Their delegate arrived beneath the dusky pink skies of the Dawn Court, once he’d inspected the area for a trap. The heat hit Azriel like a slap. On the short walk up the polished, marble stairs leading to the palace, his leathers stuck to his skin.

Whether Nesta intended to or not, she kept close by. Occasionally, her elbow knocked against him as she pinched her skirts to keep from tripping. Twice, she stumbled – not from the skirts, but her gaze was fixed upon the soft clouds tinged by the rosy dawn and gilded with dawn’s light.

‘Look at the palace,’ Azriel murmured.

Nesta turned her face upwards then stopped walking. Her lips parted at the sight of the near-opalescent golden stone. It was littered with balconies and verandas that were linked by bridges. Periwinkle flowers clambered up the many towers.

He couldn’t read the emotion on her face. There was so much to their world that she hadn’t experienced yet. He hoped, one day, Nesta would see it all with him.

An attendant wearing the gold and ruby livery of the court saw them to their rooms which were reached by a spiralling staircase. The too-near edge fell away into warm-coloured rock below with clusters of pale peonies growing between the cracks.

Azriel fell back to be closer to Nesta. She was already trembling from the height without even stepping onto the first one.

‘I’ll be with you,’ he said softly, as the others disappeared from view.

Nesta braced herself with a stiff nod then took the first steps as close as possible to the inside as she could without banging her head on the ones above. With his wings splayed out, just in case, Azriel stayed close by and kept his hand on her spine for support. But she did well. Nesta forced herself on without ever looking over the edge. It was how she approached everything.

‘Your rooms,’ the attendant said, with a deep bow at the waist. ‘As requested, the meeting will be held in the great chamber in fifteen minutes.’

‘And how do we reach it?’ drawled Rhys.

The attendant gestured to the left of the corridor that they were in. ‘It is the first door.’

Fantastic, Azriel thought. They were put there to be spied upon. To get to other rooms, everybody would need to pass theirs. It was a sign that they were not truly welcomed there.

There was little time to gather themselves. Rhys had already used his powers to discover that winter was the only seasonal court in attendance. Day had also arrived, so Helion would no doubt be charming Thesan.

Azriel looked to Nesta. She was pale like the magnitude of her decision to come with them had only just landed. He tried to catch her eye, but she was fussing with her skirts, ensuring they were sleek about her legs. Instead, he sent a shadow to coil around her wrist. She didn’t look at him still, but her thumb brushed against its spiralling body in answer.

The chamber had been arranged so that deep-cushioned oak chairs made a circle in the heart of the room around the shallow, circular reflection pool which was carved into the polished, marble floor. The sun streamed through the open archways, catching the dark water which was laden with pink and gold water lilies. Fish darted beneath, hiding in the shadows. Platters of food had been lain out between the wisteria-twined pillars although nobody had dared touched a bite. The cured meats, pastries and garlands of fruits lay undisturbed with the memory of Amarantha still fresh in everybody’s minds.

‘Welcome,’ greeted Thesan, eyes flitting to them all. ‘Or, since you’ve called this meeting, perhaps you should be doing the welcoming?’

A faint smile touched Rhys’ lips. ‘I may have requested the meeting, Thesan, but you were the one gracious enough to offer up your beautiful residence.’

The other pair came to preen like a pair of peacocks puffing up their feathers. Kallias had barely moved his chin an inch before Mor was squealing loud enough to draw the room’s attention. She flung herself at Viviane. Their conversation was rapid and neither minded as they cut into each other’s speech.

Never one to deny attention, Helion strode over. His entourage matched their own for size – and power. He threw himself into the throng, dominating the conversation with his words.

Azriel simply kept his eyes on Nesta. Kept close. Let shadows twine their hands together.

Then, Helion noticed her. Like a fucking wolf scenting a lamb. His attention lingered on her. It was too long to be considered polite. But Nesta stared right back at him. Unruffled. Unimpressed.

Good.

‘Who is your guest?’

‘She is my sister and our emissary to the human lands,’ said Feyre, stepping back so she could stand at Nesta’s side. ‘And she will tell her story when the others are here.’

‘She is fae.’

‘No shit,’ muttered Viviane.

Thesan angled his head slightly, inspecting Nesta. ‘Who made her?’

Nesta surveyed them all, one by one. He was wrong to think of her as a lamb. Nesta had never been a quivering, meek thing that hid. She stood tall, not a flicker of fear in her eyes as she said, ‘Hybern did.’

‘They threw her in the Cauldron,’ Feyre explained. ‘Along with my other sister, Elain. After the High Priestess Ianthe and Tamlin sold out Prythian and my family to them.’

Helion’s eyes blazed like a forge. ‘That’s a heavy accusation to make – especially of your former lover.’

Feyre took a seat then folded her hands in her lap. ‘It is not an accusation. We were all there. And now we’re going to do something about it.’

***

Despite the tardiness of the remaining courts, the frost did not abate in the room, even as attendants carried platters around the room of food and wine was offered. Only when the Dawn Court delegate began eating did other courts follow suit although Nesta could not. Her stomach churned with worry and adding food to the mix seemed too great a risk. Azriel did not spare her a glance; the focused spy-master had become his shield, but often she felt a shadow twining itself around her ankle beneath her skirt as if that was the most he could offer in comfort without openly revealing their bond. One male who was unable to take her eyes from Nesta was the high lord of the Day Court. Nesta ignored him. He watched her constantly like a hawk. His gaze trailed her fingers when she twisted them in her skirts, her tongue when she traced her lips. The stare was enough to burn, but she refused to acknowledge him. To acknowledge any of them.

When the Summer Court arrived, Nesta thought the atmosphere could not be more tense. Kallias, the Winter Court high lord, had grown even colder. Then, the Autumn Court arrived. Morrigan’s easy smile dried up. Beron was slender-faced and brown haired, his wife stood beside him, glancing briefly to Helion before averting her gaze. His sons sneered at the room; each one wore rich clothing gilded with golden threads or brocade vests. They were by far the most elegantly dressed, Nesta had to admit. 

‘Enough,’ murmured the eldest one, Eris, to bring his younger brothers into line.

With the tension mounting, Thesan cut in. ‘Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.’

Rhysand blinked, slowly. ‘Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.’

‘So you have called us to do what, exactly?’ Helion challenged, bracing his muscled forearms on his gleaming thighs. ‘Raise a unified army?’

‘Among other things. We-’

It was exactly like that night in the cottage when the door had shattered and the freezing cold had roared at them. Like a crack of lightning, as vicious as a spring storm, Tamlin winnowed into the chamber and smiled like a wolf.

Only the soothing stroke of a shadow against her ankle kept Nesta in the room. There had been so many fae in her life since that day, but he – the High Lord of Spring – had left his mark. Elain had been crying in a ball on the floor. Father had not moved from his cradle by the fire, too shocked to speak. And Nesta had tried and tried to put the ruined door back onto its hinges even as the rain blew in because that seemed the only normality after he stole Feyre.

Kallias asked, ‘Why are you here, Tamlin?’

Tamlin’s claw dug into the wood, puncturing deep even as his voice remained mild. Nesta knew what those claws could do.  ‘I bartered access to my lands to get back the woman I love from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern—to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back. Only Rhysand and his cabal had turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge—either her own or her … master’s.’

Strange words, Nesta thought. But, something in them tugged at Nesta’s attention. Feyre had returned for this one. Had sworn she loved him. They’d painted together beneath the sun as Feyre told her everything. But it had been Rhysand who she returned with. What had happened in those weeks beneath the mountain? Nobody ever mentioned them as if to do so was to spill a secret too terrible for the world to know.

‘You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,’ Feyre breathed. ‘You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.’

Tamlin only angled his head at Rhysand. ‘When you fuck her, have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?’

Nesta felt herself go still, appalled by his words. Hearts were easily broken things, but to parade such an intimate moment was a low blow. She stared at the male, hate burning in her eyes. Nobody else was smiling except the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A voice as cold as death spoke beside Nesta, ‘Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.’

Azriel’s words settled around the room. She felt a surge of pride that he had been the one to defend her sister. Amongst the high lords who looked upon him with a mixture of wariness and revulsion, it had been Azriel who stepped up for Feyre.

Tamlin only laughed. ‘They peddle tales of defending our land and peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind—after she shattered her bones for spite. And if you are asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us … Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain—what they stand to gain from this war, or lack of it. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s proved her ambition—and you saw how he was more than happy to serve Amarantha to remain unscathed.’

Rhys let out his own dark laugh as if the words meant nothing. ‘Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.’

The High Lord of Spring looked at Rhysand a moment longer then dismissed him. His gaze went to Kallias. ‘You asked why I’m here? I might ask the same of you.’ He jerked his chin at the High Lord of Winter, at Viviane—the few other members of their retinue who had remained silent. ‘You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain, you can stomach working with him?’

What had happened, Nesta wondered, to cast such a shadow on Rhysand? What had happened to her sister? She caught the uncomfortable glances passed between delegates, the neutral expressions on Cassian and Morrigan’s faces. Colour botted on Feyre’s cheeks, but she held her chin up in defiance.

It was Rhysand who spoke, breaking the terse silence. ‘I had no involvement in that. None.’

Kallias’s eyes flared like blue flame. ‘You stood beside her throne while the order was given.’

His skin paled. ‘I tried to stop it.’

‘Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,’ Kallias spat. ‘That you tried.’

They bartered more words at Rhysand – ones that Nesta didn’t understand the context of. Whatever had occurred under the mountain had been an awful secret. The reluctance to befriend Rhysand seemed to have valid reasoning though. She watched him scramble for words, to defend and explain actions. Even Feyre jumped to his defence, placing a hand on his arm and saying, ‘I believe you.’

‘Says the woman,’ countered Beron Vanserra, ‘who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead for Amarantha to butcher as well.’

Nesta went cold. She leaned forwards in her chair trying to gage Feyre’s reaction, but her sister had gone pale. Her fingers tightened on Rhysand’s arm.

Clare.

Clare Beddor.

Had Feyre given her friend’s name? Was Feyre the reason the Beddors were murdered?

Her ears were ringing. She could smell the smoke from that morning. Feel the cold ground on her bare feet as she ran through the village to the smouldering ruin. Watched in numb disbelief as bodies were pulled from the wreckage. Only four bodies. A mother. A father. Two younger brothers. No Clare. She remembered Elain pulling a threadbare blanket on her shoulders and guiding her back home before the village could call her a madwoman for going without shoes.

Her Clare. Clare who carried the burden of her family as much as Nesta did. Clare who had been her friend without money and with it. Clever, quiet Clare who yearned for so much more than life had offered them.

‘Hybern turned my sisters fae after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!’

Nesta felt the attention in the room turn to her, but she was elsewhere. She was in a field with Clare, counting clouds, wishing they were on a boat to the Continent where they could be so much more. Clare’s fingers entwined with hers as they spoke of the boys in the village – the lack of prospects that the village offered. Clare who had seized her by the cheeks and kissed her squarely on the mouth one day within an orchard, leaving them both in fits of giggles. She had been Nesta’s only friend. Her Clare.