#rhysandweek

"Good morning, sweetheart." Feyre whispered. He laughed and jumped up, running to Feyre and hugged her legs. She picked him up, peppering his face with kisses. "We have to quiet, okay?" Feyre said. "We don't want to wake Daddy up before we are done, right?"

Nyx nodded. "Can we bake now?"

Feyre smiled. "Yes, we can bake now." He threw his arms around Feyres neck, his wings twitching in excitement. His wings always gave his mood away. Cassian was the first to say he'd train that with him but Feyre thought it was adorable.

She winnowed them down to the kitchen, taking a chair with her free hand and putting it front of the counter. Nyx was already eyeing the ingredients that Nuala and Cerridwen left out for them when she put him on the chair. She pulled out the recipe, that Elain and the shadow twins wrote for her, out of her the pocket of her robe. "Alright." Feyre sighed, taking a bowl and placed it in front of Nyx. She let Nyx pour the ingredients in the bowl that she measured. Cracking the eggs she guided Nyx hands with her own. He always watched wide-eyed and seeing his excitement, Feyre prayed that nothing would go wrong. She couldn't cook and she never tried herself at baking. She was grateful for Elain and the twins that they wrote everything down, step for step.

Nyx complained when she started to mix everything together, wanting to do it himself. She used that time to quickly make Nyx a snack, because she knew that his arms would grow tired soon and she'd take over again.

When he told her that he couldn't mix anymore, she pulled back his chair and gave him his snack. From his spot on the chair he watched as Feyre continued.

"We're baking a cake, Mama!" he said excitedly.

"I know, baby. You did so great, I'm proud of you." she replied. She was sure that Nyx would be sick of hearing that, so often she told him. She couldn't keep herself from telling him, she was incredibly proud of her son and she wished her parents would have told her when she was a child. Or a teenager, Feyre thought back to the years where she went to the woods to hunt. She looked at Nyx, who smiled brightly at what she just told him.

Shortly after, Nuala entered the kitchen. Nyx told her about the cake as Feyre poured the batter into a form. Nuala listened, smiling as he told her everything. Keeping every little detail in.

Feyre looked at the clock. Even if everything went as planned, they were a little behind the time Feyre had planned. She felt Rhys stirring through the bond. It wouldn't be long until he was awake.

"I can take care of that." Nuala said. Feyre nodded, they were as good as done. It was just about baking now and Nuala was about to make breakfast, so she was in the kitchen either way. "Thank you." Feyre said, picking Nyx up again.

"No!" Nyx squirmed.

"Do you not want to wake up Daddy?" Feyre asked. As he frowned up at her, she held back a smirk. She knew waking up Rhys was more important to Nyx than the cake. It was their tradition. Feyre and Nyx woke Rhys up on his birthday and Rhys and Nyx woke up Feyre on her birthday.

They went up again and Feyre already got Nyx ready for the day. She stayed with him as he brushed his teeth and then she brushed his hair and dressed him. He looked adorable in a shirt that was similar to what Rhys was usually wearing.

When she felt Rhys waking up, Feyre went to their bedroom door. "Ready?" she asked Nyx.

"Yes!" he said, already jumping up and down in participation. She opened the door and Nyx was racing inside, climbing on the bed and throwing himself on Rhys.

Rhys made an oof sound and then Nyx yelled "Happy Birthday, Daddy!" her mate chuckled and hugged Nyx. Feyre smiled as she watched her boys. Rhys cuddling Nyx and Nyx babbling and laughing and repeating "Happy Birthday!"

Feyre joined them, sitting on her side of the bed and watching them. Rhys looked up at her, smiling. "Good morning, Feyre darling."

Feyre grinned as she leaned down. "Happy Birthday, my love." she whispered and kissed him. Nyx deemed it too long and squeezed his hand between their faces, breaking them apart. Rhys chuckled when he saw Nyx's frown. Nyx leaned into Feyre and she pulled him on her lap. Rhys took the chance to sit up, leaning against the beds headboard.

"Do you want to give it daddy now?" Feyre whispered to Nyx.

"Yes!" he said. Rhys raised an eyebrow in question. Feyre grinned and pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket realm. She gave it Nyx who excitedly gave it Rhys. Nyx had painted his hands and pressed them on the paper a few days ago. He was so happy about the result that he decided it was the gift he wanted to give his father on his birthday. After he painted a rainbow on the paper and Feyre helped him write "Happy Birthday" Nyx gave Feyre the picture to keep it until today.

Rhys smile grew wider as he looked at it. Nyx giggled but suddenly he turned serious. Tugging on Feyres robe. "What is it?" she asked.

"Mama." he said.

"What?" she asked.

"Mama." he repeated, putting a hand on her cheek. Feyre leaned down and he whispered in her ear "The cake."

The cake. Shit. The cake. Fuck. She sat Nyx on Rhys's lap and jumped up. "I'll be back in a minute." she said and hurried out. Ran barefoot down the stairs, to the kitchen. She pushed open the door and almost collided with Nuala. "Sorry." Feyre breathed. "I forgot the cake-" Nuala was here. Of course. She was here and looked after the cake. How could Feyre forget? But it wasn't Nuala who worked on the cake, it was Elain.

Elain who smiled at her. "I'm sorry but I already made the cream. Don't worry I won't be decorating that's your and Nyx' job, I just thought Nyx may lose his patience while smoothing the frosting. It takes a little while."

Feyre let out a relieved breath and hugged her sister. She was surprised for a moment but quickly hugged her back. "Thank you." Feyre said. "I completely forgot until Nyx just reminded me."

Elain giggled. "It's not the first time."

Feyre laughed. "That was one time."

"You burnt soup!" Elain laughed.

Feyre rolled her eyes but echoed her laugh. "And it was the last time I burnt food."

"Today was almost the second time." she said, a smirk on her face.

Feyre snorted. "Shut up." she said, turning around to go to her mate and son again. "Thank you, Lainey."

Elain rolled her eyes at the name but smiled and said. "You're welcome, Fey."

Feyre winnowed into her bedroom again. Rhys and Nyx were laughing when she entered. They both looked up at her at the same time. "Breakfast!" she said, nodding at Nyx. He grinned and crawled to her. She helped him climb from the bed and he took her hand. "Come, daddy!" he said.

He groaned as he stood up. "I'm coming." Feyre took a quick peek out of the window. It was raining. Then her eyes went back to Rhys, who slightly limped. His knee hurt.

"I'm fine." he said when he reached them, kissing Feyres cheek.

"I know you are." Feyre said.

As they walked in the dining room, most of their family was already there. Except Azriel, who followed soon after. Even if Rhys told them that it wasn't necessary, they all hugged him, Cassian picking Rhys up while at it, which made Nyx laugh. Though Amren stayed at her spot and said "Happy Birthday, boy."

The rest of the day was just being around the family. It was nice seeing Rhys so relaxed and Nyx had the time of his life playing with his aunts and uncles. Especially when Cassian started throwing him in the air and catching him. Nyx thought it was hilarious, though Feyres heart stopped everytime he was in the air. But everytime he threw Nyx up, Nyx wings twitched as if he'd try to fly. Rhys looked extremely proud every time that happened. They started teaching him the basics not that long ago and he made great progress.

It wasn't until noon Feyre finally could get ready and dress herself. Making herself presentable.

In the afternoon she sneaked away with Nyx, decorating the cake, finishing it. She let Nyx do it and after she lit the candles, Cassian came in and carried the cake, as Feyre picked up Nyx and held the door open for Cassian.

Rhys smiled when they put the cake down. "Wish!" Nyx said and they all laughed. It took a few seconds until Rhys leaned forward and blew out the candles, then his eyes wandered to Nyx and Feyre. Nyx clapped happily.

Feyre cuddled in beside Rhys, laying her head on his shoulder as Nyx told him about how he made the cake.

I am incredibly grateful to have you. You and Nyx. I love you. He said down the bond.

Feyre was dipping Nyx's baby feet into blue paint and quickly pressing them onto a canvas on her art studio's floor in the River House before Nyx started kicking.

"Need a little help there, darling?" Rhysand asked.

Feyre smiled and replied, "No, you snoop," while wiping away the residual paint on Nyx's feet. "Is everything going well with the meeting?"

"All is well, and we're almost done. I'll be home soon," he said as he watched his rascal of a son tugging Feyre's braid.

"Good," Feyre replied, gently prying Nyx's hand away from her hair and kissing the top of his head as he let go.

Rhysand returned his focus to the meeting, and when the Governors gave the last of their notes on the new shops opening in Velaris for the season, he thanked them for their good work and swiftly winnowed home to find Feyre and Nyx in the section of the sitting room made specifically for Nyx's growing needs.

Feyre was sitting cross-legged on the baby mat while watching Nyx play with stacking cups when Rhysand materialized in front of them. Nyx's eyes sparkled with starlight the moment he saw his father. "Ah Baaa" he babbled, abandoning his toys to crawl toward him.

"You're getting fast, Nyx," Rhysand said beaming, picking up his son and pressing a kiss on his cheek.

"He is. You should have seen the panic he caused Cassian when he thought Nyx went missing only to find he had crawled under a chair when I left them together for a minute," Feyre said, standing up to greet her mate.

Rhysand laughed. "Such a troublemaker at heart, son," he said to Nyx before setting his eyes on his mate. "Hello, Feyre darling."

Feyre smiled widely at him, and he thought his heart would burst with joy when she said, "Welcome home, my love."

.

Broken.

Everything here was broken.

Shards of cracked and splintered black marble littered the great hall of the Moonstone Palace. Lines of white and gold like veins, the ground splintered like spiderwebs and covered in a layer of dust.

The Prince of Night sprawled against a chunk of marble twice his size, jagged and sharp. Rhysand panted with exhaustion. His head tipped back against the stone, tears making tracks through his dust-coated skin.

Too soon his body was recovering - his energy returning. He had torn the room apart in anger, in grief, begging for the oblivion of exhaustion.

The curse of his dark power - to never yet find the end of it.

Again, the memory and horror washed over him. A dark, endless play in his mind’s eye. Two heads, bloodied and disheveled, faces locked in fear staring up from floating baskets. Their skin the faded color of winter. Every act of cruelty and violence etched on their once beautiful faces.

He turned to the dust-laden floor and vomited.

It was black bile that burned as it came. Nothing left from whatever hours or days he had spent in this fog of grief.

Not just the pain of their absence - but the horror of the violence, the suffering that threatened to pull him under to some murky, vile place he feared he might never return from.

He should not have gone into the mind of the Illyrian patrols who found their heads floating in the river.

But he couldn’t not see. The same as he would never purge the image of their bodies found hours later - stiff and bloodied in the snow, stumps where proud wings had once flared.

The mountain trembled again beneath him.

Would his father let him tear it all apart?

Could he even stop himself?

Ever since he started rending the room into pieces, his power had been seeping like oil through the Moonstone Palace into the rock of the mountain - deeper and deeper until he felt its great cold roots in the earth. Gripped it with nervous tendrils of shadow. Ancient and powerful rock that he longed to pull from the ground like weeds only to tear apart in his hands. An act of primal destruction, like the forging of the earth.

He knew the Night Court was cast in darkness. No moon or stars or rising sun would penetrate the midnight shroud over their lands.

Perhaps it was cast over all of Prythian. Rhysand hoped it reached to Spring - that it wilted flowers and field, a dark portent to whatever fate awaited them.

Because await them it would. But not for long.

Amren had taught him to control his power, but not yet to see the full breadth of it. But he let his power leak, let it drip from him without a care.

The tiny beast hadn’t even come to see him.

Probably for the best. He had snarled at Cassian and Azriel as they found him in Windhaven - winnowing away with a whiff of sulfur, the rushing of air. Nothing in him was ready for their fallen faces, to watch the grief echo back and forth between them.

So he was selfish, leaving them to their own pain. Throwing up shields brimming with sharp starlight and cold winter night in jagged configurations around the Palace, to remain undisturbed.

Two faces again behind his eyelids - his sister’s eyes shut tight, face scrunched in pain. His mother’s - fearful and wide, facing the end with open eyes.

He wondered who they had killed first. Who had to watch the other die before their eyes, hope winking out.

Samara - the proud Illyrian Queen, young but fearless Lady of Night.

Amira - the shining star of the court, the only evidence of his father’s capacity for affection.

His family. His beating heart ripped from his chest. An immortal lifetime of possibility stolen from him forever.

And all his fault.

Whether he would have died with them or ripped the Spring brutes apart - he should have been there. Told them he would be there. Told Tamlin where they would be, before meeting him next week for training –

Tamlin.

He repeated their names in his mind. Cador the High Lord. Rian. Owen.

Tamlin.

The unfathomable betrayal. Or worse - the betrayal he had been warned about, his stupid, arrogant self ignoring his family and friends for the fierce training and tender passions of the third Prince of Spring.

Tamlin.

The name was burning poison in his mouth.

Rhysand let it burn, let it dissolve and corrode inside of him, joining in the heavy despair of his grief.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

He didn’t know how much time had passed in that silent tomb of a hall. As his power rose he tore it apart again, but without his initial vigor, sending stones clashing against each other, but without the taste for total destruction. Like a child playing with blocks, tired and plowing through their towers.

He knew it to be true: he could tear this palace, this mountain to pieces, cast the world into darkness.

But still, his father would not come to him.

He would not stoop so low, even to his grieving son.

When Rhys felt the heat of the sun burning against his blanket of deep twilight, he willed his muscles to move.

Feet carried him unconsciously, the walls of the palace passing before him without recognition as he walked down, down into the Hewn City, wards flickering to his blood and power.

Underground, black banners were already hanging from buildings and the windows of decadent manors. Voices wailed in the city center. Rhysand stuck to the shadows. What did these people ever care for his mother, his sweet sister, other than their fearful obedience?

He found his father in his grand bedroom behind the throne room, a pale attendant at his side.

Emrys had no crown on his sandy-colored head, shot with white around the temples, in the privacy of his chambers, but still power in the room thrummed with his command. His deep inset eyes, dark under his heavy brow, didn’t leave the sword he polished in his hands. Rhys stood uselessly in the door.

“Leave us.” The High Lord did not raise his voice, did not show any signs of sharing the raging grief of his son, disheveled and tear-stained, as he dismissed his servant.

Greased cloth glided over black metal, mottled and banded with swirling patterns like dripping water.

The room was grand and furnished lushly, all rich velvets and silks, the fireplace carved out of stone and large enough to roast a boar. During the day, sunlight streamed in from chiseled pathways and clever mirrors, even this deep into the rock.

But the comfort of the room was lost against the ebbing violence emanating off the High Lord. Sovereignty effortless and pervasive, as if at any moment he would exhale too loudly and blast the walls apart. He took no care now to cast any glamour, to temper himself. Like a glistening diamond uncovered in the rock. After eight hundred years, his son knew he no longer cared what anyone thought of him - even his family - other than that he was terrible and brutal.

Rhysand stood in silence. Waiting. Wordless. What could he now say to him?

This was his long life, stretching before him: only him and his father, bonded together in misery. Wholly without the light of his mother and Amira.

No more would his mother be the fierce but extended bridge between them, or Amira the beating heart of the family. Their beauty and laughter was gone and now from the world. And Emrys with his half-breed son raised in the unrefined wilds, a disappointment at every turn, and a threat with his growing power. Eyes that never looked at him but to find a fault, or a useful pawn, or a nuisance to be dismissed.

How much more oppressive this place would become with the two of them, hating each other for all eternity.

Emrys paused in his rhythmic, unconscious polishing, nicked the tough skin of his thumb against the newly honed edge of his sword. A drop of blood, red as rose petals, slid down the blade.

The High Lord sat there, no sign of tears on his cheek, no rent clothes, only the mating band on his left hand any reminder of what he had lost.

“Finally you come to me,” he said, watching the wound on his thumb seal back, glowing with magic.

Rhysand bit down his anger, his fear, and fell to his knees.

Hard hewn stone bit into his kneecaps. But it was all right - his body was just a vessel now. Just a carrier of pain. He deserved much more.

He didn’t dare to look at his father. Choking swells of tears rose in his throat, rage and shame. Rhysand bowed his head and shut his eyes tight.

“I am to blame. I accept any punishment from your hand.”

Silence reigned. Rhys waited, calm acceptance in his chest, whether it be for the High Lord’s pitiless wrath or to fall under the quick slice of metal on his neck.

But nothing came. Nothing moved.

Rhysand looked up.

His father’s eyes were locked to him, piercing dark blue - a mirror to his own, the only shared feature, the only reminder of their common blood. Filled with disdain, with disgust.

“What would be a fitting punishment for this, Rhysand? What do you propose?”

The Prince of Night clenched his jaw tight. Against the tears ready to spill, another sign of his weakness and frailty for his father to sneer at.

And also in desperation. To be punished, to have judgment meted out by the High Lord, who he had wronged…who else could give him the condemnation he desired, the retribution fit for his crimes? He could disappear into it - the righteous retaliation of the widower, father, High Lord.

“It was my fault. You warned me. Everyone warned me not to trust him. To trust Tamlin.” His name was noxious in his mouth, his vision still of green eyes and a bright smile, a golden hearty laugh, irreconcilable with this act of viciousness. Of cowardice. “I wasn’t there, when I said I would be. I didn’t protect them. And now they’re - they’re dead. Because of me.”

His voice was a hollowed whisper, his throat ragged and raw. Dead. The first time he spoke the words aloud.

Emrys snorted a laugh, no smile found on his face, shadows cast in his hollow cheeks. “My son. Always the fool.”

Rhysand took a sharp breath against his growing anger. I accept the punishment. I will accept whatever he directs at me. I deserve all of this and more.

The High Lord’s stare did not falter. Rhysand could feel the invectives growing and building inside his father, his lip curling in displeasure. “Always swaggering around the world, like this Cauldron-given power was something you earned. As if it would protect you, as if you were untouchable. The lesson you refused to learn from me.

“You think me mistrusting, isolated. You look upon me with the eyes of fervent youth to only find fault and shortcomings. But now perhaps you will listen to me. Now you will learn. What it takes to have power in this world. What it takes to keep it. You are not an immovable mountain, Rhysand. You are a target. And every day, every moment, your enemies will chip away at you, and everything you hold dear, until they vanquish you. That is the life of a fae of power, that is the life of a High Lord.”

Rhysand inhaled deeply under his cutting look, his father: cold and cruel, forever locked away in his Court, rarely setting foot out of its borders. Rhys had longed for the world, after seeing so much in the war, taking every opportunity to attend summits and meetings and respond to summonses. Hungry for Prythian, for knowledge, for the bright crackle of life and the oddities and newness it held. While his father brooded, paranoid and angry, lying and ignoring the rest of the Courts, keeping the Night Court secrets close.

It was true - he had disregarded him. Had thought him twitchy, frightened, closed minded. Always finding enemies, always hearing the threat behind the door when Rhysand longed only to wrench it open.

“I need to know what else you told him. I need to know if Spring knows about Velaris.”

A cold fist of offense grabbed hold of his heart.

But wasn’t he right, to suspect? To be cautious?

Weren’t his mother and sister more precious to him than the hidden city? And he had given them up without a thought.

“No. He knows nothing beyond public doings of the Hewn City, and some old stories of Illyria.”

“And he knows of your powers? Of your dissatisfactions, of your youthful emotionals and desires to use against you?”

Rhysand swallowed. “Yes. He was my friend.”

Emrys grunted as he sat down again at the foot of his bed. Picking up a stone and a short knife, its handle a soft polished wood inlet with pearl, and started to sharpen.

He was quiet again for a while. Rhysand felt his legs cramp, his kneecaps ache against the stone. “Fortunately for you, you are now my only heir. And while I never sought to have you, I won’t deprive my court of the stability of succession. No matter how little you might deserve it.

“And if you are lucky, you’ll have millennia ahead of you to punish yourself. Or to ask your High Lord to, as you have done with everything difficult in your life. But now is not the time.”

Rhys kept his head bowed, breathing through his despair.

“Get up off your knees.”

“So you will not give me what I desire?”

A hiss emanated from his father. “You are full of grief, and yet still you would fight me instead of listening,” Emrys clenched his jaw as he examined the gleam of the edge of his knife in the raging fireplace. “I will not say I was remiss in your education. I had to forge my legacy alone, as you will, Rhysand. You will learn or you will fail, as the Mother sees fit. The crown will rest on your head. There is no doubt that when I am gone the power will go to you and only you can choose how to handle it. Only six others know what it is to be blessed and tied to the land, and we’d rather cut off our own hands than speak to each other. So do not expect lessons, or a helping hand, when you grapple with the power. ”

He sighed, finally done with the sword, his eyes locked to the flickering flames. “I know when the weight of the court is on your shoulders and the centuries have made you tired and brittle, you will remember me. You’ll remember your foolish, youthful spite and when you finally recognize the solitary prison of your throne, I will be long gone, and unable to assuage you.”

He exhaled again. Sheathed the knife at his side. He brought his sword to his back, strapped across from shoulder blade to hip, unlike the spinal column blade of the Illyrians. “Such is the way of it.”

Rhysand stood still as marble, fists clenched.

He couldn’t believe his father - he would be a different kind of ruler someday, not so cold, not so vicious and merciless. He would dream and work create a Velaris of the whole world.

Emrys laughed, as if sensing his thoughts.

“It is the undeniable truth of being High Lord - that your power came from the death of another. The poets and the historians may dress it up however they like, but a High Lord’s power is forged in death. To be a High Lord is to be fatherless. To be a High Lord is to be alone.”

“I don’t believe that.” All the reaching he had done, his heart straining across long quiet dining tables, aching for the eyes of his father to fall on him, to show even the hint of softness underneath. That hollowness inside made Rhysand brave. “You had your mate. You had your family. You chose to be alone.”

Emrys hummed, dismissive. “I will not argue with a child. Now is not the time.”

“When is the time?” Rhys snapped. If he could not speak plainly with his father when their whole world was broken, could not find a drop of love or care in him even at the death of his family, was there anything decent to be found in him at all?

“I believe you are as fond of this performance of grief as you were of your mother and sister.”

The words hit him like boulders to his chest.

The old man must truly not feel anymore, had lost all ability to understand anything beyond himself and his own power.

Leave it to his father to drag him out of grief and into rage.

“Do I shame you my lord, by mourning for my own flesh and blood? My deepest apologies, I should have known better than to think you would care.”

A snap of power arced across the room, across his face like a blow.

“Do not test me, boy,” the snarl of anger, of pure violence Rhysand had been craving since he set foot under the mountain. Hand on his burning cheek, Rhysand looked up. Saw his father’s knuckles white with restraint. “There are many things, an entire world of things you know nothing of. To lose a mate –” Emrys eyes flickered away, a snarl twitching at his lips. The only sign he was affected. More emotion than Rhys had seen from him in years.

The High Lord closed his eyes. Took a breath deep into his lungs. The tension did not leave his shoulders.

When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You will never know, Rhysand, what it is like. If you are ever cursed and blessed with a mating bond then I wish you better fortune than I. To have a mate is to no longer belong to yourself. To have pieces ripped and torn from you that can never be returned.”

All the hatred Rhys had ever felt for his father gathered at once, roiling in his stomach, acid and poison burning from within. “So you resent her? The Cauldron chose a mate for you and all you feel is regret?” Too late he realized he spoke of her as if she was still here…the pain of remembrance crumpling inside him all over again, even amidst his rage.

“You do not understand.”

Canines, tearing through the soft flesh of his mouth, an iron tang on the Prince’s tongue. “She loved you. I don’t know why, but she did. And all you ever gave her in return were orders, as if she were some servant, as if she were some possession of yours to move from palace to palace. And that was when you weren’t ignoring her outright. Did you ever even –”

The slap on his face this time wasn’t from magic, it was the hard sting of flesh, the rings on his father’s hands bruising his cheekbone.

Rhysand fell from the force of it, hard hewn stone on his back, his father towering over him like a dark storm.

“You don’t understand. There is a part of me now that is gone. Forever. It’s in my chest and there’s a –” another deep breath, his face scrunched in pain.

Emrys fought again to master himself, chest heaving as he stood over his son.

“I don’t understand. How can you be so calm? How can you be so accepting”

The High Lord sighed, burdened and angry. “I carry heavy weights every day. I have grown accustomed to them. The weight of the court is upon me always, the power, the care, the suffering. Obedience and betrayal. A plot at every corner. Sycophants and assassins. And all the while the people who rely on you, open hands, hungry mouths. Their cries of suffering are at your hands, their pain, your failure.” Rhys was surprised at the candor, at the care in his father’s words.

“You are my son, Amira was my daughter, but every Night Court member is my child. My responsibility. This you will learn too one day, if you can someday overcome your natural selfishness. There is no choice or thought…if you are a good High Lord, you will bleed for them a thousand times over and it will never be enough. You learn to protect the inner parts of you, the last bit of blood to keep you going another day.”

“So this is what you have to teach me, father? That I’m doomed to a life of loneliness, that a mating bond is a curse, that I’ll be crushed daily under my duties and responsibilities? That there’s no joy or love in the future, only duty and pain?”

Emrys shrugged. A thoughtless gesture, so boredly casual Rhysand almost laughed. “You will make your own life, Rhysand. One day you will have to make your own choices without me. I will not fight for your understanding if you continue to be a fool. Come, we’re wasting time. The sun is setting across Prythian and night is coming to the Spring Court.”

“What?”

Emrys stood, flipping another sword in his hand to inspect, then sheathing it at his side. He offered a hand to Rhysand. His son flinched.

A steady look passed between them. Filled with stars, filled with eternity. And a question. Rhysand finally took his hand and stood.

The Prince of Night eyed his High Lord with wariness. Although he knew him to be powerful and a fighter in his youth, it was rare for him to be the warrior, to set aside his power and step away from the Illyrian legions to hold steel in his own hands.

“I hope you will be strong. I hope you have learned something from those damned Illyrians. I could have taught you more, but you would’ve made a poor pupil. And I a poor teacher.” Rhysand cocked a brow, at the strange admission. “But it’s too late for that now. Let me teach you the final lesson - how to treat with your enemies.”

Rhysand’s blood went cold.

Yes, he had plenty of thoughts of blood on his hands, of Spring running red with it. And in his heart he knew there was no other answer from his father.

But now it was real.

And Tamlin…his mother…

“It’s high time you put to use these supposed powers of yours. You will show me what everyone whispers across the court about my Cauldron-blessed son.” A command. “You will serve me in this, and work to clean the debt now upon you. You will hold their minds, we will not give them an instant to summon any defense. And they will know the terror that lurks in the darkness.”

There was relief, shameful but sure and calm, at the order of the High Lord. The Prince would have no choice, he would obey orders, he would be a weapon for his father and nothing more.

And yet –

“We cannot kill the Lady of Spring. Every male must bleed, but we cannot be like them.”

Emrys shook his head, his blond hair brushing onto his forehead, strangely disheveled. “You’re still not listening.”

“I am listening. If I had a mating bond, I would not wish the death of my mate. And I would not wish it upon another, if it tears you apart. The death of her family would be enough suffering for all.”

Rhysand saw the resistance, dismissive in his father’s face.

“Promise me.”

Emrys eyes flashed. Rhysand had never demanded things of his father, never had the bravery.

So he watched while the High Lord considered. Nodded. “It will be as you say.”

Emrys stopped the sure movement of his hands, which had been buckling belts, smoothing the front of his tunic, tightening the sheath of his weapons. His gaze upon his son was suddenly heavy, knowing. Rhysand felt the full weight of it. Longing was prickling in him, to winnow, to dive into the violence awaiting them before he had time to balk.

In a matter of hours, maybe minutes, Tamlin would be dead. The Spring Court decimated by Night. A High Lord killed for his crimes, descendents wiped from the earth.

No matter the thrumming power of the order of his father, Prythian would know what befell the Spring Court. Who was the only one who could hold minds and overpower High Lords and their sons. This was the beginning of his legacy. His father would lead the way but Prythian, and the world, would soon only know the son of Night as the terrible angel of retribution.

Slowly, Emrys unsheathed the knife from his side. Flipped it in a smooth motion. Offered it, gleaming wood handle, to his son.

An order. A question.

Rhysand breathed. Traced the inlet pearl in the handle with his eyes, glimmering like starlight.

Two faces, contorted in pain. The tinkling of laughter, the warmth of wings encircling him. The soft sound of his mother’s voice as she sang him to sleep.

Rhysand reached out his hand, and grasped the knife.