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1. 1 - A Blank Slate 

Feyre

         I felt a cold chill drifting from above my covers and I turned, resisting the urge to wake from my dreams. They had been vivid dreams of places I’d never seen before—an aerial view of a beautiful land bordering the sea with snow-capped mountains not far in the distance; a warm, open room with paints and canvases that felt more like home than any place I’d ever lived; a beautiful baby boy with wings like a bat, of all things—my heart seized at that one, an inexplicable visceral reaction that nearly had me waking. But before I woke from the image of the babe, the dream had shifted. I found myself speaking with the most attractive man I’d ever seen, his face backlit by a bonfire of no small size. Just before I woke, my mind settled on the deep breath I took as he held my gaze.  

The strong scent of hyacinths and lilacs piercing through the smoke of the bonfire was characteristic of the spring court. Calanmai , an inner voice seemed to whisper. But Calanmai was two days from now and I hadn’t been invited. That image of the man’s face was so detailed it felt real, like a memory. No, this was undoubtedly a dream–one I wished to continue–but in the same moment I tried to focus on that image, it began to slip from my mind as another scent far less pleasant roused me to consciousness. As I opened my eyes, thinking to relieve myself in the bathroom adjoining the room I’d come to call my own, I found total darkness.

The scent of mildew, rusted iron, and something rotten reached my numb, frigid nose. This was not my room in the spring court. I sat up, all thoughts of sleep abandoned, and noticed the shadowy bars encasing the small space. My heart beat faster. A prison? Had Tamlin finally had enough of me? Slavery , I thought, as my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. But the treaty forbade slavery. My eyes searched for answers as I tried to blink away the darkness, searching for any small amount of light. There. A nearly imperceptible thin line of dull, yellow light bloomed into view; the outline of what looked to be a door at the far end of the room.

My bare feet hit the stone floor, and I flinched at the cold. The bitter chill pervading the space was not something I had felt since my arrival at the spring court. No, this coldness hinted of winter, of the mortal lands . Was I back home?  

         I craned my neck to see past the bars of my small cell and eyed another cell across from mine. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough that I could see red. Bright red hair. That was all I could see of the person lying on a cot with a thin sheet covering the body that faced away from me. 

“Lucien?”

That had to be him—the shoulders looked too broad to be female and the hair seemed to be about his length. No response. 

The cells of this prison were poorly crafted–not at all something that could contain an enraged or even a determined animal. Tamlin could tear these cell doors down without a second thought in his animal form–probably in his high fae form as well. There was dirt and grime everywhere—from the cages, to the floor, to the blackened walls–so unlike the home I’d called my own for the past few months. I was surprised at the number of details I could discern even in this light–as if my eyes could focus on shapes and colors with more clarity than they had in the past. But perhaps that was just the product of fear feeding my troubled mind.

Another cell bordered the one that housed Lucien, this prisoner also turned away from me, but not on a cot. Why was this one on the ground? I saw a glint of gold peaking above the worn, dirty sheet.

“Tamlin?”

It had to be. I felt my heart race as panic set in. Who could imprison a high lord? Who had the power to hold him? Tamlin and Lucien had been so secretive about the curse on the land—the “she” they couldn’t mention. Was it she who had brought this misfortune on my new friends? Had the blight turned spring to winter after imprisoning its high lord? I rushed to the cell bars, clinging tightly to the coarse, rusty metal.

“Tam—”

The figure turned, long locks of golden-brown hair falling to her side. My breath caught as glaring blue-gray eyes met mine. The eyes of my mother. My eyes. 

“What. The fuck. Did you just call me?”

“Nesta?!”

Rhysand  

         From the moment I roused, I knew that something was wrong. The power that normally simmered from the edge of my awareness, waiting to be called upon, was still and mute. I reached toward it with sleepy disorientation, but it drifted away like scattered sand sinking in a pond. And just like that, I was fully awake. I rose from where I lay on the ground to a sitting position and beheld a dark dungeon with dull light dusting the alcove of a barred window high above me. The clinking of metal sounded and I felt the manacles around my wrists before eyeing the long, heavy chains of dark metal that coiled on the ground beside me. Not surprising given my lack of pow— But no. The manacles were not the cold, biting chains I expected. They were warmed to my body temperature. Then why…?

         My head spun before I could fully process the sound of wet, labored breathing behind me. I sprang into a crouch, chains dully clanking, as I turned to see Cassian hanging by his ankles, wings dangling to the ground, his face a beet red. Beside him hung Azriel in the same position, though his eyes were open.

“What happened?” I pulled on the chains unraveling part of the coil beside me to stand. I walked to Azriel’s side with ease, finding still more length in the chain to walk comfortably about the place.

“I’m not sure,” Azriel replied in an even tone. His face was flushed but he looked otherwise uninjured. Cassian, on the other hand, had taken a beating; his nose bent in the wrong direction and dried blood caked his eyebrows. I reached for the Azriel’s cuffed ankle but Azriel jerked his head to Cassian.

“Take care of him first. He’s bleeding all over the place.”

         It was true; a trickle of blood was pooling in the corner of his left eyebrow while most of it dribbled past his forehead. Now these chains–these were gorsian–the reason for Cassian's slow healing. I hissed as I untangled the chains from the hook on the ceiling, the cold stinging my hands, and then lowered Cassian to the ground. I did the same for Azriel. Odd that they would be bound by gorsian chains and not me. And yet, I still had no access to my powers. I searched again for that reservoir and came up empty before growling in frustration.

“Well, my brother of secrets, do you have anything to help me unbind you both?”

         Azriel gazed at me from the ground, eyes inspecting my face before coming to a sitting position. “It has been a long while since you’ve called me that.” I adjusted the manacles, heavy at my wrists, as I waited for his response. He continued, “Do you think I would have been hanging for any amount of time if I had access to my tools? Or my siphons?”

“How long have you been hanging?”

“Hours. At least two of those I’ve been in and out of consciousness.”

“Damn. Well, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long.” Azriel rubbed his temples as his face returned to his normal tan skin-tone. “Seems I always have to save you two,” I said.

         He snorted. It was far from the truth and we both knew it. I took the Gorsian chain binding Cassian’s wrists behind his back, clenching my teeth at the unnatural cold of the metal and then let it go as my eyes searched the cave-like room for a tool to break my brothers free.

“I do wonder at the special treatment. Why you two are bound hand and foot in the most degrading way, and all I get is this.” I gestured to my wrists as the chains jostled. “They didn’t even bother securing my hands behind my back.”

“ Do you wonder?”

“It’s almost like they wanted me to free you.”

“Or perhaps it is because you are the high—” Azriel coughed.  

“The high lord of the Night Court’s son?” I said. “Yes, I suppose my father would forgive my imprisonment so long as I had preferential treatment.” When I looked back at Azriel, his eyes were wide. He coughed again as if choking.

“What’s wrong?” I hurried to his side.

He paused again, frowning. He opened his mouth again but no sound escaped his lips. He coughed again, then seemed to think better of whatever he’d been about to say. “I keep trying to—” He cleared his throat as a bewildered look shone in his eyes and then looked to me as understanding lit his face. “I cannot speak. It’s as if…”

I raised a brow. A curse . He opened his mouth to likely confirm my suspicion, but he met the same fate—choking on his words. He closed his mouth, likely trying to phrase it another way, but nothing. I nodded, trying to open a connection to Azriel’s mind but even this ability was out of my reach.

“I have no access to my powers.”

“None of them?”

“I just tried to speak to your mind.”

Azriel cursed, then said, “Can you remember anything?”

“No. Can you?”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“Well, we were—” And my voice cut off. I had been about to talk about our unextraordinary day at the cabin, but even this information was barred from exiting my mouth. I fought against it but found myself in the same predicament as Azriel. He watched my struggle unfold, eyes glinting in the dim light. Yes, there was a curse. I looked at our source of light filtering through the barred window high above us. What time was it anyway?

“I suppose we will need to keep track of those times where information is deemed too important to share,” Azriel stated.

I nodded, wiping my clammy hands one at a time on my pants as the chains prevented more fluid movement. I felt weak—dizzy, like I’d drunk far too much wine. “I don’t even know who our enemy is.”

“Clearly someone who hates Illyrians.”

“You think? I could think of a few Illyrians... I wouldn’t rule them out completely."

“They hung us up like bats. And they didn’t even bind our wings. An Illyrian foe wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave an opening like that, even if my left wing feels fractured.”

“Assuming they weren’t waiting for you to gain enough strength and wrench yourself free. I do think they expected me to free you.”

I walked around him, crouching to inspect his left wing. I could see a swollen lump at the juncture where his wing met his spine. Most of the wing looked bruised and swollen, and I winced at the sight. As I reached for it, he tucked his wings in closer, cursing as he did. 

“Just find a way to free me from these chains, and it’ll heal.”

I glanced around the dungeon again, looking for any sign of a key or even a solid rock to smash the manacles. Nothing.

The thick wooden door at the end of the dungeon swung open, light momentarily blinding me. I stood with preternatural speed, Azriel attempting the same but his shorter chains prevented the full movement. He settled on a crouch.

“Ah, you’re awake, Rhysand. And you as well! What was it? Azriel?”

Azriel stiffened and I stood a bit straighter, quickly masking my face with cold indifference. The man before me was awash with power that whispered of something old and not from this world.  

“I’m so happy you were able to rest after our encounter last night,” he said in a low, lilting voice. 

“Interesting. I don’t remember that encounter.”

“Ah, yes, some memory loss was an essential part of our bargain.” He signaled to the small tattoo at his elbow, nose crinkling as his lips widened into a smile. “Such a ghastly tradition from the night court—the temporary little bargain tattoos. But fun nonetheless!” The tattoo on his elbow faded away–a glamour, no doubt. 

I resisted the urge to look for my matching tattoo from our supposed bargain. “It seems odd that I would strike a bargain with so much the disadvantage.”

“Indeed. But you did.” His smile widened. The accent was from somewhere in the Faerie Realms, but I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where.

“You seem to have taken any memories I have of you. That, or you’re just forgettable.” I managed a disinterested shrug as a sharp pain tugged at my shoulder blade–it felt like a pulled muscle, but I had a feeling it was a greater injury still healing. I wondered at the injuries I’d suffered from this encounter that still struggled to heal. “Forgive me, but you’ll have to remind me of your name,” I said, voice flat.

The man laughed, an open hearty laugh. “I have taken more than memories, fair Rhysand. Tell me, do you not see any resemblance of my sister in me? Or even my brother? Their scent still trails you… and certain individuals from your party.”

“I know your family?”

“Knew them well enough. Before you brought about their death.” I blinked in surprise but said nothing as I tried to think of who I might have killed or… inadvertently killed…or had killed. His intense stare bore into me and I fought the urge to look away. 

“Ah, this is quite satisfying. The name is Lord Koschei. I rule these lands. Pleased to make your acquaintance once more.” He beamed at both of us, then the unconscious Cassian on the ground. “I just came to check on your progress. I’m a bit disappointed that you still haven’t freed them,” he said to me, pouting. “I suppose I’ll need to help you out a bit before we reconvene with the rest of the group. Patience isn’t my strong suit.”

The manacles on my wrists fell to the ground as Lord Koschei began closing the door.

“The rest?” 

Worry flared in my chest at the thought of who else he might have captured, but I curbed my anger, placing my freed hands in my pockets. My right hand met a biting cold metal object, and I barely reined in my surprise.

“You’ll see your opponent soon enough. Though, I would worry if I were you. She actually managed to free her companions unlike you. And I met with them first.”

The door shut behind him and I pulled a gorsian key from my pocket.

Cassian

         Cassian’s nose was broken, that much was true. He must’ve just been knocked out, but the fact that he was still alive was a relief. The battle had been so close, he wouldn’t be surprised if these were his last thoughts. I need to get up before someone finishes me off. Before he could even open his eyes, he heard voices.     

         Cassian found himself in a dark, damp chamber that smelled like mildew and rot. So he had been captured. The voices spoke again, the sound echoing slightly. He tried to focus on the words, but then his breath caught. I know those voices!

“Az?!” He croaked. “Rhys?!” Perhaps he was dead.

         Two figures appeared at his side, ogling down at him. Rhys was drying his hair with a towel and Azriel’s face was wet as if he were in the middle of washing it. If it weren’t for the dark setting and the feeling that his face had just been smashed in, he would have thought he’d just woken up at the cabin, the months in battle just a horrible nightmare. Something in Cassian’s chest both eased and broke at the sight of them. His brothers. Alive.

Cassian found an arsenal of strength from nowhere as he rose from the ground and seized them both in a tight embrace. His eyes stung and his throat constricted.

“I thought I would never see you again,” he said, voice wavering as a sob threatened to take over.

Azriel and Rhys just stood there, half-heartedly returning the hug, the bastards. But Cassian didn’t care. He just held them tight, staggering slightly as his injuries took on heartbeats of their own.

“Careful,” Azriel warned, gripping Cassian with a stabilizing hand when he finally let them go.

“Good to see you, too, Cass,” Rhys smirked. Cassian held on to Azriel for support as he felt at the bruises on his ribs and torso.

“You should sit down before you hurt yourself,” Rhys said. Prick.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Azriel said, before guiding Cassian back to the ground. Cassian groaned as he clutched his ribs. Azriel spoke again, a probing tone to his voice, “You were worried you wouldn’t see us again?”

“Yeah, I always look among the dead for you after every b—” Cassian coughed, then winced at the pain the cough triggered in his jaw.

“Battle?” Azriel finished. Cassian nodded and then Azriel’s head dipped in understanding. Cassian opened his mouth to say more but felt as though something was pressing down on his throat, stopping him.

“What battle?” Rhys asked.

Azriel retreated to the far end of the room and Rhys followed him, a frown narrowing brows, as he left Cassian’s side. “Where the fuck are we?” Cassian called, voice cracking with the effort.

“I’ll explain in a second,” Azriel called back.

“You’ve figured something out,” Rhys accused Azriel. He was ignoring Cassian, and it stung a bit that neither of them seemed to be as happy to see him. He wiped at the wetness gathering under his nose, and his hand came away with a mixture of wet and drying blood. 

“Yes,” Az said, returning to Cassian with a lump of something in his hands. Cassian rubbed his eyes and felt a powdery dust rain from his eyebrows.

“Tell me,” Rhys demanded.

“I can try. But it may be difficult.”

Az handed Cassian a damp cloth. “Here, you’re covered in blood and your nose is still broken.”

He took the cold, wet cloth and let it soak against his eyes, then his nose. There was a sore spot on his cheek and he let it settle there. 

“Let me set it.” Before Cassian could object, Azriel removed the cloth from Cassian’s face, grabbed the bridge of his nose, and yanked. Cassian yelped as a wet, cracking noise sounded and bright lights danced in his eyes, the pain sharp enough to bring him back to the ground. As he lay on his back, fresh blood cascaded down his cheeks to his earlobes. Azriel crouched beside him, holding the wet cloth in Cassian’s hand up to his nostrils, as he inspected his handiwork. Seemingly satisfied, he stood again and returned his attention to Rhysand who still was drying his hair. Cassian spat blood on the ground.

“I’ll try to explain,” Azriel said. Cassian tried to follow their conversation as the cloth soaked up more blood. Azriel would open his mouth then close it and then try again, looking as though he might shout. He swore, glaring at the ground before continuing. “Your last memory is different from my last memory which is different from Cassian’s last memory.”

Cassian wiped at his face again, letting the cold cloth lie on that tender spot on his cheekbone. Azriel looked down at Cassian’s face before snatching the towel out of Rhys’s hands and handing it to Cassian.

“You gave me one already,” Cassian said, holding up the rag. He spat out more blood to the side, watching it speckle Rhys’s boots, then wiped his face again.

“You’re smearing blood all over your face,” Azriel said.

Rhys crouched down and wiped Cassian’s face off with the new towel. “You look terrible.”

Cassian flipped him off and Rhys just sniggered. “Just tell me what’s going on,” Cassian said, nose fully blocked by blood and mucus. 

Rhys leaned against the wall by Cassian’s feet as he seated himself, “Apparently I made a bargain that drained me of my power and some recent memories. I would assume you two did as well or agreed to it since none of us remember how we got here. So your last memory is not actually the most recent event in our lives.”

Cassian thought back to all the bloodshed. “So we all survived the—” Cassian struggled to finish his thought. 

“Yes, we did,” Azriel confirmed. Cassian’s eyes stung as he looked at his friends. Azriel put a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, his gaze softening. “We did. And we won.”

The tears collecting in Cassian’s eyes fell freely. They had won. And they had all survived.

“What did we win? Are you talking about the rite?” Rhys asked. Cassian gaped at Rhysand and he noticed Azriel doing the same. 

“Well, I knew about that one,” Rhys chuckled. “Your memories must be farther removed than mine. That was two m—… Two… ” He couldn’t finish the thought.

“Two months ago?” Azriel asked. Rhys nodded and Cassian frowned at him. Someone had wiped Rhys’s memories to that long ago? How many memories were missing from his own mind?

“Like I said, we don’t remember exactly what brought us to this dungeon besides Lord Koschei, and all our memories are different,” Az continued.

“Who?” Cassian asked.

“Lord Koschei–the Lord of the Lake,” Rhys repeated and Cassian said nothing as his mind struggled to grasp this new information. “You know, my father would be furious to know you haven’t listened to a word he’s said—”

“I know who Koschei is, asshole. I was just… surprised. That’s that sorcerer who cursed all those human women into birds, right?”

“So the legends say,” Azriel said.

 Rhys laughed mockingly. “Glad you’re listening to my mother at least. Bedtime stories and all.” 

Azriel smiled though it looked as if it pained him. “She told the best stories.”

Rhys smiled, but then hesitated, confused.

“Wait a minute. Isn’t he bound to the Lake?” Cassian asked.

“Yes,” Azriel said.

“So is he unbound… or are we not in Prythian any longer?”

“We’re in his domain, so I’m guessing he’s still bound… though I can’t be certain,” Azriel said. Rhys stood and walked a few steps away from the group, but Azriel continued, “If I had to guess at the timeline for our memories, my best guess would be that I have the most recent memories, you have the second most recent memories, and Rhys barely remembers anything at all.”

Rhys stopped mid-walk, but said nothing as he faced away from them.

“And before this moment, we bargained for something important. We must have been desperate to bargain away our memories as well as the ability to share vital information. We were all chained here before Koschei entered this dungeon, allowing our release from those chains.” He pointed to the pile of chains on the ground at the center.

“And I took a beating for the group? You two don’t appear to be injured.”

Cassian mopped at his face again with the rag, trying to make sense of everything. They must have been only recently released if they were still in the process of cleaning themselves.

“Use the clean rag. Well, cleaner. Here,” Azriel reached for the rag that Rhys had discarded.

“Wait, you just left me on the ground, bloody and injured while you two washed up?”

Azriel looked at his feet, “The wash basin only just appeared before you woke up. I was just about to—”

“Rhys was washing his hair !”

Rhys returned to the group, face contorted, hands in fists, and breaths shallow. “Tell me I’m imagining things.”

Azriel stood at attention, his stance widening as if readying for an attack.

“Tell me you weren’t looking at me with pity when you said my mother told the best stories.”

Azriel cursed under his breath. Rhys's eyes shimmered, a battle between grief and rage on his face.

“What happened to my mother?”

Nesta

Feyre, Lucien, and Nesta had looked everywhere for the key to the manacle around her neck that was about the width of four of her fingers. It unfortunately slowed her rapid fae healing, the bruises around her neck from the previous night smarting with every turn. She clawed at the thing as Feyre tried to place a rag between the chain and her. It immediately felt better at the places where she’d managed to insert the dirty rag, the cold no longer stinging.

“Thank you,” Nesta said.

Again, Feyre looked taken aback at her thanks. It was starting to get old, the surprise Feyre showed at every basic, decent thing Nesta did. She resisted rolling her eyes.

“I wish you could tell me who did that to you,” Feyre said again, eyes narrowing at the bruises peeking out from behind the thick manacle. If Feyre could only see the bruises at her ribs, now those were nasty. Nesta had tried and failed to explain how her injuries came to be: “the lord,” “our host,” “the pervert in charge.” Nothing surrounding their capture or bargain was allowed to pass her lips. So she shrugged.

“We need to find…our sister,” Nesta said, annoyed for the millionth time that she couldn’t say Elain’s name.

Lucien mumbled, “So you’ve said. Multiple times. And we also need to find the High Lord of the Night Court as well as his Illyrian cronies.” Lucien sat on his cot, leaning forward with elbows resting on his knees, the door to his cell ajar. 

Lucien was getting on her last nerves. His memories of them were taken, though thankfully, Feyre still had memories of him and Prythian. It was exhausting enough to try and explain things past Tamlin, let alone the basics of faerie-kind. Just as Lord Koschei had promised, the sharing of information was limited, and they had all agreed to it. Watching it unfold though—it made Nesta want to shake them both. Despite being able to work around the curse and explain their predicament, Feyre continued to try and share forbidden information—information, which Nesta already knew—and came up gagging due to the curse. Lucien was mostly quiet.

Nesta had only explained, “Neither of you remember anything.”  

“And you do?” Feyre had asked, an edge to her voice.

“Yes. Everything.”

“Then do us a favor, and share,” Lucien had drawled.

“I cannot. For the exact same reason you cannot,” Nesta replied.  

“How very convenient for you,” he said.  

“You think I’m hiding something?” Nesta wanted to throttle him with all his snide remarks.

“I don’t know either of you. Why would I trust anything you have to say when I awoke with no memory of how I arrived in a prison cell?”  

“We’re both locked in here with you!”

“For all I know you both deserve to be here. They took the precaution of manacling just you with that abominable metal—” 

Nesta laughed, “So you think I’m a threat?” 

“I do.”

“That’s the first smart observation you’ve had.”

Lucien scoffed as Nesta continued, “You know, if anyone looks like a criminal in this party, it would have to be the male with the ghastly scar and revolting metal eye— "

Lucien stood, hands balled into fists at this point, and Feyre held up placating hands, “Nesta, he has every right to question our motives. You don’t know Lucien like I do. He’s—”

“Like I said, I do know him. Him and your former lover,” she spat.

“Former lover?”

Nesta fought against the magical restraint on her voice as she tried to say his name but then took another path: “You mistook me for him upon awakening.”

Feyre’s cheeks grew red at that, and Nesta felt sick. She had no memory of what that asshole had done to her. Worse, she had no memories of Rhysand. “Tamlin’s not my former lover. He’s never been my lover… We don’t have anything like that.”

Lucien’s mouth curved into a wicked grin, “You have a tryst with the High Lord of Spring?”

“No,” Feyre said, a shade defensively. “We’re just friends.”

Nesta felt her lips turn downward, “Oh, it was much more than a tryst. Good thing it… Good thing it is no longer. He’s a disgrace.”

Lucien looked away and shrugged, “I’ve only heard good things about him.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, “High fae are all the same. All in love with the most powerful amongst themselves.”

Lucien’s gaze turned dark. “You speak as if you’re not high fae yourself. Not to mention you’re the one looking for the most powerful prick in Prythian. Speak for yourself.”

“I’m not looking for him for myself.” She had glanced pointedly at Feyre. “I only care about one male in that regard, and he’s Illyrian. And I’m not truly high fae.”

Lucien had laughed at that. “Then what are you? Illyrian as well? I don’t see any wings.”

Feyre had looked between them, confused. That had been an awkward conversation as well. Feyre had gasped at Nesta’s pointed ears and new body the moment she had found the keys to the cells. Nesta couldn’t even use the word “made” in the context of her past let alone explain Feyre’s own making once Nesta had shown Feyre a surface reflective enough to see her new fae body. They’d managed something of an understanding through garbled one-word exchanges, but she knew Feyre was still very confused. It was probably a good thing that Koschei had glamoured the removal of all her tattoos because that would have probably taken much longer to explain. 

Nesta returned to the current conversation at hand. “Their names are Cassian and Azriel. If you call them ‘cronies’ or ‘Illyrian brutes’ one more time, I will lock you back up and let you rot in this place.”

“Nesta!” Feyre looked apologetically toward Lucien who only forced a grin.

Then, the door to the room opened, revealing Lord Koschei. Bobbing fae lights materialized, lighting the room, and Feyre, who had stood by the entrance to her cell, moved to the space between their cells, directly in the path before Koschei as if readying for a fight. Both Lucien and Nesta joined her at her side. She could feel his power radiating from him—an irresistible pull that captured all of her attention. She thought he must have magnified that power, because even looking away from him to glance at her companions was difficult at that moment. 

He had a passably attractive face, though forgettable among the fae. He was of average height, paler than most, and he looked old for the fae despite the dark hair and smooth skin. His clothing was the most distinct: a long scarlet coat with tails and a pale lavender ruffled shirt peeking past the gold embossed lapels. It was a style from another time.

“My dears!” The male said, eyes sparkling as he addressed both Feyre and Nesta. It was as if Lucien didn’t exist. “You escaped from your first challenge.” He had a slight accent that Nesta had heard once before from a merchant her father had dealings with long ago, before Feyre could even speak full sentences. “I’m not surprised you managed.”

“Who are you?” Feyre asked, no hint of fear in her voice or stance. Koschei walked into the cell so that he was standing right before Feyre, four female guards following close behind. In response, Feyre moved slightly in front of Nesta, as if shielding her from danger. Nesta felt the familiar dregs of shame well up at that—she never should have let her younger sister take on the role of provider and protector.  

“Forgive me! Introductions are in order! I’m Lord Koschei, your most humble host—”

“And captor,” Nesta mumbled.

“—and the most powerful being on all the continents.” He held out his hand to Feyre and after an awkward pause Feyre offered her hand in return. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it gently before releasing her. “You are far from home, but I hope to make this stay as comfortable as possible. Your memories, as you may have discovered, are not fully intact, but it is an agreement we have all come to willingly.”

Nesta scoffed. Willingly and out of desperation were two different things entirely. 

“If I do not have my memories, how am I to fulfill my end of the agreement?” Feyre asked, inconspicuously wiping her hand on the back of her trousers. 

“You already are, dear,” Koschei said, a fondness to his smile as he stepped even closer to Feyre. His hand reached forward as if he would touch her face, but before Nesta could slap that hand away, Lucien spoke.

“You said this was a challenge?”

Koschei lowered his hand to finally acknowledge Lucien’s presence. “It was a mini-challenge of sorts—"

“Where is my sister?” Nesta demanded.

“She’s right next to you—”

“My other—” But Koschei held up a hand and the sound halted in Nesta’s throat. Nesta had found upon awakening that she couldn’t even speak Elain’s name without the gagging effect taking place, but she could communicate the word “sister” without issue.

“I am not welcoming any more questions right now—”

“Where did you put h—” Nesta demanded.

He held up another finger and her voice cut off again.

“Speak out of turn, dear, and I’ll put a gag on that pretty little mouth.” He leered at her with open challenge in his eyes, then looked her up and down appraisingly. Nesta felt herself back away from him, a well of disgust and something else bubbling up from his lusty approval. He clapped twice and two of the guards left briefly, before returning to the room carrying a large chest.

“Tonight is a ball. A glorious ball such as one we have not seen for some time. All my subjects will attend and so will you! I’ve provided the appropriate attire.”

“Is this another ‘challenge’?” Lucien asked.

“Oh, no! The ball is just for fun. Dress the part, please,” then he looked back at Nesta, a coy smile, “and I’ll make sure your sister is there… the other one.”

While his gaze was off-putting, Nesta felt a weight ease off her chest. She hadn’t realized she’d been living with that extra weight since Elain’s disappearance days ago. So she was here. She was safe. It was part of the bargain, but to know she’d actually see her—

“Oh, and this will be a masquerade. I’ve provided masks for you all.”

“I’d rather not attend,” Lucien remarked.

The Lord seemed to savor the moment, like a snake who had just cornered three, helpless mice. “You have no choice.”

Chapter Text

1. 2 - A Dinner and a Contest

Feyre  

Nesta held up the note and read aloud, “Come dressed for the festivities or risk penalties.” There were three masks at the top—a gray-black wolf mask, a vermeil lion mask, and a russet fox mask. The fox mask was far less intricate than the one Lucien had previously worn, but it was odd to see it among all the masks he could have provided. What was this Koschei playing at? The clothes folded beneath matched the coloration of the masks—a faded black gown that seemed small enough for a child, a tent-like, golden gown, and a red suit with copper trim. We both eyed the gowns, incredulous. 

At the bottom of the trunk was a small key that I used to free Nesta from the choker. The black and purple bruises on Nesta’s neck were worse than I dared imagine–some finger-shaped–and I heard myself hiss at the sight. Koschei or whoever did this would pay for putting their hands on my sister. 

“Are we supposed to fit into these?” Nesta asked, holding up both gowns.

I surveyed both gowns and frowned. They both bore a much older fashion—corsets hooking into the bodice and skirts that puffed out from the waist to drape down to the ground. Though the black one looked as if it would only reach my knees. I would much rather face this lord in the tight clothing I wore now–form-fitting though it was–ball or not. Nesta had called them “fighting leathers” and I liked how freely I could move in them. They would be great for hunting. 

“Well, you’re taller than me. I suppose you should have the larger one?” I said.

Lucien had wisely retreated to his own cell, facing away from us as he changed, and I briefly saw a flash of his tan skin before his dress shirt fell over his torso. I quickly looked away, still marveling at his face, no longer masked. He was handsome as I'd suspected– “ghastly scar” and all. It made me wonder for the millionth time how Tamlin looked under his mask. 

 I’d asked about the blight after noting the mask’s absence, and he seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. His memories it seemed were farther back than mine. Perhaps the blight had ended then–the curse upon all the magic of Prythian. So much for escaping one curse only to fall under another. One that impacted me this time. And one I couldn't quite grasp–some of the things I tried to share with Nesta had been so trivial, but the curse prevented their utterance.

I placed the small dress over my head. As I struggled into my gown, arms above my head and halfway into the garment, I called to Nesta, “Can you—" My voice muffled through the black fabric.

I felt warmth at my sides as she tugged the garment down, and when my head emerged again in the now lit room, it felt as if my arms were tightly bound in the sleeves–a prison in its own right. Just as I let my arms drop to my sides, I heard a ripping noise and felt a slight easing of pressure around my armpits. Lucien sniggered and I glared in his direction, but he was facing the other way. Not only would the arms barely allow for much movement, but the torso was also restricting. I could barely breathe.

“Help me loosen the corset,” I breathed to Nesta.

“It’s the dress, not the corset,” Nesta grunted, struggling with the corset underneath.

“This is humiliating.”

“You look… fine.”

I looked down at the hem of the dress which fell somewhere between mid-calf and my ankles. Fully dressed in the suit that fit him well enough, Lucien finally turned our way. The style of his clothing was also old—close-fitting pants that cut into his upper calves, the long, tight stockings also emphasizing his lower legs. He saw me staring and winked before bowing his head in a mocking grin. Then he sauntered over as he looked me up and down, a villainous smile adorning his lips, and doubled over with laughter. The embarrassment I’d previously felt turned to ice.

I snatched the lion’s mask off the top of the clothing pile and hurled it at his smug mouth, but just at that moment, he had moved to cover his mocking laughter, and so it hit him right on the top of his head with a loud crack before rebounding toward the ceiling with speed.  

“Ow!” He yelped, shooting back to full height. I eyed the mask now laying halfway between us and frowned, confused at the force of that hit—perhaps it was heavier than I realized? His watering eyes narrowed at me as he rubbed his head, red hair bunching up in tufts.

“Want to switch?” I asked, “He just said we needed to dress for the festivities. You could wear this instead.” I flared the skirts, presenting the hideous option.

“Oh, I’d never do it justice. That dress was made for you.” Grimace gone, he smiled a full, toothy smile and then snorted into his sleeve.

“Shut up, Lucien,” Nesta said.

“Your turn, Nesta,” Lucien said her name with sneering enunciation, and then wandered back to his cot to give us privacy.

Nesta’s gown looked like a child’s tent hanging from her fist. After placing it over her head, she held onto the neckline, not trusting the wrist-sized straps at the shoulders. Though the length fell right to her ankles—an appropriate length for this style—the girth was far too large. The image reminded me of Elain trying on one of our mother’s gowns as a child. Our best bet would be to tighten the bodice with the strings of the inset corset sewn into it. I folded back the dark fabric panel hiding the laces and went to work, pulling on the strings, one by one, until finally, it stayed in place… before sliding down ever so slowly.

“This won’t stay on,” Nesta panicked. She took a step and both of the straps flopped to the sides of her arms as the dress inched lower.

“It’s as tight as it goes!” Still, I flexed my fingers, ready to try again.

“Here, let me help.” And then Lucien was there at my side, shouldering me out of his immediate space, as I dumbly moved out of the way. Lucien worked with nimble fingers, pulling back the ribbing, then tucking a panel of the corset behind that so that it folded underneath. Then he tugged each string with strength and ease. When he finished, he prodded her with a hand on the shoulder, guiding her to turn his way.

“How’s that?”

“...Better,” she finally said. We both stared at him.

“It should be tighter than this. And by that, I mean that breathing shouldn’t be easy. But now at least, it won’t fall off if you twirl in a dance, let alone if you walk two steps.”

At that moment, the left strap of the dress fell off her shoulder and she propped it back up.

“What about this? Can you fix my straps too?”

“Not my specialty. Though there is a sewing kit he left us.” He handed me the cloth packet as if I knew what to do with it.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I asked.

“Where do you think I learned to do that?” A corner of his mouth twitched.

“Never mind. I don’t want to know,” I said.

Lucien snorted. “I used to help my mother with her corsets when I was a boy. It’s a fashion my father is fond of, so she owns many. She wears them to all court functions.”

“You didn’t have servants to do that?” Nesta asked.

He bristled. “Of course, we had servants, but like many younglings, I wanted to try my hand at something I had no business doing. I watched the servants and when I asked to take a stab at it, she permitted my assistance, no matter that it took longer with my help. I got pretty good at it before my father banned me from her rooms.”

I glimpsed a deep well of emotion in eyes despite his neutral face. This was the same father who had killed his lover.

“Why would he do that?” Nesta asked.

“He thought I spent too much time with her.”

Feyre

Nesta, Lucien, and I followed the armed sentry to a ballroom already full of guests. Lucien refused to wear the fox mask that matched his outfit—penalties be damned—but Nesta and I wore ours. Per Nesta’s request, I had fashioned some extra lace–a belt designed for my gown that I didn’t need–into a cloth choker to hide her bruises. The mask obscured part of my peripheral vision, but I was grateful for something to hide my face with the too-small dress so that I could pretend I wasn’t myself as we walked past staring servants with dark circles under their eyes. Nesta tugged on her left strap that continued to fall to her arm. Her right strap was tighter now—I’d managed to stitch it into a more secure position by bunching the fabric together in the back before they’d come to fetch us—but it was a temporary fix. I’d stashed the sewing kit in my boot before they hauled us away, intent on doing more to secure the strap, though my skill with sewing was rudimentary at best.

A gathering of servants crowded the entrance, and I looked to the walls of the hallway which were stained in places—dark smudges where empty sconces and their torches once stood. Dust gathered in the corners, and the general air about the place was stuffy. Just as I made eye-contact with a servant standing at the entrance, I tripped but caught myself before falling. I winced as I heard another tearing noise in my dress. When I looked down, I noticed a large groove in the wooden floor. It was badly warped in the place I’d tripped. Much of the floor was grooved and warped. Worse than that, it bore a sticky black residue in places, though the open ballroom ahead was mostly clear of the stuff—the wood a lighter brown, polished and gleaming.

My eyes darted across the wide expanse of the room lit by dozens of bobbing faelights and a large chandelier at the center. Four thin, long tables lined the perimeter with mostly female courtiers sitting on the outer edge. The middle of the space was occupied by a sizeable oval table holding a large array of steaming dishes. At its center sat the largest bird I’d ever seen–around the size of a hound–while a beautiful, middle-aged woman wearing a greasy apron stood by the side, waiting. Empty plates lay before the attendees. 

The people in the ballroom were dressed in the same centuries-old fashion—large billowing gowns for the ladies, coattails and tight stockings for the males. There were far fewer males than females—about one for every ten females. I noticed with some relief that we weren’t the only ones wearing ill-fitting clothing, though the gowns Nesta and I wore seemed to be among the most extreme examples. Did this land not have any seamstresses?

Some of the courtiers wore masks, though some did not, and I noted that the women without masks were exquisite—the faces of goddesses on mostly human women. My eyes roved the ballroom and found a curious group of males seated at the other end of the hall. Two had dark wings protruding from their backs, though their faces and bodies were of normal high fae proportions, unlike the winged, dying fae male I’d seen only weeks ago. They were all masked and one of them was shirtless except for a vest thrown over his muscled chest.

I was mistaken in my first assessment—the clothing of these males appeared to be just as poor fitting as our dresses. Tall and muscular, of a warrior's build, they sat at the edge of the long table unbothered by their state of undress. The sleeves of their shirts came down to their elbows and strained against their muscles. My eyes darted to the bare pectorals peeking from the shirtless male. He was… very muscular, perhaps the bulkiest of them. He caught my stare from beneath his mask, and I looked away, glad for my own mask as it hid the heat rising to my face.

“Ah, my new guests!” Koschei waved at us from the center of the head table, that same power radiating from him. I heard Nesta gasp. Seated beside him was Elain, dressed in a fine beige ball gown with a petticoat beneath that matched the brown of her eyes. She looked up at us with narrowed brows, which then lifted as surprise lit her features. I saw her mouth our names. Nesta? Feyre?

Nesta

Relief flooded Nesta at the sight of Elain, alive and well. Part of the bargain had included her safety—since he wouldn’t admit what he’d done with her, but she knew that “safe” could mean anything—safely tucked away in a dungeon, safely on the brink of starvation, safely shivering somewhere in the dark. No injuries marred her clean, beautiful face.

“We almost started without you!” Koschei said.

No one spoke or reacted to his words. There was a tight energy in the air—and Nesta felt that force outside of her pull her attention back to him. She eyed Elain who seemed confused at Nesta’s and Feyre’s appearance. Perhaps Elain was under some glamour, because Elain had not taken part in the bargain; she wasn’t there when it took place. Or perhaps she had agreed to something in private? Vassa was seated on Koschei’s other side, and she stared at Lucien with an intensity that he seemed oblivious to.

“Please. Sit!” He gestured to the three open seats at the end of one table that was perpendicular to the Lord’s table and was directly across from Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel. It was an interesting arrangement–a rectangle of tables where the people sat on the outside, while the food and waiters were positioned on the inside. Her eyes shot back to the Illyrians. Why isn’t Cassian wearing a shirt? It was odd seeing him without his tattoos–his warm, tan skin looked even more naked without them. She could still see signs of bruising peeking out from under the mask he wore, and she wished she could just touch him–make sure he was okay.

An attendant cleared her throat and she realized that Feyre and Lucien were already seated. Feyre shared a corner of the rectangular seating arrangement with a female sporting a modern, low-cut gown. Lucien sat beside Feyre. An open seat lay next to Lucien and a female who looked a bit like Amren. Nesta stared intently at Cassian once more, willing him to just make eye-contact as she reluctantly sat in the seat beside Lucien, but Cassian just stared at his empty plate. She could have sworn a single tear slid past his mask.

What is going on?

But Cassian wouldn’t look her way. She changed her focus then, eyeing Azriel who caught her stare.

“You know me,” she tried to communicate with her gaze—but his eyes behind the plain mask betrayed nothing; no reassurance or even a shimmer of recognition. Perhaps he also didn’t remember… but no, he was a good actor; good at cards too. Known for not betraying his feelings. He could be pretending. She couldn’t be the only one who… Then she looked at Rhys—the most powerful of them all. He would see Feyre, and be unable to hide his affection for her. She was his only weakness after all. But he only glanced her way, met Nesta’s gaze briefly, then looked positively bored.

Nesta felt as though the breath had been knocked clean from her. She had hoped that perhaps Rhys’s magic could defy the bargain they’d made to wipe their memories, just as hers had, but that did not appear to be the case. Could she truly be the only one who knew anything?

“These are your opponents,” Koschei spoke again, his attention on Rhysand as he gestured toward Nesta’s group. Again, she felt that tug for her attention. Nesta glared at the lord. She would kill him—she would kill the sick bastard and anyone who worked for him. The lord continued, “You must beat them in a majority of the challenges I set for you to win your freedom. But before we begin our festivities for the evening, we must eat!”

He nodded to the middle-aged woman at the center. She spoke with a smooth, slightly guttural accent, “The rolls are rye. The soup is onion. The goose is local.”

Then she carved into a fowl the size of Elain. The woman must be the chef then. Attendants rushed to the tables, whispering to the courtiers gathered around the edges as the chef filled a plate with a leg of the fowl as well as a large chunk from the center before plating the rest with a selection of breads and fruits. She delivered the plate to the Lord who dug in immediately. Nesta tried again to make eye-contact—this time with Elain—but Elain was busy speaking to the chef.

Nesta longed to speak with someone—anyone—who might also know the truth. Planning their escape would be easier if she had an ally who knew the twisted reality of the challenges they faced. How could she do this alone? As her panic started to sink into a feeling of helplessness, a part of her bristled. A few months of companionship and belonging and suddenly you can’t think straight when you’re back to square one? This should be easy for you.  

And just like that, her racing heart settled and she felt like the woman she’d always been and the valkyrie she’d trained to be. 

Nesta’s eyes tracked an attendant who had come close to their table from the other side, bearing a bottle of wine. He poured the wine into their glasses as he addressed Feyre who was tugging at the sleeve of her too-small dress.

“What would you like, madam?” He had the same accent as the Lord.  

Feyre hesitated, but then asked, “What would you recommend?”

The attendant paused before whispering, “Not the goose.”

Feyre nodded, no hint of surprise on her face as she ordered her plate. Feyre was so calm in the face of uncertainty, but perhaps knowing nothing would have been easier. Nesta could also be level-headed–she’d faced terrible things before and she’d managed just as well.

The attendant whisked away to the center table, filling a plate with the food Feyre had indicated. Nesta watched as other attendants did the same for others, noting that others’ plates were similarly goose-less. Lucien was just about to order his plate when Nesta nudged him with her elbow. “Don’t get the goose.”

Lucien paused before speaking, his voice low as he cleaned his cutlery.  

“I have keen hearing. It comes with being Fae. But thank you all the same.” He smiled magnanimously, then turned his attention to the server as he swirled the wine in his cup, sniffing it lightly before ordering the same thing as Feyre. She wanted to punch him. Is this how he had treated Feyre? How could she have called this male a friend… this patronizing, pompous—

“Don’t drink the wine,” he said nonchalantly from the side of his mouth.

Feyre choked. “I already had some.” Her eyebrows knit together. 

Turning fully toward her sister on his other side, Lucien exclaimed, “By the cauldron, Feyre! Can’t you wait until I’m served?!”

“Is it poisoned?” Nesta asked.

“No, but let’s just say you won’t make wise choices this evening.” Though he chided her sister, Nesta noted the warmth there that hinted of friendship. A warmth that was totally absent in his attitude toward Nesta despite the fact that he didn’t remember Feyre. But people did seem to warm to Feyre in ways they never did with Nesta. “Just stick with me, and I’ll make sure you don’t do something you’ll regret,” Lucien said.

“Or stick with me,” Nesta said.

Lucien shrugged. “Sure.”

Azriel

         Azriel surveyed the room again—a hideous, dilapidated space that looked like it was only upheld by magic. Cracks marred the corners of the room, and the floor appeared to have water damage. For a powerful once-God, he seemed to have little power or interest in the upkeep of his castle, though Azriel wondered if Koschei even had the finances to renovate the place. Though in his estimation, it would be better to just knock it down and rebuild. The “opponents” who had entered were dressed in similarly ill-fitting clothing, and he noted the hidden, lithe strength of the three individuals in their movement and posture. He would not be surprised if they were trained fighters, particularly the females. The female with the lion’s mask had stared at him like she was trying to talk to him mind-to-mind, though nothing had bumped against his awareness. He tried to reinforce his shields, but then remembered he had no access to his powers.

Azriel’s eyes followed the chef as she served the host and the host’s lady. The chef had a slight tremor in her hands as she served the gorgeous young lady, and then without warning, Koschei snatched the plate from her hands. He couldn’t hear what the Lord said but then the chef turned on her heel and exited the ballroom. He watched the pretty middle-aged woman’s face crumple as she departed, a hand over her mouth. What had happened that the chef needed to be dismissed?

A female courtier sitting to the right of the other female opponent with the wolf mask caught his eye, her gaze inviting. She wore no mask, and her violet dress was of a modern style he appreciated—the low cut emphasizing her delicate skin. She was very pretty. So were most of the women he could see. His eyes were tracking the servants across the room, trying to make out the whispered words one said to another, when he saw Cassian take a goblet of wine to his lips. He’d barely registered the servants pouring his brother the wine. His hand shot out past Rhys to grab him, but it was too late.

“Wait ,” Azriel hissed.

Cassian had already swallowed half the wine in his goblet, when Rhys laid a commanding hand on Cassian’s wrist. Cassian lowered the goblet, proffering it to Azriel. Azriel sniffed and the strong scent of Paenouing thistle drifted to his nose amid the smell of cheap wine.  

“It is not poison,” the waiter protested, a thick, guttural sound on his tongue that Azriel could place as a regional accent—likely a village that bordered Vallhallen, just based on the way he swallowed certain vowels.

“Paenouing thistle,” Azriel announced.

“This is not an uncommon additive—”

“It is rude to not announce to guests the type of wine you are serving,” Rhysand spoke with chilling dispassion.

Azriel mimicked Rhysand’s tone. “Most karnalwines have a slight scent. This is reeking of the stuff.”

“I… promise it is not poison…” the waiter trembled.

“Is there anything else?” Cassian asked. “Or is it just the thistle?”

Azriel sniffed again and then nodded. Cassian finished the knuckle of wine at the base of his glass, and then proffered the empty cup to the waiter. The waiter filled the goblet and rushed away, the beat of his heart loud to Azriel’s ears. “Thank you,” Cassian called to the waiter, then under his breath, “I could use a distraction.”

Nesta

 Nesta’s eyes found Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel again and she noted that they had already been served. Neither Rhys nor Azriel had touched their food, but Cassian had. Nesta tried to catch his eye as he downed another full glass of wine in one gulp, and saw with frustration that he was lifting his hand to call for the waiter again. Azriel whispered something to Rhys and Rhys whispered to Cassian who was already feasting on the white meat of the bird. Nesta’s heart seized, panic gripping her. Cassian stopped mid-bite, eying the rest of the gathered crowd. Trust Azriel to notice the pattern. Was it poisoned? But the Lord was eating it without any issues.

She continued to watch, barely touching the food on her plate, as her thoughts raced from disaster to disaster. Maybe he hadn’t eaten that much? Rhysand and Azriel ate around their servings of the goose, faces devoid of emotion. Of course Cassian was eating and drinking the food and wine of their enemy without a care in the world.

“ Stop it ,” Nesta said under her breath.

Lucien looked up from his plate. “What?”

Nesta shook her head, still watching Cassian. Rhys said something under his breath to Cassian who responded by gulping down another glass of wine. Then Rhys grabbed Cassian’s arm, a dark cast to his eyes, but Cassian shoved him away. Nesta could almost hear the menace in Rhysand's voice; she too had been a recipient of that look and knew his threatening tone all too well. Cassian met Rhysand’s glare, his lips turning downward with disdain, and looked as if he was about to strike the High Lord. Her heart raced, but then she remembered that Rhys did not have access to his powers.

This… might be a fair match. More than fair. She smiled at the thought of Cassian facing a version of Rhysand without his magic. He would pummel the bastard. And hopefully teach him a little humility. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. But then Cassian set the goblet down.

Of course. Obedient to a fault.

That pull came again and she turned to Koschei as he spoke again to a quieting room.  “I have a tradition in my court of allowing my most talented subjects to perform for me. Normally there is a prize for the winner, but tonight I will be ranking the performances. Choose one amongst your group to compete in this competition of talent. I don’t expect you to win the competition—my ladies are very talented—but you must outrank your competitors. Oh, and for my ladies, as you well know,  absolutely no magic , unless you are summoning the supplies for your act or helping another performer in this fashion.”

The crowd widened, all subjects silently gathering at the perimeter. Nesta watched as her plate of barely touched food disappeared and then the table as well. She stood, following the guests as the chairs disappeared with the table. 

As Nesta and her group were ushered to the walls behind them, Koschei paused to look at Feyre, then Nesta, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

“Yes, I think you will go third.” He then turned his attention to the males. “You can go fourth. If you need any supplies for your act, please inform my assistant.” He gestured to the woman standing behind them in a full suit of armor. 

“What are we going to do for this challenge?” Lucien asked, his voice low as he looked between Feyre and Nesta.

Nesta sighed, “I can do this one but I’ll need some music.” Then she conferred with the guard, asking for the accompaniment of a musician.

Cassian  

         Cassian had barely paid attention to the Lord. The wine was doing its work—a fuzzy haze finally settling over him. He was still reeling from the news of Rhys’s mother’s passing, the inside of his chest feeling as raw as his throat. Rhys was also in a state—his eyes had gone dark as he backed Azriel against the wall, demanding answers. He could only imagine the tremors that would be shaking the building if he still had his magic. Cassian would have helped him level the prison to the ground if he had access to his siphons. It had taken Azriel some time to explain what had happened—the curse preventing him from speaking freely—but they had some idea that another court had killed her.

Rhys and Cassian had been interrupted from their plans of vengeance as an impatient guard had informed them that they were supposed to be dressed in the clothing provided for them. None of the tops had been tailored for wings, and while Azriel had made slits in the backs of two shirts with the tiny sewing kit provided, Cassian hadn’t bothered. They had taken away the torn, bloodied shirt he’d been wearing upon awakening, and he decided against the tiny shirt. He wore the vest–the only thing he could fit around his wings. All of them were surprised to find their tattoos missing. Azriel guessed that it was glamour since even the bargain tattoo for this challenge was nowhere to be seen.

None of it really mattered though. The gaping hole in his chest took all his focus. His only consolation was the thought of returning blood for blood.

As they stood waiting, a female with a heart-shaped face strode to the center of the ballroom. Her hair was braided down her front, and it was a blond so pale it appeared almost white. Something like a miniature harp appeared, and she rested it against her shoulder and chest as a bow appeared in her other hand. Cassian recognized the off-kilter tune as one of the ancient fae. He had always thought the music strange and off-putting.

As he glanced around the room, he noted that the other women barely paid the musician any heed, contrasting greatly with the rapt attention of Koschei. There were many beautiful women and some high fae females here. And many were looking his way. His cock twitched— there’s the wine. But before he could even wink at a pretty girl with bright red lips and considerable cleavage, his thoughts drifted again to that place of hurt.

He could still see her face the day before they had gone to battle— “You’ll find each other—just like you did in the rite. Protect them, Cassian.”

“I will.”

“I know you will.”

And then she embraced him, transferring her strength to him. Another tear escaped the already soaked mask on his face. She had always told him that—to protect his brothers. When he was a child, it was a constant reminder—likely so that he would transform from bully to protector—and it had worked. He knew she gave Rhys and Azriel the same charge, but he also remembered that she had told him first—repeated it to him over and over again those first few months. And he would always remember that charge. It was his life’s goal to take it to the grave.

Azriel grabbed his arm, “Did you hear me?”

He hadn’t. Cassian shook his head.

“Neither of you are in any state to participate in this contest. I’m so sorry,” The pity and sorrow in his eyes was genuine. “I will take care of it.” Rhys nodded, but his movements were wooden.

Cassian looked up and noticed that another female with dark skin and full, sensuous lips had taken to the ballroom floor. She was dancing to a fast-paced song—a drum her only accompaniment—and he could almost appreciate her quick, precise movements as her bare feet edged along the floor (especially the ensuing bouncing of other body parts) but then the song ended. That damn wine. It had been a while since he’d sipped a karnalwine and even longer since he’d taken someone to bed. 

The Valkyrie-armed assistant–guard–whatever– took to her feet, signaling to another woman who walked to the edge of the performance space with a large stringed instrument, then sat in a chair with it poised between her legs. Was that a bass or a cello?  She looked nice with her dark hair pinned up, a few tresses caressing her supple skin. She stroked the first note—a deep, reverberating sound— and another female wearing a dress far too large for her stepped onto the dancefloor.

Cassian recognized the song—a popular ballad anyone would recognize about a water nymph bearing a stillborn child and then losing her mate soon after—but it was the dancer who caught his eye. Her body moved with the music, melding perfectly with each shift and turn of the melody. This was storytelling in the form of dance. Her back arched at the sharp high note, as if she was hearing the tragic news of her stillborn babe. As the song progressed, she held her arms in front of her, as if pantomiming rocking the child, head tilted and face drawn. She went on to tell the rest of the tale with every bit of her body—her toe pointing in the air as she jumped high in a graceful arc.

Cassian hadn’t the words to describe it, but it broke him out of his misery to see the passion and skill there. Her limbs would lengthen, then fold, strike, then disengage. It was like a battle where a trained warrior fought with expertise and poise, all with perfect timing. Cassian felt his breath grow faster, desiring to join her solitary battle, then noticed with increasing awareness that her dress was falling lower with every spin. At one point, the straps prevented the full movement of her arms. Her fluid arm movements halted only briefly as she tugged the dress up, her feet still moving as if nothing was amiss. He was both impressed and a bit disappointed that she had corrected the slow reveal of her ample bust. Then, she stumbled, nearly falling right in front of them.

Cassian jolted from his reverie and moved as if to catch her, but he needn’t have bothered; she caught herself with one finger. Then, she sprung with one leg forward from a low crouch—as if the dance was designed that way. She glanced behind her at the ground only briefly betraying her stumble and Cassian saw the large, warped bump she’d eyed. When his eyes returned to her, her saw her watching him, and something powerful stirred in him—a thought that coupled with that urge to catch her before she fell—but then the thought retreated like a foreign word he couldn’t remember. She concluded the dance with another impressive leap, several twirls, and a subdued, defeated posture—the conclusion of the tale where the nymph leapt into a trap set by a witch who’d promised to make her forget her miseries. As her head bowed, her dress slipped low again, and he felt the warmth of passion rising in his core.

“Gods, she’s beautiful,” he said aloud as applause erupted from the spectators. And she was: the most beautiful female he’d ever—and then she met his stare, a piercing gaze that seemed to light his skin on fire. She bowed and returned to the perimeter, standing beside… the other competitors. He hadn’t realized she was one of them. She held his gaze the entire time before placing the lion mask back on her gorgeous face.

“Do we know them?” Cassian asked, voice a bit breathy.

“In our current reality? It would make sense. Whether they’re our enemies or not remains to be seen,” Rhys said as Azriel stepped onto the ballroom dance floor. Cassian continued to gaze at her, but his mind became distracted again and he watched as Azriel strode to the middle.

Feyre

         Nesta’s dance was flawless except for the stumble on the imperfect floor. I set my hand on her back as she breathed heavily. One of our opponents proceeded to the middle of the ballroom, and he hummed a middling resonant note before opening his mouth to sing. His voice and the words of the song bled into my spine, spreading a tingling warmth through my body. He faced away from us, toward his companions, and I had the perfect view of his backside, dark wings framing his muscled form. His wings moved as he sang, the tendons pulling taught through the darkest, leathery black. They appeared soft and delicate underneath the warm lighting; so… touchable. I thought about what colors I would need to paint those wings so they could be the focus of the painting despite the dim lighting, and then, the image of a baby came to my mind—with wings. Yes, I’d dreamed… Or had I dreamed of a baby? As I tried to think of it, the image became slippery, and I couldn’t even picture it anymore. I clawed for the thought and the image that surfaced was of a young boy in a cell—not a babe—and he had no wings. Why had I been thinking of a winged baby?

The winged male’s voice dipped lower and it was as if my ears sighed in relief at the reverberations. I could almost envision the peculiar wraith of the tale—finding mysterious lands peopled with good and evil—a dark figure, watching and waiting in the shadows, then the wraith exploring when the danger had passed. His entrancing tenor voice would build then drop in volume at every dramatic turn of the tale, and I felt my own breathing match his for every pause, like I was waiting for his permission to breathe.

I pried my eyes away from those wings, my eyes roving the scattered groups of people, and they all seemed as bewitched as I was. Had the Lord not specified that magic was not allowed, I would have assumed he had actually enchanted the gathered onlookers. It was the fae way—mixing magic into everything they did. A woman at the other end of the chamber ogled the male, lips parted and pupils dilated. He was very attractive, angelic voice or not. Then my eyes found his companions. Was one of them crying? Tears cascaded from his mask, splashing against his bare chest. The other looked as though he’d ingested poison, and I felt a spike of alarm, an instinct to… do something. My thoughts drifted back to the entrancing tune.

         I listened more closely to the words and found nothing tragic. Lucien had told me that they were from the night court–the evil court in the north–and I wondered if the song held some cultural significance that I couldn’t grasp. I also wondered if all the denizens of that court were unnaturally beautiful. My breath caught as he reached a high note, but then the song ended not long after. His companions looked like broken things indeed. My heart ached at the sight of them.

Silence followed his performance, everyone waiting for more, and then I heard a singular pair of hands clapping. I looked up to see Elain, eyes shining with adoration. The male’s head dipped in acknowledgment of her praise as the rest of the crowd followed with their own applause. An urge to paint the scene took me. The male as he bowed his head to Elain who clapped enthusiastically, the crowd joining in applause—some people still spellbound and rousing, the lusting female, and the dark shadow of his companions, pained and mourning at the edge. Though I’d never done so before, I itched to paint the movement of the applauding crowd, and I knew exactly what paints and brushes I would need… fancy brushes I’d never used before.

The next performances were impressive—a female who could shoot arrows with her feet; another act with a singer—also female; the same female who had played the cello for Nesta also performed on her own; a comedic sketch with a woman who had painted her face and body in grotesque colors; and then the female who had lusted after the winged male who performed a series of flips through several rings that appeared on the ceiling. My jaw hung open as I watched her body contort and then leap from loop to loop. Her performance garnered the most applause, Nesta’s performance a close second in pure enthusiasm. This female would likely be receiving first prize and Nesta would need to be second. We only needed to win against our competitors. 

Rhys 

         At the end of the applause for the last performance, Lord Koschei waved his hand and the room quieted immediately with the exception of a few stragglers—notably, the lady beside him. 

“What a performance! Now, it is time to rank them.” He smiled as he lifted his hand, palm toward the ceiling and his court clapped in response, then he raised his hand higher and they seemed to clap more enthusiastically as if he were a conductor and they his orchestra. They stopped the moment his hand dropped and I felt my eyes roll toward the ceiling. I knew his type.

“First place is Lynn. No competition.” I watched with some surprise as the first performer—the high fae who played the lyre with the bow—rose to collect a peacock feather from the lord’s assistant. While she was skilled, there was no soul in her performance. I found it dry even for its aged style. I noticed several of his court show outward disdain toward Lynn as she walked forward, but she ignored them, chin held high as her white-blond braid bounced with each step. Without a word, she took the feather and retreated to the far end of the room to a spot apart from the group. She appeared to have no friends unlike most of the court.

“Second prize, Cassandra.” The female with acrobatic prowess strode forward, winking at Azriel as she passed. If Azriel noticed, he didn’t respond. While I was not surprised by her victory, I thought our rival—the lion—had a far more impressive performance. 

She was by far the best dancer I’d seen in my life. Though, that was apparently not saying much since my life was longer and more fraught than I knew. But I had seen many dance performances in my short life as the son of a high lord. It was so beautifully performed, that even I had felt a brief respite during her performance from the heaviness on my soul. Then she had stared at Cassian like a predator stalking her prey. The fool had practically announced to the room he was besotted with her, and then she had marked him. But I marked her as well.

After Cassandra took her prize, Koschei cleared his throat. Our opponent would be the third prize. Azriel’s voice, though outstanding, was untrained.  

 “Third prize–” Koschei conferred with his attendant, as if he did not know the lion’s name. Azriel looked apologetically toward us and I shook my head. He had nothing—nothing whatsoever—to apologize for. He had given his best— “—goes to Azriel.”

Chapter Text

​​CH. 3 – Karnalwine and Dancing

Azriel

The moment he announced Azriel as the winner, Koschei proffered him a goblet of wine.

“And for the winner, a special prize!”

 Surely, he was mistaken, but the lord waited, holding the goblet out to him that likely contained the same wine he’d avoided during the dinner.

 Azriel advanced, a gliding gait—his footsteps barely audible against the wooden floor—and then bowed his head ever so slightly before taking the goblet from the lord’s hands. It was empty. A male servant scuttled forward clutching a dusty bottle of wine.

“This is from my personal collection. 400 years old,” Koschei said with no small pride.

The servant uncorked the wine before pouring it into the goblet. The scent of Paenouing thistle mixed with a brothy scent assaulted his nose as the liquid sloshed into the cup. An old wine, indeed. The thistle was far more potent in this wine than the one Cassian had been drinking, but smelled safe for consumption otherwise. Tipping his head back, he drained the goblet. It was disgusting. Azriel hated wines older than 150 years old, but he forced a polite smile. The Lord grinned, and as Azriel set the goblet back in the servant’s hands, the servant passed him the dusty bottle.

 “Thank you,” he said a shade tersely.

Azriel grasped the bottle by the neck, but just as he turned on his heel, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Azriel’s shoulders bunched for half a second, then relaxed as he turned around to face the Lord once more. 

“Stay a moment.” 

Azriel obeyed, standing at the lord’s side as Koschei addressed the crowd. The Lord announced the next winner of the contest—not his opponent. Then the next, and the next, and then finally, “At seventh place, is our competitor, Nesta. Come forward, dear.”

Nesta—the female with the lion’s mask came forward, holding on to the tresses of her overlarge gown as she accepted a peacock feather from an attendant. The fire in her stare was palpable.

“Now, you may be wondering why you placed so low,” he addressed Nesta, his snide voice carrying for all the court to hear. “The first is a penalty for your teammate who refused to follow the dress code and wear his mask.” Azriel looked to Eris’s brother, who looked ashamedly at the ground, and then noted many courtiers to his side who also had no masks. Notably, Cassian was also not “following dress code,” but that didn’t seem to impact Azriel’s high ranking.

“Secondly, and more importantly, I hold everyone to high standards.” Koschei’s voice turned bitter. “Gross mistakes are not tolerated.” He sighed, eyes softening as he looked to the lady in beige beside him, “Though I am feeling generous—”

“What mistakes did I make?” She said through her teeth.

“You tripped mid-dance, like a newly hatched gosling,” he spit out. “I thought you were supposed to be a phenomenal dancer. After all the rumors I’d heard! What a disappointment.” 

“How am I supposed to dance unhindered—let alone walk a straight line—when the floor is in disrepair?”

“Did you see my other performers trip?” He shook his head. “Disgraceful.” 

Uncowed and seething beneath that mask, Azriel thought she might actually spout fire. Instead, she looked at Azriel, her eyes softening. “You deserve it, Az,” she said. “That was beautiful.” 

“Go return to your group,” Koschei said, nostrils flaring. “And try not to trip as you do.”

Nesta obliged, head held high. She had spoken with such familiarity to “Az,” clearly hinting that she knew him. That there was rapport between them. That she was to be trusted. But since he had no memories of her, the casual olive branch felt heavy-handed and conspicuous. In Azriel’s long life, he had learned that the people who tried the hardest to gain his trust were often the least trustworthy. He returned her watery stare with a courteous nod. 

Koschei then announced Alis as last place in the competition—another skilled dancer who had danced to the accompaniment of drums. Tears streamed down her face as well as the faces of her companions as she came to retrieve the peacock feather. They all looked like they came from the Day Court with their darker skin and the jewelry they wore around their wrists in addition to the older style of clothing. 

Before she arrived at the front, Koschei snatched the feather from the attendant to hand it to her himself, presenting it with flair as he smiled a wide, toothy grin. She took the feather with shaking hands, but before she could return to her group, he grabbed her arm, and said in a low voice that only those close to him could hear, “You know where to go before the evening is through.”

Azriel felt his body tense, hearing the unveiled menace in his voice. She nodded, looking anywhere but at the lord, and when she turned to leave, Koschei would not release her. Azriel saw the tight grip, the fingers digging into her skin, and he desired to grab the Lord’s other arm and twist until his wrist or elbow gave way.

“Try anything, and your friends will lose as well,” he whispered. She finally returned the lord’s stare, then nodded as her jaw quivered. When he finally let go, Azriel felt his breath return to normal. He was grateful he wouldn’t need to break decorum just yet. It would be wiser to know exactly where this bastard was most vulnerable before striking.

Koschei’s face returned to that serene smile from before. Turning to Azriel and with a voice loud enough to carry, he said, “We are about to start the dancing portion of this evening. Would you like the first dance with my new lady?”

The Lord gestured to the stunning female sitting at his side. Those doe-like eyes widened as the Lord waved for her. When she stood to his summons, he grasped her hand—also too tightly—her skin blanching underneath his fingers as he tugged her toward Azriel. Azriel took her proffered hand, pulling her to his other side in one swift motion as he bowed his head ever so slightly once more.

Satisfied, the Lord nodded to attendants in the back of the room and clapped two times as the lights dimmed. A few women gathered at a raised dais at the far end of the room, string instruments in tow.

“Come with me as I set down my prize,” Azriel suggested, voice contrasting with the terseness of a few moments before. He proffered his hand and she accepted. “What is your name, lady?” 

“Elain,” she said, a small, but earnest smile on her lips as he led her away from the lord. “Azriel, right?”

Nesta

         Nesta was in a quiet panic. The man had called Elain “my new lady,” and she needed to know what that entailed. Why would he call her that? Events from the past week flitted through her mind.

“Are you sure?” Feyre had asked Elain. They stood in Elain’s new room where the curtains were drawn.

“Yes, I just… I just need some space. Somewhere quiet.” Elain then looked pointedly at Nyx in Feyre’s arms and said, “The noise—the light in the house—it’s too much right now.”

“I really think we need to see if you could meet with Madja—” Feyre had said.

“No! It’s from the cauldron. I know it is.”

Then Nesta said, “It doesn’t hurt to check.”

  “You both sound just like Lucien when my powers started to manifest—thinking there was something wrong rather than really listening.”

  That had stopped her; being compared to Lucien. But she wished she had insisted—it might have changed everything. They might not even be in this predicament. Because the next week Elain suddenly had the ability to winnow. Just a late manifestation of the cauldron, she’d said. They were so foolish not to look more closely into it. 

As Nesta watched Azriel lead Elain to the dancefloor, she set her mark, planning to corner her sister and ply her with questions. She wondered what game the Lord was playing at by pairing Elain with Azriel. Elain wasn’t part of the bargain, so why make a big show of pairing them? She also hadn’t missed how he’d forced Azriel’s hand into drinking the wine. So many questions despite having all her memories intact. 

         A string quartet gathered on a raised platform at a corner of the room, the females tuning their instruments. Many of the women vacated the room—to where she did not know. She watched as one of the females, a young fae girl with high cheekbones, grinned at Cassian. He responded with a stupidly drunk grin. Nesta felt her heart stutter. The girl giggled. Nesta felt a shimmer of her power stir. Then Cassian winked. 

That. Bastard.

Change of plans.

 As the string quartet started a jaunty tune in ¾ time, she took Lucien’s hand, and strode toward her mate.

Feyre

About half of the women left the ballroom, and it made for a more open dance floor. And despite the better odds, the ladies still outnumbered the men five to one.  As soon as the music started, Nesta took Lucien’s hand and propelled him into the song. I was as surprised as Lucien appeared to be, but as she led them away, I could see from her focus that she was on a mission. The music was fast-paced and the dancing was of a style that I’d only seen once before with many twirls and graceful hand-arcs. 

Lucian stumbled quite a bit but she gracefully compensated for his errors. They had both told me that they wouldn’t leave my side, yet here I was, completely alone. I watched as Nesta corrected his hand placement, impatiently tucking it higher under her arm, and I fought the urge to laugh. Wasn’t the man supposed to lead the woman? The lovely music combined with the dim lighting sparked something in me—a sensation that made my head feel light and my core feel loose. Then, another sensation, dark and inviting, tingled down my spine and lingered in my lower abdomen. 

         It had been quite some time since I’d released that sort of tension. The only male I’d ever known was Isaac Hale, but as I stood there in that dimly lit ballroom, my mind went to Tamlin. We had been skirting the line between friends and something more than friends lately, and I felt his absence more keenly as that feeling stirred inside. Just yesterday I had caught him in a trap, and I smiled at the memory of him hanging there upside down in the dappled light of the tree. My blood heated at the memory of his hip bone peeking out above the belt of his pants. He was beautiful, and we were so close to breaking that physical barrier. That was the hope, at least. I sighed and closed my eyes to better hold that image in my mind, but then a man’s voice broke me from my reverie.

“Dance with me, Feyre?”

My eyes opened and I beheld a man—human—wearing a plain bronze mask. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and the build of a warrior. Though he was wearing a mask, I could tell he had a handsome face—the broad jaw, the curve of his smile.

“S-sure.” I blinked. His tan, calloused hands eclipsed my own as he led me into the dance. I had never danced this particular dance before and it was far too fast for my wine-addled mind. The heat in my blood from thoughts of Tamlin cooled as panic set in.  “Wha—what is your name?”

“Jurian,” he said, smirking down at me. “We’ve met before.”

Azriel

         Already, many females cloistered around his brothers as he led the lady, Elain, to the dancefloor. He noted that the style of dance was of an older style—one that was still popular in the Hewn City and one that he found tedious. The way Elain had repeated his name slowly, focusing on the “z” and “l” in Azriel, as if savoring the word, had him focusing on her tongue and full lips.

“You have such a beautiful voice.” A shy smile adorned those lips. He caught a gleam in her alluring brown eyes, and felt the effects of the karnalwine start to pulse through his skull. This is bad.

“Thank you.” He forced his eyes to wander about the room, both to avoid getting lost in her gaze and check on his brothers. Cassian was dancing with a female but trying to dance to a standard waltz which was too slow for this style of dance; it made him stand out like a finger bent the wrong way. Rhys had a cold look about him and though most women kept at bay, one woman in a red dress with blond, shoulder-length hair didn’t seem to notice and he could tell Rhys would not tolerate her for long.

The news was hitting them both hard, and he hadn’t even told Rhys about his sister. Did he even know he had a sister at this point in his memories? He looked back to Elain who was still gazing up at him. “Tell me, Elain, what is your place in this court? Are you the lady—”

“No. He says I am, but I’m not. I barely know him. To be honest... I hardly remember how I came to be here.” She spoke in a hurried whisper.

She scanned the dancefloor, then stopped when her eyes found Koschei, brows furrowed in confusion. He’d assumed the memory loss was unique to his brothers and perhaps their rivals, but perhaps he had done so with his entire court. Were they all held here against their will? It fit with the tales he’d heard of the Lord of the Lake, but he had thought them exaggerated myths; a story spun for children. It sounded silly: a powerful death lord who turned females into geese? He hadn’t seen any geese among his court; just females—human and high fae. No lesser faeries to be seen, which was to be expected, though he thought he’d at least see some in passing amongst the servants.

“What do you know about him?” Azriel asked. He surveyed the lord with so many females angling for his attention. It was probably in their best interest to keep him happy. Lord Koschei was decently good looking, but his face and physique were quite frankly, dull. She stopped dancing, and he prodded her to move before another couple collided with them. 

“Not much, just that he has a lot of mistresses to choose from.” Her nose crinkled. “He… offered. I declined, but he was very polite when I refused him. I get the impression he’s not one to force…” She looked away wincing as uncertainty laced her last words. He had gladly removed the offending parts of males like this—many of them Illyrians—letting them bleed out a slow death. 

“You are forced to stay here?” Azriel asked.

“I… haven’t tried leaving. But he’s told me that this is my new home. It was so… final in the way he said it.” She looked upward, eyes wildly roaming the ceiling. “At one moment I was home, and the next I was here, set up in the large room next to his, as if I’m a guest of honor. This was just a few hours ago!” Her voice rose in pitch and her eyes widened as she searched his eyes. “Do you know why I’m here? Or much about this place?” 

Azriel caught no deceit in her voice. He could tell just by the flutter of her heart that she was scared, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain of the veracity of her words with his shadows out of reach… If she had just been captured by this lord—right from her home—then her desperation and openness made sense. He paused as he considered her special treatment and the fact that Koschei had offered her hand to Azriel for the first dance.

“I don’t,” he said. She stopped dancing again, staring intently in his eyes, and he observed again their lovely shape and color. Warm, welcoming, stunning. “I know little about these lands other than the lake—"

“Sorry… I don’t know why I’m asking you…” She looked down at the ground. “I need to talk to my sisters. None of the other ladies will talk to me.” Her voice was a soft, delicate sound that flitted through his ears. She looked so sad.

 “Your sisters?” He asked. Then she pointed to one of the opponents—the wolf-masked one in the too-small dress—who danced awkwardly nearby. Azriel felt an alertness return to him. So Elain was not some random, beautiful female captured by a twisted powerful lord after all. Many beautiful women could dupe men wiser than him, but he would not fall prey to her manipulations, or even the manipulations of this lord.  As Elain angled her body toward the sister, trying to move them both in her direction, Azriel’s instincts fell into place. He needed to question her before she could regroup. And since he did not have access to his interrogation room or any of his more persuasive instruments, he’d need to improvise.

“The other one is your sister as well? Nesta?” He’d guessed that the two opponents were sisters as soon as they entered the ballroom. 

“Yes,” she said.

He led her away to a corner, away from both sisters, noting that the other sister, Nesta, was gaining on them.

“The thing is, I’m not even sure if they are my sisters—they look so different. I’m almost afraid to talk to them in case they’re not.” Then Elain gazed up at him, brows narrowed. 

So many questions darted through his mind to ask her, but he settled on, “You sound overwhelmed.” Sometimes just being an active listener was more effective at getting answers than asking questions.

“I am,” she sighed. “I feel a little better talking to you though. Thanks for listening to all my ranting.” She smiled up at him, an openness and earnestness in her face. Azriel felt his vigilant posture soften. That smile was so innocent. Perhaps she was not a duplicitous actor; but a pawn in this lord’s scheming. And she couldn’t help it if she was also gorgeous.

 “It’s all so confusing,” she continued, a conspiratorial tone to her voice. “For instance, why did Lord Koschei have me sit with him and not them?” He again moved her out of the way so that she avoided colliding with another dancer. He had the same question. “And who is that man with them? The one with the scar?” She asked.

 Perhaps she wouldn’t be much use in questioning–her memories the farthest removed of them all. Azriel studied her, letting dancing technique subside while still keeping to the beat. She struck him as the type of person who had trouble multitasking.  “He’s the son of Lord Beron of the Autumn Court. I believe his name is Lucien.”

 “Oh,” she said, eyes brightening. Then she frowned again, “Actually, that… doesn’t help me, but thank you anyway.”

 He moved again, building distance between them and the wolf-masked sister and decided to offer a piece of honest information to build rapport. “I wish I could help or tell you more, but I don’t know what brought me here either. I wonder how many unwilling newcomers there are in this ballroom.” He moved slower so that she could follow. With this lighting, he could see coppery striations branching outward in the dark brown of her eyes.

 Then she leaned closer, her lips inches away from his ear, and said in a low voice, “Besides being very forward—” A shiver ran down his neck as her breath brushed against his ear, “—I think there’s a power coming from him that I sense the others succumb to.”

 He leaned even closer and heard his voice drop in pitch, “What kind of power?”

 Her cheeks tinged with pink, and she looked away. “Well… Um…I’m not exactly sure...”

 He could sense the direction of her thoughts. His own thoughts were heading that way if he was being honest—again, that damn wine. Azriel pulled away slightly and held her hand closer to his chest as he moved to the music.

 “It does seem like he has an impressive, luring power about him that is hard to resist. I feel a bit like a human trying to resist the powers of some of the lesser fae.”

 Her eyes widened, but then she changed the subject, “I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel like I can trust you. I can tell you’re a good person.” She was wrong about that; he was not a good person. “When I watched you singing, I felt like I knew you. Though you’d think I would remember someone with beautiful wings.” She stared at his wings with unabashed longing. She let go of his hand, and hesitantly reached out, about to touch his wing, and he grabbed her hand again before she could make contact.

 “It is… impolite—" He began.

 “I am so sorry,” she said.

 She blushed, and he shrugged. “In my culture, only one’s spouse or lover is allowed to touch the wings of another.”

 Had he not stopped her, she would have undone him, especially with the wine coursing through him. Part of him wished he had let her. Her blush deepened, “Forgive me. I—”

 “No worries. Now you know. All is forgiven.” Azriel forced a smile before clearing his throat, “As far as I know, we’ve never met.” He looked away again, allowing his steady breaths to clear his addled mind. “Tell me a little more about yourself,” Azriel said. It was too broad a question, but he needed a distraction.

 “I’m human.” That stopped the growing throb in his too tight pants. “Well, not anymore. But I was this morning.”

 A human turned fae? But now that she mentioned it, he could scent a difference about her, one that was similar to Amren. She let go of his shoulder to touch the arched tip of her left ear, as if marveling at it.

 "You’re saying that he turned you into high fae?” Azriel asked. How powerful was this lord?

 Her eyes traveled to his ears. “He must’ve. Why are your ears rounded?” She really didn’t know much about the fae, did she? She was about to reach for his ear, but recoiled. He regretted his quick interception of her last attempt at touching him. If only she wasn’t the relative of his opponent. 

 “Because I am not high fae. I’m an Illyrian; a lesser fae.”

 Again, she leaned closer, eyes searching his. “Perhaps this is just dream,” she breathed. “One with an evil king—Lord, I mean—and a beautiful, winged, fae male who will rescue me.” Her eyes took on a dream-like quality as she laughed. “And, of course I made myself the damsel in distress in this story.” She shook her head. “But I’m growing tired of this role. I don’t like feeling powerless. Not knowing anything.”

 The odd change in tone made Azriel wonder at her sanity.

 “Then don’t be. Fight back. And by the mother, don’t wait for a stranger to save you.”

 A discerning look met his gaze and then a mischievous grin crept up her lips. “You sound like my sister.” Her eyes slid to the dancers next to them and he caught her exchanging a glance with the one called Nesta. She’d caught up to them. Elain nodded at the female, who then made eye contact with Azriel before changing directions with her dance partner. So Nesta wasn’t seeking the sister after all.

 Azriel had not gained much from this conversation, and he felt as though another dance would be just as fruitless. Still, he was disappointed when she let go of his hand as the song came to a close. Just as he was about to ask for another dance—for the sake of more information—her face slackened and her gaze went to a faraway place. She blinked twice as her voice took on a detached quality. “I see enemies hiding in plain sight…your friends will betray you. Aid the most vulnerable, and you will be victorious.”

Nesta

         Lucien was useless at leading and not much better at following. He stumbled so many times during the dance that Nesta asked, “Aren’t you the son of a Lord?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Have you never danced before?” She asked. She wanted to ask if one of his legs was also metal, but she swallowed her tongue; she needed him to work with her.

 He scowled, “This is an older dance, one not seen at most of my home court’s functions, let alone most of Prythian.”

 “I was raised human, and even I know this dance. You’d think your father—”

 He scowled at her, “My father did not require my participation in all the courtly functions, and my tutors did not deem it necessary to instruct me in every trivial, outdated form of da—”

 “You remind me of Feyre.” She stared at that unsettling gold eye that whirred in its socket. “Maybe that’s why you get along.”

 He halted as she led herself into a reverse turn, and as he almost let go, she held tight so that his hand remained in hers.  “Why do you say that?”

She had been so preoccupied with leading their dance and avoiding other dancers that she found that Cassian was no longer where she’d first marked him.

 “Well, her education and manners were also neglected, while mine and Elain’s were not.”

 Lucien sputtered, “I had a thorough education, and my manners— ?”

 “Your brother Eris is an exceptional dancer.”

Her eyes scanned the hall until she finally spotted Cassian standing across the hall laughing as two women sidled up to him, eyeing him like he was a piece of meat. One of them brushed a finger against his bare chest. She felt her blood grow cold. That was her piece of meat.

 “You know Eris?” Lucien’s mouth was slightly open.

 “I danced with him once,” she said absently before looking back to Lucien. His eyes were wide. “I hate to admit it, but he’s probably the best dance partner I’ve ever had.”

 She tugged Lucien’s hand pointing it right at Cassian before spinning his way.

Feyre

I glimpsed a cold, almost cruel look in Jurian’s eyes. Then I stumbled a few steps and nearly stepped on his toes, apologizing as my cheeks burned. He tried to start again, but I stumbled once more.  

 "What a contrast between you and your sister,” he said, a faint crease forming at the corner of his eye.

 “She had dance lessons,” I spit out, a knot of irritation in my throat.

“You really were raised as a peasant while your sisters had a proper upbringing.”

 “Excuse me?” What did he know about my sisters? He halted our progress toward the opposite corner of the room, limiting our movement to an imaginary box that we tread over again and again.

 “No judgment, Feyre. I know you are skilled in other areas.”

 “How do you know me or my family?” He tried to twirl me though I barely followed.

 “Oh, everyone knows about you and your family. Everyone important. You shared your whole tragic life story the last time I saw you.”

 I wasn’t liking his tone or the vagueness of his response. Just as I was about to ask more, I started to feel light-headed. A memory tried to surface and I imagined a room in ruins, crowded with people, but then it faded as if it had never been. I blinked again. He was looking at me now, a gleam in his eyes.

 “Are you remembering?” I felt his breath on my cheek.

 “How do I know you?”

 His eyes…  I’d seen those eyes before. An image bubbled from the depths of my mind—a finger?—but then it was gone. And like a dab of white paint blotting out a mistake, I couldn’t remember what I’d just been thinking about. I blinked again.

 I found his gaze intensely trained on me when I focused on him once more. How do I know you? He leaned closer. Was he hinting at something? He was quite handsome, I noted once more. My eyes left his gaze and darted down to his lips that happened to be just above my eye-level. They had a nice curve and color to them—it would be a challenge to paint them with the backlighting, but I craved a challenge. I realized then that I had been staring at his mouth for far too long. A dizzying heat rose to my head. Cauldron, this wine.

 Jurian chuckled, “Not in the way you’re thinking.” I felt my cheeks burn, this time from embarrassment, but then his eyes searched my face as I had done his, scanning my lips, then dipping down to my breasts, which were trying to burst from the too-tight low neckline. “Tempting, though I’d rather be in one piece by the end of this.”

 I frowned, trying to make sense of it all. My mind was so fuzzy, and I felt my patience slip. “Just answer my question: how do I know you?”

 “I’d tell you, but the bastard has prevented anyone from sharing helpful information.” He twirled me again, and I followed easier this time.

 “Well, are you a friend?”

 “I think so. We’re friends now—friendly, at least. Hasn’t always been that way.”

 Another vague, unhelpful answer. I risked a bigger question: “Then tell me: how do we win the challenges? What do we need to do to—”

 He paused our dancing, and pulled me closer to whisper, “Forget about the challenges. Find answers. Live up to your name and break the curse.” Find answers? That’s exactly what I was trying to do. 

 At that moment another male arrived: Lucien.

 “Might I interrupt?” Lucien halted us, and I watched as a true smile grew on Jurian’s mouth. The smile was a counter to the smirk he’d displayed just seconds ago—so open and genuine—it practically transformed his face.

 “Lucien,” he said, and it was like I no longer existed. The smile faded as his tone sobered, “We need to talk.”

 “No, we don’t.” Lucien took my hand and led me away. His next words were loud enough for Jurian to hear. “Don’t trust that man.”

 I looked back to Jurian and saw his countenance falter; he looked as though he’d been slapped. But then Lucien led us far from the spot, not even pretending to dance as other couples crowded out my view of the man.

 “Sorry for leaving you. Your sister is hell bent on tailing the Illyrians, and for some reason thought she needed me —"

 “Who?”

 “Our foes.”

 “Oh.”

 “The ones with wings? They’re called Illyrians,” he said.

 Lucien stepped forward, leg nearly colliding with my own, and I realized he meant to start dancing. I stepped backward just barely in time to avoid a collision. I found that he was harder to follow than Jurian. I tried to follow a step to my right—his left—and then stepped on his toe.

 “Sorry!”

 His lips formed a tight line, and his nose bunched in the middle.

 “Why shouldn’t I trust that man? And how do you know him?” He prodded again to keep dancing, but the movement of our bodies was out of sync. The downward slant of his lip betrayed his annoyance, and I felt my own irritation rise as well.

 “His name is Jurian. And I don’t know him personally,” he said. I stepped on his toe again.

 “Cauldron, boil me!” He yelped, wincing in pain.

 “I’m sorry!”

 “Just watch your damn foot placement!”

 We were less than a minute into the song, but after stepping on his foot one more time, we retired to the side. His bellow was impressive. I didn’t bother apologizing for the last misstep.

 “There was a groove in the floor, probably the same one Nesta—”

 He held a hand up to silence me, then sat, crossing his ankle over his knee while he cradled his toe with the opposite hand. Then he rested his elbow on his outstretched knee before lowering his head on his hand, glowering at me. I rolled my eyes, sighing, as my eyes circled the dance floor. Koschei had just asked Nesta to dance, snatching the cloth choker from around her neck before she took his hand. 

Then I felt my attention pulled to a dark corner of the room. Someone was watching me.

 I made eye-contact with a man sitting in a chair apart from most of the crowd. It was one of the opponents—the one without wings. He seemed to be smirking but it was hard to tell since he still wore a mask. As I held his gaze, I felt a tug at the edge of my memories. A thought tried to surface, but sank again like all the other memories while I stared. He shifted, as if he would rise from his seat, but just then, a familiar female voice broke me from my reverie.

 “Feyre?”

 Elain stood before me.

 “Elain!” I grasped her arms. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you. What are you doing here?”

 I saw Lucien move from my periphery and then heard his foot fall to the ground.

 “I have been wondering the same thing. I just spoke with Nesta. She said everyone’s memories but hers have been tampered with. She also told me that she couldn’t tell me much—likely due to some magic—and that she is unable to talk freely.”

 I felt Lucien stand behind me and I let go of Elain as I balled my fists, trying my hardest to clear my mind from the effects of the wine. She continued, “Tell me, does that magical gag apply to you as well?”

 “Unfortunately.”

 “That’s so odd...” Elain looked away from me, eyes distant. “I have no trouble talking about anything—recent memories or otherwise. My very last memory is moving into our new home—the one you’ve never been to.” Her eyes returned to mine. “Feyre, she seemed to be telling me that we were lied to. That you never lived with our wealthy great aunt but with faeries. And that our fortune came from those very faeries rather than her.”

 I felt someone standing beside me and glanced at Lucien before returning my attention to Elain.

 “Well, it’s a long story how I arrived in Prythian—"

 “We’re not in Prythian,” Lucien mumbled. I ignored him. Elain stared at Lucien with wide-eyed wonder, mouth slightly open. It was difficult not to stare at that metal eye.

 “Enough about me—what about you? How did you come to be sitting at Koschei’s side.  How—” My mind finally processed Lucien’s words and I turned to him. “What do you mean we’re not in Prythian?”

 Lucien was looking down at Elain as if lost in thought, and then turned to me with reluctance. “We’re in Rask. It’s part of the Faerie Realms.”

 I eyed him, and felt my brows knit together, as I thought about what I knew of the world. If he was right, we were far from home.

 “I’m Lucien, by the way.” He smiled hesitantly before turning to me. “Is this… the other sister you spoke of?”

 “I’m Elain. Archeron. Feyre and Nesta’s sister,” Elain said, extending a hand. He took her hand and bowed slightly. 

 It looked like she was about to say more, but before she could, I asked with unveiled annoyance, “Why are you only now telling me this?”

 “You didn’t ask. And I wasn’t certain until we became acquainted with his court.”

 “And what else haven’t you told me?” I chided.

 “I’m not hiding anything, Feyre. And I was just getting my bearings the same as you. I still am,” he said a shade defensively.

 “Your memories are incomplete as well?” Elain asked.

 “So I’ve been told.” That edge of irritation from a second ago disappeared like a bubble popping out of existence. “But I haven’t tested the curse you spoke of. Though I like how you put it: ‘magical gag.’” He smiled again. Oh gods, he’s flirting with her.  

 She looked away shyly, clearly flattered. Please no.

 I interrupted their little meet-cute. “Okay, fine. Unintentional. Whatever you say. What other useful information could you have shared with us while we had all that time to get ready?”

Lucien sighed. “I don’t know what you don’t know, so it’s hard to say.” Lucien looked up at the ceiling as if searching for an answer. “Here’s a bit of relevant and very common knowledge that you ought to already know: the Lord of the Lake, otherwise known as Lord Koschei, is contained by the lands surrounding the Lake of Rask.”

“Contained? What does that mean?” I asked.

 “A powerful magic binds him to the land. He is an ancient creature of mighty power—once thought a god. I don’t know the whole story, but I didn’t think to share it because it is so common knowledge—”

 “I didn’t know that,” Elain said.

 Lucien struggled to find words, “And that’s okay!” He held up a reassuring hand. “I did have ample time as a youth to study mythology and things of this nature that not everyone gets—”

“Would you tell me more about Lord Koschei? I don’t know anything about him and I’d love to learn what I can from someone so informed,” she asked.

 He bowed his head again. “I’m no scholar of the male, but I’d be happy to share what little I know.” He extended his hand. “Dance with me?”

She took his hand and smiled up at him.

Azriel

         Azriel was now deeply lost in the wine circling his brain. Paenouing thistle was the mildest of sedatives, but a strong aphrodisiac, and he knew it was the wine that called to him when he finally acquiesced. The woman who had accompanied the various acts with her cello kept looking at him as she played in the string quartet, eyes sparkling in the dim lighting. Her dark wavy hair was swept up into a braided bun, and her dress dipped low in the middle, past her breasts and nearly to her navel. It was a more modern style—one that did not fit with the rest of the court, and she wore it well. He knew deep down that the wine was just a distraction, and he was wary of the intent behind that distraction—the why behind Koschei’s “gift”—but he also knew he could learn something from a dance with one of his court, slightly addled mind or not. And besides, that soft skin beckoned to him, so he approached.

“Might I have this dance?” He offered his scarred hand. She looked down at his hand and then back up at him, a coy glint in her eyes. She looked at her fellow musicians, and they nodded their approval.

“Yes,” she said, setting down the cello and grasping his hand.

He led her onto the floor, placing his other hand firmly against her back and leading her swiftly through the dancers. She followed well, and he felt himself relax. 

“What is your name?” He already knew her name—Stellian—she had been one of the performers.

“Stellian,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. He gazed briefly at her neck, the soft curve of it, before meeting her sky-blue eyes once more.

“I’m Azriel.”

“I know.” He appreciated the slight husk in her voice.

“You do?”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

“Even here?”

He felt inclined to lean forward, as if to catch her every word, though he could hear her perfectly well, quiet voice or not. 

“Yes.”

She smiled a knowing smile and then looked away. He followed her gaze as it lighted on Rhys, who was still grieving at the edge of the dancefloor. Stellian seemed to feel Azriel’s stare and returned her attention to him.

“You play well. Does everyone use your talents here?” He asked, matching the volume of her voice. 

 “I’m used to accompanying. I’ve done it for more than half a century.”

“You’ve been in this court for that long?” He asked, surprised.

“No, not that long. Your singing was… lovely.” He felt her breath against his cheek, and leaned even closer, and the shadow that passed over her reminded him of his shadows, so far out of reach. He sighed through his nose, but then she smiled at him. “Where did you learn to dance like this?” She asked. 

“My friend’s father ensured that I learn. I was well trained in all the courtly functions. And you?” 

“It was an important part of my upbringing.”

Again, she looked away, toward Rhys, her gaze longer this time. He knew that look. So many females would take one look at Rhys and completely forget him, no matter their interest to begin with. The jealousy was a thing of the past for the most part—they’d vowed never to fight over a female long ago. 

“Does the high lord catch your eye?”

She looked back up at him, then down at his chest, embarrassed. “N-no. I mean, he used to.”

There was truth in that statement. Though his shadows were faint wisps in his mind, he felt it to be true—mostly.

“Used to?”

“He was kind to me once… gave me good advice that probably saved my life. I’ve often wanted to return the favor.”

“How did you meet?”

She paused, looking down at his chest again. “I was raised in the Hewn City.”

Azriel jolted, dancing forgotten. She looked around at the other dancers and a line creased her forehead. She shook her hand ensconced in his. Keep dancing . He obeyed. 

“Do I know you?” Azriel asked, feeling his senses become more attuned to the hall around him, though the effect was hampered by the wine.

“Yes,” she leaned closer, her lips inches from his ear as she whispered a breathy, “I worked for you once.”

 Like ice poured over a boiling stew, he felt his desire cool, and he led her swiftly to the other end of the hall, avoiding the other dancers with ease. She gasped at the change in speed and direction, but followed without losing a step.

“Tell me everything,” he said to his spy.

Chapter Text

1. 4 – Becoming Reacquainted

Nesta

         Nesta had tried so hard to dance with Cassian, putting up with Lucien, another random, incompetent male who had interjected, then the disgusting Koschei. He’d snatched the fabric collar from her neck at the beginning of the dance, noting that he didn’t like the style. Then he forcefully tried to lead with outdated technique, not to mention slightly off-beat. The lord’s honeyed words turned to poison the moment he realized she’d neither play along nor hide her disgust at the offer to sleep with him. She felt a tug at the back of her dress as he ended their dance mid-song and worried that the creep might tug the whole thing off, but he only walked away with the final words, “Watch your tongue, girl, or you’ll be sorry.” Normally this would have dominated her mind—her anger and disgust at the condescending bastard—but then she saw Cassian making love to a woman against the wall.

Well, maybe not full-on fucking, but close enough with their mouths all over each other.

         She gasped at the sight. It felt as though her soul was shredding in two as the air vanished from her lungs. She’d endured the flirtatious eyes he’d made at the other women, the giggling, their fawning over his bare chest, but this? This was too much. Nesta stood frozen to the spot, but caught Koschei smirking at her. The bastard knew. He’d planned this. The impulse to smother her sorrow with rage was a welcome instinct—one she’d honed to perfection. She stalked forward, fully intending to beat the shit out of him and his lover, but then she had a better idea.

She’d make him beg. Then she’d punish him.

         When she reached Cassian, who was slobbering all over some whore, the plan for her  revenge began forming in the back of her mind. She hauled him off of the woman, ignoring the bitch’s gasps and protests, then ordered him to dance. Cassian obliged.

“Try to follow,” she snarled, eyes darting up and down his body.

It was like the next song was made for her plans; her revenge. A sensual song for a sensuous dance that required close contact between their upper thighs. Cassian had never been a great dancer, but he knew how to hold her when she tipped her head back as a lock of hair unraveled with the movement. His eyes devoured the sight of the dress sinking lower and lower, and she gave him a knowing smile.

Rhys

The adversary had finally arrived, stalking toward Cassian with a determined and lethal look in her eyes. I’d watched her advancing toward him all evening without much luck; always intercepted by one person or another. Though she’d removed the lion mask, she looked more like a lion than before as she pried him off the female he was sloppily kissing against the wall. Without preamble, she growled at him to dance with her. He followed her like a dog, mouth practically watering. I wondered what had happened between him and Morrigan that he’d succumbed so easily to this fearsome female.

My back was stiff from sitting in the same position for so long, but I barely moved as I watched them dance—her movements far lewder than they needed to be, even if the dance was innately erotic in style. There was a distinct bulge in Cassian’s pants and I wondered if he ever felt shame. 

I didn’t trust her one bit. And just as I’d worried, he wasn’t putting up a fight. He had no reservations, all because of pretty face and a nice rack. As soon as we had a moment, I would tell Cassian to stay clear of the lioness.

Perhaps I should do something now. Or maybe Azriel…

         I looked for Azriel, my once-absent motivation taking form as I thought about sharing my misgivings. Though, no doubt, he’d marked her as a threat as well. Where was he? Like a gentle breeze circling the room, I could still hear the song with its haunting tune. I almost broke down in the middle of his performance. My fingers had been digging into my arms to keep from falling apart, and though I had managed, barely, I felt like a husk of a person by the end of it. Perhaps he chose that particular song to comfort us, to celebrate her, but hearing the song my mother sang every Winter Solstice… It was the worst possible song choice he could make.

 Another female approached me, asking me to dance. Bold of her to ask me after I’d snapped at the last one. These females were like scavengers—all of them—and that girl had been far too comfortable pushing boundaries to get what she wanted. I hadn’t meant to snap at her, but she kept touching me even after I’d pushed her hands away.

“You want to dance with me?” I snarled as one of her hands caressed my jaw and the other pinched at my bicep. She nodded, a lusty look in her eyes. “Okay,” I said.

I took her hand and spun her out, not bothering to walk to the dancefloor, then as I spun her back to me, I placed her in a choke-hold.  

“I said no, twice. I said to stop touching me three times.” A few of her short, blond hairs stuck to my face as I peered down at her to see if she understood. Her head jerked in confirmation, face reddening. She made no attempt to dislodge herself and I loosened my hold. This human woman was powerless against me—and yet I was treating her like a threat; a known enemy rather than some aggravating courtier. “This is my last warning.”

I let go and she scrambled away, cursing me as she departed. Perhaps I had over-reacted.     

After that, I had stopped receiving requests… until this last one. I didn’t even look up as I waved a hand, declining her invitation. Normally, as an eligible single male, I would feel obligated to ask each of them to dance, but this wasn’t my court, and I owed these people nothing. The pain of my mother’s death tore through me again as I tried to picture her face, but I could barely remember individual features other than her hazel eyes. How could I forget my mother’s face?

My eyes pricked again and I finally spotted Azriel, talking with another courtier. I sighed; I would need to intercept our adversary then—for Cassian’s sake. But just as I moved to stand, I caught sight of the wolf-masked rival again. She danced with Lord Koschei now, her head angled away from him as he leaned close to her neck. With the mask on, she looked like a wolf caught in a snare. My mind cleared—not just of my plans to rescue Cassian, but of the grief that had been weighing me down.

The Lord brought her closer to my seat as he led her through the erotic dance. She followed, but only just barely. I’d watched her dance with the male, Lucien, before now, amused at the many times she’d stepped on his toes. They bickered like siblings. With Lord Koschei though, there was markedly less stumbling. He practically carried her in his arms, her feet barely touching the ground. He’s levitating her. Her foot was prevented from making contact when she mis-stepped. 

I could hear his accented voice break through the shuffling of the other dancers: “Take off your mask, Feyre dear. You don’t have to wear it anymore.” 

“Oh,” she said, a bit breathlessly.

Feyre. Something stirred deep inside me, but then the feeling was gone. She lifted a shaking hand from his shoulder to lift her mask and my breath caught. He took the mask, pocketing it.

“You are very pretty,” he said. Pretty was an understatement. She was the most beautiful female I’d ever seen.

Azriel

Azriel led his spy to a quiet sitting area in the back of the ballroom, beckoning her to sit. Stellian seemed to have trouble gathering herself. If she was truly his spy, she was fresh, still in need of training.

“We should keep dancing,” she said, eyeing Lord Koschei who danced nearby with the wolf-masked opponent. 

“I’d rather sit,” he said, head still cloudy with the wine. He arranged two seats close to one another, but far enough apart for his legs to fit between them–he’d need to sit sideways to accommodate his wings. Then he fixed a vacant grin on his face and sat, draping an arm around the back of his chair. She reluctantly plopped in the seat he indicated and his knees grazed her right thigh. She was right that they needed some sort of cover, and drunken flirtation was all he could manage at the moment.

“When did you start working for me?” He maintained a glazed, sultry expression that was at odds with the clipped tone of his voice.

 “Not long ago.” Her voice quaked slightly, and he leaned forward to touch her chin, prodding her to turn and make eye-contact.

“Look at me,” he ordered. She met his stare and her breath hitched, forehead creasing in the middle. “Remember, your training, Stellian.” A lazy smile crossed his mouth, and he watched as her eyes softened, fixing a dreamy look on her face.

“Good.” He leaned back. “Now tell me, how did you get here?”

“I was sent on a mission,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “A few months ago. It all went wrong.” 

“What kind of mission?” 

“You wanted to know about Lord Koschei—his weaknesses and intel about his alliances. He was allied with a human queen who meant to do harm to members of the Night Court and you had no access. You—and Rhysand—were desperate.”

“And why send you?”

“Because I am a female courtier… and females have easier access to this court than others.”

He nodded, then leaned close, one elbow resting on his knees as he propped his chin up. 

“Continue.”

 “I allowed myself to be captured—his hunter is… something else—” her voice betrayed her fear and something else–disgust, perhaps, “—but once I had infiltrated the court, I could not escape. He is very powerful. Your own confinement here should be indication enough. I could not send word.”

“So you’ve been stranded here for months,” he said.

She nodded, then shrugged, but her sky-blue eyes looked pained. 

“And you’ve had no contact since?”

“No.” 

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged again. “I suppose you’re here now.”

His eyes wavered, and he found himself staring at the taut tendon in her neck that strained with the effort of turning his way. Her vein pulsed along it with an elevated tempo. 

“What’s wrong?” Azriel always vetted his spies–those most loyal to both the Night Court and the Court of Dreams, and those who could play any part at the drop of a hat. To a trained observer, it was clear she was uncomfortable though she seemed more intimidated than nervous. 

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I’ve just never had your attention in this way. I mean, I know it’s just an act, but it’s… new.” She looked down then met his gaze with a shy smile before touching his knee. He looked down at her hand and she quickly removed it. Like a shy school-girl. Was she truly just fresh and new to this? It was hard to believe he’d send someone on a mission who was this inexperienced.  

He inspected her pretty, heart-shaped face and she met his gaze, eyes almost darting away. Again he wished he had his shadows–he could easily discern between fear and nervous excitement with their aid. Without it, he’d just have to trust her word. 

Azriel sighed, stretching his arms and relaxing his posture hoping she’d mirror him. Relax a little. She took the hint and relaxed her stiff posture. Then, without thinking–or, perhaps lulled by the wine–he allowed his eyes to venture lower, appreciating the profile of her breast visible with that plunging neckline. When he met her gaze again, he found her cheeks were tinged with pink. “You… are good at your job.”  

“Tell me more about the queen and the threat to my court.” He moved his arm so that it draped over the back of her chair.

“That threat was eliminated. She was killed. This is something new.” She looked down again. “I’m sorry, Azriel. I cannot speak of it. He has bound all our tongues.”

“My memories have been tampered with, so I apologize for all the questions. For interrogating you like this.” He looked away then, noticing that Cassian was now on the dance floor with Nesta. He felt his brows rise to the top of his forehead. Well, at least he wasn’t being that brazen. The courtiers around them gave a wide berth–some looking pointedly away, others watching with unveiled disgust. Koschei watched them with unveiled rage.

A warm hand rested on his knee once more, and he returned his attention to his spy. She had turned in her seat to face him at an angle and her hand was steady, her stare intense. Perhaps Stellian couldn’t do ‘relaxed’. 

 “You’re only serving your court. And I do still work for you.”

 He placed his hand atop hers, matching her intensity. She had long slender fingers, and he felt at the tips of them—appreciating her hard-earned callouses from decades of playing the cello.

“Can you remind me how you came to work for me?”

 He brought her hand to his lips and paused before kissing it softly. Her cheeks flushed and he could scent her arousal. This was simply not an option. He’d need to tell her that. She leaned forward, mouth slightly open as she eyed his lips, then inched even closer, nose almost touching his before he backed away. No, this was crossing a line. 

“You seem more comfortable. Good.” He would not fall prey to that damn wine.

Her hand shot forward to touch his cheek, a determined look in her eye, then the ground shook. The walls rumbled and the ancient chandelier above twinkled as it swayed. Azriel rose to his feet and glanced at his brothers, but they were occupied. No one but him seemed to care or even notice.

He felt Stellian stand beside him. “The earth shakes here in the mountains. Though it is more common now than it used to be.” The shaking reminded Azriel of Rhysand when his full power was unleashed—when he terrorized the Night Court beneath the mountain.

“How often does this happen?”

“Every few days. I’ve been told it used to be rare.”

“When did that change?” 

“Before I came here. About two years ago is when it all started, or so I was told when I asked. When I first arrived a year ago it happened about once a month. Now it’s every few days.”

Rhys

Feyre’s too small dress whipped across my knees and I leaned back, wondering why he’d come so close. Then I scented her arousal. My breath caught again. The smell of her sex was overwhelming, slight though it was. A sudden wave of my own arousal rose up, followed by a crashing wave of nauseating jealousy that slammed into me. 

I staggered in my seat, grasping the edge of it to steady myself. Something deep within me made a connection to the visceral reaction I’d just experienced, and just as the thought careened to the forefront of my mind, a volatile power grasped my mind, prying the revelation away. I blinked as the thought dissolved like an army misted out of existence. What had just happened? Then Koschei looked right at me with a cocky smile on his face. Was this Lord a daemati? The power felt unfamiliar, but I knew my thoughts had been tampered with.

He slowed then flung her out, as if trying to showcase her for my viewing pleasure. I marveled at her face and I appreciated the rest of her too, too-small dress be damned. Feyre looked at me then, with her arm still outstretched from the spin, waiting for him to continue. Instead, he let go of her hand. Like a predator playing with his prey, he came up behind her, one hand on her shoulder, his other reaching from behind to trace a finger along those perfect breasts that bulged slightly at the low neckline. A staggering, senseless rage rose from my gut, and, without thinking, I groped for my power to end this man. I came up empty and cursed.

He lowered his voice, but not low enough for me to miss a single word.

“I take three ladies to bed every night. Would you like a turn? I offered your sister a spot—the lovely one—but she refused. You can have her spot.”

Had I not been inexplicably furious, I would have laughed at the audacity. She pulled away from him like he had burned her, though she still scented slightly of arousal. How could any female be aroused with a proposal like that?

Her words were sharp as she said, “Her name is Elain.”

My eyes examined  her face, and I could see the faintest traces of disgust there. 

“Ah, yes, Elain. Lovely girl. But you are lovely too.”

 He leaned closer, and her eyes widened, fearful. I felt myself leave my chair before I knew what was happening.

“I’d like a dance with the lady,” I said. 

His head turned slowly to meet my gaze, “It is impolite to interrupt a dance before the song has even finished.”

Indeed, the song continued, the viola repeating the same ostinato just played by the violin.

“You didn’t appear to be dancing anymore.” They weren’t. He was just whispering poison into her ear from behind, and she was clearly not enjoying it. “Besides, I don’t think she wants to dance with you.” I turned to her. “Do you?”

Feyra shook her head. He loosened his grip on her. I noticed that too—his hands gripping her too tightly. His eyes scanned the room looking for something or someone.

“Where are your companions? Perhaps she’d like to dance with them instead. The one with the voice…” His eyes alighted on Azriel now standing at the back with a female courtier, a glazed look in his eyes as he whispered something in her ear. Was my brother actually enjoying himself?

“I’d like to dance with you,” she said, voice tight. Koschei looked at her then, his grin slackening. Then he tossed her hand to me, pushing her forward. I caught her as she stumbled into me.

“Never interrupt me in a dance again. This is my only warning,” he said to me. I nodded my head slightly and held his stare until he looked away, retreating from us.

“Let’s get away from him,” she said, plowing forward, hand still in mine. Once we’d retreated a few paces, she sighed. “Thank you.”

 “My pleasure,” I said quite genuinely.

She exhaled a long breath, and placed a hand on my shoulder, reminding me to lead us in a dance. I placed my hand firmly under her arm and she settled into it as I led us, with some difficulty, into a tango mid-song. She didn’t seem to notice, her hand balmy and a slight sheen of sweat running across her hairline.

“That way,” she said, indicating the direction I should go with her nose—the opposite direction of the Lord. 

I obeyed and she followed, stumbling a few times.

“Why didn’t you take his generous offer?” I asked.

She glared up at me, and I repressed a chuckle. “To take part in his little harem?” Her mouth pulled downward in disgust. 

“But he was so charming.”

She rolled her eyes, “He thinks he’s charming. I can’t believe he asked that of Elain.”

She stumbled again as I maneuvered us around another couple, and I slowed, taking smaller steps.

 “Is that the sister whose name he couldn’t remember?” I’d thought her name was something else. As soon as the sisters stood next to one another at the competition, I’d guessed they were sisters from their similar builds and hair coloration, and it was satisfying knowing that I was right. I looked toward the woman dancing with Cassian and saw even more similarities in their faces with both their masks gone.

“Not that one. That’s Nesta. Elain’s the one that was sitting with him at the dining table…” Her tone turned harsh. “I don’t know what his plans are with her.” 

That female did look similar to them as well, now that she mentioned it. All beautiful females, though Feyre especially. “I take it she’s your younger sister,” I guessed. The song ended and we stood there staring at one another for a second in silence. I felt a sense of… wholeness just breathing the same air as this female. She looked away, embarrassed.

 “No, I’m the youngest.” Interesting, since she’d seemed so protective of Elain.

 The new song was a ballad—a slower pace—and I didn’t ask before continuing our dance, though two steps in, I was thwarted by her stumbling once more. I smiled reassuringly as she apologized.

 “Why isn’t she in your group then?” And where do you sisters come from, I wanted to ask. I couldn’t guess their cultural roots at all even though I was usually good at guessing which court people belonged to.

 “I don’t know,” she sighed, shaking her head. She looked lost in her thoughts.

 “I take it your memories are not intact either?” At that, she seemed to gather herself.

 “No. Is it the same for you and your…”

 “Brothers,” I said. “Yes, we don’t remember much either.” Her brows furrowed, and the look was so genuine. She was either telling the truth or an amazing actress.

 “My other sister, Nesta, seems to know more. She says she knows everything.” She nodded toward the female dancing in very close quarters with Cassian, and frowned at them both. They were rubbing up against each other, gasping as they “danced.” She winced, embarrassed, and I felt a similar second-hand embarrassment though mine was because of Cassian. “She’s the one dancing with your—”

 “Cassian.”

 “Cassian,” she repeated, still not looking away. “She’s not normally this… well, she’s been acting strange.”

 “Strange, how?” My fears for Cassian heightened again. This Feyre did not feel like a threat, but she had not disabused me of the notion that the other—Nesta—was. Still, if the sister knew more than us, we would need to speak with her. I wished at that moment that Azriel was dancing with Nesta rather than the useless drunkard rubbing up against her like he’d never bedded a female before. 

 “Well, she can’t tell me anything because of the bli—the curse, I mean, but it’s like… she knows you. All of you.” She searched my eyes. “You don’t know her? Or any of us?”

 “Not in my faulty memories.” I shook my head, wondering at that new factoid. It made sense that she had cornered Cassian with that knowledge, but if she knew all of us, why hadn’t she gone straight to me?

 She sighed again. “What’s your name?”

 I started as I realized we hadn’t made introductions. An oversight that I never made. It was so easy talking to her, though, and it felt like I’d done so many times. We had to have known one another before this encounter, and I dearly wished we were on friendly terms.

 “Rhysand,” I bowed my head slightly, and then thought to remove the mask. As I placed it in my pocket, I noticed that her eyes widened and her pupils dilated. I felt the corners of my mouth turn upward. “But my friends call me Rhys.”

 “Rhys,” she repeated, as if testing my name. I liked the sound of my name on her lips. “I’m Feyre.” Her eyes grew distant again. Then she stumbled once more, her toe grazing mine. A new song began to play. Well, that song had been remarkably short. I didn’t want to stop dancing with her. The ladies at the edges of the dance floor were making pointed eye-contact, but I ignored them.

 “Should we continue dancing?” I asked.

 She hesitated, then, “Sure.”

 “Before we begin, you’re in need of a dance lesson.” Her grin vanished, and I felt the corners of my lips tug upward as I assured her, “I’ve been told I’m a very good teacher.”

 "You teach dance?” She challenged, a sardonic edge to her voice as she raised an eyebrow.

“No,” I chuckled. “I should say that whenever I’ve tried teaching things, I’ve been told I’m good at it.”

“You’re laughing at me." 

“I’m not. It’s in my own interest though. I saw you stepping all over Beron’s son’s toes and I’d rather keep mine intact.”

“Maybe you should find a better dance partner,” she said, hand slackening in mine. I’d walked into that one, but before she could let go, I held tighter, scrambling for another angle.

“And leave you open for the Lord of Death to come sweeping in?” She paled at the reminder, and I felt her return her grasp on my hand. I nearly sighed in relief as we stood there.

“I hadn’t heard that title before.”

“It’s one of them.” And then I couldn’t help myself. “Does that make you more or less attracted to him?”

She sputtered, “I’m not attracted to him! He’s disgusting.” Her lips pulled downward again, and I resisted the urge to laugh. Everything was so plainly written on her face; I didn’t need to read her mind to know how she felt, though I badly wished I could at this moment.  

 “Your scent suggested otherwise.” She scowled up at me again, our dance lesson forgotten by the wayside.

 “I am not myself tonight—that wine—”

  She stiffened as the Lord drew nearer, though he was still out of ear shot. I pulled her away to another corner, and saw her tense shoulders relax.

 “Ah, you had the karnalwine.”

 “What did you call it?” She asked. 

I searched her face. Had she really never had, nor heard of a karnalwine?  “You’ve never–?” 

She shook her head and waited.

“It’s a wine with a powerful aphrodisiac,” I said. Her brows rose. “I’ve known many a fae who have regretted their bed partners the day after indulging in the awful stuff. Those who favor it are usually either desperate or depraved.”

 A dancing pair pivoted around us and they both frowned at me, as though I were the reason we weren’t dancing. She looked away, gaze unfocused as we stood there, her hand still captive in mine. “But there’s something else there… He has a magic that draws me in.”

 I spoke low, “I’ve noticed that. He radiates with a strange magic—"

 “You’ve felt it?” She whispered.

 “I have.”

 “It’s so strong—hard to even look away from him at times, though I want to.”

 I wondered at that. I did feel a power outside me, pressuring me to give him my full attention, but it wasn’t to the extent she described. Perhaps his magic targeted females more so than males?

 “The proximity makes a difference, I think,” she said.

 No wonder she wanted to move away from him. I thought back to the arousal I’d scented on her and the females that danced with him. Considering his power mixed with the karnalwine, it made sense why he had so many willing partners. Disgusting.

 “The offer still stands. Free dance lesson?” I looked down at her hand still ensconced in my own and gave her what I hoped was a disarming smile.

Feyre

I shrugged, which was enough of an answer for him. He proceeded to show me how to hold my arms, and where precisely to place my hands. Then he led me through the same box-like pattern that Jurian had led me through, counting and correcting the footwork as we went along. It was easier than I thought. He taught me a few more steps, but stressed the importance of keeping my arms firm so that I could follow every turn and avoid collision.

The song had already changed to a more upbeat one, but we continued dancing. I looked up toward the dance floor, searching for my sisters and found that Nesta was still dancing with Cassian, and Elain was dancing with the male I’d danced with before—Jurian. I searched for Lucien and found him dancing with a red-haired woman. He laughed at something she said. It eased my mind a little seeing them all safe. Perhaps all the challenges would be just as trivial as the first. When I looked back at Rhys, I caught him watching me.

“So if you’re not a dance teacher, what sort of teacher are you?”

He smirked. “I’m not really a teacher. Just when I need to be.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it’s not my occupation–as mortals often call it. I am just often in a position to teach others.” I waited and he cleared his throat. “When I’m not teaching lovely ladies how to avoid bludgeoning toes at balls, I often teach young men to fight hand-to-hand without magic, how to fight in aerial formation,” he listed the items off casually, “how to properly bed a woman, the different battle calls and signals to listen for during combat.” I stumbled at that second to last one, then saw the grin on his face. He was enjoying my reactions.  

“How much wine did you drink?” He said, mock concern on his handsome face.

I threw him a dirty gesture and he laughed. He certainly enjoyed laughing at my expense, but the sound of that laugh warmed something in me, and my eyes savored his expression—the carefree smile on his mouth. I wanted to paint him so badly right then, and I thought of how I’d capture the movement of his head thrown back as he laughed. He eventually returned to that smirk as he noticed me staring.

“You’ve really never had a karnalwine before?” He asked.

“Why is that so surprising?” I asked.

We reached a corner of the room, and he stopped dancing to just sway in place with me. I looked at him questioningly but he shrugged.

“Since you’re drunk.”

“It was one glass!” He pulled me closer for our dancing sway. The muscles in his arms flexed with the movement and I noticed not for the first time how very fit he was. “You didn’t have any?” I asked.

“No. I try to avoid substances that end with bedding a stranger.”

Right. I also wanted to avoid that. He was a stranger and I did not want to bed him. 

Was it just me, or had the room warmed significantly? A hazy feeling settled over me and I said the first thing that came to my mind.  “I was staring at this man’s lips like a crazy person earlier this evening.” I instantly regretted my admission and my cheeks burned.

Rhys’s eyebrows rose, but he smiled appreciatively. “Which lucky male?”

My eyes searched the dance floor but I couldn’t find him. “Not sure where he went.”

He seemed like he would move us out of the easy sway, so I said, “Let’s just keep swaying.”

“Okay.” He gazed down at me, those sensuous, full lips drawing my attention.  I looked away before I could embarrass myself again and I felt my body grow taut and loose at the same time, hoping his faerie senses couldn’t scent me. Part of me hated the wine, but part of me just wanted to give in.

No bedding, just… swaying. He chuckled darkly, those bedroom eyes probably seeing right through me. He didn’t even want to bed me; this man who taught other men secrets of the bedroom. His mind wasn’t addled by the wine; and I knew he was just a flirt. But it was fun talking to him. I allowed my head to join with the swaying movement, dance lessons forgotten, and I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling. It was such a pleasant sensation, letting my entire body—head included—sway with that wine coursing through me. Then I thought of how foolish I must look and sniggered.

“What?” He asked. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me, eyes a bit glazed.

“You’re just a really good dance teacher,” I said. Another beautiful laugh, and couldn’t help but join him. His head soon swayed in tandem with mine.

“You’re a fast learner,” he said, winking. 

The laughter seemed to relax my body, so much so that I felt my head tilt to one side. Maybe I was drunk. “ Do I know you? I feel like I know you.” I searched those astonishing violet eyes. His head tilted to mirror mine.

“Maybe?” We continued our swaying, though the movement was somewhat subdued by the tilted angle of our heads. I smothered another laugh and his smile widened. “I might not remember you, but it would make sense that we know one another. Whether we’re rivals outside of this contest or not, I wouldn’t know. Though I’d never forget you under normal circumstances.”

Rivals. That’s right. We were not friends and I was probably being too candid with him, let alone flirting with him—this utterly gorgeous male. Then he looked down at my lips. I felt it again, that heat, and I thought I could scent him stronger than before. The thought crossed my mind that he might be alluding to my story about eying another male’s lips. I stepped back.

“Are you mocking me?” I felt dizzy now that I wasn’t leaning against him.

 “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

He closed the distance–thank the gods–head still tilted to mirror mine, and as I breathed in his citrus-tinted scent, I felt that I knew it. It was so familiar—as familiar as my childhood home. A memory raced through my mind as he leaned closer, and I gasped as something painfully beautiful pierced through the fog of my brain only to be eclipsed by a wall of adamant before I could make sense of it. I stopped dancing to grapple with the thought–one I knew to be important. He backed away, eyes wide, as I groped in my mind.  

“What is it?” He asked, alarmed. 

Not even a hint of an image remained. I put a hand to my head.

“Sorry. I just—I have these images that come to mind—but then they disappear. I thought I remembered something.”

He frowned down at me, an intent stare, all light-hearted swaying forgotten, and as he opened his mouth to respond, a rapid movement to my right caught my eye. I turned just in time to see Nesta punch Cassian square on his nose.

Chapter Text

1. 5 - Recollections and Revelations

Nesta

Nesta revelled in the feeling of Cassian’s nose crunching under her fist just as the concerto ended, the last reverberating note of the violin an undercurrent to her beating heart. He staggered backward, a hand to his nose as his eyebrows rose high on his drunken face. He’d been about to kiss her when she’d pulled back her elbow and landed the perfect punch—one he would be proud to see under different circumstances since she’d only mastered punches under his tutelage.  

She stepped away, wincing at the pain in her hand. Rhys rushed to Cassian’s side, Feyre joining him, her mouth slightly open. Even Azriel had stopped talking to that cellist and looked up, eyes wide. It wasn’t just them either; the whole room stopped to stare at the scene. Koschei howled a wicked, awful laugh as silence settled over the stuffy hall.

Nesta’s victory suddenly felt short-sided and petty.  

Koschei sauntered up to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder, then spoke in a voice that carried, “Nesta, Nesta, Nesta. What a violent little thing you are.”

He said it so possessively that she tried to shrug out of his grasp but he only tightened his grip, rooting her to the spot. “I give you a bit of friendly competition and the minute you lose, you attack your opponents. Opponents who have been so polite and courteous to all of you.”

Nesta didn’t give a damn about the competition. She almost said so, but he continued before she could speak, “But it is a competition, I suppose. I don’t like losing either.” Then he lifted the hand on her shoulder—a relief—but before she could step away from him, she felt a tug at the back of her gown. She looked to the side and beheld his arm outstretched above her. In his hand, a tiny dagger about the length of Cassian’s middle finger.  She ducked away in a flash, only for him to grab her wrist before she could take two steps.

A cold, stinging sensation ran through her wrist, up her arm, and pulsed through the rest of her body. It was as if time slowed, her body fighting through molasses to react—to obey the commands she gave it. She squirmed ineffectually in his grip, and though he held her wrist, his attention was no longer directed toward her. Her captor’s next words were biting, devoid of his normal charm. “I thought you disarmed our guests,” he said to the guards at the edge of the room. They cowered and looked just as surprised as Nesta felt.

The nearest guard spoke, “We did. She had no weapons.” Nesta frowned, then her eyebrows rose to the top of her forehead. Koschei was implying that that knife— 

“That’s not m—!” 

“It’s a good thing I was able to confiscate this before she could act,” he said, turning to Cassian. Nesta gaped, struggling to come up with a response. The bastard was twisting things. And how had that dagger…? She thought of Lucien helping with her dress as they prepared for the ball, and her eyes searched the room for him. Then she remembered her dance with Koschei when she had felt the first odd tug on her gown. He must have planted it on me! She sputtered as she pointed at him with her free hand, but her mouth had turned dry and she couldn’t find the right words as her shock and indignation battered against her mind like a tempest.

Again, she tried to dislodge his grip but desisted as the stinging sensation grew stronger. She looked to Feyre for help—to back her up—but Feyre only gaped back at her. Azriel rejoined Cassian and Rhys, and Cassian leaned against Azriel with a hand over his nose. Both Azriel and Rhys had a dark cast to their eyes as they met her gaze. Nesta shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts as Koschei held firm to her numbing wrist. “I never—"

“I can see that despite taking away all your unpleasant memories, you are still at each other’s throats. This could have been the start of something beautiful. A friendship maybe, but no. Pity.”

Bastard! You lying bastard!

“He’s ly—” He squeezed her wrist harder and as more power flooded that point of contact, her voice cut off. Nesta coughed.

“How should we punish her?” He looked to Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel. Blood dribbled over Cassian's chin and chest. “I have many instruments for this purpose,” Koschei said, smiling.

Rhysand looked like he might have offered a suggestion, but Nesta cried out again, voice rising in pitch, “ He planted— ” It felt as if someone were choking her, hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing tight. The wheezing stopped. She couldn’t breathe, and she felt her knees buckle as she clutched at her throat. 

“Leave her alone,” Cassian roared. The choking stopped and Nesta gasped for air then fell into a coughing fit. 

“You would defend your would-be murderer?” Koschei asked. 

“If she’d wanted to kill me, she would have gone for the knife first, though I’m not sure what that little needle would have done.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to punish a sneaky little vixen like her?" 

“I can take a punch. And I’ll gladly return one in the next challenge.” Azriel nodded in agreement with Cassian’s words. Cassian winked at Nesta, a distant look on his face. She’d seen that look whenever they met with Beron or Eris—the look he saved for his enemies. Though Nesta was no longer choking, she felt gutted—the oxygen knocked from her lungs again.  

Koschei huffed but finally released her, placing the dagger in his coat— his dagger. 

He shook his head disdainfully as he muttered something under his breath. Feeling returned to her wrist. As soon as the bastard exited the room, she saw a handful of women follow after him. Feyre came to Nesta, inspecting her with concern as Nesta continued to cough, hand still at her throat. Lucien and Elain rushed to her side as well and the female guards at the back of the hall came to the center of the dance floor, with four of them surrounding Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel. Nesta tried to speak but it seemed that some of that magic remained and all she could manage was a rasp.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre blurted out, eyes fixed on Rhysand and Cassian. “She’s never behaved this way before.”

Nesta felt her face redden with her growing shame, but they said nothing as they departed. With their cold, distant stares, she felt a clear demarcation form between their separate groups. 

What had she done?

A singular guard, a woman of shorter stature, spoke to Feyre and Lucien while pointedly avoiding eye-contact with Nesta, “Remain here while your opponents are taken to their rooms.”

“What were you thinking, Nesta?” Feyre chided as soon as the Illyrians had left the room and were safely out of ear-shot.

Nesta croaked but couldn't manage more than that.  

“This is a bad start,” Lucien said to Feyre. “Not only did we lose the first contest, Nesta had to take her wicked temper out on our opponents before we even—"

Feyre held up a hand, “She remembers more than we do. Clearly that male did something we don’t remem—”

“And that makes it okay?”

Feyre grabbed his elbow and walked him to the other side of the nearly empty room. Everyone had left besides two guards, Feyre, Nesta, Lucien, and Elain. Nesta could clearly hear Feyre’s words, despite her lowered voice (“She might not get along with everyone, but there’s usually a reason—”) which eventually grew in volume to match Lucien’s shouting. They bickered back and forth while Nesta just stared at the ground. She’d royally fucked up. Lucien was right; this was a terrible start.

A soft hand alighted on Nesta’s shoulder and she looked up as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Elain stood before her. Though looking directly at Nesta’s face, Elain’s gaze was unfocused, or rather, seeming to focus on something in the distance beyond and through Nesta. Her brown eyes darted quickly back and forth as though watching too many things at once. She spoke in a strained whisper as her face crumpled in pain, “I see blood, so much blood. He won’t stop bleeding. They cannot save him.” Elain gasped before continuing, “You must run, not walk. Act, do not think! And take him from this place. Take your mate far, far, from this place if you wish for him to survive.”

The guards returned, and Nesta could only gape. What the hell?? She wanted to ask what Elain had seen, but her voice was still gone. She croaked again, panic rising up her throat and shook Elain’s shoulders, demanding an explanation. But Elain only blinked. Her eyes returned to normal, her gaze even, though worry lined her brow.

One of the guards wrested Elain from Nesta’s grip, and indicated to Elain that she should go with the other courtiers. Nesta tried to stop them and Feyre attempted to persuade them to let Elain sleep in their company, but they would not listen. Nesta growled at them, and one of them flinched, but they would not budge. She relented as they led them to their new rooms.

Their new quarters were on the second floor—a pair of rooms that faced each other, with a narrow hallway running between them. One of the rooms was a larger suite that faced the outside of the keep, an extra-large bed in the center with a chimney in the corner. The other was a much smaller room that looked as if it was also a storage closet. It was filled to the brim with instruments and other supplies. Nesta thought she spotted a whip and a hoop among the mess of objects. Hidden beneath what looked to be cymbals and a brass instrument, a quaint bed lay tucked in the back corner of the windowless room. Lucien nodded curtly to them before stepping carefully through piles of bric-a-brac. 

“Maybe we can—” Feyre began, but he closed the door behind him.

“I wasn’t going to share a bed with him,” Nesta rasped, relieved she could speak again.

Feyre sighed as the guard locked the door to the larger suite behind them, “At the very least we could have stored some of that junk in our room before they locked the doors.”

Nesta shrugged, dropping the too-large golden gown to the ground and slipping into the nightgown provided at the foot of the bed. Two candles lit the dim room on small tables that sat on either side of the wide bed. A water pitcher with a few empty mugs lay on the table closest to the window, and Nesta found herself greedily drinking first one, then two cups of water as she stared up at the moon. She turned when she heard Feyre hiss. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked, snatching the pitcher from the table, some of the water sloshing over its lip. Feyre faced away from her and looked to be probing at her chest. 

“That dress was so tight it hurt my breasts. There are red lines across the top that look permanent.” Feyre hissed again and Nesta set down her make-shift weapon. 

“It’s so strange he didn’t have properly fitting clothes for us. He seems to have outfitted the rest of his court well enough,” Nesta said.

“Not the other champions. Their clothing looked made for much smaller men.” Feyre changed into her nightgown, blew out the candle closest to the door, and slipped into bed. Nesta followed suit, feeling an embarrassing tinge of fear as darkness fell over the room. She hopped into bed, quickly covering herself with the multiple blankets provided.

“That’s true.” Nesta thought of Cassian’s bare, tattoo-less chest. He looked like a streetwalker with just the vest, and with all the women clawing at him, he may as well have been.

“I’m glad you can talk again...”

Nesta grumbled.

“So… Why did you punch him? Did he touch you—”

“No.” Nesta tried to think of a way to answer in a way that the bargain would allow, and then she felt a wave of fatigue overcome her. “It’s a long answer, and I can’t explain most of it.”

A pause. “You made it seem like they’re our friends, yet—"

“Don’t read into it, Feyre. I punched him because he deserved it, not because he’s a bad person.” Her next words were mumbled, “I don’t even dislike him.” The magic seemed to stir in response to her words. “Just keep…” That damned magical vise tried closing around her throat again. “…talking to them,” she gritted out, and then she couldn’t say more on the subject. Feyre nestled against her, back-to-back. Nesta’s eyes had adjusted to the dark and she looked at her wrist wondering at the awful magic that Koschei had channeled through her. She flexed but couldn’t spy any marks where his fingers made contact.

“I noticed you were dancing with Rhysand. Did you… enjoy talking to him?”

Feyre didn’t answer, and when Nesta turned, she saw that her sister was already sleeping, her breaths long and deep. Feyre always had that ability to fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. It made her think of the years she shared a bed with her sisters. Nesta sighed, wondering how Elain fared at this moment. Was she also in her room? It sounded like the rest of the court had not gone to sleep but were still awake and active on the main floor. She could hear distant bawdy music and laughter. Nesta didn’t like the idea of Elain being placed in a room so close to that awful male.

She pulled the covers closer, wishing the chimney at the corner of the room was lit; it was drafty and she could tell that winters here would be cold this high in the mountains. Luckily it was still autumn.

The waxing moon shone bright through the window, as it lit a wispy cloud. The image brought back memories of that awful hovel; the times when Nesta would start to worry that Feyre wouldn’t return home this time from hunting as she made snide comments about how her father was too cowardly to look for her. Bad memories. It would have been nice if Koschei had actually taken some of hers away like he had the others.

Nesta felt her eyelids grow heavy and she closed them, shivering against her sister’s warmth. She could pretend for just a moment that it was Cassian. Just two nights ago they had been lying in bed, Cassian’s head between her legs. He’d made one ridiculous bribe after another, trying to convince her to try mid-air sex just once. She had been just about to agree when Lucien had arrived and ruined everything. She scowled at the wall, imagining the door on the other side of the hall. Lucien.

“What if I make you a throne in the middle of the library?” Cassian sucked noisily on Nesta and she rocked into the sensation.

“Why would I want a throne?”

“Because you’re my queen.” His tongue luxuriated in slow strokes along the edge of her in one continuous circle and she pulled at his hair slightly, breath becoming shallower. “So you’ll do it?”

“I don’t want a throne. Or a pack of hounds for dog-sledding. Or a nude statue of me. You’re just thinking of things you want.”

His tongue plunged inside her as two fingers pressed down on that sensitive bud at the apex. He continued his foraging until she moaned.

“I thought mates wanted the same things,” he argued, voice slightly muffled against her.

“I do not want to have sex in broad daylight.”

He stopped and looked right at her, his mouth and nose glistening, hair askew. She nearly climaxed at the sight of him. “It would be high in the air, no one would be able to see us. Don’t you want to fuck like eagles just once?”

“It would be cold!”

“What if we did it at night… in the summer?”

She made a point to look like she was considering it, but mostly just wanted him to continue with his foraging. She had been so close to coming, and at this point, he was just torturing her. She opened her mouth to agree, with the stipulation that they would have to do it when everyone else was occupied, but then Cassian’s eyes went distant. She knew that look. It was that same expression he wore whenever Rhysand spoke with him mind-to-mind. Rhys knew better than to interrupt in the middle of sex—the bastard—so it must be important.

“What is it?” She asked. 

“Lucien is at the townhouse and is asking for help.”

They washed quickly and dressed. When they arrived at the townhouse, Lucien was sitting in an armchair, his body tense. He was in the middle of speaking, surrounded on either side by Feyre and Rhys, Nyx held in his father’s arms. Amren and Azriel were sitting in armchairs on the other side of the room, both silent, and Elain was by the stairs, gripping the handrail in her nightgown, her hair damp.  

“And you think he’s cursed Jurian as well?” Rhys asked.

Lucien looked up at Nesta and Cassian but then continued, “I believe so. I’ve already been to the day court and dawn court. I don’t know where else to go.” He balled his fists.

“Have you tried Spring or Autumn Court?” Azriel asked.

  Lucien’s face contorted, nostrils flaring. Azriel stared back without a glimmer of emotion. Clearly, they had not moved past their near-brawl a few months ago. Nesta looked to Cassian whose mouth hung open, a corner of his lips tugging upward. After a silent exchange of their shared surprise and amusement, Cassian moved to angle himself in front of Azriel.

“I’m glad you came to us, Lucien,” Feyre said. She glared at Azriel before returning her gaze to Lucien. “This is your court, too. In fact, you should have come here first.”

  She looked to Rhys who gave a perfunctory nod. “The high lady is right. We’re glad you came.”

  Lucien nodded curtly, with the barest glance toward Elain who quickly looked at her toes.

Nyx started to whine and Feyre took him from Rhys. She walked over to Nesta and bounced the boy in her arms as she whispered, “Jurian has been taken by Lord Koschei. He was apparently trying to get Vassa out of her agreement but did something to offend the Lord.”

“Jurian said he insulted him,” Lucien clarified.

“I can see why you two get along,” Rhys drawled, and Nesta glanced at that golden eye and the scars marring his face. She recalled Feyre once telling her how he’d gotten it—insulting Amarantha—a being more powerful than him. He certainly had nerve. It was one of the few things she liked about him.

  Nyx whined again, shifting in his mother’s arms, and seemed to be rooting as he angled himself lower on her chest. He sucked on her collarbone and then whined when no milk came.

Feyre sighed, “He’s just fussy and tired. I just fed him.”

“So you want us to go in there and get your friends out?” Cassian asked.

Nesta held out her arms—an offer, and Feyre gave her a grateful smile before handing Nyx over. Nesta felt her heart seize at the sight of his chubby, sleepy face and she planted a kiss on his cheek, then his other cheek. He struggled against her—clearly, he did not want anyone but his mother right now. Nesta could sense the growing meltdown, so she twirled him around in a circle. He giggled softly. She did it again and his laugh was louder.

Lucien’s voice was hoarse. “I… I just want a solution. I know they don’t mean very much to you and your court, but Vassa has a court of her own.” He looked beseechingly to Feyre. “Jurian has influence and sway in the very lands where you used to live—he’s like a Lord there. A good one. They are valuable allies to the Night Court, to Prythian—”

Rhys cleared his throat, “Be that as it may, we have no quarrel with a death god, and I don’t know that we want one.” Azriel nodded in agreement.

Feyre, for once, disagreed. “We don’t currently have a quarrel with him, but that is thankfully only a recent change. I wouldn’t say we’re on good terms.” She moved to Cassian’s side, fully blocking Azriel from Lucien’s view.

“I certainly haven’t forgiven him,” Nesta said.

“Me neither,” Cassian cut in, a low growl. His wings flared slightly, as his back muscles grew taut.

“Nonetheless, we are no longer a target of his, and I would prefer that to remain the case.” Rhys glanced at Nyx before staring right at Feyre. Silence filled the room for a few moments during their silent mind-to-mind conversation.

 Feyre paused, then said, “Perhaps the world has let him go on for too long in his ways.”

“We already tried to infiltrate his lands once to disastrous effect,” Azriel said from behind the wall of people placed between Lucien and him. Nesta knew full well how poorly that mission had gone and, for once, she agreed with Rhys.  

Nyx was already reaching for his mother again, a quiet whine escaping his mouth as he flapped his delicate wings. Nesta tried turning in a circle again, but the baby was pouting now. She stopped turning and made eye-contact with Azriel whose eyes softened. He looked like he was about to offer a hand, but Nesta shook her head. She made high-pitched noises with her teeth and tongue, something that would normally bring Nyx to a full belly laugh. Nyx responded by grabbing her lips, a surprisingly painful vise for such small fingers. Azriel shook with silent laughter as she pried her lips free. She glared at Azriel.

“Then you will not help,” Lucien stated, voice breaking. Elain crept back up the stairs, and as Nesta watched her go, she saw Azriel track her as well.

Cassian spoke, “It was too much for Azriel and me. We barely made it out alive. I would only try to face him again if I could use my legions. We would be declaring war.” Cassian looked to Rhys who gave a quick shake of his head. Lucien didn’t miss that.

Amren cleared her throat, “That death god is older and more powerful than either of his siblings. You saw the havoc they wrought on the battlefield. There is a reason that he could only be contained and not destroyed.”

“There has to be something we can do,” Feyre insisted. “Vassa and Jurian were both indispensable allies in the war. Lucien’s right about that.”  

As they continued discussing options, Nyx was building up from a low whine—lower lip jutting out in a pronounced pout—he was about to get loud. Feyre seemed to be the only one fighting for Lucien, and though Nesta disagreed with her, this was not the time for a baby meltdown. She walked around Cassian, aiming for the stairs, but then Nyx grabbed one of his wings, faster than a shooting star. Azriel was at her side in an instant. Cassian winced then chuckled, a wry smile on his face as Nesta and Azriel pried those chubby fingers that were far stronger than they should have been. Then, a high-pitched cry of outrage. Cassian’s face seemed to melt, hands reaching toward Nyx, but Nesta batted him away.

She hurried to the stairs, taking two steps at a time. One of the rooms upstairs had been transformed into a nursery for naps during the day. The tempest building inside the child erupted as Nyx wailed for his mother all the way up the stairs. Nesta gently patted his back, shushing him as she went. She caught Rhys’s eye as she reached the top of the stairs and he winced at her, expression both apologetic and grateful.

Before Nesta could turn to the nursery, Elain exited her room, dressed in a thick winter dress with a cloak draped over her shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Nesta asked. Nyx buried his wet face in Nesta’s shoulder, muffling his cry.

Elain started, but then tsked, frowning at the baby. “It’s past his bedtime.”

“Where are you going?” She asked again.

“I’m just feeling… restless,” she said. “I need to get out. Just a stroll. To think."  

The city was still vibrant at this time of night, and it was mostly safe, despite the occasional visits by Keir and his ilk. Nesta eyed the winter boots and frowned.

“Aren’t you dressed a little too warm?” Nesta asked. It was only September and though nights were chilly, they weren’t nearly cold enough for fur-lined boots.

Elain shrugged, but just as Nesta was about to pry further, Nyx started flapping his wings in earnest, as if he would fly down to his mother despite being incapable of flight at this age. He let out another wail as tears streamed down his chubby cheeks. Nesta secured her grip on the baby, kissed his tear and mucus-streaked face, and opened the door to the nursery.

“Be safe,” Nesta said. Elain only blew a kiss to Nyx before disappearing down the stairs.

         If only Nesta had insisted she join Elain. If only they had stopped the discussion right where Rhys and Azriel had tried before Feyre cut in. Then they wouldn’t be here in this predicament. Nesta sighed, and tried to sleep, but her irritation prevented it. She was angry—at everyone. Well, almost everyone: Elain, Feyre, Rhys, and Lucien. At this moment, mostly Lucien. He had started it all. She turned, cursing him soundly before sleep eventually claimed her.

Azriel

Azriel was surprised at the accommodations given their initial treatment. Their rooms were side-by-side—a locked door between them, though each one had a separate entrance to the hall. One was larger with a spacious bed for two while the smaller room held a bed for someone Amren’s size. It had probably once been a connected suite for a family with a young child. Before Azriel could offer, Rhys claimed the smaller room and bed, but as soon as the guards left, Azriel used the hairpins he’d borrowed from Stellian to unlock the door between the rooms.

“I’m going to sleep. Headache,” Rhys said as soon as Azriel opened the door. He sat at the edge of the tiny bed, his expression so hollow that Azriel only nodded and closed the door. He had been smiling so much during his dance with the sister, Feyre, but it seemed his grief had returned.

Cassian also wasn’t in much of a state to share information. He had downed most of Azriel’s prize wine after Azriel had set his nose for the second time that day. Then he’d collapsed on the bed without a word. They’d have to share intel later.

In the meantime, Azriel needed a weapon. When Koschei had held that dagger above Nesta’s head, Azriel thought of Truth Teller and wondered where Koschei was keeping his favorite knife. All their weapons and siphons were probably stashed somewhere in this shabby excuse for a keep, and they would need to find where before they finally killed this Koschei.

Truth Teller . He felt naked without it. Especially without his killing power or his shadows. He emptied the remainder of the karnalwine out the window and carefully smashed the bottle with his vest. Using a broken tile that stuck out at a weird angle on the floor, he chipped and sanded two glass shards into blades. One was slightly larger than the other, the smaller one slightly more jagged. Curved as they were, the daggers would not be all that useful if he encountered a skilled fighter, but they were better than nothing. He wrapped bits of torn cloth around the ends for handles. 

Satisfied, Azriel set out to scout the castle using the same hairpins he’d used for the door to Rhys’s room. The sounds of boisterous partying below increased in volume the moment he stepped out into the hall. Does anyone in his court sleep? It had been well over an hour since they had arrived at their rooms on the third floor. 

Azriel's shadows no longer whispered the hidden secrets of those nearby, so it took twice as long to scout. He sighed through his nose as he crept through the hall. It set him on edge living minute by minute without them. Humbling. This experience was giving him a new appreciation for his spies who managed without. They all needed a raise. 

Koschei’s rooms were at the very top–the fourth floor–with most of the guards stationed there. Azriel didn't bother venturing closer, though he marked the rooms the guards cloistered around. On the third and second floor, most rooms were unlocked and unoccupied. He peered into a few and it looked as though they hadn’t been used for months or even years, layers of dust collecting on the beds and bedding. Where is his court sleeping if not in these rooms? The three rooms that were not empty on these floors were well-warded and a guard patrolling the hall nearly spotted him before he crouched in an alcove by an armoire.

Azriel cursed inwardly at the close call. He nearly decided against scouting the ground floor, just to avoid the party-goers, but it would be good to know where the kitchens and servants’ quarters were. So he crept down the ornate staircase that opened up to the ground floor. 

Music and laughter dominated the air, and there were many places to hide with the mixed lighting. Fortunately for him, most of the women were inebriated, hardly paying their surroundings much heed. The ones that weren’t drunk plotted behind closed doors, warded against eavesdropping. Azriel hid in various places: behind empty, dusty vases that once held plants, behind large tapestries, and sometimes in smaller, empty rooms. He heard the sounds of running water down the hall—likely, the kitchens—and emerged from his hiding place to dash along the length of a bare hallway when he heard voices.

Three women came swaggering down the hall, singing at the top of their lungs. One of them he recognized as the female who had been kissing Cassian before dancing with Nesta. He grabbed the handle of a door to a darkened room, and whisked inside without a noise. It turned out to be occupied, but the two females making love in the corner didn’t seem to notice him. 

“You’re so lucky!” A drunk, boisterous female said looking to the one who’d kissed Cassian.

“A month. Just one fucking month, but I’ll take it!” 

“Don’t have too much fun without us,” the one on her other side said as they passed his spot behind the door. They all laughed simultaneously and then burst into song once more.

Azriel slid back through the door once the hallway was clear and almost made it to the kitchens when he heard a voice say, “You’d think Amarantha’s whore would be more charming.” The speaker sniffed and her voice was slightly congested. 

At Amarantha’s name, Azriel stopped mid-step to peer inside the room he’d almost missed, hoping to put a face to the voice. Azriel had heard that awful nickname– Amarantha’s whore —from his spies outside of Velaris. They had found ways to send word once the wards had been placed, but with great difficulty. Communication was slow. It was rumoured that Rhysand was her lover, but Azriel knew that he hated her—that he’d likely come to that party to try ending her once and for all. The bastard hadn't told anyone he was going, likely because he only wished to risk his own life. So if Rhys truly was sleeping with that bitch, he was doing it to shield them all. Azriel had worked tirelessly for a year now to find ways to bring down Hybern’s commander, but it was difficult while he was locked away in Velaris.

A group of four women faced away from him in what looked to be both a larder and office space—boxes of food and papers stacked high, kitchen supplies strewn about the floor, and barrels of wine crowded the back wall. Curiosity getting the better of him, he slinked to a shadowed nook by the door and hid amongst a stacked pile of crates loaded with metal bins. A woman placed her feet on a shiny stockpot, leaning back precariously on her low-backed stool. He noted her bandaged wrists and tan skin, and he recognized her as the acrobat who’d won second place in the competition. Her hair was different than it’d been during her performance—dark, coiled hair at the roots, styled with many thin braids—her natural hair. Cassandra, he recalled. “Maybe 50 years of being her lover made him hate women,” she said.

A pit opened in Azriel’s gut. No. Not for fifty years. If that was true, he’d failed his brother. Utterly failed him. Shame and rage combined, eviscerating him slowly with a dull blade. 

“I can’t imagine what that would mean for his mate. Poor thing,” a woman with thin, mousy hair and an airy voice said. Rhys has a mate?

“Koschei’s made me hate males and I haven’t even slept with him,” another female chimed in, dark brown, wavy hair shifting as she turned to face the crying woman.

“Just you wait. You’ll crack eventually,” Cassandra said, running a hand through her braids.

“He was a monster—just like all the rumors about him.” It was the sniffling woman from before. Azriel recognized her then with her blonde, shoulder-length hair. The woman who had been flirting with Rhys. He realized with some alarm that she was talking about Rhys—not Koschei. Her head turned and he saw a tear-streaked, puffy face. What had Rhys done to earn her bitterness?

“You tried your best,” the woman with an airy voice said, patting the crying girl’s arm.

“You were too pushy!” Dark, wavy hair said.

“I hope he loses everything. Bastard,” the blonde sniffed.

Cassandra massaged her neck. Some of her fingers were taped with the same bandaging around her wrists.  “He’s got his balls in a bind. He probably will.”

Azriel shifted without making a noise and spotted a ball of twine by his foot. He pocketed it.

“All of them will lose; it’s rigged.” the airy voice said, despondent. Azriel felt his wings rise ever so slightly. Rigged?

Cassandra raised a battered wooden cup, “Just like it is for all of us. Might as well have fun before we get stuffed.” She drank from her cup, but no one joined her toast. 

“Poor Alis,” the wavy-haired woman said. 

They all hummed in agreement, sitting in silence for a moment. 

“It’ll be morning soon enough. I have errands,” the airy voice said, “I’m going out. Anyone else?”

Most of the women rose to their feet, boxes shuffling, and everyone left the room but Cassandra who still faced away from him. She leaned back again so that the low-back stool balanced on two legs. Just as Azriel was about to dart from the room, she spoke. “You are very sneaky, you know that?”

She turned to look right into the pocket of shadows where he hid. “But you could’ve been a little sneakier.” She gestured to the pile of reflective pots at her feet, glimmering in the candlelight. Then she winked at him through her reflection in the pots. “Kiss me and I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”

Azriel dashed from his hiding spot and pounced, yanking one of her arms behind her back as her stool leaned against his steadying legs. He placed the smaller of the glass daggers to her throat and she gasped. Azriel could scent many things in that moment: her fear, her half-fae heritage, the karnalwine on her breath, and last of all, her arousal. He had many questions, but he chose the most important question first: “Tell me, what exactly is ‘rigged’ about this contest?”

A breathy laugh, then, “I wish I could tell you, handsome.” She whipped her head to the side and then licked up his neck. Azriel staggered back only an inch before she twisted her arm, popped it out of its socket as she hissed through her teeth, then yanked free from his grasp.

The stool careened to the side and she caught herself with her other arm before hitting the ground. Azriel caught the stool before it could clatter to the ground then lunged for her. She sailed past his fingertips, past the pots and pans, and her toes made contact with a few as she soared over them. Then she screamed. Shit . She gripped her dislocated arm and screamed even louder as she raised it back into its socket. Azriel only just barely managed to hide behind a stack of boxes filled with moth-eaten papers when a terse female voice sounded at the doorway: “What is it?”

Azriel snatched the other dagger from his boot. 

“Oh, it’s you, Huntress. I… uh… I just saw the biggest roach I’ve ever seen in my life.” He heard the sound of metal pots jostling then soft, padded footsteps. “Can you kill it?” Cassandra’s voice sounded farther away.

“Grow up, Cassandra.”

Footsteps sounded, leading away from the room. Near the doorway, he heard, “You owe me a kiss, Shadowsinger.” Then nothing.

Nesta

Later that night, Nesta awoke. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed. The unfamiliar room set her heart racing, and she remembered being thrown in that cell with Elain huddled next to her. Hybern. But… no, this was not the cell they’d been thrown in, and that was not Elain sleeping next to her, but Feyre. Her head felt fuzzy as she tried to focus. She reached for Feyre to demand an explanation, then stopped. There was an unnatural presence around her mind, like a stagnant pool, clouding her thoughts. It set her hackles rising, the wrongness of it all. Not fully knowing how, she reached out to clamp on that power, flaring that thing within her that combined with the fortitude of her natural mind, and she pierced through the foggy, swirling mass.

Memories flooded her mind—so many memories—the cauldron, the war, her bitter depression, the trove, Feyre’s near death, Bryce and Ember, Gwyneth and Emery, her wedding. She gasped at the sheer force of all those memories, but it was not over—not even close. More memories came to mind in the form of images, and not completely in order: A painting of Ramiel, her father’s dead eyes before he fell to the ground, the King of Hybern’s dismembered head, Tamlin in his beast form tearing the door off their cottage, a plain but powerful sword humming with magic, Emerie unconscious in the rapid waters, Cassian’s naked body hovering over her. And just when she thought it was over, her most recent memories eased into her mind like the final spurts of hot water dribbling from a kettle’s spout—their failed rescue of Elain then Rhys’s failed rescue of them.

She gasped again, this time at the memory of Cassian, bloodied on the floor in that last string of memories, and her heart raced until she remembered that he had been spared—they all had—because they had made a bargain. The bargain that—

A tap sounded, once, then twice, and it sounded like it came from the door. That sound—it had woken her. Nesta’s head jerked in the direction of the noise and she snatched the water pitcher from the nightstand. Just as she made it to the door, Elain’s words rang in her mind once more.

“He won’t stop bleeding. They cannot save him. Run, do not walk. Act, do not think!”

How many times had acting and not thinking gotten Nesta into trouble? Tonight’s events proved that. She paused, letting out a deep breath, and forced herself to leave the matter for later. The matter of her mate’s life . Nesta placed her back against the wall by the door and listened. It was locked from the outside, but if someone tried to come in, she would be ready. 

“Take your mate far, far from this place if you wish for him to survive.”

Nesta waited minutes clutching the water pitcher as her ears strained in vain to hear any other noises in the empty halls beyond the door. She thought she heard another tap farther away, but then, nothing. Her heart eventually slowed to an even pace despite Elain’s words repeating over and over again in her mind. Trudging back to the bed, she wondered if it would be wise to set a watch. She gazed at her sister, lying there, a wide curve to her body, the full moon behind her. One arm was positioned under her head and the other was low on her hip, barely touching the mattress in front of her. She looked…She looked like her body was cupped around a babe. One she still slept with—still breastfed in the wee hours of the night. Nesta’s breath caught and her eyes stung as she stared at the empty spot beside her sister’s curved body. 

  Nyx.

How was he faring through all of this? She was sure Amren and Varian were taking care of him—it was supposed to be Rhys— damn him —but Nyx had never spent a night away from his parents at the tender age of 7 months, and this was two nights already. She’d told Feyre they needed a night away, and offered to watch him though they’d politely declined. This was not the break she’d envisioned for them. Nesta felt a steady resolve form as she watched her sister try to sleep around a baby that wasn’t there. 

She would get them out. Cassian first, if it came down to it, since she did “wish for him to survive,” then Feyre, then Rhys, then Elain, and, if possible, everyone else—herself last of all.

It was odd to think she was placing Feyre above Elain. Under normal circumstances, Nesta would do anything for her favorite sister; for Elain. But for Nyx, she would sacrifice even more. She supposed Nyx had her heart more than anyone, save Cassian.

Azriel

The extra-large bed Azriel shared with Cassian fit both of them—wings and all. His shadows were little more than whispers on the wind, and without the full strength of them, he was reluctant to even close his eyes. Once they would have riled him from his sleep the minute an intruder came to his door, but now he had to rely on his own limited senses. Azriel rubbed at his throat, still feeling Cassandra’s tongue from hours ago, and wondered why she hadn’t given him away. That whole conversation had puzzled him—not to mention his conversations with Elain and Stellian. He turned to the side, his left wing folding without discomfort now that it had fully healed. 

Azriel thought of Elain's last words—about his friends betraying him—when her face and tone of voice had completely altered mid-conversation. It reminded him of a nymph he’d met during the war, one who claimed to see the future. She’d told Rhys’s father to beware of enemies in the south, and her prophecy came true. Maybe this Elain—

A loud, screeching noise jolted him from his thoughts, and he rose from his bed. It was dawn, the sun not even cresting the hill to the east. The screech came again, and he knew the sound belonged to a bird. Fingers gripping the doorknob to the hall, he quickly unlocked it with the hairpin. Azriel heard Rhys’s footsteps before his head appeared at the doorway joining their rooms. Rhys nodded to Azriel, and Azriel took that for the order that it was—go and learn, then report back to me. He darted down the hall.

The screech sounded again, and this time he was able to place the type of bird: a barn owl. Not too far down the hall, he saw the cause of the ruckus. Three servants—two human females and one high fae male—had cornered an enormous barn owl as it struggled to escape. What is an owl doing—? It shrieked again, nipping at the male servant who was trying to pin down its wings. They were in the middle of the hallway by the top of the stairs. Azriel crouched by a thick, oak baluster, wings drawn in tight, and hid in dawn’s shadows. 

“Shut up! ” The larger, middle-aged women chided the owl with a sorry attempt at a whisper. “You’ll wake the Lord and the whole damn house!”

The other one, a young woman with a very stained, disheveled dress and hair that looked matted and filthy, launched herself at the owl as it nipped at her. She cursed, sucking her finger, and the larger woman produced a rolling pin from her apron and swung, “Don’t you dare!” The barn owl’s head swiveled backward to face its attacker as it let out another shriek that sounded laced with pain.

“Help me!” The male panted. “He’s bound to take his morning stroll soon and he won’t be happy—"

“Here!” The older woman announced a new discovery as she stuffed the rolling pin back into her apron. Her hand grasped something on the wall next to them that Azriel couldn’t see, then she swept her arms back, as if opening a door. Even from here, Azriel could smell the room—a musty, sour scent laced with dirt and mildew. Most likely a broom closet. The male’s face relaxed and he grinned at the older woman. Both women took position, forming a wall in front of the poor animal, then they all kicked in unison until the door clicked shut. The owl screeched again, though the sound was muffled. It struck the other side of the door with talons and beak.

“Fucking nightmare,” The male said. Then the sound disappeared. “I warded the door against sounds,” he explained.

 “I don’t know what we’d do without you,” the smaller woman said.

 “Be roasted,” the other woman joked, though no one laughed. “Let’s go back to the kitchen before he sees us.”

 “What are we going to do with…?”

 “It bit me,” The male said, wiping a blood-streaked hand down his brown trousers.

 “Me too,” said the smaller woman, showing her his finger.

 “Let’s let it sit in the dark for a bit before we get the Huntress,” the male said.

 “Good idea,” said the larger woman as they left.

Azriel was sorely tempted to tear into the servants, leaving them within an inch of their lives before trapping them in that closet, but he waited until they descended the stairs all the way to the first floor. He raced to the door, wishing he had his siphons or his shadows. He could contain the screeching that he was about to unleash with just a fragment of his power, but his hands were tied—his shadows were tied. He opened the door and the owl came crashing into him. He backed away as it frantically flapped and screeched.

“Go!” He said, gesturing to the wide, open hallway. 

The owl stopped to look at him and closed its beak. It seemed to register that he wasn’t one of its captors.

“Go,” he repeated, “before they come back.”

The owl just peered at him with black, depthless eyes. He gestured again but it didn’t move. Well, perhaps it wasn’t very bright. He closed the door to the broom closet behind it, then made his way back to his room, hoping that it would fly away once he wasn’t looking. He stopped after making it to the end of a long rug. Turning back, he saw it following him. On foot. The thick carpet masked its taloned steps. Was it injured?

The owl continued to hobble forward and he stooped over it to examine its fawn and caramel-colored wings. The owl just gazed back; heart-shaped face angled directly upward.

“You don’t look injured.” The owl inched closer until its claw was scraping lightly at his boot. Azriel pulled his foot away but it just inched closer. “Hm.” He crouched, holding out his arm. It leapt at the invitation, talons scraping the thin sleeves, and wobbled just a bit before it settled. He winced at the claws, but the pain subsided. So trusting. He hesitated before touching a wing, trying to inspect it more closely, but it jerked its head as if to nip at his finger. He evaded the maneuver, then stood.

“Let me find you a window.” Azriel decided on Rhy’s room. Let Cassian sleep for as long as he needed. He wasn’t looking forward to what was sure to be a hangover. 

  Nesta

The morning arrived sooner than she’d hoped. Nesta had shoved Feyre to the other side of the bed, so she could watch the door. She groaned as their room gradually lit with the rising sun. It was already morning and she hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep. Feyre stirred, and the knowledge that her sister would soon be awake enough to keep watch allowed Nesta to relax, but as she began to finally drift, she heard Feyre gasp. Nesta’s drowsiness vanished.

“What is it?” Nesta said, sitting up.

“I’m… wet. I… My shirt is soaking…”

Nesta shifted to look over Feyre’s shoulder. A damp, dark spot marred the indigo bed sheets, not with blood, thank the mother, but with something else. Nesta sniffed and realized she’d been smelling that for a while now, though she’d barely registered it. It was a smell she’d grown used to, one that reminded her of Nyx. No, not Nyx, but his favorite thing in the world aside from his mother and father: breastmilk. A huge, damp, puddle of it. No wonder her breasts had been aching the other day. She hadn’t thought of it—the excess milk that wasn’t being consumed by Nyx. Nesta rose from the bed.

“Here, let’s get you out of that.”

“What is this?” Feyre asked, voice quaking.

“Nothing to worry about,” Nesta said. Feyre sat, facing her and she tugged at Feyre’s sleeve to help her out of the damp shirt.

“What is that smell?” Feyre sniffed. “Did you spill something on me?” Feyre relented as Nesta freed one arm from the sleeve.

“It’s breastmilk. I need your other arm.”

Feyre paused, her head buried in her nightgown at the moment. “What do you mean, ‘it’s breastmilk’?”

She knew the bargain would prevent her from speaking the obvious so she said nothing, waiting for it to finally dawn on her sister who still hadn’t moved. Feyre yanked the night gown off, and stared at Nesta, then down at her chest. Her breasts looked swollen, pink tinging the sides and nipples.

“Oh, Feyre,” Nesta winced. It looked painful. “Let’s just wash you off. Maybe cold water might also help with the swelling?”

Feyre just stared at her. Nesta could only imagine how overwhelming it would be to find out she had no memories of breastfeeding let alone the child she’d been breastfeeding for months.

“Are you trying to say…” Nesta winced again at the look of horror that crossed Feyre’s face. “I’m a mother?!”

Chapter Text

1. 6 - Cooped Up

Rhys

I laid awake with my knees folded to the side, feet hanging over the lip of the tiny bed as I waited for Azriel’s return. It was a child’s bed in a child’s bedroom. Appropriate since I felt like a child. I’d chosen this bed both to give my brothers the more spacious bed for their wings and to have a little privacy. I needed it. Azriel had unlocked the door to our connected rooms, but had wisely left the door closed once I’d said I wanted to sleep instead of talk. He could read me better than anyone save Cassian at times.

My eyes felt dry after weeping for hours before I finally fell asleep. I had slept fitfully through dreams and nightmares of my mother. In one nightmare, she was snatched away by a red-headed woman while I hung powerless in gorsian chains before a land strewn with dead bodies. In another, it was Koschei presenting me with a box of her dismembered head, laughing as he did. In another dream, the king of Hybern snapped her neck while my father turned the other way. When I’d heard the tapping at the door so early in the morning, I’d welcomed the distraction.

I turned my head and noticed the sun peaking through a crack in the drapes. I should get up. I rolled to the side, then stretched my bare legs before me—they’d only provided three pairs of clean underwear, one pair of sleeping trousers with a matching shirt. Azriel had laid claim to both the shirt and trousers. I preferred sleeping nude anyway.

With my magic in a bind, I could feel it growing, and it was larger than I’d ever felt—a seemingly endless reserve. How long had it been since I’d used my magic?

There was danger in not regularly expending that well of power. A new acquaintance had recently taught me that—the madness I risked if I didn’t use it. Currently, the only thing siphoning off the growing ache of holding all that magic was the forced dismissal of my wings—a small act of magic I wasn’t voluntarily making, but at least it was constant. I rose to my feet and tried to use magic for something simple—putting up my mental shields—but once again, my powers danced away from my grasp. It was like trying to hold a tendril of smoke. I tried to revoke the dismissal of my wings, but that didn’t work either. Odd that he would let me—or rather, force me—to perform the bit of magic to dismiss my wings, but keep the rest on lockdown. 

I needed to clear my head before Azriel arrived so I could pay attention to his report—or, at the very least, act like I cared. I stood, letting the cold air of the morning wake me fully as I changed into the clean underwear I’d placed beside my table alongside the ill-fitting clothes from last night. I need a bath. Sighing, I walked to the drapes, beginning to pull them open, but paused when I heard the unmistakable scratching of metal against the chassis of a lock. The lock of my door.  

I leaned against the cool, stone wall waiting for my brother of secrets to pick the lock. Why is he taking so long? Azriel could pick locks in his sleep, but perhaps he’d gotten slow over the years. I almost told him so the moment he came through the door, but the thought fled my mind when I saw an owl on his arm. 

“So it was an owl,” I said.

“Yes.” 

Silence fell as Azriel used one hand to re-lock the door, his other arm occupied with holding the owl. 

“I just wanted to know the cause,” I said. “Why the hell did you bring it back?” 

“It followed me. I think it’s injured.” Azriel strode to the window, opened the drapes fully, and swung the glass panes inward to set the owl on the ledge. I moved to give him room.

“Go ahead, fly away,” he ordered. The caramel and cream colored owl only rustled its feathers, black button eyes fixed on Azriel. He reached for a wing and the owl allowed it, a small shiver running down the length of the wing.

“I’m not seeing any injuries,” Azriel said. He prodded at its wing before lifting the other, comparing the two. 

“Why was there an owl inside the castle?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, still inspecting the owl. Despite taking the only sleeping clothes they had given us, he was dressed in the same clothes as last night. I wondered if he’d slept at all. 

“So it was just wandering the halls, spotted you, then followed you back?”

“Some servants were trying to shove it into a windowless closet. They seemed to be in a hurry to hide it before someone could see—probably Lord Koschei. I rescued it once they left.”

“Why would you…” I paused. Of course he would pity a creature treated with the same cruelty he’d faced as a youth. Azriel saw that pity, but I quickly masked it with a bland expression. I eyed the docile creature again as it yawned. “It seems to have taken a liking to you.”

“Why isn’t it flying?” Azriel said, mostly to himself.

“Maybe it’s a pet?” I hinted. Azriel said nothing as he squinted at the wings, his brow knit. “What did you learn last night?” I asked.

Finally, he turned to me. “I scouted the rooms best I could. The top floor—”

“I meant during the ball.”

Azriel paused, clearly annoyed, but I was too tired to care. “I danced with two women—Elain, the lady the Lord offered to me for the first dance—and Stellian. Elain is related to our opponents Nesta and Feyre. She claims that she was human before this.” 

I frowned at him. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s what she said. She seemed to be telling the truth… though I am less confident in my observations without my shadows to aid me.”

I paused. I knew the making of immortal beings from mortals was possible, but it required many willing, powerful participants or perhaps magical items of great power. Items well-hidden and lost to the world. 

“Perhaps she is a half-sister. Feyre, the one I danced with last night, was high fae. There is no doubt about that. Perhaps the sister—”

“Elain,” Azriel supplied.

“—Elain—meant she was treated like a human before this.”

“I considered that, but she didn’t smell like a half-breed. Honestly, her scent reminded me more of Amren.”

“How do you know Amren?” I’d only just made her acquaintance at a few court functions, none of which Azriel attended.

Azriel opened his mouth but said nothing. Of course, the curse.

“It doesn’t matter,” Az said. “I might not have Devlon’s sense of smell, but I am certain that Elain is not half-fae.” The owl leaned into Azriel’s touch, its multiple eyelids closing as he stroked its feathery head. It was relaxing watching him pet the owl and I felt some of the bitter shards in the back of my mind dull; relax. “Anyway, she seemed to imply that she was turned fae.” 

 “How is that possible?” 

“In some legends Koschei is referred to as a God. I always assumed that meant he was not only from another place, but that he was privy to some power we don’t possess.”

I snorted. “Nobody can turn a human fae. Not alone. And certainly not three human women at once. It makes no sense.”

“Regardless, she seemed to truly believe that this was all a dream and she’d wake up human once more.” He continued stroking the owl who looked very sleepy with its eyes closed, reminding me how little sleep I had the night before. Though, unlike me, owls were nocturnal creatures. And Azriel was trying to get it to fly during its bedtime. 

 “Well, then she’s either mad or lying to you.” 

The owl’s black, depthless eyes snapped open and it seemed to glower at Azriel. He’d stopped petting it. He acquiesced to the silent command, stroking between the muscles that controlled flight, and its lids closed once more. I rubbed the same spot on my back where my wings should be—the same sore spot as the previous day. “Possibly,” Azriel said. “She is related to our opponents, so that would explain motive to deceive.” The owl nuzzled his hand as if asking him to stroke higher, and he bunched the feathers on its head with the tips of his fingers. The morning light limned the edges of those soft feathers. 

“Feyre did share that her sister—Nesta—has all of her memories. Or claims to have all her memories intact. Whether Elain is lying or not, we should question the sister,” I said. Azriel’s brows rose at that factoid.

I’d ordered Cassian to avoid her the minute we left the ballroom. Though I wasn’t happy about my brother’s injuries, I was pleased to know that I’d been right. The thought of that dagger made me shudder at the possibilities. Obviously Cassian would have survived an attack with a weapon so small, but she still could have maimed him. 

“If I get the chance, I’ll be asking many questions,” Azriel said as he leaned back against the windowsill, placing one foot over the other. His pants looked uncomfortably tight.  

“Good. Cassian is far too trusting. She was actively seducing him as they danced—if you can call that dancing—more like copulating with clothes on—and then she just slugs him out of nowhere.” 

Azriel shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done something to earn it.” He chuckled. “Nose broken twice in less than 48 hours.” 

The owl scooted closer to Azriel, nudging his hand with its soft, pale face until he stroked it again. Definitely a domesticated animal. Azriel tapped at the edge of the window sill. “Just try. You don’t want to stay cooped up in this place.” He grasped the tip of one of its wings, inspecting it again. It was odd seeing Az so concerned over this random uninjured bird, but I supposed it was something to do while in an unfamiliar place without our powers.  

“So is this our new pet?” 

Azriel ignored me. It looked so soft nuzzling Azriel that I could no longer resist. I reached out a hand toward its soft head. As fast as lightning, the owl nipped my finger before sidling up to Azriel’s hand once more. I recoiled at the sharp sting of its beak and cradled my hand. Azriel glanced down, searching for injuries. There weren’t any. 

“You can trust Rhys,” Azriel said in a soothing voice.

 “Oh sure, take its side.”

 “That was a gentle warning.”

 “It bit me!”

He leaned down and whispered, “You’re too gentle. Next time someone comes at you that you don’t trust, draw blood.” I barked a laugh and saw the corner of Azriel’s eyes crease at the corners.

 “My own brother turned against me?” 

Message received; the bird was Azriel’s. I flopped back on the bed, and saw Azriel really look at me—inspect me like he couldn’t recognize me. I almost asked what he was thinking but decided against it. “You should give it a name,” I suggested. 

 Azriel pondered on that while I thought of a few names myself: Fluffy, Nippy, Hoot. Then my thoughts wandered back to Feyre and our opponents.

“What do you think about the sisters and Lucien? They don’t seem like Autumn Court,” I said. I fingered a bit of loose, dangling threads from my underwear that tickled my thigh and ripped them off.

“I assume they’re from Spring Court.”

I thought of our enemies in the South—the high lord and his bloodthirsty, bigoted brood, as well as the general air of intolerance I saw in their people. Azriel’s guess didn’t fit what I’d observed in Feyre or make much sense.

“Why Spring?”

“Because Lucien is an emissary of spring.”

Azriel had mentioned during the dinner last night that Lucien was a cast-off son of Lord Beron, and not a known threat to the Night Court, but he hadn’t told me that . 

“I thought you said he wasn’t a threat.”

“He’s not, at least in my memories. Spring is… somewhat neutral these days…” His voice faltered. “He serves Tamlin—though I don’t think you know him yet. He was the youngest son…” Azriel’s voice faded once more.

So, the bastard had died. Something my father would appreciate knowing. I needed an update on who our current enemies were. Then again, Azriel’s knowledge might not even be up-to-date. 

 “Why didn’t you ask Feyre last night? You danced with her for a while…” He asked.

“It…didn’t come up.” It was embarrassing how little I’d learned about her in all the time we’d danced. I almost smiled at the memory of her stumbling through the simple box-step. “She wasn’t a courtier, that’s for sure.”

 “I don’t think Nesta is either.”

“No. Prostitute and brawler are more likely.” 

Azriel chuckled. “I think it more likely they serve under Lucien, possibly Tamlin himself.”

“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. I doubted that with the way Feyre and he bickered. The Spring Court I knew was strict about keeping rank and order.

“It looked like you wanted to take Feyre to bed.” Azriel eyed me, a knowing smile lighting his eyes. 

“I thought about it,” I admitted. 

 “I had the wine too. It was disgusting. Too old. Panoueing has an awful aftertaste. The worst of the karnalwines as far as flavor go—”

 “I didn’t have any wine,” I said. Azriel blinked. “What did you do with it?” 

 “Dumped the rest out the window once I’d wrested it from Cassian.” Azriel pulled out something from his boots: glass blades.

 “Nice work.” Azriel snorted at my compliment, but it was genuine. For having no tools they really were well-wrought. “I thought I heard you working on something last night,” I said. Azriel shrugged, then turned as if he had just had a thought.

 “Gwydion. That’s your new name,” Azriel said to the owl.

 I chuckled, “It certainly looks like a sword of legends—dangerous, fierce—not tame in the least.”

 “Don’t listen to him. You are fierce.” Azriel’s hand stroked down the left wing, holding it out again. “A bird of prey.” He nodded at the pronouncement and Gwydion blinked up at him, seeming to soak up his words.

 “I once saw a barn owl felled by a raccoon. They aren’t exactly top of the food chain among birds of prey—” I was silenced by a withering glare from Azriel. “—but a veritable threat to mice and… rodents.” Azriel ignored me. I continued, “You looked like you were going to take someone to bed too.”

 “It was partially an act.” Azriel stared at me as I stretched out on the bed—my feet dangling off the end. He stroked Gwydion absentmindedly as he looked at me but was unable to suppress the grin tugging at his lips.

 “What?”

 “Nothing.”

 I sat up. “Tell me.”

 Azriel paused, probably considering not telling me just when I didn’t have access to my mind-reading abilities, then shrugged. “I was just thinking of Lana.”

 I felt my lips stretch wide at the memory. “Ah, yes, the female that ended the era of in-fighting. I still can’t believe she refused our offer.” Azriel snickered at that. I layed back, an arm behind my head. “That look on her face when she found us both waiting for her. Naked.”

 “Only you were naked. I still had undergarments on.”

 “Oh, I know. My dad’s black, wool under-shorts.” I chuckled at the memory. They barely fit him. He looked worse with them on than naked in my opinion.

 Azriel’s eyes widened. “I’d completely forgotten they were your father’s.”

 “Who else’s would they be? We were in my mom’s room.”  Azriel laughed a full, deep laugh at that. I laughed as well. That memory of him rummaging through her dresser when he’d decided he didn’t actually want to be naked. It was probably the dumbest idea he’d let me talk him into, even though it proved Lana’s duplicity. More than that, it had saved our friendship. His laughter turned silent, and he doubled over, holding his abdomen.  

 I just shook his head in mock disapproval. “Maybe that’s why she rejected us. She could sense you weren’t fully committed.” He laughed even more. 

 “Why did we use your mom’s room to begin with?” He breathed in deep, fighting against the laughter. “I do remember going through the trouble of making sure she was gone—”

 “Because our room smelled like puke. And Cassian was still dying from my poisoned pie.” Azriel held the wall as another loud laugh escaped him. Gwydion flitted back from him as if offended at his loud laughter. 

Azriel wiped a tear from his face. Had he really forgotten that pivotal piece of our history? The moment we really began to trust one another? I suppose it had actually started with that damn pie—or maybe before then with Lana’s two-faced come-ons. We never talked about it, but that probably had something to do with Morrigan arriving at the camps just weeks later. Also, because Cassian became pissy whenever we tried talking about it—jealous that he hadn’t been able to join our scheming.

 Azriel took a deep breath, soothing his abdominal muscles, the seams of his tiny shirt protesting his deep breaths, and I chuckled, grinning back at him. It felt good to laugh—to see him laugh—especially after last night.

 “You’re not usually one to forget details,” I observed, studying Azriel more closely. Again, my eyes went to the tight clothing. They’re probably not going to give us new clothes. I’d need to tailor them.

 “I don’t forget important details. Besides, that was…” he paused, struggling against the bargain, “…a very long time ago.”

 I flinched. Had it really been that long? I stared out the open window feeling the weight of time. “How long has it been?” How long has my mother been dead? I wanted to ask.

 “Far longer than you realize. I wish I could tell you,” Azriel said soberly. The pain of lost years, of her passing, struck me once more.  

“Last night as I was scouting, I overheard some women talking. They said that the competition is rigged.”

I looked up at the cobweb above my head clinging to the wall and ceiling. “If last night’s contest was any indicator, I could tell that much. It’s idiotic, the whole thing. He’s just toying with us and he has all the cards.”

“It’s a stacked deck, but I don’t think he has all the cards,” Azriel argued. 

“He took our powers and memories.” The room seemed to grow brighter—the morning already in full swing—and I glanced down at my tattoo-less chest. Damn him, but he took those too. Even if it was just a glamour. 

“We can still outsmart him—outmaneuver him. We’ve faced worse than his ilk. We just need to figure out his goal.”

“Probably a ransom. Though it’ll take ages for my father to notice our absence if Koschei doesn’t let us send word.” My mother had been so proud of those hard-earned tattoos. I felt a sharp pain in my chest and rubbed at the spot, still staring at the bare skin there as I blinked away the sting in my eyes. When I returned my attention to Azriel, I found him gaping at me. “What?”

Azriel shrugged and I detected a small deception there. Before I could call him out, he said, “The other female I danced with, Stellian, is from the Hewn City. Apparently she’s my spy.”

 My well of grief dried in that moment, and I felt my senses return as I sat up straight. “What did you learn?”

 A creaking noise from the adjoining room sounded, and I looked up. Azriel did as well, but I saw his shoulders relax. It was just Cassian. Heavy footfalls sounded shortly afterward as Cassian trudged through the door in only his underwear, not sparing either of us a glance while clutching his head, and mumbled, “I need water.”

 “There’s water by the nightstand,” Azriel said, pointing back to their shared room. 

Cassian grabbed the pitcher by my bed, finishing it off as it spilled over his bare chest. His nose looked fully healed–Azriel must have set it last night—his natural healing back to full speed without the gorsian chains slowing it. When he finally looked up at us, he frowned and blurted, “Is that a hawk?”

Feyre

         I had a hard time swallowing the truth. How was I a mother? My breasts ached, but the cool water did help. Nesta had been so gentle and… kind. As if Nesta was working with somebody sensitive who needed that softness. As if we had formed a closer relationship than my memories knew. I felt my eyes sting again, willing that memory of the babe to come to my mind again. Nothing.

“How old again?”

 “Six—no, seven months.”

 “And he’s cute?” I had gleaned that he was a boy.

 “The most adorable…” Her words halted and I knew she was being magically gagged. “We’ll get you back to him. I promise.”

 "And the father isn’t Tamlin?”

 “No!”

 By now I was dressed in a robe, but the room still reeked of breastmilk. Nesta had just finished yanking the sheets off the bed. I pulled back the robe, eyeing my torso, and noted for the first time the stretch marks around my belly button—that my abdomen was puffy now when it used to lay flat. I hadn’t inspected my body until this moment. Well, my breasts I had noticed—somewhat—but I’d dismissed any differences I’d noticed due to the tight dress. I looked more closely at them. They were different—swelling aside—the nipples were larger and darker. I didn’t know how I felt about that. I had a fuller figure than I used to; the taut muscles in my thighs, the rounder hips. I didn’t have the body of a girl anymore, though I probably should have stopped seeing myself that way, since even in my incomplete memories, I had stopped being a girl for a while now. 

 I sighed, looking at the soaked night gown I’d discarded on the ground. I didn’t think I could bear it, putting my breasts in something so tight again. I lifted them tenderly, and winced at the sharp pain. They felt warm and heavy to the touch. The bed, now bare, called to me.  

“Should we tell Lucien?” I whispered.

“No, he’ll just say something stupid and piss me off.”

 “You really don’t like him, do you?” 

“He’s a prick. I liked him better when he feared upsetting me.”

I wanted to know more about their fraught relationship. More too about her relationship—or rather, our —relationship with our opponents. There was a knock at the door, and Nesta dropped the sheets. I quickly covered myself with the blankets as the key clicked in the lock and two servants, an older woman and a high fae male, entered with a trolley laden with three covered trays. An armored guard waited behind them.

“Here is your breakfast… and lunch,” the older woman said.

“Isn’t there supposed to be another one?” The male servant asked, looking around our room as if Lucien were hiding behind the door.

Nesta responded, “He’s in the room behind you.”

The male servant’s eyes widened before he snickered into his hand, “The supply closet?”

The woman joined him in laughter, “He must not like him.”

The male set two covered trays down at either side table. Then he spoke to the woman as if we weren’t there, “With all the empty rooms in this dump, he gives him that one.” She sniggered appreciatively as he swapped the nearly empty water pitcher for a fresh one. 

“We have need of new sheets,” Nesta said.

The male eyed the pile of soiled sheets in the corner and made a face at the woman.

“Oh fine, I’ll get them,” the older woman huffed. She grabbed the sheets and stuffed them in a bin under the trolley before setting a clean set upon our bed.

“You have the day to yourselves,” the male said with airy dismissal. “The next challenge will be at dinnertime.”

Cassian

“I want you to stay away from that Nesta, Cass. She’s dangerous and she’s got it in for you,” Rhys said.

 Cassian rubbed at his dripping wet jaw, appreciating that it was now fully healed. “You told me last night.”

 “Her sister, Feyre, told me her memories weren’t wiped—that Nesta knows us all—you in particular, it would seem.”

 “Oh yeah? Damn, I should have tried talking more.”

 Azriel snorted, his back turned to them as he stroked the bird.

 “No, Azriel or I will try talking to her. You stay clear. But in case she does manage to get close to you at some point in these competitions, be wary of anything she says.”

 “I’m not an idiot. I’m not just gonna welcome her into my bed after last night.”

 “High bar for you,” Azriel muttered. 

Cassian threw him a rude gesture and Azriel just smirked.

 “Don’t even talk to her,” Rhys demanded.

 “Yes, mom,” Cassian said. Rhys winced and Cassian opened his mouth to apologize but Rhys waved a hand irritably.

 "Did you ask her about the bruises on her neck?” Azriel asked.

 “I did while we danced, but she didn’t really answer. She was… very focused on dancing” Cassian said.

 "‘Dancing,’” Rhys scoffed.

“I didn’t notice the bruises earlier in the evening,” Azriel said, a frown on his face, no doubt chiding himself for not catching every single detail like he always did, the few times he missed one.

 “It’s because she was wearing a lace collar,” Rhys said.

 “That’s right,” Az said, nodding. Rhys had a better eye and memory for clothing and textiles than most people—Azriel included—especially during his younger years; the only years Rhys could remember at the moment. 

 “In fact, she was wearing that collar right before she started dancing with you,” Rhys said.

 “How closely were you watching her?” Cassian asked. He was sounding borderline obsessive.

 Rhys ignored the real question there: Why were you really watching her so closely? “Why would she remove it right before dancing with you?” 

 Cassian shrugged. “Maybe it itched. Maybe it fell off.”

 Rhys’s eyes narrowed.  “I don’t trust her.”

 "Nor do I,” Azriel said.

 “I do think it’s suspicious that Koschei wouldn’t even let her speak as he leveled those accusations,” Cassian said.

 “I thought so too,” Azriel said.

 “She couldn’t even get a word out. He was choking her,” Cassian said, a burning rage building as he thought of it.

 “She was acting. There was no gag. The coughing and the choking was a bit over the top if you ask me,” Rhys said.

 “It wasn’t an act, Rhys . I could feel it in my bones. She couldn’t breathe.” He could feel it. It was like it was happening to him—the strangling, the desperation for air. 

 Rhys rolled his eyes and Cassian glared at him. Rhys could be so unyielding in his assumptions sometimes, so… overly confident. It was a rare moment that he’d allow Azriel or Cassian to change his mind. And the younger version of Rhys was worse—still learning to lean on them for advice.

 “I don’t think it was an act either—the choking at least—and I trust Koschei least of all our adversaries,” Azriel said quietly, finally facing away from the bird with his back propped against the wall. “Still, Rhys is right. We don’t know what she’s capable of or what you did to piss her off.”

 “Or what she has planned for you,” Rhys said.

 At least Azriel agreed with him—wasn’t blinded by paranoia like Rhys. Cassian’s gut told him that this was just a tiff with someone he pissed off, not a piss-poor attempt at murder. 

A knock at the door to the other room sounded, softened by distance, then the distant sound of a door opening. All three of them rushed to the doorway between their rooms. A serving lady with a tray of food in her arms looked around the empty room and when she saw them at the opening to Rhys’s room, her eyes widened. Cassian remembered at that moment that he and Rhys were only in their underwear. She blushed, as did one of the armored female guards behind her. 

Rhys strode into the room with every ounce of his usual arrogance, then made his way to the door where the small human stood, followed by Cassian and Azriel. She stepped back a few inches. Cassian flanked Rhys to one side, Azriel on the other. They made an imposing barrier before the poor mortal. Her shoulders caved inward slightly as her face reddened further.

“Here is your breakfast and lunch,” she squeaked, handing the tray to Rhys. “You will be in your rooms for the rest of the day until the next challenge.”

Rhys bowed his head in thanks and took the tray. “Are we going to receive new clothes for today?” Rhys handed the tray back to Cassian and Cassian handed it to Azriel as the serving girl grabbed two more trays from the trolley behind her. Again the trays exchanged hands, Azriel ending up with two trays and Cassian with one. Rhys apparently couldn’t be bothered. 

“I’m so sorry, but no. The clothes you had yesterday were the only clothes we could find with such short notice. I have a sewing kit if you need it.”

She dug into her apron and while they waited, Rhys leaned against the doorframe, gazing down at her, his lips tugging upward. She offered a cloth pouch and he grasped it, fingers enclosing part of her hand as well. “I’d really like clothes that fit. So would Cassian and Azriel.” His other hand swept back to gesture at Cassian who winked as he saw another flush of red climbing up her face. Azriel nodded, his face passive as he balanced two trays in his hands. He looked like a waiter and Cassian almost chuckled at the image. 

“I can… I can probably look.” She pulled her hand back and Rhys allowed it. Probably because of the guards watching. Cassian could hear her elevated heart-rate from where he stood.

A longer lock of hair brushed Rhys’s cheek as he dipped his head lower. “Thank you. What was your name?”

“Clare,” she said. 

Rhys frowned for just an instant then his face smoothed into that flirtatious grin. “Thank you, Clare.”

She nodded, face somehow reddening even more as she closed the door.

Rhys stood up straight, his expression as focused as it was the day they’d found each other during the blood rite. It was impressive how fast he could go from flirtatious prick to calculating prick. “I guess we have all day.” Then he rubbed his eyes. “I’ll just get to work on the clothes in case she doesn’t find anything.” 

..............

The rest of the morning was long and boring. Rhys had given himself the task of tailoring their clothes for a better fit, laying out all their tiny dress clothes onto the larger bed while the spymaster thought it prudent to teach a wild bird to fly.  

Cassian kept Rhys company for some time, but sensing his souring mood, decided to give him space. He moved back to the other room, still in his underwear since Rhys was working on his trousers. Azriel still stood by the window, a pillow tied around his left arm. Flopping onto the child-sized, pillow-less bed, Cassian splayed his wings against the headboard behind him, his ankles crossed in front of him. The change of underwear they’d been given was also tight, and he pulled at the crotch to give himself some space.

“I’m just saying, he’s supposed to be a death god—” Cassian began, continuing the conversation he’d been having with Azriel about an hour ago during lunch.

 “Your theory.” Azriel faced the open window as he spoke and Cassian enjoyed the gentle breeze that cooled his shins basking in the sun. He longed to take flight and explore the mountainous peaks he could see stretching all the way to the horizon, but they were worried about triggering the wards. It wasn’t worth risking while his powers were out of reach.

“Well, it’s a solid theory—the carver, Stryga, Koschei—their legends all circle around death—some of the older accounts even refer to the carver as the Death Bearer, Stryga as Death’s Maiden, and Koschei…something like Death Maker? I wish I’d spent more time studying him. Anyway, learning that the older brother has some magic ability to seduce females—”

“It’s a luring magic—not a seducing one. At least that we can tell. Though it does seem to have more of an effect on females.”

“Like I said—seducing females. That doesn’t fit in with the rest of the siblings’ power.”

Azriel sighed, his eyes still trained on the bird. He stretched out his dark wings halfway, as if poised to launch. “Like this, see?”

“It can’t understand you.” Cassian picked at a hangnail, then bit it off.

“She’s smart. Look how she watches.” The bird imitated the motion but then relaxed. Cassian snorted. He was convinced it already knew how to fly and was just messing with Azriel. “Even Gwydion knows the difference between a hawk and an owl.” 

“I just saw a large bird. My mind went to hawk before I really looked at it.”

“It’s okay if you’re still learning your animals. This is a barn owl; in case you’re wondering.”

 “You looking to fight, Az?” Cassian asked, a real invitation for the smart-ass. Cassian needed to work out anyway. Sitting around waiting was making him antsy.

A wicked smile crossed Azriel’s face. “Always.” But he turned back to the owl. “I’m busy at the moment though.”

“Anyway, like I was saying, as a death god, his seducing–or luring power—doesn’t fit.”

“Even if he is a death god, that doesn’t rule out other magical abilities.” The bird poised, readying for a launch.

“True. He acts like a fop though,” Cassian observed.

“He’s strong. I can sense it. The weaver was supposedly charming before she was contained as well.”

Azriel backed away slowly to the door between rooms which he closed before leaning against it. The bird hopped off the ledge, soaring to Azriel’s arm, missing just barely as it careened into the door, squawking at the impact.  “One more time, Gwyd. You can do it.” He offered his pillowed arm.

“Rhys isn’t going to like what you’ve done to his pillow.”

“He can patch it up easily enough.” Azriel said, returning the owl to the window ledge. 

“What do you think of our opponents?” Cassian asked.

“I think Rhys is right to be worried—”

“He’s paranoid.”

“—because they’re unlike any foes we’ve ever faced.”

“They all have combat training, I can tell,” Cassian said. “Especially the women. Especially after that punch. Her form was perfect.”

“I can’t decide what sort of role they play in whatever court they serve.”

“Why do they have to serve a role? Maybe Beron is dead along with Eris and all his shit offspring—besides this Lucien—which would make him high lord of the Autumn Court. And Feyre is… well, Feyre is the new lady of Autumn Court—his wife…. And then Nesta…Nesta is just a sister. One I have an entangled history with. Which is why we have a feud with them. She’s a spurned, bitter lover who never got over me.” That actually makes a lot of sense.

Azriel laughed through his nose for longer than Cassian appreciated. “Well, if she is just a spurned lover, she got you good.”

“It won’t happen again; I’ll be ready.” Cassian found himself looking forward to their next encounter. 

“And why would Koschei care about a quarrel between you and the sister of the lady of Autumn Court?”

“Maybe he’s just a bored, old gossip, stirring up old news. Or maybe it’s a kink.” Cassian stared up at the ceiling. “He’s a pervert.”

“That’s true, but he’s darker than you’re describing. And I think there’s more to our opponents. You saw how different those females were. If Elain isn’t lying—” 

Cassian sighed loudly. “You think everyone is a spy.”

“How often am I wrong?” Azriel asked. 

Cassian changed the subject. “So besides the earthquakes, is anything else you learned last night?” Cassian asked. Azriel had told Rhys and Cassian that there were earthquakes in the region that were increasing in frequency, though Cassian couldn’t remember any legends surrounding that tidbit.

“I scouted the halls and was spotted.”

Cassian felt his brows rise. “What happened?”

“She asked for a kiss.”

Cassian chuckled. “They’re starved for males, these females.”

“Perhaps, but the one who had kissed you was really celebrating.”

“Don’t blame her,” Cassian said with a cocky grin.

“It was strange though—”

“Hey—” Cassian said, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice.

“You’d think Koschei would be more possessive, but he had no issues with the one—what was her name? The one you kissed?”

“I have no idea.” 

“By the mother, Cass,” Azriel sighed. 

“What? You can’t expect me to remember them all,” Cassian joked. It was something with a “t.” Or maybe her name had a “t” somewhere in the middle. 

“Anyway, I didn’t get to ask Cassandra much before she got away.”

“So did you kiss her?” Cassian asked.

“No,” Azriel said, as if Cassian had asked a ridiculous question. Azriel looked at the closed door between their rooms then moved off the wall and closer to Cassian. “I learned something else though…”

“What?” Cassian said, leaning forward, expecting the worst. Especially after yesterday’s news. 

“I don’t know if it would be wise to tell Rhys, but the women I listened to last night seemed to imply that Rhys has a mate.”

“That’s wonderful!” Relief flooded through Cassian. Of course Rhys would have a mate. 

Azriel shushed him and Cassian reluctantly lowered his voice. “Why are you being so secretive? Let’s tell him.”

“First of all, I don’t know that the bargain will let us, second of all, I don’t know if that knowledge will make it harder for him to be imprisoned here.”

Cassian rubbed at his temples and soothed his hair back. “I don’t understand this stupid bargain.”

“I don’t either. But it seems like it’s triggered when we try to share certain information about our own lives—specifically, recent history to us. I can’t share with you my most recent memories, but I can talk with you about things farther in the past that are shared between us, like the war camps and the war—at least up until your recent memories.”

Cassian nodded. The fact that Azriel could even speak the word war was proof—neither of them had been able to voice the word when Rhys was present since his memories predated the war.

“But why? Why would he do that?” Cassian asked. 

“Because it’s confusing and puts us at a disadvantage.”

“We’re already at a disadvantage without our powers.”

“Knowledge is a form of power.”

Despite the reminder that they were still no closer to understanding this Koschei, it set his soul at ease seeing Azriel here, hearing his voice. He’d been so worried about both of them; and they were both very much alive and well. His heart lurched at the thought of how lucky they were to have all made it through the war. Then the thought of never seeing his second mother obliterated that joyful feeling, like a knife piercing all the way through his sternum to his heart.

Azriel moved back to the door and held his arm out as he looked at the bird. “Again,” he said. 

Nesta

         The morning wore on without incident. Feyre went right back to sleep after their breakfast and while Nesta had tried to as well, she only tossed and turned beside her sister. So she set to work stretching out the small gown, leaving the curtains drawn for Feyre’s sake.There was the soft sound of thread tearing as she pulled at the opposite ends of the neckline when she heard a key turning at the door. 

Nesta’s wool-covered foot touched the ground the same moment she saw Lucien’s head at the door. He held up a finger to his lips and slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him. 

“Are we being summoned?” Nesta asked. 

He squinted at Nesta through the darkened room. “You two are still sleeping?” 

Feyre stirred. It had been a couple hours at least, but Feyre needed it. Nesta knew that Nyx wasn’t sleeping well through the night—either from a wing growth spurt common at this age or teething. Or both. 

Lucien strode to the drapes and pulled them open, the light momentarily blinding Nesta. Feyre’s eyes shot open and she sat up in bed.

“About time you woke up,” he said. Lucien wore the same clothes from the previous night—an antiquated and pompous style that well-suited him. She noted that he’d found a way to iron his blouse.

“She was just taking a nap. We had nothing else to do anyway,” Nesta said, glaring at him. Feyre rubbed her eyes.

“What happened?” Feyre asked. “Do we have another challenge?” She rose from the bed.

“No, but it would be wise to regroup before that,” Lucien said. Nesta glimpsed an iron key in his hand.

“Where did you get that?” Nesta asked. 

“A friend gave it to me.” He reached into his pocket and the sound of clinking glass followed as he rifled through it. Then he set down two crystal vials on the end table next to Nesta, their multifaceted surfaces gleaming in the afternoon light. “Her name is Vassa. She seemed to hint we knew one another before this.” Lucien looked meaningfully at Nesta, but Nesta just stared at the vials.

“What are those?” She asked, looking at them. They looked a lot like the vials Koschei had in his study the night they’d come to rescue Elain.

“Perhaps we can persuade them by other means, Lord,” the cloaked male had said, gesturing to the crystal vials in the bookshelf behind Koschei. She couldn’t see his face. “It would be a pity to disfigure such beautiful specimens with brute force.”

The cloaked male plucked a vial from the wall that contained a cloudy liquid and as he moved she saw the profile of a long pointed nose, overgrown nose hairs backlit by the blazing fireplace behind them. “I have just perfected a most persuasive concoc—”

“I don’t need any of your potions, Frildor. Be gone while I deal with this!” Koschei yelled, his arm less translucent than it had been upon their arrival. Frildor nodded once, then winnowed.   

“Where is El–” Feyre’s voice cut off as some power prevented her from speaking.

Without warning, an invisible force seized Feyre’s body, lifting her high above Nesta’s head and threw her to the ground like a rag doll. Nesta screamed, Feyre’s protective shield around her finally loosening its hold as she fell unconscious. No longer bound, Nesta ran to Feyre, the cold fire in her soul coming to life. Then the earth trembled, darkness filled the space, the windows to the study smashed in, and all hell broke loose. 

“This is for the next challenge,” Lucien said. Those were the same style of the vials she’d seen in Koschei’s study; the ones his lackey had wanted to use on them. She shivered at the thought. But if Vassa was supplying them…

Lucien continued, “At some point Koschei means to put something in our food or drink to make the challenge more difficult, but she said this would counter it.”

Vassa could be trusted. Grateful for an antidote to whatever poison the creep planned to give them, Nesta snatched the vial, undid the stopper, and downed its contents. It tasted of wine, the aftertaste bitter.

Lucien's mouth opened in incredulity. “She said to WAIT to take it before the next challenge! Cauldron boil and fry me.” He put a hand to his head and said something that sounded like, “impetuous” under his breath

“You could have started with that!” Nesta exclaimed.

Feyre frowned at Nesta before grabbing one of the bottles off the end table, pulling out the stopper, and sniffing. “Smells like that wine from last night.”

“Not surprising. It’s probably used to preserve whatever antidote is in there.”

Nesta folded her arms. 

“I take it Vassa is to be trusted?” Feyre asked, her eyes fixed on Nesta. Nesta nodded. 

“I don’t like faerie wine,” Feyre said, eyes narrowed. 

Lucien huffed a laugh. “We have good wines, you know. Far better than what mortals enjoy. Karnalwines are just one type. There’s a sparkling faerie wine from the Dawn Court that is superior to anything you’ll ever taste—”

“What else did Vassa say about the challenge for today?” Nesta interrupted.

Lucien looked at Nesta like a smudge on a blade that resisted all attempts to wipe it clean. “All she said was that Koschei had no intention of making things fair and gave me these vials. She couldn’t share much more than that.” He pulled out another vial in his pocket and eyed it. “I suppose she did say I was supposed to save mine for later—to not use it until right before I needed it and that I’d know exactly when that was.” He shrugged and the smile didn’t meet his eyes when he looked at Nesta. “Perhaps that antidote will last you until our next challenge.”

“You waited a while before coming here,” Feyre observed.

“I was investigating.” Lucien sat at the foot of the bed. “This place is old and neglected. I think it used to house human royalty with all the human touches, but that would have been ages ago.”

“Vassa gave you these while you scouted?”

“No, she gave it to me last night. I looked for her, but I couldn’t find her. The halls are empty—the whole manor is quiet and empty from what I observed.” His brows narrowed. “It smells funny in here.” 

 “So you’ve just been sneaking around all morning? What if they caught you?” Nesta asked, disapprovingly.

 Lucien pointed to his magical eye. “Thankfully, my ‘revolting metal eye’ does have some advantages over the average eye.” 

“You know a way out?” Feyre asked

“Not quite. There are some very powerful wards over the manor and the land in general. But I did find some areas that weren’t as well-guarded—”

“It’s pointless,” Nesta stated, patting the dress flat where she’d stretched it to its limits.

 “Explain,” Lucien demanded.

“We all… agreed to this,” she said, struggling to complete her thought.

Lucien laughed mockingly, “Why would I willingly—”

 “Because you did,” she said, cutting him off. She hated when people laughed at her, especially Lucien .

“Try to explain,” Feyre prodded.

Lucien’s brows rose. “You’re saying we made a bargain,” he stated, incredulous. 

“Finally, he’s catching up,” Nesta sneered. 

“That’s ridiculous. I’d never willingly submit to being imprisoned, let alone surrender the powers that make me fae,” he said, pausing as his lips pulled downward. “I feel like Feyre. A weak human, unable to do the most basic of—”

“ Weak human?” Nesta felt warmth rise to her face. What a hypocrite! “That’s rich coming from a male who seems to prefer the company of weak humans these days.” And to think Vassa was actively helping this prick.

“What is that supposed to mean?” He stepped closer, his shoulders hunched and his nose crinkled in disgust as he glared down at her. If he stepped any closer she would punch him. 

Feyre frowned, a faraway look on her face.

“You don’t deserve any of their time or attention—” Nesta began. Feyre wagged her finger and looked like she was about to say something, but Nesta plowed ahead. “If only they really knew…”

“Really knew what?” There was a welcome challenge in his eye—just the one-since his metal eye was doing that awful whirring thing again.

“How obsessed you are with yourself. How ignorant and racist—” Nesta said.

Feyre touched Nesta’s shoulder and then pointed a finger at Lucien.  “You remember me as a human.”

Nesta stared at Feyre, and so did Lucien. “What?” Lucien and Nesta asked at the same time.

“You just said you felt like me—a weak human—which means you knew me before I became fae.”

Nesta’s eyebrows rose to the top of her forehead while Lucien stared back at Feyre, mouth ajar.

“You lied,” she continued. “Which means, you already know Tamlin very well and you also know about how I met Tamlin. Deny it.”

A pause. 

“Of course I know Tamlin! I got this,” he pointed to his eye, “while serving in his court.”

“ You insinuated —” she began.

 “You lying, piece of shit!” Nesta began.

 “I didn’t lie !”

 Feyre spoke again, “Maybe not technically, but you insinuated that you didn’t know either of us. Why?”

“Well, it’s not like we can freely share our most recent memories anyway. I was just trying to get a grasp on things. It was a lot to swallow.”

“That’s no excuse…” Nesta felt a roar building in her chest.

 Feyre held a hand up, “Maybe his memories of me are just fresh. He might not know me well enough to trust me.”

 Nesta’s narrowed gaze focused on Feyre before turning back to Lucien. She always stood up for him—the two-faced fox. But she’d allow this line of reasoning. “Fine,” Nesta said, “maybe Feyre’s right. So. Did you just meet Feyre?”

 Lucien paused before answering, “No.”

 She huffed a breath. “And what about Elain?” She asked, thinking of Lucien’s dance with Elain. Did he know she was his mate? If this was post-cauldron—

 “I only just met the both of you,” he said, “yesterday.”

 “But you haven’t seen us before?” Nesta clarified.

 “Never.”

 Nesta stared at the ground thinking and letting silence gather. If Lucien knew Feyre and not Nesta nor Elain, then it was odd that he wouldn’t be forthcoming with at least Feyre. 

When Lucien spoke again, his words seemed carefully selected, “My last memories were with… Feyre. I learned with some distress that she is illiterate.”

 Amarantha. Nesta knew the story. Feyre had nearly lost both hers and Lucien’s lives under the mountain because she couldn’t read.

 “What does that have to do with anything?” Feyre asked, face a bit pink.

 “It’s a helpful reference, actually,” Nesta said. 

 “How so?” She asked, voice rising in pitch. She looked stricken. This was definitely a sensitive topic, but Nesta wasn’t sure how to navigate it without it sounding like criticism.

 “It’s fine, Feyre. Apparently, we survived,” Lucien said.

 “She can read now. And write. Just fine.” Nesta announced. He would not know of the bargain between Feyre and Rhys that led to both her education and survival.

 “I can?” She asked.

 “Wonderful,” Lucien said tersely, his attention on Nesta. 

“Tamlin didn’t teach her that,” Nesta continued. 

“I take it someone else did?” He asked, challenging her. She just nodded with a triumphant smirk.

“Good for her,” he said, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

“I still don’t understand why you pretended not to know me,” Feyre said.  

“It’s because I didn’t know your sister and I didn’t know if I could trust her,” he said.  

“I knew you were acting too friendly with Feyre! Like you knew her,” Nesta exclaimed, crossing her arms again. She had second-guessed her correct observations—her instincts—all because of her insecurities. I need to stop doing that. 

 Lucien waved a hand. “Are you two quite satisfied that you caught me not sharing all my inner thoughts with you?”

 “Unbelievable,” Nesta said. 

 “You know, I did come here to share some information I’d gleaned, but perhaps we are teammates in name only,” he said.

 “Just share what you learned, Lucien,” Feyre demanded, all patience lost. There was a cold look in her eyes that seemed to hit Lucien with force as she waited. 

 His eyes wavered and he looked down at his toes, “I’m sorry for not being more forthcoming, Feyre.” She said nothing and he took a deep breath. “Last night, when Vassa visited me—”

“You mean when the weak human visited you?” Nesta said.

Lucien glared at Nesta and Feyre prodded for him to continue, “Vassa visited you…”

“Yes, and she gave me some helpful advice for the next challenges.”

At that moment, a metal scraping noise sounded and, as the door swung open, Lucien jumped to the corner of the room on the other side of the door, and Feyre pocketed the other vial. A guard held a bundle of folded cloth in her arms, then she peered behind the door at Lucien. He looked like a child who hadn’t learned how to hide himself properly. Nesta might have laughed under different circumstances.

 The guard frowned then spoke in a flat voice, “That’s a lot of people for one room.” They said nothing as she surveyed them again. Then she shrugged. “I’ve brought you a change of clothes. Koschei would like you to change then meet at the ballroom for a special task. I’ll be back shortly.” She set the clothes on the bed and Nesta saw a folded note at the top. 

As soon as the guard closed the door, Nesta unfolded the note: “As reparations for last night’s attempt at murder, you will be serving your opponents before your next challenge tonight. You must cater to them until they all say in no uncertain terms that they are satisfied. Failure to accomplish this before dinner will result in steep penalties.”

Chapter Text

CH. 7 - Service that Satisfies

Rhysand

I’d finished tailoring Cassian’s shirt, making openings for his wings in the back and reworking the armpits and upper sleeves with the sliver of extra fabric at the seams. My shirt was already struggling against my shoulders, and I was sure it would be worse for Cassian. 

Pulling out stitches and ripping seams was satisfying, even if I longed for sleep. It both eased my growing restlessness with all the unused magic amassing within me, and it reminded me of my mother. She spent many nights working on special garments for friends or people in need, even if it made my father furious to see her using expensive fabrics for impoverished “nobodies;” often single Illyrian mothers who she’d just met at the war camps. Helping with her projects was supposed to be a punishment for whenever Cassian and I fought or picked on Azriel: I could either help her with the sewing or help the servants by cleaning, without magic. I always chose to help with her projects. 

I sighed at the memories, feeling another pang in my chest. Does it ever get easier? 

It seemed like they had given us all the same size of trousers—clearly made for much shorter, thinner males. There wasn’t much extra fabric to work with, but even a little would help, especially around the crotch. Since Cassian was the largest of us, in more ways than one, I set to work on his trousers first. I took out the inseam with the seam ripper then began the repair. Just as I’d restitched the left leg and crotch to a slightly roomier fit, Cassian entered the room. He closed the door to a dark room behind him. 

“Azriel sleeping?” I asked.

“Yeah, the owl fell asleep and Azriel decided to rest as well.”

I nodded as I straightened a raw edge to its new position before grabbing another pin.

“You get pretty far?” Cassian asked.

“Your shirt is done,” I said around the pin in my mouth. “I’m halfway through your trousers.” 

Cassian sniggered. “Lucky you.” 

I grinned but felt the smile fade from my face as Cassian gingerly scooted my work a few inches to the side and eased onto the bed. He yawned and stretched his wings and arms wide. His right wing flared just inches from my face before he settled with his back against the wall. I gave him a pointed look but he either didn't notice or didn’t care.

“I’m bored,” he complained. “I just want to move.”

I tossed him the unfinished trousers. “Here. You can finish these.”

Cassian’s eyebrows rose. “I’m no good at—” 

“Shouldn’t be that hard—just the rest of the leg. I’m going to start on my shirt.”

I felt Cassian’s indignant stare, but ignored him as I set to work on my shirt. We sat there side-by-side working on the garments for half an hour in silence when I noticed that Cassian’s needle-work was horrendous—I would need to redo it. I nearly growled in frustration. Cassian looked up at the door and I heard a key slide into the keyhole a second later. In one motion, Cassian dropped the trousers and stood up. He knocked twice on the door adjoining our rooms before shoving it open.

An armored guard opened the door at the entrance of the room. “Koschei would like to meet with you—” she began, but paused as Azriel appeared at the other doorway between our rooms and stepped inside, closing the shared door behind him.

“Yes?” I said, inclining my head. 

She frowned at Azriel. “He’d like you to meet him for lunch.”

“I thought we were staying here til’ dinner,” Cassian said.

“Change of plans,” she said. “Your opponents will be there as well.”

I looked down at my unfinished shirt and Cassian’s trousers. “How soon does he want us to be there?” 

She followed my glance and winced as she saw my progress. “Now. I’ll give you a chance to dress though.”

Feyre

“‘No uncertain terms that they are satisfied?’” Nesta repeated, disbelief lining her features.

I’d puzzled over the same line of text, my disbelief mostly stemming from the fact I could read it at all. “What does that mean? Is this like last night—with the ratings?”

“I don’t think it’s that complicated,” Lucien said. “They probably just have to say the words, ‘I’m satisfied’ or something akin to that. As far as what ‘satisfying them’ entails, I shudder to think—”

Nesta laughed, an open mocking sound. “‘You act like they’re monsters. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

Lucien drawled, “Says the female who wallopped the hulking beast—”

“Say one more word —”

“And you’ll what?” Lucien said, leaning toward her like he had last time she had threatened him. I thought I saw a silvery light shine in her eyes but then it was gone. 

“If they’re not monsters, what should we expect?” I asked. 

“Honestly, I don’t think they’ll ask for much. The challenging task will be to get Azriel to communicate anything , let alone his satisfaction. And for Rhysand—well, you should probably focus on Rhys.”

“Why me?”

“Because he actually likes you. Can’t you tell?”

Lucien scoffed, “You want to pair Feyre with the worst of them?”

“Definitely.”

Lucien’s brow rose, his metal eye narrowing. “What? No words in defense of the high prick of the Night Court?”

A twisted smile framed her face. “I won’t correct you if you’re not wrong. Prick he may be, but he has his uses.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lucien said.

Nesta only shrugged.

“You don’t like Rhys?” I asked Nesta.

“We don’t see eye-to-eye on most things, but we—” She struggled to finish her thought. “I tolerate him and he tolerates me.” Lucien breathed a hollow laugh. “Perhaps more than tolerate lately.” Nesta turned to Lucien. “I’ll focus on Cassian for whatever this task entails, and you know what? You might actually get along with Azriel given the circumstances.”

“Oh, goody, the challenging task.”

“Would you rather Cassian or Rhys?”

“No, I’ll take the shadowsinger.” 

They had given us clothes suited for serving—two pinafore aprons, worn umber trousers with attached suspenders, an olive brown tunic, and one gray cotton serving dress with roomy elbow-length sleeves. Since Lucien did not offer to tighten the golden dress and Nesta would not ask him for help even if it killed her, I was left with the black gown once more, the pinafore apron partially covering the low neck-line of my gown. It was still tight, but not as bad as it had been last night.

And so we arrived as serving staff; Nesta and I wearing the knee-length aprons, and Lucien in clothes made for a groundskeeper.

Spaced out evenly before us in the wide room, our opponents sat in three throne-like chairs. Cassian and Azriel appeared uncomfortable in their seats, shifting to make room for their wings. In the middle was Rhysand, his sculpted upper body totally bare as he leaned back in the tall chair.  He looked like he was made to sit upon a throne—the ankle over his knee, the relaxed but upright posture, the aloof expression on his face. Unable to stop myself, my eyes briefly scanned his flawless tan skin once more, wondering what balance of colors I'd need to achieve the same tone. He caught my eye and winked before I could look away and pretend I hadn’t just sampled the sight of him.

I felt my face heat as my eyes darted to the rest of the room. With the curtains opened and natural light flooding the space, I saw clumps of dust clinging to the curtains and satin wallpaper, and cobwebs in places I hadn’t noticed the previous night. The warping on the polished wood floor looked like mildly agitated lake water.

A simple wooden table laden with a selection of breads, sliced meats and cheeses, and a carafe of wine sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back. Another table next to it held quart-sized crystal decanters filled with amber and moss-tinted liquid. Three courtiers stood between the tables—Jurian, a pale female with white-blond hair, and another courtier with dark hair and a simple but elegant black gown. The females had both taken part in the contest—the pale one had won first place, while the other had performed on the cello for Nesta.  Jurian nodded at me and a shadowy figure appeared right in front of Rhysand’s chair. 

“I normally share the delights and services of my home with all new guests, but sometimes the guests get to be on the serving side of things,” an ethereal voice said.

It took me a second to realize that the figure speaking was Koschei. He didn’t appear as he had the last time I saw him and his voice was affected—more imperious than before. His eyes seemed to blend into the rest of his face, but I saw them move to mark each one of us before waving his smoky, insubstantial hand toward the back of the room. 

“As you can see, we have food,” he pointed first to the table laden with food, then he gestured to the table with the crystal decanters, “and we have massage oils.” 

I looked toward Nesta whose face contorted in either disgust or confusion, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.

“I have business to attend to, but some of my courtiers have offered to help. If you desire their assistance, all you need to do is ask. My lady Lynn,” he paused as he gestured to the female in the center of them with white-blond hair, her corseted gown an off-white color, “will be watching to make sure that you’re all behaving and fulfilling all that I expect of this task.”

He paused as if waiting for a response, but we said nothing.

“Good. Well, go on. Serve them. Pamper them. Anything they want. Anything at all.”

He turned as if to leave, and Nesta moved, her eyes fixed on Cassian.

“Oh yes.” A smile tugged on his smoky lips as Nesta stopped in her tracks. “I will assign you.”

His tone shifted, “Since I do not wish our Illyrian general any further harm, you will be paired with the spy master. No more tricks from you, girl.”

 Koschei turned to me. “As for you,” he frowned at me as if trying to make a decision, though his indecisiveness felt exaggerated and performative. “You can be paired with the general.”

“Who?” I asked.

“I think he means me,” Cassian said.

“Which leaves you ,” Koschei glanced at Lucien before stepping aside to flourish a hand toward Rhys, “to be paired with the fair Rhysand.”

“If I’m to be pampered, I’d prefer Feyre do it,” Rhys said, his voice almost monotone. My heart skipped a beat. 

He likes you. Can’t you tell?  Nesta’s voice seemed to repeat. So? I said back. I barely knew this male. And what did it matter anyway? I felt like Nesta or Elain, worrying myself over trivial matters, like which village boy noticed me. Besides, he was our rival, and I knew he was only marking me to flatter and distract me, like a well-placed trap hidden among foliage and brambles. I wouldn’t let myself get caught in his snares.

Koschei turned his head, an eyebrow raised. “Hmm,” he hummed. “I like my pairing better. So, no. You will be paired with Beron’s boy.” He practically beamed at Lucien then Koschei zeroed in on Nesta. “In fact, you are not to serve anyone but the opponent I assigned you to. Don’t even think about attacking poor Cassian again.”

 His gaze returned to Rhysand who looked positively bored. “The same goes for you all. No interacting with those who you are not paired with. If you need any extra assistance, you may call upon my ladies… and him for help,” Koschei said before disappearing once more. I looked back at him , and Jurian just sniggered, amused.

I heard Nesta huff angrily as I approached Cassian, noticing again just how large this male was. Why did she have to attack the biggest one? Though when I looked over at the “spymaster,” I had the distinct impression that he wasn’t often crossed. Even Rhysand was intimidating with his muscular form, long limbs, and utter confidence. Knowing that he was a faerie who probably had unknown powers made it that much more—there was something there, now that I was looking. A dark and turbulent power that I sensed ever so briefly radiating from him. It was gone in an instant and I shuddered at what sort of magic these Night Court people possessed. I looked away before he could distract me with another sensuous stare. 

Cassian leaned forward with his wings folded high over his head. He held out an enormous hand and I took it. “Cassian,” he said. His grip was firm and as we shook, he looked me in the eyes, assessing.

 “Feyre,” I said. My eyes darted to the food table once more and I thought to steer the conversation toward a simple service. When he finally let go of my hand, I said, “Would you like something to eat?”

 He shook his head and rose to his feet, a slow, intimidating movement. I backed away as he towered over me. “I want to spar.”

 A jolt of panic caused my breath to catch.

 "I… I don’t… how is that pampering?”

“I get to pick, don’t I?”

I looked over at Nesta who was preoccupied with Azriel.

“I don’t know how to spar,” I said.

 Cassian barked out a laugh. “I don’t believe that for one second.”

I couldn’t think of how to respond. His eyes roved up and down my body, a quick assessment, and I didn’t think he measured me for much. He gestured to the space in front of his throne and said, “There’s enough space here.”

“I apologize for my sister’s—”

He waved a hand dismissively. “This isn’t about that.”

I backed away looking to the assistants for help. Jurian was assisting Nesta and the two other females watched Cassian and me but said nothing. Rhys seemed to frown at Cassian but quickly smoothed his face to a mask of boredom once more. 

Cassian held up both fists close to his chin as if preparing for a fist fight.

“I’m sorry about—”

“I already told you. This has nothing to do with that.”

This had everything to do with Nesta punching him. He was going to beat the shit out of me.

Perhaps scenting my growing fear, he said, “I’m not gonna hurt you. This is just for fun.” 

I looked at the massage oils on the table and reluctantly said, “Are you sure you don’t want a massage?”

“You want to massage me?” He raised a brow and one corner of his lip curled upward.

“Not really, but I’d rather do that than this.”

He chuckled and lowered his fists. “Okay, I’ll take a massage.” I sighed through my nose, relieved, but just as I was about to gather the oils, Cassian attacked, his gargantuan fist nearly striking me in the gut. I dodged the attack just barely. “After we spar.”

Azriel

The moment Nesta approached Azriel, he noted something was off—her movements were wooden; stilted. 

“What do you want?” Nesta asked, then seemed to think better of her tone. “I mean… How can I serve you?” She glanced at the table with food at the back of the room. “You want me to get you a plate?”

“Sure, pick me something I would like,” he said. 

“I don’t know what you like.” After a pause her nose wrinkled. “You’re testing me.” She sighed as she trudged away to the food table, her movements far less graceful than the previous night. He noted Stellian assisting as Nesta carelessly pointed to items and—his eyes doubled back. Is that Jurian? It can’t be. He stared at the human man who sawed into a soda bread, handing her a thick, uneven slice with crumbs scattering onto the grapes beside it. Nesta made her way back to Azriel but his attention was still fixed on the man who had aided her. He looked almost identical to the human general he’d known during the war—the same eyes, mouth, face shape, sneer.  

“Here,” Nesta said, handing him a plate, a slight tremor in her hands. He noticed a few items he didn’t care for—a regional melon, a hard cheese, and a popular Monteserean cured meat.

“Thank you,” he said.

“How do you feel about my service?” She asked. Her face was a little flushed.

Azriel paused. “How should I feel?”

Nesta only breathed deeply and looked over her shoulder towards Cassian at the far end of the hall. 

“Where did we meet?” Azriel asked, picking at the food.

Tiny beads of sweat dotted her furrowed brow as she huffed, “At my house.” 

“When was that?”

Her lids were heavy and her eyes looked slightly unfocused. She put a hand on her side and looked to the ground, her breath shallow and shaky. “I don’t know.” She huffed another shallow breath as she counted on her fingers. “How many years has it been?” Her hand flew to her brow. 

“Is everything alright?”

The beads of sweat on her forehead coalesced into larger droplets and her face reddened further as she squeezed her eyes shut. Azriel dropped the food he’d been about to sample and set the plate on the floor, no longer interested in ingesting the lunch provided.

“You should probably sit down.” 

Nesta glared at Azriel and folded her arms. “I’m fine,” she insisted, then squinted at the far side of the ballroom again. “What the hell is he doing?” 

Rhysand

I wondered at the refusal of my simple request to be paired with Feyre, especially since we were supposedly getting reparations for the attack on Cassian. Besides, it made little sense to require dangerous enemies be in close contact, even for redress of injuries. A different punishment just for Nesta made more sense.

“Beron’s boy” had approached me with a courtly grace, his face unreadable. He didn’t seem to like that title. The detail about Cassian was interesting as well. A general? I always thought that Cassian’s prowess in battle deserved far more recognition and forward movement, but Illyrians were small-minded and would never promote a bastard. The fact that he’d made it so far despite the stigma and social barriers he faced made me glow with pride.  

“How can I serve you?” Beron’s boy said, his words tight-lipped.

This male did not like me one bit. I didn’t need to read his mind to know that. I felt the corners of my lips tug upward. “I’d like a bath.” I frowned as if considering. “Can you make that happen?”

He stared at me like I was insane. He made a show of looking under his arms, then his feet as he gave a theatrical sigh and snapped his fingers, “It looks like I left my bath at home. Is there anything else I can do to satisfy you?”

I nearly laughed. Perhaps they really were our enemies… Pity about Feyre. I schooled my features into contemplative surprise, “You can’t conjure a simple bath?”

“Not at the moment, as you well know,” he snarled. I’d assumed that they had also bargained away whatever magic they previously possessed, but it was good to know for certain.

I leaned forward slightly, grasping the arms of my chair. “Why don’t you be a good boy and ask one of those assistants for help?” I motioned helpfully to the back of the room.

Heat flared in Lucien’s russet eye. As the son of Beron, I guessed that under normal circumstances he might have tried incinerating me. I folded my arms and waited. Lucien’s lips pulled downward and he trudged away, muttering something under his breath.  I glanced at Cassian who stood before Feyre, fists raised: is he actually…?

Cassian

After she swiftly dodged his jab, Cassian noted that Feyre’s fists clenched but stayed at her sides.

He moved slowly as he circled her clockwise—this was just an assessment after all. Then he took a step to the left, moving as if he would attack again. Again, Feyre took another step back. Her footwork was quick and her stance was mostly balanced, though Cassian noted that she favored her right side ever so slightly.

He feinted to the right, leaving an opening for her, and was pleased to see her take it. Her left fist soared toward his kidney, and though her form was decent, he could tell she was holding back. He deflected with ease. He heard a ripping noise and felt cold air tracing up his right inner calf. Shit. My pants. 

Again, she let her fists fall to her side.

“Keep your damn fists up,” Cassian said, demonstrating the position. She glared at him as she raised her fists, protecting her face. Cassian landed a left hook to her side with barely any force behind it, and she grunted.

“Cass,” Cassian heard Rhys say, a warning.

“I held back,” he called, looking over at Rhys. He had. It was a test punch.

Rhysand

I watched Feyre deftly avoid another testing jab. She was definitely trained in combat, though Cassian would better know the extent of that training. The blonde courtier and the male one returned with Lucien, also watching them circle one another. The human male smirked and shook his head at the display.

“Is this allowed?” Lucien asked indignantly.

“Koschei never said it wasn’t,” the female said. I'd already forgotten her name. 

As Cassian moved to the right, I saw the inseam of his right trouser leg struggle against the uneven stitching, everything past his knee dangling loose. Feyre countered again and he sidestepped, the bottom portion of the trouser leg flapping with the movement. 

I had to pry my eyes from the fight and his trousers. “He’s just testing her.”

“Lucien said you’d like a bath?” She asked, eyes shamelessly roving over my bare chest. 

I took her in as well. She wasn’t unattractive. “Is that something you could do?” I asked. Her pupils dilated as she stared at my lips and nodded. “It would make my day,” I said and gave her a knowing half-grin.

Her eyes lit with unmistakable enthusiasm. “I can easily provide that for you. I’m Lynn by the way.” Her hand was suddenly in my space right in front of my chest. I took it at the odd angle without hesitation.

“Rhysand by the way ,” I smirked before letting her hand go. 

She blushed.

“Thank you,” I said.

Her lips pouted in a coy smile before she winnowed away. 

The newcomer chuckled. He was built like a warrior and he stood with an air of unnatural confidence for a human. “Do all females salivate the moment they meet you?” 

“No, sometimes they skip that part and invite me to their beds straightaway,” I drawled. The man chuckled again. “And it’s not their mouths that wat—”

“You certainly think highly of yourself,” Lucien said. 

The man gestured to himself.  “Jurian by the way .” 

Cassian

Cassian felt Nesta’s stare. He glanced her way and he noted that she looked distinctly unwell. Is she okay —Feyre executed a perfect roundhouse kick to his right side. He grunted and nearly fell, but managed to stay upright.  Mother’s tits that was hard . Then Feyre’s right fist flew toward Cassian’s jaw, a decent uppercut.

Cassian moved aside just in time and caught her arm before she was able to reposition.

“‘I don’t know how to spar,’ my ass.”

She almost punched him again, another blow with her free arm to his abdomen, but he caught that hand too. “Easy… easy,” he said. “I’m done.”

Feyre calmed and he relaxed, still holding her. Then she moved as if she’d headbutt him, and as Cassian dodged, she lifted her right leg and pushed his chest with confounding force, knocking Cassian back on his ass. Rhys threw his head back and howled.

Nesta

Nesta almost chuckled, a bit of sibling pride rising within her, but then she felt a wave of dizziness. She’d barely paid Azriel much heed even though he’d asked many questions. Eventually he’d also decided to just watch the fight, perhaps because she was ignoring him. A dark purplish hue crowded her peripheral vision so that she could only see Azriel’s face in the center. She felt her eyelids start to roll upward, but fought against it, rapidly shaking her head once in an effort to clear her mind.

“Sit,” Azriel commanded. 

“No,” she said, grimacing as her face grew warm and her legs numbed. “What else can I do… for you?” She asked, teetering to the side once more. 

“I won’t catch you if you fall.” 

Prick. She had wanted to say that aloud, but all she could manage was an obscene gesture as darkness swallowed her whole. 

Cassian

The loud cracking noise of Nesta’s skull hitting the ground reverberated through the room. Something in Cassian’s core reacted to her prone form and all his plans to settle the score with Feyre fled from his mind. Swift as a diving Illyrian squadron, Cassian rose to his feet. He charged, passing Rhys and the two other males, and dashed all the way to Nesta and Azriel. 

“What the fuck—” Cassian began, but one of the female courtiers from the back strode forward, hands upraised.

“Koschei indicated that you must stay with your assigned—”

Cassian ignored her as he crouched before Nesta, carefully flipping her onto her back, fingers probing her neck for a pulse. A steady, regular pulse beat against his finger . She had a nasty bump that swelled on her forehead, and sweat coated her face.

“What did you do?” Cassian demanded of Azriel.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“What happened?” A worried, female voice said. 

Cassian glanced up at Feyre who panted as if she’d just sprinted. He realized he was panting as well, though now that he looked, it was a long ballroom. She gave him an odd expression before crouching beside him and touching Nesta’s forehead. “She’s so warm.” She looked up. “Somebody go get water.”

The Eris's brother nodded and rushed to the back table. 

“You really have to stay with your assigned person— this is not allowed,” the female courtier insisted. 

“I apologize. Cassian will return to his spot.” It was Rhys who spoke, placing a hand on Cassian who shook it off irritably.

“What did you do?” Cassian repeated to Azriel.

“I already said: nothing. She arrived here like this, presumably poisoned. By whom, I do not know. I told her to sit when I saw that she was close to fainting, but she didn’t take my advice.”

Feyre looked between them and as soon as Eris’s brother returned with a goblet in hand, she took it, dipping the end of her apron inside the goblet to drench it. She wiped Nesta’s brow with the wet apron.

“It’s probably the antidote Vassa gave us—” At a sharp look from Lucien, Feyre stopped talking, but the female courtier had heard. 

“Vassa gave you something?” She asked Feyre.

Azriel

Lynn returned, winnowing to the middle where Rhys and Lucien were previously situated. She turned on the spot, looking right to an empty ballroom, then left to where everyone gathered.  

“What. Is. Going. On?” Anger and shock lined her features as she looked to Stellian, who opened and then closed her mouth.

“N-nesta fainted and… everyone rushed over–” Stellian stammered. 

“Stellian told us to return to our spots, and everyone will,” Azriel said. 

Rhys nodded at that. He, Lucien, and the male who looked like Jurian walked away but Cassian, Feyre, and Stellian remained.

“My sister needs to be tended to,” Feyre said. 

Lynn opened her mouth to speak but Stellian spoke up, “She said to return to your spot." She wore a stony expression as she gazed down at Feyre, then she directed her words to everyone. "All of you."

“We can’t just leave her here,” Cassian said. 

Stellian walked to the other side of Nesta’s prone body to crouch beside Cassian. “I’ll tend to her,” she assured as she softly probed at the bump on Nesta’s head. 

“You’re a healer?” Cassian asked.

“I have some skill with healing,” she said.

That seemed to persuade Cassian because he rose slowly, rubbing his thighs where his right pant-leg had split open—the split stretched to his mid-thigh now. Lynn grabbed Feyre by the arm, yanking her to her feet. “What did I say?” she said through clenched teeth. Feyre jerked away from Lynn, reluctantly following Cassian to the other end of the hall. The look Rhys gave Lynn from his make-shift throne was nothing short of vicious, but the high fae female wasn’t watching him. 

“What happened with her?” Lynn spat at Stellian. Then she eyed Azriel, a question on her face. He supposed it wasn’t unreasonable for everyone to assume he’d poisoned her, but he wasn’t so inexperienced as to be present when one of his victims fell ill.

“Someone mentioned she has an allergy. I think she tested something on Azriel’s plate,” Stellian lied. 

“This lunch is not for them. ” Lynn inhaled sharply. “If they step out of line, we are to use whatever means—”

“I know,” Stellian said. “I was as surprised as they were when she fell—”

“It doesn’t matter. If you cannot manage a group of people who are magically harmless, then you are not fit for these extra tasks.” 

“I won’t let it happen again,” Stellian said, face downcast and contrite, but Azriel saw her fist clench beside her.

“No you won’t. Also, you don’t have to heal her.” She looked up at Azriel, seeming to remember his presence then she returned her gaze to Stellian. “But if that’s what you want to do, by all means.” She took a deep breath and fixed a pleasant smile on her face, returning to the center where Rhysand waited. Both Azriel and Stellian watched her leave, each step made to exaggerate the sway of her hips.

When she arrived at Rhys’s side, she raised her hands. Azriel felt the air move ever so slightly, and he knew she had conjured wards between them. She spoke from the middle of the room: “I have erected wards between our groups and only Stellian, Jurian, and I can cross them. Should you need anything, ask one of us.”

So he is Jurian. How??

Stellian remained by Nesta’s side and Azriel noticed the bump on Nesta’s head diminish, the redness retreat. 

“Why are you helping her? She just said you didn’t have to,” Azriel inquired. And why are you lying for her? He wanted to ask.

Stellian looked up. “I… it’s only right. And I told your—told Cassian I would. Would you not help her if you had access to your powers?” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Nesta stirred then opened her eyes. Stellian grabbed the goblet of water that Lucien had retrieved. 

“Drink this.” 

Nesta downed the glass and Stellian took it from her before she could set it down. 

“I’ll go get some more.”

Rhysand

As soon as she instated the wards, Lynn’s lips curled into a smug, self-satisfied grin. She reminded me of a beluga whale with her dress, her hair, her wide-set eyes, and her protruding forehead. She waved her hand and a bath appeared before me. The yellowing ceramic tub was chipped in places and had dark crazing marring the lip of the tub and around the drain. Does this lord own anything nice? I eyed the steaming water. At the very least, the water looked clean. 

Feyre waved at Lynn, standing between Cassian’s chair and mine, no doubt stopped by the wards.

“What?” Lynn asked, that nasty edge in her voice returning.

“We need assistance.”

“Go help them,” Lynn said to Jurian and he left.

Lynn stared at me, waiting for my reaction. 

“Splendid,” I said, forcing a grin. Soaps appeared. Probably her own—half-used; some bottles nearly empty.

“There’s room in there for two,” she said, her lip jutting out.

There wasn’t; I would be cramped even without my wings. 

 I smiled and it was genuine; I was looking forward to being clean. “I’d rather not share, this time.” I removed my shoes and pants, dipping my feet in. It was a bit too warm but I savored the cleansing feeling of clean water on my legs. “Any other time I’d make space.” I looked to Lucien who looked like he smelled something rotten.  “But it’s just been days since I’ve had a bath.” I lowered myself, my underwear shifting and floating slightly as I sat. I need this. “Besides, you would do a better job at pampering me from this side.” I patted the outside of the tub and smirked at Lucien.

 “Well, I never took you for generous,” he said flatly.

Lynn guffawed, an awful coughing noise as she grasped her chest. She came to the edge of the bath, grasping the lip and leaned forward so that her beluga forehead was inches from my face, her laugh now breathy. “Would you like me to help pamper you?” She grabbed a soap bottle but I held up a hand.

“I’d prefer for Lucien to do that.” 

Jurian returned and spoke to Lynn. “Cassian would like a bed to lay on. For his massage.” 

“He can sit. Or lie on the floor.” She glanced at me, then seemed to realize her hypocrisy. “Fine,” she said, her woven slippers slapping against the warped wood as she stalked over to Cassian and Feyre. I glanced over at them both. Feyre had two crystal decanters in her hands and she looked distinctly uncomfortable. Cassian was motioning to the rip in his open pants and I thought I heard him jokingly say, “We can start here.” Did she put up a sound barrier in her wards? 

To the other side, I saw Azriel take off his shoes as Nesta and Stellian waited with their own massage oils. Not a bad idea.

“Do you… actually want my assistance?” Lucien eyed the bottles of soap, nose wrinkling.

I lifted a foot out of the water. “My feet need cleaning.” Then I looked to Jurian. “And I’m famished. Just gather a selection of your favorite items on that table. I'll eat whatever.”

“I’ll get you a plate,” Lucien offered. 

I shook my head, a slight movement. 

“No, you stay here. Jurian can get that for me.” 

I wiggled my toes and smiled as Lucien grimaced like a child who had just been asked to eat a particular food he didn’t care for. The face made me think of Azriel and his picky palate—he simply wouldn’t eat some foods if he didn’t like them. He’d always been that way. My mother soon learned that going to bed hungry didn’t motivate Azriel as it did for Cassian and me, and she quickly stopped trying to broaden his palate since he was already a pitiful, malnourished child. 

As Lucien made his way to my feet, I could almost imagine him as a child, surrounded by the likes of the entitled Eris. “So, little Lucien,” I crooned. His russet eye flashed and the metal one narrowed as he poured the cold, goopy solution onto my foot. “Tell me about your high lord, Tamlin.”

Azriel

Azriel was more accustomed to touching the feet of females than having his feet touched. The massage had been Stellian’s idea since Azriel had lost his appetite. He always lost his appetite when he witnessed the effects of poison. He’d managed to drag from Nesta that she had taken an antidote for a poison without having ingested that poison. She seemed to think she’d be poisoned later but was mistaken. When he asked why she thought she’d be poisoned, she wouldn’t say. Lucky for her, antidotes on their own were usually safe to consume, but they could make one ill if taken alone. 

He watched as the two women held onto his bare feet, Nesta with his left foot and Stellian with his right. He hadn’t asked Stellian to help, and he wondered if she was helping as an extra precaution—to protect him should Nesta attack. She needn’t have bothered. From this vantage point, he could react quickly. Plus, her presence would interfere with his careful questioning of Nesta since she was less likely to share information with an unknown listener. He almost suggested that Stellian help Cassian—the foolhardy male who laid his wings bare to a known rival—but Stellian spoke.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Stellian turned to Nesta.

“Thank you for healing me,” Nesta responded. 

“So… Vassa gave you this…?”

“Lucien gave it to me, actually,” Nesta said. 

“But Lucien received it from Vassa?” Stellian prodded. Nesta said nothing and Stellian continued, “I won’t speak of it to Koschei. She won’t get in trouble; not from me.”

“Why do you care then?” Nesta said, turning to Stellian. 

“I’m just curious.” Stellian’s massaging grew feeble.

“You seem nice, but I don’t know you. The only thing that recommends you is that Azriel seems to like you or trust you for some reason.”

Stellian’s brows rose and Azriel felt his own rise. Nesta had a very direct manner about her, and he sensed she used it to unsettle others—whether intentionally or not, he couldn’t determine.

“Why are only you three here,” she motioned to Lynn and Jurian, “and not the rest of his court? And where is Vassa?” Nesta dug her thumbs past Azriel’s heel, a sour but pleasant pain tracing the movement.

“I… I can’t answer that. It is a good question to ask though,” she looked meaningfully between Azriel and Nesta. “He has bound all our tongues about this detail, though if you ask locals, they can speak freely.”

“Will we get a chance to speak with locals?” Azriel inquired. Stellian poured more oils on her hand and her fingers roved up to part his toes. 

“Perhaps. Not today, but soon. There is a challenge after tonight that will allow you access to the lands outside of this keep. You may come across the locals. They know what is happening here. There is some mythology that you will have to parse through, but most of it is good information.” 

Nesta nodded before scanning the room, her eyes landing once more on Feyre and Cassian. Cassian was on his stomach on a sturdy work table, wings splayed wide, and Feyre was positioned by his side carefully massaging around his wings. Feyre laughed. Nesta’s icy stare moved from her sister to Azriel.

“Are your feet feeling better yet?”

“A little,” Azriel said. Nesta looked like she wanted to strangle him. 

Azriel had guessed by now that she was trying to get him to vocalize his satisfaction, but he only smirked. 

Rhysand

Feyre laughed again, and again I felt an odd irritation bump up against my awareness. Not toward her, but Cassian. At every turn it seemed that Cassian would find some way to play or laugh, while the rest of us suffered. Does he even miss her? A soft voice seemed to whisper.

A taste of bitter resentment rose up my throat, then my common sense returned. Of course he does! Cassian loved my mother as his own. We all did. I shook my head from the odd thought. Why shouldn’t he find happiness and joy in every experience? It was something I loved about my brother. What was I even thinking?

“Is this satisfying to you?” 

“You’ve asked that seven times now.”

“Well is it?”

I had no doubt that they needed confirmation of our satisfaction before they could be released from their burden. I just shrugged as Lucien reluctantly scrubbed at the calluses on my other foot. He hadn’t spoken much about Tamlin or his family in the Autumn Court, though I did glean crucial intel from the little he did share: Lucien was fiercely loyal to the new High Lord of Spring, and the Spring Court and the Night Court were in fact enemies once more. Azriel’s information was out of date.

“So how did you lose your eye?” I asked as I looked down at my fingernails, picking at the non-existent dirt there. 

Jurian returned with my plate of food and monitored as Lucien finished washing my feet. 

“I lost it to your lover,” Lucien said, words clipped. I felt my eyes widen. 

“Funny, I lost an eye to her as well. She had a weird thing with eyes,” Jurian said with a growing smirk. I looked at his two, whole eyes and he must have seen the question in my expression because he shrugged. “I got it back.” 

He handed me the plate.

“Her name?” I asked. 

Jurian continued, “He can’t say. It’s a defining part of your relationship which is why he can’t—you know, the bargain you made.” That would be an important detail to confirm with Cass and Az, though we’d already suspected as much. “Though I can probably say her name without issue.” He licked his lips as if testing a new word. “Amarantha.” Then he shivered.

I shivered as well, a rotten feeling working its way up my spine, then settling in my gut.

“I have a lover named…” I couldn’t say her name.

“You had an unpleasant arrangement in the past with the bitch that scarred both Lucien and I. I don’t think you like her any more than we do—”

“An ‘arrangement’?!” Lucien laughed a hollow, bitter laugh. He turned to me. “You wholly delighted in the deceiver as her right-hand who—” His voice cut off mid-speech, but I knew that the word he’d been about to say was “whore.”

“And the bargain,” Jurian said, wincing. I sampled a soft cheese with the crusty bread he’d selected. “I can’t explain much. But it’s better for you, a mercy even… not to remember. I wish I didn’t. By the mother, I wish I could forget everything.” He shivered again.

“Tell me more about this—”

Feyre laughed again, and so did Cassian. Once more, I felt a prick of annoyance. 

“—Amarantha.” 

“She’s dead. Tam ki—” Lucien’s words cut off. 

“Your Tamlin killed her?” Interesting . “Is that why we’re enemies?” 

I sampled a rough-cut meat with another cheese. Jurian frowned at Lucien though his gaze was distant.  “No,” Jurian said when Lucien didn’t respond. 

“What is it?” I asked Jurian, flicking the crumbs from my fingers onto the abused wood floor. 

“I’m just trying to decide how far back Lucien’s memories have been wiped.” 

Lucien sneered at Jurian. “And why would that matter to you? You keep acting like we’re friends.” 

“Because we are.” He frowned and continued before Lucien could speak again. “Why would you feel strongly about me at all? You didn’t know me during the war. You weren’t even born.”

Lucien paused and I chewed on a tiny sandwich I made, noting the lovely nutty flavor of a mystery cheese. It would probably pair well with a red wine from my father's collection. When Lucien spoke next, his words were drawn out and cutting, “Why would I trust an accessory?”

I stopped chewing to appreciate Jurian’s shifting facial expressions: surprise then hurt, then an icy stare. “You’re the one with the accessory,” he pointed to his own eye that mirrored the metal one on Lucien’s face. “Prick.” He excused himself to the table at the back. 

Silence settled between us. 

I finished the rest of the delicious sample and after swallowing, I said, “Well, that was diverting.” I pointed to the plate. “Hold this. You can feed me as I wash my hair.” 

Feyre

After seeing Cassian’s reaction to Nesta’s fall, I felt less scared of him; less threatened by him. He clearly cared about her and that feeling came through despite the curse. And if that were true, then they probably weren’t truly our enemies outside of this challenge, as Nesta seemed to imply. 

Besides that, he was easy to get along with. I enjoyed talking to him, even if I didn’t enjoy giving the massage. His wings were so large, and though he’d said not to touch them—just the back muscles underneath—I longed to know what they felt like. 

My fingers moved up his spine and inched closer to his right wing. Then even closer until I just barely grazed the spot where his tan skin blended with the raven-coloration of his wings. 

“Careful, now. You're playing with fire,” Cassian warned, his voice slightly muffled against the table that Lynn had found for us. 

“You’re not sore here?” I asked. 

“Oh, I am,” he said, “but I don’t think you’ll like how I respond to that touch.” He turned his head slightly, his voice no longer muffled. “Or maybe you will.”

I felt someone’s eyes boring into me. I peered over my shoulder. Two pairs of eyes, it would seem: Rhys’s and Nesta’s. Nesta looked like she would murder me. And I didn’t want to “play with fire,” as Cassian had warned. Maybe I should stay away from those wings. 

“How are you feeling?” I asked. “Satisfied?” If he just said the word, supposedly this task would be completed. 

“Not yet,” he said, grinning. “But I’m getting there.”

I refrained from sighing and grabbed his dangling arm. My fingers rubbed at the bundle of muscles on his forearm. Those muscles were usually sore on my arms after a long day hunting. I heard him grunt in appreciation, and so I stretched his fingers back, keeping his arm straight. 

“That hurts so good,” he mumbled. “Do my other arm.” 

I moved to the other arm and repeated the stretch. He grunted then looked at me quizzically. “Let me guess… you know your way around a paddle?” I felt my forehead wrinkle, confused at his question, then he said, “No, not that.” He looked me up and down, a quick once-over. “You don’t have the body type for a rower. You good with a bow?” Before I could respond, he said, “Perhaps also accustomed to climbing a good deal?”

I paused, surprised, then nodded. “I’m a hunter. When I need to be.”

“That fits.” He nodded, satisfied with himself. “What’s the biggest thing you’ve felled?”

“A wolf,” And then, because I was feeling so comfortable with this male, I decided to share the rest of it, the awful weight on my chest I often tried not to think about. “A faerie in disguise.”

Cassian whistled in appreciation. “So you’ve killed before.” I nodded. “Was it… an enemy of your court?”

I could tell he was trying to be subtle with his line of questioning but I didn’t know how to answer. I had no court as a “murdering human”—words Lucien had used to describe me when we’d first met. But then, I wasn’t human anymore, was I? I still felt like an outsider in Tamlin’s court, but I couldn’t deny the growing loyalty I felt toward him and even Lucien, so I might as well claim Spring Court.

“He was not an enemy. Quite the opposite. But I… didn’t know him. It’s my biggest regret.”

“I know what that’s like,” he said, and for whatever reason, I believed him. 

Silence settled. I moved to his hand, and it felt almost more intimate to massage his hand than his back.

“Do you have any memories of Nesta? It’s clear she knows you.” 

“None. This was my first time meeting her—last night, I mean. I don’t know anything about our fraught history.” 

I snorted. “Do you have fraught histories with many wom—females?”

“No. I mean, no one has ever hit me.” He paused before he said, “Has she said much about me?”

“She can’t say with the curse, though I have asked.” I tried to gather my thoughts. “Nesta can be hard to get to know, but I don’t sense that she hates you even if she did punch you.”

He grunted.

“It’s hard to read her though. We’re not exactly close… Though I guess we’ve gotten closer over the years. That was news to me.”

A pause. “Relationships can change like that. Over time.” 

I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me so I made a noncommittal noise. More silence as I massaged the tendons in his forearm. Nesta’s stares were noticeably less severe. I had no idea if I was doing anything for him. “The last relationship I knew about was Tomas Mandray. He was going to propose to her.”

Cassian seemed to grow still. 

“She hasn’t mentioned him, so hopefully that means she refused him.” 

“I don’t know that name. Is he Spring or Autumn Court?”

I chuckled. “Neither.” Then I chuckled at the thought of Tomas being relevant to anyone in Prythian or Rask. “He’s a human.” 

Cassian looked oddly at me then. “She likes humans?”

He looked over at Jurian briefly before looking back to me. I shrugged.

“What about you?” He asked. 

“Me?”

“Are you and Lucien—” 

"Lucien??" I paused before bursting with laughter.  “No, we are not together. He’s just a friend. No-Never.”

Rhysand

Why was she laughing so much? I couldn’t hear Feyre’s end of the conversation with her back to me, and it bothered me. And while Nesta and Cassian spoke loudly enough to hear most of their words, I had to focus to understand. For Azriel, I had to lipread. It was as if my brothers were twice as far from me as they appeared to be. While wards could be built to mute sound outside their barriers, I’d never heard of one that would only dampen or muffle sound. I rubbed at the opening of my ears with soap, then dipped low in the tub to wash off the suds.

Again, Lucien asked, “Do you feel adequately served?” 

“No,” I said, opening my mouth for him to feed me as I massaged a hair cream through my short hair. He hand-fed me a hefty chunk of cheese—the pieces he picked for me were getting larger and larger.

“Are you quite pleased?” Nesta asked loudly. I turned and watched as Azriel nodded. Nesta looked toward Stellian, a question on her face. Do I have permission to stop serving him? She seemed to ask. Stellian shook her head. Odd . I’d thought his confirmation of satisfaction would be enough.

What orders had Koschei given them?  

I was getting bored of forcing little Lucien to serve me and the bathwater was murky and growing cold. I’d need to ask for a change of clothes soon. 

Cassian flipped onto his back, his wing brushing slightly against Feyre’s arm with the action, and I felt my whole body grow tense and alert. He pointed to the tops of his shoulders and Feyre positioned herself behind him. He smiled up at her, grabbing her hand and repositioning it to the exact spot where he wanted the massage. Feyre’s face grew pink but she gave him a shy smile. 

I suddenly was very done with this stupid task. “I’m done,” I announced to Lucien. “You are relieved of this task. You all are.” 

A bemused expression crossed his face. “That’s not how it works.” 

There was an edge to Nesta’s raised voice: “How are you feeling now about my service?” She leaned in toward Azriel, much too close, her eyes intense. Is she going to kiss him? 

Azriel backed away, “I appreciate it.” She huffed and went back to his feet, then looked over at Feyre. I could have sworn I saw a silver light shining in Nesta’s eyes. She caught me staring and her eyes seemed to communicate something, but I felt nothing brush up against my mind and I couldn’t access my daemati powers. Then her eyes darted to Lucien. What are you trying to say? 

Cassian

Feyre was too soft with her fingers; too hesitant. Cassian could tell she was uncomfortable, but she was a good sport and fun to tease. In the past he might have romanced someone like her, but these days he preferred females with a little more gusto. Still, he couldn’t deny enjoying the touch of a pretty female. 

Just to make her blush again, Cassian lifted his left knee as he lay on his back and indicated the rip in his pant leg that stretched all the way to his underwear. “Would you be open to a leg massage?” He asked. 

She balked, “...Would it satisfy you?”

“Yep. Especially right here.” He pointed high on his inner thigh to the space right below his underwear, smirking at his own joke. 

Rhysand

I wanted to throttle Cassian. He looked like he was joking when he pointed to his crotch, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was hitting it off with Feyre. And she looked like she was actually considering. They’re our rivals, you idiot! 

“How is my service, Azriel?” Nesta asked, her face too close to his.

“It’s good,” I observed him say. 

Nesta looked at me again, her expression intense and focused. Do something, her eyes communicated. 

Maybe saying we were satisfied wasn’t enough. What if this was some sort of sick game, and it only ended when someone… did something. Lynn monitored from the back, her eyes flicking between each of our groups, as if waiting for the moment when one of us would release our opponents from their burden. As if the moment one of us did something, all of them would be released. Nesta hovered close to Azriel again, an intimate distance, though her pose was far more threatening than seductive. He’d snap her neck before she got close enough to “satisfy him,” which meant it was up to me. It always was. As Feyre moved her hand towards Cassian’s thigh, I moved.

Azriel

“Just say it then,” Nesta said through clenched teeth. Azriel thought he might draw it out longer, just to see what she’d do in her increasingly frenzied state, but he wasn’t getting any answers out of her while she was so agitated, especially with Stellian here. 

“I am satisfied,” Azriel said. At that moment Stellian nodded and looked at Lynn. 

Just as he felt the wards disappear and Lynn opened her mouth to speak, Azriel heard water splashing over the lip of Rhys’s tub as Rhys seized Lucien’s face and kissed him. 

Chapter Text

1. CH. 8 - Dead Weight

Rhysand

Lucien shoved me away, gagging, and I heard someone gasp. I looked back to Lynn for confirmation that the task was completed, but her eyes were wide, her eyebrows high on her protruding forehead. To my left, I saw that Azriel and Nesta wore similar expressions… As if Nesta hadn’t been trying to goad me into kissing Lucien. No one moved. 

Perhaps I misinterpreted...  

To my other side, I saw Feyre’s hand was no longer reaching for Cassian’s crotch, but covering her mouth. Cassian sat up, tense and ready to act. A bemused expression crossed his face as he waited for my next move. Yes, I had misinterpreted things.  

I eyed the physical space between Feyre and Cassian and felt no small relief. No matter, I achieved my goal. 

The simple truth of their task dawned on me as Lucien wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, a mixture of revulsion and horror on his face. I made eye-contact with Azriel who appeared to be holding back a smile, perhaps a laugh. 

I grinned at Lucien, licking my lips as I drawled, “That was satisfying. ” And as the room waited with bated breath, I grasped the rim of the tub and pulled myself to my feet, water cascading down my body in lukewarm rivulets, my underwear suctioning to my body the moment my hips met the cool air of the ballroom. “I’d like a towel, please.”

Feyre

Well, he clearly prefers males, I thought for the fifth time as we made our way to our rooms. My eyes had wandered southward as soon as Rhysand stood, his drenched white underwear not leaving much to the imagination. I tried to clear my mind of his slick, muscular body as well as the cocky smile on his face when he declared his satisfaction. The thought of painting that smirk stirred a pinprick of warmth in my core even while I reminded myself of his clear sexual preference. 

Lucien headed for the side table the moment we entered our room and poured himself a mug of water. Perhaps the guards hadn’t thought to send Lucien to his room across the hall, just as distracted and eager to share their reactions with one another as we were.  Lucien gargled, then swished the water in his mouth before spitting out the window. I noted the antidote still sitting on the other side table where I’d left it.

“So… what happened?” I asked as I snatched up the vial, glad it was still here. Lucien spit out the window again, some of the water dribbling onto the window sill.

Nesta began, “I think Rhys assumed—” 

“He did it to fuck with me. Because he knew it would get under my skin,” Lucien said, his nostrils flaring and the corners of his lips arcing low. “That male is a vile wretch who will do anything to achieve his goals…”

Nesta opened her mouth then closed it, turning away from us both.

“...no matter how petty,” Lucien said.  

Nesta snorted. 

“Is this funny to you?” Lucien demanded. 

She shook her head, still facing away from us, and her snort turned into a cackle. He swiped a loose lock of red hair irritably away from his face, his countenance a fiery furnace, then stomped to the door with an iron key in hand.

“W—Lucien—Lucien, wait!” I called. The door clicked shut behind him.

“Let him go,” Nesta said as her body shook with silent laughter. 

I heard the door on the other side of the hall close moments later. I sighed, opening the vial to sniff at its contents. It only smelled like that faerie wine; I couldn’t detect anything else. Nesta’s reaction to it had been extreme. Or perhaps it had been tampered with…

The bed creaked behind me and I turned to see Nesta watching me, her face smoothing as she took me in. That easy cruelty I’d witnessed many times as a child slid into place as she crossed one leg over the other. “I want to be clear with something, Feyre: Never. Touch. Cassian. Like that. Again.” 

I stepped back, my foot catching on an uneven tile. Some of the antidote spilled to the floor, a wet blot that was too purple to be blood, but reminded me of blood nonetheless. I recovered my balance quickly but the movement caused a bit more of the liquid to drip to the ground . “I didn’t even wan—he asked for a massage—”

“I don’t care. I don’t care if someone is holding a knife to your throat. You are never to touch him like that again.”

Her tone was so final and so… possessive. There was a real threat there. Despite the fact that I towered over her from her position on the bed, she whittled me down to nothing with just a look. I almost challenged her— And if I do touch him like that again?— but that silver fire I’d seen earlier flashed in her eyes, a glacial flame that sparked in me an animalistic instinct to back down; retreat.

I rethought my response: “Noted,” I said instead. I found the lid and closed the vial. About half of it was gone. 

The fire in her eyes subsided and she gave me a curt nod, satisfied with my response. I was about to lean down and clean the spill, but Nesta surprised me and grabbed a rag off the table. She crouched on the ground with a fluid athleticism that made me wonder if she’d also had the combat training Cassian suspected of me. 

“Don’t waste the antidote,” Nesta said.

“After seeing your reaction to it, I don’t know if I even want to take it.”

“Azriel seemed to imply that taking an antidote without the poison can sometimes make you sick, so that was my mistake. You should take it later today—what’s left of it anyway.” 

Nesta looked up at me from the ground, her gray-blue eyes boring into mine, and I thought of her lying there unconscious not even an hour ago. No, I don’t think I’ll be taking that potion. Then Cassian had moved her, turning her over as if she was as light as dead hare. 

“He ran when you fainted, you know? I did too, but he got there before I did.” 

She placed the dirty rag on the side table, not meeting my gaze as she regained her seat on the bed. I wondered if it was truly the curse that prevented her from speaking or just the usual Nesta not keen on sharing her thoughts. I looked away, focusing instead on the crystal vial, the multifaceted surface sparkling as I turned it. Cassian had been so worried. Not just that, he had been ready to fight for her as she lay defenseless on the ground. 

“I can tell he cares about you. Even if he doesn’t remember.”

I thought I saw her mouth quiver. I continued, “I’m just surprised you chose someone like him.”

“Why is that so surprising?” She snapped.

“He’s just… different from you. ” 

“More amiable, you mean?”

 I thought I caught a hint of self-doubt in her hard, bitter glare. In the past I might have used that observation against her as she often used my insecurities against me. But if she was letting me see this much, then perhaps we really had moved past all that.

I hedged, “More easygoing, maybe. But… there is an intensity to him. Perhaps he’s just as passionate as you. Then again, maybe not. I don’t know anyone as passionate as you, Nesta.”

Silence filled the space as actual tears welled in her eyes. She really loves him. The amazing truth of that struck me more than the sight of Nesta crying, and I suddenly didn’t care about her threats or our antagonistic past. 

“If you like him, I like him. But if he breaks your heart, I’ll break him.”

 Neata rushed at me with impossible speed, and before I could raise even a finger to defend myself, she surprised me with a bone-breaking hug. I felt my breath catch both from the force of the hug and the strength of her affection. I returned her embrace a bit awkwardly with my arms pinned to my side, and I heard her exhale the quietest sob. Yes, I would gladly destroy anyone—even that behemoth of a male—for my sister.

Azriel

Azriel strode to the shared door between rooms the moment they arrived. Hopefully she’s still sleeping.

“What the fuck even happened?” Cassian asked as Azriel breezed past. 

“What the fuck even happened between you and Feyre?” Rhys retorted, his voice raised. 

The door was locked; someone had come by. Azriel swore under his breath.

Rhys seemed to think better of his tone, because his next words were smooth and disaffected. “And why should you get to be the only one to seduce our rivals?” 

The curtains were still drawn in the smaller room, but Azriel noticed that a sliver of light shone through the open window. Perhaps she’d flown away. Wishful thinking. 

“I wasn’t seducing her! We were just messing around,” Cassian said, voice loud enough to carry to the hallway.

“Just like you were messing around with her sister last night,” Rhys said, matching his volume.

Azriel returned to the larger room, sighing through his nose. He’d been ill-at-ease leaving Gwydion behind, knowing those servants might find her while they were gone.

“Well, I was messing around with Nesta—but she started that. With Feyre it was different—”

“ You asked her to grab your dick. ”

“I did not! It was my inner thigh—not my dick. And I was just joking. Also, who cares if I had?”

“I care!” Rhys snarled with feral rage.

Cassian backed away defensively in a disarming posture that Azriel felt himself mirroring. 

Rhysand breathed deeply and Azriel could hear Rhys’s heart rate slow. That quick, he could change tactics—it still impressed Azriel so many centuries later. “They are our rivals,” Rhys said slowly. “You should never leave yourself open like that.” 

“I’d think taking a bath in front of a known rival is pretty fucking open—”

“You gave a stranger full access to your wings while lying prone on your stomach,” Azriel said. Like a thorn wedged in his wing, the sight had been eating at him the moment Cassian laid on the table.

“Not just that but your dick. You get too comfortable and that’s when people take advantage of you,” Rhysand said—a phrase his father was fond of. His voice and heart-rate were on the rise again. “Just because they’re females doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of—” 

“I am fully aware that females can stab you in the back. I was just building rapport—gaining intel.”

While Cassian could stand to be more cautious, he’d always been “open” and it usually worked to his advantage. And when things went downhill, he could usually course-correct. But why was Rhys so on edge about this incident? He thought back to Rhysand’s recent memories: … we just completed the blood rite . Then it clicked for him; Cassian’s near-death from trusting a new ally he’d made during the rite. Rhys had been the one to find Cassian hanging from the cliffside—Cassian’s wings bound and unable to save him from the precipitous plunge. The moment Rhys pulled Cassian to safety, Rhys and Cassian had pummeled the double-crossing male and shoved him off the cliffside. It was a tale Cassian loved telling. 

“I don’t really care about the rest of it. It was just the exposed wing bit that made me anxious,” Azriel said as he leaned against the wall. “What did you learn from the spar?”

Cassian looked at Rhys, an annoyed expression on his face, then sighed. “She’s good—probably trained by a master. I’d guess she hasn’t trained in combat her whole life, but the technique is solid. Honestly, it was practically Illyrian in style with a few exceptions. And while I only saw one punch out of Nesta, it would make sense that they received the same training.” He scratched his head. “I’m just trying to think of who I know in the spring or autumn court who might have the experience—”

Rhys chuckled, “I can’t believe she knocked you to your ass.”

“I was distracted!” Cassian said. “I want a re-match. With both of them.”

“Well, we may very well get that chance,” Rhys said. 

A listless quiet fell upon the group.

“You never answered my question,” Cassian said. “Why the kiss—?”

“Did you think you needed to kiss him to end the challenge? That’s what it seemed like,” Azriel said.

Rhys was quiet for a moment, as if carefully selecting his next words: “It worked, didn’t it?”

Azriel almost laughed and as Cassian noticed Azriel’s growing grin, he seemed to finally realize that Rhys had made an error. “Is that why…?” Cassian sniggered, a breathy sound. “They just needed us to say we were happy with their service or something along those lines—you didn’t have to—” Cassian barked a laugh, clutching Azriel’s shoulder to support himself.

Unable to help himself, Azriel began laughing as well. Rhys watched them, clearly resisting the upward tug of his lips. “Actions speak louder than words,” he insisted. Cassian and Azriel paused to take a breath and look at Rhys.

Then they all broke into laughter. It was a while before any of them could speak. Finally Rhys sat down on the bed, wiping the corner of one eye. Cassian flopped beside him, nudging him conspiratorially. “I didn’t know you were into red-heads.”

“Or Vanserras,” Azriel said.

“He’s probably the best looking of Beron’s brood,” Rhys said, leaning back and stretching out his legs. 

Cassian nodded. “He takes more after his mom for sure, and good thing too; Beron’s an eyesore.”

Rhys sat up, frowning, “Whatever happened to his brothers? Tell me you’ve at least taken care of Eris by now.”

“We haven’t had the chance,” Azriel said, a cold feeling settling in his gut.

Cassian grunted. “And Mor is against it… for court relations more than anything else.”

“Some of Beron’s sons have been ‘taken care of,’” Azriel said. “I believe Lucien was involved in their deaths.”

Rhys hummed, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m liking him more already. Pity he doesn’t return my affection.”

Cassian chuckled softly as Azriel said, “Pity for family relations since they forfeited their lives ages ago.”

The servant Clare returned. She was a small thing—little more than a girl in Azriel’s estimation. “I have a replacement pair of trousers,” she said, holding up an extra-large pair of trousers with suspenders attached. 

Feyre

“Feeling better?” Nesta asked Lucien when he returned to the room hours later. His hair was brushed and loose, his clothing appearing cleaner than before. 

The sun cast long shadows across the walls and worn tiled floor, the warm honey-toned hues dazzling my eyes and highlighting Lucien’s coloring. Despite the warm lighting, the temperature had dropped enough that we’d shut the window and Nesta was bundled in a blanket.

“Not especially,” he said, “given the company.”

I felt my eyebrows rise, ready to excuse him back to his own room. 

“Not you, specifically.” He smirked and his eyes rolled upward toward the ceiling, the metal one whirring as it focused on a spot above us. “I’m referring to them. Even with a ceiling separating us, it’s too close.”

I looked up at the pale pink ceiling lit by the late afternoon sun. 

“Their rooms are above us?” Nesta asked, her voice hopeful.

He nodded. “And after today’s… events, who knows what sort of ungodly sleeping arrangements they have with each other.”

Nesta laughed openly, a mocking sound. “Assuming they did have dealings with one another, what would be ungodly about that?”

“Aren’t they related?”

“Technically? No.”

Lucien paused, grimacing slightly. “Well, do they have… relations with one another?”

Nesta smiled wickedly. “Why do you want to know?” 

“You have a foul imagination,” he quipped.

“I’m not the one imagining them performing ‘ungodly’ acts on one another,” she said. “I suppose you could just spy on them tonight if you wish.”

He shivered, lips turned downward. And though I was also curious about their “relations,” I changed the topic: “Before lunch, you said that Vassa shared information with you.” 

“Yes,” Lucien yawned, running a hand through his long, red hair before tying it at his nape. “She said the next challenge he’d be setting us against creatures native to these lands; specifically the hot springs here. They call them ‘water moles.’ They’re virtually harmless to any fae with powers, especially in small numbers—but to humans and those without powers ” he scowled, “they can temporarily paralyze wherever they make contact.”

“How do they make contact?” I asked.

He poked my elbow. “Just a touch.” Then he bumped his fist against my arm, a soft jab. “Or a bump. Not a sting or a bite. I’ve heard the sensation is mildly numbing, but not painful.”

“So they touch you and you’re knocked out?” Nesta asked.

“How would that be virtually harmless?” He sneered. She glared back at him. 

“Vassa described it like this: One of the creatures might come in contact with your hand,” he flicked my hand, all of his attention on Nesta as he spoke, “then your hand is paralyzed—” He grabbed my wrist, shaking it impatiently until my hand relaxed in his grasp, “—for the next couple hours.” I wrested my wrist from him. “She described them as reclusive creatures that only become aggressive when you encroach on their territory.”

“Which is what we’ll be doing,” I said.

He nodded, his mouth set in a grim smile. “In big groups they can overwhelm you and cauldron bless the poor soul that gets overwhelmed in a body of water.”

And of course, they lived by water—the hot springs.

“So we’re to face these creatures while poisoned?” Nesta asked.

“Well, you used to have an antidote,” he said,

“That’s fine. I won’t eat. We need to tell them.” She pointed above her. “Let them know about the poison as well,” Nesta said.

“Why should we give them an advantage?” Lucien asked, sitting at the edge of the bed.

Her eyes widened, incredulous, “So they don’t drown?”

Lucien shrugged.

“What’s the end goal for this challenge?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he said, seeming to remember my presence. “Oh. Vassa also said to avoid the left-most entrance. The water moles gather there—it’s their breeding grounds.”

I nodded. “We should thank her for assisting us.”

Nesta muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “It’s the least she could do.”

“Where were you today?” I asked.

Lucien looked away, as if caught in a lie, then straightened suddenly. “Someone’s coming.” 

A metal clinking sounded by the door. A tall guard with cropped hair and girlish features held bundles of fabric in her arms. “I’ve brought you all your evening attire. Change and you will be collected for dinner.” The guard passed the fabric to me before closing the door behind her. 

Lucien murmured under his breath, “I’d rather not be collected for dinner.” Nesta chuckled appreciatively.

 There were three envelopes of fabric. I opened the top one which revealed a charcoal gray jumper with wrist-sized straps and shorts for bottoms. A fishy smell assaulted my nose.

 “What is this?” 

Nesta reached for the second parcel, the blanket still wrapped around her. The garment inside looked the same, though slightly smaller. 

Lucien smirked. “ Those are very old fashioned swimsuits. I daresay that style was popular when my grandmother was a child.” He pulled baggy, knee-length trousers out of the last cloth pouch, clearly disgusted by what he saw. 

I noticed that his cloth pouch contained a rumpled object inside, so I dumped the remainder of the contents on the bed. A clean, beige garment with gold trim tumbled out. Lucien held up the half-placket, sleeveless tunic, frowning at the contrasting quality.

Nesta snatched the garment, fingering the pearlescent button. “I’ve seen Vassa wear something that looks a lot like this.” She sighed, tossing it back onto the bed. “Figures she’d help you out and leave the rest of us with this shit .” 

Rhysand

After changing into the malodorous swimming clothes they’d received, two guards arrived at their room, this time with another in their retinue. Instead of armor or sword, the high fae female had just a knife at her hip and bow slung over her shoulders. She wore dirty, well-worn leathers with what looked like blood strewn across the sleeves of her coat. She had plain features, a prominent scar on her right cheek bone, and a face so freckled that her ruddy skin appeared tan. 

I knew her type. I’d met many like her at the Illyrian war camps. 

She strode into the room and gave us a bored once-over before asking with an edge of impatience, “Koschei asked me to take you to the hot springs. Ready?”  

“I thought we were going to dinner,” Cassian said, still tying on his swim bottoms.

She shrugged. “I don’t know what his plans are. And I don’t really care.” She held out her hands and as we took them, she winnowed.

We left the two other guards behind and arrived at a broad, flat rock that jutted six or so feet above the surface of the lake—a tiny island bare of vegetation that wasn’t far from the shoreline. A rocky cliff, hugging the lake towered above us only twenty feet or so away. She unshouldered her bow and I saw both Cassian and Azriel stiffen, readying for a fight. But her eyes weren’t focused on us. Instead, she studied the water just below us. She nocked an arrow and pointed it toward the base of the cliff. “They’re waiting for you in there.”

I spied a small opening where she pointed, the lake water almost filling it to the brim. “The cave opens up after a short swim and then straight ahead are the hot springs,” she said.

 “We’re to jump in the water with an arrow at our backs?” I asked.

She gave me a wry smile and slightly relaxed her hold of the bow. “This is just a precaution. For your benefit.” She gestured with her head to the lake behind us. “Beasts infest the waters. Mostly at the far side where the water is fed by mountain run-off, but they sometimes venture out.” 

“What type of beasts?” Azriel asked. 

“Violent, bloodthirsty creatures. Any creature that’s not a water fowl usually gets eaten soon after falling into the water—at least at the far side.”

“Is this the challenge?” Cassian asked, brows raised. “Jumping into a lake with bloodthirsty creatures?” 

 “No, the challenge is in there like I said.” She pointed again to the base of the cliff. “Go.”

“This can’t be the only way in,” Cassian challenged. 

“It isn’t,” she said, and I thought I saw a glint of amusement in her impassive face. 

“And what if my brothers fly away instead?” I asked. 

“Fly away if you wish. Not sure why you’ve waited ‘til now.”

“There are no wards preventing our departure?” Azriel asked.

“None,” she said. “He is holding you to your bargain.”

Azriel frowned as a cool breeze whipped through the air, billowing against his wings that he pulled tight against himself.  “Is… not leaving part of the bargain we made?” Azriel asked.

“Yes, excuse us for not remembering the particulars,” I drawled. 

“I wasn’t there when you made the bargain. But it would make sense, wouldn’t it?” She shrugged. “And even if you hadn’t, I assume you wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave without your powers.”

Azriel stared at me. If he could leave and communicate with my father…

She must have read the silent conversation between us and sighed. “Before you do something foolish…” Her expression was grave; somber. “... I must warn you: you risk losing something far more precious than just access to your powers if you leave here now. That is all I can say.” 

She nodded again at the low-lying entrance. “You’ll be fine,” she reassured, her voice terse. “I don’t miss.”

Azriel looked to me, as if waiting for my command, and I nodded at the watery cave entrance. We’d have to weigh our options later, though her warning sounded genuine despite her cryptic words. I jumped at the same moment as my brothers, landing with a splash as they soared toward the entrance. The water was as cold as the Sidra, and I swam with haste toward my brothers who waited, treading water by the opening of the cave. The female waited by the rock, eyes darting across the water as her bow followed. I searched below me and saw nothing but dark waters.

When Cassian spoke, his voice was slightly amplified as he faced the entrance of the cave. “There’s no way the rest of his court comes through this way,” he said, spitting out lake water.

 Azriel dipped his head under the overhang, the sound of water lapping against it, and we followed. The ceiling eventually dipped lower, requiring us to swim underwater for long enough that I worried she had lied. She wasn’t dressed as the other guards nor did she fit with the court, so it was possible she could be working for someone else. Or perhaps another challenge?  I bemoaned again my inability to peek into her mind. Why the hell would I bargain away my powers? I thought—a useless refrain in my mind these past two days. 

Eventually the ceiling of the cave rose, and I broke the surface of the water, breathing deep. The water was noticeably warmer and a faint sulfurous scent assaulted my nose, the air uncomfortably thick and warm. High ceilings rose above us, peppered with stalactites, while voices sounded from a short distance away.  We swam to the rocky shore and I looked up the steep, muddy hill before us where a large open gate stood at the top. I could see another path to the right, a dark path that opened to another section of the cave. 

Azriel came to the water’s edge first, shaking the water off his wings. Cassian was there next on his hands and knees, and I followed close behind. The same stern female winnowed before us, blocking the path to the right.

“You can winnow in here?” Cassian sputtered.

Azriel frowned and I felt my own anger spark to life as the weathered folds at the sides of her eyes deepened. She waited for us to come to our feet then pointed to the open gate at the top of the muddy hill. “Follow the voices. They’re waiting for you.” 

Nesta

The female who met with them had the air of someone who was used to being followed and obeyed. She kept three paces ahead of the group while two guards followed behind them. 

A guard with short black braids whispered to another guard with a cleft chin. Nesta caught the tail-end of her words:  “...taking them? I thought she was going to winnow them there.”

The guard with the cleft chin merely shook her head and looked pointedly at Nesta. They both looked straight-ahead and Nesta turned around as well.

It was the same path as the previous night, but instead of rounding the corner to the ballroom, they turned the other way—a clear path to a set of double doors. The hallway was covered in layers of dust as if no one ever used the front entrance. Every step stirred the dusty carpet under their feet, and Nesta felt the urge to sneeze. As the door swung open, the reddening sun broke through the dusty entrance, and the crisp autumn air swept inside, stirring even more of the dust.

Their unceremonious leader waited for them at the top of hundreds of crumbling stairs that descended to the glimmering lake at the bottom, the setting sun blinding them at a spot just below eye-level. Nesta squinted then sneezed a moment later. 

“Are the hot springs far?” Feyre asked.

 “I won’t make you walk the whole way,” the female said, raising her left hand and pointing southward. “We’re going to that cliff over there.” Nesta spotted the cliff that bordered the lake—it probably would have taken an hour to reach it after going down the stairs and trekking through the forest. “It’s a cave,” the female said, her face impassive.

“What is your name?” Nesta asked. 

 “Call me Huntress.”

She held out two hands, waiting to winnow them. Nesta grabbed one of her hands and Lucien held the other. Feyre gawked at them, as if uncertain what to do. She doesn’t know what winnowing is yet. Nesta took her hand at the same moment Lucien did and  they found themselves winnowing to the front of a rocky hill that bordered the lake, a wall of trees behind them. Another set of guards were waiting for them, and they encircled the group immediately, spears raised at the ready. 

Feyre

I was still shocked by the experience of traveling that great a distance in the blink of an eye. The surrounding forest was more humid than the landing in front of the castle—manor—whatever it was. And it was much darker, the trees thick and blocking out the last rays of light from the fading sun. I took a step toward Lucien and Nesta who walked a bit ahead of me, but Huntress grabbed my arm before my foot touched the springy ground.

“Watch your step,” she warned, then pulled me toward her so that I leaned against her. 

I looked down and saw a puddle next to a small patch of brownish orange. A closer look at the patch revealed a strange looking fungi that grew in clumps, the long, curving stems branching out with circular bulbs on the ends. She must have seen the question in my eyes, because she said, “They’re called symocils. Not too dangerous to the fae, but annoying. Don’t step on them.”

“What happens if you do?” I asked, stepping around the fungi.

“Then you’ll be stuck while they leach away a bit of your magic. It’s like your foot is caught in a trap, but there’s no way to dislodge it, and it can take a while before they’re filled. The larger clusters especially.”

“So these things could potentially make a powerful... person...less powerful?”

She grinned and revealed a missing molar. “It’s temporary. You couldn’t just trap Koschei in a large patch of symocils and permanently weaken him.”

Well, it was worth asking. 

“What if you don’t have magic?” I asked.

“Then they suck away your energy. Like I said, not inherently dangerous if you’re fae. They’ve been known to kill mortals though. Mostly the sick or elderly.”

Huntress disappeared without saying goodbye as soon as I walked to the entrance of the cave where guards and my companions waited. It was wider than the bedroom where we slept, but it was also much shorter and required us to stoop—Lucien especially. Torches held by the guards behind us cast long shadows and illuminated the coarse, pebbled sand that crunched under my feet. A few crustaceans and insects skittered out of the way as we stalked through. We stooped for a long while until the cave ceiling finally rose, allowing us all to stand at our full height.  The sand eventually became muddy and I gazed at the brick-colored stalagmites that bordered the broadening path. I felt the vial of antidote in my boot begin to rub against my ankle, and I was grateful when I heard voices and music ahead. 

The tunnel opened to a cavernous space, the sound of running water and laughter filtering through as hundreds of bobbing fae lights filled the center. My eyes widened as I noted the court’s state of undress—some were naked, others wore scant bikinis or briefs. Most sat along the edge of the large circular pool with their feet in the water, but some of them swam inside it, laughing as they splashed each other with the clear water. It steamed at the surface making the room wet with humidity. I felt heat unrelated to the warmth and humidity rise in my face. This is a dinner?

Then I noticed the levitating, legless tables arranged along the perimeter in front of the courtiers sitting by the edge. 

I looked at Nesta, wondering if she also felt just as uncomfortable with the nudity, but her eyes were fixed to my left, that blazing silver shining through. I followed her gaze and saw our opponents also in the water. Several females and some males surrounded them. It must have been shallow water, because I could see the bare chests of the females as they smiled and laughed. Cassian seemed pleased, Azriel looked stiff, and Rhysand looked mildly amused. I noted that Rhys was surrounded mostly by males, vying for his attention.

“Ladies and gents! It is time to eat! Out of the water, please,” Koschei said. His courtiers obeyed his order without delay, each dipping below the levitating tables before pulling themselves out of the water to let their feet dangle at the edge. Koschei appeared the same as our first meeting—fully corporeal, his voice less imperious than it had been at lunch. His bare, thin chest looked almost gray in this lighting, as if he never spent time outside. Unlike most people at the water’s edge, a bench without legs supported his back. He rested his arms on two attractive naked females on either side of him who served as contrasts to his plainness.

“It took you far longer to arrive than your opponents,” Koschei said with a concerned voice, his eyes fixed on me. “We’re all starving!” He pointed to our right where Elain sat by herself in a similar-looking jumper at a shorter table. “You sisters can all sit together tonight,” he said. 

Our boots scuffed against powdery white ground that bordered the hot springs pool. It was roughly shaped like an eye, and she was at one of the outer corners, her small levitating table bisecting it. Like last night, our opponents were right across from us at the other corner of the eye. Elain’s spot was on a ledge that jutted out at an odd angle, forcing her to lean forward slightly, her arms resting on the table for balance as her bare feet pushed against the pool wall, barely touching the water.

Lucien arrived at her side first but paused as he gestured to the seat beside her as if asking permission. Elain beamed up at him and Nesta took that moment to sit beside her where Lucien had just silently asked to sit. Nesta gestured for Elain to scoot over, but Elain ignored her, gesturing to her other side. Lucien sat without hesitation. No one seemed to notice that there weren’t enough seats at the table.

No one, but Koschei and myself. “Oh no, not enough space for all three! Why don’t you sit by Rhysand, Lucien?”

Lucien looked like Koschei had suggested he eat worms. I glanced across the pool and one of the males vying for Rhysand’s attention rose from his seat beside Rhysand to find another spot. I looked away quickly when I noticed that the male was naked. 

“I don’t mind… moving,” I offered as Lucien gave me a grateful look. I tread quickly around the perimeter as all eyes followed my steps, the sound of tinkling water amplified by the echoing space. Rhys tracked me, eyes sparkling as I finally made eye-contact. I pried my eyes away only for them to land on the bare chest of a topless female. By the mother, I can’t look anywhere tonight. 

“ No! Go back to your sisters,” Koschei hissed. I stopped mid-step, feeling the weight of that command. “I want you together tonight.” His eyes fixed on Lucien, “You are to sit by Rhysand, Lucien.” 

Nesta

It was relief to sit beside Elain. Nesta had asked after her during their lunch and Stellian had only said that she was in her room and not to worry. This did nothing to dispel Nesta’s worries. No matter how reassuring and helpful she was, no matter that Azriel seemed to trust her, Nesta did not trust the female. She’d need to ask Vassa what she knew of the female since Azriel was unlikely to share. 

Feyre and Nesta had removed their boots—the only people who’d brought boots besides Cassian, Az, and Rhys. They had also removed theirs—wet and upturned beside them as if they had worn them for their little swim. Nesta bristled at the memory of Cassian smiling at all those naked whores. She breathed deeply, trying not to fall prey to Koschei’s little mind games. Did he realize that she remembered all of it? 

Lucien sat at the far end of the table next to Rhys, with his body turned away from Rhys. Rhys sat with arms and legs spread wide, clearly enjoying Lucien's discomfort. Nesta snorted–the bastard certainly enjoyed twisting the knife when he made his mark. Cassian made eye-contact with Nesta for the third time, looking away quickly this time. Perhaps Feyre was right about him remembering something. Her heart seemed to twinge—a sour, wringing pain–and she sighed, trying to focus on something else. 

They hadn’t the option of choosing their meal this time. It was simply provided for them—a selection of seafood with rolls and soggy vegetables. The plates filled one-by-one in a clockwise rotation. Feyre picked at the options on her recently filled plate and Nesta’s stomach growled. She thought she heard Elain’s stomach rumble as well.

“Where were you today? ” Nesta asked, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. It was rude manners, but because of the awkward slanted angle of the ledge, it couldn’t be helped. Besides, Nesta had stopped caring about keeping perfect manners a while ago, especially in a court where trollops flaunted their goods. 

“My room,” Elain answered, though it sounded like a question.

“You just sat in your room?” Nesta asked.

“Yes?” she said.

Feyre must have also noticed the dark circles under her eyes because she asked, “Did you not sleep?”

“I went to bed right after the ball, then I woke up right before this challenge. I feel like I didn’t sleep at all though.”

“That’s a long time to sleep,” Nesta commented. “Are you feeling alright?”

Elain nodded, then yawned. Elain had recently been complaining about sleep issues. Rhys had found her sleep-walking in the middle of the night a couple weeks ago, tending to someone else’s gated garden. Nesta had assumed the sleep issues were related to whatever Koschei had done to lure her sister here, so to think it was still ongoing was troubling.  

“Any odd dreams?” Nesta asked. The dreams were another odd symptom; one they’d attributed to her growing prophetic powers, but perhaps it was all linked to Koschei.

“Yes, actually.” She frowned. “I don’t remember them though.” 

Elain’s plate filled with food at that moment, followed by Nesta’s a second later. Elain pierced a boiled green bean with her fork. 

“Don’t eat it,” Nesta warned. “It’s likely poisoned.”

Elain’s brows rose then knit together in an anguished expression. Her fork lowered and she sighed. “I’m starving,” she whined.

“Me too,” Nesta and Feyre said at the same time. 

“It does look like this is a bit overcooked.” She picked at more of her plate with her fork and her lips pouted to one side. “And some of it is undercooked—wouldn’t eat the crab for sure…” She frowned. “How do I know that?”

“Know what?” Feyre asked.

“About the food?” She asked. “That this roll,” she held it up, “is underproofed?”

“It’s one of your newer hobbies,” Nesta said. “You like to cook and bake.”

“I do?” She asked. Nesta nodded. 

“Hm,” Elain hummed, squinting at the food as she poked at it, no doubt marking the exact flaws of each item. “I bet the food is poor quality because he fired the cook last night.” 

“He did?” Nesta asked. 

“Do you know why?” Feyre asked.

“I’m not sure, because the meal was delightful, wasn’t it? It was something she said at dinner that made him upset, I think.” She placed a finger on her lip while she thought but shook her head as uncertainty crossed her face. Despite the raggedy swimwear, she still looked like an angel with her large brown eyes and her delicate nose.

She continued, “I heard one of the ladies crying about the cook’s termination—they’ve only had her for a few years, and it takes a long time for him to find competent staff.”

“Is that why his keep is falling apart? He can’t find staff?” Feyre asked.

“I think so. Apparently he fires the servants regularly.”

“That’s an idiotic way to run a household,” Nesta said.

“Well, he’s an idiot in his own special way,” a male voice said. They looked up as Jurian approached with a bottle of wine over his arm. “You should eat,” he said.

Nesta gave him a cold stare. He was too cocky for her taste, but she might have been influenced by Cassian and Azriel’s negative opinions of him. “I don’t trust whatever he’s put in our food,” Nesta said. 

“There’s nothing in the food,” he said. “Wine?” He asked. 

“How do you know?” Feyre asked. 

He leaned closer to Feyre as he poured her a glass of wine. “Did you take the antidote?” He asked. 

“Not yet,” she said, eying her boot. Nesta had seen her stash the vial in there before they left.

He dipped his head and poured a glass for Nesta. “Drink it now, and then make sure you eat,” he said to Feyre.

“So the food is safe?” Nesta asked. 

“Should be,” he said with a half-shrug. “I suggest you eat up before tomorrow. You won’t be getting a free meal for a while.” Then he poured a glass of wine for Elain before leaving.

“Can we trust him?” Feyre asked. Nesta nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Azriel

Azriel was surprised by the difference in quality between the meal in front of him and that of the previous day. Some of the seafood looked like it was still raw. And while that might be enough to dissuade him by itself, he primarily avoided the meal because his opponents did. None of them ate the food. He looked across the way and saw that Feyre was now reaching surreptitiously for her boot, glancing around to see if anyone watched. She stopped when she met his gaze, then Rhysand’s. Apparently he was marking her as well.

Stellian was nowhere to be seen—he’d searched for her upon arriving. There were fewer courtiers overall; Cassandra and some of the females he’d spied on the previous night were also absent. While he wasn’t surprised to see his opponents in the shabby swimwear, it was odd that Koschei had outfitted the sister, Elain, in matching garments. Stranger still that he wanted them grouped together when she wasn’t an opponent. Azriel stared at Elain, wondering again how big of a role she played in Koschei’s scheming. The thought struck him, not for the first time, that perhaps the sisters and Lucien weren’t truly outsiders but directly involved in his court machinations. 

Several courtiers finished their meals and dipped into the water. A few swam towards him and his brothers, eager to flaunt their naked bodies once more. Azriel felt no small irritation from the heavy-handed flirtations of this court. He glimpsed back toward his opponents and saw Feyre throw her head back to drink something that fit in her hand before digging into her meal with gusto.

Two females in the water chose a spot near Cassian, laughing about nothing as they fanned out in front of him, giving them a good view of their front and backsides. One woman leapt into the pool and swam around them, approaching Lucien at the other side of the table, her drenched red hair fanning out behind her. Lucien shied away from her as she pulled herself over the side, water dripping everywhere as she scanned the occupants of the room with a steely gaze. At the same moment, a muscular male with a trimmed beard approached the space in front of Rhysand, making arcing shapes with his arms through the water as he grinned up at him.

Azriel peeked at the woman beside Lucien, noting her forced smile as she whispered, “You should eat.”

“You think so?” Lucien said. 

“Yes, you’ll need your strength after today.”

The male trying to catch Rhysand’s attention spoke with a thick guttural accent, his words halting. He didn’t have a full grasp on their language. “I heard you like baths. I can make bath for you any time.”

Azriel missed Lucien’s next words but caught the tail-end of it: “Why should I trust you? Especially after one of my teammates—”

She cut him off, “ Timing is everything . You know that.”

“You make baths?” Rhysand asked the male, as if considering. “I’ve never met a bath maker.”

Lucien’s voice dipped low enough that Azriel could barely hear him, “So I should take the… thing—” he turned his head toward Azriel’s direction but Azriel had stopped looking in their direction, only watching from his peripheral “—you gave me?”

“No. It’s not for you; don’t take it. Save it for your companion,” Vassa said. “And keep it on your person.”

“My companion?”

The male spoke again—loudly—and though Azriel tried to tune him out, he heard every word: “I… how you say?… Draw baths… for beautiful males only.” He winked at Rhysand and then smiled at Azriel. 

“I can’t explain, but you’ll see soon enough,” the woman said, plopping back into the water with a small splash.

“You would draw me a bath?” Rhysand asked, practically purring. The man nodded eagerly. 

“And eat up. You’ll need it,” The woman called to Lucien.

“While I consider myself a patron of the arts, my first impression of you as a maker of baths was far more impressive. Now I’m just disappointed,” Rhys sighed. “You’ll have to try to woo someone else with your bath sketches.” 

Rhysand

I was getting tired of the flirtations—it didn’t matter that they were all male consorts tonight; I would have felt the same even if they were female. Koschei was setting his court up to behave this way toward my brothers and me, and it was… more infuriating than it should have been. I had felt antsy earlier in the day, but my growing reserve of unused magic was starting to chafe my nerves. What might have been bothersome on a normal day was downright aggravating at the moment. Additionally, something was wrong with my hearing. I hadn’t heard any of the whispered conversation between Lucien and the woman he’d just talked to even though they were right next to me. 

Koschei held a fork to his golden goblet, striking thrice, and all the swimmers returned to their places along the rim of the pool. The courtiers hushed immediately. “Before our next challenge, we must toast to our champions,” Koschei announced, holding his goblet aloft. 

I drank with everyone else as I watched the three sisters across the way. They all drank as well, Nesta last of all. Koschei clapped his hands and the court joined in applause. I didn’t bother. Before the applause died down, Feyre and Elain slumped onto the table face-first onto their plates, Nesta joining with a clatter a second later. 

As if doused with cold water, I felt every nerve in my body alight. Cassian spoke with unbridled rage, “What is this?” 

 The sisters didn’t move—didn’t even seem to breathe with their faces lying on their dinner plates—and I watched Koschei’s smile widen. Cassian got to his feet, brandishing a butter knife threateningly from across the pool.

“What the fuck did you do to them?” Cassian growled. 

“Control your general, Rhysand, before I send him back to the dungeon and you forfeit this next competition.” 

I felt an icy wrath shoot through me as a shudder ran through the cave. My voice came out detached: “How are we to compete without opponents?”

“They are perfectly fine , just temporarily paralyzed,” Koschei huffed. Something eased slightly at the knowledge that she—they—were still breathing.  

“Is it a race this time?” I asked conversationally. “A swimming competition?”

“No but it would be fun to watch them sink to the bottom as you swam off,” he laughed to himself. Then his eyes lit with excitement. “Why not?” He asked, as if to himself. He snapped his fingers and the table in front of them vanished, the females plunging into the water below. As Feyre’s paralyzed body hit the water, something within me ignited once more—more visceral and urgent than before. Cassian leapt into the water and I took a step, ready to dive as I saw Lucien dive in from my other side, probably to fetch Feyre. 

Then I stopped. Koschei watched me expectantly from his little bench, waiting for me to act—as if expecting me to dive in. Another person dove into the water—the female who’d been talking to Lucien. Good thing someone was taking care of the other sister. It had been a mistake to announce earlier that day that I wanted to be paired with Feyre. He was using that knowledge against me.

I stood there seeing red as I stared right back at him, the mountain trembling more violently than before. I felt a small, but noticeable relief from all the magic amassing within me. He blanched as I held his stare. 

I couldn’t stare for long; I needed to move—an insistent feeling urging me forward. Unable to stop my feet, I dashed to the other side of the pool. Cassian arrived first, Nesta and Feyre in each arm, Lucien close behind with Elain. The red-haired female grabbed Feyre from Cassian and I helped her heft Feyre out of the water. Koschei’s court backed away, making space for our rescue, a few tables disappearing as well. I placed my ears close to Feyre’s chest, the soothing sound of her steady, even breathing reaching my ears. 

“You are all dreadfully trite,” Koschei said with a sigh. “Even you, Rhysand.” 

Cassian was beside Nesta to my right and I saw Lucien beside him who tended to Elain. Azriel stood nearby watching his ministrations—he must have dashed over as well. The red-haired female had already returned to her spot along the pool’s perimeter, and I noted that all the sisters were breathing. It looked as if Feyre was trying to open her eyes, her eyelids quivering with the effort. Paralyzed but still conscious, perhaps?  

Two guards approached us with iron chains in hand. I felt my hackles rise but they ignored me and my brothers, shackling each of the sisters with a separate chain around one of their ankles. I stood, itching to attack them both.  

I took a breath to calm myself. “I was wondering about our odds against defenseless, paralyzed females. Thank the gods you’ve shackled them as well.” 

Koschei smirked. “Well, your odds aren’t great for this challenge, actually. And not because you are in opposition to your rivals, but because you will be paired with them. A greater folly after all.”

One of the guards hesitantly reached for my ankle and I bristled as she placed a shackle there that was connected on the other end to Feyre’s ankle.

 “You see, for this competition, your opponents are only there to weigh you down—” he laughed to himself, “—dead weights, you might say—to make it harder for you to reach your objective.”

Another guard approached Cassian’s ankle with a shackle connected to Elain’s ankle. 

“ Wrong! Wrong sister!” Koschei shouted, his face reddening as the females on either side of him shirked away from him. The guard jolted, dropping the chain. When Koschei spoke again, his voice returned to an even cadence, “Cassian will be burdened with Nesta. The one who slapped him. As… a gift to you,” he said, then laughed a deranged ragged chuckle.

The guard corrected her mistake and with shaking hands attached Nesta’s shackle to Cassian while the other guard attached Elain’s shackle to Lucien—not Azriel’s ankle. I frowned and so did Azriel and Lucien. 

“Since you won the last competition, Azriel, you do not have to compete,” Koschei explained.

“So I am to compete two against one?” Lucien asked beside Elain, outrage lining his features.

“Both of your teammates will also take part in the competition—”

“This is ridiculous! What kind of ‘contest’ is this?” Lucien rose to his feet, the chain jingling as he did.

“Manners, Lucien, or I’ll find another female to tie to your other ankle,” Koschei said, chuckling again to himself.

“Un-paralyze my teammates and Elain. Why is she playing a role in this moronic contest at all? If you need something to weigh us down , find some damn weights, not females. ”

Koschei’s face slackened as he stared back at Lucien, letting silence fill the cave. Then Koschei winnowed right in front of Lucien. 

“Do not… speak to me so,” he said through clenched teeth. Then he reached for Lucien’s face, Lucien backing away but not fast enough to avoid Koschei’s grasp as Koschei studied him with interest. “That contraption in your eye socket is fascinating.” 

Koschei let go, and as Lucien staggered backward, Koschei’s hand flew, striking Lucien across the face. The sound echoed off the walls and Lucien fell to the ground, his hand cupping his cheek.

“It’s a shame I agreed to not slaughter you, but I can make your time here difficult if you disrespect me. The same goes for all of you.” He gazed around at all of us—one at a time. “ All of you already agreed to compete in whatever I set before you. If you choose to not compete, I will take great pleasure in ending you slowly and thoroughly.”

He straightened. “So do behave.”  Then he winnowed back to his bench.

Chapter Text

Nesta

         The second before she’d sipped that wine, she had known she shouldn’t, known it was a trap. But it was Jurian that had filled her goblet—someone she had thought she could trust since they had gone through the trouble of trying to rescue him, along with Elain and Vassa. That back-stabbing bastard, Nesta thought, seething. Never again.

         It was a close call once the table vanished, but she’d held her breath before accidentally inhaling the warm water of the hot springs. Nesta had worried over Elain—she didn’t have the same reflexes as Feyre or herself—but it didn’t sound like Lucien was trying to revive her as he fussed over her unconscious body. When Lucien had challenged Koschei about Elain’s involvement Nesta felt more generously toward the male. He was absolutely right; Elain played no part in their bargain and shouldn’t be taking part in this challenge. Her little sister wasn’t suited to this sort of thing. 

         A wet pool of lukewarm water under her left collar bone moved with every breath. Nesta’s body felt numb—she could barely feel Cassian’s ministrations and everything felt distant—like it was happening in the next room. It was getting chilly and her ears were waterlogged. Despite that, the sound of the slap had been crystal clear, and she worried briefly if Lucien was okay—she was almost starting to tolerate him. No one had reacted though, and she was sure at least Vassa or Jurian would have said something if he’d been seriously injured.

Koschei’s voice rang out through the echoing space: “Our next challenge will take place farther into the caves. Follow along!” He paused before adding, “Oh, and Jurian, accompany Azriel. Make sure he knows to follow the court before we split paths.”

Nesta heard the general hubbub of people moving—silverware being set down, sandals scraping against the ground, water splashing as people moved their feet out of the water. 

“We’re to carry them the whole time?” Lucien asked. 

“Carry, drag, I don’t care. Do whatever you wish with your damn weights ,” Koschei hissed.

Elain

“Elain?” Lucien’s voice had reached her ears, a bit breathless after rescuing her from the water. She felt an odd tugging in her core at the sound of her name on his lips. 

“Elain,” he whispered again, listening to her chest, then brushing aside the wet hair sticking to her face. She hadn’t been able to answer—couldn’t move. Not even a finger. It was terrifying, the total lack of control. 

Then, in the midst of her rising panic, he’d been slapped. Not only had she felt that slap disturb the air, she’d felt it in her very being. It made her both worried for him and angry. Furious , a part of her corrected. She had a hard time acknowledging her anger, but if anything warranted her fury it was this. She recognized that this lord only pretended to be graceful and civilized, like a flowering vine that slowly choked a tree. Only in this case, it was a grove of trees and his entire court was suffocating.  

Elain breathed in deeply, causing Lucien to pause. He moved aside another hair stuck to her temple. It touched her, the doting, as did his words. The fact that he stood up for her and her sisters ignited something within her. His name alone had seemed to kindle a spark that first meeting. She felt as though she was a mere nudge away from focusing the lens of a spyglass just by contemplating his name.

Koschei had hidden her memories well—as she’d discussed with Nesta, Feyre, Lucien, Azriel, and then even Jurian—but she could still feel them there, lying undisturbed. More than that, she could sometimes see with such clarity that it startled her. But always, always, the shroud would fall again and her memories would fade behind the velvet curtain.

 “I need to give you something,” Lucien whispered.

Elain tried to speak or even move her head in response, but her body refused to obey. The only part of her body she was still able to consciously control were her eyes behind her eyelids, so she flicked her closed eyes rapidly side to side in her best attempt at a signal.

“It’s an antidote to the poison.” The noises of people seemed farther away—he’d been waiting for some privacy to give this to her.

Again, she used her eyes to indicate her acquiescence, hoping he noticed the subtle movement and understood.

 “Please don’t choke,” he said.

 She heard a small popping noise and felt his fingers on her chin. A tiny glass bottle pushed past her lips, clinking against her teeth. The faerie wine filled her mouth, and she willed her throat not to breathe in the liquid. It took her a second to find the muscles for swallowing and gulp it down.

 “How do you feel?” Lucien asked.

 Lucien waited for a moment, but she remained paralyzed. 

“Pick her up,” a female voice called from far away. “And don’t dawdle.”

“Let me get my boots first,” Lucien growled. 

“I can get them,” another female voice said.

“Thank you,” Lucien said.

The sound of his wet bare feet padding against the rocky ground nearby sounded, followed by something pulling at her ankle—the shackle linking the two of them. She lay there for a while, thinking of everything she had learned about this male. Lucien had told her how he’d met Feyre—how the lord he served had taken her into Prythian for killing a sentinel disguised as a wolf. He had shared that he was an emissary for a court called Spring—an enchanted land where only the mild, growing season blessed the ground and air—a place he’d described with patient, poetic language.

The pulling on her ankle eased and Elaine heard his footsteps return to her right side. She felt something touch her foot, the feeling tingly and distant. Then the sound of crunching footsteps in quick succession drew near her left ear before skidding to a halt.

“Oh. Good idea,” a female voice said. It was the same female from before who offered to get his boots.

Straps slid up her right foot then ankle—someone was sandaling her feet. 

“She’ll need them once she's not paralyzed,” Lucien stated matter-of-factly. 

The woman sighed. “You’re right. As usual. Here.”

“Thanks,” he said. Then she felt him settle right next to her as something dropped to the ground seconds later—his boots, she realized. He huffed a sigh and she felt the shackle around her ankle tug again, the metal slinking across the ground. 

“Did you give it to her?” A woman asked. 

“Yes,” Lucien said. 

After a few seconds the warmth of his body disappeared but she could still feel him nearby. 

“Come on, we need to get going,” the female said.

Lucien swiftly, though gently, lifted Elain from the ground. He was strong, this male, and she could sense he was being very careful with her even if the position was squished and uncomfortable. Her knees knocked together and her arm was forced into an awkward angle. She’d always assumed being carried by a dreamy male fit for a storybook romance would feel differently; more romantic than this.

Yet she couldn’t deny the appeal of being so close to his broad, warm chest, sensing his heart beating faintly through his cream shirt. She could barely feel the texture of the cloth against her cheek with her sense of touch numbed. He smelled lovely; like roasted chestnuts and an earthy, almost floral scent—one reminiscent of chrysanthemums basking in the late summer sun.

The temperature dropped as Lucien continued forward, Elain rocking slightly with the motion, and she could see the lighting grow dim through her eyelids. His footsteps crunched louder against new terrain, and she knew that they were in a new part of the cave. Several times she felt him look down at her and she wished she could open her eyes and look back. Her eyelids quivered, as if answering her call to action.

 The woman spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper, “I was right. We’re heading toward the water moles' lair right now. Take the middle path. None of them burrow there for some reason. It’s directly in the middle.”

“I’m ready.”

“And… if you can’t find the path? Just try your best to avoid them." 

“Avoid creatures that would paralyze me? Why would I do that?” 

“Just be safe, eejit.” 

Lucien chuckled. Elain finally managed to pry her eyes open and saw the red-haired female she’d noticed Lucien talking to earlier in the evening. She wore an emerald green two-piece swimsuit that was high fashion at the moment, at least among humans. In addition to being fashionable, she was gorgeous. 

The woman gave Elain a courteous smile. “Alright?”

Elain couldn’t find her voice, so she blinked twice.

“Grand,” she nodded once, satisfied. “I’m not sure how Koschei will react to seeing you mobile, so if you can manage, maybe pretend to be paralyzed… at least at the beginning so he doesn’t throw something else your way. Got that?” 

Elain blinked again.

“I need to go. Best of luck to you both.” 

Elain could make out that they were in the very back of the group that trudged along a dark, wide tunnel. She couldn’t see her sisters or the males that bore them, but it was hard to see much from this angle, her head turned up toward the ceiling.

“Are you feeling okay?” Lucien asked.

Elain managed a squeak.

“Think you can pretend to be paralyzed?” Lucien asked

A brusque female voice spoke up from somewhere up ahead: “This is where we split up. You three go this way with me.”

Lucien moved to the left, and she felt the path dip down. He slowed a bit, pressing her tighter against him, his steps more halting. Some of his long, red hair had escaped his hair tie, the color appearing darker red in the dim light. It reminded her of a ripe, julienned bell pepper.  

“Sorry, it’s a bit steep.”

“It’s okay,” she croaked, grateful she could finally speak. “Thanks for carrying me.”

He grinned down at her, his golden eye whirring as it scanned over her body. “It’s no trouble.”

The air grew cooler and a shiver worked its way through her body, though it felt distant, like floating in lukewarm water that was cooling gradually. He held her closer, as if trying to transfer his warmth to her. Elain’s lower leg jolted. Lucien paused as her other leg jerked awake. Her arms followed suit and she felt her sense of touch return in full force, noticing for the first time all the raised hairs and goose pimples across her limbs. Worse than that, her nipples were raised as well. Hopefully Lucien didn’t notice. It was embarrassing enough wearing something as ugly as the swimwear she had been given. 

“Glad it’s working,” Lucien commented.

He leaned against a wall with his knee supporting her lower back, adjusting his hold and allowing her to better situate herself in his arms, his impressive bicep flexing with the effort. He gazed down at her, eyes roving her body briefly then stopping at her face, his metal eye whirring as he focused on her. She searched his face as well. Yes, he was extremely handsome— and that included the scar and the enchanting metal eye. He looked away, focusing on his steps as he continued their trek.

Elain didn’t see a bruise where Koschei had struck Lucien’s face, just a fading redness. Sick bastard. For the second time in her life, she wished for violence to be repaid—doubly repaid. Just as the creditors all deserved to be dead for what they’d done to her father. Her hand gravitated toward the injured cheek. That scar though…Who had done such a thing to him? She brushed a finger down the soft groove in his skin.

Immediately, she regretted the audacious touch. Sometimes her hands acted with a will of their own. Touching things that didn’t belong to her without asking had often gotten her into trouble as a child. He looked down at her, then at her finger, eyes widening slightly as he waited for her to speak. She wanted to ask him where he’d gotten the scar, but as the question bubbled up to her lips, she bit back. It would be brazen—impertinent to ask that; too personal a question to ask someone she barely knew and perhaps too painful a thing for him to share. Instead, she said the first thing she could think of; an honest observation: “You’re very handsome.”

She dropped her hand, looking away toward the dark cave ceiling as she felt warmth spread to her cheeks. If asking after the scar was brazen, what was that ?

A moment later, he murmured, “And you are breathtaking.”

Cassian

Feeling Nesta lifeless like this set him on edge; even if she was just temporarily paralyzed. He could tell from her breathing and heart-rate that she was conscious of everything happening, and he wondered what she was thinking. 

The memory of Koschei’s hideous smirk as she plunged into the water made him want to break every bone in the male’s body, starting with his jaw. Though Cassian barely knew this female, an overwhelming urge to protect her the moment she was in danger roused him; called him to action. Just as it had earlier that day.  A thought bloomed on the horizon as he tried to pinpoint why, but it leapt away, taunting him. 

Cassian hefted Nesta’s body, distributing her weight more evenly—she wasn’t very heavy; but heavier than the shield he’d normally carry on his back for a grounded attack. An actual weight he could just drag as Koschei suggested. An entertaining thought. She had broken his nose. But he didn’t want to hurt her, as much as he wanted to get even. Nor did he want to play into Koschei’s games. Cassian didn’t like his arms being occupied for whatever this challenge involved, so, he’d settled for throwing her over his shoulders, her hips pressed against the back of his head as his wings hiked up to stabilize her shoulder and rear. Her left arm also helped stabilize her, pressed against him like a cross-body bag. 

 “I think maybe we started off on the wrong foot,” Cassian said, addressing Nesta’s head as it hung limply by his tricep. He let her arm slip through his fingers, catching her hand before it fell limp to his side. He shook it. “I’m Cassian, an Illyrian bastard and apparently a general for the Night Court. Nice to meet you.” 

 She said nothing. 

“Since we skipped introductions last night.”

In his defense, he had tried to make introductions, but her response had been, “Don’t talk, just dance.” And damn it, but he’d obeyed. As the sound of footsteps echoed throughout the damp, muggy tunnel, Cassian hummed a jaunty tune reminiscent of the one they’d danced to the previous night. He adjusted her again over his shoulders and did not mind the feeling of his left wing supporting her ass one bit. 

Rhys

         I enjoyed the feeling of Feyre in my arms more than I cared to admit. I wondered at the feeling of fullness; the completeness I felt at having her near me. It was more than just attraction, though there was certainly a good deal of that. Just when my thoughts lighted on an answer to my quandary, a blinding light blocked the thought, and I was left wondering what I’d just been thinking for the fifth time on our little trek through this tunnel. I felt my hackles rise, knowing my thoughts were being tampered with. But Koschei was nowhere near me. There was only Cassian with Nesta slung over his shoulders, the guard ahead of him, and Lucien lagging behind. 

I looked back at Feyre and her eyelids fluttered. Koschei was foolish to assume that my brothers and I were the heroic, rescuing females type—I could easily leave a female opponent like Nesta to drown—but somehow he’d known we’d react to their peril. Worse than that, our opponents knew it too, now. Again, my father’s voice drifted through my mind: You get too comfortable, and that’s when people take advantage of you. I’d need to course-correct somehow before this female moved against us—

Trust your instincts, Rhys. It was my mother’s voice this time, and it was like I could actually hear her beside me. I frowned, looking to the side where I’d thought my ear had caught her voice, but she wasn’t there. Is this what grief looked like for a daemati? Madness? And what were my instincts in this situation anyway? I looked inward, and the base answer came immediately— seduce, bed, fuck Feyre. 

My instincts were shit. At least where this female was concerned. 

I sighed. What to do when you want to fuck a known enemy? Because we were enemies. Azriel had suggested that they might be actors employed by Koschei, and that made sense, especially with Elain thrown into the mix. Lucien’s outrage could easily be part of the act; the slap as well. 

The path dipped lower and lower, the air cold and musty.  The path was strewn about with pebbles and small rocks, making it tricky to not lose one’s balance with the steep decline. Cassian stumbled once ahead of me, his chain catching on a rock embedded in the mud, but he caught himself before falling. Behind me, Lucien had stopped talking to Elain, focused on the path ahead. He saw me looking and the grin on his face turned sour.

Well, even if they weren’t actors for Koschei, I knew we weren’t friendly outside of this challenge. That much was clear. Still… that didn’t mean we couldn’t build a sort of alliance during the course of these challenges—assuming they managed to survive them. 

Those marvelous blue-gray eyes fluttered open. 

“And she’s awake,” I purred. “Have a good nap?” I asked.

She cleared her throat—a strangled noise—and I waited as her mouth opened, then closed again.

“Good to hear your voice, Feyre darling,” I said.

The path ahead started to level out, light and warmth pouring out of a domed exit. I glimpsed a pool of water ahead of us and heard voices filtering through. My eyes returned to Feyre and I shifted her body slightly for her to see. “We’re almost there, see?”

As I relaxed the angled hold of her, her body settled back into my arms and she raised an eyebrow. “Darling?” She rasped. 

“You just look so precious in my arms,” I explained.

Cassian

The path opened up to reveal a pool of water before them in a cave-like space, light pouring through a hole—a skylight—from above. The shallow body of water was about three times as large as the other pool where they’d first gathered, the water silty and steaming. A wide rock wall about 80 feet tall stood behind the pool, curving towards them like the beak of a yawning bird so that only a flat oval skylight—perhaps twelve or so feet wide and four or five times that lengthwise—allowed them to see the vast open cavern above it. The rock wall was peppered with holes and crevices, the largest of them on the left side—a gaping, glowing hollow that arched above a good portion of the water. I could probably fly through there.  

High above the skylight, Koschei’s courtiers walked along the upper edge of the cave peeking down at them, some of them branching out to the right edge. Cassian guessed it would take maybe half a minute to fly to that height from the ground where he stood at a leisurely pace; perhaps 200 feet high. He turned around to see the majority of the court gathered in the same direction from where they’d just exited the tunnel, only high above Cassian and Rhys, with Azriel crouched right at the edge of their platform, eyeing first Rhys, then Cassian.

Koschei winnowed to a spot above the hole, about level with the flat top of the wall, walking as if on air. Cassian wondered if he had some levitating power or was just resting on a ward—cocky and foolish since wards were usually uneven and buzzing with a repelling energy. Azriel stared straight ahead at him, and even though Cassian could only see the square set of his jaw from below, he knew he was pissed. He and Rhys could read Azriel’s moods better than anyone, even Azriel.

“Your challenge for today is to get through to the other side of this wall,” he pointed down to the wall peppered with holes, “and find a box with valuable items inside. The first person to open the box and gather the items is the winner. And he can keep them all for the next challenge!” 

Koschei winnowed back to the space above where the rest of his court gathered. Azriel looked down at them again and he saw the red-haired woman make a gesture to Lucien—one he couldn’t interpret.

Cassian adjusted Nesta to rest over one shoulder, spreading his wings wide to allow room for her body, his hand against the back of her thighs. This style of flying had plenty of dirty nicknames among soldiers, but its official name was the spread-wing stance. He’d used it many times in battles to rescue unconscious comrades, though it did limit the maneuvers one could do while flying. He launched from the ground, wing beats slowing as he reached the gap above to fly in place, his left hand probing the open skylight and meeting with hard air. 

Koschei laughed mockingly and Cassian cursed him under his breath. Well, it was good to check. 

Cassian’s boots splashed in the shallow water as he landed and he grunted, scanning all the options before him. He could take the big glowy hole on the left, or one of the smaller holes and hope they didn’t shrink in size. He imagined crouching, then crawling through. He would have to drag Nesta along if it came to that. The thought of his wings catching on the rocks in those holes made him cringe. Glowy hole it is.

Feyre

“What do you think, my lovely load? We have a few options...” Rhys said, gripping my jaw to turn my head for a better view. I saw the wall before us, with all its many holes—a couple large enough to walk or crouch through and the one massive hole on the left. Vassa said to not go left . Cassian flew into the left-most opening with Nesta in his arms before I could call out and warn him.

“Not that one,” I rasped, my voice barely above a whisper as I eyed the largest of the holes in the wall. 

He dipped his head closer to mine, “What was that?” He asked, smirking. I had the sense he was enjoying my struggle, especially since I knew he could hear me perfectly fine with his fae hearing. 

He turned my head back to him and I frowned. “You heard me,” I said. 

“I didn’t, actually. Swear it on my mother’s grave…” His face grew somber and his voice monotone, “...wherever that might be.” 

“Not the left one,” I said, my voice a bit louder than before. 

He angled my whole body toward the hole, stepping into the water as he did, and I felt as though I might fall from his arms. 

“That one?” He asked, still holding me at an angle. 

“Don’t—” My body jerked in response to the slant—my spine first, then my arms and legs. “Don’t drop me!” I cried, my voice finally returning to a normal volume. A wicked grin crossed his face.

“Scared of heights? You’re not even that far from the ground,” he noted as I slipped lower in his slanted arms. He craned his neck to look at me.  “So, not that one?” 

I wobbled, feeling as if I’d fall in the next moment, and then my arms shot up, finally obeying my command to move. Somehow they flew true, straight to his neck, and I interlocked my fingers before I could fall back. He smiled broadly.

“Not that one,” I said, my jaw clenched. I issued a sling of curses under my breath.

Rhys's eyebrows rose. “You might have a dirtier mouth than most Illyrian warriors.” I glared at him and he beamed at me. “You know, you’re sending mixed signals.” He looked pointedly at my arms around his neck. 

I let my hands relax, falling and yelping as I did, but Rhys caught me with a waiting arm. He trudged forward, water splashing underneath us. “If we’re not going through ‘that one,’ how about this one?” He gestured with his head toward a hole in the wall above us. 

It looked to be about half the size of the tunnel we’d just exited—he’d probably have to stoop. He didn’t wait for a response as he lifted me up to the opening, my lower legs dangling off the edge, the chain around my ankle pulling downward. I tried to sit up, but my core wasn't responding. And despite my reflexes just moments ago, I could only lift my arms a little above my body and slowly flex my fingers. I stared up at the dark rocky ceiling hearing him scrape against the rock underneath me as the pull against my ankle eased. A couple seconds later, he emerged from the tunnel’s opening, brushed dirt off his hands, and bent over to inspect me.

“Think you can walk yet?”

“Getting tired of me?” I asked.

“If I was tired of you, I’d just drag you along,” he said. Prick.

“Is that a threat?”

Rhys’s eyes glinted as if entertaining the idea but he said nothing as he slid one hand under my neck. I stared back into his shadowed face until I finally said, “I’m sorry you’re burdened with me.” Rhys stilled. “I wonder if he wants us at each other’s throats,” I said. 

Rhys eyed my throat, but the look was far from threatening. “Perhaps,” he said. He placed another hand under my knees, then lifted the hand under my neck so that I was propped into a sitting position. “You aren’t a burden, though.” I felt his breath tickle my cheek as he lifted me from the ground, a small grunt escaping his lips. “Even if you are heavy,” he said. He grunted again, this time more exaggeratedly as he adjusted me in his arms, his face screwing up with effort.

“Maybe you’re just out of shape,” I said.

Rhys chuckled. “Possibly. I don’t know the last time I trained my body since my memories are far removed from current events.”

“I don’t remember this body at all,” I said, regretting it as soon as I said it. 

Rhys’s eyebrows rose. “Has it changed that much?” 

I nodded, my chin jerking downward more quickly than I’d intended. 

“How so?” He asked.

I thought about both the fae body and the changes motherhood had wrought on it and sighed. He didn’t need to know all of that. “Well, there’s the sparring—I didn’t know I could do that.”

His eyes lit, creasing at the corners. “The image of Cassian sliding back on his ass is imprinted on my mind,” He huffed a laugh. “Thank you for that.” That smile. “You don’t remember any combat training?” 

“No.”

“What sort of work do you do?” Rhys moved awkwardly, his shoulders hunched and body slightly twisted so that my legs could fit in the narrow tunnel.

I didn’t do any work at the moment. The honest answer was guest-in-a-high-lord’s home. It was almost embarrassing to think about how I’d gone from toiling to survive to idle, spoiled houseguest these days. Or, whenever those days were, past and gone as they were. But then, perhaps I’d gone back to hunting since I was in shape again. I knew I had to be active these days. And a mother of a youngling to boot, I thought again. 

I’d been wondering about a lot of things: the father of said youngling, what had happened with Tamlin, where I lived now, what sort of training I’d received, and now, why I’d needed that training to begin with. Had I been trained as a mercenary once things hadn’t worked out with Tamlin?

“I used to be a hunter.” I settled on that as my answer. “Not by choice, but necessity. My family was destitute and I hunted to put food on the table.” Something shifted in Rhys’s expression—not pity but perhaps understanding. My eyes caught a light above me, the little pinpricks on the ceiling that lit the space in a bluish glow. I frowned. “How is it glowing?” I asked.

Rhys followed my gaze and stopped walking. “These…” He elevated my body so that it was closer to the ceiling, his arms fully outstretched. The movement was fluid, and his arms were perfectly steady as he held me there; he was lying about me being too heavy. Prick, I thought again. “...are called glowworms.” 

Elain

Elain had peeked through slitted eyes at the spectacle above—the people gazing down at them through the hole with Koschei stepping out onto nothing but air. It might have surprised her—the magic and the setting, but she was starting to feel numb to all that had already happened; like it truly was a dream. Still, it was embarrassing having that much attention on her as she pretended to be paralyzed in this raggedy swimsuit. She shifted her arm slightly to hide her chest. 

The other males with her sisters had already departed and so had most of Koschei’s court high above them at the perimeter of the high cave walls. Lucien splashed through the shallow water, his steps slower than before as he made his way to the middle of the wall before them. The wall curved over them, blocking a good deal of the light from above. Elain couldn’t see an entrance in the middle—several entrances on the right side and one large one on the left, but nothing “directly in the middle” as that woman had said. When Lucien reached the middle of the wall, he hesitantly touched the black and gray rock. A crooked fissure appeared running down the middle. 

Elain gasped. “How… ?”

A corner of Lucien’s lips curved upward as he tapped his temple beside that golden eye.  “It’s the eye—I can see things invisible to most people,” he explained. 

The crack, or rather, break, in the wall could probably fit Elain and Nesta if they squished together and it stretched all the way to the top—a jagged, zigzagging line where the turns were tighter the farther up it went. Lucien wouldn’t be able to fit inside carrying Elain as he was. He paused, trying to reposition her body into the curved opening and she moved to help him. 

“You can set me down—no one can see us from here,” she said. 

Lucien set her down and Elain surveyed the narrow gap before her—it was slanted where her legs might fit and narrowed at the bottom. Higher up it crossed back and forth in tight turns. Lucien slid into the slit sideways, his back against the wall, his hands steadying him from behind while his feet took tiny sidesteps. It looked very cramped, especially since there wasn’t much space above his head. He paused, waiting for her, and she took a deep breath as she swept her drying hair over her right shoulder.

“I suppose we must go forward.”

Elain did not like tiny spaces. She wondered if Lucien could hear her elevated heart rate the moment she squeezed beside him. She heard his heart beat, loud and clear. An oddly comforting sound. It was strange listening to the sounds of people’s hearts all day, an otherworldly ability of this new fae body, but his heartbeat in particular seemed to tug at her, like the sun tugging at the head of a sunflower as it slowly crossed overhead. 

They scooted along, rocks occasionally skittering with their movement. She heard with no small alarm more rocks sliding somewhere far above them in the criss-crossing crevasse, and she wondered if this entrance was on the verge of collapse. Her heart pounded in her chest at the thought. She breathed deeply again and wondered if that woman who gave Lucien this advice was to be trusted. Lucien looked back at her, concern etching his brow, but before he could speak to her growing anxiety, Elain asked,  “Who is that woman who told you about this?” 

Elain kept moving, her hand bumping against Lucien’s and he looked down at her hand, mumbling an apology for stopping.  “Her name is Vassa—she’s a human queen trapped by Koschei.”

It grew darker and colder and the sandy mud was strewn with sharp pebbles—not at all like the fresh soil she usually worked with. The space under Elain’s legs rose in elevation while the space above her head stayed the same—it was like a slightly angled seat—and they had to sit, scooting along their rears. And while he might be wearing thick trousers, she wore a threadbare swimsuit and felt every sharp pebble. The ceiling dipped lower, causing Lucien to hunch his shoulders and dip his head. Why is the space getting smaller?!

He continued, “Apparently we are friends even if I don’t remember her—that was all she could share with me.”

Elain’s hands and sandals caught on the sharp pebbles a few times, and she wished she had her gardening boots on and perhaps a pair of gloves. A cold breeze drifted past Lucien’s body and she scented him again—sweat mixed with the warm chestnuts and the earthy, floral scent. She breathed in deeply, and felt almost comforted by the smell, then she shivered at the cold.

“Do you meet many human queens in your line of work?” Elain’s jaw started quivering involuntarily before she even finished the question. 

“No,” Lucien said. “Though I’m sure that’s how I met her—as emissary for Tamlin.”

Elain saw the space grow lighter farther along, and felt the tightness in her chest ease a bit.The space above her head opened up high above her and light poured in from above, bouncing off the walls, the zig-zag crack less pronounced in this portion of the gap. It might have been beautiful had the light been natural rather than the cold fae light, or if I wasn’t so concerned with a cave-in . Lucien climbed to his feet and offered a hand. She took it and stood, sighing with relief as a wave of shivers worked its way up her body.

Lucien frowned, “By the cauldron, your lips are blue!”

Elain shrugged and her teeth chattered. 

Lucien shook his head and pulled off his cream shirt. “Here. I’m sorry I didn’t give you this earlier.” He grabbed one of her hands and placed the shirt in it. “It’s still damp, but it’s dried a bit—especially where you were resting against me.”

Elain took the damp, warm shirt and felt goosebumps travel up her arms. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice an embarrassing squeak. She slipped the shirt over her head, her body eagerly welcoming the extra warmth as it cascaded down her front. She sighed—both for the warmth and the extra coverage. 

The frown remained on Lucien’s face, and he faced her fully, rubbing his hands against the outside of her arms. She allowed his ministrations and felt herself lean closer to him, basking in his radiating warmth, his elevated heartbeat, and his scent that was now tinged with something else. 

“I’m fine—this is much better,” she said. 

He gazed down at her and his frown relaxed into a half-smile. “The shirt looks better on you,” he said. A false statement—it was too large on her to be flattering—but she smiled back all the same. Elain’s eyes roved of their own will down his bare, muscled torso. The shirt looks better off you, Elain thought, and her face warmed. At least I didn’t say that one out loud. 

Cassian 

Cassian flew slowly through the cave noticing the worms he’d seen before far underneath the library beneath the House of Wind. An odd fishy smell permeated the damp, warm air. 

Not knowing what else to do, Cassian described the cave to Nesta over his shoulder. “It’s about 100 feet to the end of this tunnel—not great visibility.” The silty water was no longer shallow, but deep—deeper than he could make out. He could tell it was warmer than the water in the hot springs from the sticky warmth radiating below him. Not for the first time in his life, he was grateful he could fly.

He looked down at the water, wondering what sort of creatures might live in them, if any.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if a creature makes it home here.”

Cassian was about halfway through the cave—he was going slowly so as not to trigger any traps. He couldn’t see or sense any traps he’d been trained to look for, but that didn’t mean he was in the clear. As he surveyed the water again, a high-pitched noise sounded then multiplied tenfold, echoing off the water and walls. 

Feyre

The little worms covered the ceiling, some in clusters, some scattered far away from the others. They were smaller and fatter than the worms from Elain’s garden. I noticed two spots of darkness—holes about the size of Rhys’s head. I almost pointed them out to Rhys but then a memory flashed through my mind—an image that already began to blur at the edges. I knew that the image—the memory—would disappear, so I focused all my will and concentration on it. Like jamming my foot into a doorway before it closed shut, I managed to keep hold on the image and prevent the curse from shutting me out. A rush of energy seemed to escape from somewhere deep inside and I exhaled involuntarily. When I focused again on the thought again, I beheld an image: a feminine tattooed hand—a beautiful sapphire adorning her ring finger—and a treasure trove in the background that glowed with the same light as the cave.  

“What is it?” He asked, those beautiful violet eyes boring into mine, his gaze vigilant.

“I remembered something.” He waited. “I’ve seen these before. These ‘glowworms.’”

He frowned. “That’s interesting. I’ve only ever seen them in the mountains near my home—I’d assumed that’s where they came from—but clearly, they have a home here as well.” He gazed down at me again as if inspecting me. “Was that all?”

I shook my head, a slight movement impeded by my position, cradled as I was against him. “It was an image of—” At that moment, something barreled out of the hole above us. 

I cried out and Rhysand moved backward with preternatural speed. A chicken-sized white prawn covered in fur dove from one of the holes to the spot where Rhys once stood. The creature rolled to the ground and charged at us. This must be it—a water mole. I’d pictured something totally different. Rhys moved again, then a wet, crunching noise sounded as he kicked, the water mole whooshing ahead into the tunnel beyond and skittering with a splash. 

Scraping noises sounded above us, and I saw another water mole barrel through the other hole.

“There’s another!” I shouted. He moved backward again, stumbling slightly. “Don’t let it touch you; it will paralyze you where it touches.”

Rhys kicked this one as well. It soared past as the other had, making a yelping noise reminiscent of a goat, but it bounced off a wall, and came to a halt on the ground ahead. It looked like a rock in this dim lighting. 

“That's interesting,” he said. 

“What?” 

The water mole moved in the dark, its many limbs scraping against the sandy ground, and it moved toward us again, blaring a high-pitched noise. 

“You’re right,” he answered. “The toes on my right foot are totally useless.”

“It’s coming back,” I warned. 

“Feyre, darling… you’re already paralyzed…” he said, hedging his words. 

“And?”

He hoisted me upright and I cried out, attempting to lean on one partially functioning leg. I was able to use some of my core to hold some of my back up, but both of my shoulders were dead. Had he not been holding my waist, I would have fallen on my face. 

“Keep engaging your core,” Rhys said in my ear.

Is he actually using me as a shield?!

He stepped to the side of me, then placed a hand under my left armpit, his other hand snaking in front of my left thigh then behind my right thigh before grasping it firmly, his arm bearing the weight of my lower half. He hefted me up so that neither foot touched the ground, and I yelped, again feeling the disorienting sensation that I was about to fall. As the creature barreled toward us, Rhys pulled my right leg backward and forced it forward until my toes made contact.

The effect was a pitiful tap and the water mole, hissed, rearing up on its hind legs to bump into my shin. I felt the numbing sensation in my calf return, just as it was going away!

Rhys cursed under his breath, and he hoisted me up again, pulling my leg back quickly before swinging it forward. The creature skidded away a few feet and shrieked again. He was only making it angrier.

“It’s not working!” I yelled as the mole reared up on its hind legs again. With a determined look in his eyes, Rhys hefted me forward at that disorienting angle, and pulled my leg back once more to kick at the creature, his fingers digging into my right thigh to accomplish the maneuver.

The creature soared through the air as the other had and when it landed with a thud it didn't move again. He turned to me, a triumphant look stretching across his face. “Look at us—a team.”

“Where I’m the shield?” I asked.

“ And the weapon,” he corrected. “Couldn’t have done that without you.”

I had the sense that he got away with a lot with that disarming smile, and I didn’t return it this time. I eyed his hand, still clenching my thigh. “Do you still need to squeeze my thigh?” I said. 

He looked down and his fingers relaxed but remained in place as his smile turned mischievous. “Only if you want me to.”

Cassian

It was a total shit show.

They were bombarded—one after another the little shits dropped out of the myriad of little holes in the ceiling, crashing into them before splashing into the water. He evaded most of them and didn't think much of it at first since they didn't exactly do anything after bumping into them, but then he felt it—the numbing in his upper left wing after one bumped against it; the loss of feeling in his hands after he’d slapped them away; the deadening in his left knee. While he might have been able to keep flying with part of his wing injured in normal conditions, he couldn’t manage while keeping the spread-wing stance.

Cassian plunged into the scalding hot pool of water. He worried over Nesta’s face submerged behind him and tried to move her but his hands were no longer working. He managed to shrug his shoulders and force his dead hands to bring her forward into his arms but then one of those white creatures fell on his face and he dropped her. Her body sunk into the hot water right in front of him and his useless hands did nothing to stop it.

“Nesta!” Cassian gasped, mouth and eyelids already numbing. He took a deep breath and dove under, feeling the chain at his ankle tug as she sank.

Elain

Elain looked back toward the zigzagging pattern above the spot where they’d only just emerged.

“I wonder if we should just climb it,” Elain said—more a thought experiment than a real suggestion. The last thing she wanted to do was get back into that awful crevasse.

Lucien turned to examine the craggy rock as well. “Do you have much experience with climbing?” He asked.

“No, not me. Feyre was the adventurous one in our family,” Elain said, the corners of her lips tugging upward at the thought of her sister climbing trees and jumping into the lake near their house to teach herself to swim. If anyone was a storybook heroine, it was Feyre. 

“Well, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to start today.” Then he blurted, “Though if you wanted to experiment with climbing at another date, I’d be happy to show you the ropes. The dawn court makes some of the best gear for climbing—the safest, I think.”

Elain wondered at the rise in Lucien’s heartbeat as she stared at him. “Unless, of course, you’d rather Feyre teach you.”

“No, I don’t think I’d enjoy climbing,” Elain said, still distracted by his heart beat. “We should keep moving,” she said, walking ahead. She stopped when she came to a large obstruction of rocks before her—it looked like a cave-in had happened here, for high above, the walls no longer zigzagged back-and-forth; there was only a long gap between the walls, with a space of more than twice her height between them. Elain considered the pile, wondering how to best move forward as Lucien plowed ahead without hesitation. His long legs scaled the large rocks with ease. He stopped moving when the chain between their ankles grew taut.

Elain apologized at the same time as Lucien. He scaled back down a few steps, offering a broad, calloused hand. Elain took it, relieved as she stepped carefully on the sliding pile of rocks. And that was how they climbed the rocky terrain—hand-in-hand—her ankle wobbling every step. Once they reached the top of the pile of rocks, she released her grip on his hand, but he held on tight. She let him, gazing down with him at the pile of rocks before them. Unlike the side they’d just climbed, this side had several drops. It was like craggy steps made for a giant. The first one was low enough that she would have trouble moving forward without help. 

“I’ll go first,” he offered. Worried about the chain between them, Elain sat on the ledge to allow for slack on the chain. He climbed down the rock, lowering himself from a ledge until he hung from his fingertips, then let go as his toes touched the ground below.

“I’ll help you down,” he offered. 

Elain took his hand and they continued like this—Lucien climbing down then turning back to lift Elain from the last platform. Even if she wasn’t paralyzed, she certainly felt like a burden.

“Is this normal for the fae?” Elain asked. “Experiences like this?”

“This?” Lucien asked. “No, this is not normal, Elain. I suppose some powerful fae certainly do enjoy cursing others, but most of the fae lead peaceful, normal lives.”

“What I mean is, do you all hike and climb and fight and do amazing acrobatic things?” She asked, thinking of all the talent she witnessed the night before. Like Feyre, Nesta was well-suited for the fae just in her skill and grit. Elain wouldn’t have been able to present anything for the talent show.

“Oh, no. It’s not like that. I know many fine ladies who don’t participate—don't wish to participate—they would hate this sort of thing.”

"I don't hate it," she said.

Elain thought it over. She didn’t hate this—the exploration, the movement. Especially with this male's company and assistance. It might even be enjoyable to go on a more strenuous hike if the scenery was especially rewarding. This setting was just unnerving, especially with all the unknowns. And the inadequate clothing… and the chain around my ankle…

They made it to the end of the steps, Lucien carrying her down one last time. 

As if thinking the same lines, he said, “I'd love to show you some great hikes in Prythian. This place is awful—dirty, smelly—”

“I don’t mind dirt,” Elain said. “Or getting dirty, so long as I’m doing work-making something.”

Lucien said nothing, staring out at the space before them and she worried she had said the wrong thing. 

“I love gardening—not just growing beautiful things, but feeling things with my hands—the soil, the roots, the thorns.” At this point she was just rambling. She nearly continued, but Lucien’s hand went up. 

“I’m going to hoist you back up the way we came,” he said in a low voice. 

“What?”

“Right now.” Lucien’s heart beat faster than she’d ever heard it and then she scented his fear. 

She looked in the same direction he stared and saw two pairs of glowing eyes in the dark rocks ahead. As Lucien offered a hand to hoist her back up the way they came, a dark shadow passed over them and she heard a rumbling growl.

Chapter Text

Rhysand

Limp. Limp. Limp. 

Who knew toes were so important for a steady gait?

The halting gait would have been aggravating even without any additional impediment. Though if I had to be holding extra weight at the moment, she was preferable to any alternative. In addition to the limp, the tunnel was narrowing, and it had slim to begin with. I felt like a wrung out towel, twisting my torso to an uncomfortable degree to fit us both while my limp kept a steady beat underfoot. 

Feyre shivered again and I reflexively squeezed her closer. I stole another glance down and narrowly avoided hitting my head against the ceiling. 

“Water moles,” I mused.

Twist. Limp. Stoop. 

“It is an odd name,” she said. “I was picturing something different.”

“Something that actually resembled a mole, perhaps? Less crustacean?”

She tilted her head, presumably to nod. The nod was small, but any movement was encouraging. The ceiling grew shorter still, and I felt like a crippled human bent over with age. Soon enough we’d have to crawl, and I feared she might not forgive me if I had to actually drag her… 

“Any feeling coming back to your legs? Arms?”

“Not really,” she said.

“There’s a lot of paralyzing going on—the paralytic your body is currently fighting and now these moles,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he made some sort of concoction out of these creatures to incapacitate you three. Though it doesn’t seem to be working all that well on you…”  

Az and I had surmised that our opponents had allies in this court—allies who gave them an unfair advantage. 

“Well, I took an antidote… partially.”

Feyre shared the name of their ally—Vassa—and how, through a series of errors, only Lucien had a full vial for this challenge. I worried when she mentioned the bit about the water moles’ nesting grounds—the entrance Cassian had chosen. Cassian had no killing power at the moment to protect him from such a large mass of creatures with the power to incapacitate him with a touch. 

“It’s hardly fair that you have an insider helping you all with these tasks,” I noted, feeling a sore spot on my back cry out in pain. 

“ Fair? What’s fair about only my sisters and I getting poisoned?” 

Shock and indignation spread across her face, and I took a moment to savor the expression before responding. 

“Lucien’s not poisoned,” I countered. “And it would have been helpful for Cassian to know about the mole’s lair—”

“And what of Nesta?! She’s defenseless and attached to him!”

I shrugged. “He’ll protect her. Meanwhile she gets a free ride—”

“Yes, a free ride, slung over his shoulders like a slain doe!” 

Feyre glowered at me and I tried to resist the upward tug of my lips. “Ah, I see; you’re jealous. I can sling you over my shoulders just as well, my lovely load. All you had to do was ask.”

“Don’t you dare. ”

I made a point of shifting her in my arms as if I’d really do it, cramped though this space was, but then that spot on my back twinged, pulling tight. I tensed and Feyre’s brows rose.

“A sore muscle… I think. I’ve had this spot on my back—”

“ Poor . Baby ,” she said with mock concern. “I wonder what that would be like having sore, working muscles to complain about.” 

My lips twitched and the threat to drop her crossed my mind but she carried on.

“There’s nothing fair about this— especially for my sisters and I in this stupid challenge! So thank the mother for a shred of help.” 

“And how is it fair that Cassian and I have to do all the work while our opponent, Lucien, gets a partner who can actually help?” I asked. 

“You just used me as a shield!”

Her frown was adorable.

“That’s true. I take it back. You were very useful,” I said soberly.

“If things were reversed—” She began.

“If things had been reversed?” She probably would have dragged me through the dirt and we’d both be lying on the ground paralyzed. I chuckled at the thought. 

The heat of Feyre’s glare drew my attention. “You know what I think?” I asked, stooping forward, my nose hovering above hers as I tried to match her steely expression.

“What?” she said, eyes still hard. I heard her heart pick up speed, but I didn’t scent fear on her; no, it was something else entirely. 

I spoke slowly: “I think that people who squander their advantages—people like Nesta who don’t follow directions or people like you who carelessly spill things for the mother knows why—don’t deserve those advantages.” 

Feyre’s eyes widened. We stared at one another, nearly nose-to-nose for a few breaths. Then her body trembled slightly, her face shifting into a downturned grin as silent laughter overtook her body.

“Prick,” she said, still resisting the laughter shaking her body.

I grinned and straightened as much as I could as I surveyed the tunnel ahead. The ceiling would soon lower to less than half my height. I could see a prick of brighter light in the distance.

So much for not dragging her.

“Fey…re—”

She gasped. “I can move my left arm again!” She announced, a radiant smile spreading across her flawless face. My mind stirred, bringing with it an image of Feyre smiling up at me, her face smeared with a glowing paint. But then it was gone and I couldn't remember what I'd been thinking. I blinked as she flexed her left hand, all fingers moving with normal speed and dexterity just inches from my chin. “Sorry, what did you say?” She asked.

Unable to stop myself, my lips inched toward her outstretched hand and her hand froze. I puffed a breath of air on her pinky finger.

Did you feel that?” I asked.

A small, nearly imperceptible nod.

I touched my lips to her middle finger—just a touch. “And that?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

I paused at her ring finger, resting my lips there—a soft kiss—and her scent filled the space. I breathed deeply. Before I could kiss more of that finger—and the rest of her— competition be damned —I heard a scuffling from behind. 

Moles—two of them—were scurrying our way.

“Think you can hold me with that hand?” I said with a wink. 

Cassian

Nesta seemed to be sinking faster than a person normally would, as if a current were pulling her toward the bottom. Cassian dove deep, swimming as if his life depended on it. He appreciated the numbing in his face, left wing, knee, and hands as the hot water scalded the rest of his body. 

The massive white prawns in his immediate vicinity scattered away from him, swimming straight towards a mass of rocks at the bottom. As soon as they reached the bottom, they perched on the mound of rocks and seemed to look his way, their forearms outstretched defensively. Cassian squinted through the murky water, heat burning his eyes, as he noted the perfect roundness of those dark, silt-covered rocks. No, those aren’t rocks; they’re eggs. The semi-translucent eggs were reminiscent of a fancy caviar he’d sampled once in the Hewn City, but these ones had to be at least fist-sized.

Cassian finally leveled with Nesta’s blank face and placed his forearms under her armpits, his hands floating uselessly at the ends. He raised his forearms, easing her forward until she rested in the nook of his elbows. Then, releasing a breath of air in a stream of bubbles, he propelled their bodies toward the surface high above them.

Cassian broke the surface of the water, gasping lungfuls of the sulfurous air and heard Nesta do the same. Thank the mother.

More of the furry shits fell from the holes above, splashing in front of him. One of them brushed against the upper part of his right wing, the chitinous fur catching on the thin membrane before it sank. He readied for an attack, but it only sank to the bottom as the others had. Cassian would have frowned but at the moment his facial muscles remained slack and unresponsive from the recent surprise drop on his face. Why aren’t they attacking? Just as the others had, the creature sank to the bottom, half-prancing, half-drifting toward the mound of eggs. Clearly their focus was guarding the eggs—at least after landing a hit on the intruders.

With a shriek, one of the creatures fell from above, landing a hit on his already dead left wing, followed by another, landing right behind Nesta and sliding across her neck and back. Cassian cursed under his breath, panic starting to set in as his unresponsive body parts continued to ignore his commands. We need to MOVE. If those things kept raining down on him and hit enough muscle groups, they’d both drown in this boiling pond from hell.

Cassian surveyed Nesta’s reddened face and winced; her lips were a bright red and the rest of her skin flushed as if burned by a horrible sunburn. Another high-pitched squeaking blared above his head and he slapped the prawn away with his limp hand before it could immobilize another part of him. 

“Hold your breath,” he said. Cassian waited to hear her take a deep breath before submerging them both into the heat once more.

With Cassian’s hands paralyzed and his numbed wings flaring out at inappropriate moments, the effort was a slog. Add to that the drag and weight of Nesta’s body, and it surprised him he was able to make any progress at all. The creatures didn’t dive-bomb them once in the sixty seconds he fought through the water, nor did they attack from below. A blessed reprieve from the most recent onslaught. He considered staying submerged for longer, but worried for Nesta—unsure how long she could hold her breath underwater—so he resurfaced from the water mere feet from where he had gone under. The sound of her gasping for air met his ears and he sighed in relief. Not a moment later, the high-pitched battlecries echoed through the cavern once more. 

“We gotta go under again. Sorry, Nes.”

Azriel

As soon as his brothers had entered “the wall,” the court had moved past it, walking along the edge of the tall cavernous space until they stood on a platform positioned high above the opposite end from where they entered. A large body of water lay far below them, the still water reflecting the hundreds of fae lights floating above. The water was turquoise at the edges but a deeper blue in the center, hinting at its depth. In the bluest part of the water, a light twinkled, and Azriel felt a power radiating outward from that spot. Most likely, that was the box they were to retrieve. 

Is this it? 

Azriel scanned the wall again for any sign of his brothers emerging on the other side. This side was also pockmarked with holes, though the large hole from the other side was significantly smaller on this end. 

Aside from a tricky terrain, what sort of challenges were they currently facing all while encumbered with what were essentially body bags? Azriel also worried about their “burdens”—weights that could turn against his brothers should they regain their full mobility during the challenge. It seemed that some of the females were already beginning to regain their ability to move. He’d seen Feyre speaking with Rhys when they’d emerged from their tunnel and he could have sworn he’d seen Elain move her arm when Lucien had stepped into the light.

Not seeing any movement among the holes, Azriel’s eyes roved the top of the wall over and over again, as if they might emerge from one of the many crevasses along the top. Nothing. A red-haired woman caught his eye as she spoke with Jurian. It was the same one that had helped rescue Elain; the same one Lucien had spoken to earlier. Azriel stared back until she looked away. 

How is he still alive? Jurian hadn’t aged a day since Azriel had last seen him hundreds of years ago, though his hair was slightly longer and unkempt. What magic was keeping the man alive and youthful? Perhaps Koschei had made a trade for Jurian’s remains before Amarantha’s demise. A demise which Tamlin was apparently responsible for. Thank the cauldron she’s been dealt with. That had been a welcome surprise—the news of her death that Rhys had shared with him earlier that day. But why resurrect Jurian at all?

Azriel replayed his conversation with Jurian in his mind, parsing through it again as he eyed the wall below.

“Why is Elain participating in this competition and not me?” Azriel had asked Jurian. From what Azriel could remember of his dealings with the man, Jurian responded well to a direct approach. 

“Because he’s a misogynist?” Jurian shrugged. “I mean he hates you Illyrians as well—on a personal level and because he’s racist—but there is definitely a misogynist twist to this challenge. Anyone can see that.” Jurian shook his head, lips downturned.  “Just know that he’s always trying to make a point.” 

Azriel thought of the degrading way both he and Cassian had been manacled upon their arrival. Azriel had been right about their host’s feelings towards Illyrians. And it made sense that the enmity between them was personal if Stellian’s account of their previous dealings with the lord was accurate. But what point was Koschei trying to make with paralyzing the females or having the sister of his opponents participate? Azriel hated knowing so little, but he realized that was the point.

Jurian sighed again, “He’s a hateful, lonely, little death god.”

“It seems you aren’t alone in feeling that way.”

Jurian laughed bitterly as he stared ahead at the crowd of women, shivering in their towels. “ Everyone in this court—well, just about everyone—would kill to see Koschei, the deathless, dead.” He paused,  his next words under his breath. “Doesn’t mean you should trust any of them, though,” Jurian said.

Azriel naturally didn’t trust people anyway—especially a court desperate for release. Desperate people were often the least trustworthy even if their confessions were lengthy. Still, he did wonder at the blatant flirtations.

“What might the women in this court gain from earning our trust… or affection?”

Jurian grimaced. “I can’t tell you that.” He made a signal with his fingers at his lips, as if sealing them shut and then locking the edges of his lips with a key. “He’s bound our tongues on what we can share. If I could, I’d tell you everything.”

“To gain my trust?”

“ You? ” Jurian laughed. “I’d be better off trying to get into Rhysand’s good graces.”

Though Jurian was partially right—Azriel was less trusting than Rhys, he was wrong about Rhys being a better target. Those who tried too hard to gain Rhys’s favor often found themselves caught in one of his schemes. Azriel only targeted those who were clear threats, and he didn’t play with his marks like Rhys was known to do.

“And what of Lucien’s good graces?” Azriel asked.

Jurian snorted. “I’m not sure who Lucien despises more—me or Rhysand. And that’s even after the kiss.” 

Rhys had shared the quarrel between the males with Azriel and Cassian after their lunch. Lucien’s choice of insult: “accessory” wasn’t lost on Azriel, and though Rhys had asked, the curse prevented Azriel from explaining the barb. Needless to say, Lucien wasn’t privy to any alliance with the man.

“No, I’m not going to waste my time on gaining Lucien’s trust even if the bastard needs all the help he can get,” Jurian said.

“You were allies before these challenges,” Azriel stated. 

“Sure. You can call us that.” Jurian stopped walking.  “Look, it’s not about who’s allied with whom or any of that. It’s all about bringing down that bastard. I’ll do what I can to help any of you achieve that end. ”

During the war, Jurian proved himself to be a cruel pragmatist—a man so singly devoted to a cause that he’d do anything to achieve his ends. Apparently he hadn’t changed much. 

Catching movement to his left, Azriel turned. Stellian had winnowed to the edge of the platform, her eyes searching the crowd for just a moment before landing on Koschei who sat on a golden throne, a few female courtiers perched on the arm rests. At a word, the females vacated the space around him and Koschei waved a stern hand, beckoning Stellian forward. Azriel kept his gaze down and his steps light as he weaved between the groups of courtiers nearing the golden throne. It was difficult to appear inconspicuous since he towered over most of the court. He cursed again that his shadows were out of reach. 

“You asked for me?” She said to Koschei, a strained expression on her face as her right fist opened and closed repeatedly at her side.

A female with shoulder-length sandy hair approached Azriel, eying him with interest as she spoke loudly to her companion: “He might not be taken, but he’s not interested, Beth.” Her tinkling laugh drowned out the beginning of Koschei’s words. 

“...bring him here, now ,” Koschei said to Stellian, his words low. 

Stellian blanched. “I haven’t—” 

The sandy-haired female spoke again: “Or are you?” She gestured to her mousy-haired companion—an offering— and Azriel felt his annoyance bleed through his concentration.

“You’re correct,” Azriel said to the female. He was far from interested in games of this court, let alone any of the flaunting females within it. He looked away pointedly to show his disinterest, smothering his irritation as he did so.

Stellian’s words broke through the unsolicited conversation: “—besides, I’m not sure I remember where he lives. Lynn—”

“Not interested or not taken?” The female before Azriel asked. Azriel said nothing, eyes trained on Stellian. Take the hint and go away.

Koschei turned fully to Stellian, the back of his head to Azriel.  “ Lynn is busy at the moment,” he said in a piercing tone. “If you cannot accomplish a simple task for me—”

“I’ll find him,” Stellian said, her nervous hands finally stilling as her countenance took on a sickly pallor. She locked eyes with Azriel just before winnowing away.

Koschei turned in Azriel’s direction, but Azriel had already moved, leaning against a rocky wall not far from his previous spot. The same females were still looking at him, chatting in whispers until the friend broke away from the other to sidle up next to Azriel.

“Did you know that you don’t have a mate?” She asked, voice airy and thin.

That voice—he recognized it. 

“Or a wife,” she said.

This woman wore a scant bikini that displayed her generous curves to great advantage.  She’d been one of the females he’d overheard in the storage space last night. He hadn’t recognized her right away because he’d only seen her from behind. Her thin, mousy hair was now tied up in a bun with trim hiding her eyebrows.  

The girl shuffled her feet then placed an arm over her bare abdomen. “That means you don’t have to worry about… well…” She scratched her neck, “disloyalty.”

Azriel observed her squirm; she was clearly uncomfortable in the revealing swimsuit and the silence. 

“Unlike Rhysand,” he finally said.

Her eyes widened and she gaped at him. “What?” 

“Rhys. He’s mated.”

“I thought… what do you remember?”

“Who is it? His mate?” He asked.

“Oh.” She frowned. “So you don’t know.”

“But you do.”

Azriel moved off the wall and turned to the female, towering over her. He heard her heart pick up speed. 

“I… I can’t tell.”

 Azriel leaned closer. “What else do you know about me?”

She moved a hair’s breadth away as color crept up her face. “Not much more than that… other than you being a spymaster.” 

Azriel nodded. 

“I’d like to get to know you more,” she said, eyes brightening as she gazed up at him. “I’m Beth.” She extended a hand and Azriel shook it, noticing her brows quickly rise then fall as she marked the scars on his hand.

“Why do you wish to become acquainted?” Azriel asked. 

“Well,” she giggled, a forced sound. “You’ve probably noticed but there aren’t many males in this court…not many attractive males, at least.” 

Azriel chuckled quietly, both at the lie and the performance. The flirting felt contrived and he could tell she was more afraid of him than attracted to him. A bemused expression crossed her face.“What’s so funny?”

“What’s the real reason, Beth?”

Beth hesitated. She looked like most of his targets the moment he caught them in a lie.

Stellian returned at that moment with a cloaked figure beside her. The courtiers around them stopped talking, giving them both a wide berth. The figure ambled to Koschei, his shoulders bowing forward in an exaggerated hunch. Koschei took two long steps before violently grabbing the figure’s wrist. “You told me they would be paralyzed!” Koschei hissed.

“Did you give them the powd—” An elderly voice began.

“I did everything you instructed.”

“Then they should not be able to move for at least a few hours.”

“Then why was Feyre speaking with Rhysand?” Koschei shook with rage as he held the cloaked figure’s wrist.

“Impossible. She shouldn’t have been—” the elderly male shrieked in pain, then fell to the ground, his arm limp in Koschei’s clutches. 

“The whole point of this task—” Koschei began as the male whimpered, “—is ruined, you worthless, incorrigible swine .”

“My lord, please. Please! I have made a mistake, but—” He shrieked again and writhed on the ground. “I have failed you in this, yes, but I have made a breakthrough this day. It is a day to celebrate. You must come, and see!”

Koschei’s countenance faltered, the malice from moments before shifting to contempt then to a mild disgust. Koschei cut a sharp glance at Stellian. 

“Alert me when one of them reaches this side,” he ordered. Still holding the male, Koschei winnowed from the spot. 

Elain

As soon as Lucien lifted Elain over the edge, Elain dashed to the next giant step, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. The metal chain clicked and then the world lurched as she sprawled to the ground, the rough manacle carving into her bare ankle. Elain gasped at the pain, her hands just barely preventing a full blow to the face as her chin hit the rock and her teeth clamped on the side of her tongue. Lucien was there beside her a moment later, hefting her up by one arm, then lifting her to the next platform. 

And so it was for the next step and the next: Lucien lifting Elain, Elain waiting as he climbed, Lucien mounting the step, and the blur of darkness right on their tails.

The coppery taste of blood filled Elain’s mouth and her ankle smarted, an agonizing pain that brought tears to her eyes. She blinked the tears away, squinting through the thick, foglike darkness to the fae creature chasing them. While the whole area had been overtaken by the darkness, an impenetrable shroud concealed whatever it was from view. What is that thing?! 

“ Elain ,” Lucien urged. She pried her eyes from the darkness just a step below them as Lucien hauled her up by her arm. 

Don’t freeze like that! She chided herself.

Despite having a stronger fae body and reflexes, she cursed her own weakness—they could go much faster if they were both climbing in tandem, but she would only slow him down if she tried. To his credit, he didn’t complain or criticize her once, nor did he slow. She felt a growing admiration for his focus, speed, and skill, even if he was handling her a bit rougher than before. This was a fae male accustomed to rough living and adventure. And thank the mother for that!

Lucien ran, lifted her, then climbed.

Her eyes followed the shadowy, erratic movement of the creature that was now two whole steps below them. They were actually making some headway. Thanks solely to Lucien; I’d be dead if not for him. 

Follow, be lifted, wait. 

Elain squinted ahead at the summit, hoping to help plan for their immediate future—to be of use—but her eyes were unable to break through that awful darkness. What kind of evil creature can create darkness? She took a deep breath but her racing heart only skipped a beat as her eyes searched through the darkness ahead in vain. 

I’m so useless.  

Then, like scum being skimmed from the top of an otherwise clear, meaty broth, the foglike darkness dissipated in an instant. But it wasn’t her eyes that cleared the scum; no, her mind had done it. Images in her mind blurred as she scanned the area ahead. At least nine steps remained, most of them higher than the steps at the bottom while the step at the summit was the tallest of them all. 

Didn’t he need to drop himself to reach the first landing? 

“Lucien, you’ll need to go first. For the last step,” Elain breathed as he lifted her by the waist.

Rocks skittered behind them and the sound of claws scraping the stony ground grated against her nerves followed by a wolfish growl. She startled at the closeness of the sound, teeth clamping once more on the new sore on her tongue. Elain glanced behind and felt her soul leave her body. The creature was again one step away and she could smell it: a musky odor tinged with putrid meat. Lucien seized her hand, pulling her forward without a backward glance.

“ Don’t slow down,” he said, both an order and a plea.  His heart beat in her ears almost as loud as her own. 

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. She’d frozen. Again. 

I’ll kill us both! 

They dashed to a much shorter step—one that only reached her hips. This one, she could manage, Elain thought with rising determination. But before her outstretched hands even reached the small step, Lucien grabbed her waist and lifted her without losing momentum. A twinge of annoyance bloomed but quickly withered as the creature growled again. Too close, much too close. 

Lucien mounted this step much faster than the others. “You’re doing great, Elain,” Lucien reassured. 

I’m not doing anything.

Follow, be lifted, wait. 

“Did you hear what I said before? I’ll boost you for the last one and then you can lift me,” Elain continued.

“Let’s first get there,” he breathed.

The scraping behind them continued and the creature growled again, much louder than before. She couldn’t help screaming, though the scream sounded more like a squeak. Lucien squeezed her hand tight.

Follow, be lifted, wait. 

The growl brought an image to mind—that of another beast ripping the door from its hinges. A memory, perhaps? But the thought drifted from her like a leaf blowing away in the wind.

Elain squinted at the dark shadow just a step below them as she readied her legs to bolt the moment Lucien was ready. Again, she managed to pierce through the darkness. A shadowy four-legged creature with stubby, gray limbs and long, yellow claws came to the forefront of her mind. It moved impossibly fast on the flat surface, then it slowed significantly as it met her gaze. Her heart skipped a beat as she stared into those yellow forward-facing eyes that hugged a snout-like nose. It seemed to smile at her, an inky sludge dripping from an open, sharp-toothed maw. 

Elain did not freeze this time. 

“What is that thing?” Elain squeaked as her legs moved slightly faster than Lucien’s. 

“Cauldron knows! It looks like some sort of wraith-like wolf,” Lucien breathed. 

The step that greeted them was taller than Elain; the tallest one they’d encountered so far. As soon as he lifted her high enough for her to grope the ledge, he boosted her from behind, pushing her rear until she sprawled onto the next platform. Elain hissed as her ankle caught on the chain, digging deeper into the blistering gash around her ankle. He was there beside her a moment later, lifting her up by the arm like a sack of flour.

“You okay?” he asked. She nodded but his physical eye was fixed ahead.

Another tall step. But this time, Elain was ready for the extra boost and she caught herself before tumbling forward. 

 “Do not run,” wheezed a voice just a hair behind them. “You only delay the inevitable.”

The hairs on the back of her neck rose and a chill rose up her spine. It was an androgynous voice—one crafted of nightmares and the dark legends surrounding the fae. Lucien’s face blanched and his hand slipped as he attempted to climb the next step, his face slamming into the rock in front of him. He cursed, scrambling for a better hold. Elain offered a hand, feeling sweat drip down her elbow, but Lucien just shook his head.

“I’d just pull you down. I got it.”

He was probably right about that. I’m no help at all. But if Lucien couldn’t rely on Elain to take some of his weight as he’d just demonstrated, then how would he expect her to lift him up the last step? Blessedly, Lucien mounted the ledge moments before the talking creature did. 

“Remember that for the last step—” Elain began, her voice higher than before as she ran alongside him. “—I’ll need to hoist you up.” 

“We might not need to resort to that—” 

“Do you want to die today?” She asked, voice breaking on the last word.

Follow, be lifted, wait. 

“We’ll find a way,” he said, breathless.

Four steps remained.

“ Listen to me, ” Elain insisted, her drying hair falling in front of her face. “I can’t lift you!”

The truth of her words settled into her heart. I might not know much, but I know I’m right about this.

Lucien struggled to find a handhold and Elain felt a surging panic grip her heart. She glanced farther downward—the shadowy, wolf-like creature was also struggling with the taller steps. 

“After I boost you for the last step, you can lift me up. Okay?” She insisted. 

Lucien’s metal eye finally met hers and she offered a hand again. He surprised her by taking it though she could tell he wasn’t putting most of his weight into it. Elain used all her strength to keep seated and hold him steady as he finally lifted himself over the ledge.

“Okay,” he finally agreed.

She nodded, relieved he was listening to sense. How else would we get up that step?

“If you stop running, I shall make your deaths painless,” the eerie voice said, its breathing wet and labored.

The creature sounded tired. We might just outrun it, she thought.

Lucien ran, lifted her, boosted her, then climbed.

Two more steps to go. 

She offered her hand again and the creature's words rang in her ears: You only delay the inevitable. While she believed the threat—it would shred them to pieces given the chance—the veracity of the word “inevitable” made her pause. Was it inevitable? Something within her struggled with the thought, like a weed that had been torn away with healthy roots still deeply embedded in the fertile soil.

One last step!

Lucien ran, lifted her, boosted her, then slipped as he scrambled for a better hold, his lips brushing against the ledge.

“By the cauldron,” he said, voice hitching. He looked so panicked that she felt her own fear fade to the background.

“I’ll boost you,” Elain said, starting to slide down beside him.

Lucien grabbed her knee. “ No! Stay there, I almost have it!”

Elain almost insisted but offered a hand instead. He grabbed it, this time putting more of his weight on the hold. Elain pitched forward, nearly falling over the edge, and she yelped as he pushed her back. As she settled back, he grabbed her thigh instead. Elain caught a movement on his step—the creature’s head, then its glowing eyes meeting hers. 

“Lucien!” Elain gasped.

The shadowy beast cleared the ledge, a clawed paw poised for attack. Somehow, Lucien mounted the next step not a second later, and the beast’s outstretched claws swiped at the spot where Lucien’s back had just been. Elain screamed, getting a lungful of its awful stench.  

They sprinted to the next step, hand-in-hand, Elain squeezing tight. He’s okay. We’re still okay. We’re still okay. Her breath couldn’t keep up with her heart. We’ll make it, we just have to keep going! She let go of his hand and squatted, her legs in a wide stance as she offered her cupped hands, fingers tightly intertwined. Thank the mother for tall pantries and late-night thieving with Nesta. 

At another time, she might have laughed at how her childhood experiences had prepared her for this moment, but not now. Not at this moment as Lucien stared blankly at her. What is he doing?

“Hurry!” Elain said.

Precious seconds passed. 

“Hurry up!” She demanded.

Claws grated against the edge of the platform where they stood.

“Go!” Elain pleaded.

Lucien looked through her, his gaze distant, as he lifted her by the waist.

“What are you doing ?” She screamed.

He pushed her hard from behind, and she was unable to stop herself from pitching forward. 

Lucien turned away from her, facing the beast as it climbed to greet him.

Nesta

Nesta was reliving the worst experience of her life for the second time, but this time it was Cassian shoving her under the water. Another difference was that the first time, the water had been deathly cold. She decided at that moment that near boiling was worse . She held her breath, fighting against her lungs, and she briefly wondered if this was some sort of other worldly punishment.

Was this Koschei’s intent? To place her in such a predicament, designed after her worst life experience, and then require her unwitting mate to carry it out? Surely not. He doesn’t know me that well . And how would he know that Cassian would choose the left path? He had the planning and foresight to abduct Elain, but did he have the foresight to orchestrate something this awful and hand-tailored to Nesta’s trauma?

Nesta wanted to scream—to beat against Cassian to stop. She could hear the guilt and reluctance in his voice before the second plunge underwater; he didn’t want to do this anymore than she did. But then just before this, he’d thrown her over his fucking shoulder! 

I will kill him the moment I have full control over my limbs! 

They emerged once more from the scalding hot water and Nesta gasped, taking in another lungful of air. 

“We’ve got just a few more to go, Nes,” Cassian said in her ear. 

FUCK. YOU. No! NO MORE! Somehow in her fiery anger, she managed to mewl—a pathetic keening noise from the back of her throat. Cassian seemed to pause and Nesta felt she could move the tip of her tongue.

“N-n-o!” She rasped. 

As the shrieking sounded above them, Nesta felt a familiar warmth envelope the top of her head and the scent of him filled her nose. His wing, she realized; he was shielding them both. A muffled thwacking sounded just above them as Cassian grunted in her ear from the impact—most likely one of the creatures hitting their winged shelter. 

“I have to,” he said close to her ear, breaths shallow. “Listen, they have this immobilizing power—” another whacking noise sounded through his wing and Cassian tensed from the impact, “—and they’re only attacking every time—” Another whack, “—we resurface. If they hit me too many places, we’re both dead.”

She thought she felt him moving as if treading forward in the water. Why not just keep above the water as we’re currently doing? She wanted to ask. Another slap against his wing and she felt slightly cooler air break through the cocoon. Cassian cursed. 

“Well, that wing’s totally dead. We gotta go under. Sorry.”

Nesta barely managed a small breath before he dove under once more.

Feyre

Rhys used the same maneuver as before, stabilizing my body with both hands and swinging my lower half to kick the moles. It reminded me of a game my father once enjoyed playing that involved a long stick and a hard ball, but I was the stick in this scenario. My foot crunched against the carapace of one mole, and it was knocked hard against the wall of the cave. The mole twitched then stilled as a clear, goopy liquid oozed from its cracked side. 

The creature’s companion shrieked, backing up onto its rear, its upper four translucent arms raised defensively. Rhys charged the mole, his limp barely noticeable as he propelled my paralyzed leg forward. The mole jolted backward, dodging the attack, then leapt, latching onto my shin. Though my leg was mostly numb, I could still feel the tickle of its many legs scrambling up my bare skin. I let loose a bloodcurdling scream.

“No you don’t,” Rhys snarled. He smacked it away with a hand and the creature dropped to the ground.

Rhys pivoted me to the side with dizzying speed as he kicked the mole with his dead foot. It made a crunching noise before it soared through the air in a graceful arc. Then it was gone—lost to the darkness beyond. 

The cave stilled to the sound of our breathing once more, though I still heard the echoes of their shrieks play through my ears. Rhys cursed then sat me down, hastily placing my back against the wall. He frowned at his hand, then shook it limply back and forth. Paralyzed. What did he expect?  

I felt my body tilt away from Rhys towards the right, then slowly slide downward as the coarse fabric of my swimming suit scritched against the wall. I tried to stop it with my working left arm, but it only slowed my downward movement. Eventually my right shoulder and head settled on the sandy ground, followed by my head a second later. I grunted and the dusty sand in front of me dispersed with each labored breath.

I heard a chuckle behind me, then felt him draw near. “Taking a nap, now?”

The world shifted as he readjusted me into a sitting position.  Rhys crouched beside me, that smirk on full display.

“Why did you do that?” I asked. 

He brushed the sand away from my arm and neck. “Did you want to be face-down in the dirt?”

“Why did you smack the mole away?” 

He paused, eyebrows knitting together ever so slightly.

“Because you screamed.” He looked surprised at his answer. Then he hesitantly touched my face, brushing the sand from my eyebrow and cheek. “I mean, it was going to climb up to your beautiful face.”

His hand cupped my cheek. He’s just a shameless flirt.

“And my face is more important than my legs?” 

“Infinitely. You already have legs—mine. But I’d be remiss if I allowed a creature to steal your magnificent facial expressions.” A villainous smile stretched across his lips. “Like that one.”

“Glad I can be a source of entertainment to you.”

He smirked, finally letting go of my cheek. I took an involuntary breath. 

“You can thank me any time you like,” he said.

“Can you still hold me without one of your hands?”

“Definitely.”

Rhys’s confidence was both annoying and attractive. He is attractive . By the mother, is he attractive. I eyed his bare torso and his face. And he knows it. The worst part was that my body seemed to respond to him—against my will—more than any other male I’d ever known. But perhaps that was just because I was older; I’d heard that age increased feelings of longing from older women. Or perhaps it’s because I am now fae. Or… it could be any number of reasons, really. 

I breathed in deeply again, clearing my mind of embarrassing thoughts and I settled on analysing him from a purely aesthetic perspective: how his features all came together—the angles and lines that made up his face. Though I had gotten used to the dim, blue lighting of the cave, I noted the coloring once more. How his jet-black hair had a blue cast. It’s a good color on him. Not just the hue, but the darkness; it suited his wicked, teasing smile. It was the same smile that had adorned his face when he’d kissed Lucien earlier that day.

“That man is a vile wretch who will do anything to achieve his goals,” Lucien had said. That description did seem to fit Rhysand…

Rhys watched me, his expression shifting. “What are you thinking?”

But then again…

I thought of how he’d reacted to my distress just a moment ago—sacrificing his hand. The way he’d read my distress when I’d danced with Koschei the night before: “I don’t think she wants to dance with you. Do you?” I thought of the gentle way he brushed the dirt from my face. 

“I don’t think you’re as dark as you pretend to be.”

Rhys chuckled darkly. “Oh believe me Feyre, darkness and I go hand-in-hand. And that’s not a figure of speech—”

“I think you might actually be a decent person.”

“...And what makes you think that?”

“You pretend not to care, but you do.”

“You think so? Just because I helped you out?”

I touched his paralyzed hand with two fingers.

“You sacrificed your hand.” 

He looked down at our hands. “That’s just because I like you.”

I snorted. Shameless flirt. 

“What’s so funny?”

“You are,” I said. “Thank you. For saving my face.”

“Anytime, Feyre darling.”

He stared at me for a while, and I felt that unbidden sensation work through me. It doesn’t mean anything—he’s just trying to get under my skin to gain an advantage.  

I looked away toward the tunnel ahead of us. It was far shorter than before and he wouldn’t be able to carry me as he had. I’d thought of a solution earlier, but had been reluctant to suggest it. 

“So… I don’t think you’ll be able to keep carrying me…”

“So you have noticed,” he said. 

“Right. And I’m thinking we might need to adjust—”

“I’m glad you agree.”

“If you just place me on your back—”

“I didn’t want to drag you—”

“—then I can hold on with my working ar—wait, what?”

“Oh, that’s brilliant! Not to mention, probably faster.”

“You were thinking about dragging me?”

“This was before I knew your arm was working—”

“I just touched your hand!”

“It was a previous plan. Besides, I like yours better.”

I thought of my body scraping against the sandy ground while he pulled my ankle by the chain. He grinned, clearly laughing at me.

“I take it back. You’re not a decent person,” I lied.

Rhys tsked, “You don’t mean that.” He turned around, still crouching on the ground, and looked over his shoulder at me. “I need your working arm, Feyre darling.” I reached for him and he grabbed my arm, pulling me to his back and lifting me off the ground, his other arm reaching behind to secure my rear.  My body responded to his touch, a relief to be touching more of him with more of me, and an aching desire for more. This new fae body is ridiculous. 

We progressed only a few feet before the tunnel shortened and he lowered himself to the ground, resting on all fours as I awkwardly tried to keep hold of him. I felt myself sliding to the side. He adjusted me to the center of his back, my cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

“Now, for this to work, you have to stay on my back.”

I let go of him briefly to make a rude gesture in front of his face. Rhys chuckled and I savored the deep reverberations of that laugh against my face.

Elain

No! NO!

“It has been a long while since fresh meat has ventured this way,” the creature rasped.

“I can find you more fresh meat,” Lucien persuaded. “If you ate us, it would only be temporary.”

Elain felt something stir within her as her panic rose to an all-time high. She could see something in the distance—something important. For a moment, it appeared as if the walls shook and the ground trembled. The blinked to clear her eyes.

“I am too hungry to wait any longer.” It stepped closer to Lucien.

The vision continued, even with her eyes shut. While Elain felt none of the shaking, she could still see it happening right in front of her. 

“I would make a bargain with you,” Lucien said. “To keep you fed.”

“You would not be able to—you are a prisoner here just as I am—and I am done speaking,” it whispered. It raised its clawed arm once more and Elain found her voice.

“You will die when the harvest moon is at its peak.”

The creature’s arm stopped mid-air.

“The rocks rend. The cave collapses. And you with it.” 

“You are… a soothsayer?” the creature asked. 

Elain watched as the rocks crumbled down, this creature crying out as a portion of the wall fell atop it, his bones crushed in an instant. Her inner eye scanned the entire area and found a few of Koschei’s court, their bodies buried under the weight of these rocks. It was a massive earthquake. 

Elain climbed down the rock and Lucien was too slow to stop her. She pushed his hands out of the way as she walked right up to the creature, her eyes piercing through its rough exterior and into the past. She could see its past—the way it hunted and left its victims in shreds. This creature had a hunger that was never sated. It would be wrong to let this creature back into the world.

“There is one safe spot in your prison. Just one.” She could see it now. She itched to turn her head to look at it, but that would give it away, so she kept its gaze. “The rocks fall in such a way that if you stood there, no harm would come to you. And once the ground stops shaking, you could walk away. Your prison would be destroyed.”

He looked up at the ceiling far above.

“The harvest moon is a fortnight away,” it rasped in that awful voice. 

How this creature knew that in a cave so far underground, she didn’t know. 

“Whatever made you is powerful,” the creature said. “I can see that much.”

“Do you wish to live and be free?” Elain asked.

The creature leaned closer, the stench on its breath making her eyes sting. Lucien grabbed Elain’s shoulder, tugging her back, but Elain stood her ground.

“I do. Shall we make a bargain?” The creature asked.

“Elain,” Lucien began, warning in his voice.

Lucien had used that word before: bargain. Elain knew of bargains in her father’s business—it was a deal where one person benefitted more than the other, though both were pleased by the outcome. If it followed her instructions, it would certainly be a bargain for the creature, but one that would also deeply benefit Elain and Lucien. 

“Yes,” she said. “It is a good offer: I will let you know where to position yourself but you must first let us go.”

“Uninjured,” Lucien added.

“Yes, uninjured,” she said.

“You are already injured,” he said, glancing down at Elain’s ankle. More of that dark drool dribbled down its mouth as it stared down at her raw flesh.

“You must not injure us as we escape your prison,” Lucien insisted. 

The creature turned its attention to Elain, waiting.

“Yes, I will tell you the one spot of safety in this prison if you let us walk away unscathed.”

“It is done,” the creature said. A strange feeling coursed through her—a feeling similar to the magic she’d felt at the ball last night—and she knew the “bargain” was sealed by magic.

Elain turned then, crouching before the tall step as she offered a boost to Lucien, her legs wide enough to hold his weight. The wall was smooth and offered no hand-holds. He would have never managed to climb up it. Elain motioned with her outstretched arms more insistently.

“You must tell me the spot,” the creature said, drawing near. 

“I will.”

“I am held to a bargain—”

“As am I,” she said. “ Lucien.”  

Elain grunted as Lucien placed his full weight in her hands, and she wobbled slightly, but then the weight was gone. As he hoisted himself over the ledge, the creature placed a hand on her shoulder. She gasped and saw Lucien turn, ready to leap down—

She held up a hand. “Stay there!”

“Where do I stand to avoid a cave-in?” the creature asked.

“One moment,” she insisted, moving her shoulder out of its grasp. 

The creature growled as she reached for Lucien. Lucien gripped her with clammy hands and pulled her up, her shoulder popping as he dragged her over the edge. As she came to her feet, a feeling of triumph settling over her. Lucien stared at her, mouth slightly open. 

The creature craned its neck to glare at both of them. “You are now safely out of my grasp. I cannot follow you any farther than this point. Tell me where to stand,” it demanded.

Elain gazed down at the creature and pointed at the spot where she stood—right at her toes: “Right here,” she said.

“You little vixen!” It roared.

The creature growled loudly again and spit at the ground. “Help me up! You bargained!” It hissed then slashed against the rocks. Elain felt herself shirk away even though the creature’s claws couldn’t reach the platform. She felt a hand on her back.

“She agreed to no such thing,” Lucien said. “The bargain is fulfilled.”

Lucien grabbed Elain’s hand, tugging her toward the slippery mound of rocks behind them, but Elain didn’t budge.

“I cannot condemn any more innocent creatures to your insatiable appetite and cruelty.” 

Those evil eyes bore into hers, pure hatred staring her in the face. 

Elain felt a twinge of guilt and so she added, “Stand anywhere but the bottom step if you wish for your death to be quick.” 

The creature continued to claw at the rock, beating against it, its growls becoming more and more ragged, but that was fast becoming distant; a sad, background chorus of a condemned creature. She hadn’t been lying. That spot he couldn’t reach at the top was the one place in this awful cave where the rocks fell in such a way that he could avoid a crushing death.

Soothsayer. Is that what I am?

The chain around her leg weighed heavily. Her ankle was too swollen to pull the manacle upward and the pain was excruciating. It was also starting to itch. Elain allowed Lucien to hold her hand, just for the sake of balancing on the slippery rocks, and they were nearly to the bottom. She felt the urge to put space between them—to avoid him—despite her earlier feelings of attraction. As soon as they reached level ground, Elain let go of Lucien’s hand.

“How long have you been able to see the future?” He asked.

“I don’t know. It’s a surprise to me as well.”

Lucien frowned. “I’ve read of seers—it’s usually a life-long ability. You didn’t notice these symptoms in childhood?”

“No. I told you; I grew up human. Just yesterday I was human. Or at least, in my memories.”

“Sometimes humans have the ability passed on from fae ancestry. Or sometimes it’s… something else.”

“Something else?”

A howling sounded in the distance and she glanced behind her. Maybe the creature was part-wolf.

“You haven’t tried to access magic before? In your human past?”

“N-no… I have no experience with magic. I didn’t even know humans could use magic.”

“Well, if a human had access to certain spells and archaic tools, they could use magic. Same for the fae with less magical abilities—you could amass power that way even if you weren’t born with it. They’re called witches.”

“You think I’m a witch?” She asked, unable to hide the offense she felt.

Lucien held up a hand. “I’m only asking. It’s just that seers are quite rare—”

“I’m not a witch!” 

“I believe you,” he said. 

Silence followed as they trekked ahead. 

Lucien spoke again. “And I admire your ability and quick thinking. You saved us back there.”

Lucien was trying to make amends. She could see that, but all the same her irritation grew like a rising dough. Elain sighed as she looked up at the criss-crossing maze. It would be a harrowing climb. After facing that creature though, she felt she could face anything, even her fear of heights.

“I suppose we’ll have to use one of the other tunnels instead,” Lucien said. “It puts us back a bit, but at least both of us can fight off those water-moles.”

“I think we should climb.” She pointed to the criss-crossing crevasse.

Lucien said nothing for a moment. “If you were more experienced, perhaps, but I don’t know that it would be wise...” A sinking feeling settled in her gut at his reluctance, his reference to her general ineptitude. “...I just wouldn’t be able to carry you the whole way up.”

A fire rose up her chest and the words came out in a rush. “You wouldn’t have to!” 

Lucien shirked back.

“Why didn’t you let me climb up the really short step?” She asked.

Lucien’s brows rose.

“You just lifted me without asking,” she said. As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt like a spoiled, petulant child. An insult her mother would sling her way whenever she became angry. Lucien had every reason to move her and not think about asking her for her preference; they were fleeing for their lives.

“I…I didn’t know you wanted to do it yourself—”

Elain breathed deep and wanted to apologize but the thought of doing so had her anger flaring again.  “I think we should climb.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea—”

Elain exhaled audibly then searched the heavy rocks at her feet. “Do you think these rocks would break the chain between us?”

Lucien’s brows hitched together, his face hard to read.

“I’d hate to slow you down more than I already have,” she said.

Elain picked up a large rock and dropped it on the chain. The rock rolled off the chain, not denting it one bit.

“I’m sorry, Elain.”

“For what?” 

She picked up another rock close by—a bit bigger than her fist—and dropped it on the chain. The rock bounced away. Again, no visible damage.

“I… ” His words died off.

“I’m fine.” Why isn’t this stupid chain breaking?!

She threw the rock again and it bounced off as it had before.

“Oh, by the cauldron!” Lucien huffed. She looked up. “If you’re going to try and break the chain, use a large rock, why don’t you?” 

He hefted a rock the size of his head, grunted, then brought it over to her.

“You do it,” she said. 

“No,” he said. She felt her brows rise as her anger flared to an all-time high. “You’re the one who wants to be rid of me. You do it,” he said.

She grabbed the rock and buckled under the weight, nearly dropping it on her foot. She moved her foot just before the rock could crush it causing the manacle to embed deeper into her raw ankle. The pain was excruciating. 

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” Elain said, voice coming out much louder than she intended. “You agreed to let me boost you!”

Lucien’s mouth opened then closed. 

Elain continued, “I might be weak, but boosting someone doesn’t require the same level of strength. And as you just saw moments ago, I’m quite capable.”

“Yes! You are! I never said—”

“Did you think you were being brave or heroic? Or did you just assume my plan was stupid because it was my plan?”

“That’s not it at all— ”

“You know that the moment that creature finished you off, I would have died moments later, but at least we had a shot of surviving! If any plan was stupid, it was leaving one of us to fend off the creature with his fists—!”

“I could not stomach the thought of leaving you there!” He bellowed. 

Elain took a step back, watching his face contort as if pained. “But you agreed to do it!”

“Because it was a sound plan!! And I was going to. But right then… right at that moment when your life hung in the balance with that creature closer than it had ever been before. I… I don’t know why… I just couldn’t make myself.” Lucien held his head and squinted his eyes closed. “Look, it doesn’t make any sense. You’re right about it being stupid,” he said. 

“You lied to me,” Elain continued, finally finding the word for what she felt: betrayal.

He looked pained. “I’m sorry, Elain. I wish I hadn’t. I don’t know what came over me. Please don’t despise me.”

Elain eyed the rock between them, letting his words sink in. She felt the sincerity of his apology. The bubbling rage was gone now; it had become less insistent the moment she’d voiced the real reason for her anger.

“Can I make it up to you?”

She looked up. 

He continued, “One, I’d like to bandage your ankle—that sore looks far more painful than mine, and it’s my fault since I shoved you up the steps a few times.”

She eyed his ankle for the first time and noticed there was also a sore there.

“... with what?” She asked. 

He held up a finger. “Two, I’d like to take you climbing. Right there,” he pointed to the zig-zagging wall ahead of them. “There’s this awful—I mean, lovely… dangerous climb nearby that might interest you. I hear from a good source it won’t be around much longer, so we’d have to do it today.” His handsome face was earnest as he held out a hand. “Right now, actually.”

Elain paused, then took his hand. “I’d like to go on an awful, lovely, dangerous climb with you.”

“It would be an honor to teach you the ropes,” he said, then he grimaced. “Without any ropes unfortunately.”

Azriel

Cassian came through the wall first, emerging from the water with Nesta in his arms. Something white and fuzzy scuttled after them and Cassian roared, hitting it away, though his movements were awkward and disjointed. Azriel noticed with some alarm that both his wings were dragging in the water behind him. Not only that, but he looked off—a flat, almost severe expression on his face. Cassian swam to the edge of the water and set Nesta down, his wings still drooping to the ground as if badly damaged. Nesta, by contrast, was completely still. Is she paralyzed or just dead? She coughed and Cassian turned her body to the side, wiping her mouth clear of the water.

What is wrong with his wings?? 

Not long after, Rhys emerged from a small opening with Feyre on his back, one of her arms wrapped over his shoulder. They exchanged words, then Rhys laughed as Feyre rolled her eyes. Rhys had once been like that—he’d laughed, joked, and smiled easier when he was younger. But that was before the war and before his mother and sister were murdered. Before he’d inherited the exacting role of high lord to a dark, unruly court.

While Rhys performed his role with precision and ease, Azriel knew it took a toll on him. It’s why he never complained, never refused when Rhys asked anything of him. He knew Rhys tried to do everything himself even when Azriel and Cassian were more than capable of shouldering the burden with him. His sacrifice with Amarantha was evidence enough. Seeing this younger version of Rhysand brought back memories of when times were simpler.  He felt the strong urge to protect this unfettered version of his brother—to shield him from danger and also his future.

Feyre pointed to the shining object in the center of the pond and Rhys nodded, waiting for Feyre to jump into his waiting arms. Feyre hobbled out, still partially paralyzed it would seem, and she let out a small yelp before dropping into the water a few feet below her. The water splashed and he caught her before she sank, then they reoriented so that she was on his back, one arm holding tight.

How will this work if they’re both working together? Who gets the prize? 

Perhaps that was why Koschei was so upset about the females not being paralyzed: the prize could not be split between teams. Koschei had designed the challenge in such a way as to make the females completely passive. The chained pairs weren’t supposed to be working together at all. It was as Jurian had hinted: a challenge with a misogynistic twist. 

Koschei winnowed to a space beside him along with Stellian. Azriel hadn’t noticed her leave to retrieve him.

The cave rumbled. Azriel glanced downward and saw tiny bubbles rise to the surface of the water. More bubbles issued from the water, hissing as they broke the surface. The cave rumbled again, then a ripple worked its way from the center of the pond outward. 

Get out of the water, Rhys.

Rhys seemed to think the same thing. He raced to the water’s edge with Feyre holding on tight and looking over her shoulder. They didn’t make it far before an enormous, white beast emerged from the depths and broke through the surface, sending a tidal wave in its wake.