#avotar6

But while my room was all softness and grace, his was marked with ruggedness. In lieu of a pretty breakfast table by the window, a worn worktable dominated the space, covered in various weapons. It was there he sat, wearing only a white shirt and trousers, his red hair unbound and gleaming like liquid fire.

Bare from the waist up, he’d managed to haul on a pair of pants before opening the door, and hastily buttoned them as I strode past.

Lucien took a steadying breath, and I wondered—wondered if being emissary also meant being spymaster.

Lucien spat at Rhysand’s feet and shoved his sword between us.

“I claimed Lucien as my own—named him emissary, since he’d already made many friends across the courts and had always been good at talking to people, while I … can find it difficult. He’s been here ever since.” “As emissary,” I began, “has he ever had dealings with his father? Or his brothers?” “Yes. His father has never apologized, and his brothers are too frightened of me to risk harming him.” No arrogance in those words, just icy truth. “But he has never forgotten what they did to her, or what his brothers tried to do to him. Even if he pretends that he has.”

Without further word, he slung me over his shoulder as if I were a sack of potatoes.

when I looked up, I found that he was running—fast. Faster than anything should be able to move.

Tears shone in Lucien’s remaining eye as he raised his hands and removed the fox mask. The brutally scarred face beneath was still handsome—his features sharp and elegant.

The King of Hybern murmured, “Interesting. So very interesting.” He turned to the queens. “See? I showed you not once, but twice that it is safe. Who should like to be Made first? Perhaps you’ll get a handsome Fae lord as your mate, too.”

His gaze on me. Face hard. As if he’d seen through every lie. As if he knew of the second tattoo beneath my glove, and the glamour I now kept on it. As if he knew that they had let a fox into a chicken coop—and he could do nothing. Not unless he never wanted to see his mate—Elain—again. I gave Lucien a sweet, sleepy smile. So our game began.

“Tell me anyway. List all of them.” “You’ll die the moment you set foot in his territory.” “I survived well enough when I found you.” “You couldn’t see that he had me in thrall. You let him take me back.” Lie, lie, lie. But the hurt and guilt I expected weren’t there. Lucien slowly released his grip. “I need to find her.” “You don’t even know Elain. The mating bond is just a physical reaction overriding your good sense.” “Is that what it did to you and Rhys?” A quiet, dangerous question.

I lifted my head from his sculpted chest at last, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as I peered into his concerned face.

“I’d pick Beron’s son, too.” I stared at the princess beneath lowered brows. She shrugged, her smile growing. “Autumn Court males have fire in their blood—and they fuck like it, too.”

“I’m going with you,” he said again, face splattered with blood as bright as his hair. “I’m getting my mate back.”

His woods, by blood and law. He was a son of this forest, and here … He looked crafted from it. For it. Even that gold eye.

I was in the process of constructing a rudimentary fishing pole when he waded into the stream, boots off and pants rolled to his knees, and caught one with his bare hands. He’d tied his hair up, a few strands of it falling into his face as he swooped down again and threw a second trout onto the sandy bank where I’d been trying to find a substitute for fishing twine.

"You enjoyed its pleasures and diversions. But don’t pretend you weren’t made for something more than that.”

Lucien, to his credit, didn’t back away a step. From Rhys, or me, or the Illyrians. The Clever Fox Stares Down Winged Death. The painting flashed into my mind.

“You should kill Beron and his sons and set up the handsome one as High Lord of Autumn,"

He’d always had a casual grace about him, but here, tonight, with his hair tied back and jacket buttoned to his neck, he truly looked the part of a High Lord’s son. Handsome, powerful, a bit rakish—but well-mannered and elegant.

Lucien jerked his chin to Azriel. “That’s the information you need to gather. What my father knows—if my brothers realized what she was doing. You need to start from there, and build your plan for this meeting accordingly.”

Lucien glanced toward the shadowsinger—who only nodded at him. “I’m at your disposal.”

He added to Lucien, who did not balk from those writhing shadows, “After lunch, we’ll meet.”

Especially since Lucien had left before breakfast for a library across the city to look up anything in regard to fixing the wall, a task I’d been more than willing to hand over. I might have felt guilty for never giving him a proper tour of Velaris, but … he seemed eager. More than eager—he seemed to be itching to head into the city on his own.

“I don’t need one. I travel faster on my own.” His chin lifted. “I will find her. And if there’s an army to bring back, or at least some way for her own story to sway the human forces … I’ll find a way to do that, too.”

My friends glanced to each other. Mor said, “It will be—very dangerous.” A half smile curved Lucien’s mouth. “Good. It’d be boring otherwise.”

He did—and did not tell you,” she added quickly to Rhysand, “because he did not want to raise your hopes. Not until I’d found a solution.” No wonder he’d been so eager to head alone into Velaris that day he’d gone to help us research. I shot a look at Rhys. Seems like Lucien can still play the fox.

told them where to go. To come now, actually. So pushy, you Prythian males.

“He’s spent months helping them sort out the politics of who rules Prythian’s slice of the human lands,”

He had to give Lucien credit: the male was somehow able to move between his three roles—an emissary for the Night Court, ally to Jurian and Vassa, and liaison to Tamlin—and still dress immaculately. Lucien’s face revealed nothing of how Tamlin and his court fared. “It’s fine.” Cassian didn’t know why he’d expected an update regarding the High Lord of Spring. Lucien only gave those in private to Rhys.

“I think Feyre wanted a progress assessment from someone who hasn’t seen her in a while.”

His jaw tightened. “As the youngest of seven sons, I wasn’t particularly needed or wanted. Perhaps it was a good thing. I was able to study for longer than my father allowed my brothers before shoving them out the door to rule over some territory within our lands, and I could train for as long as I liked, since no one believed I’d be dumb enough to kill my way up the long list of heirs. And when I grew bored with studying and fighting … I learned what I could of the land from its people. Learned about the people, too.” He eased to his feet with a groan, his unbound hair glimmering as the midday sun overhead set the blood and wine hues aglow. “I’d say that sounds more High-Lord-like than the life of an idle, unwanted son.” A long, steely look. “Did you think it was mere hatred that prompted my brothers to do their best to break and kill me?”

Nothing—ultimately nothing. Other than the fact that Lucien might be Helion’s sole heir.

“No. But we need to summon Lucien,” Azriel said, just a shade tightly, as if he didn’t like it one bit. “We need to tell him the news, and permanently station him at the Spring Court to contain any damage and to be our eyes and ears.”

Cassian nodded. Rhys as High King: he could think of no other male he’d trust more. No other male who would be a fairer ruler than Rhys. / Prythian would be blessed to have such leaders.

“Very well then, Rhysand.” Amren also turned from the desk and the blades Rhys’s magic now sheathed and set upon the surface. “But know that the Cauldron’s benevolence will be extended to you only for so long before it is offered to another.”