Chapter Text
Cassian is gently shaken awake. His eyes shoot open and there's Rhysand.
"What is it?"
I'm going to the healer now.
Cassian sits up, "I should go with you."
Go back to sleep, it's not necessary, Rhysand sends to his mind while gently trying to lay Cassian back down.
"What if I start screaming again?"
Rhysand grimaces.
Cassian crawls off the bed, "Exactly. I'll come with you this time." Rhysand nods.
Rhysand is already dressed in a simple black tunic and pants. Cassian pulls on his pants then folds his arms behind himself and presents his back to Rhysand, who grabs the bindings and loosely secures Cassian's arms.
They head out into the quiet hallways. They can tell it's early morning by the sounds of the kitchen echoing and nothing else.
They reach the infirmary and the same healer is there lounging in a chair reading a book. He doesn't look up from his reading.
"Back again so soon?" he finishes what he's reading then pops a bookmark into his book and snaps it shut. He stands up and approaches them.
"His voice is gone completely," Cassian decides to inform the healer.
The healer looks Cassian up and down carefully, "You speak."
"When necessary."
The healer narrows his eyes at him, "Interesting..." he muses.
He shifts his attention to Rhysand, "Are you going to be my new morning customer?" Rhysand gives a lazy shrug.
"Shirt off, sit on the chair," the healer orders. Rhysand complies.
The healer circles around Rhysand inspecting his injuries, "Just the eyes, neck and wrists today?" Rhysand nods. "No scratches, lucky you." Rhysand shrugs.
"Hold out a wrist... Watch my hands, I'm going to put my hands around your wrist and then you'll feel a soothing sensation," the healer slowly brings up his hands and envelopes Rhysand's wrist. A glowing light eminates.
The healer opens his hands, "Put your other wrist in my hands." Rhysand swaps his wrists. The healer envelopes the other wrist and a glowing light eminates.
"Okay, now, watch my hands. I'm going to move slowly and place my hands on your neck," the healer raises his hands and slowly moves towards Rhysand's neck, but Rhysand bends backwards as if magnetically repulsed.
"Okay, try grabbing hold of my wrists and bring my hands slowly to touch your neck."
Rhysand takes a deep breath and grasps the healer's wrists. He slowly starts to bring his wrists towards his neck and a tremble begins as he moves. The healer makes no comment, and Rhysand takes another deep breath and continues to bring the healer's hands closer. He places his hands onto his neck, and sits trembling.
The healer's hands glow and Rhysand's trembling eases until he is still again. It takes a longer amount of time to heal his neck.
"Now I'm going to slowly move my hands up the side of your head to reach your eyes, okay?" Rhysand nods.
The healer gently caresses up Rhysand's face to reach his eyes. His healing hands glow and the red capillaries recede from Rhysand's eyes.
"Any other injuries I couldn't see?"
Rhysand clears his throat, "No. That was all. Thank you again."
The healer gives a curt nod, "I'll see you again tomorrow. Unless your luck changes."
Rhysand grabs his tunic, "I don't expect change."
Rhysand finishes dressing then nods at the healer. The healer just returns a knowing look as they leave.
The sounds of the kitchen echoing in the hallway are louder.
We've got to hurry. I need to be ready for the breakfast with Her and the other High Lords, Rhysand's voice presents in Cassian's mind.
They make their way back to their room and Rhysand wastes no time tossing off his loose casual clothing and pawing through the wardrobe. He doesn't even remove Cassian's bindings, so Cassian just leans up against the edge of the foot of the bed and watches Rhysand hurriedly get dressed.
Rhysand finishes up, choosing an outfit with a high-collared black tunic stitched with subtle midnight-blue thread, tailored close to the body, with silver clasps at the cuffs and throat that catch the light like distant stars. Having adequately donned his armor for the morning, he silently approaches Cassian and massages his shoulders and arms as they wait to be summoned.
There is the expected knock on the door and it opens. "You've been summoned for breakfast." Rhysand and Cassian file out the door and follow the escort.
They walk in silence, their footsteps cannot be distinguished from the rest of the noises echoing the hallways. The kitchen noises have now been drowned out with footsteps and voices. But the smell of the kitchen lingers with delicious cooked meats.
They pass a few courtiers before their escort stops before a narrow door carved with curling, thornlike designs. It swings open on silent hinges.
This dining chamber is smaller than the banquet hall by far, but no less oppressive. The stone walls are draped with heavy black velvet, dampening sound and swallowing light. A low ceiling forces the room into intimacy. The chandelier above glows too warmly, casting soft shadows that flicker like breath.
At the center is a long, narrow table of glossy obsidian, polished to a mirror finish. Eight high-backed chairs surround it, but none are identical. Some are simple. Others are richly carved. A few are too low or too narrow, clearly designed to unsettle.
Amarantha is already seated at the head of the table, her fingers idly tracing the rim of a wineglass. She doesn't look up as Rhysand and Cassian enter. She's busy smiling sweetly at a bored looking Tamlin seated to her right.
The escort steps forward and bows, "High Lord Rhysand of the Night Court."
Rhysand bows low in return, each movement refined into ritual. His sleeves fall elegantly as he bends, midnight-blue thread catching the light. He holds the bow longer than necessary.
"Rhysand," Amarantha says without looking at him, her attention fixed instead on the corner of Tamlin's mouth, "Take your seat."
Rhysand crosses the room and takes the chair to her left. It's clear this is the chair designated for him because there is a cushion for Cassian next to it. The chair's wood is dark and undecorated, a slight slouch in one leg makes it lean. Rhysand adjusts his posture to compensate and makes it look effortless.
Cassian kneels on the cushion between Rhysand and Amarantha. She immediately threads her fingers through his hair without taking her eyes off Tamlin.
There is a soft knock. "High Lord Eris of the Autumn Court."
Eris enters at a casual pace, as if he's already bored with the performance. His coat is a rich fox-red today, the cuffs embroidered with hounds in gold thread. He surveys the room with interest before giving Amarantha a slight bow.
"My Queen," he says smoothly.
She raises her glass slightly, "Autumn burns bright this morning."
"I do try to dress for the season," without waiting to be told he selects a chair across from Rhysand and next to Tamlin, settling in with a flourish of coat tails.
A silence lingers just long enough to be noticeable.
A knock. "High Lord Thalion of the Day Court."
He steps through the door in his ever-white chiton, shoulder bare, sunlit skin gleaming beneath the warm chandelier. No embellishments, he is just stillness and composure.
He bows, "My Queen."
Amarantha watches him with a slanted smile, "You look like a statue I might have broken."
"I can stand still, if you wish to pose me," he raises his chin and shows her his profile.
That earns a low laugh, one of genuine delight. Tamlin doesn't move.
Thalion inclines his head slightly and takes the seat near the end of the table. He is still visible, but safely distant.
The knock comes quicker this time. "High Lord Thesan of the Dawn Court."
Thesan enters with his signature calm. His robes are pale ivory, long and flowing, edges kissed with soft blue thread.
He bows deeply, "My Queen."
"Dawn rises late today," she muses, "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through breakfast."
"A measured pace ensures nothing is overlooked," he says pleasantly.
Amarantha gestures vaguely at a chair midway down the table. It's a chair slightly too low with a stiff back. Thesan takes it without complaint. But he folds his robes under him more deliberately than usual.
Amarantha speaks now, unprompted, "Such a handsome assembly. If I close my eyes, I can almost forget how disappointing you've all been."
Cassian can feel Rhysand tense slightly beside him. Tamlin has not spoken a word.
Another knock. "High Lord Oberon of the Winter Court."
Oberon steps in with a rigid posture, drops into a deep, perfect bow, and holds it.
"My Queen," he says low, "Winter stands ready to serve however you see fit."
He holds his bow expecting a reaction.
"You're late," Amarantha says, her voice cool and lilting.
Oberon straightens and his jaw ticks, "I--" he clears his throat, "I came when summoned."
"You didn't come fast enough," her smile sharpens, "It's all right. You're here now. Just barely."
Oberon doesn't respond. He takes the seat beside Thesan and doesn't remove his cloak.
A longer pause with a seemingly longer stretch of silence. The air in the room begins to settle into quiet tension. Amarantha reaches lazily for a grape.
Then the final knock. "High Lord Nostrus of Summer," the servant's voice cracks slightly.
Nostrus enters very slowly, his posture stiffer than usual, and a faint stain blooms where his shirt clings to a bandage. He bows, but barely. It's more a forward lean.
Amarantha sets her grape down and beams, "Summer, so early? I thought you'd be lying in the sun nursing your wounds."
Nostrus meets her gaze. Doesn't blink, "I'm here, my Queen."
"And upright! How ambitious," she clasps her hands together with glee.
He doesn't reply. Takes the remaining chair at the far end, the plainest by far, gripping the sides as he lowers himself.
When the servant closes the door behind him, the sound echoes more than it should.
Amarantha sets her goblet down with a gentle clink. Her smile is slow and sharp, "Now that we're all here... shall we play a game?"
Her gaze drifts lazily down the table, lingering on each High Lord as if choosing which wine to sip next.
"Suppose rebellion stirs again," she muses, voice lilting like this is all hypothetical, "Small. Foolish. Predictable. And it begins in your court."
Her eyes flick to Thesan, then to Eris, then pause a little too long on Tamlin.
"What would you do?"
She doesn't name a target. Doesn't look at anyone directly. She just leans back into her chair and waits.
No one moves. The silence draws out and stretches like a held breath. Cassian can feel it again, that same rising heat from yesterday, the one that builds under the skin when no one wants to go first.
Amarantha doesn't repeat herself. She just smiles wider, pleased.
Chairs don't creak. Goblets stay untouched. Every High Lord looks at someone else. No one volunteers. She hums softly, not quite music, just a sound of enjoyment.
The silence grows sharp. No one reaches for a goblet. No one dares clear their throat.
Then the door opens, pressure shifting with a quiet rush of air. Eight servants file in, each carrying a domed silver plate.
They glide along the table like ghosts, placing each plate with mechanical precision. One servant nearly brushes Tamlin's shoulder and Tamlin flinches. Thesan stiffens. Eris doesn't move but his eyes track every hand.
Cassian keeps his head bowed, but the shift in energy prickles at his skin. The servants bow in unison, then retreat without a word, the doors shutting behind them with a soft but final thud.
Amarantha hums again, almost purring, "Still no volunteers?" she says with a mock pout, "What a shy morning."
Her gaze drifts lazily down the table, brushing over each of them like fingertips over a blade. Cassian can feel the silence draw tight like thread pulled over skin. No one speaks. No one touches their food. No one wants to go first.
Then Eris shifts.
He reaches casually for the stem of his glass and lifts it, studying the contents as he speaks.
"If rebellion rose in Autumn, my Queen, I'd invite the instigators to a private gathering. Wine. Firelight. Polite applause. Then... quiet. Permanent quiet."
He takes a sip. Doesn't smile. Doesn't look at anyone.
Tamlin speaks next, his voice too quick, "I'd burn it out. Quick and clean."
Amarantha lifts her eyes toward him but says nothing.
Thalion speaks with calm precision, "I'd let the fire catch. Then make the ashes teach the lesson."
There is a beat of silence. Then Rhysand speaks, voice smooth, measured, "I wouldn't silence them immediately, my Queen. I'd watch who follows them. Let the rebellion bloom just long enough to reveal its roots. Then pull the whole thing out at once."
His voice does not falter. His posture does not shift. Cassian doesn't look at him.
Thesan clears his throat, "I'd isolate the root. Quietly. No need for spect--"
Oberon cuts him off, "You execute the traitors in the square. No delay. No mercy. Let them see frost take their kin and know what comes next."
No one responds. No one moves. Thesan waits a moment, then finishes, "Public blood feeds stories. I'd rather starve the flame."
The Queen watches him for a moment. Then turns her eyes slowly to the end of the table.
Nostrus hasn't spoken. His hands rest on the table, fingers splayed, as if bracing against pain.
"I'd do what I was told," he says quietly.
Amarantha beams, "Finally, a sensible answer! And they say heat makes you slow."
No one speaks as Amarantha continues her wide beam at Nostrus.
Tamlin's jaw tightens. Eris sets his goblet down a little too carefully. Thesan looks down at the table and says nothing.
Nostrus doesn't move. Doesn't blink. As if breathing might break whatever protection he just earned.
Cassian stays still, but the message is clear. Obedience is what wins. Not strategy. Not strength. Just surrender.
Amarantha sips from her goblet, then sets it down with a satisfied clink.
"That was fun," she says, stretching the words like warm honey, "But games alone don’t build empires."
She lets her eyes roam over the table, pausing on each High Lord just long enough to imply something unsaid.
"It's so hard to rule a kingdom when one doesn’t know what pieces are left on the board."
She glances lazily at Rhysand, "Perhaps I'll make you count them for me."
Fuck! echoes simultaneously within Cassian and Rhysand's minds.
Illyria! Cassian internally panics.
Velaris! Rhysand worries.
Amarantha picks up her knife and fork and starts to carve into her food, "A future proposal. I do like knowing the full measure of what I own."
No one else moves right away to start eating. A single bite might be a signal. But, Thalion breaks the stalemate and reaches for his fork. The rest follow, slowly, as if remembering how to eat.
Amarantha continues to talk. Not constantly, just enough to keep everyone alert. Her voice drifts between silken praise and quiet menace.
She asks Thesan if the Dawn Court still teaches poetry, then mocks the idea of art in a time of war. She tells Eris that his coat is lovely, but that his father had better posture. She wonders aloud if Winter can still harvest ice now that its rivers are red. No one laughs. Each question is a trap disguised as a game.
Cassian kneels in silence, eyes downcast, but every word rings sharp in his ears. Rhysand answers when spoken to. Briefly. Carefully. As if each phrase might be carved into stone.
By the time the plates are half-empty, the silence feels louder than conversation.
Amarantha finally sets down her goblet again, "You're all dismissed," she says, tone light, final.
No one moves. Cassian can feel the tension pull tight again. Someone will have to go first. Someone will have to signal weakness or confidence or defiance just by standing up.
This time, it's Thesan who rises. Smooth and unhurried, like the game no longer interests him. He bows briefly and walks out.
The others follow. Some move quickly, some with too much grace. Nostrus is last. He winces as he pushes back his chair. No one offers to help.
Amarantha doesn't say goodbye. But she smiles as they walk away.
Rhysand leads them down the deafeningly loud hallways. They are full of activity, forcing them to regularly dodge courtiers as they cross paths. Rhysand, however, isn't heading towards their bedroom.
Since I have an office, Rhysand's voice says, our routine should be to go to the office after breakfast.
Understood, Cassian pushes back rather than nodding.
They reach the office and there is already someone there. The door is already open, and a lithe lesser fae jumps up off the couch as soon as Rhysand steps in. The fae has large black eyes that blink frequently, and translucent wings.
"High Lord Rhysand!" the fae bows and straightens in the blink of an eye, "Saelwyn sent me to assist you decorating your office," he speaks just as fast, "m'Name's Zibri!"
Rhysand and Cassian freeze a moment at the bombardment of words. Rhysand recovers first and nods curtly, "The most important is a rug."
"Good good good," he dashes out the door, "I took the liberty to..." his voice trails off as he dashes down the hallway.
Rhysand steps into the hallway, "Zibri," he says in cool command. The assistant whips around, flinches, and dashes back to Rhysand. His eyes have grown so wide they practically envelope his face.
"I'm so sorry m'Lord!" he falls to his knees, "I am so sorry! Saelwyn keeps warning me and warning me and warning me and I just keep zip zipping along. Please m'Lord, she said if I didn't perform adequately for you I would suffer the consequences!"
Cassian feels Rhysand go completely still beside him. He doesn't respond immediately, leaving a silence that grows increasingly uncomfortable and Zibri's body begins to quiver from the pressure.
What is it? Cassian gently asks hoping Rhysand is listening.
He sounds exactly how I feel, Rhysand's voice is slow and reluctant, Frantic. Dependent. Hopelessly scrambling for approval just to survive. I hate how much I understand him. I thought I was above this, but I'm exactly like him, aren't I?
Understanding him is empathy, Cassian gently replies, Knowing his fear doesn't mean you're broken. It means you're still alive enough to recognize it.
"Stand," Rhysand says as he puts his hands in his pockets.
Zibri pops up but keeps his eyes to the floor, still quivering.
"I will evaluate your performance as a whole over the entire day," Rhysand informs coldly, "Please proceed. Slower this time."
"Y- yes m'Lord," he clears his throat, "I took the liberty to examine all the unoccupied rooms. I- I saw a rug that might do well."
"I want something soft and comfortable to sit on."
"Oh! I should have asked, I'm sorry m'Lord," Zibri blushes, "But I do remember seeing a plush rug."
Cassian catches the subtle way Rhysand's fingers twitch inside his pockets.
It's unsettling, Rhysand admits quietly, his voice strained and reluctant in Cassian's mind, Seeing him desperately try to please me as if I actually have power. I almost started believing it myself. Believing I have some control here. That's even worse.
Cassian brushes mental reassurance against Rhysand's troubled thoughts.
Rhysand takes a hand out of his pocket and gestures forward, "Lead the way."
Zibri nods and starts to dash then stops himself. He waits for Rhysand and Cassian to catch up and then takes careful measured steps.
They're lead down a hallway past the guards that have been containing the courtiers. Apparently, the containment hasn't been applying to Rhysand. Interesting.
They're lead down two floors and several hallways. These floors are unused and cold. Zibri and Rhysand had to grab torches to light the way. They enter a room and it has a large round high pile rug that is bright green.
It looks like grass! Cassian exclaims in his mind.
A smirk momentarily pulls on Rhysand's mouth.
"This is the most plush rug I discovered," Zibri says while dancing up to the rug then bending over and running his fingers through it.
Walk on it, Rhysand's voice says, Let me know if it feels good.
Cassian walks across the rug and runs his bare feet over the plush piling. It feels pretty nice.
Want it?
Yeah, I think this will be nice.
"Good choice, Zibri. We'll take this rug," Rhysand says.
Zibri spins around and beams, "Really?! You like it?!"
Rhysand smiles and nods, but Cassian notices the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. The corners are tight, strained, like Rhysand's trying too hard to appear relaxed.
We're decorating, picking out comforts, Rhysand's weary voice floats through Cassian's mind, It's like making a prison cell inviting enough that I won't notice the bars.
Cassian quietly counters, or maybe it's reminding yourself you're worth comfort. Even here, even now. You're worth it.
"I have some other things in mind," Zibri unknowingly interrupts their mental conversation, "You're from the Night Court, yes?"
Rhysand nods.
"Then you'll love this tapestry I found!" he zips out the door. Then zips back to stand in the doorway and wait anxiously for Rhysand and Cassian to catch up.
He has more energy than I could ever imagine.
Especially for being in this oppressive environment.
I wonder what he's like when he's happy and comfortable.
He may be able to vibrate straight through walls.
They find the tapestry Zibri wanted to show them and it takes the breath away from Cassian. This tapestry captures the galaxy and stars of a crisp clear night sky. He senses a wave of quiet longing ripple through Rhysand. Rhysand's darkened eyes linger on the tapestry a moment too long, and a raw flash of grief flickers clearly and unguarded before it's quickly buried.
Rhysand?
Rhysand sucks in a careful breath.
His mental voice feels small, distant. Look how easily I accept a pretty sky on a prison wall. Am I already forgetting what freedom looks like? Am I this easily broken, this quickly trained to find comfort in my chains?
Cassian takes a step closer to brush his shoulder lightly against Rhysand's to offer comfort and understanding. Comfort doesn't erase who we are. It keeps us whole until we're free again. Holding onto beauty isn't weakness -- it is a part of survival.
Zibri shows them around the various rooms on multiple floors pointing out paintings, trinkets, and of course that incredible tapestry. Rhysand points out what he'd like delivered and Zibri promises they'll be set up in his office over the next two days.
They stop at the abandoned library Rhysand and Cassian found several days earlier.
"I'll want many books transported to my office. But I want to choose which ones. I'll pull them out and leave them in piles and you can transport them later," Rhysand instructs.
"Yes, yes, m'Lord, perfectly understood," Zibri nods repeatedly.
"If you continue to perform satisfactorily I will be sure to inform Saelwyn," Rhysand says casually.
Zibri's eyes practically envelope his face again, "Really?!"
Rhysand smirks, "Really."
"I'll get right on bringing the items you chose to your office!" Zibri's bright smile can just barely be made out before he zips away and disappears out the door.
Rhysand's eyes soften briefly with genuine kindness at Zibri's enthusiasm. Unfortunately that warmth fades almost immediately, replaced by careful detachment. Cassian senses Rhysand pulling back inward, withdrawing behind his practiced, cool mask.
It bothers you, Cassian notes gently.
Zibri is grateful because he thinks my opinion actually matters. But we both know it doesn't, Rhysand sounds raw, unguarded, almost wounded, We're helpless here, and he has no idea how pathetic we are. We're pretending, decorating, desperate for crumbs of approval.
Cassian doesn't reply. Rhysand's quiet internal fracture settles heavily inside him.
Rhysand and Cassian roam the shelves taking mental inventory. Rhysand approaches the table with a handful of books he pulled out when a voice cries out from the door.
"You've been reassigned to the lesser court dining chamber," a young servant stands panting in the threshold, eyes wide, "Lunch has already begun. We were expecting you in the banquet hall. I had trouble locating you. My apologies."
Rhysand doesn't sigh, doesn't scowl. He straightens slowly, pats the dust from his hands, and says with polite indifference, "Lead the way."
They follow the servant through increasingly narrow corridors. The deeper they go, the more muted the décor becomes. The laughter and footsteps of courtiers fade. The dining room they reach is far smaller than the dining chamber from breakfast. Heavy velvet curtains dim the already sparse light. A long table of dark stone fills the space. Mismatched chairs surround it.
Half of Amarantha's inner circle is already seated. A few look up as Rhysand enters, but no one greets him.
Rhysand indicates for Cassian to kneel next to a chair at the far end of the table, shadowed, close to the wall. Then he picks through the platters with clinical precision, selecting meat, cheese, fruit, and bread. He cuts a piece of apple and wordlessly passes it to Cassian.
"We assumed you were summoned elsewhere, Rhysand," Rhoven lifts his eyes just long enough to say, "Or perhaps... kept for a private audience."
The tone is light, as if it's gossip disguised as curiosity. But it is actually a test. Rhysand doesn't take the bait. He slices a fig cleanly in two, arranging it with practiced detachment.
"I was surrounded by dust and forgotten knowledge," he replies coolly, “No company at all."
Eryx smirks into his cup. Vaelith watches too closely, her knife still poised above untouched meat. Malric picks apart a bone with slow, surgical interest, like it might speak if he prods it long enough.
Saelwyn approaches, wine in hand, her tone light but deliberate, "Your absence caused a small stir in here, Rhysand. I feared Zibri had lost you in the halls."
Rhysand hesitates a breath too long. Cassian notices.
Rhysand swallows before he responds, "He talks quickly, but he moves with purpose."
Saelwyn sips her wine, "Zibri tends to leave strong impressions. But perhaps you enjoy that sort of thing."
Rhysand's mental voice reaches Cassian, Fuck. If I fail him, he'll be broken. If I favor him, I'll look weak.
Cassian's mind presses back, steady and simple. Don't show favor. Show intent. You can do this. Words are your power.
Rhysand says aloud, "He's raw. Excitable. But there's something promising in the chaos. I intend to refine him," he glances down at Cassian then back to Saelwyn with a smirk, "I enjoy breaking in my tools myself."
Saelwyn laughs too loudly, "Oh, I can't wait to see what you turn Zibri into. I'll assign him to your service full time," she winks, "Do your worst!" then moves on.
Rhysand feeds Cassian a sliver of bread and then a wedge of cheese. Cassian chews slowly, watching Rhysand's face. He's too still.
Rhysand clenches his jaw, Every word tastes like rot.
You're still in there, Cassian sends back, That's why it hurts.
The rest of the meal is quiet. No one raises their voice. Vaelith whispers something to Eryx. Lazhar stares too long at Rhysand's hands. Rhoven scribbles notes even as he eats.
By the time the platters are mostly empty, Malric clears his throat, rises and departs. The others follow in no particular order. No one says goodbye.
Cassian and Rhysand are left the last remaining individuals in the room. They take the opportunity to eat their fill. Who knows when they'll be able to eat again.
When the last bite is gone, neither of them says a word. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t break something open.
They stroll through the hallways towards the abandoned library. The library door creaks open and swallows them into a silence made from a room filled with leather and parchment.
The change is immediate. The buzz of activity in the halls fades behind thick stone walls. No courtiers. No clatter. No music. Just cold air and the quiet weight of dust and paper.
Cassian breathes deeper. The smell of ash still lingers in the hearth, though it's long gone cold. He feels it settle in his bones. There is no warmth here, but it is calm.
It's a shame, he thinks, as he steps into the dim light, This place could have been a sanctuary.
"And now we're going to raid it," Rhysand says smoothly as he walks through the room. He moves slowly, deliberately, his hands in his pockets. He stands a moment, taking it in. Then he steps behind Cassian and undoes the arm bindings with a quiet efficiency.
"If anyone sees you," Rhysand says quietly, "you're assisting with the move."
Cassian nods and rolls his shoulders. The freedom feels good. He watches Rhysand disappear into a side aisle, already scanning spines. Cassian heads in a different direction and begins to wander.
The shelves are crammed with forgotten treasures. Leather-bound volumes. Ragged journals. Dust-choked scrolls.
He runs his fingers along the titles. Histories of Trade in the Duskward Reaches. The Ten Theories of Wind Behavior. Heart's Dialect: Poems of the High Peaks. He lifts that last one, flips through the pages. A line catches his eye:
"There is no softer god than silence. No sharper truth than stillness."
He keeps it. Rhysand might like it.
The next hour moves without comment. They work quietly. Book by book. Stack by stack. Dust motes spiral through the lights of the candles and sconces.
Cassian moves slow. Thoughtful. Pulls a few more books. Occasionally glances toward Rhysand.
Rhysand is methodical, but not distant. He pauses now and then. Fingers linger on a spine. Once, Cassian catches him running a hand down the shelf like it's a remembered path.
But then Cassian is sorting through a stack near the table when he hears a soft sound behind him. A breath. Too short to be a sigh. Too long to be nothing.
Cassian turns. Rhysand is crouched near a low shelf, a thin volume open in his hands. His thumb is pressed into the cover. His other hand grips the page. Not turning it. Holding it.
The book slips from his fingers and lands with a soft thud that feels too loud in this quiet place. Rhysand doesn't flinch. He doesn't even reach for it. He sits back slowly, knees folding like they're not entirely under his control.
Cassian crosses the room and crouches beside the fallen book. The cover reads The Sky Beyond the Sky: Verse from the Windborne Courts. He opens it.
There's a note written in the front cover in slanted, careful handwriting.
"To my son, who was born beneath stars too wild to ever be caged. Keep your soul your own. -- Mom"
Cassian's breath hitches. He gets it. He lifts his gaze to Rhysand but doesn't speak.
Rhysand is staring ahead, unmoving, "I thought if I gave it all away," he says quietly, "My pride, my power, my name. I thought if I let her have it, then I wouldn't feel anymore."
His voice is flat, like the breath has been scooped out of it, "But it hurts. It still hurts."
Cassian doesn’t speak right away and instead watches the way Rhysand's hand rubs absently over his chest, as if trying to quiet something inside. A tremor. A scream. Something Cassian can't hear, but knows too well. It's just pain, open and aching.
"Because you're still you," Cassian says simply, softly.
Rhysand turns his head slowly, disbelief written across his face, like the idea itself is too dangerous to trust.
"You thought you could give up who you are," Cassian continues, steady and low, "but your heart didn't go with it."
Rhysand swallows, voice rough, "Then why does it ache?"
Cassian shifts closer. He doesn't touch him. Just leans in until their knees are nearly touching.
"Because it matters," he says. "Because your soul is still watching. And it's screaming every time you betray what you believe in."
Rhysand flinches. Just slightly.
Cassian's voice softens, but doesn't waver, "You thought being hollow would make you untouchable. That if you stopped caring, you'd stop hurting. But the ache is the part of you that's still alive."
Rhysand looks down, his lashes low, shoulders tight.
"You can't kill the ache without killing yourself," Cassian goes on, gentler now, "And you didn't. You didn't vanish. You just got quiet."
He lets the silence sit for a beat before finishing, "The pain means you still know right from wrong. It means you're still in there, even if you've been buried under her hands."
Rhysand closes his eyes. His breath shakes on the way in. When it leaves, it's steadier.
They sit in silence. There is too much and none of it needs words just yet.
Eventually, Rhysand picks up the fallen book. His fingers brush the inscription once, then close the cover gently. He stands with something steadier. Resolve. That, at least, he still owns.
They spend the next several hours combing the shelves. The table near the door is their base, stacking selected books on it and beside it like small monuments.
Cassian watches the piles of books grow as the hours wane on.
At one point he finds a cracked leather volume titled The Nature of Endurance and sits with it a while. The pages are brittle, but the words are heavy.
"To stand is not to win. But to stand again and again is to live."
He runs his thumb along the margin and lets the words settle. He remembers those stages in Illyria. His body broken, pride stripped, knees aching, and yet still he stood. Again and again. Because someone had to.
Rhysand is quieter now. He sorts through a pile of books at the small table, posture composed, movements precise. But Cassian can feel the grief that pulses just beneath the surface.
Cassian watches him, then looks down and rereads the line again. He realizes what his role has become. He isn't a hero nor a savior. He's the steady one. The one who doesn’t flinch when someone else crumbles. The one who stays when others break.
He thinks of Amarantha's hands in his hair, the strange softness in her touch as if she could absorb comfort just from being near him. She never said so, but it's clear: Even she uses him to steady herself.
Cassian breathes in slow as the realization sinks in. This is what he offers. He doesn't have answers. He doesn't have solutions. He has become the rock people lean against. Even when it hurts. Even when no one sees.
He turns the page and tries to keep reading, but the words fly by without being absorbed. He can't take someone's pain. He can't fix wounds. But he can still be here while they fall apart. Steady. Unmoving. A quiet rock to cling to when everything else gives way.
The door creaks open. "You're expected for dinner," says a new voice. A young grey skinned servant waits in the threshold.
Rhysand nods and closes the last book in front of him. Cassian gathers the pile nearest his feet and brings it to the table.
Rhysand puts Cassian's bindings back on his arms and they leave the library in silence. But something in both of them has shifted. Something quiet, and not yet healed. But something real. Something still alive.
The escort leads them deeper into the mountain. Away from the dining halls. Away from any of the usual spaces.
They descend through a narrow passage lined with sconces burning flickering flame. The air changes. Warmth prickles against Cassian's skin. The walls are velvet-draped now. The floor smooth and soft. They reach a heavy black door and the escort opens it without a word.
Inside is no banquet hall. There is no dining table. Just a circular arrangement of high-backed chairs and low couches, plush and mismatched, scattered in an almost careless ring. Between them are small low tables laden with wine, figs, pomegranates, and other dainty foods. This is not arranged for a meal.
Incense curls thick in the air. Sweet and strange. It buzzes faintly in Cassian's nose and spine. He's felt this before. They're being drugged again. It's warm and loose. The tension in his jaw begins to melt before he's even crossed the threshold.
Amarantha lounges across three cushions at the far end. Her hair is down tonight, falling in lazy curls over one shoulder. Her nails gleam like blood in candlelight.
She lifts her goblet and smiles, "Rhysand. Just in time."
The others of her inner circle are already here lounging in the chairs and couches. The Attor stands in silence behind them, arms clasped behind his back and eying everyone carefully.
Rhysand takes the one remaining chair. Cassian sits beside him, arms still bound, and leans against his leg. The drugged air settles over them both.
Amarantha leans forward just enough to press her elbows to her knees. Her voice is playful, curious, "Let's do something new tonight. Something more intimate."
Everyone is silent. She grins wider, "Truth or Dare."
There is a moment's pause and then Lazhar lets out a soft, amused exhale.
Amarantha lifts her goblet and continues, "Simple rules. You'll be called on. You choose. And then you choose the next person to be challenged."
Her eyes sparkle. "But don't bore me."
We are all tonight's entertainment, Rhysand drawls through Cassian's mind.
Let the games begin, he drawls in return.
She doesn't explain further. She just turns her head and selects her first target.
"Rhoven," she says sweetly, "Truth… or dare?"
Rhoven lifts his eyes slowly. His voice is careful, measured, "Truth, my Queen."
Amarantha's smile doesn't change, "What's your favorite sound a body can make?"
A few glances shift. A pause that is just long enough.
Rhoven's lips twitch. He looks down at his hands, like they might help. Then he says, "A breath held too long. Just before it breaks."
Amarantha's eyes flick to the Attor. The Attor walks behind Rhoven's chair and with one swift movement he swipes his hand and slices across Rhoven's back.
"No," she says, savoring the word, "Try again."
Everyone stills. No one wants to react, but their absolute stillness gives them away.
Rhoven collects himself then says calmly, "A cry into a gag, my Queen. When they forget they can't scream."
Amarantha hums in pleasure. The Attor steps back. Rhoven lowers his eyes again. He doesn't flinch nor frown, but Cassian can see the tiny glint of sweat blooming at his temple.
Amarantha raises her glass. "Lovely. Now," she waves a hand, "Your turn."
Rhoven lifts his eyes. His gaze passes over everyone once. Then he turns to Lazhar, "Truth or dare?"
"Truth."
"What's the most expensive thing you've ever bought… to hurt someone?"
Lazhar laughs at his own memory, "I bought a mine in the Duskmoor range. The first thing I did was collapse the entrance with fifty inside. It was cheaper than negotiating."
Everyone laughs, even Rhysand.
"Vaelith, truth or dare?" Lazhar says with a glint in his eye.
"Truth."
"Boring!" Amarantha exclaims.
Suddenly the Attor applies two swipes across Vaelith's back and she flinches forward.
"We can't just keep doing truth truth truth. Spice it up!" Amarantha claps her hands for emphasis.
Vaelith collects herself then turns to Lazhar, "Dare."
"Kiss the hand of the person you hate most," he says with a smirk.
Vaelith's eyes widen just a fraction. Amarantha smiles wide. Vaelith stands and slowly approaches Rhysand. She kneels down and kisses Cassian on the forehead.
"Oh come on!" Amarantha bursts out. The Attor slices across Vaelith's back three more times.
"You're lying. No one hates Cassian. He was just a seemingly safe choice."
Vaelith stands carefully and slowly walks over to Eryx. He raises his hand and grins at her. She bends slowly and kisses it. She then gingerly lowers herself back to her seat, sitting on the edge with her back stiff.
Vaelith narrows her eyes at Cassian, "Truth or dare?... Cassian."
Amarantha sits forward with delight in her eyes.
Fuck. I think I have to go with dare, Cassian worries to Rhysand's mind.
I agree dare is potentially safer, Rhysand's voice replies, I'm sorry.
Cassian swallows, "Dare."
All eyes shift to him and some bend forward in their seats slightly. Amarantha couldn't possibly beam any brighter.
Vaelith's eyes flick to Amarantha and then back to Cassian, "Massage our Queen's feet until she tells you to stop."
Amarantha hums in delightful appreciation.
As Cassian begins to stand, Rhysand's voice says, I'll remove your bindings.
Cassian pauses after standing and Rhysand leans up, unbuckles his bindings, and slides it off his arms. Cassian rolls his shoulders as he walks across the circle to Amarantha.
This could be worse, Cassian thinks.
It could be a lot worse. This is practically a gift, Rhysand returns.
"He's not going to attack us, is he?" Rhoven asks.
"No," Rhysand replies smoothly, "He's sufficiently broken."
Cassian kneels down in front of Amarantha and she daintily places her feet on his lap.
"I am looking forward to see what these hands can do!" Amarantha exclaims delightedly, "Good dare, Vaelith," she winks at her.
Cassian grasps the foot on the right and presses a thumb up along the arch of her foot. Her eyes flutter as she hums her pleasure. Cassian continues pressing circles into the joints and tendons of her foot.
"Oh my, Cassian. You can use those hands on me anytime," she breathes, "Maybe we should keep you unbound so you're free to give massages." She giggles so everyone else around the room releases soft snickers and careful chuckles.
She enjoys her massage for some time then lazily eyes Cassian, "It's your turn to challenge, Cassian dear."
He freezes his movements momentarily. She notices and grins at him.
It's just a choice of one danger or another danger! Cassian panics internally. His brain goes blank.
Rhoven, Rhysand's voice says, He's least dangerous. He talks the most yet says the least.
Cassian clears his throat, "Rhoven," he doesn't move his gaze from Amarantha's feet, "Truth or Dare?"
Rhoven raises an eyebrow like he's been unexpectedly complimented. He taps his chin theatrically while pondering, "Truth."
What's the worst thing you've written about someone in this room, Rhysand supplies.
"What is the worst thing you've written about someone in this room," Cassian says softly.
Amarantha sits back humming her pleased curiosity.
Fuck, I can't keep track of these power games, Cassian laments.
That's what I'm here for, Rhysand comforts, we do this together.
Rhoven darts his eyes across the room, then recomposes himself and raises his chin with an air of confidence, "I wrote a poem about Eryx once."
"A poem?! About Eryx?!" Amarantha gasps and snickers. The others force themselves to express amusement, too.
Rhoven nods, "He's like spoiled wine: sweet on the tongue, sour in the gut," he waves a hand dismissively.
Amarantha takes back her feet from Cassian as she roars with laughter. Everyone else pulls laughs from deep within so the Queen is not left laughing alone.
When the laughing settles down adequately enough, Rhoven speaks up, "Malric, truth or dare?"
"Truth."
Rhoven ponders a moment, then asks, "Who has been the most difficult for you to torture?"
Malric's throat bobs as he swallows. He shifts in his chair, but tries to disguise it as sitting up. Amarantha eyes him intensely.
"There was a boy," his jaw twitches once before he continues, "He got loose and was running around. He saw me and clung to my leg begging me to save him. That made getting him to talk... hard... for me."
Amarantha settles back into her chair with a big smile and hands her feet back to Cassian to massage.
Malric clears his throat, "Rhysand, truth or dare."
"Dare."
"I want an opportunity to do a dare," Amarantha mock pouts.
Malric glances between her and Rhysand for a moment then decides to push forward, "Strip completely naked, Rhysand."
Amarantha settles into her chair and smiles at the oncoming show.
Rhysand gracefully stands and kicks off his shoes as he unbuttons his shirt swiftly then drapes it across the arm of his chair. He slides off his pants and socks. Then without missing a beat he slides off his underwear. He stands for a moment to ensure everyone can see, of course Amarantha would want that, and then he equally as gracefully eases himself back into the chair comfortably with his legs wide.
There is silence that stretches uncomfortably.
I'm getting a taste of my own medicine, Rhysand's voice floats through Cassian's mind.
Barely a taste, Cassian responds bitterly.
I'm sorry.
I know you are. But you're far from forgiveness.
I'm trying to do better. For you.
Saelwyn breaks the silence, "Is anyone going to mention the cock cage in the room?" The males snicker.
"I'm too distracted that he and Cassian's nipples are a matching set," Lazhar wonders aloud.
"And yet he still carries himself like royalty," Amarantha muses, "That's what I admire. Dignity, even in chains."
She releases a soft laugh which everyone else in the room mirrors.
Rhysand casts his gaze across the room, then zeros in on Amarantha, "Truth or Dare, my Queen?"
She beams delightedly, "Dare!" she tucks her feet back from Cassian to sit up and clap once happily.
Rhysand picks up a goblet of wine from the table next to him while smirking slyly at Amarantha. Her anticipation is palpable, so he draws it out with a languid sip before speaking.
"I want you to kneel before Cassian, kiss his hand, and call him your King."
It is as if everyone inhaled simultaneously and held their breath. Perfect silence and stillness permeates the room. Amarantha's smile twitches and a muscle in her jaw feathers.
She clucks her tongue, "Clever, Rhysand," she narrows her eyes at him.
"Well, Cassian?" she coos.
Cassian freezes having no idea what to do.
Stand, Rhysand pushes to him, you need to stand.
Cassian pops up and Amarantha grins up at him. She gets down on her knees and gently takes Cassian's hand, "My King," and kisses his knuckles.
Cassian turns beat red. Amarantha glides to a stand and caresses his cheek, "Look at this rosiness we pulled out of him, Rhysand!" she turns Cassian's head to display his face to the others.
She lounges back into her seat, "Now, my King, do get back to massaging my feet."
Cassian returns to kneeling and takes up her feet into his lap and recommences his massage.
Amarantha shifts her gaze sharply, "Your turn, Saelwyn," she says sweet as honey, "Truth or dare?"
Saelwyn hesitates too long.
Amarantha tsks, "You're not very good at games," she pouts, "Dare it is. I dare you to crawl into the Attor's lap and purr like a cat in heat."
The laughter that follows is honest, but not kind. The Attor eyes Amarantha a moment before taking a seat his arms and legs stretched wide. Saelwyn stands and tries to saunter over to the Attor seductively, but there is a tremble in her step.
She crouches before him and crawls onto his lap and turns to her side with her arms pulled up and her wrists limp like a kitten. She trills her tongue imitating a purr.
Amarantha claps with delight, "Yes yes! Purr again!" Saelwyn complies.
The game spirals. The dares grow sharper, and the truths cut deeper. Malric admitted the only person he ever loved bled out in a cell he designed. Eryx had to drink wine from Vaelith's shoe. Rhysand confessed he still wakes up wishing he could see his mother.
Caelan was forced to lick the front of Malric's pants. He earned four slashes across the back from the Attor for hesitating. Saelwyn got five slashes for her question being too tame.
Amarantha has been included in the game, only picking truth now, however. She admitted her first orgasm was when she was alone in the middle of a battlefield, and that she would kill every person in this room if it meant one moment of true adoration.
"Truth or dare, Rhysand," Amarantha coos.
He levels her with an open stare, "Dare."
She happily gets herself comfortable in her chair and smirks, "Get on your knees and crawl to each person in this room, look them in the eyes and tell them I own your body and soul."
Rhysand repositions to kneeling on the floor with elegance, even though he is completely naked. He walks on his knees to Lazhar, looks him in the eyes and says, "Queen Amarantha owns my body and soul."
He walks on his knees to Caelan, looks him in the eyes and says, "Queen Amarantha owns my body and soul."
He continues around the circle and reaches Amarantha herself, he looks her in the eyes and says, "You, my Queen, own my body and soul."
Her body shakes and she hums pleasantly, "You've given me the chills, Rhysand!"
He nods once then walks on his knees to the next person.
This actually hurts! This was supposed to be easy! It's just words! Rhysand's shocked thoughts come through to Cassian.
Rhysand pauses mid-crawl. Shoulders taut. He breathes in once then continues.
I've done worse. I've said worse. I thought this would be nothing. It's merely a performance. But it’s peeling something raw open, Rhysand laments.
You thought you could lie and not bleed for it. But your soul still knows it's a lie.
Rhysand grips the floor a moment too long, I want to stop.
Keep going. You can finish this, Cassian reassures.
Rhysand crawls to the next. Looks up. Says the words again and bleeds for them.
I thought I could let her own me on the outside, Rhysand's voice is small, and keep something safe on the inside.
You can't tuck it away like it's fragile. You need to stand on it. Bleed for it. That's how you make it yours. Reinforce it by choosing it again and again.
Rhysand stops again just for a beat. The whole room watches him crawl like a perfect pet, but Cassian sees the war inside him.
What am I even choosing? Rhysand's tone wavers.
You're choosing to care that it hurts. That means you haven't disappeared.
Rhysand continues on until he walks on his knees back to his original seat. He stands with poise and lounges back in his chair. His bored courtier's mask firmly in place.
Fuck. Rhysand sends to Cassian.
Still breathing? Cassian asks.
Barely. But I'm feeling every breath.
"Well," Amarantha drawls, "Wasn't that fun?"
She waves her goblet lazily, "We'll play again. When I'm bored."
She shifts her gaze to each person in turn then announces, "You're dismissed."
Everyone stands and starts to depart. Cassian stops massaging her feet and Rhysand picks up his pants.
"Except you, Rhysand dear," she coos, "Gather your things you're coming with me."
He nods and bends to put on his pants but she clucks her tongue, "I said gather your things, I did not say to get dressed."
"Apologies, my Queen," and he switches gears to picking up his clothes, shoes, and Cassian's bindings.
She leads Rhysand and Cassian out and through the hallways.
"Tell me again who owns you," she requests without turning around or slowing her stride.
"You own my body and soul, my Queen," Rhysand says smoothly.
"I may never get tired of hearing that," she muses, "One day, maybe you'll say it and believe it and I'll miss the ache in your eyes."
She leads them through the hallways, past her suite guards, through the main room and straight into her bedroom. She closes the door behind them. That ominous click reverberates in Cassian's soul.
"Drop your things." Rhysand tosses their things on the floor in front of the foot of the bed.
She pulls Rhysand's hand to draw him close, "Tell me again," she looks into his eyes intently.
He returns the intense stare, "You, my Queen," he draws his hand gently down her arm, "own my body and soul."
Her expression drops to something blank, raw, "Tell me you love me," she whispers
"I love you, my Queen," he purrs.
She captures his lips while her hands start dismantling his cock cage. She drops the cage and base unceremoniously to the floor.
"Take off my dress," she whispers between kisses. He unties the bodice and pulls it down off her shoulders. They work together to shimmy her dress off her body.
She pulls his hands and tries to not break their kiss as she steps backwards to the bed. She backs up and onto the bed and purrs, "Make love to me like you mean it."
Rhysand dives in to kiss her again, "I mean it, my Queen," his voice rumbles lowly.
"You always know the right thing to say."
They crawl together across the bed up to the pillows.
And Cassian has been... forgotten. Apparently. He stands there awkwardly watching them make out.
What should I do? Cassian worries.
Kneel by the bed, Rhysand offers, she likes you to watch.
Cassian kneels and obliquely watches what's happening on the bed. Rhysand is making her moan with his fingers while he kisses down her neck.
This was easy yesterday, Rhysand's voice floats by, but today my heart feels like it's going to fall out of my chest.
You were ripped a bit raw today, Cassian pushes back.
"Tell me again," Amarantha breathes through pants, "Look me in the eyes and tell me again."
Rhysand bends back to get a proper look at her, "You own my body and soul, my Queen."
I feel like I'm bleeding.
You are, Cassian's words offer no comfort.
Rhysand starts to kiss down her body, but she pulls him back up, "Stay up here. Fuck me. Look me in the eyes and fuck me."
He fixes her with an intense stare while he positions himself at her entrance. She inhales sharply as he presses inside and he captures it with a kiss.
He breaks the kiss to look at her again. His hips press against hers and she whines in pleasure. Cassian sees Rhysand's back flex, sees his face strain against the mask of passion.
"Tell me you love me," she whispers.
"My Queen," he keeps his voice low and sultry, "I love you." He captures her lips again in a kiss.
Fuck, Rhysand sends, the words drag, It's like she’s kissing the parts of me I've tried to bury. And they're waking up.
Cassian breathes slow. He can’t stop it. All he can do is be the anchor. You're not weak because it hurts. You're strong because you're still feeling it.
"Cum, Rhysand," she purrs, "Cum with me."
Godsdamnit.
There's nothing Cassian can do to help. He just tries to push a soothing presence.
I feel like I'm going to vomit, not cum.
Cassian doesn't reply in order to allow Rhysand to concentrate. Rhysand's mouth parts as his pants quicken.
Tell me about your favorite time with us, Rhysand pleas.
Cassian takes a deep breath. He shows him the time Rhysand had taken him to the top of a mountain overlooking Ramiel. His wings were outstretched capturing the wind and Rhysand had fucked him from behind. Rhysand kept telling him to focus on the wind and it created a moment that was both magically euphoric and heart crushing. It was during their non-consensual period.
Rhysand's hips stutter and he groans as he buries his face in Amarantha's shoulder. She lifts his head and cocks her head left and right as she studies him. She wipes his cheeks, "You're crying."
I'm sorry, Cassian, Rhysand pushes soft and quiet.
"Tears for me," she licks the salt off her finger, "You do love me," her laugh is soft.
It'll never be enough, but I'll keep saying it, Rhysand continues.
She cradles his face and breathes against his mouth, "You don't need to hide from me. Not here. I'll take all of it. The strength. The weakness. It all belongs to me,"
she kisses his forehead, "Let go, Rhysand. That pain? That's the part of you I want most."
Just keep being better, Cassian returns, maybe one day I'll be able to forgive you.
Rhysand sucks in a shuttering breath and then fresh tears fall. Amarantha wraps him in her arms and pulls his head tight to her chest, "Cry with me, Rhysand dear. Cry."
But Cassian knows Rhysand isn't crying for her. He's crying for them. The day has ripped him raw and his old pains are bleeding out. Rhysand sobs quietly into her breast, the sound hollow and aching.
Amarantha coos at Rhysand while caressing his head and back. Eventually she shifts them and brings the blankets up over them both. She brings him in to cuddle against her side and idly strokes his hair. Eventually her stroking ceases and her breath evens out as she falls asleep.
She thinks I was crying because of her, Rhysand's voice floats by.
Let her. It's not important.
Cassian, my chest. It hurts so much right now. I feel like I'm dying, Rhysand sounds threadbare.
That ache? That's your real self finally breaking the surface.
Rhysand's breath hitches.
For a long time, there's nothing. Just the quiet of Amarantha's chambers. Her even breathing. The flickering fire light.
Then, barely a whisper in Cassian's mind, This pain doesn’t make sense. I can wear the mask, but the pain still grips at me.
That ache is what’s left when everything else has been stripped away, Cassian replies.
Rhysand doesn't answer. His thoughts go still, but there's a hitch in his breath.
It's not weakness, Cassian adds, It's merely the real you.
Cassian watches as Rhysand's body softens by degrees. First the shoulders fall, then the jaw slackens. His breath evens out at last. Sleep claims him slowly, like surrender.
Cassian slowly stands. His muscles are tight, his knees stiff. He stretches once, then makes his way to the rug near the hearth. It's warm, and it's soft.
He curls up on his side, facing the bed. It's more comfortable now without his arms bound.
Still breathing, he thinks.