here and there

For the first time in her life, Feyre wanted Nesta.

Mor would have once been her first choice but there was an ache at the thought of her friends knowing and conferring, conspiring about her life. She’d saved them, but they hadn’t given her the option to save herself.

Elain was in Spring. Not, as Feyre had first been told to build a relationship with Lucien under Rhys’ cautious eye, but to be used as bribery. To get Lucien to convince Tamlin to ally with the Night Court.

Feyre wouldn’t have wanted her anyway. Elain would have been too distraught, too emotional.

Rhys...

Feyre couldn’t think about Rhys.

This wasn’t a case of love. Rhys loved Feyre. This was because Nesta respected Feyre enough to tell her the truth, she who understood that Feyre had a right to her own life, her own choices.

Something newly uncomfortable now lived in Feyre.

Her eldest sister had been torn from her bed, thrown into the Cauldron and then subjected to war after war in a newly formed body. Then, when all was over and Nesta was a shaking mess drinking and fucking her way through Velaris, Feyre had made decisions on her behalf.

They’d worked out, hadn’t they? In the end?

Like a worm in an apple, doubts niggled in Feyre’s mind.

Nesta came when called.

“I’ll do it in here,” Feyre said, as they stood amongst the too white, too bright marble of the bathroom. “There may be blood. I don’t know if there will be blood, there may be lots of-”

Nesta’s fingers pushed between hers as she rambled, Nesta’s cool dry palm against Feyre’s hot slick one and her sister gave her hand a squeeze. Firm but gentle, saying I am here without words.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Nesta said, her voice quiet. She held no rage anymore, just an infinite sadness.

“I need to do this,” Feyre said. “I swore an oath to protect the people of the Night Court. Love takes many forms.”

If she didn’t try to shift into Illyrian form, then her inevitable last breath would start a chain of disaster and death for everyone, including her son if he survived beyond her. If she lived while Nyx died then part of Feyre would be dead anyway. Of all the sacrifices she’d made, this was the one which tore through her.

As though she was in a dream, Feyre stepped into the bathroom, insider her body and strangely outside it too. Her feet were bare and cold against the stone, the fortresses up in her mind lest Rhys discovered what she was doing and tried to stop her.

Feyre sat on the floor on a sheet with Nesta opposite, waiting and watchful. Before she closed her eyes, she saw Nesta’s mouth move as she uttered a prayer.

Then nothing else. Her own breath, Nyx fluttering inside her, as though he was remembering all the words she had spoken to him the previous evening. She held onto the love she had for him, hoping she could wrap him tight in a blanket of it, to protect him from what might happen next.

That will never go my darling. That love will always be for you.

Feyre nudged her body until her bones cracked and her skin stretched, until wings unfurled on her back and her stomach changed shape, shifting and accommodating the small body within. Feyre expected pain but none came, just a sharp discomfort of talons pressing against an organ and then – nothing. No agony, no tangy scent, or trickle of blood.

Had he disappeared from the world like a whisper? Never existing until one second after conception but now in the reverse. Gone like a raindrop in the ocean.

Her hands hovered before her, too scared to touch her own belly to feel flatness.

“Feyre,” said Nesta, her voice light, hopeful. “Look.”

Feyre’s eyes opened and she glanced down. Her belly was the same, round and protruding, the fabric straining over the burgeoning shape. She pushed down and there it was, the press of Nyx’s foot, at first gentle and then more belligerent, kicking against his own mother’s hand.

I am here.

The pinch of continual pain Feyre had felt throughout the pregnancy and believed normal was now absent, leaving behind only comfort.

A sob from her throat turned into a peel of laughter as Nyx’s kicks grew with enthusiasm at the new space he found himself in. Feyre splayed her palms over her stomach, calling out his name over and over before she called out another.

“Rhys,” she exclaimed with joy, “I need to tell Rhys.” But Nesta must have slipped from the room because when Feyre looked up, her sister was gone.

***

Amren had folded in on herself; hunched over, skin pale. There were more streaks of silver in her hair than black and lines were deeply etched on her face. When Rhys arrived, she was sat in a chair facing a window overlooking the brilliant turquoise sea of Summer, a thick blanket wrapped around her legs despite the heat.

Rhys wondered if her hearing had diminished, that she hadn’t heard his name being announced. Even when he drew closer, she didn’t greet him, her eyes remaining transfixed ahead. Only when he stepped into view did she glance up.

“I’m glad Feyre is safe,” she told him, “I will forever live with the guilt that I couldn’t break the pact. I’m glad you’re safe too.”

“Thank you,” he said, setting into the chair placed beside her. “Though it’s not how I wanted things to go.” His words grew clipped, “I’m not pleased that Nes-”

There was a noise from Amren. “It’s done now,” she held up her hand, cutting him off. “Look to the future and be happy.”

Rhys bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood into his mouth. “Yes, well," he gritted out, "I came to see how you are, and ask when you’d be returning to Velaris. We miss you.”

Amren’s laugh was brittle and her chest rattled. “Who’s left to miss me? Don’t you have everyone scattered about?”

Rhys’ turned to look at Amren, irritated that she refused to look back at him, that she stared straight ahead at the landscape beyond. “They will return. The battle may be over but I need to win the war.”

“Well, you will. With your allies and Illyrian soldiers. And the Made weapons of course - if you decide to share them.”

His heart leapt in his chest; he didn’t recall discussing the blades with Amren. “How do you know about those?”

“I still have ears in Night.”

“Cassian then,” Rhys said, curling his lip. “He’s become very loose lipped in recent weeks.”

“No. Not Cassian.”

“Who?”

Amren waved her hand again, discarding his question. She closed her eyes and settled back down into her chair, drawing her blanket closer to her chest. “Doesn’t matter. I may be weak but I’m not without any power.”

Rhys breathed air in through his nose willing his jaw to loosen. Pressing Amren and coming close to losing his temper with her in Summer of all Courts was a sure way to break some allies. It had taken long enough to secure Tamlin and, in the end, he was only swayed by Lucien’s pleas.

Lucien himself had to be cowed by Elain’s doe eyed presence when Rhys carted her before him.

“Come back to the city,” he said, keeping his voice jovial, “bring those astute ears back home.”

Amren shook her head. “My bones hurt and Night is too dark, too cold. Varian ensures I’m well looked after and Summer is providing the restorative effect I need. I crave the light.”

“Plenty of light in the House of Wind.” The sun glinted across the waves in their view. “You’ll find it emptier these days. You could move Varian in.”

Amren turned her head to look at him, slow and cautious, eyes narrowed. “And where have all the occupants gone?”

So, her ears only went so far. That was good to know. Now it was Rhys’ turn to wave his hand. “That doesn’t matter. Say you’ll return.”

Amren took a breath in, her hands curling on the armrest of her chair belying the tension even though she casually rested her head back and closed her eyes. Rhys noted four missing fingers. “No, I don’t want to.”

The hold on his temper was loosening. “You’re a member of the Night Court,” he spat, “a sworn member of the Inner Circle and my second in command, so I command you to come back.”

“You think demands will call me back?” She laughed. “I know why you want me back and its nothing to do with missing me. Feyre will live, as will Nyx - thank the Mother - but the death pact between you and her leaves them vulnerable. Feyre could still be a target for enemies who want to wipe you out.”

"You’re wrong,” Rhys said, knowing Amren saw through his lie. “I’m moving to the final stage of our plan. We will destroy Keir and his allies. He’s secured less Illyrian camps then he thinks and though he has Beron, Eris is now ours.”

Amren raised an eyebrow. “And you think the male who would betray his father wouldn’t betray you?”

“He won’t. He had demands. Demands which can now be met.”

A frown creased over Amren’s face making her look as ancient as she was. An eye opened, a glint of silver glaring at him. “If you mean Nesta, I would advise you exhibit caution in handing her over like some winning prize. No one knows what she can do-”

“What she could do. She’s a candle burnt to the end.” He tucked what Amren had said away. Only Mor knew Eris’ request regarding  Nesta. Between this and Amren knowing about the Made weapons, Rhys would have to look closer at his cousin.

Amren shook her head. “If that is the case, then let her live in peace. She once wanted a cottage outside the city where she could be alone. Allow her to have that life. Allow Cassian to have it with her.”

“No,” Rhys said, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t? It would lose you Eris, is that what you think? We can convince him to take a different route, one that doesn’t involve trading the future of another.”

Rhys clutched his fist to his chest. “Is that what you think of me? That I would treat my mate’s sister in such a way? It would be dangerous for Nesta to live outside the city. If something were to happen, how could I look Feyre in the eye and tell her harm had befallen her sister?”

Footsteps sounded across the marble floor. Rhys could see Varian approach, either to remove Rhys or take Amren away.

Amren looked past Rhys; her face softening a fraction as she saw who was coming towards her. When she looked back to Rhys, it had hardened again and for a moment she was the Amren of before – young and sharp and dangerous.

“It’s easy of course,” she said with a false sweetness, “clutch her hands, put on your most pathetic expression and tell her there is no danger and never will be. After all, you’re the most brilliant High Lord, the most trustworthy. She’ll believe you in everything.”

Varian breezed past Rhys without acknowledgement, his hands going to two handles on the back of Amren’s chair Rhys hadn’t previously noticed.

For the first time in her life, Feyre wanted Nesta.

Mor would have once been her first choice but there was an ache at the thought of her friends knowing and conferring, conspiring about her life. She’d saved them, but they hadn’t given her the option to save herself.

Elain was in Spring. Not, as Feyre had first been told to build a relationship with Lucien under Rhys’ cautious eye, but to be used as bribery. To get Lucien to convince Tamlin to ally with the Night Court.

Feyre wouldn’t have wanted her anyway. Elain would have been too distraught, too emotional.

Rhys...

“You fool,” Nesta had hissed at her as she flew through the drawing room door. “You stupid, stupid, little fool.”

Nesta’s hands were immediately on her, gripping her shoulders and then Feyre was being shaken hard enough to make her head bob.

Almost as soon as Feyre had been grabbed, she’d been released and then Nesta was down on the floor at Feyre’s feet, her hair in disarray like she’d fought through a storm, her head in her hands as she shook with retching sobs.

Feyre stared down; eyes wide.

One of the servants had opened the outside door on hearing banging and Nesta had pushed her way through to where Feyre had been sitting.

“Nesta, are you unwell?” Feyre asked, waving away a servant, thankful that Elain was visiting Lucien, that Rhys was chaperoning them to build their mate bond. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“That’s the problem,” Nesta said, her voice muffled by her hands. “You don’t understand. You never understand.”

Nesta took a deep breath and then she was rising up, standing in front of Feyre until both sisters stared at each other with matching eyes. Nesta’s red rimmed.

Feyre’s hands rested on her stomach, her son inside sleeping. Nesta’s eyes flickered downwards to the movement.

“It’s not your fault,” Nesta said after a pause, her eyes re-meeting Feyre’s. “Rhys should have known better; he should never have let you.”

Irritation prickled under Feyre’s skin. Who was Nesta to criticise Rhys? Rhys who held Feyre above all others, who loved Feyre above all others. Who was Nesta to dare suggest Rhys would let Feyre do anything when Feyre was her own female, a fae of considerable power and High Lady of the Night Court.

Inside her, Nyx woke, kicking as though he was trying to expel his mother’s rage, matching her righteous fury on his father’s behalf.

“How dare you-” Feyre began, her voice trembling but Nesta was having none of it.

“No,” Nesta hissed. “Don’t defend him now. Believe it or not, he’s not the only one who loves you.”

Feyre’s mouth clamped shut. There had been a hum as Nesta spoke, almost a scream under the surface of water, as though something was rising to take air but Nesta pushed its head back down.

The hair rose on Feyre’s arms and a memory burst into her mind of a lightning storm in the forests when she was a child, and how they did the same then.

“He never should have let you change into Illyrian form,” Nesta continued, “not when you were trying to conceive.” Nesta stepped away to pace the drawing room, her skirts rustling with every step.

Heat bloomed under Feyre’s skin. Rage? Embarrassment? She’d never been embarrassed about what her and Rhys did so why was she now? Only Nesta with her sharp tongue and acid tone made Feyre feel like this.

“What we did is none of your business,” Feyre snapped.

“Really? Well now it’s everyone’s business.”

“I don’t -”

“Understand?” Nesta turned back to Feyre, her eyes softer, less a storm and more dove grey. The sky after the lightning. Her voice was gentle when she spoke. “The baby has wings because he was conceived when you were in Illyrian form. Do you know that?”

“Yes.”

Nesta nodded and stepped closer. She was scented with gunpowder and metal, the singe of petrichor and wet ground, a battle fought and to be fought.

“Have you seen how odd everyone has been behaving? Has Rhys not been distracted around you? Amren has gone? Cassian, Mor, and Azriel are never here?”

Feyre blinked and Nesta shook her head, her mouth dropping open. “None of it? Some of it? By the Mother, Feyre – what have you noticed?”

Feyre had been in her bubble of bliss. The outside world a blur while she spent her time indoors, cradling her growing belly and singing songs to Nyx, imagining what he was dreaming, envisioning the tiny curl of his toes, the black of his hair.

Had Rhys been more distracted? Yes, but he was ruling a country and on the precipice of becoming a father. As for the others, she assumed they were busy.

“Rhys is important, he’s had a lot to think about, he’s-”

Nesta’s hands twisted into claws, her fingers white at the knuckles from her grip. She turned away and shrieked into the air, her shoulders shaking. Feyre stared at her sister’s back and clasped her belly again.

Even Nyx had decided it was best to remain still.

A moment passed before Nesta faced her again, Feyre seeing a flash of silver disappear from her sister’s eyes.

“You are also important,” Nesta said, her chest heaving. “Sit down.” She gestured to the chair behind Feyre. “I need you to believe me.” Nesta’s voice cracked as she spoke, “Have I ever lied to you? Even once?”

No. That was the problem. Nesta never lied to her, would never lie to her even when Feyre wished her eldest sister would play pretend and drip honey and lies rather than feed people on vinegar and truth.

Feyre sat and listened.

***

Dusk came and went as had Nesta.

Feyre still hadn’t cried. Probably because some part of her burnt a flame of hope that Rhys would save her, that he would swoop in like a hero of Nesta’s human fairytales and rescue the damsel in distress.

That thought kicked fury up within her. At herself. At Rhys.

She curled up in the window seat of the nursery, the stars beginning to make their appearance, twinkling and shining through the endless black sky.

When had Feyre convinced herself she was the damsel and not the heroine? She’d saved everyone once and now she was expected to sit like a fattening sow and wait to die.

Nesta had spoken plainly but unnervingly softly.

Nyx’s forming Illyrian wings meant Feyre would struggle to birth him and in the birthing she would die. Likely Nyx too. Rhys would follow as a result of the pact they made.

Nesta offered a glimmer of hope, a whisp for Feyre to cling too. If you change into Illyrian form ahead of childbirth you might be saved but it comes with a risk.

Feyre bent her head, pushing her fingers onto her forehead as the deep throbbing which began at Nesta’s words refused to abate. Feyre hadn’t said a word throughout, staring at her knuckles as they clenched against the arm rests, seeing hers and Rhys’ actions reflected in Nesta’s words - not as grand romantic gestures but ridiculous ones.

Rhys hadn’t named any successor other than Nyx nor a regent in his stead if Nyx survived. That meant Rhys had left the Night Court with either no heir or with one so young and no one to govern until he was of age.

“There will be a surge for power,” Feyre had said, horrified.

Nesta looked at her hands. “There already is.”

The picture formed in Feyre’s mind as though she were seeing threads on a tapestry. Death. Hers, Rhys’ and Nyx’s. Followed by more. Possibly her sisters, her friends, her people. If her and Rhys died and Nyx survived, what world was he being born into? Who would be his guide? Keir?

A chill flowed through Feyre at the thought.

“What do I do?” Feyre had asked but she knew. She’d looked at Nesta with desperation screaming from her eyes. Say it, she wanted to yell. Be the villain and make me do this. Absolve me.

Nesta’s face was soft. All sharp edges and angles melting away like snow. Her voice when she spoke was a slither above a whisper. “I can’t tell you what to do. Whatever happens next is your choice but it doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Feyre sent the servants away for the night so she could stare out of the windows and wander the halls. Was this how Elain felt? Displaced from body and time? Tracing the same path over again until her clarity returned to her? All she had now was questions.

Unlike Elain, Feyre’s mind had never left her and a painful truth sharpened behind her thoughts. How dare Rhys hold the knowledge of her life in his hand and not share it with her. How dare he tell her she would always choose in his Court and when her choice mattered, take it away.

The sting which rooted deeper was that everybody knew; Cassian, Azriel, Mor, Amren. They all upheld a bargain with Rhys despite her being their High Lady. She imagined them gathering, whispering, conspiring all in the name of her supposed best interests.

Yet there was no success to their measures and so all this time her friends were just waiting for her die.

Her palms folded over her belly, trying to wrap her hands around her son within.

“I named you,” she said to him. “I love you. You are my baby; my boy and I am your mother.”

She tried to sleep for his sake, cradling her stomach, continuing to believe that he was looking forward to meeting her just as she was him.

Feyre knew what was needed. What should have been done at the start when this deep, eternal love was only just taking root. She sobbed then, wishing she could take one of the blades mounted on Rhys’ study wall and cut her own heart out then do this.

***

Nesta dreamt of her sister drowning in blood, crimson flashes against her calves as life poured from between her legs to pool on a cold, hard marble floor. Her screams and cries echoed over the walls and out from windows.

What fell from Feyre’s body was small and precious, formed enough to be recognisable as a baby; dark hair flattened upon his head with eyes too big for his face, forever closed. His limbs were devoid of rolls of baby fat, too young and underdeveloped to live in the external world.

His wings, the source of all the pain, were flimsy, delicate things wrapped around his fragile body. Transparent and floppy but with sharp talons forming at the ends. When fully formed they would have clawed from within, destroying the insides of his mother to be born.

In Nesta’s dream, Feyre cradled him to her chest, sobs heaving her frame but when she looked up, Nesta wasn’t looking at her sister’s face but her own.

Nesta woke with a gasp. Her bed was soaking and in panic she reached between her own legs, her brain believing it was her own self losing the fluid which protected her baby.

Sweat. Nothing more. Drenching herself and her tangled sheets in the throes of a nightmare.

Nesta breathed in with a steady pace to regulate her heart. There was no pregnancy, she had simply been caught in the space between nightmare and awaking. There would never be a pregnancy, at least not with Cassian. No beautiful dark haired, winged babies in her arms.

Not you. Not your future.

The words whispered in and out of her ears, half Nesta’s own voice and half someone else’s.

Damn the Inner Circle and their wretched dependency on Rhys and each other. They’d kept quiet and complicit, remaining silent about the risk to Feyre and any possible risk to Nesta.

That afternoon, Cassian had told Nesta the truth then left her alone. Nesta had stormed from the House of Wind, scrubbing the tears from her face and when she’d returned Cassian had already gone from the House. His presence an echo in the silent building.

A note sat on her bureau, her name in his spiky handwriting upon the envelope. She threw it onto the fire without reading and turned to his room. Flames burnt their way through her bones before forcing itself from her fingers and then everything she touched became singed or ash.

He’d re-shaped the world Nesta had spent time shaping for herself and then abandoned her. Cassian who had known so much and told her nothing. He stood back as Rhys stole the blades, he would have led them all into another war, he would have watched Feyre die. All over Rhys. All because of Rhys.

He would never stand beside Nesta. Not if he fled to Illyria the moment he’d betrayed Rhys.

Nesta peeled the sheets from her legs and stared at the stars shining in the black sky wondering if across the city her sister stared at the same ones.

Perhaps the Cauldron or whatever chooses the mate bonds wants us Archeron’s dead, she thought. Or just me. After all, Feyre and Rhys' offence was stupidity, and Elain’s mate was the safe and compatible Lucien. Only Nesta had the mate with permanent wings.

“I am no one’s,” she said out loud. The Cauldron wanted her dead and Cassian couldn’t care less. He’d chosen Rhys. That was her final thought as she gathered up her nightgown from the ground. He will always choose Rhys.

***

“It’s not your fault,” Nesta said after a pause, her eyes re-meeting Feyre’s. “Rhys should have known better; he should never have let you.”

Irritation prickled under Feyre’s skin. Who was Nesta to criticise Rhys? Rhys who held Feyre above all others, who loved Feyre above all others. Who was Nesta to dare suggest Rhys would let Feyre do anything when Feyre was her own female, a fae of considerable power and High Lady of the Night Court.

Inside her, Nyx woke, kicking as though he was trying to expel his mother’s rage, matching her righteous fury on his father’s behalf.

“How dare you-” Feyre began, her voice trembling but Nesta was having none of it.

Feyre had come into the study to ask Rhys a question, squeaking in delight when she saw Cassian. She’d pressed a kiss against Rhys’ cheek and then his own, as a hello and goodbye and both pairs of eyes; violet and brown, followed her from the room.

When she turned to close the door behind her, she smiled at him through the gap, a small wave with her tattooed hand. Her face was so like Nesta’s but less severe, made rounder and softer via her pregnancy.

The sob rose in Cassian’s chest and he choked it back down.

Feyre had been the first friend he’d ever loved without the tincture of envy, resentment or lust. He adored her with all his heart and his mind took him to memories of the days spent together comfortably existing in the same space.

An urge rushed him to smash Rhys’ face down against his mahogany desk until the bones of his jaw collapsed. He choked that back down too.

“You wanted to see me?”

When Feyre was present, Rhys slid into an unaffected pose, one that spoke of no troubles and endless harmony. When she wasn’t, Rhys was as he was now – taut, his face sagging with the weight of his responsibilities.

Cassian nodded. “It’s Nesta,” he said, “and the blades.”

Even now, faced with the option of Nesta versus Rhys, something existed within Cassian that was akin to a war dog under the heel of its master, desperate to show its belly.

‘Nesta refuses to forge’ were the words forming in his mouth but in Rhys' eyes it would be no less than a declaration of war and there was no telling what Rhys would do.

Instead, Cassian told Rhys that Nesta forged blades that very morning but all of them were ordinary, dull, unmade.

Rhys’ face contorted. His handsome features twisting upon themselves until whatever ugly darkness lived within came to the surface. The expression passed with such speed that Cassian wondered if he’d seen it at all.

“Huh.” Rhys stood, walking round his desk before the map of Prythian, his long fingers tracing over the mountains and palace spires. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“She hasn’t lied to you?”

Cassian thought of the blades mounted on the wall behind him, the collection that Rhys has secreted away, the blade created by his mate that he had yet to be given but had been promised to be his. Rhys had enough. He already had too much.

“No, I’ve inspected them myself.”

Cassian waited for the moment the darkness rose up in the room as Rhys roared his knowledge of Cassian’s lies. And it was a lie. Cassian was aware how the slope of lies quickened into treason.

But Rhys didn’t respond other than to let out a broken sigh. The hand hovering over the map now clasped over his eyes as a noise, half way between laugh and sob, escaped Rhys’ throat.

Cassian almost took the lie back. He knew what Nesta didn’t, that Rhys needed the blades to arm his allies against Keir, that death lingered in the Night Court dining at the table as an extra guest.

He opened his mouth, about to confess the truth, ready to beg Rhys to give Nesta a break, to explain how she would come around but Rhys’ hand had already dropped and his eyes when he faced Cassian were stone.

“Why has it stopped?”

“She lost her temper. I think she channelled her power and burnt herself out. It’s gone.” A half-lie. The temper was true enough as was the power but it simmered under her skin like a water snake under the surface, biding its time.

Cassian’s fingers curled into his palms as he remembered them burning on her shoulders. Cassian’s bones had been built on loyalty but he’d never had a situation where his loyalty was split.

“This is not good.”

Cassian approached him, a hand raised to rest on his friend’s shoulder but Rhys turned back to the map, towards Autumn. “At least,” he uttered, “she’s not completely useless.”

Cassian moved his hand away. Those words weren't intended for Cassian, this was Rhys caught in the maelstrom of his own thoughts and he’d already dismissed Cassian from his mind.

Take one, said a voice. A female. Not inside the room or outside, but not quite from Cassian’s mind either. She was everywhere and nowhere. Take one blade from the wall and slice away. Be hateful and hurt and filled with love. Do it now.

But he left. The voice dying away like a whisper.

***

Cassian and Mor sat in a leaky tavern in the depths of Illyria, as far from Velaris as they could get. Speaking on the roof of the House of Wind was no longer an option.

They told no one they met, especially not Rhys but Cassian wondered how much Az’s sharp eyes noticed. Still, if he had, he said nothing and Cassian believed that was an unspoken declaration that Az would side with Cassian first.

The rain had hammered against Cassian as he flew and they felt like shards to his bones. He’d barely had time to warm up in the room above the bar before an Illyrian serving woman knocked to tell him his friend was downstairs.

Cassian had thanked her and she bowed as he passed, her eyes shimmering as they roamed over his body with something close to reverence.

She wasn’t the first to bow to him. The tavern’s landlord had almost crumbled to the ground when Cassian first rented the room. Myths and legends spread far and wide.

Still, he made a note to lock his door before sleeping. Not because he was in any danger but Cassian didn’t want to wake to a naked female in his bed. Not this one anyway. The only one he wanted was one he now left behind, one he’d spent the best of the past few months lying to – and for.

Mor waited in an alcove; a glass of wine placed on the rickety wooden table. She wore a dark, mud splattered cloak covering her blonde hair. Despite them being surrounded by allies, she went incognito as much as possible.

Cassian smiled as he sat opposite. “They already know who we are, you don’t need to sit in disguise.”

“Oh, I know,” she replied, flipping the hood down. “This is for when I leave Velaris. Just in case Rhys wonders why I’m off to Illyria without permission.” She rolled her eyes.

“Any news?” Cassian asked as Mor’s fingers played with the stem of her wine glass. He reached across and placed his hand on top of hers, her hand stilling.

Her eyes watered as she shook her head. “Amren hasn’t been able to find anything and she’s not...” Mor took a breath. “She’s not well. It may take centuries for her to heal.”

Cassian nodded despite the pang in his stomach. “Where is she now?”

“The Summer Court with Varian. I don’t know when – or if – she’ll return.”

“What does Rhys think?”

“He ranted and raved and threw paperweights around his office. The only reason he’s not dragged Amren from her bed is because he can’t risk losing Summer.”

Cassian nodded again. Keir and Rhys were moving the High Lords around the board like a game of chess. They were on the cusp of something and Cassian was never suited for the cusp. The build up to war was political. The battle itself pure violence.

Keir held the Hewn City, some of the Illyrian camps and Autumn but Rhys and Eris were seemingly locked in endless negotiations so Autumn could be taken from Beron and won yet.

Rhys had the loyalty of Summer, Dawn, and Day – for now. Cassian had heard of Helion’s concerns, his questioning of Rhys as to the rumours of problems with Feyre’s pregnancy and stories of hordes of Made weapons hidden away.

Rhys denied everything.

Winter abstained and Spring remained silent, although Cassian was confident that Kallias would declare for Night if war knocked. Tamlin was a harder fish to catch but that’s why Lucien was the hook. Lucien had a hook of his own, Elain being dangled before him on multiple occasions.

Cassian thought of Nesta, tucked away in the House of Wind, bored and tired and uttered a prayer of thanks that she was no one’s leverage. The dagger at his waistband dug into his leg and he shifted.

“Does Rhys know that most of the Illyrians are declaring for you and not him?” Mor asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Cassian’s laugh was brittle. “You mean have I rushed to tell Rhys that the Illyrians call me their Lord of Bloodshed and believe I’m the reincarnation of Enalius? That they aren’t impressed by Rhys’ mate but relish the idea of a Lady Death? No. Surprisingly I still haven’t.”

“Good,” Mor said, her eyes boring into Cassian’s. “Keep it that way.”

He shifted again. The lies may have been rotting a hole in his soul but that wasn't what was making him uncomfortable. The dagger moved closer to where it was before, like it was trying to listen in.

A thought flittered across Cassian’s mind but then disappeared immediately as though something had carved it out. When he said goodbye to Nesta she’d cupped her hand to his face and kissed him.

‘Here,’ she’d said, ‘take this.’ A knife, one with a twisted handle like a snake, was slipped into the sheath on his belt.

He’d laughed. He was the General of the Night Court armies, no one would get close enough to him for him to need a dagger and besides, he had his syphons and swords.

‘Please,’ she’d said. Her eyes were the colour of smoke over water and she smelt of the ice cresting Ramiel in winter. ‘Humour me.’ So, he had.

“Has Rhys had any success with Feyre?” He said his friend’s name in a whisper, reverence for the almost dead. For a friend he’d failed.

“No.” Mor’s head bent, her golden hair falling to the table. Her shoulders shook as a sob caught in her throat and Cassian shifted, moving to sit beside her, tucking her into his side.

Despite being sheathed, the knife dug into his thigh.

Her face pressed into his neck and tears slid from down her nose and into his collar bone. Cassian couldn’t lie and say all would be well. Not when they closer than before to losing Feyre, the baby and Rhys. Not when hundreds of deaths would follow.

When Mor stopped crying, she remained curled against him. No one looked their way, respecting his privacy. These were his people now.

“Her sisters still don’t know,” she whispered.

Cassian took a breath in. That was the thorn no one wanted to pull out. “No.”

Mor twisted in her seat to face him; her brown eyes large. “Considering time has passed, don’t we think they should?”

Yes. No. Cassian couldn't decide.

“Rhys doesn’t think Elain would be able to handle the truth,” he said. “He thinks it will damage her psyche.”

Mor shook her head, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“Well Rhys doesn’t think carting Elain before Lucien each week is damaging but that doesn’t appear to be helping her much.” Venom tinged her voice. She paused. “What about Nesta?” No tone, no snide condescending remark. No venom. Just a question.

“Rhys doesn’t want her to know either.”

“Don’t tell me Rhys believes it will damage her psyche?”

Cassian’s mind flashed back to Nesta; eyes silver and skin burning, telling him with force she would not be Rhys’ forger any more.

“You may not believe it but Nesta loves Feyre. She’d be more damaged than you’d realise.”

“But that’s not why Rhys doesn’t want her knowing?”

“He’s worried she would tell Feyre the truth.”

“The truth. Something all of us have blood sworn not to tell.” Mor’s head tilted to the side as she looked up at him. “Do you think she would tell Feyre?”

Cassian gazed at the honey gold liquid in Mor’s glass, the light of the wall candles flickering against it. Despite the gathering armies the tavern was filled with life. Loud, raucous life of Illyrians drinking and laughing.

Many fae thought the Illyrians dogs, baseless, unthinking. The truth was that they walked so close to death that life was something they seized every day. There was no fear when one lived as well as one could.

They were all on the verge of war. Not only the Illyrians but the other Courts as well as himself, Azriel, and Mor. All of them. They were able to prepare. They were able to live.

The Archeron sisters were not children. They had experienced more conflict in their shorter lives then many others had. They were born into war as humans and again as fae; created by it, formed by it. They had just suffered one conflict and were about to suffer another.

I’m not afraid of him. Those were Nesta’s words when she wanted to tell Rhys she would no longer do his bidding.

“Yes, I suppose she would.”

***

The days had been long and the nights longer.

Following his meeting with Mor in the tavern, Cassian met with one Illyrian War Lord after another. Strategies had been considered and plans had been drawn. While others were likely hoping for peace talks and resolution, the Illyrians were battle starved.

Death sang them a song and their blood answered but Cassian knew grief would follow. We are not animals, he once said to someone of his Illyrian brethren. We are as old as the mountains and feel pain as much as you.

The tavern revellers sang of Enalius reborn from the earth and sky, and now with a Lady Death by his side. We fight in Rhys’ name; he’d told the Illyrian War Lords but none had listened.

When he finally returned to his room in the House of Wind, wings heavy and heart heavier, Nesta was standing by the fire in his room staring into the flames, the skirts of her long silk grey dress spilling across the floor like ocean waves.

She was as regal as the first time he’d seen her before a fireplace but now she was ethereal. Other. Fae.

“This is a lovely sight for my sore eyes.”

His wings flexed as he strode through the room, discarding the stiff leathers and soaking fabrics, shaking his hair until droplets of water scattered on the ground.

Some of those droplets landed on Nesta’s exposed nape. He would suck them from her skin, he decided, his plan to ravish her from ankles upwards.

Cassian’s fingers skimmed over the material covering her hips, trailing his fingers up the sides of her waist, over her ribcage to her breasts. Cassian dipped his head, pressing a hot mouth to her shoulder and bit down in the way he knew she enjoyed.

Her back remained rigid and he frowned, pulling away. There was no languid sigh, no melting into his arms after time spent away. Her spine was as unyielding as the stones of the House.

“Nesta?”

She turned to face him, the shadows from the soundless fire drifting over her body like smoke and any lust living in him died when he met her eyes.

What was once blue- grey now shone silver.

“Nesta,” he repeated, a hint of panic in his voice. She blinked but the colour remained and she held her hand out, her fingers clutching onto the snake-like handle of a blade. “How the...”

Cassian scrambled for the sheath at his side, for the dagger Nesta had given him before he departed but it wasn’t where it should be. Now the twisting viper was in Nesta’s hand although she'd had no opportunity to take it from him.

The metal shone as sharp and silver as Nesta’s eyes and a hiss filled the room.

“What is this to you?” she asked, her head nodding towards the blade.

“A dagger.”

“And?”

How had he gotten it so wrong? He’d humoured her when he took it from her hands, sliding it into the sheath at his waist. Just a dagger, he’d told himself. All Made ones long stolen away by Rhys.

But had he gotten it wrong? Or did a quiet voice in his mind tell him he knew what he was taking?

It didn’t matter now. Nesta knew. Maybe she always had.

“And what? It’s one you forged for Rhys.”

“Forged? Or Made?” Her voice dropped lower on the last word, dripping it with meaning.

Cassian’s heart beat harder in his chest, the panic rising must have shown on his face.

“Yes,” she said, her head tilting to the side. “I thought you would have known, all those hours I spent locked away in the blacksmith room. Hammer on metal. You always knew these were special.”

Cassian took a breath in and a step back, turning towards his dresser to grab a dry tunic. The rain followed him from Illyria and now cascaded down the windows, the rivulets reflecting the flames from the hearth making them look like streams of fire against the black night sky.

Velaris shone below them, the network of streets running like veins, the lights like distant fireflies.

He’d omitted the truth from her for them. That’s what he told himself. Now and every night.

“Why can’t Rhys risk losing Summer?”

Cassian froze as Nesta spoke.

“What hasn’t Rhys had success with? What doesn’t he want us to know?” Her voice dropped to a hiss; part snake and part water fizzing on melting metal. “What truth does he think I’ll tell?”

When he faced her, she was as unmoving as before, her face blank.

“How do you-” Cassian paused, looking at the dagger. The blade shimmered in the light, almost as though firelight were catching on scales. Nesta’s eyes were reflected in the metal, both shining silver. “Through the blade,” he said, not needing her confirmation.

Nesta clenched her hand into a fist around the handle and then it was gone. No lingering trace of the dagger nor the magic Nesta used to remove it.

“Where is it?”

Nesta’s eyes faded into their regular blue-grey chill. “Its name is Viper and I’ve sent her someplace safe, somewhere Rhys can’t find. All the blades are mine but that one is mine. I’ll be damned if Rhys takes her like he took Ataraxia.”

It was easier to ignore the power Nesta displayed, to turn away from the statements she made about Rhys. He didn’t know if Nesta could call at will the other blades Rhys stored away - he didn’t want to know. Best to plead ignorance for when Rhys asked.

“You spied on me.”

“Azriel spies on everyone all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Cassian shook his head.

“You knew what they were,” she said. “Rhys made me forge them. For what? Do you know? Does Feyre?”

The weight of the months collapsed on him. Cassian sank onto his bed, his head in his hands, a throbbing building up behind his eyes. Silk rustled as Nesta stepped closer until she stood before him. Unlike other times, she didn’t reach out to stroke his hair or reassure with soothing words.

“I do,” he said. “Rhys does. Feyre knows nothing about anything.”

“You kept the truth from me,” Nesta hissed. “Rhys is one thing but you - you’re supposed to be on my side.” Hurt bled through her speech. “There are other lies.”

“I am on your side,” he said but it was weak.

He fought down the innate instinct to rise to Nesta’s accusation, couldn’t fathom why he would want to fight her now when she was right. This must have been some strange twist of the Mother’s design to have him and Nesta spar forever, locked like an ancient god and goddess in battle.

Cassian’s mind was a whirlwind. Rhys extracting promises with his violet eyes glimmering with violence, Amren’s jet-black hair streaked with silver, Az quieter than usual, Mor sobbing, Elain’s nonsensical wailings around the townhouse as though some part of her already knew the outcome of the war.

Through it all had been the lies he’d told Nesta. Omissions regarding her sister, the blades, the reasons why he was visiting Illyria so often. His ears clanged with metal as she forged, he’d ignored her questions and distracted her, ensuring she writhed on his bed covered in their sweat.

He was stained with guilt; he saw it like ink spreading over his skin.

No more lies, whispered a voice, one which poured cooling waters over the fires of his mind. Speak the truth.

“Feyre knows nothing about anything,” he repeated. “That’s what we promised. We wouldn’t tell her, or you, or Elain.” He looked up. Nesta’s frown was one of concern, her mouth slightly parted. Her fingers were twitching.

“You’re creating weapons to put in the hands of the other High Lords,” he said. She nodded as though something suspected had been proven.

“Why are they needed? A war? Rhys hasn’t distributed them. I don’t know where they are but they are together. I can feel them.”

“I don’t know why he hasn’t,” Cassian answered. “But yes, we may go to war.”

“Why?” Her voice was small now. Another war. More death.

A fork existed in the path ahead and the choice was his. Keep lying or speak the truth. If he told Nesta, he could make her swear not to tell Feyre but that was a futile ask. They knew, he and Mor, Nesta would not hide this from her sister.

Nesta stepped towards him, standing between his parted legs and dropped down so she knelt on the floor before him. There was nothing sexual in the movement, her hands on his knees were to show him she was present.

“Tell me.”

So, he did.