Mathing It Up 24/7

‘Who taught you to throw a punch like that, princess?’

Nesta ignored the deep voice. Mostly, the Illyrians called her witch. One called her sweetheart. Still, if names were the worst thing Illyrians dared to throw at her, Nesta would take it.

The war camp was quiet. The deep breath before the plunge. Some dozed in their tents, others still raised theirs as the camp rose and stretched towards the horizon like a great beast. The sounds of mallets striking pegs into the ground was the only noise Nesta could hear. She continued slicing her muslin into strips for the healers ready for the inevitable bloodshed that would come.

‘Now, I know a good girl like you wasn’t raised to be ignorant.’

Girl?

Nesta refused to give this male the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. He’d get bored and prowl after another female soon enough. This work mattered more. It was better to be overprepared with excess material left than scrambling to cut more as wounds bled. Still, Nesta couldn’t help but sneak a look at the shadow looming over her.

No wings. Not Illyrian then.

Knees clicked as the male squatted down in front of her.

Creaking joints?

Dark brown hair reached his chin in loose waves. Days-old, rough stubble lined his jaw and Nesta had the altogether impression that he hadn’t scrubbed himself properly in a few days. The hands that rested on his knees were dirty, the fingernails were short but still had grit wedged beneath.

‘Showing my age when my knees make that noise,’ he said, a smirk quirking his lips to the side, revealing a dimple.

The man was Nesta’s age. Was.

A young man who had lived as a slave, who incited a rebellion to lead his people to freedom. His sacrifices had ensured that humans could live freely beneath the Wall. Her people had poems of Jurian the Valiant. Jurian the Saviour. She had read books about him, this legendary figure from history. The man who had dared to dream of a better life for his people. A man who had dared to take it.

Then the fae had got their hands on him. Amarantha, the same female who had killed Feyre, had tortured him and forced him to live a cursed life for five centuries until the King of Hybern had revived him.

Slave. Martyr. Mad.

Nesta narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Do not call me princess.’

‘Nice to see you keeping busy. We all have a role to play in the war effort. I’m still keen to know who taught a good girl like you how to hit someone.’

She turned back to her white cloth to cut it with her scissors. She shrugged one shoulder absently. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Graysen. Pompous prick. Deep pockets. That beautiful punch nearly knocked his head straight off his neck. Unexpected from a good girl like you.’

Princess had annoyed her. Good girl made her skin tingle all over.

Yes, this man had played the cuckoo, nestling in with Hybern and throwing out his eggs from the nest before settling in with Graysen and the other mortals.

‘Have you eaten? I’d like a word with you. We can do it while we eat.’

Nesta exhaled through her nose. It wouldn’t take much to knock him into the mud. A hard shove in the shoulder while he still squatted beside her. He might be the mad general, but he was still only mortal. Nesta was now fae.

‘I’m busy.’

‘Be a lot quicker if you ripped it or used a knife.’

Nesta pierced him with a glare. Her strips had all been cut equal widths in a neat line with her embroidery scissors.

Before she could react, Jurian had wrenched it from her grasp, got to his feet and hacked at it roughly with his knife. It was faster, she could admit, but a mess. A point she made.

‘Do you think the dying care about how neat their bandages are?’ He shook his head. ‘Any fae will be healed by their healers. We’ll be left to take care of ourselves. Our wounds will be the ones still bleeding, still infected. As always. The bottom rung of society, the disposable force.’

Nesta gave Jurian a tight smile. ‘Well, I’m not mortal anymore. Am I?’

The man winced at her words. His brown eyes flicked towards her pointed ears, hidden away beneath her coronet. She still couldn’t bear to look at them, to admit that this was what she was. Forever.

‘Well, I’m hungry.’

He turned on his heel and lumbered forwards. He moved differently. So human. His steps were loud. His gait slow. But there was something below the surface, a predator luring its prey. Nesta did not doubt that Jurian, the mad general, was not someone to be trifled with. He had deceived the King of Hybern, mounted a slave rebellion against the fae five hundred years earlier.

Maybe that was why she followed.

The others would have chastised her for following him through to the small section of the camp where the mortals had set up their tent. She spied the flag bearing Graysen’s family crest and was seized by the urge to tear it down. Few mortals had come. Many had tried to flee to the south, to the Continent, to anywhere that would take them. She should have been one of them.

Nesta did not blame them. They’d be fighting against creatures they had been taught to fear. Creatures who were bigger, stronger, and faster than them. Ones with magic. Ones like her.

Nesta felt the stares on her as Jurian led her to where soup was being ladled out. She wanted to declare that she had once been one of them. Her heart was still mortal. It still beat for her homeland.

The soup was bland. The flavours did not exist. It was difficult to swallow due to her heightened senses. Any food from her home tasted of ash.

‘You were a casualty of the war. I thought I’d be willing to pay the price.’ Jurian fixed her with his dark stare. It was haunting. The stare of a man who’d seen five centuries of horror. ‘Your sister. Elain. It was easier to watch her go in the Cauldron. You.’ He swallowed. ‘You wanted so badly to live as you were. To be mortal. And I had a part in taking that from you.’

‘Wars are won with sacrifice. But you didn’t choose that sacrifice. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened to you. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.’        

This man had been a friend of Mor’s in the first war. A man who had been driven to insanity by the pain inflicted up on him. She had said she hardly recognised him now. But Nesta saw something in him. A glimmer of the man who had inspired thousands to follow him. A man with a good heart who’d fought to keep it whole.  

‘It doesn’t take back what you did.’

‘No. It doesn’t. You are not the only one changed by the Cauldron, Nesta. I felt your pain as acutely as my own.’

Nesta rose – as did her fury. ‘What a terrible experience. I’m so sorry you had to endure watching me put into the Cauldron.’

Faster than she thought he would be, Jurian had stood too. His fingers clamped around her wrist, preventing her from leaving. The grip was painful.

‘Let go of me,’ she hissed.

Regret washed over his features. His fingers loosened then brushed against the white marks they’d left. ‘I’m not a perfect man. I’ve never claimed to be. I’m not a man of fine words or poetry. I’m a soldier, Nesta. It’s all I’ve ever been. To gain the king’s trust, a sacrifice had to be made. There will be no forgiveness for me, not from you, but my apology stands.’

He swallowed and Nesta watched the bob of his throat. He was so… mortal. There were scars on his body. She could smell sweat on him. His brown eyes were dull. His body didn’t threaten hers. His armour, though polished and well-kept, wasn’t anything special. He was human. A man. Not a man she’d ever have interacted with as a woman either. Jurian had no manners, had no silver-tongue, or fortune. Just a man with the heart of a lion who wanted his people to be free.

His need to win the king’s trust had resulted in the loss of mortality of two human woman. His apology was genuine. He felt the loss just as keenly as she did.

‘How far would you go? How many regrets can you bear to carry?’

***

It was still early, the light barely bleeding into the sky but already the camp was waking. Nesta had slept little, curled beside Elain in a low-slung camp bed in a tent that they shared with Morrigan. The blonde had woken first, yawning and groaning in her bed as if war was simply another day, before heading out.

Nesta had helped where she could rather than remaining in the bed with Elain who pretended to still be asleep rather than face the world. She’d chopped fruit and added it to a massive vat of porridge. It was watered down to go around, but still, she filled a pot with it and carried it back to their section of tents with a stack of bowls under her arm. Nesta was not a fighter, but she would do her bit where she could.

There were voices coming from Rhys and Feyre’s tents, rough male voices bouncing through tactics and plans. She entered, announcing the arrival of breakfast as if that might save the day.

‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ Cassian said with a wink, taking the heavy pot from her to lift onto the table.

Cassian and Azriel were there, their enormous wings demanding space in the cramped tent. Rhysand poured over a map, his magic clawing up more room. There were other males – Kallias, the high lord of Winter with his chiselled features; Helion, the high lord of the Day Court with his swaggering confidence. But Nesta’s eyes snapped to one. Jurian was there. Again, she was struck by how mortal he was, especially compared to these fae. Each was powerful in their own right, but her body demanded she look at only Jurian. He was the reminder of the life she had lost. In a strange, new world, he was the constant.

Nesta ladled out bowls of porridge which Feyre passed around the group as they discussed where each army would press. She extended the next bowl for Feyre to take, but a rough hand enclosed around hers to accept it.

‘Thank you, princess.’

Something charged passed through them. Nesta found herself looking away, staring intently at the nearly empty porridge pot rather than face him. It wasn’t just Jurian’s attention. She could feel Cassian’s gaze boring into her skin.

‘It takes an army to feed an army,’ the man said sagely.  

‘Right,’ she replied, the pitch of her voice far higher than usual. ‘I need to keep feeding the army.’

Her tongue tangled over itself. Cool composure lost under Jurian’s intense stare. The corner of his mouth tipped up. That sinful dimple creasing into his cheek.

Don’t say it, Nesta thought.

‘Good girl.’

Blood scorched in her cheeks. Jurian might not have been able to hear the sudden increase in her pulse, but the others had. All of them turned to face her, even her sister.

‘This pot isn’t going to fill itself,’ she mumbled, hurrying from the tent.

Even the cold wind blowing through the camp could not cool the heat from her cheeks. The deep voice repeated on a loop in her mind. Good girl. Good girl. Good grief! Why did that make her knees give way? It was condescending. She was a grown woman. A female.

A pair of steps trailed her from the tent. She expected Cassian. Expected him to demand why another male had made her pulse quicken. Why she'd stared at Jurian like he was the only man who existed.

But it was Feyre.

‘What was that all about?’

‘It’s breakfast, Feyre.’

Her sister tilted her head to the side. ‘No. I mean why did Jurian send you scurrying out of the tent like a blushing bride. I’ve never seen you go giddy like that when a male speaks to you. You usually intimidate them.’

‘He’s a man. Not a male,’ she replied hotly, though that had nothing to do with the matter.

Feyre’s brows raised. A small smile played on her lips. ‘Nesta, do you… Do you find Jurian attractive?’

‘Of course not,’ she scoffed, swinging her porridge pot like a buffoon. ‘He’s rude. He has no manners. He’s dirty. His hair will soon have birds nesting in it.’

‘He’s also the reason you were put into the Cauldron.’

‘A sacrifice he made to gain the king’s trust.’ Nesta clamped her hand over her mouth. Surely, she wasn’t defending Jurian? Nesta took a steadying breath to try and cling to her sanity. ‘Jurian has apologised to me. I believe it to be genuine.’

‘Nesta, you cannot trust him. Mor said he’s completely mad.’

Mad? Perhaps. It certainly took madness to maintain his mask around the King of Hybern. Any quickening of his pulse or betrayal of emotions would have been sensed. Jurian had been steel – unbending, unyielding. A wolf in a herd of sheep. But Nesta had shared a meal with a man who spoke with an honest tongue. A man that mortals looked to for steadiness.

‘Feyre, I gave him breakfast. I certainly have no intentions to give him anything more. He is uncouth. With little honour. I care not for him.’

Feyre made a face suggesting she didn’t believe Nesta’s words. Hell, Nesta didn’t believe them either. He was rough around the edges. The sort of man that her mother would have stuck her nose up at. And that made him more enticing for Nesta. The fae males were, well, fae. Too unnatural. The wings still unsettled Nesta. But Jurian was a man. A man who knew how to chop wood and gut someone. A man who could cook war rations and fix a leaking roof. A man who knew what to do with his hands. A man who had seduced a fae female. Seduced her then chopped her into pieces.

Slave. Martyr. Mad.

Maybe he was all three.

‘Well, when you’ve finished delivering porridge, Rhys has asked if you’ll come into the tent.’

***

Nesta had begged the group who saw to the daily running of the camp for more tasks, more orders to keep her away from Rhysand’s tent. When there was no more porridge left do dole out, Nesta had helped chop vegetables for lunch, cut more strips of muslin, and cleaned whatever needed to be cleaned.

Even when she saw Mor striding towards her, she busied herself still. Mor’s boot tapped on the hard ground impatiently until Nesta demanded what she wanted.

‘We are all waiting for you.’

‘I cannot be at Rhysand’s every beck and call.’

Mor shook her head. ‘He is the high lord.’

Not mine, she almost said.

Begrudgingly, Nesta stowed away her basket of linen then followed Mor's weaving trail back towards the large, black tent. The brazier kept the tent warm. Each had a mug of tea clasped in their hands.

A few of the people had rotated. Kallias had been exchanged for Thesan, the high lord of the Dawn Court and his Peregryn commander. Devlon was in the tent along with a tall, blonde male from the Hewn City. Tempers flared. Too many dominant personalities in such a cramped space. Jurian held his own against the fae, his harsh voice scraping against theirs refusing to allow mortals to be on the front lines, refusing to allow his people’s blood to spill first. Devlon argued back that his Illyrians wouldn’t be the collateral either.

At Nesta’s arrival, they paused, glancing her way momentarily before Helion’s smooth voice rippled over them. He pointed at the map, gesturing to wear he’d position his forces.

Jurian’s eyes met Nesta’s. He took a slow sip of his tea then held the mug out for her. ‘Still warm.’

It was a test as much as any. Would she shed her heritage as a mortal, refuse to share a cup with a mortal man because she was a superior fae? All Nesta could think of was his lips against the rim of the cup, where else those lips could be. With all eyes still on her, Nesta took the cup and raised it to her mouth, drinking once.

Jurian winked at her. She found herself hurriedly looking away, a blush rising in her cheeks once more from his presence. What was wrong with her?

‘Nesta, we need to ask you a few questions.’ Rhysand’s address snapped her head back up. She stared at him with more conviction than she ever had before – anything to not feel the scorching heat of Jurian’s eyes or the pressing gaze from Cassian either.

‘Ask them then.’

‘Hybern is quiet.’

‘Far too quiet,’ Cassian added.

‘Can you feel anything from the Cauldron?’

It lurked in her periphery, an unwanted spectre trailing her. But there was no change in the shadow. It remained as it always did, a prowling beast just out of sight.

‘No difference than usual.’

‘You can always feel it?’ Azriel pushed.

She saw the flash of discomfort in Devlon’s eyes. The twist of his lips as his favourite insult pressed to the surface.

Nesta stiffened. ‘Yes. I ripped out its heart. It follows me.’

The tent dropped in temperature as wariness settled in.

Rhys shrugged a shoulder with indifference. ‘It could work in our favour – a blessing in disguise.’

‘A blessing?’ Jurian made a noise of disbelief.

‘Let’s not forget why Nesta has a connection to the Cauldron, Jurian,’ Mor warned, her fingers flitting to the knife sheathed on her hip.

Before the man could even respond, Nesta had opened her mouth. Without reason. Without considering her words. ‘Jurian made sacrifices just as Rhysand has. I was the casualty of it. It cannot be reversed but I will not pretend that there is some good in it. If I had the choice, I would be as I was.’

A strong hand came down on her shoulder, squeezing once in a gesture so human Nesta did not need to look around to know who was touching her, who she allowed to continue touching her in the tent full of fae.

The others noted it.

She fought hard in their meeting to stop looking at Jurian. To stop feeling giddy and light-headed every time their eyes met or he posed a question to her. It was useless.

***

There had been no movement from Hybern. They had not drawn their lines, their tents were still, almost as if the camp was in an enchanted slumber. It allowed their own camp to rest and ready themselves. Tomorrow, the fighting would start regardless of Hybern’s move. The waiting game was too tedious. More had been winnowed in from Illyria and the Hewn City, but tensions bubbled. Too much longer and the armies here would begin turning on each other. Too many egos in the pot. The mortal section of the camp was uneasy. For now, these fae were the allies – but for how long?

Nesta kept her hood drawn as she entered their camp.

Jurian had traded his armour for a dark tunic. He bounced between groups, trading stories by the fire before moving onto the next group. They drank cups of ale. Songs rang out. A last hurrah before the end.

She didn’t know why she was seeking him out. Didn’t pause to question herself. Her feet just kept moving over the solid ground until she reached the grey tents.

‘What’s wrong?’ He said in greeting.

‘We go to war tomorrow. I-’ Nesta stopped to take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. Good luck.’

‘Good luck?’ His dimple appeared and Nesta nearly sighed at the sight of it. ‘Is that what the fae say before a war? I can’t talk now.’

Was Nesta seeing things or was it disappointment in his brown eyes when he said it?

‘My people will bleed for me, die for me tomorrow. The least I can give them is my time tonight.’

A good general, not a mad general. Nesta nodded in understanding although embarrassment fluttered in her chest. Infatuation had driven her here. She was caught up in the stories of glory of Jurian, the hero of her people. These stories were addling her sense.

‘I’ll come and find you in your tent tonight.’

‘I share a tent with my sister and Morrigan.’

He cocked his head to the side, grinning slightly. ‘Then I’ll bring you to my tent and show you exactly what mortals do on the eve of war.’

Dumbfounded, Nesta could only blink at him. Heat had pooled low in her belly at what he was insinuating. A buzzing sounded in her ears.

‘You have no manners.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ he replied. ‘And that I smell. And my hair is a bird’s nest.’

‘Feyre told you I said that?’

‘You seem to have spent an awful long time staring at me to notice such things.’

Nesta fumbled for a witty retort, but nothing came. Her brain was too busy lusting over his solid arms, the way he made her feel small, the beard coming through.

Traitorous body, she thought with irritation.

‘Good luck. Try not to die.’

‘See you tonight.’

‘You will not.’

***

Nesta could think of nothing but the quake of her heart as Jurian led her by the hand towards his tent. There had been no argument. No refusal to follow him. His hand had extended as the camp settled for the night and Nesta had taken it. There was no shame from him. He walked steadfast, head up, through his camp and into his tent. Nesta had made up a flimsy excuse to Elain that she had to speak with one of the healers and would be back. Elain wouldn’t miss her. Her sister had barely gotten out of bed that day, preferring the sanctuary of the covers. Still, if anybody questioned Nesta’s absence, Elain would mumble something about the healers and she would be forgotten.

The tent wasn’t small, but there was no elegance to the place like Rhysand’s. Jurian’s tent was given to him by Lord Nolan. Grey canvas stretched over wooden poles. A brazier burnt in the corner, giving much needed heat to the tent. A camp bed with a single blanket strewn on top took up most of the room. It was bare. The man had few belongings save for the weapons and armour dropped haphazardly in one corner.

Nesta seated herself on the bed, her lips pressed together.

He removed his wrist guards then the chest piece before pulling his tunic over his head. It was a well-practised dance for him, the everlasting soldier. There was something intimate about watching it. He strode from the tent before returning with a bucket of water he’d warmed over a fire pit.

‘So, I’m not dirty.’

Any words stayed on her tongue as Jurian dipped a cloth into the water then began cleaning his bare torso. His body was muscled and tanned, but unlike the fae bodies she had seen, Jurian’s glittered with scars, even bruises in varying colours from purple to fading green. And, surprisingly delighting her, dark hair spread across his chest.

Her mother would be rolling in her grave to see her eldest daughter in a war camp with a rough man whose only currency was violence.

But Nesta didn’t care.

For the first time, Nesta took control of her own destiny. Not a mother guiding her to a husband, not poverty stealing her chances, or fae shifting her future. She would make a choice. A choice she wanted.

Nesta reached for the cloth, taking her time to wring out the excess water then dragged it along the man’s shoulders, working it downwards across his spine then against his hip. She followed the track of the rivulets running down his tan skin towards his waistband.

‘Do you need to comb my hair too, so that I’m presentable, princess?’

‘Stop.’

She rolled her eyes then began cleaning his neck.

Jurian turned so his bare chest was inches from her. His heart beat loudly. Not fast, but loud. Loud to her ears. Had he been with a woman since he’d been revived, Nesta wondered.  

‘What about my absence of manners? Should I say thank you for this?’

Nesta flicked his mouth with the cloth. ‘You won’t be able to when I gag you with it. Stop talking. You ruin the moment.’

‘So violent.’

Seizing the cloth from her hand, Jurian dashed it back into the bucket. He held onto her as his own hand pressed against her chest, feeling the drumming of her heart. ‘This is mortal. This spirit, it will always be mortal. Don’t ever let it fade.’

‘Kiss me.’

The kiss was power sweeping in. Jurian held her face, tilted it up to him and pressed his lips to hers. More. Nesta needed more.

Her hand sought the laces of his breeches. She loosened them, let her fingers trail against the soft skin of his stomach. Let them explore lower.

Jurian tore off her shawl. He tipped her forwards into the crook of his neck while his fingers plucked at the buttons running down the back of her dress. It came off easily, pooled around her feet, so she stood only in a shift.

‘Are you cold?’

‘No,’ she whispered as Jurian lay her onto the bed, his hand running up her thigh.

He spread open her legs, exposing her before him. Nesta let out a small gasp as Jurian’s mouth licked at her sex. There was no hesitation from the man. He’d come to conquer.

Nesta’s legs wrapped around his back. At her eagerness, Jurian looked up, a smile quirked his lips. He exchanged soft kisses for spiralling his tongue at the entrance to her sex. It was languid, savouring each breathy moan it elicited from her.

Her fingers twisted in the blanket as Jurian’s fingers spread her open to access better with his tongue. Every pulse of it had her core curling tighter with a pleasure she had never known before. It softened over the most sensitive parts then sucked harder when she could take more pressure until Nesta was undone.

A sudden rush of euphoria flooded her body. Her legs quivered against the rough stubble on Jurian’s face as he kissed the sensitive skin of her thighs, riding through the last of her orgasm

He moved so his body was over hers. Lips, plump and wet, pressed to hers. She could taste herself on his tongue. Nesta’s fingers gripped his hair, kept his mouth against hers as his tongue sought entry.

She peeled away his breeches to admire his whole body. A deep, twisting scar ran across his thigh – but that was not what had caught her attention. His erection pressed against him, solid and ready.

‘I want this,’ Nesta whispered, reaching for his cock to position it at her entrance.

Jurian grinned. It was so human that it made her heart flutter. ‘Don’t be too loud or you’ll wake up the camp.’

The general ground his hips to hers, his length sliding in. There was a sudden, sharp pain of being stretched too quickly. His rough breathing in her ear as they grew accustomed to each other settled Nesta’s pulse.

Jurian kissed along her jaw, unmoving until Nesta gave him permission to resume.

Her shift was abandoned. The skin of their chests stuck together with every thrust. One hand gripped Jurian’s dark hair, the other dug its nails into the sweat-soaked muscles of his back. Breath hissed between Jurian’s teeth as he drew out his length then buried it to the hilt. Over and over, he thrust, setting a rhythm. Their foreheads touched, lips met, each one desperate for this purely human moment before a war.

He took care to clean her afterwards though he remained quiet at the small amount of blood spread between her thighs.

Jurian stood, proud in his bare skin, to stoke the brazier and add a few more coals.

All around them, the tents were silent. Only the poor souls on a watch duty remained awake.

‘Are you warm, Nesta?’

In response, she patted the narrow bed. He obliged her wish and slipped in beside her, arms wrapping around her body. Her hand rested on his chest, palm feeling the thump of his heart. Nesta found herself wondering if Jurian would age now. If, in fifty years, he’d be an elderly man. Or had the Cauldron changed him into a mortal who lived forever. There would no worse fate for him. A constant cycle of seeing generations rise and fall while he remained the same.

‘I should have realised that you would be a maiden.’ Jurian let out a quiet laugh. ‘I thought maybe... Being fae. I don’t know. Sorry.’

There was no regret on Nesta’s part. War was coming like a wave they could not out run. Jurian might not see another night. Neither might she. Nesta had wanted to be with a man. Not a fae male. A man. A man who she should have spent a life with. If one night was all she could manage then it was better than nothing.

‘I’m twenty-three, Jurian. Nearly a spinster by human standards.’

‘A spinster,’ he crowed. ‘You’re only a couple of years younger than I am.’

‘You are more than twenty times my age.’

At that, Jurian squeezed her hip, making her jerk and squeal. ‘I spent five hundred years in a ring. It doesn’t count.’

‘Will you crucify me now like the last female?’

A dark look crossed Jurian’s face. Nesta didn’t know why she had said it. Other than to be cruel. To force him to push her away before she hurt her own tender feelings because she was barrelling down a path where the only ending was heartbreak.

Jurian sat on the edge of the bed, brown eyes falling to the glowing embers in the brazier. His hair hung forwards.

‘I hated every moment of it. Each time she touched me, each time I had to touch her. I hated it all. But I’d do it again. I’d do it for our people.’

Slave. Martyr. Mad.

‘How far would you go? What is your limit, Jurian?’

This man had lost everything. Death would have been a kindness for him. Instead, he had been tortured and maimed, forced to spend five centuries observing Amarantha’s cruelty. And then, when he returned, he had nothing, nobody. No friends. No family. No home. No belongings. Nothing. Nesta realised he had no limits because he had nothing more to lose. Everything had been taken from him.

‘Put your clothes back on,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll walk you back to your tent.’

‘And if I wanted to remain here?’

Nesta pressed herself against his back and wound her arms around his shoulders. The man sucked in a long breath. She was what he should hate. A fae. She should hate him for her transformation. And yet Nesta understood. He’d made an impossible choice; two mortals he didn’t know for Hybern’s secrets. Nesta would do the same for Elain, for Feyre. There were no limits to what she would do to protect her sisters.

‘This might be your last night,’ he said.   

‘Then let us not waste it.’

***  

It took all of Nesta’s strength to prise Jurian’s arms from her bare body as the camp took its first breaths at dawn. It would have been easy to remain there, feeling safer than she had in years. The man did not stir as she slipped out from the bed to dress. Without his body cradling hers, Nesta grew cold. The dawning of war sent another shiver rippling through her. Already, she could hear the sounds of the humans readying their horses, the smiths ensuring blades were sharp, armour was mended. Her section of the camp would be awake too, perhaps even wondering where she’d spent the night. Or with whom.

Nesta wasn’t one for goodbyes. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of pressing a kiss upon Jurian’s brow like two star-crossed lovers, parting for the last time, but she thought better of it. It would probably be more awkward than anything. Nesta did not want to see regret on Jurian’s features when he realised that he had bedded an enemy.

She was a silly girl with an infatuation with a legend. The eve of war had encouraged her heart to make a decision. They’d spent the night tangled with each other. Their fervour was as a result of passion and desperation, the final breath before war driving them to their coupling. He’d not been rough or selfish as Nesta expected, but tender and consuming, peppering her skin with kisses and catching every gasp and moan with his mouth. When they were both sated, and sense encouraged them both to steal a few hours of sleep, Jurian had asked her to stay. He had wrapped his arms around her, tucked her close to his body then they had slipped into slumber.

‘You’re not even dressed. I had leathers brought to your tent an hour ago.’ Feyre had her arms folded. She was already dressed in the black clothing the Illyrians were fond of. Her hair had been braided tightly down her back. Ready for war.

Nesta would fight if she had to. Not that she wanted to. She didn’t have a warrior’s heart, only the fear of consequence urging her into the tent to ready herself.

Elain sat on the bed sobbing, her leathers draped across her lap. Nesta steeled her own heart to be the strong one. She tucked her sister against her.

‘One day. We push through this one day and we will have a tomorrow.’

An eternity. A lifetime that neither of them wanted.

***

What was the point? What was the point in anything? Her sisters were alive. Lucien had come with their father, bringing an armada. But what was the point?

Nesta stood by as Feyre burnt their father’s body. The king’s blood was sticky on her skin, itching it. The Autumn Court were burning their dead too. Other courts claimed their bodies. They wrapped them in cloths to give them burials on their own land.

Nesta did not know who had prised the king’s head from her hand. Maybe Cassian. Maybe Feyre. She hadn’t even registered who had been standing before her, only that warm hands had loosened her fingers from his hair and taken it from her.

She had been alone, facing down the king. She’d thought of Jurian, of the sacrifices he made for their people – and Nesta had made her own. She had lured the king to her, to distract him from the Cauldron, knowing he’d take the bait. She would have died alone. Until Elain had stepped out from a shadow and driven a knife into his neck. The same knife that Nesta used to cleave his head from his body.

Like a phantom, Nesta moved through the camp. The Illyrians that she did manage to save from the blast didn’t keep their voices down as they murmured about her. Witch. She-devil. With the king's blood still staining her, it might have been true.

Nesta wasn’t seeking him out. In honesty, she didn’t know what she was doing or where she was going. Her feet just moved. Her mind had emptied. Any thoughts were gone. It was just a pain so raw it numbed everything else existing within her.

‘Can I help?’ She rasped to a healer. A mortal one who regarded her with fear. ‘I’ll cut bandages. I’ll collect water. Please let me help.’

There were no fae here. The mortals who were injured writhed on their beds, moaning in agony. The two healers they had were run ragged, stitching wounds, stemming the blood flow. There were wounds here that could have been healed in moments by the fae, but they cared for their own first – just as the mad general had said.

Without waiting for a response, Nesta collected fresh water. She cleaned wounds that she was confident in dealing with, bound bleeding limbs and trickled water into the mouths of the dying. Nesta caught a glimpse of Jurian on bended knee by a man with a gaping wound in his chest. As he spluttered for breath, Jurian held his hand. He stroked his face, spoke soft, loving words to him until the man’s chest fell still. Then he moved to the next one, stayed with him as he died. A mad general, but a good man.

A pink, dusty sky filtered through the darkness.

Nesta’s hands were blackened from tending to fires to keep the humans warm. Her own limbs were stiff and aching. She was stronger than even the biggest mortal man, capable of carrying more wood and buckets than them. The echoes of her power were felt in her marrow. An ancient, slumbering behemoth who had enjoyed its little venture out into the world and wanted more. There had been no respite; Nesta had not stopped all night. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Nesta couldn’t decide if she was hungry or thirsty or tired or broken. She had just kept going, helping where she could for her people.

‘Nes.’ A blanket was tucked around her shoulders. Cassian’s form stood over her. ‘We’ve been so worried. Why are you here? You should be with us. Let’s get you cleaned up.’

‘I want to go home.’

There was no home for her. Nesta had never had a home. She’d had a house. A cottage. A manor. Never a home. Never that feeling of belonging.

‘Let’s get you to your sisters.’

***

The cold air pressed against Nesta’s skin. Flakes of snow settled in her hair. Not snow. Ash. Ash from the humans burning their dead in a great pyre when they were unable to dig more graves.

Boots scuffed over the barren ground by the Night Court’s tents.

Strong arms wrapped around her, his chest pressed against her spine, holding her tightly to him.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner,’ Jurian murmured in her ear.

Nesta should have pushed him away. Anybody could see them like this – the witch and the mad general. Without his strength engulfing her, Nesta would fall apart.

‘I’m sorry about your father. And everything else.’

She blinked rapidly, chasing away the tears trying to form. Jurian had been on the northern flank. Hadn’t seen what had happened. Likely hadn’t heard until hours later.

‘Thank you for all you did for our people, easing them to the eternal realm, saving others from it. Your generosity did not go unnoticed, not by me. You are a good person, Nesta. You could have rested on a soft bed, but you came to our people when they needed you.’

Nesta turned in his arms to face him. A blackened eye forced his eyelid to droop and the eye beneath was bloodshot. His lip was split. A slash ran across his neck too. Her wounds had healed in a matter of hours. His would be there for days. Some would scar. Another scar to his tapestry.

‘You will have a new court. A new queen.’

Jurian nodded. ‘You will return to the Night Court.’

‘I am what you made me after all.’

His eyes screwed shut. ‘I keep telling myself that if you hadn’t gone in the Cauldron, nobody else would have had the power to stop the king. That it had to happen to stop a war. And I hate myself for thinking it. You asked me, Nesta, what my limit is. I found it.’

His hands tipped her face upwards, the heat of his palms pressing against her cheeks.

‘I am forever cursed. Fate laughs at me.’ Jurian kissed her forehead. ‘I find a woman who gives to my people as much as I do, one who I would want at my side. The same woman I sacrificed to the Cauldron and turned fae.’

***

All of them were to gather in a ruined manor – fae and human alike. It took Nesta a few moments to piece together the sitting room, with its smashed windows and cracked marble hearth. Her old home. Gifted to them through Tamlin’s wealth. This was the start of her nightmares. This hearth was where she had stood with a closed fist ready to protect Elain from three overgrown bats.

Fae filtered in through the doors. Each one bearing their wounds. Even Beron and his son, Eris, came to the meeting.

Feyre inhaled, ready to speak to each court gathered, then two more figures entered. Proud and tall, two men strode in followed by a contingent of mortals. Graysen sported a slash down his cheek. It would scar probably, marring his looks. Nesta did not need to look to Elain; her sister would have been gazing at him the moment she heard his steps. Beside him, Jurian sported his black eye like a trophy. He gave a smirk to Feyre, as if this was yet another game for him. Another war. Another period of peace. Like the never-ending crests and troughs of a wave that he would continue to ride.

When the firebird queen had spoken to Nesta, she did not respond. Throughout the meeting, Nesta remained with her back pressed to the cold wall, barely listening. It was only her and the king, her father’s discarded body at his feet. He hadn’t stepped over him, merely stepped on him to reach Nesta.

Sometimes she could feel Jurian staring at her. Feel the burn of his eyes, demanding her attention, but Nesta wouldn’t give it. She could not look towards the human contingent without feeling sorrow that she was not a part of it.

Then it was done.

Groups peeled off back to their courts. Some winnowed home. Others returned on foot to the war camp to continue packing away their tents. Nesta stood at the window as a silent guardian, examining each person as they departed.

She scented Jurian before she heard him. Sweat, smoke, human. He engaged Feyre in conversation, but Nesta remained at her vigil, her back to him.

‘Too bad the king was so spectacularly beheaded by your sister. I bet he could have found a way to break that curse of hers.’

Nesta turned.

‘Too bad indeed,’ Feyre muttered.

Jurian grunted his amusement. Another queen to follow. Another court to find a home in. Jurian was finding a future. He deserved it. Nesta had yet to figure out her own path.

‘Do you think we stand a chance?’ Feyre asked, motioning to the human figures still walking, far away, back toward the camp. ‘Of peace between all of us?’