shout rattled through the trees, through Vythra's bones. She grabbed the girl by the shoulders again and gave her a rough shake that sent droplets flying between them. " Do you hear me? I am not giving up on you! " The last word tore from her like a vow, half rage, half desperate prayer. Her breath trembled, smoke in the cold air. Steam rose from their clothes, heat and fury radiating between them.

          Vythra trembled from all the effort. Something inside her chruned, half-asleep now, like a creature waking in the depths of her ribs. A pulse—warm and golden—flared in her gut, spreading through her veins like dawn seeping through cracks in a storm. It chased away the cold, burned through the dread that had choked her moments before. Her breath hitched. The air around her shimmered faintly, the rain suddenly lighter, softer. For a heartbeat, the shadows shrank back, wary.

          And so it goes. The balance tipped again.

          Malou's chest heaved, eyes narrowing at the shift in energy—the subtle hum of something ancient and familiar. Sorscha's fingers twitched, feeling it too, the delicate rebalancing of chaos and calm that only the Vespertus could summon. Vythra didn't fully understand what was happening. She just knew that the fear had retreated, that something older than her sorrow had filled its place. Power. Control. A fragile heartbeat of both.

          And deep within that warmth, the chain pulsed once—slow, steady—like it too had been waiting for her to finally stop running.

          " Then why is everyone hunting me? If I'm meant to save the world, why does it feel like everyone wants me dead? "

          Malou met her gaze. The reflection of the flame flickered in her eyes—gold, then black. " Because you are both the weapon and the end of it. " Malou's voice dropped to a whisper. " Because your power tips the balance. The Devourer wants you as his weapon. We want you as our shield. "

          Sorscha lifted her eyes a deep, violent purple washing trough her pupils. " You are the balance, child. The knife's edge between peace and ruin. Become the Vespertus, and the world survives. I know it isn't easy for you either. "

          Vythra swallowed hard. " And if I don't? "

          " Then you become her. " Sorscha said quietly. " The other side of the coin. The corrupted one. A Tiamat. The Devourer's queen. "  Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a long, mournful sound that made the window panes tremble.

          Vythra clenched her jaw. " And what's stopping him now? "

          " The Veil. " Malou answered. " For now. But the cracks are widening. He's gathering his followers as we speak—creatures hungrier than gods. Every second we wait, he's closer. "

          Sorscha's fingers twitched, a faint tremor rippling through them as if something unseen brushed against her soul. " I can feel them stirring already. In dreams. In meditation. He's not happy we're here. "

          Vythra turned toward Malou, the rain still whispering against the windowpanes. " Then tell me—what's at the end of this road? What happens if I follow it all the way? "

          Malou hesitated. Her lips parted, but her eyes betrayed the truth first—heavy, resigned. " To seal him away... " she continued at last, " ...you have to die. "

          Vythra froze. It didn't take her by surprise. Her pupils dilated, searching each of their faces, refusing to understand—no, to accept. Her mind ran in circles, chewing on the thought, until it settled deep in her mind. So this was it. The end she'd always half expected, the quiet promise of release dressed up as destiny. She swallowed hard. " If I die here, would I wake up home? Back in my own world? "

          Sorscha's silence was its own cruelty. Malou's voice, when it came, was unsteady. " I can't aprove or deny something I don't know. Technically, your body will die here. Your spirit might return. "

          " Might? That's not an answer."

          " There is no other way, " Malou said. " Your life is too tightly knotted with ours. Me. Sorscha. Niven. Kallou's family. Draegan. Eris. Azriel. All those you've touched—or hunted you. Every thread you've tangled now binds you here. Until this ends. "

          Vythra's voice dropped to a whisper. " So I'm trapped. "

          " No. " Sorscha said gently. " You're chosen. "

          Outside, the wind howled through the trees like a grieving choir. The storm had begun to fade, but its voice lingered—unwilling to die away. Each gust rattled the shutters, whispering secrets through the cracks, as if the world itself mourned what was to come.

          In that dim half-light, thunder still grumbling somewhere beyond the hills, Vythra wasn't sure she believed any of it. The chosen one. What a cruel joke. The words tasted sour even in her thoughts. She'd heard stories like that before—girls chosen by fate, blessed by gods, destined to save the world. But standing here, soaked to the bone, her fingers trembling, her lungs tight with dread... she felt anything but divine.

          And yet—she couldn't deny that something greater had its claws in her. That night she'd fallen through the veil, that deity's touch on her cheek before the world broke apart—it had been too real, too deliberate. If it was punishment, then the gods had a poor aim; there were far worse people to smite. If it was a gift, it was one wrapped in barbed wire. She'd only ever wished for a change—to matter, to mean something. And apparently, wishes did come true. Twisted. 

         Now, she would've given anything to go back. To her small world, her quiet days, the meaningless comfort she once despised. If I'd just stayed still, she thought bitterly, would it have changed anything? Would any of this still have happened?

          " Bullshit. " She hissed finally, her voice raw, throat torn open from fear and exhaustion. " That's not destiny—that's just a bad story. I can't help you. "

          " You can, " Sorscha send that quiet tought down her mind, " And you will. We'll teach you. We swore long ago—to the Old Emperor, one of the Three Dead Kings—that we would protect the Vespertus when she returned. That we would serve her, even if she never believed in herself. "

          " What if I can't? What if I break under it? I've never carried the weight of a world before. "

          Malou stepped forward. Her soaked, black cloak dragged through the dirt, the faint scent of soap and foxglove, sweet and toxic, following her. She reached out, took Vythra's trembling hand, and turned it palm-up. Her own hand bore a faded mark—the snake, twin to the crow on Malou's, inked deep, black and sacre as the Veil itself. " Then I'll carry it with you, " she promised " We swore, back in that prison, when the world forgot us. You made me tie my life to yours. "

          Sorscha joined them, her steps silent over the creaking leaves, her eyes alight with something ancient and unyielding. She reached out, her fingers slim and clean, and placed them over their joined hands. " Then let it be bound again, " she advocated, her voice steady despite the tremor in the air, " I swear it too—you'll never walk alone. Not in this life, or the next. "

          The air changed. Thickened. The kind of silence that made the soul hold its breath fell upon them. Even the rain outside seemed to hush in reverence. Between their interlaced fingers, a hum began to rise—alive. A pulse that wasn't theirs, yet somehow belonged to all three. Light gathered where their palms met—soft at first, then blooming outward in slow waves. White, violet, and green, weaving together like the aurora across a winter sky. The glow spilled across their faces, making Sorscha's hood shimmer like moonlit silk, Malou's scars glow like old runes, and Vythra's eyes catch fire with something unearthly.

          In Sorscha's palm, the magic coalesced, twisting and burning. Flesh shifted, reshaped. A small black eye opened beneath her skin—its pupil expanding, then narrowing to a slit. It blinked once, slow, before stilling again. Watching. Eternal.

          A bargain—sealed.

          Vythra's breath hitched, her throat tight. The chain in her chest pulsed sharply, answering the pact, recognizing the bond. It wasn't submission—it was acknowledgment.

          " We'll talk more once we're gone from here, " Malou said hoarsely, breaking the moment, though her voice wavered. " Before it's too late. "

          Vythra nodded, the flickering light painting her face in shades of green flame. " Then let's pack what we can. We'll stop by Zelma's to get food for the road... and to say goodbye. After that— " She paused, her voice softening, though the resolve was final. " After that, we go wherever the Fates decide to drag us. "

          The storm had thinned to a damp whisper by the time they stepped back into the cottage. The air inside smelled of smoke and plants. Their boots left muddy ghosts across the wooden floor, and the single candle burning in the corner flickered, its light trembling over their faces.

          Vythra peeled off her soaked cloak first, the fabric clinging to her skin with a sound like torn paper. Steam rose faintly from her shoulders as she crossed to the basin. Sorscha was already there, pouring hot water from the cauldron into the copper tub, the scent of rosemary and soap root curling through the air.

          " Quickly. " Malou urged, pacing by the window, her gaze fixed on the rain-slick treeline. " If we're lucky, the mud will swallow our tracks before they find us. " Her tone was all orders, but when she turned, the candlelight betrayed her—exhaustion lining her features, a shadow of something like worry softening her mouth. She untied her armor piece by piece, laying it out with the same reverence one might give to relics.

          Vythra lowered herself into the steaming water, hissing when the heat met the cold of her skin. It stung, then soothed, the ache in her bones unraveling slowly. She watched the dirt bleed from her arms into the water, watched her reflection tremble with every ripple. The silence pressed in, interrupted only by the soft clatter of Sorscha's beads as she moved about, humming an old prayer under her breath.

          Malou finally joined her, scrubbing her forearms with a coarse rag, her movements sharp, almost punishing. " We'll need to move before dawn. Two days if we ride hard. Maybe three if the roads are flooded. 

          " What happened while you were gone in the village? " Sorscha asked, voice low as the steam curled from the basin. Her fingers combed the wet ends of her braid with slow, automatic motion, eyes never leaving Vythra's face. " How did they catch you? " 

          Malou paused mid-scrub, the water running black with mud as she turned that blind, glassy gaze to Vythra — a look that asked for the story in a single blink. Then she went on rinsing her hair like she was washing dirt off the world itself.

          Vythra exhaled and poured the tale out in one breath: the glamour over their wings and faces, the brush of purple liquid on Nesta's skin, how she healed her, Cassian's rage. She left out the sliver between her and the Shadowsinger — that private thing.

          Malou's lip curled long before Vythra finished. When she did, the Valkyrie's laugh was a death sentence. " So the great, thunderous General threatened you? " She sneered, standing, water slinging from her hair in angry beads. She planted her feet in the tub and scrubbed her legs so violently the soap dissolved. " That gruff nobody with the bronzed chest and the ego the size of a mountain? He threatened you? " Her voice dripped contempt. " Oh, Stumbles, I fought beside him and his lot when they were still teeth and bone. Boys then — boys who learned to bleed and call it honor. Now they get puffed up and think they can scare a woman who's been dragged out of the void. "

         Sorscha's fingers stilled in Vythra's hair, watching Malou with an expression that folded pity into warning. Vythra felt the air freeze a fraction.

          Malou stalked over, water sluicing off her armor with a metallic whisper. She slapped a towel at her shoulders and leaned over Vythra until her wet hair hung in dark ropes inches from the girl's face. " You let that brutish show his teeth? " She snapped. " Good. Let him. He'll learn which end of a blade is honor and which end eats men. I'll have his head for dinner, I swear it. " Her grin was not kind. " I'll roast it, spit it on a stake, and show him what happens when he picks on you. "

          Vythra flinched, partly from the words and partly from the heat of Malou's presence — animal and absolute. Sorscha's whisper drifted from the side: " Control, Malou. We can't start slaughtering every man with a temper. The hunt's drawing attention. "

          " Attention's earned, then. " Malou snapped back, loathing in every consonant. She slung the towel off and stalked to the table, snatching up a bowl and turning it over as if to empty phantom crumbs. " And as for that calm, pale shadow — Azriel — he got what he wanted: you alive and breathing. The man runs the hush like it's a fucking religion. He orders, you obey. Lucky for him he knows when to be practical. Lucky for you he didn't chew you up for sport. " Her voice dropped: " But if he ever thinks to push you like some convenient pawn — I'll tear the silence from his throat. "

          " When did you fight alongside them? " Vythra asked quietly, her curiosity threading through the steam and the scent of soaproot.

          Malou's head turned slowly, the muscles in her jaw tightening as if the words themselves had weight. " The last one was at the Meinir Pass. The Illyrian babies ran the moment they smelled blood. Thought it was a death sentence. " Her hands didn't stop their motion, still scrubbing at her arms like she could erase what came next. " My unit, the ones I trained after... what happened to me—they stayed. Most of them died there. The snow was so red it steamed. "

          She glanced toward the window, where fog pressed against the glass like a living thing. " I got captured by Hybern soon after. Shackled. Tortured. Fed nothing but hard bread for weeks. " A grim, humorless smile twisted her mouth. " Then another High Lord of the Night Court stepped in—one I'd never seen before. Elegant, perfumed, too clean for a battlefield. " Her voice thinned at the edges—like the memory was dragging splinters through her throat. " Left with scars that don't heal and ghosts that never shut up. You ask when I fought beside them, Stumbles? I fought beside them when they were still wet behind the ears, swinging swords bigger than their courage. "

          She leaned forward, eyes glinting under the flickering light. " And now one of them threatens you. The world's turned upside down, hasn't it? "

           Sorscha's hand stilled mid-air, the rosary of bone and pearl dangling between her fingers. " Meinir Pass. " She murmured, as if tasting the words. " That was over five centuries ago. You tried to revive the Valkyrie's Order. "

          Malou didn't answer. She just gave a short nod. " And I failed again. " She said, rising to her full height, " I remember every scream like it was yesterday. "

           Vythra watched the reflection of the candle flame in the water, fractured and trembling—like her. Her thoughts drifted to what lay ahead: the weight of training, of becoming something she didn't yet understand. A weapon. A savior. Or perhaps just another martyr swallowed by fate.

          When they finished, they dressed in dry clothes—rough linens, patched cloaks—and began to pack. Malou folded her blades into leather sheaths and fastened them at her hips, each metallic click echoing faintly through the cottage. Sorscha wrapped small vials of herbs, their names inked in her spidery script: belladonna, rue, marjoram, bloodroot. She tied them together with a strip of white cloth and tucked them inside her satchel.

          Vythra packed slower. Her hands lingered on everything she touched: her cloak, still damp at the hem; her worn gloves. Misty curled on the bed near her, half-dry, half-furious, cleaning her paws with indignant swipes of her tongue.

          " Nesta had a compass. " Vythra murmured, her voice low and almost wistful, as she scratched behind Misty's damp ears. The cat's tail flicked once, a sharp little lash of annoyance, followed by a soft mrrt—but she didn't move away. " Made of gold, " Vythra continued, " with red needles. It pulsed every time I got near it. "

          Malou froze mid-motion, one hand stilling on the strap of her satchel. " You bled when the arrow hit you in the Nightmare Court, " she said slowly, piecing it together aloud. " They used your blood to track you. But who could've done that? "

          " I know who. " Vythra interjected, her tone tight as she shoved a few of their most important books into another pack—her fingers trembling only slightly. " I read about their story before. In my old world. "

         Malou's head snapped up, one eyebrow arching with sharp disbelief. " You read about it? You fell into a world you read about? " Her laugh was short, humorless. " That's bloody rich. "

          " Ironic. " Vythra admitted with a faint, grim smile. " It seems like I've changed the course of events. The one who sent me here told me never to reveal what happens next—or I'd make things worse. Even more dangerous. "

          "  I see. " Sorscha murmured, pulling her cloak tighter as she opened the door. Morning fog spilled through the frame, curling like breath. " Were we in those books, then? "

          Vythra frowned, shaking her head. " No. You were never mentioned. "

          Malou and Sorscha exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Shadows moved between their expressions. Finally, Malou asked, voice hard and cold: " Who did you say could do such magic? " Her eye brightened—not with light, but with rage, that deep ancient red that only comes from old blood and older vengeance. " I have a guess, but I want to hear it from you. "

          " She's called Amren, " Vythra said, " Rhysand's second in command. She used to have powers, but she lost them after the war with Hybern. "

          Malou went still. Completely still. Then her mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. " So... that bitch got out. " The word hit the air like a crack of thunder.

          " You know her, too? " Vythra blinked, startled.

          Malou gave a low, dry laugh, empty of humor. " Who do you think sealed her away in that forgotten prison? " Her jaw clenched, and her hand trembled once before she forced it still. " I gave up my powers that day—to punish her. To take revenge for what she did to me. To us. To our kind. "

          " What did she— " Vythra started, but Sorscha cut her off, her voice cold as the fog creeping at their feet.

          " Because of her, our kingdom fell. " Sorscha said simply. " She and her armies followed a cruel god. A god who promised them dominion over every realm. " Her eyes darkened, almost to black. " She used to have wings—beautiful, white, feathered things. Malou took them from her. Stripped her like she stripped our people of everything. She was a part of our doom. "

          Vythra froze. Her mind spun with the weight of it, with the holes that suddenly began to fill with terrible clarity. " What h- "

          Sorscha didn't answer. Her expression said enough. The silence between them thickened, heavy as mourning. Malou's glassy eye shimmered, the light catching on the wetness gathering there. Real tears—thin, trembling lines carving through her clean face. Some scars wrinkled when she force the cry away.

          Vythra's chest tightened. She hadn't thought Malou could cry. Not the woman who'd stared down armies and gods alike. But here she was, unraveling—not with weakness, but with grief too ancient for words. Quietly, Vythra stepped closer. Her hand hovered for a heartbeat, then rested gently on Malou's shoulder. The warmth of her touch felt almost fragile against the cold rage thrumming in the warrior's bones. " It doesn't matter anymore, " she said softly. " I'm here now. " Malou didn't look up, didn't move, but her jaw eased just slightly. " I'll try my best, " Vythra whispered, " to make it better. "

          Outside, the dawn was barely there, only a pale bruise of light beneath a sky of fading stormclouds. Fog draped the trees like gauze. The world looked washed out, soft-edged, as if caught between waking and dream.

          They led the horses out one by one. Aeria snorted, tossing her mane, the silver ring of her bit flashing in the dim light. Sorscha's mare, a pale creature with eyes like molten gold, stepped carefully through the mud, while Malou's dark stallion pawed at the ground impatiently, breath steaming in the chill. They secured their saddlebags in silence—the rhythmic sound of leather straps tightening, the faint jingle of metal buckles grounding them more than words could.

          When everything was ready, Vythra looked once more at their small home—the smoke still curling weakly from the chimney, the herbs drying by the window, the life they'd just begun to build—and felt something twist deep in her chest.

          " Let's go. " Malou said.

          The fog swallowed them whole as they turned toward Zelma's inn, hooves squelching softly in the wet earth. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp moss, the road ahead fading into mist.

          And though none of them spoke, they all felt it—the quiet, heavy truth that once they left this place behind, nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23

No Escape

          The forest still dripped from the night's storm. Every branch bowed under the weight of rain, and the air was thick enough to paint a fine film of dew over any skin left bare. Mist curled low over the trail like slow, paralyzed hands. Cassian's horse snorted, head tossing, hooves squelching through the black mud that clung stubbornly to its fetlocks.

          Cassian wiped his nose with the back of his wrist and scowled. The tenth sneeze was already building like a siege inside his sinuses. Gods, he hated this—wet air, damp leaves, the green stink of moss and flowers. Everything here wanted to crawl up his nose and declare war.

          I fucking hate this, he thought, dragging in a damp breath through his teeth. Ahead of him, Nesta's braid gleamed a pale gold-brown in the muted light, freshly woven. He'd watched her twist it together this morning while he was half asleep in the saddle. She had survived death, fever, poison—and somehow still had the nerve to braid her hair like a queen preparing for court.

          He yawned for what felt like the hundredth time. He hadn't slept properly in two days. Not since Azriel had vanished into the woods to chase hoofprints and ghosts, leaving Cassian to guard Nesta's restless half-sleep. Her color had returned—almost—but she still looked as though her soul hadn't quite caught up with her body.

          " Still hungry? " Cassian asked finally, rummaging through the side pouch strapped to the horse's flank. The leather was slick under his palms, the scent of wet grain and cotton mingling with the earthy fog.

          He was glad—though he'd never admit it out loud—to see her eat again. To see the hollows of her cheeks soften, the hint of strength return to her frame. A bit more muscle along her arms, a touch of color beneath her skin. Small things, maybe—but to Cassian, they were everything. Proof that she was making her way back from the edge she'd lived on for far too long.

          There'd been a time when Nesta Archeron had looked like death wearing silk—sharp bones, sharp tongue, and nothing but fire and self-loathing behind her eyes. He'd watched her drown herself in liquor and strangers' arms, fighting ghosts only she could see. But now, here she was, sitting upright on a horse, eating like she meant to live. The poison probably ate away most of her vitamins and minerals in her body.

          Cassian's chest tightened, a quiet ache he didn't know how to name. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe both. Because every inch she regained—every spark of life she reclaimed—meant she was getting farther from the woman who once hated herself enough to burn everything around her.

          Nesta didn't turn around. " Ravished, actually. " When she spoke, her voice was throaty, refusing water did her no good, but she was alive—sharper than it had been in days. She licked tomato juice from her fingers, distracted. Cassian's eyes followed the motion before he could stop himself, then he shook his head hard enough to rattle his brain. Saints, she almost died yesterday, and you're thinking about—no. Stop it.

          He dug out another piece of bread, only to freeze. The bag was half empty. " Wait—half our supplies are gone? "

          Nesta made a small, unapologetic sound. " I was hungry. I haven't felt hungry like this for... a while. "

          Cassian blinked, then huffed a laugh that was more disbelief than amusement. " Eat everything you want, we'll stop by somewhere and take some more. "

          " Thank you. " She said simply, with that calm, regal indifference that made him want to pull at his hair.

          He let out a breath, heavy and rough, and tried to push away the twist of guilt coiled beneath his ribs. Every time he looked at her, he saw that inn again—the firelight, that girl's hands pressed to Nesta's chest, the life she'd pulled back when he'd thought all hope was gone. And then he'd shouted at the girl, threatened her. Driven her out.

          Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, shame prickling through his skin. " I shouldn't have— "

          Azriel's voice cut through the mist before Cassian could finish. " Don't start... " He emerged from the fog like the forest itself had grown tired of holding him, every step soundless, his hood drawn low. Shadows curled lazily around his boots, reacting to the faint pulse of his irritation. His leathers were soaked through. A burn still marred the side of his throat—angry and half-healed, the skin puckered in the shape of Cassian's gauntleted knuckles. A reminder of their fight from the night before, when rage had bled out faster than reason.

          Cassian's jaw flexed at the sight of it, guilt sliding through him like cold water. He hadn't meant to hit him that hard. But when that girl talked back at him while he was in that dark corner of his mind, blaming himself for not paying more attention to Nesta on the road, something in him had snapped.

          Azriel caught the look and dismissed it with a slow blink. " She's gone farther than I thought. " He said blandly, as though the words might cauterize whatever still lingered between them.

          Cassian frowned. " Any sign of her? "

          Azriel shook his head once. Water slid down the sharp lines of his jaw, sanctifying his hard features as if the rain goddess worshiped him, too. The droplets caught what little sunlight dared to pierce the fog—brief sparks of gold against the cold grey—before slipping down the curve of his throat and vanishing into his collar.

           " Tracks dissapear near the ridge, " He concluded, showing the path with his chin. " Either she used another spell... or the forest itself is trying to cover her tracks. "

           Cassian looked at his brother—really looked at him—and felt a chill crawl down his spine. Azriel's eyes, usually molten and alive with quiet calculation, were hollow now. Cold. His gloved hand trembled where it rested on the horse's black hair, the tension blazing off his body so much so that Cassian swore he could hear it sizzle in the air around him.

          What the hell had happened to him—to make him this way. To make him need to find her so badly it bordered on obsession. Cassian had seen Azriel fixate before, but this... this was different. There was something feral in it. Something personal.

          It wasn't just a hunt anymore. Cassian could see it—the storm in his brother's gaze, that barely leashed hunger to own this girl, to drag her back in chains or shadows or both. To make her pay for whatever scar she'd carved into him, visible or not. As if her existence itself was an insult he needed to crush.

          And yet, beneath all that rage, Cassian caught a flicker of something dangerously close to guilt. Or longing. The worst kind of weakness for someone like Azriel. And it wasn't out of love or sexual tension, it was coming out a corner so ominous it scared Cassian.

          " The forest? " Nesta turned in the saddle, her straight nose brushing Cassian's chest as she glanced over her shoulder. Her voice came barely audible in fragments, but her eyes gleamed with wary curiosity. " You're saying the forest is alive? "

          " No. " Azriel replied, his tone edged on the need for violence, as if the thought unsettled him too. He turned his hooded head, scanning the treeline where mist danced thick between the trunks. The trees were massive—old, gnarled, their bark colored in vibrant nuances, as bruised skin. They loomed in clusters, watching, their branches heavy with rain that dripped like slow tears. " It's not alive. " He added quietly. " It's answering to her magic. "

          Cassian's brow furrowed. His horse snorted beneath him, hooves squelching in the black mud. " She's a mortal. " He muttered, half to himself, half to the ghosts hanging in the mist. " She shouldn't be this hard to find. "

          Azriel's gaze snapped toward him. Golden eyes, fueled by his twisted emotions that were barely showing beneath the shadow of his hood. " She might be human, " he punctuated, voice lowering until it was more growl than word, " but she's twisted. "

         Yeah, she is the twisted one. Cassian's brown pupils went wide at his brother menace. Not you.

          It was hard to believe—the girl who'd saved Nesta's life, who had steadied Cassian's shaking hands while she drained the poison from her veins, could be the same creature Azriel saw as dangerous. Harder still to see his brother like this: unflinching, relentless, haunted by something he wouldn't name.

          What's in your head, brother? He wondered, watching the faint tremor in Azriel's jaw, the way his eyes fixed on the mist ahead as if he could already see her through it. Cassian had seen Azriel angry before. He'd seen him bleed, break, lose everything but his damned composure. Like whatever tied him to that mortal witch wasn't just magic or duty. It was a wound.

         Nesta's breath caught. " Twisted how? "

          Azriel hesitated—an unusual thing for him. His shadows, always whispering and restless, drew tighter around his boots, as though reluctant to linger in this place. " The kind of magic she carries isn't learned. It clings. It bends the world to hide her. The forest moves because she wills it to, whether she means to or not. "

          Cassian shifted, feeling the hair rise on his arms. " You're telling me the trees have decided to become her bodyguards? "

          Azriel didn't smile. " I'm telling you the forest wants her safe. That makes it our enemy. " The words rattled through the leaves, a haunted wind circling them. Somewhere ahead, a crow cried—a low, ragged sound that echoed through the wet branches.

          Cassian glanced at Nesta, her face had gone pale again. " Let's get the fuck out of here. Before the forest decides we're trespassing. "

          Azriel's expression didn't change, but he gave a nod. His shadows peeled away, gliding ahead into the fog, vanishing between the dripping trunks. They pressed on. The air was a living they were peeling layer by layer, heavy with the scent of pine sap and rain-soaked earth. Mist clung to their faces like breath, blurring the edges of trees until the world itself felt half-drowned, color leached to gray. Every hoofbeat sank into mud without a sound.

          Cassian adjusted Nesta in front of him on the saddle. She leaned back slightly, her body warm against his armor, the scent of chamomile and sweat tangled in her hair. Her breathing came shallow and uneven, brushing the rhythm of his chest. She was better—but not well.

          " She'll need rest soon. " Azriel said quietly, voice almost lost to the fog. It wasn't a suggestion; it was an observation, as precise and clinical as the way his eyes scanned the trees. " Her pulse is still off. "

          Cassian nodded once. " She eats like she's fighting a war, but yeah. " Cassian almost smiled, almost—but his gaze snagged on her hands. Her long, pale fingers clenched tighter around the golden compass resting in her lap. It ticked faintly, a soft mechanical heartbeat in the hush between them. The needle trembled, pointing unerringly in the same direction Azriel's shadows stretched.

          Cassian frowned. " It's still doing that? "

          Nesta didn't look back. " It hasn't stopped since last night. No matter where we turn. "

          Azriel's head tilted slightly at the sound. The gold of his eyes caught the dim morning light, and for a moment Cassian could've sworn the compass pulse synced with the rhythm of his brother's breathing.

          He's the damn compass now. Nesta clutched the thing like a lifeline, while Azriel rode ahead, silent and grim, as if he already knew—already felt—the invisible pull that led straight to her. The forest creaked around them, alive with distant echoes. And Cassian couldn't tell anymore who was following whom.

          Cassian's lips curved faintly, a flicker of warmth under the exhaustion.  Her answering huff almost passed for amusement, but then the wind shifted—carrying something faint. Cassian's head snapped up. " Smoke. It's close. North-east, maybe half a mile. Smells like herbs... and meat. "

          Azriel didn't answer immediately. His head tilted slightly, shadows gliding forward. The tendrils dispersed between the trees, tasting the air. He waited, eyes unfocused, listening to whispers only he could hear. " East. Half a mile. "

          Cassian squinted through the fog, and then he saw it—thin gray threads rising between the branches, curling toward the sky. " Think it's them? "

          Azriel's expression barely shifted, but the edge of certainty crept into his tone. " I'd bet my dagger. "

          Cassian blew out a slow breath and adjusted his hold on Nesta's waist. " Then let's hope they don't see us first. "

          They urged the horses forward, hooves splashing through the thick, sucking mud. The forest groaned and shifted around them—the low creak of drenched branches, the steady hiss of water sliding from canopy to earth. The air, once clean with the scent of rain, now soured. They broke through the last of the trees and emerged onto a clearing. The sight stopped them cold.

          The meadow stretched wide and raw, scarred. To the right, the grass was worn down to dirt, trampled so many times it looked scorched. To the left, the treeline was broken—splintered trunks, uprooted stumps, splitted earth.

          Nesta drew in a slow, shaky breath. " What monstrous power could do that? " Her gaze swept over the shattered ground, the veins of blackened earth spidering outward in perfect circles. It didn't look like battle damage. It looked intentional.

          Cassian leaned forward in the saddle, his brow furrowed. " I think they trained here for a while. " 

          Azriel dismounted first, crouching low. His gloved fingers pressed into the damp soil, tracing faint indentations where the mud had swallowed the weight of hooves. The golden light breaking through the canopy caught on the prints. " Three mounts. Heavy load. North. "

          Nesta stirred in the saddle, one hand gripping Cassian's arm. Her voice came rough but steadier now. " Can we stop soon? "

          Cassian looked down at her—her face pale, lips bitten raw, pupils wide. She looked breakable. " We'll stop when Az says it's clear. " He said gently.

          " I'm fine, " she murmured, " Just... hungry. Again. "

          Azriel didn't reply. His shadows slithered ahead, stretching like smoke over moss and bark, slipping between roots and stones until they found it—an old cabin barely visible through the fog, its chimney exhaling soft curls of smoke that danced and twisted like bait on a hook.

          The air thickened. Cassian felt it; Nesta too. Azriel straightened slowly, shadows recoiling back into him as if unwilling to linger. Azriel didn't answer. His head tilted, shadows whispering as they returned—thin, cold ribbons curling against his jaw, brushing the scar on his neck like a reminder. 

             Empty. They murmured in that low, secret language only he could hear. No heartbeats. No breath. No life. "

          He exhaled slowly through his nose. " I'll check the house. " The door creaked open beneath his hand, hinges sighing like the last exhale of something dying. The smell hit him first—amber and foxglove, sharp sage beneath it, tangled with smoke. Feminine, maddeningly familiar. Her scent.

          Amber.

          It clung to everything—the walls, the air, even the wood itself. He moved through the space in silence, the old boards whispering beneath his steps. Her scent was everywhere, in the smoke, in the damp air, in the seams of his gloves. And for a minute, Azriel forgot how to breathe. His pulse spiked—sharp, erratic—as if her very presence, even absent, had sunk into the marrow of the forest. It wasn't faint anymore; it was surrounding him, suffocating his lungs like honey and poison all at once. It crawled under his skin, warm and seductive, the echo of her heartbeat pulsing in his chest, making the chain rattle once.

          He felt psychotic. That's what this was—madness. Like her being was a vortex, pulling him in no matter how hard he fought against it.

          Azriel's jaw flexed, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble along his cheek. The room felt too small, too full of her. His shadows writhed restlessly, whispering, feeding on the sharp edges of his unrest. One of the bolder ones slithered ahead, brushing against a forgotten shape hanging by the door—a cloak, dark and heavy with rain, left behind like a ghost of her.

          He moved toward it, unhurried, boots silent against the creaking floor. The air thickened the closer he came. The scent was unmistakable—amber, orange peel and something sweeter underneath. His gloved hand caught the edge of the fabric. It was still damp. He brought it closer, his breath shallow. His nose grazed the collar. Time stopped then went on again, his mind betrayed him.

          He saw her—standing by the door, water dripping from her hair, shoving the cloak from her shoulders with a violent motion. Saw the flash of bare skin, the glimmer of hatred in her grey eyes. He could almost feel the heat of her breath, the way she'd paused for a split second, inhaling him from the lining before discarding it.

          The image seared through him, unwanted and electric.

          His grip tightened until the leather of his gloves strained. The fire crackled behind him, mocking. With a sharp inhale through his nose, he turned and threw the cloak into the flames. It caught immediately, flaring bright—her scent rising in a single, sickening bloom of smoke and perfume. His shadows recoiled from it, whispering in confusion.

          Azriel stood motionless, watching it burn, the orange light cutting across his scarred face. His throat worked once, then again, as if swallowing back something venomous. A single cup sat overturned on the table. Beside it, an open book faced down, its pages damp and curling from the rain that had slipped through the cracked window.

          Azriel bent and turned it over.  The language was old. Older than Prythian—older even than his mother's stories. Runic symbols, circular diagrams drawn by hand in dark ink. Notes in the margins, small and impatient, a handwriting that looked like it fought itself.

          She's a witch, he thought, the words like a splinter under his nails. Not a healer. Not an innocent, stumbling mortal. A liar wrapped in mortal skin.

          He traced one line of text with his gloved finger. A sigil for protection. His jaw tightened. Her lies tasted bitter on his tongue even now. Her voice echoed in his head, that desperate night when rain had drowned everything else: " I'll step on it. Again and again until there's nothing left of you. "

          A growl worked its way up his throat before he realized it. His wings flexed once, tight with restrained rage. The chair nearest him splintered beneath his boot. He shoved the table aside, sending the cup skittering across the floor until it shattered against the wall. The smell of amber deepened as the movement disturbed the air. A faint whisper clung to it—like laughter. Her laughter.

          Azriel froze. His shadows recoiled, nervous. He knew better than to think it was real. The mind played tricks in places like this—haunted by scent and memory and the ghost of something you couldn't kill, even when you wanted to.

          " Twisted. " He murmured under his breath, echoing what he'd told Cassian earlier. " Everything about her. " The words seemed to soothe him. He crouched once more, fingertips brushing over a single white hair caught between floorboards. It wasn't hers, must be the other two, guarding her. Azriel's lips molded into a crazy grin, thinking about the vial of poison hidden in his leathers.

          He already had a plan.

          When he finally stepped outside, he drew in a long breath. " She was here. " 

          Cassian clicked his tongue. " Let's move. If they were here, they're heading east. There's only one road that doesn't dead-end in swamp. "

          By the time the three women reached Zelma's inn, the sky had bled into a deep copper dusk — the kind that licked the edges of the horizon like liquefied ingot. The tavern rose from the mist like a crooked spine of timber, its slanted roof patched in moss, its chimney exhaling lazy curls of grey that blurred against the dying light. The air reeked faintly of stew, old ale, and damp wood, the perfume of the poor and the tired.

          Inside, the warmth was a welcoming embrance. Vythra tought of it as cozy, remembering her winters in her old world.

         She stood at the counter, both palms pressed flat against its scarred surface, the tendons in her wrists stiff with fatigue and aching from the reins. Her hair was semi-wet, sticking onto her collar. A few strands had dried in uneven waves against her temples, clinging to the blush of her round cheeks. A shade of grey pooled under her eyes— now a restless green that refused to fade. She wanted to sleep so badly.

          Misty sat beside her on a stool, tail flicking with delicate irritation — like a conductor's baton keeping tempo to her mistress's heartbeat. The cat's fur was puffed slightly, half from the chill, half from the tavern's stale unease.

          Malou, ever the sentinel, leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed under her soaked cloak. Her clothes steamed faintly near the hearth, and each drop that fell from her hood hissed when it hit the fire. Her gaze swept the room —assessing every corner, every drunkard's shadow, every glint of metal. Her jaw twitched, a tic she'd developed every time her instincts whispered danger.

          At the far end of the room, Sorscha murmured something low in her stitched tone; a word of light. The wick of an old candle flared in answer, its flame burning cold blue instead of gold. Her white hood shimmered faintly in the glow, her expression unreadable.

          Zelma wiped her hands on her frayed apron as she approached — the sound of cloth against rough palms echoing in the tense quiet. Her smile was kind. Wrinkles spread from the corners of her murky stormwater-colored eyes, eyes that had seen more than any innkeeper should. " You're asking about my daughter. " She finally spoke, her voice a smoky alto that rasped at the edges.

          Her cat, circled her legs and hissed once toward Misty, as if warning to stop inquiring about her past.  

          Vythra could feel it — that coiling thread of mystery wrapping tighter the longer she stood there. Zelma's energy was layered, like peeling bark: each truth revealing another lie beneath.

          " Then I have to ask you back. " The woman went on, walking past a pot of soup that whistled softly on the stove. " Which one of my daughters? " She sat across from them, elbows on the counter, palms folded together. Her red blouse had long since faded to rust, but the gem at her throat shimmered faintly, catching the candlelight between her breasts. Behind her, shelves sagged under the weight of half-empty bottles: whiskey, plum brandy, mead. The scents mingled into a heady perfume of sugar. " I had three children. Two girls and one boy. " She paused, tapping a finger against her gem absently. " I suppose I told you about the only one who stayed, didn't I? "

          Vythra frowned, eyes darting over Zelma's features — her dark hair, the faint streaks of purple in her irises so hidden that they were barely there. Something in her stirred — a flicker of déjà vu, an echo of a dream she couldn't quite grasp.

          She swallowed. Her voice came out softer than she intended, hesitant even, as if she couldn't remember things clearly. " You... mentioned her. But not much. " Did Zelma really not remember telling her? Or had Vythra dreamed it — like the other visions that haunted her sleep? The blurred faces of witches around a fire. The whisper of the Devourer in the dark. Reality and memory had begun to overlap like two worlds refusing to stay separate.

          Sorscha's voice broke the silence. " We might put them at risk. " she intervened, eyes fixed on Zelma's cat, whose fur bristled at her stare. A faint shimmer pulsed at the edge of Sorscha's aura — a ward trying to warn her of danger. " Was she always this... round? "

          Malou snorted under her breath, crossing one leg over the other. " The cat or the daughter? "

         All three women froze—wide-eyed, caught mid-breath.

          Malou was the first to move. She lifted both palms in surrender, a crooked grin cutting across her face before she made a dramatic gesture—pretending to zip her mouth shut and toss the key into the blue-lit flame beside Sorscha. " My bad. "

          Zelma exhaled sharply through her nose. Then her attention snapped back to Vythra, pinning her in place. " I'll tell you, " she began slowly, " only because I feel it here— " she tapped her chest, the gesture fierce, reverent " —that you're one of us. Even if you've hidden it, child. I can feel it. " She ducked behind the counter, her bracelets clinking softly, and emerged with a map—a brittle sheet of parchment, edges scorched and curling, ink faded to brown.

          Vythra's spine straightened, the tremor in her hands gone. In its place came a tightness deep in her chest, a knot of something she didn't want to name—longing, maybe. Or memory. The smell of parchment and dust tugged at her like a memory she didn't own. Home, whispered something deep within her, and the thought stung.

            The sweet smell of amber and smoke pressed against her tongue. Zelma's eyes gleamed strangely in the half-light, too sharp for the gentle tone she used. Like she was fighting to remember which truth to tell—and which to bury.

         Somewhere deep within, the chain that had lain dormant since Azriel's shadow brushed her soul stirred once—a single, pulsing heartbeat. A warning, or a reminder she is runing out of time.

          Zelma's wrinkled fingers unfurled the map with reverence, her eyes flicking toward the window where the fog writhed like something alive, pressing greedy palms against the glass. " The ones you seek don't stay still. Their road changes—sometimes with the moon, sometimes with the blood spilled nearby. " Her nail traced an invisible line across the parchment. " You'll find them past the Hollow Marsh, when the trees start to hum. "

          Malou took a step forward, her boots creaking on the old wood, but Zelma hissed, " Stay back, both of you. " She didn't look up as she said it, her voice dropping into a warning. " The map reveals itself only to those of our blood. "

          And indeed, the parchment began to shift. Dark ink bled across the page, rivers and forests and mountains sketching themselves in trembling strokes, as though alive. Tiny runes glowed along the borders—spells that breathed.

          Vythra leaned closer, the faint ache in her temples growing. Zelma's pulse quickened—Vythra could see it in her throat, the vein jumping. This was no small trust. A mother giving away the path to her daughter's hidden coven had to believe the risk was worth it.

          " I promise. " Vythra said quietly, her hand brushing Zelma's across the counter. " I'll take this to the grave with me. "

         Zelma smiled faintly, a sad twist of lips lined with years of bitterness. " I know, dear. For centuries they hunted us—burned us, drowned us, tore us apart. All because we chose to live differently than the High Fae, because we refused to kneel. " Her eyes darkened, and when she lifted them to meet Sorscha's pale gaze, something like recognition passed between them. " They took our home and turned it to ash. When we sought shelter, they banished us again. I'll never forgive them. "

         Sorscha's fingers twitched around her rosary of bone. Malou's jaw clenched, her mouth a grim line. Somehow, Zelma spoke as if she knew. As if she had walked beside them once—through smoke and ruin.

          " I can feel it." Zelma whispered.

          " Feel what? " Vythra asked, shrugging off her wet cloak and tossing it near the fire.

          " That you'll avenge us. " The old woman said. " That the tides are turning. The time is coming—your time. The hum will recognize you, and it will let you through. "

          Sorscha's hood slipped back slightly, her white-blonde hair catching the lamplight like silk thread. " The hum? " 

          The silence stretched, fragile. Only the wind dared move—rattling the shutters, moaning low around the old tavern's frame. The smell of herbs and simmering soup filled the space, wrapping around them like a false comfort.

          " It's the magic they weave. " Zelma explained, her voice soft but edged with something sacred. " It keeps outsiders blind. But you— " her gaze caught Vythra's, sharp and sure, a glint of violet flashing through the storm-gray of her irises— " you're marked. The forest will feel you before you even see it. "

          Malou straightened from her post by the wall, the leather of her cloak sighing as she moved. The smell of iron, smoke, and damp wool followed her, grounding the strange air of sorcery that hung over the room. " How far? " 

          Zelma didn't hesitate. " Farther than your horses can carry without rest. You'll need offerings—blood, silver, something that burns clean. The witches won't open the road otherwise. "

          Vythra nodded once, slow, the muscles in her jaw feathering as she clenched her teeth. " Thank you. " Her voice wavered, a crack of sincerity breaking through her exhaustion.

          Zelma smiled, but the expression was a tired thing, soft and almost sad. " Don't thank me, sugar. You're one of us. " She turned back toward the cauldron, the wooden spoon clinking gently against its rim as she stirred. Steam curled around her face, gilding her wrinkles in a faint glow from the firelight. " Just five more minutes, " she said with a sigh, " and it'll be ready to eat. "

          " You can rest, Zelma. " Vythra said quietly, stepping beside her. " I'll take care of it. " She reached for the spoon, her fingers brushing Zelma's—warm skin against cool.

          Zelma chuckled, that same deep rasp that carried warmth. " No need, sweetheart. I knew you wouldn't linger long, so I hired another girl this morning." She nodded toward the hallway draped in shadow. " She's in the back, getting ready. She'll tend the meal. "

          The words barely registered before the chain in Vythra's chest gave a faint, wary pulse—like the sound of a drum behind a locked door. What was wrong with it? Most of the time it's silent.

          " Alright then. " Vythra sighted. " At least let me walk you to the door. "

         Zelma turned, her joints cracking softly with the motion. " Go on into the backroom. " She said instead, placing a weathered hand against Vythra's cheek. Her fingers traced the faint scars that cut down her jaw—three pale marks left by the creature that had brought her into this world months ago. " Take whatever you need for the road. And if you ever want these gone— " her thumb brushed lightly over one of the ridges " —my daughter knows someone in the tribe who can help. "

          Vythra's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. " Thanks. " she replied, stepping back. " I'll think about it. "

          Zelma's hand lingered in the air a second longer before she dropped it. " Good. But remember this, girl— " her tone dropped to a whisper, almost drowned by the fire's crackle—" sometimes, scars are the only proof you survived. "

          After Zelma shut the door behind her with a hollow thud, the tavern exhaled. The few stragglers at the tables—merchants, wanderers, drunkards—rose murmuring and began to trickle out, their boots dragging through sawdust and old ale. The sound faded until only the rain ticking against the shutters remained.

          Vythra let out a long breath and turned toward the back. " I'll gather some things. " she said, rolling her sleeves. " Then I'll finish the meal. Go sit—rest a little. " Even she needed to lay down on a bed for a bit, but she knew that once she stood, the exhaustion will come tumbling, and she won't rise again for a few hours. So, she continued to walk and think.

          " We should leave, Vy. " Sorscha's warning whispered through their shared bond. " We had a headstart, but we don't know how fast Nesta's recovering—or if they're already tracking us. "

          " Better to leave on a full stomach. " Malou interrupted, dropping into a chair with her usual lack of grace. The old wood screeched under her weight, and she shot it a glare as if daring it to break. " You think I'm riding hungry again? Not a chance. "

          Vythra didn't answer. The truth was—Sorscha was right. She knew it. Every instinct she had screamed to move, to run, to listen to that voice of reason echoing in the back of her mind. But still... she lingered, unable to let go. 

          She'd miss them—the villagers who'd learned to smile when they saw her coming down the muddy road, satchels of herbs at her hip, the morning mist curling around her boots. They'd wait for her every dawn, half-shy, half-hopeful, trusting her trembling hands more than their own faith in luck or gods.

          She'd miss the boy who always brought her chrysanthemums, her mother's favorite flowers—petals crushed, stems crooked, but offered with such clumsy pride it made her heart ache. A small, stubborn reminder that there was still goodness left in people. A reminder of humanity.

          She'd miss the soldier who lived on the far edge of the valley, the one from the farm. The one who watched her with quiet, fatherly worry every time she came back from the forest and ask her about the bruises Malou made.

          She'd even miss Rotherfrost, with his foolish grin and endless attempts to charm her, his hand always finding excuses to brush hers when he passed her supplies. Maybe—she thought with a faint, rueful smile—he'd finally marry someone else when she was gone. Someone simpler. 

          Vythra sighed, the sound low and tired, slipping between her lips like the last breath of a dying ember. The candlelight shivered with her exhale, painting her face in gold and shadow. " Let go. " she whispered to herself again. But her mind refused to obey.

          Something inside her resisted leaving this place. Maybe it was exhaustion, or the faint comfort of a warm fire after too many nights of cold rain and blood. Or maybe it was the ache of knowing she'd have to say goodbye—again—to something that almost felt like hers. A table, a roof, a heartbeat of peace. So she said nothing. Just lifted her candle from the hearth and slipped into the dark corridor behind Zelma's kitchen.

         The air changed immediately. It was cooler here. Bundles of herbs hung from the beams, brushing against her hair as she passed. Their scent—sage, mint, wormwood—once sharp and healing, had dulled with moisture and time. The floorboards moaned beneath her boots, and the candlelight trembled across the walls. The plaster was cracked, blooming with black mold where water had seeped in. 

          The corridor narrowed until she had to turn sideways to slip through a crooked doorway. The candle flame bent low, as if bowing to something unseen. She exhaled, slow. Her breath fogged in front of her, even though there was no cold. 

          Her instincts whispered again, low and sharp—Go back. She ignored them. After all, the world she'd built—every fragile piece of safety she'd found here—was already slipping away. What harm could one more step do?

          When she reached the pantry, she hesitated. The door—a warped plank with iron hinges—gave a long, tired sigh when she pushed it open, as though the house itself were complaining. Inside, shadows crouched in the corners. Dust motes floated through the golden light. She knelt, the boards beneath her knees creaking softly as she reached for what she needed: a bundle of dried lavender, a pouch of foxglove, a sealed jar of blue salt, her spare medical kit wrapped in linen.

          She worked quietly, the rhythm of the small movements almost enough to calm her—until she noticed the small stool by the back window. Empty. The apron draped over it was still damp from washwater. The shawl folded beside it looked untouched, as if waiting for someone who'd just stepped away.

          But no one had.

          Vythra's fingers tightened around the glass jar until it creaked, the blue salt inside shifting like crushed stars.

          Zelma said she'd hired someone.

          " Hello? " Vythra called softly, her voice catching in her throat. " Zelma sent me... "  Her candle wavered, its flame shrinking low as the air thickened around her. Even the herbs hanging above had gone still, their dried leaves heavy and unmoving. " Here... " The word barely left her lips, more breath than sound, as she rounded the last set of crates.

          That's when she saw it—a dark-skined hand slumped behind a stack of boxes. Vythra's heart lurched. She crouched down fast, knees hitting the floor with a hollow thud. The candlelight caught on a face half-shrouded in shadow: a girl, no older than twenty, her apron crumpled, dark braids matted against her forehead with sweat.

          " Hey—hey, come on. "  Vythra murmured, setting the candle aside and brushing trembling fingers against the girl's neck. The skin was cool but not cold. A pulse flickered—weak, but steady. She was alive, with no visible wounds. Only a trace of blood came from behind her head. " Misty. Go check the girls! " She quickly grabbed the girl's fallen apron and tied it around her head, where the scalp had split slightly from the impact.

          The cat peeked from behind a crate, yellow eyes sharp. Her ears were pinned flat, tail lashing once, twice—then she slunk into the shadows, fastand silent. Vythra's heart started to hammer. Her skin prickled.  She inhaled—and nearly gagged.

          The smell wasn't herbs or smoke anymore. It was thick with a sharp undertone that scraped at her memory. Something she'd smelled before—faint on Nesta's clothes, on her skin. Iron and a strange winter sunrise.

          Her pulse stuttered. No. Her eyes swept the room again, every corner, every shadow. Vythra's hand found the dagger at her thigh, the one with the blue stone. " Not again. " 

          Sorscha was right. They found them.

          She ran back  into the main room, the sound of low conversation and clinking cutlery greeted her. Malou sat at the table, one leg crossed over the other, chewing lazily. Sorscha was next to her, the hood down now, pale hair a silver curtain as she exhaled smoke from a small narghileh that hissed faintly beside the candlelight.

       At first glance, it looked ordinary. But the scent— Vythra froze.

         It was so dense it felt almost tactile—the haze so thick it clung to her eyelashes. Smoke coiled from Sorscha's pipe in lazy ribbons, veiling the room in a grey fog. Not tobacco. Not herbs. Vythra's nose twitched as she crossed the room. She shoved the windows open—the hinges groaning, the cold air rushing in like a gasp.

          Gingerbread. Burnt honey. Her stomach lurched. That scent dragged her back to the moment that arrow tore through her ribs. It was the same perfume that clung to her blood that night and many days after.

         Her voice came cutting through the haze. " Where did you get that? "

         Malou barely looked up from her plate, her mouth full. " What's wrong with you now? " She muttered between bites.

          Sorscha blinked up at her, slow and unfocused, pupils blown wide and glassy like moonlit pools. Her lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. " Zelma's girl brought it. " She murmured, the words dripping lazily from her tongue. " Said it's good for calming nerves before travel... "

          Vythra didn't think—she moved. Snatched the pipe, hurled it against the wall. Crack. The glass burst apart, shards scattering across the wooden planks. The viscous liquid inside hissed as it met the floorboards, curling up in plumes of lilac smoke.

          Her throat closed around the smell—gingerbread and burnt honey. The scent of poison.

          " The girl Zelma hired is in the back—unconscious! "

          Malou shot upright, her chair screeching back, but before she could even curse, her body folded. Her hands flew to her stomach, fingers digging into her black shirt as if to claw something out from within. " What the hell— " She gasped, the words breaking into a growl.

         The warrior in her fought the toxin like an enemy. Her muscles tensed, veins rising along her neck, but her skin had begun to flush—an unnatural, fevered red that streaked up her arms. The poison fed on her magic, devouring it from the inside. She felt it crawling beneath her ribs, burning through her blood, turning her strength into kindling. 

          Sorscha wasn't burning—she was freezing. Her powers, woven from air and spirit, twisted differently under the toxin's grasp. Her skin turned pale, almost translucent, veins darkening to a bruised lilac beneath. Frost gathered along the edges of her lashes. Her lips parted as though to whisper a prayer, but only mist came out. The poison numbed her magic, silencing the chants that usually echoed in her bones.

          " Fuck... " Vythra hissed, already sweeping the plate in front of Malou off the table. It crashed to the ground—crack—splattering stew and revealing a faint shimmer of violet powder glinting beneath. The sight made her stomach drop. " How did she look? " She demanded as she searched for her vials with antidote.

          Sorscha's trembling hand rose halfway before falling limply again. Her tongue felt heavy, words dragging like lead. " A woman. " She managed, her voice thin as it radioed through their minds. " Pale... blonde hair. Almost white. Pretty face. Looked... tired. "

          Malou swore again, louder this time, but her voice was rough, choked. Her knees buckled, the flame of her body flickering weakly. Sorscha collapsed sideways into the chair, eyes glassy and unfocused.

          Vythra felt fear coil cold and certain in her gut. Nesta.

          She yanked open the pouch tied to her belt, fingers slick with panic, pulling out two vials. " Don't you dare fall asleep! " She yelled, grabbing Malou by the jaw. The woman tried to protest, but Vythra smashed the crimson vial between her teeth, the glass cutting her lip, the antidote fizzing as it met her tongue. Malou coughed, gagged, then sagged against the chair.

          Vythra turned on Sorscha next. " Can't swallow—fine. " She growled, uncapping the green vial. She grabbed the nun's arm, slashed a small line across her pale skin where nurses drew blood in her old world and poured the liquid along the wound. The antidote hissed as it hit blood. 

          " It burns! "

          But they were fading already. She had to teleport them elsewhere, now. Malou's pupils had dilated, her head lolling to the side. Her limbs twitched weakly, the poison slowing the muscles one by one. Sorscha slumped forward, the rosary of bones clattering softly against the floor. Her eyes rolled half-open, unfocused.

          " Stay with me, please! " Vythra hissed, her voice splintering between command and prayer as she grabbed Sorscha by the shoulders. Nothing. The nun's head lolled to the side, her breath shallow, eyes flickering under heavy lids.

            Vythra's hands shook. She didn't even realize she was crying until a tear slid past her jaw, vanishing into the smoke-sweet air. The sound that escaped her throat wasn't human—it was small, broken, childlike, the noise of someone watching their world crack open again. She dug her nails into her palms hard enough to draw blood, forcing focus. 

          Malou jerked suddenly beside her, a strangled noise caught in her chest. Her body convulsed once, the cords in her neck straining as her limbs refused to obey her. The warrior's eyes—brown and feral—locked onto Vythra's, pleading silently, do something, trying to fight the poison away.

          " Don't close your eyes! Don't you dare! " Vythra shouted, voice trembling. She tore through her belt pouch with frantic fingers, scattering vials, herbs, bits of metal and glass across the floor. Her thoughts splintered, looping between logic and panic.

          Different metabolisms, shit—too strong a dose and I'll kill them myself— Vythra could feel her own heart stutter. The air around her pulsed with her panic, her magic responding to the sheer terror of losing them.

          She gritted her teeth, yanked two vials free—half silver, half clear. Mercury and moonwater. Cracked them both open with her bare hands, ignoring the sting as glass bit into her skin.

          " A few more minutes. A few more minutes, and the antidote will set in... please. The mercury will boost the antidote. " Her breath hitched as she looked between them again. " Don't leave me. " She begged, voice breaking. " I can't do this alone. Not again. "

         She spun towards the backroom—heart thundering so violently it drowned out the sound of her own steps. Jars clattered. Candles toppled. The air thickened with the sharp scent of oil and salt as she swept her trembling hands across the floor. A circle drawn in panic and instinct. Fast, wide, desperate.

          The boards groaned beneath her as she worked. She whispered old words—half-forgotten ones that burned her tongue to speak—her voice breaking as she drew sigils into the table's surface. Her handwriting was uneven, smeared with sweat. Symbols of cleansing. Of light. Of protection. She had to take them elsewhere now, but her small vial will not do for such a long distance. It's either more people a short distance, or one person, almost a continent away. She needed a bigger spell.

          Her mind ran through the calculations she'd memorized long ago—distance, mass, power conversion, anchor points. It wouldn't hold. She could burn through her own energy to stabilize it, but that could tear them apart mid-jump

          " Fuck... " She whispered, shaking fingers closing around the silver vial. It was warm, alive, the liquid inside pulsing in rhythm with the chain in her chest. She hid it at the back of her dress.

          The flame of the first candle leapt, bright gold. Then another. Then another. The circle came alive, trembling with faint heat, the air shimmering like a mirage. The scent of burning oil filled her lungs. She felt a weird buzz kissing her fingernails. Vythra closed her eyes and tough of the forest Zelma showed her, dark and full of tall trees, of the road to her daughter. She dreamed of that path behind her eyelids.

          For a heartbeat, she believed it might work. That maybe, for once, she'd gotten ahead of him. 

          Thud.

          The sound wasn't loud. But it was final. The table shuddered beneath her hands. She froze, head snapping down. She couldn't comprehend it.

          A dagger. Black steel buried to the hilt in her sigil, breaking it appart. A sapphire set in its pommel, catching the light like a drop of frozen lightning. Twin to the one she was holding like a lifeline in her left fist, ready to slash her skin and finish the spell.

          The glow of the circle fractured. One by one, the symbols she'd carved began to fade, their light bleeding out into the floorboards like spilled scarlet wine, sizzling onto the splintered wood. The humming energy turned to a dying gasp. Only the candles remained, wax dripping like tears for Vythra's misery.

          And then—nothing. Silence. A silence so deep it pressed against her eardrums. She heard her own despair in her breath. She didn't turn, arms still stretched in summoning. The candles flared backward—all flames bending toward the door as if the very room had drawn a single, immense inhale. He was here.

          She didn't need to see him to know. Every instinct in her body—every cell, every trembling nerve—chanted his name. Her intuition roared so loud inside her skull that it drowned out the storm outside. Her throat went dry. Her pulse stopped.

          He found me.

          The air thickened, pressing against her chest like a hand. Shadows crawled across the floor, snaking up the walls, pooling around her boots like living things eager to taste her fear. Misty snarled as one formed dark fingers and tugged at her ears, toying with her. The room's stale perfume of oil and wilted herbs gave way to clouds of mist and the haunting scent of cedar.

          Her knees almost buckled. The chain inside her chest yanked tight, hot and alive, thrumming with his presence before her eyes even dared to open. She squeezed them shut anyway, tight enough to see stars bloom behind her eyelids.

          This is it, she thought, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. This is where he ends me.

          The door groaned, old hinges moaning— and the blow she braced for never came. Only the sound of rain following him in, the soft rhythm of bootsteps over the floorboards, and the whisper of wings folding close.

          The Spymaster stepped through the darkness as though he owned it. It curled around him, parted for him, obeyed him. His wings loomed behind him, dripping and vast, the leather catching the faint light like liquid onyx. His face was half-shadow, half-firelight, the scar at his throat glowing faintly red beneath the slick edge of his collar.

          The dagger in the table still trembled. 

          He didn't speak at first. Just looked at her—through her—eyes molten gold, unreadable, dangerous. She felt the weight of that stare press against the back of her neck, the old wound in her chest pulsing like it remembered him too. Her skin prickled and she shivered slightly with terrible terror. Her fingers twitched toward the nearest candle, but her magic stuttered. The words died on her tongue. He was too close now.

          " You've been busy. " He said at last, voice so calm she wanted to rip his tongue out. 

          Vythra swallowed hard, the tremor in her hand betraying her as she reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. " You should've stayed dead in my nightmares. " She confessed, gripping tighter the dagger now hidden between her black skirts.

          His gaze flicked briefly to the circle between them, then back to her narrow shoulders. A faint smirk touched his mouth—cold, humorless. " And miss this? " Lightning flashed outside. The shadows shivered. And for one terrible second, she thought she saw them reach for her—like hands, like smoke, like hunger.

          He took a deliberate step forward, the wet strands glued to his temple trembling with the movement. The hood shadowed half his face; the rest was carved from night—features sharp, uncomfortably familiar. Vythra edged the table with measured circles, every scrape of her boot on the floor loud in the close room. " Take off your hood. " Her voice came out flat, controlled—an order.

          He cocked his head. His wings folded tighter against his back, making him fill the cramped space with black leather and quiet menace. " Why? " The single word was amused. " Don't you remember my pretty face? "

          Her laugh was a thin wire. " Oh, I could never forget you. " She kept moving—small arcs, always toward the door he blocked, always away from the angle that let his shadows reach. Her muscles were aching with adrenaline, ready to sprint, to hurl herself past him and out into the storm. Her hands hovered over the table—over the matches, the oil—over the only things that might buy her distance. " Take another step and I'll burn this place down. " Misty hissed at him as she said those words.

          The Shadowsinger obeyed, out of spite more than acceptance. His gloved hands rose, catching the edge of his hood, and pulled it back. " Do it. " It was his turn to command. The firelight caught half his face: gold on one side, void on the other. He looked carved from the very contrast between heaven and hell. Droplets clung to his lashes, slipping down the curve of his cheek before vanishing into the shadows of his jaw. Then he began peeling off the damp leather from his hands. The sound—soft, dragging—was almost obscene in the silence. His bare fingers trembled once, faintly, the skin there still marred and raw.

          Vytrha didn't even flinch at their sight, remembering their description from the books. They looked worse than she imagined.

          " I'll walk through the flames. " He went on, catching her take a peek at his palms, then went on and fucking smirked. " And when I reach you... I'll feel your last heartbeat fade beneath my fingers. "

          Vythra's lips twisted in defiance. She snatched one of the candles and hurled it down. It struck the circle with a shattering crack, then the world ignited. For a split second she thought it might work— that the blaze might drive him back, that old scars and older fears would root him where he stood. She had read about the incident in his childhood, the kind that burned his soul. Even if she felt disgusted to use that against him, it might give her a chance at salvation.

          He didn't even flinch, even if she tought she saw something behind his furious gaze change. The blaze reflected off the faint scars across his jaw and throat, those long-healed burns from a past he never spoke of. The golden light carved his features into something almost holy.

           For a heartbeat, they were mirrors—his fury and her defiance, twin edges of the same weapon. The air between them quivered, molten with heat and intent. Azriel stepped forward anyway. Through the fire. Through the ghosts clawing at the edges of his mind. The flames hissed against his boots, the shadows retreating and crawling back.

          " You think this will stop me? " His voice came raw—fractured at the edges.  A crash echoed from the next room—a chair overturned, a choked cry, chaos bleeding through the walls. " Your friends. " Azriel said grimly, eyes never leaving hers. " They're in trouble. "

          " Shut up! "

          "Make me." His brows knit together, gold eyes narrowing—not in confusion, but in calculation. Then he saw it. The dagger in her hand caught the firelight—black hilt gleaming, blue sapphire in its pommel burning cold as ice. His dagger. The one that had gone missing. Everything inside him went still. His breath hitched, control splintering like glass under heat. " You were in my house. " The accusation came out low—half snarl, half disbelief.

          Vythra's answer was movement. Fast, vicious, clean. The blade left her hand in a silver arc, spinning through the thick air. A motion she'd learned from Malou—shoulder turned, wrist snapping at the last instant, deadly and elegant all at once.

          Azriel twisted aside just as it reached him, the air between them slicing open with a whistle. The dagger missed his face by inches, grazing the edge of his hood before sinking deep into the wood behind him. The impact cracked through the cabin, echoing. The door shuddered under the force. He didn't blink. Slowly, his head turned, following the trail of smoke curling up from the blade's still-warm edge.

          Vythra's lips curved upward, slow and venomous, her now green eyes gleaming. " And in your head. " She had nothing to lose anymore, she was certain this was the moment he could catch her. She knew where he would take her. In Prythian. She knew the girls will be coming after her, so she gave them a way to track them down. His dagger. Something she was sure he wouldn't realise could be turned against him.

          It hit him harder than he expected—because it was true. Her words lodged beneath his ribs. All he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears. The chain between them thrummed, bright and violent, like it knew a truth neither of them dared to speak aloud.

          He moved first. The lunge was pure instinct—a blur of leather, muscle, and rage. Steel cut through the thick heat, kissing her skin before she could finish her turn. The blade grazed her throat, a single, perfect line of crimson blooming down her collarbone.

          Vythra's breath caught; the sting burned sharp. She stumbled back a step, palm flying to her neck. Their eyes met over that drop of blood—hers wide and terrified, his a furnace of fury and a desire to kill. She caught his large fist between her fingers, trying to force him away. He only dug the blade deeper into her neck. She inhaled behind her clenched teeth. His fingers were tight against his illyrian blade, black and curved, unrelentess to let her escape again. 

          Vythra clawed at his hands without mercy, nails dragging through the half-healed scars that webbed his knuckles. Flesh split under her assault; dark blood welled up, slicking their palms where skin met skin. Azriel hissed through his teeth and shook her once—hard enough that her head struck the brick behind her with a dull, echoing thud.

          " Motherfucker! " She spat, voice sharp and wet with fury. Her adrenaline rush started to wear off, leaving her senses empty.

          He loomed over her, all sharp edges and dark heat, the breadth of him pinning her to the wall. The cold brick bit into her back while his body radiated the kind of warmth that burned. His breath came out ragged against her cheek, carrying the scent of smoke and cedar and battle.

          " Didn't anyone ever teach you to hold your tongue when you're staring down a blade? "

          " I could spit in your face, " she hissed, chin tilting up despite the wall at her back, " and I still wouldn't care. But I'm a fucking lady. "

          Vythra couldn't understand what the hell was in her head—to say such words when he still held that sharp blade to her throat. He could kill her at any moment, in a single heartbeat. Yet she realized, with a twist of dread, that the reason they hunted her wasn't her flesh at all, but the cursed power sleeping in her belly. And if he did kill her—so what? The Mother wouldn't let her rest. She'd already proven that more than once. Vythra would rise again, probably in even greater pain than the last time, doomed to walk the earth once more. Alive.

          Azriel's jaw flexed; a vein jumped in his neck. " No, " he bit out, voice gone dark and raw, " you're a bitch with a god complex. "

          " Then you're a dog with a leash Rhysand put on you all. " She spat, her nails sinking into his wrist where he pinned her. The insult landed where she wanted to. His grip tightened until her pulse fluttered against his fingers. The world shrank and she gasped for air.

          Her head snapped as he slammed her back harder into the brick—dust and mortar shuddering loose. She kicked at him, a wild, furious motion that scraped her boot down the side of his thigh. He caught her wrist before she could swing again.

          Their faces were inches apart—hers streaked with sweat, his shaking with rage. The scent of burned wood hung between them, flames inching closer to their bodies. Where her nails had torn fresh lines into his skin; a drop of blood slid down his knuckles, warm and bright.

          He didn't find her beautiful. Not even close. Too human. Too raw. A face like any other—plain, smudged with dirt and stubbornness, wearing her mortality like cheap armor. Her features were forgettable: the roundness of her cheeks, the too-large eyes that tried too hard to look brave, the lips too soft for the venom they spoke. There was nothing divine about her. Nothing worth the chaos she left in her wake. Why her? Why this slip of a mortal, when the world was full of stronger, worthier beings?

          And yet—there it was. That flicker in her grey eyes, lined with golden and green dots. The defiance that wouldn't die. It was an ich he couldn't get rid off, mocking the centuries he'd spent mastering silence, obedience, restraint. It made something inside him stirr—not desire, never that—but the dark need to crush the insolence right out of her gaze. And that stench, amber, that haunting perfume that made him want to hit her head on the wall untill it was nothing more than a mass of flesh. That woke up the monster in him.

          " You're not the only one who bites. "

          She, on the other hand, couldn't look away. The light caught on his cheekbones, on the cruel curve of his mouth, on the lashes heavy with rain. Beautiful, yes—but that beauty was drowned beneath the glacial will to kill, beneath the cold precision that lived in his veins. He looked like a god carved to destroy.

         " Then bite. " She hissed back, breath ragged. " And choke on it. "

          Azriel's shadows reacted before he could think. They surged up from the floor, slick and alive, black tendrils leaping like snakes. They coiled around her wrists and throat, tightening with his pulse. The room shuddered; the firelight bent toward him, like gravity obeying only his rage.

          She struggled, twisting, muscles taut, face contorted with effort. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her wrists straining against the shadows's grip until her skin turned white beneath them. 

          He stood there, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes glinting gold through the fire. " You should've run faster. " 

          " You should've aimed better. "

          Misty hissed from the corner, fur bristling, tail a bottle-brush of fury. The cat leapt, claws out, striking at the nearest shadow that dared to reach for her master. The tendril recoiled with a hiss of its own, splintering into black mist before reforming, shackling the cat as well.

          Azriel didn't even glance at her. His focus never wavered from Vythra.

          Vythra's pulse thundered, the chain in her chest screaming. " Let me go. " She ordered, voice hoarse, eyes full of wild hatred. Her cat was unharmed, only chained, but as angry as her master.

          Azriel tilted his head, just slightly, like a predator curious about the sound its prey makes before it breaks. " I told you once, " he murmured, " you don't get to command me. " The shadows pulsed again—harder this time—before his fingers flexed once, tying her hands and legs with his magic.

          Vythra slumped forward, gasping for breath, her palms slipping against the wall slick with her own blood. She was exshausted, his presence was too much for her to handle for now.

          Azriel didn't move. He just watched her—cold, distant. His eyes didn't flicker, didn't soften, not even when her knees buckled. Then, with slow precision, he drew his knife across the edge of her cloak. The fabric tore faintly as he wiped the blade clean.

          He regarded the red smear with faint disgust before letting the cloth fall. To him, her blood was nothing sacred—just mortal, impure, something that stank of weakness. Something that should have never touched him.

          And yet, when the firelight caught the streak left behind on his steel, he paused—just for a breath—before sheathing it again. The links of the chain in his chest went silent, replacing the deafening rush in his ears with a dull, dizzying ache—right where his heart should have been. He tucked away the remorse, tearing it apart by sheer will.

          From the next room came an explosion—wood splintering, a heap of beams cracking like bones snapping under weight. Cassian. His voice thundered, raw and commanding: " Stay down! "

          Malou's answer cut through the noise. " Make me, you stupid coward! "

          Azriel had already hauled Vythra from the ground, but there was nothing gentle in the way he gripped her. His shadows coiled around her wrists like living chains, digging deep enough to leech the color from her skin. Her lungs burned as she fought against them, but he moved in silence—stone-eyed, focused, the perfect predator. She searched wildly for a way out—any way—but hope felt like a spark hovering over a barrel of oil. 

          Vythra saw everything blurry: Cassian lunging for the taller woman—Malou—locking into her with brute strength. Tables overturned. Chair legs snapped. A cauldron rolled, clattering to the floor. Nesta stumbled near the firewood pile, her face pale and damp, barely catching her breath but fury still burning in the corners of her eyes.

          Sorscha stood farther off, an eerie figure half-drowned in shadow. Her hands trembled, faint light flickering between her fingers as she spun burning sigils into the air. They hovered, shaking—sparks ready to ignite—but her movements were jerky, unsteady, as if she were dragging her own body through wet sand.

          Malou was still on her feet only by sheer willpower. One sword remained in her hand, the twin buried halfway in the overturned soup pot—steam hissing from its edges. Her palms gleamed slick with blood, her dark hair plastered to her face. She moved with deliberate violence, every strike meant to maim. She was no longer fighting to win—she was fighting to hurt.

          Cassian's forearm met her blade; she twisted, and the tip of her sword sliced his cheek. Blood sprayed across the tavern wall, a sharp red contrast against the smoke-stained wood. The wound stung, shallow but humiliating.

          Then it hit him. " Valkyrie. " He rasped, eyes widening. The word dredged up a memory he'd buried—Elain, how he'd meet the one better than him in battle. The thought froze him, the taste of fear on his tongue. He blinked it away, crushed it beneath anger, and swung again.        

          He couldn't understand how something like that still existed. Worse—that it was one of the originals. Something gnawed at his mind. Where did the true Valkyries come from, and why was this one here? Even worse—why was she accompanied by that ghostly woman, pale as a corpse and so cruelly punished her mouth had been sewn shut? What were these women, if not bad omens?

          Sorscha was a ruin of grace beside them, a broken saint with a mouth stitched shut and eyes burning violet under the candlelight. Her trembling fingers summoned small orbs of electricity—weak, flickering things—but they were enough to force Cassian to flinch. Her body shook, her knees giving way. The poison still coursed through her veins, stealing her strength inch by inch.

        Vythra watched it all unfold, helplessness clawing up her throat. The healer in her—the part of her that had always fixed others—felt like it was dying too. Her hands shook so hard she nearly fell to her knees. She needed to do something. She needed to save them.

          " Stay still! " Azriel ordered, his fist digging in her shoulder.

          " Take me instead! " Malou shouted, her body trembling with rage and exhaustion.

         " Not you. " Cassian barked back, his tone hard and edged with disbelief. He stared at her—at the last living Valkyrie—and something like recognition flared in his chest. Elain had been right. If the poison hadn't dulled her, she would've killed him already. Even now, she was dangerous. Terrifying. Holy, in a violent way.

          Vythra thrashed in her bindings. The shadows dug into her skin, leaving purpling welts. " You only want me! " She gasped. " You came for me! Take me and leave them alone! " Her plea was a raw wound, but no one listened. 

          Then her eyes caught the glint at her belt—the cracked silver vial. Her last escape. The last line between life and oblivion. Her heartbeat slowed. The noise of the fight blurred into a hum. Her lips parted.

          " You know how to find me. " She whispered to the other two women, hoping they heard her clear enough. Vythra caught the vial in her fist, then she crushed it with the last remnats of her strength. 

          A blinding flash swallowed the room. The tavern blew open with a force that tore the air apart.

          Her friends were alive, for now. That was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24

She has my heart, too.

          Light detonated. The world split open beneath them in a silver, violent bloom, and the four bodies were hurled through it like stones flung from a catapult.

          Vythra hit the earth first.

          Wind screamed past her ears in thin, keening whistles—as if tiny gusts fought to escape through a shattered window. Brown tavern-tables and blistering green forest spun together in a dizzy spiral, the vertigo familiar enough to send a strange calm rolling through her chest.

          She'd done it. She'd gotten Malou and Sorscha away.

          Her fingers twitched toward the translucent teleportation vial she'd crushed moments before—a last-resort trick she'd always kept at her belt. She had poured everything into that image: dragging with her the three closest bodies, ripping them away from her friends to keep them safe.

          Whatever had happened to her no longer mattered. They were far from the inn now. That had been the only goal. Everything else felt almost irrelevant, compared to the thought that Malou and Sorscha were no longer within reach of these males.

          It would've only been a matter of time before Azriel found her, dragged her from the hands of the two women, and gods knew—if Malou and Sorscha had been at full strength, if the poison hadn't slowed them—maybe blood would've spilled in all the wrong ways. 

          Her chest ached with relief that they were safe, at least for now. She didn't know what waited for her in Prythian, didn't know if torture or death or something worse crouched in those shadows ahead... but she knew this: humiliation was better than watching her friends die for her sake.

          And if fate had demanded a sacrifice today—she was glad it had been her.

          Vythra tried to lift a finger to the temple that throbbed painfully, feeling something sticky slid from her hairline to the tip of her nose, dripping slowly, tickling her. Wanting to stop the sneeze making his way down her nostrils, her arms resisted, held forward as if ready to be torn from their sockets. Something almost damp was wrapped around her arms from wrists to elbows, hanging limp above her head.

          When she blinked, her vision inverted. A dense canopy loomed overhead—massive trunks with ridged bark, a rabbit staring at her with startled black eyes, and above it all, the sky: clean blue, washed of storm-wrath.

          She was hanging in an unnatural position from a muscular tree branch, the leather belt at her waist pierced by a sharp broken knot, picioarele ei cumva atarnate peste creaca. She didn't dare move a single inch, afraid she might crack her skull open right then and there.

          " Thank the heavens. " She croaked, nearly breathless from the pressure crushing her lungs, then admired the tree reverently for saving her from a devastating fall and an atrocious death by impalement. " Especially you... "

          The tree groaned in answer, bending slightly beneath her weight.

          Now, how do I get down? Her gaze spun across the forest floor. Where the hell were they?

          A moment later, another sound, a fall, and a feminine yelp—thud—Nesta landed right beside the tree Vythra was hanging from. She grunted undignified as she cushioned her fall with her forearm, quick enough, or lucky enough, to save her temporal bone from smashing into a gnarled root. Her purple velvet skirts—once gleaming, now dull with dirt—pooled around her in a tangled mess. A dagger caught the sunlight, hanging from her belt.

          Vythra had been right: the spell dragged people according to body weight and within a limited radius. She could tell they were roughly twenty kilometers away from the cabin she had shared with Malou and Sorscha, because she had crossed this forest once before. So yes, all that basic physics and math had actually been useful. Ugh. That brief satisfaction tasted bitter. Her books, her herbs, her medical kit—gone. Misty—gone.

          Nesta lifted her murderous, pale-blue eyes, made even brighter against the pallor of her sickly skin. She clearly hadn't recovered fully, and Vythra's little stunt had made her even more nauseous. The woman coughed a few times, then vomited.

          Teleportation did that — the pressure shift from traveling several kilometers at once could mess with you badly if you had a full stomach.

          " You little bitch... " Nesta snarled as she pushed upright, swaying. She shoved limp strands of chestnut hair off her pale face. " Serves you right. " She let out an exclamation when she tilted her head toward her shoulder to look at Vythra's hanging body.

          A second thud shook the ground. Cassian. He landed with an Illyrian's instinct—heavy but balanced—wings flaring just enough to redirect force. Then his boot snagged on the uneven soil, and he stumbled toward a tree before steadying himself with one big hand. The soles were too thick to adjust, so his ankle buckled before syncing with his stance.

          " Where... the hell... " He wheezed, thick brows furrowing as he searched around with alert, wide eyes. His shoulders dropped with relief at the sight of Nesta. " There you are. And how did you end up in a tree? "

          " We're far enough. " Vythra murmured, the dizziness beginning to claw at her. Blood was rushing to her head, and that trickle dripping from her hair began to hiss down her nose. She wondered for a second where Azriel had landed — he should have arrived before Cassian, considering he was lighter—

           She didn't have time to answer. The belt tore free. She screamed—gravity swallowing the sound—and hit the forest floor. Moss cushioned the worst of it, collapsing under her in a soft bloom.

          " We're not far enough. " A male voice answered above her—cynical, bored—and when her sight cleared and her pulse calmed, she saw him perched above her, crouched on the freshly cut branch she'd been dangling from. " You're welcome... "

          His blade glinted as he spun it between his fingers, then slid it back into one of the many pockets sewn into his Illyrian leathers. The idiot had cut the branch and she hadn't heard a thing. Maybe because of the blood roaring in her head, or maybe because he truly was a master of stealth. Whatever the case—

          " I could've cracked my skull! " She shouted, rubbing her painfull hip. Another damn bruise blooming beneath her clothes. She had no more potions, no more spells, not even her books. They were all back in Zelma's tavern—along with her precious cat, Misty.

          " And that should be my problem because...? " He replied flatly as he dropped from the tree with infuriating grace, landing inches from Vythra's boots. Her gaze slid over his shaped thighs strapped with harnesses hiding blades of various sizes. She noticed one the size of a knitting needle—sharp as hell. " My job is to bring you in alive or dead, " he said calmly. " And since death doesn't stick to you, a little torture won't hurt. "

          " Of course. Torture. Do you even know how to do anything else? " She shot back sarcastically, gathering her feet beneath her to stand, not wanting to look up at him from this weak angle. " Not like I care what you do. Dying three times was worse. "

          Cassian's eyes went wide, black as a starless night, pausing mid-search of the area. " You died three times? " He blurted, wings twitching as the wind rattled the brown membrane. " Witch. "

          Vythra rolled her eyes. More or less, she calculated. Keeping the count of it wasn't on her agenda. Before she could stand fully, a violent grip seized her under the arm and yanked her upright.

           " Where the fuck did you take us? " Nesta growled, nose pressed to hers, breath smelling of bile and travel. She used her free hand to wipe dirt and sweat from her sharp cheekbones.

          " In your dead mother's grave. " Vythra snapped, trying to sidestep, but Nesta held her so tightly that her nails punched through Vythra's thin shirt and scraped her skin. Nesta didn't answer — she shoved Vythra in a violent manner, causing her to stumble back into something unmovable.

          She didn't flinch when the words landed. The woman took a deep breath, clenching her fists to control her fury. Something icy passed behind her storm-blue eyes, like silver snaking inside. " I'll put you next to her if you say something like that again. "

          Cassian's trained ears caught Vythra's words. A faint crease drew between his black brows as suspicion punched through his guard. How the hell would she know anything about Nesta's mother? He quickly smoothed it away, rolling his shoulders back. He passed an intrigued gaze towards his brother, who seemed as skeptic, then went back to his usual layed-back manner. But the thought stayed lodged somewhere behind his pretty, greek-like features. And he watched Vythra differently from that point on.

          Azriel. He looked down at the top of her head with such cold detachment that Vythra's stomach flipped. His head tilted a fraction, just enough for one amber eye to slash Vythra open. His index finger twitched, blocking the need to caress his lips as he felt a puzzle piece nudged into the wrong place. He had heard every syllable. And he catalogued it: how she knew about Nesta's mother, how she said it without hesitation, how she used it like a weapon.

          A soft shadow came rushing to his profile, as to alleviate his irritation. She knows more. It seemed to whisper.

          Vythra felt instantly crushed beneath their attention—an intruder in a family's intimacy, a thorn in a bouquet of roses gifted with love. She didn't belong among them, nor did she want to be. They'd treated her like a tool, never well enough to tempt her onto their side.

          She had imagined they were different — better people, or fae — that they wouldn't force their will onto others. But standing here, surrounded, humiliated, bruised, she felt foolish. These were not the heroes she'd read about. They were flawed, resentful, driven by their own agendas. Manipulators. Violent when they didn't get their way.

          She peeled herself away from the hard wall of Azriel's chest, hyperaware of the tall, athletic frame that had molded against her spine. She shivered off the contact like filth.

          " Easy, Nes. She saved your life. " Cassian circled them, trying to ease the chincanery and Vythra flinched when he approached with an extended hand — only for him to brush leaves from her hair. 

          Usually, he would never do that to a stranger, but her wanted to ignite the same thing in her, curious about what more could she unveil.

          " That doesn't give her permission to rant about my mother. " Nesta said flatly.

          " And you, stay back! " Vythra snapped, suddenly aware of how pathetic she looked compared to the heavily built soldier smirking at her. " Don't pretend you didn't try to kill me yesterday too. I'll poison you. "

          Cassian raised his hands. " Noted. " He remembered briefly he was dealing with a witch. " Don't turn me into a frog, just cause you're angry. "

          Vythra's glare sharpened. 

          " We're a few kilometers from the ocean. " Cassian said, sniffing the air. " With luck, two hours. Three if you two keep clawing each other's throats. Flying would be faster. "

          " I'm not going anywhere with you murderers. " Without Misty, she felt naked. Alone. Vulnerable. And frankly, these fae were weird enough that they might decide to eat her cat if they got hungry.

          " No flying. If Montessere's scouts see us, we're dead before we reach the shore. " Azriel calculated, stepping behind Vythra to prevent any escape, sending a mental command to his shadows. They tightened around her wrists like a vise, making sure she was securely bound.

          " What? " Vythra scoffed. " Afraid someone better might catch me first? "

          Azriel didn't even stop when she spat the line at him. He shifted his weight onto his left leg with that calculated elegance of his, shoulders staying perfectly aligned—like a soldier bracing for an attack no one else could see. Only his head turned, just slightly, enough for the corner of his golden eye to catch her stubborn face. A small movement, but more than enough to deliver a single message: you're not a real threat—just a persistent irritation.

          His shadows slithered around his ankles, restless, curling like irritated smoke around his boots.

          " I'm not afraid. " Azriel replied. " I simply choose which battles to waste my time on. "

          " She's too stupid to understand. " Nesta muttered, tightening her braid.

          Cassian groaned. " I am afraid. Mostly because she'll annoy you until you snap her neck. "

          Vythra lifted her chin. " I'm not going anywhere with you. " Like she had a word in the matter.

          " Walk. " Azriel stepped closer, invading her space. When she didn't look at him, he seized her jaw and forced her head back until pain sparked along her neck. She tried to pull away—but his thumb and forefinger dug into her cheeks, holding her still. " Or I'll drag you through the mud " He said. " Either works. "

         " My skull feels like someone's ringing bells inside it. " Nesta muttered, staring down at the ground, eyes squeezing shut as if that might steady the world. Cassian blinked out of nowhere beside her. He reached for her shoulder—then stopped a hair's breadth before touching her, fingers hovering uselessly in the air before he dragged his arm stiffly back to his side.

          He settled for a worried look instead, dark eyes softening. Nesta ignored it with the kind of practiced skill that came from years of refusing comfort.

          " Hit it against a tree. " Vythra offered. " Natural remedy. "

          Cassian turned his solid body toward her with clear annoyance, a wall of muscle and armor shifting like a storm cloud. He propped an elbow on the sheath of one of his blades — a gesture heavy with impatience, irritation tightening his jaw. 

           Vythra shot him a careless grimace, the perfect mhm, and so what? expression.

          Azriel didn't give her time to bask in it. His shadows hissed, and he yanked her forward with a precision so cold it nearly knocked the breath out of her. She twisted toward him because she had no choice, feeling the dark pressure of his magic glide up her spine like a whispered warning.

          Nesta straightened, eyeing Vythra as if she were calculating the perfect angle to kick her skull clean off her shoulders. Tension crackled between them — almost poetic, in a twisted way. Like Death and Life bickering over a mortal who didn't want either of them.

          This road was going to be hell. She knew that now. But standing here — in the middle of them, surrounded on all sides — reality felt far crueler than anything she'd pictured back in Thaibar. She had dreamed once, stupidly, that reaching them would mean salvation. That she'd escape here, beg for their help, and maybe they'd offer something like mercy.

          If she had known then what she knew now... She would've been just as trapped, just as forced to do the same damn things. There was no going back. Not without carving more scars into her own body.

          Nimue had been right when she mocked them — the Illyrians were vicious down to the bone.

          Vythra's eyes caught on Azriel's rounded ears, sunburned at the tips, almost hidden beneath the longer dark strands the wind kept sweeping across his face. Her heart stopped for a beat — then she held her breath, furious at herself. The man she had once fantasized about in her old world — in her dreams — had hunted her, killed her, and now dragged her bound like a criminal. Some fantasy that had turned out to be.

          Then again, men had always disappointed her. Starting with her father.

          Maybe that was why she'd ended up dating a woman in the end. At least women weren't... this. Vythra snorted out loud.

          Azriel didn't stop walking — but the subtle shift of his jaw said he heard her. " Something funny? " His voice was bored, as if her breathing alone irritated him.

          She hadn't expected him to answer at all. Honestly, she preferred the icy silence to the interrogation she knew was coming. Silence was safer. Silence meant she could pretend she still had some shred of dignity left.

          " Yeah. " She said, lifting her chin to glare up at him even as the shadows tugged her forward. " My taste in men. " Her tone dropped into a mocking, self-aware drawl. " Turns out my standards were impressively low. Truly, embarrassingly low. "

          Nesta didn't break stride. She just lifted one pale brow, her voice slicing. " Pray they don't get lower. I'm already seeing the pattern in you. "

          The air tightened between them— challenge.

           Vythra spun, chains jangling with the movement, and smiled in a way that promised bloodshed. Sweet. Sharp. Cruel. " Funny, coming from someone who used to screw every filthy bastard she found after blowing her coin on gambling."

          Cassian missed a step. Completely. His big body just... stuttered mid-stride. " How the fuck do you know that? " He demanded, voice too loud. His wings twitched, the spike of a memory hitting too close. He stared at her now, no trace of humor left, no laid-back swagger — just suspicion, shock, and something feral lurking underneath.

          Behind him, Azriel's head angled a fraction. Not a full turn — just enough that the gold of his eyes cut sideways toward her. His shoulders didn't move. His stride stayed perfect. But something in the air around him shifted.

          And Vythra felt their attention crash over her like a wave of cold water. Oops. She had just said something she shouldn't know. And all three of them knew it.

          Not that she blamed her. In the end, Nesta had been grieving — drowning, really — and no one had done anything to pull her out. Honestly, even Vythra could admit she might've spiraled the same way.

          What Vythra didn't agree with was how her family had handled it afterward... and how her sister had decided to lock her in the House of Wind like a broken thing that needed fixing, then force her into training as if discipline could patch over a wound carved that deep.

          Nesta stopped walking. Not abruptly—no, she halted the way a surgeon stops before inhaling and making the first incision. Her head turned inch by slow inch, the movement predatory. Those pale-blue eyes fixed on Vythra, and the temperature of the entire forest seemed to drop. " Say that again. " She challenged.

          " Why? " Vythra tilted her head. " Sensitive topic? "

          Cassian moved before Nesta could. One long stride, shoulders rolling forward, chest puffed by muscle and steel. His voice came out in a low, guttural hiss: " Be careful what you say... "

          The shadows jerked Vythra forward again, making her stumble. She steadied herself, boots grinding into the dead leaves, hair sticking to her temples in sweaty, feverish strands. She looked back at Cassian over her shoulder—mocking. " Leave me alone. Honestly, you'd be doing me a favor if you just killed me now instead of making me endure this road trip from hell. "

          Nesta's eyes flashed. Tension cracked the air around her like a whip. Cassian's wings flared half-open, instinctive, guardianship mixed with offense. Azriel said nothing, but a vein beat at his temple.

          Vythra pressed on, voice wobbling between sarcasm, and frustration. " I know exactly how this plays out. " She licked her lips before continuing. " You drag me to Velaris, perhaps the pretty House of Wind too, like my inmate friend, Nesta. Rhysand pokes around in my brain like it's a toy chest, and you two buzz around him like obedient little bees. If he's pleased, maybe he'll pat your heads and give you honey. There. Did I miss anything? "

          Cassian froze so hard his boots scraped against the dirt. He blinked once. Twice. Then his eyes widened—dark, shocked, almost frightened. " ...what? "

         Nobody knew where Velaris was. Only that it existed. But to know about the House of Wind? About Nesta being kept there? About the training the routines, the punishments?

          Azriel froze for half a breath. His wings unfurled an inch — a silent, instinctive reaction. His shadows flocked to his wrists in a dark pulse, coiling tighter around his skin as if they sensed the shift inside him. 

          Vythra kept striding forward as if she hadn't just detonated a truth-bomb that lodged under all their ribs. A slow, wicked smile stretched over her mouth as she glanced back at Cassian. She bumped Azriel's shoulder unaware of the fact he stopped.

          He smiled in return, murderosuly, almost lasciviously, then whispered. " I really can't wait to have a little chit-chat with you. "

          Vythra jerked her head back on instinct, a small swallow bobbing under her chin. " Yeah. Me neither. "

          Cassian's mouth fell half open. " If you saw what lives inside Rhysand's mind... you'd bow to him. You wouldn't be joking about it. "

           " I make a point of bowing to no one. Not even him. "

          Nesta hesitated for the briefest heartbeat. Someone who didn't worship Rhysand. What a wonderfully cursed coincidence.

          Cassian's expression hardened; the air thickened around him as if his sheer temper bent it.
" Shut your mouth. " He growled, stepping forward, the threat coiling low and real. " Before Azriel even thinks of doing it, I'll do it myself. Permanently. "

          Vythra exhaled sharply, teeth grinding until her jaw ached. Unease crawled beneath her skin. Oh, how she wished she could be stuck again in that little apartment of her old world, with her old problems, when she didn't have to sacrifice for a bunch of people that constantly seeked to haunt or kill her. She would take her father's anger over this pit of despair, any time.

          She hated being with them. Hated the weight of their gazes — curious, suspicious, dissecting her piece by piece as if she were some strange creature plucked from a cage and dropped at their feet. Malou and Sorscha would've mocked them openly, would've stood shoulder to shoulder with her, blades drawn, ready to spill fae blood without blinking. Misty would've curled on her shoulders, purring judgment at every insult thrown her way. Even Aeria, the sweetest of girls, would be angry.

          Here, she had no one. No warmth, no softness, no familiar arms. Just three living weapons who didn't trust her — and she didn't trust them.

          Every shift in their steps made her skin prickle. Nesta's sharp glances felt like knives tracing her spine. Cassian's heavy footfalls were a constant threat. And Azriel... Azriel was the worst. He didn't make noise. He didn't breathe like a person. He looked like a spooky ghost haunting the road before her, not touching, but she felt him the way prey feels the shadow of the predator overhead — ancient instinct, old fear written into bone.

          His curiosity was colder than the others'. Less emotional. More surgical. He didn't just wonder why she knew things she shouldn't. He was already dissecting the answer. Was already imagining the ways he would tear out every scramble of information that would seem pointless to others. And he would enjoy and applause and waltz at every scream of terror he would receive from her. Gladly, even. Like the pretty little bitch he was.

          She could feel it — that relentless, glacial pressure of his mind turning wheels, slotting possibilities into place. Whether he asked her now or later didn't matter. Azriel didn't let go of puzzles. He'd grind her truth out of her with silence if he had to. Would they interrogate her together, a united front like they were here? Or would they parcel her out — Azriel first, cold and methodical behind a locked door, then Rhysand with his mind prying open every memory she'd ever tried to bury?

          She shut her eyes tight and relish in the spare moment of this precious, calm forest. Then. to get rid of those horror movies she came up with in her mind, she stared at her dirty boots, at her laces that started to come undone, at how her muddy skirt would dance around her, at that little butterfly that flied around her red hair.

          A shudder rolled through her. Misty's little headbutts would have been enough to pull her out of this rising dread.

          Instead, she only had the forest watching over her, and the weight of three fae warriors whose interest felt like chains rather than companionship. Whatever she said next would be used against her. Whatever she didn't say would be dragged out of her eventually. She wasn't stupid — she knew the story wasn't over.

          Her breath shook as she forced herself forward. It didn't matter what came next. She'd survived worse. She survived Shum's betrayal and Niven's and her family's death, the farewell she never got from Aoife or Nimue, Thaibar's  fire, the deaths she endured, leaving behind Rose and Icarus. She survived never seeing her lovers face in the past months. She survived her parents kicking her out of the house when they found out she had a relationship with a woman. This was a child's game. But it still made her want to cry.

         She wished, tought, she didn't feel so alone in this ugly, hungry silence.

          Azriel didn't slow. Didn't glance back. He moved with the single-minded precision of a blade thrown toward its target, the shadows dragging Vythra behind him like she weighed nothing. Each tug yanked her off balance, her boots slipping in mud, breath punching out of her lungs in short, furious bursts.

          " Easy. " She snapped once. The shadow around her wrist tightened in response, a silent no. Every time a leaf brushed his wings, the membranes flinched — a ripple, thin and subtle, but Vythra saw it. The forest's branches bowed toward her like greeting hands... and snapped back stiff and cold whenever Azriel passed under them. His gaze cut sideways — just a flick — toward the nearest oak, which promptly dropped a cluster of acorns on his shoulder.

          He blinked, a faint tightening around his eyes. Vythra bit back a grin.

          To her, the woods felt almost welcoming. The air softened around her skin, warm and humming, brushing her cheek with the gentle caress of leaves. Moss glowed faintly under her boots, plush as a velvet carpet laid just for her. Somewhere above, a thrush sang a low, sweet trill that vibrated through her bones like a memory of safety. 

          Even so, it did not like the others. Cassian slapped at his neck. Another mosquito. He scowled at the smear of blood on his fingers. " What the—? These things never bite me. " He glared at Vythra, then grumbled something that sounded like "witch" and "fuck this place" then went on to scratch himself like an angry bear.

          Nesta walked a few paces behind, hands clenched at her sides, face set in a look of permanent disdain. Her breath puffed in white clouds, her braid swinging like a taut rope. She had it the worst. While the forest brushed petals across Vythra's cheeks, it tangled Nesta's ankles in sprawling, eager roots. She stumbled for the third time in as many minutes, catching herself with a hiss.

          The tree branches above her rustled as if laughing.

          Vythra reached out instinctively, palm gliding over a fern that leaned into her touch like a cat. She felt the greenery hum — a soft throb of affection. At least she's happy I'm here. And then, as if to punctuate her words, a branch overhead cracked and dropped a shower of golden pollen onto Vythra's shoulders. It sparkled faintly, dancing around her like stars.

        Cassian coughed violently as some drifted toward him. " What the hell is this—? "

          " Magic. " Vythra said, delighted.

          " Witch. " Cassian wheezed.

          Up ahead, Azriel's shadows recoiled from the dancing gold motes like offended vipers. The forest's affection for Vythra was painfully obvious. Playable even.

        She stroked the air with her fingers, and vines unfurled subtly in their wake, like they wanted to follow her.

          Cassian watched this, and a muscle in his throat bobbed. " It's doing it on purpose. " he muttered. " Witch. "

          " No. " Vythra replied brightly. "You're the ones who don't belong. "

          Azriel let slip a quiet exhale. " Natural environments react to magic. Your presence is disturbing it. "

          " I was thinking the same about you. " A petal drifted down and landed in her hair. 

          A thorny vine simultaneously whipped at Cassian's boot. " This is going to be the longest walk of my life. "

          She felt a tension between them that was seconds away from exploding — the kind that could very easily end with Vythra's head rolling somewhere across the forest floor. She'd pushed too far, sure, but she couldn't help it. She was bored. And she couldn't stop wondering how Malou and Sorscha were doing. If they'd recovered. If they'd found the dagger. And how long it would take for them to storm in and drag her back.

          Funny, really, how in the last few months she'd done the one thing she'd sworn never to do. Trust strangers blindly. And yet here she was — passed from hand to hand, killed at random by anyone who felt like it.

          " You're pale. " Cassian murmured to Nesta, voice low enough that only she should've heard. He'd cooled a bit after their last clash, but he was still very visibly irritated with the girl he insisted on calling witch.

          Vythra rolled her eyes.

          How many chapters were left until Nesta sucked him off under a kitchen table? She was absolutely going to throw that in their faces later. Assuming she lived long enough to do it — considering how her arrival in Prythian was shaping up. She'd probably already rewritten half the damn book just with this conversation alone.

          " I just flew through a magical tear in reality and landed on my face. And now some magic forest wants me to land on my face. " Nesta muttered. " Imagine that. "

          Cassian huffed something like a laugh. " Still hungry? "

          But even their bickering couldn't cut through the stillness pressing around them. The forest had gone unnervingly silent. And probably not because they were at each other's throats. How long had they been walking? An hour? Two? How much farther until the ocean? Time bled strangely here, stretched thin like damp parchment.

          No rustle of wings. No insect drone. Not even the sigh of wind threading through branches.

          The sudden quiet settled over them like a damp cloth, muffling everything except the soft thud of their boots sinking into spongy earth and the far-off, rhythmic crash of waves beyond the trees.

          Vythra's pulse jumped each time the invisible chain in her chest throbbed — soft, then sharper, then soft again. Like something deep inside her ribcage was being tugged toward a direction she didn't want to look at. The forest felt... watchful. Expectant. Like it was inhaling and waiting to see what crawled out of that breath.

          The prettiness of earlier — the sunlight playing through leaves, the lazy swirl of petals, the green that had seemed almost tender — dissolved without warning. The flowers tucked themselves inward. The moss dulled, losing its shimmer. The sky clouded as though smeared by a dirty thumb. Even the smell changed: no more pine-sweet hum, but the faint musk of wet stone and something almost bruised.

          Cassian felt the wrongness, too. His wings twitched once, sharply. He slowed, sniffed the air, then frowned. " You're doing this on purpose again? " He grumbled, glancing at Vythra.

          Vythra blinked, insulted. " What? Me? "

          " Yes, you. " Cassian snapped, a little too loud for the suffocating quiet. " I'm not the witch here. Stop doing— " He gestured vaguely at the woods. " —whatever the hell this is. "

          She almost laughed. " Why? Are you scared? "

          His wings twitched again, uncontrolled. " I'm serious, Vythra. Whatever you're doing—stop. Now. "

          Vythra murmured sweetly. " Maybe Briaxis is here. Who knows? "

          Cassian's wings clamped flat against his back. " Don't say that name out loud. "

          Vythra smirked, but something deep in the trees shifted — a low vibration crawling along the bark, quiet as a heartbeat.

          Azriel lifted a hand—silent command. Instant stillness. He didn't comment. He simply paused, shadows lifting like the fur of a startled animal, tasting the air with wary precision. He angled his stance so subtly Vythra almost missed it — weight forward, hand drifting toward a blade without drawing it.

          The forest no longer loved them equally.

          Where flowers once brushed Vythra's legs, they now curled protectively around her ankles. Where the breeze once kissed her cheek, it now hid behind the trees as if cowering. She froze mid-breath. Azriel tilted his head, listening... or smelling. His wings shifted just an inch, silent as breath, instincts sharpening the line of his shoulders.

          Cassian shooked his head as if to ask: Anything?

         Azriel lifted his shoulders. He couldn't tell. 

          Something watched them. Something waited. The hair on Vythra's arms lifted, a cold shiver crawling up her spine. Even Nesta stopped breathing for a second.

          " Move. " Azriel said finally, voice low, taut. " Don't look behind you. "

         Vythra did exactly the opposite. Of course. She turned. And saw nothing. No eyes. No shapes. No movement. Just fog, thick and white, swallowing the paths behind them like the forest itself was erasing their trail. She swallowed hard, heart hammering.

          A familiar scent brushed against her nose, feather-light, almost tender. For a heartbeat, cold rippled down her spine. Where had she smelled that before? The memory pressed at the edges of her mind like fingers tapping on a locked door—insistent, but just out of reach. She chased it, but it slipped, elusive, whispering of something she should have remembered and couldn't. 

          It reminded her of Rosehall. Of her first night there—wet earth, old stone, the faint musk of something ancient watching her from the dark corners of the manor: the stench of decay and old men's breath, of death soaked into wood. Now it floated between the trees, thin and sour-sweet, and her stomach tightened.

          Whatever it was... it didn't belong here. And the forest knew it, too.

        Azriel tugged her forward again. " Don't fall behind. "

          She wanted to snap something vicious. Wanted to claw at his stupid back for dragging her like a sack of potatoes. So she shut up—for once—and kept moving.

          Cassian noticed. " Anyone else feel like we're not alone? "

          Nesta approved with a nod. " I felt watched the second I woke up. "

          Vythra's skin prickled. Her muscles tightened. Her breath turned shallow. Something was following them. Something she recognized in her bones—but couldn't name. She had to escape. All she could think about was what waited in Prythian. Would they torture her? She'd died before, but the pain of resurrection wasn't something that could be placed on any physical scale. It was wrong, visceral, like drowning in one's own body, the panic of trying to claw your way out of your own skin.

          She studied Azriel's behind: the broad shoulders bound in dark, worn leather armor, the crisscrossing straps that bit into the muscle beneath. His monstrous wings loomed above his head like a curse. As if his sheer height wasn't enough to terrify her, those wings—dark and gleaming with damp—made him look carved from some ancient nightmare.

          Cassian and Nesta walked behind, both tall and fierce in their own ways, separated by only a hand's span in height. Cassian kept his gaze locked on Nesta, subtle concern flickering behind the playful tension in his jaw. She ignored him entirely, walking a few paces ahead, her silence deliberate, her posture sharp enough to slice.

          Vythra felt painfully out of place among them. The trees seemed to watch her from above, whispering with every faint gust, yet she didn't belong here. She was too short, still soft in shape, her clothes torn and patched—a mortal stitched among gods. Not nearly as graceful or ethereal as the fae, just human, imperfect, wrong. She wanted to shrink into herself.

        She needed her cat. She needed Misty's warmth, the silent bravery that had always steadied her.

        From behind Azriel, one of his shadows broke away from his spine like a curious serpent. It slithered toward her arm and brushed her skin—tentative, inquisitive. She flinched, recoiling instinctively. The shadow jerked back, startled, then lingered in her direction as if ashamed of its own defiance.

          Her gaze snapped to Azriel. He didn't notice. He was still moving with that same lethal rhythm, scanning the forest with sharp, darting turns of his head, utterly unaware that his own shadow had disobeyed him.

        The chain in her chest—that cursed chain—had grown lighter. For the first time, it didn't feel like it was tearing her apart. When it clinked, faintly, it was almost melodic. Almost bearable.

        " How much longer? " She asked, unable to stand the silence pressing in. The forest had grown too quiet, too expectant.

          " She's talking again. " Nesta muttered under her breath, mostly to Cassian. The forest rustled around them in warning, as if the trees disapproved of even that sound.

          Cassian snorted. " Careful how you speak to the princess, Nes. The forest might swallow us alive to please her. "

          Azriel gave a sharp tug to the invisible shackles binding Vythra. She stumbled forward, catching herself with a curse.  " Try asking nicely next time if you want me on my knees. " She hissed.

          " Not even in my worst nightmares. " He said without turning his head.

          " I thought you'd be nicer. " She sighed, glaring at the back of his neck. " At least that's what I read. "

          " You read? " Cassian asked, plucking a cluster of berries from a nearby bush as they passed. " So you've heard of us, huh? Why aren't you terrified then? Az eats girls like you for breakfast. I'm the nice one. "

          " So I've heard. " Vythra said. " I had books about all of you before I fell into this world. I know everything. " She tossed her hair and added lazily, " Cassian—spoiler alert. Those berries are poisonous. "

          Cassian froze mid-bite, scowled, and flung them into the dirt. " Witch. "

          Azriel finally turned slightly, one brow raised. " What do you mean you read about us? "

" I read those books years ago. Maybe that's why I thought your Inner Circle "—she mimed air quotes—" would be the good guys. Turns out, you all kind of suck. "

          Cassian barked a short laugh. " A civic-minded witch. My favorite kind. You could just be lying, you know—making up visions or some crap about crystal balls. "

          " Considering you were hunting me, " she shot back, " you must know I fell here from another world. "

          Azriel's jaw tightened. His mind flashed to Amren's words weeks ago, to the sketches, to Thaibar. His shadows rippled once across the trees.

          " Prove it. Tell me something you've read—something no one else would know about me. "

          Vythra smiled. She tugged on the shadows to signal him to stop, and he obeyed, halting mid-stride, letting her approach at her own deliberate pace.

          She let her gaze drag over him from head to toe, savoring the tension coiling in his posture. She wanted to puncture that arrogance rising up his throat, wanted to make it burn. The way he watched her—fully focused, brow furrowed, a dark lock still damp against his forehead—was devastating. Shamefully, unfairly devastating.

          She crooked a finger, ordering him lower. He leaned in. She rose onto her toes to close the impossible height between them. When her breath brushed the shell of his ear, she spoke very, very softly: " Your mother hides in Rosehall. She treated my wounds after I died in Thaibar. "

          She felt it hit him. A crack—brief but raw—in his perfect stillness.

          His eyes widened like twin full moons, lit by something sharp and feral, a flash of panic tangled with fury. The air around him tightened; she felt it on her skin, like a storm slamming into glass.

          Cassian's brows drew together immediately, catching the shift in his brother. His hand went to the hilt of his blade, instincts rising like a tide.

          Vythra hesitated for only a heartbeat. She'd been terrified to get this close—every flick of his hand, every twitch of shadow could have ended her—but she'd dared. And she didn't regret it. The truth? She had no idea who his mother was. Only that she had read—somewhere—that she hid in Rosehall. The memory of that manor was real enough to sell the lie. Rose had helped, too. The gentle woman who'd given Vythra her new name had once spoken, in passing, of her wandering son who visited when he could. A fragment of truth woven into the lie—enough to slip past the Shadowsinger's radar.

          But now... it was far too late to take it back.

          His scent was tinged with sweat. Not unpleasant, but overwhelming. She realized, too late, how close she was—her wrists still bound, nearly brushing his pelvis. Her breath caught; the shadows around them twitched, dragging her back as if they could feel her thoughts.

          How did she know? It was one of the most carefully buried secrets he possessed—something he'd shared only with Rhysand, and only out of duty. It wasn't written anywhere. It lived solely in his mind. It had to be that. And she had claimed she'd been in his head.

         His gaze darkened, sharp as a razor. Vythra swallowed hard, cursing herself for that single moment of bravado—and for the fact that she now had to commit to the lie.

          " Tragic. " Vythra murmured, her voice too soft, too pointed. Her eyes glittered with cruel clarity. " How your kind treats their women... how they clipped her wings. " That landed. A faint twitch—rage, grief, something uglier—passed over his face like a storm cloud blotting out the sun.

          Then she struck. The little bone-crochet needle—sharp enough to pierce leather—stolen from his strap in his moment of weakness and plunged straight into his thigh. Clean. Precise. Merciless.

          Azriel roared. Not a sound a male should make. Not a sound anything human could produce. It tore itself out of him—raw, vicious. The veins in his neck rose viciously. His wings snapped open, spanning the clearing, blotting the light and shaking the branches. His hand shot toward her throat—

          —when the ground convulsed. A deep vibration rolled beneath their feet, a tremor that rattled the marrow in their bones. The forest shuddered violently. Then—everything fell silent.

          A black rift yawned open between the trees. An anomaly against nature. A tear in the world. Air got sucked toward it in a violent rush, as if the forest itself were inhaling. Roots tore from the earth. Leaves spiraled upward, caught in a cyclone of shadow.

          Cassian lunged forward instantly—planting himself between Nesta and the portal, sword drawn, eyes narrowed in deadly concentration.

          Azriel didn't even process the pain in his thigh. Instinct eclipsed everything. He shoved Vythra backward with a brutal sweep of his arm, forcing her behind him, putting himself directly in the creature's path as the portal bled darkness into the clearing. His shadows whipped around him—jagged, frantic, snapping like cornered animals. 

          The air snapped. Something arrived.

          A single paw tore through the rift—long-clawed, wreathed in fur that looked more like condensed smoke than anything living. It was darker than night, darker than shadow, darker than anything Azriel had ever commanded. It gripped the rim of the tear. And the air around it crackled, the atmosphere shrieking softly as if nature took damage from the thing's presence.

          Then the rest of it dragged through. Massive. Hunched. Wrong in every possible way. It hit the ground with a wet snarl, ropes of acid saliva splattering onto the moss and burning holes straight through it. The earth smoked beneath its jaws.

          Another followed. Then another. Three beasts emerged—grotesque, ravenous things with stretched bones and smoke-sinew bodies, their eyes glowing like molten silver behind a film of shadow mist.

          One of them screamed. The sound wasn't just loud—it was sharp, a metallic shriek like a fork dragged across a metal plate. It stabbed straight through Vythra's skull. Nesta clapped her hands over her ears, face twisting. Vythra managed to cover one ear with her shoulder and winced, vision shaking at the force.

          The warriors didn't flinch. Cassian only squinted, baring his teeth in a grimace. Azriel straightened, wings spreading slightly, his eyes fixed on the one at the front. He lifted his free hand and flicked two fingers toward Cassian—quick, decisive. You take the back. I'll take the front.

          Cassian nodded once, rolling his shoulders. " You always take the fun job. " 

          The wolves' hind legs flexed, muscles coiling under that strange smoke-fur as they sniffed the air—blind yet unerring. Their heads snapped in unison toward the one thing they wanted.

          Vythra. She felt it like a hook in her ribs. They had come for her.

          Azriel shifted, adjusting his stance with lethal precision. His hand clamped harder over the wound in his thigh where the needle still stuck, blood threading between his fingers and steaming in the cold air. " They're after her. " He said quietly, deadly calm. He reached back with his other hand and drew two curved twin blades from the small of his back—beautiful, wicked, hungry for violence.

          Panic ripped through Vythra's lungs. " Untie me! " She barked at him, struggling against the shadows binding her wrists. Her voice pitched with terror. " Untie me, for fuck's sake! "

           Branches rattled. Leaves whispered in a frenzy. Roots groaned beneath the soil. As if the entire woodland, the living pulse of it, screamed a single word: Run.

          " How the hell did they find us? " Cassian roared, planting his feet wide, wings flaring just enough to steady himself.

          The first creature lunged.

          He met it mid-air like a hammer meeting a war cry. His blade struck its claws—steel shrieked, sparks flew, the collision echoing like thunder ripping through bone. The force shoved Cassian back, boots digging trenches into the mud. He bellowed, raw and furious, pushing forward again. His sword clashed with the beast's smoky talons again, a violent shudder rattling up his arm. Fire kissed the blade's edge where iron met that unnatural, night-made material.

          " Illyrian steel is supposed to cut anything. " He snarled through bared teeth. "What the hell are these things?"

          Behind him, Azriel stepped forward, blades poised low, shadows climbing his arms like living gauntlets. And Vythra—still bound—felt the forest move around her, trees curling as if trying to shield her from what was coming.

          She was prey. And the hunt had just begun.

          The creature screeched, a sound like tortured metal, and slammed into him again. Cassian dug his feet deeper into the mud and shoved back, wings flaring for leverage. It was like pushing against a collapsing mountain.

          " Maybe sharpen your sword once in a while! " Vythra shouted back, impatience crackling through her voice as Azriel abandoned her side and intercepted the second beast. His blade caught its jaws just before they clamped around Cassian's neck, and with one vicious twist, he split its snout open.

          The creature bellowed—an awful, bubbling roar—and its blood sprayed hot across the trees, sizzling wherever it hit bark.

          " Maybe shut up once in a while! " Cassian snarled, snapping his sword up just in time to catch a mouthful of needle-teeth that lunged for his throat. The impact rattled his shoulder; his wings flared with strain.

          " Don't let its saliva touch you! " Azriel barked, voice sharp. He kicked off the ground, shadows clinging to him, then vanished. He reappeared behind the second wolf in a single blink—steel already descending. Azriel fought like a poem written in blood and discipline. Silent, elegant, lethal. His dagger pierced the beast's spine with a sick, meaty crack. The creature screamed, twisting its monstrous head at an impossible angle, trying to seize him in its malformed jaws.

          Azriel slid away—so fluidly it seemed the air bent around him—wings grazing the high branches as he dove under the next swipe.

          " Azriel! " Cassian roared as the wolf he fought grabbed his wing and yanked sideways, nearly tearing the membrane. 

          " Handle your own. " Azriel answered, breath steady despite the blood trickling down his thigh. He cut another precise line across the beast's flank, movements cold and economical—nothing wasted.

          Where the hell was the third one? Vythra's eyes darted left, right, up, heart hammering so hard it smothered her breath. A cold pressure hugged her ribs—instinct screaming—something watching her.

          " Nesta—where the fuck is the other one? " She yelled. filled with desperation. Azriel's gaze flicked toward her at the sound, quick, assessing, then snapped back to his opponent.

          " How should I know?! " Nesta shouted back, drawing the small dagger from the sheath at her lower back. Her grip didn't shake, but her breath did.

          " You're gonna attack it with that?! "

          " Do you have a better idea? " Nesta snapped, baring her teeth.

          " Yeah! Untie me! " Vythra screamed, panic clawing its way up her throat as the trees suddenly swallowed sound.

        And somewhere behind them, unseen— a low growl vibrated through the earth. Not above. Not ahead. Behind them.

          The third creature exploded out of the shadows, lunging straight for the girls.

          Vythra screamed, the sound raw and animal, and tried to run—only for the ground to shudder from the monster's landing. The impact was so violent the soil dipped beneath them. She pitched forward onto her knees, the binding shadow-chains yanking her arms uselessly.

          Nesta reacted first—of course she did. Dagger up. Stance braced. Mind-stilling at it's finest. Her expression: a perfect mixture of murder and annoyance, as if vomiting from the earlier winnowing had been only mildly less irritating than this.

          " Fuck. " Vythra breathed, voice cracking.

          The monster looked like a wolf dragged through a nightmare and stitched back together wrong. Bone jutted through its smoky hide where shadows had eaten away the flesh; its limbs were too long, too angular, its spine arched high like a bowstring pulled to breaking. And its eyes—no, not eyes. Two star-bright orbs blinking sideways, reflecting nothing good.

          And worst of all: it looked straight at Vythra.

          " Oh no you don't. " Nesta muttered, stepping in front of her like a pissed-off shield maiden. " If I have to, I'll let it eat you. "

          " That's comforting. " Vythra snapped, though her voice trembled.

          The moss beneath Vythra's boots thickened suddenly, gripping her soles—not to hold her down, but like a warning hand squeezing her ankle. Branches overhead bent, but not from wind; they turned toward the clearing like long necks craning to watch. Vythra didn't notice at first—not until the beast's claws skidded sideways when a slick of mud materialized under its feet, fresh and wet and impossible.

          " What the—? " Nesta muttered, pivoting sharper than her own recovering stomach should've allowed.

          The beast snarled, regrouping, muscles rolling under smoke-stained fur. Those star-bright eyes locked on Vythra again, unblinking. Hungry. A low groan rippled through the trunks, deep and old, as if the forest itself was waking up—roots shifting beneath the ground, soil tightening around them. Something ancient and half-asleep stirred at her presence.

          Above, a branch cracked loud as a whip. It snapped clean off and plummeted. The creature jerked aside with supernatural speed, dodging it by inches — splinters exploding against the ground where its skull should've been.

          But the distraction gave Nesta just enough time. She raised her dagger higher, teeth bared, stance widening, ready to meet it head-on.

          The forest was trying to help. Trying — but clumsy, instinctual, like a guardian blinking itself awake after centuries of slumber. It couldn't stop the beast. It could barely slow it. But when the monster lunged again—star-eyes flaring—Vythra felt the moss behind her thicken, swell, and shove, ever so subtly, nudging her sideways.

          Just enough to pull her out of the direct path of its jaws.

          " The forest is moving. " She gasped, half believing she was imagining it.

          Nesta didn't take her eyes off the creature. " Move or don't move, but stop talking! "

          The monster pounced.

          Nesta blocked the first swipe, steel ringing against shadow-bone. The impact was so brutal the ground lurched, roots snapping beneath the beast's weight like brittle bones. The force sent her skidding backward, boots digging trenches into the mud as she fought to stay upright. Her breathing hitched—too shallow, too uneven. Her wrists trembled around the hilt, the tremor betraying the last remnants of nausea that still clung to her after the teleportation.

          " Let me help! " Vythra yelled, arms bound, voice hoarse with fury." Let me help! " She screamed again, trying to lift her hands—only for Azriel's shadows to bite into her wrists, tightening like shackles. She hissed, anger flaring hot. " Shadow-brat! Let go of me! "

         The shadows shivered, recoiling as though insulted, then loosened—reluctantly. Vythra tore her arms free, breath sawing in and out. She forced her mind to remember—Sorscha's hands guiding hers, Malou's impatient corrections, the frantic lessons squeezed between running and hiding. She tried to grasp that strange core inside her, the one that had always felt half-asleep.

         Her gut twisted, intestines wringing themselves like wet cloth, and something heavy woke inside her bones. Her eyes flickered green.

          Nesta ducked another swipe, then surged upward, ramming her dagger beneath the beast's jaw. It screeched, a horrible metallic rasp, but its massive, hulking body slammed into her a heartbeat later. The force flung her sideways. The dagger spun from her grasp—skittering across the mud far from reach.

          " NES—! " Cassian roared, but the second beast barreled into him, knocking him back with the weight of a falling tree.

          Nesta hit the ground hard enough for the breath to burst out of her. Mud smeared across her cheek as she rolled onto her back—just in time to see the creature looming over her, jaws yawning wide. Its cracked, uneven teeth glistened, saliva sizzling when it touched the ground. It wanted her head. All of it.

          And then— The ground answered her.

        Before she even realized she'd called to it, the earth shifted under her spine. Roots—thin, pale, questing—pushed up through the soil like awakened serpents. They trembled, sensing her panic, her desperation, her pulse pounding a frantic rhythm.

         Sorscha's lessons unfurled through her muscles, messy and breathless:Anchor your breath. Pull from the marrow of the earth. Guide—don't command.

          The roots responded. The moss thickened. The soil pulled inward.

          And Vythra felt it all—raw, primal earth-magic scraping along her nerves, barely under her control but there. Answering the part of her that had always belonged to the wild. She thrust her hand toward the beast." Hold it. " She whispered—or the earth whispered through the back of her teeth, she couldn't tell anymore.

          The nearest roots twitched like they'd been startled awake. Then shot forward, pale and eager, coiling around the monster's hind legs. Not tight enough to stop it—she wasn't that skilled, not yet—but enough to drag its weight sideways for half a heartbeat.

          A heartbeat Nesta desperately needed.

          The creature stumbled with a guttural screech, claws gouging trenches through the moss as it whipped its head toward Vythra. Its eyes—black, bottomless, hungry—latched onto her like it finally understood who the real meal was.

          Vythra didn't think. Thinking required calm, breath, logic, and she had none left. She sprinted, almost slipping in the mud, and launched herself onto its back. The impact rattled through her bones. The beast bucked instantly, spine twisting like molten metal. Its smoky fur burned her fingers wherever she touched it—tiny bites of nothingness gnawing into her skin. 

          Her training with Malou surged up in a half-wild attempt at muscle memory: Get high. Anchor. Choke. Don't let go first. Clumsy but vicious, she wrapped her arms around its neck and squeezed, legs locking around its torso. Her breath tore out of her lungs as the monster thrashed, shadows peeling from its spine, claws raking the earth in violent arcs.

          " Hold still, you rotten— " She never finished. Because the monster bit her first. It twisted with unnerving speed, jaws snapping sideways, and its mouth closed around her forearm with a wet, catastrophic CRUNCH.

          Vythra screamed. The kind of scream that ripped raw from the ribs—the kind the forest grabbed and hurled back through the trees, echoing her agony until the world was nothing but pain. It detonated through her arm—white-hot, blinding, obliterating thought. She felt its teeth grind into muscle, scrape bone, tear through tendon like threads of wet paper. Her own blood spurted hot across her cheek.

          The pressure was unbearable. Like her arm was caught in a rusted bear trap forged to snap through stone. The creature licked its black lips, tasted her, ready to bite deeper and shook her like prey. Its smoky body was impossibly solid where it shouldn't be, slamming her back and forth, dragging her to her knees. She felt skin tear, flesh pull loose, tendons stretching past their limits. A nauseating heat bloomed under her skin—boiling oil beneath her flesh.

          " Vythra! " Azriel's roar split the air behind her, raw and terrified. The chain in his chest squeezed so viciously he couldn't breathe— a crushing, twisting agony that was not his, yet felt carved for him. Hopeless, helpless, like he was being torn in half while watching her bleed out in front of him.

        A slow, creeping fire poured into her veins. It didn't rush— it slithered. It crawled up her arm toward her shoulder like something alive, something venomous, burrowing beneath her skin with a thousand needles dipped in acid. She choked on her own saliva, vision blurring at the edges. Her fingers spasmed violently, then went frighteningly numb, like they were no longer hers.

          The forest weighed down into silence. She couldn't hear anything except the thick, drowning pulse in her ears. Boom. Boom. Boom. Each beat jolted the wound. Each one felt sharper. Meaner.

          " Let her go! " Nesta shouted, voice cracking like a whip across the clearing.

          But the creature only growled deeper, jaw tightening, dragging her—pulling her away from them, from Cassian's bellowing, from Azriel's desperate snarl, from Nesta's trembling stance—
as if it knew exactly what she was worth, exactly who she was meant to be delivered to.

          Vythra didn't think. Thinking had been burned out of her by pure violence. Her knees buckled. Mud surged up to meet her as she collapsed, the impact jarring the wound— and the beast's fangs tore free.

          A wet, sickening rip. Her blood sprayed a dark arc across the moss, painting the roots, soaking into bark. And the moment her blood touched the ground, the grass and leaves around her withered in an instant— curling, blackening, dying— as if the earth recoiled from her pain or tried to absorb it, she couldn't tell.

          Nesta lunged with a roar so brutal it didn't belong inside her slender frame. Her blade—mud-slick, trembling in her grip— came down in a savage, perfect arc. The dagger sank into the creature's skull with a crack.

          The monster convulsed, choking on its own acidic saliva. Then its body collapsed in on itself, dissolving into a swirling mass of shadows. Black vapor hissed as it seeped into the moss, leaving the earth scorched.

          Vythra staggered blindly toward the nearest tree, her shoulder bumping hard into the bark. She clung to it, breath shallow and rapid, forehead slick with sweat. She wanted to cry—wanted to curl in a ball and scream— but only a series of choked, guttural whimpers escaped her chest.

          Blood poured between her fingers. Hot. Sticky. Endless. The wound throbbed in cruel rhythm—one pulse, then the next, each one worse than the last, like the poison was timing its own triumph.

          It felt like her bones were softening, melting from the inside out. Then stiffening again—brittle, fragile, ready to crack.

          " Nesta—look at me. " Cassian demanded, grabbing Nesta's arm and hauling her back before she toppled too. His voice was low but fierce, threaded with panic. " You're safe. You did good. "

          Nesta shook him off violently, breath ragged, her pupils blown wide. Her gaze was glued to Vythra's mangled arm. " She's been bitten. Badly. There's blood everywhere. " She swallowed, once, jaw trembling despite the iron she tried to pack into her expression.

          Vythra lifted her eyes, barely, the world swimming in a haze of pain. And even through the agony, she thought: If this is how saving people feels, I'd rather fight the Cauldron itself. " No shit. " She gritted out, teeth bared, voice cracking on a sob she refused to let escape. If she let herself cry, she knew she would break. Completely.

          Behind them, Azriel and Cassian finished their beasts. Cassian's fight ended with a violent finality— he grabbed the creature by its smoky scruff and slammed it into a tree so hard Vythra felt the impact in her ribs. Once. Twice. A third time until its body shattered like brittle charcoal, dissolving into dust that hissed as it hit the ground.

          Azriel's kill was the opposite. A whisper of death. One dagger slid between ribs with surgical precision. Another slit its throat in a single, elegant stroke. His shadows wrapped around the beast like a pack of loyal hounds, dragging its collapsing form down and smothering whatever life remained.

          He turned—and ran toward her. The shadows curled inward, restless, tasting the particles in the air, tasting her pain, her blood.

          Vythra lowered her gaze to her arm again and felt dizzy again. The skin around the puncture marks had already turned a dark, ominous blue-black. Veins branched outward like cracked lightning under her skin. Her hand jerked uncontrollably, fingers twitching like a marionette with broken strings. Numbness crawled up her wrist, then her elbow, blooming outward in pulses—cold one moment, scorching the next.

          If poison had a personality, this one wanted her to suffer first.

          " This is fine. " She muttered to herself, though her mouth was a grim, flat line. " Totally fucking fine. " She had no medicine. No tools. And even if she did, she wouldn't know where to start without knowing what hellspawn venom lived inside those fangs. It would've been almost funny if it didn't feel like someone poured molten glass into her arteries. " If you all wanted me dead, " she croaked, forcing her eyes upward, " this saves you the trouble. "

          The poison clawed higher, threading itself into the meat of her shoulder. Her vision flickered. Sound warped. Colors blurred into a bleeding watercolor of forest greens and Azriel's gold-flecked eyes. It could've been shock. Or adrenaline fading. Or her body giving up. Her sight tunneled.

          Then—sharp. Stinging. A slap across her cheek.

          She gasped and found Azriel kneeling beside her, features icy, eyes focused on the wound. His hands—blood-slicked—hovered before settling firmly on her arm. He studied the torn tendons, the mangled skin, the venom-laced discoloration creeping upward. Then he pressed his palm over her trembling one. Her breath hitched. The touch grounded her and unhinged her at once.

          Somewhere behind them, the forest hummed. The trees leaned closer, as if trying to listen. Trying to help. Trying to reach for her again.

          She tried to sit up. Her body betrayed her instantly, slumping, head spinning as though her skull had been filled with smoke and stones. Her strength drained out of her like water from a cracked cup.

          " It'll help with the pain. " Azriel murmured, as his syphoned a piece of his powers lightly around her wrist, holding it steady. " And slow the worst of the damage until we reach Madja. It won't be long now. " His words were steady.

          Vythra didn't breathe a word about what she knew was spreading through her system.
Whatever venom the creature had pumped into her veins burned in a way far too familiar—
like the poisoned arrow thrown by the same damned male that now knelt over her, trying to numb her pain.

          She glared at Azriel, fury flaring bright and useless in her eyes. It flickered out quickly, smothered beneath waves of nausea and the dulling haze his magic forced over the pain. A numb, heavy quiet settled into her arm, but it wasn't comforting. It felt wrong. Dead. Her nerves were failing; she could tell by the way she could feel almost nothing past her wrist. Her fingers twitched like wilted leaves.

        And she didn't dare look. She already knew her right hand was useless.

          Her blood pooled beneath her, soaking through her brown skirt until the fabric clung wet and sticky to her legs. A dark puddle spread under her like spilled ink.

          " Give me your cloak. " She rasped, breath shallow. Nesta hesitated only a heartbeat before lifting the torn velvet off the ground and handing it over.

          Azriel snatched it from her fingers before it even reached Vythra, tearing it with his teeth, ripping long strips from the fabric with quick, brutal precision. He wrapped them around her ruined arm—tight, then tighter—pausing only to search her face for permission to pull harder.

          " Stronger, " she croaked, " My arteries are shredded. It's... pulsing too fast. "

          The tree bark dug sharp lines into her spine, but the ground's coolness seeped through her skin, easing the fever rolling off her in waves. Sweat gathered along her temples, trailing down her neck. If the fever spiked into hyperpyrexia, she'd start seizing—she knew it. Malou would have screamed it at her.

           " Ten kilometers. " Azriel announced, voice clipped. " Then we winnow. Move. Now. "

         Cassian and Nesta surged ahead, weapons drawn, scanning the trees with twitchy precision.

        Azriel hooked Vythra's uninjured arm around his neck.

          " Put me... down. " She gasped, breath stuttering. Her vision blurred at the edges. " I'm not—I'm not going to make ten kilometers— " She pushed against him weakly, trying to stand on her own. Her stomach churned viciously, acid clawing up her throat so violently she had to swallow it back.

          If she vomited, she'd dehydrate. If she dehydrated, she'd die. Simple math.

          " Forget it. " She snarled, sagging back, surrendering to the inevitable. " Fine. Do your fucking heroic nonsense. "

          Azriel slid his arms around her thighs and lifted her effortlessly. He gave a sharp jerk, adjusting her weight higher onto his back. Her legs dangled weakly until he hooked his forearms beneath her knees, locking her in place. His grip was unyielding— warm—steady in a way she hadn't felt since Rosehall.

          The moment her chest pressed between his shoulder blades, Vythra felt her body loosen. Not from comfort. From exhaustion. From pain. From the cold, creeping numbness climbing toward her shoulder.

          Azriel's wings rustled once, tension vibrating through the membranes as he shifted to balance her weight. He didn't look back at her. Didn't ask if she was okay. Didn't say a word. He simply began to run.

          And Vythra, slipping in and out of consciousness, held on—not because she trusted him. But because she didn't have a choice. And because dying on his back felt marginally better than dying in the dirt.

          Cassian took the lead with Nesta, glancing back at them every few steps as if expecting Azriel to drop Vythra mid-stride. His wings twitched each time he looked, like he was fighting the urge to snatch her away and carry her himself.

          " You shouldn't have put yourself in danger. " Azriel stated — and the vibration of his chest rolled through his back, up the insides of Vythra's thighs where he held her.

          Maybe she was dreaming. Or delirious. The poison climbed her spine like tiny barbs dragging hooks through her nerves, numbing places she hadn't even known could go numb.
A dull ache throbbed at that old fracture in her back — the one that had healed wrong, twisted, unreliable.

          " You needed me alive or dead. " She muttered, her voice hollow, the edges of her vision beginning to darken. " Speaking of... how's your leg? "

          Cassian didn't turn his head, but the corner of his mouth snuck upward, betraying him.

          " Better than your arm. " Azriel shot back. He exhaled sharply, as if her stupidity — or bravery — was a personal insult.

          " Funny guy. "

          " Amuse me, " he said, as though the words were dragged out of him by force, " How did you enter Hewn City? "

          Vythra snorted, summoning the last functional spark of defiance. " Are you sure I did? " Was it such a good time for interogation? Or was he just trying to keep her awake?

          " Don't play with me. " His shadows stirred around his wrists like irritated snakes. " How did you get in? "

          " Through the front door. " A beat. " Obviously. "

          His jaw flexed—a crack of tension so violent she swore something snapped in his mouth. Even his wings twitched, membranes shivering like they wanted to wrap around her throat. " How did you steal the blades? "

          " I looked at them. Liked them. Thought they matched my eyes. "

          He made a sound that lived somewhere between a scoff and a threat. " I'll drop you. "

          " Please do. You're not very comfortable. "

          " You had help from outside. "

          " Sure. " She let her head loll lazily against his shoulder. " And from the inside. You people were... extremely distracted. " The memory flickered behind her eyelids — their stunned faces when she danced like she belonged there, when she stole what wasn't hers right under their arrogant noses.

          Azriel clicked his tongue, the sound wet. " You're obscene. "

          Vythra widened her eyes, gasping in exaggerated innocence even though half her face was numb. " Oh, please. Like that ever bothered any of you. "

          His shoulder hardened beneath her hands, muscles turning to rock under her cheek as if her words punched straight through his self-control. " Whose daggers were they? "

          " Malou's. " She admitted, letting the truth drip lazily from her tongue. " She's dramatic when she doesn't get what she wants. And frankly, I think she's coming to kill all of you for stealing me. "

          Cassian barked out a laugh — loud, incredulous, delighted in that stupid Illyrian way. " Let her come. I want a rematch. "

          Vythra scoffed softly, heat and dizziness blooming at the base of her skull." I'd want a rematch too if I needed leverage because I was too weak to face my enemy whole. "

          Cassian twisted around sharply, brows slamming down. The glare he sent her promise death by impalment — except it landed right in her backside, and she couldn't bring herself to care.

          Azriel didn't even look at Cassian. His silence alone was a reprimand. " Where did the scratches on your face come from? "

          " Do you think I fell from the sky untouched? " She muttered, shifting her weight as another wave of nausea rolled over her. " Someone scratched me before I fell. "

          " Who? "

          " Satan. "

          Azriel grimaced. " Who? " He never heard of that name before. The shadows at his heels sharpened, coiling tighter up his calves, prickling against Vythra's ribs as if irritated she existed.

          " I don't know his name. " 

          His patience thinned like spider silk being pulled apart. He shifted her weight higher on his back, adjusting her with a predator's efficiency. His body was a walking furnace beneath her palms —terrifyingly controlled.

          " Was what you said about Rosehall true? "

          Vythra's breath caught, snagged on her ribs like a hook. " Yes. " She whispered. " I was there. "

          Azriel turned his head just enough to see her — exactly as her forehead wobbled, heavy as lead, and dipped forward. Her brow brushed his temple, a gentle collision that felt like the world tilting on its axis. His eyes widened slightly, concerned. 

          " Spoiler... " She breathed, half-gone. " I'm poisoned. " Her body gave out instantly, going limp, sliding sideways—

          Azriel cursed—guttural—and caught her before gravity could rip her off him. He dropped to one knee, one arm locking her in place as he tipped her chin up. " Vythra. " His voice was rough. " Why didn't you tell us? "

          She blinked at him through a haze thick as fog. " And do... what about it? " Her breath hitched, hunger clawing at her belly like an animal. " Give me a lecture while I vomit on your boots? "

          Cassian stopped abruptly and grabbed Nesta's arm, pulling her back. Both of them circled closer, tense, breath thick with panic even if they tried to hide it.

          " We have to get to the continent faster. " Cassian said, voice clipped and urgent. " We winnow now. "

          Nesta stood rigid beside him, nostrils flaring, eyes locked on Vythra's fading consciousness with a strange cocktail of judgment and — Saints help her — worry.

          Azriel didn't look at either of them. He was staring only at Vythra — jaw locked so hard the muscle ticked, shadows trembling like they were tasting the poison crawling under her skin, recoiling and hungrily circling back around her wrist as if trying to understand what was killing her.

          Then — a sound. A soft crunch through the undergrowth. Not claws. Not paws. Feet.

          A figure stepped out from between the roots of an ancient oak — barely shoulder-high, cloaked in charcoal-grey, skin black and polished like volcanic stone veined with molten bronze. Her long, pointed ears caught the dim light, and in them hung the earrings Vythra had given her, gleaming like stolen dawn.

          Azriel's head snapped up. His hand flew to his dagger, steel poised to strike. Cassian was already in motion, sword out, shoulders low, stance ready for round three.

          Vythra didn't think. Her legs lurched forward on instinct or delirium or something far more foolish. She stumbled, nearly face-planting, and slapped her palm over Azriel's wrist — the very wrist that guided his blade. " Don't... " Every syllable scraped like gravel in her throat. " I know her. "

          Cassian snarled, wings flaring slightly. " Who the hell are you? "

          The dvergar woman lowered her ears — a twitch of respect, or warning, or both. Her eyes gleamed molten-gold as she clutched a small metal box to her chest. " Antidote. " She said simply, then tried to smile, showing her bronze, sharp teeth. She opened the lid with a click. Inside, a blue liquid shined softly, like a tiny trapped star. " You won't find it soon enough to spare her. "

          Vythra's lashes fluttered open, heavy and trembling. " You found me... " She whispered, the words cracking apart. Her vision swam, haloed in white. Misty shot out from behind the dvergar, a grey blur with a tail puffed like a war-banner, and head-butted Vythra's good arm with desperate affection. " And you brought... reinforcements. " Sweat trickled down her jaw. Her eyes rolled back for a heartbeat before she forced them open again. " Those earrings... look better on you... "

          Azriel threw an arm out, barring Cassian from moving closer. Cassian bristled but stayed behind the line of Azriel's shadow-drenched shoulders.

          " I help, " the dvergar said, " Then she is yours. " Her new armor—dark metal hammered with runes—caught the last scraps of dying sunlight. She stepped close, cupping Vythra's freezing cheeks with hands impossibly cold. It steadied Vythra's trembling jaw.

          " Your beast found you. " She murmured. " The Tree-Reign guided me. " She tipped Vythra's head back and poured the entire vial down her throat. 

          Vythra choked once, coughed, swallowed. The glassy blue liquid burned like frostfire all the way down. " Thank... Mom... " She blacked out.

         " The antidote will work as you travel. " The dvergar woman said, her copper-ringed pupils softening as she cupped Vythra's cheek with her tiny hands. Her thumb brushed mud from the girl's porcelain skin with a tenderness that felt almost painful to witness. " Do not wake her. Pain will pull her back. "

         Nesta stared. Really stared. As if she'd never seen anyone look at another creature like that before. Her voice came out thin. " You... know her? "

          The dvergar woman nodded once, small chin dipping in a gesture that carried entire histories. " She and another woman walked into our feud. Foolish. Brave. They saved us. She gave me these. " Her fingers rose almost shyly to the earrings — gold catching the dim forest light, glowing against the dark metal of her skin. " A stranger's gold changed my fate. I owe her more than life. "

          Cassian's brows lifted, but not with mockery. He looked between Vythra and the woman, something unspoken calculating behind his teeth. Vythra had gone into a dverg war? And survived? He hid the thought before it could surface, but it glimmered in his eyes.

          Azriel didn't bother hiding anything. Suspicion. Recognition. Mistrust. All of it flickered across his face in tiny, controlled fractures — a tightening around the eyes, a faint flare of his nostrils.

          The way the dvergar woman touched Vythra wasn't casual. It wasn't transactional. It was connection. Bonded through battle, debt, circumstance. Something Azriel hadn't expected — and didn't know how to categorize. He dipped his head—barely, almost invisible. His version of respect. Or maybe acknowledgment that he had no claim here.

          Misty hissed the moment he leaned closer, puffing up like a furious little stormcloud. Her back arched, ears flat. Azriel's shadows reacted instantly, swarming up his arm ready to neutralize the threat.

          He slid his arms under Vythra and lifted her in one fluid motion, adjusting her carefully against his chest. She was limp, burning hot with fever even through the layers of his leathers. Misty didn't hesitate — she climbed directly onto Vythra's stomach, shoved her face under Azriel's chin, and began purring with all the defiance of a creature daring him to complain.

          He didn't.

         Nesta exhaled once, gathering herself, and stepped into the lead. Cassian fell to the back, eyes scanning the trees, blades still out.

          " Guard her carefully. She has my heart, too. " Was all the dverg woman said before the forest parted for them.

          Branches leaned away. Moss softened under their feet. The trees themselves seemed to shift their roots aside, opening a narrow, respectful path as the strange procession passed. Hours blurred. Vythra stirred only once — a faint whisper, barely a breath. Her fingers twitched. Misty pressed closer, purring harder. Azriel didn't know who she meant.

          The antidote dragged her under again before anyone could answer. They reached the ocean just as the moon rose, silver and sharp.

          Azriel tightened his grip on her small frame — and on the fiercely awake cat draped over her.

          " Ready. " Cassian murmured. Nesta nodded. Azriel winnowed. Cold night air struck first — a slap of salt wind and winter bite. Stars glittered like shattered amethyst across the cliffs of Prythian.

          Rhysand stood at the edge of the world and watched them arrive.

        His gaze slid over Cassian first — armor torn, wing scraped, jaw clenched with the leftover fury of battle. Then over Nesta, pale and rigid, her blade still clutched like she'd only paused, not stopped. Then Azriel — soaked in shadow and blood, shoulders tight.

          Then his eyes found her.

          Vythra's body was soft against Azriel's chest, slack with the heavy pull of poison and antidote. She almost looked peaceful. Almost. Her right hand ruined and bandaged, the fabric dark and damp, still dripping faintly, the metallic smell of blood curling into the salt-sweet ocean air. Her hair — that strange reddish hue, somewhere between wine and rust — stuck to her forehead in sweaty, tangled strands. Her features were not fae-sharp, nor otherworldly. Human. Round cheeks. Mortal mouth. Skin marked by travel and pain, not by power.

          This was it? This small, exhausted creature was the one the visions, the whispers, the warnings had circled around?

          So this is what the world thinks will save it, he thought, faintly amused. There was a flicker of something like surprise in his eyes — not at her strength, not yet proven in front of him, but at the sheer normalcy of her. No crown. No glow. No screaming, obvious magic. Just a human girl wrapped in his Spymaster's arms, with a cat sprawled on her like a guardian.

          Underestimating her would be a mistake. He could feel that much. Power hummed faintly beneath the threads of her exhaustion — wrong, tangled, old. But on the surface, she looked... almost fragile. It was almost insulting, the way fate delivered its pieces.

          His lips curved. Slowly. Like a man who'd waited a very long time for something to fall neatly into his hands, and didn't quite like the packaging, but appreciated the potential.

          " Welcome to Prythian, Vythra... " Rhysand said, voice velvet-soft with a mischief buried underneath. " Let's see what you truly are. "

          No one noticed—

          The chain buried in Azriel's chest tightened.

          A warning.
          A fear.

          For her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25

Behind Locked Doors

          This time it wasn't her—or maybe it was the ugliest version of her.

          She felt the armor before she saw it, a weight that dragged her flesh downward like sin poured into metal. The pauldrons hugged her shoulders, red as freshly spilled blood and heavy as a thousand stolen souls. The material didn't feel like steel—more like a sick crystal, polished in a hurry and left to crack beautifully. It was scratched, chipped, plates dented from old blows, as if someone had tried to kill her a dozen times and gotten bored halfway through.

          The sword was a disgrace of size. She dragged it behind her, the tip biting the floor, gouging stone, throwing cold sparks. Sometimes, when she moved too sharply, fire burst from inside the blade—as if a volcanic heart had been locked inside the metal and was desperate to breathe.

          Around her, the table made of skeletons waited like an altar. Ovals of fused ribs, skulls set like domes, vertebrae screwed into a structure absurdly stable. The room smelled of old smoke, heated iron, and bones washed in ash.

          Beyond the bunker walls, moans gathered like a choir. Not screams—moans. As if fear had sunk into their bones and no longer had the strength to climb to the throat. With every step she took, the sounds intensified, as though the sword was feeding on them.

          She began circling the table in a psychotic rhythm. Once. Twice. Three times. With each loop, the armor released a dull sound, like a bell buried underground, and seemed to come more and more alive—like a red flare hissing under the torchlight pinned into the rock walls.

          " Only three? " The voice didn't come from her throat—whoever was speaking somewhere behind sounded like they'd been nursing pneumonia for a century, phlegm sliding thick along the walls of the trachea. She felt, suddenly, that she had no eyes. So she turned her entire skull, the heavy helmet creaking like a rusted door, and fixed on the old man in front of her. " That's all you're capable of? "

          The others' silence tightened like a noose. She couldn't tell how many bodies were hidden around her, but she could smell them—rank, earthy, death-soaked. The air itself seemed to recoil from the room.

          " This is why I brought you all the way here? " The man continued, his contempt lazy, almost bored. " So you can be useless? So you can bore me? " The old man swallowed. His face was yellowed by torchlight, forehead slick, hands clenched to the edge of the bone-table like an anchor that never dried—water dripping from him as if dampness had become his natural state.

          " Patience, my lord, " She said—too fast. Too servile. " We had no way of knowing what we were dealing with if we didn't test their powers. "

          A short laugh, joyless, scraped the chamber. The old man tilted his head like he was truly considering how pathetic that sounded, and a thin stream of moisture slid from his white hair. " If War starts to sound more mature than you, more patient, " a third voice said, each word hammered in like a nail, " I'm afraid you, old man, are not what you're supposed to be. "

          Then the shadow moved. A pale hand, glossy as wax, emerged from the darkness and gripped the chair's arm like a throat. On the thumb sat a large, terrifyingly simple ring—a violet stone set in a mount that looked like hardened night. The room fell silent. " Whatever you do, " the voice said, calm and inevitable, " take her alive. "

          In that instant, the fire inside her sword flinched. Not with rage. With impatience.

           Light hit her first. Not the soft, lazy gold of a village morning, slipping through crooked shutters. This was clean light. White. Almost clinical. The kind of light that had no mercy for shadows or secrets.

          Vythra flinched and squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open with a small grimace, like she'd been caught doing something shameful. Her back was the second thing she noticed. Stiff. Damp with sweat. Almost glued to a mattress that was far too soft. When she tried to move, her spine popped in a few unhappy places, vertebrae cracking like they were stretching after a long sulk.

          She jerked upright on one elbow and froze. She wasn't in her cabin.

          The room was several times larger than the attic she'd lived in for the last weeks, furnished extravagantly—but in a way that felt old, medieval, rustic. It tugged at some memory of her grandmother's house from the other world: heavy wood, solid shapes, a hunger for space. The air smelled faintly of expensive soap, books and something else underneath—forced quiet. The kind of quiet pressed into existence by discipline, by nerves held tight. The kind that could snap.

          The walls seemed to hum around her, stone and plaster bending inward in her dazed vision, as if the room itself leaned closer to inspect her. Even the high ceiling felt like it dipped for a centimeter, letting her take in the paintings that bloomed across it: wide fields, an unblemished blue sky, tiny painted figures walking along rivers. An illusion of being outside. Not in a cell.

          The bed creaked beneath her. The mattress firmed up as she shifted, like it was trying to help her sit, to steady the arm that had gone numb and trembled under her weight. Head still fogged, she looked at her right arm—bandaged, braced tight to her chest like a broken piece of someone else's body. It felt anesthetized, almost phantom, as if it belonged to a stranger.

          I'm not dead. Again. Slowly, fragments of memory slotted back into place. The last thing she remembered was the beautiful dvergar woman tipping an antidote down her throat, something burning in her veins. Had they killed the dvergar after? Dragged Vythra to the Court of Nightmares? Or worse—brought her to Velaris. A gilded cage she'd never break out of.

          She tried to sit up properly. Her body objected immediately—heavy, rigid, that sticky fatigue that comes after fever and too much blood lost. Her lower back flared, pain shooting down her legs like lightning, but she pushed through it, teeth grinding, forcing herself upright despite the vertigo. Nausea rolled through her. She nearly gagged on an empty stomach, feeling the absence of food burn in her belly.

          When she decided to test her right arm, to coax nerves and synapses into firing—it was like being stabbed straight through the brain. A short, strangled sound escaped her lips. " Fuck. "

          Layers and layers of bandages wrapped her forearm, so precise it was almost offensive. Someone had taken their time with her. From wrist to nearly the elbow, the linen was stained with muted, dark red. Not too much. Just enough to say: you were one breath away from losing this.

          She looked down at herself. Clean clothes. Not hers. A simple soft shirt, a caramel tone that almost contrasted with the sick white of her skin after losing so much fluids, light and loose, not sticking to her. A dark green skirt, fastened at one side with three sets of small golden buttons that flashed when she moved. None of her belts. None of her patched fabric. No trace of the life she'd worn like armor.

          Irritation flared hot, bright enough that for a heartbeat she forgot the pain. Someone had undressed her. Completely. Probably scrubbed her like laundry, maybe even waxed her, then redressed her like a doll in someone else's wardrobe.

          " Seriously? " She rasped, her voice rough enough to scrape her ribs from the inside, sharp as a saw. " You could at least leave me my dignity... if you're going to take everything else. "

          A small, grumpy noise came from under the blanket. Vythra went very still. The covers shifted like a small sea. A grey shape rose from the white softness, stretching, slow and royal. Misty. Round, accusing yellow eyes. Ears slightly flattened, like she'd just voted against the entire Night Court in a unanimous council.

          Vythra's throat closed without asking her permission. " You... " Her voice came out too thin for someone who pretended to be invincible. " You're here. "

          Misty meowed once, curt and offended that the question had even needed asking, then stepped onto Vythra's lap with calculated weight. The cat bumped her forehead into Vythra's chin, a small, stubborn impact. Vythra shut her eyes for a second, feeling frustration slide off her shoulders like a loosened boulder.

          Her anchor. The only constant that didn't interrogate, didn't lie, didn't plan. Just a furious, small animal who somehow always found her, like the world had a hidden rule: Vythra is not allowed to be alone for too long.

          " Good thing they didn't turn you into some kind of fae Barbie doll too. " She muttered, then stopped when she noticed the pink ribbon around Misty's neck—a neat bow against her white patch of chest fur. A prettier leash. Vythra unknotted it slowly, deliberately. Misty purred like an engine made purely of stubbornness.

          On the bedside table, another ribbon appeared. As if conjured on a draft of air. This one pale blue, glossy, definitely silk. Expensive. Tempting.

          Her cat was not being collared by anyone, not even with silk.

          In the darkest corner of the room, a shadow shifted just before the heavy curtains drew back of their own accord. The fabric was thick, night-blue, sliding open with a soft hiss. Sunset eased through the windows, unhurried. Vythra pushed herself off the bed, legs shaky and bare against cold stone, and measured the distance to the balcony doors that refused to open, held by some invisible lock. She leaned on every piece of furniture she passed—a carved chair, a low table, the edge of a bookshelf—still too unsteady to trust her own balance.

          She had definitely slept more than a day, judging by the way her body responded like something dragged out of a grave.

          The first thing that stole her breath was the sky.

          It shouldn't have been that beautiful, not with everything she'd been through. But there it was: a deep, ink-dark blue flooded with strokes of violet and warm gold. An aurora, green and almost teal, pulsed at the horizon, trailing like a veil over rooftops and spires. Hundreds of stars crowded the glass, pressing close to see the newcomer—she recognized some patterns even here: a crooked shape that might be the Big Dipper, a scatter that reminded her of Orion.

          Far in the distance, past twisted rooftops and elegant towers, the sun tossed one last streak of fire over a river—a narrow silver curve she could just make out. It hissed and glimmered beneath the dying light, framed by a mountain range with three jagged peaks.

          It all lay so far below that clouds, pale and misted, drifted between her balcony and the streets. From this height, the city looked like a jewelry box spilled open: tiny lanterns glowing on streets and eaves, warm beads of light strung along the bones of the city. This could only be Velaris, judging only by the sky. It was breathtaking, it was more magical when you lived it than when your read about it. 

          So, her fears became true. She was in a beautiful cage, but she must not be distracted.

          The walls hummed again. Beside the balcony latch—already locked—another ward shimmered into being, like an extra bar sliding into place. Not yet, it seemed to say. Not for you.

          As to apologize for the inconveniece, a teapot and a cup appeared at her side, steaming and radiating warmness. Her nausea stirred, refusing to leave. Vythra didn't touch any of them, only studied the handy craft of the paintings from the porcelain and the golden ridges.

          Her heart shrank to the size of a pin.

          Melancholy hit hard, sharp and suffocating. A sadness with no clean edges, tangled with regret. What was the point of seeing wonders like this if the people she loved weren't there? And now she couldn't even tell which people she meant—the ones from this world or the old one? Did they know she was gone? Did they look for her? Or had time simply stopped there, frozen in the moment she fell? Maybe only minutes had passed in that world while here months had bled away.

          She'd lost track of how long she'd been thrown between deaths and wars and strangers' agendas.

          Misty hopped up onto the little coffee table near the window. The cat fixed her with shiny, liquid eyes, and her tail brushed gently against Vythra's thigh. I'm still here, she seemed to whisper in her mind. 

          " I know. " Vythra whispered, voice frayed. " But I have so many holes in my soul I don't know how I'm still in one piece. "

            The cat dipped one bold paw out of amusement into the tea, shaking it of any excess and licking it afterwards. Safe, she rose her head again than dipped another paw. The house rumbled around, like it was laughing at the creature's smartness. A bowl, smaller and inked with cat prints appeared at Misty's side, indulging her to eat what seemed like freshly cooked stew. The cat watched it weirdly, like it was to fussy for her likings, used to eat things more common, but dipped anyway and ate away the whole bowl, before another appeared.

          A soft step sounded behind her. Not a warrior's stride. Not heavy, not stomping, not bristling with aggression. A measured, almost feminine pace, light but assured.

          The door opened. Vythra turned, pupils flaring—fear, or nerves, or both. From now on, she was on foreign ground again. And she wasn't sure she could adapt one more time.

           A woman stepped inside and halted in the doorframe when she saw Vythra standing. " You should still be in bed. " the woman said calmly. " Deep asleep. "

          Vythra's gaze went straight to her eyes—brown, almost pure, with the faintest undertone of wine in the right light. A kind of brown so honest that for a heartbeat Vythra didn't know whether to cry or compliment her. The woman let her look, seemingly unbothered, quietly ticking off every bruise and half-healed wound on Vythra's body. There was something like approval in the way her gaze lingered on the fact that Vythra was upright at all.

          " You healed my arm? " Vythra chirped, then immediately thought it was a stupid question. A second later, it became relevant again.

          Tall and composed, dressed simply but spotless—like someone whose authority had been earned in silence—the woman's lips curved slightly. Fine lines deepened at the corners of her mouth, the kind that only years of frowning and smirking could carve into warm bronze skin. Her curly hair was pulled back with a pale blue band, strands of white threaded thickly through what once had clearly been coal-black.

          " I did. " She confirmed. " If you're asking why it's not entirely finished—it's because your right arm required more work to restore full function. " Her tone was effortless, a low, soothing cadence that reminded Vythra of a harp string plucked gently. " But I imagine you already understand that. I've heard you know your way around healing. In your own... peculiar fashion. "

          That maternal note again. Vythra felt it like a hook. That's going to be my curse, she thought. Collecting mothers in every world.

          " I'd like to learn from you. " Vythra blurted, then blinked at herself. " Sorry. That... just came out. "

          " It's all right. " The woman replied, smiling properly this time before closing the door and walking in. Her shoes—a soft, shimmering blue—clicked lightly over white stone floors in a steady rhythm. " I can show you whatever you're willing to learn. But I don't know how long you'll be allowed to stay here. You're expected downstairs. "

          Vythra blinked. Then dropped her head a fraction and made a small, sour face, exhaling through her nose. " Did you come for something specific? " She asked, maybe a bit too acid. The woman had yanked her straight out of the movie playing in her own head.

          " Tomorrow at ten, they'll bring you back to me so I can finish reconstructing your arm. " The healer explained, motioning toward the door as invitation. " My spells were too strong to be used all at once on a mortal. Your heart might have stopped. So, I did it in stages. That's why you slept so long. " She gestured lazily at Vythra's chest. " I had to reduce your blood flow and slow your heart. You'd lost more blood than was reasonable. "

          They passed a tall cabinet carved into the wall, glass-fronted and crowded with books and bottled tinctures that faintly smelled like perfume. Near it, a narrow door stood slightly ajar, a hint of steam-scent and tile drifting out.

          " The antidote you received did most of the heavy work, " she went on, " After that, I was left with the lighter task of repairing what the poison hadn't ruined. "

          " I'm hard to take out of commission. " Vythra said, trying to sound less fragile than she felt. Misty gave a small, approving grumble, like a tiny bodyguard.

          " You were lucky. "

          " I don't believe in luck. "

          " Then call it timing. "

          " That sounds more realistic. "

          The healer's mouth twitched, the barest ghost of amusement. " Even so, there wasn't much I could do for your back. "

          Vythra swallowed. One knee nearly buckled when another wave of pain shot down her thigh.

          " You don't have to say it, " the woman continued gently, " My assistants and I cleaned and changed you. We saw some of your... scars. Unfortunately, the bone didn't heal properly before. I suspect you already know that. The fracture formed poor, porous tissue and several adhesions to the surrounding muscles. To fix it, I would either need to break the bone again, or begin a very long and risky process that could leave you with serious deficits from the waist down. "

          Vythra opened her mouth to reply, but then lifted a hand instead. " No need to list them. I know the risks by heart. "

          " Good. " There was no pity in the woman's eyes—only assessment. " You should also know it will always be a vulnerable area. Sensitive to extreme temperatures. Prone to chronic pain. To fragment shifts if you force it in combat without proper preparation. It will always be a weak point. " She paused. " But I may have a temporary solution I'm testing. "

          " That would be... great. " Vythra said honestly.

          " That depends on how long you remain here. "

          " Of course it does. I'm going to be a crippled legend. "

          " You'll be alive. "

          " That's the part I find the most exhausting, " Patient. Prisoner. Problem.

          As the healer turned toward the door, Vythra felt something else.

          The chain. Deep in her chest, that fine, irritating vibration. Two invisible ends tightening and loosening to some distant storm's rhythm. Not painful. More like... alert. Pleased. Light as a feather. A lazy cat stretching in the dark, yawning, watching with red, ember-bright eyes.

          Vythra frowned. " Who else is here? "

          The healer paused in the doorway. " I don't know if you want the answer. " A tiny sigh, almost amused. " At least two of them are already in the House, " she explained, slender fingers holding her skirt lightly, so it won't brush the floor, " And one of them is very much not inclined to approve of your existence. The High Lady is on her way—with Amren and Morrigan. Quite the honor on your head. "

          " I feel so welcome. " Misty jumped lightly to Vythra's shoulders, then settled her front paws over Vythra's collarbone like a living necklace. A silent promise: If anyone comes in with bad intentions, I claw their eyes out. " Fine. " Vythra whispered—to the ceiling, to the chain, to the whole damned Court. " Let's see who breaks me first. "

            The woman didn't have to repeat the invitation. She slipped through the doorway like a ghost passing through a wall, almost silent, the hem of her blue skirts barely whispering over the stone. " Come. They won't wait forever."

          Of course they wouldn't. Who was she, a mere mortal, in the face of all those mighty faes?

          Vythra tightened her good arm around the cat draped at her neck like a living scarf. Misty allowed herself to be carried with an air of deeply offended dignity, tail flicking lazily against Vythra's shoulder blade.

          Her soft slippers met stone for the first time—a cold, finely polished stone, pearl-pale and faintly reflective. Their shapes warped and stretched in it as they walked, like they were already being eaten by the House. The floor was spotless, the kind of surface that made every flaw in you feel louder just by contrast.

          The hallway rose around her—high, indecently high, like the open throat of some enormous whale ready to swallow her whole. The same white stone lined the walls, broken at intervals by arches and deep-set niches. Purple flowers spilled from tall vases placed with precision, freshly cut, fragrant, as if someone changed them every morning before dawn. The air smelled of parchment, petals, and a breath of cold, salt-touched wind that drifted up from somewhere below, from the city and the river.

          She knew this house.

          Her body remembered before her mind did. Her knees seemed to know the length of each step, the angle of every turn before her eyes found them. She'd walked here before—not with this flesh, not in this name, but through someone else's bones, in a dream that wasn't quite a dream. That first night in Thaibar, when Niven had found her and sleep had dragged her somewhere that wasn't sleep at all.

          She wasn't even sure it was the same building. But the déjà-vu slid icy fingers into the back of her neck.

          The woman descended first, taking the curve of the staircase with that unhurried certainty of someone who came here thousands of times before. The steps flowed down in a wide arc, not steep but sweeping, a ribbon of stone. The banister was carved from dark, glossy wood, its surface alive with whorls of leaves and wings, each feather and vein picked out by a patient hand and too many hours of work.

          With every step, Vythra felt her knees complain, but pride kept her upright. She refused to reach for the woman's arm. She would only use furniture and cat as crutches. At least Misty didn't care if she used it to lean on her.

          " You're walking well. " The stranger observed eventually, not as praise—just an entry in a ledger. " That's... reassuring. "

          " Don't get attached. " Vythra drew her attention, playing with the band of her skirt. " I break easily. "

          " Humans are... inconveniently unique. " The healer replied, giving her a sideways look. " Perhaps even more than we are. Fae fight for their own legacy. You lot... always fight for someone else's cause, and always die first. Then you let others take the credit. "

          " Sounds like my demographic. " Vythra concluded, rising her freshly puckered brows. Her fingertips drifted along the banister, just the pads of her fingers, feeling the warmth of the wood. Old. Loved. The House seemed to breathe with her. A faint current of air slid down from above, brushing her ankles, circling them curiously. Measuring her.

          She had been here. Not as Vythra, but like an intruder. As Cyan. As the ghost inside someone else's life. She'd roamed these halls with feet that weren't hers, studied corners, windows, rooms. The House of Wind. Where she'd taken the dagger.

          Slowly, realisation iced her stomach.

          I took it from here.  Not from some nameless storage room, not from a market stall, not from a forgotten chest. From their House. From a mantelpiece where the heat had licked the handle so fiercely it seared her palm even in the dream.

          Her gaze flicked to her left hand, searching instinctively for the faint white ghost of that old burn. Nothing. Too shallow to last. But the memory burned clearly enough.

          Who noticed first that it was gone? Azriel, reaching for empty space? Rhysand, narrowing his eyes for half a heartbeat? Or some poor servant whose spine turned to ice at the sight of a bare place where steel should've been?

          These were not people who took theft lightly. Especially not theft of something as intimate as a Shadowsinger's blade.

          " You're thinking too loud. " She said, still descending, her voice almost amused. The blue of her skirts whispered in controlled waves. " You're making the House nervous. "

          At her words, a set of doors snapped into existence on the left—a tall pair of dark wood panels where before there had been only blank stone. They lingered for a heartbeat, then faded again like a mirage, along with a thick rug that had appeared to cushion Vythra's feet and then vanished as if offended.

          " The House can join the club. It's not the only one nervous. "

          The hallways broadened. To the right, an opening revealed a training room—silent for now, but lined with racks of weapons arranged with almost reverent order. Swords by length. Daggers by curve. Spears like a forest of steel. Every piece polished, deadly, waiting.

          Further down, another landing opened. The outer wall broke into a row of tall windows, floor to ceiling, letting afternoon spill in cold and bright. Velaris spread itself beneath her again, this time from a slightly different angle, as if the city was turning its other cheek. From here, the river glowed more clearly—a ribbon of silver and shadows, bridged by delicate arches. Lanterns dangled from the railings, tiny fires like insects of light inching along the water's skin. Small boats drifted lazily, like the city itself knew it was beautiful and didn't have to hurry.

           It was a place she'd once only read about, sitting in her cheap bed from her old world, imagining how it would feel like to get lost in the city. Now, she finally had the audacity to see and feel it on her skin.

          Just not as Feyre had. Not as a guest or as a High Lady in waiting. She would see it as a problem to be handled. As an anomaly. As leverage. A prisoner, not a guest.

          The House seemed to sigh around her, the stone humming faintly, as if it already knew the scene waiting below: doors opening, heads turning, voices cutting off mid-sentence.

          Vythra tightened her hold on the cat at her throat, squared her shoulders in her mind first, and kept going down. Every step felt like part of a countdown to the moment all those eyes would land on her.

          She knew, broadly, what was coming. They hadn't dragged her here for hospitality. Rhysand would dig into her mind, peel her memories apart like threads and braid them back however he pleased. Cassian and Azriel would stand at the edges like guard dogs, and the others—High Lady, Mor, Amren—would watch, weigh, decide.

          She'd lived a version of this before. Different faces, different titles. Niven and her family, seating her at their table, asking who she was, from where. Measuring her with their eyes, evaluating every answer, then deciding to accept her. To give her shelter. To give her purpose.

          Also to use her.

          Had it ever been as benevolent as they'd made it sound? Or had they been forced into it by whatever bound them to this world, to the Mother, to their bargains? Had they truly loved her the way they claimed—or had it all been duty dressed up as affection? Maybe Shum had been right. Maybe he'd been the only lucid one among them, the only one not seduced by some sterile dream of "salvation."

          He'd still been wrong to murder his own kin.

          Her gaze dropped for a moment, sinking deep, anchored somewhere between past and ribs, and the pain that answered was so loud she didn't hear the House creak again—didn't notice the way a candle sparked to life on the wall beside her, a small, flickering tribute from the magic in the stone.

        She didn't understand any of it anymore, but she let that thread unravel behind her. The dead deserved at least that much. In her old world there was a saying: Only good things must be said of the deceased.

          Now came the luxury edition of the same process. Night Court instead of a human priest's household. Same role for her: placed in the center, stamped with the label complication.

          And Malou? And Sorscha? The thought slammed into her from the side, right where her heart was supposed to be. She'd left them behind to save them, but her feelings still twisted imagining what they were doing now. Whether Malou had fully recovered. Whether Sorscha's hands still trembled. Whether they'd found the dagger she'd left. How long until they stormed in after her.

           Last time she'd seen them, they'd all been covered in blood and poison.

          Now she was alone. Again.

          " Your heart rate is climbing. " The woman noted, not bothering to look back. " Try breathing. Slowly. I just fixed your arm. Don't make me reopen it. "

          " You're very optimistic if you think breathing fixes impending interrogations. " Vythra concluded dryly, but she did as told. Cold air scraped down her throat, filling lungs that still felt too big for her ribs, scented with wax and something faintly sweet. " Who's waiting? "

          " Everyone that matters to this Court. " 

          Vythra bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. " Is he going to go digging around in my head the moment I step in? " She asked, like she was asking about a procedure, not a complete violation.

          " If he's merciful, he'll warn you first. " The stranger's tone didn't quite suggest confidence. " But mercy is in short supply these days. "

          They descended another sweep of stairs. The staircase widened, turned more formal, more solemn. Paintings appeared along the walls: battles frozen mid-swing, night skies full of impossible constellations, and portraits. In one frame, a male with violet eyes and a smile that knew far too much. In another, a female with wings spread wide like a cloak of shadow over a city.

          Vythra's stomach pulled tight. She knew who they were. She'd recognized them years ago, in cheap ink and mass-market covers, long before she ever imagined she might stand in their house. Now she was going to see them for real. Hear their actual voices. Discover just how much the books had lied—and just how much she had idealized people who, at the end of the day, had hunted her down, killed her, and were now hauling her in for judgment.

          The chain in her chest vibrated softly, like a muted bell. Presence. Attention. Someone on the other end had just drawn in a long, careful breath.

          They reached a broader, shorter corridor that ended in a set of heavy double doors. Dark wood, inlaid with black metal, the lines curling and looping like stylized wings. From beyond them came the murmur of voices. Not loud. Controlled. Now and then a word broke free, but never enough to form sentences. Just tones: irritation, curiosity, patience stretched thin.

          Misty dug her claws a little deeper into Vythra's shoulder—not to hurt, but to anchor.

          Vythra straightened her spine as much as the scar in her back allowed. Better that than crumpling. She lifted her chin with the stubbornness of someone who knows they're about to be stripped of every secret but refuses to undress themselves.

          " Any final medical advice? " She asked, one corner of her mouth twisting into a bitter almost-smile.

          " Yes. Don't lie about the things that matter. He'll find them anyway. Lie only about the things you can't afford to lose. "

          And with that, she pushed the doors.

          Conversation died instantly, as if someone had cut the rope holding all the voices up.

          The main room wasn't as large as Vythra had imagined—not a cathedral, no throne hall with endless columns. More like a sitting room dragged up to the edge of indecency: tall windows thrown open to the night, a long table of dark wood, armchairs and couches arranged in soft, strategic clusters, thick midnight-blue rugs that swallowed footsteps. A fireplace burned along one wall, the flames moving in a calm, unhurried dance, as if called here for nothing more than warmth and ambiance.

          Five pairs of eyes turned toward her. Six, if she counted Amren's—eyes that didn't seem entirely designed for a human face.

          Cassian leaned against the table, arms crossed over his chest, wings relaxed but not careless, gaze tracking her posture from head to toe like an assessment he couldn't help making. Nesta sat ramrod-straight in a chair off to the side, one hand curved around the armrest, the other resting on her knee, blue eyes cold as ice, filtering every detail, judging whether or not it deserved to exist.

          Mor was there too—annoyingly beautiful—head tilted, looking at Vythra like she was a new story thrown into an already complicated plot. Curiosity, a hint of sympathy, and something sharper behind it.

          Amren, small and terrifying, stared straight through her. She was the first who actually stilled. Something in that ancient gaze snagged on Vythra's shape, on some invisible outline no other could see; Amren's throat bobbed in a small swallow at whatever she spotted, and then her eyes slid sideways—toward the fire.

          Toward the fireplace that kept the flames from consuming them all. Just there, beside the mantel crowded with carefully placed crystals, stood Azriel.

          He had chosen shadow, of course. Arched slightly against the stone, wings folded tight, his left arm draped lazily over the mantel in a posture that was too casual to be real. Exactly where Vythra remembered seeing, in that dream-walk, the dagger she'd stolen. The space was empty now, but her skin prickled at the memory of the heat in that handle.

          He didn't spare her a full look. His eyes stayed on the wine glass cradled in his right hand, the firelight flickering in the dark surface, reflected in the garnet liquid. Only when she crossed the threshold did his amber gaze darkened by a shade, as if someone had lowered a curtain behind his irises. He didn't even spare her a glance of his own precious stock of criminal glances, like she was cheap and he ran too low on money. That cheap you can't even afford a look.

          Vythra's chain grew heavy, as heavy as a lead coffin and suddenly, she didn't know what to do with her spare limbs. She chose to pet her cat, begging for some light retribution.

          Azriel wore a simple black shirt, the kind that shouldn't have looked like a sin and yet absolutely did. Soft leather—or something just as indecent—clung to his built torso, the fabric pulling over muscle in a way that felt almost intentional. The sleeves were shoved up to his forearms, exposing veins and fine, burned scars that mapped his bronzed skin like old constellations. The top buttons had been left undone a little too casually, as if he'd suddenly grown warm, and the shadow between his collarbones sat there like it had been placed by a very biased artist.

          His trousers, also black, were cut from a heavier fabric that hugged his hips and thighs before falling straight, held up by a worn leather belt nicked and creased by years of sheathing blades. Illyrian boots, scuffed at the edges and stained by mud and travel, said battlefields far more than velvet chairs. Nothing flashy. No embroidery. No jewels. Just clean, dark lines that let him be the ornament in the room.

          And the way he stood—slightly tilted to one side, one shoulder propped against the wall, one hand buried in his pocket—meant anyone entering the room would miss him for maybe two seconds. After that, ignoring him became completely impossible.

          At the far end, Feyre sat with her hands clasped in her lap, black onyx gown pooling like midnight around her. Her half-braided hair swept back in a crescent over her head, a small silver crown catching the firelight. Her blue eyes blinked once, quickly; her head tipped to the side with a doll-like confusion, as if she were seeing her own reflection in a warped mirror. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and her gaze climbed almost reflexively to her mate, something like a question—like a plea—flickering there for a heartbeat.

          Rhysand.

          He lounged against the edge of the table as though he wasn't invested at all, but the pose was too precise to be accidental. His hands rested loose on the wood, fingers slightly spread, and his wings were nowhere to be seen—but his power throbbed around him like a storm trapped in a jar. Those violet eyes swept over the others first, checking reactions, calming or stoking as needed. Then they landed on her.

          On Vythra. On the body wrapped in their clothes, the carefully bandaged right arm, the murderous grey monster perched on her shoulder like an illegal crown. His mouth twitched, like he assessed the danger, as if Misty was some great dragon ready to bite his head off.

          She felt filthy under that gaze. Stripped and catalogued. For one insane second, all she wanted was to hurl herself into the flames—her, the borrowed clothes, everything—and burn until there was nothing left but bone. Eternal agony felt almost simpler than standing there under all those eyes, all those silent verdicts.

          You ruined our world. 

          No, you ruined the balance.

          You've caused us a thousand problems.

          Maybe you're the threat.

          I killed you once. I can do it again.

          Witch.

          Just what we needed. Another one like me.

          Everyone else blurred out for a heartbeat. For the first time since she'd woken, Vythra felt it clean and sharp: this wasn't a dream, or a book, or some scene she could snap shut by closing the covers. This was the main stage. No backstage. No props. Just her, shoved dead center in the cruel circle of light.

          Every gaze in the room pinned her in place. And only one of them held anything close to... pity.

          The woman beside her shifted, clearly sensing the tension. After a few strained seconds, she was the first to cut through it. She turned to Feyre and Rhysand, inclining her head in a quiet and respectfull way. " I've left her in one piece. " The politeness in her tone edged very close to a warning. " Please return her tomorrow by ten in the morning in the same state. " Without waiting for an answer, she swept out—no dramatic slam, just a soft rustle of fabric and a door that shut with gentleness.

          And then Vythra really was alone with them. The main room felt designed for exactly this: a very civilized kind of interrogation.

          The high ceiling, with its dark beams, held understated chandeliers of faelight that cast a steady glow, too even to give the shadows of the past a chance to hide away. Pale stone walls were warmed by tall bookcases and paintings of Velaris at night—rivers of light and stars rendered in precise strokes. To one side, a carved fireplace the size of a royal tomb burned low, logs popping now and then, throwing slow orange shadows across their faces. A room built to make you feel safe right up until someone hit you in the head with the truth.

          Misty was the only creature present who looked completely unbothered. The cat slithered down from Vythra's shoulders like a lazy snake, then began circling her ankles like a one-cat royal escort: small, offended, utterly fearless. She started inspecting the place. Nose tucked into the edge of a rug, whiskers twitching at the leg of the table, batting at an invisible thread near an armchair.

          The House reacted. A small ceramic bowl appeared on a side table, filled with thick, steaming milk. A heartbeat later, as if amuse­d with itself, a tiny stuffed mouse blinked into existence on the carpet, rolling slowly until it bumped into Misty's paws.

          The cat stared at it. Blinked. Then smacked it with one paw. The mouse rolled again, animated by a will that definitely wasn't feline.

          The House was playing with her cat. Of course it was. The House of Wind had already picked its favorite. Not the human. The animal.

          Vythra swallowed down a frayed, inappropriate laugh.

          " Have a sit. " Rhysand said at last, voice almost gentle. He hadn't raised his tone. Didn't tack on a clear "please." But the word slid through the room like a command the stone itself acknowledged. The High Lord stood at the head of the long table—not on a throne, but close enough to it. He pulled his hands into his pockets, and with them retracted a good portion of the visible threat leaking off him. His violet eyes didn't bother pretending to be friendly.

          Vythra wanted to be difficult. To remain standing. To slide bonelessly to the floor just to annoy him. Then she pictured herself through their eyes and decided she didn't want to. She wasn't even sure if her hair was brushed. That faded, bitter red now hung around her shoulders, tangled and dull, barely grazing them. Her awareness of her own body spiked—sweat-damp shirt clinging to her shoulder blades, bandaged arm heavy, knees loose.

          Her legs made the easy choice for her. They were already going soft. They wouldn't have held her much longer after so many days of not being used. She sank into one of the chairs closer to the fireplace, back ramrod straight even as her spine screamed for more heat, more numbness. Every instinct begged her to cradle into a ball. She refused.

          Nesta watched her sit with that chilling kind of focus that peeled right through bone. Head slightly tilted, as if Vythra had been personal enemy material for centuries already. Her hair was once more arranged in that intricate crown around her head, and her previous battle-dirty clothes were gone—replaced by a gown of smoky satin that clung and draped just so. Her sharp features, no longer washed out by nausea and exhaustion, looked even more honed now that she'd eaten and slept and stopped looking like an angry zombie.

          Cassian pushed off from the door he'd been guarding and moved to stand near the back of her chair—not directly behind her, but a little to the side. Close enough to intervene, far enough to pretend he wasn't there like a prison guard. 

          Morrigan planted her elbows on the table, studying Vythra over the rim of her glass. Just like in the books, everything about her was a shade of red: dress, shoes, lips, even the stones in her earrings—a bright, unapologetic crimson that made her blonde hair seem even more striking, even more artificial.

          For a heartbeat, Vythra wondered if in this world too people did the whole "dumb blonde" thing, or maybe if only in her old world this ethical problem still persisted.

          Catching Vythra staring, Morrigan arched one delicate brow and brought her blood-red nails to her lips, a little smile curling at one corner. 

          She really did look like some inhuman version of Margot Robbie—if someone had taken the actress, sharpened the cheekbones, and replaced the soft Hollywood gaze with another that could demolish a person with just one look. Which, given Morrigan's powers over truth, was... thematically appropriate.

          Amren didn't bother pretending. She'd taken up residence in her small armchair near another door, legs crossed, eyes gleaming with a smoky curiosity that didn't feel human at all. Her short hair flickering faintly whenever she turned her head.

          They probably had the same height, her and Vythra, but the way the demon examined her, fingers tapping a slow, razor-edged rhythm on the tiny side table, it was giving her the sensation that this woman was, without discussion, superior to her.

          This was what a parent-teacher conference in hell must have felt like.

          Feyre and Azriel stood a step apart; Feyre closer to Rhys, Azriel fused to the fireplace, shadows making him look somehow taller, broader, more carved out of night than man.

          " Good. " Rhysand intoned at last, slicing through the silence. " Let's not waste precious time. " His gaze slid from Vythra's face—her eyes still that sickly, washed-out blue, bruised with exhaustion—to the cat at her feet, who was busy pretending the High Lord of the Night Court didn't exist. " First of all, " he went on, in a tone so politely reasonable it made Vythra want to punch him, " you're safe. No one here will harm you. As long as you don't give us a reason. "

          Extraordinarily. How comforting. She echoed the thought in her head like a bitter joke, them the last part just came out loud " All that's missing is you telling me your torture sessions come with scheduled water breaks.  "

          Cassian coughed once. It might have been a half-swallowed laugh. It might have been a warning. He'd changed since the forest: now wearing a sleeveless dark tunic that bared arms corded with muscle and ink—Illyrian tattoos twisting up his skin in thin spirals before breaking into harsh, slanted lines. 

          Rhysand's mouth curved, just a fraction. " We haven't gotten that far yet. " His eyes returned to her, sharpening. " What's your name? " He asked, as if he didn't already know.

          Of course he wasn't in anything as simple as "clothes." Whatever Rhys wore was more thesis than outfit. A black shirt in some luxuriant soft fabric that caught the light like a raven feather, unbuttoned just enough. Over it, a long coat in a muted, dying-indigo so dark it nearly read as black, the hems edged in faint silver embroidery—stars and wings, only really visible when he moved.

          " Vythra. " She declared abruptly, like she was pushed from behind by something. She frowned, feeling the words gathering in her throat, ready to spill out. It felt suffocating.

          " The real name? " He pushed again, his lilac eyes narrowing. His features reminded her of Nimue more than she liked to admit. Even that malicious haze around him felt familiar.

          She lifted her chin, like some invisible hands tilted it up more into the light. " I don't remember the old one. So this is the real one now. "

          Across the table, Morrigan dipped her sharp chin, acknowledging the answer, gold eyes shining. Rhysand seemed satisfied enough with the truth he tasted there—but Mor wanted more. " Who gave it to you? " She asked, for the first time speaking directly to Vythra. Her voice was soft, melodic, but there was weight under it, something that tried to slip between the ridges of Vythra's shield and rip it apart from within.

          The veins in Vythra's neck tightened. Fine. Half-truth, then, to keep Rose out of their claws. " A woman from Rosehall. She took care of me for a while. " And then she cut herself off, slamming inner doors shut the way Sorscha had taught her—layering it with Malou's mind-stilling, brick over brick. Wherever she didn't want them going, they could dissect hair strands all day. They wouldn't get in.

          Nimue's potions hadn't managed to unearth her old name. She doubted dragging it back would help her now, anyway.

          Morrigan tilted her head, chastising her silently with that faint twitch of her brows, then pursed her glossy lips, licking them once, like she'd finally found a story worth chewing on.

          Azriel shifted somewhere behind her. Vythra felt it before she heard it—the faint scrape of boot on the ground, the swishing of clothes, of a person changing positions. Some masochistic part of her wanted to look back at him, to prove she hadn't lied entirely when she'd spoken about Rosehall in the forest. To show him there was truth woven into her bluff.

          But he didn't need her confessions. Or her lies. Or her, full stop. He stayed leaned against the mantel, one hand loose around his glass, golden eyes flicking to her just long enough to confirm his hunch: he was listening to every word. And judging each one. The Spymaster was crueler than any of the other.

          Another flash of ill silence climbed on the marble corners of the wall, dripping all over them. Vythra's pupils jumped from one to another, waiting for someone else to put another inculpatory question untill they might catch her with something she couldn't lie on. Her fist clenched further on her skirt, a subtle tension pressin on the back of her head. Overwhelmed was not a sufficient word to gather all the feeling that were wrestling in her weak body. 

          I should've stayed in bed. 

          Feyre studied her closely, like an artist squinting to see the sketch beneath a finished painting. " Where do you come from, Vythra? " Her voice got a surprisingly rough undertone. Vythra hadn't expected that—the legendary High Lady sounding like she'd swallowed winter and shards of glass. Years in the cold would do that to vocal cords, she supposed.

          Vythra's mouth went dry. " From a world that doesn't exist for you. From another land. Another... universe. Pick whichever term helps you sleep at night. "

          Amren made a short, unimpressed sound, her narrow nose lifting a fraction. " From another world. " She translated, bored, " How original. "

          " And yet, " Rhysand cut in smoothly, folding his fingers under his chin like he'd almost forgotten he was the one leading this little show, " you walked into the Court of Nightmares like you owned the place, stole blades from Hewn City, knew how to find Rosehall, knew things about us you could not have learned here. " One dark brow arched in elegant disbelief. " Where, exactly, did you read about all of this? Tourist pamphlets? "

          Vythra dug the nails of her left hand into the fabric of her skirt deeper, as she felt them taking her for granted. This was going to sound terrible. Embarrassing on a cosmic level. " In books. In my world. Books... about you. About all of this. You were fiction, to us. "

          Rhysand's shifted in his place, the perfectly tailored trousers pulling smooth over long legs as he crossed them, polished boots making no sound on the rug.

          " About us? " Feyre repeated, very slowly. " About... the Night Court? "

          " About you. " Vythra explained further, lifting her gaze to the High Lady. " The books were written around your character. I know all your thoughts, your feelings, your choices. " Her throat worked once. " Then the rest of you— " she added, flicking a finger toward the others gathered around, " —you started as secondary characters. First Tamlin, then Rhysand, then Amren, Mor, Cassian, Azriel, Nesta. And Elain. "

          Something cold slammed into the back of her skull as she spoke Elain's name. From under her, a mass of shadows emerged, sizzling, grabing the legs of her chair like their master wanted to throw her off of it. Across from her, Rhysand's attention sharpened into something almost lethal; he hadn't reacted to 'Tamlin' at all, but that... that got his eyes off the polite, lazy setting. Vythra had the sudden, feral urge to spit. Preferably in his wine.

          She didn't want to think too much around the problem that the High Lord of Spring Court meant to them, nor wanted to show any sign that she wasn't entirely on the same page with them considering the way they treated that guy. She pushed the tought away completely. Elain included. 

          " About your war. " Vythra went on, forcing the words out. " About Hybern. About... a lot of things that probably haven't made it into your official histories yet. " Her voice wobbled at the end. Not from fear, but from something stranger, uglier: fury. The kind of anger only a fan could feel after meeting their heroes and discovering they were just people—messy, cruel, contradictory people who bled and lied and made the wrong choices, over and over.

          Briefly, she remembered what she discovered in Draegan's office: the letter, the numbers, the grotesque history, the slaughtering. Her eyes closed, but this time, she couldn't peel away those murders.

          Cassian straightened, interest flaring. " And what did this... book say about me? "

          " We'll get to that. " The High Lord cut in, not bothering to look at him. His gaze stayed on Vythra, pinning her to the chair. " Right now I'm interested in something else. How many of these books exist? How many people know about us, in your world? "

          The question wasn't entirely stupid. Maybe he was thinking that many more could break through the veil, like she did, and end up trapped here. This could be a breach in their security system, maybe some will get to the wrong side and spill all of their secrets to wrong people. Many could also die, the way Vythra did. But, not many could still come back.

           " Enough. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. It's... a pretty popular series. "

          Mor's head tipped back, golden hair shimmering in the faelight. " A series? " She echoed, half-incredulous, half-delighted, as if someone had just told her there were songs written about her favorite disaster.

          Contradictory emotions were written all over their faces. They tought she was mad and lying. 

          " Books. " Vythra explained, her fatigue turning sharp at the edges—acid. " More than one. Whole volumes. Don't worry—most people just draw you in compromising situations on the internet. No one actually believed you were real. "

          " Inter... net? " Cassian murmured, eyes narrowing as he tried to wrestle the word into sense. " Inter... like between...? "

          " Until you fell here," Amren observed, cutting off the warrior. 

          " Until I was thrown here, " Vythra corrected, meeting Amren's stare without flinching. " I didn't choose this. "

          " Who threw you? " Amren leaned forward just slightly, like a blade testing the space between ribs. Her eyes gleamed. " Who sent you? "

          " I don't know. I only know I was in my universe, in my body, dealing with my own... problems, and then I was in Thaibar. In an... oasis." Suddenly she felt naked. Not physically—she was covered, clean, wrapped in their fabric—but stripped anyway, like they could see the seams of her existence and were already picking at them.

          Rhysand folded his fingers, then glanced at Amren—his second, his shadow of authority—as if they were conspiring against the entire world with a single look. " We'll circle back to that later. Let's return to something more... immediate. The monsters that attacked you in the forest. Who sent them? "

         The dream flashed behind Vythra's eyes: red armor, a sword that threw sparks. That voice— Take her alive. She inhaled sharply. " I don't know who they are. But they're not mine. "

          " But they want you. " Feyre said plainly, no softness to cushion it. Just truth placed on the table.

          " I guess so. " Vythra pressed her heel into the floor to keep herself from fidgeting, from showing how the word made her stomach tighten. " Which, honestly, seems to be a recurring theme. "

          " And what are you, " Mor asked, head tipped as if she were studying a new story she hadn't decided whether to enjoy yet, " that so many want to catch you? "

          " Tired. " Vythra answered. " Very tired. "

          Cassian rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. " Just tell them you're a witch already. Three of us witnessed what you did with the forest. "

          " If you're implying I summoned creatures to hunt me, bite me, and poison me, " Vythra snapped, " then yes—absolutely. I called them to save me from your thrilling, impending, impossible lecture. "

Rhysand didn't smile. " You said, " he continued slowly, voice softening into something far more dangerous than shouting, " that you knew what was coming. That we'd drag you here, that I'd—your words—'play peekaboo in your mind,' and that the others would 'fly around me like two obedient bees and get honey if they behaved.' "

          " I'm sorry. " Vythra said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. Her eyes stayed on Rhysand's. " That's what I read. "

          Rhysand's expression darkened—though at the corner of his mouth, an almost microscopic smile still toyed with the air, like he couldn't help himself. " Then you also know what I can do. How I can step into someone's mind. How I can break, remake, manipulate. " His violet gaze sharpened, landing like a pin. " You know things about my wife that many in this world couldn't possibly know. About her sisters. About our wars. About... the bonds between us. "

          " I know enough. " Vythra confirmed. " And no. I'm not reciting spoilers to you. " A dry breath left her nose—too close to a laugh, too close to a snarl. " I already have enough people who want me dead. I'm not about to ruin your timeline on top of it. "

          " Timeline. " Amren repeated, as if tasting a suspicious wine.

          " Events. " Vythra translated, flat. " If I tell you too much, I change the future. And however tempting it would be to avoid certain... events—we might break something more important. "

          " A witch with a sense of responsibility. " Morrigan murmured. " How sweet. "

          Cassian hummed his agreement a little too fast, a little too eager—like he'd always approve whatever Mor said just because it was Mor.

          Vythra's mouth twisted. Maybe Eris had a point about that weird Illyrian vice of—

          Nesta cut in, ice to the throat. " You could be lying. Inventing some prophecy. Playing us like fools. "

          Vythra met her stare head-on, unblinking. " Yes. I could. " Her voice stayed steady even as her pulse tried to claw up her neck. " Wouldn't be the first time I lied to survive. "

          Then Azriel spoke. " You were telling me about Rosehall. " The room shifted around those words—like someone had adjusted the weight of the world. No one interrupted him. Even Mor's smile softened into attention. Even Amren's predatory stillness sharpened. " Before you stabbed me in the leg. " He added, almost as an afterthought. 

          Vythra felt sweat slip down her spine, cold and thin. Regret hit her hard—sharp enough to taste. Why did I ever open my mouth. She felt him move—not hurried, not aggressive. Controlled. The way a storm approaches: slow, inevitable. The edge of the rug marked a boundary like a ring of salt, and she sensed him stepping closer to it, his shadow swallowing hers.

          " You said someone important hides there. " Azriel continued. " That she treated your wounds. " His amber eyes didn't blink. " Tell me exactly. When. How you got there. What she did. " It wasn't a question. 

          " The truth is: I don't know who your mother is. I've never met her. "

          Mor lifted her other brow, faintly—then nodded once at Azriel, as if granting him the right to continue carving.

          " I died in Thaibar. " Vythra went on, voice tighter now. " I was... shattered. My soul wasn't clinging to anything. " She swallowed, and for a second the room blurred around the edges. " I woke up at Rosehall. A woman washed the blood off me. Wrapped my injuries. Prayed over my head for days. Fed me soup that was too salty... " A small, unwilling smile slipped into the corner of her mouth. Nostalgia. A weakness she didn't like showing. " She gave me this name. Vythra. " Her gaze drifted, just for a heartbeat, somewhere far away. " She said you can't start a new life with the same name you died with. "

          But something in his eyes... shifted. Not warmth. Not mercy. Something worse—something human. " If you never met her, how did you know where my mother is? "

          Vythra's spine stiffened. She forced her chin up. " I told you. I read. " A short pause, the kind that stung. " In my world. " Her arteries throbbed again—like someone had poured an elixir into her blood that made it harder to dodge, harder to soften anything.

          Cassian tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a brief second, like the conversation physically pained him. Rhysand bit the inside of his cheek, expression carefully neutral.

          " Beautiful. " Amren said at last. " So we have a mortal from another world with access to an... edited version of us. Who lived and died in enemy territory, woke in Rosehall, and is now hunted by smoke-made beasts. " Her gaze dragged over Vythra like she was inventory. " And for dessert—she carries a kind of magic even I haven't seen. With the delightful possibility that it's something... malignant. "

          Rhysand's gaze pinned her—sharp, violet, suddenly real in a way it hadn't been a minute ago. " How many others know about you? " he asked, and for the first time the tension bled openly into his voice. " About what you carry. About the power in you. "

          Vythra answered too fast—like the word had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for days, waiting to be ripped out. " Nimue. And maybe two or three more. Not many. " Her mouth pulled into something bitter. " The rest think I'm insane. "

          A rope wrapped aroung her tongue, wanting to get that other name out: Eris. Eris might be another person that suspected something. But she couldn't drag him in this too, knowing no one here tolerated him, either.

          " Nimue. " Rhys repeated, already drawing invisible lines between points. His fingers flexed once on the wood. " I've never heard of her. "

          " Of course you haven't. " Vythra lifted her brows, the expression practiced—sharp enough to look brave, desperate enough to be true. " And you probably haven't heard of Sorscha or Malou either. " Vythra leaned into it anyway, because she'd learned the hard way that silence got you killed faster than arrogance. " Because they didn't exist in your world before I fell into it. They weren't in the books. They weren't supposed to exist. "

          The room tightened around that statement. If her simple existence here could delete or bring into existence people, she might be more dangerous than they anticipated.

          " And those last two helped you slipped into my territory and stole the daggers. Yes? Who are these women? "

          " I don't— " Vythra started, and swallowed hard, the acid of it burning up the back of her throat. " Malou is— and Sorscha— " Her good arm hugged the lining of her sleeve as if she could physically hold her insides in place.

          Then Morrigan moved. Not even dramatically—just a subtle flex of her fingers on the table, like she was adjusting a ring. Like she was loosening a knot. And something inside Vythra unspooled. A hidden tap twisting open. Words trying to crawl out of her mouth against her will. Her teeth snapped down. Vythra bit Morrigan's imaginary knuckles—hard. She tasted blood and copper and rage.

          Mor's power still brushed at her throat. Vythra lifted her head slowly. Her eyes flashed—green, ugly with warning. Mor's expression flickered, a hairline crack in the mask. She yanked her hand back from the table as if she'd been burned.

          Rhys's head turned, fast. Shock cut through his calm for half a beat.

          Vythra didn't give them time to speak. " Do that again and next time you'll leave this room without fingers. "

          Mor's gaze sharpened into something mean. " Excuse me? "

          Misty—bored of their tension, bored of their posturing—leapt onto the table like she owned it. Because she did. The House clearly agreed. She padded straight toward Rhysand first, tail high, ignoring the concept of personal space with regal contempt. She sniffed him thoroughly—once at his sleeve, once at his hand, once at the air near his throat as if deciding whether he was edible.

          Then she turned and sauntered toward Mor. Misty leaned in—and sneezed right in her direction. Mor's face tightened, offended on a spiritual level.

          " That doesn't work. " Rhysand said finally, shifting his weight. " She's not focusing well on what matters and she didn't give us anything. "

          " You're upset she won't tell you everything on the first meeting? " Amren drawled, eyes bright with mean delight. 

          " I'm saying there are too many... variables. " Rhys's tone stayed controlled, but the edge was back now—knife-thin. " I'm not putting holes in her mind in front of an audience. And I'm not discussing the future of my Court in the middle of my sitting room. " His gaze returned to Vythra like a hook finding skin. " We continue in my office. " He announced, and the word office sounded suddenly like a cell dressed in velvet. " Only those who need to be there. The rest— "

          " I'm not going anywhere. " Nesta cut in. " I was there. I saw what she did. I'm staying. "

          Rhys weighed them for a heartbeat, then he exhaled through his nose. " Only Azriel. Cassian and Amren. " His eyes flicked briefly to the others—Feyre, Mor—an unspoken later. " This has already been discussed in detail with them. Too many voices will muddy it. "

          Vythra's stomach dipped as the room began to move, decisions clicking into place without her consent. She trembled—not visibly enough to satisfy them, but enough that she felt it in her bones. She was being carried again. Not by hands this time—by authority.

          Mor lifted both hands theatrically, brows arched. " You're throwing me out? Charming. "

          Misty yawned widely, showing teeth, and curled her tail around Vythra's wrist like a warning bracelet.

          And Rhysand—still watching Vythra like she was an equation he intended to solve—tilted his head. " Get up. " 

          The House heard it. The air heard it. Vythra's spine heard it. And somewhere deep in her chest, that invisible chain gave a small, anticipatory hum—like it knew exactly what door they were walking toward next.

          " I want at most one extra person making inappropriate jokes. " Rhys said flatly. " The rest of you are just distractions. "

          Mor twirled her glass between two fingers, a slow, wicked dance. " Fine. But if it ends in blood, I want details. "

          " There won't be any blood. " Feyre cut in, sudden and firm, her tone slipping effortlessly into High Lady. " We're not doing things the... old way. "

          Rhys straightened, smoothing a hand through his hair. " Of course not. "

          Vythra's stomach rolled, a cold wave cresting under her ribs. " And if I refuse? "

          Rhysand held her gaze without blinking. " Then you remain a dangerous enigma—one who knows far too much about us, who is being hunted by creatures scenting your blood, and who wields a kind of magic no one here has ever seen. " His shrug was disturbingly casual. " And I'll be forced to treat you as a threat until I learn more. I dislike the idea. But I can. "

          She pushed herself slowly to her feet. Her knees ached, her spine crackled in protest. Misty hopped down from the table at once and trotted to her side, tail held high like a tiny black banner. " Fine. Let's go. You can finally see what you wrote without knowing you wrote it." She paused, letting her eyes drift over them—her supposed heroes. They weren't what she had imagined. Maybe she wasn't either.

          Then she followed Rhysand to his office, Misty pressed to her ankle, her heart battering against her ribs like a bird trapped in a gilded cage too beautiful to be real.

          Rhysand's office smelled faintly of ink and polished wood.

          The door closed behind them with a polite little click, entirely unsuited for what was about to unfold. The room wasn't large, but it had that luxurious-cage feeling: pale stone walls tamed by dark wooden panels, a towering bookcase in the corner overflowing with thick tomes, rolled maps, jars of sand, crystals, parchment. A massive black-wood desk claimed the space by the window, where a whole wall opened into the night—Velaris glittering below like a fallen constellation.

          On a side table waited a silver tray with wine, delicate glasses, and fruit sliced too beautifully to touch. A deep midnight-blue carpet swallowed their footsteps. The fireplace murmured, gold and warm, as though it had never witnessed interrogation of any kind.

          Vythra found herself guided—politely, almost tenderly—toward a solitary chair placed in the center. Not comfortable. Not uncomfortable. Perfectly calibrated to unsettle.

          Rhysand positioned himself on the corner of the desk, one hip resting against the carved wood, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked like he was lounging, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His violet eyes swept over her again, calculating.

          Cassian had taken up the opposite side of the desk, big arms crossed, wings tucked tight. He looked relaxed, but his gaze flicked constantly between Vythra, Rhys, and Azriel—measuring the air.

         Azriel stayed near the window, a shoulder propped against the stone. His earlier glass had vanished, as if he'd discarded every distraction for the role he was about to play. Shadows slid over his ankles, his wrists—restless. His gaze rose to meet Vythra's for a single heartbeat, the amber darkening.

          Misty curled at Vythra's feet, tail a stiff black line, eyes narrowing. The moment they stepped fully into the room, the cat's playful façade vanished. She wasn't toying anymore. This was serious.

          Vythra's mouth dried out. Still, she dragged her chair an inch closer to the center of the carpet, as if she were the one assessing them.

          " So... Vythra. " Rhysand began. " Or do you prefer another name? "

          " This one's the least revolting at the moment. " She replied, sitting down. Her back protested, but she refused to touch the chair's support. " Let's stick with it. "

          " Very well. Vythra, you're here because you're a problem. And—potentially—a solution. For us and for our world. I don't mean that as an insult. And considering the gaps in your memory—whether natural or... imposed—I'd like you to let me help us find the core of the truth. "

          Vythra didn't look impressed. Her brain was doing cartwheels inside her skull—half lucid, half muffled by whatever medicine still drifted through her blood. " I know you're not the bad guys. But you didn't exactly give 'good guys' either. You hunted me across continents, terrified me, and one of you actually managed to kill me. "

          " Yes, when you broke into the treasury of Hewn City. " Rhys reminded her, lifting a finger. " Let's not forget that part. I assume you know that what sleeps inside you has two faces: one benevolent, one catastrophic. When you stole the weapons and vanished, we feared you might become a Tiamat—that your witch-side had already tasted chaos magic and was being corrupted. Try to understand our perspective. "

          " Would've been easier to just ask. " Vythra muttered, shrugging. Amren hissed under her breath. " I know what a Tiamat is, and how someone ends up becoming one. But that thing you're all so afraid of—it's still asleep. "

          " Not entirely. " Cassian said. He had been silent until now, merely observing, but he placed one broad hand on Rhys's desk. " I saw how you controlled the forest. "

          " To save Nesta. " Vythra shot back.

          " How can you admit you've read about us, " Amren drawled from her seat, ruby ornaments clinking as she shifted, " and then accuse us of not simply asking whose side you're on, when you of all people should know the rules here. You have no idea what you're dealing with. "

          " Fine. Have it your way. Let's get to the terms and conditions, then. "

          " Term one: How did you break the barriers between worlds? "

          " Amren, you of all people should know the veil is already thinning by the second. I didn't break it. " Vythra said, glancing back at her. " I fell through an already existing hole. Big difference. One requires intent. The other just requires being unlucky enough. "

          " You're not just unlucky. " Amren narrowed her eyes. " You're an anomaly. You've died three times and you're still here. You've slipped in and out of the Court of Nightmares like it's a kitchen door. That's not just misfortune, girl. "

          " Maybe it's a talent. " Vythra lifted a brow. " Didn't exactly have time to add it to my résumé. "

          " We're not here to trade clever lines. " Rhysand scolded her. " We're here because I need to know what you are. Where you came from. Who else knows about it. And how much you threaten this world's balance. "

          " Love how you phrase it like you've never threatened anything in your lives. " Vythra sighed. " Pretty sure the Illyrians would disagree. " The silence that followed was heavy enough. Cassian's jaw locked. Azriel's wings went taut, tension shivering along the membranes in a barely-there tremor.

          " Let me into your mind. " Rhys's voice softened, somehow heavier for it. " Before you say no, understand this: I'm asking permission. I'm not taking it. And I won't touch you—won't touch anything—without it. " He pushed off the desk and stepped forward. Power trailed after him like a second shadow, deep midnight-blue and indigo, smelling of ozone, summer rain, and something bittersweet, like crushed cocoa beans warmed by the sun.

          Vythra's fingers dug into the arms of the chair. " And if I say no? "

         " Then it will take us longer to reach the same truths. " He said honestly. " Through questions. Pressure. Mistakes. We don't have that kind of time. Neither do you. "

          " In translation, " Amren added, " either you let him in, or we will be forced to become... less polite. "

          " Can't wait to see the 'less polite' version. I thought we already did the full tour. " Breathe. In. Out. Her lungs burned like they were lined with ash.

          Azriel's eyes flicked to her, quick. A silent warning: don't push too far.

          " Fine. " She said at last. " But listen very carefully to me, High Lord. " She locked her gaze with his. " Do not force the locked doors. If they're closed, they're closed for a reason. Some things, once you see them, can't be unseen. And they will change what comes next. Not in a way you're going to enjoy. " She thought, sharply, of Feyre—of how, by now, there should have been a child forming quietly under her ribs. But there wasn't. That thread of the future had to be guarded at any cost.

          " You're asking me to be gentle. " Rhys said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small, rueful smile. " Not my most natural talent. "

         " I'm asking you not to be an idiot. " She shot back. " You need me. There's no point in detonating the bomb before you've used it. "

          Rhys exhaled, a short breath that felt like him drawing every frayed edge of his power inward. " Then I'll warn you: this is going to sting. " He came closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the whisper of his breath, wine-soft and threaded with something darker. He raised one hand, holding it a few inches from her temple, fingers steady. " May I? " He asked again.

          Vythra drew in a slow breath. Misty gave a low, disgruntled growl at her feet. " Go in. But if you get lost in there, I'm not coming to find you. "

          His power descended. Not like an explosion. Like a cold, lucid tide rising around her ankles, then her calves, then her thighs. She felt it seep beneath her skin, slide along the back of her neck, press into her sternum, slip through places inside herself she hadn't known existed. The scent of storm air—of sky just before the rain breaks—flooded her senses. The edges of the room blurred. Voices thinned, stretched, faded.

          By the time she realized she wasn't sitting in the chair anymore—that she was suspended somewhere between—it was already too late. Her mind was not a neat corridor of doors and drawers.

          It was a burned field. The sky overhead was the color of old blood, dried and flaking: a tired, crusted red. In the center rose a structure of bones—a warped city made of skeletons, ribs arched into bridges and gates, spines twisted into stairways, skulls stacked into domes that leered without eyes. Every step crunched on shards of something that had once been whole.

          Rhysand felt it like a punch to the chest. This wasn't just memory. This was impact fossilized into landscape. Fear, death, survival—all hammered so deep they'd turned into architecture. There, at the core of it all, he sensed it: a mark burned into the very air. A name without letters, a place without geography. But his mind supplied one anyway. Thaibar. Etched so deep into her that the world inside her skull had rearranged itself around it.

          He perceived her two ways at once: the woman sitting stiff in the chair, knuckles white on the armrests, and the echo of her that had walked these bone-bridges, bled on this scorched soil. Her thoughts fluttered against his power like moths against glass. Her shame, her fury, the stubborn, exhausted refusal to break—he felt it all, raw and unfiltered, brushing against him, testing him.

         Vythra felt that perception like hands on glass—like someone reading not just her memories, but the grooves they'd carved into her. She felt violated, stripped bare under that violet gaze that now saw too much. But she did not pull him out. She let the violet current of his magic move further, deeper, skimming the edges of what she'd sworn to hide, of futures tangled like threads in the dark. She held the doors open with everything she had, even as she allowed him to walk the wasteland.

          Deeper into the field of bones. Closer to the thing that slept beneath it. At the edge of the burned field, the world thickened. A mass of shadows waited there—presences without faces, without names. One shape resolved into a woman hanging from nothing, neck bent at an impossible angle. Another stood eyeless, dark hollows where sight should have been, staring at him with a gaze he could somehow feel. Behind them, a farmhouse burned, flames eating through wood, roof collapsing in a shower of embers.

          Then her hands—Vythra's hands—closed around a dagger, squeezing it deeper in that stranger's heart. Nails breaking skin. The girl's mouth opened in a soundless scream as her legs kicked, as the light left her eyes. Figures stood around her, one disfigured, wearing a crown, one with long, black hair, holding a hammer.

          Rhysand didn't know any of them. He didn't know their names, their stories, their worlds. But he felt Vythra's horror. Felt her guilt pour through the memory and into him, hot and curdled, as if he were the one with blood on his hands. As if the weight of that body had dragged down his own wrists.

          He pushed on. The circle of scorched earth broke, and he crossed its boundary as if stepping through a ring of fire. The landscape snapped and shifted. He found himself in a strange room, four walls wrapped around objects he didn't recognize—smooth boxes that hummed faintly, thin glowing panes, cables coiled like snakes. It was a world that made no sense to his Illyrian instincts.

          On the table, a cat stretched lazily, swatting at a frozen fly caught mid-air. Time here had snagged; dust motes hung suspended like tiny constellations. And in the center of that stillness, a creature held Vythra's face between long, pale claws.

          Rhys saw the angle of her jaw, the way those talons dug into her skin, drawing lines that would become the scars she still wore in the waking world. Her eyes were wide, wild, desperate. The being's features blurred and wrong, as if reality itself refused to give it a clear outline.

          Samael, the thought flashed through his mind. Quick as a knife. A name wrapped in cold. The room vanished as the floor gave out under him.

           He fell through torn skies. Through worlds layered atop one another like the soggy, stuck pages of a ruined book. Each time he passed through one, he caught only fragments: a city of metal and glass, lit by cold, artificial stars; a field under three pale moons, grass glowing faintly blue; a black tower wrapped in fog, windows like watching eyes. Whenever his mind tried to name them—whenever a voice from the outside world tried to pin a label—something ripped the word away, leaving a bitter taste of lost behind.

           Once. Twice. Ten times. Her name was lost. A scream. A flash of light. Impact. Thaibar, again. He glimpsed the oasis first: turquoise water, palms swaying, sun like molten gold overhead. Peace, for a heartbeat. A white deer watching her sleep. A hand that was offering an evanescent family.

          Cyan. The girl named her.

          Then the trauma came roaring back like a tidal wave of ice. Blades. Smoke. Screams shredding the air. The scene fractured into splinters—steel flashing, bodies falling, magic roaring loose. He saw a prison, stone slick with damp, and felt Vythra's power recoil when two silhouettes descended into the dark, searching for someone. 

          He watched Vythra die. Lungs filling with blood, each breath a drowning. The cold of the stone pressing against her cheek. The chain hooked somewhere deep in her chest yanked her backward, away from the dark, away from rest. Pain—raw, white, vast.

          Rhysand braced, but it still slammed into him. Through the filter of his own power he felt it: what it was to die and be dragged back again, like being ripped from a dreamless sleep by hands that did not care if they broke you in the process. What it was to not want to return.

          Niven. Niven. Niven. The name hammered against his temples, pulsing, relentless. For a moment he felt himself tipping, sliding into a spiral of madness—down, down, where nothing made sense and everything hurt.

          Then the current wrenched him away. He rose above an ocean, saw a ship rolling under black waves, lightning carving the sky. Another flicker: Rosehall, looming like a memory that didn't belong to him. A monastery corridor, cool and dim, a woman's hands deftly wrapping bandages around torn flesh. Warmth. The clean sting of herbs.

          A door slammed in his face. You're not allowed here. Vythra's voice boomed inside his head, echoing through his own skull. He flinched—not in body, but in mind—realizing that even here, inside her, she still held some lines he could not cross.

          The world shuddered and lurched again.

          War. The clash of steel and stone. The brutal, grinding conflict of the dverg people, sparks flying from their hammers like tiny stars. A cabin crouched in a forest, smoke curling from its chimney. Malou laughing with a cruel, bright delight. Sorscha sighing, tired down to the bone. Training in a courtyard: sweat, rain, blood mingled in the dirt. A dark presence trying to take over her mind and soul, chanting for her, calling after her. Vythra falling. Getting up. Falling again. Running like a lunatic through Hewn City's streets, shadows and marble and fear pounding in her chest.

          A roofline, sharp against the night. A figure made of shadow perched on the tiles, cloaked in darkness that hissed and curled. Azriel. He felt her terror. Then Vythra died again—this time choking on poison, her body convulsing, agony searing through every nerve as her muscles locked and spasmed. Her vision narrowed, then went white.

          Rhysand moved through all of it as an intruder, boots sinking into the mud of her memories. He'd expected to find fear of him here. Maybe awe. Maybe that twisted sort of reverence people sometimes developed for their own executioners. He'd half-prepared himself to see his own face, crowned and terrible, reflected in her nightmares.

          Instead, he found disgust. Bone-deep exhaustion. A bitter, splintered irony. Longing for her home. Regret after a lost lover. And beneath it all, a ragged, stubborn love—shredded, but still alive—for too many worlds that had never fully wanted her. Worlds that had used her, then cast her out like a stray. Hate towards a father figure and hope to find another mother figure.

          He tried to go deeper. The shattered landscapes drew inward, folding in on themselves. In their place rose a short corridor, walls smooth and pale, stretching just a little way ahead. Doors lined both sides: some white, some black, some banded in iron or scratched and splintered. A few stood barely ajar. Most were locked tight, swaddled in chains of light and shadow.

          As he passed them, he saw white coats, weird cities, unknown people. He knew—instinctively—that everything essential was behind the locked ones.

          His power reshaped itself, fingers made of dark starlight reaching toward a door that pulsed faintly. The wood was carved with a familiar sigil: the symbol of the Night Court, cracked straight through the center.

          Not there. Vythra's voice rippled through the corridor, warping the space. I told you not—

          But curiosity, and that old, poisonous need for control, and his fear for his people—all of it converged. He pushed. The door creaked open a sliver. That was all it took. Feyre. The River House. A fire roaring in the hearth. Feyre sitting in an armchair, a plain dress falling over her legs, one hand resting on her stomach. Round. Full. Pregnant. She smiled with a kind of quiet he had rarely seen in their world. A fragile, impossible peace.

           The vision blew apart. I SAID NO.

           The word wasn't shouted—it erupted. The door slammed with a force that wasn't his. All the doors in the corridor crashed shut at once, the sound reverberating through the entire mental landscape. The chain in Vythra's chest snapped taut and lashed outward, striking him like a whip made of fire.

            His power was ripped free of its hold, torn out of her mind and hurled back into his own. The link shattered. They came back almost in the same heartbeat.

            Rhysand staggered half a step backward, sucking in air like someone had kicked him in the ribs. His hand still hovered in the air where her temple had been, fingers trembling. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing most of the violet. He reached, almost unconsciously, for his throat, as if an invisible hand still gripped it.

           Vythra was rigid in the chair, as if a bolt of lightning had gone through her. Her breathing came in harsh, broken gasps. Sweat slicked her skin, darkening the hair pasted to her temples. Her green eyes glowed, almost fluorescent in the low light.

          Misty was perched on her chest, fur standing on end, tail bottle-brushed. The cat hissed at each of them in turn, a warning in every sharp exhale. A thin trickle of blood slid from Vythra's nose, cutting a red line down to her lip. " I warned you. " Vythra rasped, voice shredded. " I told you not to open locked doors. "

          " What did you do? " Amren was already on her feet, metallic eyes narrowed to slits. The edges of her power sharpened the air. " What did you show him? "

          " What he chose to see. " Vythra spat back. " But now he won't see exactly that in reality. Congratulations, High Lord. You just changed the path. Proud of yourself? "

          Rhysand tried to speak. Nothing came out. His jaw flexed, his throat worked, but the words—those words, the ones about what he'd seen—jammed somewhere below his vocal cords. Pressure built there, a tight, burning knot. He could feel the shape of the knowledge, but it would not pass his lips. His gaze slid to Vythra. Shock. Frustration. And beneath both, a thin, undeniable vein of real fear—not for himself, but for what this restriction meant.

          " You're not allowed to say it. " She said quietly, as if simply naming a law that already existed. " To anyone. At any time. If you try, it's going to hurt. I'm done watching timelines shatter because you lot don't know how to respect boundaries. "

            " What did you do to him? " Amren all but growled. " You can't bind the tongue of a High Lord— "

          " I'm not the one at fault here. If he saw clearly, the thing that brought me here forbids us to do that. " Vythra shrugged with one shoulder, though her bandaged hand trembled. " I didn't write the rules. I just keep getting thrown into them. And dying in them. Repeatedly. "

          " You've broken the balance. " Amren hissed, taking a step closer. Her power coiled, heavy and hot in the air. " You tore the veil and fell on top of us, dragging that infernal power and the things behind it into our world. Now you dare to tie our hands— "

           " I broke the balance? " Vythra laughed once, a short, empty bark. " You hunted a mortal across worlds. You killed her three times. You sent beasts and spies, made bargains to drag her here dead or alive. And I'm the problem? Really? "

          Cassian shifted. Not into a fighter's stance—not toward her—but a small step to the side, like he needed to feel the ground under his feet again. His eyes were glazed with something that wasn't quite shock, wasn't quite horror. He'd seen enough of Rhys's reaction to know this wasn't normal, not even for them.

          Azriel remained in his corner, but the shadows had lost their neat discipline. They coiled around his boots, climbed his calves, quivering. They'd tasted her panic, her defiance, the holy wrongness of what had just happened and didn't know whether to attack or protect. They clung to him like restless dogs, ears pricked, teeth bared.

          " You went rifling through my mind and expected to find what? " Vythra went on, her voice rising, rough around the edges. " Admiration? Devotion? 'Wow, what heroes you are, thank you so much for killing me and dragging me here'? The things you saw there, " she continued, the power in her belly humming so hard the air seemed to vibrate with it, " those were lives where I fought for other people. Died for other people. Hoped for other people. And every single world spat me out like a sick animal. You were just the last ones. With wings. "

          Rhysand was staring at her now with no mask left. Not the charming High Lord, not the cool strategist. Just a male who had lost control of the board. Exhausted. Furious. Shaken by her, by her power, by Samael, by the realization that he could not simply bend this to his will.

          " And let's be very clear. " Vythra said, her voice dropping into something calm and deadly. " I don't owe you anything. Not you, not your world. If I wanted, I could let this planet choke on its own ashes. Burn, fall, tear itself apart. I don't give a flying fuck for what will happen to you. "

          Azriel tensed, bracing for the line he knew would follow. The one he'd already seen forming in her eyes.

          " I have nothing here. Nothing to lose. Nothing to fight for. Nothing to love. The only ones who've had the decency to treat me as more than a tool are two exiled women and a cat. The rest of you... you want power. You want what you can rip out of me. You want a winning edge if war comes knocking. " Vythra looked at each of them in turn. Her eyes blazed now, bright green glass held over open flame.

          " So let's set this straight from the beginning. I'm not your hero. I'm not your soldier. I'm not your cosmic toy. I'll fight for the only side that has anything real to offer me. " Her chin lifted.  " I'll fight for whoever sends me home. " She finished. " If you want my loyalty... make a better offer than that. "

          Silence fell. Heavy. Thick. The sort of silence that made even the fire in the hearth seem to hesitate.

          " Go to your room. " Rhysand ordered at last. The command cracked through the air. Vythra shoved herself to her feet so fast the chair crashed backward, hitting the floor with a sharp smack. She didn't look back as she left, Misty clinging to her like a shadow with claws. The door slammed behind her, leaving the others alone in the office. " The rest of you—get out. Get the fuck out! " Rhys roared, every inch of the House shuddering with the force of it. No one argued. They filed out, silent, the room suddenly too small for all that frayed power.

          Before Azriel could cross the threshold, Rhysand's hand snapped out, closing harshly around his arm. " I want to have a word with you. " 

!CHAPTER NOT EDITED!

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

To the woman he had killed

          Rhysand's Adam's apple hitched in his throat once, twice, a third time as he tried to swallow the dryness that had settled thick on his tongue. The image looped in his mind with cruel insistence: that hearth, that chair, Feyre curled there—pregnant, glowing—until the imagined fire felt like it was scorching him from the inside out.

          Could it be real?

          Or had that witch simply dragged one of his rawest, oldest wants to the surface and dressed it in color, the way the Bone Carver had once done in that forgotten prison?

          Feyre had told him the Carver had worn the face of their son—or what she'd believed was their son. Now fear and longing were clicking neatly into place, lining up with vicious logic... but at what price? The woman had warned him not to force the locked doors, and he'd done exactly that. His reward might very well be this: that he'd just cursed himself never to receive that gift. Never to share that quiet, impossible joy with his mate.

          The hope he'd glimpsed no longer felt like a promise. It felt thin now. Brittle. 

          Rhysand's Spymaster, the only one the High Lord ordered to stay, sat in the far corner of the office. He sat by the hearth where, now and then, a tongue of red flame licked up and threw light across half his face—the sharp line of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the faint hollows beneath his eyes. The other half stayed buried in shadow, as if the light refused to claim him fully. His wings were folded with military precision, his body apparently at ease—but the ease was a lie. His spine was a drawn bow. His hands were loose only because he'd ordered them to be. He said nothing—he almost never needed words—but impatience hummed under his skin, a low current. 

          Azriel needed to know why he had kept him back. Especially after what happened while he tried to seek the truth in that woman's head. It had to be something to do with what he saw and terrified him so.

          In his own head, he could already guess. The thought slid in cold and unwelcome, fingers closing around his ribs. One of his shadows shot up his leg and twined around his chest, as if it could take the hit for him when it came. As if it knew a blow was coming.

         The High Lord didn't turn. He stood with his back towards his brother, framed by the window, a tall dark cutout against the scatter of Velaris's lights. His shoulders were held too straight, as if he were physically holding the night in place. The thin black shirt he wore pulled faintly across his back when he breathed, inked swirls of Illyrian markings just visible at his wrists where the sleeves had been shoved up, careless. His hair—dark as the sky beyond—was slightly mussed at the nape, the way it always was when he'd dragged his hands through it one time too many.

          Azriel knew better. The tight line of his shoulders gave him away. From this angle, though, Rhysand looked a little too much like his father—same rigid spine, same brittle stillness, same anger for everything that was around. After so many years in their service, first the High Lord and then his heir, Azriel had learned to read them both—father and son—as easily as an open book.

         " Lock it. " The order slipped out like a hush as he tossed back the last mouthful of liquor in his glass. The soft click of crystal on wood sounded too loud in the quiet. " I want to tell you something—just you. "

         Azriel's shadows obeyed before he moved a single muscle. They slipped to the doorframe like snakes hunting for something to steady their hunger. The wards woke with a faint, intricate murmur: old magic clicking into place over the wood like invisible frost. A near-silent vibration spread through the room—too fine for human hearing, sharp enough to grate against fae senses.

          The air drew in. Thickened. Sealed. Only then did Rhysand bowed his head and allowed himself to take a deep breath in as he turned from the window.

          The firelight caught him at the wrong angle, gathering penumbra in the holes of his cheekbones and turning his violet eyes into something darker, like poison pooled in amethyst. A smile tried to rise out of habit, the old mask reaching for its place... and then it died halfway, collapsing into a thin, humorless line. His hand lingered on the back of the chair nearest the desk as if he needed the wood to remind him he was still in a room and not trapped again under the mountain.

          " You felt it...? " He meant it to sound casual. It didn't. The question hung between them like a blade suspended by a thread. His brows lifted on instinct, but the movement only emphasized the new lines scored into his forehead—worry wearing itself into something permanent. 

          The Shadowsinger didn't blink. His frown deepened—subtle, but significant on a face that rarely betrayed anything. He stayed perfectly still, yet the dark blue tunic he'd chosen for the evening pulled faintly across his chest with his next breath, the fabric suddenly too thin to hide the anxiety underneath.

          He slid his hands behind his lower back, clasping one wrist in the other. Then he widened his stance by an inch, grounding himself the way an Illyrian did before impact. " Yes. "

          He had felt it—the exact instant Vythra's power moved. Not like ordinary magic, not like a spell cast or a shield raised. It was something that lived deeper, coiled under her skin like a dormant storm. 

          When Rhysand reached for her mind, Azriel felt his High Lord's power slide out—smooth and precise, a dark velvet tide edged with steel, the kind that didn't force so much as persuade the world to obey. It carried that unmistakable Night Court signature: cold starlight, thunder-on-the-horizon, elegant control.

          For half a heartbeat, Vythra's mind gave—like a door yielding a fraction under steady pressure. Then her power snapped awake.

          Azriel felt it as a sudden yank in the air, a clean, invisible crack that made his shadows flinch as if someone had struck a tuning fork inside their bones. Vythra's magic wasn't velvet. It was not smooth or courtly. It was raw, bright-edged, and wrong in the way a new law of physics would be wrong—something that didn't belong in Prythian and didn't care that it didn't belong.

          It didn't push Rhys out. It rejected him. Rhysand's power hit an unseen boundary and rebounded, spat back with violence—as if her magic had teeth. His own shadows cinched closer, agitated and protective, tasting the impact and hating it—hating how something could deny a High Lord so completely.

          For the first time in a long time, Azriel felt his power hesitate. Not fear, exactly. More like... uncertainty. Like his shadows had reached for a familiar shape and found empty air where it should have been, the rules shifting under their feet.

          The House had reacted too—timbers settling, flames flaring and dipping, the whole room subtly rebalancing as if it had watched its master stumble and didn't know whether to catch him or get out of the way.

          Azriel had been studying Vythra long before that moment, though, in silence.

          From the instant Madja had brought her in, he'd tracked her without a word. Not interest, he told himself, not curiosity. Just the old reflex that never died: count exits, measure weaknesses, catalogue lies. Vythra had stood among them like an error dressed in their world—bandaged arm, spine too straight, mouth still holding the edge of insolence, as if she hadn't been bitten by a nightmare with too many teeth only days earlier.

          His shadows had hated her and her tiny beast. And they'd been drawn to her anyway—circling at the edge of her space, bristling, leaning in, as if she carried something they recognized and didn't trust.

          Under the sarcasm—beneath the rolled eyes and those sharp little retorts meant to keep everyone at arm's length—Azriel saw the thing that irritated him on a nearly physical level: stubbornness with teeth, fiery and unyielding. It didn't soften when she was surrounded, didn't flicker when she was weighed and measured like a weapon laid out on a table. Her gaze didn't ask for acceptance. It didn't plead for mercy. It simply made space for itself in the room and dared anyone to try and take it back.

          Because, as she'd said, here she had nothing to lose—and nothing worth winning. This wasn't her home. And that kind of emptiness was dangerous in its own right. This world had been cruel to her and she was the other side of the same coin, only worse. This side could mean their damnation.

          While Rhysand and Amren hammered questions into her like nails, Azriel didn't listen only to the answers. He listened to what clung to them. The pauses that ran a fraction too long, the half-breath held and then released. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when a lie rose too fast and she forced it down before it could escape. The tight curl of her fingers into the fabric of her skirt—knuckles blanching—whenever they pushed too near something she didn't want touched. The way her face stayed almost perfectly neutral while, underneath, something hot and feral boiled and snapped at the inside of her ribs.

          He'd mapped rhythms like this in battlefields and interrogation rooms, beside enemies and allies alike. Now he mapped them on her—and he didn't like what those patterns were beginning to spell.

          Across the office, Rhys's fingers flexed on the edge of the desk. The wood creaked softly beneath the pressure, the sound swallowed by the fire's low crackle. He still looked composed from a distance—every inch the High Lord—yet the Shadowsinger could feel the strain in the room like a fine wire pulled tight.

          Rhysand could still hear her voice, that furious vibration that had slammed through her mind and into his: I warned you not to force the locked doors.

          He kept his tone light only so it wouldn't tremble. " Tell me what you felt. "

          Azriel's gaze flicked once to Rhys's hands—bloodless knuckles, the tendons in his wrists standing out, tension written into the angle of his shoulders. Then his eyes climbed back to his royal features. " When you pushed too hard, " Azriel said, voice clinical, almost bored on the surface—because sounding indifferent was safer than sounding anything else, " her mind turned on you. Like a... trap. "

          For a heartbeat, Azriel saw something in Rhys's expression he almost never saw: pure, empty shock. As if someone had torn the High Lord's mask clean off and left only the male beneath—bare, blinking, and human in a way that didn't belong on Rhysand.

          In that same second, the chain in Azriel's chest jerked tight—then thrashed, rabid, furious, as if it wanted to tear itself free of bone and breath. A longing that had no name. Where are you? The instinct in him snarled at the empty space where his feelings were supposed to be—at that endless void that never answered back.

          Not pain—something worse. A claw pressing into his heart from the inside. A single, absolute no driven straight into his nerves. His lungs forgot how to work for a moment; breath caught halfway in, useless. His jaw locked. His spine went even straighter, every muscle snapping into soldier-perfect alignment so nothing would show on his face.

          He didn't know why. He didn't know from where. He only knew that the squeeze hadn't come from Rhys, or Amren, or any magic he recognized. It had risen from somewhere inside his own body, an instinct that felt new—like a reflex he'd never trained, and didn't trust.

          A problem, Azriel thought, flat and unwelcome, that I'm going to have to solve soon.

          If it was some kind of curse, Azriel could ask Amren. The thought made his molars grind.

         He hated owing anything to a creature that had once fed on blood and worlds. Amren never gave without taking. And lately, Azriel had been living on borrowed time and borrowed favors—collecting bruises from every direction, smiling through them because that was what he did best.

          Rhysand exhaled through his nose. " Yes, " he said quietly, " I noticed that too. "

          Azriel's shadows cinched tighter around his wrists, restless—tasting his unease like hounds that didn't fully trust the hand holding their leash.

          Rhys leaned back against the desk and folded his arms, as if rearranging his body could rearrange reality. It didn't. The thing he'd seen still sat between them—heavy, sharp-edged, impossible to swallow.

          So he let the silence remain. Let it stand there like a third presence in the room. An intruder that neither of them could kill.

          His office—dark, expensive, too beautiful to be entirely honest—glimmered in the firelight. The old wood of the bookcases smelled of resin and ink, of years spent watching secrets rot into strategy. The fireplace cracked now and then, one ember popping softly, as if even the flames were holding their breath.

          The House of Wind listened. It always listened.

          Azriel took his place near the hearth, in a corner where the shadows made him look less like a living male and more like part of the stone itself. Wings folded with military precision. Hands loose and visible at his sides—false ease, the kind a blade had when it stayed in its sheath out of courtesy, not mercy. Firelight slid over his cheekbones, caught the hard line of his jaw, then dipped into the hollow beneath his eyes where exhaustion always managed to hide.

          " May I ask what you saw? " Azriel said at last. His voice was calm. Almost polite. He even lifted his angular chin with that quiet, effortless grace—as if he were asking for a glass of water, not for the truth that had just detonated behind Rhysand's eyes.

            The man's mouth twitched like it wanted to become a smile out of habit. It failed. He stared at the fire instead, at the steady gold of it, like flames were simpler than futures. " Something I had no right to see. " He said finally. The words came out too even, no cadescence in them. " And something I may have just ensured won't happen. "

            Azriel's brows drew together a fraction. That was the closest he got to alarm. " How so? "

           Rhysand's fingers flexed on his forearm where he'd crossed his arms—one slow squeeze, like he could press the memory out through his skin. " Because I pushed. "

          " You said a name. In there. In her head. "

          His eyes flicked up—violet darkening. " Samael. "  The House seemed to pause around them, the fire popping once, then settling. " I saw... a place. " He continued, choosing each word like it might cut him. " A room that wasn't Prythian. Not any world I know. And something in it—something that held her life in its hands like it owned it. " His jaw tightened. " She signed with her name and blood—handing them over like they were nothing. As if she didn't know that in sorcery, a name is a key and blood is consent. "

          " That's why she can't remember it anymore. " 

          " That thing is a jailer. A maker. I don't know which—yet. " His eyes lowered, violet gone almost black. " But it sent her here deliberately. And if it could reach her across the veil even once... then it's powerful enough to do it again. "

          " And the future she showed you? "

          Rhysand's lips pressed into a line. For a moment, he looked less like a High Lord and more like a male with a fist around his own throat. " I saw Feyre. " He barely admitted. " I saw her... pregnant. "

          Azriel's stillness turned absolute.

          Rhys let out a slow breath through his nose, controlled to the edge of breaking. " Vythra warned me not to touch the locked doors. I did anyway. And she slammed them all shut. Too late. "

          " So it won't happen."

        Rhys's eyes went colder. "Not like that. Not now." His fingers tightened around his own biceps—self-restraint that looked, for a moment, like violence. " And I can also confirm her story about the books. Even that creature—Samael—warned her not to reveal the future. That seeing it, naming it, pulls at the threads. It can twist the path. Damage our reality. "

          Azriel watched him for a long beat. He understood, with cold clarity, that it wasn't Vythra's fault for what Rhysand saw. That she hadn't asked to be dragged through the veil, hadn't asked to be broken and remade and dropped into Prythian like a weapon with no safety on it.

          And still—he hated her for it.

          Not the petty kind of hate. Not the easy kind. The kind that came from helplessness, from watching his brother's life get tugged sideways by someone else's chaos. The kind that made his shadows bristle and snarl at the edge of his skin, tasting Rhys's fear and turning it into something sharp and protective. He saw the way his brother held himself—too controlled, too careful—as if the wrong breath might shatter the fragile thing he'd glimpsed and lost. Feyre. A child. A future.

          Azriel's jaw set. A muscle ticked once in his cheek. " She already twisted it by falling here. We're not prepared for another war, and somehow she dragged it closer. " His shadows tightened around his wrists like restraints. " And we don't even know what we're up against. "

          His High Lord's gaze didn't soften, but something in his tone did—just enough to be heard by someone who knew him as well as Azriel did. " I know, brother. " The word landed with weight. With trust. With exhaustion. " But she didn't create the wound. She just pointed at it—made us look at what was already bleeding. " He held Azriel's stare. " And unless we know what she wants... unless we learn how to steer whatever she can do, she's not just a problem. But also an asset. " Rhys finished. " Whether she or we like it or not. "

          Azriel's shadows stirred, uneasy at the word. Asset. As if she were a blade. As if blades didn't cut the hand that held them. Behind his eyes, the image of Vythra's green stare—empty in the way that meant she'd burn everything just to feel warm—flashed like a nightmare.

          His gaze drifted to the window instead—to Velaris sleeping under the stars. His city. His people. A thousand fragile lights scattered across the dark like prayers no one dared say out loud— symbol of the Vespertus. Each one a promise—tomorrow won't be war, tomorrow won't be war—even as the night wind pressed its cold palm to the glass.

          And yet, even as he stared out at them, he could feel something loosening inside his chest. His sense of family—of home—slipping, grain by grain, through his fingers like sand. He didn't reach to catch it. Not when he was already carrying too much, not when reaching for one thing meant dropping another. 

          Because lately, age had started to feel like its own kind of loneliness—one he could barely endure as he saw the others get their happy ending. He wasn't sure anymore if he was a brother, or a blade in his High Lord's hand, or just another piece on the board. Most days, he was simply... a weapon. Polished. Pointed. Aimed.

          And Azriel hated that Vythra had been meant to be the same. Hated the mirror of it—how easily he recognized himself in what they were trying to turn her into.

          Rhysand could still taste blood, metallic and bitter, from where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek. He could still feel that spike of panic lodged in his hand, as if he'd tried to grab the vision and crush it before it could become real—and only succeeded in cutting himself on it.

          Behind him, the House creaked softly. Not the groan of settling wood. A sound that felt like an old thing exhaling. A candle at the far edge of the desk flickered to life on its own, then went out just as quickly.

          The High Lord ran his tongue along his teeth, a slow, thoughtful motion that didn't reach his eyes. Then he turned back to his Spymaster, shoulders squared as if he'd decided the only way through a nightmare was to walk straight into it.

          " I want you to get close to her. "

          For a beat, Azriel thought he'd misheard—thought the words had slipped past even his impossible hearing. " Can you repeat that? " His lips parted slightly, a rare fracture in his composure, and his stance faltered. He took a single, involuntary step toward his younger brother. Surprise flashed hot and ugly across his face—there and gone—his pupils blown wide in the firelight. His wings twitched once, sharp, as if something had snapped a lash across the sensitive membrane.

           " You heard me just fine. "

          Something jerked tight inside his chest, imaginary metal snapping taut around his sternum as if someone had hooked it and yanked with a barb of ice. His breath caught halfway in. The shadows danced closer around him as if they'd felt it too—that silent no dragged raw across his nerves. 

          It came from inside him. As if something at his very core had heard Rhysand's request and refused it with cold, quiet fury. Some part of him had expected this the moment the hunt for the girl had begun. Somewhere beneath orders and strategy, beneath the logic that had guided him across continents and through shadows, he'd known this would be Rhysand's plan.

          A plan he could not refuse. The realization sat in his gut like spoiled wine.

          The High Lord kept going, because he had to. Because the future had just punched him in the solar plexus without asking permission. Because Feyre—because that rounded belly, that impossible tenderness—had woken something primal in him: protect. control. prevent.

           Azriel's jaw set. A single muscle ticked once in his cheekbone and was gone. " Why me. "

          Rhys's mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not. Firelight caught the edge of it and made it look like warmth for half a heartbeat before it died again. " Because women talk around you. " He said, as if he were stating a fact about weather, then had the audacity to chuckle. His gaze pinned Azriel, merciless and unavoidable. " You make people forget to be careful. You notice things other males miss. You lower your voice. You don't crowd them. You make room. "

          Rhys's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were weighing the words for maximum honesty—and maximum usefulness. " And for someone who's spent their life cornered, that feels like mercy. " A pause. A quiet cruelty in the simplicity of it. " They mistake it for safety. It gets you close. "

           Azriel didn't move. Not an inch. But something in his face tightened—so subtle most would miss it.

          Rhys watched it and, in the privacy of his own mind, swallowed the other half-truth that hovered on his tongue like poison: And you need something to do besides staring at Elain like it'll kill you. And I can't risk you tearing the Autumn Court open from the inside. Not now. Not when we're already bleeding toward another war. Rhys kept those words to himself. He didn't need Azriel's pride turning this into a fight. He needed obedience.