The first - that his desire for revenge had blinded him to seeing what was right in front of him, and, had he only been more cautious, less trusting - a lesson he’d thought he’d already learned after losing his mother and sister to a supposed friend - he wouldn’t have been tricked so simply.

The second - that Amarantha was a cruel female who delighted in torture, who had been friends with the previous High Lord of Spring, dead at his father’s hands, and that she might delight in taking his own loved ones away from him, forcing him to reveal them to her using the very gifts she was stealing from him in that moment, if she didn’t call for any of the daemati from Hybern still in her own confidence to do so for her.

The third - there was truly only one way to fully protect his family, his city, his dreams and efforts and every single person and thing he cared about in this world.

Rhysand ripped into the minds of the rest of his Court, erasing the knowledge of it all from their memories, threw up an impenetrable shield around the city of his heart, and then, with but a single moment to spare for grief, tucked the knowledge away in a darkened corner in the fabric of his mind, grabbed at it with his own mental talons, and sliced the damning memories away.

Now

The sun on his wings felt better than he could ever remember. He’d grown to accustomed to the dark, for all that he was the Lord of Night, for all that his court was a city dug into stone. Rhys tilted his face up toward the light, basking in the gentle feeling.

A slight wind tugged at the membranes of his wings as he told Feyre about them, catching them and trying to pull him off balance.

“How does it feel to be high fae?” he asked her, watching her face turn to the mountains as she thought about her answer.

“I’m an immortal who has been mortal,” she finally said. “This body … this body is different.” She put a hand on her heart. “But this… this is still human. Maybe it always will be. But it would have been easier to live with it… easier to live with what I did if my heart had changed, too. Maybe I wouldn’t care so much; maybe I could convince myself their deaths weren’t in vain. Maybe immortality will take that away. I can’t tell whether I want it to.”

Rhys understood that feeling all too well. Still, he said, “Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.” Feyre merely nodded her acceptance, so Rhys rolled his head around on his neck as he said, “Well, good-bye for now,” starting to bow when he locked eyes with her, and something inside him just clicked.

Mate. She was his mate.

Rhys threw himself backward, toppling over ledge and winnowed as fast as he could.

He’d had an instinctive destination, but as he tried to grasp it, to fully pull him in that direction, it slipped from his own mind, the result of whatever it was that he’d removed from his own memory some fifty years earlier. Thrown by it, his winnow faltered, and rather than landing as intended, he hit the ground hard. His shoulder burned with the impact of the stone ground, wings screaming in pain as he rolled until he managed to vanish them, just in time to hit the wall of the hallway and finally stop rolling.

He lay there for a moment, whole body smarting with the pain of the unintended impact.

His mate.

The bond pulled at him, trying to get him to return to Feyre’s side, to the warm sunlight that fell on them. Rhys ignored it, groaning as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, then to his feet.

His whole body shook with the feeling, and from the sudden chill.

Rhys looked around to see if he could recognize where he’d gone, and something in his heart shattered as he recognized the architecture, the furniture, the decor on the walls.

It was his rooms in the palace in the Hewn City.

Underground, again.

But where else would he go? Why did he feel like there was somewhere else waiting?

Rhys knew the real reason - he’d known of it before her, before he’d removed the memories to save whoever it was.

Rhys wanted them back. He closed his eyes and delved in deep within his mind, finding the place where he’d cut them out. He grasped for the threads, but they slipped away, a wound he’d inflicted yet needed another daemati to fix.

He’d been too rushed when he’d done it, and now...

There wasn’t a daemati alive that he trusted enough to fix his mind.

Safe in the privacy of his chambers, Rhys wept at all his losses.

His mate, his memories, his hope.

And perhaps, after everything he’d done Under the Mountain, his very soul as well.

.

Rhys gave himself an hour to mope. An hour to cry and scream and throw things at the stone walls of his palace. Not a single other soul existed in the whole building - the rest of his people were still making their ways back, being freed from the cells underneath Amarantha’s court. It would take days for anyone to come back, for any of the staff he’d once had to come seeking their old jobs back, or for deliveries of food to be dropped off, or for the aristocrats of his court to show up and get the court running again.

Everything was covered in dust.

Dust was better than the blood he’d become used to while with her.

Rhys used his magic to get rid of the dust, and the simple joy of it coming freely to him was almost enough to make his lips twitch.

He left his rooms and the palace after that, wandering the empty streets of the city he ruled. Most of it looked unchanged. Nothing had rotted or been destroyed, given that it was stone, but it felt wrong. Sounded wrong.

His footsteps shouldn’t have echoed the way they were, not if the city had been full of people.

It was dark as well - the faelights that should have faintly glowed up at the top of the cavern that housed the city had long faded, leaving only a ghostlike light that barely reached him. Rhys had to summon his own faelight, and the bobbing motion it made at it drifted after him left his shadow dancing in all directions, writhing as if in pain or ecstasy.

It didn’t feel like home.

Rhys was sure, even if it was bustling and the way it had been before Amarantha, it still wouldn’t feel like his home.

He’d spent barely any of his life here, but he had nowhere else to go, unless he wanted to live the rest of his life in the palace above the city, alone. He could go to Illyria, he supposed, but his mother’s people held about as much love for him as the people of the Hewn city did.

Wherever it was he’d lived until now, it wasn’t either of those.

At least here, there wasn’t any snow.

.

Rhys returned to the palace soon after. There was too much to do in preparation to allow for his wanderings to continue. In the following days, as the newly born mating bond in his chest ached and pulled at him, Rhys distracted himself with his people returning to their homes. They avoided him at first, hesitant about his presence when for so long he’d never shown much interest, but after the first few fae had come and gone, more started showing up in droves. Some were missing items of great value to them, ransacked in Amarantha’s pillage of the city. Other’s were still looking for people they loved, for family members and staff, friends and extended relatives.

Rhys needed the distraction, especially once the dreams started coming in full force. Horrible nightmares sent down the bond from Feyre, where it was all he could do not to winnow right to her and damn the consequences. When it grew to be too much, he built a wall in his mind between them.

Then news came - the first of the inter-court messengers getting a system of communication back up. Feyre was engaged to be wed to Tamlin in less than three months. Rhys spent the night drunk out of his mind, and when he’d finally sobered up, decided what he needed was to visit the other half of his court, far away from any news of his mate marrying his enemy.

The Hewn City was settling, and would likely appreciate a break from him after so many centuries used to him not interfering. Keir for one was barely bothering to hold back his frustrations. Rhys could use his own break from the male himself.

The trip to Illyria proved to be more involved than Rhys had anticipated. The whole region had been decimated by Amarantha’s forces and control, and the few camps that had followed her and been spared weren’t too keen on coming back into following him again.

One week turned into a month, which soon turned into three, until before he knew it Rhys was watching as the snow melted with the spring.

Feyre’s wedding had been in the heart of winter. The day had come and gone, and Rhys hadn’t even noticed, too busy fighting a one-male battle with regaining control over his court.

He returned to the Hewn city when it was done, cautiously lowered the wall between his mind and Feyre’s, and felt nothing at all. She was still alive, but she’d learned to shield herself from him. Rhys wondered who’d taught her that, or if she’d figured it out on her own. She was brilliant like that - if there was anyone who’d be able to figure out how to shield against a daemati that was already linked to them, it would be Feyre.

Starfall came and went. Rhys opened the palace above the city up for his people to visit, to enjoy the celebration in his home for the first time ever. Their joy was a sight to see, especially for a group he was so used to seeing cowed and angry. He wished he could have spent his first Starfall free with Feyre, but at least he could see his people happy, even if he himself was miserable.

The day after, more messengers arrived, this time with proof that Rhys’ suspicions on Hybern weren’t unfounded. The King was making plans, and Tamlin was right in the middle of it.

He recruited Nuala and Cerridwen to spy in the court, but they returned with nothing, having been unable to make it into the estate itself. Tamlin’s warding had been too strong, too improved by something other.

Rhys took to cultivating his ties in Illyria, trying and failing to convince the leaders of the camps to fight should the need arise.

Week after week, month after month, failure after failure.

Sometimes, he just wanted to give up. To pass the title of High Lord off to Keir and run somewhere where he didn’t have to do all this alone.

But then he’d look at the man, and a kernel of hatred in his heart would burn quietly, a dying ember that had just been given air again. Rhys couldn’t remember why he hated this male, but he knew there had been something, and it was bad enough that the emotion it had caused lingered even without the memories tied to it.

So Rhys pushed on. Even when nothing went right. When his heart ached for something he could not get. When the news from the Spring court remained a blank nothing. When his messengers to other courts returned, stating that no other courts were willing to see him. Even Helion could spare him no time, not while he was busy repairing a sacked Court and establishing himself as a High Lord for the first time out from under Amarantha’s thumb.

And then, as the anniversary of Amarantha’s defeat was coming around, something changed.

Rhys was woken by the feeling, just as every other High Lord would have been.

One of them was dead. Another had just been chosen.

Rhys ordered his wraiths out to gather information, and they returned within the hour.

Tamlin is dead, they told him. Spring is unshielded. A male barely out of childhood has taken his place. The King of Hybern has been killed as well. Feyre’s sisters are fae, and they  are fleeing north, in hopes of crossing into Summer.

The previous Lady of Spring has killed her husband, and the whole court is hunting her.

Except the other High Lords wouldn’t let such a slight go by. Beron would hunt her too, and Tarquin might not be willing to shelter her at the risk of bringing war to his shores. Neither would Kallias, nor Thesan. Helion might, but would Feyre be able to even get that far on her own, with her two sisters accompanying her?

The Night Court could handle it. He was the strongest of them, and most already thought him an enemy. What did it matter if he sheltered them? So what if they tried to fight him?

He’d do anything for Feyre, and she needed him now.

Prior to the wedding, everyone had wanted to be around her, especially after she’d accepted Tamlin’s proposal. There were too many of them - too many people, too many gossips, too many demands on her. Too many reaching hands trying to grab her. Stop her so that they could talk at her, thank her, touch her and pray to her, of all things.

As if she was some saint to them. Some physical form of their Mother goddess come to life.

But now, the second day back in Spring, Tamlin was gone, and Feyre did not care to speak to any of them.

It was suffocating, and nothing and no one more so than Ianthe. Feyre had barely resettled in when Ianthe tracked her down and held her hostage for hours, going over a repeat of the wedding. Feyre wanted to scream at her that there were more important matters. That war was coming, and she had to convince Tamlin to join with Rhys against Hybern, and she had no idea how to do it.

She knew they were enemies, knew there were tensions between their families caused by some past insult, and trying to work through that was proving more and more difficult the longer Tamlin refused to listen to her speak about Rhys.

If it wasn’t information about the Night Court, he didn’t want to hear it.

“I was thinking white roses this time," Ianthe said with a smile. “Given your reaction to the red last time around, it might be for the best.”

Feyre wanted to snap at her that she’d requested white the first time around anyway. That it had been Ianthe to mess that up and sprinkle red everywhere - the one thing Feyre had requested not happen. But Ianthe had wanted her spectacle, and she’d gotten it. And now, she could come in and be the voice of reason, make Feyre believe she’d been ridiculous before, and that it had always been her idea to have red roses, while Ianthe cautioned white.

She hated Ianthe in that moment like she’d never hated anyone before.

Feyre pushed up from her chair. She wanted away, wanted to find Tamlin and Lucien at the border, find out the information that Rhys needed. See if she could get Tamlin to actually stay in the manor, or even just talk to her for once since this whole mess started.

“Whatever you say, Ianthe. If you’ll excuse me.”

Feyre slipped from the room before Ianthe could protest, but she heard the priestess’ chair scraping against the checkerboard tiles and the soft pitter patter of her slippered feet. Feyre turned down a hallway before the door could open and reveal Ianthe's form, but the footsteps continued to follow.

Feyre couldn’t deal with it right then, the fake smiles, the laughter, the pretending that she hadn’t freaked out and been about to tell Tamlin no. So she ran, picking up the skirts of her god awful dress and jogging down the way, turning another corner and darting down the hall, until she came to a split. One way lead to the guest wing, she’d been told, while the other lead to the wing Tamlin often stayed away from.

The wing that his father, the previous High Lord of Spring, had preferred for his own.

Feyre had never been down this hall before, too scared to intrude somewhere she didn’t think she’d ever even seen Tamlin go near. The ghost of his father was still alive and well in this place, it seemed, haunting Feyre and her fiance both. But the haunting memory of a long dead male was nothing compared to Ianthe’s present hunt, and though her footsteps were quiet, Feyre was still sure she’d be caught if she doubled back.

She tried the door handle of the nearest room. It turned, but the door itself didn’t budge. She trailed her fingers down the seam, a brush of magic sparking at her senses for a moment as she pressed a hand to the wood.

It was warded shut, but the longer she concentrated, the more Feyre could feel cracks and decay in the magic. Sloppy, for warding, or at least weak with age and unravelling as a result. With Ianthe’s footsteps getting louder, Feyre buckled down and dug her fingers into the largest crack. The magic fought her, but after a long moment, gave up the fight. The wards around the doors to whatever room this was parted to let her through, but closed up tight behind the the moment she pressed through and into the room, spinning on her heel as she shut the door with a quiet snick.

Feyre rested her face against the wood of the door for a moment just breathing, wondering briefly how she had managed to cut through the warding. Stubbornness was all well and good, but didn’t often hold up against fae magic. She pushed it from her mind after a moment, choosing instead to be grateful that she’d been able to escape Ianthe by doing so. She wouldn’t be able to take one more minute of the priestess trying to replan a wedding.

When the distant sound of her footsteps faded down a different hallway, Feyre pushed off the door and turned to take in the room. It was a study with dark stained wood furniture and rich upholstery, vibrant colored curtains and large windows that overlooked the front lawn. A thin layer of dust coated everything, evidence that the room had been locked away for a long time. And there on the wall, mounted behind the opulent desk, were two pairs of wings.

One of the pairs was slightly smaller than the other, tucked beneath the larger like it was a shield. Feyre could see the thin bones that stretched the leathery membrane, the play of light turning some places warmer than the shadowed parts.

They had been cut from a body poorly, the joints slightly marred from a quick butcher job. She’d seen cuts like that, made cuts like that back when she was first teaching herself how to hunt and kill. She had failed the first few times at a clean shot, having to resort to a knife to finish the job.

A cut like that… it only came from a struggle. From the prey - or in this case, victims - still being alive and fighting when the blade came down.

An uneasy feeling swelled in her gut, a cold flash of horror as she realized how familiar the wings looked. Hadn’t she just seen wings like it mere days ago, materializing from shadow behind Rhysand whenever she happened to irritate him in some way or another? They matched the shape and color of Rhysands wings, if not the size. These wings were admittedly larger than his - even the smaller pair of the two had a greater wingspan, though Rhys’ had sharper and longer talons.

She moved closer without thought, one hand coming up to touch the small curl of that talon atop the smaller pair. Something stopped her hand before it could land.

Another ward. This one stronger than the ward on the door, no cracks or decay to speak of. As if whoever had taken such a brutal trophy was more determined to keep it than the privacy of the High Lords study. The wings were a power play, meant to be shown off but never disturbed.

My wings, that faerie had wept. She took my wings.

You’ll get them back, Feyre had promised. She’d lied. She hadn't been able to keep such a promise. Couldn’t understand why Amarantha had taken the wings of a Summer court faerie in an attempt to hurt Tamlin. She supposed now she did. It seemed he already had the start of a collection, and Amarantha had merely been adding to it.

Feyre dropped her hand, noticing the slight shimmer of tattoos across the wings. Thin as spiderwebs, and as intricate as the markings on her own arm. The larger pair had the designs all along the strong tendon that would connect them to a back, plus down the thin bones to the tips of the wings. The smaller one had less tattoos, just the designs on the tendons.

Plus one more, almost hidden.

Feyre leaned closer, squinting slightly as she noticed a small design that would have been nearly hidden when the wings were folded, no bigger than half the size of her palm. Three four-pointed stars, fitting together into a slight triangle shape. The largest was at the top, with the smallest to its lower left, and the medium to the lower right.

It didn’t have the same look as her arm - done by magic in an instant. This one looked real, like it had been done with ink and needle.

This was no bargain tattoo. No ceremonial tattoo.

This one was personal, and Feyre ached to see it.

She dug her fingers into the warding surrounding the wings out of her anger at such cruelty, and was surprised when talons instead of fingers sunk through, bruising the magic that surrounded the wings.

She swayed and let go, black spots coming to her vision as she sank to her knees, trying not to pass out from attempting to break a much stronger ward.

She thought of her budding magic back in Night. Thought of how Tamlin didn’t want her to train. Thought of how Rhys had practically demanded the opposite.

Feyre pushed back to her feet, relieved at least that the talons had returned to her normal fingers. She backed away, not taking her eyes from the wings on the wall until her back hit the door. Outside was quiet - no heartbeat or breathing or footsteps. Ianthe had moved on to somewhere else.

Her stomach rumbled, and the feel of a bow in her hand made sense. She was hunting, hungry and desperate enough to brave the woods to change that. They looked familiar, like the woods on the slopes of the Winter Court mountains. Rhys had never gotten a glimpse of the surroundings with such detail before, never been able to guess where his painter lived. Where her small cottage resided. But given the snow, the chill in the air, the forest…

Winter Court.

So close the Middle, to the Mountain and Queen trapping them all.

He heard the deer at the same time she did, saw it when her own eyes alighted on it.

Alighted on the wolf as well.

As was the way of dreams, time flowed strangely. Hours seemed to pass as she held the bow and arrow, but at the same time, Rhys felt as if the waiting, agonized and fraught with tension, lasted for the mere length of a breath.

Then she loosed the arrow, and it hit its mark with the kind of accuracy that only came from years of practice.

His painter was also a huntress, it seemed.

She drew another arrow back as she waited for it to die, her heartbeat strong enough he could feel it moving her chest with each thump; hear it in his ears, like the blood rushing through. It was a dull roar, as if he was a child again, holding a shell to his ear because his mother told him once they all held the soul of the ocean, and you could hear the waves if you listened closely.

Time moved again. The blood was sticky on her hands, hot and steaming as she skinned the beast.

Its eyes were the same color as the fae he’d had to kill for Amarantha mere hours before. Glassy, turning dull the more time passed.

Rhys tried to pull back, tried to not watch the gore. He’d seen so much of it the past forty-nine years. The past five centuries of his life. He didn’t want to watch it in his dreams too, in the respite these minutes with his painter brought him. She was supposed to be safe, be the one good thing left in this world.

Not have blood on her hands, because starving was the alternative.

But try as he might, he couldn’t pull back. Couldn’t close his eyes, turn away from the blood before him. The color was so bright against the snow, so red.

Red, like Amarantha’s hair, her nails. The color she painted her lips before sitting in her throne, the color she made him draw from her victims time and time again-

Rhys’ heart pounded in his own chest, as if to make up for the poor creature’s loss of one, faster, faster, until with a gasp, he shot up in bed, awake.

The room was dimly lit, the faelights extinguished but the fireplace still emanating heat from the steadily glowing embers. He couldn’t suck in air fast enough, couldn’t get his hands uncovered long enough to see that the sticky blood wasn’t there, that it had just been a dream-

The sheet ripped in half with his desperation, but he could finally see them. Saw that they were a sickly, greyish brown from the lack of sunlight, not red from blood. They were shaking, a fine tremor that he often couldn’t stop from appearing first thing after waking, when he still did not know whether he was still stuck in his nightmares or back in the land of horrid, waking tortures.

Past the walls of this room, beyond that door, he was the nightmare. But inside, where no one could see - not while Amarantha still slept, at least - the nightmares ruled him.

Rhys shoved his hands through the damp hair sticking to his forehead, pushing it back and calming his breathing.

He could still smell her. It was strong enough that if he closed his eyes, he might think her laying beside him in bed.

Part of him wanted to pretend.

Pretend it was her instead of Amarantha, who somehow still slept on, unbothered by his sudden movements.

He dropped his hands, slumping back down to lie flat on the bed and stare blankly at the ceiling. It was hewn from obsidian, so it wasn’t entirely smooth. There were waves and divots in it, places with the carver hadn’t been able to - or hadn’t intended to - make it look like anything other than a uniquely shaped cave.

Rhys didn’t love much about being trapped there, but the ceiling was one of the few things he managed to find beautiful. Each stroke of the chisel, each divot in the stone - they looked like the path falling stars would take. Like clouds in the sky; like the scales of a fish or any number of things he missed from the Above. Anything he hadn’t been allowed to see in decades, had taken for granted in the centuries of life preceding confinement.

Rhys let himself wallow for only a minute more. One minute to grieve, one minute to let himself be fragile, here where no one else could see. Then he rolled out of the bed, using a wisp of his magic to replace the ripped sheet with another from Amarantha’s collection, the torn one appearing in his hands. It was a good thing she’d hogged the blanket, he supposed. It would have been harder to replace the lush bedding than a simple top sheet without getting caught. Besides, there were plenty of fae trapped down here too that were freezing while he had a fireplace and access to as many blankets as he could want. Might as well drop it off in one of their cells.

Let someone benefit from his nightmare.

~

Amarantha held her goblet out to him, not even bothering to look. She was reclined in her throne, overseeing the revel below like a wicked goddess searching for her next favored one. Never an honor to be chosen, but a terror. No one enjoyed having the eye of an all-powerful entity fixed on them.

But Rhys didn’t appreciate her disregard either. He was a High Lord, Cauldron damn it all, and he’d been reduced to being her cupbearer. But it was better than being her toy that night. The other High Lords watched from the corner of their eyes as he picked up a nearby pitcher, filling her cup with wine again.

He wondered idly how easy he might poison her drink. Slip in faebane, nightshade, anything.

“Rhysand,” she drawled, still focused on the scene before her. On the lesser fae with delicate dragonfly wings that was sobbing as one of the Attors’ ilk tore at them, reveling in the screams. Rhys blinked a few times, forcing the delicate mask to stay on his face as he waited for her to speak more. “How long has it been since I last sent a gift to Tamlin?”

“A week, my Queen,” he answered immediately. It had been a puca - a vicious way to die, to be sure, but not nearly as bad as some of the other monsters she had in her arsenal. “It should be arriving in the Spring Court any day now.”

Amarantha smiled, her lips splitting like a flytrap flower, the pink of her lips enough to entice anyone foolish enough to get too close. “Wonderful,” she crooned, finally turning her head to look at him and crooking one finger his way. He let his lips curl into a returning smile, passing the jug of wine to the nearest courtier so he could slide his hands into his pockets as he obeyed, so she wouldn’t see the way they curled into fists, nails digging into palms.

“Go into the catacombs, Rhysand, and release the Bogge.”

He dipped his head in a bow to hide his apprehension.

If he had access to his full magic, to his full might and power, he’d be able to mist the damn thing the moment his acknowledgment made it real. But as he was, the best he could do would be to wound it enough to chase it out from the below.

Amarantha had to know that, but she also didn’t care. What did it matter if Rhys was injured obeying her? That’s what he was for in her eyes. To be the sword that struck down her enemies, the shield that took blow after blow in her defense.

Stolen from its rightful wielder.

None of her guards or soldiers stopped him as he descended. He sent out mental suggestions to the servants, invisible as they walked the halls, to vacate the area. Any who were still in their rooms he had drift further into sleep for the moment. Then he came to the door, wooden and fragile looking, that marked the entrance to the catacombs. The majority of Prythian fae were locked down there, not lucky - or unlucky - enough to be needed for growing and producing food, nor high enough in status to warrant being a guest in the Court Under the Mountain.

Rhys unlocked the door with a twitch of his finger, the magic costing him more than it should have. Such a thing wouldn't have even registered before, just one more unconscious act he would do daily in order to burn off the excess power. But now, he felt it. It wasn’t much, comparatively, but he shouldn’t have felt it at all.

The door swung open on its own, and Rhys felt the presence of the Bogge immediately. It guarded the door, hunted and consumed any who grew too close, too wild to control. It focused all that attention on him. Rhys stared at the ground, refusing to return the stare.

He backed up a step, turned his back to the creature, though his neck prickled with the sense of danger as he retreated back the way he came. It followed him, whispering at him to pay attention, to turn around, to look, to look, to look…

Rhys walked and walked, the door that the Bogge had once guarded snicking shut again. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked, his shoulders relaxed. He cast his mind out again and again, turning away any who started to head in their direction, until he’d made it to the long hallway that led to an exit. He couldn’t leave, not with Amarantha’s magic keeping them trapped, but he was able to walk right up to the door and open it with her order freshly loosening his leash. Sunlight blinded him, and he sucked in a sharp breath, hissing as he threw up a hand to protect his eyes.

Then he turned his back to the glorious sight, looking straight at the Bogge. “Your lady requests you visit the Spring Court,” he said, stepping aside out of its way, ready for it to attack. It looked like it would listen to its orders, but take him along as a snack for the road.

The Bogge lunged for him. Rhys ducked, kicking out as it landed on his other side. It fell backward through the doorway, and Rhys slammed it shut in its face.

The Bogge howled its displeasure from the other side, but finally ceased after a minute, off to obey its queen.

And Rhys did the same, walking the hallways back down into the belly of the mountain, until he stood once again at the Deceiver’s side, holding her damned cup.

~

He dreamed of her again, almost every night for weeks. He’d never gotten so many flashes from her life, his painter, his huntress, never seen so clearly the dreams she constructed in the night.

But here, with the end of the curse so close, he did. He recognized it too - those were the hills of the Spring Court, so different from her normal scenery. Kallias had a secret city just like he did, somewhere hidden away where Amarantha couldn't find it, and after that glimpse of the wolf, Rhys had hoped she was safe there. Rhys would do anything to protect Velaris, and he knew Kallias would do the same, so though he watched the High Lord of Winter closely, he said nothing. Let the male plot in the shadows.

What Amarantha didn’t know, she couldn’t order him to uncover.

He thought, briefly, of trying to find his painter. Thought, perhaps, he could see her with his own eyes, rather than her world through hers.

But then he remembered the fae whose wings Amarantha had torn off. Remembered the way she’d laughed, and he’d heard that laugh even in his own dreams.

His painter was safe. That was the important thing. Safe and far, far away from Amarantha. And probably not even real; just some figment of his imagination spawned from the torment of so long compartmentalizing, from wearing a mask and doing horrible things to protect his own people. Even if she was somehow real, how could he go to her? How could he stand before her and let her see the blood on his hands?

Blood he’d put there willingly - not from a desperation to not starve, from hunting for food like her own occasionally were, but rather from the savagery being stuck Under the Mountain brought out in him. Brought out in all of them.

No. She was a dream. A beautiful dream, yes, but one time would soon fade. A dream to keep him sane down here in the dark. Better to leave her there, in the light.

Far away from him.

~

Calanmai came and went. His painter’s dreams shifted. The bonfires gone, the portraits increasing. More fae faces, masks covering their eyes.

Rhys lost track of the days, letting the hellish monotony of Under the Mountain pass him by.

Would Tamlin manage to break her curse? He hadn’t rooted for his old friend in decades, hadn’t wanted him to have happiness in the wake of his betrayal, but he begged the Mother to grant him that this one time.

The thought ran through his head over and over as he watched Amarantha torturing some poor fae. He remained in the shadows, holding the fae’s mind, while Amarantha dug her nails into his neck, pulling flesh and blood out with her nails. Rhys held back his wince at the sound of the fae choking on his own blood only from the practice he’d had doing the same for years.

It was a truly vicious and horrible way to die, and one Amarantha delighted in. often cooing to Jurian’s eye that he should be used to such a sight. Rhys wasn’t sure how anyone could grow used to such a thing, but Amarantha was the proof, he supposed.

Finally, the poor creature succumbed to his injuries, but Amarantha didn’t stop until she’d used her sharpened nails to fully tear the male's head from his body. Blood splattered her neck and face, coated her dress and arms. A puddle surrounded them, and when Amarantha returned to her throne, the head clutched by the hair in her hands, her dress dragged the puddle into a smear across the red marble.

She sat back on the throne, tilting the head back and forth on her lap as she observed it. Her red lips puffed slightly into a pout, then she held out a hand palm up.

“Give me your ring, Rhysand.”

Rhys slid the signet ring off his left pinky, dropping into her cupped hand. Everything in him recoiled at the idea of her touching it, an heirloom passed down from High Lord to High Lord from the very first one to exist. The flat side of the signet, with the etching of Ramiel’s peaks and the three stars above, should never have graced the skin of a usurper. And yet Amarantha took delight in Rhys’ revulsion, the way she always did whenever she desecrated something sacred to Prythian or to him.

She rolled the ring between her fingers until she held it between her thumb and forefinger. “Beron,” she called, waiting for the High Lord of Autumn to approach her before ordering, “Fire.”

Rhys could do nothing but watch as she then carefully held his ring over the fire Beron held in his hand. It turned red quickly, and Amarantha pressed it to the head behind the ear. Her own fingers didn’t burn, protected by the spell she’d used to seal their magic. She could have heated it herself too, if she didn’t find pleasure in ordering the High Lords around.

The smell of burning meat filled Rhys’ nose. He fought back the gag with practiced ease, holding his breath until Amarantha pulled the ring back and tossed it through the air to him. It was still warm enough to hurt, but not enough to scar him too as Rhys tucked it into his pocket. He left his hands there too, hidden as he flexed his fingers, subtly wiping his palm off.

His hands were covered with metaphorical blood already. They didn’t need burned flesh on them too.

“Take this to Tamlin,” Amarantha ordered, holding the head by the hair again out toward Rhys. She was already looking away, looking toward the crowd for her next bit of entertainment. “Put it somewhere he can admire it.”

Rhys took it from her, dipping his head as he left.

Amarantha didn’t bother to watch him go.

~

Spring was… bright. Bright and loud, so busy after Rhys had spent so long in the dark. He couldn't even imagine how much brighter it would get as the sun continued to rise, as dawn melted into day. It was easy enough to slip into the minds of the morning gardeners and turn them to other tasks, to walk right up to the heron fountain and spike the poor fae’s head to the beak.

He stared for long enough that another servant began to come his way, and Rhys slipped into their mind on instinct. He was about to turn them away when he caught a glimpse of their thoughts.

Clean the area for the Lady. She wanted to paint here today.

Rhys froze for a heartbeat. Could it be?

He winnowed past the worker closer to the manor, hiding himself in the shadows still cast from the lingering night. He’d made it two steps before he caught the scent on the air, familiar and close and so, so real.

Cauldron, she was real.

Real, and he’d not come to Calanmai. Not come to the time he could have actually seen her, talked to her. But he could still see her now.

The scent was strongest coming from the open doors of a second floor balcony, and Rhys winnowed there before he’d even made the conscious decision. Soft curtains drifted with the morning breeze, and he approached on silent feet, slowly enough his own movements wouldn’t cause a stir.

He saw the bed first, then the two bodies tangled up in the sheets. Tamlin, eyes closed as he slept, and Rhys’ painter next to him. Her face was pressed into Tamlin’s neck, one arm thrown across his torso. Her hair was bunched up around her face, preventing him still from seeing her, but the sheets were pushed down to their waists, revealing his painter’s back to him.

She was beautiful, with freckles across her shoulders that looked like stars to him. He wondered if they coated her face as well. He wanted to trace the dip of her spine, press his face to her and hear her heartbeat, tangle his fingers in her hair.

His hands trembled at his sides from the wanting.

From the sick pit in his stomach as he watched. His painter was with Tamlin, a golden prince with a beautiful land to match. Her skin was a canvas, one he had no interest in marring with his own touch, his own stained hands.

He dreaded what would happen when Tamlin’s time ran out. Amarantha would slaughter her out of jealousy, unless Tamlin sent her away, back to Winter.

Amarantha would not suffer that a female like this could capture his attention, when she received only his scorn.

Tamlin had better send her away before then. Rhys wouldn’t survive it if she died. Wouldn’t survive seeing her beneath stone, torn apart at Amarantha’s hands. He’d rather die himself than watch this last good thing be taken from him, like everything else he’d lost in his life.

A fresh gust of wind blew then, inward toward the sleeping pair. Tamlin remained asleep, but his painter stirred, shifting slightly and stretching as she woke. Gooseflesh erupted across her back, and she blindly reached down to feel around for the sheets to pull them back up and over her chin. Rhys allowed himself the last look, then winnowed away before Tamlin could wake as well.

He landed at the tunnel entrance and stumbled, hand coming out to catch himself on the stone walls. Tearing himself away from her had felt like tearing a piece of himself away, and he had to breathe through it for a long moment before he could stand straight again. He brushed his hands off, making sure not a speck of dirt was on him as he set his face back into his Lord of Nightmare’s mask.

The Mother had been kind to give him such a gift, the chance to see his painter even once. Even if it meant seeing her with his enemy.

It had been enough. Would have to be enough.

~

Barely a few weeks later, Winter rebelled. Amarantha had grown so angry, Rhys feared she would bring the whole mountain down on them all, regardless of the fact that the rebels had already been slaughtered.

“Ungrateful,” she hissed, pacing back and forth in her room. Rhys tracked her with only his eyes, not daring to move a muscle and draw the ire onto him. “I allowed him to remain here, I host him and his nobles, bestow gifts on him, and he has the audacity to try and usurp me? Just like his father, to revolt. To ignore everything I’ve given them. See if I don’t kill him too.”

“He is the last of his line,” Rhys cautiously said. “Who would the magic go to?”

“I do not care, Rhysand. Perhaps it will go to someone who can do as they're told and obey their Queen properly.”

Rhys couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let his painter’s High Lord suffer for something he didn’t even know about. Enough had died, and if they ever made it free of Amarantha, he doubted his painter would appreciate her home being in such upheaval from losing a second High Lord in the span of fifty years.

“My Queen.” Rhys stepped closer, knowing he was inviting more pain on himself as he did so. “The rebels are dead, and Kallias could not have known of the attempt. He is as loyal as any of us. He knows he is only High Lord because of you, and I do not believe he would be so foolish as to attack you and your authority in such a way. If they had come to him, he would have gone straight to you. You know I keep an eye on them for you. Even if he hadn’t gone to you, I would have.”

Amarantha watched him approach her back through the mirror on her wall. A test. Rhys reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, gently digging his thumbs into the muscle to try and relax her. Make her a little less volatile. Slowly, her tension seeped away, until she leaned back against him, eyes closed.

Rhys’ stomach roiled at the sight, but he did not stop.

“Perhaps I can excuse his ignorance this once,” she sighed. “Enough to spare his life. But he still needs to learn to keep a better hold of his people.”

“Perhaps a trip to your dungeons, my Queen. Just long enough for the message to… sink in.”

Amarantha cracked open an eye, lips curling with pleasure at the thought. She hummed, then righted herself and stepped away from him. She strode to her desk, quickly scribbling out a message before vanishing it with a snap of magic. Orders for her soldiers to carry out.

She returned to him then, raising a hand to trail it along his cheek. “Such a good little pet,” she cooed.

Rhys smiled at that. Imagined tearing out her heart with his hands.

Amarantha took his hands in her own and led him over to the bed, and Rhys did his best to not think at all.

Hours later, a knock came from the door, then the Attor stepped in. “It is done, my Queen,” it said, grinning at Amarantha. “They were unprepared for the attack, and our forces found no resistance. The example has been made.”

Rhys’ heart dropped. He reached out with his mind, tried to find what soldiers she might have sent, somewhere nearby in the Winter Court.

He found them easily enough, but stopping them…

It was beyond him. Rhys scraped at their minds, but Amarantha’s spell held him back. They probably couldn’t even feel it. But he could feel them.

Could feel the way they relished in the pain they caused. Pain that was hours old already. The carnage was done. There was nothing he could do anymore but bear witness through memory.

Rhys watched what glimpses he could get, and was horrified.

Children. She’d sent another daemati to slaughter children.

A dozen of them, minds wiped to nothing.

In bed next to him, Amarantha nearly purred with delight as she dismissed the Attor and turned back to him, hand trailing across his skin.

He thought again of just reaching out and attacking her. Of tearing her apart, or at least trying to. Maybe she would kill him too.

Then he would never have to face Kallias.

Never have to face the knowledge of how he’d failed his painter and her people so spectacularly.

Instead, he let Amarantha crawl over him. Looked up at the carved ceiling, and pretended he didn’t care.

~

A few days later, Amarantha ordered him out again. It seemed the closer they grew to the deadline, the more freedom she granted him as her paranoia grew.

He couldn’t deny that most of him wanted to go simply to see his painter again, one last time if it were possible. If she was still there, if Tamlin hadn’t sent her away yet. Even if she hated him for failing her people. He didn’t know which he dreaded more: not seeing her, or having to be the reason she left. Having to terrify Tamlin enough that he ordered her to flee.

He’d do it, but it would hurt.

That was the price of protecting those he loved. He was well used to paying it.

It was a relief to not hide his power this time around. To stroll right down the gravel path cutting through a manicured lawn, up the marble steps of the grand entrance. It was easy to bind the sentries to their places, prevent them from stopping him as he walked inside the manor.

He cast his attention outward to find Tamlin, sense the power roiling beneath his skin, and headed toward him within moments. Lucien was there as well, and Rhys could sense their fear as walked closer, their apprehension rising with every step he took, every scuff of his boots on the black and white checkered floors.

They were trying to be casual when he walked in. Tamlin was cleaning his nails, and Lucien stood by the window, gazing out as if waiting for his lost love to return from the dead.

There was no painter.

“High Lord,” Rhys crooned, hiding his disappointment and his relief.

“What do you want, Rhysand?” Tamlin growled at him, flicking his eyes up without moving his head, the hint of fangs at his mouth.

Rhys smiled, putting a mocking hand over his heart. “Rhysand? Come now, Tamlin. I don’t see you for forty-nine years, and you start calling me Rhysand? Only my prisoners and my enemies call me that.” A lie, of course. He’d seen plenty of Tamlin not even a few days earlier. He didn’t want to think too long or hard about why Tamlin hadn’t been clothed in that bed, why his painter hadn’t either. So he looked to Lucien instead.

“A fox mask. Appropriate for you, Lucien.”

“Go to Hell, Rhys.”

Didn’t Lucien know he was already in it?

“Always a pleasure dealing with the rabble,” Rhys said, pushing that bleak thought from his mind and turning to Tamlin. He’d much rather antagonize him and cause him troubles than think about his own. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“We were in the middle of lunch,” Tamlin said.

How boring. Rhys almost frowned, but instead purred, “stimulating,” with as much derision as he could manage.

“What are you doing here, Rhys?” Tamlin demanded, still in his seat.

“I wanted to check up on you. I wanted to see how you were faring. If you got my little present.”

“Your present was unnecessary.”

He was one to talk. Tamlin didn’t have to witness the poor creature's bloody death, pick out the burned pieces of their skin from his signet ring and wash it in boiling water just to get rid of the smell. He wanted to cut at Tamlin, make him feel a sliver of that horror too.

Rhys clicked his tongue and surveyed the room. “What a pity that you must endure such… torture up here in the sunlight and fresh air. It really is such a hardship, isn’t it?”

Tamlin sighed, resigned to his fate as he rubbed his temples. “Save it for another time, Rhys. You’ll see me soon enough.”

True. Only a few more days and he’d be beneath the mountain with the rest of them. Rhys wanted to stay while he could, soak in as much sunlight as he could, but Amarantha had ordered him not to linger, so Rhys turned, preparing to leave the way he’d come.

“She’s already preparing for you,” he warned. “Given your current state, I think I can safely report that you’ve already been broken and will reconsider her offer.”

He ran a finger along the back of one of the chairs as he went, and he would’ve kept going if Lucien’s breath hadn’t hitched as he did. What was making him nervous?

“I’m looking forward to seeing your face when you—”

He cut himself off, noticing it at last. The third, half-eaten plate of food. Tamlin’s before him, Lucien’s to Tamlin’s right, abandoned when Lucien had decided to stare out the window, and a third…

Lucien went stick-straight as Rhys lifted the goblet by the plate, sniffing it once before setting it back down, the lingering traces of his painter’s scent on the rim.

She was here, she was still here. “Where’s your guest?” he asked, the sound casual when his thoughts were anything but.

“I sent them off when I sensed your arrival,” Tamlin lied coolly.

Rhys hid his snarl with a mask void of emotion, turning to face his fellow High Lord. Where could he have hidden her? Rhys would have seen her flee the room from where he’d entered the manor, and none of the windows were open-

The windows.

Lucien.

Rhys lashed out at the subtle magic surrounding Lucien, ripping away the glamour Tamlin had thrown over Rhys’ painter to keep her hidden. He couldn’t stop his rage then, couldn’t wipe it from his face as he finally saw hers for the first time, terror stricken as she met his eyes with her own.

Lucien just pressed her harder into the wall, his whole body a shield between them. As if he would ever hurt her. As if he would punish her for the glamour, when it was Tamlin that had done it.

Tamlin’s chair groaned as it was shoved back. He rose, claws at the ready, always one to react first and think things through second. Rhys ignored him, finding that his painter was a far more captivating sight.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Rhys said, the truth ripped from him before he’d had the chance to shove it down.

He turned to Tamlin, intent on covering that little slip. “Who, pray tell, is your guest?”

“My betrothed,” Lucien answered, the one lie Rhys would never believe.

He laughed, loud and long, then said, “did you know she’s cuckolding you, then? With your own High Lord, no less. I saw her in his bed that morning I dropped off my little present.”

He stalked closer, relishing the way Lucien’s eyes flickered over to Tamlin in apology while Tamlin’s own lit with fury. Lucien pulled his sword free, intent on running Rhys through with it, but Rhys merely batted it away with some of his lingering magic. The sword went flying, smacking the far wall and slicing into the wallpaper. Rhys couldn’t be bothered to look, even as he brushed Lucien aside with his magic as well.

His anger with Tamlin was growing, even as he thanked the Mother over and over again for having a second chance to see her, to finally glimpse her face, the shine of her hair, the way her bangs were just long enough to curl right below her eyebrows, the way her rounded ears held back the rest-

Rounded.

Rhys’ stare fixated on them for a moment, then he took her in in her entirety.

She wasn’t a Winter fae. She was human.

No. No.

Even if she loved Tamlin, Amarantha would slaughter her for daring to exist. Breaking the curse didn’t mean she would be safe - not at all. It would only bring a target down on her back even more so than before.

He had to scare her away, terrify her enough that she sprinted back to her side of the wall and never even thought of looking back.

There was a knife in her hands, and Rhys gently reached out to take it from her. When her weak, human grip failed her, he sent the blade in the same direction as Lucien’s sword.

“That won’t do you any good, anyway,” Rhys said to her, hating every moment of what he was about to do. He gave himself one last look at her, then reached into her mind, holding it gently in his mental talons. Her whole body stiffened, and he felt the pulse of fear deep in his gut.

“Let her go,” Tamlin said, bristling, but didn’t advance forward, panicked that Rhys might crush his painter’s mind for the attempt. “Enough.”

“I’d forgotten that human minds are as easy to shatter as eggshells,” Rhys mused. He brought his hand up to her neck, running one gentle finger along the base of her throat, feeling the pulse of her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. His painter shuddered at the contact, and Rhys would have given anything for her to be shuddering for a different reason than fear. “Look at how delightful she is—look how she’s trying not to cry out in terror. It would be quick, I promise.”

The thought of using his gift to kill her… to melt her mind into mush in the space between breaths. Rhys was almost sick at the thought, and to distract himself - hurt himself, really, with the things he knew he would find - he pushed past her fear and drew forth her memories of Tamlin.

“She has the most delicious thoughts about you, Tamlin,” he said, finding the thoughts he’d been searching for. “She reminisced about the feeling of your fingers on her thighs—between them, too.” He chuckled. “Not just fingers, either.”

“Let. Her. Go.” Tamlin’s face twisted with such feral rage that it struck a different, deeper chord of terror in his painter, and Rhys turned that over for a moment. She cared for Tamlin, but feared his rage too.

Just not enough to outweigh her love.

“If it’s any consolation,” Rhysand confided to him, “she would have been the one for you—and you might have gotten away with it. A bit late, though. She’s more stubborn than you are.”

Rhys caressed his painter’s mind one last time, then retreated. His painter gasped as she sank to her knees, reeling, desperately trying not to scream.

“Amarantha will enjoy breaking her,” Rhys said. “Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching you as she shatters her bit by bit.”

Tamlin was frozen, arms limp at his side. “Please,” he said.

“Please what?” Rhys coaxed.

“Don’t tell Amarantha about her.”

“And why not? As my ruler, I should tell her everything.”

“Please,” Tamlin managed, as if it were difficult to breathe. As if he had any of the same struggles that Rhys faced, as if he faced even a fraction of the pain Rhys did.

Rhys turned back to his painter. “What’s your name, love?” He hadn’t meant to let the word slip out, but Cauldron, if being perceived as sarcastic was the only way he could voice that truth, then who was he to stop himself?

He waited, nearly impatiently, as his painter held out. He was about ready to gently coax it from her mind when she said, “Clare Beddor.”

Rhys blinked once, the corner of his mouth pulling back. It was such an obvious lie. She didn’t look like a Clare, didn’t say it with any sense of honesty in her voice or demeanor.

But he supposed it was better, safer, that she lie. If only it hadn’t ripped at him to still be left unknowing.

“Are you going to tell Amarantha?” Tamlin interrupted.

Rhys smirked. “Perhaps I’ll tell her, perhaps I won’t.”

Never. He’d never tell her about his painter.

In an instant, Tamlin was on his feet, fangs bared to Rhys’ face.

“None of that,” Rhys tutted, clicking his tongue and lightly shoving Tamlin away with a single hand. “I best be off, back to her. But this was entertaining - the most fun I’ve had in ages, actually. I’m looking forward to seeing you Under the Mountain. I’ll give Amarantha your regards.”

Then Rhys winnowed away, the last thing he saw the terrified face of his lovely painter.

~

Amarantha was eager for his report, dismissing the Attor from her side the moment she saw Rhys walk back into the throne room. He slid his hands into his pockets as he climbed the steps up to her throne, dipping his head in a bow before sliding into place at her side.

“Well?” Amarantha demanded.

“He is resigned to his fate, my Queen.” Rhys lied smoothly. “I saw no evidence of his attempting to break his curse. Just him and the fox moping, drinking away the last of their wine before they come below to your court. Even his servants avoid him, disgusted with his lack of effort.”

Amarantha smiled, her red lips pulling apart like a wound, revealing bone beneath. “Good,” she mused. “Very good. Perhaps this whole thing will be easier than I expected.”

Rhys smiled, but inside, he was screaming.

Three days later, Tamlin arrived Under the Mountain.

He didn’t even bother to fight.

Rhys wondered why he’d ever expected differently of him.

~

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of horror, of Tamlin sitting at Amarantha’s side, his face as stone-like as his heart. He didn’t bother to speak, didn’t bother to give any indication that he’d almost broken the curse.

Rhys was glad for that much at least. Even if it meant he’d never see his painter again, at least Amarantha would never see her either. If she never suspected, then how would she ever know?

Rhys had grown used to hell. He could survive it.

And then the worst happened.

He’d been by a table in the throne room when the Attor had dragged some poor soul in. Rhys waited to see if Amarantha would call for him, but she never did, so he resumed browsing for something to eat. None of the items seemed particularly interesting to him, not when his stomach has been roiling with nausea for nearly an hour.

He tried to tune out the Attor behind him, tune out the torture that was sure to come. But then he really registered what the Attor had said - Just some human thing I found downstairs. Tell Her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs—why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.

Rhys spun toward the sound and his heart lurched.

No.

No.

There she was, his painter, on her hands and knees and glaring up at Amarantha like she had a death wish.

It was a lucky thing indeed that no one was near him, because Rhys couldn’t stop the panicked sound that ripped free before he managed to strangle it down.

The Attor kicked her in the ribs, sending her back down as its claws pierced her ribs. Rhys took a few steps forward, already shaking his head as the Attor demanded, “Tell Her Majesty, you human filth.”

“I came to claim the one I love,” she said quietly, looking at Tamlin.

“Stop,” Rhys whispered, but his painter did not hear him. Did not heed his warning.

“Oh?” Amarantha said, leaning forward in her throne, her painted nails already starting to dig into the armrests.

“I’ve come to claim Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.”

Slowly, Amarantha turned her head to look at Tamlin, seated impassively next to her. He hid it well, but Rhys could feel his terror, his dread. There was no hiding this anymore.

When she realized Tamlin wasn’t going to speak, Amarantha then looked for Rhys. People backed out of her line of sight, leaving a clear path right to him.

Amarantha was quiet as she said, “You… lied to me.”

Rhys was trembling, barely holding back from rushing for his painter, from straight out attacking Amarantha. He’d fail, but it was better than nothing, right? Better than watching as she killed his painter.

He didn’t have time to react. She raised her hand and blasted him back with a wall of white light.

He hit the far wall of the throne room hard enough to crack the stone, and landed face first on the ground after, whole head ringing and bleeding from multiple places. He couldn’t even see, was too dizzy as his ears rang, desperately trying to shake it off and get back to the fight.

Distantly, he heard screaming.

By the time he finally shoved himself back to his feet, whole body swaying and sight doubling every few moments before returning to normal, his painter was already broken on the floor.

Amarantha towered over her, kicking over and over at her ribs, snarling insults at the poor girl desperately trying to curl up to protect herself. Tamlin was thrashing on his throne, held in place by more of Amarantha’s guards.

His painter was already black and blue, blood pouring from her nose and mouth, one arm broken so far the bone stuck out.

Rhys managed one step toward her before the Attor was by his side, grabbing him and shoving him down onto the ground again, sprawling across the stone. Rhys hit his chin on the ground, biting through his tongue hard enough that blood filled his mouth. He spat it out and pushed to his knees, crawling all of two feet forward before the Attor grabbed his ankle and yanked him backward again.

In the crowds, the other High Lords watched, horrified. Terrified.

Unwilling to aid him.

Of course they were. When Amarantha was on the warpath, one learned to get out of her way, not step directly into it.

The Attor stepped on Rhys’ back, digging its claws right into his spine. Directly between where his wings sprouted when they weren’t hidden away. It leaned down over him, hot breath making Rhys cringe as it hissed, “You thought you could lie to Her Majesty and get away with it? She will deal with you soon enough.”

Cauldron, he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t get to her.

His painter screamed again, the sound so loud and sharp that Rhys flinched, before it cut off halfway as Amarantha grabbed her throat and squeezed.

Rhys flung his magic at Amarantha, scrambled to get a hold on her mind, but his mental talons simply glanced off, nothing more than an irritating bug.

Tears blurred his eyes as he lashed out again, and again, each time failing to land a hit.

Amarantha snarled at his painter, then let go of her throat to return to raking those claw-like nails down her skin. His painter screamed again, and this time, Rhys reached for her mind instead.

He seized it in his talons, wrapping them around the girl like a protective cage, bars to block out any threat.

He made her continue to scream, but inside, she no longer felt pain.

Just confusion at what had happened. How she’d gone from sneaking down the hallways to rescue the one she loved to bleeding out on the floor within minutes.

Confusion at where the pain had suddenly gone. If it would return. If she was going to die.

Rhys shuddered at that thought.

Yes. Probably.

And he was a fool for ever thinking he could have protected her.

I’m so sorry, he whispered to her.

Her mental attention latched on him. Rhysand? Is that you?

Rhys closed his eyes, letting his head fall to the ground. He didn’t want to see what Amarantha was doing anymore.

Yes, Painter. It’s me.

What’s happening?

She sounded so small asking it, even in his mind. Scared.

I took your pain away. But I… I can’t save you.

There was a pause, during which he forced her body to scream again, to beg for mercy he already knew Amarantha would not give.

You didn’t tell her about me. You lied to her.

Yes. I knew she would hurt you if I told her the truth.

You lied… to protect me? But I thought you and Tamlin were enemies.

Yes, Painter. He sighed. Tamlin is my enemy. Him. Not you. Never you. And I would rather he have won than Amarantha, anyway.

Rhys looked back up at his painter, lying there broken on the floor. Amarantha’s whole body was heaving with her furious breaths. Blood covered her whole face, and she paused her torture long enough to wipe at her face, smearing it across her mouth. Then she straightened, rolling her shoulders back as she stared down at the human at her feet.

Why do you call me Painter?

I do not know your name. You gave a false one.

Amarantha backed up a step, then kicked one last time at his painters ribs. The crack of her bones was loud enough the entire hall could hear.

You knew?

Even her mental voice was starting to weaken.

Rhys mentally nodded. Yes, Painter. I knew.

Amarantha tilted her head back and forth, cracking her neck like she was just getting started.

Rhys didn’t see where she could go from there. His painter was already standing with one foot into the land of milk and honey.

Will you tell me it? He begged.

It came through like a sigh. Feyre. My name is Feyre.

Rhys closed his eyes, the sound of the name an answer to a question he’d been asking for years.

Rhys?

Rhys’ heart jumped at that. At her calling him Rhys instead of Rhysand. Even without being asked.

Yes, Feyre?

She's not going to let either of us live, is she?

Rhys’ cheek was wet against the ground from his own tears as he said, No Feyre. She isn’t.

Rhys?

Yes, Feyre, darling?

Will you stay with me? Until the end?

Rhys sobbed. Even the fae around him looked over in shock, having never heard him utter such a sound.

“Always,” he whispered, both aloud and to her mind.

And some of the fear in Feyre’s heart seemed to melt away at that. At knowing she at least wouldn’t be alone.

And then Amarantha, apparently done observing Feyre beneath her, said, “You mortals are so fragile. So easily broken. But I’m not done having fun yet. Thesan? Heal her while I deal with Rhysand.”

Rhys’ heart stopped.

Amarantha was going to kill him, yet bring Feyre back.

Over and over, if he had to guess, until she eventually tired of torturing her. But Rhys would no longer be there to take her pain. To talk her through it. To be there with her when she eventually died.

He had promised her she wouldn’t be alone.

He would rather suffer another five hundred years Under the Mountain than ever see Feyre suffer like this again. Ever leave her alone, let her feel the pain of every excruciating minute.

Even if it damned him. Even if it broke something in him. At least he would die quickly afterward.

Feyre, darling?

Yes, Rhys?

I’m so sorry, love.

He didn’t give her the time to realize his intention. Simply dug those once-protective mental talons into her mind, and let her slide into peace without any more pain.

Amarantha didn’t even notice her precious plaything die.

Rhys felt every excruciating moment. Letting Feyre slip away, leaving only emptiness behind in her wake, was a new form of torture he didn’t think even Amarantha could have invented. His mind wanted to tug on her fading presence, hold fast to it and keep her here still, safe and coveted, and it took everything in him to relax his hold. Let her slip through his mental talons and vanish at last.

Rhys couldn’t look away from Feyre’s body as Amarantha approached him. He saw Thesan crouch over her body and pause, then look over at him, understanding what Rhys had done. Thesan shook his head and backed away, already gesturing for his court to leave if they could. Escape the coming storm. The other High Lords noticed and began to do the same.

In his throne, Tamlin stilled, staring down at Feyre as the last of his hope died.

All of them could go to hell, as far as Rhys cared.

Amarantha crouched at his head, reaching down to run her fingers through his hair and grip it tightly. The Attor finally removed the claws in Rhys’ back, stepping aside so Amarantha could pull Rhys up by the tight grip she had on him.

Rhys spat in her face, finally letting down the mask he’d had up for five decades. It was petty, perhaps, but he grinned anyway as Amarantha flinched at the sudden wetness on her face.

Then she snarled at him, the sound beastlike. Wholly animal.

She didn’t give him the chance to speak before she’d dug her nails into his neck and pulled it out, dropping him back to the ground as he choked on his own blood.

It was painful, but Rhys relished every moment. He deserved it, really, for his part in Feyre’s death. For not protecting her enough, for not killing Amarantha fifty years ago when he had the chance.

But Amarantha wouldn’t get to hurt Feyre anymore, at least. Would have to find someone else to torture. And to Rhys, that was enough.

His vision slowly began to fade as he coughed and sputtered, never able to get enough air, but he knew where her body was at least, and no one was holding him back anymore.

Rhys crawled to her, sure he was leaving a trail as he went, finally collapsing at Feyre’s side.

He barely heard it as Amarantha screamed, finally realizing that Feyre was already gone. It didn’t matter anymore.

He’d lost.

He wished it could have been different. Wished he’d heeded the fucking warnings he’d gotten through his dreams. Hadn’t he dreamt of Feyre killing Tamlin’s sentry? It had been months earlier that he’d dreamt of a wolf in the woods. Months that he could have spent preparing. Planning. But he’d been too foolish.

What he wouldn’t give for a different outcome.

I’m so sorry, he thought toward Feyre’s body, the last thing he knew he’d ever think.

And then, finally, Rhysand slipped into unconsciousness.

Into death.

~

Death was… cold.

Rhys opened his eyes to a labyrinth of trees coated in ice and snow, with harsh winds gusting through and wracking his body with shivers.

Well then. He’d suspected, of course, that he wouldn’t make it to the land of milk and honey, but to actually see it? Feel it?

At least Feyre wasn’t there. She’d make it through the gates to the immortal lands. She deserved that, deserved an eternity of sunlight and warmth. Of flowers, and birds chirping. Of never feeling hungry again.

Not like Rhys did right then, his stomach growling.

He hadn’t expected that, at the very least. Hunger wasn’t exactly something the dead felt. But then again, who was to know for sure? The dead didn’t tend to talk.

A branch snapped close by, and Rhys’ attention snapped to it.

When he saw the deer, he froze.

This… was so familiar.

He pulled back the arrow - when had he picked up a bow? - and aimed for its heart, and then the wolf appeared.

He loosed the arrow. Approached the beast and watched it die.

Knelt in the snow to skin it.

Sat up with a gasp, hands turning to talons as he fell from the bed, hitting the ground hard and loudly.

Where was he? Rhys’ eyes wildly scanned the room, taking in the bedding, the chiseled ceiling, the fireplace glowing with embers.

“Rhysand?” Amarantha’s voice came from above the bed. “Did you just fall out of bed like a child?” Her mocking face appeared over the edge.

Rhys snapped, lunging for her. Her eyes went wide for a moment as his hands locked around her neck, lips pulled back into a snarl as he pressed down.

She’d tortured Feyre. Forced him to kill her to spare her any more pain. Killed him, then. She deserved to die. Who was he to waste such an opportunity?

He wasn’t sure how exactly he’d gotten it, how he’d survived getting his throat torn out, why Amarantha would have healed him. Have him returned to her room, her bed, to sleep beside her as if he hadn’t made it clear where his true loyalties lay.

Amarantha gasped uselessly for air, hands scrambling first at his face, then under her pillow. Rhys squeezed harder.

Her arm came back up, dagger clutched in her fist. She drove it into his chest and shoved him off her. Rhys didn’t even feel the pain as he toppled back to the ground, landing once again on the hard stone floor.

He could feel his heart fruitlessly trying to keep beating, to keep him alive, but the dagger had been true.

Amarantha sneered above him. “Really? You actually thought that would work? What a waste.”

Rhys’ vision faded again.

And again, there was cold. Hunger.

A deer and a wolf.

He woke quietly the next time. Eyes fluttering open to stare at the chiseled ceiling. The bedding. The fireplace. The Deceiver next to him.

What was happening?

Rhys rose from the bed, pulling on his sleep pants and quietly leaving the room. He winnowed to the throne room, stumbling slightly in his haste as he landed. The room was empty due to the time, and Rhys slowly padded barefoot across the stone floor.

There was no stain where Feyre had fallen. No trail from where he had crawled to her. There was no second throne beside the first for Tamlin to sit in.

Rhys stared at the spot on the ground, losing track of time until he heard soft footsteps. His head whipped up, and the lesser fae on the other side of the room jumped in fright at having Rhys’ sudden and full attention on them.

Rhys blinked.

He knew that fae. Amarantha had torn their wings from their back and sent them to Tamlin. They had died.

Months ago.

What was it he had thought, again? Laying there in a pool of his own and Feyre’s blood?

He’d wished it could have been different. Wished that he’d heeded the dreams Feyre had been sending his way for months.

Years.

What he wouldn’t have given for a different outcome.

It seemed the Mother had heard him.

Wasn’t quite done with him yet.

Rhys turned his back to the fae he’d startled, retreating from the throne room.

Feyre was coming, and he only had a few months to plan how he was going to save her. Change things, this time around.

Rhys had never heard of the center, which coming from him, meant he was slipping. His family had been funding the arts for decades in their city, their name well known from how often it was stamped across galleries and performance halls and rec centers. His father had always wanted more of the name recognition of high class arts, but his mother hadn’t come from money. She’d grown up having nearly no access to the arts other than in community centers and whatever her school could provide, which had helped her apply for and receive a scholarship to a fashion institute. She’d instilled in Rhys and his sister an appreciation for such small community centers, who both knew what it meant to her to give back to the very thing that had given so much to her.

Even now, years after the accident that had taken them all from Rhys, he kept up with his knowledge, carrying out her legacy in the only way he knew would matter to her should she have been there to see it.

Rhys searched the name of the center on his phone with one hand, the other still clinging to the door handle for several seconds until he realized his stall out. The result pulled up an address, and when Rhys clicked on it, the map showed it to be a mere minutes walk away, in the same exact shopping center he stood in. Rhys spun, his plans with Mor forgotten, as he scanned the strip plaza. He spotted it almost immediately, not 300 feet away, charming and cozy between a beauty supply store and an optometrist office. He could even see the bright paint on the walls inside, a cheery assortment of bright yellow and vivid blues compared to the more bland eggshell interior of its neighbors.

Rhys tore the little slip with the phone number off the flyer and walked over with only a quick glance at Mor, who was still all too happily flirting and hadn’t even noticed his arrival yet.

As he approached the art center, he could see a balloon arch as well, with a cheap banner reading “Grand Opening” secured to the wall. On another, a TV was playing advertisements. Inside, a woman in jeans, a tie-dye purple and blue t-shirt, and black half-apron was crouched next to a child, facing away from the door so that only her golden brown hair - put up in a bun and secured with an apparently used paintbrush - was visible to him.

Rhys slipped inside, breathing in deep the chemical smell of wall paint mixed with acrylic, the two just different enough he could distinguish between them. There was a stack of flyers on the front desk, and Rhys spotted the same flamingo with sunglasses. As he meandered closer to see if it was the same, the woman stood and turned to Rhys. When he met her stunningly blue eyes, it was like time itself stopped, holding him hostage until she released him.

She was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. Her clothes were splattered with dry paint, and bits of it clung to the underside of her nails. A few wisps of hair freed from her bun framed her face perfectly in combo with her bangs. Freckles dotted her face like constellations, and Rhys had to crush the urge to reach out and trace the designs.

Feyre, read the little name tag pinned to her shirt.

“There you are,” he said, the words slipping from his tongue before he could pull them back. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Feyre faltered, puzzlement furrowing her brows. Rhys handed her the little slip with her phone number he’d pulled from the flyer on the coffee shop and passed it over, hoping it would cover his slip up. Feyre’s face cleared and she smiled at him.

“You saw the flyer.”

Rhys blinked a few times and bit the inside of his lip. Even her voice was beautiful. “Yeah, but I’m not sure I know what getting ‘flocked’ means.”

“It’s pretty simple. I’ll show you.” Feyre led him further into the center, slipping around to the other side of the front desk and bending down out of sight for a moment to retrieve something. When she appeared again, she held a plastic lawn flamingo in her hands. “Getting ‘flocked’ means that someone paid us to drive to your house before dawn and stick a bunch of these things into your front lawn. Or, if you live in an apartment or walkup, three to five of them at your door. We leave them there for a week, then come pick them up to reuse on the next ‘flocking.’”

Rhys couldn’t stop the smile that overtook his face. He could already see his friends’ reactions to getting their places flocked. Mor and Cassian would be shocked at first, but find it hilarious and delightful quickly. Azriel wouldn’t give any physical reaction, but he would absolutely be loving the chaos of it. And Amren… Amren was just fun to mess with. She was old money like Rhys and Mor, but where Rhys and Mor at least had each other and their respective siblings growing up, Amren had been the only child and heir to a fortune that had passed to her early enough she never had the chance for even pretending at a normal life. She would look out at a flock covering her yard and immediately contemplate homicide, most likely.

It would absolutely be worth it.

“Do you tell them who paid for it to happen?”

Feyre shook her head. “You can write a message to the recipient if you want, but if not, it’s anonymous.”

Rhys thought next of people other than his family and friends. Could he Flock the other art centers he supported? The auditoriums and performance halls? Probably not. Security was good at those and he wasn’t willing to risk Feyre or whoever did placements getting in trouble over a practical joke.

Behind Feyre, the television finally stopped its run of ads, melting back into a formatted-for-tv movie. It took him a second to recognize the actor on the screen, but once he did, he couldn’t let the idea go.

There Tamlin was, his blond hair slicked back, fake leather jacket stained, and garish tattoos showing through a strategic rip in his shirt. He was fighting with glowing daggers, trying to protect some redhead girl behind him.

Rhys had forgotten about his old friend. Mostly on purpose after their fallout, in the wake of his family’s deaths when Tamlin had been more concerned with what Rhys’ name could get him than that Rhys was grieving his life upending. Rhys had gotten him the audition that led to him being cast in the movie, and when it ended up bombing at the box office several months after the accident, it cemented Tamlin as a mediocre and bland B-grade actor. Tamlin had accused Rhys of sabotaging his career, and then that was it. A decade long friendship gone.

He imagined how Tamlin might react to getting flocked and the grin on his face grew.

“How much is it?”

“We set it at a dollar per bird.”

“Wonderful. Is there a limit?”

Feyre’s mouth parted like she didn’t know how to answer that. “Um, well. We only have about fifty of these in stock, so I guess fifty. They’re not exactly cheap so even buying in bulk we had to limit.”

“If I buy you a larger stock, will you place around two hundred of them?”

Her eyes widened. “I suppose? But we wouldn’t be able to do it immediately. They would need time to arrive at our store first.”

“That’s absolutely fine,” Rhys assured her. “In the meantime, can I flock some other people a more reasonable amount?”

“Of course.” Her voice was faint as she spoke, and it didn’t get any stronger as he filled out the forms and paid for his purchase.

“If that last one catches you, don’t be afraid to tell her it was me that paid you. The others will probably guess. Can you also text me some photos of it when it’s done?”

“I would need your number,” she said numbly.

“If you insist,” Rhys purred, handing her his phone and enjoying the way the tips of her ears went a little pink as she took it from him and sent herself a text. He saved her number to his contacts, putting the ring emoji into the company line on a whim. He didn’t want to think too closely about that, not when she was still watching him like she couldn’t believe he was real.

“Thank you for your support, sir.”

“Rhys, please. It’s only fair given I knew your name before I even walked in here.”

“Rhys, then. I- look I wasn’t really expecting anyone to do this, and it honestly means so much to me. Thank you, truly.”

“No thanks are necessary,” he said. “I think what this place could become is worth supporting.”

This time, her cheeks turned pink.

Rhys rapped his knuckles on the counter once. “Well, I better get going. My cousin is probably wondering why im late to coffee by now. Don’t forget to send me those pictures, yeah?”

Feyre nodded once, lifting her hand in a slight wave as Rhys backed away. He left with a spring in his step, turning back only once to see Feyre had moved back to the child and was once again helping them with their painting.

He was grinning when he made it back to the coffee shop, and when he slipped into the open seat across the table from Mor, she raised an intrigued eyebrow.

“You look happy,” she commented, contented to see it after so long seeing him still caught in the worst of his grief. “What’s got you smiling?”

But kinship was dangerous Under the Mountain, so once he knew the Fox wouldn’t bleed out there on the stone, Rhys put it from his mind. He had plans to make, more things to try. Both he and Feyre had to survive this if the loop was to end, so he had to learn of every possible potential threat that might still exist, uncovered in the dark.

He sent Nuala and Cerridwen out with a whisper of a mental nudge – nothing strong enough that Amarantha might sense it. He felt their acknowledgement, the way they melted into the shadows in the last seconds before he severed the connection. They’d already given him so much information, but they’d yet to try and make it into the catacombs and dungeons where the Prythian fae were locked up. But for him, so close to freedom, he was sure they would risk trying to cross the warded gates and guards that patrolled - especially if they thought it would help him.

Amarantha eventually tired of hurting Lucien and ordered him dragged away, then clapped for the music to play and dancers to begin. They ignored the fox’s blood still wet on the stone, stepping over and through it as the beat began.

Rhys watched the Lady of Autumn from his spot in the shadows, the drawn look on her face and sharp tension in her jaw. Grief and fear for her son overtaking everything in the aftermath.

Then he looked away. Looked away from her, only to feel the dizzy sensation of time fading out. Of the loop resetting.

Fuck. What was it this time?

She should have been safe in her cell.

Rhys opened his eyes, the echoes of the dream with Feyre killing the wolf a normal refrain. Beside him, Amarantha slept.

“Fuck,” Rhys whispered.

~

Time passed as if a blur. Rhys lived through the motions like a puppet, some other entity pulling his strings as day after day dragged on. Seeing Feyre at Calanmai was the first time he really felt alive again, simply for the fact that he could hold her in his arms, feel her rapid pulse in her wrists when he caught her from hitting the ground.

Then the manor, making Tamlin bow, holding her mind with his own. Alive, the pulse within him said. Alive, alive, alive.

She came under the mountain, made her bargain with the Deceiver. He held her mind as her nose was broken, prevented the pain from reaching her. Helped turn the guards' attention away when the Fox went to heal her.

Then the first trial, the Wyrm. He still bet on her, still knew exactly what would happen when she leaped and let gravity kill the wyrm. There was a thrill to seeing how it all played out, to knowing exactly how he’d changed things, and how he could get the same result every time up to a certain point. Or change it, if that was what he wished. He still hadn’t fully given up on being able to stop the whole farce before it began, but for now, finding a way though seemed to be what the Mother wanted more, as nerve wracking as that was for him. There was a relief in complacency, in trusting what he’d already discovered and lived through.

He knew he didn’t have to fear for her when she threw the bone spear, when she was dragged away to her cell as Amarantha demanded his attention.

It was only after Amarantha was finished with him that the fear returned. After all, he was finally free again to find Feyre and find out exactly what the fuck had killed her this time around. New territory, and changing plans as a result.

He stayed hidden in the shadows of her cell, watching her as she slept, shivering and curled up as best as she could.

She murmured something after a few minutes, eyes roving beneath the lids. They blinked blearily open a moment later, looked right at him, but there was no recognition. No awareness at all that she was seeing anything.

Rhys crept closer, his nose wrinkling as he finally caught the scent of infection over the scent of vomit.

It was bad – bad enough that he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it before. She’d broken her arm in the arena, but he hadn’t realized…

Memories of the war accosted him. He’d seen this before, seen his friends and allies die slow, agonizing deaths from wounds less severe than this. Rhys didn’t know how he’d forgotten before. Of course she was still injured, of course Lucien couldn’t have come to her. Healed her the way he’d once healed her nose. And Feyre wouldn’t make it long enough to wait for him.

Hadn’t, once before.

Rhys allowed the shadows to fall away from him, crouching before Feyre, hands hovering over her when she didn’t stir. She was almost gone already. Again. And was his fault. Amarantha’s fault, truly, but for his own foolishness to be the reason she’d died, the reason she was suffering…

With tremoring hands, he reached for her arm. The moment he brushed it, she screamed, jerking it away from him and coming to with a jolt.

“You,” she groaned, hunching over her injury protectively.

Rhys couldn’t find it in himself to be upset – she wasn’t delirious, wasn’t nearly as bad off as he’d thought she was from first glance. She had a few more days, because this time, he’d caught it. Hadn’t waited around.

“Me,” he replied.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you. I couldn’t allow Tamlin's champion to waste away to nothing. Not when he can’t come down here to heal you himself, watched as he is.”

Feyre glared at him, saying nothing.

“You can wait, I suppose. Hope for the Lord of Foxes to come heal you again, like he did your nose. But I wouldn’t bet on it. He’s currently bedridden, you see. Tamlin had to beg for Amarantha to spare him after he helped you in the arena, and she did, after making Tamlin give him twenty lashes. Between you and me, I wouldn’t place my hope with him.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed momentarily at the news, her friendship with Lucien worrying her momentarily. Right up until she tried to shift and the movement sent her grimacing again in pain.

“I’ll take the risk,” she said anyway. Rhys pressed his lips together impatiently.

“Just let me heal you, Feyre. Swallow your pride. You know you’re not doing well. You’re dying. Maybe not today, not tomorrow. But Lucien isn’t going to get here before you do. What does it hurt to let me help you this once?”

Feyre laughed bitterly at him. “What wouldn’t it hurt? What would you even want in exchange?”

He spoke without thinking it through all the way. “Come to the Night Court.” Someplace he could keep an eye on her. Protect her. Make sure she didn’t fucking die again.

“Not a chance.”

“Just for two weeks,” he amended, sticking with his blurted out request despite how foolish it was. “Two weeks of every month, two weeks of my choosing, you’ll live with me at the Night Court. Starting after this messy three-trials business.”

“No.”

“No? Feyre, you’ll die. Trust me when I say I’ve seen how a wound can fester. Seen and lived through the aftermath of losing someone I care about to such a fate. I won’t lose you to that fate when there’s something I can do to prevent it. Now, let me heal your arm.”

Feyre, stubborn to the last, did not let him see her arm. Rhys knew it would hurt, knew it wouldn’t endear himself to her in the slightest, but still grabbed her arm anyway, holding it between them so she could truly see the damage. She screamed, trying to pull back, too weak to retract her arm again.

“Look at it,” Rhys demanded. “The veins are already turning dark with infection. Your bone is sticking out, for Cauldron’s sake! I can’t just… heal it, okay? I don’t have that kind of magic. But I can make bargains, and the magic inherent so such matters will take care of the rest. Just accept it already and live.”

“Why do you care?” Feyre gritted out. “Like you said, I’m just Tamlin’s champion.”

“You are far more than just Tamlin’s champion, Feyre. You are everyone’s champion. The only hope any and all of us have left. None of us have a chance at stopping her when she holds our leashes too tight. You’re it, Feyre. Do you not get that?”

“Why would you care about stopping her?” she asked, panting through her teeth and staring at her own arm in his grasp, seemingly debating if it was worth it to pull her arm back or continue to let him hold it if it meant less pain for her. Evidently deciding on the latter, she looked back up at him. “She lets you run free.”

Rhys barked out a laugh, dropping her arm. She immediately tucked it close to her chest, the other one coming up protectively around it. “Free? You have no idea the things I have sacrificed for this. You think Tamlin is the only one who has people he cares about? A court under his protection? We all have that, Feyre, and in all honesty I have more to lose than him. His family is dead, after all. Mine isn’t. And so long as I appear her perfect little whore, they stay that way. Alive.”

An understanding flickered in her eyes.

“Now, do we have a bargain? Because I would really, really love for this whole thing to be over already.” And in more ways than one. He had thought in the beginning that he could do this as many times as it took. Suffer through the loops over and over so long as it meant that in the end, both of them would be alive. But it never ended that way, and Rhys was starting to become reckless. Become resigned, too, with each new variation that lead to a painful death for one of them.

Slowly, Feyre nodded. “Two weeks in the Night Court when you call it in, in exchange for healing my arm.”

Rhys nodded as well and held out his hand for her to take. She did, gingerly sliding her palm into his. Rhys would swear something shifted when her skin finally made contact with his. A warmth, lingering there, even as she swore and pulled back from the sudden rush of magic into her. The infected blood dripped from the rapidly sealing wound, the bone shifted back in, and Feyre almost passed out from it. Rhys barely caught her in time from slamming to the floor, tightening his grip on her before she could fully disengage from him. He watched the swirls of ink bleed into her skin from where he gripped her, a physical manifestation of his magic rushing into her to heal everything. Cleaning her too, while he was at it. It had to be uncomfortable to still be covered in wyrm shit, and he didn’t want to risk her getting another cut - no matter how minor - and having it get infected as well.

A minute later, she blinked her eyes back open, finally seeming to have recovered from the shock and likely pain of the rapid healing. She glanced at her arm, eyes widening as she demanded of him, “what have you done to me?”

The marks were beautiful to him - whorls and flicks of magic settling as traditional Illyrian tattoos for luck and glory. Fitting, and Rhys was briefly disappointed he wouldn’t have a set of his own to match, having already upheld his end of their bargain. But a part of him, and a large part at that, reveled in the knowledge that she was marked by him. That she, who was the true artist between them, would have the art of his people there, a gift from him to keep her going.

Rhys stood, running a hand through his short, dark hair. “It’s custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh.”

Perhaps those marks weren’t always Illyrian, but he was choosing to see it as a blessing from the Mother. A sign he was making the right choice, taking the right steps.

Feyre rubbed her left forearm and hand, not as happy as he was. “Make it go away.”

Rhys laughed. “Not a chance, Darling. Those patterns mean something to me, and they’ll bring you luck.”

She pouted at that, a cute little frown knitting her eyebrows together as she peered closer at the design. His words mollified her only slightly, so she was still almost petulant as she complained, “You didn’t tell me this would happen.”

“You didn’t ask,” he replied. “Now, you should get some rest. Even with magic, healing takes energy, and you’ll need it.”

Before she could reply, he faded into the shadows again and winnowed away.

~

He hadn’t expected her to be in his room a mere two days after that, a fireplace poker hidden behind her back and covered in ash from his fireplace.

She held her own in their vocal sparring, even drawing his wings from him for a few moments, before he hid them again. It was reckless of him, but he could still see the tattoos on her arm, and it made him happy.

Strange, for him to be happy while underground. He collected the last of the lentils for her as a gift, repayment for the one she had given him without even trying. Then the guards led her away back to her cell, and Rhys couldn’t help but grin as he knelt to light a fire.

The next day, Rhysand felt her sharp and sudden terror. He had been lurking on the edge of her mind just in case, and he was never more grateful for it than in that moment. Without thought, he winnowed to her, uncaring of any consequences in a moment such as that. What did it matter anyway? It would just start over again if he messed up too badly. He’d already killed Feyre himself, watched her die and been unable to stop it, and killed himself to speed up the process. But letting her stay afraid…

She was in the Autumn Court wing. The guards from the day before laughed as they dragged her limp, burned body between them out of a room. For a moment, Rhys saw a different woman, with blonder hair and just as injured by the Autumn Court. A Court made for destruction and decay. Rhys reached out for their minds without a care, gripping their thoughts harshly and freezing them as he strode up to them. Inside the room they’d just exited, one of the younger Autumn princes was sneering at him.

“What have you done?” Rhys snarled at him. He was going to rip this male to shreds. He felt his power growing in his fingertips, the desire to mist him, to rend him blood from bone and make him suffer, rising with it.

“She was rooting around under my bed,” the prince retorted. “How was I supposed to know she wasn’t a thief?”

Rhys felt his wings starting to grow behind him, the beast deep within snarling to protect her, attack him. Kill them all for daring to lay a hand on her.

Feyre moaned in pain behind him, effectively seizing his attention. Rhys turned back to the guards, shadow wings vanishing as he lifted Feyre’s limp body into his arms. He delved deeper into their minds and pulled up the memory of them dropping Feyre off.

“Count how many grains of rice are spilled,” one told her.

“Don’t forget to look behind the furniture.” The other added. “Or else the owner of the room won’t be too happy when he walks through and hurts his feet on them.”

Rhys pulled out of their minds, tearing at them as he went. They both collapsed into heaps, dead before they could realize his intentions. He winnowed back to his rooms, his real rooms, the ones that she had been in not even a day before, cleaning lentils from a fireplace.

He couldn’t understand why there had been uncooked lentils in his rooms in the first place, but now…

Household chores. Classic ones from old faerie tales his mother had once told him. It seemed Amarantha liked the theme. Old fae tales for a girl with an old fae name.

Her eyes were shut tightly from the pain, and she was grabbing at her arm unconsciously. When Rhys dared to look closely, he almost vomited at the sight. The once beautiful markings were marred by burns, oozing blood and pus already from the high heat. Her skin was peeling away in places, and her cheeks were red too, a more superficial burn. Her hair was uneven, the edges charred and fragile.

The Autumn princeling had likely cast fire towards her, and she’d thrown up an arm to protect herself.

Rhys hadn’t yet known Azriel when his hands were burned, but he knew what they looked like healed. And that was with supernatural healing. He couldn’t even imagine how badly Feyre would look having to go through it all the long, painfully mortal way.

Unless they made another bargain? But she would have to be conscious for that. And what would she give? The other two weeks per month? Unlikely.

Rhys set her down on his bed gently, brushing her hair from her face and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before he could stop himself.

He would wait for her to wake, then find something else she could give him for a bit of bargain magic. But in the meantime…

He had a prince to still deal with.

He stalked back down the halls to the Autumn Court rooms, slamming the door open to the room Feyre had been in. The princeling was still there, sitting at his desk. He jumped up and whirled to face Rhys, fists alight with flame, but Rhys didn’t give him the chance to attack. He launched himself at the princeling, determined to get justice for Feyre, for Azriel, for Mor even. He had just managed to get a grip on his jacket before someone was pressing a dagger to his throat from behind.

“You should have known better,” Eris hissed at him, “Than to go after any of my family.”

Then the blade opened his throat.

At least Feyre wouldn’t be in pain any longer.

~

They made the bargain again the next loop around. Rhys even followed through on stopping the guards from taking her to the Autumn Court wing after she cleaned out the lentils. He ensured hot food was given to her every evening, and sent fresh blankets and clothes to her when he could spare them. Regardless, he could sense her despair growing. Feel it down their bargain that the boredom and the fear and the whole damn situation was getting to her.

He wished there was something he could do for her, but it wasn’t like he could take her for walks around the mountain. It was safer for her to be out of sight of Amarantha, and therefore out of her mind. She was stuck, alone, unless he were to keep her company. But she didn’t wish to be near him, not after he’d made that bargain with her again, put those Illyrian tattoos on her skin. He doubted she’d want to talk with Nuala or Cerridwen either, or he might have sent the wraiths to her cell just to keep her company.

He would have to come up with some way to get her out of the cell. To get her a way to safely walk around and be around other people, exercise and take in something other than misery. He had plenty of time, at the very least. Time was the one thing he wasn’t short on.

She was nearly despondent by the time the second trial rolled around, but at last they had made it. Rhys had been desperate the last few weeks, practically pulling out his own hair to ensure nothing went wrong, that he would finally see what it was Amarantha had planned for Feyre. And then he knew - a riddle. A pathetically easy riddle, and all Feyre had to do was pull a lever.

Even like this she’d be able to complete the trial. She wouldn’t have to run or fight anything, wouldn’t have to avoid a monster trying to kill her. Rhys was relieved that Feyre would get through this trial easily.

The first had been physical. This second would be mental. The third… who knew. Rhys was sure Amarantha would come up with something. Probably something to do with her heart. A challenge on humanity. A challenge for her soul.

But that day was still a month away, and there was no point worrying about it when Rhys was sure he would have the timeline reset at least a few more times before he ever made it there.

As Feyre was led onto the platform that would descend into the chamber below - where poor little Lucien was already chained up - Rhys scanned the crowd around them. The crowd was jeering, and Rhys took note of all the faces that were a little too enthusiastic. When Feyre succeeded and freed them, they would be the first on his list.

After Amarantha, of course.

Amarantha would always come first. For his men, slaughtered in the first war. For himself, for suffering under her tortures for nearly six decades at this point, having lived the final year of her curse over and over enough times. For Jurian, even, trapped as a ring and forced to witness it. And for Feyre, who had suffered far more than even she knew as a direct consequence of Amarantha’s choices and power.

“Well, Feyre, your second trial has come. Have you solved my riddle yet?” Amarantha waited for an answer they both knew wouldn’t come. “Too bad,” she said, pouting in mockery. “But I’m feeling generous tonight. How about a little practice?”

Rhys watched the Attor and other surrounding faeries laugh, adding them to his mental list of targets as well.

“Begin,” Amarantha said, and the floor began to descend. Rhys didn’t bother to watch, he already knew what Feyre’s reaction would be when she noticed Lucien’s predicament.

He watched Eris instead, especially with little Lucien down in the pit with Feyre. Eris had already killed him once - an embarrassing feat that Rhys was glad no one would ever be able to remember except for him - and looked like he was getting far too much glee at the thought of Feyre and Lucien dying a horrible death.

A mask, Rhys guessed. If Eris had been willing to kill him over one of his rival brothers, surely he’d be upset over his favorite brother dying. But it wouldn’t do to let Beron or Amarantha know.

Down in the chamber, Feyre cried out, finally noticing her friend next to her. Rhys glanced at her for merely a moment, then returned his stare to Amarantha. She was smiling, a cruel, slight thing. Delighting in Feyre’s pain and fear.

He imagined forcing her to trade places with Feyre. Chaining her up in Lucien’s place so that she had to wait. Watching. Feeling the burning heat of the metal spikes above her as they grew closer and closer.

Down in the chamber he heard Feyre pull a lever. Around him, fairies gasped. Amarantha's smile grew.

Rhys looked back down at Feyre. She had pulled the wrong lever. He was stunned, frozen for several seconds before he dove into her mind to find out why.

Her panic thoughts took him for a moment. She knew she was going to die. She knew Lucien was going to die. And she blamed herself because…

Because she couldn’t read.

Rhys’ heart dropped. He’d known she hadn’t had the best education growing up, but he had never once assumed that she could not read. He hadn’t helped her with this riddle because he had thought it would be easy for her. He thought she would get it in an instant.

And instead she had panicked. The words had blurred together into one jumbled mess. Lucien’s distress from across the cavern had distracted her, had made her even more nervous than she had already been.

The spikes were barely above her head. Rhys could already smell burning hair.

Rhys did the only thing he could think to do. He seized a hold of her mind, but before he could end it, before he could restart the loop without Feyre’s pain - the same burning pain she had just suffered the previous loop as well - the Attor pounced on him.

“No interfering,” it hissed, dragging him down to his knees and forcing him to watch. He hadn’t realized Amarantha suspected him so much. He could feel his magic being restricted even more than normal, so that he was unable to even look away or block her pain.

Rhysand watched, horrified, as those burning spikes descended through Feyre and Lucien.