#illyrian oc

Cassian grimaced. “I remember him. He was a good warrior.” He tried to not think of how he died in the war by the cauldron that should have also taken his own life. “She doesn’t want to train with the others in Windhaven?”

Emerie looked off for a moment. “Her eldest son is worried she will be targeted now that she’s widowed. He’s kept her in his home since the war but Trina is stubborn. She wants to go back to her home. She’s started to stay there during the day with the younglings. If she trains with us in the morning she can watch the babes in the afternoon while the others do their training.” 

“I think we can swing it.” He nodded. “I’ll tell Az to expect two when he gets you tomorrow.” 

“Thanks Cassian. I’ll let her know.” 

Azriel stepped out of the shadows where the two females waited and his heart skipped. She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. Even Elain, the beauty of Prythian, couldn’t compare to the radiant female beside his friend. Her long black hair was braided in the back, smaller braids framing her face. He noted she had three black beads in the braid on the left. A war widow. 

Her long lashes blinked and she turned her deep brown eyes to him. She wore new leathers- probably from Emerie’s shop. Then he felt it. A warm knot in his chest. Her sharp eyes grew wide, mouth opening slightly. She felt it too. In the span of a breath it unraveled, the golden thread in his mind's eye shooting forth and meeting the one from her. 

She was his mate. 

She was his mate. 

She shrunk back, horrified and put her hand on her chest. She whispered, “What magic is this?”

“Trina?” Emerie turned to her in concern. 

“Did you deceive me?” She turned to Emerie. “Why is the shadowsinger here?” Her words were laced with a venom Azriel was so used to from his own. 

“Azriel is taking us to training. Trina, what do you mean?” 

“We’re mates,” Az whispered. 

The world spun around Azriel. He had a mate. He had a mate.

His ears rang. Shadows flurried around him. They whispered, repeating the word ‘mate’. Azriel felt like vomiting. One curled around his ear, whispering past the ringing loud enough for him to hear. 

She is afraid. 

Of course she was. Azriel was the monster Illyrian mothers told their children about before bed. ‘The shadowsinger will snatch you up’ they would say when the younglings misbehaved. He knew. He always knew. Even the males buried weapons he wielded, believing them cursed. He stayed away from Illyria for a reason.

Comfort her. She is afraid of us.

Azriel blinked several times, not realizing his eyes had watered. His mate was shaking, shooing shadows that went to her. 

The Mother truly hated him. 

Emerie spoke but Az couldn’t hear her. He had to leave. The shadows protested while he whispered his song to have them take him away. He needed to leave. He needed to be far, far away. They relented and Emerie yelled at him again as he stepped back and winnowed. 

He reemerged above the training ring at the House of Wind. Out of instinct he spread his wings to brace the fall. Cassian and Nesta walked to him as soon as his feet hit the ground. 

“Where is Emerie and her friend?” Cassian frowned. 

“Az what happened?” Nesta spoke more softly than Cassian. ”Are they okay?”

He shook his head, unable to speak. 

“Az?” 

His eyes cut to Gywn, who joined beside Nesta. Az felt his chest constrict, his mind thinking before he could stop it. Why couldn’t it have been her? 

His shadows did not like that. 

SHE IS NOT OUR MATE! They yelled at him in unison. 

He winced. No, she was not. The Mother and The Cauldron wanted him to suffer in this life. Instead of giving him a mate who saw past his damage, the darkness in him, he was given-

“Azriel?” 

Nesta’s voice cut his thoughts short. Had they been talking to him? She and Cassian both were closer to him now, within arms reach. 

“They’re fine,” He forced out. “I have to go.” 

He left the roof, not heeding their protests for him to come back. He needed to be alone. 

In Windhaven, Emerie steadied the female beside her. Kaltrina was muttering an Illyrian prayer, one of protection. 

“Trina, I,” She pulled away, snatching her shoulder back. 

“You brought me to The Shadowswinger.” Kaltrina’s whole body was shaking. “I upset him and now the High Lord will come for me.”

”He won’t-“

”I belong to The Shadowsinger now. I can feel it.” She clutched the leathers near her chest. “I will be punished. I upset him. He will take me to the dungeons.” 

Emerie clenched her hands into fists by her side. “He will not, I will not let him.” Trina did not seem convinced. Emerie added softly, “Azriel is a good male, Trina.”

“They say he is cursed.” She whispered. 

“And they are wrong.” Emerie reached out, putting a hand on her shoulder. “The only thing cursed about him is that he’s an idiot male just like the rest of them. I know. I train with him.” 

Trina smiled weakly for a moment. It quickly faded. 

“What do we do now?” 

Emerie dropped her hand. With no one to take them, they were stuck in Illyria. They could go back to their respective homes; but she didn’t feel comfortable leaving Trina to deal with this on her own. She watched Trina lower her gaze to the ground.

“It’s going to be okay,” Emerie whispered.

Trina shook her head, tears in her eyes. “The Mother must hate me. She took Tufan from me and thrust me in the way of another male before I could even complete my grieving. I’m not ready, Emerie.”

She choked back a sob and Emerie pulled her into a tight hug. 

“I won’t let him near you if that’s what you want.” 

“What will my boys think?” She sniffled into Emerie’s shoulder. “They won’t believe I didn’t choose this.”

“Yes, they will!” Emerie pulled back to look her friend in the eyes. “Your boys are good males. They love you dearly. Come with me. I’ll make you some tea and we will figure out what to do next.”

Trina nodded and after wiping her eyes, followed Emerie back to her shop. 

Azriel locked himself in his room. He sat on the floor by this bed, legs pulled up to his chest. His shadows flurried around him, hissing at him in disdain. 

Go back to our mate. 

Get up. 

“Leave me alone.” Azriel growled. 

He swatted them and stilled. He stared at his hand, shadows swirling around scarred fingers. Cursed fingers no Illyrian female would want near them. Cursed fingers he sometimes wished he could rip from his body. 

Why was The Mother so cruel? He thought, dropping his hand down. 

Az hadn’t cried in a long time, but he felt tears welling in his eyes. Her face flashed in his mind. He could vividly replay in his head the way she smiled and how that smile fell when she saw him for what he was- who he was. And then the bond snapped. 

This bond confirmed what Azriel had suspected for years: he was worthless. 

Why else would the mother give him a mate who had children and a spouse? He wasn’t fit to have his own children. He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s first choice. And those wings. Damaged beyond repair, just like himself. Mates were equals, after all. 

He sat on the floor digging his hands into his hair to feel something other than the pain in his chest. He didn’t know how much time had passed. The shadows died down when they realized he wouldn’t acknowledge them. The only sound in the room was his breathing and the occasional sniffle. Then he felt a scratch in his mind. 

Azriel, Rhysand said when Azriel cracked his mental door. Can you come to the house? I have some reports I want to discuss. 

Can we do it tomorrow? Azriel asked. 

It kind of needs to be done today. 

Azriel groaned. Fine. I’ll be there shortly. 

He should have known it was a trap. 

Azriel went into the house and his shadows were silent and hidden. He felt uneasy as he made his way to Rhysand’s office. He was right to feel that way when he opened the door to see Rhys and Cassian both in the room. 

“Sit,” Rhys gestured to the open back chair next to Cassian. 

“I’ll stand.” Azriel shut the door gently. “Which reports did you want to go over?”

Cassian was the one to answer. “The one about you finding your mate.”

Azriel stilled and his stomach churned.  

“What are you talking about?”

Rhys came around the desk and leaned on it to be closer to Azriel. An intimidation tactic. Once that Az wouldn’t cave to. 

“You were supposed to pick up Emerie and her friend today. Cassian said you stormed past him without them, so Feyre and I went to see what happened.” Rhys smiled. “What a surprise it was to meet your mate.”

“Don’t call her that.” Az snapped before he could stop himself. 

Rhys and Cassian both frowned. 

“That’s what she is,” Cassian said. “They told us about the bond-“

“I’m leaving.” Az turned and tried the door but it was locked. He looked back at Rhys with a fury in his eyes. “Open the door.” 

“Azriel, you should sit. I don’t understand why you’re angry. You have a mate.” 

“No, Rhys,” Az shoved his finger at him, the rage boiling his blood and soul. “You do not get to tell me how to feel about this. Not when you have Feyre as a mate.” 

Rhys was truly bewildered. Azriel started pacing again. His shadows flurried about even in the bright light of Rhysand’s office. Rhys cut his eyes to Cassian who shrugged. 

Rhys frowned. “You wanted a mate. You’ve always wanted a mate. Now you’re mad you have one?” 

Rhys scratched at his mental shield. Let me in Az. 

No. “Just let me leave,” Azriel growled aloud. 

Cassian stood up from his chair. “Not until you calm down.” 

“That’s fucking rich coming from you. You left for a week when your bond snapped.” Az spewed out in venom. 

“I left because Nesta wasn’t ready. I wasn’t angry because she was mate.”

“Then why did you tell her you were shackled with her at the river?” Az knew he hit a nerve when Cassian paled. “The whole city heard you. You got Nesta and you didn’t even want her.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Cassian’s siphons flashed. 

“Both of you got-“ he stopped himself. 

“Got what, Az?” Rhys asked coolly. His patience was running thin. 

“Let me out before I break your fucking wards.” He said to Rhys through his teeth. 

Charged silence hung between the three of them. Rhysand broke it with a soft but targeted statement. 

“You’re angry your mate is Illryian.” Azriel’s siphons flashed. Rhys tilted his head slightly. “You’re angry your mate isn’t a high fae.” 

Azriel could feel his anger snap. 

“I am angry that I waited over five hundred years and I got a broken female who’s already lived her life.” If he could wield flames he would be on fire. “She was married, Rhys. She had children. Children we led into war along with her now dead husband. Meanwhile you two get to start a life with your mates.”

Shadows blocked his vision, they hissed their displeasure at his disrespect to his mate. He didn’t care. 

“The Mother is wrong.” He breathed heavily. The rage in him had nowhere to go. “She was wrong about your parents and she is wrong about this. I would rather have no bond at all than be mated to her.”

Rhys looked at Cassian who was watching Azriel, concern and confusion heavy in his brows. The shadows blocked Azriel’s head from view but Rhys could see him ball his fists. His siphons glowed. It took a breath for Rhys to wrap his mind around what Az just said. 

Then he shoved his brother hard, grabbing by the straps of his leathers and pushed him up against the wall. Rhys didn’t care that the whole house shook, Feyre’s paintings rattling from the impact. 

“Have you lost your fuckin mind?” Rhys’s own darkness flared. 

The shadows parted. He’d only ever seen anger like that in Azriel’s gaze a handful of times before. When Mor was left on the border in Autumn. When Rhysand’s mother and sister were murdered. He needed to get Azriel out of his house before he destroyed it. 

Meet me at the cabin. He screamed in his mind to Cassian and winnowed himself and Azriel away. 

The world folded in on itself and when the darkness cleared, Azriel was already pulling away from Rhysand’s hold. He threw the first punch. He hit Rhys in the jaw and sent him stumbling back. Rhys recovered quickly and threw himself at Az, hitting him in the stomach. 

They fought each other with only their hands but his and Rhysand’s magic crackled in the air. The shadows disappeared- possibly not wanting to be involved with what was happening. By the time Cassian arrived, they were both bloody. Lips and noses busted. Bruises healing around their eyes and on their skin. 

Cassian landing distracted Rhys long enough for Azriel to push him to the ground. He straddled Rhys, getting three more punches in before Cassian could pull him off. He growled and twisted in Cass’s hold. He even tried to hit Cass with his wings. Rhys got up on wobbly knees, and spit more blood on the ground. 

“Are you done acting like a youngling?” Cassian asked. 

“You both should have left me alone,” Az’s teeth flashed, blood coating them. “Let me go.” 

“No,” Cassian’s grip tightened, both his arms pinning down Azriel’s. 

Rhys popped his shoulder back into place. He approached Az and Cassian a little straighter. Azriel refused to meet his gaze. 

“I thought you were better than this,” Rhys said softly but just as deadly as if he yelled. “None of us are owed a mating bond. We definitely aren’t owed females we can’t fucking have.” 

Az cut his he gaze to Rhys. A flash of realization crossed his battered face. 

“You think this is about Elain?”  Az said through his teeth. 

“Elain?” Cassian tried to look around Az to Rhys. 

“I know it is.” Rhys spat back. 

It had to be. Rhys knew Az was bitter about the order to stay away from her. He did it to protect him. Rhys couldn’t let him wallow in heartache if Elain chose Lucien. Or risk a war between courts. 

“You’re fucking wrong.”

“Then Mor?” Rhys tilted his head. 

Rhys figured he would hit a nerve but Az continued to glare at him. He did not expect Azriel to blast a shield, throwing Rhys and Cass back onto their asses. Az didn’t leave. He cracked his neck and walked to Rhys where he laid on the ground. He waited for Rhys to sit up before he spoke. 

Dearest Readers, allow me to make a first introduction. 

You may call me Thorne, for even Velaris’s most stunning roses have them hidden beneath their petals. 

You may not know me, but as we approach our Great Court’s annual Blood Rite and Socialite Season, you can be certain that I know you.

I would like to inform you of a most interesting update in our Court’s dealings. A new Lord has been appointed to rule the Hewn City. 

Keir, the High Lord’s brother, seems to have earned this title through familial relation alone. The land certainly would not have chosen a Fae so physically disinclined. One must question what qualities, exactly, constitute such a label as ‘High Fae.’ It is this Author’s belief that Keir’s struggle to to keep his flaccid blond hair perfectly coiffed should discriminate him from the species. It is a wonder indeed that such a male could sire a female as beautiful as Morrigan. 

Morrigan has yet to be seen outside of the Hewn City since her father’s coronation, causing all of Velaris to wonder why, exactly, our most wise and cunning Lords have hidden her away. Perhaps Morrigan hides a secret much too hideous for even the leaders of the Night Court to accept. Even so, a fate such as Morrigan’s is a nightmare.

This Author wonders whether or not the whole of Hewn City might come to be called a ‘Court of Nightmares’ under Keir’s rule. Only time will tell.

Yours Truly,

Thorne N. Yrside

~~~

“Yrside… that doesn’t sound like a Night Court name…”

“It’s a fake name you twat.” Morrigan rolled up the thick parchment, smacking Rhysand flat on the head with it. “A pen name. Your-side. ”

“Ohhh.”

“My father is… he is enraged.”

“Sounds about right.”

“No, Rhys,” Morrigan huffed. Her pretty face was warped with worry, frown lines etching into her cheeks. “This isn’t just some little thing that ticked him off. This could be really bad. This isn’t all, whoever this person is has been releasing… I don’t even know what to call them. Plays?”

“Plays?”

“Like the skits the minstrels perform, out in the square. They’re out there in wigs pretending to be ‘Lord Mirror.’ My father is vain yes, but…”

“I guess that sort of rhymes with Keir. There are worse words… Fear, quee-”

“Hush, Rhysand!” Morrigan ducked a blonde head around the corner of the rocky alcove she and Rhys were hidden in, checking for eavesdroppers. “This kind of embarrassment is horrible for my family’s reputation. You have to do something, get Tyrn involved.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, gliding up his forehead and all the way to his fine dark hair. “You want me to talk to the High Lord?”

Morrigan crossed her arms. “Is he not your father?”

“He’s even worse than yours.”

“I doubt it,” she hissed. The words bit off at the end as footsteps echoed through the cavernous hall. 

Rhysand summoned his magic. He dove into the deep recesses of power within himself. Power that would only grow with time. He threw his hand forward, and a thin wall of shadow sealed their little corner. The shield warbled, threatened to dissipate, but it held until the servant passed.

“Whew…” Rhys smiled with pride at the successful show of magic. Morrigan did not smile back. "I'll- I’ll try Mor. For you,” he added.

“You better.” She looked both ways beside the alcove, then hurried out, leaving Rhysand behind.

~~~

“Rhys, you have to see this!” Cassian practically jumped Rhysand as he wandered into his mother’s cabin. “His hair really does look like that!”

Rhys stumbled back out of Cassian’s chokehold, but he peered out the open window. Morrigan was right. A few Illyrians, males that were not allowed in the training ring for their lack of strength, were being chased out from the town square. They laughed, toupees of fake hair falling down to dirty in the street. 

In Cassian’s hand was a pamphlet as well, thick and crisp like the one Morrigan had shown him. Rhysand snatched it from his sweaty palms.

He must have finished training early. With Cassian, they had to keep him in the ring until he was exhausted, or he would be up to no good. It seemed he had enough energy to go snooping around today. 

Rhysand crumpled up the pamphlet, shoving it into a wastebasket.

“Hey!”

“Where did you even get that?”

“They were delivered to Windhaven today,” Cassian said with a shrug. “I gave the kid a coin.”

“What’s wrong?” Azriel asked Rhys, eyes narrowing in concern.

Rhys sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It’s nothing. I guess Mor thinks these pamphlets, these… plays, could be bad news.”

“I doubt it.” Cassian ushered into the kitchen, filling a small bowl up with seconds of whatever Lady Selene had been cooking. It smelled good, but Rhysand had no appetite right now. “It’s just some harmless fun,” Cassian drawled, forcing bowls in front of both his brothers. “Keir deserves it anyways.”

“It’s all harmless fun until it’s not about Keir anymore.” At least Azriel understood. He gave Rhysand a contemplative look. “Have you told your mom? The High Lord?”

“Told me what?” Lady Selene came striding into the kitchen, a bashful looking Eira clinging to her black skirts. 

“Nothing,” Rhysand said quickly. He wasn’t ready to approach this beast quite yet.

The Lady of Night’s eyes narrowed, searching her son’s face, but Rhys kept it a solid mask, blank and apathetic. 

When Rhys did not crack under the pressure of her stare, she turned to a different Illyrian. “Cassian?”

“Don’t look at me,” Cassian said through a mouth full of food.

Her eyes narrowed further, turning to the other. “Azriel?”

Azriel’s shadows froze at her strict attention, his shoulders raising like a disgruntled cat’s.

“Azriel, what should you three be telling me?” Selene questioned more firmly.

Rhysand glared at his brother. He watched Az’s shadows curl and uncurl, nervously fidgeting as he tried to keep his eyes pinned to the floor. Selene’s gaze turned threatening, and Rhys could tell Azriel was about to crack. He reached out to Azriel in his mind, slipping past his meager defenses easily. Shut the fuck up, Az.

Azriel tensed, but it all came pouring out. “Someone handed out anonymous papers in the town square making fun of Keir and his leadership and now the street performers are mocking him.” He took a deep breath, relaxing slightly.

The Lady turned to her son. “Rhys,” Selene snapped. “Don’t you think this is something for me to know? Your father…” she gripped her temples tightly and turned away. 

Rhysand watched her bustle to the stove, stirring the pot of root soup and spooning some into a bowl for his little sister. Eira still hid behind their mom’s skirts, shy around the Illyrian boys. 

“What do we do?” Rhys asked quietly.

“For now,” Selene said, “we wait, and we see what we can hear.”

~~~

Flex up, flex down. 

Now out, and back in. 

Curl, now straight.

Rowena repeated the mantra to herself over and over, flexing her wings in the mirror until her back ached. The skin of her clipped and torn wings had healed over the years, of course, but the weight in her mind had not gone away. Picking up a pen was sometimes the only relief she could find.

A week had passed since visiting the printers in downtown Velaris, and Rowena was still reveling in her success. Windhaven had turned temperate and lovely with the arrival of summer, and through her breezy open window she could hear the anxious chatter of Illyrians down in the dark square. 

Do you think another pamphlet will come tomorrow?

The writer must be from the Hewn City if they dislike Keir.

I haven’t seen a show this riotous since… I don’t even know when.

After Dark seemed a pot of gold waiting to be struck. 

Rowena slipped free a delicate key from around her neck, disentangling it from her black hair and inserting it into the locked drawer beneath her desk. Smooth paper, lightly indented with the friction of a quill, met her fingers. She would need to be fast tonight, and ‘only interested in new community works,’ lest her winnower think her suspicious. At times like these, she longed for the use of her wings. Paying a Fae to winnow her from the mountains into Velaris was not cheap. 

A knock sounded at the landing to her cabin on the hill, and she carefully tucked tonight’s final draft into a small bag. Aeron greeted her with a smile. “Where to today, Miss?”

“Velaris, the Artist’s Quarter.” 

“Oh no, Miss, Velaris is flooded with Darkbringers.”

Rowena cocked her head. Keir had sent soldiers, then. Foolish, now she knew exactly what strings to play when it came to getting under his skin. “Can you leave me by the Sidra? I’ll find my own way in.”

Aeron’s mouth thinned into a line, but he nodded. “Very well… but I’ll require a little extra.”

She dropped his dues, and an extra silver, into his hand, rolling her eyes at his polite smile. 

Wind flooded her ears as he led her into a shadowed portal. She gripped his arm tightly, and Aeron smiled as though he might laugh. She was an Illyrian, built for much harsher methods of travel, yet winnowing still made her sick every time.

They stepped out onto a wide brick walkway, the sparkling bend of the Sidra scenting the air with fresh mist. Aeron bid her goodbye, leaving her to venture through shadow.

Between alleyways and beneath awnings, Rowena scuttled through the heart of the city where Darkbringers indeed patrolled the streets. Their black eyed gazes lingered on male and female alike, even children, searching for the dirty rat they had been ordered to kill. 

Metaphorically kill, she hoped.

Further away from the river. Closer to the print shop. From the main artery to quiet veins. It took several blocks for Rowena to realize that she could still smell mist in the air, despite her growing distance from the Sidra's watery banks. 

The shadows around her seemed tainted with the smell, in fact. And something else, too. Something woodsy. Rowena turned her head, lowering her wings to peer behind her. Nothing. No Darkbringer, no Bloodhound.

She quickened her pace anyway. Rowena cursed herself for not thinking to bring an oil lamp, but then again, it would have brought unwanted attention to her. Not many fae dared to wander the streets right now. The ones who did were drunk out of their minds, and not a threat to Keir’s soldiers. 

Rowena may have been without flight, and not particularly strong, but a writer could be just as much of a danger to the Court as any brute.

“Where are you going?”said a low, quiet voice behind her.

Rowena stopped, drawing in a breath as she willed herself into calm.

“The paint shop,” she said, turning around. “I’m out of oil-sss.” Her words slipped. No Darkbringer stood behind her, no. It was instead the most beautiful male she had ever seen. He was Illyrian, which had her hesitating in her mental compliment, but she could not deny that his face was… quite perfect. 

“The paint shop is the other way,” he said. 

Then he was on to her. His words were a test, to see if she might act a lost fool. But she knew her way around Velaris, every inch of the city, and its people. Except maybe this male. But she would wrack her brain over him later. “I get my paints from Ressina.”

The Illyrian stood up straighter. Four blue siphons glittered along his arm leathers. It took work to earn those, she knew. Four was pretty good. “I didn’t know there were two shops.”

“Well, you don’t seem like the type to concern yourself with such things.”

He bristled, eyes narrowing for a moment, and she felt something cool and spindly brush her arm. The darkness around her had grown… dense. 

“Azriel, where did you go?” A voice called. Rowena recognized it, having heard Cassian’s shouts all across Windhaven. Azriel, the Illyrian was called then. She would do some digging in town. 

“Az, there you are.” Rowena froze as the High Lord’s son approached, instinctively clutching her bag tighter. Tonight’s drafts… no, he wouldn’t possibly know what she carried with her.

But her movements seemed to trigger the interest of the strange, living shadows that had coalesced in the alley. They dipped into her bag, and she pinched it tighter. Azriel watched the movement, noting it. 

“Azriel?” Rhysand asked as he and Cassian caught up with their friend. 

“Who’s she?” Cassian drawled. Even in the stifling darkness, Rowena could see the approving glint in his amber eyes as he surveyed her figure.

“You don’t- ah- need anything then?” Azriel asked, forcing his deep tone into something light and… conversational.

“No,” she wracked her brain in a pause, looking for the least suspicious thing to say. “Thank you for your help, I won’t stay out long.”

The Illyrian nodded, much to the confusion of his friends. As they turned to leave the alley, Rowena glimpsed their wings. Three pairs, all perfectly intact and breathtakingly wide. Hmm. Perhaps tonight’s issue required one more re-write.

The night Ophelia was born, the moon bled red.

Blood soaked through the towels as her mother’s screams echoed through the village. 

The moment the child came and drew her first breath, and the moment her eyes opened, her father's lips twisted into a sneer. 

His body filled with disgust as the baby cried.

Ophelia was small, curling instinctively against her mother’s chest. 

Her skin was snow-white, her wings fragile and curled against her back, as pale as the rest of her. The child stared up at the woman who had brought her into the world, her eyes the colour of rubies.

Her mother barely had time to breathe, barely had time to look, before her husband tore the child from her arms.

He roared, fury shaking the cottage walls, as the baby screamed in his grasp. 

His voice filled with anger as he accused his wife of betrayal, of affairs, of the unthinkable. 

He told his wife that her child was a demon and an abomination, swearing that she was not his and that his wife had tried to pass this thing off as their child.

Her mother begged. 

She screamed. 

She sobbed until her lungs burned and her strength failed, until fresh blood pooled on the cottage floor.

“Please,” she cried, her skin paling as she tried, and failed, to rise from the bed. 

Sweat slicked her body, her vision blurring.

“She’s my baby,” she whispered, her voice barely a whisper.

“She’s a demon,” he growled, clutching the child tighter. “And she is not mine.”

Her mother screamed as her husband dragged the child away. 

She cried out after them, her voice raw, as he kicked open the front door and disappeared into the cold, snowy night. 

The wind howled through the cottage, then the door slammed shut behind him.

Her mother watched in horror. 

Her body was limp and shaking as she crawled across the blood-slick floor, dragging herself towards the door long after he had gone. 

Her fingers scraped helplessly against the wood.

He found her collapsed on the bedroom floor, curled in on herself, soaked in blood. 

She sobbed her daughter’s name over and over again.

“Ophelia… Ophelia…”

“That blood-born demon won’t survive the night,” he growled. “And you will pay for bringing that monster into the world and trying to pass it off as mine. Whatever creature you had to lie with to birth that thing will burn. You will burn.”

Her body had begun to fail her. 

Shock set in. Her limbs grew heavy and unresponsive, her lips trembling as sweat poured down her skin. 

She could only stare at him, her breathing shallow, her world fading to black as she whispered her daughter’s name.

He did nothing but laugh, stepping over her limp body. At that moment, something inside her snapped. 

She had no strength left to feel.

She had always known what he was: mean, cruel, and everything she never wanted. 

She had been sold to him when she was barely old enough to wed. She had no one in the world but him. Yet this shattered her completely.

She lay there, staring at the chipped paint on the walls, as her fae healing slowly stitched her flesh back together. 

Her husband had fallen asleep in the spare room, drunk on enough hard liquor to pass out after barking orders at her. 

He had told her to clean up the mess she had made, the blood of childbirth, before leaving her lying on the floor.

When she finally gained enough strength, she dragged herself to the front door. The moon was already low in the night sky.

She pushed it open. 

She stumbled barefoot into the forest surrounding their small cottage on the outskirts of town. 

Her linen dress was stiff with dried blood as she searched for her husband’s footprints, already fading under a fresh layer of snow.

Finally, she collapsed in the open fields, where the crops lay long dead, frozen beneath thick layers of ice and snow.

She prayed to the gods and goddesses, to the Mother, for her daughter.

Then, through the howling wind, she heard a cry.

She forced herself forward, crawling through the snow until she found Ophelia, discarded along the embankment of a frozen stream.

“Ophelia,” she sobbed, reaching for her child.

The baby’s tiny body was coated in blood, her skin cold and limp. The cry her mother had followed no longer came from her mouth. Her pale skin had begun to turn blue.

“No,” she whispered, clutching her to her chest. “Please.” 

Tears streamed down her face as she pressed Ophelia against her, desperately trying to bring warmth back into her small body.

“No,” she cried again, wild with panic, scanning the forest for anyone or anything that might help. 

Her vision blurred as the snow swallowed every familiar shape. The only path she could follow was her own footprints, already vanishing beneath the snowfall. 

She was disoriented and desperate, stumbling deeper into the forest, struggling to remember the way back to the village.

Through the white haze, she saw the dark outline of a rock formation. It marked the path to the old, abandoned cottage at the far edge of the woods.

At the beginning of her marriage, her husband had locked her outside during a heavy rainstorm. She had stumbled through the storm and found the cottage.

It had become her refuge, a place to hide from his violence and rage, until she learned that hiding only sharpened his fury and that she was never allowed to stay hidden for long.

By the time she arrived, she was barely conscious, stumbling through the snow. 

The cottage was little more than a forgotten shed, half-swallowed by the forest, its roof bowed under the weight of ice and snow. 

She slammed her shoulder into the wooden door, her fingers too numb to grasp the handle.

It opened with a bang.

Cold air rushed inside as she collapsed onto the floor.

She curled around Ophelia, shielding her with her own body.

The child was still.

“No, no, no,” she whispered. “Stay with me, please.”

She pressed her hand to Ophelia’s heart and prayed.

“Please,” she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please.”

Warmth bloomed beneath her fingertips, soft at first, then brighter, golden and alive.

“Please, let her live,” her mother whispered, her eyes squeezed shut.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then Ophelia’s chest stirred beneath her palm. Her blue-tinged lips parted, as she took a breath, warmth slowly returned to her skin.

A child’s cry broke the silence.

“Thank you,” her mother sobbed, clutching her child to her chest.

Her mother hid her in the cottage, spending the rest of the morning cleaning the space and making it somewhat livable. 

She made a makeshift cot from an old wooden crate, softening it with pillows and strips of fabric she had washed and mended by hand.

For a moment, she considered staying, hiding here, leaving her husband behind, and disappearing into nothing. 

But she knew that he would search for her. 

He would find them, and when he did, he would kill them both.

So she left.

She left her child crying in the cot, telling herself she would return at nightfall to feed her, hold her, and finish cleaning the cottage. 

She closed the door and braced it with fallen logs, praying to the Mother to keep her daughter safe.

By the time she reached her husband’s cottage, she was still weak and hazy, stumbling through the melting snow. 

She pushed the door open to find the house unchanged, the floor still stained with dried blood, and her husband’s snores echoing through the small cottage.

She forced herself to clean.

She scrubbed the floor in silence, tears streaming down her cheeks as her muscles strained and pain burned through her. 

Fresh blood stained her inner thighs as her body protested every movement. Her healing was slow, and the more she worked, the more it hurt to mend.

The afternoon light spilled through the windows as she finally lowered herself into the bath.

The water turned red as she washed herself clean.

She choked back sobs as she thought of her child, alone in the hidden cottage, barely a day old and barely alive.

She clung to the fragile hope that Ophelia would still be breathing when she returned that night.

She spent her afternoon with her husband, who spat accusations at her, convinced the child belonged to another man.

He spat her name like a curse, called her a liar, a whore, a monster-maker.

She did not argue. 

She did not scream or cry. 

She apologised. 

She agreed with everything he said.

She needed to stay alive.

She needed to live long enough to protect her child.

That night, as she served him dinner, she slipped sleeping drops into his wine. 

They were strong enough to keep him unconscious for most of the night.

She knew that well.

She returned to the cottage as soon as darkness fell, arms full of supplies and bundles of torn fabric meant to keep her child warm. 

She stumbled through the snow in boots too big and a jacket too small.

When she reached the door, there was no sound.

No crying.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. She shoved the door open and peered into the dark room.

She dropped what she was carrying, heart in her throat, and rushed to the crate.

Inside, her child slept.

Safe. Warm. Breathing.

The wind battered the cottage walls, as she gathered Ophelia into her arms, pressing a kiss to her child’s dirty, blood-streaked face.

She was okay. 

Years passed, and they fell into a routine.

She hid her child in the abandoned cottage, returning every night without fail. 

She read to her by candlelight and sang lullabies, all meant to give Ophelia some imitation of a childhood. 

What had once been a forgotten shed slowly became their home.

She gathered discarded furniture, cracked dishes, and scraps of cloth, and mended whatever she could. 

She stole children’s books from the village, made toys from bits of wood and twine, and when her husband was away at work, she knitted and sewed tiny clothes.

During the day, she endured her husband’s resentment and his obsession with conceiving a child who was truly his. 

He wanted heirs, a legacy, bloodlines, never knowing his daughter had survived at bloody night. 

She learned to survive all for her child. 

As Ophelia grew, she changed from a fragile baby into a quiet, watchful child, hidden from the world. 

From an early age, she learned that love came with fear.

The fear of abandonment.

The fear of pain.

The fear of losing her mother, just as she knew her mother was terrified of losing her.

And from that fear, Ophelia learned how to be silent.

By the time she was old enough to walk the path between the cottage and the tree line alone, she understood the rules of her world. 

She did not cry loudly. 

She did not ask questions when her mother’s lips trembled and her eyes shone with tears. 

She was to listen to warnings and for footsteps. 

She learned how to hide and how to be nothing more than a whisper among the trees.

The cottage was all she knew.

Its stone walls were rough beneath her fingers, and its roof groaned under wind, snow, and summer heat. The single window was covered in thick black fabric.

Her mother had told her it was to keep the light out, that Ophelia’s eyes and skin were too sensitive, but Ophelia knew the truth.

It was to keep eyes from looking in.

At night, her mother told stories, and Ophelia pretended the world beyond the trees did not exist.

That this was all there was.

It was easier than wanting more.

Each morning, as the years passed, she watched her mother disappear towards the village, a place Ophelia was never allowed to see, spoken of only in warnings.

When Ophelia was twelve, her curiosity finally outweighed her fear.

That morning, she followed her mother into the dense forest, careful to keep her distance.

Through the morning fog, her mother’s figure was little more than a dark silhouette. Ophelia watched her climb over rocks and stubble, down embankments.

She watched her mother reach a narrow, well-kept path, one that could only lead to the village.

Fog thickened, and the sun had not yet risen high enough for Ophelia to see where her mother had gone.

That was when Ophelia made her mistake.

Instead of turning back, she followed the path.

Hidden by the tree line, she watched smoke curl from the chimneys. She heard voices, the distant sounds of people starting their day.

She stayed low, her heart pounding, finally seeing the world she had only ever imagined.

The sun climbed higher, and Ophelia retreated into the forest, moving silently, just as she had been taught.

It was spring, and the forest was alive with birdsong and insects. The moss was thick on the stones, and flowers bloomed at the roots of the trees.

Then the birds fell silent; for a moment, it was as if the forest were holding its breath.

Then panicked cries tore through the trees as birds fled in every direction.

Ophelia froze, her heart pounding against her ribs as she felt it.

The presence of another.

A branch snapped.

Her breath caught as a shadow stretched across the ground.

“What kind of creature are you?” a voice murmured, rough, low, and far too close.

Ophelia did not scream.

She did what she had been taught to do.

She went still.

For a moment, no one moved. 

No one spoke. 

Slowly, she turned her head.

A man stood to her right, half-hidden in the trees.

A bloodied sword hung at his hip, and a slaughtered deer was slung over his back, its head lolling at an unnatural angle.

His eyes widened as they met hers. She watched his hand flex around the hilt of his sword.

Ophelia stepped back. Her feet slipped on the moss-covered stones.

“You’d sell for a pretty penny,” he said, yanking the strap from his shoulder. The deer’s carcass hit the ground with a wet thud.

The stranger grinned, his fingers tightening around his weapon. He stepped closer, and something inside her snapped, sharp and terrifying.

She spun and ran.

Branches tore at her dress, scratching and whipping at her arms as she fled.

“Get back here!” the man shouted behind her.

She didn’t look back.

She ran, climbing over fallen logs and ducking under low-hanging branches. Her lungs burned, her legs screamed, but panic drowned out every thought.

She could hear him gaining ground.

Too close.

Far too close.

Her foot slipped, and she tumbled down an embankment, her ribs cracking against stone as she hit the ground, pain exploding through her limbs. 

Above her, the man laughed as he began descending after her, fast.

She forced herself upright and scrambled up the opposite side, her hands slipping in mud and moss.

She could feel him behind her, the heavy thud of his footsteps closing in.

Ophelia didn’t stop.

She ran until her vision blurred, the forest twisted into unfamiliar shapes, and something deep beneath her skin began to burn, hot, pulsing, alive.

Something cut through the air behind her.

She ducked, and the sound of splintering wood cracked through the forest.

Then something struck her legs, sweeping them out from under her.

She hit the ground hard, and her breath tore from her lungs. She twisted, scrambling to her feet, but the man caught her.

She clawed for anything, roots, stone, dirt, but it wasn’t enough.

He dragged her towards him, her thighs scraped raw by sticks and rocks.

“No!” she screamed, the loudest sound she had ever made in her life.

“Stop moving!” he snarled back, wrestling her onto her back.

Now facing him, she saw the hunger in his eyes.

She kicked, twisted, and fought, but it was useless. His hand reached for the sword lodged in a nearby tree.

“No!” she screamed again. “Stop!”

One hand clamped around her ankle. The other closed around the sword’s hilt, wrenching it free.

Panic. Fear. Terror.

Everything she had ever been warned about flooded her all at once, until her skin burned with something hotter, deeper, and more alive than anything she had ever known.

Her hands flew to her face, instinctively shielding her and bracing for the blow.

He stopped. Mid-motion, his body went rigid.

His grip locked in place, one hand still clutching her ankle, the sword frozen mid-air.

Ophelia lay trembling on the forest floor, waiting for the pain.

It never came.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and lowered her hands.

The man stood there, frozen above her, his eyes wide with fear.

As her hands fell away from her face, she felt it, resistance, as if she were wading through water. 

The man’s grip loosened around her ankle.

She staggered to her feet, staring at him. 

He remained frozen, bent at an unnatural angle, an invisible thread holding him upright.

She was terrified. 

Her ribs ached. 

She was filthy, bleeding, and shaking, yet as she stared at him, something shifted.

That fear turned into fury.

She could somehow feel his heartbeat thudding loudly and wrong inside her head. 

Her hand lifted again, the sensation thickening and hardening. She watched as the sword slipped from his fingers and clattered to the forest floor.

His spine straightened without his consent.

Power surged through her.

All the fear she had swallowed.

All the hurt she had buried.

Years of hiding, of whispered warnings from her mother, of stories about men told softly and carefully, of lessons about obedience, silence, and survival.

It burned through her now.

Fury that he had chased her.

That he had wanted to sell her.

That he had wanted to kill her.

Blood suddenly poured from his nose.

She gasped and stepped back, her hands clenching into fists.

The man collapsed, hitting the forest floor with a dull thud.

Ophelia’s hand flew to her mouth.

Blood pooled beneath him, dark against the green leaves.

She stood there, staring at the body. 

She took a step back. 

Then another. 

Her eyes never left him until the weight of what she’d done settled in her chest.

She turned, glancing through the trees, searching for the path home.

She stumbled through the forest, choking back sobs as pain flared through her body. 

Every step hurt, and every breath burned.

She pushed open the cottage door.

Pillows, books, unlit candles and clothes strung along a wire. 

The small, hidden life she shared with her mother.

She finally broke.

A sob tore from her as she covered her mouth, sinking to the floor.

She wanted her mother, but she knew that wasn’t an option.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, wounds fester if left untreated.

She forced herself to fill the bathing bucket with washcloths, soap, and clean clothing. 

She made her way to the river, wincing with every step.

She stripped slowly and sank into the cold water, sucking in a sharp gasp.

Carefully, she washed herself, mud, blood, dirt. 

The cuts stung, the bruises throbbed, and she was sure she had broken a rib.

She sobbed silently as she bathed.

She had killed someone.

He was the first person she had ever seen besides her mother, and she had killed him.

For the rest of the day, she remained hidden in the cottage, moving only when hunger or pain forced her. 

By the time the sun began to sink below the trees, she laid out her food for the night on the chopping board she had carved the previous summer from a fallen tree.

Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the knife.

The front door swung open.

She jumped, her ears ringing with panic. Her mother wasn’t meant to be here until well after nightfall.

“Was it you?” a woman’s voice yelled, desperately.

Ophelia turned.

Her mother stood in the doorway, the setting sun casting an orange glow across the floorboards.

Her hair was loose and tangled, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with terror, as if she had run the entire way.

“What?” Ophelia whispered.

“The dead man,” her mother said, voice breaking. “Was it you?”

Her body began to tremble violently. 

Tears burned her eyes as the truth left her between sobs. 

She told her everything, how he had looked at her and smiled, and how he had said she would sell for a pretty penny. 

How he chased her through the trees like an animal.

She showed her the wounds. 

She told her the moment the world thickened around her, as if she were wading through water, the way he froze above her, his sword in his hand, aimed at her head.

She spoke of the fear.

The fury.

The burning heat beneath her skin.

She told her that she could hear his heartbeat in her mind, the moment his body went limp and the sound of the thud.

Her mother did not interrupt her.

She only watched as Ophelia sobbed until her voice broke, her throat burned, and her lungs ached, until there was nothing left but quiet, shaky breaths.

Finally, her mother spoke.

“They are saying it was a witch,” she whispered. “They want to hunt you.”

After that, the world grew smaller.

Ophelia was confined to the four walls of the cottage for months, and her mother’s visits became fewer, the days between them stretching longer each time.

The village was in a fear-filled frenzy. 

The man she had killed was no longer a threat or a predator in their stories.

He was a farmer.

A husband.

A good man who had wanted only to provide for his family.

They said an evil witch had slaughtered him.

That she had drained his blood to steal his strength.

That was the story her mother told her, as a warning to stay inside, not to burn too many candles, and not to make noise.

In the early days of the hunt, Ophelia could hear them in the forest.

The distant crunch of boots on leaves and sticks, their voices chanting prayers and curses.

She prayed.

To the Mother.

To every god and goddess, her mother had ever told stories about.

She promised penance.

Promised her soul.

Promised she would make it right and that she would carry the weight of what she had done forever.

Months passed, and so did her thirteenth birthday.

Her mother did not come that night.

Ophelia sat alone in the cottage, the candles burning low, listening to the storm rage outside as if the world itself were angry that she had lived another year. 

She understood why her mother couldn’t come. Her mother had warned her and feared being followed, fearing she would lead the hunters straight to her door.

Understanding didn’t make the ache any smaller.

Her mother returned three days later.

Her arms were full of supplies, but Ophelia didn’t care about them. 

Her eyes fixed on her mother’s face, her right eye so swollen it was almost shut, the bruise was dark purple and black. A handprint marked her cheek, and her lip was split.

“Mother… what happened?” Ophelia asked.

Her mother shook her head and turned her face away. 

She did not cry, but Ophelia could see how close she was to tears.

Fury rose in Ophelia’s chest, sharp and familiar.

Someone had hurt her.

She already knew who.

Her mother had told her the truth years ago, on her tenth birthday, when Ophelia had finally asked about her father.

The story of her birth, the pain, and the risks taken to keep her alive. 

The man who had never loved either of them.

The feeling returned, as if she were wading through water.

Without thinking, Ophelia lifted her hands.

She stepped closer, guided by instinct alone, and gently cupped her mother’s jaw.

Her fingertips burned as they traced the swollen skin beneath her eye, and she felt it, the break in the bone. The way the blood moved through it, as if she were touching the current rather than the flesh.

She closed her eyes.

Her other hand rose to steady her mother’s face, her fingers trembling as they pressed against the bruise. 

She inhaled deeply, letting the anger, fear, and grief fill her. Her mother’s heartbeat echoed in her ears, loud and steady, as if it were her own.

Her mother gasped in pain as the heat burned through them both.

Then exhaled.

When Ophelia opened her eyes, the bruised flesh beneath her fingers glowed faintly, then smoothed, the broken bone made whole.

Her mother stared at her, then pulled her into a tight hug. 

“You are a gift,” her mother whispered into her hair, holding her as if she might disappear.

I am a monster, Ophelia told herself, her arms tightening around her mother as she closed her eyes and let herself be held.

The hunt continued for months.

Ophelia remained hidden, the cottage shrinking around her with each passing day.

Her mother was the only person she ever saw, and even that became rarer. Days stretched longer between visits, the silence pressing in until it felt heavy enough to choke on.

When her mother did come, the injuries were worse.

Bruises.

A split lip.

A swollen cheek.

Broken bones.

Ophelia healed her every time, hands shaking, breath held as warmth bloomed beneath her palms.

Each healing left her mother smiling, whispering reassurances and promising she was being careful.

Cracked ribs.

A broken wrist.

Ophelia healed her again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, her mother looked thinner, more hollow, her eyes dulled by exhaustion and fear. 

The village was still hunting, still whispering about witches and monsters, and her mother was caught between protecting her child and surviving the man she lived with.

Ophelia healed in silence, fury coiling tight in her chest as she pressed broken bones back into place, sealed split skin, and healed bruised skin.

The feeling beneath Ophelia’s skin, like wading through water, came more easily now, responding faster and stronger.

Sometimes she felt her mother’s heartbeat stutter beneath her hands, and the memory of the man in the forest flashed through her mind. 

The current beneath her fingers felt violent and dangerous, but she continued anyway. 

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t hesitate.

She healed because she thought, hoped, that if she could fix her mother enough and prove she was useful, then maybe her mother would leave her father.

Maybe she would stay in the cottage. 

Maybe they could be safe.

She knew better than to hope.

The visits grew farther apart. 

Weeks passed, then more.

The last time her mother came, she was worse than Ophelia had ever seen her; black and blue, with broken bones and healed cuts now open. 

It was the first time her mother asked her not to heal her.

That was when her mother finally told her the truth.

Her father believed she was seeing the witch and that the injuries were being healed by something unnatural. 

He thought she was seeking magic for herself.

Her mother had wanted Ophelia to practice, to learn that she wasn’t just a killer.

That her gift wasn’t only harmful but beautiful. That she was destruction and mercy, capable of healing and protecting not only herself but others.

She told Ophelia that every time she returned home healed, the violence only worsened. 

She told her that the sleeping potions no longer worked because long-term use had dulled their effect.

She also told her that he had grown desperate for another child, and that her failure to bear another in thirteen years filled him with nothing but rage.

Her mother broke down, apologising through tears. 

She told Ophelia none of it was her fault. 

Promised she would come more often. 

Promised she was making a plan.

That plan never came.

Ophelia waited.

She paced the small cottage until her feet ached, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the wind and straining to hear the soft footsteps in the snow. 

Every night, she told herself she would hear them. 

Every morning, she woke to silence.

Weeks turned into months.

It became the longest Ophelia had ever gone without seeing her mother.

She marked the days by scratching notches into the floorboard beside her bed. 

After the first month, she told herself her mother would come soon. 

After the second, she stopped telling herself anything at all.

The food ran low.

She counted what was left again and again, hoping she had misremembered.

She had not.

She stayed anyway, until there was almost nothing left, because leaving felt worse than hunger.

When she finally left the cottage, it was at night.

It was the first time she had gone farther than the river since the hunt began. 

She moved slowly, dressing in the dark green dress her mother had brought her months ago.

She braided her long white hair with shaking hands, pulled on her boots, and stood at the door longer than she meant to.

Then she opened it.

The wind was warm against her skin. The moon was high and too bright, burning her eyes when she looked up. 

The forest felt different now, larger, closer, as if it had grown while she was hiding.

She usually didn’t let herself look. She told herself that if she didn’t see how close the world was, it would be easier to stay.

Easier to believe the cottage was enough.

But this time she looked.

The stones were slick with moss. Water ran through the rocks beside the cottage, the same as it always had.

She took a breath and stepped into the forest.

Fear settled in her chest. 

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Food, candles, cloth, things she knew the forest would not give her, but she needed to move. 

She needed to know that leaving would not destroy her completely.

The cottage slowly disappeared behind her, and the truth settled deep in her bones.

Her mother was no longer there to protect her, to keep her safe, to keep her hidden.

Now Ophelia had to protect herself, and she had no idea how.

She wandered, feeling the uneven forest floor beneath her boots. She moved slowly and carefully, listening for sounds that weren’t her own.

She told herself she needed to learn the forest.

Where the village was.

How far it was from the cottage.

She couldn’t remember the path her mother took when she returned to the village.

So she left small stones stacked in hidden piles and scratched the bark, so she would never lose her way back to the cottage.

Her hands brushed against bark, damp grass, and night-blooming flowers whose names she didn’t know.

Then she saw something pale in the distance, almost glowing in the moonlight.

She walked closer.

It was a white shape was cloth, nailed to a tree. 

As she stepped closer, her stomach twisted, tight and sharp.

Written in black ink across the fabric.

HUNT THE WITCH.

Beneath the words were symbols she somewhat recognised from her mother’s teachings. 

They were charms meant to ward off the unwanted. 

She was the unwanted. 

That night, she mapped as much of the woods as she could.

She found the village, memorising the layout, the larger ones on the outskirts, the smaller ones hugging the centre, and the ones with smoke curling from chimneys. 

She fought the urge to search for her mother, to knock on doors and ask.

She stayed watching from behind the trees. People moved inside their homes, candlelight flickering against glass.

Then she saw a young woman standing in a window, a small child held against her chest, rocking gently as she soothed it.

Something inside Ophelia broke.

She slipped back into the forest. 

The summer air was warm, the wind tangling her hair as she wandered.

As she neared the cottage, she imagined, just for a moment, seeing her mother there, waiting. 

The worried look on her face, the scolding she would receive for leaving. But when the cottage came into view, hidden deep in shadow, there was no one waiting.

Only darkness.

Only silence.

She pushed open the door, her stomach growling with hunger.

She sat on the old chair her mother had once found abandoned, at the small table they had fixed together. 

For a long moment, she looked around at the four stone walls.

Her prison.

Her home.

Her everything.

It no longer felt warm. It no longer felt hers. It felt hollow.

That night, she prayed. For forgiveness. For guidance. For her mother to walk through the door.

No one came.

No one ever came again.

That was the last time she cried. 

This was all she had, all she had ever known, and she would have to learn how to live with it.

She spent a week doing nothing but praying, living off dwindling rations and fear. 

Each night, she went to sleep, listening for footsteps. 

Each morning, she woke to the same silence.

When there was almost nothing left, she stopped waiting.

She made a plan.

She sorted what little food remained. She took stock of what she had and what she didn’t.

That night, she waited for darkness. 

She pushed the fear down. 

The panic. 

The anger.

She followed the markers she had left through the forest, moving carefully, quietly. 

As she neared the village, she passed flyers nailed to tree trunks and symbols carved deep into the bark.

Protection charms for the village.

Warnings carved in hatred.

That night, she learned how to steal.

After that, over months, she learned how to gather.

How to hunt.

How to forage without leaving a trail.

How to steal without being seen.

How to dry meat for winter.

How to pickle roots.

How to make jam from the wild berries.

How to sew her own clothes.

How to live off what the forest gave her.

And from that, she learned how to use her magic.

How to kill cleanly and humanely, with blood magic.

She learned because she had to, and the more she learned, the more posters appeared and the deeper the symbols were carved. 

Two years passed.

She was fifteen then, and hadn’t seen another person since.

It was winter when the village’s fear of the witch stopped being fear and became something far worse.

That was when the hunt began again.

She heard them before she saw them, the sound of chanting drifting through the forest, low and rhythmic. 

Fear settled deep in her chest, heavy, cold, familiar.

They thought she was a witch. 

Thought she stole not to survive, but to curse. 

That she drained blood from animals and men for pleasure. 

That she fed on their lives to prolong her own.

She felt it first through the ground, the vibration of marching boots as they approached her section of forest.

She strapped her daggers to her thighs and pulled her black winter coat tight around her shoulders, the one lined with fur.

The night was pitch black. It must have been nearly three in the morning. 

When she stepped outside, she saw them.

Torches flickered in the distance, coming from all directions, their fire cutting through the dark. 

Birds screamed and scattered. Deer fled deeper into the forest.

The forest felt alive with fear.

Her skin began to burn; that familiar sensation of her magic stirred beneath it, hot, pulsing, awake. 

Tonight, the hunt had come to her doorstep.

Snow crunched beneath her boots as she stepped forward, her breath fogging in the cold air. Her hood was up, her face hidden in shadow.

When they finally saw her, their fury faltered.

Fear crept in.

Knives lifted. Swords were drawn. Women shouted threats of fire, of burning the forest to ash.

She lowered her hood and the colour drained from their faces.

White wings flexed behind her, grey leather catching the torchlight. Her white hair lifted in the wind, and her eyes glowed like freshly spilled blood.

“You will pay,” a woman cried, her voice breaking. “You will pay for my husband’s death.”

The wife of the man she had killed.

A sharp laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“Your husband chased me through these woods,” she hissed. “He wanted to sell my skin for profit.”

She stepped forward, wings spreading slightly.

“I left you in peace. I took only what I needed. Why are you here now?” Her voice was cold. 

The crowd murmured.

Then a man stepped forward.

He was massive, his body half-shadowed until he reached the centre of the clearing. Moonlight caught on metal, on the sword at his hip.

When their eyes met, something sharp passed between them.

Recognition.

“Ophelia,” the man said. His voice shook, thick with disgust.

Her blood ran cold.

She knew him. In the shape of his nose and the cut of his jaw, she saw herself reflected back at her.

Her father.

The realisation sank in, heavy and undeniable.

She smiled.

It was not kind.

The fear inside her burned so hot that she swore heat rose from her skin.

He drew his sword and pointed it at her.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, poison-sweet. “I’ll bury you next to your whore of a mother.”

He charged.

Ophelia lifted one hand, and the world pulled.

Her magic answered, the familiar resistance beneath her skin, as thick as water and twice as heavy.

Her father gasped.

The sword slipped from his fingers and hit the ground.

His body locked, his spine arching as if yanked by invisible hands.

Blood surged beneath his skin, rushing the wrong way and swelling dark and furious in his veins.

He screamed, raw and animalistic. 

The crowd staggered back as one, their faces filled with horror.

Ophelia stepped closer.

With each step, his breathing grew more frantic. 

Blood spilled from his nose, from the corners of his eyes, and from his mouth.

She could feel his heart, frantic and weak.

She could kill him.

Her fingers curled.

He choked, convulsing, his hands clawing uselessly at his throat.

This was what they thought she was.

A monster.

A witch.

A thing that fed on pain.

She looked at him, really looked.

At the man who had broken her mother.

At the man who had hunted her before she could speak.

Her hand trembled as she lowered it, and the pressure eased.

He collapsed forward into the snow, gasping for air.

“You will leave,” Ophelia said. Her eyes swept over the villagers, pale faces and trembling hands, torches lowered. “You will take him with you. You will not come back. You will not speak my name, hunt in my forest, or carve your lies into my trees again.”

She looked down at her father, who was still coughing blood into the snow.

Her mother had been right.

She was a gift.

Not only destruction.

She could heal.

She could protect.

And she wanted them out of her forest. 

Ophelia lifted her gaze to the villagers. They stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, torches shaking in numb hands, fear written across their faces.

She smiled.

“Leave.”

It was only one word.

It was enough.

They broke.

Shouts rang out as they stumbled over one another, scrambling back into the trees.

One man rushed forward, grabbing her father by the collar and dragging him through the snow. His protests dissolved into coughing, then into silence.

The chanting stopped.

The torches vanished.

The forest swallowed them whole.

Ophelia remained where she was, snow falling softly into her hair and along the edges of her wings. She let them spread wide, white and grey against the dark, no longer hiding what she was.

She closed her eyes.

She felt it, her magic reaching outward, threading through roots and stone, through bark and frozen earth. 

When she opened her eyes again, the clearing was empty.

The night was quiet.

For the first time, her forest was hers alone.

It was a little over a month after that night, before she returned to the village.

She came after dark.

The posters were gone. She felt something ease in her chest when she saw it. 

The protection symbols carved into the trees had not deepened. No new marks. No fresh hatred.

She watched the village from the woods for a long time.

That was when she noticed the baskets.

They sat outside homes, placed on their doorsteps. 

The larger houses on the village’s edge left larger baskets. The smaller ones near the centre left small bundles. Homes with smoke curling from their chimneys set out stacks of firewood.

Offerings.

She waited until the village grew quiet, the candles dimmed, and the doors stayed shut.

Then she crept closer.

At the first house, a large one backed up against the forest, she found food and a folded blanket.

The next basket held firewood.

Another had jars of pickles and jam. 

Simple things. Necessary things.

She took only what she needed.

As she slipped back into the trees, she understood.

They were not gifts.

They were apologies and pleas.

Leave us be.

And that she did. 

For years, she was left alone.

She grew what she needed and turned the cottage into a true home. She let in light and built a fireplace. She finally had a bed.

The villagers kept their distance. They left gifts beneath a large tree that had once been carved with charms for warning and protection. 

Now, village children painted those symbols in silver. Once a month, offerings appeared: food, firewood, and small bundles.

She kept her promise to leave them be, as long as they kept theirs.

She protected her woods when she had to.

She never killed.

She promised herself she would not unless there was no other choice. But when hunters took too much, when men came seeking her to hunt instead of deer, her magic answered.

It twisted their blood into unnatural shapes and bent their bodies just enough to send a message. 

Enough to be remembered. 

Enough to be feared.

Rumours spread.

The surrounding Illyrian camps and villages whispered about the White Witch.

They said she had been sold to demons in exchange for eternal beauty and power. That she could drain a man dry with a single glance and twist his body from the inside out.

By the time autumn came, the stories had turned her into a myth.

It was then, while foraging among fallen leaves and bare branches, that she heard low, pained, and ragged cries. 

She followed the sound through the forest until she found him there.

An injured Illyrian. 

His wings, arms, and legs were bound. Blood poured from his arm, and a deep gash split his chest, slicing through the leather of his armour.

His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror.

“Witch,” he gasped, trying to rise. He stumbled over the rocks, his feet catching in roots.

“White witch!” he screamed, his voice cracking as blood dripped onto the forest floor.

Ophelia saw the panic in him. Raw and desperate.

“I am not going to hurt you,” she said. Her voice was calm and steady, even as his wings strained against the rope.

He didn’t believe her. He fought until his strength gave out and his breathing grew shallow and uneven.

Again, she spoke slowly. “I am not going to hurt you. I can unbind you.”

He went still. His eyes fixed on hers. 

After a long moment, he nodded once.

She set her basket of roots and mushrooms aside and drew a small, hand-carved knife.

As she stepped closer, he trembled, whether from shock, blood loss, fear, or all of it together. 

She knelt, her white hair falling forward, and slid the blade carefully between the rope and his wing.

He whispered something under his breath as the rope snapped and his wings unfurled. She cut the bindings at his ankles, then at his wrists. 

He pushed himself upright too fast and nearly collapsed into her.

They stood there for a moment. His blood pooled on the forest floor, telling her he had been bleeding for a long time. 

He hadn’t stopped shaking; shock was setting in.

“You’ll bleed out soon,” she said.

He looked down at himself, then back at her. “What are you going to do with my body?”

“Nothing,” she said, stepping back. “I can help if you want.”

He didn’t answer. 

He barely moved.

Finally, he shook his head. 

No.

Ophelia turned away, lifted her basket, and began walking. She had gone no more than twenty steps when she heard him stumble.

By the time he reached her, his voice was barely audible.

“Help me. Please.”

She nodded. “My cottage isn’t far.”

He hesitated, then followed, limping, with one hand pressed to his wounded arm.

The forest opened around her home. The stream beside the cottage was full, wildflowers grew by the door, and a table and chair sat outside, carved from fallen trees. 

She gestured for him to sit. 

He obeyed without a word.

She said nothing as she set down her basket. 

Slowly, her hand moved to his chest. That familiar heaviness followed.

He looked at her, hesitant and afraid. 

She pressed gently, then harder. 

He hissed in pain as warmth bloomed beneath her fingers, growing hotter as skin stitched itself back together. Her magic spread through him, finding wounds, cracked bone, and torn muscle. 

She was mending him.

When she finally pulled away, colour had begun to return to his face.

He stared at her, lips parted.

“How did you end up in my forest,” she asked quietly, “bound and bleeding?”

He looked away. Shame flickered across his face.

“I tried to attack a commander,” he whispered. “Facing you was my punishment. They said you skin men alive, or drain them of their blood.”

Ophelia said nothing. 

She studied him, with dark hair, hazel eyes, and golden skin. He looked barely older than she was.

“Why did you attack him?” she asked.

His eyes filled with tears, spilling despite his effort to hold them back.

“He clipped my sister’s wings,” he said, his voice breaking. “Can you fix them?”

Ophelia looked at him, at the dried blood streaking his skin and armour, and at the desperation in his eyes.

“I can’t fix them if they’ve already healed,” she said quietly. “The fresher the wound, the easier it is to fix.”

She thought of the animals she had healed. 

The deer caught in a snare, its leg set wrong. It had limped for weeks as she slowly corrected it, bit by bit.

“I promised her I would protect her,” the man begged. “It’s just us. Please.”

Ophelia inhaled slowly.

To give the girl the best chance of flying again, she would have to reopen the wound. 

Break what had healed wrong. 

Mend muscle, nerve and bone. 

It would be painful. 

It could take weeks, and she wasn’t sure that she could do it.

What troubled her more was what would come after.

If she healed the girl, the commander might retaliate. He could punish them both. He could slice the girl’s wings off completely. 

He may clip his wings as well, stripping him of the very thing that made him Illyrian. 

Turn him into nothing more than a grounded soldier with useless wings.

She told him this in the calm, distant voice she had learned to use, despite the unease twisting tight in her chest.

She told him that returning to the camp would put him at risk. That being healed could invite harsher punishment. That saving his sister might be seen as defiance, which could get them both killed.

The man nodded, forcing himself upright. When he looked at her again, something had settled in his eyes, harder now.

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

Ophelia nodded and looked away.

He spread his wings wide. 

With a powerful beat, he launched himself into the sky, disappearing into the dark.

She was alone again.

That night, as she lay in her bed, the fire crackling low, she curled deeper into the blankets.

Somewhere beyond the cottage, she heard the unmistakable sound of beating wings, then hushed voices. 

She knew before she reached the door.

Knock.

She stood in her small cottage, wearing her cotton nightdress, and opened it.

The Illyrian from earlier that day stood there, his sister cradled in his arms.

“Please,” he said hoarsely. “Help her.”

The girl couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Her dark eyes widened at the sight of Ophelia, and she curled tighter into her brother’s chest.

“It’s alright,” he whispered to her. “She might be able to help you.”

Ophelia said nothing for a long moment, staring at the two strangers on her doorstep. 

Then she stepped aside and let them in.

Inside, she saw the girl’s wings, raw and weeping, already healing wrong.

The brother set her gently on the only chair in the cottage, his broad frame nearly filling the small space.

“I can try,” Ophelia said softly as she approached. “But I can’t guarantee anything.”

The girl stared at her, terrified.

“May I?” Ophelia asked.

The girl nodded, tears gathering in her eyes.

Ophelia closed her eyes, and her magic reached out, feeling the way blood moved through veins and the places where bone and tendons had been cut and damaged. 

Time seemed to slow as warmth flared in her hands, the girl’s heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears.

She rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and the girl flinched.

Slowly, carefully, Ophelia began knitting muscle and vein back together. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, suspended in the push and pull of her magic, the fire burning low behind her.

When she finally pulled away, the brother was staring at them both, tears shining in his eyes.

Ophelia looked down. 

The wounds had closed, the skin pale and newly healed.

“Stretch out your wings,” she said.

The girl obeyed, slowly and hesitantly. Ophelia stepped back as the wings unfolded, trembling but whole.

“You fixed them,” the girl whispered. 

She sobbed as she beat them once, lifting herself briefly off the floor.

“Be careful,” Ophelia said gently. “They’re still healing. You need to rest.”

The girl nodded, then rushed into her brother’s arms. He held her tightly, his gaze never leaving Ophelia.

He mouthed, Thank you.

Ophelia said nothing. 

She watched as he led his sister out into the night, the wooden door closing softly behind them.

She lay awake, fearing that by morning she would find them dead, a warning carved into her flesh for having helped them.

But when dawn came, a sack was on her doorstep.

Inside were food, weapons, and fine goods. 

A folded note lay on top, written in slanted handwriting.

Thank you for blessing us.

A shiver ran down her spine.

A blessing.

After that night, Illyrians began coming to her.

Whispers of her gift spread from the war camps to the villages. 

Those who found her were desperate: mothers with sick children, warriors too injured for their camp healers, and those risking the loss of status, wings, or life itself.

They came to her as a last resort.

And she blessed them.

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There, she thought to herself, finally. The last of Autumn’s yellow roses brightened up her kitchen. The kitchen, she corrected, but it felt like hers now. Elain filled the glass vase with water, a sprinkle of ground eggshells. It had grown late, and she was alone. 

Alone doesn’t feel very good, she pursed her lips. Nuala and Cerridwen were gone on Rhys’s orders. It was something to do with one of the queens. She remembered their visit to the Archeron Manor so long ago. Politeness and good manners hadn’t gotten her very far with them. Power struggles were at play, but Elain didn’t understand them. She had tried listening in, lingering at the edges while Feyre talked with Rhys and Azriel in the early hours of morning. She had nothing better to do after all, not when sleep eluded her. She let it stay blissfully far away, like a cat that had grown tired of playing with a toy. Sleep filled her mind with too many thoughts. Unhelpful thoughts. 

Elain fussed with the flowers, arranging them again and again. If she stayed idle too long, those thoughts would find her, and that couldn’t happen. Not when it scared her sisters so much. She did not remember everything that happened to her, but Feyre often expressed how pleased she was that Elain was better now, healed. Oh Elain… so worried… and Nesta, she was half-mad with fear… do you even remember… the balcony… knives out of the kitchen when Taryn… 

Little snippets. She rearranged the flowers. Perhaps the fuller ones should face the island… Yes, that was where everyone would sit. Once morning came. In nine hours. There would be no one for the next nine hours. She rearranged the flowers as her head began to split. Water, not like the icy chill of the Cauldron. Warm. Laughter. And then a staircase, one with a big looming spiral. Sparks of silver. A storm rolled in. 

She rearranged the flowers. The stems had not been de-thorned. She pushed her finger tips into the sharp little daggers and sighed as a pin-prick of blood welled up. The visions faded out like mist on the horizon. 

As she pressed her fingertip to her lips to suck the blood away, she felt a familiar presence. His shadows were warm, and she felt them brush her arm in greeting. He made sure not to startle her.

“Azriel, you’re up late.”

“I could say the same to you. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

She smiled and let the flowers fall naturally into the vase. “Oh, I couldn’t sleep…” She brushed her fingers across the soft, butter colored petals. “I wanted to make sure these beauties were saved before the first snows hit Velaris.”

He stepped closer. So close to her. She could feel the willowy pressure of his shadows, slightly warm with his scent. Mmm, something woody. She slowed her breathing, trying not to seem… excited? Interested? It was so much easier to talk to the human boys. They couldn’t hear the fluttering of a heart. 

“Yellow?” he asked, his voice deceptively bored.

“Do you dislike yellow?” She asked. Maybe next time she would plant red.

“No, they’re very nice Elain. The River House always feels more home-like with your touches.”

Something bubbly and warm welled up in her. She didn’t think many people noticed the little changes she made. Feyre had an eye for decorating, sure, but her style was far more moody, regal. Elain preferred the subtle elegance of a brighter palate. It seemed Azriel had noticed. 

“How was training today?” she tried to sound cheerful, but weariness weaved its way through her tone. Cassian hadn’t been by the River House to update Feyre on Nesta’s progress, but Elain assumed there was none to report. Taryn was a bit more unpredictable on where she drew her lines.

His lips titled to the side, hesitant. “Her blade work has gotten stronger, she wields truth teller almost as well as you did-” Elain couldn’t keep the smile from her face. A small one. This was about Taryn, not herself. Azriel went on without noticing. “But when I left her with Tris… I suppose you and Nesta are lucky. Mental shields take a lot of work to employ for those who haven’t had them magically fortified. I wanted to tell you though-”

She turned, her face tipped up to meet his gaze. So close. Azriel paused, taking in a breath, as if he had suddenly realized the proximity between them. 

“I’ll be gone for a few days. Rhys is sending Tristan and I east, to Montesere,” another pause, “Taryn will be accompanying us to speak with their court about preparations for another war.”

“Taryn?” Elain’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Azriel shrugged, but his gaze turned interested, as if he sensed Elain knew something that he didn’t, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“She dislikes high society. When we were girls there was a lot of… pressure on her and Nesta.” Elain had missed her debut. The year she had come of age was the year they lost their fortune. Sometimes she was jealous of the attention her sisters, mostly Nesta, had garnered for the family. Most of the time, she was thankful that the weight of expectation had avoided her shoulders in those formative years. Nesta was their mother’s little queen. She was the oldest, after all. Taryn had come a few minutes after her. But there was a unique kind of pressure there too, one Taryn could never live up to. If Nesta were to fail at securing an advantageous match, Taryn was essentially the spare heir. She was coached just as rigorously, waiting in the trenches to see if she’d be needed. 

“Feyre seems to think she’ll do well,” Azriel said, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter. His gaze drifted through the window, out, she imagined, toward the House of Wind. 

Elain pursed her lips. It didn’t really matter what she thought, the decisions Feyre made were always final. “I’m sure it will all go as planned.” 

That splitting feeling returned. Now was not the time. She looked around, suddenly antsy. Her trimmed fingernails found their way to the little cut on her finger. It had stopped bleeding after she let go of the thorns. She dug the crescent of her nail into the wound, pressing until the feeling banked into nothing. 

Azriel’s eyes widened. “Elain, I didn’t know you were bleeding.” His nose flared at the sudden tang in the air.

“It’s nothing, the roses got me earlier.”

He took her by the wrist, forcing her to show him the wound. He hummed, reaching for the weapon belt around his hips. There was a small roll of gauze tucked into it, and he unrolled a piece, ripping it off with his teeth.

She didn't realize she was trembling until he gripped her hand again, holding it still as he wrapped it with an almost painful gentleness.

He noticed her trembling. “Are you afraid of blood?”

Her throat tightened. “Yes,” she lied.

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Get out Get out Get out Get out, she screamed at him. Oh he would have it coming to him after this. 

Tristan’s voice, calm and steady despite it being hour three of training, washed across her mind. Every time Taryn thought she had managed to push him out, she would hear his deep, rumbling echo. It was like a riptide, the kind of surge that dragged you back and back, further out to sea no matter how desperately you paddled toward shore.

You need to relax, Taryn. You’re not focused.

She growled, then flinched at the sound of her own voice. She had been forced silent this whole time. She was finally getting somewhere. 

“Get- out,” the words came out choked and garbled, and then she was under again. A man was dancing with her, spinning her around the dance floor. She couldn’t keep up. She tripped, fell past his arms and to the floor. But there was no floor. Only water. Deep and cold, endless water. She reached out for someone, for something, but there was nothing. Her hands were empty… and then they weren’t. There was a knife in her hands. The image of the knife was warbled through the icy water, but the piercing metal was aimed for herself. She forced her eyes further open, fighting the weight of the water. Gone again. The village boys surfaced. Tomas and Isaac, Grayson and Wendell. Wendell, the butcher’s boy… Tomas’s voice echoed in her head. He doesn’t mind a little meat on the bones. She shivered, wrenching her gown closer to her body. It was soaked through with cold. Let me go, she yelled, but no sound came out.

I said focus, Taryn, you were so close. She tried to hold onto the sound, as if those words were a tether that would lead her back out.

Hands were wrenching her away, pulling her from the Cauldron with a roar. Nesta? Her mother looked down at her. Those hands tightened, pulling her away from another failed Gala. You are useless, a burden on your sister, her mother said. Do not speak to her again, I don't want her seen with you.

Let me go, she choked again, swallowing mouthfulls of cold air. She could see Nesta’s small face in the window, watching her as she curled up in the chilly brambles outside. Her body trembled, and she could not tell if it was real or just memory.

The patience and calm in Tristan’s voice was turning sour, I can’t. Not until you can push me out.

He was mad at her. Nesta was mad at her, mad at Taryn for ignoring her all night, her small fists clenched. Her mother was mad at her, angry that she could be so careless as to ruin the future of all of her sisters. She was mad. So mad at herself. And confused. She stared at herself, at her broken body reforged, the white nightgown sticking to every violated inch of her. 

Something fluttered inside her, clicking and whirring like an automaton. Light flared beneath her skin, arcing like lightning through the darkness. She saw threads of shadow, weary now, as if they too wanted to leave this place in her mind. 

Taryn extended her hand. It seemed her body knew what to do, even if her mind did not. The blue of her veins turned fluorescent, glimmering violet as pure power sluggishly swam from her heart to her fingertips. It sparked. It struck. 

She felt a low hiss thunder through her mind, but the voice gritted out, Good, again.

The hollow space between her breasts flickered and surged, churning like a storm. She made herself the eye. That whirling storm grew thick and heavy. Like a shield around her. A shield. She put all her energy into reinforcing it. The Cauldron had boiled when its icy heart was torn out. She pulled clouds from its heat, coiling mist around herself. She felt the shadowy threads again as they brushed up against the raging hurricane inside her, and each time, her lightning found its mark. 

The darkness retreated. Taryn was back in Windhaven, though she had never really left. She felt dizzy. Strong, rough hands gripped her before she hit the forest floor.

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Nesta ate in a silence that Cassian seemed determined to keep breaking.

“I already told you, I will not train in that miserable village.”

She watched him huff a breath, shovel more of the bland porridge into his mouth angrily. He was an animal, and so were all those other Illyrian brutes in Windhaven. Dawn crinkled the clouds, turning them iridescent and rosy. It was too early for this.

“Why can’t you be more like Taryn. Azriel tells me she’s doing well. So well, she’s been promoted,” Cassian said.

“Azriel,” she gritted her teeth, “must be a better teacher.” Not to mention, Taryn didn’t have a hundred pairs of eyes on her, calculating how weak she was at every interval. Nesta chanced another bite. She was starving, but she didn’t want Cassian to know that. 

“There are things, Nes, that you’d learn in lessons with me. You would be a hell of a lot more impressive if you could back all of your threats up.”

Tch- Nes. She eyed her fork, wondering how hard it would be to stab him with it.

“You could do that, too,” he said, reading the direction of her stare. “I could teach you how to turn anything into a weapon. Even a fork.”

She ignored him, taking another delicate bite of the fruit she had been mercifully provided. It made the sloppy porridge bearable. At the height of their poverty, the Archerons hadn’t been able to afford delicacies like strawberries. They couldn’t even afford salt.

Nesta chewed quietly. Suddenly, something clicked in her head. ‘So well, she’s been promoted.’ “What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Huh?” Cassian looked at her funny, and her jaw tightened.

“What do you mean Taryn has ‘been promoted’?” Something clawed at her insides, threatening to escape.

“No one told you? Taryn is going with Az and Tris out to Montesere for the week. Something about needing her as a statement piece for good intentions.”

“Who else would have fucking told me, Cassian. You’re the only one here. Feyre hasn’t visited, Elain-” she swallowed hard. “When does she leave?” This had Rhysand written all over it, and Feyre? Why would she let him put Taryn up to this?

Cassian glanced at the clock. “They left before dawn. It’s a long flight out there, and they’ll need breaks for their wings.”

Nesta tamped down a growl of anger. Why hadn’t Taryn said anything? She could have found Nesta, explained. That anger paused. Nesta still hadn’t spoken to her since… well, since their last fight. The Prison, The Hewn City. Everything the Inner Circle had planned to put Nesta through still pinched at her mind. Silence was not what she owed Taryn, but she couldn’t bring herself to say thank you just yet. The wound still pulsed, bleeding her out each time it reopened with her thoughts. 

“A week,” Nesta asked, drowning out the silent roaring in her mind.

Cassian nodded. He stuck another spoonful of porridge into his mouth, swallowing it down. “Why does it even matter to you, you haven’t been speaking to her.”

Nesta hadn’t realized they noticed. She had only imagined the tension to be between her and her sister. It wasn’t supposed to be a visible rift, only a quiet, temporary thing. “Why didn’t they ask me to do it? I could’ve-”

“Are you fucking kidding Nesta? You haven’t participated in anything we’ve asked of you for months. You won’t even pick up a training sword.” 

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Because I shouldn’t have to involve myself in your schemes at all.”

“Well, there’s your answer. No one wants to touch you with a ten foot pole. They trusted Taryn,” he added quietly, under his breath, “for some reason.”

She wanted to yell. She wanted to march upstairs and find Taryn. They could figure something out. She was gone. Nesta was stuck here, with Cassian, without even Azriel as a buffer, useless as he was in her arguments with Cassian. They were long gone. She needed a drink, a fuck, something. What if she got hurt, what if something went wrong? Nesta didn’t trust Tristan, not even Azriel. They were still Rhysand’s court, no matter how much they played nice. Taryn wasn’t cut out for this.

She felt her lungs seize, and she held a breath. The rapid beating of her heart rose with her panic. She needed a distraction. The door to the ten thousand steps was already open, the faelights in the hall dimmed to near darkness. Her boots scuffed on the stones as she approached, glancing behind her to make sure Cassian was staying put. This was her business. 

She began the descent.

“Something is missing and I don’t like it.” Eris said, looking away as he spoke. The words came out sure and concise, but there was a waver of emotion there that Azriel couldn't decipher. He wasn’t sure if the shame he saw in his mate’s eyes was from being the first to speak, or because of his admission.  “Missing from what?” Azriel asked with hesitant composure.  Eris stood from his chair then, walking over to the fire for solace as he wrapped his arms around himself. He stared into the flames, whose undulations had only grown increasingly agitated, trying to find comfort. With a smaller voice than Azriel was used to hearing, Eris continued. “If I say it, you have to promise not to hate me.”  Pushing off the wall, Azriel went to join Eris by the fire. “Eris, what’s going on? I could never hate you.”  A rough laugh escaped Eris’ throat, “we both know that’s not true. You’ve hated me well enough before.”  Just as he was about to reach for Eris, Azriel flinched back. His admission shocked Azriel, and he couldn’t help but cringe. “I thought we were past this.”  “I’m sure you did.” Eris’ eyes still stared coldly into the fire.  Azriel flexed his fists at his sides in an effort to control his hurt and anger. His voice was still harsher than he wanted when he spoke. “What’s that supposed to mean, Eris? What aren’t you saying?” 

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