May 27
Erasmus & Kallias
From The Training of Erasmus by C.S Pacat
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Erasmus & Kallias
From The Training of Erasmus by C.S Pacat
(Prev.)
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Unseen, Unheard, Unloved- Initial Rhysand, Eventual Kallias x fem!Reader (2/2)
Summary: She had given him everything—her heart, her trust, and now, the child growing within her. But as Rhysand’s attention drifts elsewhere, as excuses pile up, and as whispers of a mortal girl turn into something far more dangerous, she begins to wonder: Was she ever truly seen? Was she ever truly heard? Or had she been unloved all along?
See masterlist
Part 1 epilogue
Warnings: none I think
Azriel winnowed them inside the grand entrance hall of the Winter Court’s palace, and the instant her boots touched the icy marble, Y/n felt the air shift. Cold, crisp, and biting—but not in an unwelcoming way. No, it was different from Velaris’ warmth, different from the suffocating tension that had clung to her like a second skin. This was clean. It was fresh. It smelled of snow and pine, of something untouched and unburdened by the weight she had been carrying for weeks.
Fuck anyone who thinks that Kallias doesn't see Viviane as an equal just because she wasn't given the title of High Lady. She's more of a High Lady than Feyre ever can and Rhysand allows her to be.
She was ruling all 50 years and protecting the Winter Court in his stead while he was imprisoned under the mountain.
The problem with feminism nowadays is that the girlies go gaga for performative feminism where titles and being perceived are given more importance than the actual treatment of being a man's equal.
Feyre doesn't know anything about ruling, and doesn't do anything with her prized title.
Viviane isn't High Lady but she's ruled and is rightfully respected by the Winter Court and its people.
⊹Acotar Headcanons⊹
Males as Daddy Doms X F!Reader
summary: These are my headcanons for some of the ACOTAR men as Daddy Doms, featuring Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, Eris, Tamlin, Lucien, and some bonus character drabbles at the end! (Helion, Kallias, and Tarquin)
word count: 4k in total, each character is under 1k
author's note: This was not self-indulgent at allllll nooo. If you’ve read my stardew fics you’ll know I’m a big fan of this one. If this kink isn’t your thing, please do not read! All characters are adults in this fic. If there is a character you don’t like, please just don’t read them. This took a lotttt of time for me to make :) Hope y'all enjoy and freak with me.
Warnings: Pretty much everything in the tags below, use of term daddy, use of term s/ut, degrading, knife use (no blood), some dubcon (alcohol)
[Tags: Reader is an ADULT female, DDLG dynamic, d/s, male control, exhibition, brat taming, face sitting, overstim, shadow play, very public sex, squirting mention, light degradation, primal, chasing, drunk/sober power play, eating out, forced orgasm, sharing partner, breeding, praise]
⊹ Masterlist ⊹
Headcanons | Next ->
I find it so funny how it's like
ACOTAR: Feyre gets abducted by tamlin and falls in love with him in a beauty and the beast type of way.
ACOMAF: Feyre gets abducted by rhysand and falls in love with him in a hades and persephone type of way.
I wish all the other sequels were just new retellings of abduction love stories with all the highlords like
ACOWAR: Feyre gets abducted by tarquin and falls in love with him in a phantom of the opera type of way.
ACOFAS: Feyre gets abducted and falls in love with kallias in a hans chrisrian andersen's snow queen type of way.
ACOSF: Feyre gets abducted by helion and falls in love with him in a helen of troy type of way.
ACO#6: Feyre gets abducted by beron and falls in love with him in a king kong type of way.
ACO#7: Feyre gets abducted and falls in love with thesan in a zeus and europa type of way.
And then i think there should be ACO#8 where her family kidnaps her back
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The High Lords' meeting proved that Sjm doesn't know how to write politics. What do you mean a ruler, his wife and his family / advisors (Rhysand, Feyre, the inner circle) insult other rulers, attack the wife of a High Lord, and nobody cares about it. The attack on LoA should have been a declaration of war. Like, even after the greater threat (Hybern) was taken care of, Night and Autumn should have been at war. Or, at least, there should have been consequences.
Take an example from history. Roman senators assassinated Julius Caesar. What happened? Those loyal to Caesar started a civil war against the assassins. Those senators were forced to flee Rome, some took their own lives after being defeated, and those who were still alive after a couple of years were granted amnesty after a peace treaty.
But what are the consequences of what the Night Court did at the meeting? It seems that there are none, especially as all the High Lords resuscitated Rhys at the end of the war. Where is the logic in that?
is this your high lord??
these were supposed to be for my friend but i thought i'd share it so here you go, some shitpost doodles of hls 🫶
tamlin in that meeting:
unapologetically
no explanation..
AND A NESTA- because she reminded me of the caption..
RANCOROUS ⋆⭒˚.⋆ — azriel (1)
(adj.) full of bitterness or resentment
dark!azriel x fem!fae!wintercourt!reader
"How cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling."
cw: mdni, dark!fic, (later) dubcon/noncon, unhealthy relationship dynamics, power imbalance (?), night court is problematic (when aren't they lmao), short!reader, physical descriptions!, little bit of world-building, politics, obsessive/possessive behaviour, sexism&misogyny, angst
a/n: the war with hypern is basically nonexistent in this story. pls tell me anyone recognised the emily brontë quote 🙇🏻♀️
The Winter Court had never been kind to strangers.
It wasn't malice, not quite. It was simply that the land itself seemed to resent those who didn't belong. The snow fell heavier on foreign shoulders. The wind bit deeper into foreign skin. The cold found its way into foreign bones with a viciousness that felt personal.
Feyre Archeron wasn't a stranger to that hostility.
She had been to the Winter Court only once before, and while the visit had certainly been memorable, pleasant was not a word she would have used to describe it.
She remembered the endless drifts of snow stretching toward the horizon and the frozen lake, the brutal cold that seemed to freeze the air in her lungs, and the flashes of bright red hair belonging to Lucien and his brothers against the sea of white.
Returning to the Winter Court so soon had not been high on her list of priorities. Yet she found herself far less apprehensive than she had been during that first visit. Since then, she had met the High Lord of Winter, Kallias, and his mate, Viviane. They had proven themselves reasonable enough, pleasant, even.
Still, while revisiting the Winter Court had never occupied much of Feyre's thoughts, it had certainly occupied Rhysand's.
Relations between the Night Court and Winter Court remained strained, old wounds still lingered despite Amarantha's decade-long reign coming to end. The memory of Kallias, trapped beneath the mountain, forced to serve the very monster who had enslaved them all, was not easily forgotten. And Rhys, who had been Amarantha's whore, her puppet, her most prized possession, carried the weight of that history in ways he rarely spoke of.
He could not leave matters as they were.
Kallias was a valuable ally, and one he genuinely respected. Losing that alliance because of the damage Amarantha had wrought would be both tedious and foolish.
Which was precisely why they had arrived unannounced.
Sending word ahead would have given Kallias every opportunity to refuse them. If the High Lord of Winter truly wanted nothing to do with the Night Court, Rhys had reasoned, it was better to force the conversation than allow it to be avoided altogether.
Feyre wasn't entirely convinced.
She eyed Rhys as they stood in the snow-dusted courtyard. "You know there was still time to send a letter."
Beside her, Rhys merely squeezed her hand. "And risk Kallias suddenly discovering an urgent matter elsewhere?"
"You're assuming he doesn't want to see us."
"I'm assuming he doesn't want to have this conversation."
A snort sounded from behind them.
Cassian crossed his arms, wings tucking tight against his spine as a gust of frozen wind swept through the courtyard. His breath clouded before his face. "Bold strategy. Show up on someone's doorstep after decades of tension and hope for the best."
"It has worked before," Rhys said.
"Has it?"
"No."
Cassian barked out a laugh, the sound bright and sharp against the muffled silence of falling snow. It was strange, Feyre thought, how loud laughter seemed here. How it cut through the quiet like a blade.
"For what it's worth," Cassian said, his grin still lingering, "I think showing up unannounced is better."
Feyre lifted a brow. "That so?"
Cassian shrugged. "If someone has a problem with me, I'd rather hear it to my face."
"That's because your solution to most problems is violence."
"It's solved a surprising number of issues."
Rhys gave him a look. "A shocking lack of diplomacy from the Night Court's General."
Cassian grinned, unbothered. "And yet here I am. Still employed. Still breathing." He gestured expansively at the frozen courtyard. "Clearly my methods work."
Feyre felt the corner of her mouth twitch.
Azriel, standing quietly at Cassian's side, studied the palace gates. His shadows drifted along the snow at his feet before vanishing beneath the frost-covered stone. He had been silent for most of the journey, as he often was, but now something in his posture shifted. A subtle tension that Feyre had learned to recognize.
"We're being watched," he said quietly.
The amusement immediately faded.
Of course they were.
The guards stationed atop the walls had likely spotted them the moment they had reached the city's outskirts.
"We know," Cassian said. "The guards—"
"Not the guards."
Feyre turned, following Azriel's gaze. His attention had lifted to a window high above them, one of the narrow, arched windows that dotted the palace's eastern face. She could just make out a figure, small, and barely visible against the frost-covered glass.
His shadows had gone utterly still.
"There's someone there," he said quietly. "In that window. Watching us."
Feyre tilted her head, trying to make out the silhouette more clearly. "Who might that be?"
Azriel was silent for a long moment. His shadows whispered something Feyre couldn't hear, and then they settled again, calm and watchful. "I don't know. But they've been there since we arrived."
A gust of icy wind swept through the courtyard, carrying with it the scent of pine and fresh snow. Feyre tucked herself closer to Rhys's side.
"Well," Cassian drawled, looking toward the massive doors. "Either we're about to be invited inside, or we're about to become the most powerful group of idiots ever left standing on a doorstep."
As if summoned by his words, the palace doors began to open. They swung inward slowly, silently, revealing a long corridor of pale stone that seemed to glow with its own inner light.
A servant waited just inside.
She was a lesser faerie of the Winter Court, her skin faintly blue in a way that made her seem almost carved from ice rather than flesh. Small horns curved from her temples like a reindeer's, dusted with frost at the tips. She kept her gaze lowered as she bowed.
"Welcome to the Winter Court," she said carefully, as if weighing every word. "Please follow me."
Without further ceremony, she turned and led them deeper into the palace.
The corridors were cold and pale, carved from stone that held a faint sheen of ice. Braziers burned along the walls with a steady blue flame that gave warmth without smoke.
Feyre stayed close to Rhysand as they walked, her boots soft against polished ice that never seemed to melt underfoot. Azriel and Cassian followed behind them, the latter quiet for once, though his eyes flicked over everything curiously.
They were led into a receiving hall. It was vast but not unwelcoming. A large hearth burned at its center, the fire bright enough to push back the cold. Furs were draped over carved chairs arranged in a loose circle, all pale wood and winter motifs.
The servant stopped and turned.
"Please remain here," she said. "Someone will attend to you shortly."
She bowed again and left. The doors shut with a heavy finality.
The servant had been gone for several minutes.
Long enough for the fire to settle into a steady crackle. Long enough for Feyre to begin wondering whether they had been forgotten.
She was studying a tapestry depicting a snow-covered forest when Cassian spoke.
"Gods, I'd forgotten how quiet this place is."
Rhys glanced up from where he stood near the hearth. "You complained about that even a hundred years ago."
"Because it was unsettling then, too." Cassian leaned back in his chair.
A ghost of a smile tugged at Rhys's mouth.
Feyre looked between them. "Did you use to spent a lot of time here?"
"Before Amarantha?" Cassian asked. "A little, not often." Something distant entered his expression. "The courts used to visit each other more."
"It was different then," Rhys said quietly. "Before everything changed."
It was strange to imagine.
Every memory Feyre possessed of Prythian was marked by conflict. Amarantha. Tensions between Courts. Recovery. Rebuilding.
She had never known this place at peace. Had never known the courts as anything but wary neighbors circling each other like wounded animals.
Now, sitting here in the frozen heart of Winter, waiting for a reception that might never come, she wondered if peace was destined for Prythian at all.
Or if some places, and people, were simply too old, too wounded, to ever truly heal.
Before the palace doors had even opened, you knew they had arrived.
The Winter Court had no secrets. Not from you.
The snow told you. It told you when strangers crossed the borders. It told you when the wind carried the scent of blood from the northern passes. It told you when your brother wept in his chambers, silent and alone, because he had been High Lord for three centuries and still did not know how to bear the weight of it.
The snow told you that the Night Court had arrived.
You stood at the window of your study, high in the eastern tower, and watched the flakes drift past the glass. They moved differently when outsiders came, slower, more cautious, as if the very air was testing the strangers who dared walk upon the sacred frost.
By the time the servant came to inform you, you couldn't even act surprised.
"The High Lord of the Night Court is here," she said. "Along with Feyre Cursebreaker, General Cassian and the Spymaster Azriel."
Kallias had mentioned Rhysand might eventually attempt to mend the rift between their courts. It had been a quiet conversation, late at night, the two of you sitting before the hearth while the wind howled outside. He'll come eventually, Kallias had said. It's just a matter of when.
You hadn't expected him to simply appear on the doorstep. Then again, Rhysand had always possessed a certain arrogance.
"Where is my brother?"
"Inspecting the western villages with Lady Viviane."
Of course.
You suppressed a sigh. Of all days.
Anger stirred in your chest, that old, familiar companion. It always rose when outsiders came. When visitors arrived to speak with your brother, the High Lord, and you were relegated to the background. A decorative piece, a pretty face, the sister. They would smile at you, bow to you, and then dismiss you entirely when the real conversations began.
You pushed it down.
You were good at that. Had spent centuries perfecting the art of swallowing your bitterness until it dissolved into something you could almost forget. Almost.
"Shall I prepare a room for them until Lord Kallias returns?"
The servant waited. Waited for instructions, for a decision that should have belonged to someone else. It was a familiar feeling. Familiar enough that you no longer reacted to it. Familiar enough that you hated yourself for noticing.
Outside, snow drifted lazily across the mountains. Some flakes slipped through the open window, you always kept it open—even in the deepest cold—and swirled around your ankles like curious cats.
"…No, I'll receive them myself," you finally said, the words coming out unsure.
The servant nodded. "Word has already been sent, Lord Kallias and Lady Viviane should return soon."
She bowed and withdrew, her footsteps fading down the spiral staircase, leaving you alone once again. Alone with your tightly-contained rage, your cosmic bitterness and your rising dread at the prospect of entertaining the Night Court until your brother would be back.
Two soldiers pulled open the towering doors to the receiving hall, before taking their places on either side of the entrance with practiced precision, hands resting on the hilts of swords that had never been drawn in anger within these walls.
The receiving hall was too warm. That was your first thought as you stepped inside. The fire in the great hearth blazed with unnecessary vigor, as if it meant to burn away every trace of winter from your skin. The furs on the chairs seemed garish. The tapestries too bright. The whole room had been prepared, arranged, to welcome guests who had not asked for permission to arrive.
It felt wrong.
The Night Court party immediately rose to their feet as you entered.
Every pair of eyes in the room rested upon you at once.
You felt the weight of it before you truly looked at them. They pressed against your skin like unseen hands, and every instinct urged you to retreat behind the enormous doors while you still could. To disappear into the winding corridors of the palace where you knew every shadow, every turn, every hiding place.
But you couldn't.
Because they were guests.
Outside, snow brushed softly against the palace windows. Uninvited guests, it whispered. Dangerous guests. Dark guests.
You ignored it the best you could.
"Welcome," you said, relieved to find your voice somewhat steady. "I am Y/N, twin sister to Kallias, High Lord of the Winter Court."
Your gaze never quite settled on any one of them. It remained fixed somewhere in the middle distance, on the space between the High Lord and his mate, on the fire crackling furiously, on anything that wasn't their faces.
"My brother is attending to matters in the western villages. He will return within the day. In the meantime..."
You paused.
In the meantime, you thought, I have to entertain you. I have to smile and be pleasant and pretend I don't want to scream.
"In the meantime," you said aloud, "you are welcome to wait here. The servants will see to anything you require."
Feyre was watching you curiously.
She had expected Kallias, perhaps Viviane. Instead, there was only you. You were small, shorter than your twin brother by a head, shorter than her as well. Your frame was delicate beneath the pale grey of your gown, and your features were fine-boned, almost fragile. White hair cascaded down your back like fresh snowfall, so pale it seemed to glow against the muted colours of the room. Your skin was nearly translucent, the faint blue undertone of the Winter-born barely visible beneath the surface. It was the kind of skin that made you think of frost on glass, of ice so clear you could see straight through it.
And your eyes, they looked like they had been carved from the heart of a glacier.
Feyre had seen cold before, had felt it. But looking at you was like looking at cold given form. At winter made flesh.
Your gaze passed over to the High Lord of the Night Court. Rhysand was beautiful in the way a predator was beautiful. All sharp edges and easy charm and violet eyes that saw too much. He was watching you with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and you felt like a mouse in a nest of vipers.
Something in your magic shifted uneasily.
But you did not bow. Not to him.
Not to the female beside him whose presence felt new in ways you had not yet decided how to interpret.
Your attention moved to Feyre.
From Kallias' few recollections of the Cursebreaker, you had a hard time painting your own picture of her. She was human once, mortal. She had come to Prythian with nothing, known nothing, and somehow she had saved the entire realm.
She had killed Amarantha. She had broken the curse.
Feyre was brave, that you were sure of. Maybe not in a way that always served her well. But brave nonetheless. Brave enough to save Prythian for a man that wasn't even really worth it to begin with. Brave enough to blindly join the notorious Night Court.
Brave enough to be High Lady.
You felt the bitterness rise in your throat like bile.
You understood what that meant now. How quickly titles changed hands when the world decided it was convenient. How a mortal girl could walk into Prythian and emerge with a crown, while you remained in the shadows of your brother, confined to it by the mere prospect of your gender.
Something sharp moved behind your ribs.
Like always, you ignored it.
The General was next, Cassian. You had never met an Illyrian before, had never wanted to. He was tall, impossibly broad, with wings that seemed to fill the room and a grin that suggested he found everything amusing—including you.
You did not find him amusing. You found him unsettling. There was an ease about him that reminded you strangely of an avalanche. Relaxed, until it wasn't.
But you said nothing.
And then, just as you were about to categorise the third male, you felt your skin prickle. Felt the familiar shiver run up and down your spine.
Another warning. Dangerous, it hissed. Danger, Danger, Danger.
The temperature around you seemed to plummet despite the blazing fire.
He had not moved. Similarly tall to the General, he stood utterly still. Shadows drifted lazily around his shoulders like living things.
You refused to lift your eyes high enough to meet his.
You had learned long ago to trust Winter when it spoke. It had warned you of storms hours before clouds gathered. Warned you of naga-hounds long before tracks appeared. Warned you when rivers were too thin to cross.
It had never once lied. Now it whispered only one word.
Danger.
You obeyed. You looked at the black leathers. At the scarred hands resting loosely behind his back. At the folded wings darker than midnight.
Never his face.
For reasons you couldn't explain, Winter seemed particularly wary of the Shadowsinger.
Yet despite your careful avoidance, awareness prickled across your skin. You didn't need to look to know he was watching you. As though he had noticed exactly what you had done.
Heat crept beneath your skin, the sensation almost unbearable. You disliked it immediately.
Creatures born of ice were never meant to feel warm.
"Thank you for receiving us, Lady Y/N. We apologize for arriving unannounced." The High Lord's voice drew your attention away from the shadowsinger, and you were grateful for the distraction.
"Did you?" Your gaze swayed over to Rhysand. "I hadn't noticed."
Cassian barked out a laugh. Even the corner of Rhysand's mouth curved a fraction higher. "I deserved that."
The corner of Cassian's mouth twitched again. Beside him, Feyre hid a smile behind her cup.
The tension eased, if only slightly.
The fire settled into a low crackle.
Somewhere beyond the towering windows, snow drifted lazily across the palace gardens, soft flakes spiraling against the gray afternoon sky.
Rhysand regarded you with the sort of attention that made your shoulders want to curl inward. It was not an invasive stare. If anything, it was remarkably polite. Which somehow made it worse.
His smile remained the same, easy enough to be mistaken for charm.
The snow stirred beneath your skin.
You lowered your gaze. It was easier to focus on the polished marble floor than the High Lord who seemed perfectly content allowing silence to do his work for him.
Finally, he spoke. "Somehow, your brother rarely mentions you."
Your brows knit together before you could stop them. "Kallias prefers to keep family business private."
"Yes." Something flickered across Rhysand's face. "I imagine he does."
There was something strange about the reply. A weight beneath the words that you couldn't quite identify.
You resisted the urge to fidget. Your fingers tightened around one another behind your back.
The snow shifted again. Careful, it seemed to be saying.
"I hope your journey wasn't too difficult." Anything to pivot the strange weight settling over the room.
"It was pleasant enough," Feyre answered kindly. "The mountains are beautiful."
That earned a small, earnest smile from you. It transformed your face completely. Not brighter, but softer. "They're quieter in summer."
"And less likely to bury travelers alive?" Cassian asked, looking toward the windows.
"Somewhat."
He grinned. "I like her."
You tilted your head slightly. "I wasn't aware that was a decision to be made."
"It usually isn't."
"It is for Cassian," Feyre said with surprising dryness.
The General placed a hand over his heart. "I am an excellent judge of character."
"Your judgment has led you into several near-death experiences," Rhysand noted mildly.
"All of which I survived."
"Barely."
"Still counts."
You watched the exchange with mild surprise. Perhaps you shouldn't have been, even the highest form of power did not make a male incapable of joking with those he trusted.
Feyre caught your expression and smiled softly. "They're always like this," she said.
"I see," you replied, though you didn't.
Cassian grinned. "Don't worry. You'll get used to us."
You very much doubted that.
Rhysand was looking at you again. Not rudely, not even obviously.
But you noticed.
It seemed, the High Lord of Night had decided you were worth understanding. And would wait until you revealed something worth finding.
You became aware, suddenly, of your own breathing. Of how warm the room still was. Of how uncomfortable the warmth felt against your skin.
And somewhere, beneath conversation, beneath fire, beneath polite exchange, you felt it again.
That still, patient attention from the Shadowsinger.
Azriel, meanwhile, did not speak.
He had not spoken since they'd entered the palace, had barely even moved. He preferred it that way. Silence revealed far more than conversation ever could.
His shadows shifted restlessly around him. Not warning him of anything in particular. Not hunting either. They were listening. That alone was unusual. They whispered constantly of hidden passages, concealed blades, of lies spoken through smiles.
Now they whispered almost nothing.
However they seemed strangely drawn to you. They slowly reached for you, hesitant, curious and impatient.
He studied you carefully.
You hadn't looked at him once. You had looked at Rhys. At Feyre. At Cassian. But whenever your attention neared him, it slipped away before reaching his face. It was with deliberate avoidance.
Why?
He listened. Your heartbeat remained remarkably steady. Your breathing was measured. Your posture composed. Anyone else would have concluded you were merely reserved.
He heard something else. Not fear, not quite. But pressure. Like a bow drawn so tight it had forgotten what it felt like to rest. It pulsed beneath every word you spoke. Every measured breath. Every careful answer. Something inside you was straining against invisible restraints.
He couldn't tell what. He was accustomed to understanding people long before they understood themselves. You refused to resolve into anything familiar.
He disliked not understanding it. His shadows disliked it even more.
They brushed forward again. Only an inch, then another. He drew them back with a thought. And they hesitated. For the first time in centuries, they did not obey immediately.
Azriel's expression never changed. Inside, however, something cold settled beneath his ribs.
You glanced in his direction that moment. It was brief, barely a heartbeat, and you looked away almost immediately. But he saw it. The flicker of recognition. The flash of something that might have been caution.
You knew he was watching you.
Curious, very curious.
"Lady Y/N," Rhys spoke, drawing the attention, and the title felt strange on his tongue, too formal, too careful. "May I ask how often you've managed the court in your brother's absence?"
You hesitated. The question was innocent enough, polite, even. But something about it made your skin prickle.
"Kallias and I share responsibilities," you said carefully. "He handles the diplomatic matters. I handle the internal affairs."
"And when he is away?"
"Then I handle everything."
Cassian whistled softly. "That sounds exhausting."
You offered only a tight smile.
Rhysand's violet eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly. "And you've been doing this for how long? Centuries?"
Your jaw tightened. You knew what he was doing. Knew he was probing, testing, looking for cracks in your armor.
You would not give him any.
"Long enough," you replied simply.
Rhysand's smile sharpened almost imperceptibly. "Long enough," he repeated, as if tasting the words. "That's a careful answer."
You inclined your head. "It's a honest one."
"Is it?"
"Would you prefer I lie to you, High Lord?"
Cassian's eyebrows shot up. Feyre stilled.
Rhysand's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes, amusement, perhaps.
The Cursebreakers gaze flickered between you and Rhysand. It lingered on you a heartbeat longer than before.
There had been something in the way you answered Rhys, not defiance exactly, nor fear. It reminded Feyre of people who had spent too many years choosing every word before speaking it.
She knew that habit. She didn't yet know why you had it.
"I prefer honesty," Rhys claimed. "Though I've found it's rarely as straightforward as people claim."
"Then perhaps we understand each other," you said smoothly. "I am honest. But I am also discreet. The Winter Court does not air its private matters to strangers."
The word strangers landed with deliberate weight.
Rhysand's expression didn't change. But you saw it, the moment he realized you were not going to be an easy puzzle to solve.
"Of course," he said. "I meant no offense."
"None taken." The words were polite, perfectly pleasant. You were good at pleasant.
Cassian leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. "So," he drawled, lazy grin firmly back in place, "what's it like living in a place that's frozen half the year? Do you ever get bored?"
You blinked. "Bored?"
"Yeah, you know." He gestured vaguely toward the windows, as though the endless white beyond them explained everything. "The same snow every day. The same cold. Doesn't it get...old?"
You stared at him. For a moment, you couldn't find the words. Couldn't understand the question. It was like he had asked you if the sky ever tired of being blue. If the mountains ever lost their beauty. If the ice beneath your skin ever stopped singing.
You tilted your head. "Does flying around with your wings get boring? Do the stars of your court ever become less beautiful?"
Cassian's grin faded slightly. "I didn't mean—"
"The cold keeps us alive," you continued, and your voice was softer now. "It keeps the land healthy. Keeps the water pure. Drives out what doesn't belong." You paused. "It keeps us safe."
Safe from people like you, you didn't say. But you thought it.
"I have never wished it were anything else."
You let your gaze drift past the Night Court party, past the high windows and the too-bright tapestries, to the small gap where the heavy curtains didn't quite meet. Through it, you could see the mountains. The endless white. The snow that had fallen for millennia and would fall for millennia more.
You looked again at the High Lord and his mate and his general and his spymaster, and you wondered if they loved their home as much as you loved yours.
And as you stood in the too-warm receiving hall, surrounded by strangers, you let your gaze rest on the mountains through the gap in the curtains again.
Feyre watched you look out the window.
She had seen that look before. Had worn it herself, once, when she had been trapped in the Spring Court with nothing but memories of the manor she had grown up in. Memories of the cottage she had hated, had escaped, had left behind.
Leaving had never been hard for her.
But this was not the look of someone trying to escape. This was the look of someone who had found their place in the world and would do anything to keep it.
She had never belonged anywhere like that. Not in the mortal world. Not in the Spring Court. Maybe not even in the Night Court.
She had never been part of something the way you seemed part of this.
Rhysand was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "You speak of the Winter Court as if it were a living thing."
You turned to look at him. "Isn't it?"
He tilted his head. "Is that a rhetorical question?"
"No." You met his gaze. "It's a question. Do you believe the land is alive, High Lord?"
Something flickered in his violet eyes. Surprise, perhaps, or curiosity. Finally he said, "…Perhaps."
The silence that followed the exchange settled over the receiving hall with surprising ease.
No one hurried to fill it.
Until, Rhys decided to speak up first. "The truth is, Lady Y/N, I did not come simply to mend old grievances."
You had expected as much. No High Lord crossed half of Prythian for sentiment.
"I assumed not."
"I came because there are matters between our courts that can no longer be postponed."
You inclined your head, waiting.
Rhys regarded you for another heartbeat before continuing. "I'd hoped to discuss reopening the northern trade routes."
There it was.
Your expression did not change. “I'm afraid that discussion will have to wait until my brother returns."
"Is that because you disagree with it?"
"No."
Rhys watched you carefully. "Then why?"
You folded your hands before you.
Because you had spent centuries learning that every careless word spoken in one room became ten different stories by nightfall. Because promises made too early became expectations impossible to meet. Because your father had taught you exactly what happened when rulers spoke before they had listened.
Instead you only said, "Because it would be discourteous to make decisions that belong to my High Lord."
Just then, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the hall.
You heard them first. Not because your hearing was sharper than anyone else's. But because you knew them. You could pick them out among a hundred others.
Your shoulders, which had remained tense since the Night Court's arrival, loosened almost imperceptibly.
No one noticed. No one except perhaps the Shadowsinger.
A heartbeat later, the great doors opened. Cold air swept into the too-warm hall.
Snow dusted broad shoulders before melting against dark blue fabric. Kallias stepped inside, removing one leather glove as he crossed the threshold.
His eyes—the same glacier eyes as your own, immediately zoomed in on your figure. Something softened in Kallias' expression. Not enough for strangers to notice. Enough for you to see.
"Sister," he greeted shortly.
"Kal," you greeted back, a soft smile stretching on your lips. It was nothing like the careful, polite smiles you had offered the Night Court throughout the afternoon.
You remained where you stood until Kallias crossed the room, stopping beside you, and finally turning to address the uninvited company. Something in his face hardened.
"Rhysand," he greeted, and his voice was cooler now, colder. "I wasn't expecting you."
The High Lord of Night rose smoothly from his chair. "Kallias." He inclined his head. "I apologize for arriving unannounced."
"I'm sure you do."
The tone was unmistakably familiar. Not hostile, exactly, but hardly warm either. It carried the particular coolness of the Winter Court, polite enough to pass, sharp enough to be understood.
"You've met my sister," Kallias continued, curious as to how you handled the Night Court all by yourself.
Rhys nodded. "Indeed, we have."
"And what a delight it was," Cassian added grinning, though that didn't make it any less harmless.
Kallias glanced toward you then, only for a heartbeat.
You shoot him a tiny look back. Leave it.
His expression said he wasn't convinced. But he let it go.
That was the thing about your brother. He had never needed to understand every battle you fought. He simply trusted you to tell him when one mattered.
And there had been a time when that trust had been the only thing keeping you from resenting him.
You shared the same eyes, the same pale hair, the same impossible cold lingered beneath your skin. You had shared a cradle, learned to walk by clinging to the same furniture, learned to ride across frozen lakes before either of you had properly learned to read. Ice-water flowed through both your veins.
The same ancient power had answered when your father died.
You knew the sound of Kallias' heartbeat when he was angry. He knew the silence that meant you were hurt.
And yet, standing beside your twin brother always reminded you of the strange cruelty of the world.
Kallias towered over you, your head barely reached his shoulders, broad where you were slight, imposing where you were delicate, every inch the High Lord people expected to see.
You both looked like Winter. Only he looked like its king.
You had stopped wondering long ago whether anyone else saw the irony.
They did. You knew they did. The servants. The soldiers. The council. The people who had watched you grow up. They knew.
Kallias knew most of all.
And still, when the title had passed to him, neither of you had said a word about it.
Because what could you say?
Congratulations on receiving the life I was never allowed to have?
No. You loved your brother too much for that.
You pushed the thoughts away. Not now. Not with Kallias beside you.
He didn't ask whether you intended to remain. He already knew. Just as you knew he would take over the conversation from here without either of you discussing it beforehand.
Kallias had always preferred speaking. You had always preferred listening.
Without another word, you stepped aside. Not away, never away.
Simply…to the edge of the room.
Toward the enormous arched windows overlooking the snow-covered palace gardens. Your fingertips rested lightly against the cold glass. The frost beneath them bloomed instinctively, delicate crystalline branches unfurling beneath your skin before dissolving again.
Outside, snow drifted endlessly across the terraces. You let yourself watch it, listen to it. To the familiar heartbeat of your court.
Behind you, the conversation slowly took form.
"I came because a letter would have been ignored," Rhysand declared.
Though, your back was turned to them, you could feel the tension.
"Probably."
"Then I made the correct decision."
"You made the irritating one."
Cassian snorted.
Kallias ignored him. "We've had little reason to speak since Under the Mountain."
"Which is precisely what I'd like to change," Rhysand declared.
"Why?"
The single word carried more weight than the others.
Rhys was quiet for a moment. "Because I don’t particularly enjoy losing allies over wounds that were inflicted by someone neither of us could stop."
Kallias's jaw tightened.
Amarantha. Fifty years spent Under the Mountain.
The words didn't need to be spoken.
You kept your gaze outside.
"Your people suffered," Rhys continued. "Mine did too."
"And now you want us to forget."
"No." Rhys's voice had lost its teasing edge. "I want us to remember without allowing her to dictate what comes next."
"Amarantha is dead," he continued to assert with vigour.
"So is the trust she destroyed."
Your brother could be brutal sometimes. It was a trait the responsibilities of being High Lord had taught him well.
You exhaled slowly, eyes closing for just a moment. You didn't want to listen. But you did. You always did.
That was the problem.
You could hear everything in your court. Every fracture. Every crack beneath the surface.
It was why you always knew when something was wrong before anyone else thought to speak it aloud.
And something was very wrong now.
Your eyes flew open.
Azriel stood reflected in the glass. Watching you.
You slowly turned.
The wind outside had sharpened while you'd been listening. Snow struck the windows in frantic little bursts, whispering against the glass like a thousand tiny voices.
Then the whispers turned into screams.
Not outside.
Inside your head.
Your body moved before you could stop it. You turned fully toward him.
You'd never defile the snow.
But the conversation didn't stop. It simply…faded. Like the world had decided it no longer mattered.
A single look. That was all it took. Your eyes met, and something inside you snapped.
Not sound, nor motion. But a rupture so deep it stole the air from your lungs.
Your hand flew to your chest, and you staggered. The glass behind you rattled beneath the sudden surge of your magic, frost exploding across its surface.
A thread yanked tight beneath your ribs as if it had always been there, waiting for this exact moment to be noticed.
Azriel went utterly still. Not like a man surprised. Like a man struck.
His face gave almost nothing away. Only his eyes changed. They locked onto yours with a frightening, immediate certainty.
You felt that before you understood it.
He knew.
Your pulse stumbled.
His shadows had frozen mid-motion. Every one of them. The air around the spymaster changed, thickened with something cold and possessive.
Cassian stopped speaking.
Rhys turned sharply.
Kallias's voice cut through the distance. "Sister?"
But you couldn't answer.
You were still staring at him. You didn’t understand what was happening.
There was only the strange, terrible sensation beneath your ribs, as though an invisible thread had suddenly been pulled taut between you and the male standing across the room.
Your fingers curled against your chest. There was no wound. No mark. Nothing you could see.
And yet, something had changed. Something enormous. Something fundamental.
The realization came like a blade sliding between your ribs. Your stomach turned.
"No."
It was barely a whisper.
But Azriel heard it. His head tilted slightly, curiously. The gestures alone was unsettling.
Kallias was beside you in an instant. "Sister?" he repeated.
You couldn't look at him. Couldn't look at anyone.
Your eyes remained fixed on Azriel. He was watching you back.
And suddenly, impossibly, you felt him. His presence at the edge of your senses. The weight of his attention. The dark, unfamiliar shape of him settling somewhere inside you where no one had ever been allowed before.
You swallowed.
For centuries, you had known exactly where you belonged.
Every mountain. Every frozen lake. Every village tucked between the valleys. Every path through the snow. You knew which rivers froze first. Which forests sheltered the winter beasts. Which roads became dangerous after the first heavy snowfall.
You knew these lands as you knew yourself.
This was not merely the court you belonged to. It was home. The place you had chosen, every day, even when it had never chosen you back in the way it should have.
And then, unbidden, something warm brushed against your consciousness.
Your eyes closed. Only for a heartbeat. And in that heartbeat, several images flashed through your mind.
Of a court beneath a violet sky. Dark mountains. A city of stars.
A life that belonged somewhere else. Somewhere you had never wanted to belong.
Your eyes opened.
Azriel was still there.
So was Kallias. So was the Winter Court.
The snow continued to fall beyond the glass, soft and endless, as it had for centuries.
You stared at it. For the first time in your life, it looked like something you might one day have to leave behind.
The thought made you sick.
You had never feared losing yourself. You had only ever feared losing home.
But perhaps there had never been a distinction between the two. To lose Winter was to lose a part of yourself, and to lose yourself was, in some cruel way, to lose Winter with you.
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