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Night

It began in a coffee shop. 

Or maybe it began all those months ago, when Elain and Nesta were still human. When Feyre had knocked on their door, hidden her henchmen from their mortal sight, and bullied her way back into their home despite knowing the punishment for associating with Fae in the human lands. 

But the acknowledgement of them being human, beholden to the laws of their land and Queen, was simply meaningless to Feyre in her new Fae body. She had easily begun to embody their arrogance, their disregard for human survival and life. 

Elain wondered if this was even her sister anymore, or if Feyre had been replaced with a changeling somehow. But Nesta—Nesta who had seen through the first High Lord’s glamour and tried to crawl her way past the Wall for Feyre—Nesta knew this was their sister as surely as the blood thrumming in her mortal body. 

Yet Feyre was no longer theirs. Their bond of sisterhood was quietly destroyed as her overgrown bats accused them of abuse and neglect. As if they would have ever allowed Feyre to fend for herself, for them all. 

Yet time passed, however cruelly. However inhuman. However much of their mortality had been stolen from them by the Cauldron’s polluted waters as they were spun through however many realms. Both sisters had stolen from the Cauldron in their grief and rage before the Mother pulled them back out, stripped of their bodies and made into their own personal monsters.

So: it had begun the day Feyre showed on their doorstep, newly Fae. Her life traded for Clare Beddor’s and her family. No tribunal, no words, no return of Clare’s body from the Mountain, no money given to the remaining if distant family. 

No acknowledgement of the murder of the Beddor family under Feyre’s ignorance, of Rhysand’s cruel machinations. Even after the Cauldron, Feyre had not wanted to speak of what happened to Clare or to her Under the Mountain. 

And so, Elain slipped next to Lucien for the next few days before returning to Nesta, armed with lethal information.

They both swore as soon as they could, they would right Feyre’s wrongs to the Beddor family. They would pay for a part of their sister’s crimes, simply because it was the right, just thing to do. Because they had not forgotten what it meant to be human.

Months had passed as Elain and Nesta waited and watched. Watched the Inner Circle and their nights spent at Rita’s as the rest of their territory fell into difficulty. Watched as brothels rose from the ground. Watched as the price of bread and meat increased. Watched as the talk of training the two sisters began, the gleam in Rhysand and Amren’s eyes as they imagined coveting the two sisters’ powers. Listened as the residents of Night were disquieted, furious at the response from the Court after the war. Listened as soldiers came home to nothing, filled with terror and the trauma of battle. Listened as women and children cried on the streets for the fathers and husbands, left to beg for rations as the Inner Circle dined on golden desserts and slept carelessly on goose-feather pillows.

Feyre did not truly understand the difference between the sisters now. She had been made by the High Lords, brought back from the edge of death, but not truly dead, still alive enough for those kernels of power to alter her. 

Nesta and Elain did not face that kind of quiet kindness. They knew, to some extent, the terrors and horror Feyre endured Under the Mountain but they could not help to think that their sister had died under there and this—this Feyre, in her midnight gowns and heavy jewels, her cruel mockery and blissful ignorance, was not their sister. 

But they had been left to raise her as humans after their Mother died. They both knew what a spoiled, wild-child Feyre had been. Her illiteracy was due to her own tantrums and not the lack of tutors or abilities; but rather Feyre’s stubbornness at first to sit in lessons, then her humiliation to admit a fault. Her pride had wounded her, time and time again, and now she had found a resounding board in her mate and his family—for they were not Feyre’s friends nor family, despite how they paraded around her as shields—and her hubris had reached the depths of her abhorrent husband’s. 

On this day, though, it began in a cafe. Nesta and Elain had been drawing quiet lines, reaching slowly out to contacts and creating files, routes, and accounts. Soon, they would leave Night behind. Soon, they would be free. 

Two months before the Solstice. Before Feyre’s 21st birthday. They had gathered enough information and money. Decreed judgement on Night. It was time for action. It was time to begin.

Hidden from the Sidra’s light and its wealthy populace, two steaming cups of tea sat on a well-loved oak table. Nesta and Elain held hands across the table, as they have done for weeks since their sister returned to their human home aeons ago and shattered their lives and bodies. 

All for her righteous war. War, that it seemed the so-called Court of Dreamers never understood that others faced heinous impact from—that the reverberations of the Inner Circle’s failed schemes and power plays was felt across the entire span of Night.

Milling around the two sisters were handfuls of so-called Lesser Fae. Veterans from the war who lost their employment upon returning to Velaris; widows who received no pension from the Court after their husbands’ demise on the battlefield; disabled faeries who could not afford to reach the Dawn Court capital’s Jegi-dong for healing; refugees from other parts of Night who came to Velaris seeking employment and betterment for their families; children whose parents could not afford to put them in primary schools, as Velaris hosted no public programmes or education opportunities but was rampant with private tutors and finishing schools—and of course, the High Lady’s painting classes for children. 

The type of area Rhysand and Feyre, the benevolent High Lord and Lady, would continually pretend did not exist so as not to smear their rosy gaze of Night. Of course, it also meant the rest of the territory—of Hewn City, of Illyria, of all the villages across the territory, did not receive any public attention and consequently, funding, except for the starlit city of Velaris.

Every week Nesta and Elain quietly met away from their sister and her new family’s eyes to speak on the state of this territory—more importantly, of what options were available to them in this new world. As much as they both wanted to flee Night, it was a risk. Both women were Made by the Cauldron—an entity many of the Fae knew little of, and yet both sisters lived hearing its call, its breath, the shiver of its waters, feeling the ghost of the hands weaving the threads inside it. 

The religion of the Fae was not something either could escape, especially not when they were both barely High Fae and more eldritch. It was easier, Nesta sighed, when they could spit venom at the Children of the Blessed instead of having become their greatest poster. Nesta wanted desperately for them to know that when they crossed the Wall, they would die—torn apart by monsters, by Faerie greed and revelry. 

There was no joy, no safety for a human to find in these lands. Nesta seethed, wishing she had been able to marry the Duke of Killarney, Aodhán, when she had been sixteen years old instead of waiting before their Father had placed a risky gamble and lost her bride price in one move. 

Her marriage would have taken their family back to Scythia, under Queen Vassa’s just leadership, where they would have had the chances to enroll in university and for Nesta and Elain to pursue their careers in medicine and botany. More importantly, they would be away from the Wall, in safer realms for mortals, far away from the Fae and their bloodshed. 

Feyre never understood their rage towards their Father in the cabin—the magnitude of what was truly lost when his gamble did not pay off. Sometimes, Nesta wondered if Feyre even realised she should have been swearing fealty to Queen Vassa—that she had been born a Scythian subject. 

The Archeron paterfamilias was from below the Wall of Prythian but their mother hailed from Scythia and it was to Scythia she was meant to return. The family had stayed in their human village for years, building their wealth so they would be able to retire peacefully once they returned to the Continent but then their Mother fell ill, and with it, their ruin began.

“I am sure they will ambush you soon if we stay, Nesta.” Elain spoke, her words slow despite the urgency, her language strange across the Fae ears. “I have spoken with Lucien and he to Eris. We could move through the passages soon, either asking sanctuary in the Library or by starlight.”  

Nesta knew, as did Elain, despite the rage and whispers of revolt seeding the Night Court’s underbelly, ears were still listening—waiting, watching as they observed the High Lady’s once human sisters. Yet the Fae were arrogant, and did not learn human languages beyond the common tongue. 

And so, when both sisters spoke their grandmother’s tongue of Old Scythian, they knew the closest Fae who may recognise the language was across all seven courts, entrenched in the human lands—and more importantly, mated to Elain. 

“If we move through the Library—request sanctuary from the priestesses—then we will also be informing them of how vulnerable they are under the Inner Circle, of the truth of Night.  Starfire, perhaps, as a last measure, if we are dragged again by her brutes,” Nesta stirred honey into her tea, watching it melt as she and Elain traced their battle plans. 

“I have also spoken to Eris for our preparation regarding the dimensions of our request and the conditions which propel us into other courts. Our stolen inheritance is only one portion of Rhysand’s schemes we are made to unveil. Regardless of Feyre’s lacklustre memory of our human life—nevermind who filled the larder, sewed the clothes, dealt with the merchants and business dealings, the domestic labour of the cabin and Father’s disability. The overgrown bat told me he believes Feyre’s hunting was the only thing sustaining us, Lainey.” 

Nesta scoffed, eyeing her tea, as Elain’s hand rested over her own, pulling the visions of fate to both sisters to examine. 

“We must look closely, quietly at the threads of their fates. We need to make sure we do this safely, Lainey.”

“If we bring forward the number Rhysand and his Court have stolen from us; the loss of income from my marriage to Greyson, of being made Fae, of Father’s ships and your investment, he will easily fall to ruin. Eris will want to exploit that and no other court holds such loyalty to Night to defend it against its ruin.”

“And of the babe?”

“It is early enough that if Rhysand reveals the truth to Feyre, she can begin marginally shifting to ensure a safe birth.”

“Yet?”

“There is no future where he tells her, Nesta.”

“So we must. If this is our last act in protection of our baby sister, then let it be this. We cannot stop what the other High Lords will demand, but we can protect the babe’s chance to live at the very least.”

Autumn

His hounds bayed across the forest floor, their movements wild as they are freed from the day’s regimen. Eris Vanserra sat below an ancient alder tree, his mind forging flames ahead. He had been surprised when Lucien called him for a meeting all those months ago to the human lands, only to find two of the Archeron sisters willing to bind themselves to a deal for their freedom.

He had heard rumours, whispers, that Lucien’s mate despised him and yet she stood next to him, their hands clasped together in unity. And yet, what caught his eye was Nesta Archeron, who he had not seen since the war’s end. Of course, he had been extremely busy trying to save towns and entire counties in Autumn from falling into famine under Beron’s cruelty and whatever ceaseless mechanisms his Father played to keep Eris distracted, busy from furthering his own agenda. 

Yet Eris still managed. His loyalist group—his closest friends and brothers—were able to abate the pressure points in Autumn, leaving Eris free to continue pushing his plot forward. Soon, Beron would no longer exist to torture all of Autumn. Soon, Eris would be crowned High Lord and able to bring sanctuary and safety back into Autumn. Soon, his mother would be free.

Nesta was resplendent that day, dressed in Autumn red. The gown curled on the edges of her calves, her chemise protecting her breasts from exposure. As Nesta stood drenched in Autumn, embodying the enchantment of leaves turning from rich golds into sweet reds, her sister Elain had echoed Lucein’s light—or perhaps, added another layer into his brother’s sunshine. In her lavender dress and with her colouring, she brought forth the rays of dawn next to Lucein’s heat, cool and calm. 

It was on that fateful day Eris understood three things with the certainty of glass. First: things in Night were rotten beyond the scope his spy network had managed to gleam. Second: the Archeron sisters—the eldritch ones, not the Fae-Made one—were far more clever and disconcerting than others realised. Third: he had a mate.

Nesta had not sob in relief or gratefulness at having been spared Cassian and his desperate hopes for a mating bond to snap between them. Elain had grab her hand months prior, upon her waking from her stupor, her catatonic state when she was first impaled with visions upon the loss of her humanity and the subsequent brutal violation by the Cauldron at the King of Hybern’s hand; she had grabbed Nesta’s hand and showed her Nesta divine as the Lady of Autumn, spine unwavering in her throne next to Eris Vanserra’s handsome portrait. 

It was the marriage she had been raised for. Not that Feyre would understand the subtle, absolute politics that happened over a dinner, of how a woman of her status would have others fawning, pushing their wives and daughters and sisters onto her so that they may sway Eris as the High Lord of Autumn. No, her youngest sister believed that rule was by the tip of her blade. She was meant for Night, and yet, Night’s citizens and residents did not deserve the cruelty they were subjected to by the Inner Circle and their ‘dreams.’ Eris knew Feyre and her dreamers would assume Nesta had been stolen in the night by Eris, coerced into a bargain she could not escape from. It mattered little to him, not when Nesta and his mother, Ériu, had been gleefully planning their wedding via correspondence for weeks now.

In Eris’ boot, a Made dagger by Nesta—his betrothed—laid against his skin, grazing softly across his heel as he turned. The enhancement in the steel would not, could never hurt him by Nesta’s command and truthfully, he did not fear Nesta to be a being of cruelty and bloodshed. 

He saw, time and again, Nesta’s softness. Her love. Her penchant for chocolate and sweets, romance novels and cats, her friends and studies. Those who only wanted to dominate and control Nesta feared her spine, her gaze, her fire. His mate was not cruel. She was extraordinarily kind; that despite everything Feyre and her cohort had dragged Nesta and Elain into, the forcible alteration of them into a nightmare species for them and the theft of their entire lives and potential marriages, Nesta still wanted her youngest sister to live. 

And yet this group—Nesta, Lucien, Eris and Elain—all recognised that the Night Court leadership could not continue forward the way it was, for all it caused now was death to its vulnerable residents while life on Rainbow continued with nary a thought. 

Lucien and Eris had schemed under Elain’s visions and Nesta’s sharp mind. The rule of Night would be handled by the other Celestial Courts. Illyria was already set up with a spy network, courtesy of Nesta’s friend Emerie and her partner, Balthazar, as they set a subtle route deep into the mountains of Illyria to hide the women and children once the revolt would break out. The camp lords had agreed to the terms set by Day and Dawn, as did Hewn City’s underground revolution.

Soon, the tyrants enforcing Rhysand’s bloodied will as High Lord would face their own judgement for their cruelty and greed. It was thanks to Nesta and Elain the paths had been made secure for Night’s subjects.

It was sweet, Eris sighed, so utterly pleased, that the Inner Circle would soon fall so beautifully to their own hubris. It would not be a tragic sight, but one that had patiently, steadily built itself up every decade as the Court of Dreamers continued to languish in their luxuries. 

Even better that Cassian would never get to touch a hair on Nesta’s golden head. He couldn’t help the laugh that stumbled out of him as he imagined the brute’s roaring jealousy, his entitled anger as if he was truly deserving enough for the Mother to give him the gift of a mating bond with Nesta.

Night

The River House was full as dinner began. Nesta and Elain, Feyre noted, were absent. She shrugged off her sisters and focused on her new family. They loved her, she thought, happiness radiant on her as she looked towards Rhys, smug with male pride in the afterglow of their news. 

Will you hurry up and tell them? She asked, her gaze flooding into his handsome violet eyes. Rhys picked an invisible piece of lint off his jacket, a beautiful smirk grazing his lips. Lips that only moments ago had been pressed into her. She loved him, and he her, evidenced by their bond and bargains. She shuddered at the thought of if she had stayed in Spring, forced into Tamlin’s gilded cage as the Lady of Spring—quartets and formal banquets, balls and diplomatic meetings. Night was so much more relaxed. Feyre had not even seen something as barbaric as the tithe reenacted here, only further cementing her opinion on Night and the Celestial Courts as modern and forward compared to the Seasonal ones. And here, she was not merely the Lady of Spring; but had been crowned Rhysand’s equal, a level above the other wives and mates. She was High Lady of Night, an honour she knew Tamlin would have never had the courage to bestow onto her despite his talk of equality.

Of course, Feyre darling. Give me a moment to ready them. We are announcing the heir of our Court, you know everyone will be overjoyed. 

Rhys surveyed the table, filled with his loved ones and closest members who shaped Night into a sanctuary, allowing it to blossom beyond his father’s cruel reign. Az with his quick hands and quiet introspection; Mor with her brightness and dedication to truth; Cass with his heart on his sleeve and his tenacity; Amren with her vicious mind and sharp claws. There was simply no better court in Prythian. He had cultivated the truest talent, forged the most enduring bonds—and the Cauldron, in show of his hard work, of the torture he endured, blessed him with Feyre. Her awe-inspiring power, her ability to forgive even her rotten sisters, and now, she had made him a father, cementing their rule of Night for another generation. He was blessed. More than blessed. A donation to the Library’s temple was already underway to give his thanks to the Cauldron, asking for their protection for their unborn son.

Feyre coughed lightly, calling the table’s attention to them. They were a vision of love, bodies together, held as if they were one being. Feyre leaned into the hold of her mate, excitement full throughout her as brilliant joy leaked out of Rhys into a tangible thing.

“We have special news,” Rhys began, his voice both proud and smug at once. “Feyre is carrying the heir to the Night Court. We will welcome our beautiful son in the coming spring.” 

In a heartbeat, Mor was grasping Feyre in an elated hug, tears pooling in the women’s—no, the sisters’ eyes as Az and Cass, his brother in all but blood, surrounded Rhys, congratulating him and cheering for the new babe who would enter their family. The life of love and safety he would have, a childhood filled with blessings where the others had no such privilege. Amren, relieved despite her refusal to admit such a thing, raised her wine glass to the couple. 

“Night will prosper long under your family, Rhysand, Feyre. It will be an honour to bring your son into our court and to his birthright.” 

Feyre did not think of what would come to be, not truly. Rhys was only relieved that when she casually asked of her sisters later that night, he merely shrugged languidly, calling her into bed. Perhaps Nesta and Elain would need a lesson soon to understand that although Feyre had forgiven her sisters for their neglect, Rhys had not. 

Their inheritance was only the beginning—and Rhys had not even need to try so hard to convince Feyre of it. Think of all the game you brought them, the cold winters you endured to feed your family as they spent your coin on frivolous things—and besides, was that money not a gift from Tamlin for your captivity? Darling, it is yours by right. We let them live here, rent-free, with no need for jobs or marriage. What is so wrong about raising our household and Court up with this?

To find out the sum, rich and heavy with Nesta’s investments, totaled 4 trillion pounds was nothing short of delicious. He had immediately went to the jewelers and bought his Dreamers fresh pieces, thick jewels and gilded gold, to celebrate their victory over Hybern and Spring, to mark the end of Under the Mountain, and the start of their new chapters with their High Lady by his side for eternity. 

He would not forgive anyone who hurt Feyre, his beautiful, starlit mate, the mother of his child, his heir. Soon, when Nesta slipped up, as she wanted to do in her drunken stupor, he would catch her. Elain, then, after Nesta would be completely and utterly trained into being a useful member of his court, perhaps even of the family if she was deserving enough, as well as accepting her bond with Cass and becoming the mate he deserved. 

With Nesta secured, Rhys hummed as he kissed Feyre, he would be able to bring Lucien further into the fold, cementing his relationship with Helion once the pair realised their relation. And with the revelation, perhaps he could shake Autumn and give Mor the retribution she so justly deserved from Eris Vanserra—and Feyre, to Beron for sending his sons to hunt her across her journey from Spring back to him. 

No one had helped her, he seethed, pulling her onto his lap. His mate left fend for herself as faebane doused in her system, weakening her against all those who would see him ruined and his Court weakened. 

Soon, Summer and Winter would turn with him as he held the majority power. Spring would collapse even more for Tamlin’s abuse of Feyre. Soon, soon. And with her sisters’ powers, unknown fully as they are, they would pave the path for Night’s rise into the power of Pythrian. 

He would not allow them to win. Not now, not ever.

May the Cauldron bless him. Soon, he would have it all. Everything would work out, and Feyre would get the happy family she so desperately wanted as he propelled their Court forward in ways his ancestors had not even dared to dream of.

Illyria 

“And what of the routes? Are there any supplies missing?” 

“We have our food supply to ration for a year with our current numbers, just in case it ends up lasting longer than what we expect, and we’ve made sure to add in pregnant mothers and what they would need for birth and after just in case any female acting as a healer falls pregnant when it begins if we cannot evacuate them in time,” Emerie responded, her voice hidden by the fire’s crackles. 

“We will expect to leave within the month, Elain and I. Be careful to avoid exposure until then. After the Solstice, Elain Sees it as the best time for the revolt to come out into the open.” 

They were seated in Emerie’s kitchen, her spice rack blooming with Illyrian goods as Nesta studied the books in front of her, making sure every number was added into its correct sum. She was precise in her measurements to make sure no Illyrian would be hungry or cold in the coming months of revolution. Balthazar leaned against the door watching the pair, only casually stepping inside once Emerie sat the tray of tea and baked goods down for the three of them. 

He could not help but think that if Nesta had been their High Lady, they would have already progressed past such basic needs being met. He knew that when her and Elain last had access to their bank accounts in the human lands, a hefty chunk had quietly wound up in Illyria, gifted to the females and children for their protection and needs after the war.

Her sister, Balthazar frowned, had not even done them the courtesy of providing winter coats or blankets for the children. It was yet another strike against the Court rulers in a very long list that continued to grow everyday as someone would remember another instance of abandonment by their rulers. They would write it down onto the decree of revolt, the demands that would be hung in Velaris at the courts as a number of the camp lords would fly there to read aloud the demands and grievances of the Illyrians.

“Thank you,” He murmured, having pressed a kiss onto the top of Emerie’s head. “Nesta,” He began, voice steady, “I’ve spoken with some of the sympathetic camp lords. Devlon will make sure females are given priority treatment in Dawn’s capital following Night’s collapse, and the children will be moved to Day, in Jericho, until the land is settled from the bloodshed.”

Nesta nodded sharply, considering. “What are we missing?” 

Emerie sipped from her tea. “We have the children who will go to Day. Those too young will leave with their mothers to Dawn for healing our wings. Those who have not yet entered the Blood Rite will protect our routes and safety houses to make sure whoever stands by the High Lord cannot find us and attack our supply lines. We have already started moving pregnant mothers to Dawn, but it will continue to take some time to escape detection by flying. If we could winnow, it would speed up our timeline considerably so we can act during the Solstice.” 

“Elain and I will come the Thursday after next and carry the immediate persons to the Courts needed. Prepare a list and we shall make sure to execute it accordingly.” 

Outside Emerie’s home, the wind blew with such force it felt as if the houses were shaking. Nesta thought of the orphans left to fend for themselves—centuries of children raised to either die in the tundra of winter or to become warriors. Rhysand had not lifted a finger to change this nor had his vaulted General, a bastard-born himself who did nothing to elevate the living of his own people but instead inflicted Rhysand’s will with a bloody sword. Azriel, despite his origins as well, did not care for the people he came from nor their traditions or language. He left them onto themselves, despite intimately knowing how difficult and dangerous it was to be a woman in such an unforgiving landscape. 

And yet. They sat in Velaris, content and proud of their accomplishments of forced rule, uncaring of the men who perished in the wars and battle fields, leaving mothers and wives and daughters with no safety after the burials were finished. 

The Court of Dreamers, Nesta thought, had done nothing to uplift their people. Not once over Rhysand’s 500 year rule had anyone who was not part of the elite had a kind word to say about him. 

“It is startling to realise the depths of how the Court of Dreams truly believe we are better off under Rhysand than his father,” Balthazar mused. “I’ve heard stories from our elders of how we were protected in times like these by the Court. Females were still able to buy food and winter clothes even if their husbands were buried. Males were able to build stronger homes with more of the economy reaching us. Instead Rhysand operates on insular policies, forcing us further into isolation.”

“He hasn’t even stopped wing clipping despite all of the Spymaster and the General’s talk of him being the most powerful High Lord. Why would we ever think having an Illyrian as High Lord would change anything?” 

Emerie was Nesta’s age, she knew. Her wings, in the fifty years Rhysand had spent Under the Mountain, trapping his Court into Velaris, had been cut by her Father. And yet, even her Grandmother, at a hundred years old, had her wings broken as well despite the most powerful High Lord writing it into law, codifying it in edict. Yet no enforcement of the legislation by either Illyrian member of the Inner Circle had occurred since the decree.

“Don’t even get me started on the High Lady. I know she’s your sister Nes, but watching her walk around Windhaven with her false wings, flying in our skies and not even knowing a centimetre of our traditions and culture or language. Not even trying to help us as females despite all the rumours of her time in Spring…instead she comes here, parading her wings at us, while the Spymaster and General know how completely, horrifically cruel it is for us to watch. I am sorry Nesta, but I honestly do not think retribution could happen to better people.” Emerie shook with the force of her words, and Nesta. Nesta thought she wanted to cry sometimes, thinking of the magnitude of Feyre’s ignorant choices. Of all the harm Feyre and her mate caused the people around them, their complete failings towards the people they were meant to protect. 

Dawn

By Thursday, the total sum of females and children who needed to be transported out of Illyria had been managed by Nesta, Elain and Lucien. Once their magic had begun slipping towards the end, they starfired and winnowed the remaining females and children past the edge of the border as Helion and Thesan’s teams came forward to help complete the other leg of the long journey. 

Emerie had been the last to leave, giving the keys of her shop to Balthazar for safekeeping as she left her homeland for the first time. In Dawn, she hoped a new life would begin. A kinder life filled with choices and opportunities. Her wings, Thesan assured her, would be fixed over time; then they would begin the physical therapy as she reworked her dead muscles and relearned her new centre of gravity. 

She wasn’t the only female. Emerie felt she had run easily into 300 Illyrian females so far in the healing wing. She knew it had been bad, but it was malaise to wish she could have done something more all these years; to wish that Azriel and Cassian had ever cared about their own people.

In her room inside the healing wing, she looked out of her window, watching the swirling city bustle and move. Red lanterns, open-air markets, children laughing, playing with each other, their downy wings on full display as the children alternated between flying and running, parents in full health buying sugared fruits, the stands of shops she did not yet know what they were. She had time. She would learn. She would carve out a new life and bring all she had seen in Dawn with her back to Illyria. Her people, her females, would get the life they all richly deserved soon.

Day

Lucein breathed a frustrated noise as he took in the sheer amount of children in their temporary housing. By the Mother, he knew the Night Court was cruel but this—this was on another level. He felt as though a blight, cruel and unending, had been avoided by ushering the children into Helion’s land—his birth father, and wasn’t it funny that Rhysand and Feyre thought he did not know his own parentage after so many centuries. 

Elain’s hand, filled with a quiet strength and the groves of her gardening, held his. He knew if any understood the expanse of his grief, it was Elain. He could not imagine the sea of her visions, all the outcomes that would have played out had they not heeded her; had she and Nesta not been strong enough to lift each other out to protect their lives in their fear of the Fae, of their new world and the rules that governed their lives. Unlike their sister, Lucien scorned, who never took the time to understand the landscape she was now a part of, her sisters had spent quiet months learning and watching before they struck.

“They will come out all the better for this,” She reminded him, voice soft, enduring. “In Day, they will have chances Night refused to give them. Here they will have access to resources Rhysand and his Court hoarded from them. Fresh food, sunlight, education. They will know they can be more than his cannon fodder, Lucien.” 

And by God, did he know that. He could not help but laugh. “They diminish Tamlin and yet he did more to ease class restrictions than they ever did. They parade over Tarquin and yet they do nothing about how so-called Lesser Fae are treated in their Court. They decry Beron’s cruelty yet leave Hewn City to rot in an undeserved violence, all for the crime of simply being born in the wrong place. I cannot understand how they truly see themselves as heroes to us all when this…this is the truth of their Court.” He felt as though he had run a sprint, his eye burning, his light edging past warm into more punishing, less forgiving. 

“If anything should move them, how can it not be the children under their rule?” 

He felt gutted all at once, his light extinguished. He knew, realistically, all of the Courts harmed children in their roles in some ways. But Fae children were precious. Conceiving a babe was not easy, to the point where rumours followed his own Mother during her seven pregnancies of blessings or witchcraft. Fae children were meant to be taken care of, protected. Beron, for all his cruelty and vileness, had left the children of Autumn alone and here, the esteemed Night Court had let them suffer, had left them to die under such petty reasons.

He knew Rhysand was slippery, cruel—time Under the Mountain proved that again and again. He did not, however, know Feyre to be so cruel until she became part of Night when suddenly she began to lie and steal and cheat as long as the means justify the ends. Her world began and ended with five people. 

“Feyre, had she still been who she was as a human, would despise this version of herself,” Elain said, a sadness she had not wanted to feel since her and Nesta’s revolt began. Their baby sister, no matter what, was choosing to leave them behind. She had shed her humanity as if it was no burden to lose, embraced her Fae body and life as if she was born for it. How many times had Nesta and Elain wondered if Feyre truly grieved their lives and family? Staring across the children playing in Jericho, warm and content and safe under Helion’s wards and protection, her eyes closed in a quiet grief. 

“Sometimes I think Nesta is right. We buried our sister long ago in a bodiless grave while she was over the Wall.” 

Her eyes were bright, tracing the arching entryways and thick palm trees filled with dates. She had never seen one as a human before. She had never gotten the chance to.

“The worse, I think, is when she forgets the danger she and her mate caused. She brought the Attor straight to our door, alongside Hybern’s soldiers. Nesta and I had been doing the math since she showed up at our door, demanding to meet with the human Queens. We would have needed 10,000 ships to evacuate the entire human territory. Nesta asked the Queens to help us all. That’s why she invested so much into wood and soldiers and metals. We knew what was coming. And still, Feyre never asked of the destruction of our village she caused when Hybern marched into our lands, nor of our staff and their families who were under our care and protection. If, after all of that, Feyre did not care then how can I ask her to care about the children of Night?” 

Elain knew the words were harsh, but the truth of them was steady. Her sister had forgotten her origins, her family, her community. Her sister had been remade under the Fae and then again under the tutelage of her mate—and she had come out all the worse for it. Did she even remember what it felt like to be human? Or did she only feel at what she had told Nesta and her all those moons ago? I can eat, drink, fuck and fight better than ever before. 

Elain wanted to ask Feyre at that dinner, after her proclamation, then why bother with us humans? Why are you here, endangering us and our staff? Why will you simply not go to the Queens themselves? Why are we in between you and them? Why are you not asking us how to evacuate our town, our community, our neighbours? Why are you here, Feyre, if being mortal is such a degrading thing to be? 

She had not asked, too terrified of the men Feyre had armed herself with—especially when they began to spit insults and allegations at Nesta, at her, of Feyre’s upbringing. She had met Nesta’s gaze and wanted nothing more than to laugh so she would not cry. Feyre had not even remembered their home, of all her sisters had done for her. She had not remembered Nesta’s engagement, but only thought of Thomas Mandry. She judged Elain’s iron engagement ring, as if she herself had not been tortured by the Fae as a human plaything, as if the Beddor family had not been burnt alive and Clare stolen, as if Elain was silly for trying to protect herself in the small ways she could. 

Nesta and Elain let her companions believe what they wanted from Feyre’s version. They had assumed, so wrongly, they would never interact with them again; never see their sister again. Nesta had been torn between fleeing to the Continent with Elain after they had left or to try to get as many people out as possible.

They had tried, Elain knew. They had evacuated a dozen ships of women, children, and the elderly and disabled, pushing them out towards the Continent, longer routes to avoid Hybern’s island. The prices had been higher, the food stores had to hold more and each ship needed at least four healers and two surgeons in case something happened while on sea. 

They had needed hygiene supplies to stop any illness from rapidly spreading while on board; fermented and dried foods; a water system to clean the salty sea water; linens and fabrics; and cleaning materials. They had needed so much to fill the ships before they could even complete a registry of the nearby areas, of those closest to the Wall, so they could bring people to the Continent. Elain knew how much went into what she and Nesta did. Feyre only remembered their Father arriving, never questioning how he was able to barter for those ships, still childish in her belief of the Prince of Merchants.

It had always been their Mother, her steadying hand atop Father’s investments and plans securing their fortune. Then, it fell to her and Nesta.

They had used the money from Spring’s High Lord—the money they had worked into investments and deals on behalf of their Father—to secure over 7,000 persons’ freedom and lives. They paid for it with their lives. Elain wished she had been a Seer then. That she and Nesta had climbed on the last boat, headed to Scythia, hidden away from their oblivious sister and her busybody mate. 

Feyre did not know that now, across the sea, humans lifted their glasses in remembrance of the Archeron sisters who saved their lives. How their story of being Made was told across the mortal realms, another cautionary tale of the cruelty of the Fae; and how her and Nesta’s sacrifice—their murders and martyrdom in the Cauldron, the same as Jurian’s, as Miryam’s, as the forgotten, nameless warriors who gave everything, including their names, to liberate the humans from the the cruel shackles of slavery to Fae—was still remembered, still invoked, as the humans prayed. Not to the Mother, but to those who had given everything for their freedom.

Lucien, as if sensing the direction her thoughts had taken her, began to guide her into the city. “Let us explore Jericho. It has been over a century since I have returned, and I would like to see it from your eyes.”

Elain smiled, grateful for his presence despite it all. “Don’t forget we have dinner with Helion in Helena tonight. Eris will meet us as well.”

“And miss out on my Father trying to get Eris to call him ‘Baba’? Never, my love.” 

Elain laughed at the memory of Eris’ face scrunching in horror as Helion persisted in trying to adopt him and the rest of the Vanserra brothers. “Nesta will also join us, I’m sure she is as tired as we are from today. I think Byeol will bring her from Dawn so she can rest and replenish her energy before we make our way back to Night tomorrow.”

Day

“I’ll winnow Nesta with me to the Forest House after her and Elain request the priestess’ sanctuary in Velaris. Lucien, after Ishaq brings Elain to Day, wait for us near the creek by the forest and Mother will meet you there. I want her in Day before it begins.”

Dinner had been exquisite, Eris thought, admiring Nesta’s happiness as she tried the new foods. Hummus, mashawi, mutabbal, tabbouli, sfeeha, fresh apricot and hibiscus juices, and the divine desserts: knafeh, pistachio baklava, cut watermelon and cheese, all served with mint tea before they retired with small cups of thick coffee—finjan qahwa in the local language. Nesta and Elain were enamored with the rich flavours and textures of the feast, declaring that Night’s cuisine had not held even half the spices Helion’s table did.

He knew, as she and Lainey told him and Lucien, that food had been a love language from their Mother. The decadence of a slow-cooked meal, spices poured from the heart and not a measuring spoon, and the lessons they had with their Mother in their old kitchen; how both daughters perfected their Mother’s ancestral meals and how Lucien, after the two were Made, went back to their home and took what he could find to preserve in safekeeping for them. How they cried when seeing their Mother’s cookbook had remained safe; how much it meant to both sisters that out of all the belongings Lucien had managed to protect this cookbook had been their greatest gift.

Eris could only begin to imagine the sweetness they would build their families in, the cousins who would play across Courts knowing they are binded by their human ancestry as their mothers would raise them with their humans hearts, to remember their languages. Eris was still learning the intricacies of Old Scythian as Elain and Nesta began practicing Day Court’s Arabic before they would learn Autumn’s Gaeilge, although he noted it seemed Gaelige and Old Scythian shared a common linguistic ancestor as some vowels and words were carried between both languages.

Truthfully, he did not know what the other High Lords would demand from Rhysand’s son. Nesta and Elain would be grateful if the boy simply lived, but he wondered what demands would be placed on him—how he would pay, was already paying, for the sins of his parents. 

Lucien nodded, bringing Eris out of his thoughts. “I’ll arrive closer to the dawn hour, according to Elain that should be the time for you and Nesta to overtake Beron.”

Overtake. Neither brother wanted to say kill despite the abuse and torture they endured under Beron’s rule. His torture had made sure they withstood enemy black-cells and had made Night’s tantrums seem so childish in comparison to the blood Autumn wickedly wielded. 

His eyes caught Nesta’s, her face severe in the gravity of the coming day but her eyes—her eyes sparkled with bloodlust and Mother damn him if he did not want to spend the day in bed with her instead of crowning himself High Lord at the sight of her vengeance and bloodthirst. 

“Autumn will be all the better for it. Once I am High Lord, we will hold the funeral. Once Rhysand and his pack of dogs begin sniffing around Autumn to look for our weaknesses, they will not realise both sisters are hidden in Day until the eve of the revolution where Nesta and I shall announce our upcoming bonding.” 

“Wedding,” Nesta said, her eyes playful. 

Eris waved his hand in mock dismissal, “As my lady wishes.”

Dawn

“So this is the true extent of Rhysand’s manipulations,” Thesan hummed, leaning back in his chair as he studied Helion. Both High Lords shone with their Court’s powers and Thesan could not help but rage at the blatant abuse the Night Court’s Circle had wielded against the humans. 

“Nesta and Elain were not reimbursed for all the war efforts, their loss of incoming upon turning Fae, nor of Elain’s lost marriage to Lord Greyson’s son or of the amount of humans who suffered in the crossfire of the war and the reparations we owe them…” He continued thoughtfully, “And now the other violations that Hewn City and Illyria have brought forward. Truthfully, Helion, I have no desire nor want to claim Night’s land. I do not know, beyond executing Rhysand and letting the magic of the land crown another High Lord in his stead, what would be the beneficial course of action for us to take.”

“He’ll be imprisoned for violating the treaty between human and Fae regardless, since it was Lady Feyre’s words that gave Hybern her sisters’ identities, and Rhysand’s wards which allowed Hybern access to steal her sisters.”

“You mentioned Lord Jurian confirmed the wards allowed them through as the Attor was Amarantha’s, securing a loophole in Rhysand’s magic.”

“He confirmed the house was warded against anyone not friendly with Rhysand would have been kept outside the boundary line, yes.”

“A misstep. How did he not consider such an oversight? Even a traveling merchant could have accessed the sisters’ home. Helion, I wonder if we would be to confirm Rhysand did not intentionally have the sisters Made?” 

Helion sighed, weariness lining his shoulders. “We cannot. But I also know that Winter will demand justice for its slaughtered children, and Rhysand will also need to prove his innocence there.”

“Lucien mentioned another daemati was confirmed in Hybern’s ranks, the same one who trapped Lady Feyre and himself, poisoning them with faebane as they prepared to flee Spring.”

“Was Tamlin aware of his legion?”

“I do not believe so, no. I do not doubt however whatever questions we ask Tamlin that we will be met with honesty.”

Thesan tipped his glass in silent acknowledgement. “Summer will be out for blood as well. Night breached their hospitality, King Fionn’s own laws, and never made an effort to rectify the situation since the war ended.”

“They will most probably claim that their defence of Summer under Hybern’s attack was their effort.”

Silence stretched between the two High Lords. Neither could help seeing reflections of Rhysand’s Court when the stars spun above them in the night sky. So much gluttony, so much hubris. All for nothing but empty cruelty.

“When will the revolt begin?” 

“In the coming weeks. Ladies Nesta and Elain are currently in Velaris to warn their sister of her pregnancy before they request the priestesses’ sanctuary. The other lines are secure, and once they cross past Night’s borders, Ishaq will secure Lady Elain to Day and Prince Eris will bring Lady Nesta to Autumn.” 

“May the Mother make this easy for us.”

“May the Mother bring justice to the oppressed.”

Night

Feyre closed her studio for the evening, on the way to meet her sisters for a late meal at Sevenda’s. Thinking about it, she had not seen Nesta nor Elain properly in the last month. She wanted to share their impending aunthood with them, excitement still lush in her body. Her hand wrapped around her stomach, not yet showing her son growing inside her. Today, she would have the chance to tell them and perhaps they would grow closer—maybe they would even help her decorate the nursery. 

Her sisters were already seated when she arrived and Feyre, perhaps a little uncharitably, was surprised to see them so punctual. They had already ordered a small mezzat across the table, a meal for them to share once more as sisters.

She waved her greeting to Sevenda, sliding into her seat. “Nesta, Elain! I’m so happy we’re doing this.” Her smile beamed across her face, yet her sisters did not share the same enthusiasm. Feyre worked to hide her aggravation—after all, couldn’t they be a little more grateful for everything she and Rhys had given them? It felt as though every time she wanted to spend the day with her sisters, they treated her as a chore, a burden. As they always have, Feyre thought, remembering ugly memories of their childhoods and the years in the cabin, when her sisters were always too busy to notice her and then too angry and desperate to acknowledge her hunting efforts. 

She breathed in deeply, grounding herself in the delicious aroma of Sevenda’s food; always able to nourish her body and soul. She had forgiven her sisters for their neglect of her. She would move forward and hopefully they would be kind to her son. If not, they could find another Court to house them as Rhys suggested. She would not tolerate any harm coming to her child, not even from her sisters.

“Feyre,” Elain reached her hand out, smiling beautifully at her sister. “We’re so glad to see you as well. Let’s eat and then talk, shall we?” 

Feyre noticed Nesta’s gaze, more heavy than usual lingering on her but she accepted Elain’s request with little fanfare and began to share the meal with her sisters. 

She could not help, throughout the meal, but to notice Elain and Nesta’s looks, flickering towards her stomach, rovering over her entirely. She felt uncomfortable in a way she could not express. She did not remember the last time her sisters had looked at her with such quiet intensity, except for when she had shown up to their home as a newly made Fae.

Rhys flickered through their bond, assuaging her discomfort. Shall I join you three? He purred in her head, but Feyre was nothing if not determined to have one outing with her sisters go well without a meditator. No, she replied, waves of her love and gratitude going through the bond to Rhys. I want to spend a meal with them alone and tell them the news!

Are you sure that’s such a good idea, Feyre darling? 

They’re my sisters, Rhys.

Sisters who left you at 14 to fend for them all. 

We have moved past it, she declared, voice absolute, closing her bond shut as she pulled her mental shields up. If Rhys valued their bed, he would leave her sisters alone tonight.

Refocusing herself, Feyre’s hands wrapped around her son. She looked at her sisters, alit in the joy of her impending motherhood, of how her family would grow. “Nesta, Elain, I have special news I want to share with you both.” She breathed for a moment, steadying herself, “Rhys and I will be having our first child come spring!” 

Her sisters did not look surprised nor exalted. They merely traded a look and with a certainty that surprised her, each took one of her hands in their own.

“Feyre,” Nesta began, voice wavering, “Elain Saw this. There is something about the babe we have to tell you before it is too late.”

“He will be born with wings. Rhysand knows this Feyre. It could kill you if not handled correctly. He swore the entire Inner Circle to secrecy, including Majda.”

“Feyre, this is your body, your life. Haven’t you given enough to the Fae already? Rhysand is hiding this from you. You need to find an Illyrian midwife who will work alongside a High Fae healer to begin your shifting into your Illyrian form so you and the babe can survive the birth.”

Feyre merely looked at her sisters, disbelieving. Elain? Using her powers? When did she or Nesta still retain their powers? And Nesta? Caring about her? And this—this—would Rhys really? After what he had promised her? After they had vowed no more secrecy between them. 

After everything they had been through together, would he betray her at this moment? He saw…He knew she had the chance to die, that their son might not have lived and he hid it from her. He saw how happy she was—how she had been planning the nursery, the toys she had been slowly buying, looking into preschools and—and yet. Her body shook, rage and terror filling her, pulsing down the bond so quickly and ferociously that Rhys, in a spiral of night woven sky appeared by her side, growling at her sisters as he forced them to let go of her hands.

Her lifeline, she thought, her body echoing in shock. Her sisters were not even allowed to touch her as they told her the truth. Rhys…Rhys would not allow her own sisters near her, despite them saving her life. 

“How dare you?!” Rhys thundered, his voice terrible, darkness flooding Sevenda’s, windows shattering under the pulse of his overwhelming power. Feyre was wrapped in a cocoon of stars, safe from her mate’s fury against her sisters.

Her sisters. Feyre screamed down the bond, trying to pull Rhys back but Nesta and Elain—they were cloaked in starlight, the fire of the stars wrapped as a heavy cloak around them and they looked—they looked—

Otherworldly. Unyielding. As if her sisters were more than High Fae, as if they were queens in their own right. Elain’s softness, still present, as if she was the sheath of Nesta; Nesta, all iron and fire, she herself the blade. 

“We do not take orders from you, High Lord.” Elain declared coldly. “You are nothing but our brother-in-law. We have sworn no allegiance to Night and were born Scythian subjects.” Rhys flickered, his eyes catching Feyre’s. Feyre—Feyre knew this. Their maternal line hailed from Scythia. They were always meant to return. She had been a Scythian subject until her engagement to Tamlin, having only lost her citizenship upon becoming Fae. 

“We dissolve all ties to Night,” Nesta said, her voice so quiet and so loud, the burn of thousands of stars echoing her spell. “We swear no fealty to the Night Court nor its High Lord. We are free persons.”

Feyre wanted to sob, was sobbing, as she tried to contain her mate. But Nesta and Elain stood unafraid and unwavering; the only light against his furious, hateful darkness. Feyre shuddered, the loathing, the murder singing down the bond from Rhys terrified her. In a single motion, both of her sisters looked at her—for what Feyre hoped would not be the last time—“Do not forget who you are, Feyre,” Elain said, as though a prophecy spoken was inlaid in her voice, rich with the melody of something Feyre could not catch, could not understand; as Nesta dissolved them, her starfire shielding them as Rhys aimed, lethal, for her sisters—Feyre screamed and they were gone, lost, missing before his aim met true, the structure where they once stood completely and utterly dissolved into ashes under Rhys’ mist.

Night 

Nesta and Elain hurried past the Library’s doors, reaching Clotho’s desk as the remnants of Rhysand’s power began to trace and follow them. Clotho’s eyes met them and in a silent movement, the Library held for a moment, suspended, as she shattered Rhysand’s shadows from the entryway. 

“We request sanctuary,” Nesta declared, no hesitation in her voice or stance. “We ask for safe passage outside Night,” Elain affirmed, as steady as her sister as their hands held each other in comfort.

Clotho took them in, her eyes studying the two. High Priestess and she knew, she knew the Mother had blessed the two sisters with her protection and powers for what they endured in the Cauldron. It would not bring their humanity back, she knew, but it was the Mother’s debt to be paid for the violation of humans. 

In another quick movement, a note sailed and soon after, a red-headed priestess appeared. “Gwyneth,” Clotho wrote, “Ladies Nesta and Elain request sanctuary and passage out of Night. Bring them to Merril.”

“Call me Gwyn,” She smiled at the sisters as they walked quickly to Merril’s office. “I work for Merril in the Library as her research assistant. Right now, we’re focusing on the lost history of the Valkyries.”

Elain hummed, her voice layered, as if seeing something beyond them, “I would suggest you reach out to the Lady of Autumn.”

“Oh?” Gwyn asked, as Nesta also looked curiously at Elain. 

“Her sisters were Valkyries and perished at the end of the first war. You will find more than you need back in Autumn, Gwyn.”

Gwyn nodded at Elain, her auburn hair rich the lights’ flames as they moved. “The Mother has blessed you, you know,” She whispered, slightly awed. “All of the priestesses felt you two being Made—we heard whispers in the temples of the cruelty in the Cauldron and how the Mother stepped forward for you both.”

Nesta and Elain exchanged a look, a silent conversation confirming what they had begun to suspect. Too soon, they reached Merril’s door, who had already taken off her invoking stone and was chanting as Clotho and Gwyn joined her prayer circle.

Nesta and Elain did not know what was occurring, only that a fracture seemed to be emerging from the stone’s presence and the spell the priestesses were weaving. 

A blue, shimmering portal, as if water cleared, opened before their eyes. Clotho stepped forward to the sisters, eyes downcast, as she silently recited a prayer over them. A warmth enveloping them, as if a gentle hand was holding Nesta and Elain. Merrill took her place then, and chanted, “May the Mother guide you and protect you,” before Gwyn pressed a kiss on each forehead, “You deserve to be free.”

Each part of the spell brought the presence closer and closer until, “The Mother is with us,” Gwyn gasped, her teal-eyes impossibly wide as Clotho and Merrill bowed their heads. “Mother,” Clotho wrote, “We see your protection in these sisters; how one is lost, yet to be found. We see your love in these daughters, how they praised their mother despite it all. We see your mercy in their torment, as they rise from the ashes.” 

Merrill's voice, overlaying Clotho’s words, “In the blessings of three; of Mother, Maiden, Crone, as three of us as your priestesses stand before you now, we will grant safe passage for your blessed.” A hum began to fill the air, the voices of priestesses from beyond the Library ringing in the entrance as the world stilled for a moment. 

“You have been extraordinarily brave, all of you. Go, seek this passage under my protection. My priestesses, let your stones guide you out of Night. There is much to be done, not only in this realm, but the next.” 

Suspended—the voice hummed, so gently Nesta wanted to weep and lay herself in the ground here, never to awaken lest she not hear the beautiful melody again. Elain’s tears fell as new life blossomed from them. The priestesses of the Library and the other temples had been invoked, called to witness their goddess as she appeared for the first time in their memories and their tears of joy felt like a flood, a emergence, a new life.

“You will remake this world so beautifully. Arm yourself against the onslaught yet, and you will reap your rewards. Soon, the world will be righted against the blackness of magic and the unending, chained death.”

It was a blessing. A prophecy. A new world being called into existence. The Mother’s magic granted a secure passageway for women—and yet before they could leave, before Rhysand forced his way into the Library to kill Nesta and Elain, they passed a packet of documents to Clotho. 

“These detail the truth of Night. You must be wary, but as women, as females, you deserve to know what it means to stay here. Be careful,” Nesta urged. “You are not safe here.”

The priestesses, eyes peering across the stone walls in Merrill’s office, across the Courts, watched them step through the portal, feeling the Mother follow the two sisters at a serene pace as the light flickered out with every step the sisters ran. Merrill was already quickly reading the documents left by them in Clotho’s hand, as Gwyneth and Clotho made sure the portal was secure before it closed on their end.

“By the Mother,” Gwyneth stumbled, sliding down the wall. “The Mother was here. Our goddess was among us.” She did not have long to revel in the fullness of what has transpired let alone process what had been said, demanded really, of them all, before Merrill’s voice broke through their divine trance.

“The High Lord—that fucking bastard, exactly like his father,” Merrill cursed. Before Clotho or Gwyneth could even ask what Merrill had uncovered, “He knew his High Lady would be killed in childbirth and did not stop it beyond asking for Majda—Majda, a bloody field healer and not at all equipped to deal with this.”

“That’s not all,” Merrill continued, as Clotho studied the documents in Merrill’s hands, “Look at how much he stole from Ladies Nesta and Elain, the number of wing clippings in Illyria and the death rates of their children, the rates of sexual violence across Night, all with barely any response.” 

“We will leave.” Clotho wrote, “The land no longer holds the Mother’s protection nor her blessing, especially once we close our temples and relocate. Perhaps to Dawn and Day.” 

“Rhysand does not understand what he has done,” Clotho continued, her words like ice. “Gwyneth, inform the other priestesses not to leave the Library and send messages to our sisters across Night. We will not stay here. Not like this. Not until our Mother orders our safe return to Night.”

Day

Eris felt it before it began. Nesta’s fury, her fear tumbling down the bond. He prayed to the Mother that she and Elain were safe, quickly winnowed out of the Forest House to Day’s borders—the old borders of Dusk, Nesta had discovered.

As soon as he stepped out of his winnow, Nesta and Elain were there, along with Ishaq, ready to take Lainey to Helion. 

“Thank the Mother,” He breathed, grasping Nesta into a hug as his hand grabbed one of Lainey's. “Thank the Mother,” He repeated, as he kissed Nesta in a relieved breath.  

“Eris,” Nesta began, “Rhysand—he tried to murder us.”

He froze, his eyes meeting Ishaq’s rising, lethal fury. His flames erupted along his skin, screaming and writhing. “He tried to kill you both,” Eris repeated, his voice of a winter bloodbath. 

Lainey, he realised, was shaking. Nesta was—he was shaking. In fury, in anger, in—how dare he. This is what the Night Court vaulted? This was their justice, their mercy? This is how he treated the two females who should have been sisters to him following his bonding to Feyre? And Feyre—that stupid, insipid girl—what had she even done as her mate attempted to kill her sisters? 

Eris would destroy Night. Utterly, beyond redemption. He would leave the General to hang from his wings, pieced by ash arrows, slowly bleeding out as the Shadowsinger was held above a pit of unending flames from Eris himself and Rhysand—Rhysand would wish it was only the Prison he would have received once Eris ate him alive. Once Lucien and Helion would step in on behalf of Nesta and Elain, he knew, without a shadow of doubt, Rhysand’s death certificate was certainly signed and sealed. Autumn and Day would show no mercy to the Inner Circle. Not after this. Not ever again.

Autumn

Lucien waited anxiously in the forest, feeling Elain’s terror down the bond before she began to send soft, soothing love. He knew as soon as her emotions changed, as soon as his Father had sent light down the bond to warm Elain, that she and Nesta were safe. All that was left to do was wait for his Mother, then they would be in Day and he would hold Elain and his Mother in his arms again.

What happened in Night to inflict such horror onto Elain? He had never felt her terror so profound except when she dreamed of the Cauldron. Yet something had shaken her, scared her. 

Before he could spiral into fear, he heard the crackle of branches and leaves. His Mother appeared, her gown simple as she reached for him. Dawn was here, and the night was over. 

He had not had the chance since his exile to even hold his Mother. Before their reunion could begin in earnest, he grabbed her hands and winnowed them into the safety of Day, under the warmth and protection of his Father. 

Autumn 

“Are you sure you want to do this today?” Eris asked, frantic. He kept checking Nesta, as if she would collapse in any given moment. His hand had not let go of her own, as if to steady himself, reminding himself she was alive and free. 

“Elain Saw this Eris,” Nesta patiently reminded him, although she frankly wished it did not have to be such a chaotic order of events; she wished she could have rested for a day before carrying forward. 

But Nesta knew as she worked, Elain would work. Her visions would be pulled as she studied the threads of their actions to guarantee them safe passage in their plans, to minimise any casualties and protect what innocents they could. If Elain could sink into the untold futures, surely Nesta could stand in front of Beron and let her silver flames burn.

Before either of them knew it, they were at the doors of Beron’s study. It was too early still for him to be at the family banquet hall for breakfast and too early for him to enact his vengeance over his Court in his throne room. 

“One last chance to back out, Archeron,” Eris whispered, fear flooding his body. He had plotted and schemed for centuries to remove his Father and now that the moment had come, he was terrified. He did not think he could do this. 

“Never, Vanserra,” Nesta replied. She was also terrified, but she knew Autumn would sing hymns under Eris’ rule and he deserved the chance to give Autumn the kindness they deserved. 

It was enough to make her overcome her fear. She had done this before, she recalled. She had prioritised other lives over her own. She and Elain had put the innocent first and dealt with tyrants. They were the King Slayers. They were Archerons.

What was one more High Lord to add to their list? 

Night

“How could you? How dare you?” Feyre screamed, her grief, her anger ricocheted off the study’s window panes. “They are my sisters! And you tried to murder them for telling me the truth!” 

Her audience—not her family, not when they would have let her perish rather than tell her the truth—no, her only family left were her sisters, Cauldron knows where, somewhere across Pythrian and Feyre did not even know if they were safe. If they, a quiet thought interrupted her fears, if they would ever see Feyre again. 

Morrigan, a cheshire grin adorning her face, as if the image of Nesta and Elain’s murders at Rhysand’s hand was passive entertainment. Amren, a bored, savage look on her face, as though she could be doing anything else besides talking about this silly drama of her sisters lives, of her life. Cassian, his wings tense, belayed his fury at—was it at the harm that could have befallen Nesta or because she had escaped? Azriel, wings quietly tucked as he watched, his shadows catching their secrets. 

They had all known. They had all known and had not taken Feyre’s side. They had not protected Feyre when Rhysand had issued an order. They all watched her talk about the babe—how pathetic she must have seemed to them all, cheerful about a babe who would have killed her, who could have been born a stillborn from their inaction and secrecy. 

“Feyre, darling, we have been searching for a solution—they had no right to tell you. Look at this now—you’re in a bad state for the babe, and now you will be carrying this fear throughout the pregnancy,” Rhys tried to pacify her yet she felt trapped. Suffocated. What was the difference between her mate and the male who assaulted her so thoroughly Under the Mountain? She could scarcely recall. She wanted to throw up, bile rising up her throat as she remembered how drugged she was, dancing on his lap as everyone in Prythian saw her, naked and human and vulnerable. 

Had he changed? Was her lover, the gentle, generous lord his mask? Was he truly this cruel underneath it all?

“Elain Saw it happen, Rhys,” She choked out, her eyes closed as she tried to escape the feeling of being paraded around as his human toy Under the Mountain. They cannot be the same person, Feyre panicked, else her children would grow up with this—their Father having assaulted their Mother—and Feyre, Feyre, what options did she have? She was mated to him. She had made a bargain with him—she had—the bargain. 

The first bargain. 

Before her thoughts could grasp onto it—I’ll heal your arm in exchange for you. For you. For you—

“What do you mean she Saw it, girl?” Amren said, urgency bleeding into her tone. Feyre shuddered; what had she done. What bargain had she made, what had she truly given up to survive—

“She Saw it—with her visions. Rhys, if we bring an Illyrian midwife, I’ll be able to shift my body close enough to an Illyrian for the child to live.” 

Did she want the child to live? Yes. Yes, she would not—despite his father, she would not harm him. She would not hurt him as his father hurt her. 

Rhys exhaled. Slowly, his shoulders lessened their tension. “You could have started with that, Feyre darling.” His voice, Feyre thought, was supposed to be intoxicating to her—why intoxicating, the human of her prodded, can you not simply love him without this obsession? Is this what it means to be a Faerie? Revulsion. All she felt was sick, as if a blade was pierced through her and she was left with nothing but to look at her bones—Just like Under the Mountain. Do you remember how he twisted our bone then? 

She had forgotten, Feyre realised, shame thick. She had forgotten she had been human. Been someone other than Rhysand’s mate. She had been Feyre, the hunter, the—how often did Nessie and Lainey take care of everything else Feyre? Her human voice prodded her again, and no—no she did not want to remember how much her sisters had actually given her and their Father—she—she had stolen so much from her sisters. And what was their crime? Not taking her hunting seriously? It was little wonder they did not, not when so much was done by them both. Not when Elain’s embroidery fetched them tea and sugar and whatever else at the village market; or how Nesta tutored the village children in reading and arithmetic—why hadn’t she told her sisters she could not read, anyways? Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten, Feyre. We were a terrible child, running from our governess and tutors.  

She had kept her worse qualities upon becoming Fae. She had listened to Rhysand’s family talk about locking Nesta away with Cassian as her jailer—Cassian, Feyre knew, despite his heart, wanted Nesta with a violence since he had first laid eyes on her as a human. Why had he felt it was so acceptable to be so violent with Nessie all the time anyways? Feyre knew he wanted Nesta to climb down and bless him, as if that would change his bastard-born status. As if having Nesta, a queen in her own right, would finally make him worthy. That he could stand next to Rhysand and know he shared his mate’s sister; another bond linking the two Illyrians. It was so similar to Azriel’s lust for Elain. 

Did either of them truly see her sisters?

Did she? 

How often had she laughed when Mor made a bitchy comment about Nesta? When Amren talked about their powers? As Cassian waited, like a predator stalking his prey, for Nesta to fall? 

Lucien, Feyre thought, did not treat Elain that way. He gave her space and time and—he had saved their mortal possessions. Their mother’s cookbook. Their heirloom golds from their mother and grandmothers, while Feyre dismissed them all as trivial, human possessions from an old life she did not want to remember, crowning herself in Night’s coffers—never satisfied, never sated, picking up Amren and Mor’s habits of jewel shopping—

Rhysand wanted Nesta punished and he found out a way to ensure it that very morning. Nesta had spent 500 gold marks the other night across taverns in Velaris. But why would she do that? What had been on the itemised list? Feyre couldn’t remember—but she knew her sisters were not irresponsible with money and either way, 500 marks out of the trillions of pounds to Nesta and Elain’s names was a speck. 

Money that belonged to them. Money that she allowed Rhysand to steal. 

Is this who she was now? In Summer, she had let Rhysand and Amren convince her into theft. Had her seduced Tarquin—whored, like she was Under the Mountain, was that all she was?—when she had pleaded for communication.

That was how humans handled events, she knew. A thief was a high brand to carry as a human and Feyre, even in her hunger, had not allowed herself the shame.

In exchange for you. 

What had she done?

Autumn

Beron’s face was twisted in an ugly snarl, but Nesta could see how much of Eris’ face was inherited from his Father. What a grief, she thought, to look into the mirror and see your tormentor. She would, she vowed, never let Eris be haunted by such a thought, no matter what. He was her betrothed, and she would protect him as he protected her. Her loyalty to him was ceaseless, endless and as absolute as her love for their family.

Eris’ dagger, Made by Nesta, was plunged into his Father’s heart. A small way to die, all things considered, reflected Nesta. It was an unassuming death; and yet, still a death. 

“You rotten boy,” Beron hissed as Eris met his eyes, twisting the dagger in his Father’s heart. Nesta felt it then, her flames shuddering throughout Beron’s body as he began to burn from the inside out. Violence entrenched as Nesta felt every memory throughout Eris as he stared into Beron’s eyes one last time, the final time he would ever speak to his father. 

“This is for Autumn,” He whispered, and yet his voice felt like thunder in the stillness of the chamber, “For my brothers and for my Mother,” Another twist, another shudder of her flames invoked as ashes began to fall from Beron’s mouth, his skin decaying into nothingness.

As his Father’s body dissolved into the Mother’s realm, Eris pulled the dagger back to himself before the fire of Autumn reached him, punishing in its depths, searing and branding his soul and body. He doubled over and the wildfire, the roar of Autumn’s flame crowned him High Lord.

Nesta stepped forward as Eris caught his breath, feeling the thunder of magic shimmering under her lover's skin—she grasped Beron’s crown from the floor where it had stayed solid atop his ashes, and in her sweet voice declared: “The High Lord is dead. Long live the High Lord.”

The golden wreath of laurels, the rubies and citrines of Autumn, rested atop his head by Nesta’s hands. His crown.

His crown.

Eris was High Lord. Eris was the High Lord of Autumn now, and now, finally no one could hurt them any longer. 

He grinned, bloody, at Nesta, his beautiful, vengeful queen, and laughed.

Night 

Feyre could not reconcile the two realities warring in her head. She felt aged beyond her years, as though she had erred in a way she could not come back from. Her choices, she knew, bound her. 

What options were left for her? She had isolated Summer and Spring, and the other Courts would hardly take her in as they would not want to cross Rhysand’s wrath. Her child sat in her womb as the Illyrian midwife Azriel had brought from Wind Haven examined her. 

Was she to remain like this? Rhysand’s partner? Could she forgive him? Should she forgive him? But what other routes could she take? Could she deny her child his Father? She wished, desperately, for Nesta and Elain. For her Mother. She did not want this. She did not want to do this alone. She wished she had died under Amarantha rather than be bounded like this for eternity. 

Could she change the Night Court? Would it be possible, by raising the heir to the Court or through some other measure—staying with Rhysand?—that she could enact meaningful change? She knew things were wrong: Hewn City and Illyria left to perish and she had not once seen a council for taxation, for any infrastructure or schooling, for any public welfare programme. Who handled it all? How did the Night Court run? Rhys said all his father’s Court—diplomats, council members—were held captive in Hewn City. But why? What was their crime? How could she call herself High Lady, how could she have spat on Tamlin, when she had allowed Rhysand to also lock her in a gilded cage, all without knowing she was imprisoned.

“We’ll begin with your hips,” The midwife, Lara, instructed her, jarring her out of her thoughts. Rhysand’s hand grasped her own, and she wanted to shudder, to remove his revolting touch from her body. “Now, you need to do it incrementally while we are here. I’ll keep the examining orb on you to make sure the babe’s alright and that you’re shifting correctly. I brought Illyrian anatomy diagrams, as well as High Fae’s, so you can see the differences we’ll need to make throughout the shift, is that alright my Lady?”

Feyre nodded, exhausted. She gathered the diagrams, tried to ignore Rhysand’s hovering over her as he double-checked the structures and kept careful watch over their son’s image moving in the orb. She wanted to cry upon the sight of her baby, how beautiful he looked, and swore she would protect him in all the ways Rhysand and his family never would; that she would raise him to be better than his Father. She would not hide the truth of Rhysand, of herself, of his aunts and human heritage from their child. 

No matter what, she was still an Archeron.

Night 

“Congratulations Rhys,” Azriel said, relief evident across the Inner Circle. Rhys nodded, grateful, as he swirled his tumbler. Filled with the finest brandy from the Continent, a single bottle cost 600 gold marks. An insignificant amount from Nesta and Elain’s monies, but one the family enjoyed nonetheless. 

“Thank the Cauldron, Feyre was able to shift the most important part for her delivery today. Lara will stay with her until the babe is delivered to make sure all is safe. Az, make sure her family is taken care of for the next century once the babe is born,” Rhys decreed, grateful beyond belief for Wind Haven’s midwife. Why hadn’t they considered Illyria in the first place? All they sought were information texts from High Fae and human sources, neither of which Feyre was during the babe’s conceivement. 

“Thank the Cauldron for Elain’s vision,” Mor added, sipping her wine. “I know those sisters of hers are difficult Rhys, but thank the Cauldron one of them actually did something helpful for once. Of course, no one is surprised it wasn’t Nesta with all her drunken whoring.” 

Cassian’s eyes stormed, and Rhys laughed. “Don’t get so worked up Cass, we’ll bring Feyre’s sisters back to Velaris soon and we’ll make sure Nesta begins to train with you.” 

“What I want to know is how much power those two girls have left,” Amren cut in, uncaring of Cassian’s obsession with Nesta. She knew, despite what the others thought, that Nesta would not lower herself to deign Cassian any attention, no matter how many tantrums he threw. “We could use it Rhys, find the Dread Trove or use it to retrace King Fionn’s steps and crown you and Feyre High King and Queen. Night is the only Court fit to rule and under us, can you imagine how strong Prythian would be?”

Rhys smirked, picking a piece of invisible lint off his jacket as the others nodded. Azriel merely tilted his head as he watched Rhys. “It will be easy. Soon, we’ll bring them back to solidify our power base. Once Feyre gives birth, I doubt any of her lingering anger will remain when our new family starts.”

“What of the other Courts? If they don’t agree?” Azriel asked, his shadows ran across him as if to hide their singer.

“And why wouldn’t they, boy?” Amren demanded as Morrigan laughed, sounding like the pulse of light.

Azriel looked past it, into Cassian’s brooding countenance and Rhys’ smugness, “Why would any High Lord give up their powers, their territories?” 

Amren and Rhys exchanged a look, and Azriel suddenly felt his shadows had not told him everything—had not found out everything. “We will engage in diplomatic measures, but if I wield High King Fionn’s old swords, then who can deny me?” 

“So you know where the sword is?” Azriel asked, as his curiosity rushed through him. The proclamation caught Morrigan and Cassians’ attentions as well.

“Not yet,” Rhys acknowledged, “But Amren believes Nesta’s powers would have the ability to find his sword and bring us one step closer.”

Day

A letter arrived in Autumn flames to Helion’s hands as he sat with his family. His beloved mate, his son, his son’s mate all reunited under the safety of his wards. Picking the letter up carefully, he unsealed Autumn’s wax seal, intricately designed with Eris’ own motifs, and read the contents before allowing a relieved smile on his face.

The others, waiting for a formal announcement, kept their breaths bated before Helion spoke the blessed words, “Eris is High Lord, and Nesta is alive and safe in Autumn.” 

Lucien whooped as Elain crumbled in relief, but Helion’s eyes caught Ériu’s wondrous gaze, as though for the first time in the last few centuries, she felt the oppression of her marriage slipped entirely off her being.

She began to cry, and Helion, nor the others, could not blame her for her stark, vicious relief in her husband’s death. He made his way quickly towards his mate, wrapped his arms around her, and allowed them to sink to the floor in blessed, blessed freedom.

Autumn 

Eris was a vision in his crown, Nesta admired, as her ladies in waiting began to dress her for his ascension ceremony. The others—Lucien, Elain and Ériu—would have arrived by now as well. Eris’ brothers stood alongside him, proud grins gleamed on their faces as they looked towards their eldest brother. Eris, who had raised them all, protected them all from their Father’s cruelty as much as he was able, had devoted his blood and time to Autumn to preserve what lifeforce he could under Beron’s regime and now, finally, after centuries of torture, they would celebrate his ascension, his struggles and devotion to his Court.

Nesta took in her own appearance. Her gown, heavy layers of burgundy and rich golden threads lighting Autumn’s leaves and flames spanning from the ends of her gown up to her bodice’s waistline. Her ladies fixed her new crown declaring her as the High Lord’s betrothed onto her head. Her hair, for the first time since she was a human, was styled down and free, curling along her back. Her crown gleamed with the burnished gold of her hair, the rubies and diamonds crowning her, announcing her. This was everything her Mother had raised her for.

This had always been her fate. 

Nesta would make Autumn home. Autumn was her home now, she corrected herself. She would enforce Eris’ will with her silver flames. She would remember mercy, as would her betrothed, but for now, she would take a moment in her chambers to rest before the world demanded them for the rest of their lives together.

Dawn

Thesan watched as the black letter appear on his desk. Autumn’s wax seal prevented any besides Thesan from opening it. He knew what it was, having already spoken to Helion. It was beginning in earnest now, the revolution, not that the Rhysand’s Circle was aware yet of its depths. Eris announcing Beron’s funeral precession meant he already had his ascension ceremony, typically a private Autumn event, which also meant that Nesta Archeron—soon to be Vanserra—was already hidden in Day by now until the public funeral was over and the wards of Autumn strengthened that very night by Eris, Helion and himself.

Soon, after the funeral obligations, Thesan would call a quiet meeting with the Seasonal Courts and begin to explain to Tarquin and Tamlin the road moving forward. Something needed to be decided about Feyre Archeron and the babe she carried in her womb, and it would have to be soon—especially after Eris’ report that Rhysand had attempted to mist the Archeron sisters. It had to end, his madness. 

Prythian could not take another war, not after the Hybern’s 50 year occupation and subsequent war—not after the rebuilding of the Courts and the amount of aid they owed the humans. He knew that Ladies Nesta and Elain had tried while they had still been humans, but out of the dozen ships they had sent, filled with human refugees, it had only been a dozen out of the ten thousand needed. There had been thousands of more humans who had needed safety and had not been able to make it abroad any ship. The sheer number of humans who had been killed in the crossfire of Hybern’s war was stunning, beyond appalling.

He knew part of Prince Lucien’s role was establishing a council with the humans, but it needed Ladies Nesta and Elain, and the girl Briar, who had been living in Winter since the war ended. Humans needed to be on the council, and his networks had heard the way the Archeron sisters were still spoken of by their human peers. They were lauded as heroes, rightfully so in Thesan's opinion, and as victims to the Fae. If they wanted to ensure good relationships with their human neighbours, then it was imperative for the sisters to join the council. 

He would speak with Tarquin and Tamlin this week, already pulling parchment and a fountain pen towards himself. He would ask they meet the day after Beron’s funeral procession or perhaps a day before, to lay out what Eris, Helion and himself had discussed. Rhysand would not survive this, not truly. Either he would be executed, the more likely scenario, or he would spend his life languishing in the Prison. 

The General and Spymaster were too dangerous, but he agreed with Eris: let the Illyrians handle their own traitors. They wanted retribution, and they could have it. The High Lords would destroy their siphons and bound all of Rhysand's Courts powers, leaving them as defenceless as they had left all the humans across the Wall.

Justice was not kind, but it was fair.

Night

Feyre truly wanted to cease existing. Every time Rhysand touched her, she wanted nothing more than to stab him in his eyes until he went blind from his own arrogance and lust. By the Mother, did she despise him. 

Still, she was working to understand the parameters of her bargains with him. Would she be able to, at the very least, free herself from their mutual death pact? Suicide pact, you mean, the Nessie in her head sneered. Feyre could not even be upset at her sister's voice—for at least she had a part of her sisters with her at all times—as her human voice had been echoing in her head since she watched Rhysand that night at Sevenda’s. For the sake of her sanity, she had pulled a shield around herself, having argued that it was for their son’s protection so he could no longer touch her. 

She needed to figure out a way out of this. She needed to protect herself. She needed, desperately, to protect her child. 

She watched Azriel cross the living room, having given her a brief nod. She knew he was on the way to give Rhysand his latest reports—probably also having hidden that they were trying to hunt her sisters down, as, to her eternal glee, they had not been able to find out where Nessie and Lainey had disappeared to in their starfire. 

Rhysand’s voice entered her head and she cooled her feelings so he would not feel the extent of her anger and disgust towards them all. Feyre, darling, would you mind coming to the study for a Court meeting? 

Of course not, darling. Give me a moment.  

They were all gathered; and she wondered who they had voted on earlier. Surely someone’s life had to be saved by their sacrifices, or how else could they exist? 

“Beron is dead, and Eris is High Lord,” Azriel announced, no inflection shaping his words. Morrigan gasped, holding the phantom mark on her womb as Autumn was mentioned near her. And yet she damns Nessie and Lainey but still cries over her same 500 year old scar, all the while condemning the entire city she was raised in? Her human voice laughed, and Feyre could not help the smile on her face at the absurdity of the notion. 

The Circle mistook her smile for joy at Beron’s death. How naive they are, she thought. “So we’ll go for the public funeral?” Cassian asserted, “I know Az wants to scope their security, and I want to make sure we can find any holes to get in.”

“Why would you want to break into Autumn?” Feyre asked, confused for a moment. Had they not been allies with Eris? Isn’t this what they had wanted? Eris crowned as High Lord of Autumn to minimise the brutality endured there?

“For Mor, of course,” Cassian responded, as though confused how Feyre could forget such a calamity, “Maybe we’ll even find your sisters there, if Elain appears with Lucien.” 

Azriel’s wings twitched—and truly, Feyre could not read the male. Was he upset at the mention of Elain being with her mate? Or at Mor’s grief with the Vanserras? Frankly, Feyre wondered why Autumn was so heavily blamed in the event when it had been Mor’s father, Kier, who had tortured her that day. Sometimes she felt she was dealing with 500 year old children rather than grown adults. These are the people she had wanted her child to be raised by. Mother guide her.

Regardless, Feyre would make it to Autumn. She would pass a note to Eris somehow, informing him of Night’s actions so he could protect his Court against their power plays. If this was the only way she could make a difference, she would still grasp her hand out and take it.

Autumn

Eris sat on his throne, Beron’s coffin—ironically filled with nothing but ashes—rested on the dais next to him. His brothers and soldiers had the parameters secured, and most importantly, warded with Lucien’s spell-cleaving and Killian’s lightning. The wards were are maximum strength as his other brother, Theron, dispatched his smoke to make sure the Shadowsinger could not find holes to burrow his shadows into throughout the funeral precession. 

Normally, Eris would despise letting the entire Court of Dreamers into his Court but he had no choice. They had been allies, despite them doing fuck-all for Eris, and he could not let Rhysand think something had changed—not right before the High Lord’s meeting that was already arranged in Dawn in the coming weeks. Thesan had called it on the pretence of renegotiating deals with Autumn under Eris’ rule, but Thesan had spoken to him and Helion that morning, confirming he had spoken with Tarquin and Tamlin yesterday to give them the full information they had at hand against Night and the Archeron sisters' revolution. 

All the other Courts had already showed up, with Night being the last. His eyes followed Feyre Archeron as she walked slowly around the drinks table, before she made eye contact with him for the first time since arriving. He felt a tap in his mind, and, succumbing to his curiosity, allowed her in a warded, mental room. Can I help you, my Lady? 

Cassian and Azriel are looking for weak points in the Forest House and Autumn’s wards. They want you to pay for your sins against Morrigan. Be careful. He could hear her eye-roll at one point in her warning, pay for your sins—as if he had any that did not belong to Kier when it came to Morrigan. 

And why would you tell me this information, Cursebreaker? 

Because I had not realised what I had done to myself, to my sisters—He felt a surreal grief in her words. He thought of Nesta, of Lainey, of how they both wanted their sister—their true sister—back.

We are allies you know, he sent to her, casually stretching his legs across his throne. He had offered a hand. It was up to her to accept.

After a beat, she showed him a memory.

She was filthy, bloodied, starving and—she had still been human here. He had forgotten the fragility of her as she completed impossible tasks under Amarantha's derision. She was Under the Mountain, trapped in her blackened cell. He felt a harrowing pain in her memory, as though her someone had snapped one of her bones and left her, burning with an infection—and fuck, her bone was actually sticking out from her arm—Mother, he remembered her like this. It had made him sick every night to watch Rhysand parade her around, but he had never understood what had been truly going on behind the scenes of their little games and truthfully, he had been too worried about keeping his family alive, hoping she would break the curse all the while crafting plan after plan to liberate them from Amarantha. Rhysand’s face leered over her in her memories as Eris watched him twist her exposed bone—that fucking bastard—before he heard her bargain—her silly, human, damning bargain that had not died with her when she had been on the edge of death.

I’ll heal you in exchange for you. 

Fuck. He had to tell the rest immediately.

Nesta was going to burn Rhysand alive.

Day 

Many did not know this, but Èrin was a daemati. How very lucky for them, Eris thought in annoyance. He was frustrated, and he knew as soon as the others—for everyone except the Night Court was in this room—saw the memory so many plans would had to be remade from scratch. 

“As you all know, Night was present at Beron’s funeral yesterday. What many of you don’t know—and truly, this is an asset I hate to give up—but my mother, Èrin, is a daemati. Why do these things correlate, you may ask me, oh lovely, sophisticated High Lord of Autumn? Because Feyre Archeron showed me a memory of when she was still human, trapped Under the Mountain with us all, and it completely changes everything regarding her and the babe she carries.” Nesta and Elain traded fragile glances, as though hope was too glorious, too bright for them to even approach. 

“What of the memory then?” Tamlin asked, his brow furrowed. He knew as soon as Feyre had come back to Spring from Under the Mountain that they would need time—decades, probably, but something had been fundamentally altered in her upon their return to Spring, more than he expected, more than he could understand. He had not known how to bring her back, not truly. For so long he told himself it was Rhysand—and his terror of their bargain had been endless—before he realised maybe it had been him. Maybe it had been the overwhelming suffocation she lived under in his Court. 

“Prepare yourselves,” Eris warned, before he met his Mother’s eyes. She spun the memory into everyone’s head, and Eris watched the group’s faces. Feyre’s bone, already the wound around it was burning in an infection and clearly they all felt it as told by their hisses of pain, was twisted by Rhysand. They watched as Rhysand uttered those damning, obliterating words to Feyre.

I’ll heal you in exchange for you. 

It was clear in the memory she had not been willing to accept. She was going to wait for Lucien to sneak his way somehow to her and heal her bone, but Rhysand had intercepted Lucien, had made sure he would be whipped and followed that day, so he could corner Feyre. And when she had stubbornly refused the first time, he leaned into Night’s tactics. She had been a human here. She had been a human and he had tortured her into accepting a bargain with him—a bargain where she had not known it was not her accepting to stay in his Court for a certain amount of time, but that she had given herself to him. 

“Is their mating bond even true?” Elain asked, her doe-eyes studying Lucien and Helion, “From all the times you two have observed them together. Is it a real bond or was it forged during this bargain?”

Father and son exchanged weary glances. “From what I have been able to see at my time spent in Night,” Lucien began, “It is a true bond. But I would question if that is why Rhysand stalked her the way he did Under the Mountain. If he had felt the mating bond, while Feyre could not as a human, and so he went out of his way to steal her from Tam. The more precise question, as I’m sure most of you have realised, is how much of Feyre belongs to herself?”

Day

Her chamber was wreathed in her flames, as Elain was wrapped in her own magic while Nesta burned. Nothing would be damaged, she knew, as she whispered her intentions to her magic: wear out my anger, but do not destroy and do not make. 

Elain, all the while, had been pulling threads, searching through different fates to find Feyre in them. “Nessie,” She gasped, “The High Lord’s meeting.”

“Yes, Lainey,” Nesta rolled her eyes as she turned to face her sister properly, doused in her dancing flames, Elain felt her sister looked divine.

She took a moment to study Nesta, the architect of her fire and Saw her and Eris’ children, the blue and silver tints that would thread itself throughout their own flames in the future.

Nesta carried on, “The High Lords meeting next month where we will destroy the Inner Circle and I will burn Rhysand from the inside out, only to let you heal him and boom, we repeat for the next 500 years until not even an ash of his worthless body is left in this realm. What about it?”

Elain wanted to laugh with her sister, but truthfully, she felt the same rage, the call of vengeance for their sister. The Archeron stubbornness, the Vanserras called it. Who could blame them?

“We need to call onto her, Nessie. Mother, Maiden, Crone. The priestesses said we are protected by the Mother in the Library. You will remake this world so beautifully. Arm yourself against the onslaught yet, and you will reap your rewards. Soon, the world will be righted against the blackness of magic and the unending, chained death.”

Nesta looked into her sister’s eyes, as Elain reached for her hand to show Nesta the fate she had plucked.

“We need to tell the others.”

Autumn 

Eris Vanserra was strolling in his Forest House, taking in the redecorations Nesta had commanded upon the announcement of their wedding. Night had not received an invitation yet, merely a formal announcement as he knew Nesta and Elain would not open the wards across any Court to Night, too concerned and scared over the children, women, elderly and disabled they had hidden across multiple Courts.

Eris could not blame them. The numbers of refugees from Night totalled into the thousands, and yet somehow Rhysand and his precious Inner Circle had not yet realised how many of their own subjects, their own citizens were missing. At the moment, he assured himself, reaching for his bond with Nesta, that she and Elain had been granted dual citizenship in Autumn and Day, while they both negotiated with Queen Vassa for the return of their Scythian citizenship.

Kosechi's curse had stolen the fiery Queen from her kingdom, as her sister-queen who sold her out, Queen Briallyn hunted Nesta and Elain, blaming them for the Cauldron's curse onto her.

Eris would, very simply, burn the bitch queen alive before she came near Nesta. Nesta had already began scrying for the Trove, after hearing whispers from his spy network that Rhysand and the Queen each sought a piece from it. He would make sure nothing would harm his family if he could help it. 

Either way: today Night would have received the official notice of his bonding—wedding—to Nesta. He hoped Feyre would share the memory of Cassian’s rage. His hand found Nesta’s as she joined him, pulled by the attention on their bond. She was beautiful, more than words could capture, but Mother bless it all, he would spend the rest of their eternity trying to find them all to tell her.

“I’ve confirmed the graves have been built, and Clare’s body was buried back in your old village,” Eris told her, as her body gave way to a softened grief.

“Thank you,” She said, watching his fingers brush the back of her hand. “I’m going with Lucien and Elain today to give the reparations to the rest of the Beddor family, and to give our formal apology on behalf of Feyre.”

“Not Rhysand?”

Nesta snorted, an inelegant sound from her usual disposition. “Not a chance. He owes thousands of reparations onto the humans and Spring, to say nothing of his own Court. He has run Night’s coffers dry and he doesn’t even know it yet.” 

Night

Cassian had thrown Rhys’ desk out of the window, his siphons flaring a bloodied, vicious red as he raged, destroying whatever he could grab in Rhys’ office. Morrigan had laughed, declaring Eris and Nesta were two perfect snakes fated to be miserable together; that Cassian was too good to be mated to such a conniving bitch. Az and Rhys tried to hold Cassian down, to calm him down against Morrigan's hateful remarks—Nesta isn’t worth this, she should have been sent to Hewn City while we had the chance—Feyre, can’t you do something about your goddamn sister, it's so cruel how she's breaking Cassian's heart—but truthfully, the only thing Feyre had done was winnow them to their cabin and take herself back home. She shouldn’t have even needed to do that—but being in the presence of an Archeron sister only highlighted how stagnant the Inner Circle was, and to Azriel’s burning shame, how rotten they had become over the centuries.

Azriel didn’t blame her; she was a pregnant female carrying the heir of the Night Court. There would be hell to pay in Rhys’ rage if she lost the child. They all knew, however unspoken, if Feyre miscarried, that Rhys would indiscriminately hunt her sisters down, blaming them for Feyre’s delicate state. His shadows whispered images of the two sisters strung up by their hair and organs under Rhys' rage and he shuddered, his vow to protect the Archeron sisters pulsing as if it the clock had already struck. Azriel understood, more than the others, that she couldn’t overexert herself—that she already was emotionally and mentally. Having watched your mate try to murder your sisters would not exactly inspire confidence in a relationship, he imagined, but he had spent over 500 years by Rhys’ side and knew that he would not admit his err—not a single one against any of the Archeron sisters. 

One of his shadows stayed with her at all times as protection, but he also knew that the only reason his shadow assignment had been approved was because Rhys wanted her surveilled—encase her sisters come back, Rhys had said. And yet, Azriel did not think Nesta and Elain would harm Feyre nor her child, but he stayed silent in the face of Rhys’ order. The shadow knew, as it whispered to him, that Feyre despised Rhys utterly. She would leave Night if she could, and for her safety, he did not repeat those whispers to Rhys. 

Azriel had spent days since the fallout of the Archeron sisters and Rhys’ declaration to cage Nesta—to imprison and mould her into his weapon on his quest to become High King—to find a way to subvert it all. He had been left asunder, as if someone told him the sky was no longer blue and the stars had all burned out, after he had travelled to Wind Haven to find a midwife for Feyre. As Rhys and Amren announced their intention to crown him High King, all Azriel and his shadows could do was silently unravel. The war with Hybern and Amarantha's occupation of Pythrian had barely been over; entire Courts were still rebuilding and trade was miserable between them all. The amount of reports Azriel's shadows whispered to him across all of Night, the screams of women and children, the miseries of the veterans and their trauma, the devastating financial blow and subsequent depression that he knew Rhys was aware of as Azriel reported them every single week but simply did not care about—how could he stand and say his brother deserved to be High King? 

He had no idea how Cassian hadn’t noticed there were no females left at camp, no children playing and flying in the skies. His shadows had quickly departed from his body, seeking answers, as he spoke with Devlon only be told to wait in the camp lord’s home while they arranged for a midwife. It would not have been a necessarily strange turn of events, but when the midwife appeared, her wings had seemed healthier almost. As if her scar tissue was lessened, her back straighter, and Azriel watched her feet move quickly in position, as if she was relearning her stances—her centre of gravity. 

After he brought Lara to Rhys and Feyre, he stopped by his mother’s cabin to check in on her. He knew the wards around her home were strong, and that only a few selected people could enter—Rhys and Cass and the rest of their Court could not. He wanted to afford his mother privacy, not have her suffering on show so she could be made to as a mother to his friends. She had sworn him to secrecy, tied in a blood oath. The rest of the Court did not know that as soon as Nesta's bonding ceremony and wedding to Eris Vanserra was announced, the revolt in Illyria would begin. As Cassian aimed his fist into Azriel's stomach, he couldn't help but think that perhaps they deserved more than Illyria's revolt.

Night 

Cassian had raged for days, alone in the cabin as he drank himself into a stupor. He could not stop imagining Nesta—her golden hair, her delicious breasts, her grey eyes, her sharp wit and full ass that she always hid in her dresses. How desperately he wanted to be the one to unravel her; to be her mate and build their lives together in Night. They would be like Rhys and Feyre with their perfect love. By the Cauldron, whenever he caught sight of Feyre’s swollen womb, he felt so envious, wishing he could bring that sight to Nesta, to fill her himself with their children. Azriel had told him it was impossible—and he knew that Feyre would only succeed in birthing an Illyrian because of her shape shifting powers—but he could not stop replaying the image of Nesta, heavy with his child, in a small house in Illyria as the others in his homeland who mocked him for being a bastard-born sucked their teeths as they realised he only deserved the most powerful, beautiful mate. 

But Nesta always fucked up, he thought. For months, he had given her time and all he ever heard was her bitching about his relationship with Mor. No one ever got over that—he had slept with her to help her break free from Eris’ cruelty! For fuck’s sake, Nesta didn’t even try to see Feyre, to take care of her sister—instead, she sat on her ass in cabin, doing Cauldron-knows-what, as she sent her brave, strong little sister out into the cold wilderness to bring them home food and sustance. And now, she didn’t even have the decency to apologise to Rhys for breaking his trust! How was he supposed to bring her into their family if she kept refusing? And this—this sham, this fucking lie of her being mates with Eris Vanserra. He didn’t believe it. Nesta was running away, again, from the people who cared about her, who loved her—him and Feyre and the rest of their family—all to marry for status. Because of course, a bastard brute like him wasn’t good enough for her, was he? 

Everything he had achieved; General of the Night Courts’ armies, seven siphons, war hero—none of it meant anything to Nesta and her upturned, aristocratic nose. He wanted to fly to Autumn, to bash Vanserra’s face in and to bring Nesta back home where she belonged, so she could stop this ridiculous temper tantrum of hers but Azriel had warded him into the cabin, refusing to allow even Rhys access to let him fly. 

When he came out, he was going to beat the shit out of Az for this. If his mate married Eris fucking Vanserra while he was locked in here, someone was going to die—and preferably, it would be Vanserra. He didn’t care what a political headache it would cause; Nesta was his, his gift from the Cauldron and he knew if she spent more time with him, the bond would snap for her but she never gave him a single fucking chance—not even when she had been a human. 

Oh, she held her own impressively against him when she was human and he could smell her rich fear and—although she would never admit it—delectable arousal, he was even more impressed with the tenacity of his beautiful mate. He wanted nothing more than to have her bouncing on him, her body on show for him, her hair down as he suckled on her breasts—but instead, she was hiding from him in Autumn—probably whoring herself out to Vanserra to pretend they had a bond. He wouldn’t allow this farce to continue. He would break his way through his brother’s wards and fly to the Forest House to bring back his Cauldron-ordained mate, his beautiful Nesta. 

Night

Rhys and Feyre had been lounging at a cafe on Rainbow, as she watched the Sidra slowly go by, imagining how it pooled into sea, entirely free from its small constraints in Velaris and into the endless brilliance of the seabed. She wanted to join it, curled onto a boat, hiding her and her baby away. 

She glanced a look at Rhysand, knowing she had only been allowed outside today because he accompanied her. We have to be careful, Feyre darling, your pregnancy is stressful, you know that. She bit her retort back, If you’d let me break your nose, I’m sure I would feel so much calmer.

He was staring at the shops all over Rainbow, a proud smile on his face as he took in his city before suddenly something caught the couple’s attention. Illyrians—camp lords, Feyre realised—were flying down in front of the Velaris Court House—not that Feyre even knew if it was used, she thought. 

“High Lord,” One of the lords boomed, his siphons striking in the light as seven other lords stood in formation with him—all of them the picture of defiance. Feyre savoured the image, imagining the painting she would create with the colours of their siphons and the strength of their spines as they glared at Rhysand. 

“We come here today, as Illyrians, to declare our list of demands and grievances Illyria strikes against you and your Court rules.” With a single motion, the role of parchment was nailed onto the court’s doors. Rhysand was furious, Feyre knew, as his hatred tumbled down their bond as if Feyre was meant to bear the burden of his mistakes time and again. It was enough he had cost her her own sisters. 

“Illyria,” The lord announced, looking around at the crowd of Fae who had come to watch the spectacle,“is now in active revolt. We will no longer be your soldiers, your cannon fodder or your weapons. We have declared a treaty with Hewn’s City Darkbringers, and if you want us to bow to your rule once more, you will have to do so by force.” Before Rhysand could respond, each lord pressed down on a device that Feyre had only just now noticed—a ring, curiously coloured in a lapis blue—and they disappeared entirely from view.

Rhysand did not wait a single moment before grabbing Feyre, winnowing them to the House of Wind. She could feel the wards being pulled, aching from the ground as he called forth the Moonstone Palace’s defenses to guard the fortress.

In the next moment, she could hear—his thoughts were so loud, she ached—his barks for the Inner Circle, with Azriel appearing in a quiet step out of the shadows, Morrigan’s silver-lit winnow, bringing herself and Amren into existence. 

“Az, bring Cass back from Illyria now,” Rhysand demanded, his tone dark as his power began to seep out of him. 

Azriel looked at Rhysand, and Feyre thought for a moment that he would follow Rhysand’s order. “I cannot do that, High Lord,” Azriel murmured quietly, his eyes not once breaking from Rhysand’s stare.

“I don’t give a fuck about that bitch he wants,” Rhysand growled, “Bring Cass here right fucking now.” 

Azriel did not move. Feyre realised, before the others, what had actually happened. She began taking small steps back, her eyes looking for a place she could hide.

She wanted to winnow, but she was afraid of Rhysand, of the amount of destruction he would cause in this very moment if she was not here to be a shield for the others. 

“I cannot do that High Lord,” Azriel repeated, “You are meant to be Dawn now, for the High Lords’ meeting.”

Rhysand scoffed a hateful sound. “I don’t have the time to care about Dawn—Illyria is in active revolt, our General is locked in a warded room, and they’ve signed a treaty of non-aggression with the Darkbringers. My mate is pregnant with the heir of this Court but Cauldron knows if we will be left standing if you don’t fucking move Az!”

A long moment of silence passed Rhysand’s outburst, before Azriel bowed his head. “It will be done,” He murmured.

“Fucking finally,” Rhysand spat as Morrigan laughed. 

And yet Feyre knew that although Cassian would be released, he was more likely to be sent to Dawn than brought to the House of Wind. Rhysand, it seemed, was still certain of his control—control, Feyre thought amused, that was barely in existence; for Nesta had more control when confronted with chocolate than Rhysand did at this moment. 

Dawn

As the other Courts waited for Night’s arrival, seated across the marble table Thesan provided, a storm of shadows and screams appeared in the middle of the room. 

Azriel, his siphons as blue as the sea, stood, restraining his brother. He met the gaze of the High Lords, of the two missing Archeron sisters, and bowed his head in greeting. 

“Night Court is falling,” He began, as Cassian looked at his brother in a horrified shock, not even noticing Nesta’s presence in the room. “The High Lord will not come to today’s meeting, as Illyria has declared itself to be in active revolt against their High Lord.” His gaze swept across the room, meeting each of their eyes. As his words landed in the room, he knew none of them were surprised except for Cassian. 

“Revolt?” Cassian hissed, his siphons flaring in anger. “Az, take me to Rhys right now. We need to stop this.” 

Azriel looked at his brother, a slow, long search into Cassian. “Cassian, we are here to face judgement by the others,” He finally said, the softness of his voice belying a danger.

Azriel turned to meet the others’ as Cassian began to thrash in his shadows’ hold, “I request that we are chained by the High Lords and that the rest of the Court, currently in the House of Wind in Velaris, are forcibly brought before the Council to begin making our amends to the humans and the rest of Pythrian.” 

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, as if in immediate sync, each High Lord began to bind the two Illyrians before Helion and Thesan disappeared from the room to bring forward the rest of the Court.

Cassian turned to Azriel in his golden chains, horror stricken across his face as he whispered to his brother, “What have you done?”

Azriel, though his head had been bowed in deference, in shame, looked at Cassian. “I have done, for the first time in centuries, what is right.”

Night 

“Where the fuck is he?” Rhysand seethed, his violet eyes moving ferociously across the empty room. Feyre stood still, barely daring to breathe lest she catch Rhysand’s attention. 

She knew that as long as she was pregnant, she was technically safe. He would shield her with his power, no matter the backlash. But she also knew that had she not been pregnant, she would not be able to foresee how he would handle her at this moment.

Feyre knew he was already blaming Nesta and Elain somehow for all of this—but even if it had been her sisters to trigger this revolt, it had been brewing for far longer than any of the Archeron sisters had even been alive for. 

There was only so much someone could be stepped on before they lifted the boots off their neck—and didn’t she, a human, no matter even if she was a former human, for she had been raised in Prythian, she had grown knowing she was a Scythian subject; she knew what it meant to break the chains of oppressions. It was the fundamental truth of humans, of their humanity. It was why they fought so viciously and fiercely against the Fae, despite having known how much stronger the Fae were.

Stronger, her human side remarked, but not smarter. 

Her sisters had done what any other human would do, and Feyre, Feyre Cursebreaker, had no blame to give them but only the shame of knowing while she had ruled, she only perpetrated Faerie structures, never once considering that justice would be met whether they liked it or not. 

Suddenly, the House began to shake, breaking the Court out of their hasty battle plans—Rhysand had been debating with the other two how efficient it would be to mist the legion of rebellion in Illyria and Hewn City only for Morrigan to bring up the valid point that they would have no armies and barely any subjects, especially for labour and taxation. 

Feyre felt it then; Helion’s spell-cleaving. He was disarming the wards and Feyre reached out with the kernel he bestowed upon her, allowing her signature to grant him the ability to shatter the wards entirely. She saw it then, as soon as her power had layered atop of his, the blinding burst, as if thousands of mirrors had been struck by lightning, as the wards collapsed. 

Relief. It was all she felt. Soon, she would be free, she thought, as Helion and Thesan stalked into the House, their hands raised, scorching with their powers as they began to bring the Night Court to its knees, binding its High Lord as they dragged Rhysand across the floor to them. 

A gentle hand sat on her shoulder, the same presence she had been feeling since she had realised the ramifications of her human bargain with Rhysand Under the Mountain. Feyre only suspected who was walking alongside her, and she gave herself to its calmness, its overwhelming love as if it could heal her wounds.

Dawn

“You fucking bitch, you drunk whore,” Cassian spat, glaring at Nesta as Eris’ arms wrapped around his betrothed’s waist. She was his. Vanserra never got over him and Mor and now he would steal his mate from him in jealousy? As soon as Rhys was here, he would level punishment against the arrogant male. 

“You always do this, Nes,” He continued, wishing the magic that bound him had not dulled his siphons, “You always run away from the people who love you. Eris is a vicious snake—do you even know what you’re signing up for? What he did to Mor? She’s your sister’s best friend, for Cauldron’s sake! She’s done nothing but try to bring you into our family and this is how you repay us?”

Nesta’s eyes were like ice, he thought, the power radiating through them so stunning he could feel himself aching in a hardness. He was her equal—not Vanserra. When would she stop playing pretend? 

“When we get back to Night, I’m taking you on a hike,” He continued, never once thinking how his words were damning evidence, “And you’ll learn—I’m going to train you at Camp, you’ll work with Clotho at the Library, and you’ll realise that we are mates.”

Eris laughed, a rich melody, vicious in its undercurrent as Nesta smirked. The others merely watched, horrified by the extent of brutality the male was espousing—and this, if this is how he would treat who he believed to be his own mate then what had it meant for the rest of Night? 

Nesta looked down at him, as though he was a particularly uninteresting ware at the market. “You are exactly who you have always been ashamed to be, General.” 

Cassian tried to lunge—no, he wouldn’t hurt Nesta but he wanted to sever Vanserra’s head from his body—she would understand—she had to understand. 

“The Cauldron mated us, Nes, how could you spit on our bond?”

“Mated you?” Eris laughed, “A brute like yourself, worthy of Nesta? Don’t you realise the Cauldron hates her? If she was truly your mate, it would only be as punishment. That’s all that you are, Cassian, and all who you have ever been. You’re a worthless bastard with no original thought in your head that your pathetic High Lord doesn’t place in it for you.”

Before Cassian could respond, the glow of Helion and Thesan reached the room. The remaining three members of the Night Court were already bound, their threats and screams giving instant way to a headache across the room. Immediately, as they had with Cassian and Azriel, the remaining High Lords began to weave their own intricate bindings onto them. 

Without a moment of hesitation, Feyre appeared from behind the two High Lords, rushing to her sisters in desperate tears. No sooner than when they had first laid eyes on their youngest sisters had Nesta and Elain already reached Feyre, holding her in their arms as Feyre collapsed into terrified, silent cries. 

“We know what he did to you,” Nesta murmured, tracing her sister’s back as Elain ran her hands through Feyre’s hair, so similar to their own. “You are safe here Feyre, you and your child. The others know what happened to you Under the Mountain, you will be protected from punishment.” 

Feyre shook her head against her sister’s abdomen, “I don’t know if I deserve forgiveness, Nessie,” She whispered, her throat constricting—all she felt, again, was as if she was trapped in an unending nightmare since she had killed the Faerie wolf on that horrible evening.

“Shh,” Elain whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Feyre’s head, “The Mother is here, Feyre. It will be she who decides what will happen now. You were turned, too, stolen of your humanity and tortured by the Fae. There are many wrongs that must be righted today. Be not afraid any longer, Feyre, we are your sisters and we will always protect you.” 

“I want to be free,” Feyre gasped desperately, her tears running faster than she could breathe, “I want my child to be free.” 

“And so you will be,” The voice spoke, and yet it was not only whispering to Feyre now. The others in the room stood to attention, bowing their deference, and even the Night Court had fallen to silence against their raging. 

A being of light, of endless beauty, of infinite kindness and unfettered mercy took in the room of Fae before her. 

“There are many wrongs that must be righted, as my Oracle spoke to you, young Feyre and to many others across this realm.” Feyre watched as the others’ powers dimmed, as if falling asleep in their bodies and in her own. 

“As my protected daughters Saw, there is a great deal that has gone unchecked. Egos have rivalled territories and power unrestricted. The innocent and the vulnerable have suffered too long under this cruelty.” 

In a motion, her hands, as if pulling the very essence of air itself, of the skies and the seas, the stars and the moon, of fire and sun, of everything in this world that was made and natural, the Mother pulled and the world felt suspended once more, as if this had been what she had done on the eve of creation. 

“I will not allow it to continue any longer,” She said. “Come, my priestesses, my daughters, my chosen, my protected, come and aid me in just retribution across this realm.” 

It felt like the Library again, Nesta thought, as she lifted her baby sister up to join hands with the deity. Thousands of eyes looked, watching as they were invoked into presence. Passages opened around them, and through them, priestesses, healers, mothers, daughters—all who worshipped the Mother with a genuine heart—joined their circle.

“I told you both as you fled under the cover of Night from the brutality of the High Lord that the world would be righted. And so, today, we shall end this.”

Flashes of lightning fell from the sky outside, and Nesta knew, with a vicious certainty, all those who perpetrated oppression fell against every strike of thunder. Across the human lands, the flora and fauna began to grow, as if the magic from Pythrian was flooding through the land once more, unchecked by the Wall and its Cauldron wound. On an island, a Death God fell, the box his soul was contained in appearing in front of Nesta as her magic called forth its siblings—a mask, a crown, a harp, and a blade. A curse from the Cauldron began to lift, its life burning out of the objects, as Nesta stepped forward, armed with the siblings of her magic, and stabbed the box. 

Across the land, in the old Nolan estate, Queen Vassa and Lord Jurian watched as she fell from the sky, her form no longer firebird but all vulnerably human. It did not stop there—across all of the realms, beyond even Pythrian and to the Continent, quiet injustices were scaled. A man stole out of hunger; the one who exploited his labour to make him hungry suddenly had vaults less filled with gold. A woman, terrified of her partner, watched in awe as he collapsed onto the floor. And so on it went, until it reached the Archeron sisters.

Each sister was alight in a blaze of flames, burning the curses and bargains from their bodies; paying part of the Mother’s debt to the sisters. Rhysand screamed as his bonds and bargains with Feyre shattered, and before he could understand the reality of what had happened, the silver flames of Nesta’s fire—death, Amren called it—cascaded over them.

“You are here to face judgement,” The Mother intones, her voice carrying centuries of women—their suffering, their love, their endurance—making Night flinch in terror. 

“Morrigan, for you have scorned your gift of Truth, you will be stripped of your gift. For you have allowed those under your rule in the Hewned City to be tortured, so shall you be tortured. For every strike endured, you shall receive double. Until your punishment is fulfilled, you will be without your powers and without aid, like those who left behind to torment.”

Morrigan cried, a feral, primal scream of fear as the silver edges of her magic drained from her, scattering across the land onto the next. Her body, as if grabbed by invisible captors, was dragged to Under, into the depths of Hewn City.

“Amren, for your bloodlust and greed, for your conniving plots and cruelty to others, you are banished forevermore from this realm, made to return to the Father you so desperately fled.” 

Nesta smirked, flashing a mocking wave to Amren as a fracture split beneath her, a booming laugh coming from it as a hand reached out to grab her bloodless scream, her plea for mercy.

“Cassian, as you have left the females of your people to suffer, so shall you suffer. As you did not defend them against the brutality of their males, your wings shall pay the price. As you sought to chain my daughter, so shall you be chained. As you sought to degrade my daughter, so shall you be degraded. Your wings will be torn from your body, and you will spend the rest of your life feeling every mark the females under your protection endured. From now, you are banished to Illyria, where your countrymales will met your punishment until justice has been served for all the centuries you ignored their pleas.”

Cassian screamed, and all in the room could not watch the torture of his wings being pulled out of his back, the rivers of blood pooling out of the wounds. As he screamed, his hand reaching out for Nesta, who met his tortured gaze with her own steel one, two Illyrians, Balthazar and Devlon, appeared, dragging Cassian behind them.

“Azriel, my shadowsinger,” The Mother began, walking to the male, “Give me your hands.” 

Azriel’s eyes shuttered closed, but he held his hands up, as if expecting shackles to chain him. Instead, the Mother held his hands, a warmth—so infinite and gentle—rushed across them, the scars fading and his nerves, his tendons, permanently healing for the first time since he was a child.

“I know you tried,” The Mother said, bringing him into her hold, “And I know you did not know what options you had left. You will be sentenced to Illyria for the next 300 years, made to pay your debts to the women and children who suffered under your blade. You will be given your full powers back after your centuries are served, but your shadows will stay with you, as companions and not spies until your time in Illyria is finished. Your mother has pleaded your case to me, Azriel, and I have seen your heart. I know your intentions are kinder than the others, and you, like Feyre, like many others, believed that your High Lord was building a better world.” 

Azriel sagged, and for the first time since he was a child, began to cry. From the depths of the females present, his mother stepped forward and Azriel—Azriel had never seen his Mother free from tremors, from the abuse his Father had leveled onto her—but now, as she reached for him to take him home, back to Illyria, all he saw was his Mother, full and healed. He grasped his Mother’s hands and for the first since he was a child, he did not feel a shame coursing through him as she touched him. She held him for a moment, his sobs profound as he shook from the weight of his Mother’s health. She looked towards the Mother, who with a gentle smile on her face, quietly sent them back home.

“Feyre Archeron,” The Mother said, turning to her to Rhysand’s sputtering shock, “You are so young and you have already done so much. Already, you are growing into motherhood; already, you have faced death and rebirth; already, you have faced the abandonment of your partner.” She rested her hands on Feyre’s face. “There is no punishment I will give you, my daughter. You are as protected as your sisters. Your son will not lead the Night Court, but he will live a beautiful life, filled with mercy. Will you accept this?” 

Feyre nodded, no hesitation in her. She was relieved to be free, that her son would not be held accountable for his Father, that they were given the chance to live.

“You cannot return to Night,” She whispered, “Even if your son may return to Illyria. You must find another Court, and begin a new life there. Your mating bond will be severed, not out of punishment for you, but a mercy. Once you are ready, a new one, a kinder one, will be gifted to you. Do you accept my terms, Feyre Cursebreaker?” 

“Thank you,” Feyre said, tears thick in her voice, “I accept this for my son and I.”

The Mother nodded as Rhysand screamed, his rage blistering—or it would have been, had his powers not been silenced.

“Ah.” The Mother said, turning around to face Rhysand, “And so we return to the crux of the matter, do we not Rhysand?” 

He looked so hateful—“I believe before my punishment is given, there are two others who want to speak with you, Rhysand.”

“And who would they be?” He purred, maglient. 

“Have you forgotten us so easily, Rhys?” A girl with violet eyes, a striking resemblance to Rhysand emerged, more ethereal than solid, and with her an Illyrian woman.

Rhysand choked on his shock. “You have dishonoured us in so many ways, my darling,” His mother said, bringing his sister and herself to him. As if she was only speaking to him, as if her words were private and not delivered to the entirety of Pythrian’s power.

“Do you remember how you were not even meant to be High Lord?” His sister asked, her wings still proud on her back and not carved, not hanging in Tamlin’s study in her next life. “It was to be me, and you know it. You feared it. You avoided Illyria and Hewn City, because you know, despite your arrogance, that outside of Velaris the rest of the Court knew. And what did you do when you inherited the power after mine and Father’s deaths, brother?”

Rhysand could not meet his sister's gaze. His eyes stayed on their feet, burning in shame. “You left them to rot, brother. You left them to die. You enacted no change, no justice. You did not echo my love for our Court, for the wholeness of Night. You ripped her apart, and left her subjects to bleed. For that, I damn you Rhysand. Let the Mother met her punishment against what you have done to Night, and may you come to truly regret your actions before you come into our land.” 

“Rhysand, for your cruelty, your greed, your ego and your violence, you will bear the wounds of all those who suffered under your rule. Night’s coffers will be dry, flooded to reparations across the land for Fae and humans. You will be stripped utterly of your powers, and made to live the next 500 years as a human, wandering lost across the land. No one here may offer you aid or mercy, and you will never set your sights onto your son henceforth.”

Rhysand screamed as the powers of Night, as his eternal livelihood as a Fae was ripped from him. Like the others, his magic scattered, seeking new homes worthy of their gifts and love. 

The Mother turned to Kallias, “I know you seek justice for the children slaughtered under Hybern’s occupation. Those responsible have suffered, and while I cannot return the souls stolen so early from this world, the parents of the children will find their homes full once more. Winter will find its Courts filled with children for the next century.”

Kallias and Viviane nodded their thanks to the Mother, their grief and gratitude held gently by her decree. 

“To the other High Lords,” The Mother began, “Your wrongs will leave a mark on you. What you endured under the hands of others shall also be paid in its debt. Your Courts will flourish only if you take heed today. If you forget my words, my punishments and my mercies, then you will be as damned as the others. Will you accept, now, new bargains onto your rule as High Lord?”

Each High Lord stepped forward, allowing a new bargain to brand their souls as they pledged their devotion and love to their Courts and land; to honour their human neighbours and to even the scales of justice.

Dawn

Across the females’ wing, a rush of golden light sped through each Illyrian female. The scars on their wings faded into nothingness, as if they had not been stolen the gift of flight. Their nerves, tendons, sinew and muscle and bones reset into place, as if they had never faced the cruelty of their abusers before.

Emerie fell onto her knees, holding onto another female as they cried in torrent relief, in blessed freedom, as their bodies were returned whole to them.

Across the way, the priestesses formerly from Night found their physical wounds healed, and their emotional pains soothed. Clotho watched, for the first time in decades, as her hands were reshaped into their original form.

Throughout each Court, the Mother healed her subjects. From there, they would begin anew.  

Autumn

Lucien Vanserra enjoyed his new life. No more mechanical eye, his beautiful partner by his side as he spent his days under his Father’s patient and generous tutelage to prepare him for his inevitable role as High Lord, and his family safe, hale and whole.

Today, Elain and Lucien were in Autumn for a special occasion. Although Elain was with her sisters in another wing, Lucien was with his brothers, watching Eris as he obsessively checked to make sure all was ready.

“Relax, Eris,” Theron teased, “Nesta isn’t going to leave you if the flowers aren’t positioned at 00.018% to the centre.” 

Eris glared at Theron as the rest of his brothers laughed. “I hope you end up mated and married,” He told Theron, “And then I can say the same words to you on your wedding day.”

Lucien grinned before Eris raised his brow at him, “And somehow you think you’ll escape this? You’re also marrying an Archeron, little fox.”

As quickly as Lucien had laughed at Eris, his grin dropped. Before he could even defend himself, his other brothers piled onto him, mocking their youngest brother alongside Eris.

“What a sight,” Helion said, watching the rumble of the brothers, “Who would have imagined how much would have changed in a few months?” 

Autumn

Nesta Archeron—soon to be Vanserra—studied her reflection in the mirror. Érin, Elain, Feyre, Nyx, Emerie and Gwyn were with her on the eve of her wedding.

In a few moments, she would be led from her dressing room to meet Eris as they walked together down to isle. Once their wedding ceremony was concluded, they would spend the night in celebration. Nesta already decided that once her and Eris retired to the chamber for the night, she would offer him the pumpkin delicacy she had made for him the night before. It would be their wedding and their bonding, an acknowledgement of her human and his Fae.

“You are a dream, Nessie,” Elain said as she made sure Nesta’s crown, now marking her as Eris’ bride rather than betrothed, was not catching on any of her curls. 

Her dress was more than she had imagined. Layers of cream sat carefully on her, flaring out from under her waistline, but not so wide as the gowns she had seen other princesses wear on their wedding days. Princess, for that is what Nesta currently was. She was a Princess of Autumn, soon to be the Lady of Autumn in a few coming months once everything settled from their wedding.  

Feyre bounced Nyx on her hip, her hair more blonde than brown with her new residency in Day, as she smiled at Nesta. “Mother and Father would be overjoyed to see you like this, Nessie.”

She smiled at her sisters, chosen and blood, at her betrothed’s mother, her sweet little nephew with his adorable wings. It was time to begin.

Her new life waited.

Eris waited. She could hardly keep him, as excited as she was to see him herself, to begin their lives in their Court, to raise their children in Autumn and weeks in Day with her sisters.

It was more than she had ever dreamed of.