there’s always another secret

The crescent moon gleamed brightly in the black sky like a piece of it had been torn away to reveal the glowing slither beneath. Nesta counted all of the stars she could see with Zasha sat between her legs in the cushioned window nook. She missed the night skies of the Night Court. The Illyrian skies were a thing of wonder in the darkness.

She found herself thinking about Cassian; whether he had remained in Illyria or had returned to Velaris. Whether Eris had kept his promise to deliver the letter – or if it lay undisturbed at the Hewn City until Cassian’s next visit. Her heart ached with sorrow for the way things had spiralled in the cabin. She had carried Emerie’s sadness about Velaris and weaponised it against Cassian because she knew she could draw blood.

For a while longer, Nesta remained in the window, hoping to see a pair of black wings sweeping across the sky. That maybe Nesta could have a romance from the stories where Cassian would lift her off her feet and kiss her then they’d apologise. Would he fly to Spring in the morning to resume her defence lessons or would he want time away from her? All Nesta could do was push people away. She’d been cruel to her father and negligent to Feyre. The only one Nesta would have moved mountains for did not want anything to do with her anymore; Elain had chosen her safety net rather than risk her comfort by being on Nesta’s side.

‘Come, my little queen. There is much to do.’

Her mother’s voice, brusque and eloquent, broke into the room. Nesta was suddenly sat at the vanity in her old bedroom; her mother had taught her how to braid a coronet and she’d been practising. Mother said it was better to have her hair tied back to show off her face rather than to leave it dangling like a street urchin.

‘A pity your face is harder than Elain’s,’ her mother had said once, turning her face from side to side with a pincer-like grip on her chin. ‘She will marry for love, the pretty little thing she is, but you will be a man’s trophy. Men will go to war for a woman like you, Nesta. A beautiful woman - but with a mind as sharp as a blade. You will be a prize for any man.’

Nesta remembered the day, but the face in the mirror was her own as it was now – not young and innocent – with pointed ears and elongated limbs. A figure stood behind her, peering over her shoulder at Nesta's reflection. A ring was on nearly every finger as well as bracelets and a delicate chain around her neck; the pendant dipping below the neckline.

‘Stand. Let me look at you,’ her mother said, clapping her hands together, the bracelets jingled as she did.

Nesta did as she was bid, as she always did where her mother was concerned. Like a vulture, her mother circled her. Her head snapped up and down Nesta’s body, surveying every inch to ensure it was up to standards.

‘Take off your dress, Nesta.’

She remembered this too, remembered the agony of these moments where she was inspected like an artefact in a museum. Even as an adult, Nesta’s heart thundered facing her mother. There had been meals that Nesta was not allowed to eat, others where her mother would raise her eyebrows at the portion on her plate or pass a comment that they would need the dressmaker out soon to fit her in a larger gown.

‘I will not ask you again.’

It was real and not real. Memory and dream. Again, her mother swarmed around her, saying nothing, only appraising her to measure whether Nesta could reach her strict standards. Cold fingers pinched her upper arms then prodded the length of her collar bone. ‘Hmm,’ she murmured, eyes lingering on Nesta’s chest. ‘You have a woman’s body now.’

Nesta waited awkwardly in the middle of the room, wishing the roof would collapse upon her while her mother strode to her own bedroom. She could hear the faint murmurings of her sisters in another room as they played. Even when she’d been as young as Feyre, Nesta had never been allowed to play. Their mother had taken her as her protegée as soon as she could walk and her childhood had become non-existant. The only times Nesta was ever allowed to play were the rare times her mother accompanied their father somewhere and servants would allow Nesta to be a child for a few hours.

It was a horrible, strange relationship they shared. Her mother put all of her efforts into Nesta’s future – the family’s future – she called it. Over and over, her mother would tell her that if their father were to die on his travels, it would be up to Nesta to save the family. It would be her advantageous marriage that would support the family. It was a constant threat that never allowed Nesta to rest on her laurels. Her mother would go to great lengths to tell her how much her father had paid for her gowns and jewels to show her off at balls, at the cost of the tutors who had come to educate Nesta on mathematics and languages.

She had not asked for any of it; her mother would frame it as a gift then remind Nesta of the cost to ensure she excelled. And yet Nesta still craved every minute with her, was desperate to win her favour because it was better to have her mother’s attention - even when she was angry with her - than to be ignored by her.

‘Take that off.’

The voice cracked like a whip as her mother returned. The odd line creased near her eyes and across her forehead like a finger traced in the sand. Her blonde hair was streaked with white. Nesta couldn’t help but wonder if this was how she would appear in the future – whenever that would be. She did not know if it would take centuries to age or millennia.

‘Nesta Archeron, do not be ignorant.’

Her mother had never hit her. No, her mother knew more effective ways to punish Nesta. She’d withhold her love, tell her how disappointed she was with her, would tell Nesta to fetch Elain or Feyre and their mother would be affectionate with them while Nesta had to remain at the table with her studies as punishment, wishing it was her who their mother kissed and cuddled.

She removed her chemise and stood only in her underwear. Her mother’s cool hands peeled her arms away from her chest. Nesta remembered how her body had suddenly changed overnight and her dresses had grown tighter across her chest. When she had bled for the first time, she’d wailed and called for a servant to help her fearing she had been injured. Her mother had sat her down and said she had become a woman. No longer was she allowed to share a room with Elain and Feyre. A woman deserves her own room, she had said. Nesta had only been twelve. Whispering stories in bed with Elain while Feyre snored quietly in the next bed had been her favourite moments of the day - and that had been taken from her.

A garment was wrapped around her chest; it was black satin and lined with unyielding whalebone. Nesta held it in place while her mother yanked the ribbons until the corset dug into her skin.

‘Mother, it hurts me.’

She heard the sharp inhale then her mother’s temper seemed to swell in the room like an unseen, unwelcome spirit. ‘Fine. Take it off. I shall see if Elain wants it. Elain never scorns my gifts.’

‘No, please. Please. Let me keep it. I will enjoy wearing it.’

‘Good,’ her mother murmured as she drew the laces tighter so there was a dull ache in her ribs. ‘You are blossoming into a woman, Nesta. We must celebrate it, not hide it away. It is nothing to be ashamed of.’

The adultification hadn’t affected Nesta then, but now, as she stood staring at her reflection while her mother once more encircled her, Nesta wanted to vomit. She had been a child. A child forced to dress as a woman to bat her eyelashes to men and engage them in alluring conversations. By fourteen, Nesta knew which men to delicately touch the hand of or which ones to brush her arm against as she moved past them. She knew which men liked it when she smiled, which ones preferred her to stay silent and listen. Nobody had fought for her. Her father kept quiet. Never voiced his discomfort at his eldest daughter being presented to his acquaintances – some even older than he was – and offered up as an investment.

‘Do not cry. You will ruin your face and not be allowed to the ball. What will we do if your father were to die tomorrow – and you had spent the night weeping instead of dancing? Would you like to see your sisters on the street, Nesta, because you were too selfish to put their needs ahead of your own?’

‘No, mother.’

Even now, as an adult trapped between this purgatory between dreaming and memories, Nesta cowered from her mother. She still could not stand up for herself. The automatic reply of “no, mother” was another act of submission. She stood as tall as her mother, her fae ears reminding her that this was not happening now. But with all the power churning inside of her, all that she had faced and survived, Nesta still was unable to tell her mother to go to hell like she deserved. All she could feel was shame.

Like a doll, her mother continued dressing her in a gown too tight for a child; one that clung to her figure enhanced by the corset and slipped over her hips. She had tutted at the coronet, calling it clumsy, as she pulled Nesta’s hair into a tight bun. The hairgrips dug against her scalp as her mother reeled off the price of the dress, the jewels on the clips, her shoes. If Nesta said anything, if she complained that she had not asked for it, her mother would grow upset and tell her that she only wanted the best for her and she was a cruel child who didn’t appreciate her parents’ sacrifices.

Nesta hated herself for the flutter in her heart as her mother settled beside her on the stool and a hand stroked her cheek. Hated how she still craved her approval. Her mother turned her so they looked at their reflection in the mirror together. A small smile tugged at her mother’s lips. Nesta knew now it was not one of love, not truly. She had seen Feyre wear the same expression when she had gazed upon one of her paintings, proud of what she had created. Nesta Archeron: her mother’s warped little creature.

‘There will not be a man in our world who will not fall to his knees for you, my little queen,’ her mother whispered, tenderly touching a finger across the apple of her cheek. ‘Even a fae king would be enchanted by you. You will make me proud tonight.’

It was a demand with no room for failure. There could be flashes of her grandmamma in her mother sometimes; the same rigidity, the utter displeasure when Nesta had failed either woman. At least her mother had never beat her. No, her mother broke her with words instead.

When they departed the bedroom, Nesta expected to see the long corridor leading to the stairs of her old family manor, but they were suddenly walking through a grove of white birch trees warped into an archway, the doorway to her bedroom was gone. It ought to have been beautiful; a faint dusting of sun broke through the trees to illuminate the pathway leading through them. All around Nesta white flowers grew. She could name lily-of-the-valley and snowdrops. Others, she wondered if Elain knew the names of.

‘We mustn’t forget this,’ her mother said, pressing a bouquet into her hands.

Nesta glanced down at the flowers she carried; baby’s breath and roses of pure white. Her mother’s cool hands reached towards her to carefully cover her face with a gossamer veil. She had only seen veils used in the mortal lands for one purpose: a wedding.

No matter how hard Nesta tried to change directions, to jerk herself awake or to invoke any sort of magic to bring her back to the present, there was no escaping this awful nightmare. But every part of it felt real. Her mother’s skin against hers, the warmth of the sun piercing the canopy, the smell of the flowers.

‘He has waited a long time for you,’ her mother murmured softly as a figure on the horizon materialised beside a black lake where seven swans swam across the surface.

Nesta tried to dig her heels into the ground, tried to halt her mother’s marching. Her dress was unfit for the mortal lands; it scooped low on the back and the thin sleeves were almost sheer. The material shrouded her legs like a mist.

‘I do not want this.’

A muscle worked in mother’s jaw. ‘Think of your family, Nesta, of everything we have done for you. Your father would not have found his firebird or armies. Would you want your sisters to have died? Is that what you want, you cruel, wicked girl?’

‘I want to go home,’ she begged. ‘I want to wake up. Please.’

Her mother had to force her forwards a step as if Nesta’s magic had suddenly awakened from slumber and was beginning to jerk itself into action, anchoring her to the path. The male started towards them. Nesta did not need to see his face to know him. She recognised the tall figure and his strange gait as he walked as if he was made from the earth and the wind. His ears were pointed, eyes wholly black as though they could devour galaxies. His hair, so bleached of colour, was white. Tailored in regal black, the male was broad and youthful. Hungrily, he gazed upon his fiancée.

Every instinct screamed at Nesta to run. To rip her mother’s arm from its socket and to never stop running.

‘Nesta,’ he said in acknowledgement.

Her legs threatened to buckle. When he took a step towards her, her mother had gone as though she had never even been there. There was nothing but ancient cruelty filling the void of his eyes. Lanthys had wanted her as a queen to use her power – but Koschei stared at Nesta and saw a feast.

‘Come, queen of queens. Let us be married.’

With effort, Nesta forced herself back a step. Then another. And another.

Her power was surging within her chest, pressing against the sides to try and find a way out. She gritted her teeth and made herself take another step backwards.

‘Remarkable,’ Koschei crooned.

Nesta had not stared down the King of Hybern or Lanyths to die here.

Her magic was a battering ram that ran a vicious assault against the cage Koschei was trying to condemn her to. It rallied itself and thrust outwards, thrashing against this realm between dreams and memories. If she were to see her reflection in that black lake, Nesta knew her eyes would be blazing with silver fire.

Koschei surged forwards to grasp the wispy sleeves of her gown. Malice simmered in his eyes as a rough hand tore away her sleeve from the seams to expose her bare arm.

‘Who marked you? What male marked you?’

His eyes were fixed upon the tattoo banded around her upper arm.

‘Speak his name,’ the death-god demanded.

Nesta thrust any memories, any thoughts of who had given her the tattoo to the darkest depths of her mind. She focused only on the male in front of her. She sang his name over and over. Koschei, Koschei, Koschei. She fixed her gaze only on him, willed herself only to see this male – and no others that mattered to her.

A blisteringly cold hand clamped around her elbow to drag her closer. Even Koschei gritted his teeth in pain at their physical contact. Pain demanded Nesta’s attention where his fingers were branding her skin, but the tattoo inches higher burned like molten gold on her skin, glowing brighter the longer he held her.

The death-god released her arm with a hiss. His own hand was blistered red.

Again, Koschei lunged for her, dragging Nesta to her knees on the rough ground. His fingers bent her wrist towards him while another hand pulled a ring from his pocket.

Nesta tried endlessly to yank her hand back to safety, but the male held her there, ignoring the pain searing up his own skin as he fought to force the ring onto her finger. She balled her hand into a fist, begging any deity who’d listen to save her.

A cry escaped her throat as Koschei snapped the bones in her fingers to straighten them. Tears streamed down her cheek despite her attempts at trying to master herself. The ring, heavy platinum, was wedged onto her trembling, broken fingers.

The moment it touched her skin, it was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. She knew it. Koschei knew it. The tattoo in her arm blazed like an inferno. The metal writhed against her skin as if it were a living thing in great discomfort. Deep, deep down in that abyss within her, Nesta’s magic had concentrated into a dense mass. She gazed up at the death-god still gripping her damaged fingers, his own face contorted with rage watching the ring twist.

I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you.

That memory came to Nesta - a quiet song that reminded her that there was a world of goodness that she wanted to be part of. She wanted to be happy. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to love.

The platinum ring warped and cracked until it shattered like glass then the barricade of her power fell. Another voice, sharp and cunning, pressed to the forefront of her mind. When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds.

‘Eris, what’s happened?’

Nesta had been dozing in the library, curled up like a cat with her head in the Lady of the Autumn Court’s lap while she read and stroked Nesta’s head. It had been a children’s book, one the lady had selected from the shelf with a fond smile. She had not heard Eris arrive home, but as his mother spoke and tried to rise, it had roused Nesta.

Eris had seen better days. There was a dullness to his skin as his magic flagged from the long day. Shadows had taken up residence beneath his eyes. Blood had dried on his skin. A spraying of it was along his left cheek.

Leal the dog scampered over to her master. From the size, Nesta would hedge she was from the same litter as Zasha – and certainly had the same temperament. Still, the dog managed to raise a half-smile from Eris as she reached up to his chest with her large paws. He held her muzzle with one hand then swiftly kissed her wet nose.

‘How is Nesta?’

At his words, Nesta raised her head to show she was awake.

‘Did a healer-’

‘Yes. Juraj came. Her wounds have been cleaned.’ The soft voice spoke to her, ‘I have to go Nesta. It has been lovely to spend the day with you.’

It was an interesting choice of words. Nesta had lay unmoving, unresponsive, while Eris’ mother had cared for her as if she were a sick child. She pitied the female if that had been a lovely day for her.

‘Your father will worry if I’m gone any longer,’ she murmured as she stroked her eldest son’s hair flat to his head. ‘What did we do today?’

‘Discussed the fund. I’ve made a donation on behalf of the Autumn Court in return for aid for those close to Summer’s border.’

‘And lunch?’

Eris sucked in a breath. ‘Salmon with rice and broccoli. Steamed. No dessert. We took a walk around the grounds too after lunch.’

They were aligning their stories should Beron question them, Nesta realised. How many times had they had to lie to protect each other? Did Beron torture his wife? Could she withstand it?

‘You will tell me what has happened,’ his mother said, eyes lingering on the sticky, dried blood. ‘I’ll return tomorrow. Eris…’ Whatever his mother wanted to say to him, she abandoned it in favour of resting her forehead against his. ‘My son.’

‘Thank you,’ Nesta called to the departing female, ‘for everything today.’

The Lady of the Autumn Court nodded, a smile brightened her face then she departed the house to winnow back to her husband.

‘Nesta, will you be alright if I go to wash?’

Leal wedged herself on the couch with Nesta, firmly cementing the idea that she was Zasha’s sister; the dog had as much awareness of personal space as her own. But Nesta was thankful for the company while Eris returned to his room to change.

When Eris arrived back in the library, his hair was still damp, but he was dressed in a tailored waistcoat, shirt, and dark green trousers. A couple of buttons were open near the collar, exposing a peek of the broad chest beneath. He cut segments from an apple as he took the seat beside Nesta. For every piece he cut for himself, he cut another for Nesta to chew on.

‘How are you holding up?’

‘Fine.’

Eris raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re not though. And that’s okay too.’

‘How many times can I keep putting these broken pieces back together?’

The male nodded in understanding. ‘This has been a day we’d both rather forget.’

He explained what had happened to a portion of his missing soldiers. How they had been taken to the Hewn City, to an abhorrent place that even the vilest of Keir’s court did not tread. Nesta had to hear all of it. Her mood could be no worse either way. She had known that Azriel was the master of spies, that he partook in the questioning of the Night Court’s enemies – but Nesta could not deny that it was unsettling to hear exactly what he did for Rhysand. Worse still, was that the males had not reacted. It was as if the parts that made them alive had been carved out of them leaving only empty shells behind.

In that subtle way of his, Eris had her eating too. Just a broth, but as he spoke, her hands busied themselves in breaking apart a bread roll and dipping it in.

‘Your mother is so kind.’

Eris murmured his agreement. She could not have been more than a couple of decades older than him – and for fae that was nothing. ‘I just couldn’t leave you in Spring, Nesta. I couldn’t do it.’

‘Cassian had a difficult choice to make.’

‘I don’t blame him for it. He did what he thought was best. I had a mate once,’ he said quietly. ‘The Cauldron chooses wrong. It is not right to be forced together.’

A low hum throbbed in Nesta’s ear. She had never heard word of Eris having a mate – not from the inner circle or the male himself. She supposed he would keep it a secret, especially after Lucien’s love was killed by Beron. From the ache on his face, Nesta did not believe it had a happy ending. His mate would be under this roof, protected and loved if that were so.

‘Would you choose Cassian if it wasn’t for the bond?’

Months ago, she would have said no. Their bond had tied them together from the start. If it hadn’t been for the bond, would he have protected her against Hybern? Would he have continued to fly to the House of Wind to aggravate her because he knew her anger was better than the empty silence that had seized Elain? Things had changed. Things had progressed. Nesta had fallen in love with Cassian. She had fallen for his playful spirit, his enormous heart and the way the world felt warmer with him.

‘I love Cassian.’

The dark cloud that had descended upon Eris scattered to nothing. He nodded then asked a servant to clear away her dinner tray. ‘They’re in the Hewn City. I said I would only take you if you wanted to go.’

‘I want to see Cassian,’she stated firmly.

‘If you want him, you have to accept all of them. They’re parasites, feeding from each other, unable to cut the cord and be independent souls.’

Nesta could not help it but she laughed. After a day from hell, she laughed at Eris’ comment. ‘Don’t hold any punches, Eris.’

At the sound of her laughter, the corner of Eris’ mouth quirked upwards. ‘I’m so glad you can still laugh. You had me scared today.’

Nesta retrieved her belongings from upstairs. One of the servants had cleaned the stench of bog from her leathers but the rips in them were unlikely to be mended. Not that she wanted to wear them for a long, long time. Nesta had had enough adventures. Her weapons made a delighted hum as her fingers enclosed around the handles in recognition of her touch. The Mask purred too like a cat might when it was touched, but Nesta kept it within the pillowcase; she doubted Eris would mind her pilfering a pillowcase from his estate.

He waited for her at the bottom of the stairs, a smirk brewing on his face. ‘You’ll go to the Hewn City in my clothes. What a scandal that will be.’

Nesta glanced down at her outfit; the tunic bared an inch above her knees and the socks reached up her shins. Her arms were bare so he retrieved a navy jacket from a peg for her to cover her tattoo too. In lieu of her soaked boots, she would forgo shoes. Eris flicked the end of one of her braids. ‘I bet my mother couldn’t wait to get her hands on your hair.’

‘It was nice.’

‘I let her plait mine once when I was very drunk. She blackmailed me that she’d tell father I’d been drinking his expensive wine if I didn’t let her.’

‘Would she have told your father?’

Eris snorted. ‘Cauldron, no.’

‘Will you thank her again for me? It was… It was needed.’ Her throat had gone dry. That Eris had had the foresight to bring her to his home rather than Spring was invaluable. Nesta likely would still be curled in a ball on the porch if he had dropped her off at Tamlin’s Manor. ‘I don’t even know her name.’

‘Contrary to how my father introduces her, her name is not “my wife”,’ Eris grumbled in a bitter tone. ‘Adeline. But her sisters called her Lina. Cora calls her that too in private. Little Lina.’

‘What happened to your mate?’

Eris held out his hand for Nesta to take. ‘I gave her everything she wanted.’

***

The sight of Eris Vanserra striding through the Court of Nightmares hand in hand with Nesta did nothing to quell the feelings of dread that had taken up residence in Cassian’s heart. Seeing her again, mauled and bruised nearly had him breaking into tears. He could count on one hand the amount of times he’d cried in his life.

The crowd parted for them. Eris held his proud face high as he sauntered towards the thrones, but his knuckles were white where Nesta clutched desperately to his hand. What in the name of the Cauldron was she wearing?

The eyes on Nesta were assessing the outfit too, noticing the Autumn colours, the Autumn style, the Autumn Court heir guiding her through the crowd. So much of ruling revolved around political gestures and imagery. Eris presenting Nesta in his court’s colours while she was injured likely displayed a fracture in the Night Court. Rumours had swirled for a long time that a showdown had occurred between her and Rhysand in Illyria, that the high lady’s sister had disappeared promptly afterwards. There had been whispers Rhys had killed her until she’d been announced as emissary to the Spring Court. Before Rhys had a chance to speak into his mind and try to stop him, Cassian rushed across the polished floor to his mate.

Nesta discarded Eris’ hand and threw her arms around him. Cassian was already on his knees, holding her tightly. For privacy, his wings cocooned her. She was here. This was real. Nesta buried her face into the crook of his neck, the warmth of her skin the most reassuring touch he’d ever felt.

When they finally broke away, Nesta was checking him for injuries, to see if he was harmed - despite Nesta being the one with the brutalised mouth, neck marked by claw, calves and sins lacerated. Part of him shattered irreparably at the sight of her so beaten up.

Cassian offered his arm to Nesta. She set her jaw and avoided looking anywhere but the thrones to not have to see the crowd that stared at her. How much pain was already churning beneath that mask of indifference? Eris accompanied them, carrying a bag of Nesta’s belongings, including her swords. He’d had the foresight to cover the blades from view at least.

Amongst the moonstone pillars of the beautiful palace, they aimed for a private room. It took only heartbeats after the door was closed for Feyre to pull her arms around her elder sister. Nesta’s eyes screwed shut and Cassian could tell she was fighting hard not to fall apart, to keep herself rigid so she wouldn’t crumble here in front of these people. Azriel was there once Feyre had released her. His hazel eyes dipped to the wounds on her face.

‘Lanthys then a kelpie? I think you like danger more than Cass.’ As Nesta clung to Azriel’s scarred fingers, a shadow briefly wrapped around both of their hands in recognition of their bond. Not mates, but Azriel had recognised something in Nesta that lived within him – and neither had ever balked from the other.

‘She’s already trying to out-do me and I’ve had five hundred years to carve my name into the history books,’ he winked, guiding his mate into an arm chair near the window.

‘Forgive me,’ Eris said, interrupting the gawping at Nesta, ‘I must return to Autumn.’

Bold as brass, the Autumn Court heir sketched a bow then strode over to Nesta. Softly, he kissed her cheek and murmured to her, ‘Keep my clothes. They look good on you.’

The threat that wanted to spill from his lips at the sight of Eris in such close contact with Nesta faded when a soft laugh left Nesta’s throat. ‘Remind me why I put up with you. Goodbye, Eris. And thank you – again.’

For being able to bring a glimmer of lightness back to her eyes, Cassian would put up with their friendship, even if he hated the male.

Amren slid into a chair, feet barely scraping the floor. ‘Where is the Mask, girl?’ At the withering stare that Nesta charged her with, Amren amended, ‘Where is the Mask, Nesta?’

From a crisp, white pillowcase Nesta pulled out the Mask. At certain angles, it had a golden sheen, but the ancient runes were too old even for Amren to recognise. Cassian wanted to tug it from Nesta’s grip. His siphons hummed in acknowledgement of this terrible power, but Nesta handled it with bare fingertips undisturbed by its tremendous weight.

‘Only a desperate fool would don that Mask,’ Amren said, keeping well away from the table where Nesta had settled the Mask. ‘You’re lucky you could pry it from your face. Most of those who have worn it could never remove it. In order to sever it, they had to be beheaded. That is the cost of true power: you can raise an army of the dead to conquer the world, but you can never be free of the Mask.’

‘I wished it to let go and it did,’ Nesta said flatly, surveying Amren with cool disdain. ‘I told the souls to rest for eternity.’

‘You spoke to them?’ Rhys asked, violet eyes flickering between Nesta and the object.

Nesta’s brow furrowed. ‘It forged a connection between me and them. I could feel how they’d died, how their souls were wearied but unable to rest. Once they helped me, I wanted them just to be… just to be able to go into whatever comes next. To seek peace.’

Cassian perched on the arm of the chair and Nesta allowed one of his arms to wrap around her. How could any of them fear that she would be a danger? With an army of unbeatable soldiers at her disposal, Nesta had given them a path to the eternal realm where their souls could finally rest.

‘Az, press on the remaining mortal queens. Have your shadows trail any of Beron’s most loyal males too. We need proof he’s aligned with Briallyn – and that she has the crown.’

‘This Mask calls to Nesta. It is safe to assume it will call to Elain and Briallyn,’ Amren mused.

‘What if Nesta wards it to contain it initially then Helion and Rhys can place further wards around it?’ Feyre suggested, bundling her knees against her chest.

‘I don’t know how to do those spells,’ Nesta said. ‘I failed at the most basic of them while training with Amren, remember?’

Feyre’s head tilted to one side. ‘Is that what you think, Nesta? That you failed?’

Nesta’s back went straight in the chair, a rod of iron pressed against his arm. His own chest tightened at the words, the wall that rose in Nesta’s silver eyes, brick by brick.

‘The wall came down, didn’t I?’ She said tightly. ‘Tell me how do to the spells and I will try.’

Rhys nodded in sympathetic understanding at Nesta’s admission. She had tried so hard to protect the wall, so damn hard – but Hybern had the Cauldron and centuries of knowledge behind him. It was not a failure.

Feyre pushed her golden-brown hair away from her face. ‘We need Madja to tend to your wounds, Nesta.’

‘A healer has already cleaned them in Autumn.’

‘We should expect the bill tomorrow from Eris Vanserra, Rhysand,’ snorted Amren, eyes still tracking the Mask.

Nesta stiffened again. ‘Do not speak his name. Eris might be your tentative ally, but he is my friend. I will not stand for it.’ The storm clouds swirling in her eyes fluttered away as she shook her head. ‘His mother spent the day caring for me at risk to herself and Eris. You have absolutely no idea what Eris risks by allying himself with you.’

Amren deferred to Rhys – the pair of them deciding silently whether to pursue that thread or to let it lie. They opted for the latter.

‘Nesta, I understand that today has been difficult. Would you show me what happened with the kelpie?’

Nesta frowned, as if unwilling to relive the memory, but as Cassian massaged her shoulder, she nodded. Rhys cast it into all of their minds: Nesta falling from the tree, staring at her reflection, the revulsion for her pointed ears, the kelpie emerging from the water. Her fear was palpable as she hopelessly sought safety in the tree before it dragged her into the depths of its lair. The kelpie rasped something to her in between pressing its mouth to her own. Cassian’s head felt like it was splitting in two as Nesta starved of oxygen – and then the Mask flew to her hands. Rhys pulled them out of her head.

Amren’s face had paled then she was shaking her head so the black bob of hair swayed. ‘That dialect has not been spoken in fifteen thousand years.’

‘It was speaking?’

‘An ancient fae language,’ Rhys explained. ‘My education was thorough but I could only pick up the odd word.’

Azriel asked, ‘What’d the kelpie say?’

Amren shot an alarmed glance at Nesta then another to Cassian that he ought to hold onto Nesta even tighter. ‘He said “are you my sacrifice, sweet flesh? How pale and young you are. Tell me, are they resuming the sacrifice to the waters once more? No gods can save you. I shall take you, little beauty, and you shall be my bride before you are my supper.”’

Nesta’s slender hand drifted to the marks on her face then recoiled. Horror slid through Cassian. Nesta had endured hell.

‘That’s enough for today,’ he said, working to keep his voice even. ‘My mate needs to rest.’

***

Rather than fly to Illyria or burden Azriel with winnowing them back to the Spring Court, Nesta agreed to stay the night in the moonstone palace atop the Hewn City. The opulent bedroom overhung the side of a mountain that still had snow even in the beginnings of summer. Even the sunken bathing pool did not hold Nesta’s attention for long, not as she curled up on the soft bed.

‘I can stand Eris as your friend,’ Cassian said, removing his shoes, ‘but I draw the line at you sleeping in his clothes.’

Cassian raised a dark eyebrow towards the tunic. Nesta looked like a child playing dress-up in the clothes, but she was too tired to argue. A servant had retrieved a night gown for her – simple and white, likely one of the servant’s own gowns – so Cassian undressed her. There was nothing lustful in it, but he took care to move her braids out of the way and lifted the tunic gently over her head.

Even at the sight of her bare breasts, five hundred years of sheer will-power kept his eyes trained on her face. Nesta couldn’t have that. She wanted to forget this day. Her fingers laced through his hair dragging his mouth towards hers. He allowed her to kiss him, but when she pressed harder, tried to rub her naked body against his torso, Cassian pulled away.

In lieu of sex, he brought the night gown over her head then tugged her arms through. ‘I know you think you want this, but you just don’t want to feel. Sex will give you a temporary release. I've been there, after battles when I couldn't stomach the sight of gore and death and just wanted to forget it. It’s not sensible tonight, Nes. And honestly, I can’t look at you right now without wanting to cry.’

Cassian’s hands cradled her face so she couldn’t look away in shame. ‘I love you so much. This is not about me rejecting you. This is me knowing it won’t be good for you to sleep with me now. You will regret it. I will regret it.’

The shame still burnt in her cheeks, but they slid into the bed together, Cassian tucking her against him like that space had been made for her.

‘The Mask needs to be destroyed, Cassian. I never want to see it again.’

It had scared her more than anything else. That utter lack of feeling. How good it had felt to be so removed. Nesta swallowed. She hadn’t confessed it to any of them. If she had been alone, she would contemplate that void it had given her. She wondered whether anyone had ever donned the Mask not to raise the dead, but to simply stop being inside their own minds to never feel guilt or shame or hatred.

‘I don’t think it is possible without the Cauldron,’ he admitted, tracing circles with his thumb on her shoulder. ‘We will ward it. It won’t hurt you.’