#acosab

If there's really a Mother up there, she definitely has a twisted sense of humour.

He still doesn't know whether to laugh or punch a wall at his discovery. Laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Rage because he should've known much sooner.

No humans cross the Wall and live to tell. The natural Fae essence devours them eventually, their fragile mortal bodies unable to resist it. Unless they're not normal humans, unless they have some special ability that gives them an advantage.

Now he knows why his little pet managed to pass the Wall despite her obvious weakness.

She has the Sight. Or the True Eye, according to ancient references.

It's a rare gift. Humans born with an innate immunity against Fae magic, allowing them to see through glamours and spells as they're not affected by them.

It also makes them immune against daemati.

He lays against a wall, his head down as he chuckles silently, humourlessly.

Curse his luck. And curse his own foolishness. He should've known from their first meeting. He should've realized her mind was eerily silent. Normally, he can hear people's minds from a mile away, even more if they're humans. But he didn't hear anything back then, and it didn't catch up to him until he finally tried to enter her mind back at his chambers.

Instead of images and feelings, he encountered a solid wall. And silence. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't even cause a small crack in her shield, to catch a glimpse of her mind. Just darkness and silence.

What was she said back there?

'You'll get nothing from me. I'll never give you anything'

She was right.

He inhales deeply through his nose, the realization leaving a bitter taste. It’s laughable how he’d thought she was just a feisty human with no sense of self-preservation. But turns out she's so much more—a rare gem hidden behind the stain of mortality. The answer had been in front of his eyes and he missed it, distracted by her sharp tongue and burning eyes.

The Sight, a gift so uncommon it's nearly a myth, granting her immunity from all Fae influence. He can’t unravel her with his usual methods. No amount of pushing and twisting would break her shield.

His gaze flickers toward the room where she's bound, chained in his bed, a slight grin of resignation crossing his face. This little twist supposes a change in his original plans, but certainly not an obstacle. She’s an enigma, and he can't wait to peel her layers back, find what else she's hiding from him.

There’s still tension, a frustration he can’t fully shake. After all, this turns the game on its head. He is no longer in complete control here. He can't keep her in check the way he's used to. Can't just make her play along easily.

No. This is going to be harder than he imagined. He'll have to take a different approach this time around.

The idea excites him more than it should.

We're going to have fun, little thing.

Ever since he brought the human to his chambers, he's been waiting for the shoe to drop. To be questioned about his intentions, and maybe bring his new pet to her, to judge whether she's worthy of staying in her court.

But nothing.

Amarantha hasn't asked him anything, just expecting the same usual 'service' from him. The Attor, that annoying pest of hers, tries to get under his skin here and there, but overall he hasn't let on any hint that he knows something. If anyone is aware of the human in his chambers, they've keeping the information to themselves.

He's being actively concealing her scent with the wards he set on his quarters, but it's not permanent. His magic is not what it used to be. If she so much takes a step outside the room, anyone within a ten-milius radius would smell her. And then it'll be only a matter of minutes until she knows.

Maybe it's for the best, he thinks. It was a pain to bring the fiesty creature here, in the utmost secrecy. The bitch's security is sharp, and while his loyal shadows helped him, he knows he wouldn't do it a second time.

Then why does he still bother? What's stopping him from letting the truth out?

'Because it's my first chance in fifty years to have something that's entirely mine. My own, untainted secret.'

Everything he's loved has been taken from him or ruined while he's been here. All that surrounds him is her property, her domain. Even the privileges he enjoys above the others are only thanks to her authority. It's the rule.

But this human, this mortal creature with fire in her eyes, will belong to him. As long as no one else sees her, she's his.

The thought both thrills and haunts him. He's taking a huge risk by keeping her hidden like this, perhaps the greatest he's ever taken in fifty years. It’s foolish, bordering on suicidal. Yet the satisfaction he feels at knowing she's beyond her grasp is something he hadn’t felt in a long while—a small, defiant act of control.

The shadows swirl around him, shifting and almost restless. It's like they know him, understand the stakes even without words. The shadows don’t question, don’t judge. They’re the only things he can trust in this wretched place. But keeping this secret requires something even they can’t provide—carefulness, patience. Traits that he's always possessed in abundance, yet have been stretched to their limit since she appeared.

He casts a glance toward the hall that leads to his quarters. According to Cerridwen and Nuala, she has fallen asleep already, her exhaustion finally taking over her fragile body.

Her life hangs by a thread every moment she’s here. If anyone found out… it would be over in an instant. It'll be harsh punishment for him, and gruesome death for her.

Still, he can’t bring himself to regret his choice.

He sends a message to their minds, a new order regarding his little pet. As much as it amuses him seeing her thrash in that wild, messy state of hers, he can't allow his toys to remain so dreadfully...unkempt.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he imagines her reaction. His new gift is intended to placate her a bit, but it's mostly for his own personal enjoyment. She's clearly someone who holds her pride above all else, so she’ll undoubtedly reject his present with all her might, despite the honor it represents

But there’s nothing she can do against the wraith sisters. Cerridwen and Nuala have been given permission to use force if his human proves too stubborn—not that she’ll get the chance. His maids’ shadowy hands are impossible to repel or escape from, even for other Fae.

How he wishes he could be there to witness it.

His thoughts are interrupted when the familiar, off-kilter music reached his ears as he stands in front of a well-known door. His body tenses in anticipated disgust, fully aware of what's expecting him on the other side.

With a sigh, he fixes his clothes again and hides his hatred with the usual mask. The doors open before him without his hands touching them, and he strides in with a confident smirk as they close behind him again with a loud bang.

The music comes to a halt as soon as his presence is noticed. The assembled crowd take up most of the space, and most have stopped whatever they've been doing to stare at him. He can't help but find some delight in their attention, the fear that shines in their eyes at the sight of him. It gives him life.

He walks with purpose, barely sparing them a glance. Some bow to him, others just stare in silence. They all make sure to step out of his way, creating a wide path just for him. It only takes him a few minutes to reach his destination.

There, lounging on her black throne, is his punishment. His nightmare. The reason he endures all of this in the first place.

Amarantha. The High Queen of Prythian. Self-proclaimed, which only makes it more ridiculous in his mind—but only a suicidal fool would dare say so aloud.

She taps a long, red nail against the stone.

“There you are. I was worried you got lost along the way.”

Her voice is soft, almost tender, but he’s memorized every angle of her to read between the lines. He detects the underlying disdain beneath her words; she’s not pleased with his lateness.

He bows to his waist in a show of devotion. It makes his skin crawl, but he's already used to it.

"Apologies, my queen," he knows how much she likes the title. Appealing to her ego is his tried-and-true method to keep her at bay. "I got held up by some last-minute affairs."

She hums but doesn't inquire.

"Be more careful next time, Rhys. It's not polite to make a female wait."

A sense of déjà vu hits him at her words. They don’t sound nearly as charming from her lips as they did from the human’s, but the irony of it makes him want to laugh.

He clicks his tongue, masking his reaction.

"Believe me, I know it," lowering his head just enough to hide the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.

He's not sure how to feel about his pet sharing some similiarities with the person he hates most in the world, but there's no denying the terrible humor in it.

Amarantha waves her hand lazily, and the music resumes. The crowd gradually returns to the party, trying their best to ignore them both. She beckons him to come closer, aand he has to steel himself to keep from snarling at her.

Of all the hells he’s endured over fifty years, this is the one he still can’t stomach. Being reduced to a mere servant, a slave, for this wretched female. He, the strongest High Lord in all of Prythian, turned into a harlot for a delusional tyrant's entertainment.

Just thinking about it makes him blood boil in pure, murderous rage.

The only thing keeping him from lashing out completely is the comforting fantasy of tearing this usurper apart with his own hands and warming himself by the fire of her burning remains.

But now he has something better than fantasies. Waiting prettily in his room, locked away from Amarantha’s corrupting hands, surely cursing him with all her might in her sleep.

The thought of seeing her again gives him the motivation to endure whatever Amarantha wants from him now.

"What can I do for you, my queen?" he asks, standing beside her with his hands clasped behind him. She looks up at him from her throne, not bothering to adjust her posture.

Everything about this is wrong. He should be the one sitting on a throne, and she should be on a leash, draped over his fist, begging for her worthless life. But now is not the time.

She regards him with a smile that would make a weaker male’s skin crawl. In truth, it’s not so different from expressions he himself uses regularly. Curious how this particular detail about her has never really bothered him.

"I have a job for you, Rhys."

"I’m always at your service, my queen."

She chuckles.

"Of course, you are. Such a good boy." She twirls the cup in her hand, red liquid spilling as richly as the color of her lips. "Tell me, how do you feel about paying a visit to an old friend?"

He knows exactly who she means before she even says it. The smirk that spreads across his face is entirely genuine this time.

"Oh? May I know the details?"

Amarantha’s expression shifts into one so similar to his own that it could almost be a reflection.

"Go to Spring and bring me the human filth that Tamlin is hiding from us."

Seems like the fun is about to start.

After another long, excruciating party to satisfy Amarantha's ego, she doesn't waste time in bringing him to her chambers as soon as everyone leaves.

He knows his part. Fifty years playing this role has given him the steel to hide his shame and resentment so deep into him that she can't notice it. His mind turns off, letting his body follow what's expected of him.

She's as brutal in bed as she's in the battlefield. And today she's in a rather enthusiastic mood. Probably at the idea of torturing the pitiful human Tamlin has found at last.

By the time he leaves, his body carries the scratches and bruises of Amarantha's favouritism under his clothes.

At least he's not tormented by the humiliation and self-hatred as he was the first times. Now, he can only feel a mild sense of relief and exasperation that it's over.

He straightens his clothes, leaving the top button undone. Now it’s only him striding down the hallways, aside from the occasional servant. Moving through the shadows, he’s intent on reaching his quarters as quickly as possible.

He’s eager to see his little pet, to tease her until she bares her cute claws and tries to bite him. Right now, she’s the only thing he has even a remote measure of control over—and he plans to savor it. Besides, he’s curious to see how she liked his latest gift.

As his door comes into view, he steps out of the shadows. He briefly considers slipping in silently, like last time, just to feel her fear spike again—but he decides it won’t be as amusing a second time.

Once more, the door opens for him without so much as a gesture, and he steps inside.

"I’m back, my dear. I hope you didn’t miss me too much this time?"

She’s right where he left her: on his bed, unmoving, glaring up at him through her lashes. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, chin resting stiffly on her crossed arms.

Like a curled up cat ready to pounce. Adorable.

But it's hard to appreciate his gift in that posture.

"Now, don't you have anything to say? I took the time to choose this design just for you. Do you like it?"

She doesn't respond. Not even a huff. If only he could get a peek of her mind, just a little bit. It annoys him not know what it's going through her head.

He clicks his tongue.

"Show me. I want to see how it looks on you."

"You're already seeing it."

"Ah, there she is. I was worrying you lost your voice."

Her glare intensifies, which only makes his smile widen. He grabs a cozy armchair from its spot near the fireplace and moves it closer to the bed, taking a seat directly in front of her.

Crossing one ankle over his knee, he rests his chin on his fist and stares at her intently. A quiet laugh exhales from his nose when she frowns, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

Her discomfort is a delight he savors, though he keeps his expression masked behind a lazy smirk. Every small twitch, every subtle hardening of her glare, only deepens his amusement. She’s resisting him, but her unease is a victory all its own.

"Your silence does little to hide your thoughts, you know," he says, voice low. "There’s only so much I can ignore when it’s written all over your face."

"You can read how much I want to kill you written on my face?, she says, her voice sounding low and dripping with venom.

Cauldron bless him, she's such a joy.

"Charming," he coos. "I actually meant your thoughts about my present. I've been eager to see your reaction all day."

"Is that why you're sitting there like an idiot?" she mutters, raising her chin. "To rejoice in my misery? Or is it just that you don’t have anything better to do with your time?"

He laughs, soft and slow, as if savoring a rare vintage. He wouldn't tolerare this kind of talk from anyone else. He’s torn heads from bodies for words more respectful than hers. But with her, he only wants more of it. It’s like watching a puppy bark and bare its teeth at him—a futile effort, but amusing all the same.

"It’s not every day I get a creature with such spirit gracing my quarters. It was getting lonely here, you know? I simply want to make the most of this opportunity."

She rolls her eyes and turns her head away. "Right. As if you couldn't summon other people to keep you company."

That catches his attention.

"What do you mean?"

"Those...beings from before. They're yours, right? Why don't you ask them to help you with your loneliness instead of pestering me?"

He's genuinely perplexed for a moment. She means Nuala and Cerridwen? They serve him, sure, but it has never crossed his mind to rely on them for...those kind of needs. They're beautiful, skilled, and wouldn't dare to deny their High Lord anything, but they're still mere servants at the end of the day. Below him and his bed.

"They're not nearly as charming as you," he replies, leaning forward. "You'll warm up to me soon enough, dear. And then you'll finally realize how incredibly lucky you are."

He lets the silence stretch between them, thick with an unspoken challenge. For a moment, her face is still, but then, her brows lower, her lips pressing into a defiant line. She meets his eyes again, her glare sharper than before.

"You’ve taken my freedom, maybe my dignity as well," she says evenly, "but that's all you'll get from me. No loyalty, no obedience, and certainly not my respect."

He holds her gaze, feeling the familiar thrill rising as her words sink in. A part of him expected this—relished it, even. He could break her down, push until she yielded, but another part of him wonders: How long will this fire last? How much can she endure before she crumbles?

"Well," he says, grinning, "we’ll see just how long you hold onto that resolve, won’t we?"

He stands up, walking to the side of the bed. He reachs out and plucks a stray curl that had fallen over her face, tucking it behind her ear. She stiffens, her eyes narrowing as he studied the sisters' creation.

She looks much cleaner than when he first brought her. Gone is the dirt and sweat from her face, now replaced by a graceful touch of makeup. Her eyes are accented with shadow, her lips painted a sparkling pink, and a soft blush colors her cheeks, accentuating her cheekbones. Though her position makes it difficult to fully appreciate the dress, he notices how it cascades over her shoulders and waist in black folds.

His gaze follows the chain peeking out from beneath her long, dark blue skirt, where the fabric drapes down to cover her feet.

"Sit up straight. Don't hide yourself."

She huffs, turning her gaze to the fireplace in a show of stubborn defiance, completely ignoring him. Her stupid pride is really starting to piss him off. If only he had access to her mind, he’d make her move with a mere thought. Curse the Cauldron yet again for giving humans the Sight.

He’s tempted to drag her to her feet himself, but just then, she stretches out on the bed, leaning back on her hands and showing off the dress in a much better light.

He chose the dress with her specifically in mind, but it looks even better than he’d imagined. The fabric clings to her torso before flowing down in soft waves to her feet, creating a shape that cups her figure elegantly. The cloth is a blend of black and deep blue, with sparkling gems resembling stars embroidered throughout, like a recreation of the night sky. The neckline grazes the valley of her chest, leaving her collarbones and part of her shoulders exposed.

Her hair has been brushed off her face, pulled back with a silver comb and the rest drapping down her back. She almost looks like a different person, if it wasn't for the permanent scowl on her face.

Cerridwen and Nuala have done a brilliant job, as usual.

"Well, what do you think?" her voice takes his attention off her shoulders, dripping with disdain. "Does it meet yout expectations, sir?"

Fuck, there's something about her calling him sir while dressed like that, laying in his bed. It only amused him the first time, and pleased his ego a bit. Why is it different now?

Maybe because she's laying there so prettily, drapped in his court's colors in an obvious claim of his ownership, and when she moves a little the slit in the skirt reveals part of her thigh, making his fingers twitch to trace over the pristine skin.

A low growl escapes his throat before he can stop it.

She widens her eyes at him, fear flashing in them for a second. He coughs and composes himself, chastising himself for losing his self-control.

He sits at the hem of the bed, schooling his features into a mask of casual indifference, though his pulse still beats thickly in his throat. His fingers brush against the fabric of the dress as he settles. She makes a show of moving away from him with furious eyes, as if his mere touch offended her.

Her defiance, cloaked in elegant silk and starlit jewels, unsettles him far more than he’ll ever admit. It irks him, how her insolence remains unyielding even when he’s draped her in the finest dress this wretched court could provide, marking her as his.

"Oh, it exceeds my expectations," he says, his voice a touch darker, unable to resist letting her see a hint of the effect the dress has on him. "You look… magnificient." He smirks, gesturing to her as though she were a painting, a work of art on display just for him.

Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she lifts her chin, the hatred simmering behind her eyes unmistakable. "Good to know. I’d hate for all this"—she gestures to herself, her hand lingering over the exposed skin of her thigh—"to be wasted on you."

The comment lands, hitting a part of him that both resents and respects her tenacity. He finds himself leaning forward without thinking, the intensity in his gaze causing her to shrink back just the slightest bit.

"Oh, make no mistake. Nothing about you will go to waste here, darling. I’ll make certain of that."

She glares at him, but something shifts in her expression, a flicker of trepidation quickly masked by steely determination. It sends a thrill through him, a potent mix of irritation and attraction. How satisfying it will be, one day, to see that unbreakable resolve bend, to see her finally yield beneath him.

"Now," he murmurs, straightening. "Behave yourself, and I might surprise you with more gifts in the future."

"And if I don’t?" Her voice is barely more than a whisper, but he catches the challenge there, hanging in the air between them.

He chuckles, low and menacing, running his thumb along her round earlobe thoughtfully. "Oh, I wouldn’t test that, if I were you." His voice drops, a hint of a threat lacing his words. "I’d hate to ruin that pretty dress."

She blinks at him, her expression suddenly going blank. Her heart is beating too rapidly for him to believe she’s truly indifferent to the situation, but the way she so quickly masks her feelings and thoughts is worthy of some admiration.

Then, she does something that catches him entirely off guard.

Her hands grip his shoulders and pull him down, right on top of her. He feels the outline of her breasts press against his chest, and his nose grazes her collarbones for a brief moment. His mind goes blank. But before he can say anything, she maneuvers herself out and shoves his face down against the bed, throwing her weight onto his back.

"What in the world are you doing now, little thing?" he grunts, but then he hears a familiar metallic clicking as she moves frantically.

The realization hits him when he feels something cold binding his wrists together in a very tight knot.

His mind snaps back into focus with a jolt. For the briefest moment, he’s caught off guard, tangled in the suddenness of how everything has happened. She’s quick, too quick for a mortal in her state. His body stiffens beneath her, the sharp tug of the cold metal biting into his wrists—binding him to the bed.

The chain. She's using the chain against him. The same chain supposedly keeping her locked in place.

When, and how the fuck did she got out of it? Without anyone noticing?

The wood of the headboard creaks when he pulls. It’s a ridiculous move, the kind of desperate attempt he’s seen from lesser beings, yet somehow... it feels different. Her strength, the way she pushed him down with such determination, it unnerves him. No human should be able to think this quickly, to turn the tables on him in such a bold way.

He growls in frustration, trying to pull his wrists free, but the chain hold fast. This situation feels too disgustingly familiar, making his skin crawl. His first instinct is to use his magic and break the damn metal, but there’s a brief, agonizing moment of uncertainty. He hasn’t lost his power entirely, but it still feels drained, distant. The realization sends a deep sense of frustration through his chest.

When he lifts his head, she’s already standing by the edge of the bed, breathing hard but calm, her eyes alight with that familiar, fiery glint. She watches him, studying him like an experiment, her lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

"You... chained me?" He can barely mask the disbelief and fury in his voice. It's absurd. She shouldn’t have the knowledge, the courage, to even consider something so reckless.

She doesn’t respond right away, but there’s a satisfied gleam in her eyes. Her hands, still trembling slightly from the rush of adrenaline, clutch the fabric of the skirt. "I’d say it’s a fair trade, wouldn’t you?" Her voice is like cold fire, biting yet controlled, a mirror of his own in certain moments.

He glares at her, the intensity of his gaze locking with hers. His body tenses as he tests the chains again. "Oh, you have some fucking nerve, you filthy, worthless thing. You seriously think you can contain me?" His growl is low, dangerous, the tone he reserves for those he's about to torture endlessly.

She just shrugs, stepping away from the bed and almost relaxed. "You got me chained here like an animal since I arrived," she says softly, almost teasingly. "I thought you might like a taste of it."

The words sting more than they should. He shifts his weight, anger mounting, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

He’s going to kill her for this. No. He’ll hand her over to Amarantha first, in front of the entire court, and let her be turned into a plaything for the sadistic bitch. And when the ungrateful thing is too broken to move, he’ll drag her back to this room, tie her down from head to toe, and watch as she writhes in agony from the mind-blowing pain he inflicts. He won’t lift a finger to heal her. Let her suffer and learn her lesson.

He's clearly understimated her all this time.

She doesn’t spare him another glance as she runs to grab the pocket from the fireplace and then straight for the door. He lets out a low, dark chuckle at the sight.

"Oh, yes, Run, little thing. Run as fast as you can. Because once I get out of here, I'll find you."

"And I won't be gentle anymore."

She freezes for a moment, hand already on the door handle. The hand holding the iron rod grip it hard enough for her knuckles to grow white.

Prologue

Nesta already expected the worst when she set off for the Wall.

But she couldn't have ever imagined this.

She's laying in a pristine, king-sized bed with sheets made of the most exquisite silk her skin has ever touched, in the middle of a massive room with some lit candles floating around, giving off an mysterious allure to the place. In theory, this should be a dream come true.

Except it's not.

Nesta grits her teeth, tugging futilely against the chain that keeps her bound to the bed by the ankle. The metal bites into her skin, and she feels the sting of each small movement, a constant reminder of her captivity. The luxury of the room, which once would've made her swoon, only added fuel to her anger now.

The elegance, the refined decoration around her felt like a mockery of her situation.

She scans the room, searching for anything that might help her break the cursed chain. The candles that hover mid-air cast a soft, golden glow, and the shadows they create dance across the stone ceiling. There are no windows, so the only exit is the door. Not that it matters; even if she managed to break free from the chain, there's no telling what—or who—would await her out there.

Her thoughts drift back to that damned Fae male, the one who’d dragged her here. His sharp, predatory smile, the cold amusement in his voice as he taunted her. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her chin, the way his magic had restrained her so effortlessly. A shiver runs through her at the memory, but she quickly suppresses it, forcing herself to think clearly. She can’t panic. Panic is useless.

She pulls at the chain again, testing its strength, but it doesn't give, and her skin is already red from the many previous attempts. Frustration bubbles inside her, and she digs her nails into her palms, trying to keep her mind from spiraling. There has to be a way out of this. There always is.

She tries to think what would Feyre do. Knowing that little beast, she probably would've found a way out of this already, and the thought makes her heart ache.

Feyre. Wild, unruly, stupidly brave Feyre. Her little sister who took the burden that belonged to their father and carried the family on her shoulders since they arrived to that filthy cottage. Her sister, who in her task to bring them food, provoked a powerful Fae beast and was taken away from her house in front of them. In front of Nesta.

It had been worse when she realized neither Elain or their useless father knew the truth . The next day, Nesta was subjected to excited talks about how lucky Feyre have been to be taken by some rich aunt Nesta knew nothing of, how some winter breeze had shattered their door. It got to the point Nesta really thought she was going mad, that what she vividly remembered from that night never happened. But whenever these thoughts pestered her, she looked at claws marked on the table, and knew she was right.

Then that weird stranger appeared at their door and asked their father to invest his money for him with a too good of an offer. And when money started pouring in like old times, allowing them to move to a beautiful mansion, Nesta snapped. She couldn't handle living in that bubble of deceit her family seemed blissfully trapped in.

Her sister had been stolen away that night, yet everything went on as if it had never happened. It wasn’t right. It was utterly, completely wrong. And she was the only one aware of it.

Nesta decided it right there and then. She went up to that mercenary from town and hired her to act as guide through the unfamiliar winter woods. Towards the Wall. The woman insisted there was no way through, but Nesta was determined. That Fae had to go through that way to take Feyre with him. There had to be some kind of entrance. A hidden path, or a secret door. Something.

Then she heard a voice, calling her from afar—a soft, indecipherable echo that sounded a bit too much like Feyre, making her walk towards it without hesitation. Had she stopped to think for a second, Nesta would've have realized that the air was filled with the same energy as that Fae's spell at the cottage, which, for some reason, didn’t affect her in the slightest.

But she was tired and eager to see Feyre again, to bring her back home once and for all. Whatever shields had protected her before against the influence of a Fae had weakened. And before she realized it, a blinding light struck her face with force, making her trip and stumble backward. She opened her eyes to a dark forest that looked straight out of a nightmare, with no sight of Feyre or the mercenary.

She fell into a trap. Probably set up by the same horrible Fae that cornered her. Or maybe it had been her imagination, a product of her stressed mind leading her to disaster.

It doesn't matter anymore.

With a deep breath, she refocuses, taking in her surroundings once more. If she can figure out where she is—or at least what he wants from her—she might be able to turn the situation in her favor. She’s survived worse odds on her way to the Wall. And she refuses to be a helpless, weak girl to be saved by someone else. Not anymore.

Suddenly, the candles go off and the whole room is coveted in darkness. Nesta grasps the bedsheets instinctively, as her eyes can no longer see what's around her. She needs to ground herself, ignore the strong drumming of her heart that resonates in the room through the heavy silence that reigns now.

She goes still, blood freezing in her body. There's no way to know what's happening and it drives her mad. ¿Has her time finally come? Has that twisted man grown sick of keeping her alive? She still remembers the stories told of what happens to the humans in Prythian. Ripped apart and their remains wasting in some Fae's stomach. Is this how it ends for her, really?

Her body shivers. Something has moved right besides her. She holds her breath, waiting for her painful demise.

"Did you miss me, dear?"

It takes her some seconds to recognize the voice. Her fear is guttered with a wave of rage when that bastard chuckles.

The fireplace crackles with a burst of flames, bringing some light back to the room. Nesta makes a show of slowly turning her heard towards him, as if he's the most uninteresting thing here.

He stands there, leaning casually against the bed post, his silhouette outlined by the flickering flames. That damnable smirk is plastered on his face, his eyes glinting with mischief as he watches her reaction. He looks far too pleased with himself, like a cat that’s cornered a mouse, and she feels the urge to strangle him with the chain.

“Sorry, did I scare you? Forgive me.” he asks, voice low and mocking. “You looked so... tense. I wanted to surprise you.” He takes a step closer, his boots silent against the polished floor, the shadows curling around his feet like living things.

Nesta’s hands grip the sheets tighter, her nails digging into the fabric as she forces herself to maintain her composure. She can't let him see how shaken she is, how his little game rattled her. Instead, she cocks her head, falling back into the cold indifference that's part of her.

“What do you want now?” she snaps, her voice harsher than she intends, but it’s better than letting him hear her true emotions. “If you plan to kill me, just do it already. You're wasting both of our times.”

He laughs, the sound rich and infuriating, filling the space between them. “Now, where would be the fun in that, dear? Specially after the trouble it took to bring you here.” He takes another step forward , the firelight casting sharp angles across his face, highlighting the dangerous amusement in his expression. “You’re far too interesting to rot so soon. You see, it gets rather boring around here, day after day, and you'll help me with that."

She feels the chain tug against her ankle as she instinctively tries to shift back, the bite of metal sending a jolt of pain up her leg. She grits her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince. Instead, she meets his gaze head-on, letting her fury show. “You should look for better hobbies."

He shrugs, the motion casual, but she catches the glint of menace beneath the veneer of nonchalance. “Maybe, but you're the first thing to truly entertain me in fifty years. You ought to be worried that it remains that way, little thing. If you can't, well..."

He doesn't continue, but Nesta knows what he means. If she can't be of use to him, there's no point in letting her live then. She's stuck being his personal plaything, and expected to act accordingly, or else she'll die. She doesn't know how it is dying by a Fae's hands but she knows it won't be merciful in her case. He'll take his time with her, surely to amuse himself until the end.

He squints his eyes at her, burrows furrowing. His expression turns more serious, focused even. As if he's trying to find something in her.

Nesta doesn't look away, shoving her fear back down from the millionth time and pulling of every fiber of stubborness within her to stand her ground.

He huffs. Then leans his knee on the bed, slowly moving closer to her until his face hovers inches above hers, the heat of his breath mingling with her own. She lays back on her hands, her breath falling short when she realizes she's caged between him and the damn bed. His violet eyes are piercing her, staring at her unblinking.

Nesta's heart stutters in her chest, but keeps her expression locked in a mask of indifference.

The bed dips slightly under his weight as he inches closer, the shadows casting dark, flickering shapes across his already inhuman features. Her pulse pounds in her ears, each beat echoing in the silence that hangs between them. But she refuses to flinch, refuses to give him any satisfaction of seeing how vulnerable she feels.

"Interesting," he mutters, cocking his head slightly. "I can't hear you at all."

Nesta frowns, reading his comment as another mockering, but pauses when a flash of confusion blinks in his eyes for a second.

"What do you-?"

"I felt something was off earlier, but I didn't think-" he shakes his head, somehow without interrupting his intense stare. "Sweet Mother, you're full of surprises."

Nesta blinks, unable to hide her confusion at the moment. He seems to notice and lets out a light chuckle. A sound almost human.

"Let me guess, do you see through glamours too by chance?" A hint of genuine curiosity in his voice, as if he's just asking about the color of her dress.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She doesn't like this. It feels like he's figuring out something about herself that she doesn't know. It unsettles her.

He lifts a groomed, dark brow. "Have you ever witnessed something really strange that you had no explanation for, but no one else noticed? Things that just didn't make sense in your mind?"

A shattered door. Claw marks on the table. A rich aunt Nesta never heard of before but suddenly everyone knows.

A roaring beast that steals little sisters away in front of their families and no one else remembers.

Her mouth dries up.

"What do you mean?" She manages to get out.

He clicks his tongue. "Stop it. You know exactly what I mean, don't you?"

"Frankly, I don't understand a single thing you say or do. Nor I want to."

He purses his lip. "I could peel your skin off from talking to me like that, little thing."

She gulps, lifting her chin up. "And what's stopping you?"

He sits up, creating some distance between them. Nesta feels like she can breathe again.

"There are better ways to discipline pets. Besides," he drawls. "I'll hate to spill blood in my bed."

She grits her teeth, terror and rage tangled within her. Of course, that would be the main concern for an egotistical, twisted monster like him.

Wait.

He said his bed.

Suddenly, the chain feels like it’s burning, and not because she’s pulling it. A wave of shame, disgust, and fury creeps over her skin.

"You son of a bitch." She doesn't even think how improper it is to curse like that, how dissapointed her mother would be. She lunges at him, catching him by surprise enough to wrap her hands around his throat.

Blood is rushing to her ears. His bed. He chained her up to his bed. It all dawns to her. Calling her pet. All those suggestive taunts. Getting all over her personal space.

It seems like men are all the same, regardless of the race.

She won't let it happen. Absolutely not. He's writhing under her, grabbing her wrists painfully hard, but she ignores it. He didn't see it coming, which gives Nesta the advantage she needs.

She'll kill him before he gets to lay a singer finger on her. Fae, deadly as they are, are still made of skin that can bleed. And bones that can be broken.

Nesta's fingers dig into his throat, her nails pressing against his skin as she leans all her weight into her grip. Her pulse thunders in her ears, drowning out everything but the single-minded determination to stop him—forever. The fury coursing through her is a potent fire, pushing aside all rational thought.

He snarls beneath her, his fingers biting into her wrists in an attempt to pry her hands away, but she holds on with a ferocity that surprises them both. His skin is warm beneath her touch, too human for someone like him. The thought only fuels her, and she presses harder, her knuckles whitening with the strain.

"Enough," he growls, his voice tight, his eyes darkening with anger. But she doesn’t stop; she won’t stop. She’ll make him pay for every single one of his twisted words, his taunts, his degradation. She’s done letting men think they have any right over her.

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes—understanding? Perhaps even a touch of respect? But he grins up at her, a cruel, sharp smile that twists his handsome face into something chilling. With a swift, forceful move, he shifts beneath her, breaking her hold and pinning her wrists above her head with ease, trapping her in place beneath him.

Nesta resists with all her desesperation, kicking and scratching, her efforts becoming obviously futile. He has an inhuman strenght, not to mention his powers, but it'll be a cold day in hell before she gives up.

"Well, well," he murmurs, a wicked grin in his mouth, "and here I thought you couldn't surprise me more."

She glares up at him, her fury still burning, her breathing ragged, unyielding. She feels no regret. Whatever happens now, she'll face it with dignity.

His grip tightens, but she doesn't waver.

"You think you’re so brave, right?" he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. It’s almost gentle, deceptively soft, but she can hear the threat coiling beneath it. She pissed him off.

He leans in close, the shadow of his breath against her cheek. His lips brush her ear as he speaks, the touch so light it’s barely there. "But I wonder… how much of that is real? And how much is just an act to protect your pride?"

Nesta swallows, her throat suddenly dry, but she manages to keep her voice steady. "Why don’t you try me and find out?" she bites out, her tone cold and daring, even as she feels the tremor building in her hands.

It's foolish, really. She has no way of defending herself, even if she wasn't chained. There's nothing for him to find out.

His smile widens, and she hates how he seems to find this all so amusing—how he treats her defiance as a game rather than a challenge. But there's a shift in his gaze then, something darker and more dangerous than the playful facade he’s kept up until now. His hand comes up to her face, but instead of grabbing her harshly, he traces a finger along her jawline, a feather-light touch that makes her skin prickle. Not entirely by fear.

She hates it.

"I just might, dear," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a low, velvety purr. "But don’t worry… I’ve got all the time in the world."

She can feel the chain around her ankle pulling taut as she instinctively tries to edge away, but she forces herself to stop. Refuses to give him any hint of how much his words have shaken her.

Nesta matches his gaze with all the fire she can muster, letting her fury rise to the surface.

"All the time in the world to be disappointed, then," she hisses, eyes blazing as she looks into his, lifting her chin up. "Because you’ll get nothing from me. I'll never give you anything."

A beat of silence passes, and for the first time, she sees his expression falter, just slightly—a flash of something inscrutable crossing his features. His fingers pause against her skin, the warmth of his touch lingering as he studies her with an intensity that makes her feel as though he’s peeling away every layer of her resolve. Seeing through her.

But then, just as quickly, the mask of amusement returns, and he leans back, releasing the tension between them.

"Of course," he says simply, rising back to his knees. His voice carries a note of satisfaction, a promise of further games to come. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

He steps back from the bed, leaving her with the firelight casting long shadows across his retreating form. She can only stare at him, words dead in her throat.

"You can have the bed. Don't worry, we won't share it. I barely use it anyway."

He shoves his hands down his pockets, walking away in a nonchalant way. He turns his head at her one last time, his eyes connecting with hers. Something shifts in the air.

Nesta tenses.

"By the way," he snapped his fingers. "There. A little gift—for having the balls to try that."

It's only when he shuts the door behind him when she looks at the gift.

A trail of warm food placed in the table right besides the bed. Just by the smell alone, Nesta can tell last time she ate something like that was when her mother was still alive.

Hesitantly, she reaches out, fingers trembling as they brush against the edge of the tray. Her gaze remains fixed on the door, as if he might return any moment to snatch it all away, or mock her for daring to accept his so-called gift.

She picks up a piece of bread, bringing it to her lips, and nearly flinches at the warmth, at how it softens the edge of her hunger. She forgot how it was. The water is cool, soothing her parched throat, and each bite steadies her just a little more.

As she munches eagerly, a realization hits her:

The hallways are carved out of pale stone, lined on either side by torches. No shadowy spots to hide. It's a wide open space, but she barely has the chance to appreciate the details. The eery silence that reigns in there is only interupted by the echo of her hurried steps as she runs.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. Every hallway looks the same. She’s taken several turns already, but can’t, for the life of her, figure out where she is.

But there’s no other option. She has to keep running and hope she finds a way out—or else stay locked up until the monster tires of her and ends her life. Especially now that she’s given him very good reasons to do so.

Nothing has gone as it should since she left for the Wall. Nesta thought that embarking on a life-threatening journey to rescue Feyre was the craziest thing she’d ever do.

Until she was captured by a Fae made of deadly shadows and locked in his opulent room. Until she tried to strangle that same Fae with her bare hands. Until she chained him to his own bed with the very metal that had once been locked around her ankle.

Nesta isn’t naïve enough to believe it will hold him down forever. He’s an ancient being, filled with power. She doesn’t know how, but she can feel it—perhaps the same way she can see through spells.

'Have you ever witnessed something really strange that you had no explanation for, but no one else noticed? Things that just didn't make sense in your mind?'

He obviously knows the reason. It unsettles her deeply that he’s aware of some hidden part of herself, something she doesn’t even fully understand. For someone to know you like that is dangerous. She learnt that the hard way, long ago.

She skids around a corner, nearly slipping as she pushes forward, her pulse drumming louder than her footsteps. The torches flicker as she passes, shadows trailing her like phantoms.

She thinks of Feyre, her sister’s face flashing in her mind, and she clenches her fists, gritting her teeth. Nesta will get out of this wretched place and find her, somehow. She will drag her back home, away from these monsters and this godforsaken land.

That thought pushes her fear down and drives her forward. The iron poker burns her hands as she grips it harder—it’s the only weapon she could find in that room. She’s been planning her escape ever since those hellish shadowy creatures spawned in the room and dragged her from the bed.

She had no way of knowing what time it was, only that she’d been sleeping shortly before they arrived. She’d dreamed of Feyre, of Elain, and for a moment, all was well. Then the dream twisted into a nightmare of black claws pinning her to the bed by her throat, choking her slowly as they dug into her skin. A pair of violet eyes stared at her with cruel amusement while blood trickled down her neck. She tried to move, but her body wouldn’t respond. It was all pain, darkness, pure agony.

She woke up drenched in sweat, gasping for air. Her eyes took in the room, fixing on the orange flames crackling in the fireplace. She buried her face in her hands and, for the first time since she’d left, she sobbed.

She had already stopped by the time those Fae materialized in front of her, her eyes still red and puffy. They were made of shadows and floated around the room, their features barely discernable, save for their loose, flowing cobweb gowns. They didn't say a word even when they reached for her. She tried to fight them off, get their cold inhuman hands off her, but to no avail. The grip around her forearms remained firm.

She knew exactly who had sent them. Shadows were obviously his domain. One of them crouched down, tugged at the chain a couple of times, and unlocked it, freeing her ankle from its weight. The relief was short-lived, though, as they dragged her across the room and into a nondescript chamber, where they stripped her bare and bathed her roughly.

The sensation of hands tearing away her clothes and touching her skin stirred panic and fury, making her lash out in an attempt to push them off. But it was useless. The two shadows forced her to stay still in the tub as they scrubbed her. Then they wrapped her in a thin robe and, to her confusion, began to paint her face and brush her hair.

Their brushes were cold and tickling, their shadowy grips firm whenever she squirmed. They didn’t speak, offering no explanation for their actions—though Nesta had no doubt it was yet another sick game of that bastard.

When they were finished, she hardly recognized her reflection. She looked regal, reminiscent of the noble girl she’d once been. Her face was artfully decorated with cosmetics that subtly enhanced her features, just enough to suit a lady’s propriety.

The shadows didn’t stop there, of course. They seized her again, wrapping her in a dress. It was tight around her torso and flowed loosely toward the ground, cascading over her legs like a sea of stars. The design was unlike anything she’d ever worn—or would have if she had a choice.

"What’s this? Why are you…?" But before she could finish, they dragged her back to the bed, locked the chain around her ankle once more, and vanished as soon as they did so.

She was alone again, processing what had just happened. In their absence, she could feel the nightmare flooding back—the suffocation, the pain, the raw terror as she was killed, again and again. Those violet eyes full of evil.

Nesta decided she couldn’t stay there any longer, trapped as a plaything for these faeries, awaiting her inevitable demise at their hands. She would not let that nightmare become her reality.

Hit with a surge of determination and desperation, Nesta grabbed the metal chain with both hands and began pulling at it repeatedly. Her hands ached, her ankle throbbed, but she didn’t stop. She ignored everything but the relentless clink of the metal as she tried to tear it free, focusing on the sound it made when she tugged at certain angles.

Finally, the cold air hit the raw skin of her ankle, and the chain fell to the ground. She almost sobbed again.

But she wasn’t done. Carefully, she set one foot on the floor, testing her strength. Her eyes shifted to the poker by the fireplace, lying close enough to the flames to sear anyone’s skin if touched on the wrong side. Faeries have skin, too, after all. And it's not so much different from human's, if her experience with her hands around someone's throat were anything to go by.

She began to formulate her plan right there. It was very risky, downright suicidal, but at that point she was ready to try anything for her freedom. So she returned to the bed, hid the chain under the skirt and waited for him.

She still can't believe it worked.

Another turn. Her lungs burn, and the air feels thicker, heavier, with each step. She’s in a maze meant to ensnare her, to lead her back to where she started, drive her to insanity. Her thoughts race, searching for any sense of direction, any logic in this place.

But nothing about it makes sense. Seems to be the rule of the faerie world.

She rounds another corner and stops dead. Ahead, two guards are stationed at the end of the hall, clad in dark armor that reflects none of the torchlight. They haven't seen her yet, too engrossed in their conversation.

Nesta takes a step back and presses her back against the wall beneath it, concealing her body with the shadows. Sucking in deep breaths behind her mouth, she glances back down the corridor. They're still there, seemingly unaware of her presence.

She wonders how it works. Don't faeries smell humans from miles away? That's the only explanation on how her captor found her the way he did. And she knows by what he said that he could, in fact, smell her like a piece of meat. But these guards haven't so much as glanced in her direction. ¿Maybe not all faeries can sense humans?

She tries to make out pieces of what they're talking about. Their voices are the only sound in the hallway, so it's easy for her to listen. Perhap she can hear something useful, a hint to leave this place.

"...to leave. He's...bad mood."

"...prick. Almost worse...other."

"Waiting...company."

They chuckle. A sound so unnerving it makes her skin crawl.

"Vanserra...most dangerous."

Vanserra. A name. It means nothing to her, but they way they say it carries a certain air of authority. Whoever it is, it's someone they have to obey.

Her mind is running through multiple possibilities, strategies to proceed. She has to act now. Every minute she spends here without moving is more time for that monster to find her. She's not that foolish to think the iron poker in her hand will stop him.

Suddenly, the guards begin to move towards her and Nesta's blood runs cold. She turns, sprinting down another passageway, uncaring that they surely heard her now.

She’s running blind again, every hallway an endless stretch of pale stone and torchlight. Her mind flits back to the Fae chained in his bed, his rage as he realized what she’d done. She’s not sure if she’s more terrified of his revenge or the despair of knowing she might never escape this place. That it was all for nothing.

The hall narrows, and ahead, she catches a dim glimmer. She sprints toward it, pressing her hands against the wall. There's a slight fissure in the rock, opening onto a crudely carved, dark subterranean passageway. It's large enough for one person to squeeze through—so jagged and rough that it's obviously not used often.

It’s deathly silent, with a faint, warm breeze whistling through. The sound of footsteps and angry shouts approaching spurs her into action; she squeezes herself into a narrow opening, holding her breath to fit. She remains perfectly still as the guards pass her hiding spot. When their footsteps fade, she moves on. The iron rod scrapes against the stone, and she almost feels sorry for the high-quality fabric of the dress getting ruined. Almost.

The passageway narrows, forcing her to suck in her stomach to keep moving. The smell of burning wood reaches her nose, and distant sounds—voices—grow clearer. Light seeps through cracks in the stone, giving her glimpses of the other side.

Bedrooms. This passageway connects to other fae’s bedrooms. She wants to scream.

Nesta closes her eyes for a moment, steeling herself. She can’t fall apart now. She's already here. Turning back is not an option anymore. And she has to find Feyre.

She keeps moving. The voices fade, and her body bumps into a solid wall. The smell of burning wood is stronger now, drifting from just beyond it.

She presses her hands against the wall, pushing with all her strength until it slides aside. A hidden door, then. As soon as she steps out, it closes behind her.

Before her it's a magnificent bedroom, entirely different from the one she was locked in, yet equally beautiful.

The color scheme is rich in golds and reds, with warm orange hues. Another king-sized bed stands at the center, adorned with exquisite bed linens embroidered in flame-like patterns. The posts are made of real gold, and the fire blazing in the enormous hearth beside it casts an ethereal glow across the room. A large, intricately carved wardrobe stands nearby, its surface adorned with thorny patterns. A small desk is cluttered with scattered papers and books, yet looks as expensive as everything else.

If Nesta were asked to describe it, she’d say this room is made of fire and fury. It radiates a palpable power, as though the very walls are steeped in the essence of whoever resides here. The heat from the fire makes her skin prickle, and a strange, welcome warmth settles over her, seeping into her bones.

She walks around slowly, eyes scanning for exits. She notes a large set of double doors to her right—likely the main entrance—and a smaller, inconspicuous door to the left. Her heartbeat quickens, calculating the odds.

But then she hears faint footsteps, muffled but approaching. Her gaze darts to the wardrobe, and without another thought, she darts toward it, slipping inside just as the door swings open. She presses herself against the back of the wardrobe, the scent of polished wood and faintly spiced cologne surrounding her. Through the crack between the doors, she watches.

A figure steps inside, tall and imposing, dressed in an elegant jacket of scarlet and gold. His movements are fluid, controlled. His gaze sweeps over the room, his expression sharp and focused, as if he senses something amiss.

Nesta holds her breath, willing herself invisible. She grips the iron poker with both hands, ready to pounce.

The Fae moves to the bed, then over to the fireplace, seemingly lost in thought. His fingers trail along the desk, tracing patterns on the scattered papers. And then, he turns on his back and leaves. The sound of doors closing resonate in the room.

Nesta waits until she's sure he's gone. She steps out of the wardrobe carefully, glancing in both directions. Her heart pounds so hard she can feel it in her throat.

Standing in the middle of the room, she watches the flames flicker. Their light reflects off her dress, casting an orange glow that transforms the fabric into the hues of a sunset rather than a night sky. She likes it better.

Suddenly, the flames sink in size and she barely has time to react before she feels a strong hand grabbing her by the arm, grip iron-clad.

"Well, well" a voice low and silk-smooth drawls in her ear, breath hot against her skin. "What do we have here? A little bird who..."

Nesta doesn't even think it.

She whips around and swings the poker, the sharp, burning end aimed blindly at him.

The iron rod connects, glancing off his arm before he jerks back with a low, furious hiss. She stumbles, nearly losing her grip on the poker, but she doesn’t let go. Instead, she takes a shaky step back, holding it between them like a weapon. Her pulse pounds like thunder, her gaze locked on the Fae.

The flames leap higher in the fireplace as he steadies himself, one hand cradling his injured arm. His face twists, not in pain but in something sharper, colder—a kind of restrained fury that makes her blood run cold.

"Quite the little fighter, aren’t you?" he says, his voice low and dripping with dark amusement, though his eyes burn with ire. "I assume you're not the female I was expecting tonight."

He speaks in a unfamiliar accent, different from the other Fae man she knows. His voice is rich and deep in a way that would be attractive in an human man, but coming from someone like him, Nesta refuses to feel anything.

Just by looking at him she knows he’s of the same status—or close—to her captor. He’s taller than any man she’s ever met, with dark red hair perfectly cut over his nape and amber eyes that resemble two flaming orbs. He's dressed even more elegantly than the other bastard, and Nesta has the knowledge to see he has a refined taste and takes pride in his appearance.

Not to mention she can practically feel the power thrumming off him, as palpable as the fire’s warmth at her back. This is no ordinary fae—he’s one of the important kind. The masters.

And this is his bedroom.

Nesta feels the urge to scream again.

He huffs, releasing his injured arm, and she catches sight of a thin trail of blood trickling down his elegantly stitched sleeve. It’s a dark shade of red—almost black—a stark reminder that he’s not human, but a monster.

She holds the iron rod between them, keeping it firmly pressed against his chest, though she knows it’s futile. The sharp end digs in, and he raises an eyebrow, glancing from the poker to her with a look of faint bewilderment.

"Who are you?" it takes everything within her to keep her voice steady.

He snorts. "I believe I should be the one asking that, birdie. This is my bedroom."

Nesta bites her lips, her pulse beating in her ears. He doesn't look threatening, but that doesn't mean he's safe. Yet there's something oddly comforting about this room, about its aura. She can't explain it, but it just feels alluring to her. Just like the man in front of her.

'Focus, you idiot. He's not a man. He's a predator.'

She straightens her spine, trying to appear taller and more confident than she truly feels. She’s no fighter, despite the iron rod clenched in her fingers. Her weapons have always been her words—and she doesn't know to what extent they're useful against faeries.

The fae draws a twisted grin, his fire eyes gleaming with menace.

"How interesting," he takes a step closer to her, the iron pressing further into his chest. "I wasn't aware the Night court kept human pets now."

The fury that flares up at being called "pet" dims in confusion as she processes his words. ¿Night Court? Is that where that fae of shadows comes from?

The red-haired fae picks up on her shock instantly, his grin widening as if he’s uncovered something amusing and entirely to his advantage.

"Oh?" he drawls, a hint of mockery in his voice. "Don’t tell me you didn’t even know? You're dressed like one of them. A wonder we haven't heard of you." He says the last part more to himself, as though she’s little more than a spectator to his thoughts.

Nesta grits her teeth, keeping her grip on the poker tight. "I don’t care about that. I only want to leave."

The fae’s expression shifts, some trace of real interest sparking in his eyes, though his amusement remains. "Leave? And where exactly would you go, little mortal? This place isn’t exactly known for its... hospitality to uninvited guests. Specially if they're humans. She has a...let's say strong dislike for your kind."

He lifts his fingers to trace the iron rod lightly, as though inspecting it. "Besides, did no one tell you it’s rather rude to wander into another male’s chambers?" His tone drips with sarcasm, but Nesta catches the veiled threat in his words.

She truly has the worst luck in the world. Jumping from one sick bastard to another. ¿When will this end?

Nesta’s pulse races. She can feel the power simmering just beneath his polished exterior, as potent as the fae she’s managed to escape from. Her hand tightens on the rod as she meets his gaze defiantly. "You didn’t answer my question. Who are you?"

For a moment, he simply stares at her, the smirk fading as he watches her face with sharp, unreadable eyes. Then, he inclines his head in a graceful bow.

"Call me Eris," he says, voice low and almost purring. "And you, little bird?"

Nesta hesitates. Giving her name to a Fae is a horrible idea, or so she's been taught. But she also thought iron could hurt them and she saw her captor holding it with his own hands to chain her. She's not sure what to do.

But he's given her something more than the other male has. So maybe she can allow herself to be a bit nice.

"I'll tell you if you let me out of here," she replies after a beat, keeping her chin high.

Eris’s smile returns, smug and unbelieving, as if he’s found something truly valuable. "Seriously?" he repeats, letting a short huff of amusement. "I just gave you mine. It's not fair I don't get to know yours."

Her eyes narrow. "You could be lying to me for all I know. Some knowledge is dangerous in the wrong hands."

He stares at her. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"I agree," he clasps his hands behind him, leaning forward. The end of the poker cutting slightly through his exquisite jacket. He doesn't seem to care. "So pray tell, why should I let you leave after telling you my name, mhm? It's dangerous knowledge, after all."

She tenses.

"What could I possibly do against you? I'm just a human."

He takes a step closer to her.

"A human dressed like a member of the Night court, who just intruded in my bedroom with a weapon. Forgive me for being a bit skeptical."

His gaze never leaves hers, and though Nesta tries to keep her stance steady, she feels herself shrinking back involuntarily. His body is on the way to her exit, but it dawns to her that, even if she managed to get pass him by some miracle, there could be more faes outside.

She doesn't have time to think that far ahead. She needs to act now.

The fire cracks behind her, the comforting smell of burning wood caressing her nose. She can do this.

"Please, I just want to go home." Fighting back hasn’t worked so far, so maybe playing the role of a pitiful, scared human will "He kidnapped me, kept me locked in his room like a beast. I escaped by sheer miracle, but I know he's looking for me now."

His eyebrows rise briefly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before it vanishes, replaced by an unimpressed stare. If Nesta wasn't so well versed in those same tactics, she would've missed it.

She knows Fae look down on her kind, see them as inferior beings. If she plays on that role, she might get the upper hand here.

Eris watches her, the flickering firelight casting his sharp features in a golden glow. His smirk fades and his eyes narrow slightly, as though he’s debating whether or not to believe her tale.

"How exactly did you escape? I know he wouldn't have let you go so easily. And there's no way you could've overpower him."

Shit. He’s cornering her with that question. If she tells him the truth—that she outwitted a powerful fae and chained him to the bed—there’s a risk he’ll see her as a genuine threat and act accordingly. Or worse, he won’t believe her at all. And hand her over to her captor.

Everything's been a risk since she got out of that room. She can't falter. Not now. Not when might be so close to freedom.

"When his servants came to dress me, they unlocked the chain, and forgot to lock it again when they left. I saw an opportunity. I grabbed the poker and ran away before he returned." she sighs. "I almost got caught by some guards, so I hid. That's how I ended up here."

He hums, looking at her in silence, as if pushing her to continue.

"Please, I beg you, let me go. My s...family need me. I must find them. I promise I won't tell anyone about this place. Ever. I just...let me go home."

As she talks, she realizes it's not an act anymore. Every word comes straight out of her heart, her raw emotions. She misses her home deeply, misses her sisters. She must save Feyre from that monster's claws and bring her back home. Her eyes grow misty against her will, but she's too weary to feel asshamed.

She only wants this nightmare to end.

The fae doesn't say anything. Not a sound comes out of him. Nesta doesn't dare to look at his face.

"Home, you say?" His voice drips with an emotion she can't identify. "You really think that's an option for you now? That's why you went through all that trouble? Sweet Mother, I forgot how blissfully unaware mortals are of everything around them." He looks away, his expression serious, contrasting greatly to how he's been acting until now. "And what, pray tell, is it you intend to do once you’re back in your quaint little life? Forget this ever happened? Forget this place? Him?" His tone lowers, his words taunting. "Do you truly believe a creature like him will let you escape unscathed?"

Nesta's blood freezes, her head throbbing. The grip around the iron rod begins to tremble.

"There must be a way, I know it..."

"Let's suppose I let you out of here. What then?" he interrupts her, insisting. Taking her apart. "Do you have any idea where you are right now? How to navigate this place? You don't. Bet you don't even know where the entrance is. You don't have a plan, am I right? Risked your sorry life for nothing."

Nesta moves before her common sense can't stop it. She swings the iron rod again, narrowly missing his side as he sidesteps.

Eris laughs, a sharp, delighted sound, even as he raises his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, you're fun. I like you."

"Shut up. You're a powerful fae, I can feel it. There has to be a way you can help me here. What do I have to do?"

Eris’s smile returns, smug and predatory, as if he’s found what he was looking for.

"Well, I can think of a few ways you can...persuade me to help."

Nesta already recognizes this tone, resisting the urge to roll her eyes and the shiver all through her back. Maybe she should try to aim for the head this time.

"Not that, you disgusting pervert." She grits her teeth.

Eris hums, his expression unreadable as he steps even closer, close enough now that the heat of his body mixes with the warmth of the fire behind her. "How brave of you to say that. Or just suicidal. I can't decide."

Nesta holds her ground, though her instincts scream at her to back away. She won’t cower—not yet. She tilts her chin up, meeting his fiery gaze head-on. "I repeat. I’m no threat to you. If you're not going to help me, then let me go, and you won’t have to deal with me ever again."

Eris laughs, low and rich, the sound reverberating through the room and her body. "You misunderstand, birdie. I don’t 'have' to deal with you. I’m choosing to."

His hand reaches out, catching her wrist with infuriating ease as he gently pulls the poker from her grip. He lets it clatter to the ground, his hand still wrapped around her wrist, firm but not painful. "And now I’m wondering…" He leans in, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off him. "Why the High Lord of the Night Court went to such lengths to dress you up like his prize, only to let you slip away."

Her pulse pounds in her ears, but she forces her voice steady. "I’m no one’s prize."

Eris’s lips twitch, his grip tightening just slightly. "No, you’re not. You're a pet." he murmurs. "But I think there's something more of you than that. And I really want to find out."

His free hand raises toward her face, and Nesta reacts without thinking. She stomps down on his foot with all her strength, yanking her wrist free as his grip loosens.

But before she can grab the iron rod again, his whole face changes. It’s almost imperceptible, but she notices it, and it makes her wary.

He tilts his head to the side, as if listening to something outside. She watches him, his sudden change in behavior unsettling her enough to keep quiet. The faint tension in his posture, the way his eyes flicker toward the door, and the tilt of his head, as if straining to hear something beyond the thick walls. It sets her on edge.

Her heart pounds in her chest, the icy claws of unease curling around her spine. Whatever—or whoever—has his attention, it makes him pause. And that, more than anything, terrifies her.

A cold, horrifying though comes to her. ¿Could it be him? Has he found her at last?

Suddenly, he turns his head at her with an intense stare. Something flicker in his eyes, and he's frowning. He looks at her as if he's conflicted. ¿Why?

He grabs her harshly by the arms, but not enough to hurt, and basically lifts her up in the air. She doesn't have time to protest before he presses a hand against the wall where she came from and...pushes it open like nothing. Like he does it regularly.

He shoves her inside and gives her a stern look of warning.

"Leave the way you came," he instructs, his tone firm but distracted. "Once you're out, keep your right hand pressed to the wall and follow it. It’ll take you where you need to go. Don’t run, don’t make a sound, and above all, avoid the shadows. They’re not safe." He turns his head to the door again in a pissed off gesture. "And one more thing."

He grabs her wrist, and Nesta feels the cool weight of something pressed into her palm. She looks down.

A knife. Crafted from gold and ash wood.

"That will hurt a Fae far more than burning iron," he says evenly. "Keep it with you at all times. Even a light touch of it will have them writhing in pain."

She can barely process what's happening. Everything feels too fast, his words too cryptic.

"Why are you doing this? What's going on?"

The glare he shoots her makes her breath hitch.

"He's here."

Her chest tightens as her heartbeat thunders painfully against her ribs, each beat like a desperate plea to escape.

"But... I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this? Why are you helping me?"

He stares at her, his expression unreadable, though something flickers in his eyes—a shadow of emotion too fleeting to name.

"We’re not close enough yet to share our secrets," he says, his smile sharp but empty, like a blade with no warmth behind it. "Now go, before I regret it and hand you over to him."

Her mind spins, a storm of unanswered questions she can’t bring herself to voice. Her tongue feels heavy, her thoughts muddled.

But one thing is unmistakable: he’s helping her. For reasons she can’t fathom, this Fae is offering her a chance. A lifeline. And he hasn’t demanded anything in return.

Before she can say another word, he moves to push the wall closed.

"Pity. I didn't got your name in the end," he says, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Maybe next time."

It's so absurd she feels the urge to chuckle. For the first time since she was kidnapped. It's a miracle. Or a sign of insanity.

"Nesta."

"What?"

She locks eyes with him, her gaze unwavering as she stares into those amber depths, like molten fire swirling. Her own reflection in those fiery orbs.

"My name is Nesta."

He blinks.

"Nesta." He repeats, savouring the syllabes in a soft, low tone. "Be careful, Nesta. Everything can be trap here."

She grips the knife.

"Trust me, I know now" she replies. "Thank you. For doing this."

He chuckles.

"Don't thank me yet, birdie. After all, I'm sure we'll meet again."

The wall closes in her face before she can ask, leaving her alone in the darkness once more.

She battles with herself to get moving, her mind still reeling from everything that just transpired. Pressing her right hand firmly against the wall beside her, she begins to walk back on her steps.

Every step is deliberate, her movements slow and calculated, as she struggles to keep silent. Her breathing is shallow, her chest tight with the effort of not making a sound.

If that bastard truly is here, then there’s a chance—pretty big one—that she'll pass by him through this hidden passage, near the damn rooms.

The weight of the knife in her hand is both a comfort and a reminder of the dangers that lie ahead. Nesta moves cautiously, every small sound amplified in the thick silence surrounding her. Her heart hammers in her chest, a constant warning of how close she is to being discovered. The passage feels tighter now, the stone walls pressing in as if the space itself is conspiring to trap her.

As she walks, her mind races. Who was that fae, Eris? Why had he helped her? And why, despite the sharpness in his eyes and the veiled threat in his words, had he let her go instead of handing her over to the other? Surely it would've been easier for him, and spared him any trouble.

Her breath catches in her throat as a thought hits her like a cold wave—was he playing her all along? Or was there something more to his intentions?

The wall beneath her fingers feels cold, unyielding, as if daring her to falter. She forces herself to ignore the creeping dread, pressing onward, trusting in the directions Eris had given her. The passage twists and turns, its walls narrowing at times, forcing her to squeeze through with minimal room to spare. She forces her thoughts back to the present. 'Focus. Get out of here. Find Feyre.'

The low murmur of voices reaches her ears just as she rounds a corner. Her stomach tightens. They’re close—too close for her liking. She slows her pace, flattening herself against the wall as much as she can, holding her breath. Her eyes scan the shadows, looking for any sign of movement.

The voices grow louder, unmistakable now. It’s him. The one she’s been running from.

"Sorry, but I don't have the slighest idea what you're talking about," That's Eris. She recognizes that suave, arrogant tone. "Are you sure you're not just tired? I know she's been keeping you busy lately..."

"Spare me your bullshit, Vanserra," her tormentor growls, and Nesta's heart stops at how close he sounds. "I can smell her here. Where.Is.She?"

Hold on. Vanserra? Did he just call Eris 'Vanserra'?

'Vanserra...most dangerous.'

'...prick. Almost worse...other.'

'Waiting...company.'

¿What was it he said when he saw her?

'I assume you're not the female I was expecting tonight'

Her knees threaten to give out, her breath growing heavy and clawing at her chest. In her desesperation to escape from a monster, she jumped into another one. And made him bleed.

She truly, definitely, has the worst luck in this godsforsaken world.

But he also let her leave. Even gave her a weapon to defend herself against his kind, or so he claimed. So what's the truth here? Why are these creatures so dreadfully confusing?

"Who exactly is 'her'? I don't understand...Oh!" He chuckles mockingly, in that taunting way of this. "Are you hiding something from us, Rhys? It must be pretty important if our queen doesn't know yet."

"I'm warning you, Eris, I'm losing my patience here. Tell me where the fuck she is now, or you can say goodbye to you and your miserable family before tomorrow."

Her pulse quickens again. It’s really him—her captor, the shadowed fae who had claimed her as his. His voice is unmistakable, even though he’s out of sight. Nesta’s stomach lurches with the realization that she’s within inches of him, and the thought of what he might do if he catches her sends a shiver down her spine.

Keep moving, she tells herself. Don’t stop. Ignore them.

But it's hard to do so when they're so close to her, specially the moment Eris replies.

"Keep my family out of our filthy mouth." It shocks her how deadly serious he sounds. How threatening. "They have nothing to do with your personal messes. If I were you, I'll be more worried about Amarantha finding out. I wonder what she'll think of her whore keeping an human pet under her nose, without her permission?

Whore? Amarantha?

Suddenly, there's a loud bang and she has to bite her lip to not scream.

Someone punched a wall, cracked a hole in it probably. She can hear some heavy breathing, but can't tell whose.

"I'm sick of your games, Vanserra." It's him. "I don't like when people tamper with my things. Tell me where you hid her, or I'll fucking slit your throat right here. How would your mother fare mourning another son?"

Nesta takes another step, but her foot catches on something—a loose stone, a crack in the floor. The faint sound is enough to make her freeze, her breath caught in her throat. The voices stop. The air becomes thick with tension, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She closes her eyes, praying she hasn’t been heard.

Seconds stretch into eternity.

Then, a faint shuffle of feet.

She presses herself further against the stone, her heart racing, praying to whatever gods might listen that she’s not discovered. She waits, breath held, her fingers tightening around the golden knife. The faintest tremor runs through her as she imagines what would happen if the shadows, that dark fae that had haunted her every step, found her now.

Her breath escapes in a silent rush, and she forces herself to keep going, her movements fluid but swift. Just a little further. Just a little further. She has move away from them. Far enough to give her some advantage by the time he comes out to get her. Whatever farse Eris had been spouting to distract him is over with her mistake.

Her mind is racing as the path stretches ahead of her—there’s no going back now. She’s committed herself to whatever happens next. The knife feels cold in her hand, despite having been there for quite a while now.

The voices resume, softer now, but she can no longer understand them. She takes it as a good sign.

The passage winds on, the flickering lights from the cracks that guided her earlier growing faint and distant. Nesta’s pulse thunders in her ears as she moves, every nerve in her body attuned to the faintest shift in sound or shadow. She keeps her right hand on the wall, gripping the knife in her left. Eris’s instructions echo in her mind: Follow the wall. Don’t run. Don’t make a sound. Avoid the shadows.

She tries not to think about how close she came to being caught—or how the bastard would’ve reacted if he’d seen her. His threats, his fury—it all feels like a dark storm closing in, and she’s only barely staying ahead of it.

The air grows colder as she moves deeper into the passage, and she shivers despite herself. Her dress feels flimsy and useless against the chill. The fabric whispers against her legs as she walks, the only sound she allows herself to make.

She misses the fire and the wood from Eris' bedroom. She's going insane, no doubt, missing to be in a Fae's presence.

Nesta rounds another corner, her steps faltering as the walls widen slightly. The space feels different here—emptier, less confining. She presses her hand more firmly against the stone, willing herself to keep going. She doesn’t know where this path leads, but it’s better than staying where she was.

A faint, eerie hum creeps into her awareness. It’s distant, almost like a melody carried on the wind, and she freezes. Her breathing stills as she listens, trying to pinpoint the sound. It doesn’t seem like voices, nor does it belong to any creature she can identify. It's almost hypnotic...except she doesn't feel particularly drawn to it. More like weirded out, scared even. It wants to pull her attention, she knows, and she feels how it flies past her body. Her eyes squint around her, trying to see something.

Avoid the shadows, he said.

How is she supposed to avoid them if she's surrounded by them?

Nesta steps back instinctively, her grip tightening on the knife. She scans the dim passage, her eyes straining to see through the gloom. The hum grows louder, closer, and she realizes it’s not coming from one direction but all around her, as if the passage itself is alive and aware.

Her breath catches as a flicker of movement darts just beyond her vision—a shadow, but not her own. Her blood runs cold, and she takes another step back, pressing herself against the wall.

"Not safe," she whispers to herself, repeating his warning like a mantra. "Not safe. Not safe."

The hum crescendos, a low, thrumming sound that resonates in her chest, and the shadows seem to swell, stretching toward her. Panic claws at her throat, but Nesta forces herself to move, keeping her steps deliberate and quiet. She doesn’t dare look back, doesn’t dare think about what might be lurking just out of sight.

The wall beneath her hand feels warmer now, as though guiding her toward something—away from the terrifying darkness. She follows it blindly, her focus narrowing to the rough texture beneath her fingertips and the steady rhythm of her steps.

Finally, she sees it: a faint glimmer of light ahead, spilling through the cracks of what looks like another possible exit. Relief floods her, but she doesn’t let herself rush. Instead, she inches closer, every muscle coiled and ready to act if something—or someone—appears.

When she reaches the door, she feels along its edges, noticing a soft breeze coming from the other side. Her fingers brush against a hidden latch, and she hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder. She can see the shadows writhe in the distance, alive and hungry, and she knows she has no choice.

Nesta pushes the latch, and the wall swings open, revealing a room bathed in warm light. She steps through, the wall closing shut behind her with a quiet click. The hum vanishes abruptly, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake.

It’s a small, empty space, furnished only with a worn-out desk and an old chair, a few cushions tossed carelessly on the ground, and a dusty bookshelf leaning against the wall. The thick layer of dust suggests it hasn’t been used in quite some time—or that no one cares enough to clean it.

She hears nothing but her own breathing. No footsteps, no voices, no hums. The room feels abandoned.

For now, she’s safe.

As if on cue, her knees give out, and she collapses to the ground. The knife slips from her grasp, clattering loudly against the floor beside her open hand. Her shoulders tremble as her vision blurs with unshed tears. The adrenaline that had kept her upright is gone, leaving her raw and vulnerable. Everything—the danger, the fear, the weight of survival—crashes over her all at once.

Nesta hugs herself tightly, pulling her legs to her chest and burying her face in her knees. For a moment, she lets herself break.

Now it's not the time, a voice eerily similar to her Mother's echoe in her head. Focus. Get out of here. Find Feyre.

Nesta takes a long, deep breath, looking up again. She casts a glance to the knife besides her and grabs it. She scans her surroundings again, making sure she didn't miss anything. The knife somehow comforts her, her heart going back to its normal rhythm as her finger traces the ashwood part.

She doesn’t know what more dangers she'll have to face, but she’ll find a way out of this nightmare—back to her sister—or die trying.

He’s not accustomed to failure.

He definitely has had his bad moments over the years, specially the last fifty of them, but not even an eternity could've prepared him for this kind of failure.

The iron chains bite into his wrists, bruising him, and the fury that surges through him is an unfamiliar, unwelcome thing. That human filth. It dawns to him he doesn't even know her name, didn't bother to ask. Pets don't need names, after all. They're supposed to go by whatever their masters call them.

But of course, nothing about his pet is remotely conventional. Or predictable.

The improvised cuffs press against his skin when he pulls, an angry growl escaping his throat. ¿When did she learn to do these cursed knots? It's embarrassing that such a simple trap by a mere human has him struggling like this.

It doesn't help her scent is all over the room: fear, anger, desperation. It clings to the air like a mocking reminder of her audacity, mingling with the faint aroma of jasmine that has lingered on her since he found her in the woods. Not even a bath could wash it away, it seems.

Talons grow from his fingers and grip the chains, his body slowly drawing in magic. The iron clatters to the floor in broken pieces, shattering the heavy silence with its sharp, echoing clamor.

He doesn't waste a second in wrenching himself free of the chains she’d dared to shackle him with. He sits up, massaging his wrists as he processes the situation.

A human—a weak, pathetic human—has bested him. A creature so insignificant, so beneath his existence, has somehow outwitted him.

He forces himself to breathe, to quiet the chaos roaring in his chest. He rolls his shoulders, shaking off the phantom ache of the uncomfortable position he's been trapped in, and straightens to his full height. His eyes go to the door, the one she slammed behind her when she escaped.

He's tempted to winnow whenever she is and drag her back by the hair, but he pauses. Her scent has left a faint yet traceable trail, probably not for other faeries, but obvious to him. It's how he usually tracks down people, by following the scent.

His mind conjures a much better idea. His feet move in slow, measured steps to the door, forcing it open with such force the hinges creaked.

Let her think she has won. Let her believe she could actually flee from him. He'll give her some time to rejoice, to harbour some hope, and then he'll appear in front of her like her worst nightmare, and tear her hopes apart.

That human will learn soon enough what it means to defy the High Lord of the Night Court.

Yet…there's something else. Something that gnaws at him as he stalks through the corridors, shadows trailing him like loyal sentries. Her scent still lingers faintly in the air, a whisper of her presence leading him through the labyrinthine halls beneath the mountain. She's clever; he’ll give her that. The chains have been a surprise, a calculated move, but her fear had betrayed her as much as her defiance had fueled her.

What had Amarantha said? 'Humans are awfully predictable.' Rhysand agreed with her then. Now he only wants to laugh at the statement.

As he rounds another corner, his focus sharpens. The shadows whisper to him of faint disturbances in the hidden veins of the mountain. Smart human. She found the passages carved long ago—ones only a very selective group of Fae knew of and used. He smirks, the expression devoid of warmth.

But then the scent shifts. A second trail—familiar, acrid, and infuriating—weaves through the air. His eyes narrow.

Eris Vanserra.

The Autumn heir is many things—conniving, vain, a pain in the ass—but he wouldn’t have pegged him as reckless. For all his posturing, Eris rarely plays games without a clear path to victory. And yet, the fact that the human have vanished toward his direction can’t be coincidence.

He doesn’t bother masking his approach. Let Eris know he's coming. Let him prepare whatever barbs or jests he think can deflect his wrath. It won't matter.

He finds Eris in his chambers, lounging near the fire like a contented cat, his auburn hair gleaming in the flickering light. The scent of blood lingers faintly, though Eris’s immaculate clothing shows no signs of injury.

"Vanserra," He growls, stepping inside without invitation.

Eris glances up, his lips curling into that familiar, insufferable smirk. "Oh my, this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Lord of the Night?"

The shadows curling around Rhys’s shoulders darken, their edges sharper. "Don’t play games with me, Eris. Where is she?"

Eris tilts his head, feigning confusion. "She? You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve entertained many guests tonight."

Rhys’s temper flares, his power surging in a pulse that rattles the nearby furniture. "Don’t waste my time. You know exactly who I mean. The human. My human."

Eris raises an eyebrow, having the nerve to look at him as if he’s saying something foolish.

"Sorry, but I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about," he replies—slowly, carefully, mockingly—as if speaking to a disgruntled child. "Are you sure you’re not just tired? I know she’s been keeping you busy lately..."

Usually, he reminds himself that Eris is nothing more than a child compared to him. That this male, this brat—no matter the rich silks he now wears or the lethal fire running through his veins—is beneath his notice in terms of age, power and experience. That it's beneath him entertain his games and jabs.

But right now, he has no patience for brats.

"Spare me your bullshit, Vanserra." He relishes the faint flicker of surprise in Eris’ eyes at the growl in his voice. It’s unusual. He shouldn’t be losing control like this, not in front of a Vanserra... but he’s too fucking angry to care. "I can smell her here. Where. Is. She?"

The heir of Autumn blinks at him, expression frustratingly unreadable. But he can still sense the undercurrent of fear just beneath the surface of his mind.

Eris rises to his feet slowly, his eyes locked on the High Lord before him. He moves carefully, like he’s watching a predator poised to strike—or a wounded animal ready to lash out. Clasping his hands in front of him, he tilts his head at the older male.

"Who exactly is 'her'?" His smirk is infuriating. "I don’t understand... Oh!" He chuckles. Oh, how he wishes he could rip that sound out of his throat. "Are you hiding something from us, Lord of the Night? It must be quite important if our queen doesn't know yet."

The shadows curling around his shoulders hiss, their edges growing razor-sharp.

"I’m warning you, Eris," he grits out, fists clenching. "I’m losing my patience here. Tell me where the fuck she is right now, or you can say goodbye to you and your miserable family before tomorrow."

Eris’ smirk vanishes. His voice, when he speaks, is deadly serious. "Keep my family out of your filthy mouth."

The threat in his tone is surprising, but not entirely unexpected. Eris has his own buttons that can be pressed.

"They have nothing to do with your personal messes. If I were you, I’ll be more worried about Amarantha finding out. I wonder what she’ll think of her whore keeping a human pet under her nose—without her permission."

Something snaps.

A guttural growl rips through him as his power surges, lashing out and shattering the furniture around them. His fist slams into the wall beside Eris’s head, cracking the stone. His knuckles ache from the impact, but he barely acknowledges it. The feral darkness inside him roars, swallowing the room whole.

And he doesn't care.

"I'm sick of your games, Vanserra." His voice is low, lethal. The rage dripping off his mouth. "I don't like when people tamper with my things. Tell me where you hid her, or I'll fucking slit your throat right here. How would your mother fare mourning another son?"

For the first time this night, Eris flinches. It’s subtle—just the briefest flicker of something sharp and almost vulnerable flashing through those amber eyes—but Rhys still catches it. The reaction only fuels his bloodthirst, makes the shadows coil tighter around him, hungry, eager to rip the truth from Eris’s throat.

But the heir of Autumn recovers quickly. His lips curl into something that’s not quite a smirk, but not quite a snarl either.

Rhys can feel Eris's pulse quicken, can sense the way his body tenses just slightly, poised between fight and flight. The amusement has drained from his features, replaced by something cold and calculated.

"Careful, High Lord," Eris murmurs, voice dangerously smooth despite the way Rhys has him caged against the wall. "Threatening me is one thing. But bring up my mother again, and we’ll see just how much you enjoy having your insides burned to ashes."

The tension crackles between them, thick and volatile. His patience is razor-thin, but Eris’s tone gives him pause. For all his flaws, he knows the Autumn heir isn't bluffling. He's his father's favourite for a reason, and the land chose him as Heir for the same. The power that runs through his veins is enough to reduce armies to ashes, among other more painful and twisted things. He might not rival his shadows, but he knows better than understimate him.

Eris is a player of the long game. Just like him.

Rhys exhales harshly through his nose. He doesn’t have time for Eris’s dramatics—not when she is still out there, running, slipping further from his grasp with each passing second.

The air shifts subtly, a faint rustle in the shadows. Rhysand freezes, his sharp senses attuned to every nuance of the moment.

The passage. A whisper of movement. A misstep.

His entire body stills.

His eyes snap to the archway just beyond Eris’s shoulder. The scent is faint, barely there beneath the thick autumn spice of Eris's presence, but it’s unmistakable.

It's her. The human. His pet.

She’s close. So close he can almost hear her frantic mortal heartbeat, can almost taste the delicious fear clinging to her skin.

Eris shifts slightly, as if realizing what Rhys has picked up on. The smirk creeps back onto his face, lazy and sharp. "Oops."

Rhys nearly slams him back against the wall again, but it’s too late. The slight rustle of fabric, the near-silent exhale of breath—it’s all he needs. The realisation strucks him.

"You helped her. You kept me distracted so she could escape."

Eris smirks. "Well, after the stunt she pulled to get here, how could I not? She’s impressive—for a mortal. I'd hate to see her wasting away in the hands of a brute like you."

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Poor thing was so terrified you’d find her. It pulled my heartstrings. I couldn't help it."

His blood goes ice-cold.

His fingers twitch, the shadows coiling tighter around his frame, reacting to the fury clawing up his spine. He should be the one toying with her, dragging out the inevitable, savoring her fear. Not Eris. Not Eris fucking Vanserra.

"You shouldn’t have done that," Rhys grits his teeth, voice deathly quiet.

Eris chuckles again, the weakened torchlight casting sharp angles across his smirking face. "Oh? And why is that?"

He takes a slow step backward, each movement controlled, precise. The type of control that still exudes violence. "Because it's none of your damn bussiness, Vanserra. And trust me, you don't want to make this personal. Not with me."

Eris clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders with an air of infuriating nonchalance, fixing his clothes as if he hadn't been pressed against the wall and threatened to death. "You’re overestimating how much I care for you. I was simply curious. That’s all. Last time I saw a human was...when? A milenia ago, I think." His smirk sharpens, eyes gleaming. "And she was dressed like one of your people. You can't expect me to not be interested."

The shadows creep around his feet.

Eris moves away just as fast, sidestepping them as flames spark at his fingertips. "My my, what a temper. Can't even make jokes anymore." he tuts, the flames licking dangerously close to Rhys’s shadows, just enough for them to feel the challenge. "You really want to do this, Lord of the Night? Start something you can't finish?"

"You think I won’t?" I can squash you like a miserable bug just with a flick of my fingers, brat. Don't test me." He snarls. The air is crackling with raw power. "You think I won’t rip your spine out of your throat for meddling in something that doesn’t concern you?"

Eris only smirks. "Now that," he muses, "would be amusing to watch. But unfortunately, you’re simply wasting time." The mockery in his voice drips like venom. "Because every second you stand here posturing is another second she’s slipping further and further away from you."

That makes him still.

The realization is a blade to the gut.

The human is still running.

She is getting away. From him.

Eris leans against the wall, watching the calculation flicker through Rhys’s eyes with thinly veiled amusement. "You could fight me, of course, and you'll probably win," he says, inspecting his nails. "Or you could go after your little pet before she finds her way into real trouble. The kind that won't be as forgiving and understanding as me." He raises his gaze, amusement melting into something more serious. "Because we both know, Rhys, there are worse things than you lurking in these halls."

He doesn’t need the reminder.

He moves before Eris can utter another word, shoving past him and heading straight for the passage. But then, a thought gnaws at him.

He halts. Turns.

"You just helped her escape. Risked your sorry neck for it. And now you're encouraging me to chase after her again." His voice is low, dangerous. "Why help her in the first place, then?"

Eris just watches him, the flickering torchlight playing over the fine angles of his face. His smirk is still there, but it’s thinner now. Less twisted. Less arrogant.

Rhys tilts his head, waiting. Why help her? Eris isn’t the type to throw himself into any kind of risk unless there’s something bigger to gain. Doing reckless moves like this, without a clear benefit for him, is unnatural in the male.

A heartbeat of silence stretches between them. Then, the heir of Autumn exhales, long and slow, and shrugs.

"Like I said, I was curious. That's all."

Rhys narrows his eyes. He can tell when Eris is lying, has had fifty years to know him—except right now, he isn’t. Not entirely, at least.

And it doesn't sit right to him.

A smirk flickers back onto Eris’s lips, a slow, lazy thing. "Besides, you already had your chance to keep her locked up, didn’t you?" His voice is all arrogance, all amused cruelty. "Seems to me like you fumbled that opportunity quite spectacularly. I can't imagine how awfully humiliating it would be for you if this failure became public knowledge."

Rhys’s jaw clenches, shadows hissing around him.

"She’s human, Eris." His voice is ice. He's not letting his brat get under his skin. He won't. "A weak, mortal human with no allies, no power, no place in this world. And yet you—" his eyes narrow, suspicion blooming like ink in his gut "—you helped her anyway."

Eris doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he moves leisurely to his desk, pouring himself a glass of wine from a decanter that looks worth more than anything that's served in this hellish mockery of a court. He swirls the liquid absently before bringing it to his lips, taking a slow sip.

Then, finally, he says, "Perhaps I simply wanted to see what she was made of."

Rhys doesn’t move. Not even a twitch in his expression.

Eris glances at him over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. "And she showed it to me. Quite impressively, I might add."

Rhys’s teeth grind. "That’s not an answer."

"No, it’s not," Eris agrees easily, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. "But it's not like you would understand the truth, either."

Rhys studies him for a long moment, the gears in his mind turning. There’s something here. Something he’s missing.

And then it hits him.

The way Eris's posture has changed when it came to her. The way he had spoken about her.

The realization slams into him like a punch.

Eris isn’t just helping the human.

He’s testing her.

But why?

Rhys exhales sharply, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Vanserra."

Eris leans back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest. "Aren’t we all?"

Rhys doesn’t have time for this. He doesn’t have time for Eris’s cryptic bullshit or his...whatever it is with the human.

His shadows curling at his heels, slowly engulfing his form.

"I hope you got everything you wanted from this," he murmurs. "Because when I find her, it’s over."

Eris chuckles. "Oh, I’m counting on it."

Rhys doesn’t wait for more.

He turns and disappears into the dark, his mind narrowing to a single purpose.

Hunt his pet down.

He's been in this passage enough times to memorize the dents in the walls, the texture of the rock, even the tiny pests that call it home.

Yet every time, his skin prickles with disgust.

Now, his mind is too focused on the task at hand to notice the dust and dirt around him. He's in tunnel vision, his nose honing in on the familiar human scent.

There's a moment when she's just within reach of his shadows—just one swirl, and he'll have her. He'll drag her back to him, engulf her in his presence with no chance to resist. She can't kick shadows away.

He reaches out, his essence surrounding her, blocking her senses. He still can't quite brush the surface of her mind, but he has other ways to trap her. He feels the warmth of her skin and the rapid beating of her heart, so loud in the heavy silence around them. His shadows caress her, soaking in her fear and confusion.

Just as he's about to seize her, he senses something amiss.

A stinging pain surges through him—a burn, as if he just laid his hands on flames. Instinctively, his shadows recoil immediately.

"What the hell...?"

What was that? It felt like...

He reaches out for her again, but then a door creaks open—a hidden latch in the wall leading to another room. And she slips through, closing it behind her.

Silence settles over the passage once more, broken only by the faint rhythm of her heartbeat from the other side of the wall.

That sting—he knows it well. Too well.

It’s been a millennium since he last felt it, but it’s something he could never forget.

Ashwood.

His jaw tightens. Where the hell did she get her hands on ashwood? She didn’t have it when she left him in the chambers, and there was no way she could have come across casually it while running through the hallways.

Then how—?

A low growl rumbles from his throat.

Eris Vanserra.

Because of course.

Again, he wonders—what game is he even playing? There’s nothing to gain from helping a mortal. In fact, he has far more to lose. He’s already treading a razor’s edge, one wrong step away from pissing him off enough to get himself killed.

But before he can follow that train of thought, something else catches his attention.

A scent.

It halts him mid-step.

Salty, like the sea, but tinged with damp earth.

She’s crying

He can almost taste it on the air—a bitter mix of sweat, tears, and damp earth that now clings to her scent. For centuries, he used to torment mortals without a second thought, driven solely by his own whims. But this…this raw display of vulnerability unsettles him more than any of her antics ever has.

He wanted to break her. To see what she hides behind her walls and have her submit to him, willingly.

He should feel triumph, but instead, a disquiet gnaws at him—a dangerous curiosity about the depth of her defiance, mixed with a pang of something he’d long thought dead.

He presses his lips together, his mind racing in the silence. A mortal with the guts to cry out in despair… and manage to run with that fire still burning in her eyes just as fiercely. She’s more than a pet to be recaptured. She’s a challenge. An enigma he never anticipated.

He scowls into the darkness, anger and confusion warring within him. He should not care about her tears, should not feel any pity for the weak and fleeting nature of mortal sorrow, specially from the one human that has been nothing but an unsufferable pain for him.

And yet...he's not moving. He's not capturing her. He's standing there, in the silent passage, listening to her sobs.

He groans, shaking his head. Enough of this. He will not be distracted. He tightens the grip on the shadows and readies himself to resume the pursuit, his mind sharpening once more to the singular purpose that has driven him since the moment she slipped away. Since she outsmarted him and left him chained to his own damn bed, like a fool.

This human must be found, and she will pay dearly for her insolence—and no amount of tears and begging will save her. But for now, he'll let her think she's safe. That she has escaped him. Let her wallow in her relief before he rips it away from her.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, her tears are gone. She stops.

Her emotional control is fascinating for such a young mortal. Despite his rage, his curiosity still remains underneath all of it. ¿What else is she hiding? How far can she be pushed before breaking?

Only one way to find out.

...........

She doesn’t know how long she’s been running.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been here.

Every hallway looks the same.

Every single corner blurs together.

She doesn’t know where she is. Or what’s going to happen to her.

And worst of all—she still hasn’t found Feyre.

The sharp clicks of her heels against the stone stairs echo in the empty halls, the only sound reaching her ears. Her heavy, ragged breaths have melted into the other white noise thrumming in the background of her senses.

At some point, she had to shove the knife Eris gave her up her sleeve—she needed both hands to steady herself.

She’s tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Scared.

And yet, none of it overshadows the anger burning inside her.

It’s the one thing driving her forward. The one thing that always has.

Then, she hears her mother’s voice.

"People respect anger more than tears, Nesta. If you must feel something, feel angry. Hold on to it. Use it. Don’t ever let anyone see more than that."

Her grip tightens, her jaw clenched so hard it aches.

As soon as she finds Feyre, she’s dragging that idiotic brat back home. She’ll lock her up in their bedroom at the cabin. Tie her to a chair. Break her legs if she has to—just so she can’t run off again.

And then, she’ll stab any cursed fae that dares try to take her away.

Yes. She likes that idea. She likes it a lot.

Suddenly, something curls around her feet mid-step. She trips, barely managing to grip the banister before she crashes to the ground.

Just as she steadies herself, movement flickers ahead.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Drawing closer.

She pushes herself upright, breath unsteady. And as she lifts her head, she sees it—

A tall, dark figure standing in her path, blocking her view.

No. Not a person.

A monster.

"Found you."

A shiver runs down her spine. Her knees threaten to buckle at the sound of that voice. That awful, terribly familiar voice.

Her breath stutters. Every instinct in her body screams not to look. Not to meet his gaze.

But her eyes lift anyway.

And there they are—those inhuman, violet eyes, gleaming with nothing but twisted intentions.

Before she can turn away, his hand clamps around her throat in a flash. His grip is tight—just enough to cut off her breath for a second.

"Did you have fun, little thing?"

His voice is a purr laced with cruelty. He’s so close she can feel his breath ghosting against her lips. His fingers engulf her entire neck like it’s nothing, locking her in place. She knows—if she so much as twitches, he could snap it in an instant.

"I did," he continues, his smile sharp, almost feral. "It was so fun watching you run around like a headless chicken."

His voice vibrates with a low growl, the edges of his words dripping with amusement and, worse, anger.

Nesta trembles. She claws at his wrist, digging her nails into his skin.

It’s useless. She knows it’s useless.

But she doesn’t know what else to do.

"Well, I'm afraid we're putting an end to the chase now."

His grip tightens. Nesta can’t breathe. She’s choking, clawing desperately for air.

Dark spots bloom at the edges of her vision. Her body grows weak…

"Time to go back to your cage."

The words echo in her head like a sentence passed down by fate.

And then—darkness swallows her whole.

The last thing she feels is his arms catching her. Holding her close.