elle.

I attempted to stand with dignity. I failed spectacularly.

Rhys just laughed, the sound bright and infuriatingly amused. "I'm just saying," he added, entirely unrepentant. "You're huge."

"I am pregnant, you insufferable asshole," I snapped, even as I begrudgingly accepted his offered hand and let him haul me upright.

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes drifting, lingering, on my stomach as his hand rested there without permission. "Maybe it's because Cassian is built like a mountain. All that... size has to come from somewhere."

"Oh, I do have bigger muscles than you."

Cassian's voice cut in smoothly as he strode into the room, wings brushing the doorway as he went. 

In one effortless movement, he plucked me straight out of Rhysand's arms and against his chest like I weighed nothing at all.

I melted into him despite myself.

Rhys scoffed. "Keep telling yourself that."

"I don't have to," Cassian shot back with a grin. "It's objectively true."

Rhys opened his mouth again, eyes dancing with mischief. "I can't even imagine the damage it's gonna do, pushing out a baby with Cassian's head and—"

"Rhysand!"

My shriek echoed through the room as I smacked his arm hard enough to make him hiss.

He threw his hands up in surrender, laughter sparkling in his eyes. "I'm just saying! It's a valid concern!"

Cassian chuckled but then his expression shifted. Subtle. Instant. Terrifying.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said carefully, lowering his voice as his hands tightened just a fraction around me. "Not to panic you, but you've either peed yourself... or your water just broke."

The world went very, very still. I looked down. 

And then I sighed. "It broke."

Rhys's amusement vanished immediately. "You alright?" he asked, suddenly all High Lord, sharp and serious.

The panic hit like a wave. Hot. Overwhelming.

"Fuck—fuck, fuck—no!" I shouted as Cassian moved without hesitation, scooping me up properly now, wings flaring as he turned for the stairs. "This was not how I planned this!"

"I've got you," Cassian murmured, forehead pressing briefly to mine as he started up the steps. "I've got you. Breathe."

Rhys was already backing away. "I'll get Madja."

And with a blink of darkness, he was gone.

Leaving me clinging to my mate, heart racing, body trembling, the reality crashing down hard and fast.

Our child was coming. And there was absolutely no stopping it now.

Cassian barely slowed as he carried me down the hall, wings flaring wide to clear doorways, every muscle in his body coiled tight with urgency. I clutched the front of his leathers, another wave of pain rolling through me so violently my vision blurred.

"Cassian," I gasped, nails digging in. "Cass—"

"I've got you," he said again, firmer this time, voice low and steady even as panic flickered in his eyes. "I've got you. You're safe. I'm right here."

The room was already prepared, soft light glowing from faelights, the bed turned down, fresh linens waiting. 

Madja appeared moments later, calm as death and twice as terrifying, her sharp eyes taking everything in at once.

"Lay her down," she ordered.

Cassian did so with reverence, easing me onto the bed as if I were made of glass instead of sweat and fear and aching bone.

Madja's hands were brisk but gentle as she examined me. "You've done well to make it this far," she said. "But it's time."

Time. That word echoed as another contraction tore through me, brutal and unrelenting. 

I screamed, there was no dignity left to cling to and Cassian was instantly at my side, one hand gripping mine, the other brushing damp hair from my face.

"Breathe," he murmured, pressing his forehead to mine. "Just breathe with me."

"I can't," I yelled. "It hurts—Mother, it hurts so bad—"

"I know," he whispered, eyes bright with something dangerously close to tears. "I know. But you're not alone. I'm right here."

Madja's voice cut through the haze. "When I tell you to push, you push. Not before. Save your strength."

Hours blurred together in agony and effort. Time ceased to exist, measured only by pain and breath and Cassian's hands anchoring me to the world. My throat burned from screaming. My body felt like it was splitting apart, every nerve screaming betrayal.

"I can't do this," I cried at one point, shaking my head wildly. "I can't, Cassian—please—"

"Yes, you can," he said fiercely, gripping my hand harder. "You are the strongest person I know. Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone."

Madja nodded once. "Push. Now."

I bore down with everything I had left, a broken scream ripping free as the pain crescendoed into something unbearable—

A cry. High. Sharp. Alive.

The world snapped into focus.

Madja lifted a tiny, squirming bundle, wings no bigger than my hand fluttering weakly as she cleaned her off. "A girl," she announced.

I sobbed, the sound half-laugh, half-cry as Cassian's breath left him in a rush, his face utterly undone.

"A girl," he whispered, reverent. "We have a daughter."

Madja placed her gently against my chest, warm and perfect and impossibly small. The moment she touched me, something cracked open inside my chest so violently I thought it might kill me.

She was beautiful.

"She's real," I breathed. "Cassian—she's real—"

He brushed his thumb over her tiny fingers, eyes shining. "She's ours."

And then another pain seized me—worse than before.

I groaned, body arching slightly as my hands clawed at the sheets. "No—no, no, Madja, something's wrong—"

Madja froze. Then her brows knit together. She checked me again. Silence stretched, heavy and terrifying.

"Interesting," she murmured.

"What?" Cassian snapped. "What do you mean interesting?"

Madja straightened slowly. "It would seem," she said calmly, "that you are not finished."

I stared at her in horror. "What."

She glanced between us. "There is another child."

The room went dead quiet. I turned my head weakly and smacked Cassian's arm with what little strength I had left. "This is your fault."

He blinked. Then laughed, actually laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "No wonder you were so huge."

"I swear to the Mother," I panted, eyes wild, "do not make me do this again."

Cassian sobered instantly, panic flashing fresh and sharp. "Hey—hey," he said, cupping my face. "You're safe. Madja's here. I'm here. Everything's alright."

"I can't," I whispered, tears streaming freely now. "I don't have anything left. Don't make me—please—"

Madja placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "You can," she said. "And you will. One more time."

Cassian leaned down, pressing his brow to mine. "Just one more," he murmured. "Then I'll never ask anything of you again. I promise."

Another contraction slammed through me, merciless and unforgiving.

"Push," Madja ordered.

I screamed Cassian's name as I did, clutching him like an anchor, pouring everything I had into that final effort. Pain split me open.

Another cry filled the room. Lower this time. Stronger.

Madja lifted another bundle, wings already stretching wide as the baby protested the world with impressive lungs. 

"A boy."

I collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing in exhausted disbelief as Cassian made a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

"A girl," he whispered. "And a boy."

Madja placed our son beside his sister, and Cassian gathered us all into his arms, wings wrapping around us in a cocoon of warmth and protection.

"My family," he breathed, voice wrecked. "My beautiful family."

I closed my eyes, pain fading beneath the weight of love so immense it left me breathless.

Twins. And somehow, despite everything, I'd never felt more whole.

Cassian's POV - 

Hours had passed within the quiet sanctuary of our room.

Hours since the screaming, the fear, the blood and terror that had nearly broken me in half. Hours since Madja had finally nodded in satisfaction and left us alone, muttering something about "remarkable resilience" and "never ceasing to amaze her."

She had made sure, repeatedly, that everyone was alive, whole, and safe before she went.

I still didn't think my heart had fully restarted.

The four of us lay tangled together across the bed, the sheets rumpled and faintly scented with healing magic and lavender. 

My wings curved protectively around us without conscious thought, cocooning the love of my life and the two impossibly small beings resting on her chest.

Our children. My chest ached every time I looked at them.

Our daughter slept peacefully, her tiny face relaxed, mouth parted just slightly as if she were dreaming of something kind. One delicate wing was tucked close to her body, the other draped messily across her brother's arm like she already claimed him as hers.

Our son was quieter but no less solid, his little fist curled tight in the fabric of my shirt, grip surprisingly strong. Even asleep, he seemed grounded, steady.

Balanced. Perfect.

"They're so beautiful," she whispered, voice hoarse but reverent, her finger tracing the curve of our daughter's cheek with infinite care.

I watched the way her eyes softened. Watched the way pain still lingered faintly in her expression but was eclipsed by wonder.

"They take after their mother," I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.

She laughed softly, exhaustion and affection mingling. "Liar."

I leaned down, brushing my knuckles gently over our son's head. "Alright," I amended. "Maybe they got their looks from you and their stubbornness from me."

Her lips twitched. Then she winced slightly as she shifted. "I'm still not forgiving you for making me go through that twice."

I opened my mouth automatically. "Hey, it took two to tango, I didn't—" I stopped. Slowly cowered beneath her glare "... I will shut up now."

She huffed, then laughed, quiet, broken, real. The sound hit me harder than any blade ever had.

A knock echoed softly at the door. I stiffened instinctively, wings tightening, but she nodded tiredly. 

"It's okay."

I rose carefully, easing myself free before padding to the door. When I opened it, I was met with a familiar sight.

Mor stood front and centre, eyes already shining. Azriel hovered just behind her, shadows unusually subdued. Rhys leaned casually against the doorframe, though his gaze flicked past me instantly, sharp and hungry with curiosity. Amren lingered near the back, arms crossed.

"Well?" Mor demanded softly. "Can we come in, or are you going to make us beg?"

I stepped aside. They entered like a tide, slow, reverent, suddenly hushed.

Mor clapped a hand over her mouth the moment she saw them. Azriel stopped dead, shadows curling inward as if stunned. Rhys went utterly still.

Amren tilted her head. "Two," she observed. "I was wondering." She looked up at me, silver eyes sharp. "You survived."

Barely, I thought. Aloud I said, "we all did."

Mor crossed the room in three careful steps, crouching beside the bed. "Can I—?"

My mate nodded, smiling faintly.

Mor didn't touch, just looked.  "They're perfect," she whispered.

Rhys cleared his throat. "So," he said lightly, though his voice wobbled just a bit. "Do these miracles have names, or are you still arguing?"

My mate glanced up at me. I smiled.

"Seraphina," she said softly, brushing our daughter's hair back. "And Dorian."

The room went quiet.

Azriel inclined his head once. "Strong names."

"Fitting," Amren added. "Very fitting."

Rhys grinned. "I knew there was more than one. I felt it."

My mate looked at him and then... started sobbing. Full-on, shoulders-shaking, breathless sobs.

Rhys froze. "Oh fuck," he said immediately. "No—no, I was joking. I swear I was joking—"

I was already moving, at her side in a heartbeat, gathering her close while carefully minding the babies.

She shook her head, laughing through tears. "No Rhys—it's not that—I'm just—"

Her voice broke completely.

"It's over," she whispered. "It hurt and I was scared and I thought I couldn't do it—and now it's over. And I have them. I have them."

Rhys visibly deflated, then softened, crossing the room to kneel beside us. "You did incredible," he said quietly. "Both of you."

I kissed her temple, holding my family like I might never let go.

Two heartbeats against my chest. Two futures. Two reasons the world suddenly made sense.

A/N - First part and we're already starting with chaos. The birth... and surprise twins!!

Turns out everyone blaming Cassian's ridiculous Illyrian genes for the size bump was only half right—there were actually two tiny terrors in there the whole time :)

Also, if the names are awful, please look away respectfully. Seraphina was chosen at random and yes, Dorian is absolutely from Throne of Glass x

Thank you so much for reading <33

Sheer and shimmering and loose, the Summer-style slip Nesta has reluctantly draped herself in is a far departure from the high necklines and modest cuts she prefers.

It leaves little to the imagination, any delusions to the contrary squashed the moment she stepped onto their shared balcony when Mor’s eyes widened at the sight of her chest, then promptly looked away. But after days of overheating beneath the sweltering Summer sun in her own wardrobe, she relented.

It’s mortifying enough that she’s in this position in the first place. She’s not about to admit to enjoying the cool breeze against her skin, or how it turns the sun’s warmth upon her into something pleasant.

“You’re welcome,” Mor says pointedly, and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

Somehow, even in the heat, Mor’s blonde waves still fall in a perfect cascade—not a single hair out of place. Nesta’s sure her coronet is all frizz and flyaways.

Aggravating.

Nesta doesn’t thank her. She wonders how long it’ll take for Mor to make a problem out of her silence.

Not long, it turns out.

Mor clicks her tongue. “You can be so…” she pauses, and her cherry-red lips pinch with disdain as she gives Nesta a once-over. “Difficult.”

“How would you have me be?” Nesta snaps, her blood heating. “Fawning over you? Groveling at your feet?” In a sickly sweet voice that sounds startlingly like Elain’s, she says, “Thank you, Mor, for lending me your clothes. I could never have managed without you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Mor says. She looks away. “I didn’t say any of that. But a little gratitude would take your far, you know.”

Mother spare me.

It’s the same—every time. There are so many things Nesta should be grateful for. So many new ways in which she’s expected to supplicate herself.

As Mor carries on with her chiding, Nesta fantasizes about silence. Nothing she can say will deliver her from this lecture, but maybe…

Nesta leans forward, and takes a risk.

When their mouths collide, Mor stumbles, but does not break away. She tastes like citrus and cinnamon, with plush lips that fit seamlessly with Nesta’s own. Long, manicured nails graze along the back of Nesta’s neck, and a small moan escapes Mor as she leans into her. The slight stick of too-warm foreheads pressed together.

Nesta likes it more than she expected.

When Nesta pulls away, breaths still heavy as they tumble from her chest, she sees Mor, bewildered. Ruffled. A flush has crept beneath the rouge powder on her cheeks, and loose hairs are stuck against her temples. Wide, brown eyes stare at Nesta with a mixture of dread and desire.

And blessedly, for once, she is quiet.

Open curtains. Fogged glass. 

Floorboards—dark floorboards. Rugs. 

Towering wardrobes, side tables, wooden chests, twinkling lampshades and polished brass. 

Nesta blinks. Eyelids hefting the weight of sleep. 

The curtains are open—doubled. A heavier set of burnt orange linen inlaid with dark ginger cotton pushed aside while the second set are drawn, woven with such fine fibres Nesta’s bleary eyes had mistaken them for fog veiling the watery morning sunlight haloing pearly, puffed clouds. Sequins decorate the translucent hem, and golden, thread-thin tassels dangle mere inches from the floorboards. Clean floorboards. Pale brown and polished, topped with an orange, black, and white striped rug radiating outward in bold arrows of colour, interrupted only by two slitted splotches of viridian and emerald. Eyes, Nesta realises. Laying across the floor is a rug patterned after tiger stripes, the mammoth feline sprawled across a great sandstone boulder. 

Details become stranger still—wallpaper painted with lush fauna: rich, verdant tropics, flashes of feathered colour glimpsed between illustrated leaves and mahogany wardrobes that practically line the opposing wall. Fleur-de-lis’s carved into dark wood, vines flourishing along the sides. Real vines cascading from gleaming pink, cream, and gold vases, leaves as lush and sprawling as the scenery behind them. 

Decorating the bedside table to Nesta’s right is a lamp, the faelight dimmed by the twinkling canary yellow lampshade, bejewelled with clear glass beads in rings around its base. Beside the lamp is a silver comb and brush set, a brass hand mirror, card box of matches, three empty glasses, and one white mug dotted with thumbprint-sized spots of crimson, cobalt, chartreuse, and clementine. Its interior is glazed with a blushing pink enamel, and it’s been set atop a plate intended for holding jewellery—overflowing with twinkling rings and bangles, a golden watch laying coiled atop the wood beneath a tangle of lengthy, slim hairpins, pushed from their home. Whatever male she slept with the night before is clearly familiar with the detachment of one night stands, evidenced by the vacancy to her left. And the collection of his various lover’s jewellery. 

Head aching, Nesta rises from the bed—four poster, canopied, well-cushioned—and instantly grapples for her brow. Blinding pain pounds behind her eyes, radiating out through her skull. Her teeth grind, the nerves binding her eyes to their sockets like needles stitching and stabbing. 

Iron plummets down through her middle. Just how much did she drink last night? 

The pain eases after a few minutes, enough to allow Nesta to sit upright. Her hair is silken between her fingers as she pushes it from her temples, the finer strands curled and stuck. Reaching blindly for the side table, Nesta plucks the silver comb, wasting little time in starting on her coronet. Eyes closed, she works from muscle memory, easing breaths in and out as locks of hair twist and twine until they’re woven away. She searches the jewellery plate for her discarded clips but—none.

Frustration tightens her chest. Lovers seem to prefer her hair unbound, long and fistable. Easy to tangle with should the inclination seize them. Usually all it takes is a well-placed glare to have their wishes silenced if desires are ill-aligned for the night, but too-much wine must have skewed her head. She settles for one of the longer, slimmer hair pins flowing from the jewellery platter. 

Reluctantly, Nesta slips from the bone-deep warmth and out into the chill of the foreign bed chamber. Delicate hairs prickle along exposed forearms and calves, skin pinching as the cool settles over her. A cream negligee seems to wrap her body, soft and luxurious. Nesta rubs the fine fabric between her fingers absently, allowed all of a moment to admire the silken perfection before prickling pain again blazes behind her brows, nails slicing into her skin as she moves with all the coordination of a drunk. When was the last time she clipped her nails? They’ve grown far too long. 

An unpleasant ache stitches itself to the corners of the triangle of her abdomen as Nesta sways from foot to foot, searching for last night’s clothes. Despite the clear signs of wealth sprawling the lavish bedroom, the male could do with a few lessons on how to properly bed a female. The soreness between her thighs is manageable but far from pleasant. Twinging and nagging, like splinters caught in the sole of one’s foot. 

Snatching up a shimmering dressing gown and slipping her feet into a pair of crimson slippers, Nesta makes for the door. The handle is golden, engraved with swirling leaves, a keyhole to the right. It turns without issue, and Nesta eases the door ajar. She swallows. There’s no reason for nerves. She done this dozens of times. Hundreds. Admittedly it’s unusual to wake in a foreign home—her own is preferable, dingy as it is—but at worst she’ll weather a few sneers from servants before being well on her way. 

Though instead of being met with a hallway, the door opens upon a broad wooden landing partially obscured by a multiplicity of lengthy rugs. A wooden balustrade runs along the far side of the landing, and beyond that, an atrium. Nesta stiffens, exploring the gargantuan chamber with her eyes before cautiously stepping to the railings, steadying herself upon their richly grained beams. It appears she’s somewhere on the third level, a tiled floor of blue, green, white and orange meeting the foot of the great bifurcated staircase, each new level turned back on itself before splitting into two separate cases leading to their respective sides…Nesta marvels. And far below, all that way down, the floor—a mosaic of azure, aquamarine, and turquoise tiles selected for the clear blue waters, the shimmering surface littered with misshapen ovals of olive and fern, pale pink and cream lilies sat at their centres. Below, fishes of eggshell-white and tangerine swim, meandering across the floor. 

Nesta follows the staircases back up—each covered with matching stair-runners of deepest green—up, up, up to the skylight, the glass ceiling flooding the interior with rays of that watery, winter sunlight. A benison, given the bleakness of dreary, endless winter. 

And still not a servant to be seen. 

Nesta checks, but finds no hint of a glamour. No glimmer at the edges of her vision, no twisting distortion save for the brief vertigo, curtesy of the plummet beyond the banisters. 

Frowning, Nesta strides to the far left of the landing, to the windows she hopes are high enough to offer ample view of Velaris. If she can spot the glittering Sidra, or the sharp steeple of the temple’s spire, or even the hill where the amphitheaters lie, she will be able to orient herself. Though, clothes will come first. 

Condensation mists the lower quarter of the many window panes, though thin enough fae eyes can pierce the veil to see the view beyond— 

Nothing. 

Nothing lies beyond. 

No stretching cityscape, neither emerald-tiled rooftops nor white-smoking chimneys. Not a single building to be seen. 

Yellow-green grass stretches as far as the eye can see, bathed in a shallow layering of mist and fog, tendrils wrapped around the odd trees here and there that protrude from the ground like skeletal fingers. Droplets glitter across the expanse. It would have been beautiful had a wave of panic not driven its way up through her middle, seizing her sternum. 

Jaw clamped, Nesta pivots from the glass, marching her way down the landing. Wardrobes had practically lined the far wall of that bedroom, the clothes inside are fair game if her own have disappeared. A fact Nesta now revisits drenched in caution. 

Dresses require ample fitting beforehand, so Nesta plucks the first shirt and pair of trousers she finds, pilfering a belt from one of the drawers. 

Shoes will be the real trouble. But she braved the Blood Rite in less, and came out on top. Though it’s an era past, those grounding breaths are second nature. Nesta steadies herself for a count of six, exhales for another. 

This isn’t the war, this isn’t the Blood Rite, and this isn’t the Prison. Misfortune strikes in threes, and Nesta’s filled her quota. 

Those events were outliers, she reminds herself. They are not the standard. 

~~~~

Perspiration curls the flyaways at Nesta’s temples, heat radiating out from beneath her clothes despite the damp chill of the estate. The cork-screw pains pricking around her lower middle with every step have been no help either. What had been only a minor irritant this morning swiftly became a mildly lethal thorn in her side. 

Though things may have changed for her, Nesta is still a far cry from the misshapen vessel of grief she’d been all those years ago. And yet. 

And yet.

Level, upon level, upon level of blasted staircases.

Initially she’d deemed a pragmatic approach to be best: breakfast first. But there had been no scent of food to lead her to company, and in the thirty minutes she’d spend traipsing North along the Eastside of the manor’s interior (sunlight had been rising on her right first thing in the morning, offering orientation), and the following hours spent prowling the upper floors, Nesta had failed to locate a kitchen. Similar results were achieved upon hunting for a study in the hopes of locating some godsforsaken blueprints to the blasted labyrinth of a castle. Meanwhile the sun had continued its path overhead and was now well on its way to setting. 

At some point Nesta had near-resorted to bellowing a greeting through the mockingly quiet hallways, but the mere act of gathering breath in her lungs had her skull swimming with aches, clutching for a banister. And now, hours later, Nesta is sweating, aching, and hungry.

There’d been infrequent stands scattered amongst the stretching hallways, more often than not holding narrow bouquets of fern and pine branches but occasionally offering golden shell-shaped tray of tiny peppermints. Nesta had grown desperate enough to snack on three upon discovery, stuffing another handful into a trouser pocket. 

Sugar would only cause a crash, but it was preferable to no energy at all. 

A distant, grief-addled memory drifts to the forefront of Nesta’s bleary mind. Being sat at a table, coerced into eating, forced into training. Cassian had taught her that, hadn’t he? That sugar would do her no good? Twice on her trip eastwards Nesta believed herself to have caught a flash of golden hair in the glass reflection. The first she’d dismissed as a trick of the light. The second she’d been similarly inclined—paranoia would get her nowhere. Though it’s been hours since, and the hairs along her nape and spine have yet to settle. 

So the peppermints would have to do. 

Returning to the atrium (another half an hour of walking), Nesta drops down at the first split of the bifurcated staircase, elevated enough to offer ample surveillance of the ground floor and surrounding level. She mentally tallies through her options. She’s followed the Eastside northwards, has searched as much as she safely can of the lower floors without risking disorientation… A glance upward to the glass dome informs her of night’s swift arrival. If she’s going to attempt an exploration of the outer grounds, it will have to wait until tomorrow. 

Nesta blinks at the glass ceiling. 

Turns her attention to the east-facing wall, filled with windows. 

Every room had been the same—its one outer-facing wall covered with rectangles of glass, filling rooms with light. Whomever’s home Nesta’s found herself in…it’s a shot in the dark, but they seem to favour light-filled spaces. A desire for light, so natural and intuitive Nesta had paid it no mind, but for such an excess to be required… Indeed, the prospect of being within a room without windows…Nesta inhales for a count of six, exhales for another. 

Perhaps heading in a direct line Westwards? Surely this house isn’t a solid block of rooms, if the abundance of windows is anything to go by.

With a final sigh, Nesta gets to her feet. 

~~~~

At last a small success. 

Heading West through the Atrium had led Nesta first to an adjacent hallway, then through what seemed to be a living space complete with three velvet sofas, grand pianoforte, two armchairs, two glass chandeliers, and a bleak fireplace that could use a flame to heat the blasted room. Upon each of the four walls hung paintings of various sizes. Eight along the southern wall, four upon the western and eastern walls. Only one was to the north—by far the largest of the collection—taking pride of place above the hearth. 

Beyond had been a second hallway running parallel to the first, then at last—a storage room. Perhaps it had once also been a living space, but now served only as a forgotten pocket to relegated paraphernalia—shields and helmets, hats and armour, rolled rugs and tapestries. Nesta wove her way through the miscellanea, squeezing between a life-sized rocking horse (bedecked in a colourfully-plumed helmet, and embroidered scabbard), and the hollow back of a great canvas in pursuit of the almost-entirely-glass wall laying beyond.

Little light had filtered in through the windows. The sun was practically set. 

But in spite of the grey brickwork, and the blue-black of shadows slanting across the courtyard, Nesta had made out the ripple of darkened waters. 

An island lay surrounded by ponds, a single arched, wooden footbridge the only crossing. From the isolated grassland jutted a cylindrical building, its lower floor built from brick while its upper floor was constructed of criss-crossing wooden beams and white plaster, the few feet’s worth of overhang supported upon lichen-flecked stone pillars. Plaited willow branches dragged upon the water’s surface like leafy green ribbons, a line of fourteen planted along the northern and southern perimeters of the courtyard. 

It had offered enough of an idea of the ground’s layout—and answer to why Nesta had such poor luck on her thirty-minute trek northward—that her shoulders sagged. Perhaps a scrap of humanity had been fretting over the prospect of being lost and trapped within the mysterious fae manor. But she was not within a children’s fairytale, and surely whatever male had bedded her last night would be soon returning for his supper. 

He can serve her a meal himself—reparations for the needling pains between her legs. 

Now, satisfied with her resolution (and resigned to an extra night spent in luxury), Nesta heads back the way she came, once more weaving between the rocking horse and canvas back, through the first hall and into that open chamber with the seventeen paintings, all of which depict some kind of sylvan landscape. The only exception being the painting mounted above the fireplace. 

Nesta pauses. Gazing properly upon the other paintings, the largest is notable not only for its size and framing, but also the silver lake pooling beyond the woodland’s edge. The only picture containing a distant figure, bathing in the water. 

Nesta meanders over. Close enough to read the bronze plaque carved into the framework that reads, Skogsrå. Presumably the title. Nesta reaches for a fourth peppermint, the toffee-brown paper done away with in her other pocket. Peering upon the smallish figure, Nesta comes to the conclusion it’s female. Long, water-black hair stuck to grey-white skin, the hips and buttocks too round and curved to belong to a male. 

Nesta.

She eases in a breath for a count of six, exhaling for another. I remember being drenched. I remember the Cauldron’s waters, but this is not me.

The female has her back to the forrest, arms curved across her front, fingers dimpling the flesh of her biceps. Browning nails long overgrown. The kind of wild, untamed creature that would have terrified her as a girl. Not like the Kelpie, though. Maybe Feyre would have been able to articulate what exactly about the composition, the colour palette, removed malice from the painting. 

Nesta.

She takes another deep breath. Maybe she does see a piece of herself there. 

The thought releases itself from her mind, swept away. 

Perhaps she can see a glimpse of what… 

Nesta sighs, withdrawing from the painting. As usual, a day spent without deliberate occupation has left her with the type of boredom that only ever lures her inward. A downward spiral of thoughts that will not be resolved from mindless pondering alone. Some things she can’t solve. Can only hope her decision was the right one. Not good though. Never good, from Nesta Archeron. 

“…Nesta?” 

Nesta spins toward the voice, and something inside her trips. 

For a second, even her soul freezes. 

Stood in the doorway, one foot in the room, the hem of her navy dress still swaying, is—me.

Every hair along Nesta’s back and arms stands on end, tension so thorough her throat forcefully narrows. 

Across the room, that— Nesta…the other one raises her palms. “It is you, isn’t it?” She says slowly, in Nesta’s own voice. So perfect it could have been in her head. 

Nesta gasps a breath, forceful and heaving, and stumbles back a step. “Who are you?” Something’s stuck in her throat. 

The other one takes a step forward. She can hear how loud her breathing is. “I-… It’s me. Mor.” 

Nesta stills, eyes darting across her own face. The hair so familiar to her is in a singular plait, lips without balm, no socks concealing the gap between the dress’s hem and the beginning of boots. Something irreverent Mor would pay no mind to. 

“Mor.” The name slips past her lips like she’s received a kick to the stomach. A scar upon Nesta’s tongue, bitter and bloody. Her head is swimming, throat a tenderised tube of flesh.

Wider-than-usual grey eyes peer back at her. 

Nesta clears her throat—tries to. Her voice still comes out wrong. “Prove it.” 

The grey eyes opposite give a slow, processing blink. A frown between Nesta’s brows, the more-curious twin to the expression her own face is making—whatever that looks like. 

Nesta takes a step into the room, and something primal inside her trembles as the other one slowly draws nearer. A ball of yellow faelight comes to life above one of her hands, extending the other toward Nesta, offering something brassy. A hand mirror. 

Nesta barely takes her eyes off the grey pair before her as she plucks the mirror from her own outstretched hand. She looks into it. 

Wide brown eyes stare back at her. A full mouth Nesta had thought numb and foreign from drink is parted in horror, lustrous golden hair plaited in a coronet atop a face that does not match her own hairstyle. Nesta touches her face. Watches as trembling fingers do the same in her reflection, too-long nails poking at the tender sac of skin just beneath one dark, amber eye. 

Nesta jolts, flinging the hand mirror to the floor. It clatters, ringing in her ears, skimming across the polished wood. Her breathing turns laboured, staring at her hands that are indeed not her own, backing away step after step like she can step out of her body and away—

“Nesta,” She whispers across from herself, “I don’t-”

Her own voice, Mor’s cadence. Palms she knows the location of every callous and scar reach towards Nesta, upward and tentative, and Nesta—Nesta runs. Flees past her own body that flinches to the side, through the hallway beyond, through the atrium and around the stairs, across the mosaic floor, past the double wooden doors and out into the open. 

The cold winds her, and it’s night, and she should never be alone at night, away from help, away from everybody, unable to see even the faintest flicker of lights in the distance. Only forest. Only woodland, the black peeks of trees on the bleak horizon. 

Fog obscures her feet from view, obscures the ground from view, but icy mud squelches and oozes into her slippers. 

Only once she passes the third of those lone skeletal trees she’d seen from her bedroom windows that morning does Nesta dare stop to look over her shoulder. The estate is… Nesta doesn’t have the mind or wit about her to describe it. 

Frost-filled air saws away at her windpipe as she heaves. Toes burning within the cold. 

What is happening?

~~~~

Cold, damp, and defeated, Nesta returns to the manor. 

She’d tried leaving. Had stubbornly set out, heading east through the thickening fog, but had gotten so turned around she’d ended up doubling back on herself. Nesta’s not sure if she has enough left in herself to believe it was the fog alone that had ultimately returned her to the manor. 

The roaming mists cling to her muddied slippers. Mor’s slippers. Her slippers. She trudges dirt onto the mosaic tiles, then kicks her footwear away entirely. Not so uncivilised as to path earth across the spotless floors. Socks will do. 

Nesta steeps in the warmth of the dry indoors. A small comfort, loathe as she is to admit it. Her arms cross, nails—Mor’s nails—digging into her skin. Mor’s skin. Mor’s body. Not her own. 

Her magic remains her own, though. Nesta clings to that fact. Clings to that ember that’s been shielded from the storm.

Across the atrium’s lengthwise expanse, a door opens. It’s as much a shock as the first time, seeing her double stood in the doorway. That same panic, of seeing something that should not be possible to see. Should never be possible to see. 

They stand in silence, the only noise the water dripping from Nesta’s sodden clothes. Mor’s clothes. 

It had rained heavily while Nesta lingered beneath that deadened tree. Had begun turning to snow. 

Mor angles her head, nodding over her shoulder before falling back into the manor. After four more droplets, Nesta follows wordlessly. Still trembling, not entirely from the cold. 

Mor has left the doors open, and Nesta winds her way into the open living space she’s passed through twice before. The fire is lit. Flames fizzle and pop as they flicker, spreading heat through the house. 

Mor adds another log, prodding with a poker. Then she sets it away, and settles in the oversized velvet armchair to the side of the hearth. 

A neat stack of folded towels materialise on the blue sofa nearby. Nesta paths her way over. 

Without asking, Nesta peels away the wet socks, leaving her feet bare. She unfolds a towel and spreads it across the velvet, before slumping down. The springs wheeze beneath her weight.

Adjacent in her rouge armchair, Mor is quiet. Whether adjusting at her own pace, or leaving space for Nesta…she doesn’t care at the moment. She pulls that lengthy, elegant pin free and begins unweaving her wet hair. Dark golden locks slide across Nesta’s face, turned stringy from rainfall. The hair is weighty, once it’s all let down. Longer than Nesta’s own. Smelling differently to her own. 

She takes a smaller towel, and puts it over her shoulders. 

The fire crackles, casting the painting above entirely in shadow, removing so much of the depth. So much of the detail. Barely more than thick lines of nobbled black atop an orange background, interrupted only by that tiny, female figure. Hair plastered to her damp skin.

A porcelain teacups floats over to Nesta, its rim and handle glazed with a thin stripe of gold. 

“Spiced apple and cloves, with a teaspoon of lemon,” Mor murmurs. In Nesta’s voice. An inflection and cadence she would have never chosen for herself. Robbed of even her own voice. 

Nesta plucks the teacup from the air, cupping it between her palms. Her nails clack together, and there’s no way to hold the mug without the awkward weight of these nails that are not her own, and…Nesta breathes in for a count of six. Exhales for another. 

She is in a body that simultaneously is, and is not her own. Breathe. 

Across from her is her body that is and no longer is her own. Breathe. 

Her hair is heavier, her nails are sharper, and her voice has changed pitch. Breathe. 

Nesta takes a sip of her drink. Can taste the cloves, can taste a hint of cinnamon underneath that, with traces of honey. The tea scalds her throat, but heats her stomach. A slow, concentrated unfurling of heat. Her toes curl upon the roughened fibres of the towel, curving her knees to her chest. 

Nesta- Mor shifts in her armchair, the oranges of the firelight rending that navy dress near black. It’s fitting for her body. Nesta’s only ever struggled to find her place in the range of some yellow fabrics. But it’s so at odds with Mor. Bright, effervescent Mor. Now confined to… Nesta’s rarely considered herself drab, but within the context of being a vessel for her? Wrong. Misshapen. Mor’s eyes are brown, not grey. 

“How are you feeling?” She asks, own mug cupped in her hands, smelling of jasmine. Orange, with darkened dots. 

I’m… “Probably the same as you,” Nesta replies, eyeing the female warily. Mor tilts her head, plait shifting upon her shoulder. “You…believe I am who I say I am?” 

Nesta glances to the spiced amber liquid, steam swirling from its surface. “When I woke, there was a silver brush and comb on the nightstand. You were given that exact set five solstices ago. I believe you.” 

Surprise flashes behind her grey eyes, brows twitching in a way that’s completely unnatural to Nesta’s face. But Mor swallows, and nods silently, directing her gaze to the fireplace. “When I woke, I didn’t know where I was. Even after taking in the view, I couldn’t remember why I would be…there. Then I saw myself in the mirror of your wardrobe—when I went searching for clothes.” Mor looks to Nesta. “You didn’t realise anything was wrong until earlier?” 

There’s enough assumption in the question to have Nesta furrowing her brows, levelling a withering glance at the female. “I was busy trying to find some food in this maze. Which is surprisingly void of mirrors.” 

“You didn’t try calling out?” 

Nesta purses her lips. “My head was hurting.” 

Mor gives her a knowing look. 

Nesta seethes internally, refusing to show how far that comment squirms under her skin. As if she’s fallen even a fraction of the height she once drifted from. “And you? How did you know to come here?” 

Mor blinks, then looks casually into her mug, taking a sip. “I figured if I swapped places with you, my best bet would be to return to wherever I was last.” Nesta lifts a brow, demanding elaboration, but Mor’s pointedly not meeting her gaze. She grits her teeth. “And where, precisely, was that?” 

“You know where we are,” Mor mutters towards the flames. 

Nesta remains silent, keeping her gaze trained on the side Mor’s skull. Piercing enough she knows Mor feels it. 

A muscle feathers in her jaw, watery light eyes dragging across the room to meet Nesta’s own. “You want to play this game, Nesta? Pretend none of that happened, and move on with your life?” Her pitch is low, but nowhere near soft enough to muffle the seething hiss in her voice. A venom Nesta herself has wielded many a time upon others. She’d never realised how like her mother she sounded. 

Violence flickers in those grey eyes, and Mor angles her head. “We’re in the private estate not even Rhys knows about,” she bites out. “You know it by Athelwood.” 

Memories warm, but Nesta says nothing, knowing the decision will have Mor seeing red. But the derision doesn’t come.

Instead her lips purse, expression resentful but unsurprised.

The cut slices deeper, Nesta will give her that.

She turns to her tea, cool enough to drink. “I take it you notified your family before leaving?” A low blow, but Nesta’s not in a mood for fair games.

Mor stiffens in her chair, and at first Nesta is pleased. Until her head lowers a degree. “I…was able to communicate with Rhys, but…” —again she shifts— “there was no one there. Every person in Velaris. Gone.” Mor glances into her mug, eyes growing distant. “I’ve never… I’ve never heard the city so quiet.”

Hairs prickle along Nesta’s nape as she listens. “Do servants normally roam here, too? I’ve not seen another soul.”

“No.” Mor shakes her head, then sends Nesta a single reprimanding glance. “No. This land is mine.”

“What did Rhys say?” Nesta asks. She’s not touching that look.

Mor sinks deeper into her chair, curling her legs up onto the rouge cushion. “He doesn’t know what’s going on. Everything’s fine, wherever they are.”

Nesta frowns. “Who is ‘they’?”

“My family,” Mor mutters. “Everyone else in Velaris.”

Fine. She’d set herself up for that one. But still… “Everything is…normal? Nothing’s changed for them?”

Mor stares into the fire. “Everything’s fine. We’ve just—” she shrugs. “Disappeared.”

Her voice is a touch fainter than before.

Not Nesta’s problem. “So we do what? Head back to Velaris? Sit around and hope they figure something out?”

“Maybe.”

A muscle ticks in Nesta’s brow. “Mor.”

Mor doesn’t look at her. Just stares persistently into the flames.

“Do they at least have any idea what…place we’ve been moved to? Why our bodies have been switched?”

Mor shrugs. “Maybe it’s the harp, deciding to play like all those other wicked relics we tried seal away.” Still, that reticent expression on her face. Nesta ignores her attempt at humour anyway. “Can’t be. Sentient or no, it still needs someone to pluck its strings, and I’m the only one who can access it.” She looks over to Mor, seemingly growing more and more content to settle into sleep right there in her armchair. “What else did Rhys say?”

“That was it.”

Nesta scoffs. “His cousin and third in command vanishes from Velaris and he’s nothing to say? Nothing from Feyre?” A scowl furrows Mor’s brows as she stirs, at last deigning to look Nesta’s way and take this seriously and-

Her eyes drift over Nesta’s shoulder, and Mor’s skin leeches of colour. Tea spills, and porcelain cracks on the floor.

Mor shivers, shaking her head. Slowly, so slowly inching back over the arm of her chair.

Nesta whips around, instantly on her feet, but the other side of the room is empty. Eight paintings facing her, pianoforte to one corner. Nesta’s lips purse, anger fluttering her pulse as she returns to face Mor who’s surely sat cosily in her chair, putting on that smug little smile.

Mor has backed off the armchair. On the floor half-hidden behind the seat.

Nesta blinks. “Mor?”

The female doesn’t respond, but Nesta can hear her mumbling—whispering.

Skeptical, Nesta approaches. As she draws nearer she can make out Mor’s stumbling speech. Over and over, a single word. No.

Shaking her head, gathered as small as she can make herself behind the arm chair. No, no, no…

Nesta again checks over her shoulder, but the room is clear. Nothing unusual or amiss.

Pursing her lips, Nesta leans forward, gently laying a hand atop the female’s trembling shoulder. “…Mor?”

She goes quiet. Still.

For a third time, Nesta scans the room.

She’s never heard Mor’s voice so meagre. So afraid.

Something uneasy sits in the pit of her stomach that night. Follows Nesta all the way up to the bedchamber she’d awoken in, Mor leaning heavily against her side, cold as a block of ice.

But no. Your fate was to perish from sheer mortification, sprawled across the chest of the most feared male in Velaris.

And, in all likelihood, take him down with you.

Twelve Hours Earlier...

Life in Velaris was, for the most part, peaceful. You loved it here: the bustling markets, the shimmering Sidra, the endless opportunities to get lost in one of the city's many bookstores or cafés.

You had grown up in the Night Court, an ordinary High Fae with no claim to power, no noble name. No extraordinary skill besides the ability to make friends with everyone. (And, perhaps, your uncanny ability to trip over nothing.)

That was why you worked where you did. The Velaris Botanical Archives was the perfect job. Curating and cataloging the history of rare flora, researching the best ways to preserve the Night Court's unique plant life.

You adored every part of it.

Except for the fact that the bookshelves were designed for Illyrians.

Which was how you ended up in this situation.

All you'd wanted was a book on Moonbloom flowers. A single book. But when you asked the head librarian for assistance, she'd waved you off, muttering something about "independent young fae" before disappearing.

So. That left you and your greatest foe.

A ridiculously tall bookshelf.

The logical solution? Climb.

Was it your smartest idea? No. But it wasn't the first time you'd scaled one of these shelves, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

You had nearly reached the book when...crack.

The shelf trembled beneath you.

Your stomach plunged.

"Oh, no," you breathed, right before the entire world tilted.

And then you were falling.

Present Moment.

The only upside to your current predicament was that you hadn't been crushed beneath an avalanche of books.

The downside?

You were currently draped over Azriel.

The Azriel.

The Shadowsinger. The Night Court's lethal spymaster. A legend whispered about in the darkest corners of Prythian.

And you had just fallen on top of him.

The world had gone deathly silent.

You didn't dare breathe.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, you lifted your head.

And...oh. Mother above.

Azriel lay beneath you, sprawled against the floor like he'd been tackled from the heavens. His wings flared slightly behind him, dark as the night sky, his hands firm on your waist where he had somehow instinctively caught you.

His hazel eyes, rich and unreadable, blinked up at you in pure disbelief.

You, meanwhile, were a very mortified starfish.

"I am so sorry," you gasped, scrambling to move. In your rush to not be straddling the Night Court's most terrifying male, you made a fatal mistake.

Your foot slipped on a fallen book.

And like a damn fool, you face-planted right back onto his chest.

Azriel let out a very slow, very deep breath.

You felt the rumble of it beneath you, his self-restraint practically vibrating through his muscles.

His voice, when it finally came, was dangerously calm.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

You squeaked, immediately trying to push yourself up again, but your elbow landed on his stomach.

Azriel made a very small, very controlled noise. A sound that might have been a grunt.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, wait, no! I just..." You sucked in a breath. "This isn't what it looks like."

Azriel arched a slow, painfully unimpressed brow. His gaze flickered to your current position: fully draped over him like an overeager blanket.

"Really?" he drawled.

You swallowed. "Okay," you admitted, "this is exactly what it looks like."

A choking noise came from somewhere nearby.

And that was when you realized you had an audience.

At the entrance of the library, standing in a semi-circle of unholy amusement, were Rhysand, Cassian, Mor, and Amren.

Cassian's entire face was rapidly turning purple as he tried and failed to hold in his laughter.

Mor gasped before cackling so hard she stumbled against Rhys.

Rhysand's lips twitched, but his violet eyes gleamed with utter delight.

And Amren? Stoic, ancient Amren?

She merely crossed her arms and muttered, "Well. This is interesting."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Just spontaneously combust into fae dust.

Azriel, to his credit, was silent. Completely unreadable. But the way his wings twitched, the way his hands were still on your waist...

You felt it then.

A shift.

A sensation that curled into your ribs, warm and terrifying.

Your eyes met his again.

And there, in the depths of those night-kissed irises...

Recognition.

The world tilted.

Your breath caught.

"Oh no," you whispered.

Azriel blinked, his expression sharpening, like something had just slotted into place. Like he felt it, too.

A single second stretched into eternity.

Then, finally, finally, Azriel exhaled.

"Oh no."

And that was the exact moment Cassian completely lost his mind.

The roar of his laughter shattered the silence. His wings flared as he doubled over, hands on his knees, absolutely howling.

Mor collapsed against Rhys, wheezing.

Rhysand sighed through his smirk, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order."

Azriel was still beneath you.

Still touching you.

Still looking at you like you'd just flipped his entire existence upside down.

And you?

You did the only thing your panicked, humiliated, fate-cursed mind could think to do.

You covered your face with your hands and wailed,

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?"

Your refute of your fae form hung in the air, bed sheets crumpling between your fingers, expression distraught. There was no reason for them to believe you, though they weren’t outright throwing you into the dungeons you knew lurked below. That had to be a good sign. Your lungs felt as if they were going to burst. 

“I swear,” you repeated, only because no one had said anything. There was only blinking and dead air. “I don’t even have any magic or special skills that would help me in an uprising. I didn’t have this body a few hours ago. You have to believe me.” 

Something flickered on Rhysand’s face as your pleading faded. Another silent conversation then took place. He looked to Azriel—who seemed to flinch—and Azriel gave him one stiff nod. The High Lord ticked his jaw and rubbed his hand along his chin. 

“It would be easier for us to believe your story,” Rhysand slowly replied, though his voice was void of the earlier suspicion. He sounded tired. “If you did not sit in this room, emanating power.” 

You paused, brows furrowing. You looked within yourself for whatever he was talking about, but everything felt different about you, so it was impossible to pinpoint. You didn’t feel powerful, and you certainly didn’t feel emanating, but you were also interpreting a strange language and seeing colors you never had before, so your judgment was unreliable.

You grimaced. “I… am?” 

“It’s quite overwhelming,” Mor gently offered, hands clasped together in front of her waist. She brought her fingers up and pinched them. “Maybe even a little bit suffocating. So you’ll have to forgive the third degree. There are many threats we have to look out for. Especially in recent months.” 

“Suffocating,” you whispered under your breath. “I didn’t mean—” 

“It’s all right,” Azriel interrupted as your fear began to grow once more. 

You craned your neck up to look at him, still so close and imposing over the bed. He had a strange smile on his face that looked as if it was meant to be comforting, but it came across as pained and lingering. You blinked at him. 

“We could clear most of this up now if you were to let me in,” Rhysand posed, snapping your gaze away from the Spymaster. He tapped his temple and nodded towards you. “It wouldn’t hurt if you allowed me to look.” 

“Look?” 

“In your mind. I’m Daemati. I can confirm everything you say if you allow me in.” 

Right. You’d read about that. You remembered. You’d wanted him to look not too long ago, but that had been before—before the pain and fear and blubbering confession. Before you realized you were even more different than you’d thought. 

“How do I do that?” you posed, eagerly straightening on the bed. “Can I just say you can come in, or—” 

“No,” Rhysand shook his head. “It’s more contingent on that wall around your mind. The barrier. It’s—very strong. If you get yourself to lower it, or even just find a point for me to see in, that would be helpful.”

You blinked, searching your mind for the offending force. You shifted to sit on your heels, vaguely aware that you’d distanced yourself from the headboard as the conversation had gone on. If anyone were going to believe you, you needed to do this. You needed to remove the barrier and let Rhysand— 

You paused, an airy breath escaping you. 

Was this real? 

It had to be. 

You bit hard into your bottom lip and focused, but instead of a barrier, you passed by a thread. The same thread that had led you here, and the same one that elicited such a panic within you when you pulled at it before. You formed your thoughts around it, letting a few brush along its edges. A choking sound caught in the room. You searched harder for the barrier. 

Your mind was like a physical space, unusual in its layout. You could see the wall Rhysand was referring to, but it didn’t necessarily look like a wall. It was made up of fractured lines and letters that mixed into words you couldn’t read. Alarmingly, the words were so familiar you almost had the ability to make them out, but the moment you tried, they would warp and become illegible. 

Frustrated tears welled in your eyes—frustrated and confused and scared. Each time you got closer to the wall, it would inch away, and you ran and ran until an ache permeated along your temples. You wouldn’t allow yourself to fall into the abyss that panicked over this strange form of your mind. But you had never been able to see inside this way, so—no, this was real. You were going to approach everything as if it were real, because if you didn’t, you would be crazy and in denial. You could only pick one. Could only accept one at a time. 

There was a small dent in the wall. You could pick out where the letters wavered there, a small warped outline hovering just above the floor of the space. You were out of breath by the time you had an answer for Rhysand, the act of searching your mind more taxing than you had anticipated. 

“I think there is something—a way for you—” 

“I see it,” Rhysand quickly responded. He dove in before you were ready, a blinding panic filling you. It didn’t hurt, but something felt wrong. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there, and you supposed he wasn’t, but it was more intrinsic than that. The discrepancy felt ancient.

You sucked in a breath and fell forward slightly, reaching to steady yourself and grasping at the first thing within reach. Fingers wrapped around your wrist and held you steady, and you clenched your eyes shut as the invasion continued. 

Memories were tumbling around behind the wall—of New York, the busy streets when you went to the city, a few moments on a train as you scrolled on your phone. You felt each memory being observed by the High Lord, but those weren’t all of your memories. You couldn’t show him everything, even though you willed it. A blurry image of your reflection materialized in your mind—the you from before. You fixed your hair in a floor-length mirror in a fitting room, ears rounded, features plain in the way any human’s were. And then Rhysand was forced from your mind with that same ancient force, a harsh shove sending him stumbling back in the physical space. 

You let out a shuddering exhale. The High Lord paled. 

~~

You were left alone without much fanfare, though the several baffled looks thrown your way made you feel like a sideshow. Rhysand had been quick to share what he had seen, and the fingers gently holding you in place had let go—slowly, reluctantly but not. Mor had been the last to leave the room, a fleeting smile and a promise to grab you for lunch offered at the threshold of the door—your door, you supposed. 

You weren’t quite sure what was in store for you here. Oddities were not uncommon from what you could remember from the books, but this level of oddity was probably uncharted. There was also the frustrating fact that you couldn’t just show Rhysand all of your memories at once, but that frustration was also paired with the harrowing realization that you didn’t know everything that was kept behind that wall in your mind. As you had examined it, you had realized. 

You rocked up from the bed for hopefully the last time that day, drifting to the window and then to the door. You’d seen enough of the billowing clouds and unfamiliar foliage, and you wanted to prove more to yourself. 

This was real. This was real, and you were left to interpret it, and now that you were not an alleged member of an unknown uprising, you felt more comfortable branching out. 

The door to your room clicked open, silk flowing past your calves and the floor seeping a chill into the soles of your feet. Nothing creaked or groaned as you walked past the hulking door, though you could hear other things that you shouldn’t have been able to. A wind whistling in a tree far off, the low murmur of speaking several rooms away, the rhythm of heartbeats all out of cohesion—it was all very overwhelming and rivaled the jarring nature of your sight. 

Still, you trekked down the hall. 

The House of Wind was similar to how your brain had conjured it up. Sprawling hallways made way for doors with intricate carvings, and you let your fingers trail along the stars and clouds in the wood. You felt the cold marble beneath your bare feet. You focused on just your heartbeat and tried to remember what your apartment looked like back home. Tried to recreate the dull hum of the refrigerator in your ears and pretend you were feeling the worn carpet that came with old apartments. 

That all felt distant, somehow, but you knew it was there. You had been there, and now you were here. 

You turned down another hallway and the window there was so large, so… revealing, you almost gasped. The city you couldn’t see before was in perfect view from this vantage point, and your fae eyes—you were fae, you had accepted—could make out each billowing chimney and the route of the winding pathways. You approached without meaning to, setting fingers on the window panes and nearly pressing your nose against them as well. 

Velaris. 

This was Velaris. 

You felt yourself spiralling again, but the panic was interrupted. Someone cleared their throat, the sound purposefully gentle, but everything was startling, so you jumped, yelping and covering your mouth. When you spun on your heel, it was Azriel, and he looked pained again. You wondered if that had to do with his harrowing backstory, but you could remember that he was joyful in the books. At times. 

“I apologize,” Azriel said with a slight bow of his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Everything scares me,” you tried to brush off with a choppy, placating laugh, but Azriel’s expression only became more closed. 

“I apologize for that as well.” 

Your eyes flicked behind him, taking in the massive wings that seemed glued to his back. They didn’t move as you remembered they had before, the muscle looking stiff. 

“It’s not your fault.” You blinked back to meet his eyes and held them for only a second before searching for a nondescript landing place. “I’m usually very good at adjusting to things. I—I think I’m having difficulty coming to terms with this, though, so it may take me some time.” 

“You said this wasn’t real,” Azriel stated. You watched his hands flex at his sides. “Do you… still feel that way?” 

You nodded jerkily. “Yes.” An audible exhale. “And no.” 

You looked off to the side, observing the way the light from the window reflected in broken streams along the wall. You couldn’t tell what season it was here, but the clear skies may have told the story of Spring. There weren’t very many colors in the trees when you had looked down. Perhaps it was Summer. None of that mattered. 

“Is there anything I can do—” Azriel started, and when you looked up, he was leaning slightly, eyes ready to meet yours “—to show you that this is real? To help?” 

“I don’t—” He didn’t know that you knew things about him. He didn’t know that this was a book, a story, and that this would perhaps never feel real. Something told you to keep that to yourself. Your mind hadn’t let Rhysand see that part. “I think I need time to adjust, maybe.” 

Azriel’s brow twitched, but he didn’t give anything else away. He nodded once, eyes fluttering to the ground before pressing his mouth into the whisper of a smile. “Lunch, then?” 

Walking beside him involved shadows. They whisked past you and trailed along their master, though he paid them no mind. You, on the other hand, eyed each of their movements, unsure what they were reporting back to him in their brief whispers. You shouldn’t know that they told him things. You shouldn’t know that he commanded them. 

“They will not hurt you,” Azriel reassured. He held out his hand and let one pool into the divot of his palm. “They are like extensions of me, but their own beings. They collect information.” 

“Should you be telling me that?”

“Perhaps not,” Azriel hummed absent-mindedly. “But you can’t spread secrets to my enemies if I am one of the only three people you know.”

An unexpected laugh bubbled past your lips, the first real bout of humor to find you. You covered your mouth again, this time from pleasant shock, and continued to walk beside the Shadowsinger. He stared at you openly as you did so, only turning back to the hallway when you cleared your throat and pressed your lips together to hide the lingering smile. 

“I suppose you’re right,” you agreed. “I’ll have to meet more people.” 

“You will regret wanting for that.”

“And what is that supposed to—” 

You heard him before you saw him, a low voice asking several questions in the room over. He sounded serious and firm, but his words were trailing and seeking rather than demanding. It wasn’t Rhysand, and the responding female voice was not Mor. You blinked to orient yourself to the onslaught of sounds as those two also spoke up in the conversation. Four—four people in the room and four heartbeats and four paced breaths and—

“Are you all right?” Azriel asked, and you looked to see his eyes searching yours. 

“Oh, um, yes.” You glanced at the door where you were sure to enter. “I’m getting used to… hearing things. It's a lot.” 

“If you need more time—” 

“No!” you rushed out, settling yourself when Azriel’s brow furrowed. “No, I just need a moment. I want to have lunch. I want to see more and see that this is real. My brain couldn’t possibly conjure up something so large. I need to see that it’s big.”

Azriel seemed to contemplate. He glanced at the door and then back at you, tracing the outline of your face as the muscle in his jaw feathered. You had no idea what was running through his mind, so you guessed. 

“I promise I’m not a danger to anyone. It really is just the sound. Sometimes the colors and the light. Senses, I guess. But that’s part of all of this—the proving. I don’t have any plans to hurt anyone in there. If that was what—” 

“It wasn’t,” Azriel shot down. He moved his hand to the door. “If it… if anything starts to hurt, we can stop. We can introduce you to things more slowly.” 

You felt the confusion show on your face. “Hurt?” 

 “If it’s too much.” 

“I don’t think I understand.” 

Azriel shifted his weight between his feet. “I only mean that you can leave whenever you might need to. I didn’t understand when you first woke up, but I do know. I understand that this is more than you are used to, but it doesn’t have to be pain that makes things real.” 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Your face heated. “Azriel. Is this about the head thing?” 

He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t—” 

“I promise I will not slam my head into any walls or hard surfaces again. That was—”

“Rather terrifying.”

“Right,” you blunted. “I can imagine it wasn’t pleasant watching a strange girl freak out and then try to put her head through a wall. But I’m more settled now. I promise, this will help more than anything.” 

He searched your face for a moment longer, his mouth parted as if to say more, but he didn’t. 

You gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry for being dramatic.” 

The door wrenched open before he could speak to the troubled expression morphing his face. A grinning, much larger Illyrian took up the doorway, his wings on full display and contrasting the small shape Azriel had been trying to shove himself into. This man’s hair was longer, his features more rugged and bright. When you startled, a habit it seemed, a sturdy chest connected with your back. 

 “Cassian,” the man greeted, raising his brows in an inviting motion. “Heard you’re not where you're supposed to be. Happens a lot around here.” 

Your gaze flicked down to his outstretched hand, and the size of it dwarfed yours as you hesitantly reached out to accept the shake. He rattled you with one firm, steady flip of his wrist, and the presence at your back seemed to become more imposing. 

“Cassian,” Azriel grumbled out.

Cassian only clicked his tongue. “Yeah, got it.” He gave you a conspiratorial look. “He warned me not to be overwhelming. But you can handle it. And I’m not overwhelming.” 

The casual air of his words had you blinking, your hand still connected with his. Everyone else in this world had been so formal with you. You knew the contrast to your world had a lot to do with the speech patterns and lack of modernization, but Cassian almost seemed modern. Like you could pluck him out of Prythian and smack him in the middle of Boston and he would adapt within hours. Maybe even pop onto public transit and yell at a curb-side vendor before asking any questions. 

“Right. You have mastered the art of subtly, surely,” Mor spoke from around the door. She peeked her head over. “Now let them actually enter the room, Cassian.” 

Another wolfish grin directed at you, and Cassian seemed about ready to tug you into the quaint dining room by your hand, but a low sound at your back halted his almost-tug. Cassian’s grin turned teasing as he stared above your shoulder, and he raised his hands up in surrender, a low whistle humming in the air. 

“Oh, enough,” Mor murmured at him, smacking his chest. “Let them in.” 

Things were certainly different from when you had first woken up. The suspicion was gone from each look thrown your way, replaced instead with curiosity and knowing gazes that you couldn’t place. The light mood you found in Cassian was contagious as you took in the room. Rhysand sat at a long table beside a woman you knew to be Feyre, the pair sharing a private smile and an even quieter laugh. He hadn’t wanted you to be around Feyre—you could remember him saying that. 

You knew fae were territorial and protective of mates, and that plot point had been one of your favorites when you read the books, so for him to allow you near her so quickly— 

“Oh, hello,” a light feminine voice chimed out. The tone was similar to yours. Familiar but entirely not. “I’m Feyre.” 

You offered a nod. Your name. “Nice to meet you.” 

She gave you a sympathetic look as you winced against shimmering light reflecting off the pebbled glass of several shining utensils. The entire dining room was alight. “Would you like to sit down? I’m told you have had quite the journey. I’d like to hear about it, if you would be open to sharing.” 

“I don’t have very much to offer,” you replied, following her outstretched hand to the open chair at the table. “In terms of the journey, I mean.” 

Mor took up the seat across from you, her gaze pointedly down, allowing you to speak. Feyre sat at your left side and Rhysand at the head of the table. There were people missing, even as Cassian found his own place and Azriel lingered near the opposite end. You wondered where the others were, and then cursed yourself for knowing too much. 

On the table, the food was like the language—foreign, but eerily familiar. Everything looked like something you had eaten before, but it also didn’t. The colors were slightly off, the proportions skewed. You felt your brow twitch as you tried to make out the type of meat that rested on a bed of greenery, and then took a breath through your lips as your nose began to burn at the extra attention to scent. 

“You just woke up here?” Feyre casually asked. She had begun to eat, and so had the rest of the table. Azriel had sat down at some point, though, not directly beside you. Something about that felt unnatural. 

“Um, yes. There was a pain in my stomach—like a pulling. I passed out from it, and then I woke up in this house.” 

Feyre briefly flicked her gaze across the table before asking, “Do you still feel the pain?” 

“No. No, that’s gone.”

She hummed. Rhysand spoke. “Tell us of New York.” 

He said the name with such lavish carefulness you almost snorted. “New York is the state I live in. I guess—within the continent I live on, New York is very small, but many people live there. I moved there for school.” 

“Is that where scholars typically go?” Mor inquired. 

“There are schools all over the country. I was—or am—getting my degree in library science. I’m going to be a librarian.” 

The switch to speaking in the past tense was unnerving, and you corrected yourself quickly. You shifted in your seat and picked up your fork, poking at the resemblance of a tomato. 

“Library science,” Mor enunciated. “You have to become educated in the study of the library?” 

“Yes. It’s very extensive. Libraries are crucial to conveying knowledge where I’m from. Things are more digital now, which many people think makes libraries archaic, but we actually offer quite a bit in that realm.” 

“Digital.” Cassian repeated the word under his breath.

“You are very passionate,” Feyre observed, a smile in her voice. 

With a furious heat taking over your face, you replied, “I guess so.” 

“Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that you landed in our library, then,” Rhysand hummed, his eyes shining violet over the rim of his glass. 

Maybe this would be a good time to tell them; you were talking about books, about libraries, and this would be the time. You weren’t sure how they would react, but it had been almost a full day in this world and no one had really tried to kill you. No, they were being… kind? Less doubtful? You weren’t sure, once again, what any of it meant. 

Instead of talking, you shoved a piece of spiced meat in your mouth and chewed.

The flavor of it was unlike anything you had tasted before. Your taste buds reacted neutrally, as if you had whatever this was hundreds of times, but your thoughts were driving the meal, and you couldn’t connect your past to the present. 

The meat became ash in your mouth. Your fork dropped unceremoniously on the table, and you pressed your fingers to the polished wood to stop yourself from spitting it out. Casual conversation had begun to flow amongst the group, but it quieted at the sound. Your face heated again. The metal clattering against wood still stung at your sensitive ears. 

“That bad?” Cassian jested. 

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly and swallowed with considerable effort. 

“She doesn’t like boar,” Rhysand drawled back. “Noted.” 

Noted. Noted?

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you coughed. You reached for the intricately gemmed goblet at your seat and sipped at what you hoped was water. It was not. More choking ensued. Droplets of blood-red wine spilled over the lip as you placed the cup down unsteadily. “Is that alcoholic?” you wheezed. 

From the other side of the table, Azriel’s chair scraped against the floor. He was moving things away and pulling out your own chair in a few swift movements. You followed him up only because your brain was in too many directions at once, the unfamiliar spices from the meat mingling with wine in the middle of the day, and then there were the concerned questions peppering the air from those around you, and this room was so bright. Why was every window in this damn house open? 

“Something plain,” you heard Feyre instruct as you were guided out of the room in a fit of dramatics. “And water. Do you want me to—” 

“No,” was all that came from the Shadowsinger beside you. The hallways became darker. Shadows were lining the walls. When you were alone, Azriel said, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have assumed everything was okay for you.” 

“It was a normal lunch,” you argued, fingers curling around nothing as you followed his slow steps. He had to be slowing them down for you. “At least I can attest to the reality of this place even more now. I’ve never eaten anything like that in my life.” 

Though even as you said the words, you held a drop of doubt firm within you.

“Feyre had trouble adjusting to the food,” Azriel said. Mostly to himself. “We should have prepared for that.” 

“Feyre?” 

“She was human. From the human lands here. She became fae, as you did.”

But you already knew that. You nodded and bit into your tongue. “You know, you didn’t have to drag me out. I know everyone wants to ask me more questions.” 

“They can ask you another time. You have had a very long—” his eyes flickered to the back of your head and trailed down to your twitching fingers “—stressful day.” 

“Another time,” you repeated. If you woke up tomorrow and were still here, maybe. “Does that mean you plan to keep me around?” 

“Where else would you go?” 

“You could send me away. I don’t… belong here.” 

“You are here now. You landed here. You will stay here.” 

“Why?” 

Azriel hesitated. 

You asked again, “Why would you all trust me so quickly?” 

“Rhys saw inside your mind—saw that there is truth to where you say you came from,” Azriel finally offered. “And with the state of the continent, there are many unknown variables.” 

The taste of the meat was still in the back of your throat and you swallowed hard. “Do you trust me?” 

You caught the underlying meaning in Azriel’s words. Maybe they trusted you, trusted that part of you that you were able to share, but you were also an unknown variable. You needed to be where they could monitor you, and you didn’t blame them. If this were truly all real, all their world, you could pose a threat. But they were being nice, accommodating, and you couldn’t parse out what all of the glances and hospitality meant.

“I want to,” Azriel said. 

That had been real then. There was evidence that you had been there. Your head ached because you had done something to it. You reached your hand up to brush along your hair and had the absent thought to pinch yourself, even though you’d already experienced pain in this strange state, and so the theory that you were dreaming was squashed. You hadn’t been too attached to that one, anyway; everything had been too vivid, too coherent for it to be a figment of a dream. 

But that still left psychosis, or maybe a coma. You figured there was a difference between normal dreaming and medically induced dreaming. Given the long duration of typical comas, there were many opportunities for something like this to occur. But you had somewhat of a hard time believing a dream—even a comatose one—could be so clear. Most of your knowledge of comas was from fiction, so what you believed was also not a very reliable source. You cursed yourself for not delving further into the medical textbooks in the campus library when you were on shift.

Frustration nipped at your chest when logic and sense continued to evade you, so you huffed, slapped your palms on the bed, and gave in to the nonsensical. You slid from the bed, finally doing so without watchful eyes, and meandered around the room. You’d taken it in from the bed, mostly, but there was still the chance that you’d go to open a drawer and it would be a cardboard cutout of a desk rather than the real deal. You sighed from your nose when you opened four drawers, and all of them were, unfortunately, very real. 

To your continued disappointment, the room was rather empty save for the furniture and the pictures on the wall. It made sense that a flighty stranger would be placed in a barren guest room, but you were hoping for a little more context. For that, you walked over to the window and tried to make sense of something there. 

Your breath caught in your throat at the view. You remembered from the books that the House was built into the side of a mountain, but it was surreal to see the plummet. No rock face or landing was keeping this building up, and the sky seemed… endless, clouds and strange-looking birds flying past the walls as if the house were part of the environment, and you supposed it was. 

Velaris—the name was dropped into your memory. You peered down and could see speckles of a city, the city, but were too far up to make anything out. The passing clouds were another deterrent, and you gave up with the window after another beat. You turned, and in the vaguest reflection, you startled.

Your hand moved up before you willed it to, tracing over the shell of your ear and then slamming back down to your side. But that wasn’t enough time to properly assess, so you found your ear again, moving it in every direction it would manage, pulling closer to the window to find the point you were sure you were feeling. It was getting you nowhere, the bright sunlight washing out your reflection.

There was a mirror in this room. You remembered how it had made you panic. You spun on your heel, fingers still running over your cartilage, but you looked across the room and found nothing. The wall held a suspicious space where a picture, or a mirror, might hang, and you searched your thoughts for what you had seen before. 

Yes, there had been a mirror, and you could picture yourself in it—a blurry image of yourself, tainted by panic. Your limbs had seemed longer. Your skin had seemed to glow.

But then you had bashed your head into the wall, and thus, your mirror privileges were taken away. 

You turned back to the window and searched for the outline of your ear. 

“Um, hello.” 

You gasped, maybe yelped, your back connecting with the wall as you registered that another person had entered the room. You could hear their blood running in their veins and exactly how fast their heart beat; that didn’t seem normal. You ignored it as you took in the effervescent woman before you. 

Her hair was golden and sleek, falling in waves along her back and covering her shoulders. She wore casual clothes that seemed out of place on her, a plain shirt tucked into a flowing, draping skirt—not actually casual, not by your standards, but in comparison to what you knew this setting to be, it was quite lax. 

This had to be Mor. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist and tipped onto the balls of her feet. 

“I’m Mor,” she smiled, and you felt the muscle in your eye twitch. “I know… Well, I know that you have been through a lot, and I didn’t think you’d want to talk to those two buffoons any longer. I heard they didn’t even introduce themselves when you woke up. It’s no wonder you… well—” 

Mor seemed to wince at herself, words trailing off. Her head lopped to the side, and you snatched your hand to your side, realizing that you were still clutching the high point of your ear—which was undoubtedly pointed. 

“Tried to bash my head in?” you offered. You sounded insane, voice twinkling and light. Was that your voice? It had to be. Perhaps you were depersonalizing along with your psychotic break. 

Mor grimaced. “Right. That’s what I meant.” She nodded to the bed, taking a hesitant seat on the edge. “Would you mind talking with me for a little? I just want to know more about where you came from. We don’t—none of us want to hurt you, but the circumstances of your… appearance have been strange.”

Of course they didn’t want to hurt you; you figured that wasn’t their way. You had stopped reading the series a few years ago, too inundated with work and school and trying to figure your life out, but from what you’d heard, the cast of this novel had been acquainted with unexplained figures appearing in their home. You weren’t sure where you were in their timeline, however. That thought struck you as you slowly stepped towards the bed and sat too far away from Mor. 

“The men in here before,” you started, once again giving in and leaning into the crazy. “They mentioned something about me landing in the library?” 

Mor perked up, obviously eager to have a conversation going. “Yes. We have a library further down the mountain. There have been reports from the priestesses there that a creature living in the depths has been unsettled over the last few days, today being the most unruly. One went down to see if she could speak to him—rather brave for a priestess—and she saw you. You were, well, unclothed. And unconscious. She called for us then. You only woke up that first time when Rhysand and Azriel were in the room. Unfortunately.” 

Bryaxis—that was the creature. You also knew of the library, and the priestesses, and were able to pinpoint somewhere in your mind that Cassian, who you had not yet met, was terrified of the very creature living just beneath this house. But you couldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t paint yourself suspicious with too much information.

Of course, if you were imagining this all, that wouldn’t really matter. Unless, of course, you chose to punish yourself in this wild fever dream. That would definitely be something your brain did. 

You shook the spiralling thoughts away. 

“How long was I out?” you asked, because that was neutral. 

“About a day and a half. Rhys had tried to—wait, are you aware of… where you are?” 

“Um, Velaris?” you offered, the name sounding bulky as it came out of your mouth. 

Mor paused. Her expression twitched. 

Wrong answer. Wrong answer. You should have said no. You should have said Night Court, or even Prythian, or anything other than the only secret city in the book.

But could you keep your origins a secret? 

You felt a hysterical laugh build at the base of your throat, and the thought to ask the year drifted through your mind because, at least then, maybe you could know where in this delirious fantasy delusion your brain had dropped you off at, but you didn’t know how time was quantified here. You hadn’t the slightest frame of reference, and you couldn’t exactly ask, “Mor, remind me, have you yet killed the King of Hybern, or are we in book two?” and expect to be trusted. 

You kept your mouth shut as Mor processes the two words you have spoken. 

“Yes,” she eventually replied, the ghost of a confused smile on her face. “Are you from here? A citizen? Or, um—” 

She was having trouble finding words. In the books, you remembered Mor as confident, sure of herself, and casually intimidating. Right now, she was none of those things, and it was because of you. 

And you had a decision to make. 

You could lie, but you’d never been a very good liar, and your lack of context would make it difficult to fit into the time. One wrong move and this would all be over, your fate most likely ending with Azriel’s blade to your throat out of fear you were infiltrating their lands, and you weren’t exactly sure what would happen if you died in this strange figment of your recollection. If you were hallucinating, or even dreaming as a comatose, there could be repercussions. 

You were taking too long to answer. Mor’s expression had gone from hesitant to wary, and you were still mulling over your options. Still considering the impossible as if you weren’t already experiencing it. 

“I’m not from here,” you landed on. You stared down at the lithe stretch of your fingers and then tucked them beneath your thighs. “I think my home is very, very far away.” 

“You think?” Mor pressed. 

“I’m not exactly sure where it would be in relation to here. I don’t think I could show you on a map. Or a globe. Do you have planets here?” 

“Do we have planets?” 

“Right. That feels like a ridiculous question. I’m not quite sure how to explain any of this.” 

“Perhaps it should be done all at once.”

~~

It took a few moments for Azriel and Rhysand to return to the room. You had half a mind to ask for the rest of the inner circle to join, simply to get more explaining out of the way, but you still hadn’t decided how much you were planning to share—how much you wanted them to know that you knew.

You startled when Azriel's wings displaced the air in the room. You heard them before you saw them, the sheer size creating a presence that body alone couldn’t replicate. So far, your reflection and the ethereal, larger-than-life qualities of the fae were the most jarring to come to terms with, but you had yet to leave this room, so there were surely other feats you would need to overcome. Unless your brain shook itself loose from this state before then. 

When you jumped, Azriel seemed to as well. His feet moved in a small, unsteady pattern, his wings pressing into his back. He had kept his eyes down upon entering, but you must have made a sound, a gasp, and he looked at you with a pinched expression. You tried to avert your gaze, but it got caught on the shadows again. He was so huge, his wings hooked and towering, the inky wisps taking up even more space. 

Rhysand had also joined the group, though you found it much easier for your eyes to pass over his form as he settled against the window. 

“I apologize for scaring you earlier,” Rhysand offered, a sincere hand over his heart. He didn’t need to apologize; you had scared yourself. The lack of reflective surfaces in the room was a testament to that. “We hadn’t meant to. Truly.” 

You shook your head but didn’t reply. Struggled to reply. This felt insane. 

“Mor said you aren’t from here?” Rhysand posed. 

“I’m not,” you said, taciturn from lack of direction. You hadn’t made up your mind. Hadn’t made sense of your brain and why it was taking you on this strange trip. You could give in, or you could give way to reason and see yourself back to reality from pure spite. 

To your dismay, being curt only got you more pressing, gentle looks. Rhysand was looking at you with a tender caution, and that was confusing because before, it was only suspicion. Before, he had stayed by the door and observed you like an animal. 

Was this your brain digging in?

The High Lord met you on the bed, sitting on the corner and giving you space, but coming down to your level. "I realize that you may have been through a lot, so I’ll give you some information first, okay?” he enticed. Azriel was still standing by the window, every muscle in his body seemingly on edge. You threw him a glance before nodding at Rhys. “You know you are in Velaris—Mor told me that. And she was also gracious enough to share our names, I’ve heard.” 

Mor snorted, crossing her arms as she stood beside Azriel. 

Rhysand lowered his brows from the look he threw her. “I am the High Lord of this court. You were discovered in my library. The library is not open to the public, so since you arrived there, seemingly by a magical occurrence, my inner circle and I have had many questions.” 

“Why don’t you just look into my mind and answer your questions?” you shouted into your thoughts. “Mind-reading would be the clearest solution, since I’m already going insane.” 

“I don’t know how I ended up there,” you said instead, digging your fingers into the plush material of the bed. “I wasn’t feeling well, I passed out, and then I woke up here. I don’t—I don’t even know what your library looks like.” 

A partial lie. You had read about the contents of the library and had a general description floating in your mind, but you could only remember the vaguest outline of the space. 

Azriel was next to speak. “What do you mean—not feeling well?” 

That was simpler to answer; you could handle that. Maybe Azriel was a doctor, and this was reality seeping through. “It was like a pain in my stomach, but more like an excruciating pulling. Something was… strange inside of me. I thought maybe my appendix, but now that I’m thinking back, I’m sure that couldn’t have been it. I got up to get help, but I barely made it to the door before I was out. That’s all I remember before I woke up in this room.” 

“Appendix?” Mor murmured as Rhysand paused, let the word simmer in the space, and then leaned his elbows on his knees.

Anxiety spiked as he sat there, contemplating. Your fingers felt glued to the bed, the back of your neck prickling. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek as silence ticked past, and then you were screaming again. You were tired of screaming. 

A slinking feeling had inched its way into your mind, rolling along the edges and searching for a weak point. You thrashed back on the bed, pushing yourself against the headboard even though the threat wasn’t physical. The feeling flattened against the surface of your mind, expanding in rolling darkness, and prickled pain across your vision. You held your head in your hands but felt no relief. 

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice low and strained. “It is not working.” 

“Working?” you breathed out, clutching then at your chest. “What’s—” 

“Let me—” 

“Rhys.” Azriel snapped when you let out another shout. His voice was calm, a measured calm, when he said, “We can ask her. We don’t need to resort to this yet.” 

“We tried asking,” Rhysand countered. Your mind was still being invaded. Invaded, but nothing gleaned. Something ached, and something else was a sharp crack.

“I don’t—” you started and failed. “You can ask me. Ask me!” 

Shit. Shit. What was this? Were you being lobotomized in real time, unable to find your way back to the present before you were deemed really and truly unfixable? Something in your head knocked, but you were unable to answer with the pressing pain. Unable to even make sense of a knock in your mind. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” 

Mor’s hesitant tone was cut off. Rhysand gritted out, “We don’t have the luxury of waiting for a lie. She wasn’t telling us everything. If she’s working with them—for him—we need to—” 

“Need to what?” Azriel spat out, his voice sounding closer. The pain lessened, but the fog in your mind remained. 

“Azriel, I don’t want to hurt her, but—” 

“And so you won’t.” 

A long, pointed pause. 

The High Lord spoke once more. “We can’t take any chances.” 

“You haven’t given her a chance.” 

“No fae has that strong a barrier in their mind without having secrets. We cannot afford secrets.” 

“I can’t—” 

Your whimper cut Azriel off, the pain building again, and you couldn’t take it. It seemed never-ending. If you could drop whatever barrier they were talking about, you would, but without even the slightest knowledge of what it was, Rhysand would never stop his assault. You cracked your eyes open despite the light blistering your vision, tears brimming from the discomfort. 

“I won’t lie,” you promised, heaving out breaths before the pain could take over again. “I won’t. I promise. Please don’t do that again. Please. I don’t know—I didn’t make a barrier.” 

Azriel was nearly on the bed, his knees brushing along the mattress where he stood. You would have been startled by the proximity, but the throbbing in your head had lowered the threshold for shock. Still, the hulking Illyrian dwarfed you where you sat, shadows pooling along your lap. If you extended your hand, you could have grabbed his. 

The thought quickly extinguished from your mind. 

“Are you working for the uprising?” 

That threw you. You shook the lingering murkiness from your mind and squinted into the room to find Rhysand, the shadow from Azriel helping immensely. “I don’t know anything about an uprising.” 

It didn’t ring a single bell from the books. Maybe it was from one of the newer series you hadn’t read yet? Or a novella? An uprising seemed much too poignant for a novella. 

An ache was returning in your brain, and so you panicked. “I swear. I swear! I don’t even know how I’m here! I live in New York! I’m getting my master’s degree, and my student loans barely cover my rent! My upstairs neighbor got a tiny dog that keeps me awake half the night, and I swear I’m hallucinating all of this from chronic lack of sleep, so I’m probably shouting this into a void, but that hurts so bad and I’m begging you to believe me. I know I sound crazy. I just—” 

You paused. Took in the room. The pain had ceased, but the looks you were getting weren’t much better. You thought back to the source material these characters came from, and said what you thought might make sense. 

“I’m human. I’m not—I’m not supposed to be here. I got so scared when I saw myself because I don’t look like that. I’m not from here, and I meant that. I need to go home. Through a portal or some magic object or through that creature in the library maybe. And I don’t know what uprising you’re talking about because I come from a place where the most exciting things that happen are on my phone so I need to get back home because I have experienced more pain and fear in the last hour than I have in my entire life.” 

The room stayed silent. 

Azriel’s hands were limp at his sides.

Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear. 

Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened. 

Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force. 

“Explain it again?” 

“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.” 

The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?

No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain. 

You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.

Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.

Your breaths became even more difficult to capture. 

“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.

You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel. 

Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm. 

Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak. 

“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?” 

The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous. 

“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.” 

“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?” 

You paused. “New York?” 

The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”

Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?” 

Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed. 

You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York. 

You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane. 

The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign. 

This could have been a very, very realistic dream. 

After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you. 

The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised. 

Wings. 

The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured. 

But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet. 

“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur. 

“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it. 

Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage. 

Okay. 

You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there. 

“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.” 

Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?” 

“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all. 

Night Court. 

You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall. 

Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price. 

At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.” 

“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.” 

Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered. 

“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.” 

“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked. 

“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.” 

“Law school?” Azriel echoed. 

You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly. 

Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his. 

Something pulled. The air stagnated. 

It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that. 

It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused. 

“What—” 

You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window. 

Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t. 

You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed. 

Made. 

The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been. 

So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again. 

You didn’t have the chance to try a second time. 

Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed. 

“Do something.” 

“I can’t—”

“Anything.” 

And then there was nothing. 

“Can you do something, please?” Rhysand asked him earlier that day. 

“What would you have me do, Rhys? I can hardly throw her over my shoulder and march her out of the library,” Cassian sneered in return. 

His response was met with an incredulous brow and a smarmy once over. “Are those muscles just for show, brother?”

Cassian’s siphons flared indignantly causing Rhysand to sigh.

“Listen, I know she’s down there doing research for me, but she’s hardly taken a moment to eat or sleep or, like, breathe,” the High Lord explained tiredly, as though your over-working exhausted him. “I was sort of hoping that, you know… as her mate…” 

Rhysand didn’t finish that thought, Cassian didn’t need him too. 

While Cassian and Azriel have made some progress with you, you’ve been warming up to them at a glacial pace and Cassian hardly thinks he’s the one who will finally be successful in extricating you from the library.

Feyre’s already tried, Gwyn and Nesta too; what can Cassian possibly do that three females can’t?

Still, you’re his mate, and he’s yours, and he should—at least try to—take care of you.

If he’s unsuccessful, maybe Azriel will have more luck tonight once he’s back from his mission. 

With a small prayer to the Mother, Cassian braves the library beneath the House of Wind and begs the Cauldron that you’re not currently bumping elbows with Bryaxis. 

The Cauldron has some pity on Cassian, it seems, which finds him locating you on the very first floor.

You’re so engrossed in whatever you’re working on that you don’t notice Cassian’s approach despite the mating bond, despite the fact that he’s not exactly an easy male to miss, despite the way he nearly upends an entire stack of books with his wings on his way over. 

“I’ve heard you’re due for a break,” he says as quietly as he can manage, wincing when he still manages to startle the ever loving shit out of you. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, your hand rising to splay beneath your throat as you try to still your racing heart.

“You scared me,” is all you manage to say.

Cassian chuckles albeit apologetically. “I can see that. Sorry, sweetheart.”

“S’okay,” you manage as you roughly rub at your face as though trying to rouse yourself back into action. “Did you need something?”

Did Cassian need something? Uhm, yeah, for his gorgeous little mate to see the light for a few minutes or, you know, eat and sleep like a normal person. 

“I was wondering if you had time to grab something to eat with me,” he settles on, raising a brow when you wince halfway through his sentence.

“I…I’m really quite busy,” you try carefully, gaze pointed at the spread of books and parchment across your table as though it might vanish should you lift your eyes from it. 

“Yeah?” Cassian hums thoughtfully. “You’ve been at this for a while, right?”

You sigh. “I… guess, but, I really think I’m onto something here.”

“I’m sure you are, you’re a brilliant fae,” he allows, wishing beyond measure that Azriel was here to help; he’d be so much better at this right now. “You still need to eat, though.”

And just like that, whatever progress Cassian thought he was making with you vanishes, finding you rolling your eyes in frustration. 

“Did Nesta send you?”

“What? No, I-”

“Because I told her I’m fine; I was already sitting when it happened and-” But whatever happened while you were sitting remains a mystery to Cassian when you fall silent, doing a double take before staring at the male with wide eyes. 

“What happened?” you almost whisper.

What happened? What happened, indeed; you’re the one who stopped the story halfway through.

“What do you mean?” he asks instead of potentially starting a fight with you. You're a bit all over the place; whether that’s due to exhaustion, hunger, or stress, Cassian’s not entirely sure. He’s kind of afraid to find out.

“You’re hurt,” you explain, hand rising slightly from your side as though it itches to reach out but won’t commit to the action.

Honestly, Cassian almost laughs; he’d all but forgotten about the incident until you brought it up. 

Gwyn’s face was priceless at sparring this morning after successfully landing a blow to Cassian’s cheek, immediately falling into hysterics over it. 

The Illyrian eventually had to command the priestess to stop apologizing to him; she did exactly what she was supposed to do, and she did it well.

So well, in fact, that it managed to cut the skin and is producing a decent bruise. 

It’ll be gone by tomorrow, maybe even later tonight if he soaks in a nice bath with healing salts.

He almost tells you as much until he realizes that your hand still hovers between the two of you, until he realizes that you’ve looked away from your workspace for the longest stretch of time in Cauldron knows how long. 

Until he realizes that he might be onto something.

“Training incident,” Cassian explains with a put upon forlorn expression. Your brows furrow even deeper; a sign of his success. 

“Does it hurt terribly?” you murmur then, leaning to the side in order to get a better look, hand still hovering—just begging to be held—though Cassian doesn’t dare take it in his yet; doesn’t dare shock you out of whatever trance his mottled skin has you under. 

Truthfully, it doesn’t hurt at all. It hurt minutely when it happened—no one tell Gwyn or Rhysand, though; Gwyn will go on another apology tour and Rhysand will definitely laugh at him—and he long forgot it happened by the time he came looking for you.

He doesn’t tell you any of that.

“It has a heartbeat,” he lies, almost feeling bad about the small, pitiful sound you let out at that. 

“Cassian…” you hum mournfully. “You should ice it.”

“Yeah?” he asks you, daring a small smile. “Az is usually in charge of that, but he’s out on a mission.”

Your chest falls at Cassian’s predicament but your hand finally rises, daring a delicate, barely there touch to the purpling skin under his eye. 

He’s glad Azriel’s end of the bond is shut while the Shadowsinger works, Cassian’s almost embarrassed at the acrobatics his heart does in his chest at the show of affection. 

“Can you help me, maybe?” he ventures then, words barely above a breath as your eyes trace his face. 

Your hand stills on his face but doesn’t retreat. 

“Please?” he doubles down. Honestly, Cassian’s not above getting on his knees and begging you if that’s what it takes. 

You make a noncommittal sound, looking back over your shoulder at your work.

He speaks again before you can argue. “Clotho will make sure no one touches it,” he tells you quickly, winking over your head at the priestess who looks up from her book at the sound of her name. 

Cassian doesn’t really give you a chance to reply let alone argue. He gently takes your hand in his larger one and starts leading you in the direction of the exit. 

Rhysand must’ve been right; you must be exhausted. You’re completely listless as you let him guide you out of the library, you nearly fall asleep as he flies you up the the House of Wind, and you barely manage to hold the ice against Cassian’s cheek while he plies you with grapes and a few bites of cheese before finally collapsing in exhaustion on his and Azriel’s bed.

Surprise, Azriel’s shadows inform him as he trudges through the now dark and quiet home, the male having long missed dinner and saying goodnight to everyone before the House finally shut down for the evening. 

Azriel’s fresh from a mission, which means he’s sore and tired and desperate for a wash and definitely not in the mood for his shadows’ secrecy. 

Azriel does not want to be surprised, does not appreciate surprises; surprises in his line of work usually mean injury—or worse. 

So, he’s tense as shit by the time he finally shoulders his way into his and Cassian’s shared room when he stills; first at the scent, and then at the sight. 

You’re snuggled into Cassian’s side—your boots discarded on the floor near Azriel’s side of the bed—and dutifully tucked in under the covers as Cassian draws delicate lines up and down your upper arm with a loving finger. 

Asleep. 

Surprise! his shadows cheer again as they flee forwards to investigate his mates.

“What’s this?” he asks Cassian quietly as he shucks off his own boots and moves to perch on your his edge of the bed.

“Turns out you and our troublesome little mate have something in common,” Cassian taunts, pausing in his caress of you only for Azriel to draw a tender line of his own. 

“Your stories can put both of us to sleep?” Azriel teases in return, smirking when Cassian flicks him before returning to his ministrations. 

“She works too hard,” he explains pointedly. “Wouldn’t take a break. Feyre, Nesta, and Gwyn all tried; Rhys finally asked me to check on her.” 

Hasn’t slept in twenty-seven hours, Azriel’s shadows fill him in. Stubborn girl. 

“How’d you manage to convince her?” Azriel asks then as he brushes a few baby hairs from your hairline; you let out a shuddering sigh. 

“Magic,” Cassian tells him. 

He got hurt in training, his shadows tattle.

“Are you sure it’s not because of that shiner you’re sporting?” he supplies. 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Cassian denies haughtily. “Although, you should probably expect a round of apologies from a certain priestess tomorrow for—quote—marring your poor mate’s face.”

Azriel huffs a laugh and feels his wings sinking behind him, beginning to relax at finally being home, at finally being reunited with the other pieces of his soul. 

“Missed you,” Cassian murmurs then, continuing when Azriel responds with a pulse of warmth down the bond. “Mission was okay?”

“It was okay,” Azriel supplies noncomitally; he’s never been one to talk much about his missions, and finds the idea of discussing the dark reality of his line of work in your presence all that much more offensive. 

The sound of water running steals Azriel’s attention and he watches a few of his shadows leave the attached bathroom.

He almost regrets wanting to bathe when sitting here in bed with both of his mates is the alternative. 

“Go wash up,” Cassian encourages him, clearly clocking Azriel’s hesitation. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Azriel sighs. “With my luck, I’ll get back and she’ll be on the couch again, or worse; in her room.” 

Cassian snorts at the Shadowsinger’s petulance. “She barely stayed awake on the flight up here. Besides, I’m pretty sure she was about to tell me that she passed out in the library—I know, we’ll have to ask Nesta for more details—before I dragged her out of there.

“Trust me,” he explains easily. “She’s not going anywhere.” 

Azriel relents, giving Cassian a quick peck and then pressing a much gentler one to your temple before making his way to the bathroom. 

Azriel takes the world's quickest bath that evening and makes the executive decision that he and you will be taking the day off tomorrow.

“She’d have an easier time sleeping if she’d just come here,” he sighs helplessly, eliciting an echoing sigh from Azriel. 

“We have to give her time, Cass. This has to be her choice,” Azriel murmurs, feeling just as helpless as Cassian but being far more practiced in the art of self restraint. 

“She’s struggling,” Cassian mutters near petulantly. 

“C’mere.”

Cassian shifts over from his side of the bed and—though he’s bigger than Azriel—manages to tuck himself into the Shadowsinger’s side. 

The two of them breathe the other in until the cadence of their hearts and lungs begin to synchronize. 

And then, the still, silent room is interrupted by a knock at the door. 

A knock so quiet, so tentative, that the males may not have heard it had they been asleep or doing much more than breathing. 

Our mate, Azriel’s shadows supply, seeing the Spymaster remove himself from his Illyrian mate to answer the door. 

You stand there with palpable trepidation in a matching set of sleep shorts and t-shirt, wringing your hands together as you try (and fail) to meet his gaze. 

Cassian murmurs your name as he appears behind Azriel and places a gentle hand to the Shadowsinger’s waist; touch tentative as though warring over whether to depend on Azriel’s stability or shove him aside and pull you in. 

“Are you alright?” Azriel asks quietly, keeping his hands glued to his side though he allows his shadows to take stock of you. 

You swallow thickly and rub your lips together, eyes fixed on the edge of the rug in their room. “I can’t sleep.” 

Azriel lets out a sympathetic sound. 

“We know,” Cassian admits; not harsh, but pointed. Azriel elbows him when you wince. 

“Do you want to come in?”

Azriel’s question causes the bond to thrum with hesitancy and caution, your nervous eyes darting towards the large, mussed bed that the Illyrians recently vacated. 

She’s not ready, the shadows translate, though Cassian manages to get the jist despite being entirely shadowless. 

A thunk sounds to the end of the room, and both males turn to find the House has deposited a sofa large enough for one, wingless fae to sleep comfortably on. 

“We’ll set you up, sweetheart,” Cassian tells you, turning back towards the room in silent invitation. 

Azriel’s invitation is more overt, stepping aside and swinging a hand out to welcome you in. 

Your eyes track Cassian—currently shirtless, back muscles accentuated by the silvery light of the moon through the windows—as he piles the sofa with various pillows and blankets that the two males kicked off hours ago after growing warm. 

“Will you be warm enough? With the window open,” Azriel asks, unsure whether the way you have your arms wrapped around your body is due to your wariness or the temperature. 

“Do you want a sweater?” Cassian chimes in before you can answer. 

A shiver runs through you which he accepts as an answer in and of itself. 

“I’ll get one for you,” Azriel decides, gesturing towards the sofa in a silent encouragement to sit while he turns to rifle through their dresser. 

He returns to find you perched on the edge of the sofa as if not entirely sure you should be here, not entirely sure you aren’t about to be asked to leave. 

“Arms up,” Azriel instructs gently, helping ease the oversized sweater over your head. He reaches behind you once you’ve slid your arms in to clip the wing slats shut so you don’t catch a draft. 

Your breath hitches. 

“Are you alright?” Cassian hums then as Azriel takes a step back, noticing the way your eyes shine in the moonlight. 

You clear your throat and blink past the tears. “Yeah, yes. I think so.” 

“Do you think you’ll be able to rest comfortably here?” 

You manage to look up at Azriel at that, and he once again gets the feeling you’re waiting for him to yell at you for something; waiting for him to tell you to get out. 

He sends a pulse of warmth down the bond and watches your eyes close at the sensation. 

“I think so,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” Cassian whispers in kind, coming up behind Azriel and hooking his chin over his shoulder as though holding Azriel will make up for not being able to hold you. 

Yet, Azriel’s mind unhelpfully and hopefully supplies. 

“Try to rest, love,” Azriel murmurs, daring to reach out and brush a thumb along your hairline before reluctantly pulling away. 

Cassian’s less tactful though equally as gentle, leaning around Azriel and bending down to cup your jaw with a steady hand as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

Azriel’s pretty sure the only reason Cassian manages to pry himself away from you is because Azriel forces him to, but the two of them find comfort in listening to the sound of you getting cozy on the sofa as they climb back into bed, now wide awake themselves at the prospect of having you here, in their room, with them. 

The bond—once vibrating with constant nerves—falls quiet and leaves Azriel’s chest feeling peculiarly hollow without it, seeing both males turning to find you with your eyes already closed and a peaceful expression on your face.

Your breathing evens out a few minutes later. 

You wake up in the morning better rested than you have in…well…maybe ever, if you’re being entirely honest with yourself. 

It’s been five weeks of this; of sleepless nights and tossing and turning, managing to fall into a fitful sleep only to wake up in a cold sweat and never feeling rested. 

You suck in a deep, grounding breath and sink further into your bed.

No, not your bed. 

Not your bed, not your room…not your blankets or pillows or sweater or-

You wrench your eyes open, sinking further into your certified nest and pulling up the blankets to your nose when you notice a massive shadow moving across the room.

No, not a shadow; Cassian.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he greets as he pulls a shirt over his head, winking at you when he notices you watching. “Did you sleep well?” 

Your cheeks burn as you watch him reach behind his massive wings and clip his shirt together before he moves his attention to strapping on his training leathers.

You don’t realize he’s waiting for a response—can’t remember what he asked in the first place—until he’s standing in front of you with a divot between his brows.

“What?” you murmur from behind your blanket. 

“Did you sleep okay?” 

You’re not sure why he bothers asking. He likely already knows that you did; probably had to listen to you snoring from his and his mate’s bed all night. 

You offer him a tentative nod, eyes darting towards movement on the other side of the room when you nearly squeak in surprise. 

Azriel exits the attached bathroom with one towel resting sinfully low on his hips while he rubs at his hair with another, entirely ignorant to the way your mouth runs dry at the broad expanse of his tattooed chest and arms.

The smirk on Cassian’s face informs you that he is not ignorant to the way your mouth runs dry. 

“Like what you see, do you?”

“Did you sleep alright?” Azriel chimes in, not even looking over as he drops his towel—is that a male’s ass?—and makes to get dressed. You force your (now wide) eyes back to a grinning Cassian.

“She slept very well,” Cassian supplies for you, grin widening when you narrow your eyes at him. “She was just saying she’d like to come to training with us.”

“What?” you all but squawk, seeing Azriel finally turn his attention towards you, shirt in hand instead of on his body like a fucking sadist. 

“You wanna come to training?”

You quickly shake your head no. 

“It’s fun,” Cassian sing-songs, looking over his shoulder to confirm that Azriel’s distracted by his leathers before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “If you come, I can convince him to remove his shirt while he’s sparring. It’s quite a sight to behold.”

You suck in a breath, the fabric of the blanket pressed to your nose smelling strongly of your the mates and finding your heart traitorously evening out. 

“I don’t know how to fight,” you admit quietly. 

“I don’t want you to fight,” Azriel announces then, eyes flicking towards Cassian as though surprised by the words he just uttered himself. Cassian huffs a laugh at him.

“No, no. No fighting for you, sweets. We’ll fight; your job is to sit there and look pretty.” 

You hum noncommittally, audibly unconvinced as you recall the borrowed sweater you’re wearing and the thin sleep shorts you padded down the hallway in. 

The sound of fabric shifting finds the three of you turning to find the House supplying you with a comfortable pair of leggings and thick socks. 

“I guess that settles it then,” Cassian cheers, standing and pressing a quick, bordering aggressive kiss to the crown of your head before heading towards the door. “See you out there!” 

He presses an equally aggressive kiss to Azriel’s cheek—to which the Shadowsinger pretends to be disturbed by—before exiting the room.

Then, Azriel tentatively adds, “If you’re comfortable there, you don’t need to join us.” 

You get the feeling he’s a touch embarrassed. Shy, even. “If you need more rest, you’re welcome to stay here. Stay as long as you want.” 

You rub your lips together and sit up on the sofa, blanket pooling on your lap. “It’d be okay? If I came?”

Azriel’s wings twitch behind him, sitting higher as he grins at you. “Of course, we’d love for you to come.”

You try to smile back and then nod at your blanket. “Okay, I’ll be up shortly.”

Dimples appear on Azriel’s cheeks as his smile grows, eyes darting down to your chest. 

“And keep the sweater,” he says as he heads towards the door. “It looks much better on you.”