Fuck yes, Feysand!

They were probably the reason one of the men had a wild look in his eye, like the rabbit Feyre once found caught in a snare set up by one of the groundskeeper's sons just beyond the hedges that ring the outer edges of the estate. The son, when Feyre freed the poor thing and carried it to the hothouses to see if Elain knew how to set its broken leg, had gotten the same look in his eye until Feyre promised not to tell her father that the groundskeeper and his boys were poaching on Archeron land.

He still got a shifty look about him whenever Feyre took her rabbit out into the gardens on nice days, and she'd long since committed it to memory. The rapid eye movements, the ruddy cheeks, the thinned lips—

The men dropped the crate like it was on fire, and the frightened one turned away, scrubbing his hands on his trousers.

His fear was contagious, it seemed. Even the footman who opened the door had backed himself against the wall, fingering his iron cuff links, and the maids waiting in the slim doorway leading to the servants' staircases stood stock still, frozen.

No one made any move to sweep up the dust and splinters that followed in the crate's wake.

One maid—the one who'd warned Feyre last week that she could not lay the fire in the hearth in Feyre's bedroom as long as she was thirteen, because thirteen was an unlucky number—spun herself in three circles and made a superstitious sign over her apron.

It didn't matter much to Feyre that she did so, not at the time. Whatever was in the crate was clearly not a birthday gift for her—it was rare that anyone but Elain remembered—and so the crate and the servants' superstitions were nothing to concern herself with. Her father wouldn't bring a live faerie into his own home, if only out of shrewd self-preservation than any sense of paternal protectiveness for his daughters, so Feyre didn't bother getting invested.

It wasn’t like she had ever seen hide or hair of any faeries below the Wall, nor any of the smoking rubble or mushroom rings they supposedly left behind whenever they broke through the barrier between the mortals and the fae. And although the girls Elain invited over for tea sometimes whispered stories of kidnapped maidens to one another, Feyre always found it hard to believe any of them, since Nesta so delighted in meanly poking holes in their flimsy tales.

Besides, even if it were true, what faerie lord would want a pretty mortal girl? Were there not enough breathtaking faerie ladies above the Wall for them?

All in all, she didn't feel particularly compelled to cross herself or count the beads on the iron bracelet around her wrist or reach for one of the hideously costly ash branches her father had conspicuously placed inside the umbrella stand beside the door.

The maids would have been better off fearing the oily noblemen from the continent who came to bargain for Nesta's hand with Father or the rats that sometimes hid under the sacks of flour in the pantry. There were all sorts of dangers an intrepid servant girl might stumble across in the line of her work worth fearing.

A dusty old crate did not seem like one of them.

And Feyre was so amused with her list of all the sensible things the maids ought to fear instead—loose stair treads, stomach bugs, possibly even a pack of rabid wolves that somehow developed a taste for pretty serving girls—that she almost didn't notice when Father appeared in the doorway of his study across the hall, a proud grin splitting his face.

But how could she not when he clapped his hands together loudly enough to make everyone else jump a foot?

"Perfect, perfect," he said, rubbing his hands together at the sight of the crate, "I heard there was some trouble over the channel, but I knew my men were tougher than a little storm!"

His tone was lighthearted, and he clasped hands with each of the men, smiling as if they were good friends. No one smiled back.

"Well, come on then. In here," he continued after an awkward pause, but his own smile didn't fade. He simply waved the men inside that mysterious den of dark wood and leather, and with a symphony of grunts, the crate disappeared.

Feyre, sensing the excitement was at an end, turned back toward the drawing room—

“Feyre!”

She startled at the sound of her name in her father’s voice.

“…Yes?”

The superstitious maid sucked in a breath and shot her a furtive look.

Father did not notice, even when Feyre raised a brow at the girl. He was too busy watching the men in his study as he jerked his chin at her. “Come, come see.”

He seemed especially proud. He must have been, if he had decided one of his daughters was a worthy audience for the unveiling of his new… whatever was inside the crate.

Feyre waffled for a moment over the paintbrush and palette she was still clutching in one hand; she'd been too nosy and curious when the fuss started to waste time setting them down. But this was the first time in recent memory that Father had bothered to look at her, much less address her, and if she disappeared back into the drawing room—even for just one second—to free her hands, he might forget about her again.

And, a plaintive, wounded little voice whispered, in the most distant reaches of her mind, it's my birthday.

So she held them close but carried them with her, angling herself carefully in the study's doorway so her paint-smeared pinafore did not mark Father’s fine suit.

The men had already set the crate in an empty space between two tall windows. The rabbit-eyed man looked horrified when he looked up and saw her, the same way Father’s business associates used to look horrified when he dragged his three small daughters along to meetings when they were very young—only worse. Much worse, somehow, in a way Feyre could not quite put her finger on.

But Father did not notice him either, too busy snatching up the crowbar one of the men pulled from a loop on his belt and offered to him. He wedged it between the slats of the crate eagerly, working and pulling until the painted panel came loose.

Feyre watched and tried to pretend she wasn't hoping that he'd finally remembered to buy her a birthday gift. A large one, to make up for all the birthdays he had forgotten since Mother died.

The front panel fell forward, and the men caught it before it could hit Father's hand-knotted Scythian rug.

Oh.

Feyre's heart stuttered in her chest.

A tall, broad suit of dark armor stood at attention inside the crate. It was breathtaking, unlike anything Feyre had ever seen, all sharp points and lethal edges, fashioned from scales of ebony leather and onyx metal that seemed to gobble up the light rather than reflect it. The helm was carved from the same black metal, its overlapping ridges resembling feathers or scales—or perhaps folded wings. Feyre could not quite decide.

Two black hollows marked where the eyes should have been, tilted upward. Feline.

Some trick of the shaping made the forged faceplate appear almost amused. Feyre stared at it, not quite as unsettled as she knew she ought to have been by the thought of amusement stamped into a suit of armor.

There were nicks in the leather and dents in the metal, signs that whichever warrior had worn it had seen battle.

She wondered if that cold, cruel amusement had been the last thing his enemies ever saw.

At her side, Father put his hands on his hips, beaming. “A little reward from one of my business partners on the continent for the success of the Bharat shipment. A suit of faerie armor, left in one of the camps they fled at the end of the War.”

A hand fell on Feyre’s shoulder, and she jumped, the paintbrush and palette rattling against one another, only to discover it was her father, trying to pull her into his side.

"Rumor has it," he whispered down to her, "that it belonged to a High Lord's son."

Feyre let out a squeaking sound.

“What a prize,” he chuckled, squeezing her.

Beyond the wide windows, the sun shifted behind a cloud, and the shadows that fell across the room seemed to gather in the hollows of the armor’s cut-out eyes.

Feyre's teeth sank into her lower lip.

Rhys was right: the girl was a poor dancer. She didn’t stumble, but her first steps were uncertain, and they didn’t gain confidence even as the other dancers found a rhythm. There was a sweetness to her inexperience, and he found himself pulling her needlessly close.

Rather than avert her eyes in embarrassment, she assessed him with a cool, storm-grey gaze. “I have a proposition.”

“Propositions from beautiful females are my favorite kind.” If she proposed a liaison, he would have a hard time refusing her. She was slighter and younger than he usually preferred, but her fresh-faced innocence was at odds with the wariness in her eyes. He indulged himself for a moment by imagining her nestled in the white down of his duvet, naked and blushing, her eyes colored with lust rather than cleverness.

“You should marry me.”

Mother above. “Ah, that’s my least favorite proposition. I get so many marriage proposals that they’ve become tiresome.”

“Once you choose a wife, you’ll no longer receive them. You’ll be able to hold court unencumbered by dolled-up girls and fathers with ulterior motives.” The statement was punctuated by an unintentional stomp on his left toes.

He wondered if she’d bring her boldness to the bedroom. “Why should I choose you, Miss…?” Instinctively, he reached out to pluck her name for himself, but his power bounced off an impressive boundary of solid mental iron.

“Feyre Archeron.”

“Your father is the Prince of Merchants? Unless I’m mistaken, you have two older sisters.” If Archeron was throwing his youngest daughter at Rhys like this, he must be truly desperate. “If I wanted to connect myself with your family, why wouldn’t I have chosen one of them?”

“Just because they don’t interest you doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“And why should I be interested?” The music swelled, and Feyre tensed as he lifted her by the waist in a turn. “You have the rest of the waltz to make your case.”

The pale length of her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the only sign of faltering confidence. “I’m aware of your… proclivities, my Lord, and if you were to marry me, I would expect neither your attention nor your fidelity.”

He pulled her close enough that her breath brushed against his collar. “Go on.”

“I will come to your bed upon request until I bear you an heir, and in the meantime, you will be free to do what—and who—you please.”

“Just one son?”

“Two, then.” She didn’t miss a beat. “If that would reassure you.”

“Hmm.” He touched his nose to her temple and pretended to consider. She smelled incredible, like lilac and pear, her scent amplified by the exertion of dancing. Perhaps he could spin this in his favor yet. “I could negotiate a similar arrangement with any number of females, and the Archeron bloodline is not particularly powerful. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

“My family might not be powerful, but I am.”

It wouldn’t be the first time someone had lied about their power in an attempt to snare him. “Is that so?”

She gave a barely perceptible nod against his collar.

“You’ll have to be more specific. How far can you winnow?” Poor Feyre, sent here by her father to sell herself to him, and he was engaging with the offer in bad faith. The longer he had her pressed against him like this, though, the more he felt the deception would be worth it to get her in his bed. His body was already responding to the small hands clutching at his jacket in an attempt to follow the waltz, but sweet, determined Feyre didn’t appear to notice.

“I’ve yet to try a distance that proved challenging.” There was a touch of childish pride in her voice, and he resisted the urge to press his lips to her forehead.

“What’s the furthest distance you’ve done?”

“Cesere and back. My mother wanted to buy a carpet.”

He almost missed a step. Archeron’s wife had been dead nearly a decade, which meant Feyre was claiming to have winnowed halfway across the Night Court, presumably towing her adult mother, when she was just a child.

It was laughable, really. Rhys renewed his effort to slip through her mental shields, eager to catch her in the lie and see a little mortified color on her face. “Winnowing isn’t an unusual skill,” he said, buying time. “I’d expect the mother of my heir to have other talents.”

“I can do more than winnow,” she said with a hint of endearing defensiveness.

“The waltz is nearly over, darling, and I’m starting to consider better uses for your tight lips.”

It’s not a discussion for polite company. The soft whisper against his mental barriers made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, so intimate and sweet he could almost taste it.

My stomach flipped as Cassian handed me a glass of sparkling wine. Rhys and I had only just landed on a large patio at the House of Wind, but the low hum of conversation and clink of silverware was already setting my teeth on edge. Winged, horned, scaled, and feathered faeries resplendent in jewels and finery crowded the dining room; half of Velaris must have squeezed themselves into the stone castle tonight.

I drew in a breath of crisp spring air as I leaned back a step into Rhys. If we stayed outside, with the sky always in sight, I could keep memories of my time Under the Mountain at bay, even when the crush of music and revelers threatened to bring the worst of it roaring back.

And on Starfall, watching the the stars was the point.

Rhys snaked an arm around my waist, his thumb brushing the tiny blue gems of my gown. I had no idea how the dress clung so perfectly to my curves, tight and long-sleeved. The hem pooled at my feet, shimmering like the tail of a comet.

I tilted my head, careful not to let the diamond combs in my hair scrape his cheek. "Will you have to make a speech for your guests soon?"

"No one but you is that eager to hear from me," Rhys said, huffing a laugh as his wings faded into nothingness.

I dug my elbow into the sash at his waist, an addition that he'd said "elevated" his usual black-jacket-and-pants for the occasion. More importantly, he'd left the white shirt open at his throat, and I'd spent the entire flight here staring at the tattoos on his chest peeking through.

Cassian landed next to us, and a gust of wind rippled my gown as he snapped his wings in tight to avoid smacking them into any partygoers. He'd swapped his fighting leathers for a finely cut tunic that showed off his warrior's physique, his hair in neatly braided rows again.

Azriel appeared out of the shadows, and siphons glimmered as he clasped forearms with his brothers. They must have polished the gems for tonight, and even their talons gleamed more brightly than usual.

"Hello, hello!" The chirp of Mor's voice cut through the noise as she breezed towards us, the dazzling white of her dress stark against the rainbow of brightly colored gowns and tunics.

Even as Rhys greeted her with an air-kiss to the cheek, Mor's eyes sparked with interest as they roved over my gown. "Give us a twirl, Feyre," she said.

I obliged, even as self-consciousness made my cheeks go hot. All the formalwear I'd worn before, even the skin-bearing clothes I'd worn to keep cool in Summer and Day, had served a purpose and sent an intentional message. The beadwork on my gown was…beautiful merely for the sake of being beautiful.

Even so, the gems formed a clever beaded mesh that stretched comfortably in any direction I moved; if needed, I could run or fight without an issue.

"That silhouette is classic in Velaris, but the stitching…all Illyrian techniques," Mor said slowly. "I haven't seen a designer combine the two since auntie did."

"Because no one else has," Rhys said quietly.

Mor froze, a glass of sparkling wine halfway to her lips. Cassian brought his wings in tighter.

But it was Azriel who said, "You never mentioned you still had anything of hers."

I'd never seen a family portrait, not even in the House of Wind. Or a single heirloom beyond the ring I'd taken from the Weaver's cottage. My own family had sold off all my mother's belongings when we'd fallen into poverty, so I'd never thought twice about the lack of keepsakes from Rhys's parents and sister.

But considering the circumstances in which they'd died…

"In the chaos of the last few centuries, keeping a trousseau safe until Feyre came along was no easy feat," Rhys said. He held Azriel's stare, an intensity in their gazes I didn't understand, until Az quietly accepted a flute of wine from Mor.

Once the sun had set, Rhys's end of the bond had gone more taut than usual. Now, it ached, a pang that echoed in my chest as well. I pushed a feeling back, as much love as I could muster to edge out the pain.

"Besides," Cassian said with a snort, "anything that sparkly risks Amren stealing the dress right off Feyre. It's for the best you saved it for Starfall."

Mor winked, a bit of mischief and warmth returning to her brown eyes. "I'll drink to that."

Amren wouldn't join us tonight—she claimed Starfall disturbed her—though in the weeks since Rhys and I had returned from Day, the others had suggested she make an exception to her usual rule of avoiding the festivities this year.

Because it would be my first one.

The party hushed, and excitement curled in my gut. While studying in the library, Evelyn had passed me a niche text that detailed how artistic portrayals of the celestial display had shifted and changed over the centuries. I'd poured over it, staring at the examples of falling star motifs and glowing paint for ages, but even the best art history scholarship couldn't beat seeing the inspiration for myself.

And perhaps in the morning, I'd grab a brush and join the paint-and-canvas conversation.

I'd pressed myself against Rhys again just as a star vaulted across the sky, brighter and closer than any I’d seen before. The crowd and city below cheered, raising their glasses as it passed right overhead, and only when it had disappeared over the curve of the horizon did they drink deeply.

I managed a sip of my own wine. The fizz on my tongue, nothing like the water Rhys had poured down my throat in Amarantha's throne room, anchored me to the present moment.

The stars cascaded over us, filling the world with white and blue light. They were like living fireworks, and my breath lodged in my throat as the stars kept on falling and falling.

I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

And when the sky was full with them, when the stars raced and danced and flowed across the world, the music began. Wherever they were, people began dancing, swaying and twirling, some grabbing hands and spinning.

Rhys and I lingered on the edge of it. Even as Mor, Azriel, and Cassian joined the merriment on the patio, hands upraised as stars streamed past. The three of them danced as if it might be their last time, the pure white of Mor's gown flowing between the Illyrians. The trio moved like a single unit. A single being.

I looked behind me to find Rhys watching them, his face soft. Sad. Separated for fifty years, and reunited—only to be cleaved apart once the queens deigned to answer us.

Rhys caught my gaze and held a hand out to me. My chest tightened at the thought he might ask me to dance, but a deeper sorrow lingered in his eyes. "Come. There's a better view. Quieter."

He led me to a small private balcony jutting from an upper level of the House of Wind. High above the crowded patio, the roar of unwanted thoughts and painful memories subsided. Loosing a breath, I leaned against the rail and watched the stars coming even closer as they whizzed past.

"Is Starfall a misnomer?" I said. "These...these aren't stars at all."

Rhys rested his elbows on the rail beside me. "Our ancestors thought they were, but…They’re just spirits, on a yearly migration to somewhere. Why they pick this day to appear here, no one knows."

"There must be hundreds of them."

“Thousands. They’ll keep coming until dawn. Or, I hope they will. There were less and less of them the last time I witnessed Starfall.”

Before Amarantha had locked him away. Before I'd even been born.

"Do you think they'll come back once we understand...." I trailed off, flexing my left hand. Rhys had replaced the glamour on it once we'd returned from Day, but the blue-black ink of the tattoo on my ring finger shone under the light of the stars.

Rhys shrugged. "Perhaps. You've worked enough miracles in a short span of time already."

Not enough, or we wouldn't have gone up here in an unspoken agreement to avoid the crowds and noise. To avoid our friends. Rhys had left a few careful inches of distance where we each leaned against the balcony rail.

Silence enveloped us both. He didn't move closer.

After a long moment, he said, "Every year that I was Under the Mountain and Starfall came around, Amarantha made sure that I…serviced her. The entire night. Starfall is no secret, even to outsiders—even the Court of Nightmares crawls out of the Hewn City to look up at the sky. So she knew…She knew what it meant to me."

"No one else knows," I breathed.

"No one else was down there with me."

My heart thundered in my chest as Rhys regarded me. I ached to pull him close, but perhaps now that he'd made the requisite appearance at the party, he'd come up here to tell me he wanted to return to the townhouse and gulp down the highest dose of the sleeping draught we could tolerate.

"How can I shoulder the burden?"

"I—" His voice went raw, and I watched his gaze flicker back down to the patio, where the music beckoned. Where life beckoned. I'd never seen such longing in his violet eyes, but no more words escaped his mouth.

Rhys deserved to spend the evening with our friends. So did I. And yet...we'd needed to sequester ourselves up here.

"It can be just you and me for now." I slid my hand closer to his on the railing, not quite touching.

Rhys reached over and let his thumb graze mine. I went still. Waited. He pressed his eyes shut for a heartbeat, then interlaced our fingers. I let him pull me away from the railing and towards him, and I tilted my head upwards to stare at him, so close we were sharing breath.

"I don't want any more joy stolen from us," he murmured. "Dance with me?"

Up here, in the open air with no one else around and the music faint, I could. Reaching upwards, I looped my arms around Rhys's neck, and his hands settled on my waist again. The song drifting towards us faded into a new one, slow and honeyed.

We swayed to it, and stars rained down, as if the world were falling apart to leave only the two of us still standing. I let my eyes close, and Rhys's brow fell forward to rest against mine. As one, we let our shields lower, our minds intertwining on the bridge between our souls. Time slowed down; the music from down below could have lasted for an eternity for all I knew.

No end, no beginning, just us and the stars.

I tipped my head back, fully intending to press up on my toes and kiss him, when something blinding and tinkling slammed into my face.

I reeled back, crying out as I bent over, shielding my face against the light that I could still see against my shut eyes.

Rhys let out a startled laugh.

And when I realized that my eyes hadn’t been singed out of their sockets, I whirled on him. “I could have been blinded!” I hissed reaching out to shove.

He dodged effortlessly, then took a look at my face and burst out laughing again.

I wiped at my cheek, and when I pulled my hands down, I gaped. Pale green light—like drops of paint—glowed in flecks on my hand.

Splattered star-spirit. I didn’t know if I should be horrified or amused. Or disgusted.

When I went to rub it off, Rhys caught my hands. “Don’t,” he said, still laughing. “It looks like your freckles are glowing."

My nostrils flared as I moved to shove him again, knees bent, elbows locked, and palm aimed as his chest—proper form like an Illyrian, even in a gown heavy with gems. I managed to brush the bare skin at his collar as Rhys sidestepped me with obnoxious, catlike grace.

He clicked his tongue. "Sloppy footwork. We're only a few floors below the training ring if—"

A careening star collided with his face.

Rhys leaped back with a curse, and I laughed, the sound rasping out of me. Not a chuckle or snort, but a cackling laugh.

The entire left side of his face had been hit. Like heavenly war paint, that’s what it looked like. I could see why he didn’t want me to wipe mine away.

He pursed his lips, wiping at them as if some of the glittering dust had wound up in his mouth. I had half a mind to kiss him to find out what it tasted like, but his momentary distraction was too good an opportunity to pass up.

I shoved him again and made contact this time. Firm enough to send him right over the balcony rail. He had wings—he'd be fine.

A surprised yelp drifted upwards, and I peered over the railing just in time to watch his membranous wings unfurl. In one fluid motion, Rhys twisted in the air, reversing his direction as he soared upwards through the stars.

More dust covered his clothes, but his grin only went wider. The beauty of it—free and open and joyful—made my breath catch as he sailed back onto the balcony.

"If a human girl landed a hit on the High Lord of the Night Court," I said, "you must be getting slow in your old age."

Rhys advanced on me with unhurried steps. I didn't move.

Not even as a talon dragged down the adamant of my shields in soft, sensual promise.

"If you'd like to wrestle, then just say the word, Feyre darling. Though I suppose we'd need to get you out of that gown first."

I stood my ground as Rhys came closer, only stopping when his chest was nearly flush with mine. He flared his wings out wide, and the span of them nearly blotted out the stars entirely.

I reached up with glowing hands and pulled his face down to mine.

Rhys plundered my mouth, the kiss a messy clash of tongues and teeth. He kissed like he couldn't taste enough of me, not even bothering to come up for air as he gently walked me backwards.

He kept going until he'd pressed me against the balcony door. I let my back bow, my body curving into his, and I wished I could live in this moment forever, tangled up with Rhys as the stars wizzed by.

I'd let my arm rest on his shoulder, my fingers just inches from his wing. When I reached for that particular spot on the membrane, just below a joint, he jerked it away.

I pulled my lips from his so quickly that I would have slammed my head against the door if he hadn't caught me with lightning-quick reflexes.

"Sorry," Rhys whispered, his breath ghosting along my skin. "This was perfect, but I can't go any further. Not tonight. It's…too much."

I let my hands drop to my sides. "No need to apologize."

Rhys's chest rose and fell as he inhaled my scent deep into his lungs. His eyes squeezed shut. But he didn't, at least, put any more distance between us.

"I just…I wish this wasn't so difficult."

My heart squeezed; it wasn't quite the same, but similar thoughts had swirled in my head when it came to drinking and dancing. I longed for ease and carefree lightness, not a constant battle to hold onto joy.

I'd come closer to it when we'd swayed to the music up here. Enough to keep trying—to step out of the shadows for Rhys.

To help him keep celebrating when the weight of the past bore down more heavily than usual.

"Do you want to dance with me instead?" I whispered.

His violet eyes flew open to study my face. "You want to dance?"

"Down there." I pointed with my chin towards the celebration below. "With them."

His lips brushed my brow, and then the ground disappeared from beneath my feet as Rhys scooped me into his arms. It wouldn't be a long flight down to the patio, but I let myself settle against his chest all the same. "Of course I"ll dance with you—all night if you wish."

Before I could reply, Rhys launched us into the air. Wind rushed around us, and for the second time that evening, I thanked the Mother that Cerridwen had secured the diamond combs in my hair with magic.

Rhys kept his wings open like sails, slowing our descent as we glided back down onto the balcony. With wine flowing freely, the music had grown louder and more raucous to match the energy of the crowd, but it didn't overwhelm me quite as badly as before.

We touched down gently, and once my feet hit the stone, I grabbed Rhys's hand. Cassian pointed, Mor waved us over, and Azriel gave a bemused shake of his head.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, daddy’s here, I’ve got you,” Rhys cooed at the bundle of pink in his arms that had just started fussing. 

Alessandra Renee Knight, here at last. His daughter, his sole reason for existing now. 

She resumed her slumber, peacefully drifting deeper into her milk-induced coma. He couldn’t help but mark her features, double and triple checking that she indeed had a nose, two eyes, two ears, ten fingers. She was perfect, and he couldn’t be happier. 

It had been a rather smooth labor and delivery for Amarantha, who slept after her most recent check-up. It was a stark comparison to what the pregnancy had been overall. What started as an attempt to heal their marriage turned into silent treatments and grudge matches. Her own fear of going through the delivery alone was what allowed him to be in the room when it was all said and done. 

He didn’t know what was in store for their future relationship. He just knew he had to keep it together for Alessandra. 

He wished his mom and sister were here to meet her - hell, even his father, despite him being a cold bastard. He tried to fight against the fears that arose due to a lack of his own parental guidance in this new chapter. He read all that he could, had all of the important conversations with Amarantha about what kinds of parents they wanted to be. Thankfully, his brothers and Mor were by his side - he knew they wouldn’t let him fail and were just as excited about his daughter as he was.

The road ahead would be challenging but he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he would do what it took to give his child the best upbringing he could. 

***

The sounds of babbling from where the bundle of blue lay in the bassinet of their hospital room drew Rhys from his reverie, his feet moving on their own accord until he was before the infant-sized bed. His gaze flicked to where his wife was fast asleep, a breath of relief leaving him that she hadn’t stirred. Despite the exhaustion from a combined three hours of sleep, his mind was racing. The feeling of déjà vu nearly knocked the breath from him as he lifted his son to . 

How different the circumstances were the first time he held a newborn in a hospital room to now. He knew it did him no good to ruminate on decisions made over 30 years ago. No matter how much he thought about the past, he couldn’t change it. And he wouldn’t, after all, because changing the past would likely mean no Alessandra. 

It would mean no Feyre, and now, no Nyx, his son who was only a few hours old. No, he wouldn’t change a thing, despite all the hardships that came with his relationship with Alessandra’s mom. He was grateful beyond measure that his daughter possessed only goodness in her and didn’t have an ounce of the traits Rhys grew to resent in her mother. 

He looked down at his son, marveling at what a completely different upbringing he would have compared to his older sister. As he had done with Alessandra, he wondered who his son would be - what would he be like, what would he do? Would he be interested in painting and creating beautiful things like his mom? Or would he be a problem solver and take over the family business one day? 

Would his son resent him for having him so late in life, giving him only so many years to spend together? 

The thought was a source of melancholic brooding for Rhys throughout Feyre’s pregnancy, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. The only time they ever argued was after finding out she was expecting, and it was solely because of Rhys’ own insecurities and fears. 

Feyre’s eyes shone with unshed tears, multiple pregnancy tests clutched in her fist as she fought a grin. “Positive - they’re all positive. Rhys, we’re gonna have a baby!” She whispered before a sob broke free from her lips, Rhys’ vision blurred with the crown of her head as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. 

He was shocked - it was so soon, too soon even. They had only been married for three months, hardly enough time to discuss what they wanted. Of course he was happy but there was the reality that was before them - he was turning 55 that year. 

He would be grateful if he lived to see this child graduate from college. Could he do that? Leave Feyre and their family before their child had a chance to spread their wings?

Feyre caught onto his lack of a reaction and pulled back to study his features, confusion marked by the furrowing of her brows. “Earth to Rhys? I know this is a shock but it’s what we wanted, right?” 

Say something, he implored to himself. “A baby, Feyre, that’s…” Too late. He had taken too long, his tone off just enough for her to shut down, stepping away from him. 

“Rhys… What’s going on?” 

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just - it’s so soon, and it just hit me that I’m going to be 55 this year. How much time am I going to have with our child? How is that fair to them - to you?” 

Horror washed over her face before she suddenly shut down, her spine stiffening. “I can’t believe you would say that right now. I tell you we’re going to have a baby - and you somehow make this about you dying early?” She furiously wiped away her tears, jerking out of his grasp. 

“Feyre - wait-” he called but she hadn’t slowed her steps out of their room. 

“Find somewhere to be for a few hours. I can’t handle this right now,” she called as she shut herself in her studio, the sound of the lock a death knell to Rhys. 

He shuddered at the memory, careful to not jostle Nyx who was still sleeping peacefully in his father’s arms, none the wiser to his early trepidation. It was a knee-jerk reaction that darkened those early days when they should have been in a bubble, imagining just who their child would be. It took a week for them to be able to talk about it, all thanks to his first born. 

“Feyre must be really pissed if you’re coming to talk to me after a week has gone by,” his daughter mused from where she sat across from him in her apartment. A moment so much like the one in Spain the year prior but also so, so different. 

Rhys sighed, running his hand through his hair - a gesture he had done so with a frequency in the last week he was worried he’d start losing his hair as a result. That certainly wouldn’t win him any points with his wife. 

“I - yeah. She won’t even talk to me. I don’t know what to do, kid.” 

She drummed her fingers on the table, her lips pursed as she took in her father’s disheveled appearance. It wasn’t like him to look anything other than perfectly tailored. His inner turmoil was manifesting on the outside. “But you won’t tell me what happened.” 

He blew out a breath, his gaze snapping to his daughter’s. “I can’t - it’s… I don’t think telling you would help matters any. Firewall, and all that,” he said, waving a hand. 

Their ‘firewall’ was something established after they were officially a couple. There were certain topics that they could talk about amongst each other if one of them weren’t present but some things - like life altering news - were to be kept between the two who originally knew it. It had worked, so far. Except for now, when all Rhys wanted was his daughter’s advice. His only consolation was knowing that Feyre had likely only confided in her sisters, meaning Alessandra was completely unaware of the situation. 

He hoped that would still prove to be okay and he wouldn’t have another pissed off woman on his hands. 

“Hmm, let me guess: Feyre’s pregnant,” she deadpanned suddenly, bringing Rhys back to the present moment. 

He sputtered, completely unprepared to hear the words that had been repeated in both his dreams and nightmares over the course of the last week. “What - how-”

Alessandra snorted, bringing her tea to lips as she took a sip. “Come on, dad. You guys wouldn’t fight like this unless it were something serious. Plus, her boobs are huge and she’s been gagging every time I eat chicken around her. Did you guys only confirm it last week?”

He stared at his daughter - his brilliant, observant, smart ass of a daughter. He swallowed as he collected himself. “Yes,” he answered weakly, “She thought she had just caught a bug from one of the kids at the clinic and wasn’t getting over it since they’re all pretty gross all the time.” 

Alessandra hummed, a look across her face saying ‘you guys really do live in your own bubble,’ before she asked, “So, what’s there to argue about? I thought you guys wanted this.” 

He took a shaky breath, his heart pounding at what he was about to admit out loud. “I maybe didn’t have the best reaction. May have done some quick math with my age and I-”

“Dad, no,” Alessandra groaned, cutting him off. “What the hell is wrong with you? She told you she was pregnant and you flipped out on her?”

He buried his face in his hands, the tears that had been threatening to fall for the last week burning his eyes. “I think I fucked everything up, kid. I can’t say I would blame her, I haven’t exactly instilled much confidence in my excitement in the matter.” 

“Dad…” she sighed, reaching out to grab his hands. “Look at me. She chose you. She said she wants to experience everything with you. Do you doubt that that’s what she wants?”

“No, I know she wants this. She’s over the moon and she’s going to be an incredible mother.”

“But?”

“But… It’s hard to ignore that I will likely go before her. Before the child has even lived a life of their own. I might get to see you start a family of your own one day - this kid may not get that. That’s not fair to them, to Feyre - to all of you. That’s what I was worried about - not giving this kid enough time with me.”

“Jesus,” Alessandra muttered before she straightened up. “Yeah I get why she’s pissed now. Do you want a child with Feyre? Do you want to experience that with her?” 

“Yes, more than anything.”

“Okay, then that’s all you should concern yourself with. Don’t do the self-sacrificing bullshit because you feel bad about how she might feel in the future. We don’t get to decide any of that. We get the time we’re given and we make the most of it. Isn’t that what you’ve always taught me?” 

Rhys’ eyes lined with silver, the wisdom he bestowed upon his daughter now being returned to him. “Yeah, kid.” He nodded, resolve setting in at last. 

“Right, well, that’s all you should be concerned about. You can’t control any of that, no matter how hard you try. But you did a damn good job raising me with all of the unknowns and uphill battles. I had a pretty shitty mom and I turned out okay. I think this kid is incredibly lucky to have you two as parents and will be just fine. Besides, they’ll have enough aunts and uncles to pass on wisdom. The gods know I didn’t learn everything just from you, dad,” she teased, squeezing his hands before she let go. 

He gave a watery chuckle before dabbing his eyes. “You’re right, kid. Damn. I need to go do some groveling, don’t I?”

“Oh I’d say you need to do more than that. Maybe take her to Adriata for a few days or something.”

Rhys hummed before tapping a knuckle on the table. “Thank you, Alessandra. You make me proud to be your father,” he said, standing. 

They hugged, Rhys holding on a little longer than he usually did. “Oh, and please don’t tell Feyre you know. I worry about the swings in her emotions and-”

“How about you let her react to things and you focus on not being a mother hen for the next nine months?”

He rolled his eyes, muttered smart ass under his breath, and flashed her a grin before leaving her apartment.

“I loved you from the start, buddy. I just want to be there - for all of it. You have an awesome big sister, but she was down a parent growing up. I don’t want you to have to go through the same, no matter how strong your mother is. But I promise, with every breath in my lungs, every beat of my heart, I am going to be the best damn father you could possibly have.” 

As Rhys finished his vows to his son, he looked up to find a blue grey set of eyes sleepily staring back at him - a gentle smile across her lips. 

“What do you feel like painting today?” Feyre asked the little boy seated at the low table before her. He made a point of exaggerating his contemplation, bringing his pointer finger to his chin as he looked off in the distance, mimicking a character he saw on one of his shows, no doubt. 

His blue eyes lit up, joy and excitement filling them. “A surprise for sissy!”

She laughed, realizing her question was futile. Every picture from the last month has been a surprise for his sister. If not for her, then the other people in his family got a surprise painting from him. It varied in the subjects, but the love and attention to detail he poured into it never varied. 

“A surprise for sissy it is. And what do you feel like painting with? Water color or acrylic?” She showed him two examples of his own work from before, one with each medium so he knew what the outcome would be. He selected water color this time and she breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the studio wouldn’t be covered in splatters by the end of the hour. 

Warriors in gleaming golden armor waited for us on the balcony outside Helion's white stone palace. Just before we'd left, Rhys had shifted me into another one of his mother's airy, open-backed gowns, and now, he stepped closer to me, resting a hand on the curve of my spine.

The commander approached us, a crimson cloak billowing behind him despite the Day Court's constant, oppressive heat. "The High Lord expects you in his study."

No greeting—not even the most perfunctory welcome for a visiting High Lord and his emissary. I hadn't expected this to be a social call, but it set me on edge for our closest ally to treat us so openly as a threat.

"Best not to let your saber-rattling keep him waiting," Rhys drawled. "Let's get on with it."

With hands drifting towards their swords, the guards surrounded us as we made our way through the sun-drenched halls. Not that it would do much good if this meeting did devolve into violence—Rhys could wipe them all out with half a thought. I schooled my features into a bored, aloof mask to match Rhys's and prayed we'd sort this out quickly.

We stopped outside an open door in the heart of the palace. With the light bouncing off the polished armor of the warriors in front of me, I couldn't make out much beyond a large shaft of sunlight streaming in from a glass skylight in the ceiling.

"I'd like to speak to the Cursebreaker first," Helion said, his voice drifting into the hall. "Alone."

My eyes darted to Rhys, whose jaw tightened. But making a fuss would get us nowhere, so he dutifully stepped back. The warriors parted to clear my path inside.

A tang of magic stung my nose as I stepped across the threshold, and the bridge connecting my soul to Rhys's went silent. Helion had warded his study against daemati. Prudent and not altogether unexpected, but my stomach clenched as I forced myself forward. The door swung shut behind me.

A massive sundial on a raised dais dominated the room. It was made of brass, embossed with impossibly intricate runes that covered its surface, and at this hour, a slim shadow pointed towards the back wall. I wanted to pause and admire the metalwork, but I didn't dare drag my feet.

Helion's gaze burned from where he sat behind a desk carved from the same stone as the palace. I made my way past massive bookshelves—the study held thousands of tomes, a paltry number compared to the size of his libraries—and he regarded me with the piercing eyes of an eagle.

A great, golden eagle—with very sharp talons.

Stiff-backed, I took the seat across from him, folded my hands in my lap, and waited.

"Well?" he said.

"If you believed my story about shooting Lucien Vanserra in self-defense, then you wouldn't have called me there. What is it that you want to know?" I said.

Those amber eyes blazed like a forge. "Everything."

"Remove my glamours if you must, but if you want the truth about why the spells were cast in the first place, you'll have to bargain for it."

Helion's braids fell over a shoulder as he regarded me. Nothing stopped him from throwing me in the dungeon and torturing the answers out of me, but a carefully worked bargain could ensure I didn't lie again. Keeping the alliance between Day and Night intact required trust.

"I have half a mind to feed your corpse to Meallan just for walking into my court and making demands."

I shrugged. "Dead women don't tell tales."

"Then let's hear it, Cursebreaker. What do you think you can negotiate out of me?"

"For each glamour you break, I'll provide a full, truthful explanation. In return, you'll share a secret of equal import. Nothing we discuss in this room will be shared unless we both consent to it Not even my High Lord will know unless you grant me permission."

Helion, an emissary before he'd taken the throne, had honed his bargaining skills centuries before I'd even been born. And he'd gotten me alone for a reason. I waited for a counter offer.

But he merely said, "I agree to those terms."

A patch of skin on my shoulder warmed, itching like a sunburn. A tattoo appeared for Helion in the same place, the magic etching a sunburst tattoo that peeked out from the bright white bolt of cloth he wore. The sleeve of my gown covered mine.

I stretched out my left hand, resting it on Helion's desk, and warmth from the stone seeped into my palm. "Go on and cleave the glamour, then."

Light filled the room, whiting out my vision entirely. More heat blazed along my hand, traveling up my wrist and forearm, burning away the glamour until the delicate swirls of my tattoo appeared alongside the band of ink that Rhys always left visible on my ring finger.

At the sight of it, Helion snorted. "Did Rhysand promise he'd make you High Lady one day?"

"The Night Court's magic did."

The High Lord of Day went deathly still in that way of the fae, and hope bloomed in my chest. When we'd last visited, Amren hadn't found anything in the libraries beyond a few vague references to ancient High Ladies and ceremonies to swear in a co-ruler, but perhaps Helion could assist with a deeper search.

"How?" he breathed.

"It appeared the first time I stepped into the Night Court. When I consulted a Suriel about it—"

"You trapped a Suriel?"

"I don't understand why your kind don't do it more often," I said, lifting my hand from the desk. "Regardless, according to the Suriel, it's an offer from the court's magic. Only half a bargain until I offer something in return, but it's unclear what the magic wants from me."

Helion leaned back in his chair, crossing muscled arms over his broad chest. "I've never heard of such a thing. If our own bargain didn't compel you to speak the truth, I wouldn't believe it."

"Then I think you'll understand why we've chosen to keep it hidden until we have more answers."

"I can't fault you for that, though I'm relieved it doesn't appear to pose a threat to my court."

With a lazy wave of his hand, Helion summoned a pocket in the air. A form of magic only performed by High Lords, perhaps; I'd only ever seen Rhys reach between realms in that manner. From it, Helion withdrew a book, its pages yellowed with age and the cover gilded with swirling runes that resembled the ones on the sundial behind me. He placed it on the desk with gentle, reverent hands.

It fell open of its own accord, and a wind swept through the study, turning the pages.

"You shared vital information about the Night Court's magic," Helion continued, "so in accordance with our bargain, here is the Day Court's closely guarded scholarship on the nature of spell-cleaving."

I pulled my chair closer to examine the complex diagrams that charted the flow of magic, and as I progressed, another soft gust of sun-kissed wind turned each page. Helion went silent, letting me read.

A spell could be cleaved with brute strength alone, but that required a deep well of power. By studying the nature of magic, the direction its streams ran, a clever spell-cleaver could find cracks and weak points to exploit. With enough strategy, even the weakest among the fae—including those not from the Day Court—could break the strongest of spells.

It still required at least a scrap of magic. And I had none.

Helion had found a loophole. As a human, I had no use at all for information about spell-cleaving, and the bargain ensured I couldn't pass it on to another faerie and compromise the security of the Day Court. Despite agreeing to an exchange, I'd gained nothing of value.

Perhaps I needed a few more centuries as an emissary before I learned to play diplomatic games half so well.

Helion made no move to rush me, and I took my time absorbing the wealth of information before me. Even though I'd never put it to use, I wanted to memorize it all, just in case.

When I finished, Helion returned the book to the pocket between world for safekeeping. "There's a second glamour on you as well."

"Remove it if you'd like," I said.

Another flash of light and wave of heat. When it faded, I didn't notice anything different about myself, but the telltale twitch of Helion's nostrils told me he'd detected the change in my scent. His brows drew together in a puzzled expression. "Did someone rub themselves on you?"

"Rhysand did, in a manner of speaking." I pressed my lips together to hide a smile.

"If I'm not mistaken, you smell like him."

If Helion had sensed the glamour on me, then he'd doubtlessly noticed one on Rhys as well. We were fortunate that he'd let Rhys enter his court at all, and we'd never intended to hide the truth of our relationship forever. "I do, and you'll find that his smell resembles mine now. That's been the case since I accepted our mating bond on Calanmai."

"Lucien attacked the Lady of Night." Helion's face went ashen.

"He and Tamlin believe I'm in need of rescue."

"Tarquin suspected the same."

News of the blood rubies had doubtlessly spread across Prythian by now, but I hadn't considered the possibility that Helion and Tarquin had spoken directly. Historically, Day and Summer had no particular ties. Perhaps now, with two untested High Lords who'd each taken the throne Under the Mountain, that might change.

Telling Helion we'd stolen the Book of Breathings only increased the likelihood that word would reach Hybern. With no more glamours to remove, I might manage to hold onto a few secrets.

"As with the tattoo on my hand, Rhys and I agreed to hide our bond until we understood more. A High Lord mated to a human is unusual."

Helion studied me for a long moment, staring as if he could find the answers written on my face. I resisted the urge to shrink like a mouse hiding from some great bird of prey, folding my hands in my lap as I waited for him to speak.

After a long moment, he said, "Congratulations."

I'd never heard a less convincing well-wish.

"The bond snapped the moment we crossed paths in the forest on Calanmai. I accepted it immediately. So when Rhys snarled and warned you to keep away from me Under the Mountain...it was the protective instinct of a newly mated male."

"Very well," Helion said quietly. "It grieves me to learn that Lucien may lose his life for the mistake, but he took a risk trespassing in an enemy court. As much as I wish you could have resolved the situation without violence, Lady, you have every right to defend yourself. The Day Court will not side with Spring in this matter. Our alliance with Night remains intact."

A note of bone-deep sorrow entered Helion's voice—not stress, exhaustion, or concern about the possibility of more violence breaking out across Prythian. If Tarquin had concerns about the growing threat across the sea, then so would Helion. But this seemed...personal.

"Are you and Lucien friends?" I blurted out.

Helion's power rippled through the air, shimmering heat that would cleave my very soul into mincemeat. "Is that the secret of equal import that you're after?"

"Perhaps," I said, my mouth suddenly dry.

"I'm aware the bargain magic compels you to keep this secret, but if you breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you, I'll rip you apart with my bare hands."

A chill slid down my spine. I couldn't call for Rhys through the bond, and if I tried to run for the door, the High Lord of Day could kill me before I'd even taken a step. "Understood," I breathed.

"During the War, I saved the Lady of Autumn from Hybern's beasts. It was the beginning of an affair that lasted for decades, until Beron got wind of it and punished her. Approximately nine months after the birth of Lucien Vanserra."

I couldn't imagine how I'd missed seeing the features of my former friend's face in Helion's. The proud slope of their noses, the roguish grins, their deep, rich voices...all the same. Even Lucien's skin was darker than his brothers', a golden brown not entirely unlike Helion's umber.

"You weren't High Lord when Lucien was forced to find refuge in Spring," I said. "Now that that's changed, would he have a home in Day?"

Helion didn't break my stare. "Not if it puts his mother's safety at risk."

"If there's a way to get them both out of danger, the Night Court will offer whatever assistance we can. I'll hold my mate to that." I had no business making such a far-reaching promise, but I couldn't stomach the alternative. Now that Helion had told me the truth, it wouldn't be right to do anything but side against Beron.

"I've long suspected Rhysand had a few glimmers of light he was shrouding in all that darkness and secrecy," Helion said, "but knowing the Cauldron blessed him with human-hearted mate confirms it."

I managed a wan smile, even though Rhys deserved better. After fifty years of sacrifice to limit Amarantha's path of destruction in whatever way he could, the entire world thought of him as a bedtime story they told children to scare them into behaving. Perhaps it didn't matter; the people who mattered most to Rhys knew him inside and out.

But I'd never stop wishing for everyone else to see all the good in Rhys that I did.

"Now that you've removed all of mine, you can pull the glamour off him to confirm my story, too." Even if Rhys minded me revealing our secret, we couldn't hide from Helion now.

Helion nodded, and a hazy, warm breeze nudged the door open. "Rhysand, we have need of you."

With easy, unhurried steps, Rhys strolled into the study as if it were his own. His gaze flicked to me, a slight tightness around his eyes as he examined me for any signs of harm. Almost out of habit, I reached down the bond for him, but with Helion's wards still in place, my mental hands found nothing at all.

I leapt from my seat, crossing the room to meet him. Though he hadn't waited outside for very long at all, the separation had left me with an emptiness in my chest. Getting closer to him would ease it.

At the sight of my unhidden tattoo winding its way up my forearm, Rhys's steps faltered. He took a sharp inhale to confirm the change in my scent, just as another wave of heat made his own glamour fall away.

"You told him?" Rhys said, ignoring Helion entirely.

I raised my brows. "Is that a problem?"

His fingers wound through my own, and he drew me closer. Although were were in another High Lord's palace on a diplomatic visit, I let myself lean against Rhys, just as I would at home. He took a deep inhale, drinking in our scents which had merged upon my acceptance of the bond, and the embroidery on his tunic brushed the bare skin of my back. "Only because you robbed me of the chance to roar it from the rooftop myself."

"The bargain we struck will keep the news confined to this room unless I will it, so don't consider your plans for perching on our chimney to crow at passersby dashed just yet."

"Duly noted, mate." Rhys pressed a kiss to my temple.

Helion's amber eyes twinkled with amusement as he watched us. He'd leaned back in his chair again, lounging with the lethal grace of a lion. "May the Mother bless this union. I'd never thought I'd see the day, Rhysand."

"Neither did I," Rhys said quietly.

"The Lady of Night has explained the situation, and I have no further quarrel with your court. Regardless of how this ends for Lucien Vanserra, the treaties and trade agreements that Day has with you will remain in place. We will, however, need to discuss the situation with Hybern sooner rather than later." A shiver ran through me at the casual use of my title—so strange to hear it uttered outside our Inner Circle. The squeeze of Rhys's fingers in mine told me it affected him, too.

My mate inclined his head. "I look forward to it."